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sbSI

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

EDITED BY

BURNS MANTLE

Thb Best Plays
IWilkGarruonP.
The Bbst Pu^vs
The Bsst Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
Thb Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
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The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays
The Best Plays

or 1909-19
. Shtrwood)

1919-20
or 1920-21
OF 1921-22
OF 1922-23
OP 1923-24
gp 1924-25
OF 1925-26
OF 1926-27
OP 1927-28
OP 1928-29
OP 1929-30

1930-31
OF 1931-32
OP 1932-33
OF 1933-34
OF 1934-35
__ 1935-36
OF 1936-37
OF 1937-38
OF 1938-39
OP 1939-40
OP 1940-41
OF 1941-42

"CVNDLE IN THE WINd"

wonder— How many chnncu^ w'te gin
the chnncM nre against us?
,orId are pariing just th«l way that ihys
(Louh BottU, HrUn Hay ft)

'HE BEST PLAYS
OF 1941-42

AND THE

YEAR BOOK OF THE DRAMA

IN AMERICA

EDITED BV

BURNS MANTLE

fyilh lUuitrationi

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
NEW YORK - - . 19-t2

"In Time to Come." copyright, 1942. by Howard Koch (Reirised)

CopyHffht, 1940, by Howard Koch under the tide *'Woodrow Wilson"

*'The Moon Is Down," copyright, 1941, by John Steinbeck
Copyright and published as a noYel, 1942, by The Viking Press, New York

"Blithe Spirit," copyright, 1941, by Noel Coward
Copyright and published, 1941, by Doubleday, Doran & Co., Garden City, New York

"Junior Miss," copyright, 1942, by Jerome Chodorov and Joseph Fields
Copyright and published, 1942, by Random House, Inc., New York

"Candle in the Wind," copyright, 1941, bv Maxwell Anderson
Copyright and published, 1941, by Anderson House, Washington, D. C. Distributed

through Dodd, Mead & Co., New York

"Letters to Lucerne," copyright, 1941, by Fritx Rotter and Allen Vincent
Copyright and published, 1942, by Samuel French, Inc., New York

"Jason," copyright, 1942, by Samson Raphaelson
Copyright and published, 1942, by Random House, Inc., New York

"Angel Street," copyright. 1939, by Patrick Hamilton
Copyright and published, 1941, by Constable & Co., Ltd., London,

under title "Gaslight"

"Uncle Harry," copyright, 1941. by Thomas Job
Copyright and published, 1942, by Samuel rrench. Inc., New York

"Hope for a Harvest," copyright, 1940, by Sophie Treadwell
Copyright and published, 1942, by Samuel French, Inc., New York

651778

Caution: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that the above*mentioned
plays, being fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of
America, the British EmpirCp including the Dominion of Canada, and all other
countries of the Copyright Union, are subject to a royalty. All rights, including
professional, amateur, motion picture, recitation, public reading, radio broadcasting,
and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved. In
their present form these plays are dedicated to the reading public only. All in-
quiries regarding them should be addressed to their publishers or authors.

ft
» ft

V • • •

INTRODUCTION

IT was not a critics' year in the theatre. Burdened by their
reasonably acquired high standards, depressed by the play output,
confused by wartime problems and a little unhappy because not
even a single pla3n¥riting genius appeared to comfort them,
members of the New York Drama Critics' Circle could find no
one drama of American authorship worthy of a citation as the
best of the year. These professional playgoers voted, 11 to 6,
against any attempt to accept what might be classified as a
respectable substitute, and were equally firm in refusing to name
a "second best." A critics' theatre is not a people's theatre, by
any stretch of the imagination, but I daresay it has its value as
a deterrent to crime in playwriting and play producing fields.

The Pulitzer Prize Committee followed the critics' lead, or at
least agreed with that body, in refusing to name a "best" Ameri-
can play for the season. The Critics' Circle did find that Noel
Coward's "Blithe Spirit" deserved a citation as the best of the
plays imported from abroad during the year, and two American
dramas were named by a protesting minority content with naming
the best of a season's disappointing plays. "In Time to Come,"
a historical drama concerned with Woodrow Wilson's last fight
for a League of Nations, written by Howard Koch, with John
Huston serving as a friendly consultant, received four votes, and
John Steinbeck's drama of the second World War as it has
affected the occupied countries, "The Moon Is Down," was given
two votes.

Admitting that, for a variety of very good reasons, this has been
an abnormal year in the theatre there were, it seems to me, at
least ten plays among the sixty dramas produced that not only
provided intelligent entertainment in the theatre but are worthy
of inclusion in this volume devoted to the season's record.

Your editor hap[)ens to be more deeply interested in the people's
theatre than he is in the critics' theatre, believing that the theatre
is, and always has been, a people's creation, a people's institution,
reflecting social tastes and trends of the times it serves. The
theatre has survived through its entertainment rather than because
of its messages, but its greater morale-building and progress-

vi INTRODUCTION

stimulating influences are found in the better plays the people
endorse and support. In their enthusiasm for leadership, in their
pride of discovery, lies the strength and helpfulness of critics of
any art form. And in their impatient refusal to conceal their
contempt for the equally honest reactions of their potential fol-
lowers lies their weakness. The human urge to (Uctate rather
than to counsel is doubtless too firmly set in the universal ego to
be dislodged. But it is well for playgoers and book readers, and
every investigating member of the human family, to remember
that it is there.

I have taken, in addition to the controversial ''In Time to
Come" and "The Moon Is Down," the Coward farce, "Blithe
Spirit," which is the best example of what has been classified as
"high farce" written the last several years. The Coward item, it
seems to me, represents the entertainment value of the theatre
quite perfectly.

"Junior Miss," which the Messrs. Jerome Chodorov and Joseph
Fields chipped out of Sally Benson's sub-deb stories printed in
the New Yorker magazine, is another comedy of wide appeal.
Any family having enjoyed sub-deb experiences in the home,
even any family that has imagined what they might be like, as
I suspect the authors and Moss Hart, who staged the play, of
doing in part, will find "Junior Miss" to their liking.

Maxwell Anderson had his say about Nazi character in conflict
with American courage, and romance, in "Candle in the Wind."
Helen Hayes, playing the heroine, served the drama as what is
generally referred to as a tower of strength; but the Anderson
text, as usual, and the Anderson feeling for character and drama,
were helpful.

"Letters to Lucerne" happens to have been, to me, the most
appealing of the newer war plays. Neither my colleagues nor
any considerable portion of the playgoing public enjoyed the same
positive reaction from the play. I suppose the demand for sym-
pathy for an enemy heroine, for all she was an anti-Nazi enemy,
had its influence.

"Jason" provides an interesting character study. A drama
critic's reactions when he is faced with the problem of writing
a fair review of a play authored by an erratic genius who is bent
upon seducing his (the critic's) wife, provides the story back-
ground. But Samson Raphaelson's study of a critic of the drama
who is completely unsympathetic toward practically all the people
by whose lives all drama is inspired is the more interesting theme.

Patrick Hamilton's "Angel Street" and Thomas Job's "Uncle

INTRODUCTION vii

Harry" are plays of the theatre written and staged with excep-
tional skill. In ''Angel Street/' which was known as ''Gaslight"
in London, Mr. Hamilton gained his effects by developing a most
perfect suspense. Would the villain succeed in driving his inno-
cent wife insane, or at least in having her committed as being
insane, or would he not? For two hours even the most theatre-
hardened of audiences sat upright in their seats awaiting the
answer.

In Mr. Job's "Uncle Harry" a reverse technique is employed.
Within ten minutes of curtain rise the audience knows who the
murderer is. From then on its interest is tautly held while the
circumstances leading up to the commission of the crime, and
the distressful adventures of the murderer tr3dng to break down
the circumstantial evidence he had so carefully built up, are pains-
takingly revealed.

Sophie Treadwell's "Hope for a Harvest" is stronger in purpose
than in theatre value. The story of a California that suffered
from a gradual deterioration of native character that had made
it a leader among the commonwealths, and is again threatened
with later infiltrations of "Okies" and well-to-do loafers, is, your
editor feels, a story of definite social value. The Treadwell mes-
sage, as it reached the stage, even with the gifted Fredric and
Florence Eldridge March to tell it, was more theatrical than con-
vincing, but it still remains an important message to Americans
in any theatre season.

So much for the best plays of a wartime theatre season in the
theatrical capital of the country. It is not a record to set even
a devoted theatre follower cheering, but it is a fair reflection
of the times and the part the theatre played in them. It will,
I hope, be of help to theatre historians in that brighter future
to which, God helping us, we will fight through.

B. M.

Forest Hills, L. I., 1942.

CONTENTS

VAOl

Introduction v

The Season in New York 3

The Season in Chicago IS

The Season in San Franosco ...... 22

The Season in Southern California 27

In Time to Come, by Howard Koch and John Huston 34

The Moon Is Down, by John Steinbeck .... 72

Blithe Spirit, by Noel Coward 109

Junior Miss, by Jerome Chodorov and Joseph Fields . 14S

Candle in the Wind, by Maxwell Anderson . . 1 80

Letters to Lucerne, by Fritz Rotter and Allen Vin-
cent 212

Jason, by Samson Raphaelson 244

Angel Street, by Patrick Hamilton .282

Uncle Harry, by Thobcas Job 316

Hope for a Harvest, by Sophie Treadwell .349

The Plays and Their Authors 38S

Plays Produced in New York, 1941-42 .... 391

Dance Drama 456

Off Broadway 458

Statistical Summary 462

Long Runs on Broadway 463

New York Drama Critics' Circle Award 464

X CONTENTS

Pulitzer Prize Winners
Previous Volumes of Best Plays
Where and When They Were Born

Necrology

The Decades' Toll

Index of Authors ....

Index of Plays and Casts .

Index of Producers, Directors and Designers

PAGB

46S
466
479
490
496
497
SOI
506

ILLUSTRATIONS

Candle in the Wind
In Time to Cob^e .

FrofU

FAC]

ispiece

[KG PAGB

The Moon Is Down

Blithe Spirit .

116

Junior Miss

148

Letters to Lucerne

212

Jason ....

. 244

Angel Street .

292

Uncle Harry .

324

Hope for a Harvest

356

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194142

THE SEASON IN NEW YORK

THE tendency of Broadway commentators to juggle superla-
tives started most of them bragging shortly after the holidays
that they were experiencing probably the worst theatre season in
all the city's history. They may have been right. A comparison
of many factors would be necessary to prove tiiem either right or
wrong. In the number of new productions tried the season was
ten or twelve plays ahead of the seasons of 1940-41 and 1939-40.
But in the matter of quality production it undoubtedly fell quite
a ways behind. Wartime is not a time to inspire good creative
work. As a result there were many revivals of past successes
staged, and there promise to be even more of these next season.

When we arbitrarily closed the books on the theatre season of
1940-41, which was June 15, 1941, there were still sixteen theatre
attractions playing on Broadway. Some of these were good,
healthy stickers, too, like 'Tife with Father," which had come
down from the season of 1939-40 and promises to go on for an-
other year at least. "My Sister Eileen" and "Arsenic and Old
Lace" were also making a run of it, and continued through the
new season.

Then there were such items as "Panama Hattie," which ran
from October, 1940, to January, 1942. And "The Com Is Green,"
which began as far back as November, 1940, and kept Ethel
Barrymore working until January, 1942. And "Watch on the
Rhine," which began in April, 1941, and ran on until it went to
the Coast to be made into a picture in February, 1942. And
"Pal Joey," which, with one engagement and another, was here
from December, 1940, to November, 1941. For that matter,
"Hellzapoppin," having started in September, 1938, did not call
it a run until December, 1941, though there were a couple of
new editions added to the first bill during that time. Rose
Franken's "Qaudia," having started in February, 1941, ran a
year, or into March, 1942, and then, after a short road tour, came
back for another engagement at popular prices. When this record
was prepared, Mrs. Franken's comedy was giving every indication

fW*

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

of going through its second Summer with no sign of strain*

There was only one real Summer show in 1941 — that was ^^t
Happens on Ice" at the Center Theatre, which was reopened after
a layofif. With a new cast of principals it ran fnxn July 14, 1941,
to April 26, 1942. There were two reopenings of importance in
early September — ^^'Lady in the Dark," which finally netted Ger-
trude Lawrence a total of 467 parformances, and the aforemen-
tioned "Pal Joey."

The first of the new shows for the new season was Carl Aliens-
worth's "Village Green." Tried successfully in the bam theatres,
it was thought its minor weaknesses would be larg^y overcome
by the presence of Frank Craven in the leading role. Mr. Craven
was able to do a lot, and was notably assisted by his son John in
the role of the juvenile, but they could not save the comply. It
was closed after thirty performances. Frederick Hazlitt Bren-
nan's "The Wookey" ai^peared a weA later. This was the sea-
son's first current war play and was variously received. The
bombings of London in the blitz of 1940 wete its badLground, and
its sound efifects were ref^roduced from recordings made on the
spot by the British Broadcasting company. The effect was more
stunning than dramatic. The story of a rebellious tugboat cap-
tain who was agin' the war until he was drawn into Uie retreat
from Dunkirk had some littie difficulty fighting its way through
the noise and the confusion. The English actor, Edmund Gwenn,
remembered for his "Laburnum Grove," scorwl a definite per-
sonal hit in the name part. "The Wookey" was played for 134
performances, being withdrawn shortly after our entrance into
the war, which served to diminish interest in it.

The first of the escapist comedies was one called "Cuckoos on
the Hearth/*' a completely mad but quite exciting satire on most
of the mystery dramas, written by Parker Fennelly. It found a
divided public following a divided press report of its attractions
as entertainment. Some thought it great, others found it silly.
Brock Pemberton, the producer, believed in it suffidentiy to nurse
it along for 128 performances.

A few more failures and then along came George Abbott's "Best
Foot Forward." This one was interesting as a musicd comedy,
and also because Mr. Abbott had frankly combed the country
as far west as Chicago for such youthful talent as woidd not be
subject to the draft or to attacks of war fever for at least two
years. His actors were mostiy teen-age kids. His authors were
John Cecil Holm, who did the book, and two youngsters, Hugh
Martin and Ralpb Blane, who furnished the music. They, having

THE SEASON IN NEW YORK S

reached draft age, were shortly in the army or headed that way.
The young stars included Maureen Cannon, Nancy Walker, Vir-
ginia Sdiools, Gil Stratton, Jr., and Jack Jordan, Jr., with the
slightly more experienced Rosemary Lane of HoIl3npirood to play
the lead and Marty May in charge of the comedy. They all
made good and ^'Best Foot Forward" played throu^ the season.

The Theatre Guild thought to try a series of popular-priced
revivals, starting with Eugene O'Neill's "Ah, Wilderness," with
Harry Gary in the part George Cohan played so long. After a
few weeks the Guild directors decided that either their scheme
was wrong, or that the Cohan run had exhausted the popularity
of thb particular comedy and gave up. The Guild tried again, a
month kiter, with Maxwell Anderson's "Candle in the Wind," tlie
P]a3rwrights' Company being joint producers. This serious study
of the curse of Hitlerism superimposed upon an American actress'
romance disappointed its critics, but, with the help of Helen
Hayes, who played the heroine, found and interested a consider-
able public. After 95 performances in New York the play was
taken on tour and played out the season.

Fairly picturesque failures of these early weeks of the season
included a racial comedy called "Good Neighbor," backed and
staged by Novelist Sinclair Lewis; "Anne of England," a rewrit-
ing of an English drama by Norman Ginsbury called "Viceroy
S^ah," the new version being by Mary Cass Caniield and Ethel
Borden of the upper social brackets, and "The Land Is Bright."
With this last George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber tried to do
something to help make present generation Americans conscious
of their grafting and greedy ancestors. Their hope, undoubtedly,
was that they would inspire a healthy urge for reform with the
generation moving into the problem-studded days ahead, but the
melodrama got away from them, rather completely smothering
the message. There was not enough audience-response to keep
their play going after 79 showings.

The comedian, Danny Kaye, who in two seasons had lifted
himself from the bam theatre circuit and the lesser nightclubs to
the ranking of Broadway's newest favorite, got another big chance
in a musicalized version of "Cradle Snatchers" called "Let's Face
It." Cole Porter had furnished the songs and lyrics (with inter-
polations by Sylvia Fine Kaye and Max Liebman), and Vinton
Freedley had hand-picked a supporting cast, including Eve Arden,
Mary Jane Walsh and Benny Baker. "Let's Face It" turned out
to be the season's riot.

Practically the same week George Jessel tried to capitalize the

6 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

spirit and some of the humors of old-time burlesque in a piece
called ^'High Kickers/' Mr. Jessel had the red-hot mamma queen,
Sophie Tucker, to help him, and they both worked with a will.
But they missed what Michael Todd was able to give much later
in the season in ^'Star and Garter." This was burlesque with a
suggestion of class. ''High Kickers" was carried through 171
performances, but failed when it took to the road.

A quick failure which some of us regretted, was ''The Man with
the Blond Hair," Norman Krasna's attempt to explain and stir
sympathy for a Nazi war prisoner who had escaped from Canada
and tried to hide out with a Jewish family on New York's East
Side. After two days this fellow was so touched by the simple
humanness of the American way of life that he was ready to pray
for the salvation of his fuehrer's soul if not for his defeat. Drama
critics, however, would have nothing to do with the idea, count-
ing it preposterously far-fetched, and the play was withdrawn at
the close of its first week.

Now came Noel Coward with one of the brightest and gayest
of his farce comedies, written admittedly in the hope of taking
London playgoers' minds away from the war effort for an hour
or two. This was called "BliQie Spirit." It had to do with the
complication resulting from the materialization of the spirit of a
man's first wife to devil and disturb the home life of his second
wife. It proved the comedy hit of the year, and was the only
play to be awarded a citation by the New York Drama Critics'
Circle. There were, it developed, four stars in the cast: Peggy
Wood, Clifton Webb, Leonora Corbett (from England) and
Mildred Natwick. They too, at the end of the season, were
threatening to go on forever, or at least another year.

That favorite American comedienne, Grace George, was happy
in finding a bright little comedy written by Isabel Leighton and
Bertram Bloch called "Spring Again." Paired with the stalwart
and veteran C. Aubrey Smith, she told the story of the wife of
a much-publicized son of a hero. She was able finally to put
him in his place without too shattering an effect upon their mar-
ried life. It was the George performance, suj^wrted by those of
C. Aubrey Smith and the Jewish comedian, Joseph Buloff, which
helped "Spring Again" to tiie Theatre Club prize as the best play
of the year by American authors.

Having been warned that "Macbeth" might prove too gory and
war-torn a tragedy for these days, Maurice Evans went right
ahead with his preparations for its revival. Again he proved his
professional advisers wrong. With Judith Anderson as his Queen,

THE SEASON IN NEW YORK 7

she being generally accepted as the most impressive Lady Mac-
beth of recent years, Mr. Evans told the bloody story of the
ambitious one for 131 performances in New York, and later met
with a fine success on tour. When he brought his season to a
dose with performances for soldiers in camp, his success there
was also great. Mr. Evans, having adopted American citizenship,
promises to provide in the classic field a proper leadership for
the native theatre for many seasons to come.

Cornelia Otis Skinner, seeking a vote of confidence on her
ability as an actress capable of playing a sustained role, offered
her devoted mono-drama public a glimpse of her as the heroine
of a Somerset Mau^am story caDed "Theatre." Guy Bolton
whittled the play from the Maugham novel of the same title.
Miss Skinner played a wondering actress who adventured in sin
as a stimulation to her ego. After 69 performances the actress
took her company on tour, further to convince her mid-Western
following of her quality. She could not afford to play "Theatre"
long, however. Successful though she was, she could make three
times as much money with her one-woman show.

Jane Cowl was unhappy in her choice of a comedy called "Ring
Around Elizabeth," by Charlotte Armstrong, and gave it up after
two weeks. The stage was set for a real hit when "Junior Miss"
arrived in mid-November. This comedy was assembled from
incidents and characters introduced by Sally Benson in her sub-
deb sketches. Jerome Chodorov and Joseph Fields did the as-
sembling with marked cleverness, and the result is adolescent
comedy that stirs most audiences to happy approval. You will
find a digest of the play in later pages of this volume and some
account of the producer's good fortune in finding Patricia Peardon,
of the Navy Peardons, to play Judy Graves, the 14-year-old
heroine. The fact that Patricia ran away from her career later
in the season long enough to get herself duly married did not
prevent her continuing this season, at least, to look 14.

The Theatre Guild suffered a failure with Sophie TreadwelPs
"Hope for a Harvest," despite the fact that Fredric March and
Florence Eldridge March played it for them. It proved a pur-
poseful drama builded out of a definite American social problem,
and is also included in this volume. Charles Rann Kennedy tried
to stir the faithful to a new declaration for Christian socialism
with "The Seventh Trumpet," but found the faithful too busy to
attend his call. An Italian family comedy, "Walk into My Par-
lor," written by a student dramatist, Alexander Greendale, was
heavy with good character acting. A young actor named Nicholas

8 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Conte contributed part of it. A few weeks later he was tapped
for a leading role in Raphadson's ^^Jason,^^ and is now by way of
becoming a leading juvenile. *Walk into My Parlor," however,
was withdrawn after thirty performances. "Sunny River," with
an attractive score by Sigmund Romberg but a heavy and un-
inspiring romantic book by Oscar Hammerstein, 2d, gave up after
36 costly performances, the Max Gordon production having been
rich to the point of extravagance. (Whatever becomes of the
good scores of bad musical comedies, do you suppose?)

"Hellzapoppin" having run its course after three full years,
a successor was staged by the Messrs. Olsen and Johnson. "Sons
o' Fun," they called this one. It proved a natural offspring of
its papas' first collaboration, being filled again with surprises and
noise, gags and gadgets, and decorated with Carmen Miranda
and a goodly ensemble of dancing and singing beauties.

The surprise dramatic success of the season, as is also more
fully related hereafter, was Patrick Hamilton's English melo-*
drama entitled "Angel Street." It had been played in England
as "Gaslight," and had been also tried in America in several barn
theatres and in Holl3npirood. Shepard Traube finally raised enough
money to bring it to New York. He feared the worst, hoped for
the best, and the morning following the opening found himself
with a very definite hit to cheer his immediate future. Vincent
Price and Judith Evel3m are probably still playing it somewhere.

"Brookl3m, USA," was a murder play that undertook to reveal
just how a murder trust managed to survive in that placid city for
years, or until a certain courageous district attorney got after it.
Exciting, but 57 performances were enough. John Bright and
Asa Bordages wrote it.

"Letters to Luzerne," the best of the current war plays to date,
it seemed to us, suffered the same handicap that had defeated
"The Man with the Blond Hair." It asked sympathy for a
representative of the enemy. The play, written by Fritz Rotter
and Allen Vincent, was given a fine production by Dwight Deere
Wiman, but was withdrawn after three weeks. It was, however,
one of the better plays of the season and a digest is included in
later pages of this record.

After being away thirteen years, Eddie Cantor came back to
Broadway with a musicalized version of "Three Men on a Horse"
called "Banjo Eyes." The John Cecil Holm-George Abbott script
had been pepped up by a delegation of Mr. Cantor's gagmen,
which did not help much. Eddie in person was wildly greeted.
He ran on for 128 performances, and only closed then because of

THE SEASON IN NEW YORK 9

a physical backset which sent him to a hospital.

CUfiford Odets also came back from the Pacific Coast with a
new drama called "Clash by Night." Billy Rose produced it as
his first experiment with drama, and Tallulah Bankhead, flanked
by Joseph SdiUdkraut and Lee J. Cobb, played in it. It was a
pattern melodrama, however, and even good acting failed to
excite sufficient audience interest in it to pay expenses. Six weeks
and it was gone.

The story of President Woodrow Wilson's fight for a League
of Nations and a reasonably modified and sane Treaty of Ver-
sailles, at the close of World War I, reached the stage in a drama
called "In Time to Come," written by Howard Koch and John
Huston. As historical drama the play was dramatically reveal-
ing. As dramatic entertainment it was largely dependent upon
the interest of politicaUy informed audiences. Its severest critics
admitted that it was an important contribution to the theatre
season, but there was a falling oS of popular support after five
weeks and the drama was withdrawn. "In Time to Come" re-
ceived four votes in the Drama Critics' Circle search for a play
of American authorship worthy its approval, as against eleven
tallies for a "no decision" vote.

The Theatre GuDd tried again with "Papa Is All," a light
domestic comedy about the Pennsylvania Dutch folk, written
by Patterson Greene. With Jessie Royce Landis and Carl Benton
Reed featured it ran for eight weeks. And again the Guild tried
with a revival of "The Rivals," with Walter Hampden, Mary
Boland and Bobby Clark, the burlesquer, playing Sir Anthony
Absolute, Mrs. MsJaprop and mischievous Bob Acres respectively.
It was Mr. Clark who produced most of the humor, and conse-
quently most of the business. The Sheridan classic ran on for
S3 performances in town and afterward did very well on the
road, until Miss Boland was forced out of the cast by illness in
Chicago.

A piece about a dramatic critic, of all things, was "Jason,"
written by Samson Raphaelson, who has had his experiences with
the breed. Mr. Raphaelson's critic, however, was a decent and
rather interesting type, suffering a bit from a conscious supply
of erudition and a slightly abnormal dislike of people. The critics
were kind to "Jason," as "Jason" had been to them, and the
playgoers developed quite an interest in him. He lasted for 125
performances.

A happy inspiration on the part of Cheryl Crawford was that
of reviving the George Gershwin-DuBose He)n¥ard operetta.

10 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

"Porgy and Bess." With a cast headed by the Todd Duncan
and Anne Brown of the original cast, and a popular-price stand-
ard of prices, "Porgy and Bess" proved one of the outstanding
bits of the year. It was still booming along in midsummer.

In "Cafe Crown" H. S. Kraft dramatized the lives and activities
of a group of Yiddish actors who frequent a famous Yiddish
restaurant on Second Avenue, New York. It was strong in its
exposure of racial group comedy and of sufficiently wide appeal
to please many audiences, thanks in no small part to the work
of Sam Jaffe and Morris Camovsky in leading roles. Ben Hecht,
novelist and scenarist extraordinary, tried a dramatization of erne
of his own short stories having to do with the spirits of cotain
cadavers picked up by the city guardians and depoated at the
morgue. It proved a sometimes fascinating, sometimes depiess-
ingly gruesome tale of a ghostly missonary meeting that revealed
the sordid lives and inner spiritual promptings of dispossessed
and outcast humans. "Lily of the Valley" von little suf^rt from
the press and was withdrawn after a week's trial.

"Solitaire," a story of a sweetly precocious child and a human
but frustrated "okie," brought Patricia Hitchcock, the 12-year-old
daughter of Alfred Hitchcock, Hollywood director, to the New
York stage for her Broadway debut. Patricia was a promising
success, but the play, though written by John Van Druten and
handsomely staged by Dwig^t Deere Wiman, was a little too
dose to the theatre and a little too artificially removed from
life, to satisfy its audiences. Mr. Wiman withdrew it after three
weeks.

Katina Paxinou, a leader of the Greek theatre, decided to em-
ploy a new translation of Henrik Ibsen's "Hedda Gabler" for hff
American debut. This was presumably a simplification of former
translations and was made by Ethel Borden and Mary Cass Can-
fidd. It did not appear to add to the attractions of the play or
diancter, but it did fit admirably the sultry and lightly repeUent
^diancterization of Miss Paxinou. The reviews were friendly but
jblic response was not.

i than a month after Pearl Harbor the Boston Opera Com-

', I new organization of young people devoted to Gilbert and

io, wai Ringing "The Mikado." They were particular to

t the Jyric to read "We are gangsters of Japan," and this

he audience an excuse In applaud rather than to hiss. It

1 organization of [>]<ms;iiiI voices, including those of Katfa-

I Mary Krx^hc, MarRarct Roy and Morton Bowe, with

Whiten/. Amtu, Bertram Peacock and Robert Pitkin to

THE SEASON IN NEW YORK 11

serve as professional ballast.

Marc Conndly wrote and staged a little drama of exalted pur-
pose called ^'The Flowers of Virtue" (which are bound to bloom,
even in a scorched-earth world), with Frank Craven again hope-
fully trying to build a weak leading rdle into one of commanding
impcxtance. This was the story of a tired American business
man who seeks relaxation in deepest Mexico and runs into the
conspiracy of a small-time Hitler trying to enslave his townsmen.
The author's approach was timid and the result disappointing
and regrettable.

The American Youth Theatre, helped out by Alexander Cohen,
cooked up a tc^ical revue which they called '^Of V We Sing."
^x>tted with new talent, produced with a great deal of native
enthusiasm^ the young folk managed to play 76 performances.
A misguided trio of authors and Sam Grisman thought to pop-
ularize a farce, ''They Should Have Stood in Bed." This one
attracted some attention to its title, derived from a sporting
character's lament for having got up to attend a business con-
ference that worked out badly, but none to its entertainment.
Toni Canzoneri, one-time champ, played a bit part.

''Heart of a City" came from London. It was a realistic melo-
drama of the war written by Lesley Storm. It drew its inspira-
tion from reactions of the theatrical troupe that bravely played
"the little Windmill Theatre off Shaftesbury Avenue" all through
the 1940 blitzing of London. It was well staged and directed
by GObert Miller, and well played by a company headed by
Gertrude Musgrove, a likable English actress; Margot Grahame
and Richard Ainley, also from the other side; Beverly Roberts
and Lloyd Gou^, Bertha Belmore and Dennis Hoey. It wasn't
a popular realism, that of a bombed city, and four weeks' uncer-
tain trade was all the support it got.

Still another war drama, and the most fantastic of the lot,
was called "Plan M," written by James Edward Grant of the
movies. In this the German High Command substituted one of
its own men for the head of the war office in London, and thus
eased the way for an invasion of England which was thwarted
in the end barely in the nick of time. More excitement than
sense. Gone in a week.

A pleasant surprise hit sneaked in in late February. This was
"Guest in the House." It was written by two Holl)n¥ood writers,
Hagar Wilde and Dale Eunson, and produced by Stephen and
Paid Ames, who were new to this business. The reviews were
more encouraging than discouraging, but not too good. Yet

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

"Guest in the House," thanks to the boldly phrcd diuacteriza-
tioo of a thoroughly unlovdy brat of a henmie, ran oo and on
for 1 29 performances. Maiy Andenon, also new to Broadway,
was the brat. Audiences were not thrilled, but tbey were inter- '
ested.

Cher>-1 Crawford had found uidieoces in Dennis, Mass., and
Maplewood, N. J., gicatfy interested in ber revivm) at Sir James
M. Barrie's "A Kiss for Cinderdla," with Luise Rainer in the
role that Maude Adams played twenty-six years ago tor mwe
than ISO perfonnanccs on Broadway and a season or two on
tour. Miss Crawford, figuring that audiences are really much
alike wbcFever j'tni find them, brou^t "A Kia for Cinderdla" to
Broadway. Here the reaction was practioDy the reverse of
irtiai it bad been in the rural centers. Barrie's soitiBiaital tale
of the drudge and the London bobby in the last war was poUtdy
kidded out of the thatre. and that was that. .KaSanx interest,
bowe%'er, did bdd it for 45 performances.

Then came a sudden dri\-v of \-3udeville. Oifford C Fisdier,
late of the Moulin Rouge, had an idea the time was ripe for a
good \-aiideville show. I.ee Shubert. ba\'iiig empty theatres,
agreed with him. Fischer organised one with Lou Holtz, Willie
Howard. VbH Baker and Paul Dtaper as its four beadUners, filled
in with a variety of acrobats, mustdans and such and aimounced
"Priorities of 1942." There was a schedule of popular prices, a
dollar top at the matinees, S3 at n^t perfonnanccs. Public
response was immediate and cnthusiutic. Immediate^ Mr.
Fiscber decided the time was even r^cr than he had imagined
and wganiaed a secvod bQl, this one beaded by Mctor Moore,
VBSim Gaxtoa, HBdegarde and the Hartmans. For one reason
and another tys bill, called "Keep "£01 Lan^ung," never quite
cao^ (q> with the fint, so there was an injection of new names —
Oaat Fhhfa, En^nds most popttlar music ball queen: .Argcn-
tadtt. the dMGCr: A. Rofams, the buuna down: .Al Ttahan and
This one was eotitW "Keep TEm Laaghing.~ Still
'^ coBlinoed to lead tV way.

son was et^^og tonni its dose, and a lot of eiperi-

• WW beiqg tried. Shawiacn were convinced that with

• cK^ulatiao o< cuMcunenCs within rcnduog dtstao^

f ■Madway: with gaaobK beJBg nciooed and bjns hud to get.

re an o^hI thniBe snaner in New York. Tbey

1 tgogh little Mahwhama ot speakeasy ibys.
^^:^ iQCefestAl b aigfic chibs and the IcFwer

■■■MH

THE SEASON IN NEW YORK 13

cafe society brackets. It ran for eight weeks. ''Nathan the
Wise/' which had been produced by the Students Theatre of the
Sdiool for Sodal Research in Twelfth Street, was brought up-
town to the Belasco for an additional four weeks.

John Steinbeck's dramatization of his own best-selling novel,
''The Moon Is Down/' seemed a most promising entrant for a
summer run. Oscar Serlin, having invested a part of his ^'Life
with Father" profits in the play, brought it to the Martin Beck.
The reviews, as more fuUy appears in other pages, were mixed,
the public's support uncertain. After fighting valiantly for the
play for nine weeks Mr. Serlin decided this was not the season
for it.

The Theatre Guild's final production of the season was that
of Emlyn Williams' "Yesterday's Magic," a London success. Paul
Muni came on from Hollywood to play the role of an old Eng-
lish actor who is protected by a crippled daughter, played by
Jessica Tandy. Again it was a question of whether exceptional
performances by gifted actors could save a fairly obvious and
frankly sentiment^d theatre piece. The actors lost. Came a bad
stretch of weather after seven weeks and "Yesterday's Magic"
was sent to the storehouse for the Summer.

And now, as late as April 27, came the happiest event of all
the sad new year. Sponsored by the American Theatre Wing
War Service Elatharine Cornell and Guthrie McClintic revived
Bernard Shaw's "Candida" with what proved to be the greatest
cast that stalwart comedy has ever been given — Miss Cornell in
the name part, Raymond Massey playing Morell, Burgess Mere-
dith the poet Marchbanks, Mildred Natwick the Prossy, Dudley
Digges the Burgess and Stanley Mill the curate. The town's
upper bracket playgoers, led by the play reviewers, were prac-
tically ecstatic. They had been patiently waiting all season for
just one play and production worth cheering for, and here it was.
The revival had been made for the benefit of the Army and Navy
relief agencies and for special matinees only. Extensions were
prayed for. Private Meredith's leave was extended. The play
went on for another two weeks. And then for a week in Wash-
ington. The cheering continued until finally the close came
when Massey and Digges both had to fill picture assignments.

Not much after that. Ed Sullivan and Noble Sissle organized
a "Harlem Cavalcade" to take advantage of the turn to vaude-
ville. Their all Negro revue got 51 performances. There were
two or three quick failures in late April and early May — a
Brooklyn Dodgers play, "The Life of Reilly," by William Roos;

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

a comedy called ''The Walking Gentleman/' by Grace Perkins
and Fulton Oursler, with Victor Francen; a Scotch "Wookey"
called "The Strings, My Lord, Are False," by Paul Vincent
Carroll.

Then a fair hit, Thomas Job's "Uncle Harry," with Eva Le
Gallienne and Joseph Schildkraut renewing an acting partner-
ship that they first enjoyed when they played "Liliom" for the
Theatre Guild in 1926. This unusually interesting murder play
ran well into the summer, stirring the hope that Miss Le Gallienne
would find the urge and the money later to revive her Civic
Repertory enterprise.

The last play of the season, counting the seasons as extending
from one June IS to another, was "By Jupiter," a musicalization
of Julian Thompson's comedy "The Warrior's Husband" skfll-
fuUy wrought by Lorenz Hart and Robert Rodgers. Ray Bolger
was the star of "By Jupiter/' pla3ring the sissie Sapiens to the
Amazonian Pomposia of Bertha Belmore, the Hippolyta of Benay
Venuta and the Antiope of Constance Moore, a newcomer from
the screen who was away to a fl3dng start with this first Broadway
assignment. Antiope, it will be recalled, was also the part that
sent Katharine Hepburn flying out to the coast and a career as a
movie star in 1931.

Because of war conditions previously mentioned, the summer
promised to be much more active than any Broadway had known
for some years. This promise, at the hour of skipping with this
manuscript to the printer's, was being generously realized.

^mH

THE SEASON IN CHICAGO

By Cecil Smith
Drama Critic of the Chicago Tribune

IT is remarkable, and not a little shocking, to discover at each
season's end how little the Chicago stage changes its habits and
outlook from year to year. The differences between 1940-41
and the succe^ing season of 1941-42 were primarily statistical
in nature; the general structure of theatre business in the nation's
second city remained virtually as it has been for the past ten
years. Since the bank closings of 1932, when the theatres took
a drubbing from which some never recovered, the city has sub-
sisted on a minimum diet. Not more than six professional plays
were ever on view at one time during the season which closed
ofiBdaUy on May 31, 1942, and it was only during four weeks of
the year that as many as six legitimate theatres were open.

During the year the face of Chicago's scattered Rialto under-
went one major, and painful, operation. On June 14, 1941, the
historic Auditorium Theatre on Congress Street closed its doors
forever. The irony of the gods dictated that ''Hellzapoppin"
should be the last entertainment to light a house which gloried
in more than a half century's memories of Patti, Caruso, Tos-
canini, Galli-Curd, Garden, Muzio and Chaliapin, of Duse, Pav-
lowa, Danilova and Massine. For a few months a listless ^'Save
the Auditorium" campaign received some lip service, but after
Pearl Harbor it became all too tragically apparent that the
requisite $400,000 would have to be devoted to other more im-
mediately compelling purposes. Nearly a year after the final
performance of '^Hellzapoppin" in the old house, the furnishings
from backstage and out front were sold at public auction, and it
was depressing to discover how few nostalgic bidders put in an
appearance.

An important managerial transfer took place on July 1, 1941,
when the Grand Opera House, which has a history almost as long
and colorful as that of the Auditorium, passed from the control
of the Shubert constellation back into the hands of the Hamlin
estate, which originally built the theatre. For two years pre-
viously the theatre, which had prospered enormously in the days
when it was known as Cohan's Grand, had been having hard

16 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

sledding under the management of Sam Gerson, who operated it
under some working arrangement, never too clearly defined in the
public mind, with the Shuberts. Although the management
representing the Hamlin estate redecorated the house handsomely,
its year was anything but a success, for the United Booking office
preferred to grant its most potent attractions to the established
managements of the Selw3m, Harris and Erlanger Theatres. All
three of these houses accordingly rolled up an exceptionally con-
sistent record of occupancy, whUe the Grand was shuttered more
than half the time.

The Blackstone Theatre, a handsome house which had been
rescued from oblivion by the 66-week engagement of "Life with
Father" which ended in May, 1941, remained empty until March.
At that time a mildly successful return engagement of "Papa Is
AH" brought the theatre back into the active list, and the subse-
quent sensational success of "Good Night, Ladies" has undoubt-
edly re-established the Blackstone as a theatre popular enough
to be attractive to bookers. The Studebaker and the Great
Northern, both seriously in need of renovation in every depart-
ment of decoration and equipment, cannot be said to have been
satisfactorily restored to public favor, despite intermittent en-
gagements in both theatres. The big Majestic, once the home of
vaudeville, musical comedy and operetta, still looms dark and
silent in its inconvenient Monroe Street location.

As has been the case for many years now, Chicago continues
to be almost wholly dependent upon Broadway for all its de-
sirable professional theatrical attractions. Two attempts at local
production were made during the past season, and both failed
abysmally. Lee Sloan and Clyde Elliott, taking a lease on the
Great Northern Theatre, presented three unprofitable plays with
mediocre casts before they became convinced that Chicago did
not appreciate their efforts. For their opening lure, the ill-advised
producers chose to present Jack Norworth in "Village Green,"
the New Hampshire comedy which had expired in New York
only a few weeks earlier, for easily demonstrable reasons. This
they followed with one of the most revolting farces of the past
25 years, the title of which — "Let's Have a Baby" — ^may give a
sufficient explanation of my reticence in recounting the details of
its subject matter. The obituary of this season was written by
"Take My Advice," an ancient college wheeze farce which had
been seen on Broadway many years ago, and which was adver-
tised in Chicago with undated New York press quotations.

The second attempt at local production was an even sorrier

II mil iB^BMIMfciMiiB

THE SEASON IN CHICAGO 17

affair. Charles K. Freeman, who had presented a highly credit-
able performance of ''Girls in Uniform" a number of years ago,
brought together a home-written and home-acted musical revue,
to which he gave the rather provocative title of ''American Side-
show." The material was puerile, however, and so was the act-
ing. After two performances "American Sideshow" was closed
by Actors' Equity, since Mr. Freeman had grossly violated union
rules in engaging his cast.

Chicago has a way, from time to time, of establishing surprise
hits of its own, which sometimes fail when they are taken to
New York later. Johir Barrymore's charade called "My Dear
Children" was a typical case in point. The Spring of 1942 brought
another quasi-phony Chicago hit into the national spotlight. From
the west coast two little known producers, Howard Lang and
Al Rosen, brought a rewritten and resexed version of the ancient
Avery Hopwood farce, "Ladies' Night" (in a Turkish Bath).
Retaining the general structure of the second act Turkish bath
scene, the producers hired Cyrus Wood to create up-to-date
dialogue and a variety of fresh situations. They engaged Buddy
Ebsen and Skeets Gallagher, both expert practitioners of farce,
and surrounded them with a small galaxy of astoundingly attrac-
tive Hollywood lovelies.

On the opening night of "Good Night, Ladies" Claudia Cas-
sidy of the Chicago Sun, the city's only feminine reviewer, was
fortunate in finding a conflicting engagement. The male instincts
of the press were suitably aroused, and the first night perform-
ance, which was incontrovertibly extremely funny once the stylis-
tic premises of the play were accepted, won a handsomely in-
nuendo-filled batch of notices. The farce caught on at once,
and entered into a Summer of sellout business. Miss Cassidy
finally went to see it, and quite properly held out against the
mass opinion of the male critics.

While "Good Night, Ladies" might bore a New York audience,
on the other hand it might not, considering the success of various
hokey revivals of vaudeville. To the credit of the producers, it
must be said that they were shrewd enough to stage their pro-
duction without any trace of shoddy economy, and — ^more re-
markable still — that they did not hire a single beauty who did
not possess at least a reasonable modicum of talent for acting
and characterization. Indeed, the play probably owes its con-
tinuing business to the fact that it is more expertly presented
than one might normally expect.

Four other pla3rs with immediate Broadway aspirations were

18 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

tried out in Chicago. Only two — Cornelia Otis Skinner in Guy
Bolton's transcription of Somerset Maugham's '^Theatre/' and the
Theatre Guild production of 'Tapa Is All," reached New York.
Charles Butterworth, seeking a stage comeback, appeared rather
monotonously as an over-age telegraph messenger in a frail but
not entirely unattractive farce named "Western Union, Please."
It lasted a week. Later on another week of the season was graced
by the presence of "They Can't Get You Down," an "intimate"
musical comedy originating on the west coast, with the name of
Dwight Deere Wiman inexplicably linked to the production. Its
score was by Jay Gomey, who wrote the music for "Meet the
People." But unfortunately the entire book of "They Can't Get
You Down" contained about as much essential material as one
sketch from the none too brilliant "Meet the People."

It has always been Chicago's fate to see a good many second
companies in the reigning New York successes. Sometimes, as in
the cases of "Life with Father," "Arsenic and Old Lace" and "My
Sister Eileen" these second companies will stand comparison with
the New York originals; indeed, Effie Afton in the Chicago com-
pany of "My Sister Eileen," which came back for a return en-
gagement, is the best Ruth I have seen, not excluding the excel-
lent Shirley Booth.

Four concurrent New York attractions were given in Chicago
by second companies, in addition to "Arsenic and Old Lace" and
"My Sister Eileen," which held over into the season we are con-
sidering. The first of these was "Hellzapoppin," which got along
perfectly well with Eddie Garr and Billy House as its comics,
though nobody in his right mind would compare the quality of
their teamwork with that of Olsen and Johnson, who are past
masters, whatever you think of their material.

After a much publicized still hunt for a young actress to take
over the title role, John Golden, with the blessing of Rose Franken,
the author, settled upon a newcomer named Phyllis Thaxter as the
heroine of the Chicago company of "Claudia." I shall have to
see Miss Thaxter in other assignments before I can allay my sus-
picion that she is not a completely schooled actress, but her
natural attributes suited her to the part of Claudia, and her per-
formance won many friends for her. Except for Marguerite
Namara, who made a wonderfully splashy thing out of the prima
donna character, and the excellent players in the servant r61es,
the Chicago "Claudia" company was not the equal of the New
York original.

In the case of "Blithe Spirit," the discrepancy between Chicago

THE SEASON IN CHICAGO 19

and New York performances was much greater. Even though
I found Estdle Winwood's portrait of Madame Arcati much
waftier and infinitely more amusing than Mildred Natwick's, and
thou|^ Carol Goodner's second wife was at least as deftly con-
ceived as Peggy Wood's, the generd aspect of the ensemble was
rather crude. The opening night was quite good in pace, and
possessed the requisite light touch. When I returned a week
or so later, however, the performance had already taken on a
horrid road company obviousness, with Dennis King in particular
working unashamedly for laughs. Then, too, the casting of
Annabdla as the spirit was a singularly unhappy mischance, for
her inability to grasp an English drawing room style of delivery
left her lines inert and sometimes even meaningless. The en-
gagement of "Blithe Spirit" dosed abruptly in May, and it was
rumor^ that Jolm C. Wilson, the producer, who had come out
from New York, posted a dosing notice as soon as he had seen a
performance. Producers and stage directors should see their
plays in Chicago much more frequently. They often lose thou-
sands of dollars, simply because they do not realize that the per-
formance has departed grievously from its original direction.

The Chicago company of '^ Angel Street" was considerably better
than that of '^Blithe Spirit," but it was still no match for the one
in New York. Neither Victor Jory nor Sylvia Sidney really
projected the eerie psychopathic horror which Vincent Price and
Judith Evelyn are able to create so marvelously. Ernest Cossart,
however, was a ddight as the garrulous detective. The remark-
able lighting effects, of course, were handled just as effectively in
Chicago as in New York. But Chicago did not patronize "Angd
Street" generously, and it lasted only eight weeks.

Some other plays, which had finished their New York careers,
came to Chicago with important cast changes. ''Mr. and Mrs.
North," too frothy a piece to attain a long run, was most agree-
ably acted by Anita Louise, who seems to have real talent to go
along with her looks, and Owen Davis, Jr., in his last assignment
before entering military service. In "Panama Hattie" the re-
placement of Ethd Merman with Frances Williams was hurtful,
since Miss Williams' old-fashioned type of extroversion does not
jibe with Cole Porter's sophisticated style. Likewise "Pal Joey"
would have profited from the presence of Gene Kelly, though
George Tapps danced well and made a creditable attempt at
characterization. And then there was Phil Baker's attempt to
make a go of "Charley's Aunt," back in July, 1941 — an attempt
which failed partly, I am sure, because of the searing heat in the

THE BEST PLAYS QF 1941-42

two perf an
afanipi

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'±ax 3IB sd 31 Ii

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dbe ToeaEcre Gmid piBDBd cskbb nitit E<piity;

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-tnayfi taanv iminhiy,

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-tvuL tve* ±e rdle of Ht& Miiiaprop oncil die
: -ttjjMiwi— It in C!tiia9). On die
Axncni 'SsnmscaDBfi ser rcaources <if

^ni^ if rie ireauesc jc±um jf die seeon

Smmim's ioe praiucouos jf "^TTie Cinn Is Green

3arr7mare mi Sfd&ira Wmaa^ ind "Watch oo tl

?xzl LoicES jmi ±e rest at die Xcv York cas

It bctfi pioTs. biTwever Mr. Shtxmiin woanded Q

cinrr^ by .isggmiTC diac pubiic support would I

Bezmse at la indestrie tmiriaoe schedule, boi

- '±e ntj bieuie dunxsaxnis uf Tvcencfal customers k

In sszn ojcaL i I riays jc prriessLCQuI jt iQ^eiSy professrao
caliber we?e crssescai in Ciiciicu becween June U 1^1. ai
iLay 5 1. I ?^I. Tiey 3iay be cassified x? ^jQuws:

Z-rvnas z — ^"Xicive Sen," witi C^oAia Lee; "^Tbe Com
i^fBsa": -Cuufle in ±e Wjxd." witi Heies Hayes: "Watdi c
•Jxe Rhine": "Azxet Scwfc"* sec.^mi ojmpany .

Cimedha out iirsis IZ — ^"My Sister Eileea" (secood coc
pany : beid i^ver s?nn previcus <eascn : cesed in Sepcemfaer, 194!
renirncd in ^Liy. I?4vl« fcr secroc eoxa^Rneoc ic reduced prices'
•'Arsenic and Lid Laize'* secjmi ci:m(»ay: besd over frooi pr
yious acascn : "Caacxa'" sec:nd ojinfMny : -TThHire'': -Wcs
em Uzxion. Flcase' : "Mr. lad Mrs. North ' ^junog ct?fcpany'
-Viilaae Gceen"; -Let's Hjve a Baby : -Fapa Is AH ': ^Tal
My Advice': '^BHibe Sciric" secjnd C'jopany' : "ijixd Ni^

THE SEASON IN CHICAGO 21

Musical entertainments (7) — ^"Hdlzapoppin" (second com-
pany; held over from previous season); ''Louisiana Purchase";
*Tal Joey"; "Panama Hattie"; "They Can't Get You Down";
^American Sideshow"; "High Kickers."

Revivals of aU kinds (7)— "Charley's Aunt," with Phil Baker;
''The Doctor's Dilemma," with Elatharine Cornell; "Blossom
Time"; "The Student Prince"; "The Rivals"; "Macbeth," with
Maurice Evans and Judith Anderson; "Accent on Youth," with
Sylvia Sidney and Luther Adler.

The 22-week run of "Claudia" was the season's longest. By
May 31, 1942, "My Sister Eileen" had played in Chicago for
35 weeks, but a large part of the total bdongs to the record of
1940-41. "Good Night, Ladies," which is still playing as these
paragraphs are written, may finally achieve a very long run, and
the return engagement of "My Sister Eileen," also still in progress,
gives evidence of considerable future prosperity. "Louisiana
Purchase" was the leading musical, with 14 weeks to its credit.
''Blithe Spirit" also ran for 14 weeks.

With a total pla3ring time of 178^ weeks, the overall tenancy
of Chicago theatres fell slightly under the 1940-41 total of 191
weeks. It should be noted, however, that "Life with Father"
alone accounted for 51 weeks in that season. Six more profes-
sional productions were seen in Chicago in 1941-42 than in the
previous season.

Semi-professional and tributary theatre activity in Chicago did
not flourish on a particularly praiseworthy level, with the single
exertion of a group known as the Actors Company of Chicago.
This organization, which has a little theatre on the fourth floor
of a Wabash Avenue office building, gave an exceptionally fine
performance of Lillian Hellman's "The Children's Hour," which
had not been produced in Chicago before. Under the direction
of Minnie Galatzer, the acting approaches desirable professional-
ism more closely than that of any sub-professional group Chicago
has possessed for a number of seasons.

THE SEASON IN SAN FRANCISCO

By Fred Johnson
Drama Editor, The CaU-BuUetin

MIDWAY in their theatrical year, going to the theatre took
on a new meaning for San Franciscans, differing for a geograph-
ical reason from the mental state of show-goers in other parts
of the nation.

This condition of mind, as they looked across the footlights,
was the same as elsewhere in the country-wide realization there
was a bigger show going on in the shape of a world war, that
December 7 was a date dividing the theatrical season in half and
that the remembrance of Pearl Harbor had altered the course
of show business, with disturbing effect on the minds of pro-
ducers, managers and audiences alike.

But there was this difference: At this western extremity of the
touring road the Spring of 1942 brought early signs of transporta-
tion difficulties for traveling companies — a scarcity of baggage
cars at different points en route and uncertainty as to the class
of accommodations a troupe would draw on its return journey.

Following a lean year in the number of Broadway and other
touring attractions to reach this destination, the amusement pros-
pect became still more discouraging to impresarios and patrons,
who had been given promise of visitations by several of the long-
awaited New York hits that had taken to the road.

The obvious vulnerability of this coast in the event of enemy
attack was soon evident in the managerial mind, besides the
thought of increasing obstacles to normal touring.

Later on, nervousness grew with the accepted belief San Fran-
cisco would be target No. 1 in a Japanese foray. And then came
the first blackouts, descending on jittery audiences already in the-
atres and bringing the decision of potential theatre-goers that for
a time, at least, they would venture less from their homes in search
of entertainment. With decreasing alarm from the fewer ensuing
alerts over the sight of planes that proved to be friendly, play-
going in San Francisco returned to better than normal, despite
the new obstacle of a rubber shortage, and an influx of service
men figured conspicuously among the audiences.

The season became notable before the beginning of Summer

THE SEASON IN SAN FRANCISCO 23

for its return of long-run engagements, with such wanted attrac-
tions as "My Sister Eileen" and "Life with Father" filling adjoin-
ing theatres for periods remindful of pre-depression days.

War and its blackouts took their first serious toll of the theatre
in a casualty suffered by the redoubtable Henry Duffy and his
historic Alcazar Playhouse, to which he had returned in tfie Spring
of 1941 with a series of revivals and newer pla3rs employing
HoUywood stars and excellent supporting casts.

Beginning with Edward Everett Horton in "Springtime for
Henry" and Billie Burke in "The Vinegar Tree," he had gone
into the current season with Francis Lederer in "No Time for
Comedy," with Rose Hobart and Doris Dudley as other prin-
cipals; Joe E. Brown and Helen Chandler in "The Show-Off";
Dale Winter and Minna Gombell in "Quiet Please"; Otto Kruger,
Ruth Matteson and Marjorie Lord in "The Male Animal" and
Taylor Holmes in "The Man Who Came to Dinner."

All these were well patronized for satisfying runs with the
exception of "Quiet Please," one of the four comedies of Holly-
wood life that had failed of success in the preceding Broadway
season. There was hopefulness among the old Alcazar followers,
and with good reason, that the house would be restored to its
one time stability, as Duffy had chosen plays and casts that met
with high favor.

But the war was yet to be reckoned with. Its alarms fell upon
audiences during the run of "Patricia," a musical version of
Duffy's old comedy hit, "The Patsy," and blackouts closed the
play soon after December 7. A return engagement early in the
new year failed to pick up where it had left off.

But Katharine Cornell was not to be dispossessed in any such
fashion. Her engagement in "The Doctor's Dilemma" was one
week old at the Curran when Pearl Harbor and its aftermath
affected the theatre — ^with no defeat for this attraction, which
continued playing to near-capacity for another six days without
blackout hindrance.

Show world curiosity, however, then centered on the likelihood
of her continuance with plans for the San Francisco premiere of
her new Henri Bernstein play, "Rose Burke," scheduled for
January 19. But after a desert vacation with Guthrie McClintic
during the holidays and rehearsals under McClintic, with Bern-
stein in attendance, the curtain went up before critics and audi-
ence in pleased agreement over virtuoso performances by the
star, Philip Merivde, Doris Dudley and Jeanne-Pierre Aumont,

24 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

and as finnly agreed over the vehicle's discursiveness and general
inadequacy.

A few nights later, darkness was ofiEidally decreed for the
town if not the theatre, less than an hour before curtain time.
But Miss Cornell found her way on foot through the bladiened
streets, joined others of the company and played before an audi-
ence of some 300 souls who had been early in reaching the
theatre. Two weeks of fair patronage were credited mainly to
magic of the Cornell name.

Early in the season Eugene O'Neill's ''Anna Christie" was
given an excellent presentation by the Hollywood-based Selzoick
Company under direction of John Houseman and Alfred de Liagre,
Jr., Miss Bergman, interrupting her screen assignments for an
impressive performance, was supported by J. Edward Bromberg,
Jessie Busley and Damion 0'Fl3mn for a fortnight's satisfying
business.

Despite the absence from its cast of Olsen and Johnson, then
filming their extravaganza in Hollywood, ''Hellzapoppin" played
three weeks to capacity, with Eddie Garr and BiUy House as
substitute stars. "Tobacco Road" made another successful re-
turn visit, again with John Barton and advertised as pla3ring its
farewell engagement here. The Katherine Dunham Dancers
won raves in a single performance and returned for a less profit-
able single night. Magician Dante's "Sim Sala Bim" revue was a
novelty show of surprising success, but Ruth Draper's return in
character sketches lacked the usual support, presumably due to
her repetition of sketches seen here during the last decade.

"Blossom Time," starring Everett Marshall, was again well re-
ceived. Then "Good Night, Ladies," C)tus Wood's rewrite of
Avery Hopwood's "Ladies' Night in a Turkish Bath," made its
sexy appeal to the town in exciting stages of undress by a flodL
of Hollywood starlets, featuring Buddy Ebsen and Skeets Gal-
lagher. The critics' jibes, also conveying the word of this pul-
chritudinous exhibit, had the effect of packing the Curran for
five weeks, which would not have ended the run but for an open-
ing date in Chicago, where it fuller had opportimity for its record-
breaking capacity.

The Geary Theatre, adjoining the Curran, was given over to
road-show motion pictures until early Autumn, when Ethel Waters,
a favorite in "Cabin in the Sky" and other San Francisco ap-
pearances, returned in a successful revival of "Mamba's Daugh-
ters," supported by Vincent Price and Fredi Washington. "My
Sister Eileen," with Marcy Wescott, Effie Afton, Philip Loeb and

THE SEASON IN SAN FRANCISCO 2S

Guy Robertson, was first of the Broadway successes to enter-
tain eager audiences, doing so well in its four weeks' Geary The-
atre run that it returned from Hollywood for an added stay of
five weAs at the Curran.

Meanwhile '^Life with Father," co-starring Percy Waram and
Margalo Gillmore, began its final touring engagement of the sea-
son at the Geary, extending to twelve weeks-— a new long-run
maiiL m recent years for this city. The company was engaged
here while Louis Calhem and Dorothy Gish were teaming at
Hollywood in the same vehicle.

Closing the San Francisco theatrical season as usual, the dvic
light opera associations of this city and Los Angeles wound up
its most successful year with "Bitter Sweet," starring Muriel
Angdus and John Howard; "The Vagabond King," with Bob
Lawrence, Dorothy Sandlin, Marthe Errolle and Robert Stanford ;
"Hit the Deck," with Joan Roberts, June Preisser, Frank Albert-
son and Eddie Foy, Jr., and "Music in the Air," starring John
Charles Thomas, Irra Petina, Francis Lederer, Al Shean and
Fritz Leiber.

In early Winter another attempt was made to revive music
at the historic Tivoli Theatre — ^home of Tetrazzini and other
opera stars of the past. A civic light opera committee, briefly
confused in some minds with the similar organization presenting
the regular Spring festival, put on "The Firefly" and "The Merry
Widow," but this project also met the fate of a literal blackout in
mid-December. As the season ended it was followed in by "Varie-
ties of 1942," a girl and vaudeville extravaganza, under the aegis
of Homer Curran, of the theatre bearing his name.

Despite the uncertainty of touring conditions, there were in
prospect, as Summer opened, the arrival of "Claudia," "Arsenic
and Old Lace" and "Watch on the Rhine." Meanwhile Shipstad
and Johnson's "Ice Follies of 1942" was filling in the entertain-
ment void.

A single Summer theatre season outside the city was planned
for the second year by the Del Monte Playhouse on the grounds
of that resort at Monterey, under Equity rules. The opening
bill was to be Francis Swann's comedy, "Out of the Frying Pan,"
followed by "Mr. and Mrs. North."

The Stanford (University) Players, under the direction of
Hubert Heffner, was active during the year, with productions of
"Marco Millions," "Knickerbocker Holiday," "Beggar's Opera"
and "He Who Gets Slapped."

The University of California Little Theatre ("without a the-

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

atre") carried on in Wheeler Hall, with a new and doser afifilia-
tion with the university drama department in its directorial end
and with productions still under the associated student body.
San Francisco's most enduring repertory theatre, The* Way-
farers, again highlighted the season with its usual Shakespearean
presentations. And the Berkeley Pla3miakers, in its ei^teenth
year, gave first productions of numerous one-act plays, besides
launching a barnstorming division for the entertainment of service
men at near-by posts. A national playwriting competition was
opened, with William Saroyan as one of the judges, to obtain
short plays suitable for soldier audiences.

THE SEASON IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

By Edwin Schallert
Drama Editor of the Los Angeles Times

THE theatrical grab-bag — ^it was essentially that during 1941-
42— 3rielded varied and odd contributions to add to the show
world chronicle through the years in Southern California. Need-
less to say, in view of everything that happened — or didn't happen
—in New York during the erratic twelve months, it wasn't an
especially good season on the West Coast either. It wouldn't be
fair, possibly, to say it was the worst, but the approach was close
to depression times, and in those days there was at least more
order about the enterprises that did come to fruition.

The public seemed but fitfully responsive to the attractions of
even the best entertainment during 1941-42. It was a public,
of course, that had the war on its mind almost continuously from
December 7. To its imagination the menace sometimes seemed
dose to Pacific shores, again very remote. The first blackouts,
and particularly the one when Coast guns actually boomed away
at something supposedly in the Los Angeles area, were conducive
to an abnormal excitement, which wasn't helpful to the theatrical
business in any department. A greater sense of security pre-
vailed after the initial baptisms, but it tended to waver whenever
the news was not too favorable.

"Life with Father," in its engagement under Oscar Serlin super-
vision at the Music Box, was undoubtedly as good a barometer
as any of popular interest in the stage. After many fits, starts
and sputterings that made it look as if the play would close in
about 10 or 12 weeks, it seemed finally to settle down to a run.
Question of whether this run might compare with such offerings
as "Abie's Irish Rose," "White Collars" and the musical enter-
tainment, "Meet the People," was in abeyance at the close of
the season, but the engagement was constantly being extended.
There were hopes and expectations that it might bridge the dull
spaces after the cream of theatre attendants was skimmed off,
and that the populace in general would be drawn in large num-
bers to the attraction as its engagement continued.

Louis Calhem and Dorothy Gidi of the so-called Boston com-
pany, which had gone touring, were the main principals in a cast

28 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

that was also graced by the presence of the poet, Charles Hanson
Towne, as the Episcopalian divine, and the company was un-
usually good throughout, the younger group appealing. It was a
competent production, the only thing seriously missing being the
rare atmosphere of the old Empire Theatre of the eastern Broad-
way.

Miss Gish*s performance as Vinnie compared very favorably
with Dorothy Stickney in the same role. Calhem gave a credit-
able delineation of the male parent of the title, though this writer
inclines to Howard Lindsay in the same role. Miss Gish un-
fortunately had to leave the cast before the run was completed
and her place was taken by Viola Frayne, but this young actress
suffered no lack of approval for her work by those who viewed
this part of the engagement.

"My Sister Eileen" did better than originally programed. Its
run stretched several weeks beyond the normal fortnight, and it
was rated a good popular hit. Here curiously enough was a
show more load to New York by far than "Life with Father,"
yet it had sophisticated comedy elements which seemed to delight
the audiences which viewed the play. Its run, of course, did
not compare with "Life with Father," and was accomplished by
cutting the price for seats during the later days of its residence.

Of the plays selected by Burns Mantle as the best during the
1941-42 season, none has showed up since its premiere in New
York. "Angel Street" was seen in Hollywood briefly under the
title "Gaslight" during 1940-41, and must be considered a dif-
ferent affair from the western offering, with the one exception
that Judith Evelyn acted in the Coast production, ere she gained
her terrific success in New York. The character of the staging,
plus the novelty of the event, which apparently was unrecognized
in a film colony theatre, proved vitalizing forces in the eastern
debut of this period thriller by Patrick Hamilton. Basically, it
was the same play, though, and was rather well carried out in its
California incarnation.

On the horizon as the 1941-42 annum ended were glimmering
some Mantle selections for the 1940-41 season, like "Claudia,"
with Dorothy McGuire; "Arsenic and Old Lace" and "Watch on
the Rhine" with main members of the original Manhattan casts.
Strictly speaking these belong to the Soudiem California season
of 1942-43. "My Sister Eileen" was of the 1940-41 vintage, and
"Life with Father" of 1939-40.

It is probable that from the 1941-42 season in New York the
Coast will ultimatdy view "Junior Miss," and mayhap "Blithe

■CteliHH^MMWUBa^HBadBMM^HHBl

THE SEASON IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 29

Spirit/' on a professional basis, though most of the others are
likely to mature either in Pasadena Community or other little
th&itre purlieus. There was little enough that was interesting in
a transcontinental way in New York during the season recently
dosed.

Very much out of the grab-bag were producing manifestations
ID the Los Angeles district. Trends were difficult if not impos-
sible to discern. Those who saw the pla3rs liked very well what
David O. Selznick attempted to do at Santa Barbara in the sum-
mer of 1941, though this was remote from the tortuous theatri-
cal stem of Southern California's chief municipality. He tried
one new full-length play, ^'Lottie Dundass," by Enid Bagnold,
author of "Serena Blandish," the strongest interest being tibat it
brought Geraldine Fitzgerald to the stage, and another, a curtain-
raiser by William Saroyan, cleverly devised, called "Hello Out
There."

Selznick also revived "Anna Christie" as a special vehicle for
his star Ingrid Bergman. This was worth-while as a revival with
this particular star, who was to the manor bom, despite that audi-
ences felt the allure of the Eugene O'Neill drama, revolutionary in
its time, had paled. Selznick also presented George Bernard
Shaw's "The Devil's Disciple" with Sir Cedric Hardwicke and
Alan Marshall on the same program as "Hello Out There" as his
best all-around bill at the Channel City playhouse, the Lobero.
Regrettably, there are no signs of his renewing the activity, since
motion pictures will probably claim all his attention again.

Mention of Saroyan brings to the forefront the fact that the
Pasadena Community playhouse was one of the many such estab-
lishments to present his "Jim Dandy" during the season, which,
naturally, was an interest-stirring premiere. Even more expres-
sionistic than "Across the Board on Tomorrow Morning," which
was given the previous year, this new exhibit had an effect on
audiences almost as puzzling as the eccentric and brief Saroyan
film career. The Pasadena Playhouse, as always, strove valiantly
for artistic staging of the production, and the cast attained a very
high level in their work for these offerings, but it appeared doubt-
ful whether "Jim Dandy" would distinguish itself by making any
new or important theatrical history. The more vague he becomes
the less Saroyan seems to satisfy, which is probably an axiomatic
result with dramatists who attempt to follow that course, or at
any rate let themselves be led into it by inspiration or otherwise.

Pasadena had other premieres during the year, which seemed to
provide more substance for the commercial theatre, and the like-

30 THE BEST FLATS OF 1941-42

lihood tbat tbe ediifaits mi^ eweatialfy icadi New York. One
was ""A Riddle for Mr. Twiddk,** written by Mafison Goff, and
the other ""Escape to Aatanm'' by De Witt Bodeen. ''A Riddle
for Mr. Twiddte" partakes of diat oiit-<rf-the-wQrld character
which individualizes ^Blithe Spirit," soiutiQn of a mystery prob-
lem in tbe domain of the spirits bdng tbe main Idea in the Gofif
stage piece. Maybe it wiD fit in with a new qfde, Ql»cal of this
war time as it was of the bsL '^Escape to Autamn," iriiidi fea-
tured the European actress, Leopoldine Konstantin, had an au-
thoress as its central figure, surroonded by a somewhat erratic
family, progeny of several marriages, and may be tabulated as
possessing a generic resemblance to "'The Constant Nymph."
There was an eadiilarating aspect to these two wcntuies akog new
ways.

Travding stars and troiq)es were notably conspicnoos by their
absence — no other season having attained quite sixii a low as this.
Katharine Cwndl had the courage to tiaveise tbe ooontry in
"The Doctor's Dilemma," a vciy poor play for her personally,
but evaded Los Angdes with her new and short-lived "Rose
Burke," which was premiered in San Frandsco. "My Sister
Eileen" was the Chicago company. ''Blossom Time," with Everett
Marshall, paid a visit. Jolm Barton came baudt once again in
"Tobacco Road." Ethd Waters iriio had been a star of the lig}it
opera seascm of 1941 in "Cabin in the Sky" tried thfe musical fan-
tasy at the principal road theatre, and also appeared in a Coast
production of "Mamba's Dau^ters." Close to the end of the
season the BQtmore, which was the setting for a sparse list indeed,
went over to vaudeville. It was also the locale early in the thea-
trical year for a presentation by Dante, the ^^«e*"^", wh»ch
scored a hit, and then moved to Hollywood.

During the year £11 CafMtan Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard,
originally opened with Chariot's Revue, amd later acquired hy
Henry Duffy for his many successful plays, including "Ah, WQder-
ness" with Will Rogers, was transformed into a motion pkrture
palace. But toward the dose of the season a new El Capitan
emerged under somewhat the same general management, with Sid
Graimian, and various film personages interested too, where the
Hollywood Playhouse was formerly located. This began its care^
with a vaudeville show, or revue, as it mi^t more appropriately
be styled.

Before its demise as a stage habitat El Capitan on the Boule-
vard housed a very effective rendition of "The Man Who Came
to Dinner," with Laird Cr^gar, famous for his Oscar Wilde im-

THE SEASON IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 31

personation of a year or two ago, in the role of Sheridan White-
side, previously played on the Coast by Alexander WooUcott, and
incidentally George Kaufman. Cregar virtually duplicated the
acclaim he won for his portra3ral of the British poet of sensational
fame.

At El Capitan were also offered "The Male Animal" with Otto
Kruger starred, and "Springtime for Henry" with Edward Everett
Horton, which carried over into the early war days briefly, when
attention was distracted from practically all show-going for a time.

Entertainment that assures "release" seemed to take precedence
over all others, topmost being the musical shows. Light opera
had a flourishing four to five weeks, with "The Vagabond King,"
"Bitter Sweet," "Music in the Air" and "Hit the Deck" on the
schedule. John Charles Thomas, mainstay as a star, was present
for "Music in the Air," otherwise brightened by Irra Petina and
Francis Lederer. "Bitter Sweet" with Muriel Angelus and John
Howard was the best performance of this Nod Coward musical
heard in the Los Angeles environs, notwithstanding Evelyn Laye
took part in a J. J. Shubert presentation of several years ago.
John Carradine was an interesting presence as Louis XI in "The
Vagabond King."

Numerous efforts were put forth to obtain a show to rival
"Meet the People," one even by the group associated with that
production, Henry Myers, Edward Eliscu and Jay Gomey.
Under the title "They Can't Get You Down," this attempted a
satire on the musical play, collegiate type, with a happy ending.
It had much originality but failed in actual construction. The
purport of the plot was hazily brought out, and the audience's en-
joyment was chiefly confined to the song numbers. Never catch-
ing on too well, "They Can't Get You Down" expired shortly
after fatal December 7.

Popular among Summer and early Fall events of 1941 was
"Jump for Joy," with all-Negro cast, and Duke Ellington and his
l^d. This lasted for 10 weeks at the Mayan in downtown Los
Angeles, and revealed any number of talented people in its en-
semble.

Attempts were made to give life to "Rally Round the Girls,"
"Fun for the Money," "Music to My Ears," "Zis Boom Bah" and
various others, but the production that outlived them all was the
new Turnabout Theatre's combination of puppet shows and
vaudeville, the latter adroitly titled "No Strings Revue." This
held forth throughout the season, and was continuing. Elsa Lan-
chester, wife of Charles Laughton, with her sophisticated and

32 THE BEST HAYS OF 1941-42

with Ins '^SQvcr Scikb" prodDctiao htadid by Gilta Alpar and
Cyiidai QfiHi, and im hiding b9bj old-time flni IiioiileSy bat
that tcmm stiD ifiiuins f u liirii djf Ac posBcsBon of £ail Car*
roD with his nro prodnctioas anaaany and N.T.G. of Hkt Flonn-
tine Gardnw. CarroD's hmA prcacntatians autfitcd both hibor

In pawng, mentiao mi^A be node of ''Rose Marie'' as pro-
duced at Hollywood Boiri with Allan Jones starred, and Nanqr
>fcCord femmine lead; the visit <rf "flfilia|m|ipin" (not indnded
among BQtmore attractions ptevioualy dted) witfioat Oiscn and
Jolmsan; the remarkable pcrsistenoe <rf the play ''She Lost It m
Camprrhe," iriiidi has now passed the 3rear mark despite its in-
ferior attributes; the ever-liraig ''Drmikard," iriiidi has now en-
tered its tenth jrear, the abbreviated appearance of a very bad
play, ^o Live Again,'' with Ian Keith, who was good, and the
resuscitation of vaudeville.

Vaudeville on the Coast really got off to a flying start through
the endeavors of George Jessd, an excdlent master of ceremonies.
Jack Haley, Kitty Carlisle, Ella Logan, the De Marcos and others.
Opening of their ^Show Time" caused the rafters of the BOtmore
to ring with applause. Entering on the scene shortly aftoirard
was ''Blackouts of 1942,'' headed by Ken Murray and Billy GQ-
bert, which also pleased audiences hugdy. This may not be
vaudeville as it was known in the halcjron daySy but it evidently
supplies a desired diversion.

Community and little theatres are gradually dwindling to a few
regviais with evident rights to survivorship, though sporadic un-
dertakings are peremiial because of the chance of ^ow-casting for
the film studios. Aside from the Pasadena Community Playhouse,
which has such an abundant tradition, stronger contenders for reg-
ularity included the Max Reinhardt Workshop, the Bliss-Hayden,
Call Board, Hollytown and a few others. These are recognized
as good try-out ground for plays, and often develop players either
for stage or pictures.

The Pasadena Community continues its Summer festivals from
year to year, having centered on modem American comedies in
1941, and the semi-historic American comedy for 1942. '^B^gar
on Horseback," "George Washington Slept Here," "Dinner at
Eight," "Minick," "Once in a Lifetime," "You Can't Take It
with You," "The Royal Family" and "The Man Who Came to
Dinner" made up the series for 1941, and apart from plays al-

THE SEASON IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 33

ready mentioned, the Community gave ^'Skylark," ^'Ladies in Re-
tirement," "Flight to the West," "The Great American Family,"
"The Little Foxes," "The Male Animal," "The Far Off Hills,"
"YeUow Jacket," "The Phfladelphia Story," "Much Ado About
Nothing," "One Sunday Afternoon," "Out of the Frying Pan,"
"Lovely Miss Linley," "Mr. and Mrs. North," "Home from
Home" and "Ladies in Waiting."

Aside from this, "Catch as Catch Can," by Ray Morris, which
originated in a little theatre situation, played lata: professionally
witfi Jeanine Crispin from France as star. "Murder in a Nim-
nery" was offered with its cast headed by Margaret Wycherly,
Pedro de Cordoba, John McGuire and Christine Abel. This mys-
t^y play was authored by Emmet Lavery. "Don't Feed the
Actors," by Jerry Horwin and Catherine Tumey; "Bright Cham-
pagne," by De Witt Bodeen; "The Baby's Name Is Oscar" by
Smith Dawless, with a Hollywood background, were a few among
the many to be noted, but there is scarcely any chance or need to
dwell in detail on the eternal fermentation in the little theatre
realm, except to remark on its extensiveness.

32 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

characteristic songs, was its major star — a great favorite.

Jolm Murray Anderson essayed entering the cafe-revue sphere
with his ^'Silver Screen" production headed by Gitta Alpar and
Cynda Glenn, and including many old-time film favorites, but
that terrain still remains ezdusivdy the possession of Earl Car-
roll with his two productions annually and N.T.G. of the Floren-
tine Gardens. Carroll's lavish presentations survived both labor
and war setbacks.

In passing, mention might be made of ''Rose Marie" as pro-
duced at Hollywood Bowl with Allan Jones starred, and Nancy
McCord feminine lead; the visit of ''Hellzapoppin" (not included
among Biltmore attractions previously dt&i) without Olsen and
Johnson; the remarkable persistence of the play ''She Lost It in
Campeche," which has now passed the year mark despite its in-
ferior attributes; the ever-living "Drunkard," which has now en-
tered its tenth year, the abbreviated appearance of a very bad
play, "To Live Again," with Ian Keith, who was good, and the
resuscitation of vaudeville.

Vaudeville on the Coast really got off to a flying start through
the endeavors of George Jessel, an excellent master of ceremonies.
Jack Haley, Kitty Carlisle, Ella Logan, the De Marcos and others.
Opening of their "Show Time" caused the rafters of the Biltmore
to ring with applause. Entering on the scene shortly afterward
was "Blackouts of 1942," headed by Ken Murray and Billy Gil-
bert, which also pleased audiences hugely. This may not be
vaudeville as it was known in the halcyon da3rs, but it evidently
supplies a desired diversion.

Community and little theatres are graduaUy dwindling to a few
regulars with evident rights to survivorship, though sporadic un-
dertakings are perennial because of the chance of ^ow-casting for
the film studios. Aside from the Pasadena Community Playhouse,
which has such an abundant tradition, stronger contenders for reg-
ularity included the Max Reinhardt Workshop, the Bliss-Hayden,
Call Board, Hollytown and a few others. These are recognized
as good try-out ground for plays, and often develop players either
for stage or pictures.

The Pasadena Community continues its Summer festivals from
year to year, having centered on modem American comedies in
1941, and the semi-historic American comedy for 1942. "Beggar
on Horseback," "George Washington Slept Here," "Dinner at
Eight," "Minick," "Once in a Lifetime," "You Can't Take It
with You," "The Royal Family" and "The Man Who Came to
Dinner" made up the series for 1941, and apart from pla3rs al-

THE SEASON IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 33

ready mentioned, the Community gave ^'Skylark/' ^'Ladies in Re-
tirement," "Flight to the West," "The Great American Family/'
"The Little Foxes," "The Male Animal," "The Far Off Hills,"
"YeHow Jacket," "The Phfladelphia Story," "Much Ado About
Nothing," "One Sunday Afternoon," "Out of the Frying Pan,"
"Lovely Miss Linley," "Mr. and Mrs. North," "Home from
Home" and "Ladies in Waiting."

Aside from this, "Catch as Catch Can," by Ray Morris, which
originated in a little theatre situation, played lata: professionally
wiUi Jeanine Crispin from France as star. "Murder in a Nun-
n^' was offered with its cast headed by Margaret Wycherly,
Pedro de Cordoba, John McGuire and Christine Abel. This mys-
tery play was authored by Emmet Lavery. "Don't Feed the
Actors," by Jerry Horwin and Catherine Tumey; "Bright Cham-
pa^e," by De Witt Bodeen; "The Baby's Name Is Oscar" by
Smith Dawless, with a Hollywood background, were a few among
the many to be noted, but there is scarcely any chance or need to
dwell in detail on the eternal fermentation in the little theatre
realm, except to remark on its extensiveness.

36 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

"It is a fearful thing to lead this great peaceful people into
war/' he is saying. "There are, it may be, many months of fiery
trial and sacrifice ahead of us. But the right is more predous
than peace and we shall fight for the things which we have al-
ways carried nearest our hearts. To such a task we can dedicate
our lives and our fortunes, everything that we are and everything
that we have, with the pride of those who know that the day has
come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her
might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness, and
the peace which she has treasured. God helping her, she can do
no other."

Slowly the lights fade and the figure of the President is dis-
solved in darkness. For a few seconds no sound comes from the
darkness. Then from a distance the martial strains of a military
band playing. The music increases in volume as the scene grad-
ually lightens, revealing the President's study in the White House
at Washington. It is about the middle of September, 1918.

"The room is furnished simply and with dignity. There are
comfortable chairs and a small mahogany desk. Book shelves
take up the entire rear wall, except for two tall windows."

The President is seated at the desk, pecking slowly at an old-
fashioned typewriter, pausing frequently to frame a sentence.
Near the desk Edith Boiling Wilson is sitting, knitting. She is
"a woman about thirty-five years old, of charming appearance
and gracious manner."

The music swells as the band nears the White House. The
President would have Mrs. Wilson close the window. "The war
creeps in even through the cracks and crevices," he says.

It is Mrs. W^ilson's thought that he has been working long
enough. It is time he stopped and they had their sherry. But
the President wants to wait for Colonel House. He wants his
wife and his close friend to be the first to hear what he has
written.

Captain Stanley, the President's military aide, "a trim young
man in uniform," is in with a personal cable from London, which
Mrs. Wilson decodes for the President. It is from Ambassador
Page, but there is nothing definite in it —

"I've tried to imagine what news of the armistice will look
like . . ." the President murmurs as he drops the cable on the
desk. "Will it ever come? . . ."

The Graysons, and some friends of theirs, are coming to dinner,
Mrs. Wilson reports. She is tidying up the desk when she finds
two large books. "Are you through with these?" she asks.

HMM

IN TIME TO COME 37

**Ycs," he answers and adds reflectively —

^'Tlie more I read of the past, the more I realize history's full
of good ideas that didn't work. I keep thinking of all the others
who have tried to bring peace to the world. . . . That frightens
me when I think of my responsibility."

''Have you told anyone yet about our plans?"

"Not yet."

"You're still not sure?"

"I've asked Brandeis to call this afternoon. If there's no legal
objection to my going 111 tell House I've made up my mind."

A smile of satisfaction, almost a look of triumph, radiates from
Mrs. Wilson's face. "The more I think of the trip, Woodrow,
the more wonderful it seems," she says.

Joseph Tumulty, personal secretary to the President, "a man
in his forties, of Irish descent, warm and alert," comes to an-
nounce the arrival of Colonel House. "There is no formality
between Tumulty and the Wilsons," and the President is quick
to sound out his secretary as to the thought that is troubling him.
Seeing that no American President ha3 ever left the country dur-
ing his term of office, what does Tumulty think the people would
say if one did?

"Suppose he went to Europe," ventures the President, and then,
noting Tumulty's startied look he quickly adds — "I mean after
the war and he had the best possible reason for going?"

"That sounds like a pretty good reason," answers Tumulty,
without committing himself.

Colonel House, "a gentle, keen-appearing man of fifty-five,"
breaks the President's reverie. There is evidence of their warm
bond of friendship and mutual respect in their greeting. House
is just back from a New York trip and eager for news from over-
seas. There is none to give him, save the cable from Page, in-
dicating that he feels the armistice is only a matter of days.

"That's the way Baruch felt," reports House. "I had lunch
with him today. He believes Germany's internal situation is des-
perate."

"I hope he's right."

"Sir William Wiseman called this morning."

"Did you tell him our ideas on the League?"

"He tiiought very highly of them. Then, of course, he got
back to the favorite British theme. They haven't dropped their
objections to the freedom of the seas clause."

"I have their word the armistice will be based on the fourteen
points — all of the fourteen points."

38 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

"I hope they'll keep their word."

'If necessary, I'll appeal to the British people," declares Wil-
son.

A brief knock on the door and Tumulty is back to announce
that Senator Lodge has arrived with what he insists is an urgent
inquiry to make. The President is irritated rather than inter-
ested. The Senator had no appointment.

Lodge may be the next Chairman of the Foreign Relations
Committee, House suggests, and probably wants to talk over
peace terms. The President feels that Lodge knows what those
peace terms are, just as the whole world knows. He refuses to be
stampeded into seeing anyone.

'^It might do no harm, Governor, to let Lodge think he can
force an issue," suggests Colonel House, tactfully. "An occa-
sional concession of that kind might disarm him for more serious
attacks on your policies."

"I don't agree with you," replies the President, a little stiffly.
"Politicians regard concessions as a sign of weakness."

"That's true. Governor. You've been able to go over their
heads to the people, and always with astonishing success, but
those were domestic issues. This involves the whole world and
you'll need your own country solidly on your side."

"If it were anyone but Lodge. He brings out all my defects.
Each meeting has clarified our essential disagreement and con-
firmed our enmity. . . . Besides, I can't stand the man."

This declaration spreads a smile all around, and the next mo-
ment the President has his excuse. The phone rings and Justice
Brandeis is announced. The President will see Brandeis and let
Colonel House talk with Senator Lodge. "You handle him better
than I can," he says to House.

Judge Brandeis, "an ascetic-appearing man of about sixty,"
finds this answer to the President's summons one of his "agree-
able duties," and is eager to be of such service as he can. As to
whether, from a purely legal standpoint, there are any reasons
why the President of the United States should not attend the
Peace Conference in person and assist in negotiating the treaty,
Brandeis finds the question a bit difficult.

"As you know, the treaty-making power rests jointly with the
President and the Senate," says Brandeis. "A treaty goes into
effect when the President negotiates the treaty directly, in addi-
tion to signing it. He is in a sense representing himself and
executing two functions, not one as contemplated by the Con-
stitution."

H^^b

IN TIME TO COME 39

"And would that fact make the procedure illegal?" The Presi-
dent is plainly impatient.

"There's no specific prohibition in the Constitution, or is there
any precedent against it."

"Then I would be within my rights."

"It isn't quite that simple. In questions like this, there exists
a No-Man's Land between legality and illegality. Such an as-
sumption of power might be termed an adventure in which a man
takes the law with him and extends it to new boundaries of ac-
tion. If he fails in whatever his purpose might be, he is usually
regarded as a usurper; if he succeeds, he becomes a benefactor."

The President has walked to the window. It is past sunset
and the room is gradually darkening. After a considerable si-
lence Justice Brandeis rises. "I'm sorry, sir, that I can't give you
a more definite answer," he says, spesddng with affection.

"You've given me the answer I wanted," the President says.
"Now I know more than ever what I must do."

"Whatever that is, it has my blessing."

"Thank you, Brandeis. Thank you." They shake hands
warmly.

Justice Brandeis has gone and Colonel House is back from his
interview with Senator Lodge. He had found the Senator quite
affable, but seriously interested in certain suggestions he had to
make about peace aims. The Senator feels that they should be
more concrete and has submitted a draft embodying his con-
clusions.

" Troposals to indemnify the United States for acts of Ger-
man aggression,' " reads the President from a paper that House
hands to him. By the time he has finished the paper the Presi-
dent's face has become white and stem —

"Did that man dare to suggest that these are the war aims of
the American people?" he demands —

House — ^In so far as the Senate represents them.

Wilson — ^He lies. I could publish these right now and destroy
him politically.

House — ^And show Europe we're of two minds? . . . Besides,
the idea of forcing Germany to pay for the war isn't only Lodge's.
He represents a very considerable opinion.

Wilson — ^A selfi^ minority.

House — Politics is the means by which the will of the few be-
comes the will of the many, and Senator Lodge is a very capable
politician.

40 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Wilson — ^House, if I thought this war were to end the way
other wars have ended, I couldn't condone the loss of one more
Ufe. I'd sue Germany for peace today.

House — ^And be impeached.

Wilson — ^That would be an honor compared to being a party
to . . . anything like this. (He crumples Lodge's memorandum
and drops it on the desk.) When it was over, what could I say
to the widows? ''Dear Mrs. Smith of Galena, Illinois . . . Ex-
perts have figured out your husband's life is worth seven thou-
sand, eight hundred and seventy-two dollars, which you will
receive in German marks."

House — If we can collect them.

Wilson — House, such a thing must never happen. Just today
I've made up my mind to what length I'm prepared to go to be
sure it doesn't happen. . . . But first I want to read you some-
thing ...

"THE HIGH CONTRACTING PARTIES,

In order to promote international co-operation and to achieve in-
ternational peace and security by the acceptance of obligations
not to resort to war, by the prescription of open, just and honor-
able relations between nations, by the firm establishment of the
imderstandings of international law as the actual rule of conduct
among Governments, and by the maintenance of justice and a
scrupulous respect for all treaty obligations in the dealings of
organized peoples with one another, Agree to this Covenant of
the League of Nations."

(For a moment there is silence, as he puts the paper down.)
That's what we're fighting for — that and nothing else. {He looks
at House.)

House — ^A constitution for the world. Governor, do you re-
member the advice Philip of Macedon gave his son, Alexander?
''Never go to war for less than an empire" ... It seems you
have even more at stake.

A servant lets Mrs. Wilson through a door. She is carrying
a tray with three glasses of sherry and is prepared to call a re-
cess in the conference. They have been standing in the dark
long enough. A moment later they are drinking "to an old cus-
tom." For a little their conversation is gay, but soon they are
back considering more serious subjects. The President has de-
cided that Colonel House should return to Europe at once. It

IN TIME TO COME 41

would be well for him to be there even before an armbtice is
signed and hdote he (Wilson) arrives. As for the breaking of
precedents the President is wUIing to take full personal respon-
sibility—

''In the past there's been too much indirect negotiation," he
says. "This time I feel the treaty should be drawn by those
directly accountable to their people."

As to who should take care of things at home, there is Mar-
shall— and Tumulty — But there are also political considerations,
Colonel House insists. How about Lodge?

''Lodge again I" answers the President, a little stifiQy. "I don't
feel he's in a position to dictate my moves."

"But he's in a position to take advantage of them. Then
there's the question of your prestige at the Conference. You've
become the acknowledged spokesman for the principles of the
Allied cause. With American opinion behind you, you'll have
more influence in world affairs than any other man has ... or
perhaps ever had."

"That's my reason for going. . . ."

"Governor, there's one thing we must realize: here, you're an
infallible oracle, speaking from Olympus. Over there, you'll be a
man treating with other men. . . ."

"Colonel House, do you fed my husband isn't equal to the
task?" demands Mrs. Wilson, sharply.

"No, I don't, Edith." A look of pained surprise steals over
the Colonel's face. "I only wanted the Governor to consider
every possibility."

The Graysons are announced and Mrs. Wilson goes to meet
them. She would have Colonel House join them at dinner, but
the Colonel has work to do and would prefer to have his dinner
sent to his room, if that is agreeable. . . .

"Have you considered what delegates you're taking with you
to Paris, Governor?" House would know.

Wilson — Oh, only in a general way. Lansing, of course;
Bliss; Seymour —

House — ^What Republicans?

Wilson — ^Have you anyone in mind?

House — If you're only taking one, I'd suggest a prominent
man, who'd have the support of his party — say Hughes, or Taft.

Wilson {after deliberating) — They'd have set ideas of their
own. . . . Anyway, I'd prefer someone not in politics, like Henry
White. (House shrugs. It is evident he knows the subject is

42 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

not one to be pressed. He continues his walk across the room,
stops in front of the globe and looks down at it as he talks to
Wilson.)

House {affectionately) — Get in good shape for the trip. . . .

Wilson (relieved) — ^Thanks, Colonel. . . . {Shakes hands.)
You know, I was afraid you were very much opposed to my
going.

House {very simply . . . quietly) — ^I am. Take care of your-
self while I'm gone, Governor. Youll have the world on your
shoulders.

Wilson looks up and House meets his gaze. They shake hands.
House walks out as the curtain falls.

The morning of December 14, 1918, 'the steamship George
Washington was approaching the harbor of Brest. Outside the
cabin suite assigned the President and Mrs. Wilson a half dozen
newspaper correspondents are gathered. They are wearing over-
coats and mufflers against the blustery weather. They represent
various newspapers and news agencies and their names are Dil-
lan, Smith, Price, Gordon and Terry. They alternate between
leaning over the rail and stamping about the deck in an effort
to shake off the chill.

The boys are growing a bit impatient, both with the President,
who has apparently had very little news to give out: with the
conferences which are alwa3rs held in the open air, and with the
trip, which has proved colorless and uninteresting.

Soon there is the distant shriek of whistles. The welcoming
fleet apparently is approaching. "Boats, boys, boats — ^hundreds
of boats," calls Dillan.

"Why not? Aladdin's coming with his peace lamp," answers
Gordon, with the suggestion of a sneer. "Fourteen wishes in a
black portfolio."

"Once a Republican, always a Republican," counters Price,
solemnly shaking his head.

The laughter at this has barely faded when the door to the
President's suite is opened. The President, in overcoat and cap,
comes out on deck, followed by his physician. Dr. Gary Grayson.

The President smiles cheerfully at the correspondents, but un-
derneath there is a noticeable gravity in his manner. He obvi-
ously would like to have the interview over as quickly as possible.
Yes, he has had a good rest. As to his feelings on entering the
harbor of Brest —

"I have a sense of our grave responsibility, which we can ful-
fill only with the aid of Providence," he says simply.

HI ■■

IN TIME TO COME 43

''Mr. Wilson, in the program you have in mind, do you antid-
pate the full co-operation of the other governments?" Corre-
spondent Smith would know.

"Naturally," the President answers, looking at his interrogator
sharply.

''Including the enemy country?" asks Dillan.

"There is no longer an enemy country."

"Is there any reason to suppose, sir, the Allied statesmen are
going to take the same generous view?" There is a trace of irony
in Smith's tone.

"Do you know any reason why they shouldn't?"

"There's been mention of certain previous agreements . . .
private understandings among the Allies of a . . . somewhat dif-
ferent nature."

"Such understandings, if they exist, are not my concern. From
now on, there are to be no secrets between governments and their
people."

The growing tension is somewhat relieved when Correspondent
Price cuts in with a question as to Mrs. Wilson's shopping plans
in Paris. But the serious note is soon struck again when several
of his questioners would know whether or not Colonel House has
already started negotiations over the proposed League of Nations.
Colonel House's actions have been left largely to his own dis-
cretion, replies the President.

The press will be informed in due time of what may have tran-
scribed. He (the President) has been on the high seas for eight
days and — despite the wireless —

"Have there been any cable communications from any of the
Allied Governments?" Gordon would know.

There had been a cable from the English, the President con-
fesses, suavely. This was a message of official greetings as he
entered European waters. And that's all? That's all the Presi-
dent feels at liberty to divulge. Now, if there are no more ques-
tions he will continue his walk.

The correspondents are not too well pleased. "So that's the
new diplomacy . . . ?" mutters Dillan. "Everyone gets the news
but the newspapers."

"If you ask me, bo3rs, for someone who's going to save hu-
manity, he's a little lacking in the human touch," ventures Smith.

"The hell he is," answers Price, sharply. "He's put through
more social reforms than any ten presidents before him."

"But here he's going to be up against something much tougher
than he ever tackled at home."

44 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

''That's what they said when he went from Princeton to Tren-
ton, and from Trenton to Washington: the idealistic coIl^;e pro-
fessor. But he fooled them all — Federal Reserve Act, Federal
Trade Commission, Farm Loans, Eight Hour Day — "

"That's socialism."

"Aw, you."

The boys drift away — all but Smith. He has seen Henry White
approaching the Wilson stateroom and lingers behind the others.
Craftily Smith would get a statement from Mr. White by telling
him the President has practically admitted the receipt of a cable-
gram from the English. Incidentally Smith would like to assure
Mr. White of the kindly interest of Senator Lodge, with whom he
had talked the night before the George WasUngtan safled. At
this moment the door to the Wilson stateroom opens and a secre-
tary hurries down the deck with a cablegram in his hand. Smith
and White exchange significant glances. The noise of the distant
ship whistles increases —

"Is it victory they are blowing for? Or peace? I wonder,"
wonders Smith.

"I was under the impression the greeting was for the Presi-
dent," drily replies Mr. White.

Again the newspaper man would strike up some sort of under-
standing with Mr. White, not as a member of the President's
commission, but as an official representative of the R^ublican
party. Surely Mr. White is aware of the informal poll taken in
the Senate two weeks ago. He must, as a practical man, know
that all practical men, in Europe and all over the world, want
a practical peace —

"Except, possibly, Mr. Wilson," concludes Smith. "And in the
interests of such a treaty, it's been suggested to me that this in-
formation might prove of interest to . . . certain Allied states-
men."

"In what way?"

"To acquaint them with the fact that the President's views on
the treaty — and especially the League — are not entirely in ac-
cord with those of the majority of his countrymen."

The President's secretary is returning to the President's state-
room when Mr. White asks to be announced. Then he turns
back to Smith and says, with unconcealed contempt —

"You made a slight error just now, young man. You called
me an official representative of the Republican party. . . ."

"Well, aren't you?"

"As it happens, I'm here in another capacity — as a member

nam

IN TIME TO COME 45

of the President's peace commission.''

**I thought paiiaps in view of Mr. Wilson's failure to di-
vulge— "

^^I don't care to discuss the matter further," sa3rs Mr. White,
with curt finality. Smith bows, with a cold smile, and walks
away.

Shortly the President joins Mr. White and, after formal pleas-
antries have been exchanged, their talk turns to the debated
cable from the British Government. "Is it true," Mr. White
would know, "that they've refused to participate in the confer-
ence unless the Treedom of the Seas' clause is dropped from our
program?"

Mr. Wilson, resentful that not only are cables tapped by for-
eign powers, but even by his own commission, reluctantly admits
the truth of Mr. White's information, whatever its source. His
reason for not acquainting the Commission with this ultimatum
was that whatever decision should be made he would have to
make. The President had agreed to the British terms. Nor does
he believe that such a decision will in any way undermine his
program.

"Mr. White, 'Freedom of the Seas' refers to the rights of neu-
trals in wartime," explains the President. "In any future wars
there wiU be no neutrals. After the League is in effect, all na-
tions wiU be united against the aggressor."

The welcoming ships are setting up a terrific din as Mrs. Wil-
son comes from the stateroom. An exchange of greetings and Mr.
White leaves them.

"Is this all for us?" Mrs. Wilson asks, as the noise increases.

"I think so, Edith."

Edith — Some of them are warships.

Wilson (betraying his annoyance as he looks) — Probably
English.

Edith — ^Woodrow, what did Mr. White come to see you about?

Wilson — ^The cable. I think everyone knew it before I did.

Edith (quickly) — ^You sent the reply, didn't you?

Wilson — ^Yes.

Edith — ^You're still . . . worried about it?

Wilson — ^Edith, last night for a few hours after the cable
came, I was on the point of ordering the Captain to reverse his
course and return to America.

Edith — My dear I

Wilson — Freedom of the seas was one of the fourteen points.

46 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Edith— That leaves tldrteeii. (Tke wtisUes mre nam framik,
mdicatmg ike sMp is tmiaimg tke romds,) I fed very proud of
you, dear.

Wilson — ^I fed — a terrible wnbfinn I si^MJse xayaoe feds
that who tries to read the destiny in the a&urs of his fdlow-men.
{She ttts her hmmd m Ms.) But I mostnt think of mysdf . It's
the people I'm coining for. . . . (Ckeers mmd screnmmg whistles
comtitme.) Out there . . . and all over the world ... it's the
people speaking. If I coold only tdl them what's in my heart.
. . . This time thdr voices will be heard and, God willing, their
hopes win be famncd.

''By this time the ovatioo b a pandemooiom of dieering shouts,
distant bands and frantic iriiistles. Suddenly there b the omin-
oos sound of a cannon beginning the Presidential salute. A
startled look flashes across dhe Preident's face. Again the can-
non shot reverberates untfl it overwhelms the rest of the sounds.
The curtain comes slowly down and the last three reports of the
cannon sound in the dark house after the curtain fe down."

In January, 1919, the WHsons are quartered in a house in
Pairis near the Pare Monceau. ''It is omatdy furnished in the
manner of the Xapdecmic pmod." The President b using two
rooms as a recqption room and ofiBce with study adjoining. Tall
French windows look down on the street.

At the moment Colond House b studying a map spread <m a
taUe before him, while Professor Seymour, one of the American
experts on the Peace Commission, locks over hb shoulder. The
Colond has evidently heea in conference with Venezdos of Greece,
and b a little distiirbed when Prof. Seymour puts him ri^t as to
the possible results should Venezdos' demands be met.

The President's secretary, Stanley, reports that there are so
many people waiting to see the Pre^dent that he doesn't know
where to put them. King Nikita of M(mtaiegro heads the Ibt
The King b there with two bodyguards who, to the distress of
Stanley, "don't seem to sit (m chairs." Monsieur Pichon of
France b due at 11:30, the Preside:it b still conferring with Si-
gner Orlando of Italy in the study and Lloyd-George b waiting
in the drawing room downstairs. House will join Lloyd-George
first and see King Nikita later.

Edith Wilson has brought a large bouquet of mimosiC to the
President's room and Idt ord^s that the butler should see that

IN TIME TO COME 47

the President has his sherry and egg before he goes to the con-
ference.

"It's hard to believe that it's really here, isn't it?" Mrs Wilson
says to Stanley. "For two years the President's worked for this
day . . . dreamed of it . . . and now it's come."

The rumble of Signor Orlando's voice coming through the study
door reminds her of the Italian receptions for the President. "On
the Corso they were lined up for miles, throwing flowers in front
of our car," she remembers. . . .

From the study appears the President. He is followed by Si-
gnor Orlando and Signor Martino, an interpreter. Signor Orlando
is practically overwhelming the President with his voluble Italian
and the President, a little amused, is dividing his attention be-
tween the excitable histrionics of the speaker and the measured
translations of Signor Martino.

Signor Orlando would have the President know that the Italian
people realize full well how well he understands their problems.
Signor Orlando would assure the President that the compulsory
arbitration feature of the League of Nations need apply only to
Europe and not to the American Continent. Signor Orlando
would repeat that the President can count on Italy. After which
there is an elaborate exchange of "Arrivedercis" and the signors
retire.

The President is quite pleased to have found Signor Orlando
so co-operative. He had brought up only one of the Italian
claims — ^the Brenner Pass. "I must say he made a very plausible
argument," ventures the President, noting the suggestion of anx-
iety in Colonel House's attitude. "He pointed out that with the
breakdown of Austria, Italy would have the Germans on their
frontier and could only defend herself against future aggression
by controlling the Pass."

"You didn't commit yourself. Governor?"

"I told him frankly I'd been against most of the Italian de-
mands, but I was inclined to favor this one."

Colonel House walks quickly to the table and picks up the
house phone. He asks to have Prof. Se)rmour bring in the Bren-
ner Pass figures. "I think you've made a mistake. Governor,"
he says, frankly, as he hangs up the phone. And, as Wilson
winces, he adds— "Oh, perhaps nothing very serious, but I think
you should have the facts."

"But Signor Orlando explained the situation fully."

"There are one or two things he may not have mentioned,"
says the Colonel and adds, as Seymour enters with a paper in his

»)'

48 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

hand, "Seymour, what are the population figures on the Tyrol,
south of the Brenner?**

"About 245,000. Fourteen percent Italian, eighteen percent
mixed strains and sixty-eight percent dominantly German blood."

"Does that mean the majority is pro-Austrian?"

"At least they're anti-Itidian."

"Is that a fact. Professor Seymour, or an opinion?^

"In a way, sir, all the facts over here are opinions."

House smiles at Seymour's sally, but the President does not.
"I see. Thank you," he says, calmly. And adds: "I'll have an-
other talk with Orlando."

Colonel House thinks that perhaps Orlando will be willing to
make other concessions in exchange for the Wilson consent on
the Brenner Pass, a distasteful thought to President Wilson.

"Governor, beginning this morning we'll be negotiating with
self-interested men, witj^out your high intentions. There may be
times when we'll have to compromise, and well need aU the bar-
gaining points we've got."

"The English were already committed to Italy on the Bren-
ner."

"Unwillingly. Now that the war's won they're counting on us
to hold the Italians in check."

How does Colonel House know that? Because, while the
President was conferring with Orlando, he had been talking with
Lloyd-George. And why hadn't Lloyd-George waited? Because
he had wanted to talk with Clemenceau before the conference.

"Hmmmm. . . . Did he have anything to say about the
League?"

"Only that there's considerable public pressure to hasten peace,
and he wondered if discussions of the League at this time might
not delay the treaty."

"I'll negotiate no treaty that doesn't include the League. I
hope you made that clear," flatly declares the President.

Colonel House confesses that he had let Lloyd-George do most
of the talking. As for himself, as a Democrat, the Colonel is
more interested in the situation at home at the moment. From
what Tumulty has written, the opposition, under Senator Lodge,
is beginning to come out openly against the League. There is
danger in that situation. Frankly, Colonel House admits, he be-
lieves President Wilson should return to the United States as soon
as he can. It is difficult for the President to believe that the
Colonel is really serious.

MMl

IN TIME TO COME 49

'Tou suggest that I leave here on the day we're beginmng our
work — ^when in an hour well be in our first conference! "

House — ^You could outline your views on the treaty before you
left.

Wilson — ^And what about the League?

House — ^Work would go ahead on the covenant . . . subject
to your ai^roval in Wa^iington. In the meantime, we'd nego-
tiate a temporary treaty on Uie same terms as the armistice.

Wilson — ^House, IVe looked in the faces of thousands of peo-
ple .. . here and on my trip. Everywhere is the same mute
appeal in their eyes. They want no makeshift, patchwork Armis-
tice. They want a peace that's final and enduring.

House — ^That may be true. But remember tiiis: Once your
leadership at home is questioned, the European Press will follow
suit. The slightest false move . . . like the Brenner . . . and
the padLll be yapping at your heels.

Wilson — ^Then we'll bar the Press from the Conference . . .
let nothing out until the treaty's finished. Clemenceau already
suggested that.

House (surprised) — ^What about "open covenants openly ar-
rived at"?

Wilson — ^I know; that's why I've refused to consider the sub-
ject up to now. But I counted on Press support.

House — You mean the Press would be welcome at the Con-
ference as long as they were uncritical. (Wilson stiffens notice-
ably. House recognizes the sign and hastens to make amends.)
I'm sorry, Governor. I'm only trying to point out dangers. . . .
Once you get into conference anything can happen. Let me con-
fer. Let me take the brunt of it. If I fail — if I make mistakes,
you can disavow me. I beg you, Governor, think how much the
whole world has at stake in the task we've assumed.

Wilson (crossing the room thoughtfully, upset by House's
plea, but impressed by its logic) — I don't know. I'll have to
think it over.

Monsieur Pichon, the French Foreign Secretary, has arrived
to escort the American party to the Conference. . . . "He is a
fussy little man, somewhat pompous and with a native alert
shrewdness." Monsieur Pichon would also include Mrs. Wilson
in the party, seeing that the first meeting will be merely a formal
ceremony. He has walked to the window as he speaks. Pulling
aside the curtains he looks down —

so THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

"This is a great day, Monsieur le President! Look at the
people of France . . . how they are standing in the streets . . .
for hours they are waiting there . . . many thousands of men
and women ... for one glimpse of you — the man who will save
the world. Last week I have heard a story about a girl in the
street. A little girl who tells her rosary. 'Hail Mary, Mother
of Grace; Hail President Wilson, Father of Peace.' {Solemnly.)
It is so, Monsieur le President . . . deep in our hearts."

The President is a little embarrassed, but is quick to answer
when, a moment later, Monsieur Pichon suggests that there is
one thought that is troubling the French people: How could it
be that the President has been in France for two months and has
not yet visited the battlefields?

''How can you understand us if you have not seen the sacri-
fice ... the devastation," Monsieur would know. "And the
coimtless graves of our dead. Crosses, everywhere crosses."

"Don't you feel we can best honor the dead by fulfilling our
duty to the living?" demands the President, a little grimly.

"I beg your pardon. I do not . . ." Monsieur Pichon is
puzzled.

"Then let me remind you it's nearly three months since the
Armistice and no attempt has been made to relieve a starving
people."

Still the Secretary does not understand and Colonel House
seeks to explain: "The President refers to the Allied blockade
of enemy ports."

"Ah, the enemy. . . . The Boche." Monsieur Pichon is quite
indifferent.

"Monsieur Pichon, I'll be frank with you," continues the Presi-
dent, his temper rising. "I'm getting out of patience with this
official indifference to the suffering of human beings we've prom-
ised to help."

"But what can I do? This question is not in my prov-
ince. . . ."

"It seems to be in no one's province," snaps the President.
"Everyone I talk to refers me to someone else. It's occurred to
me that the people of France might consider it their province if
I were to appeal directly to them."

"No, Mr. President. That is not necessary," quickly insists
the alarmed Secretary. "We will talk with Monsieur Clemenceau
again. He will find a way, I assure you."

Mrs. Wikon has come in with her hat and coat — and the Presi-
dent's sherry-and-egg. She is very happy about the orchids he

IN TIME TO COME 51

has not forgotten to send her, in spite of all that is on his mind,
and quite delighted with the friendliness of the French people.
The President, however, is not happy. He doesn't like Paris.
She would know why. For a little he will not say. Then he
confesses —

''House wants me to go back home."

'THe wants you to go home. . . . Now?"

"Yes."

"But your work here is just beginning. . . ."

"He was against my coming," recalls the President as he drinks
his sherry.

"Yes, I remember."

"Oh, he means it for the best," admits the President, putting
on his coat

"Woodrow, don't let it spoil your day," she says, going to him.
"You've made such a glorious start. Nothing can defeat you
now . . . nothing!"

"My dear," he answers, taking her hand, "I needed to hear
someone say that."

She has linked her arm in his, and is smiling up at him as they
start for the door. The curtain falk.

Three months later, in April, 1919, the Big Four — ^Wilson,
Qemenceau, Lloyd-George and Sonino — are meeting in closed
conference in a room in the Quai d'Orsay. It is a bare room,
with tall windows overlooking the street. The conference table is
littered with papers, the walls hung with many maps.

"By now not only newspapermen, but even secretaries and in-
terpreters are barred from these conferences. Clemenceau looks
old and bored and heavy-lidded. Occasionally he goes off in a
doze, but alwa3rs manages to be awake when there is an oppor-
tunity for sarcasm or when the interests of France are touched
upon in a discussion. Then he snarls out a comment like a tiger
disturbed in a nap. Lloyd-George is Lloyd-George. Sonino is a
stodgy man with a surly temper, who speaks English with an
Italian accent. Wilson appears much more worn than in the
previous scene. The strain of constant vigilance and excessive
responsibility has taken its toll. It is soon evident that the for-
mal stage of the Paris conference is over and by now these four
men are familiar enough with each other to speak their minds
plainly, without many concessions to station or dignity. They
know each other's attitudes so well that for the most part they
listen to each other's words with tolerant disinterest. If there

52 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

is any progress apparent in their futile discossiony it is the (prog-
ress of the Allied statesmen in sburiy wearing Wilson down."

At the moment Sonino, having risen at the end of the table,
is addressing President Wilson. Llq3^d-George is kxdung on,
Qemenceau is dozing, his chin resting on hb diesL What has
been going on may easfly be judged by the qpirit with ^riiich
Sonino is speaking —

''. . . And now I must tdl you frankly, Mr. President, I am
weary of your pretending iffoonnce of the pacts between our
Allied governments . . • and of my pretending to believe you.
We are not deceiving each other, so let us stop deceiving our-
selves."

''Very well, Mr. Sonino," replies President Wilson, resuming
his chair with great patience. "You have private agreements, but
I am not a party to them. I came here in another capacity."

''In just what capacity, Mr. Wilson?" Qemenceau has roused
himself momentarily.

"As a representative of the people."

"People? Of what people?"

"Of no one people."

Qemenceau shakes his head and goes back to his doze. "Mr.
Wilson, possibly you're in a more fortunate position than the rest
of us," ventures Lloyd-George, suavely. "It appears your author-
ity is .. . unlimited. But Signor Sonino, Monsieur Qemenceau
and I have our nationals to deal with. What we must do is not
alwa3rs what we would like to do."

"I must answer to my Government," interjects Sonino.

"Gentlemen, these secret treaties aren't within the scope of
our discussion," calmly but earnestly answers President Wilson.
"Our peoples didn't send us here to enforce bargains, but to
establish rights."

"The possession of Fiume is our sacred right." Sonino's voice
is shrill. "It was pledged to us when Italy entered the war. We
paid for it with a million lives."

"Mr. Sonino, must we go over that again? What you say
amounts to an admission you sacrificed men to gain territory.
Did you tell your countrymen that when they were fighting? No,
you told them they were fighting to put an end to aggression and
preserve civilization."

Again Qemenceau comes to. ^^You told them that, Mr. Wil-
son."

'^And I intend to keep my word," snaps the President, b^in-
ning to lose his patience.

IN TIME TO C»ME S3

Mr. Uoyd-George suggests quietly that they are getting away
from their subject, which is Uie settlement of the Fiume and
Adriatic claims. Mr. Sonino reiterates that unless the Fiume
matter is settled to the satisfaction of his Government, Italy
will not join the League. Mr. Wilson would point out that mem-
bership in die League is not to be looked upon as a bargain but
as a privilege to be shared—

''It will give your country the right to interfere in our affairs,
but you would not wdcome our interference in yours," protests
Sonino.

''We do not wish to interfere in Europe's politics," answers
Wilson. "But we helped you fight a war and we have a right
to insist on a settlement that will prevent such a thing from hap-
pening again."

Lloyd-Geohge — ^That's what we want to do. But apparently
we disagree on —

Wilson — Only on the terms, Mr. Lloyd-George — surely not on
the necessity of maintaining the peace that we won. The League
is the only guarantee we l^ve that what we do here will be en-
during.

Lloyd-George — But, Mr. Wilson, we are none of us infallible.
We might make mistakes. We perhaps have made mistakes.

Clemenceau (with a half smile) — ^The Breimer, Mr. Wilson.

Wilson — As you already know, the League has a provision
for correcting any such mistakes.

Lloyd-George — ^Then if we are mistaken again in the case of
Fiume, Mr. Wilson, we can rely on the League to make it right.

Wilson {with a trace of humor) — ^It's hardly a good excuse
for doing a wrong that someone else may make it ri^t.

Clemenceau — Right and wrong are not in our province, Mr.
Wilson. Let's leave something to God.

Wilson — I was under the impression that you didn't believe
in God, Monsieur Clemenceau.

Clemenceau — ^I don't. I am one old man who wSl enjoy
sle^ng in peace. {And with that he closes his eyes again.)

Lloyd-George — Gentlemen, of course none of us wants to do
a wrong, but there arise questions of expediency. In a conversa-
tion with Colonel House it was his opinion we should consider
the Adriatic question from the standpoint of . . .

Wilson {interrupting) — I don't care whose opinion it was.
... {As the others look at him, even Clemenceau opens his
eyes.) I'm sure you misunderstood Mr. House. We've both

54 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

made our positioiis snflBdcntly dear. Ffanne b Anstran and Aus-
tiian it remains.

SoNiNO {sUuimg up)— Mr. Fresident, I want to tdl you
again. ...

Wilson (/ocm; them to make a last plea) — ^Don't jrou see,
gentlemen, we're talking in terms of the past That's all over
with. We have nx>re to gain for our countries than Fiume . . .
more than if we could extend our national boundaries to cover
these maps. . . . Forget for the moment our responsibilities to
those we represent. Think, if jrou will, of our individual desti-
nies. What wiD historians fifty — a hundred — ^years hence write
next to our names? ^'These four men met in Paris in the year
1919 and divided the spoils of war"? ''The peace they made
lasted" . . . what shaU I say . . . 'twenty years"? Goitlemen,
we have one life, one chance — ^in our case a grave decision — to do
what others have done ... a small thing that time wiD make
smaller ... or what has never heai done before ... a great
thing that time wiU make greater. We can accomplish someSilng
new . . . something lasting. We're the representatives of Chris-
tian nations. We can make a Christian peace. We have it in our
power to divide the tide of history. We can appoint a day in the
affairs of men when conquest is to end and good will among all
peoples to b^;in.

Mr. Wilson has said some very true things, Lloyd-George is
willing to admit. Mr. Wilson is an excellent orator, agrees Cle-
menceau. Which brings the retort from Wilson that he was not
making a speech. Neither is he a politician —

"It isn't that we lack faith in your League, Mr. President,"
explains Lloyd-George. "The Covenant raises a great hope in
the world. Even Monsieur Clemenceau wiU not deny that. But
a hope for the future. In the meantime our governments insist
on . . . certain practical securities."

"The League is for mutual protection. We are all agreed that
it should be made so strong, so armed with force and economic
sanctions that no aggressor would dare to face the combined
might of the League members. What more security can you ask?"

Again Sonino is demanding geographical barriers between ene-
mies. Again President Wilson is protesting that they should
have no enemies, now that they have signed the peace. The posi-
tion of the United States is dififerent, insists Clemenceau. With
an ocean either side of her, America can afford to forgive her
enemies. But, as for France — Fifty years ago Germany die-

IN TIME TO COME SS

tated her terms of peace, repeats Clemenceau. Now it is France's
turn. No, France will not take German statesmanship as a
model. Shell improve on it —

"Gentlemen, I loathe German militarism as much as you do/'
President Wilson is sa3dng. "It was and still remains the most
vidous threat to civilization. My country joined your effort to
stamp it out, but we mustn't imitate the very thing we despise.
A treaty of revenge will one day put those in power who will use
revenge as the excuse for their own ambitions. I plead with you
not to give them that excuse. We have broken the German mili-
tary machine. We have deposed their rulers. We are now deal-
ing with a people's government in Germany. Let's give this
government a chance — a chance to break with the past."

Clemenceau — ^The Germans never forgive defeat. I know
that, Mr. Wilson — they are our enemies and shall always be our
enemiea.

Wilson (sits in his chair) — ^That depends on us. We can
either cause that to happen or prevent it — ^here, by what we do
now.

SoNiNO— Do you want to let the Germans go impimished after
the horrors of the last four years?

Wilson — ^No, I agree with you that the wrongs committed by
Germany in this war have to be righted. I agree that the Ger-
man people share the responsibility with their Government for
their vicious and criminal aggression, and it ought to be burned
into man's consciousness forever that no people should permit its
government to do what the German Government did. But you
cannot obliterate a nation of sixty million people— or do you
advocate starving them to death?

Clemenceau {obviously bored) — The blockade again!

Wilson — Yes, the blockade! Gentlemen, once more I demand
the blockade be lifted and supply ships be permitted to enter
German ports.

Clemenceau — ^I told you I can do nothing. A military neces-
sity.

Wilson — But I spoke to Marshal Foch and he says it's safe.

Clemenceau — Foch is not a military pope. He may be mis-
taken. I prefer to follow the advice of Marshal Petain. Besides,
Mr. Wilson, have you considered that if the German people suf-
fer a little they may be more inclined to accept our peace terms?

Wilson — Monsieur Clemenceau . . .

LloyivGeorge — Gentlemen, I'm afraid our discussion — inter-

56 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

esting as it is — has no direct bearing on the Adriatic problem
before us. I need hardly remind you that all Europe is becoming
most anxious over our . . . somewhat lengthy deliberations.

The arguments are resumed. Mr. Sonino cannot go back to
Italy without Fiume. With Italy it has become a matter of na-
tional honor. Only because feeling has been worked up by Italy's
controlled press, answers President Wilson. Even the agreed
upon secrecy of the treaty conferences has been violated. If these
violations continue, President Wilson warns them, he will go to
the press with a complete statement of all that has happened in
the conferences, including Clemenceau's repeated threats to with-
draw from the League unless he (Wilson) subscribes to his
(Clemenceau's) treaty demands.

''I regret this information reached the press," regrets Sonino,
**but you misunderstand its effect on my country. They do not
resent concessions to our Allies, so long as similar benefits are
bestowed upon Italy."

^Trom this point on I intend to call a halt on all such benefits,"
replies the President. Lloyd-George and Sonino exchange signifi-
cant glances and turn to Clemenceau. The French premier is
very much awake now and his temper is plainly rising. ''Mr.
Wilson, you have not begun to hear France's demands," says
Clemenceau, with the suggestion of a low growl.

"I think before we proceed any further I should know the ex-
tent of all your demands," replies President Wilson very quietly.

Clemenceau accepts the challenge. France will accept no
treaty that does not include the Saar Basin ''and all the terri-
tory west of the Rhine." President Wilson can hardly believe that
this statement is made seriously, but M. Clemenceau assures him
that it is. France has won her right to dictate by winning the
war. He is not at all concerned with the interests of the people
living in the Saar territory. They can go live where they please.
Armistice or no armistice, they had forfeited their rights in the
war. "They are murderers," calmly announces Clemenceau.

"It is dangerous to pronounce a nation a murderer," warns
President Wilson. "If the Germans accept the verdict they may
act accordingly."

Clemenceau — ^We will prevent that.

Wilson — How, Monsieur Clemenceau? If not through the
League of Nations — (Clemenceau skrugs,) Have you esti-
mated the cost of maintaining an army big enough to prevent

IN TIME TO COME 57

them from forming a bigger one? Can France support such an
army?

Clemenceau — ^The Saar and the Rhineland will help. We
will create a defensive barrier around France that will be impreg-
nable.

Wilson — Such security is worthless. Monsieur Clemenceau.
You may build a wall to keep destruction out and later find that
you have fenced it in.

Clemenceau — ^Are you trying to frighten me, Mr. Wilson?
I and my Government demand the Rhineland and the Saar Basin
in the name of the French people!

Wilson — ^I doubt if you or your Government knows or cares
what your people want.

Lloyd-George — ^Mr. Wilson 1 After all, Monsieur is the orig-
inator of the present French policy. Is there any better authority
for what the French people want?

Wilson — ^Yes, the people themselves. Gentlemen, I suggest
that we go to the Italian people and let them decide about Fiume.

SoNiNO — I protest!

Wilson — ^And that we go to the French people and ask them
what kind of peace they want —

Clemenceau — ^They don't want your kind, Mr. Wilson. I
can tell you that! No, and not even your own people want it!
Not even America — ^because you are pro-German and S3mipathize
with our enemies.

Wilson {his face livid) — ^And you. Monsieur Clemenceau, are
a thiefl

Lloyd-George (rising quickly) — Gentlemen! (There is a mo-
ment in which Clemenceau and Wilson eye each other with
defiance, and then Wilson turns stiffly and walks out the door.
Clemenceau quickly regains his composure,)

SoNiNO — ^Now he will appeal to the people. . . .

Clemenceau — ^Let him.

SoNiNO (dubiously) — ^I did not think you were going to men-
tion the Rhineland so soon.

Clemenceau — ^Fiume will appear a very slight concession now.

SoNiNO (brightening) — I see . . . But Mr. Wilson's League —
this League of Nations — ^will it approve the terms of the treaty
. . . our terms?

CLEBiENCEAU — ^The League? Gentlemen — There is a story of
an inventor who had a machine. Oh, a very remarkable machine
that was to move perpetually. There were wheels and discs and
cylinders . . . and aU run by electric energy. On the paper it

58 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

was perfect — ^not a flaw. Every possibility thought out. Every
problem solved. Er — except one. ... He couldn't get the ma-
chine to start. (SoNiNO roars with laughter.)

Lloyd-George (standing at the rvindow looking down) — ^He's
getting in his car. Funny — there are no crowds around him any
more. He seems quite alone. (Turns to his two allies.) And to
think, gentlemen, if he had a^^pealed to these people two months
ago, even one month ago, he could have overthrown any govern-
ment in Europe.

Clemenceau (quietly) — If . . .

The three are smiling at each other as the curtain falls.

Two months later, in the living room of the Wilson apartment
in Paris, Colonel House and Henry White of the American Peace
Commission are considering the Peace Treaty. The Germans
have yet to sign, but Colonel House is sure they will accept.
President Wilson, he reports, is not in sympathy with all the
terms of the treaty; many of them, in fact, he had vigorously
opposed, including that of the Fiume incident.

''How do you account for the change in the people's regard
for the President?" asks Mr. White. "Just fickleness?"

''Misrepresentation on the part of the few, forgetfulness on the
part of the many," replies Colonel House.

Mr. White has been called to this particular conference with
the President, the Colonel explains, in the hope that even if he
does not fully approve of the treaty which has been signed, that
he will understand the difficulties under which it was made, and
support it, says Colonel House —

"Mr. White, as unsatisfactory as the treaty may be, have you
considered what kind of peace might have been made without
the President's endeavor?"

"I suppose it's possible the terms would've been even more
severe."

"There was enough organized hate in Europe to resume the
war. You just referred to the treaty as one part hope. In that
hope lies the means of its redemption. All its shortcomings we
trust will eventually be corrected by the League of Nations, pro-
vided our country joins and throws its tremendous and isolated
power in the balance."

"And until that happens?"

"We must all work together to achieve that as soon as possible.
In this you can be of great service."

It would be a help, Colonel House suggests, if when he returns

IN TIME TO COME 59

to America^ he would bring influence to bear on the leaders of his
party. Mr. White is afraid his party influence at the moment is
at pretty low ebb.

The outer door is heard to open. The President has let himself
into the house. He has recently dispensed with servants, Colonel
House explains, having become suspicious that those selected for
him previously had been working in the interests of the French
Government. The President has been under considerable strain,
the Colonel also suggests, tactfully. It would be helpful if Mr.
White would state such criticism of the treaty as he hiad in mind
rather mildly.

As the' President comes into the room with Mrs. Wilson he ap-
pears thin and extremely tense. "His eyes are restless; his whole
manner bears evidence of resentment and disillusionment."

The Germans are still holding off signing the treaty, the Presi-
dent reports, because of the war guilt clause. If they persist in
their refusal the French Army may have to take over again.

"Siwely they wouldn't renew the war?" protests Mrs. Wilson.

''It's a question whether it ever stopped," answers House.

"Or ever will," adds Mr. White.

The President has asked Mr. White to this meeting hopmg for
his support of the treaty as signed. Mr. White will go no farther
than to say that he hopes that what has been done is for the best.
He will, he tells the President, support the treaty "to the extent
that it fulfills your high purposes."

Mrs. Wilson returns with a sedative tablet for the President.
Dr. Grayson has prescribed that. Mr. White is hopeful that
the voyage home will give the Wilsons a needed rest. A moment
later he takes his leave.

The President does not feel that he can depend on Mr. White
for much support. "He's a party man, after all. I distrust all
politicians. ... I prefer that we have no further dealings with
Mr. White," says the President.

"The crowds are beginning to collect in the street." Colonel
House is at the window. "I wonder what's going through their
minds. What are they waiting for? A miracle from heaven
or a chance to get back in their civilian clothes? A new world
or an excuse to spend a night in a cafe?"

"I believe in the people," mutters the President, his voice com-
ing as from a great distance, quietly, and without any feeling.

"You've done all any man can do," says Colonel House, re-
garding his friend "with sorrow and with deep respect."

"Isn't it enough for you, either. House?" demands the Presi-

60 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

dent, his temper flaring. "Are you going to apologize for the
treaty?"

"I know how you feel, Governor. A parent loves a sick child
more than a well one."

It is the President's intention to take the treaty home with
him, present it to the people and explain it to them. In view of
this decision Colonel House would have the President know that
there is a report that an Amaican new^)aper chain has secured
a copy of the treaty. The news is alarming but the President
does not believe any newspaper would risk a dharge of treason by
printing the treaty. Unless, Colonel House suggests, they could
get it read into the Congressional Record. Then it would become
news.

In any event, there is nothing to be done, unless, as Colonel
House suggests, the President would be willing to try taking his
enemies by surprise. He could make them his friends by taking
men like Senator Lodge into his confidence. No doubt there
would have to be compromises. But, seeing the President has
already made many sacrifices for the treaty, why not one or two
more?

"You want me to enter into political training?" demands the
President.

"If the trades are in your favor, yes."

"Politics! I tell you 111 have no more haggling with poli-
ticians." The President's manner grows more excited. "Let
them print the treaty. Let them attack it. Ill answer them —
clause for clause — ^word for word. Ill show them up before
the whole country. I'll go to the people — ^this time my people!"

"If that's your decision."

"It is."

A moment after the Colonel leaves Mrs. Wilson returns. She
still is worried about her husband. These endless conferences
are leaving him drained and depressed, unsure of himself and of
his work. "Can you spare that energy? Do they accomplish
so much?" she asks.

"We accomplished nothing. They're all against me."

"Never mind, dear." A slight look of satisfaction has come
into her face. "You'll rest better now that it's over."

"If I could shut off my thoughts at night. But I carry them
into my sleep. • . . Last night we were in a cemetery like the
one we visited at Beaumont, and there were several men sitting
around. We thought at first they were caretakers, but they had
helmets on. They'd pulled up some of the crosses and they
began to whittle. I spoke to them but they wouldn't look up.

IN TIME TO COME 61

They kept tearing loose the cross-sticks and putting sharp points
on diem."

Secretary Lansing has called by phone to report that Clemen-
ceau has refused to strike out the war guilt clause. ''He may live
to see Germany throw those words in his face/' mutters President
Wilson.

*^What will happen now, Woodrow?" asked Mrs. Wilson, sitting
down beside him. ''Will the Germans sign even so?"

Wilson — ^I think so.

Edith — But you want them to sign?

Wilson (dully) — ^I want to get it over with. So this is the
treaty . . . This is the best we could do.

Edith — But the League's part of it, Woodrow — ^the important
part.

Wilson — ^Yes, there's still the League.

Edith {looking at him with great sympathy and taking his
arm to lead him out) — Darling, lie down for a while. I'll bring
you in any news.

Wilson (putting his hand over hers) — ^My dear, you've been
so kind. I'm afraid I haven't been as thou^tful of you.

Edith — ^All I ask is to help you in the little ways I can.

Wilson (smiles, touching the document) — The little things
are part of the big things . . . From now on this is our Cove-
nant, Edith . . . between ourselves and with the world. We'll
take it back to our people . . . They'll understand what it
means . . . that we've made a beginning and with their help,
we'll never rest until it's done. (They look at each other for a
moment. Then suddenly a bell begins to toll — the deep somber
tones of Notre Dame. They stand for a moment looking toward
the window. Then against the resonant sound of the Cathedral
bells comes the insistent tinkle of the telephone. The President
hurries over to answer it,) Yes? . . . Yes. . . . Thank you.
(He puts the receiver down, turns to Edith, who looks at him
eagerly,) The Germans have accepted. (She smiles. Now from
a remote point comes the faint boom of a cannon as an army post
salutes the peace. A shadow crosses Wilson's face for a brief
instant, then a triumphant acceptance of whatever is and what-
ever is to come.)

The curtain falls.

In late August, 1919, the Wilsons are back in the White House.
At the moment, in his study, the President is giving dictation to

62 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Joe Tumulty, his secretary. ''He still has- a harried look, but
appears more spirited and defiant." The letter he is dictating is
to Colonel House.

"My dear Colonel House: In response to your letter, I appre-
ciate your interest and advice, but . . ." He cannot go on with
this and Tumulty crosses it out. "My dear Colonel House: I
have already made arrangements to meet Senator Lodge to dis-
cuss our . . . our differences before receiving yours of the same
date advising me to do so. I look forward to an understanding
with Mr. Lodge but without any of the — concessions you think
advisable." No, that will not do either. In the end he decides
not to send any letter.

Mrs. Wilson is in for a moment. Senator Lodge's secretary
has telephoned that the Senator is on the way. She hopes that in
their talk the President will be careful —

"Edith, if I'd stump the country, if I'd talk in every city, I
could still bring him to his knees instead of ask him favors."

"You must put that out of your mind."

"I promised our soldiers, when I asked them to risk their lives,
that it was a war to end wars, and I must do all in my power
to put the treaty into effect."

"There's a limit to what anyone can do. You know what Cary
Grayson said."

"Taking my life in my hands . . . Yes, I suppose I can better
afford my pride. (Presses her hand.) Don't worry, my dear.
For the Covenant I'll even do this."

When Senator Lodge arrives his manner is "frigidly polite."
"Underneath his formality there is a dangerous undertone of sus-
picion and hostility."

The weather having been discussed and dismissed, the reasons
and excuses for the meeting are taken up. It was the President's
impression that it was mutually desirable. It is the Lodge idea
that the appointment was entirely at the President's request.
"It is evident he has no intention of sparing the President any
possible humiliation."

There are a number of pomts that have come up in relation to
the peace treaty on which he would like the Senator's advice, the
President admits. The Senator is a little surprised. He has a
feeling that any advice he may have to give would have been
more timely before the President went to Europe, but the Presi-
dent feels that he was well acquainted with the Senator's point
of view at that time. True, whenever the Senator had tried to
see the President before it was Colonel House who had received

IN TIME TO COME 63

him, but now the President has decided to give the matter his
personal attention.

It is the President's earnest wish that they may be able to
come to an understanding on the League of Nations. Because a
copy of the treaty had been secured by bribery and published in
oi^X)sition newspapers to embarrass the President before his re-
turn from Paris, (he League Covenant had been misrepresented
from the start —

"Senator, I'm sure we have one purpose in common — to serve
the best interests of the American people/' ventures the President.

"But ap^>arently very different ideas as to what constitutes
their best interests," sharply replies Senator Lodge.

Wilson — ^In that case, shouldn't we at least try to reconcile
them?

Lodge — Very well. If you want my opinion, this is it: The
American people want most of all to forget the war and its prob-
lems and to return to normal conditions of living.

Wilson — ^Normal conditions wait on one thing only . . . the
peace.

Lodge — ^The treaty would have been approved by Congress
weeks ago if it weren't attached to your League.

Wilson — It isn't my League, Senator. The Covenant is the
expression of the world's enduring hope. I'm merely one of its
proponents.

Lodge — ^And you've stated your case before the Foreign Rela-
tions Committee. Since then I've replied to your arguments.
What more is there for us to say?

Wilson — What we said on those occasions was for the public
record. I thought that in a private conversation such as this, we
might reach a more frank . . . collaboration.

Lodge — Collaboration? Just a moment, Mr. Wilson. You're
not suggesting that you're prepared to deed me a half interest in
your idealistic venture? If you are, I can assure you there was
never a more unwilling grantee.

Wilson (stiffening) — Mr. Lodge, may I ask that your personal
feeling toward me be kept out of our discussion?

Lodge — ^You're mistaken, sir, if you believe any personal feel-
ing has influenced my opposition to the League of Nations. I've
stated my objections. I'm utterly opposed to the pledge of
American arms and economic sanctions to preserve the territorial
integrity of all other nations.

Wilson — ^As I've already pointed out, such obligations would

64 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

be moral and not legal ones — and within the jurisdiction of Con-
gress to pass upon.

Lodge — Mr. President, I'm not currently known as an idealist
but I do have a very deep respect for moral oUigations and I
wouldn't like to commit my country to a course of action which
she could avoid only by a dishonorable repudiation of her accq>ted
responsibilities.

Wilson — She wouldn't try to avoid her obligations yiAtn they
were justly called upon.

Lodge — And that, Mr. Wilson, would mean war. War every
time an ambitious ruler in Europe or Asia tries to extend his in-
fluence at the expense of a neighbor. War every time one state
covets the land or resources of another. We'd be constantly em-
broiled in quarrels that would be none of our business.

Wilson — The peace of every part of the world is the business
of every civilized person and every civilized state.

Lodge (behind his chair) — Mr. Wilson, you have a great liking
for high phrases. I confess I'm no match for you in the verbiage
of id^ism. But I too have my ideals. And one of them is peace
— but a realistic peace that we can surely mamtain on our own
continent. I realize it's not fashionable to quote Washington
these days but that was his farewell advice to the American
people.

Wilson — ^Washington spoke for his own time. We're living
in a smaller world. In our own lifetime the conditions that face
a laborer in a Wisconsin mill or a cotton grower in Georgia may
depend upon policies in Roumania or Poland. Whether we wish
it or not, we can no longer separate our national destiny from the
common problems of mankind.

The tension is not relieved by Senator Lodge's declaration that
if it is his advice rather than his conversion that the President
seeks he will give it: "Accept Senate reservations to the treaty
and keep out of European affairs unless in an advisory capacity."

In the eyes of the Allied statesmen. President Wilson feels, that
would be a retreat from the purposes of the United States in
fighting the war. If Senator Lodge had watched these men toil
over the treaty as he had he would be less quick to question their
motives.

Seeing this is an "off the record" conversation. Senator Lodge
would like to ask the President a few relevant questions: Was
Mr. Wilson entirely satisfied with the motives of the Coimcil of
Four when they took the Province of Shantung away from China

IN TIME TO COME 65

.and gave it to Japan? The President was satisfied with the
motivesy but opposed the action o! the Council.

If Japan had been refused Shantung, would she have accepted
the League? Mr. Wilson does not know. Did Mr. Wilson con-
test French occupation of the Saar, and Italian control of Fiume?
He did. And gained a modification in both instances. Would
Italy and France have entered the League if he had not? The
President considers that query irrelevant. Very well. Did he
seek to limit German indemnities to a reasonable sum? He did.

''But in spite of that, the Treaty calls for r^>arations beyond
Germany's capacity to pay/' thunders the Senator. '^That's true,
isn't it?"

''Reparations were your idea in the first place, Mr. Lodge, as
I remember," replies tiie President with a faint smile.

Senator Lodge's face is flushed, but he continues the attack.
Had the President opposed the annexation of the German col-
onies? He hady as far as he could, but he had found reason to
approve the Treaty despite his objections. Were these reasons
influenced by his discovery of the secret treaties of other nations?
The President does not feel that he is at liberty to answer that
question —

"I believe I quote you correctly that 'The hearts of Clemenceau
and Uoyd-George beat with the heart of the world.' At the time
these provisions were discussed in the Council, were you equally
convinced of their lofty idealism?"

"Mr. Lodge, at this point the motives of the allied statesmen
aren't important. Perhaps we made mistakes — all of us, but
regardless of the Treaty and what we think of it, or of those who
n^e it, the League is attached to it. And the League of Nations
b the only hope we have to avoid wars in the future. I beg you
to consider that. I beg you to help me save that hope."

"Do you admit, then, Mr. Wilson, that they forced a vicious
treaty down your throat in exchange for the League of Nations?"

"I consider that question an impertinencel"

"Mr. Wilson, I've always been able to guess the processes of
thought behind your actions. Let me venture another. You've
got the world saddled with a Treaty you despise for the sake of
a Covenant no one else really wants. And you're beginning to
realize that you're desperate. Your conscience can't face the
prospect of losing what you've paid such a price for. So you'd
even enlist me to salvage it. . . . But I want no part of the
League. It's yours, Mr. Wilson. Take it down in history with
you — the history you've got your heart set on making. You're

66 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

little concerned with the kind of peace so long as your name's
attached to it. You don't care about your country's welfare, but
your own personal glory!"

"Mr. Lodge, the President has no further business with you."

For a moment the two men stare at each other with implacable
hate. Then Senator Lodge turns his back and walks to the door.
"The President makes no move imtil his caller has left. Then
a tremor runs through his body. He sits, and his eyes glance
about the room as if he were just waking from a sleep and
getting his bearings. They come to rest on the wall map of the
United States. A resolve is taking inflexible form in his mind."

Tumulty comes to ask if there is anything he can do. "Yes
. . . you can start making arrangements for my trip," the Presi-
dent answers. "There's only one way left . . . I'm going to
the people."

"No, that's out of the question, Governor. Grayson's abso-
lutely certain it would be . . . well, as much as your life's
worth."

Wilson — Even if that's true, can I ask any less of myself than
I've asked of thousands of others.

Tumulty — But it isn't the same thing. You're needed here.
You can't afford to take any risks.

Wilson — I can't afford not to . . . Joe, there will come a
day when the world will call our memories to account ... for
what we did and what we left undone. Whatever happens we
must preserve our faith in us or they may lose their faith in the
things that inspired us. (His mood changes to business as he
crosses to the map.) Here's the route I have in mind. We begin
in Cleveland . . . then Detroit . . . {With his pencil he begins
to trace on map connecting lines between dots,) Chicago . . .
St. Paul . . . Topeka . . . across to Salt Lake City . . . Sante
Fe . . . Pueblo . . . That's eight . . . Let's see — about five
more. We'll decide on them later.

Tumulty — Thirteen stops. That's a lot of speaking, Governor.

Wilson — ^I must reach as many people as I can and I've got
to do it quickly. . . . Joe, if you'll take down some notes 111
work them into my speeches.

Tumulty — ^Yes, Governor. (Tumulty sits down with a pad
and pencil. Wilson starts to dictate.)

Wilson (pacing) — "There's only one honorable course when
you have won a cause — to see that it stays won" . . . That's the
note I must keep hitting — see that the war sta3rs won. . . . "The
hatreds of the world have not cooled" . . . No, make that

IN TIME TO COME 67

rivalries . . . "The rivalries of the world have not cooled."

Tumulty — ^Yes, sir.

Wilson — ^''Victory has been won over a particular group of
nations but not over the passions of those nations" . . . That's
not enough. Add ''or over the passions of those nations that
were set against them."

Tumulty — ^That hits close to home.

Wilson — ^That's what I mean it to do. (Goes on dictating.)
''We have not made the weak nations strong by making them
ind^)endent. If you leave those nations to take care of them-
selves, Germany will yet have her will upon them, and we shall
have committed the unpardonable sin of undoing the victory
which our boys won." (Now warming up to his speech.) "You
cannot establish freedom without force and the only force you
can substitute for an armed mankind is the concerted force of
the combined action of mankind through the instrumentality of
all the enlightened governments of the world. . . ."

The President is still dictating as the curtain falls.

It is the following March 4. In the President's study Joe
Tiunulty is half heartedly emptying letters from the desk into a
file. Dr. Grayson comes from an adjoining room. President
Wilson, he reports, has come through the inaugural ceremony
much better than he had expected. "He won't stop fighting until
he's — dead," says Grayson.

"I wonder if he'll stop then. ... I was proud of him this
morning. Doc. He walked out of here President of the United
States. He sat there straight as a poker while they gave the
oath to Harding. And when he came back, by God, he was still
President."

"To us, Joe."

"I watched his eyes while Harding spoke. I never saw pain
before — not like that. It was the whole world crying — ^without
a tear being shed."

Dr. Grayson is remembering the inaugural and quoting bitterly
from the Harding address: '* ^America's present need is not heroics
but healing, not revolution but restoration, not surgery but seren-
ity, not nostrum but normalcy.' . . . Those are Uie words they
cheered for. That's what the crowd wanted to hear."

"Let the politicians, the practical men take over," says Tumulty
with Irish fire in his eyes. "Give them the world and see what
they can do with it. They've beaten him down, maybe they've
killed him. But they haven't killed what he stood for and diey

68 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

never will. Some day it will rise up again and sweep their kind
off the earth. ... I'd rather go down in history as Wilson's
office boy than the twenty-ninth President of the United States!''

It is Dr. Grayson's opinion that Tumulty himself had better
have a care. Let him continue as he has been going much longer
and he, too, will stand in danger of a collapse. If the President
had listened to his doctor before he stumped the country — But
the Tumulty mind finds it hard to readjust itself.

"Ill never forget that speech in Pueblo," the worried secretary
is saying. '^His body was shaking when he went on the plat-
form. He could hardly speak above a whisper. But that audi-
ence never missed a word. . . . The last of what he had went
out of him that night."

Nor is Tumulty so sure that his President needs him any longer.
There is a certain look that has come into the Wilson eye diat
Tumulty has seen once before. Colonel House was in his mind
then.

"No, Joe, that's different," says Dr. Grayson, with an attempt
at reassurance. ''House shared his dream, so House is the re-
minder of all he lost. That's more than any man in his condi-
tion could bear."

"Funny, I never thought of it that way. . . . Look here, Gray-
son. Ill black his shoes if he lets me stay. But if he — doesn't
want me around, for any reason or for no reason, I can under-
stand. See? . . . Don't let it make any difference to you."

"AU right, Joe."

Mrs. Wilson comes in. There are the last orders to be given
that everything may be left ready for Mr. Harding. Dr. Gray-
son takes the opportunity to suggest that perhaps Washington
is not the best place for the Wilsons to live after they leave the
White House, but Mrs. Wilson thinks it is. Her husband will
want to keep in touch with things, and as for forgetting — ^he
couldn't do that in Alaska any better than he could here. "He
will go on as long as he can," ^e says, "and 111 go on with him."

"Edith, you're a very great woman," Grayson says, seriously.

"Caryl You're no judge of that. You've known me too long."

"I wonder if you realize that for six months when he was so
ill, you were for all intents and purposes President of the United
States? And a damn good one!"

"No. I was only carrying out his wishes. Even when he
couldn't speak to me, I knew what he wanted and how he wanted
it done. You learn that from — ^loving a man. But he was still
the President."

IN TIME TO COME 69

Colonel House is announced. He is downstairs and would like
to pay his respects to the President. Mrs. Wilson is about to
send the Colond word that the President is not well enough to
see anyone, but changes her mind. She sends word to the Presi^
dent instead.

It is a changed Wilson who shortly comes into the room. He
has become ''an old man, shnrnken, white-haired, one paralyzed
arm held still against his body. Only his eyes are alive, and they
have a terrible bri^tness." Mrs. Wilson tells the President that
Colonel House has come to pay him a visit and is waiting down-
stairs.

President Wilson looks slowly from his wife to Grayson, to
Tumidty and bac^ to his wife ''as if expecting someone to deny
her words. Then he appears suddenly to forget the people as
he notices trifling changes in the room. He b^ns to put things
back in their accustomed places as if he could only pull his forces
together under conditions entirely familiar. Crossing to the
file, he opens a section and carries some papers to his desk.
Next he observes that the globe has been packed. Glancing at
Tumulty with almost childish resentment, he takes the globe
from the box and returns it to its standard. Then, seated at his
desk, he removes objects from the drawer — a. pen, a paper-weight,
an inkstand, a blotter — ^and very carefully puts them back on
the top of his desk in the precise positions they originally stood.
Now he appears more satisfied, more in command. Again he is
the President at his desk. During this long interim, the others
have remained so still while they waited, that even their breath-
ing seemed to be suspended. Time did not pass — it stopped and
resumes again as Wilson brings the focus of his mind back to
their presence. ... He speaks directly to Tumulty with his
voice under tight restraint."

"Please thank Colonel House for calling and tell him I . . .
regret that I'm unable to see him."

"Governor, are you sure that you — " The President's eyes
have become steel. Tumulty bites his lip, turns and goes.

"Edith," says the President, '^IVe been thinking over the
question of a secretary. As soon as we move, I feel we should
procure a new one."

"You mean — in place of Tumulty?"

"Yes."

"Very well, Woodrow. Just as you wish."

The President has returned to the rearrangement of his desk,
looking in the drawers for other familiar objects. Hereafter, he

70 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

says, he does not wish to have anything touched that b on his
desk. Mrs. Wilson will see to that. She is sure he is going to
like their new house, and with more leisure they will be able to do
many things again that they had had to give up. They will
resume their rides into Virginia again, and Cary will go with
them —

Tumulty is back. ''Colonel House asked me to convey his
affectionate regards to you both," he says. As the President
looks up with a harsh: 'Well?" Tumulty goes on: "Governor, he
thought your . . . health might be sudi that you wouldn't be
able to see him, so he brought along this letter, ^diich he asked
me to give you."

The President looks down at the envelope in his hand for a long
time and then deliberately tears through it and lets the pieces
fall unopened to the floor. Suddenly he looks up, startled. There
is a gun firing in the distance, he insists, and begins mumblingly
to count the reports only he can hear.

"It's over! Why don't they stop!" he cries out in anguished
protest. "Why must they keep shooting? Why? Why?"

They would have him lie down before he tries to go on with
the article he feels he still has to prepare on the Covenant. He
will be better able to work after a rest —

"I think I shall begin very simply," the President is saying,
as Mrs. Wilson is helping him back to his room, "like this: 'The
people of the world desire peace. We must strive on to make
their will effectual. . . . We must never stop untU . . . Peace
can be secured only by the unity of nations against aggression.
This unity must be achieved.' "

They have disappeared through the doorway. Tumulty stands
alone in the room. Presently his eyes stray to the torn letter
on the floor. He picks it up as Dr. Grayson comes back into
the room. Tumulty tears open the envelope and puts the pieces
of the letter together, smoothing them out on the desk. He
glances at Grayson, who nods, and Tumulty begins to read —

" 'Dear Governor: Forgive me for taking this liberty. There is
something that is much on my mind. You may think me of the
opinion, Governor, that things would be different if you had
followed certain ideas of mine regarding the Treaty ... in
short, that, in my judgment, time has borne me out. Believe me,
this is not the case. The conviction has grown in me that what
happened had to be, and is perhaps even for the best.

" 'For we must not underestimate this first great step. What
may seem a faflure at this time will one day find its justification

m TIME TO COME

as a model for what must never be allowed to happen again.
Surely the day will come when your idea of the nations imited to
preserve the peace of the world will be put forward anew. And
our people will know then, as we know now, the nature of the
forces that operated against us — ^and that knowledge will be
their weapon to achieve the fulfillment of your idea.

" Tor those who call themselves practical men — those whose
creed it is to avoid their responsibility to the world — ^have seemed
to prevail over us. But in time to come they and their kind
will be found impractical, and yours TvUl be the final victory.

" 'Men in the future will ask God to bless you, Governor, as I
do now. . . . Ever your friend, House.' "

''Tumulty lifts his head, looks at Grayson, who answers his
gaze. Their faces seem to reflect a renewal of courage and faith."

THE CUSTAIN FALLS

THE MOON IS DOWN
A Drama in Two Parts

By John Steinbeck

IT was April 7 before Oscar Serlin, the producer, got John
Steinbeck's drama of the military invasion of a neutral country,
^'The Moon Is Down," on a New York stage. The book of the
same title already had gone through innumaiaUe printings, and
had caused as startling an explosion of superlatives in book re-
view circles as any work of the year. Quite reasonably great
things were expected of the drama.

To the disappointment of the book-enthused supporters the
reception of the play was considerably less ecstatic. A majority
of the drama critics agreed that ''The Moon Is Down" was a good
play insofar as it was competently acted, dearly spoken and well
staged. But several of them were inclined to qualify their evalua-
tions by declaring that they found it singularly unconvincing.
If Mr. Steinbeck's Nazi officer class, which this group was ob-
viously intended to represent, was true, then the popular belief
in stories of Nazi brutality, and the deliberate and sustained
cruelties of Nazi invasions of the occupied coimtries, must have
been grossly exaggerated. If it were the author's hope that
'The Moon Is Down" would be accepted as an inspiriting mes-
sage from the heart of an occupied country saying the freemen
were standing firm and would win in the end, that hope, they
argued, was smothered by a more compelling suggestion that
the true nobility of the higher and better German character was
being unfairly attacked by Nazi enemies, including ourselves.

"By making his invaders more sinned against than sinning,"
Richard Lockridge wrote in the New York Sun, "Mr. Steinlx^
has dissipated his drama. The drama needs two hostile forces face
to face. Here are pleasant, reasonable people on one side and on
the other only disembodied orders from 'the capital.' Mr. Stein-
beck proves himself tolerant to a fault and his play suffers. So,
I suspect, does his argument."

The debate spread until it included again the book reviewers,
who returned to defend their belief in both play and novel, and
drew into it such outraged enemies of Hitler Naziism as Dorothy
Thompson, who thought to restate her faith in the basic virtues

THE MOON IS DOWN 73

of the German people as represented by the better side of these
gentler Nazi ofiBcers.

Public support of the drama strengthened, wavered and finally
fell away to such an extent that Mr. Serlin decided to withdraw
"The Moon Is Down" after fifty-five performances. Later a
road company was organized with Conrad Nagel at its head.
Some changes were made in the direction of the play and it was
received with marked enthusiasm in the West.

The action of "The Moon Is Down" is in the present. The
locale is not specifically designated, save as that of "a small
mining town." The first scene reveals the drawing room of the
Mayor's house. "The room is poor but has about it a certain
official grandeur; tarnished gold chairs with worn tapestry seats
and badcs, and the slight stuffiness of all official rooms. . . •
Altogether it is a warm room, which, trying to be stiff and official,
has from use become rather comfortable and pleasant." Glass-
paned doors let* into a vestibule from which stairs to the upper
rooms ascend. A small coal fire is burning in the grate, about
which comfortable chairs are grouped. A long sofa, with small
tables at either end, is in the center of the room. The Mayor's
desk and chair stand at the side against the wall, near the door
leading to his bedroom. Doors to dining room and kitchen are
opposite.

It is nearing 11 o'clock in the morning. In the Mayor's draw-
ing room Dr. Winter, "bearded, simple and benign," is sitting on
the sofa waiting to see the Mayor. "He is the town historian and
physician, and is dressed in a dark suit and very white linen,
but his shoes are heavy and thick-soled. He sits rolling his
thumbs over and over in his lap."

Joseph, the Mayor's serving man, tall, spare, properly humble,
but definitely an individual, is straightening up the furniture and
finding little things to change to keep himself within gossiping
range of the Doctor.

Invaders are expected. Their note has said that they will
arrive at 1 1 and they, being a time-minded people, as the Doctor
notes, will be there. "They hurry to their destiny as though it
wouldn't wait." The Mayor, it appears, is being dressed for the
occasion by his wife, who has been insistent that he shall look
his best, even to the point of having the hair trimmed out of his

Dr. Winter is amused by the picture. "We're so wonderful.
Our country is invaded and Madame is holding the Mayor by the
neck and trimming the hair from his ears."

"He was getting shaggy, sir," Joseph reports, quite seriously.

74 THE BfiST PLAYS OF 1941-42

"His eyebrows, too. His Excellency is even more upset about
having his eyebrows trimmed than his ears. He says that hurts."

There is a knock at the door. The invaders are early. A
moment later a soldier steps into the room, makes a cursory
survey of the situation and steps aside. He is followed by Cap-
tain Bentick. They are both wearing plain uniforms, the Cap-
tain's rank modestly indicated by a shoulder tab. They wear
helmets not quite like those of any known military force.
"Captain Bentick is a slightly overdrawn picture of an English
genUeman. He has a slouch. His face is red, long nose, but
rather pleasant, and he seems as unhappy in his uniform as most
British General Officers are."

The Captain is looking for the Mayor. He and his Sergeant
have come to search for weapons before the Commanding Officer
arrives. The Sergeant proceeds first to search Dr. Winter and
Joseph, but with the Captain's apologies. According to the card
given him there are also firearms in the house.

"Do you know where every gun in the town is?" inquires the
interested Doctor.

"Nearly all, I guess," affably answers the Captain. "We had
our people working here for quite a long time."

"Working here? Who?"

"Well, the work is done now. It's bound to come out. The
man in charge here is named Corell."

"George Corell?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe it. I can't believe it. Why, George had dinner
with me on Friday. Why, I've played chess with George night
after night. You must be wrong. Why, he gave the big shooting
match in the hills this morning — gave the prizes — "

"Yes — that was clever — there wasn't a soldier in town."

The Mayor and Mrs. Orden have come from the Mayor's bed-
room. "He is a fine looking man of about sixty-five and he seems
a little too common and too simple for the official morning coat
he wears and the gold chain of office around his neck. His hair
has been fiercely brushed, but already a few hairs are struggling
to be free. He has dignity and warmth. Behind him Madame
enters. She is small and wrinkled and fierce, and very pro-
prietary. She considers that she created this man, and ever
since he has been trying to get out of hand. She watches him
constantly as the lady ^ower of a prize dog watches her entry
at a dog show."

Captain Bentick explains his duty call, the Sergeant searches

THE MOON IS DOWN 75

the Mayor for weapons, again with the Captain's apologies, and
the matter of firearms in the house is taken up. Yes, the Mayor
has a shotgun and a sporting rifle. They are, he thinks, in the
back of the cabinet in his bedroom. He hasn't used them in a
king time. The gims recovered, the Captain and the Sergeant
politely withdraw. Colonel Lanser may be expected shortly.

Madame Orden is worried. How many officers should they
expect? Should she offer them tea or a glass of wine? She asks
the Doctor.

'^It's been so long since we've been invaded, or invaded anyone
else," the Doctor admits, "I just don't know what's correct."

"We won't offer them anything," announces the Mayor. "I
don't think the people would like it. / don't want to drink wine
with them."

Still Madame Orden is not satisfied. Why shouldn't they keep
the proper decencies alive?

Mayor Orden — Madame, I think with your permission we will
not have wine! The people are confused. We have lived at
peace so long they don't quite believe in war. Six town boys
were murdered this morning. We will have no hunt breakfast.
The people do not fight wars for sport.

Madame — Murdered ?

Mayor Orden (bitterly) — Our twelve soldiers were at the
shooting match in the hills. They saw the parachutes and they
came back. At the bend in the road by Toller's farm the ma-
chine gims opened on them and six were killed.

Madame (excitedly) — ^Which ones were killed? Aimie's sister's
boy was there.

Mayor Orden — I don't know which ones were killed. (He
looks at Dr. Winter.) I don't even know how many soldiers
are here. ... Do you know how many men the invader has?

Dr. Winter (shrugging) — ^Not many, I think. Not over two
himdred and fifty. But all with those little machine guns.

Mayor Orden — ^Have you h^d anything about the rest of
the country? Here there were parachutes, a little transport. It
happened so quickly. Was there no resistance anywhere?

Dr. Winter — I don't know. The wires are cut. There is no
news.

Mayor Orden — ^And our soldiers . . . ?

Dr. Winter — ^I don't know.

Joseph (entering) — I heard . . . that is, Annie heard . . .
six of our men were killed by the machine guns. Annie heard

76 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

three were wounded and captured.
Mayor Orden — But there were twelve.
Joseph — ^Annie heard three escaped.
Mayor Orden {sharply) — ^Which ones escaped?
Joseph — ^I don't know, sir. Annie didn't hsBX.

Madame Orden has time to give Joseph final instructicms as
to how he shall act in the presence of the invaders; how he
should pass the cigarettes in the little silver conserve box and
then leave the room. There is a sound of marching men out-
side and the command ^'Company, halt I" rings through the
room. A moment later a helmeted Corporal has entered to an-
nounce that Colonel Lanser requests an audience with Hb Excel-
lency. The Colonel follows a second later.

Colonel Lanser's rank is also indicated by his shoulder tab.
He is "a middle-aged man, gray and hard and tired-looking. He
has the square shoulders of a soldier, but his eyes la^ the
blank wall of a soldier's mind."

The introductions are formal and pleasant. Presently George
Corell appears and with some show of confidence di^)oses of his
hat and coat. The Colonel assumes that they all know Mr.
Corell. Yes, indeed — they know him. But not imtil Dr. Winter
tells them do the Mayor and Madame Orden suspect that George
Corell is a traitor. Even being told, they find it hard to believe.

"He prepared for this invasion," the Doctor reports. "He
sent our troops into the hills so they would be out of the way.
He listed every firearm in the town. God knows what else he
has done. . . ."

"Doctor, you don't imderstand," protests Corell, a nervous
shifty little man. "This thing was bound to come. It's a good
thing. You don't imderstand it yet, but when you do, you will
thank me. The democracy was rotten and inefficient. Things
will be better now. Believe me. {Almost fanatic in his belief,)
When you understand the new order you will know I am right."

"George Corell — a traitor — ?'* It is hard for the Mayor to
adjust his mind to this thougl^t.

"I work for what I believe in. That's an honorable thing."

"This isn't true — George — " the Mayor is saying, almost plead-
ingly. "George — ^you've sat at my table— on Madame's right —
weVe played chess together. This isn't true, George — ?"

"I work for what I believe in," repeats George. "You will
agree with me when you imderstand."

There is a long silence. The Mayor's face "grows tight and

THE MOON IS DOWN 77

formal." '1 don't wish to speak in this gentleman's presence,"
be says, firmly.

Colonel Lanser is imderstanding. He asks Corell to leave.
Corell would protest, but die Colonel shuts him up, and out, with
authoritative curtness. Before he can resume the investigation
Annie, the maid, has come a little violently from the kitchen.
There are soldiers standing on her porch, looking in. The Colonel
would explain that this is only in the course of duty. Annie
thinks it is because they have smelled the coffee.

'HVe want to get along as well as we can," the Colonel is say-
ing, asking their permission to sit down. ''You see, sir, this is
more a business venture than anything else. We need your coal
mine here and the fishing. We want to get along with just as
little friction as possible."

"We've had no news," answers the Mayor. "Can you tell me
— what about the rest of the coimtry? What has happened?"

Colonel Lanser — ^All taken. It was well planned.

Mayor Orden (insistently) — ^Was there no resistance . . .
anywhere?

Colonel Lanser {looking at him almost compassionately) —
Yes, there was some resistance. I wish there hadn't been. It
only caused bloodshed. We'd planned very carefully.

Mayor Orden (sticking to his point) — But there was resist-
ance?

Colonel Lanser — ^Yes. . . . And it was foolish to resist. Just
as here, it was destroyed instantly. It was sad and foolish to
resist.

Dr. Winter (who has caught some of the Mayor's anxious-
ness) — ^Yes . . . foolish, but tficy resisted.

Colonel Lanser — Only a few and they are gone. The people
as a ^Aole are quiet.

Dr. Winter— But the people don't know yet what has hap-
pened.

Colonel Lanser (a little sternly) — ^They are discovering now.
They won't be foolish again. (His voice changes, takes on a
business-like tone.) I must get to business. I am very tired.
Before I can sleep, I must make my arrangements. The coal
from this mine must come out of the ground and be shipped. We
have the technicians with us. The local people will continue to
work the mine. Is that clear? We do not wish to be harsh.

Mayor Orden — Yes, that's clear enough. But suppose we
don't want to work the mine?

78 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

Colonel Lanser {tightly) — ^I hope you will want to, because
you must.

Mayor Okden — ^And if we won't?

Colonel Lanser {rising) — ^You icusTf This is an orderly
people. They don't want trouble. {He waits for the Mayor's
reply,) Isn't that so, sir?

Mayor Orden — ^I don't know. They're orderly under our
government. I don't know what they'll be under yours. We've
built our government over a long time.

Colonel Lanser {quickly) — ^We know that. We're going to
keep your government. You will still be the Mayor. You vrill
give the orders, you will penalize and reward. Then we won't
have any trouble.

Mayor Orden {looking helplessly at Winter) — What do you
think?

Dr. Winter — I don't know. I'd expect trouble. This might
be a bitter people.

Mayor Orden — ^I don't know either. {He turns to the
Colonel.) Perhaps you know, sir. Or maybe it might be
different from anything you know. Some accept leaders and
obey them. But my people elected me. They made me and they
can unmake me I Perhaps they will do that, when they think
I've gone over to you.

Colonel Lanser {ominously) — You will be doing them a
service if you keep them in order.

Mayor Orden — A service?

Colonel Lanser — It's your duty to protect them. They'll be
in danger if they are rebellious. If they work they will be safe.

Mayor Orden — But suppose they don't want to be safe?

Colonel Lanser — ^Then you must think for them.

Mayor Orden {a little proudly) — ^They don't like to have
others think for them. Maybe they are different from your
people.

Now it is Joseph who has come from the kitchen in a state of
excitement. It's Annie again. Annie still doesn't like soldiers
on her porch. She doesn't like to be stared at, even if they are
only carrying out orders. Annie is getting angry. But, at
Madame Orden's request, Joseph will return and tell Annie to
mind her temper, though he is not at all confident she will.

It is Colonel Lanser's suggestion that he and his staff vnll
stay at the Mayor's house. It has been found, because of the
suggested collaboration, to work better that way. The Mayor

THE MOON IS DOWN 79

would protest, if he could. He is sure the people will not like it.

"Always the people I" snaps the Colonel, as though he were
speaking to a recalcitrant child. 'The people are disarmed.
They have no say in this."

Again Joseph must break in with more excited news. It's
Annie again. From the kitchen come distressed sounds, and
excited words. "Lookout!" "It's boiUngl" "Jump!" There
is a splash of water, the clang of a pan, and the cry of a dis-
tressed soldier. Quickly Madame Orden runs to the kitchen.
Now there is a confused jumble of orders to Annie, from Madame,
and orders to each other from the soldiers. "Grab her I" "Let
go of mel" And then the sharp thud of someone being thrown
to the floor, followed by the cry of a soldier who has been bitten.

"Have you no control over your servants, sir?" angrily de-
mands Colonel Lanser.

"Very little," admits the Mayor, smiling. "Annie is a good
cook when she's happy."

"We just want to do our job," wearily repeats the Colonel.
And later, after he has ordered the soldiers to release Annie and
go outside, he adds: "I could lock her up. I could have her
shot."

"Then we'd have no cook," mildly protests the Mayor.

Colonel Lanser — Our instructions are to get along with your
people. I'm very tired, sir. I must have some sleep. Please
co-operate with us for the good of all.

Mayor Orden (thoughtfully) — ^I don't know. The people are
confused and so am II

Colonel Lanser — But will you try to co-operate?

Mayor Orden — I don't know. When the town makes up its
mind what it wants to do I will probably do that.

Colonel Lanser — ^You're the authority.

Mayor Orden — ^Authority is in the town. That means we can-
not act as quickly as you can . . . but when the direction is set
... we act all together. I don't know . . .yet!

Colonel Lanser — I hope we can get along together. I hope
we can depend on you to help. Look at it realistically. There's
nothing you can do to stop us. And I don't like to think of the
means the military must take to keep order.

Madame {coming from the kitchen) — She's all right.

Mayor Orden {taking cup of coffee she has brought) — ^Thank
you, my dear.

80 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Colonel Lanser — ^I hope we can d^)end on you.
Mayor Okden — ^I don't know — yet.

Colonel Lanser bows and goes out the door, followed by the
Corporal. Madame Orden is sitting on the sofa beside the Mayor
straightening his hair as the curtain falls.

Scene II

It is a few days later. The Mayor's drawing room is a changed
place. Piled xnilitary equipment and canvas-wrapped bundles
are lying aroimd. The larger pieces of furniture, the wall pic-
tures and the draperies have been removed. There are military
maps, a microphone, samples of ore on the Mayor's desk.

Major Hunter, second in command to Colonel Lanser, '^a short
wide-mouldered mining engineer, a man of figures and a for-
mula . . ." is balancing his drawing board against the table and
against his lap. Lieutenant Prackle, "an undergraduate; a snot-
nose; a lieutenant trained in the politics of the day; a devil with
women," has come from the bedroom with his tunic off, his face
half covered with lather.

The Major would have the Lieutenant find him a tripod for
his drawing board. The Lieutenant is not certain he can, but
will try.

Captain Loft, ''a truly military man; he lives and breathes
his Captaincy; he believes that a soldier is the highest develop-
ment of animal life, and if he considers God at all, he thinks of
him as an old and honored General, retired and gray, living among
remembered battles" — Captain Loft, complete with equipment, is
back from a tour that has revealed Captain Bentick going on
duty wearing a fatigue cap in place of his helmet. Such care-
lessness is certain to have a bad effect on the people. Every
soldier should be familiar with Manual XI 2 on deportment in
occupied countries, in which the leaders have considered every-
thing. Major Hunter isn't so sure.

Lieutenant Tonder, '^a different kind of sophomore; a dark
and bitter and cynical poet, who dreams of the perfect ideal love
of elevated young men for poor girls," has drifted in with a cup
of coffee and shortly becomes interested in the bridge that Major
Hunter is sketching. It is not a military bridge, it appears, but
a toy bridge that the Major expects one day to add to the model
railroad line which he is building in his backyard at home. . . .

Colonel Lanser has arrived. He would like to have Captain

rttal

THE MOON IS DOWN 81

Loft go to relieve Captain Bentick, who isn't feeling very wdl.
Captain Loft is responsive to the order, thou^ he would like it
to be noted that he has but recently returned from a tour of
duty. Such reports, going through to headquarters, are a Jielp
in acquiring those little danglers on the chest which ''are the
milestones in a military career."

'There is a bom soldier/' says Colonel Tenser, when Captain
Loft has left.

"A bom ass," amends Major Hunter.

"No. He is being a soldier the way another man would be a
politician. Hell be on the General Staff before long. He'll look
down on the war from above and so hell always love it."

The staff renews its contact with the Colonel in different
moods. Lieutenant Prackle is eager to know when the war is
likely to be over. The Colonel wouldn't know that. Well, if it
is quiet aroimd Christmas, Lieutenant Prackle is wondering if
there might not be furlou^s. The Colonel wouldn't know a tout
that, either. The orders will have to come from home.

Lieutenant Tonder, for his part, has been looking the country
over and thinking that if the victors continue the occupation,
there are a number of nice little farms around there that a fellow
might pick up; might throw four or five of them together, in
fact.

"Ah, well. We still have a war to fight," observes the Colonel,
as though tired of talking to children. "We still have coal to
ship. Suppose we wait until it is over, before we build up estates.
Hunter, your steel will be in tomorrow. You can get your
tracks started this week."

George Corell is outside seeking an audience. The Colonel
has him sent in. Corell is wearing his dark business suit. A
patch of white bandage is stuck into his hair with a cross of
adhesive tape. He radiates good will and good fellowship, and
is glad to meet the boys of Colonel Lanser's staff. They had,
be tells them, done a good job, for which he had been careful
to prepare the way.

"You did very well," admits Colonel Lanser, and adds: "I
wish we hadn't killed those six men, though."

"Well, six men isn't much for a town like this, with a coal
mine, too," suggests Corell.

"I don't mind killing people if that finishes it," says the Colo-
nel. "But sometimes it doesn't finish it."

Corell would like to see the Colonel alone, but is obliged to
put up with Major Hunter, who, the Colonel assures him, hears

82 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

nothing when he is working. Noting the patch on Corell's head,
the Colonel is solicitous. Corell is quite sure no one had thrown
the rock that had hit him. It had fallen from a cliff in the
hills. His people are not a fierce people, Corell insists. They
haven't had a war for a hundred years.

"Well, youVe lived among them, you ought to know," says
the Colonel. ''But if you are safe, these people are different
from any in the world. I've helped to occupy countries before.
I was in Belgium twenty years ago and in France."

The Colonel again compliments Corell on the work he has done
and is prepared to send him to the Capitol if he wants to go.
Corell doesn't want to go. He wants to stay there and he
doesn't need a bodyguard. He wants to stay and help with the
civil administration. The Colonel will be needing a Mayor he
can trust. Corell is sure if Orden were to step down that he
(Corell) and the Colonel could work very well together.

No, Corell admits, he has not had much contact with the
people since the invaders arrived. He doesn't really know what
they think of him. Of course, they have had a shock, but they
will be all right. If it should develop, as Colonel Lanser sug-
gests, that not alone will he do no more business at his store,' but
that he will also come in time to know the people's hatred,
Corell feels that he will be able to stand it.

"You will not even have our respect," warns the Colonel, after
a long moment of silence.

"The Leader has said all branches are equally honorable," in-
sists Corell, jumping to his feet.

"I hope the Leader is right," answers Colonel Lanser, quietly.
"I hope he can read the minds of the soldiers." With an effort
he pulls himself together. "Now. We must come to exactness.
I am in charge here. I must maintain order and discipline. To
do that I must know what is in the minds of these people. I
must anticipate revolt."

Corell — I can find out what you wish to know, sir. As Mayor
here, I will be very effective.

Lanser — Orden is more than Mayor. He is the people. He
will think what they think. By watching him I will know
them. He must stay. That is my judgment.

Corell — My place is here, sir. I have made my place.

Lanser — I have no orders about this. I must use my own
judgment. I think you will never again know what is going
on here. I think no one will speak to you. No one will be near
to you, except those people who live on money. I think without

bOCki

THE MOON IS DOWN 83

a bodyguard you will be in great danger. I prefer that you go
back to the Capitol.

CoRELL — My work, sir, merits better treatment than being sent
away.

Lanser (slowly) — ^Yes, it does. But to the larger work I think
you are only in the way. If you are not hated yet, you will be.
In any little revolt you will be the first to be kill^. I suggest
that you go back.

CoRELL (rising, stiffly) — You will, of course, permit me to
wait for a reply from the Capitol?

Lanser — Of course. But I shall recommend that you go back
for your own safety. Frankly . . . you have no further value
here. But . . . well, there must be other plans in other coun-
tries. Perhaps you will go now to some new town, win new con-
fidence ... a greater responsibility. I will recommend you
hi^y for your work here.

CoRELL (his eyes shining) — ^Thank you, sir. I have worked
hard. Perhaps you are ri^t. But I will wait for the reply
from the Capitol.

Lanser (his voice tight and his eyes slitted) — ^Wear a helmet.
Keep indoors. Do not go out at night and above all, do not
drink. Trust no woman or any man. You understand?

CoRELL (smiling) — I don't think you understand. I have a
little house, a coimtry girl waits on me. I even think she is fond
of me. These are peaceful people.

Lanser — There are no peaceful people. When will you learn
it? There are no friendly people. Can't you understand that?
We have invaded this country. You, by what they call treachery,
prepared for us. (His face grows red and his voice rises,) Can't
you understand that we are at war with these people?

CoRELL (a little smugly) — ^We have defeated them.

Lanser — ^A defeat is a momentary thing. A defeat doesn't
last. We were defeated and now we are back. Defeat means
nothing. Can't you understand that? Do you know what they
are whispering behind doors?

CoRELL — Do you?

Lanser — ^No.

There is a sudden snap of the catch on the door as it is closed.
Corell goes to the door, opens it, looks out and then returns to
face the Colonel —

CoRELL (insinuatingly) — Are you afraid. Colonel? Should
our Commander be afraid?

THE VEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

Laxsek ixHtm^iaom hmsSly m rarAcir)— \Iqrbe that's it.
H^ icyi dhimst^c-y. i I am tired of people who have not been
at war who know aD about h. \He a Ami far m wuummi.) I
re:rez:ber a liiile old woman in Brassds. Sweet face, iriiite
hair . . . Delicate old handL (He seemu io see ike fgnre m
jr(m: of him. \ 9ie used to smg our songs to us in a quivering
voice. She always knew where to find a cigarette or a virgm.
i Lansex cc^ckes khmseif €s ij ke had been adeep.) We dUb't
kiyj-sr her son had been executed. When we finally shot her, she
had killed twelve men with a kng black hat pin.

Cgbft.t. (ecgeriy) — But yoa shot her.

Lan5£r — Of course, we shot her!

CosELL — And the murders stopped?

Lanseb — No ... the murders didn't stop. .\nd lAen finally
we retreated, the people cut on the strag^ers. They burned
5onie. And they gouged the eyes from some. .And some they
e%'en crudned.

This may not be the way he should talk, or think, Colond
Lanser admits. He does not talk that way to his young ofificers.
They would not believe him if he did. He has talked as he has
to Corell because CorelKs work is done.

The door is thrown open. Captain Loft, '^rigid and cold and
military," comes into the room. Thc^e has been trouble. Cap-
tain Bentick has been hurt. Two stretcher bearers carry Ben-
tick's body, covered with blankets, into the bedroom, Colonel
Lanser following. A moment later the Colonel is back.

'*Wlio killed him?'' he demands.

''A miner. ... I was there, sir. ... I had just relieved
Captain Bentick as the Colonel ordered. Captain Bentick was
about to leave to come here, when I had some trouble with a
miner. He wanted to quit. \Mien I ordered him to work, he
rushed at me with his pick. Captain Bentick tried to interfere.^'

**Vou captured the man?''

*Yes, sir."

The Colonel has walked slowly to the fireplace. When he
speaks it is as though he were talking to himself.

'So it starts again. We'll shoot this man and make twenty
new enemies. It's the only thing we know. The only thing we
know."

*'What did you say, sir?"

^'Nothing. Nothing at all, I was just thinking. Please give

ssufig I k?

t St

S E c E "^ o « = g-5 'J^ :£u;^fif-i ?

THE MOON IS DOWN 8S

my compliments to Mayor Orden and my request that he see
me at once."

Captain Loft turns and leaves the room. Major Hunter, look-
ing up from his drawing board, dries his inking pen carefully
and puts it away in its velvet lined box as the curtain falls.

Scene UI

Two days have passed. The Orden drawing room has under-
gone further changes, being stripped of more pictures and fur-
niture. The chairs have been pushed back against the wall,
leaving the center quite bare.

Joseph and Annie are bringing in a dining room table. It is
so large they have considerable difficulty maneuvering it through
the door. The Colonel had ordered the table. They are going
to hold some sort of trial there, Joseph has heard. It's all crazy
to Annie. Why can't they hold their trials at the City Hall?
What do they want to hold trials for, anyway?

Joseph tries haltingly to explain that there is a report of trouble
at the mine. Alex Mordon, they say, had got into some kind of
trouble. They say he hit a soldier. Annie doesn't believe that.
She knows the girl Alex married, and she wouldn't have married
a man who hit people. The soldiers must have done something
to Alex.

"I don't know," sa5rs Joseph. "Nobody seems to know what
happened." Becoming suspicious, he tiptoes over to the door,
opens it slowly, looks out, and then closes it carefully. "I heard
that William Deal and his wife got away last night in a little
boat and I heard that somebody hit that man Corell with a rock."

"Uneasy," echoes Annie. "You should see my sister. Her
boy, Robbie, got away when they killed the other soldiers. Chris-
tine thinks she knows where he'd go back in the hills, but she
can't find out if he was hurt or anything. She's going crazy
worrying. She even wanted me to adc His Excellency to try to
find out. He might be hurt. I can't ask His Excellency."

The door has opened quietly. Mayor Orden starts into the
room. Hearing himself mentioned he stops in the doorway. "I
know," Joseph is saying. "People in fhe town are worried about
His Excellency. They don't know where he stands — soldiers in
his house and he hasn't said anything. And you know — every-
body liked Corell and then he was for the soldiers. People are
worried about His Excellency."

Mayor Orden is followed into the room by Dr. Winter. Joseph

86 THE BEST FLATS OF 1941-42

and Annie are embarrassed at bong caught gossiping. Tlie
Mayor is quidL to assore them that he is, in &ct, still the Biayor.

Now Joseph and Annie have gone and Mayor Onlen seeks
counsd of Dr. Winter as to his position. Wh^her it were bet-
ter for him to be thrown out of control or to remain and have
the peo|^ suspect him. Dr. Winter believes that the Mayor
can keep contrcd and be with the people too.

^^I don't know why they have to bring this trial in here/' the
Mayor protests. ^Tliey are going to try Alex Morden here for
murder. You know Akx. He has that pretty wife, Mdly."

^I remember. She taught in a grammar sdiool before she was
married. Yes, I remember her. She was so pretty she hated to
get glasses ^dien she needed them. Wdl, I guess Alex killed an
ofiBcer aD rig^it. Nobody has questioned that."

^Of course, no aoe questions it," answers the Mayor, Utterly.
""But idiy do they try him? Why don't th^ shoot him? We
don't try them for kflling our soldiers. A trial implies ri^t or
wrong, doubt or certainty. There is none of that here. Why
must they try him — and in my house."

'^I wotdd guess it is for the show. There is an idea about that
if you go through the form of a thing you have it. Theyll have
a trial and hope to omvince the people that there is justice in-
vdved. Alex did kill the Captain."

"Yes, I know."

"And if it comes from your house, where the people have al-
wa3^ expected justice . . ."

They are interrupted by Molly Morden, Alex's wife. "She is
about thirty, is quite pretty and is dressed simply." MoUy has
come excitedly to see the Mayor about Alex. Is it true that
Alex will be tried and shot? Surely the Mayor wouldn't do that.
Alex is not "a murdering man!"

The Mayor understand. No, he wouldn't sentence Alex. But
he would know, from MoUy, how the people feel. Do they want
to be free? Do they want order? Do they know what methods
to use against an armed enemy?

"No, sir," admits MoUy. "But I think the people want to
show these soldiers that they aren't beaten."

Now Molly has gone, 'fighting h3rsteria. She knows, even
though the Mayor will not sentence Alex, that the others will
and that he will be shot. The Mayor sends Madame Orden after
Molly, to stay with her and comfort her. The house and servants
are imimportant, now. . . .

Colonel Lanser has come. He has on a new pressed uniform,

THE MOON IS DOWN 87

with a little dagger at the belt. There are things he would like
to talk over with the Mayor. He is plainly disturbed. 'I'm
very sorry about this/' he says to the Mayor, pausing at the end
of each sentence hoping for an answer, and getting none. ''I
wish it hadn't happened. I like you, and I respect you. I have
a job to do. You surely recognize that. We don't act on our
own judgment. There are rules laid down for us. Rules made
in the C^itd. This man has killed an officer."

''Why didn't you shoot him then? That was the time to do it,"
the Mayor says, finally, turning slowly to face the Colonel.

Lanser — ^Even if I agreed with you, it would make no differ-
ence. You know as well as I that pimishment is for the purpose
of preventing other crimes. Since it is for others, punishment
must be publicized. It must even be dramatized.

QsDEN {going to his desk) — Yes — ^I know the theory — ^I won-
der whether it works.

Lanser — ^Mayor Orden, you know our orders are inexorable.
We must get the coal. If your people are not orderly, we will
have to restore that order by force. {His voice grows stem.)
We must shoot people if it is necessary. If you wish to save your
people from hurt, you will help us to keep order. Now ... it
is considered wise by my government that punishments emanate
from the local authorities.

Orden {softly) — So ... the people did know, they do know
— {Speaks louder.) You wish me to pass sentence of death on
Alexander Morden after a trial here?

Lanser — ^Yes. And you will prevent a great deal of bloodshed
later if you will do it.

Orden {drumming Us fingers on the desk) — ^You and your gov-
ernment do not understand. In all the world, yours is the only
government and people with a record of defeat after defeat for
centuries, and always because you did not understand. {He
pauses for a moment.) This principle does not work. First, I
am the Mayor. I have no right to pass sentence of death under
our law. There is no one in this community with that right. If
I should do it I would be breaking the law as much as you.

Lanser — Breaking the law?

Orden — ^You killed six men when you came in and hurt others.
Under our law you were guilty of murder, all of you. Why do
you go into this nonsense of law, Colonel? There is no law be-
tween you and us. This is war. You destroyed the law when you
came in, and a new cruel law took its place. You know you'll

88 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

have to kill all of us or we in time will kill aD of you.

Lanser — ^May I sit down?

OsDEN — Why do you ask? That's another lie. You could
make me stand if you wanted.

Lanser — ^No. ... I respect you and your office, but what I
think — I, a man of certain age and certain monories — is of no
importance. I might agree with you, but that would change
nothing. The military, the political pattern I work in, has cer-
tain tendencies and practices which are invariable.

Orden — ^And these tendencies and practices have been proven
wrong in every single test since the beginning of the world.

Lanser {laughing bitterly) — ^I, a private man — ^with certain
memories — ^might agree with you. Might even add that one of
the tendencies of the military mind is an inability to learn. An
inabflty to see beyond the killing which is its job. {He straight-
ens his shoulders.) But I am not a private man. The coal miner
must be shot . . . publicly, because the theory is that others
will then restrain themselves from killing our men.

Orden — ^Then we needn't talk any more.

Lanser — ^Yes, we must talk. We want you to help.

Orden {smiling) — I'll tell you what 111 do. How many men
were on the machine gims that killed our soldiers?

Lanser — ^About twenty.

Orden — ^Very well. If you will shoot them, I wiH usurp the
power to condemn Morden.

Lanser — You are not serious?

Orden — I am serious.

Lanser — ^This can't be done, you know it. This is nonsense.

Orden — I know it. And what you ask can't be done. It is
nonsense too.

Lanser {sighing) — I suppose I knew it. Maybe Corell wfll
have to be Mayor after all. {He looks up quickly.) You'll stay
for the trial?

Orden {mth warmth) — ^Yes, I'll stay. Then he won't be
alone.

Lanser {smiling sadly) — WeWe taken on a job, haven't we?

Orden — Yes. The one impossible job in the world. The one
thing that can't be done.

Lanser — Yes?

Orden — ^To break a man's spirit . . . permanently.

The Mayor's head has sunk a little toward the table. The
room has become quite dark. The curtain slowly falls.

THE MOON IS DOWN 89

Scene IV

The court martial is in session. Colonel Lanser and Mayor
Orden are at the center of the table. Lieutenant Tonder is stand-
ing at attention back of the table. Captain Loft, with his papers
before him, is at the Colonel's end of the table. Lieutenant
Prackle is at the other end. The doors are guarded by helmeted
soldiers standing like wooden images, with bayonets fixed.

Alex Morden, ''a big young man with a wide, low forehead,"
stands near the guards, his manacled hands clasping and unclasp-
ing in front of him. "He is dressed in black trousers, a blue
shirt, a dark blue tie, and a dark coat shiny with wear."

Captain Loft reads the charges mechanically: ''When ordered
back to work, he refused to go. And when the order was re-
peated, the prisoner attacked Captain Loft with a pickax. Cap-
tain Bentick interposed his body . . ."

Mayor Orden interrupts to tell Alex to sit down. There is
objection from Captain Loft, but Colonel Lanser permits Alex
to be seated.

"These facts have been witnessed by several of our soldiers,
whose statements are attached," continues Captain Loft. "This
military court finds the prisoner is guilty of murder and recom-
mends the death sentence. Does the Colonel wish me to read
the statements of the soldiers?"

The Colonel is satisfied. He takes over the interrogation of
the prisoner. Does Alex deny that he killed the Captain? Alex
admits that he struck him. Whether he killed him or not he
doesn't know. "I only hit him . . . and then somebody hit me,"
sa3rs Alex.

"Do you want to offer any explanation?" wearily asks Colonel
Lanser.

"I respectfully submit that the Colonel should not have said
that," breaks in Captain Loft. "It indicates that the court b
not impartial."

"Have you any explanation?" the Colonel repeats, looking at
Mayor Orden.

"I was mad, I guess," says Alex, tr)ring to gesture with his
right hand, but finding it attached to his left. "I have a pretty
bad temper and when he said I had to go to work ... I got
mad and I hit him. I guess I hit him hard. It was the wrong
man. {He points at Loft.) That is the man I wanted to hit.
That one."

It doesn't matter who he wanted to hit. Is he sorry? "It

90 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

would look well in the record if he were sorry/' the Colonel points
out to Loft and Hunter.

No, Alex is not sorry. Loft had ordered him to go to work.
Hct was a free man. He used to be an Alderman. He didn't
want to go to work. If the sentence should be death would he
be sorry? No, Alex doesn't think so.

''Put in the record that the prisoner is overcome with remorse/'
orders Colonel Lanser. And then, turning to Alex: ''Sentence is
automatic, you understand. The court has no leeway. The court
finds you guilty and sentences you to be shot inunediatdy. I do
not see any reason to torture you with this any more. Now, is
there anything I have forgotten?"

"You have forgotten me," quietly sa3rs Mayor Orden, getting
up from his chair and going to Alex. "Alexander, I am the Mayor
—elected."

Alex — I know it, sir.

OsDEN — ^Alex, these men have taken our country by treachery
and force.

Loft (rising) — Sir, this should not be permitted.

Lanser (rising) — Be silent. Is it better to hear it, or would
you rather it were whispered?

Orden (continuing) — ^When the enemy came, the people were
confused and I was confused. Yours was the first dear act.
Your private anger was the beginning of a public anger. I know
it is said in the town that I am acting with these men. I will
show the town that I am not. . . . But you . . • you are going
to die. (Softly.) I want you to know.

Alex (dropping his head and then raising it) — ^I know it. I
know it, sir.

Lanser (lotidly) — ^Is the squad ready?

Loft (r«i«g)---Outside, sir.

Lanser — ^WTio is commanding?

Loft — ^Lieutenant Tonder, sir. (Tonder raises his head, and
his chin is hard but his eyes are frightened. Lanser looks at his
watch.)

Orden (softly) — ^Are you afraid, Alex?

Alex — ^Yes, sir.

Orden — I can't tell you not to be. I would be, too. And so
would these . . . young gods of war.

Lanser (facing the table) — Call your squad.

Tonder — ^They're here, sir.

Orden — ^Alex, go knowing that these men will have no rest

THE MOON IS DOWN 91

... no rest at all until they are gone ... or dead. You will
make the people one. It's little enough gift to you, but it b so
... no rest at all.

Alex has shut his eyes tightly. The Mayor leans over and kisses
him upon the cheek: ''Good-by, Alex," he says. The guards step
forward and guide Alex through the door. They can be heard
as orders are given and they march toward the Square. ^'I hope
you know what you're doing," Mayor Orden mutters. '^Man,
whether we know it or not, it is what must be done," snaps the
Colonel.

A silence falls on the room and each man listens tensely. After
a little the orders come floating back from the Square: '^Readyl
Aim! Fire I" followed by the blast of a machine gun. The rever-
beration has barely ceased when there is another shot from out-
side Hie window, followed by a crash of glass. Lieutenant
Prackle wheels about He has been hit in the shoulder. Hunter
and Loft have jumped away from the table and reached for their
revolvers. Colonel Lanser takes command.

'^Captain Loft — ^find the man who fired that shot I There
should be tracks in the snow I Major Hunter, take Lieutenant
Tonder and a detail. Search every house in the town for weapons.
Shoot down any resistance. T^e five hostages for execution.
You, Mayor Orden, are in protective custody!"

''A man of certain memories," muses the Mayor.

"A man of no memories. We will shoot five — ^ten — a hundred
for one!" The Colonel is pacing the room now. ''So it starts
again."

''It's beginning to snow," reports the Mayor at the window.

"We'll have to have that glass fixed. The wind blows cold
through a broken window."

The curtain falls.

PART II

It is two months later. The Mayor's drawing room is bare
and uncomfortable now. "A kind of discomfort will have crept
in; a slight mess, due not to dirt as much as to the business of
the men." There are blackout curtains, drawn tight. There are
no electric lights. Two gasoline lanterns on the dining room table
throw a hard, white light. On the wall there is a line drawing of
Major Hunter's rail line from the mine to the dock. A Maxim
machine gun is pointed out a window, with the cartridge belt in
place. There is an army cot where the Mayor's desk used to

92 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

stand, and a Tommy gun hangs from a nail driven into the wall.
Outside the wind is blowing a small gale. The men are wearing
their coats to keep warm.

Major Hunter is again at his drawing board. Lieutenant
Prackle, sitting in one chair with his feet in another, is reading
an illustrated paper. Lieutenant Tonder is having difficulty try-
ing nervously to compose a letter. The atmosphere is fairly tense.

Lieutenant Prackle is recalling happier scenes, his memory
spurred by the illustrations in his paper. There was a certain
waitress in a certain restaurant who floats into the picture. ''She
had the strangest eyes — ^has, I mean — alwa3rs kind of moist look-
ing, as though she had just been laughing or crying. ... I hope
they aren't rationing girls at home."

"ItTl probably come to that, too," grouches Tonder.

"You don't care much for girls, do you? Not much you
don't!" twits Prackle.

"I like them for what girls are for," answers Tonder, putting
down his pen. ''I don't let them crawl around my other life."

"Seems to me they crawl all over you all the time," taunts
Prackle.

To change the subject, Tonder would complain about the lights.
When is Major Hunter going to get the d3mamo fixed. And what
has he done about the man who wrecked it this time? It could
have been any one of five men, the Major explains. He had got
all five. The lights will be on shortly. And they are. That
helps.

Joseph comes in, quietly, with a bucket of coal for the fire.
Tonder, with mounting nervousness, would know if he can get
them any wine. Or brandy? Joseph shakes his head. "Answer,
you swine! Answer in words!" shouts Tonder. There is neither
wine nor brandy, Joseph reports. Coffee? Yes, there is coffee.
He'll bring that.

"Had you shouting. That's what he wanted to do," observes
Major Hunter, wisely.

"I'm all right," insists Tonder, a little shakily. "Sometimes
they drive me a little crazy. You know they're always listening
behind doors. (Softly.) I'd like to get out of this God-forsaken
hole!"

It was Tonder, Prackle recalls, who thought he would like to
live there after the war — putting four or five farms together to
make a nice little place. " 'Nice,* pleasant people — ^beautiful
lawns and deer and little children.' " Prackle is imitating Tonder
maliciously.

THE MOON IS DOWN 93

''Don't talk like that/' shridcs Tonder, holding his hands to
his temples. "These horrible people! They're cold! They never
look at yovL, never speak. They answer like dead men. Tbey
obey. And the girls frozen — frozen."

Joseph has brought the coffee. Tonder pours himself a cup,
tastes it doubtfully and finds it bitter.

''Now let's stop this nonsense," commands Major Hunter
sharply. "The coffee is good or it isn't. If it is good, drink it.
If it isn't, don't drink it. Let's not have this questioning."

"There's no rest from it, day or night," protests Tonder. His
hands are pressing his temples again; his voice has "a soft tense-
ness of controlled h)rsteria." "No rest off duty." His voice
breaks. "I'd like to go home. I want to talk to a girl. There's
a girl in this town. I see her all the time. I want to talk to
that girl."

The lights go out again. The room is in darkness. Major
Hunter is relighting the lanterns. Everybody in town seems to
be taking a crack at his d3mamo. "You know, the other day a
little boy shinnied up a pole and smashed a transformer," says
the Major, and adds: '^What can you do with children?" Then
he turns to Tonder, and his tone becomes paternal. "Tonder,
do your talking to us, if you have to talk. There's nothing these
people would like better than to know that your nerves are get-
ting thin. Don't let the enemy hear you talk this way."

"That's it! The enemy — everywhere. Every man and woman.
Even children. Waiting. The white faces behind the curtains,
listening. We've beaten them. We've won everywhere and they
wait and obey and they wait. Half the world is ours. Is it the
same in other places, Major?"

"I don't know."

"That's it. We don't know. The reports — 'everything under
control, everything under control.' Conquered countries cheer
our soldiers. Cheer the new order. {His voice changes and grows
softer.) What do the reports say about us? Do they say we'ro
cheered, loved, flowers in our paths?"

"Now that's off your chest, do you fed better?" Captain Hun*»
ter speaks as to a child.

Tonder does not reply, but, rising quickly, he leaves the room.
"He shouldn't talk that way," protests Prackle, miserably. "Let
him keep things to himself. He's a soldier, isn't he? Let him be
a soldier."

Cs^tain Loft is back, well bundled up against the cold. At the
mine, he reports, there has been more of the same old troubh

94 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

the slow-down. Also a wrecked dump car. He had shot the
wrecker. As for the slow-down, he had told the men. that unless
the coal came out as it should, there would be no more food for
their children. They (the miners) would be fed at the mine.
That would keep them in working condition and give them no
chance to divide their food with their families. No coal, no
food for the kids.

Lieutenant Tonder comes back into the room. Seeing Captain
Loft, he questions him excitedly. What news is there from home?
Is everything all right? Are ibe British defeated yet? And the
Russians? Isn't the war just about won?

Captain Loft reports that everything has been going wonder-
fully. Successes ever3rwhere. True, the British are still trying
a few air raids. But it's all over with the Russians. When will
they be going home? Well, the Captain has an idea it will take
a long time to get the New Order working properly.

"All our lives, perhaps," suggests Tonder.

Captain Loft doesn't like the tone of that query. He faces
Tonder angrily. He doesn't like the suggestion of doubt in
Tonder's voice. Major Himter tries to intervene. Tonder, he
says, is tired, as they all are. "I'm tired, too," sa5rs Loft, "but
I don't let doubt get in."

Major Hunter would know what Colonel Lanser is doing. He's
making his report and asking for reinforcements. Captain Loft
reports. This is a bigger job than they thought it was. The
chance of reinforcements starts Tonder up again. Maybe there
will also be replacements. Maybe they will be able to go home
for awhile. "I could walk down the street and people would say
*Hello,* and they'd like me," says Tonder.

"Don't start talking like that," warns Frackle.

Tonder — ^There would be friends about and I could turn my
back to a man without being afraid.

Loft (disgustedly) — ^We've enough trouble without having the
staff go crazy.

Tonder (insistently) — ^You really think replacements will
come. Captain?

Loft— Certainly. Look, Lieutenant, we've conquered half the
world. We must police it for awhile.

Tonder — But the other half?

Loft — It will fight on hopelessly for awhile.

Tonder — Then we must be spread out all over.

Loft — For awhile.

THE MOON IS DOWN 95

ToNDER {breaking aver) — ^Maybe it will never be over. Maybe
it can't be over. Maybe we've made some horrible mistake.

Hunter — Shut up, Tonderl

Loft (rigid, with set jaw and squinted eyes) — ^Lieutenant — if
you had said this outside this room, I should prefer a charge of
treason against you. Treason, not only against the Leader but
against your race. Perhaps you are tired. That is no excuse.
We are all tired, but we do not forget the destiny of our race.
Make no mistake, Lieutenant, we sh^ conquer the world. We
shall impose our faith and our strength on the world. And any
weakness in ourselves, we shall cut off. I will not bring the charge
this time. But I will be watching you. Weakness is treason —
do not forget it.

ToNDER (looking up at him) — ^Weakness?

Loft — Weakness is treason!

ToNDER — ^Weakness is treason?

Prackle (nervously) — Stop it! (To Hunter.) Make him
stop it!

ToNDER (to himself) — ^Treason?

Hunter — Be quiet, Tonderl

ToNDER (like a man a little out of his head) — ^I had a funny
dream. I guess a dream. Maybe it was a thought. Or a dream.

Prackli>— Stop it!

ToNDER — Captain, is this place conquered?

Loft — Of course.

ToNDER (a little hysterical) — Conquered and we are afraid.
Conquered and we are surrounded. I had a dream. Out in the
snow with the black shadows. And the cold faces in doorways.
I had a thought. Or a dream.

Prackle— -5top it!

ToNDER — I dreamed the Leader was crazy.

Hunter (trying to make a joke of it) — The Leader crazy!

Loft — Crazy! The enemy have found out how crazy.

ToNDER (still laughing) — Conquest after conquest. (The
others stop laughing.) Deeper and deeper into molasses. Maybe
the Leader's crazy. Flies conquer the fly paper. Flies capture
two hundred miles of new fly paper. (His laughter is hysterical
now.)

Loft (steps close to Tonder, pulls him up out of his chair and
slaps him in the face) — ^Lieutenant! Stop it! Stop it!

The laughter stops. Tonder, amazed, feels his bruised face
with his hand. He looks at his hand, sits in the chair and is sob-
bing, ''I want to go home!" as the curtain falls.

96 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Scene II

The evening of the next day, in the living room of her house,
Molly Morden is cutting a piece of woolen material with a pair
of scissors. It is "a pleasant, small room, rather poor and very
comfortable." There is a window covered with blackout curtains,
a door leading to the outside through a storm passage, and an-
other door to the kitchen.

Molly "is pretty, and yoimg, and neat. Her golden hair is
done on top of her head, tied up with a blue bow." It is a quiet
night, but there is a wind outside. Presently there is a rustle
at the door, followed by three sharp knocks. A moment later
Molly has let Annie, the Mayor's cook, into the room. Annie
has come with a message. The Mayor is going to meet the Anders
bo3rs in Molly's cottage. The boys are sailing for England. Their
brother Jack had been shot for wrecking a dump car and the
invaders are looking for the other men of the famfly. The Anders
will be there in half an hour.

Annie is barely out of the house before there is more knocking
at the door. When Molly would know who it is, a man's voice
answers her. ''I come to — I don't mean any harm." A moment
later Tonder has forced his way into the room, still protesting
the innocence of his visit. "Miss, I only want to talk. That's
all. I want to hear you talk. That's all I want."

"I don't want to talk to you I"

"Please, Miss. Just let me stay a little while. Then I'll go.
Please. Just for a little while, couldn't we forget the war?
Couldn't we talk together? Like people, together? Just for a
little while?"

Molly relents a little. She sees that her visitor does not know
who she is. He is just a lonely boy. Funny that it is as simple
as that. She will let him stay for a moment. He starts as the
house creaks, but it is only the snow on the roof. Molly has no
man now to push it down. No, she will not let Tonder have it
removed in tfie morning. "The people wouldn't trust me any
more," she explains.

"I see. You all hate us. But I'd like to help you if you'd
let me."

Molly (her eyes narrowing a little cruelly) — ^Why do you ask?
You are the conqueror. Your men don't ask. They take what
they want.

THE MOON IS DOWN 97

ToNDER — No. That's not what I want. That's not the way
I want it.

Molly (cruelly) — ^You want me to like you, don't you. Lieu-
tenant?

ToNDER (simply) — ^Yes. You are so beautiful. So wann. I've
seen no kindness in a woman's face for so long.

Molly (turning to him) — Do you see any in mine?

ToNDER (looking closely at her) — I want to.

Molly (she drops her eyes) — ^You are making love to me,
aren't you, Lieutenant?

ToNDER (clumsily) — I want you to like me. Surely I want
you to like me. I want to see it in your eyes. I've watched you
in the street. I've even given orders you must not be molested.
Have you been molested?

Molly (quietly) — ^No, I've not been molested.

ToNDER — ^They told us the people would like us here. Would
admire us. And they don't. They only hate us. (He changes
the subject as though he works against time.) You are so beau-
tiful.

Molly — ^You are beginning to make love to me, Lieutenant.
You must go soon.

ToNDER — ^A man needs love. A man dies without love. His
insides shrivel, and his chest feels like a dry chip. I'm lonely.

Molly (looking away from him) — ^Youll want to go to bed
with me. Lieutenant.

ToNDER — ^I didn't say that. Why do you talk that way?

Molly (turns to him — cruelly) — Maybe I am tr3dng to dis-
gust you I I was married once. My husband is dead.

ToNDER — I only want you to like me.

Molly — ^I know. You are a civilized man. You know that
love-making is more full and whole and delightful if there is liking
too.

ToNDER — ^Don't talk that way.

Molly has gone to him. She is not to be stopped now. They
are a conquered people. She is hungry. Two sausages would be
her price. She is hungry — ^and she hates him.

Again the Lieutenant would have her stop talking that way.
She fills everything with hatred. These things she is saying can-
not be true.

"Don't hate me," pleads Tonder, taking her hand and putting
it to his cheek. "I'm only a soldier. I didn't ask to come here.

98 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

You didn't ask to be my enemy. I am only a man, not a con-
quering man."

'^I know" she says, stroking his head.

''We have some little right to life." She has put her cheek
against his head. "Ill take care of you/' he says. ''We have
some right to life in all the killing — "

Suddenly Molly has straighten^ up. Her body is rigid. She
is staring with wide eyes as though she had seen a vision. She
draws away from Tonder. She does not hear his anxious:
"What's the matter? What have I done?"

She is looking away from him now. Her voice is a haunted
voice. "I dressed him in his best clothes, like a little boy for
his first day of school. I buttoned his shirt and tried to comfort
him. But he was beyond comfort. And he was afraid."

"What are you saying?"

"I don't know why they let him come home." She is staring
straight ahead, as though she were seeing what she is describing.
"He didn't know what was happening. He didn't even kiss me
when he went. He was afraid. And very brave. Like a little
boy on his first day at school."

"That was your husband?"

"And then — ^he marched away — not very well nor steadily, and
then you took him out — ^and shot him. It was more strange
than terrible then. I didn't quite believe it then."

"Your husband?"

"Yes, my husband. And now in the quiet house I believe it.
Now with the heavy snow on the roof I believe it. And in the
loneliness before day-break, in the half -warmed bed, I know it
then."

Tonder has picked up his helmet. His face is full of misery.
^'Good night," he says at the door. "May I come back?"

"I don't know."

"Please let me come back."

"No."

Molly is sitting quietly on the settee, still in a daze, when
Annie comes from the kitchen. A moment later Will and Tom
Anders have come in — two tall, blonde young men. "They are
dressed in pea-jackets and turtle-necked sweaters. They have
stocking caps on their heads."

Then Mayor Orden comes. He sends Annie into the storm
passage to warn them when the patrol passes. He will talk with
the boys. He has a plan —

"What I have to say won't take long," the Mayor is saying.

THE MOON IS DOWN 99

''I want to speak simply. This is a little town. Justice and in-
justice are in terms of little things. The people are angry and
they have no way to fight back. Our spirits and bodies aren't
enough."

*TVhat can we do, sir?"

''We want to fight them and we can't. They are using hunger
on the people now. Hunger brings weakness. You boys are
sailing for England. Tell them to give us weapons."

There is a quick knock on the door. The patrol is passing at
the double quick, evidently after someone. Will and Tom are
eager to be going.

''Do you want guns, sir? Shall we ask for guns?"

Orden — ^No. Tell them how it is. We are watched. Any
move we make calls for reprisal. If we could have simple weap-
ons, secret weapons. Weapons of stealth. Explosives. Dyna-
mite to blow out rails. Grenades if possible. Even poison. (He
speaks angrily,) This is no honorable war. This is a war of
treachery and murder. Let us use the methods they have used
on us. Let the British bombers drop their great bombs on the
works, but let them also drop little bombs for us to use. To hide.
To slip under rails. Under tracks. Then we will be secretly
armed, and the invader will never know which of us is armed. Let
the bombers bring us simple weapons. Well know how to use
them.

Will — ^I've heard that in England, there are still men in power
who do not dare to put weapons in the hands of common people.

Orden— Oh. (As though the wind had been knocked out of
him.) I hadn't thought of that. Well, we can only see. If such
people still govern England and America, the world is lost any-
way. Tell them what we say if they will listen. We must have
help. But if we get it — (His face grows hard.) we will help our-
selves. Then the invader can never rest again, never. We will
blow up his supplies. (Fiercely.) We will fight his rest and his
sleep. We will fight his nerves and his certainties.

Tom — If we get through, we'll tell them. Is that all. Sir?

OsDEN — ^Yes, that's the core of it.

Tom — ^What if they won't listen?

OsDEN — ^We can only try as you are trying the sea tonight.

Annie (coming in quickly) — ^There's a soldier coming up the
path. (She looks suspiciously at Molly. Molly rises. The
others look at Molly.) I locked the door. (There is a gentle
knocking on the outside door.)

100 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

Orden (rising in wander) — ^MoUy, what is this? Are you in
trouble?

Molly — ^No^ No. Go out the back way. You can get out
through the back. Hurry. (She moves to the entrance, Tom
and Will hurry through the kitchen.)

Orden — Do you want me to stay, Molly?

Molly — No. It will be all right.

Annie (cold with suspicion) — It's the same soldier.

Molly — Yes.

Annie — ^What's he want?

Molly — I don't know.

Annie — ^Are you going to tell him anything?

Molly (wonderingly) — ^No. (Then sharply turning to her.)
Nol

Annie (quietly) — Good night then.

Molly — Good night, Annie. Don't worry about me.

Annie — Good ni^t.

Molly stands watching her as the knocking is resumed. As she
sits on the settee her hand falls on the scissors she had been
working with. ''She picks them up and looks at them intently.
Again the knocking comes. She rises and places the scissors in
her hand dagger fashion. Then turns to the lamp' on the table,
turns it low and the room becomes nearly dark. The knocking
is repeated."

At the door Molly stands for a second. Her voice is stricken.
''I'm coming, Lieutenant — ^I'm coming!" she calls. She is about
to open the door when the curtain falls.

Scene III

Three weeks later, Annie has just come from the Mayor's bed-
room into the drawing room, where she faces Captain Loft. The
room is now barren and disorderly. There is no comfort in it
any more. It looks like a business office in which men have been
relaxing. There are empty beer bottles, tin cups, cigarette butts
and playing cards on the table.

Captain Loft would know what Annie is doing there. When
she tells him she had thought to clean up, he orders her to leave
things as they are and get out.

There is a soldier at the door with several small blue packages.
From the packages strings dangle, and at the ends of the strings
there are pieces of cloth. Dismissing the soldier, Obtain Loft

THE MOON IS DOWN" 101

goes to the table, picks up one of the packages and/ with a look
of distaste, holds it by the cloth attachment abo^e-liis.head.
When he drops it the cloth opens to a tiny parachute and ibe
package floats to the floor. r'/.^:

Colonel Lanser, followed by Major Hunter, comes into thl^
room. They, too, fall to examining the packages on the table.
Hunter, stripping off the cover of one, finds two items: A tube
and a square. He rubs the material he finds in the square be-
tween his fingers.

"It's silly. It's commercial dynamite," he says. "I don't know
what per cent nitroglycerine until I test it."

In the tube he finds an ordinary dynamite cap, fulminate
mercury and about a one-minute fuse. ''Very cheap. Very
simple."

''How many do you think were dropped?" Colonel Lanser
would know.

"I don't know, sir. We picked up about fifty. But we found
ninety more parachutes with nothing on them. The people must
have hidden those packages."

"It doesn't really matter. They can drop as many as they
want. We can't stop it. And we can't use it back against them.
They haven't conquered anybody."

"We can beat them off the face of the earth," says Loft.

They have found another smaller package inside the blue
wrapper. This is revealed as a piece of chocolate. Very good
chocolate. Colonel Lanser discovers by tasting it. Everybody,
including his own soldiers, will be looking for those packages. . . .

"We must stop this thing at once, sir," Captain Loft is saying.
"We must arrest and punish the people who pick these things up.
We must get busy so that they won't think we are weak."

"Take it easy. Let's see what we have first and then well
think of the remedies." He has picked up one of the packages of
dynamite. "How effective is this. Hunter?"

"Very effective for small jobs. Dynamite with a cap and a one-
minute fuse. Good if you know how to use it. No good if you
don't."

"Listen to this. They'll know how to use it," sa3rs Colonel
Lanser, reading from the inside of the wrapper. 'To the Uncon-
quered People. Hide this. Do not expose yourself. Do not try
to do large things with it.' (He begins to skip through,) Now
here: 'Rails in the country — ^work at night — tie up transporta-
tion.' Now here instructions: 'Rails. Place stick under rail,
dose to joint and tight against tie.* Pack mud or hard-packed

102 nSL BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

snow around'itso that it is firm. When fuse is lighted, you have
a slow count of sixty before it explodes.' "
^ Again Captain Loft is anxious that something be done. Colonel
LdlfseiTis not clear in his mind as to what it should be. He knows
•V if-ie seeks advice from Headquarters what the reply will be —
"Set booby traps. Poison the chocolate." The leaders, observes
the Colonel, always think they're dealing with stupid people. And
what will hap[>en?

'^One man will pick one of these and get blown to bits by our
booby trap. One kid will eat chocolate and die of strychnine
poisoning. And then — they'll poke them with poles or lasso them
before they touch them. They'll try the chocolate on the cat.
God damn it! These are intelligent people. Stupid traps won't
catch them twice."

'^ , . Always before it was possible to disarm people and keep
them in ignorance," the Colonel points out. "Now they listen
to their radios and we can't stop them. They read handbills.
Weapons drop from the sky for them. Now it's dynamite. Soon
grenades. Then poison."

True, they haven't dropped poison yet, but they will. And
what will Captain Loft think of that? How would he like to be
struck in the back with one of those little game darts, coated
with cyanide? However, if there is an organization they must
find it and stamp it out, ferociously. Let Captain Loft take one
detail. Lieutenant Prackle another, and start a search. But let
there be no shooting imless there be an overt act.

The Colonel is tired. He admits as much to' Major Hunter,
who is anxious about him. But there is nothing to do but go on.
The shortage of officers is still great. Orders from Headquarters
do not change. "Take the leaiders. Shoot the leaders. Take
hostages. Shoot the hostages. Take more hostages. Shoot
them." His voice sinks almost to a whisper. "And the hatred
growing. And the hurt between us deeper and dee[>er."

Major Hunter, leaving, passes Lieutenant Prackle in the door-
way. Lieutenant Prackle's face is sullen and belligerent. The
Colonel notices and understands. "Don't talk for a moment," he
says. "I know what it is. You didn't think it would be this
way."

"They hate us. They hate us so," says the Lieutenant.

"I wonder if I know what it is." The Colonel is smiling
wryly. "It takes young men to make good soldiers. Yoimg men
need young women, is that it? Does she hate you?"

"I don't know, sir," admits Prackle, a little amazed. "Some-

irim

THE MOON IS DOWN 103

times she's only sorry."

"Are you pretty miserable?"

"I don't like it here, sir."

"No. You thought it would be fim. Lieutenant Tonder went
to pieces. And then he went out and got himself killed. I could
send you home. Do you want to be sent home, knowing we
need you here?"

"No, sir,"

"Good. Now, 111 tell you. And I hope youll understand.
You're not a man any more. You're a soldier. Your comfort
is of no importance and your life not very much. If you live you
will have memories. That's about all you will have. You must
take orders and carry them out. Most of them will be unpleas-
ant. But that's not your business. I will not lie to you. Lieuten-
ant. They should have trained you for Uiis. Not for cheers
and flowers. (His voice hardens. He gets to his feet.) But you
took the job. Will you stay with it, or quit it? We cannot take
care of your soul."

"Thank you, sir." The Lieutenant is on his feet, ready to
leave. "And the girl. Lieutenant," the Colonel adds. "You may
rape her or protect her or marry her. That is of no importance,
as long as you shoot her when it is ordered. You may go now."

Mr. Corell is shown in. He is a changed man. His expression
is no longer jovial or friendly. His face is sharp and bitter. He
would have come before, he reports, had Colonel Lanser's atti-
tude been more co-operative. The Colonel had refused him a
position of authority. He had left Mayor Orden in office, con-
trary to Mr. Corell's advice.

Colonel Lanser is of the opinion that there might have been
more disorder than there has been with Mayor Orden where he
is. Mr. Corell does not think so. To him Mayor Orden is the
leader of a rebellious people who has been in constant contact
with every happening in the community. He believes the Mayor
knows where the girl who murdered Lieutenant Tonder is hiding,
and it probably is he who is back of the parachute showers. Now
will Colonel Lanser listen?

"What do you suggest?" the Colonel would know.

•"These suggestions are a little stronger than suggestions, Colo-
nel. Orden must now be a hostage. And his life must depend
on the peacefulness of this community. His life must depend
on the lighting of one single fuse." With that Corell reaches
into his pocket and brings out a small black book of identifica-

ICM THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

tion. He flips it open, ''This was the answer to my report, sir."
Colonel Lanser looks at the book. ''Um — ^you really (Ud go
over my head, didn't you?" says he quietly. There is frank dis-
like in his eyes.

. CoRELL — ^Nowy Colonel, must I suggest more strongly than I
have that Mayor Orden must be held hostage.

Lanser — He's here. He hasn't escaped. How can we hold
him more hostage than we are? {In the distance there is an ex-
plosion, and both men look in the direction from which it comes.)

CoRELL — There it is. If this experiment succeeds, there wiU
be dynamite in every conquered country.

Lanser — ^What do you suggest?

CoRELL — Orden must be held against rebellion.

Lanser — ^And if rebellion comes and we shoot Orden?

CoRELL — ^Then that doctor's next. He's the next in authority.

Lanser — ^He holds no office. Well, suppose we shoot him —
What then?

CoRELL — Then rebellion is broken before it starts.

Lanser (shakes his head a little sadly) — Have you ever
thought that one execution makes a hundred active enemies
where we have passive enemies? Even patriotism is not as sharp
as personal hurt, personal loss. A dead brother, a dead father —
that really arms an enemy.

CoRELL — ^Your attitude, sir, may lead you to trouble. It is
fortunate that I am — ^your friend.

Lanser — ^I can see your report almost as though it were in
front of me —

CoRELL (quickly) — Ohl But you are mistaken, sir. I
haven't —

Lanser (turns to him) — ^This war should be for the very
young. They would have the proper spirit, but unfortunately
they are not able to move guns and men about. I suffer from
civilization. That means I can know one thing and do another.
I know we have failed — ^I knew we would before we started. The
thing the Leader wanted to do cannot be done.

CoRELL (excitedly) — ^What is this? What do you say?

Lanser (quietly) — Ohl Don't worry. I will go about it as
though it could be done and do a better job than the zealots
could. And when the tide turns, I may save a few lives, from
knowing how to retreat.

CoRELL — ^They shouldn't have sent a man like you here!

THE MOON IS DOWN lOS

Lanser — ^Don't worry — as long as we can hold, we will hold.
I can act quite apart from my knowledge. I will shoot the
Mayor. {His voice grows hard.) I will not break the rules. I
will shoot the doctor. I will help tear and bum the world.
I don't like you, Corell. I am licking my wounds surely. And —
I am giving you wounds to lick. Sergeant 1

Sergeant (entering)— Sir?

Lanser (slowly) — ^Place Mayor Orden and Dr. Winter under
arrest!

The Sergeant leaves. Colonel Lanser turns and follows him.
^'Corell looks after them, then turns back to the table, looks at it,
places his hands on it, then slowly seats himself in the chair
Lanser vacated." The curtain falls.

Scene IV

A half hour later Mayor Orden is standing at the window of
what was his drawing room looking out. He would have the sol-
dier on guard at the door announce him, but the soldier pays no
attention. Presently Dr. Winter appears in the doorway, fol-
lowed by a second soldier.

"Well, Your Excellency, this is one time you didn't send for
me." The Doctor is smiling.

'Well, we've been together in everything else. I suppose it
was bound to come. They're afraid of us now. I'm glad it's
come."

"They think that because they have only one leader and one
head that we are like that. They know that ten heads lopped
off would destroy them. But we are a free people. We have as
many heads as we have people. Leaders pop up like mushrooms
in a time of need."

"Thank you. I knew it, but it's good to hear you say it. The
people won't go under, will they?"

"No. They'll grow stronger with outside help."

Quite seriously the Mayor admits that he has been thinking
of his own death. "I am a little man in a little town," he is
saying. "But there must be a spark in little men that can burst
into flame. At first I was afraid. I thought of all the things I
might do to save my own life. And then that went away and now
I fed a kind of exaltation, as though I were bigger and better
than I am. It's like — ^well, do you remember in school, a long

106 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

time ago, I delivered Socrates' denunciation? I was exalted
then, too^"

Dr. Winter remembers the Orden oration and how he bellowed
at the school board until their faces grew red with their efforts
to keep from laughing. And the oration, how did it go?

" *And now, O men.' " Dr. Winter can remember so much of
it. The Mayor goes on:

" 'And now, O men who have condemned me —
I would fain prophesy to you —
For I am about to die — ' "

The door has opened quietly and Colonel Lanser has stepped
in. He stops as he hears the Mayor's words and stands listening.
The Mayor is gazing intently at tiie ceiling, trying to remember —

" *And — in the hour of death —

Men are gifted with prophetic power.

And I — ^prophesy to you, who are my murderers.

That immediately after my — ^my death' "

"Departure," prompts the Doctor. "The word is departure,
not death. You made the same mistake before."

"No. It's death." He turns to Colonel Lanser, who is put-
ting his helmet on the table. "Isn't it death?"

" 'Departure. Immediately after my departure,' " corrects the
Colonel.

"You see. That's two to one. Departure is the word." Dr.
Winter is quite pleased. And the Mayor, "looking straight
ahead, his eyes in memory, seeing nothing outward" goes on:

" *I prophesy to you who are my murderers,
That immediately after my departure.
Punishment far heavier than you have inflicted on me
Will surely await you.

Me, you have killed because you wanted to escape the accuser
And not to give an account of your lives . . ."
(Softly)
" 'But that will not be as you suppose — far otherwise.
(His voice grows stronger,)
For I say that there will be more accusers of you than tiiere

are now.
Accusers whom hitherto I have restrained.
If you think that by killing men, you can prevent someone

from censoring your lives — ^you are mistaken.' "

THE MOON IS DOWN 107

The Mayor pauses. That is aD he can remember, he admitSi
a little apologetically. 'It's very good, after forty-six years/' the
Doctor assures him.

Lanser — ^Mayor Orden, I have arrested you as a hostage. For
the good behavior of your people. These are my orders.

(^EN (simply) — ^You don't understand. When I become a
hindrance to the people, they'll do without me.

Lanses — ^The people know you will be shot if they light an-
other fuse. (Turns to htm.) Will they light it?

Obden — They will light the fuse.

Lanser — Suppose you ask them not to.

Orden (looking at Mm slowly) — I am not a very brave man,
sir. I think they will light it anyway. I hope they will. But
if I ask them not to, they will be sorry.

Lanser — But they will light it?

Orden — ^Yes, they will li^t it. I have no choice of living or
<^™S9 you see, sir. But — ^I do have a choice of how I do it. If
I tell them not to fight, they will be sorry. But they will fight.
If I tell them to fight, they will be glad. And I, who am not
a very brave man, will have made diem a little braver. (He
smiles apologetically.) It's an easy thing to do, since the end
for me is the same.

Lanser — If you say yes, we will tell them you said no. We
will tell them you begged for your life.

Winter (angrily) — ^They would know. You don't keep se-
crets. One of your men got out of hand one night and he said
the flies had conquered the fly paper. Now the whole nation
knows his words. They have made a song of it. You do not
keep secrets.

Colonel Lanser is convinced that a proclamation from Mayor
Orden would save many lives, but the Mayor is unconvinced.
"You will be destroyed and driven out," he says, with finality.
"The people don't like to be conquered, sir. And so they will not
be. Free men cannot start a war. But once it is started, they
can fight on in defeat. Herd men, followers of a leader, they
cannot do that. And so it is always that herd men win battles,
but free men win wars. You will find it is so, sir."

"My orders are clear. Eleven o'clock is the deadline. I have
taken my hostages. If there is violence I will execute them."

Madame Orden has come in. She can't understand what all
the nonsense is about. They can't arrest the Mayor. "No,

108 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

they can't arrest the Mayor," her husband agrees. "The Mayor
is an idea conceived by free men. It will escape arrest."

Colonel Lanser has adjusted his helmet. Now he stands before
Mayor Orden. "Your Excellency!" He clicks his heels and
bows. The front door is heard to slam as he goes out.

On the other side of the kitchen door Annie has been listen-
ing. She comes now, as the Mayor calls her. She is, he tells
her, to stay with Madame Orden. "Ill take care of her. Your
Excellency," Annie promises as he kisses her upon the forehead.

"Doctor, how did it go about the flies?"

"The flies have conquered the fly paper." The Mayor is
chuckling to himself as he repeats: " The flies have conquered
the fly paper.' "

Madame Orden is back with the Mayor's chain of oEBce. He
is always forgetting that. She places it around his neck. His
arm is aroimd her shoulder as he kisses her upon the cheek.
"My dear — my very dear."

A noise in the kitchen has distracted her. She will have to
see what Annie and Joseph are up to. She kisses the Mayor
straightens his hair, and is gone.

Lieutenant Prackle appears, in the door. The soldiers snap
to attention and shoulder their bayoneted rifles. The Mayor
looks at his watch. "Eleven o'clock," he says.

"A time-minded people," Dr. Winter admits.

The Mayor takes his watch and chain and gives them to the
Doctor. They have clasped hands now, and stand looking stead-
ily at each other for a moment. " *Crito, I owe a cock to As-
calaepius,' " recites the Mayor, as he turns to go. " *Will you
remember to pay the debt?' "

" 'The debt shall be paid.' "

"I remembered that one," chuckles the Mayor.

"Yes. You remembered it." The Doctor's voice is very soft.
"The debt wiU be paid!"

The Mayor has turned and walked slowly toward the door, as
another explosion is heard. It is closer this time. Lieutenant
Prackle goes before him through the door. The soldiers follow
them out.

THE CURTAIN FALLS

BLITHE SPIRIT
An Improbable Farce

By Noel Coward

OF all those playwrights who sought diligently for escapist
drama inspirations during the early, depressing months of the
Second World War, both in England and America, Noel Coward
was the most successful. He had been devoting several months
to war work in various parts of the world when he returned to
London in 1940. He was, he afterward confessed, deeply moved
to find his people bravely gay in the face of awful months of a
battering blitzkrieg and repeated threats of an invasion.

"It isn't merely gallantry and putting on a brave face/' he
wrote to his American representative. "It's very real and infi-
nitely stimulating. Realizing that this particular feeling was
more important than anything else, I decided to write a farce."

"Blithe Spirit" was developed from that decision. Improbable
to a degree, utterly fantastic and wholly without so much as a
smidge of reference to any serious problem, "Blithe Spirit" set
Londoners laughing merrily. It ran on and on and finally a sec-
ond company, sent into the provinces, carried laughter into and
through Coventry and Plymouth and all those other towns where
lived the brave survivors of air raids and casualty lists.

Early in the new theatre season in New York, on November S,
to be exact, "Blithe Spirit" was revealed. Here the London ex-
perience was repeated. With the exception of Leonora Corbett,
an English actress who came on from Hollywood to play a prin-
cipal ghost, the company was recruited in New York and headed
by Clifton Webb and Peggy Wood. Broadway audiences pro-
ceeded to roar you a roar as hearty as any heard in England, and
the play reviewers, with one or two modest exceptions, tossed in
their belt superlatives in Master Coward's favor. A second com-
pany was also organized on this side and proceeded gustily to
carry laughter through the Middle West to the Pacific Coast.
"Blithe Spirit" was a happy incident of the war years which the
theatre will not soon forget.

As "Blithe Spirit" opens the Charles Condomines are having
cocktails in the living room of their house in Kent, England. It
is a h'ght, attractive living room, with French windows at one

109

110 THE BEST FIATS OF 19il^2

side, a fircpbce at die oAer aad a cwiwiaHe

Rndi CoodoniK, «^ sm
the middle tfafftks," vlio "ns dreacd for dnocr, but not dabo-
TZtttyJ" is giving the maid, Eddi^ a fev bstninale mstnictiGDS
respfctrng her ooodoct dris partirnhr cvcnig. TUs is made
necessary because ESOk is nev and has a habit ot gaflnprng

tbroogli her tadLS.

^fme. Arcati, Mrs. Biadman and I wiD have oor coffee in
here after dinner,'' Mis. Omdomme is s^ing, ''and Mr. Coodo-
mine and Dr. Bradman will have dieirs in the cfimng-foom — is
that quite dear?"

'^es'm."

^And iriben you're serving iSnner, Efith, tiy to icmendier to
do it cahnly and methodicaDy."

•^Yes'm."

Charles Coodomine, *^3, nice-looking man about forty, wearing
a loose-fitting vdvet smoking jacket," comes to take charge of
the codLtails, wliidi are to be dry Martinis, alflmi^ Rntb thinks
it possiUe Mme. Arcati may fancy something a little sweeter.

Ruth, in fact, is quite worried about this evening. She has a
feding that it may turn out to be quite awfuL Charles admits
that it may be funny, but he hardly thinks it wiD be awfuL The
evemng, it transpires, is to be given over to a seance at which
Mme. Arcati is to preside as mwlium. Charles, being a novdist,
has an idea for a story to be caDed ''The Unseen," and he is in
search of contributing material. He remembers quite vividly
how enormously he was hdped with the idea for ''The Light
Goes Out" wboi he and Ruth had suddenly come upon "that
haggard, raddled woman in the hotd at Biarritz," and they had
sat up half the nig^t talking about her —

'X^sed Elvira to be a hdp to you — when you were thinking
something out, I mean?" asks Ruth.

"Every now and then — ^wfaen she concentrated — but she didn't
concentrate very often," Charles answers, pouring himsdf an-
other cocktail.

Ruth — I do wish I'd known her.

Charles — ^I wonder if you'd have liked her.

Ruth — I'm sure I should — as you talk of her she sounds en-
chanting— ^yes, I'm sure I should have liked her because you know
I have never for an instant fdt in the least jealous of her — that's
a good sign.

Chasles — ^Poor Elvira.

BUTHE SPIRIT 111

Ruth — ^Does it stOl hurt — when you think of her?

C^HABLES — ^No, not really — sometimes I almost wish it did — ^I
fed rather guilty —

Ruth — ^I wonder if I died before you'd grown tired of me if
you'd forget me so soon?

Charles — ^What a horrible thing to say . . •

Ruth — ^No— I think it's interesting.

Charles — ^Well, to begin with I haven't forgotten Elvira — ^I
remember her very distinctly indeed — ^I remember how fascinat-
ing she was — and how maddening — (sitting down) I remember
how badly she played all games and how cross she got when she
didn't win — ^I remember her gay charm when she had achieved
her own way over something and her extreme acidity when she
didn't — ^I remember her ph3rsical attractiveness, which was tre-
mendous— and her spiritual integrity which was nQ . . .

Ruth — ^You can't remember something that was nil.

Charles — I remember how morally imtidy she was . . .

Ruth — ^Was she more physically attractive than I am?

Charles — ^That was a very tiresome question, dear, and fully
deserves the wrong answer.

Ruth — ^You really are very sweet.

Charles — ^Thank you.

Ruth — ^And a little naive, too.

Charles — ^Why?

Ruth — Because you imagine that I mind about Elvira being
more physically attractive than I am.

Charles — ^I should have thought any woman would mind — ^if
it were true. Or perhaps I'm old-fashioned in my views of
female psychology . . .

Ruth — Not exactly old-fashioned, darling, just a bit didactic.

Charles — ^What do you mean?

Ruth — ^It's didactic to attribute to one type the defects of
another type — ^for instance, because you know perfectly well that
Elvira would mind terribly if you found another woman more
attractive physically than she was, it doesn't necessarily follow
that I should. Elvira was a more physical person than I — ^I'm
certain of that — ^it's all a question of degree.

Charles (smiling) — ^I love you, my love.

Ruth — ^I know you do — but not the wildest stretch of imag-
ination could describe it as the first fine careless rapture.

Charles — ^Would you like it to be?

Ruth — Good God, nol

Charles — ^Wasn't that a shade too vehement?

112 THE BEST FIAYS OF 1941-42

Ruth— We're neither of us adolescent, Chailes. WeVe neither
of us led exactly prim lives, have ive? And iveVe both been
married before — careless ra(^iire at this stage would be incon-
gruous and embarrassing.

Charles — ^I hope I l^ven't been in any way a du

ilic-:»».i I liMiir^i

Ruth — ^Don't be so idiotic.

There is still a suggestion of uncertainty in Ruth's continued
probing of Charles' feelings toward the first Bftrs. Condomine, but
Charles is in no mood to satisfy it.

^I was devoted to Elvira/' he freely admits, '^e were married
for five years. She died. I missed her very much. That was
seven years ago. I have now, with your hdp^ my love, risen
above the nAole thing."

^'Admirable. But if tragedy should darken our lives, I still
say — ^with prophetic foreboding — poor Ruth!"

A ring at the doorbell heralds the Bradmans, he ''a pleasant-
looking middle-aged man/' she ''fair and ratho' faded." They
may have, they think, passed Mme. Arcati and her bicycle on
the way. Th^ are both extremdy curious to meet the lady,
never having had that experience before —

''She certainly is a strange woman," admits Charles, serving
more cocktails. "It was only a chance r^nark of the Vicar's
about seeing her up on the knoll on Midsummer Eve dressed in
sort of Indian robes that made me realize that she was psychic
at an. Then I began to make inquiries — ^iparently she's been a
professional in London for years."

Mss. Bradman — ^It is funny, isn't it? I mean anybody doing
it as a profession.

Dr. Bradman — I believe it's very lucrative.

Mrs. Bradman — Do you believe in it, Bftrs. Condomine — do
you think there's anything really genuine about it at all?

Ruth — I'm afraid not — ^but I do think it's interesting how
easily people allow themsdves to be deceived . . .

Mrs. Bradman — But she must believe in it herself, mustn't
she — or is the whole business a fake?

Charles — I suspect the worst. A real [Ht>fessional charlatan.
That's what I am hoping for anyhow — the character I am plan-
ning for my book must be a complete impostor, that's one of the
most important factors of the whole story.

Dr. Bradman — ^What exactly are you hq)ing to get from her?

BLITHE SPIRIT 113

Chaxles (handing Ds. and Mss. Bradman cocktails) — ^Jargon,
principally — a few of the tricks of the trade — ^it's many years
since I went to a s&mce. I want to refresh my memory.

Dr. Bradman — ^Then it's not entirely new to you?

Charles — Oh, no — ^when I was a little boy an aunt of mine
used to come and stay with us — she imagined that she was a
medium and used to go off into the most daborate trances after
dinner. My mother was fascinated by it.

Mrs. Bradman — ^Was she convinced?

Charles (getting cocktail for kitnself) — Good heavens, no —
she just naturally disliked my aunt and loved making a fool of her.

Dr. Bradman (laughing) — I gather that there were never any
tangible results?

Charles — Oh, sometimes she didn't do so badly. On one
occasion when we were all sitting round in the pitch dark with
my mother groping her way through Chaminade at the piano, my
aunt suddenly gave a shrill scream and said that ^e saw a
small black dog by my chair, then someone switched on the
lights and sure enough Uiere was.

Mrs. Bradman — But how extraordinary.

Charles — It was obviously a stray that had come in from the
street. But I must say I took off my hat to Auntie for producing
k, or rather for utilizing — even Mother was a bit shaken.

Mrs. Bradbcan — What happened to it?

Charles — ^It lived with us for years.

Ruth — ^I sincerely hope Madame Arcati won't produce any
livestock — we have so very little room in this house.

Another ring at the doorbell. Both Edith and Charles go to
meet Mme. Arcati, whose voice, very high and clear, can be
heard in the hallway assuring them that if no one touches her
bicycle, which she has leant against a small bush, it will be
perfectly all right.

Mme. Arcati ''is a striking woman, dressed not too extrava-
gantly but with a decided bias toward the barbaric. She might
be any age between forty-five and sixty-five."

The Madame is volubly chipper. She is sorry if she is late;
that would be because she went back to get her bicycle pump,
fearing a puncture. Certainly she will have a cocktail — if it is a
Martini. ''If it is a concoction, no. Experience has taught me
to be very wary of concoctions," the Madame explains. Bicycling
she finds stimulating, after her sedentary London life. Books?
Yes, she is writing another book to catch the Christmas sale.

114 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

^TVs mostly aboat very small anfaiwh, the hero is a moss beetk,
she says, and adds quockly, as Mrs. Bradman is threatened with
laughter, ''I had to give up my memoir of Princess Palliatini be-
cause she died in April — ^I talked to her about it the other day
and she in^lored me to go on with it, but I really hadn't the
heart."

''You talked to her about it the other day?" Mrs. Bradman
doesn't understand.

''Yes, throu^ my contndy of course. She sounded very ir-
ritable."

"It's f mmy to think of peofde in the spirit world being irritable^
isn't it? I mean, <Hie can hwOy imagine it, can <Hie?"

"We have no reliable guarantee that the after life will be any
less exasperating than this <Hie, have we?" ventures Charles.

"Ohy Mr. Condomine, how can you?" Now Mrs. Bradman is
laughing freely.

A moment later Edith announces dinner, and the party starts
for the dining room.

"No red meat, I hope?" chirps Mme. Arcati, putting down her
glass.

"There's meat, but I don't think it will be very red — ^would
you rather have an egg or something?" Ruth would be reassur-
ing.

"No, thank you — it's just that I make it a rule never to eat
red meat before I work — it sometimes has an odd effect . . ."

"What sort of effect?"

They have disappeared through the doorway as the lights fade
out.

When the lights are raised again diimer is over. Mme. Arcati,
returning to the living room with Mrs. Bradman and Mrs. Condo-
mine, is doing what she can, and cheerfully, to explain her atti-
tude toward, and her experience with, the little known forces of
the spirit world. The fact that she prefers to have a child con-
trol instead of an Indian, for example, she explains by saying
that Indians are really not to be trusted. "For one thing, they're
frightfully lazy and also, when faced with any sort of difficulty,
they're rather apt to go off into their own tribal language which
is naturally unintelligible — that generally spoils everything and
wastes a great deal of time. No, childrcii are undoubtedly more
satisfactory, particularly when they get to know you and under-
stand your ways. Daphne has worked for me for years."

"And she still goes on being a child — ^I mean, she doesn't show
signs of growing any older?" Mrs. Bradman is most curious.

BLITHE SPIRIT 115

'Time values on the 'Other Side' are utterly different from
ours," explains the psychic.

Mme. Arcati has been a medium, she discloses, ever since she
was a child. ''I had my first trance when I was four years old
and my first protoplasmic manifestation when I was five and a
half — ^what an exciting day that was."

Charles and Mr. Bradman have joined the ladies and with a
gay ''Heigho, heigho, to work we go" the Madame's preparations
for the stance move forward. First there must be a few deep
breaths of fresh air. These take her to the window, which she
opens with a flourish. The others, she insists, should go right on
talking while she inhales — ^which she does "deeply and a trifle
noisfly."

Now they have gathered around a table, hands outstretched,
their fingers touching, and Mme. Arcati is looking for a record
to play on Charles' electric gramophone.

''Daphne is really more attached to Irving Berlin than anybody
else," ^e explains, shuffling the records; "she likes a tune she can
hum — ah, here's one — ^'Always' — "

The selection is plainly disturbing to Charles, but he decides
not to do anything about it.

"Now there are one or two things I should like to explain, so
wUl you aU listen attentively?" Mme. Arcati is asking. "Pres-
ently, when the music begins, I am going to switch out the lights.
I may then either walk about the room for a little or lie down
flat — ^in due course I shall draw up this dear little stool and join
you at the table — I shall place myself between you and your
wife, Mr. Condomine, and rest my hands lightly upon yours — I
must ask you not to address me or move or do anything in the
least distracting — is that quite, quite dear?"

Charles — Perfectly.

Madame Arcati — Of course I cannot guarantee that anything
will happen at aU — Daphne may be unavailable — she had a head
cold very recently, and was rather under the weather, poor child.
On the other hand, a great many things might occur — one of you
might have an emanation, for instance, or we may contact a
poltergeist which would be extremely destructive and noisy . . .

Ruth (anxiously) — ^In what way destructive?

Madame Arcati — They throw things, you know.

Ruth — ^No — I didn't know.

Madame Arcati — But we must cross that bridge when we come
to it, mustn't we?

116 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Charles — Certainly — by all means.

Madame Arcati — Fortunately an Elemental at this time of the
year is most unlikely. . . .

Ruth — ^What do Elementals do?

Madame Arcati — Oh, my dear, one can never tell — theyte
dreadfully unpredictable — ^usually they take the form of a veiy
cold wind . . .

Mrs. Bradman — I don't think I shall like that —

Madame Arcati — Occasionally reaching almost hurricane ve-
locity—

Ruth — ^You don't think it would be a good idea to take the
more breakable ornaments off the mantelpiece before we start?

Madame Arcati (indulgently) — ^That really is not necessary,
Mrs. Condomine — ^I assure you I have my own methods of deal-
ing with Elementals.

Ruth — I'm so glad.

Madame Arcati — ^Now then — are you ready to empty your
minds?

Dr. Bradman — Do you mean we're to try to think of nothing?

Madame Arcati — ^Absolutely nothing, Dr. Bradman. Con-
centrate on a space or a nondescript color. That's really the
best way . . .

Dr. Bradman — ^I'll do my damnedest.

Madame Arcati — Good work! — ^I will now start the music.

During the playing of '^Always" Mme. Arcati walks a little
aimlessly about the room, skipping into an abortive dance st^
occasionally, and finally stopping abruptly to rush across the
room and turn ofiF the lights. The circle moves uneasily. ''Is
there anyone there?" queries Mme. Arcati. **One rap for yes —
two raps for no — ^now then — ^is there anyone there?"

After a short pause the table gives a little bump. Further
questioning on the part of Mme. Arcati establishes the fact that
Daphne has arrived, but is not taking her assignment too seri-
ously. Frequently Daphne has to be cautioned to behave herself.

Presently it appears that there is someone there who would
like to speak to someone here, but it is not easy to discover whom.
Finally the choice settles on Mr. Condomine. Charles would
prefer that his visitor should leave a message, but this flippancy
is quickly sat upon.

Has Charles known anyone who has passed over recently?
Only a cousin in the Civil Service. There are two quick bumps
on the table to dismiss cousin. Nor is it old Mrs. Plummet, who

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BLITHE SPIRIT 117

had died on Whit Monday. Mme, Arcati is afraid she will have
to go into her trance if anything is to come of the meeting.

Now she puts "Always" bade on the gramophone, again to
Charles' annoyance, and presently she has returned solemnly to
her seat near the circle. Presently, with a loud scream, Mme.
iUrcati falls off her stool onto the floor. Before anything can be
done about this the table begins to bump violently. It is all the
four of them can do to hold it down. Now it has got away from
the circle and fallen with a crash to the floor.

Then, while the Bradmans are fussing as to whether the table
should be picked up or left alone, a charming, but perfectly
strange voice is heard to advise from the darkness —

"L^ve it where it is.'*

Charles is the only one who has heard the voice. Questioned
individually each denies having heard anything.

'^Good evening, Charles," continues the voice.

And again Charles is the only one who hears. Now the others
are beginning to look at him suspiciously. "It's you who are
playing the tricks, Charles," charges Ruth; "you're acting to
try to frighten us. . . ."

"I'm not — ^I swear I'm not," protests Charles, breathlessly.

Again comes the strange voice, clearly to Charles. "It's diffi-
cult to think of what to say after seven years, but I suppose good
evening is as good as anything else."

"Who are you?" demands Charles, intensely.

"Elvira, of course — don't be so silly," answers the voice.

"I can't bear this another minute," shouts Charles, a little
violently. "Get up, everybody — the entertainment's over — "

In the confusion that follows Mme. Arcati is discovered lying
on her back on the floor, her feet on the stool on which she was
sitting. She is completely imconscious. Excitedly Charles in-
sists that she should be aroused. He himself would shake her
into consciousness, but Dr. Bradman protests that he should go
easy. Charles is in no mood for that. Brandy! That's what
he would give Mme. Arcati. Lift her into a chair and give her
brandy! They try that and finally, with a slight shiver, Mme.
Arcati comes to.

She knows nothing about what has happened. She is feeling
quite fit, as she always does after a trance. She is only puzzled
by the strange taste in her mouth. Brandy? Why did they
give her brandy? Dr. Bradman at least should have known
better than that.

". . . Brandy on top of a trance might have been cata-

118 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

strophic," protests the Madame, with some vehemence. "Take it
away, please — I probably shan't sleep a wink tonight as it is."

Mme. Arcati would like to know about the stance. Was every-
thing satisfactory? Did anything happen?

They try to tell her nothing much happened. Charles, says
Ruth, pretended to hear voices, but there was nothing else; no
apparitions; no protoplasm. Mme. Arcati is not satisfied. Some-
thing assures her that there have been manifestations. "I am
prepared to swear that there is someone else psychic in this room
apart from myself," says she, with conviction. . . .

Mme. Arcati is going. ''Next time we must really put our
backs into it," she calls with a wave of the hand, when Charles
takes her to the door.

Ruth and the Bradmans are immediately sunk in spasms of
laughter. The Madame, they are agreed, is as mad as a hatter.
Dr. Bradman even has a scientific explanation for a certain form
of hysteria that would explain much —

"I do hope Mr. Condomine got aU the atmo^here he wanted
for his book," hopes Mrs. Bradman.

"He might have got a great deal more if he hadn't spoiled
everything by showing ofiF. . . . I'm really very cross with him."

At which moment Elvira walks in through the closed French
windows. "She is charmingly dressed in a sort of negligee.
Everything about her is gray: hair, skin, dress, hands, so we
must accept the fact that she is not quite of this world. She
passes between Dr. and Mrs. Bradman and Ruth while they are
talking. None of them sees her. She goes upstage and sits
soundlessly on a chair. She regards them with interest, a slight
smile on her face."

"I suddenly felt a draught — there must be a window open,"
says Ruth.

"No — they're shut," Dr. Bradman reassures her.

Soon the Bradmans are going. As Charles sees them into the
hall Elvira continues silently interested in the scene. Ruth
passes quite close to her in going to the fire to turn over a log.
Presently Charles returns. He is, he admits, reasonably satisfied
with the way the evening turned out. As he turns, with a drink,
to join Ruth by the fire he sees Elvira. With a startled "My
God!" he drops the drink.

"That was very clumsy, Charles dear," says Elvira, sweetly.

"Elvira 1 — then it's true — it was youl"

"Of course it was."

Ruth is worried. What has happened to Charles — her darling

BUTHE SPIRIT 119

Charles? What is he talking about? But Charles keeps on talk-
ingi his gaze fixed on Elvira.

Chables {to Elvisa) — ^Are you a ghost?

Elviba — ^I suppose I must be — it's all very confusing.

Ruth (becoming agitated) — Charles — ^what do you keep look-
ing over there for? Look at me — what's happened?

Chasles — ^Don't you see?

Ruth — See what?

Charles — Elvira.

Ruth (staring at Mm incredulously) — ^Elvira! !

Charles (rvitk an effort at social grace) — ^Yes — ^Elvira dear,
this is Ruth— Ruth, this is Elvira.

Ruth (with forced calmness) — Come and sit down, darling.

Charles — ^Do you mean to say you can't see her?

Ruth — ^Listen, Charles — ^you just sit down quietly by the fire
and 111 mix you another drink. Don't worry about the mess
on the carpet — ^Edith can clean it up in the morning. (Ske takes
him by the arm.)

Charles (breaking away) — But you must be able to see her —
she's there — ^look — bright in front of you — ^there —

Ruth — ^Are you mad? What's happened to you?

Charles — You can't see her?

Ruth — If this is a joke, dear, it's gone quite far enough. Sit
down for God's sake and don't be idiotic.

Charles (clutching his head) — ^What am I to do — ^what the
hell am I to do I

Elvira — ^I think you might at least be a little more pleased to
see me — after all, you conjured me up.

Charles — ^I didn't do any such thing. I did nothing of the
sort.

Elvira — ^Nonsense, of course you did. That awful child with
the cold came and told me you wanted to see me urgently.

Charles — It was all a mistake — a horrible mistake.

Ruth — Stop talking like that, Charles — as I told you before,
the joke's gone far enough.

Charles (aside) — ^I've gone mad, that's what it is — I've just
gone raving mad.

Ruth (going to the table and quickly pouring him out some
neat brandy) — ^Here — let me get you a drink.

Charles (mechanically — taking it) — ^This is appallingi

Ruth — ^Rdax.

120 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Chasles — ^How can I relax? I shall never be able to relax
again as long as I live.

Ruth thinks brandy may help. She insists on his taking two
or three drinks of it, which Elvira cautions him is not good, con-
sidering he alwa3rs did have a weak head. It is Elvira's thought
that Charles should get rid of Ruth so he and she can enjoy a
peaceful talk. But that isn't easy. Ruth is getting fed up with
Charles' actions. It is quite all right for him to dramatize any
situation he may think will help him with his book, but enough's
enough.

"I refuse to be used as a guinea pig unless I'm warned before-
hand what it's all about," announces Ruth. . . . ''I'm going up
to bed now. I'll leave you to turn out the lights. I shan't be
asleep — ^I'm too upset — so you can come in and say good night
to me if you feel like it."

"That's big of her, I must say," chirps Elvira.

"Be quiet — ^you're behaving like a guttersnipe," snaps Charles.

Ruth turns at the door. "That is aU I have to say. Good
night, Charles," says she icily.

With Ruth gone Elvira is perfectly happy. She can't re-
member when she has enjoyed a half hour more. As to what she
is going to do she doesn't know. How long she is going to stay
she doesn't know either. It all seems a little like a dream. But
she doesn't think Charles should make such a fuss about it. It
is only a matter of adjustment. Could it be that Charles doesn't
love her any more?

"I shall iways love the memory of you," Charles assures her.

Elvika {rising and walking about) — ^You mustn't think me
unreasonable, but I really am a little hurt. You called me back
— ^and at great inconvenience I came — and you've been thor-
oughly churlish ever since I arrived.

Charles (gently) — Believe me. Elvira, I most emphatically
did not send for you — there's been some mistake.

Elvera (irritably) — ^Well, somebody did — and that child said
it was you — I remember I was playing backgammon with a very
sweet old Oriental gentleman — I think his name was Genghis
Khan — and I'd just thrown double sixes, and then that (±ild
paged me and the next thing I knew I was in this room . . .
perhaps it was your subconscious.

Charles — ^Well, you must find out whether you are going to
stay or not, and we can make arrangements accordingly.

BLITHE SPIRIT 121

Elviba — ^I don't see bow I can.

Chables — WeB, try to think — isn't there anyone that you
know, that you can get in touch with over there — on the other
side, or whatever it's called — ^who could advise you?

ELvntA — I can't think — ^it seems so far away — as though I'd
dreamed it. . . .

Charles — ^You must know somebody else beside Genghis Khan.

Elvira — Oh, Charles ...

Charles — ^What is it?

Elvira — ^I want to cry, but I don't think I'm able to . . .

Charles — ^What do you want to cry for?

Elvira — ^It's seeing you again — and you being so irascible like
you always used to be . . .

Charles — I don't mean to be irascible, Elvira . . .

Elvira — Darling — I don't mind really — ^I never did.

Charles — Is it cold — being a ghost?

Elvira — ^No — ^I don't think so.

Charles — ^What happens if I touch you?

Elvira — ^I doubt if you can. Do you want to?

Charles — Oh, Elvira . . . (He buries his face in his hands.)

Elvira — What is it, darling?

Charles — ^I really do feel strange, seeing you again . . .

Elvira — ^That's better.

Charles (looking up) — What's better?

Elvira — ^Your voice was kinder.

Charles — ^Was I ever unkind to you when you were alive?

Elvira— Often . . .

Charles — Oh, how can you! I'm sure that's an exaggeration.

Elvira — ^Not at all — you were an absolute pig that time we
went to Cornwall and stayed in that awful hotel — ^you hit me
with a billiard cue —

Charles — Only very, very gently . . .

Elvira — I loved you very much.

Charles — ^I loved you too . . . (He puts out his hand to her
and then draws it away.) No, I can't touch you — isn't that
horrible?

Elvira — ^Perhaps it's as well if I'm going to stay for any
length of time. . . .

Charles — ^I feel strangely peaceful — I suppose I shall wake
up eventually . . .

Elvira — Put your head back.

Charles (doing so) — ^Like that?

Elvira (stroking his hair) — Can you feel an3rthing? . . .

122 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Chasles — Only a very little breeze through my hair. . . .
Elviha — ^Well, that's better than nothing.
Charles (drowsUy) — ^I suppose if I'm really out of my mind
they'll put me in an asylum.
Elvira — Don't worry about that — ^just relax —
Charles (very drowsily indeed) — ^Poor Ruth . . .
Elvira (gently and sweetly) — ^To hell with Ruth.
The curtain falls.

ACT II

It is nine-thirty next morning before Charles reaches the break-
fast table. Ruth is already there, reading the Times. Their
greetings are formal and friendly, save for a suggestion of iciness
on the part of Ruth. With a few spirited passages this glacial
attitude transfers itself to Charles and finally, when the discus-
sion turns to the happenings of the evening before, Ruth is frank
in insisting that practically everything can be explained by the
fact that Charles was drunk —

"You had four strong dry Martinis before dinner," Ruth is
saying; "a great deal too much burgimdy at dinner — ^heaven
knows how much port and kunmiel with Dr. Bradman while I was
doing my best to entertain that madwoman — and then two double
brandies later — I gave them to you myself — of course you were
drunk."

"So that's your story, is it?"

"You refused to come to bed and finally when I came down at
three in the morning to see what had happened to you I found
you in an alcoholic coma on the sofa with the fire out and your
hair all over your face."

"I was not in the least drunk, Ruth. Something happened to
me — ^you really must believe that — something very peculiar hap-
pened to me."

"Nonsense."

"It isn't nonsense — ^I know it looks like nonsense now in the
clear, remorseless light of day, but last night it was far from
being nonsense — I honestly had some sort of hallucination — "

Try as he will Charles cannot convince Ruth, first, that he
was not dnmk, and, second, that he really believed that he saw
and heard Elvira in that room. Protesting this honest conviction,
Charles finally works himself into such a state of anger that he
is prepared to forswear the entire feminine sex. Considering
what his life with the women who have dominated him has been

BLITHE SPIRIT 123

Ruth is willing to agree that probably it is about time for a
change.

''The only woman in my whole life who's ever attempted to
dominate me is you — ^you've been at it for years/' almost shouts
Charles.

''That is completely untrue," answers Ruth.

Chasles — Oh, no, it isn't. You boss me and bully me and
order me about — ^you won't even allow me to have an hallucina-
tion if I want to.

Ruth — ^Alcohol will ruin your whole life if you allow it to
get a hold on you, you know.

Chahles — Once and for all, Ruth, I would like you to imder-
stand that what happened last night was nothing whatever to
do with alcohol. You've very adroitly rationali^ the whole
affair to your own satisfaction, but your deductions are based
on complete fallacy. I am willing to grant you that it was an
aberration, some sort of odd psychic delusion brought on by sug-
gestion or hypnosis. I was stone cold sober from first to last
and extremely upset into the bargain.

Ruth — You were upset indeed I What about me?

Charles — ^You behaved with a stolid, obtuse lack of compre-
hension that frankly shocked me I

Ruth — ^I consider that I was remarkably patient. I shall
know better next time.

Charles — Instead of putting out a gentle, comradely hand to
guide me you shouted staccato orders at me like a sergeant-major.

Ruth — ^You seem to forget that you gratuitously insulted me.

Charles — ^I did not.

Ruth — ^You called me a guttersnipe — ^you told me to shut up
— ^and when I quietly suggested that we should go up to bed you
said, with the most disgusting leer, that it was an immoral sug-
gestion.

Charles (exasperated) — I was talking to Elviral

Ruth — ^If you were I can only say that it conjures up a fra-
grant picture of your first marriage.

Charles — ^My first marriage was perfectly charming and I
think it's in the worst possible taste for you to sneer at it.

Ruth — ^I am not nearly so interested in your first marriage
as you think I am. It's your second marriage that is absorbing
me at the moment — ^it seems to be on the rocks.

Charles— Only because you persist in taking up this ridiculous
attitude.

124 THE BEST WAYS OF 1941-42

RcTH — Mj attitade is tbai of any nonnal woman whose
hosfaand gets dnmk and hatk abase at lier.
Chailes {skemtmg) — I was not <kiiiik!

It is Ruth s stubbora uawktian that if his bdief in
tkns persists Charles ^ooid send for Dr. Biadman. If not Dr.
Bradman, then a nerve sixdalist. If not a nerve specialist a
psydioanalyst. But Charles will have ncMie of these, eq[)ecia]ly
the psydwanalyst —

^I refuse to endure mondis of cipeusive humiliation only to
be Udd at the end of it that at the age of four I was in love
with my rockmg horse,^ snaps Charles

Charles is cahner now, even thoQ^ his appeal for Ruth's
understanding sympathy has been demed him. He thought for
a time he mi^t be going mad, but now, aside from being worried,
he feds quite normaL He is neither hearing nor seeing any-
thing in the least unusuaL But at that moment in walks Elvira
from the garden, her arms full of roses as gray as the rest of her.

^ouVe afasohitdy ruined that border by the sundial — ^it looks
like a mixed salad," says Elvira, by way ot dieerful greeting.

'"(%, my God!" exdaims the nemfy startled Charles.

'^liats the matter now?" Ruth would know.

"She's here again!" waik Charles.

The mystery and the misunderstanding start all over again.
Charles is plainly fri^tened. He would in some way placate
Elvira, who has become insistently critical of Ruth and the
way she is letting her house and her garden go, but he would
also {dead with Ruth please to understand something of what is
happening to him.

Ruth — ^I've done everything I can to help — ^IVe controlled
mysdf admirably — and I should like to say here and now that
I dcHi't believe a word about your damned hallucinations — ^you're
up to something, Charles — there's been a certain furtiveness in
your manner for wed^s — Why doo^ you be honest and tell me
idiat it is?

Chasles — ^You're wrong — youVe dead wrong — ^I haven't been
in the least furtive — ^I —

Ruth — ^You're trying to upset me — for some obscure reason
you're trying to goad me into dcmig something that I might re-
gret— ^I won't stand for it any more — You're making me utterly
miserable — {She bursts into tears and coUafses am the sofa,)

Chasles — Ruth— please — {Sits am saja beside her.)

BLITHE SPIRIT 125

Ruth — ^Don't come near me —

Elviba — ^Let her have a nice cry — ^itll do her gcxxl.

Chables — ^You're utterly heartless!

Ruth — ^Heartless I

Charles (wildly) — I was not talking to you — ^I was talking
to Elvira.

Ruth — Go on talking to her then, talk to her until you're
blue in the face but don't talk to me —

Charles — ^Hdp me, Elvira —

Elvira — ^How?

Charles — Make her see you or something.

Elvira — I'm afraid I couldn't manage that — ^it's technically
the most difficult business — frightfully complicated, you know —
it takes years of study —

Charles — ^You are here, aren't you? You're not an illusion?

Elvira — I may be an illusion but I'm most definitely here.

Charles — ^How did you get here?

Elvira — ^I told you last night — I don't exactly know —

Charles — Well, you must make me a promise that in future
you only come and talk to me when I'm alone —

Elvira (pouting) — How unkind you are — making me feel so
unwanted — I've never been treated so rudely —

Charles — I don't mean to be rude, but you must see —

Elvira — It's all your own fault for having married a woman
who is incapable of seeing beyond the nose on her face — ^if she
had a grain of real sympathy or affection for you she'd believe
what you tell her.

Charles — ^How could you expect anybody to believe this?

Elvira — ^You'd be surprised how gullible people are — ^we often
laugh about it on the other side.

Ruth has stopped crying and is staring at Charles in horror.
Suddenly she gets up and goes to him. Her manner now is
tenderly solicitous and reassuring. She is beginning to under-
stand. If Charles will just come to bed and let her send for Dr.
Bradman everything will be all right —

"She'll have you in a strait jacket before you know where
you are," warns Elvira.

"Help me — ^you must help me — " Charles has turned to Elvira
for aid now.

"My dear, I would with pleasure, but I can't think how — "

Charles has thought of a way. Pleading with Ruth to sit
down, just for five minutes, he promises then to go to bed as

126 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

she asks. When Ruth humors him he repeats his earnest wish
that she will believe him when he says that the ghost, or shade,
or whatever she wants to call it, of his first wife, Elvira, is in
the room at the moment. Then he turns to Elvira and asks her
for help. Will she do what he asks. That, replies Elvira, depends
upon what he asks. He turns back to Ruth —

Charles — Ruth — ^you see that bowl of flowers on the piano?

Ruth — Yes, dear — I did it myself this morning.

Elvira — ^Very untidily if I may say so.

Charles — ^You may not.

Ruth — ^Very well — ^I never will again — ^I promise.

Charles — ^Elvira will now carry that bowl of flowers to the
mantelpiece and back again. You will, Elvira, won't you — ^just
to please me?

Elvira — I don't really see why I should — ^youVe been quite
insufferable to me ever since I materialized.

Charles — Please.

Elvira — ^All right, I will just this once — not that I approve
of all these Herman the Great carryings on. (She goes over
to the piano.)

Charles — ^Now, Ruth — ^watch carefully.

Ruth (patiently) — ^Very well, dear.

Charles — Go on, Elvira — bring it to the mantelpiece and
back again. (Elvira does so, taking obvious pleasure in doing it
in a very roundabout way. At one moment she brings it up to
within an inch of Ruth's face. Ruth shrinks back with a
scream and then jumps to her feet.)

Ruth (furiously) — How dare you, Charles! You ought to be
ashamed of yourself I

Charles — ^What on earth for?

Ruth (hysterically) — ^It's a trick — ^I know perfectly well it's
a trick — ^you've been working up to this — it's all part of some
horrible plan —

Charles — ^It isn't — ^I swear it isn't — ^Elvira — do something
else for God's sake —

Elvira — Certainly — an3^ng to oblige.

Ruth (becoming really frightened) — ^You want to get rid of
me— you're trying to drive me out of my mind —

Charles — Don't be so silly.

Ruth — You're cruel and. sadistic and I'll never forgive you —
(Elvira lifts up a light chair and waltzes solemnly round the
room with it, then she puts it dawn with a bang. Making a dive

BUTHE SPIRIT 127

far the door.) I'm — ^I'm not going to put up with this any more.

Chasles (holding her) — ^You must believe it — ^you must —

Ruth — Let me go immediately —

Chasles — ^That was Elvira — I swear it was —

Ruth {struggling) — ^Let me go—

Charles — Ruth---please — (Ruth breahs away from him and
runs toward the windows, Elvira gets there just before her
and shuts them in her face. Ruth starts bach appalled,)

Ruth (looking at Charles with eyes of horror) — Charles —
this is madness — ^sheer madness I It's some sort of auto-sugges-
tion, isn't it — some form of h3rpnotismy swear to me it's only that?
Swear to me it's only that.

Elvira (taking an expensive vase from the mantelpiece and
crashing it into the grate) — ^Hypnotism my footi (Ruth gives
a scream and goes into violent hysterics as the curtain falls,)

It is late the following afternoon. Ruth is impatiently await-
ing the arrival of Mme. Arcati. Presently the Madame, 'bear-
ing a tweed coat and skirt and a great many amber beads," ar-
rives. She is glad to come, and tremendously eager to hear of
the more recent adventures in the Condomine home.

Ruth finds a description of what has happened a bit difficult.
The facts are so fantastic —

"Facts very often are," observes Mme. Arcati. "Take creative
talent, for instance, how do you account for that? Look at
Shakespeare and Michael Angelol Try to explain Mozart snatch-
ing soimds out of the air and putting them down on paper when
he was practically a baby — ^facts — plain facts. I know it's the
fashion nowadays to ascribe it all to glands but my reply to
that is fiddlededee."

"Yes, I'm sure you're quite right," Ruth agrees.

"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt
of in your philosophy, Mrs. Condomine."

It is probable, thinks Mme. Arcati, that Ruth has heard
strange noises in the night, or the creaking of boards, or the
slamming of doors, or a subdued moaning in the passages. No?
Nor any gusts of cold wind? No. What then?

Ruth recounts the adventure of Elvira's materialization tc
Charles. Mme. Arcati is thrilled. What a triumph I Nothing
so exciting has happened to her in years. She paces the room
in her exultation and refuses to sit down.

"I appreciate fully your pride in your achievement," says Ruth
firmly, "but I would like to point out that it has made my posi-

128 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

tion in this house untenable and that I hold you entirely re-
sponsible."

Ruth has sent for Mme. Arcati, she explains, to try to induce
her to send Elvira back to where she came from. Mme. Arcati
would like to oblige, but fears that will be easier said than done.
First she must make a report to the Psychical Research Society,
for which purpose she produces a note book.

Ruth is not at all interested in Mme. Arcati's report, nor is
she able to help greatly with it. She did not know the first Mrs.
Condomine, nor does she have any idea why Elvira wanted to
return at this time. It is Madame's opinion that Elvira had been
anxious to return and had put herself on the waiting list. There
must have been strong influences at work. . . . Still nothing is
to be gained by Ruth's upsetting herself.

"It's all very fine for you to talk like that, Madame Arcati,"
Ruth is saying; "you don't seem to have the faintest realization
of my position."

"Try to look on the bright side," suggests the madame.

Ruth — Bright side indeed! If your husband's first wife sud-
denly appeared from the grave and came to live in the house
with you, do you suppose you'd be able to look on the bright
side?

Madame Arcati — ^I resent your tone, Mrs. Condomine, I really
do.

Ruth — ^You most decidedly have no right to — ^you are en-
tirely to blame for the whole horrible situation.

Madame Arcati — Kindly remember that I came here the other
night on your own invitation.

Ruth— On my husband's invitation.

Madame Arcati — ^I did what I was requested to do, which
was to give a sdance and establish contact with the other side —
I had no idea that there was any ulterior motive mixed up with it.

Ruth — Ulterior motive?

Madame Arcati — ^Your husband was obviously eager to get
in touch with his former wife. If I had been aware of that at
the time I should naturally have consulted you beforehand —
after all "Noblesse oblige"!

Ruth — ^He had no intention of trying to get in touch with
anyone — the whde thing was planned in order for him to get
material for a mystery story he is writing about a homicidal
medium.

Madame Arcati (drawing herself up) — ^Am I to understand

BLITHE SPIRIT 129

that I was only invited in a spirit of mockery?

Ruth — ^Not at all — ^he merely wanted to make notes of some
of the tricks of the trade.

Madame Arcati (incensed) — ^Tricks of the trade I Insuffer-
able! IVe never been so insulted in my life. I feel we have
nothing more to say to one another, Mrs. Condomine. Good-
by-

Ruth — Please don't go— please —

Madame Arcati — ^Your attitude from the outset has been most
unpleasant, Mrs. Condomine. Some of your remarks have been
discourteous in the extreme and I should like to say without
umbrage that if you and your husband were foolish enough to
tamper with the unseen for paltry motives and in a spirit of
ribaldry, whatever has happened to you is your own fault, and,
to coin a phrase, as far as I'm concerned you can stew in your
own juicel (Ske goes majestically from the room.)

Ruth (left alone, walks about the room) — Damn— damn —
damn!

Charles and Elvira are coming in as Mme. Arcati is going out.
She sweeps past them. Charles would like to know what the
Madame has been doing there. Elvira knows. Ruth has sent
for Mme. Arcati to have her (Elvira) exorcised. ^'There's a
snake in the grass for you," says Elvira. . . .

'1 admit I did ask Mme. Arcati here with a view to getting
you exorcised and I think that if you were in my position you'd
have done exactly the same thing — ^wouldn't you?"

^'I shouldn't have done it so obviously."

Ruth — ^What did she say?

Charles — ^Nothing — she just nodded and smiled.

Ruth (with a forced smile) — ^Thank you, Elvira — that's gen-
erous of you. I really would so much rather that there were no
misunderstandings between us —

Charles — That's very sensible, Ruth — ^I agree entirely.

Ruth (to Elvira) — ^I want, before we go any further, to ask
you a frank question. Why did you really come here? I don't
see that you could have hoped to have achieved anything by it
beyond the immediate joke of making Charles into a sort of
astral bigamist.

Elvira — ^I came because the power of Charles's love tugged
and tugged and tugged at me. Didn't it, my sweet?

Ruth — ^What did she say?

130 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Chasles — She said she came because she wanted to see me
again.

Ruth — ^Well, she's done that now, hasn't she?

Charles — We can't be inhospitable, Ruth.

Ruth — I have no wteh to be inhospitable, but I should like
to have just an idea of how long you intend to stay, Elvira?

Elvira — I don't know — ^I really don't knowl (She giggles.)
Isn't it awful?

Charles — She says she doesn't know.

Ruth — Surely that's a little inconsiderate?

Elvira — Didn't the old spiritualist have any constructive ideas
about getting rid of me?

Charles — ^What did Madame Arcati say?

Ruth — She said she couldn't do a thing.

Elvira {moving gaily over to the window) — ^Hurray!

Charles — Don't be upset, Ruth dear — ^we shall soon adjust
ourselves, you know — ^you must admit it's a imique experience —
I can see no valid reason why we shouldn't get a great deal of
fun out of it.

Ruth — Fun? Charles, how can you — ^you must be out of
your mind I

Charles — ^Not at all — ^I thought I was at first — ^but now I
must say I'm beginning to enjoy myself.

Ruth {bursting into tears)--Ohj Charles — Charles —

Elvira — She's off again.

Charles is a little disappointed in Elvira. She should be more
considerate of Ruth's feelings. Elvira is not impressed. She
feels that Charles must have had quite a time living with the
second Mrs. Condomine, considering her temper and ever3rthing.

Ruth continues to find the situation intolerable. Presently
she has arrived at a definite conclusion —

''I've been making polite conversation all through dinner last
night and breakfast and lunch today — and it's been a nightmare
— ^and I am not going to do it any more. I don't like Elvira
any more than she likes me and what's more I'm certain that I
never could have, dead or alive. If, since her untimely arrival
here the other evening, she had shown the slightest sign of good
manners, the slightest sign of breeding, I might have felt dif-
ferently towards her, but all she has done is try to make mischief
between us and have private jokes with you against me. I am
now going up to my room and I shall have my dinner on a tray.
You and she can have the house to yourselves and joke and

BUTHE SPIRIT 131

gossip with each other to your heart's content. The first thing
in the morning I am going up to London to interview the Psy-
chical Research Society and if they fail me I shall go straight to
the Archbishop of Canterbury — "

Ruth has flounced out of tiie room. Charles would follow and
comfort her, but Elvira holds him back. If Ruth wants to be
disagreeable let her get on with it. Elvira feels that she has
some rights, too. After all she has not seen Charles for seven
years. Why shouldn't she want to have some time alone with
him?

Charles has gone to dress for dinner. Elvira thinks his dressing
is silly too, but — ''I should like to watch you eat something
really delicious," she admits.

"Be a good girl now — ^you can play the gramophone if you
want to," answers Charles, smiling and kissing his hand to her
as he goes out.

Elvira goes to the gramophone closet and takes out the record
of "Always." She is waltzing lightly around the room to the
music when Edith comes to fetch the tea tray. Edith stops the
gramophone and puts the record back, but she barely has time
to pick up the tray before Elvira has recovered the record and
set it playing again. With a shriek Edith drops tibe tray and
runs wildly from the room. Elvira has resumed her waltzing as
the curtain falls.

It is evening several days later when the curtain rises. Outside
it is raining. Inside Ruth has just been telling Mrs. Bradman
of the chapter of fantastic accidents that have happened since
they last met. Dr. Bradman is upstairs looking after Charles,
who has an injured arm. Edith, too, has had a fall and is suf-
fering from concussion.

When Dr. Bradman comes down it is to report that Charles'
arm injiuy is slight, but he is a little worried about his nervous
condition. Thinks he should go away for a couple of weeks.
Symptoms? Well, Charles is showing a certain air of strain — an
inability to focus his eyes on the person he is talking to — a few
rather marked irrelevandes in his conversation.

"Can you remember any specific examples?" Ruth asks.

"Oh, he suddenly shouted, *What are you doing in the bath-
room?' and then, a little later, while I was writing him a pre-
scription, he suddenly said, Tor God's sake behave yourself!'"

"He often goes on like that — particularly when he's immersed
in writing a book — "

132 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

Charles comes in with his left ann in a sling just as the Brad-
mans are leaving. Elvira follows after and sits quietly by the fire.
Charles still can't think the arm sprain is serious, and he would
like to drive into Folkstone as he had planned. Both the doctor
and Ruth would dissuade Charles if they could, but the doctor
finally gives consent if he will promise to drive slowly and
carefully. The roads are very ^ippery. It would be better
if Ruth were to go too, and do the driving, but Ruth has her
house chores — and Edith — to look after.

"You really are infuriating, Elvira — surely you can wait and
go to the movies another ni^t," says Ruth/ when Charles has
gone to the door with the Bradmans.

Elvira gives a gay little laugh, takes a rose from the vase,
tosses it at Ruth's feet and romps through the French windows.
"And stop behaving like a school girl — ^you're old enough to
know better."

Ruth is still muttering when Charles comes back to tell her
that Elvira isn't even in the room. "She was a minute ago — she
threw a rose at me," protests Ruth.

If they are alone there is something that Ruth would like to
talk about. "This is a fight, Charles — ^a bloody battle — ^a dud to
the death between Elvira and me. Don't you realize that?"

Charles — ^Melodramatic hysteria.

Ruth — ^It isn't melodramatic hysteria — it's true. Can't you
see?

Charles — No, I can't. You're imagining things — ^jealousy
causes people to have the most curious delusions.

Ruth — ^I am making every effort not to lose my temper with
you, Charles, but I must say you are making it increasingly dif-
ficult for me.

Charles — ^All this talk of battles and duels —

Ruth — She came here with one purpose and one purpose only
— ^and if you can't see it you're a bigger fool than I thought you.

Charles — ^What purpose could she have had beyond a natural
desire to see me again? After all, you must remember that she
was extremely attached to me, poor child.

Ruth — ^Her purpose is perifectly obvious. It is to get you
to herself forever.

Charles — ^That's absurd — ^how could she?

Ruth — By killing you off of course.

Charles — KiUing me off? You're mad!

Ruth — ^Why do you suppose Edith fell down the stairs and

BLITHE SPIRIT 133

nearly cracked her skull?

Charles— What's Edith got to do with it?

Ruth — Because the whole of the top stair was covered with
axle grease. Cook discovered it afterwards.

Charles — ^You're making this up, Ruth—

Ruth — ^I'm not. I swear I*m not. Why do you suppose when
you were lopping that dead branch off the pear tree that the
ladder broke? Because it had been practically sawn through
on both sides.

Charles — But why should she want to kill me? I can imder-
stand her wanting to kill you, but why me?

Ruth — ^If you were dead it would be her final triumph over
me. She'd have you with her forever on her damned astral plane
and I'd be left high and dry. She's probably planning a sort of
spiritual remarriage. I wouldn't put anything past her.

Ruth has a plan to circumvent her ghostly guest. Charles
is not to let Elvira know that he suspects a thing. Ruth will
go find Mme. Arcati and force her, if necessary, into another
trance that they may all be rid of Elvira. Charles can explain
to Elvira that she (Ruth) has gone to see the Vicar.

Before Ruth can get away Elvira has floated back from the
garden. Discovering that she is there Ruth turns on Elvira to
tell her frankly that she has been trying to prevail upon Charles
not to drive her into Folkstone that evening. However, so long
as he seems determined to place Elvira's interests first she has
given way and she hopes they will enjoy themselves. With which
statement she flounces out.

Now Elvira is worried. She fears Charles has lost interest in
taking her. Charles hasn't but he is not going to hurry. He is
going to drink a glass of sherry first. And if she doesn't stop
criticizing Ruth and behave herself he will not take her into
Folkstone ever —

'^Besides," he adds, sipping his sherry, ''the car won't be
back for a half hour at least."

''What do you mean?" demands Elvira, sharply.

Charles — Ruth's taken it — she had to go and see the Vicar —
Elvira {jumping up — in extreme agitation) — ^Whatll
Charles — ^What on earth's the matter?
Elvira — ^You say Ruth's taken the car?
Charles — Yes — to go and see the Vicar — but she won't be
long.

136 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

resents Mme. Arcati's presence. If the Madame is the one who
got her there in the first place let her get her back as soon as she
can. Elvira is sick of the whole business.

Mme. Arcati is thrilled to hear that Elvira is present, and
eager to talk with her. But Elvira will have nothing to do with
the Madame. 'Tell the silly old bitch to mind her own busi-
ness," orders Elvira. "She's dotty." Only on his promise to
send Madame Arcati into the other room does Elvira agree to
confirm her presence to the medium. Then she blows gently into
Mme. Arcati's ears, which throws that delighted lady into a
frenzy of excitement.

When she and Charles are alone Elvira is very unhappy and
shortly gives way to ghostly tears. Her coming back has been
a complete failure, and she had started out with such high
hopes —

"I sat there on the other side, just longing for you day after
day," wails Elvira. "I did really — all through your a£Fair with
that brassy-looking woman in the South of France I went on
loving you and thinking truly of you — then you married Ruth
and even then I forgave you and tried to imderstand because all
the time I believed deep inside that you really loved me best
. . . that's why I put myself down for a return visit and had
to fill in all those forms and wait about in draughty passages for
hours — if only you'd died before you met Ruth everything might
have been all right — she's absolutely ruined you — I hadn't been
in the house a day before I realized that. Your books aren't
a quarter as good as they used to be either."

"That," answers Charles, sharply, "is entirely imtrue . . .
Ruth helped me and encouraged me with my work which is a
damned sight more than you ever did."

"That's probably what's wrong with it."

Soon they are in the midst of a violently amusing quarrel.
It carries them back to the evening that Elvira had gone out in
a punt with Guy Henderson and got soaked to the skin. Which
was the same evening that Charles had spent his entire time
making sheep's eyes at Cynthia Cheviot. It includes their pres-
ent memories of a completely blasted honeymoon at Budleigh
Salterton and Elvira's flirtation with Captain Bracegirdle, a
flirtation, insists Elvira, that had grown out of her state of com-
plete boredom. The spat ends with their agreement that they
both had been cheated in their marital adventure and Charles'
sense of relief that he at last is well rid of Elvira.

". . . You're dead and Ruth's dead/' Charles is saying, a

BLITHE SPIRIT 137

little exultantly; **I shall sell this house, lock, stock and barrd,
and go away."

^^I shall follow you," calmly announces Elvira.

Chasles — ^I shall go a long way away — ^I shall go to South
America — ^you'll hate that, you were always a bad traveler.

Elvisa {at the piano) — ^That can't be helped — I shall have to
follow you — ^you called me back.

Chasles — ^I did not call you backl

Elvira — ^Well, somebody did — and it's hardly likely to have
been Ruth.

Chasles — ^Nothing in the world was further from my thoughts.

Elvisa — ^You were talking about me before dinner that eve-
ning.

Chasles — ^I might just as easily have been talking about Joan
of Arc but that wouldn't necessarily mean that I wanted her to
come and live with me.

Elvisa — ^As a matter of fact she's rather fun.

Chasles — Stick to the point.

Elvisa — ^When I think of what might have happened if I'd
succeeded in getting you to the other world after all — it makes
me shudder, it does honestly ... it would be nothing but bicker-
ing and squabbling forever and ever and ever. ... I swear I'll
be better off with Ruth — at least she'll find her own set and not
get in my way.

Chasles— 5o I get in your way, do I?

Elvisa — Only because I was idiotic enough to imagine that
you loved me, and I sort of felt sorry for you.

Chasles — I'm sick of these insults — ^please go away.

Elvisa — There's nothing I should like better — ^I've always be-
lieved in cutting my losses. That's why I died.

Charles has called Mme. Arcati from the dining room and ex-
plained to her that he and Elvira are agreed that Elvira should
go back immediately. Mme. Arcati proceeds enthusiastically to
put the formula she has acquired from the witch book into prac-
tice. First there must be a little pepper and salt sprinkled in
the center of the table, and a few snapdragons added. Then they
must have the same record put back on ^e gramophone.

Elvira, who has been sniffling and making rude remarks about
Mme. Arcati, is first at the gramophone cabinet and finds the
record, while Mme. Arcati looks on, startled and entranced —

''Oh, if only that Mr. Emsworth of the Psychical Research So-

138 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

dety could see this/' she gurgled, ''he'd have a fit, he would
really."

Now she would have Charles seated at the table again, warn-
ing him to be careful of the salt and pepper, in which she has
made certain mjrstic tracings. She wiU turn out the lights her^
self, but she would like to have Elvira lie down on the sofa and
relax, breathing steadOy, while Charles is concentrating at the
table.

Now Mme. Arcati darts swiftly across the room and turns out
the lights. Suddenly Charles gives a healthy sneeze —

"Oh, dear — it's the pepper," giggles Elvira.

''Damn I" explodes Charles.

"Hold on to yourself — concentrate — " commands Mme. Ar-
cati. In a sing-song voice she recites —

"Ghostly specter — ghoul or fiend
Never more be thou convened
Shepherd's Wort and Holy Rite
Banish thee into the night."

ELvntA — ^What a disagreeable little verse.

Charles — Be quiet, Elvira.

Madame Arcati— Shhh I (There is silence.) Is there anyone
there? ... Is there anyone there? . . . One rap for yes — ^two
raps for no. Is there anyone there? . . . {Tke table gives a laud
bump.) Ahal Good stuff! Is it Daphne? . . . (Tke table
gives another bump.) I'm sorry to bother you, dear, but Mrs.
Condomine wants to return. (The table bumps several times
very quickly.) Now then. Daphne . . . Did you hear what I
said? {After a pause tke table gives one bump.) Can you help
us? . . . (There is anotker pause, tken tke table begins to bump
violently without stopping.) Hold tight, Mr. Condomine — it's
trying to break away. Oh I Oh I Oh — (The table jails over
with a crash.)

Charles — ^What's the matter, Madame Arcati? Are you hurt?

Madame Arcati (ti^iffing)— OhI Oh I Oh —

Charles (turning on lights) — ^What on earth's happening?
(Madame Arcati is lying on the floor with the table upside dawn
on her back. Charles hurriedly lifts it off. Shaking her.) Are
you hurt, Madame Arcati?

Elvira — She's in one of her damned trances again and I'm
here as much as ever I was.

Charles (shaking Madame Arcati) — For God's sake wake
up.

BLITHE SPIRIT 139

Madame Ascati (moaning) — Oh I Oh! Oh —

ELvntA — ^Leave her alone — she's having a whale of a time.
If I ever do get back I'll strangle that bloody little D^hne. . . .

Charles — ^Wake up!

Madame Arcati (sitting up suddenly) — ^What happened?

Charles — ^Nothing — ^nothing at all.

Madame Arcati (rising and dusting herself) — Oh, yes, it did —
I know something happened.

Charles — You fell over — ^that's all that happened.

Madame Arcati — ^Is she still here?

Charles — Of course she is.

Madame Arcati — Something must have gone wrong.

Elvira — ^Make her do it properly. I'm sick of being messed
a]bout like this.

Charles — She's doing her best. Be quiet, Elvira.

Madame Arcati — Something happened — I sensed it in my
trance — I felt it — ^it shivered through me. (Suddenly the window
curtains blow out almost straight and Ruth walks into the room.
She is still wearing the brightly colored clothes in which we last
saw her but now they are entirely gray. So is her hair and her
skin.)

Ruth — Once and for all, Charles, what the hell does this
mean?

The lights fade.

Several hours have elapsed when the lights are turned up.
"The whole room is in slight disarray. There are birch branches
and evergreens laid on the floor in front of the doors and crossed
birch branches pinned rather untidily onto the curtains."

Mme. Arcati has stretched herself out on the sofa, and lies with
her eyes closed. Elvira is sitting despondently at the table.
Ruth is standing by the fireplace and Charles is pacing restlessly
about the room.

Evidently Ruth and Elvira have been exchanging comments,
but not compliments, and things have reached a point at which
Ruth feels some future course of action should be agreed upon.

"We have all agreed that as Elvira and I are dead that it
would be both right and proper for us to dematerialize again as
soon as possible," says Ruth. "That I admit. We have Slowed
ourselves to be subjected to the most humiliating hocus-pocus for
hours and hours without complaining — "

"Without complaining?"

"We've stood up— we've lain down — ^we've concentrated.

140 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

We've sat interminably while that tiresome old woman recited
extremely imflattering verses at us. We've endured five stances
— ^weVe watched her fling herself in and out of trances until we
were dizzy and at the end of it all we find ourselves exactly where
we were at the beginning. ..."

"Well, it's not my fault," protests Charles.

''Be that as it may," continues Ruth; ''the least you could do
is to admit failure gracefully and try to make the best of it —
your manners are boorish to a degree."

"I'm just as exhausted as you are. I've had to do all the
damned table tapping, remember."

"If she can't get us back, she can't and that's that. We shall
have to think of something else."

Charles is as firm as ever about their going back. Nor is he
greatly impressed by their charges of ingratitude, based on the
fact that Uiey had devoted their lives to him and he has done
nothing but try to get rid of them ever since he called them back.

Finally it is agreed that Mme. Arcati must be called upon
again. The medium is awakened and found eager for another
stance.

"I might be able to materialize a trumpet if I tried hard
enough," Mme. Arcati promises. "I feel as fit as a fiddle after my
rest."

"I don't care if she materializes a whole symphony orchestra —
I implore you not to let her have another seance." Elvira is both
excited and firm.

Charles, too, feels that something else should be tried. Also
he refuses to accept gracefully his wives' repeated charge that
he alone is responsible for their being there —

"Love is a strong psychic force, Mr. Condomine — ^it can work
imtold miracles," a^rms Mme. Arcati. "A true love call can
encompass the universe — "

"I am sure it can," admits Charles, hastily; "but I must con-
fess to you frankly that although my affection for both Elvira
and Ruth is of the warmest I cannot truthfully feel that it would
come under the heading that you describe."

Still, Mme. Arcati is not convinced. "Neither of them could
have appeared unless there had been somebody — a psychic sub-
ject— in the house, who wished for them. . . ."

Suddenly Mme. Arcati is again reminded of her success in the
Sudbury case years before —

"It was the case that made me famous, Mr. Condomine," the
Madame explains. "It was what you might describe in theatrical
parlance as my first smash hit! I had letters from all over the

BLITHE SPIRIT 141

world about it — especially India."

*What did you do?"

''I dematenalized old Lady Sudbury after she'd been firmly
entrenched in the private chapel for over seventeen years."

The Sudbury formula — ^that's what Mme. Arcati wiD try now.
A moment later she is gazing intently into her crystal. What she
sees startles her. It is a white bsmdage — ^let them hold on to
that. A white bandage — and she begins to recite —

''Be you in nook or cranny answer me
Do you in Still-room or doset answer me
Do you behind the panel, above the stairs
Beneath the eaves — ^waking or sleeping
Answer me I

That ought to do it or I'm a Dutchman."

Mme. Arcati has picked up one of the birch branches and is
waving it solemnly to and fro. Suddenly the door opens and
Edith, the maid, comes into the room. "She is wearing a pink
flannel dressing gown and bedroom slippers. Her head is band-
aged."

"Did you ring, sir?" asks Edith, plaintively.

"The bandage! The white bandage I" cries Mme. Arcati.

"I'm sorry, sir — ^I could have sworn I heard the bell— or some-
body calling — I was asleep— I don't rightly know which it

WCtS. a • •

Mme. Arcati takes charge. She would question Edith. Who
does Edith see in the room? At first the frightened girl can see
no one save her master and the medium, but soon she is trapped
into admitting that there are others standing over by the fire-
place. With this encouragement Mme. Arcati takes a position
in front of Edith and begins calling — ^**Cuckoo— cuckoo-
cuckoo— "

"Oh, dear — ^what is the matter with her? Is she barmy?"
pleads Edith, tremulously.

"Here, Edith — this is my finger — ^look — (She waggles it.)
Have you ever seen such a long, long, long finger? Look now it's
on the right — ^now it's on the left — ^backwards and forwards it
goes — see — ^very quietly backwards and forwards — tic-toe — tic-
toe — tic-toe."

"The mouse ran up the clock," finishes Elvira.

"Be qxiiet — ^you'll ruin everything," protests Ruth.

Mme. Arcati is whistling a little tune close to Edith's face.
Then she snaps her fingers sharply. Edith is looking stolidly
into space without flinching.

142

THE KST HAIS OF lMl-i2

woidd cd a hak M
to tcil Cksies. RaA. txio,
bas iLi 4if d acrw At
Edali B softi7

off the

csdb Ehrira, out of the daik: *-J van to Ae Foar HMdred widi
Ibib twice viKn yoa iwere id XolfingiHniL Aad I ■■§! sxj I
ooouBT iiavc cDju^co It oKve.

'^Doo't think joo're setting rid ol vs qoite so caaSf , Bf dear,''
cafls Rntfa: "yoa maj not be able to see as bat wc wiB be here
aU fidit — I consider that yfM haw behaied atrodoody ofcr the
whole miseiable hmwirsps And I shonid Ke to say here and

Rnth^s voice has faded into a nhis|ici and then <!isafipfared

""Splendid! Hurndi! WeHre done it!'' dioiits Mme.
and adds: "That's qinie cnoo^ singing for the mnmfnt, Edith."

Charles has polled back the cnrtains. The room is flooded
with dayh^t. "'They've gone — theyVe rcaDy gone!** he shoots.

""Ves^I think we've rcaDy polled it off this time,'' agrees
Mme. ArcatL

A moment later the mediom has awakened Edith and sent her,
wondering^, back to bed.

""Golly, what a ni^t! I'm ready to drop in my tracks," sig^
Mme, Arcati.

The grateful Charles woold have her stay the nig|it, hot Mme.
Arcati prefers to pedal off home. Nor will she let hhn think of
settling her account. The expeneace has been a great pleasure
to her. When be comes badL, she will be delisted to lunch
him.

"'Come back?" Charles doesn't understand.

'"Take my advice, Mr. Condomine, and go away immediatdy.

Charles — But, Madame Arcati! You dcm't mean that . . . ?
Madame Arcati {clearing her stuff from tie table) — ^This

BUTHE SPIRIT 143

must be an unhappy house for you — there must be memories
both grave and gay in every comer of it— also— (She pauses.)

Chasles — ^Also what?

Madame Ascati (thinking better of it) — ^There are more
things in heaven and earth, Mr. Condomine. (She places her
finger to her Ups.) Just go— pack your traps and go as soon as
possible.

Charles (also in lowered tones) — Do you mean that they
may still be here?

Madame Ascati (nodding and then nonchalantly whistling a
little tune) — Quien sabe, as the Spanish say. (She collects her
bag and her crystal.)

Chasles (looking furtively round the room) — ^I wonder — ^I
wonder. Ill follow your advice, Madame Arcati. Thank you
again.

Madame Arcati — ^Well, good-by, Mr. Condomine — it's been
fascinating — from first to last — fascinating. Do you mind if I
take just one more sandwich to munch on my way home?
(Comes to table for sandwich.)

Charles — By all means. (Madame Arcati goes to the door.
Charles follows to see her safely out.)

Madame Arcati (as they go) — Don't trouble — ^I can find my
way. Cheerio once more and good hunting I (Charles watches
her into the hall and then comes back into the room. He prowls
about for a moment as though he were not sure that he was
alone.)

Charles (softly) — Ruth — ^Elvira — ^are you there? (A pause.)
Ruth — ^Elvira — ^I know damn well you're here — (Another pause.)
I just want to tell you that I'm going away so there's no point
in your hanging about any longer — I'm going a long way away —
somewhere where I don't believe you'll be able to follow me. In
spite of what Elvira said I don't think spirits can travel over
water. Is that quite dear, my darlings? You said in one of
your more add moments, Ruth, that I had been hag-ridden a3l
my life! How right you were — but now I'm free, Ruth dear, not
oi^y of Mother and Elvira and Mrs. Winthrop-LeweUen, but
free of you too, and I should like to take this farewell opportunity
of saying I'm enjoying it immensely — (A vase crashes into the
fireplace.) Aha — I thought so — ^you were very silly, Elvira, to
imagine that I didn't know all about you and Captain Brace-
girdle — ^I did. But what you didn't know was that I was ex-
tremely attached to Paula Westlake at the time! (The clock
strikes sixteen viciously and very quickly.) I was reasonably

144

THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

faithful to yoa, Ruth, but I doubt if it noold have lasted much
Icnger — ^you were becoming increasing domineering, jfou know,
and there's nothing nKxre off potting than that, is there? (A
large picture falls doom with a crash.) Good-by for the momoit,
my dears. I expect we are bound to meet again one day, but
untfl we do I'm going to enjoy mysdf as Tvt never enjoyed piy-
sdf before. You can break up the house as much as you like —
Fm leaving it anyhow. Think kindly of me and send out good
thoughts — (Tke avermanid begms to shake and tremble as
though someone were tugging at it.) Nice work, Elvira — perse-
vere. Good-by again — parting is such stoeet sorrow! {He goes
out of the room just as the overmantel crashes to the floor and
the curtain pole comes tumbling damn.)

THE CUKTAIN FALLS

JUNIOR MISS
A Comedy in Three Acts

By Jerome Chodorov and Joseph Fields

NEW YORK playgoers had prayed pretty desperately for a
comedy hit through the early vreeks of the 1941-42 season. The
dramas had been disappdnting and musical plays, however
good, never completely satisfy your serious theatre follower.
Then, on November 18, along came "Junior Miss," written by
the Messrs. Chodorov and Fields, who had contributed "My
Sister Eileen" the season before. The playgoers' prayers were
answered. Here was a hit. A little quibbling here and there,
perhaps, as usually happens, but in the main a sizable hit. And
Moss Hart did the directing.

The Messrs. Chodorov and Fields extracted their material
from the collection of sub-deb sketches contributed to the
New Yorker magazine by Sally Benson. Concerning the adven-
tures of a 14-year-old and her girl chum, the producer's first
concern, quite naturally, was the finding of proper young ac-
tresses to play the two chief roles. Adolescent heroines in the
theatre have always been a little difficult to cast. If the actress
is young enough to look the part she is too young to play it with
anything resembling authority. If she is old enough and suffi-
ciently experienced to have acquired authority she is likely to
be much too mature to suggest convincingly the adolescent mood
and reactions.

During Mr. Hart's search Patricia Peardon, the 16-year-old
daughter of Commander Roswell Peardon, USN, was sitting in
the ante-room of the Max Gordon offices waiting for a young
actor who was applying for a part. She was wearing a sweater,
skirt and low shoes, she reports, and had no thought of looking
for a part for herself. A passmg stage manager asked her if she
were an actress; she said yes, promptly, because in fact she had
done some work both on the stage and in radio. He suggested
that she come back at 4 o'clock.

Patricia, a little excited by this time, dashed home and changed
both her get-up and her make-up so that at 4 she might look
more as she thought a grown-up actress should look. When she
reappeared she was a young lady indeed. Mr. Hart gave her one

145

146 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

look and handed her the rdle of Lois, the debutante sister of the
'7iuiior Miss" heroine. Patricia read it and was about to be dis-
missed when Mr. Hart, a mite suspicious of her high heels and
rouged cheeks, suggested that she read the rdle of Judy. Then
she figuratively descended from her high heels and became her-
self. Two days later she was given the part and, as Broadway
historians have recorded, scored the hit of her still young life
in it. Sometimes it happens that way, even outside press agent
stories.

'^Junior Miss" was also fortunate in the casting of Judy's pal,
Fuffy Adams, which went to Lenore Lonergan, daughter of the
second Lester Lonergan and grand-daughter of the first Lester
Lonergan and his wife, Amy Ricard, long-time favorites in an
older theatre.

The scenes of "Junior Miss" are played in the Harry Graves'
apartment, which is located in Manhattan's upper Sixties, and
in a building that is definitely post-first-war and "has reached
the sand-blasting stage." The living room, into which we are
ushered, is comfortably furnished and in reasonably good taste,
with a fairly familiar assortment of easy chairs, end tables and
a sofa. "The total effect is middle-class, of people who have a
fairly steady struggle to maintain their position."

On this particular mid-December evening Harry Graves, the
head of the house, is comfortably settled in an easy chair with
his feet on one of the end tables. "He is a good-looking sort of
man of about 38, with the remains of an athletic physique."

A ring at the doorbell announces Joe, the elevator boy, who
has come to bring Judy Graves' roller skates from the lobby. It
would be a help, intimates Joe, if Mr. Graves would instruct his
daughter not to leave her skates in the lobby. The janitor had
recently slipped on one of them and gone right across the lobby
with an armful of garbage. What a mess I

There is a telephone call for Lois, but it is so involved Mr.
Graves gives it up. Let Lois straighten it out. She will know
whether Ralph or Henry or Charlie is to call for her instead ol
Merrill, and probably why.

There are further disturbing complications for Mr. Graves
when Mrs. Graves (an attractive young matron of 35) comes to
hurry him into his evening clothes for a bridge date at the
Bakers'. Nor is he made any happier when he discovers there
are no ice cubes for a drink. Lois has taken the ice to make a
pack to rub on her facial muscles to tighten them.

Lois Graves "is a pretty girl of 16, slim and straight, and wears

^M^tt

JUNIOR MISS 147

a sweater and skirt and not quite high-heeled shoes. Her hair
is held back by a circular comb. Lois is a very sophisticated
woman of the world with a permanently detached air."

At the moment Lois is concerned widi her evening's date and
somewhat fussed that her father was not able to get Charlie's
message straight, but she gains some little comfort from her
mother's sympathetic understanding, and agrees to fetch the ice
and glasses.

And now Judy Graves appears, a thoughtful look on her face,
a school pad in her hand and a pencil stuck behind her ear.
Judy is '^thirteen years old, tall for her age and heavily built.
From her shoulders to her knees, she is entirely shapeless, which
gives her a square, broad look in spite of her height. Below her
skirt, which is too short for her, her legs are hard, muscular and
covered with scratches. Her dress, a soft blue one, smocked at
the sleeves, is supposed to hang gracefully from the shoulders
in a straight fold, but instead it is pulled, as though she had
been stuffed into it. Her little round stomach bulges over a belt
drawn tightly beneath it. On her fingers are a pair of cheap
rings, and she wears three charm bracelets of a brassy color, and
a locket and chain, so tight around her neck it seems to strangle
her. Her dark brown hair keeps straight below her ears, and is
held in place by numerous bobbie-pins and two ready-made
bows."

Judy is at the moment in the throes of composing her autobiog-
raphy for her English teacher. She would like to have a few
outstanding events from her parents, seeing she is using them as
a sort of background. Her mother would gladly oblige, but she
is busy dressing. Her father is hooked —

**WeU," be^ns Mr. Graves, "I was bom in Brooklyn
Heights — " Then he catches the expression of disappointment
on Judy's face. "Sorry, Judy, I luish it was Shanghai — then I
went to public school there until I went to Kent. Then when
I got through Kent, I went to Yale. I met your mother at Smith,
and a few years after the war I married her."

Judy — ^Yes? Go on —
Hahsy — ^That's about all.
Judy — Gee, that's not much of a life.

Harry — ^Well, I'm very sorry. Who do you want for a father
— Rasputin?

Judy — Fuffy's father had a very wild youth.
Hakry — ^Well, I'm having a very wild middle age.

148 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Judy — ^What about Mom? Anything happen to her?

Harry — ^Well, she was born in Kai^sis City, Missouri. Your
grandfather was Vice-President of some wholesale dry-goods store
there.

Judy — ^I wonder why he stayed in Kansas City? All the best
people used to push on farther West.

Harry (annoyed) — ^He had a darned good business — a darned
good business! He managed to send all his girls to Smith. So
it's just as well for you that he didn't push on West.

Lois (entering with tray and glasses, looking at Judy super-
ciliously) — Now what'd she do?

Judy (flatly) — Charming Lois . . .

Harry — Judy's writing her autobiography, and I'm giving her
some facts about the family.

Lois — Not about Uncle Willis, I hope I (Harry gives her a
warning look.)

Judy — ^There she goes again I Daddy, I don't think it's a bit
fair for her to hold that over my head!

Harry— What?

Judy — Uncle Willis. . . . What is there about Uncle Willis
that I can't know too!

Lois — Must you know everything?

Harry — Oh, for God's sake!

Judy (icily) — I'm not addressing you — I'm addressing the
man who happens to be our father. (Pleadingly,) Won't you
please tell me about Uncle Willis, Daddy. My lips will be sealed
— I promise.

Harry (irritably) — ^There's nothing to tell. Your Uncle Wfl-
lis has been away for a long time. Now let's drop the subject —
I don't want you to discuss this in front of your mother.

Judy (agonized) — Dad, it isn't fair!

Lois — ^When you're old enough, dear. . . .

Mrs. Graves is dressed and ready for the party. While they
are waiting she suggests that Judy read the important parts of
her biography — the parts about Judy — and Judy is delighted.

It proves a fairly lurid and highly imaginative account, begin-
ning "It was a wild stormy night and our family doctor fought
his way through the terrible rain to reach the bedside of my
mother who hovered between life and death. . . ."

" *David Copperfieldl' " sneers Lois.

'Tou were bom in a very nice little private hospital on Cen-

JUNIOR MISS 149

tral Park West," corrects Mrs. Graves. ^It's been torn down
since."

Facts are of no particular interest to Judy. She has a job to
do and she is going to make it as interesting as possible. There
are continued sneers from Lois, and further corrections from Mrs.
Graves, but Judy reads blithely on. Finally Mr. Graves puts in
a correction or two. After all, this is to be an accoimt of Judy's
life — ^not of the lives of her parents. But again Mrs. Graves
comes to Judy's rescue. The parts about Lois are dso fairly
extravagant, arousing a good deal of big sister resentment.
Finally, to Judy's expressed disgust, the whole thing is put over
till the next day, when Mrs. Graves promises to hdp find a lot
of interesting facts for the biography.

There is a peculiar knock on the door — ^two long and three
short taps. Tliat would be Fuffy Adams, who bounces in ener-
getically. ^'She is the same age and height as Judy, dress^ in
a very similar manner, and overflowing with animal spirits. She
is blonde and not quite so lumpy."

FuSy has been working on her autobiography, too, and is it a
^'killer-diller!" She'd like to read it to them, and would, if Mrs.
Graves didn't suggest that perhaps she had better read it to her
parents first, instead of trjdng to surprise them.

Fuffy is fuU of news. She has got all her Christmas shopping
done, including her present for Judy. They always tell each
other what they're givmg to be sure it's something they want.

Fuffy also has a problem. It's about hers and Judy's escorts
for Mary Caswell's New Year's dance. Escorts! The idea is
preposterous to Lois. Even pathetic. '^A dance for a lot of
kids," sneers sister. '^You'll trample one another to death.
Thank heavens / don't have to go."

Fuffy's brother, Barlow, is going to take her and he has a
friend, Haskell Cummings, who is going to take Judy, if he
likes her after he's seen her. Otherwise Barlow will have to
take them both. Now, does Mrs. Graves mind if Barlow brings
Haskell over to see Judy? Because they're having company at
the Adams' —

"Huh I Before I'd be looked over^like a prize pig or some-
thing!" Lois is scornful.

"I don't mind," chirps Judy. "Barlow says he doesn't like
girls."

"All right, they can come up here," agrees Mrs. Graves. "But
they can't stay — Judy's got to be in bed by 9:30."

That's fine, and Mrs. Graves certainly is "super," but Judy is

ISO THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

pretty scared. She'd like to have Lois sort of stick around, but
Lois has other things to do.

There is a ring at the bell, and although Judy runs for the
bedroom to hide, it doesn't happen to be the boys. The Cur-
tises are calling — ^EUen and J.B., her father. '^EUen is a sweet,
rather diffident girl of twenty-nine, who wears glasses and is
very much in her father's shade. J.B. is every inch the suc-
cessful lawyer; a self-made, self-assured, domineering man of
about fifty. He is usually in high spirits, but his good spirits are
about as hard to bear as his bad spirits."

The greetings are effusive and J.B.'s bubbling spirits are ex-
plained by the fact that he feels that the firm is about to close
a deal with Cummings, Reade and Barton. All it needs to put
it over is Cummings' okay. If J.B. gets that, he hints broadly,
anything could happen. A moment later he and Grace have
gone to the kitchen to fix up a round of hot toddies, seeing there
is no ice.

Left alone, Harry Graves and Ellen Curtis are soon exchang-
ing intimacies. Ellen has found out just what Grace wants for
Christmas — ^an aquamarine set — clips and earrings! And when
can they meet for lunch so Harry can look it over?

Harry is worried about Ellen, and about her father's rather
overbearing domination. He would like to get her out of the
office for a Bermuda vacation. Even if it isn't any of his busi-
ness— ^he'd —

"Please, Harry," Ellen is saying, seriously, looking intently into
his eyes; "I know perfectly well what you mean — only I've let
it go on so long now that Dad is completely dependent on me."

"And the longer you let it go on, the worse ft will get."

Harry has put his arm pityingly around Ellen's shoulders,
just as Judy comes from the bedroom and is practically struck
dumb by what she sees.

"Yes, I know," EUen continues; "111 work it out some way —
Harry, I don't know what I'd do without you, you're a comfort."

She kisses him on the cheek, impulsively, as Judy's eyes pop.
A second later J.B. has arrived with a tray of toddies and every-
body rallies 'round — everybody except Judy, who continues to
stare at her father and EUen with a shocked egression.

The doorbell rings. Lois answers, swinging open the door
and facing a boy of 16 with skates under his arm. He eyes the
adults consciously —

Lois — Good evening, Merrill —
Merrill — Hy'ah, Lois. . . .

JMfciarihJ iM . KiiSS

JUNIOR MISS 151

Lois (elegantly) — ^How nice of you to be so prompt. . . .
Mother, this is Mr. Feurbach. Miss Curtis, Mr. Curtis and my
father — ^Mr. Feurbach.

Merrill (mumbling) — Hello. . . .

J.B. (ke can't control himself and chuckles in a horrible way
as he surveys them both) — Ha, ha! Mr. Feurbach, eh? Ha, hal
Well, so you're going skating in the park —

Lois (coldly) — ^We*re going to Radio City.

J.B. (arching his brows) — ^Is that so? (Chuckles again.)
Radio City, eh! Well, the park is a lot less public, Feiu-bach!
(He bursts into a fresh guffaw. Lois arid Merrill glare at him.)

Merrill — ^We'd better get going, Lois!

Lois — I've got my skates here —

Merrill (left to face the adults alone, he smiles sheepishly) —
I — ^I guess maybe we'll have an old-fashioned Christmas — it's
starting to snow, outside.

J.B. — ^Just like the one we had in '88, eh, Feurbach? (He
laughs again.)

Merrill (after an uncomfortable pause) — ^How are you, Mrs.
Graves?

Grace — ^I'm fine, thank you.

Merrill — That's splendid! And how are you, Mr. Graves?

Harry — Fine, thanks.

Merrill — ^That's splendid.

J.B. — If you want to know my physical condition, I'm splen-
did. (Lois comes back with her skates.)

Grace — Good night, Lois — have a nice time, darling.

Lois — Good night. Mother.

Harry — Youll have Lois back by ten-thirty, Merrill, won't
you?

Merrill — Oh, yes, sir! — ^Well — Well — good night. (Lois
smiles to the others. Merrill nods foolishly and they exit. J.B.
shakes his head in amusement.)

J.B. — Reminds me of Ellen when she was a kid — We always
bad at least one of those drugstore cowboys hanging around the
house!

Ellen (good-naturedly) — ^Yes, and you used to make them
just as uncomfortable as you did this one.

J.B. furiously denies the impeachment, but gets little sym-
pathy. When Grace takes Ellen out of the room he is quick to
suggest to Harry that there seems to be something wrong with
Ellen lately. He can't imderstand it.

"There's probably a very good reason!" suddenly answers

152 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Judy. J.B. can't understand Judy, either, and Judy's father has
long since given up trying. . . .

The Graveses and Ciutises are ready to leave. Mrs. Graves
calls Judy and finds her daughter acting and talking a little
strangely, apparently for no reason.

^'Give your little friends some ginger ale or cream soda if you
like and remember — ^I want you in bed by 9:30."

"Very well, Mother," Judy answers, tragically. "Good night —
and remember — no matter what happens, I love you very much."

That suggests another mystery, but there is nothing apparently
that can be done about it.

When FufFy Adams comes bounding in shortly after the folks
have left she finds Judy squatted on the floor, her legs pulled
up under her, her outstretched fingers pressed against her tem-
ples, her eyes closed. She is breathing heavfly, which means,
as FuSy deduces, that Judy is doing her Yogi exercises. Judy is.
And finds a second later that her mind is much clearer. Now
she is ready to explain —

"Fuffy, Uiere's a crisis going on in this house," reports Judy,
gravely.

"No kidding I Between who?" Fufify is happily excited.

Judy — Before I say anything more, I want you to take a
sacred vow that this will (Ue with us.

FuFFY (casually) — Naturally.

Judy — Remember that picture with M3rma Loy and Clark
Gable— "Wife vs. Secretary"?

FuFFY (breathes) — God, yes!

Judy — ^Well, I think that same kind of thing is developing be-
tween my father and Ellen Curtis.

FuFFY (whistling her amazement as she slides down the sofa)
— But she's got glc^sest

Judy (impatiently) — So did Myma Loy — ^when she started
out I But after she took them oS and got those beauty treat-
ments, she looked gorgeous I

FuFFY (nodding) — Yes, she did. . . . But Ellen's so old!
Why, she must be—she must be twenty-nine/

Judy — ^Well, after all. Dad's even older than that!

FuFFY (suspiciously) — ^Judy, are you sure you're not just
kickin' the gong around?

Judy — ^It's the truth — honestly.

FuFFY — Rat whole?

Judy — Sure.

JUNIOR MISS 1S3

FuPFY — ^Wdl, say it then.

Judy (holding her hand up) — ^May I swallow a live rat whole
if I'm lying.

FuFFY (nodding, convinced) — ^Well, you better do something,
because Myma Loy certainly made a dope out of that wife I

Judy (nodding)^-Geit^ I'd hate to see Mom in Joan Craw-
ford's position.

FuFFY — ^111 speak to your father if you want me to. He may
not resent it, coming from me.

Judy — Fuffyl You took a sacred vowl

FuFFY (firmly) — ^Well, you'd better do something — and do it
quick — before this all tumbles down like a house of cards!

A ring at the bell throws Judy into another panic. This must
be Barlow and HaskeU Cummings — and she is certainly in no
humor to meet men. FufFy, however, is able to remain calm and
expectant. ^All you got to do is to act blasi." That's Fufify's
advice.

Judy decides it would be better if they were to appear pre-
occupied. What if they should be playing double Canfield?
That's an idea. By the time Hilda comes to answer the bell
the game is well organized.

"Don't move, ladies," advises Hilda; "you'll tire out those
delicate little bodies."

When Hilda opens the door she reveals two kids about 15.
Barlow Adams "resembles Fuffy closely, and Haskell Cummings
is a slender boy with thin hair that falls over his forehead and
an interesting hooked nose."

For a moment the game goes on, though the boys try a couple
of times to break it up. Once Barlow sneezes, explaining that
it is only a cdd in the head. He is advised by his sister not
to come too close.

Suddenly Fuffy remembers to introduce Mr. Cummings to
Judy, which at least gets that over with. There is an exchange
of "HeUos."

Now the card game is over and the conversation turns to Mary
Caswell's party. It would be a lot nicer, thinks Fuffy, if Mary
were to have games instead of so much dancing. Judy quickly
agrees. She has known how to play poker for years. Anyway,
Judy hopes they are going to have some fim — ^like they had at
Fuffy's party. They threw water out the window at Fuffy's
party.

154 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

^'Judy, you're crazy. Youll do anything/' protests Fuffy,
proudly.
''Ill do anything when I happen to fed like it/' admits Judy.

Fuffy — ^And you're the best basket-ball player at school.

Judy (modesUy) — Oh, for heaven's sake.

Haskell — ^Wli^e do you go in the sununer?

Judy (trapped) — ^Who, me?

Haskell — ^Yeah.

Judy (getting up and numng around bekmd Haskell) —
South Dorset, Vermont We've been going there for years.
Where do you go?

Haskell — ^Madison, G)nnecticut. (Fuffy nods to Judy.)

Judy — ^I've been there. I visited my Aunt Julia there one
summer. (Baslow sneezes.) God bless you, Barlow.

Baslow — ^Thank you.

Haskell (poker-faced) — Do you know Jane Garside?
(Fuffy signals.)

Judy — ^That drip I

Haskell (lighting up) — ^Drip is right. ... I can't stomach
that Jane Garside. . . . Where did you swim? At the Yacht
Qub or the Country Qub? (Fuffy takes a swing at an itnag-
inary golf ball.)

Judy — ^At the Country Qub.

Haskell — ^That's \idiere I swim. (Turns brightly to Fuffy.)

Fuffy — Isn't that wonderful?

Judy (laughing in relief) — ^Well, isn't that the fimniest thing.
(She giggles again in excitement.)

Fuffy — Hey, look out — ^youTl get the hiccoughs.

Judy (gasping) — Oh, don't! Every time you say that, I do
get them, and — (She draws in her breath.) I have got them!

Fuffy — ^Hold your arms over your head and 111 get the vine-
gar! (She runs into the foyer. Judy sits there, her arms over
her head.)

Judy (after each hiccough) — ^Excuse me. . . . Excuse me.
. . . Excuse me. (Haskell f^ks up a magazine and hits her
sharply over the head.) Ouch! (Fuffy runs back into the
room with the vinegar bottle.)

Fuffy — ^How are they?

Judy — They're gone. Haskell cured them.

Fuffy — ^That's the first time I've ever known Judy to have
the hiccoughs and get over them like that.

Haskell (casually) — ^When they get the hiccoughs, the best

•mm^ntimilm

JUNIOR MISS ISS

thing to do is scare them.

Judy — ^You're very scientific, aren't you?

Haskell — Sort of.

Barlow (moving to the door) — ^Well, we'd better get going.

Judy — ^Wouldn't you like some ginger ale before you go?

Barlow — We can't — ^we're late now for our weekly poker
game.

Judy — ^Well, thanks encore.

Haskell {straightening his tie) — I can almost always cure
hiccoughs.

Fuffy follows the boys into the hall to get the dope. A mo-
ment later she is back, smiling broadly. Everything's fixed.
Haskell will take Judy. "He says you're a darned good sport
and not a bit affected/' Fuffy reports.

Judy thinks Haskell is nice, too, but she is still sad when she
thinks of the impending tragedy facing her father and Ellen
Curtis. She knows she will be lying awake all night. Even
Fuffy's suggestion that "those kind of women" can always be
bought off, fails to cheer Judy.

"Just dangle a grand in front of her kisser and you'll see,"
advises Fuffy.

"Ill just have to think of some cheaper way," sighs Judy.

After Fuffy has been summoned home Judy takes her ease
sprawled out on the sofa, a candy box withm reach and a movie
magazine in hand. She would put the time to profitable use if
Hilda had any imagination at all about why she loves Ivory
Flakes. With 'just a little help Judy could make a bid for a
grand prize of $2,000, which she would be glad to split with
Hilda. But Hilda, never having heard of anyone winning such
a prize, is not at all interested.

Judy has resumed her sofa sprawl when the bell rings. This
time she decides to answer in person. When she opens the door
Willis Rejmolds, "a pleasant-looking man of about thirty-four or
-five with a genUe, rather shy air, smiles down at her. He is very
pale and wan, and carries a small valise."

Willis is plainly puzzled. He thinks Judy is Lois. Judy is
scared. She thinks probably Willis had better come back when
her father is there, and Willis good-humoredly agrees, but would
leave word for Mrs. Graves that her brother Willis called —

"Uncle Willis 1" Now the mjrstery is cleared and Judy is all
excitement and hospitality. Of course she knows her Uncle Wil-
lis. Knows that he has been away for a long, long time. He is

156 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

awfully pale, too— Suddenly Judy is struck with a blinding
flash! Of course Uncle Willis is pale, and probably hungry, too.
But let him not worry. Hell be back to normal soon. Maybe
he'd like a g^ass of mOk and some cake? Judy is willing to have
some with him, just to keep him company.

Hilda can quite understand the milk and cake order, but she
is still a bit doubtful about Uncle Willis, until Judy explains that
he has been away on a trip for a great many years and is hungry.

"You must be terribly bitter, Uncle WiUis," bursts out Judy,
when Hflda has gone back to the kitchen. "I hope you're not
bitter 1"

'^ell, I don't think I am now," answers the surprised Willis.

"That's good. Tyrone Power was awfully bitter," sighs Judy.

"Tyrone Power?"

"Yes, in 'Criminal Code.' I guess you didn't see it."

"No "

"He wanted to go straight and the whole world was against
him. Every time he got a job they kept firing him."

"Oh, they did, eh?" Willis is completely at sea.

Hilda has come back with one large slice of cake and one glass
of milk. Judy thinks perhaps she had not imderstood — "You
know you're not supposed to eat right after dinner," she re-
minds Judy.

As a compromise Willis suggests that Judy split the cake with
him and drink the milk. "I love all kinds of food," confesses
Judy, in hearty agreement with the suggestion. And then, on
second thought —

"I hope you've decided to go straight, Uncle Willis."

"Go straight?"

"I don't know what you've done and I don't care I I just want
to help you as much as I canl " Judy is very earnest.

"But see here— 1 "

"Forget the past I There's only one thing you should live for
—the futurer

"I see. . . . There's an awful lot of truth in what you say,
Judy. . . ."

"Do'you thmk so. Uncle WilKs?"

"I certainly do."

"Gosh, nobody in this family takes me seriously, but if you do,
I'd like to help you."

"I'd be very proud and happy to have you help me, Judy,"
says Willis, extending his hand seriously.

"Gee I" Judy is almost overcome with a new sense of impor-

JUNIOR MISS 1S7

tance as she takes Willis' hand.

Now Willis is ready to go, but Judy won't hear of that. He
certainly must stay there with them. He can have Judy's and
Lois' room — and Judy's bed, which is the best — and Judy can
sle^ with Hilda — and Lois on the couch —

''It's so much better to be in the bosom of your family than
amongst a lot of strangers who ask all kinds of embarrassing
questions!" sa3rs Judy.

Finally WilUs agrees to compromise. He will wait until the
folks come back, and he agrees to stretch out and take a nap.
He has taken his bag and started for the bedroom. ''Thanks,
Judy," he turns to say, as Judy lifts her face to his and opens
her arms in a very dramatic pose. "Good night, my dear," he
adds, kissing her upon the brow. "We shall meet again 1"

"Gee!" Judy has dashed for the telefdione as soon as Willis
closes the door. "Joe, get me Fuffy Adams, quick 1" . . .

"Hello, Fuffyl Are you alone? Oh, that's good. . . . Lissen,
Fu£fy, the most exciting thing has just happened! You won't
believe it! (The curtain begins to descend.) Boy! Am / going
to have an autobiography!" The curtain is down.

Harry and Grace are getting home from the bridge party when
the scene is renewed, Harry muttering in disgust with the whole
evening as he flings his coat on a chair —

". . . Sit down at a table with no light even to see the cards,
Fred Baker blowing cigar smoke in my face, stale sandwiches,
cold coffee, and I'm hooked for seventeen dollars."

"Well, I owe you eight-fifty of it, dear."

"Oh, fine. And you saved twelve dollars on that end table you
bought yesterday, so we're really twenty dollars ahead on the
week."

There is one small satisfaction — ^J.B. appeared to have a good
time and that may mean something in the long run. J.B. has
been hinting at a junior partnership for Harry, and that would
clear up a lot of things.

They have started for their room when Grace notices the re-
mains of the cake and milk party. That Judy! Then she dis-
covers a cigarette butt. "My God, she's starting to smoke!" she
wails, picking up the cigarette and starting for the girls' room.

There is a flash of Ught, followed by a terrified shriek, and
Grace bounds out, wild-eyed. "A man — in — ^Judy's bed!" She
is breathless. Harry comes rushing in. Quickly he grabs a
lamp as a weapon and starts for the bedroom, when Willis ap-

1S8 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

pears in the door. His shoes are off and he b looking very sleepy.
A second later he has been recognized and b in Grace's arms.
Harry b pounding him on the back and everybody b talking at
once.

''God, you two haven't changed in ten years!" exclaims Willb,
at the first lull. ''When I came up here tonight, I didn't know
what to expect — "

At which moment Judy and Hilda come rushing from Hilda's
room, Judy in pajamas and Hilda trying quickly to cover her
ni^tgown with a robe —

"Mrs. Graves! . . . Did anything happen? What was it?"

"It's all ri^t, EQlda. . . . Mrs. Graves got a sudden shock,
that's all . . ." explains Harry.

"Oh, you foimd Uncle Willfe," chimes in Judy, plainly dis-
appoint^. "I was going to surprise you."

"We were surprised, thanks. . . ."

"Are you all right. Uncle Willb? Is there an3rthing I can get
you?"

"No, thanks, Judy, I'm fine."

Now there b more excitement at the door, and a soimd of
scuffling in the haU. As the door slowly opens Lois backs in
slowly, followed by a boy — ^not Merrill Feurbach. Thb b Ster-
ling Brown and he b determined to come in for ten minutes to
say good night. In their excitement they don't see the gathered
family, and when they do they are pretty confused. Lob intro-
duces Sterling with the explanation that she had had an argument
with Merrill Feurbach and Sterling had brought her home.

^Well, good night, everybody," calls Sterling, nervously edging
toward the door, through whidi he bolts.

"Nasty little character — ^I don't want to see him aroimd here
again," announces Father.

Willb b for taking hb bag and finding himself a hotel, but
Grace and Harry will not hear of that. He b to stay right there.
The girb can sleep in with their mother. Harry and Willis will
take the girb' room — and talk their heads off.

Willb admits being greatly impressed with the children —
especially Judy. She certainly has a lively imagination. "She
thinks I've done a ten years' stretch," he reports. Willis is
amused but Harry and Grace are horrified. "Ill have a talk with
Miss Judy at once," promises Harry.

"Not on your life! At least I'm a romantic character," pro-
tests Willb.

Grace has gone into the kitchen to make sandwiches when

JUNIOR MISS 159

Judy reappears, canying her father's pajamas. She is very grinii
and eager to have a talk —

"Father, sometimes something happens to a child that turns
her into a woman in a couple of hours."

"Some other time, Judy, please. . . ."

Judy — Father, I hope to be married some day. . . .

Hasry (fervently) — I hope so too.

Judy — ^And when that day comes, you wouldn't want to stand
outside in the snow looking through the window of the church
while the ceremony is going on, would you?

Hassy — ^What's the matter, won't I get a ticket?

Judy — ^If they have any pride left that's where they always
stand.

Harry — ^Look, Judy, when you get married, I promise to be
inside the church — in there pitching — and at the moment you say
'^I do" — ^I promise to jump right through the window.

Grace (coming from the kitchen) — It's all ready, dear. (Sees
Judy.) Haven't you gone to bed yet?

Judy — ^I was just going, Mother. . . . (She starts slowly for
the bedroom, lost in thought.)

Grace — ^Willis doesn't look very well, does he, Harry?

Harry — Sure, he looks fine.

Grace — ^He's aged terribly . . . and he seems so worn.

Harry — ^All he needs is a regular normal existence and he'll be
himself in no time.

Judy (turning thoughtfully) — Father, there's only one thing
any man needs — a good woman's lovel (She goes into her bed-
room as Harry and Grace stand looking after her.) The curtain
falls.

ACT II

It is early Christmas morning. In the Graves apartment "a
small, ornamented table tree, rather bedraggled, is between the
windows," with a number of brightly wrapped gift packages
around its base. There are holly wreaths on the frosted windows,
and the room "somehow manages to convey the Yuletide spirit."

Hilda is the first to appear. She sorts through the packages,
picking out her own, sniffing several and concluding, a little pa-
tronizio^y, that here are "Gloves . . . Handkerdiiefs . . . Bed-
room slippers . . . and that same tired toilet water I wouldn't
use on a dog."

Next Judy appears, all dressed up in her Sunday best. Judy

160 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

circles the tree admiringly, casuaOy lifting off a candy cane and
starting work on it, as Fi^'s knodc announces her arrival. The
girb meet at the door, eadh with a package for the other, and
each with the simultaneous greeting —

"Merry Christmas — and herel"

Eagerly they undo their gifts. They are both imitation leather
pocketbooks — ^Judy's red, Fuffy's green — and each with lip stick
and Incite cigarette case, whidi, they allow, will probably have
to be hidden until they decide to get the habit

Fufi^ would like a report on the Ellen C. matter. Judy has
been working on that, but there are no new developments except
that Mr. Graves has been wonderful to Mrs. Graves — which looks
suspicious. Fuffy has additional advice to give, but there is a
phone call from her "menace" —

"Your mother sa3rs she thought she told you not to go out,"
reports Judy, dutifully, "and if you don't go downstairs right
away you won't get your presents."

"Sometimes I wonder," wonders Fufify, addly, "are parents
worth all we go through for them I • . • Well, Merry Christmas
encore, and thanks loads for the bag I" She's gone.

With a furtive look around, Judy goes to the phone and calls
Ellen Curtis. She wants to make sure that Ellen is coming over
to wish them a Merry Christmas. It is important that Judy
should see Ellen; a matter of life and death, in fact — '^ell,
practically life and death! Anyway, it is very vital 1"

Judy's Christmas greeting for Dad is hearty, though it isn't
easy to explain the candy cane before breakfast. The greeting
for Mother is even heartier, but again the candy before break-
fast matter comes up. Judy is pretty irritated about that —

"All right, Judy, forget it," Dad compromises, cheerily. "To-
day you can let tixai tapeworm of yours run riot."

Judy has gone to call Lois, and Harry has a chance to give
Grace the aquamarine earrings and clips that belong naturally in
the picture, seeing that they had agreed as usual not to give
each other anything.

This time, to Harry, there is an excuse. It looks as though
the junior partnership were going through, and if that happens
they can prepare to ignore money.

"I take back everything I ever said about J.B. — ^he's adora-
ble 1" Grace is quite happy.

For a moment the spirit of a peaceful Christmas settles over
the home of the Graves. After all, the children are a good cut

JUNIOR MISS 161

above Uie average and sweet, and here is Hilda cheerfully an-
nouncing breakfast.

A second later the door of Lois' and Judy's room bursts open.
Judy backs out on the defensive and Lois follows threatenii^y.
Judy, it seems, has been practically dousing hersdf with I^is'
cologne^ and Lois doesn't intend to stand for it. It is such a
waste of cologne. Who wants to smell Judy, anyway? Fatihtor
has to be firm in restoring order.

Now, by a viva-voce vote, principally by Judy, it is decided
to put off breakfast until the packages are opened. The girls
have bounded to the tree and begun sorting and tearing open
thdr gifts. There is another botite of cologne for Lois, which
explains everything. Judy was only trying to be rid of the sup-
ply on hand so Lois would need more. Now they're friends
again.

There are silk stockings for Judy, and a cashmere sweater for
Lois, and a lot of other things. Judy has bought her father a
Cape Cod barometer. ''In bad weather the liquid goes up the
spout and in a hurricane it overflows," proudly explains Judy.
For her mother she has bou^t a ''peculiar contrition with a
frog's head and a long rubber tube."

"It's a combination ash tray and cigarette holder for smoking
in bed. . . . The cigarette is in the frog's mouth, and you puff
on this end and the ashes automatically drop into the tray. . . .
And if you fall asleep nothing can happen."

Judy also, gets her first pair of high-hed shoes, and is out of
her slippers and into the shoes in no time. They fed absolutely
wonderful, even if Judy does have some little cUfficulty walking
in them. "You better walk with crutches until you get used
to them," suggests Lois, cattily, and would have been bopped
over the head if Judy hadn't tripped on her heels when she tried
to rush her.

Now Judy has torn into what proves to be the grandest pres-
ent of all — a red coat with a squirrel fur collar. The coat is a
fair knock-out for Judy and she won't even admit that it may be
a size small, which obviously it is. She refuses to take it off,
or even to consider changing it —

Grace — Maybe we can find something in the Junior Miss de-
partment—

Lois {giving her mother a look, crosses to Judy and pulls the
coat from her) — For heaven's sake, turn around and get into

162 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

thisi (Judy looks at ker kopefuBy and stmgffes mio ike coat
again.)

Grace — Lois, if you rip it, we won't be able to take it back.

Lois (putting tke coat into place and tying tke bow at tke
front) — ^Anybody would think that nobody had ever heard of
alteraticms in tUs famOy. Besides, it's p^ectly sflly to think
that Judy could wear a Junior Miss coat. You don't want her
to look like her own grandmotho*, do you?

Judy (eagerly) — Besides, 111 go on a diet. I was only waiting
for New Year's to make a resolution 1

Grace (dubiously) — ^Well . . .

Judy — Please — now that I'm getting the dothes I always
wanted, you won't have to worry about my figure, I promise.

Lois — ^I think it's perfectly charming. But, really, Judy, you
shouldn't wear a bow. It makes you look like a sack of meal —
(Ominously.) — or worse.

Judy (bitterly) — ^What do you mean — ^worse?

Lois (meaningly) — ^You know what I told you.

Judy (lips trembling) — ^I do not!

Lois — Oh, yes, you dol You look it. (Laugks.)

Harry — ^What are you two talking about?

Grace — ^Look what?

Judy — ^Look pregnanti (Harry chokes back a guffaw.)

Grace — ^I never heard such dreadful talk! You ou^t to be
ashamed of yourselves.

Judy — ^Lois is always saying it.

Grace (to Lois) — ^If I ever hear you say that again, Lois, no
more dates for a month I

From J.B. there is a beautifully dressed doll for Judy, which
she thinks is pretty "screwy." The idea! "Ill put it under the
tree just for fun until I can think of some child to give it to,"
announces Judy, giggling excitedly. . . .

Breakfast is spoiling, and Hilda finally gets the family started
for the dining room. Judy, however^ decides to begin her diet-
ing, seeing she isn't himgry anyway, and Lois has a date to go
to church with Albert Kunody.

Judy is alone, admiring her new coat in the mirror, when
Uncle Willis arrives. He has brought Judy and Lois beauty aid
kits, and that's important, but the thing that is most important
to Judy is Willis' willingness to give up church so they will have
a chance to talk over a very important matter alone — a matter
of life and death.

JUNIOR MISS 163

They probably would have gone right to this business, if Fuffy
Adams' peculiar knock had not interrupted them. Willis de-
cides to retire to the breakfast room for the moment.

Fuffy is also wearing high-heeled shoes and is all but struck
breathless at the si^t of Judy's new coat. A moment later she
has forgotten everything but the Uncle Willis-Ellen Curtis case.
Fuffy is thrilled to know that Judy has contacted E.C. and that
she is coming right over. She is also thrilled at the prospect of
getting a peek at Unde Willis. ''I've never seen a real crimi-
nal/' Fuffy confides.

A moment later Harry, Grace and Willis come from breakfast
and Fuffy gets her msh. She stares at Willis in such open-
mouthed awe that Grace is embarrassed and is at some pains to
start the girls off on a walk. They are barging through the door
just as the bell rings and another of the men in Lois' life, Albert
Kunody, who is 18 and wears horn-rimmed glasses and a studious
air, is revealed. Judy and Fuffy have a giggle as they brush past
Albert.

Lois has gone to get her things and Albert tries to cover the
wait naturally by taking a brand new cigarette case from its
chamois bag and offering the other men a cigarette. Even though
they do not care to smoke at the moment, he still has a chance
to take a new lighter from another chamois bag and li^t up for
himself.

With Lois and Albert gone Harry and Willis have their first
chance for a talk. Willis would like to explain that he has never
ceased being grateful for all Grace and Harry did for him when
he was in trouble —

"Oh, what the hell," breaks in Harry. 'We were both a
couple of young punks— and whatever you did — it was just bad
judgment — "

"They don't try to disbar you for bad judgment."

"But you weren't disbarred."

" — ^Even if it took every nickel you had!"

"I don't want to hear any more about it — and if you ever
bring it up again I'm going to get sore! There's only one thing
that should be on your mind right now — and that's getting back
on your feetl"

"Sold. ... I just want to say one thing, Harry — the reason
I stayed away so long was because I was trying to get enou^
together to pay you back. But I just couldn't. . . ."

"I know that, Bni. . . ."

Harry and Grace have no more than left for church than Judy

164 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

and Fti£^ reappear. Tliey had come hatk tliroq^ Uie servants'
entrance and are prepared to go on with dieir conspiracy, some-
what to Willis' bewildermenL A moment later EDen Cortis is
announced.

Judy is an ezdtemenL She hopes they are not going to have
any trouble with Uncle WilUs' dd gang, seeing that they are
about to involve an innocent party —

''Now, look, Unde Willis — ^I wouldn't talk about my past
ri^t away, if I were you," cautions Judy. ''I'd wait untfl you
get to know each other better."

"What are you taDdng about? Know wko better?"

"Youll see in a minute. . • . Now, would you mind waiting
in the bedroom 'tfl I caU you — Please, Uncle WHlis."

"Judy, I know you're trying to help me, but IVe got to know
what this is all about."

"Pfawe, Uncle WillisI"

So Unde Willis b pushed into the bedroom and EDen Curtis
is shown in. It takes some little explaining on Judy's part to
convince Ellen that whatever it is that seems to be wrong with
her (Judy), it is really all right. Will EDen please take off her
glasses? Will i^e pl^ise take a seat on the couch? Will she
stay just as she is?

Willis is brought into the room and introduced. For a mo-
ment he and EUen stare at each other, having some trouble
keeping their faces straight.

"Wdl, there's nothing more / can do," announces Judy; "be-
sides I've got a very important date, so 111 just leave you two
alone."

With this she dashes into the kitchen to join Fufify. Willis
and EDen continue their puzzled expressions a second and then
burst into laughter. New introductions are in order and a few
explanations. Ellen thinks perhaps she had better go, but Willis
is anxious that she should stay —

"Miss Curtis," Willis is saying, "I've been away for so long,
it's difficult for me to make conversation. But please don't de-
sert me. I'm dying to talk and just keep talking."

"Yes, I know that feeling too," EDen admits.

Willis — It's not just a feeling — ^it's almost a mania — ^I've got
so many years to make up for —

Ellen (smiling sympathetically) — ^I promise not to desert
you.

Willis (gratefully) — ^Thanks. . . . (Anxiausly.) Has Judy

JUNIOR MISS 165

told you anything about me?

Ellen — ^No, not a thing.

Willis {sighs m reUef) — ^That's good. She's built a whole
movie around me and I can't extricate myself.

Ellen {laughing) — ^I think she's got me worked into the plot,
too, but I don't know where.

Willis — ^I'm afraid it's got something to do with a — ^with a
good woman's love.

Ellen (bUnhmg) — ^That sounds like Judy. . . . {She looks at
her glasses in her hand.) Oh, now, I understand. {She puts
them on with a quizzical look.) Can you bear them?

Willis {puzzled) — ^I beg your pardon?

Ellen — Never mind. . • . You know, you may not find your-
self doing all the talking — ^I've got a few lost years to make up
for myself.

Willis {staring) — ^You? I don't understand —

Ellen {rising, nervously) — ^I don't know what made me say
that—

Willis {rising hastily) — ^Don't go.

Ellen — ^I reidly must.

Willis — Can I drop you somewhere?

Ellen — ^Yes, of course.

Wnxis — ^You know, Miss Curtis, I always used to think that
movies were a bad influence on children — but I've changed my
mind.

Ellen — ^Yes, they can be very educational. I think I'll start
going to the movies again.

Wnxis — ^We all should! By the way, have you seen Tyrone
Power in '^Criminal Code"? I'd like to see that.

With the closing of the door the conspirators' heads pop around
the arch. Everything is working to their satisfaction. They
rush to the window to see whether Willis and Ellen take a taxi
or walk. They walk. That's a good sign, too.

Coming bade into the room Fuffy discovers J.B.'s doll under
the tree. How perfectly saccharine! "Needless to say I'm just
leaving it there for his benefit," Judy is quick to explain. "Natu-
rally!" agrees Fufify, with deep understanding.

"Before I leave I want to congratulate you," says Fuffy,
solemnly offering her hand to Judy. "Not only have you saved
a marriage that was heading to the rocks — but you have thrown
two people together that may end in a very happy result. Judy,
you're a regular Court of Human Relations."

166 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

"You're ri^t/* admits Judy, proudly. "Thank you, Fufi^.''
Fuffy is gone. Judy doses the door and slips off her high-
heeled shoes with a sigh of rdief . Her eyes catch sight of the
doll J.B. has sent her. She glances around stealthfly, picks up
the doll and b sitting cross-legged on the floor, holdhig the doll
tightly in her arms and humming a lullabyi "Go to sleep. . . .
Go to sleep . • •" as the curtain falls.

It is around noon on New Year's Day. Christmas decorations
are missing from the Graves' apartment So, for the moment,
are the Graves. Ellen Curtis and Willb Reynolds, who have
called with special greetings and a kiss for Judy, discover from
Hilda that Mr. and Mrs. Graves just made the bedroom a few
hours before, and have not been heard from since. Ellen and
Willis are disappointed, but able to take it. They are in each
other's arms and very happy when Judy appears.

Willis and Ellen have come to tell her that Ellen knows all;
that they are very happy; that Willis is, from that day forth,
going straight as a die, and that she (Judy) is an inspired child.
Otherwise they will hold their great surprise for Harry and Grace.

One by one the family appears. Lois is holding a wet com-
press to her aching head, and complaining of a wild night. "I
know," says Judy; "the midnight show at Loew's S3d St. and
a wild brawl at Childs'." That isn't much to one who had had
a glass of champagne with Fuffy and her father. . . .

Harry and Grace are looking and feeling pretty seedy; Harry
wearing a robe over his pants and imderwear, Grace in her negli-
gee. Nerves are on edge and practically anything irritates them.
Grace would like to know if J.B. had said an3rthing more about
the junior partnership, but as far as Harry remembers, J.B.
spent his time trying to make an impression on old man Cum-
mings, senior member of Cummings, Reade and Barton, whose
account, if J.B. could get it, would practically remake Harry's
whole world.

Judy has an idea that perhaps they would like to hear her
New Year's resolutions, and Grace is sure they would. Without
further urging Judy starts to read:

"Resolutions of things to do from now on, by Judy Graves.
. . . One— do not eat more than enough to keep healthy — "

"No more than the average family of five," suggests Lois.

"Two — arrange to have ten minutes alone with yourself every
day for introspection. . . . Three — ^try to be tolerant with the
rest of the family. . . . Four — keep a cool head and an open
mind in all political discussions. . . ."

JUNIOR MISS 167

''Five— honor thy father and mother . . ." This from Dad,
wfaidiy added to a vigorous ring at the door, breaks up the

The caller is another of Lois' men, this one "a powerful brute
of a lad with a booming voice. His name is Tommy Arbudile
and he takes Lob' introduction of her famfly in hi^i — "

''Don't tdl me who this little lady is/' booms Tommy, turn-
ing to Grace. "I could spot your motho* any^riiere, Lois. She's
a dead ringer for you! Looks more like your sister."

"I'm ^ad you think so, Mr. Arbuckle." Grace is smiling,
weakly.

"And this is my baby sister."

"Hy'ah,kid!"

"Nuts!" says Judy, and goes quickly into the kitchen.

Excitements continue. A Western Union messoiger boy ap-
pears to sing a rhjrmed greeting to Judy. It is from Haskell
Cummings, and was sent, it may be, because she has made an
inqvession on him, but more Iftdy, thinks Judy, because she
had sent him one for Christmas.

Ful^ Adams bounds in to wish everybody a loud, "slap-
happy" New Year and to report, quietly, to Judy, that her
father, plastered the night before, has appeared with "a head
out to here" and a cut Up.

Presently J. B. Curtis telephones. He, too, is on his way to
caU on the Graves, and Judy urges him to come, even if her
mother and father are lying down. With Unde Willis and Ellen
the way they are, Judy realizes that Unde Willis will have to
have a job, and J.B. should know about it. She sends Fuffy
away so she can talk with J.B. alone.

J.B. is full of New Year's cheer, having had a couple of quick
pidLups, has brou^t a box of candy for Grace and insists that
Judy call her father —

"These young punks don't know how to drink any more! Why,
111 bet I had two for every one of your old man's last night, and
look at me — fresh as a daisy! ... Go ahead, wake him up.
I've got some news that'll make him fed like a new man."

Judy hesitates. "Mr. Curtis," she says, dipping into her
mother's candy, "I want to thank you for the lovdy doll you
sent me."

"Don't thank me — ^thank Santa Qaus. You stiU bdieve in
Santa Claus, don't you?"

Judy — ^Implidtly.

J.B. — Go ahead, wake up your father.

168 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Judy — ^Mr. Curtis, can I ask yoa something?

J.B. — Sure, go ahead.

Judy (sitting near kim, earnestly) — ^Mr. Curtis, you have a
very large business, haven't you?

J.B. (snuigly) — ^Just about all we can handle. . . . And your
dad's going to be a very important part of it!

Judy (pursuing her own thoughts) — ^Mr. Curtis, if you knew
a man that was unjustly convicted of a series of crimes he had
never committed, how would you fed toward him?

J.B. (grinmng) — ^Like a brother.

Judy (nodding) — That's what I thou^t — And you would
want to help that man regain his place in society, wouldn't you,
Mr. Curtis? Give him a job, I mean. . . .

J.B. — ^Any timel Any timel I'd like nothing better than fill-
ing my office with ex-convicts.

Judy (jumping up, happily) — Gee, that's swdll Account of
Ellen, I mean I

J.B. (sharply)— Ellen? What about Ellen?

Judy — Well, if she's going to get married, he's going to need
a job somewhere I

J.B. (jumping up) — ^Ellen — married! What the devQ are you
gibbering about?

Judy (scared) — ^Notiiing. ... I wasn't gibbering about any-
thmg. . . .

J.B. (grabbing her and shaking her furiously) — You tell me
what you started to say!

Judy (whimpering) — I was just going to say that I think Ellen
and my Unde Willis are very mudi in love, that's all. . • .

J.B. (subsiding a little) — Your Unde Willis? Never heard
of him I

Judy (sobbing) — ^I know. Nobody's allowed to mention him.
He's been away for ten years. . . .

J.B. (roaring) — Away? Where?

Judy (backing away) — ^You know — ^he was the one I was
telling you about — the one you're going to give a job to . . .
Ellen's fiancd —

J.B. (bellowing) — Stop saying that, GoddamitI Ellen's not
in love with anybody! (He looks around wildly, springs to the
Graves' bedroom door and throws it open.) Come out here,
Harry. I want to talk to you! (He turns wrath fully on Judy
who is quivering in fear.) Ex-convict! I'll be damned!

Harry (running out anxiously, struggling into his robe, fol-
lowed by Grace) — ^What's the matter, J.B.? What's wrong?

maoM

JUNIOR MISS 169

J.B. — ^Wrongl What the hell's the idea of letting my daughter
run around with that jailbird brother of yours?
Hasry (glaring at Judy) — He's not my brother and —
Gbace (breaking in) — ^He's my brother, and he's not a jail-
bird!

J.B. is not to be put off with any easy explanations. He knows
what Judy told him and he is ready to accept it as the truth.

"Willis Rejmolds is the oldest friend I have," Harry is shout-
ing in Willis' defense. "He was my roommate in college and he
was my partner when I first started to practice."

"Rejmolds" — ^J.B. recalls the name now, and something of a
scandal. Disbarment, that's what it was. A disbarred lawyer —
and engaged to his daughter —

A ring at the bell brings a plea from Grace that everybody
please be quiet. She opens the door and there stand "Ellen,
looking radiant and hugging Willis' arm, and Willis beaming in
embarrassment."

Ellen flies to Grace's arms, hardly noticing her i^plectic
father until he demands an explanation. Then ^e turns hai^ily
back to Willis, takes his arm and faces her father —

"This is going to be quite a surprise, Dad — ^Willis — this is my
father — Dad, this is Willis Rejmolds, my husband."

"Good GodI" explodes J.B.

"But — ^but, Willis — ^this is fantastic," interrupts Grace. "You
never even told us you knew Ellen."

Ellen — I'm afraid it's my fault, Grace. (She looks at kef
fatker.) I — I wanted it that way. . . . (She goes to her father.)
Forgive me, Dad. I know it must seem crazy to you, but we're
both so terribly happy. . . . (She sweeps Judy into ker arms.)
And just think, Judy darling, if it hadn't been for you, we might
never have met. (Tke others turn and look at Judy who looks
at them with wide-eyed fear.)

Hasky (fixing her with a baleful eye) — ^That's my Judy.

J.B. — ^EUen, have you completely lost your mind?

Ellen — ^No, Dad — I just told jrou — ^I'm terribly happy. I
was sure you would be, too.

J.B. — ^Not when I find you married to a disbarred jailbird I

Willis — ^Just a moment, Mr. Curtis. I've never been in jail
and I've never been disbarred!

J.B. — If I remember the case, you should have beenl

Ellen — Father I

170 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Willis — ^If it wasn't tactless I'd bring up the Angdus Baking
Company case — ^you looked a little frayed around the edges be-
fore that blew overl

J.B. — How dare you question my int^rity? Harry, did you
hear that?

Hasky — ^Yes, and I've heard it on even better authority than
WiUis.

J.B.— What!

Grace (soothingly) — ^We all make mistakes, J.B.

J.B. — My only mistake was getting mixed up with you and
this whole damn family!

Hasry — ^That's my family you're talking about 1

J.B.— I know itl

Hasry — Lower your voice. My head's splitting as it is!

J.B. — ^What do I care about your head? I'D yeU all I goddam
please!

Hasky — ^Not in my house, you won't!

Grace — Harry, please —

J.B. — Graves, you're fitdshedf You're through! Get out of
my office and stay out!

Harry — It's a pleasure!

Grace — Oh, Harry!

Ellen — Dad!

The door bursts open and in comes Lois, smiling regally and
followed by Tom Arbuckle and a couple of other boys. Lois
wants them all to meet the family, but her father greets her
with a shouted request that she please get out and take her
friends with her. Lois is crushed. The boys turn tail and run.

"It'll give me a great deal of pleasure never to see any of you
again as long as I Uve." J.B. has recovered his hat and coat and
stalked through the door.

Grace (in a small voice) — Don't believe him, Ellen. He's so
excited he doesn't know what he's saying.

Ellen — ^I don't care about that . . . (Turns to Harry.)
Oh, Harry, I fed so awful for you . . .

Harry — It had to come. I've been sitting on that keg of
dynamite for seven years.

Willis — I never should have come back. I've got the
damnedest faculty for messing up your lives. . . .

Judy (starting to tip-toe out of the roam. Harry catches
sight of her. She stops and smiles weakly at him) — Can I get

JUNIOR MISS 171

you a glass of water, Daddy, dear? (Turns to Grace.) Mother,
should I ask Hilda to make some hot chocolate?

FuFPY (knocking on door and bouncing in cheerfully) — ^A
slap-happy New Year, everybody! Hi-yah, Judy, did everything
work out okay?

Hasky — ^Judy, go to your room, and stay there 'til I send for
you — ^which may be neverl (Judy rushes out to her bedroom.
Harry turns to Fufpy.) Fuffyl Get out of here!

FuFPY— What?

Harry — ^You heard me, get out!

FuFFY (retreating) — ^Who do you think you are, my father?
(ExUs.)

Harry — ^A slap happy New Year, everybody!

The curtain falls.

ACT III

It is the following evening. Harry Graves has just got home
with a load of his office paraphernalia — "including a desk set,
a large, inverted mounted fish, a humidor and a pipe rack, pic-
tures and two bundles of legal volumes tied together with a
cord."

The sight is distressing to Grace, but Harry is able to take it.
He reports that he and J.B. are still mad, but J.B. is a little
the madder of the two.

Judy, coming from a bubble bath and smelling of soap, is a
litUe excited by the prospect of their being poor. Her friends
the Bateses are poor, and have a lot of fun cooking and taking
turns washing the dishes. From now on, what with her new
coat and her being able to wear Lois' cast-off things, Judy can't
see that she is going to be any problem at all. Besides, lots of
men have to start all over again. Look at Walter Pidgeon. "He
was fired from his job," recalls Judy, "but instead of being dis-
couraged. Daddy, he met Don Ameche and they got into a very
successful racket and had a very happy ending."

"Will you keep that kid away from the movies?" shouts Harry
at Grace. He turns angrily on Judy: "If you don't shut up and
keep out of my way you're not going to have such a happy
ending."

Grace would send Judy to her room to continue dressing for
Mary Caswell's party, but Judy must linger on, giving her
mother more and more advice until she gets herself slapped for
her impudence. At this "Judy blinks and forces back the tears

172 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

as she looks at her mother with an expression of infinite hurt."

A second later Lois has dashed from her room, her eyes red
with weeping, her feelings hurt beyond repair. She is determined
that she will not go back to school and have the whole senior
body laugh at her because her father had thrown three football
stars out of the house ''like some kind of a— of a heartless truck
driver."

"Oh, bilgel" sneers Judy.

"You insufferable little dope!"

"Aw, go peddle your papers I"

"I ou^t to sock you!"

"Come on I Come on I I'd like to see you try it 1" Judy has
squared off threateningly, moving her arms like a wrestler.

With threats of a spanking for them both, Grace has just got
the girls quieted when their father comes back prepared to take
up matters with his debutante daughter. He is in no mood to
consider an apology to the aggrieved football squad. Nor to
discuss planned economies for the future with Grace. What he
would enjoy most right now is a good deal of being let alone.

But Grace is full of plans. They can let Hilda go. They can
cut down the kids' allowances. They can take a cheaper apart-
ment, and Lois can go to Hunter College instead of to Smith —

All very nice, but Harry can't see it. They haven't been able
to put anything aside; there will be nothing coming in; there-
fore they will have to start again from the beginning. Probably
the best he will be able to do is another $25 a week junior clerk-
ship in some other law office. Rather than that — ^why can't he
open his own office? He's been making money for other people
long enough —

"Grace, darling," Harry explains, gently; "it takes an awful
lot of time and cash to build up your own practice. . . . No, I'm
afraid I'm just about finished with the law."

Grace (jumping up) — ^What else could you do? That's your
profession!

Harry — ^I've been thinking of getting into some other
field. . . .

Grace {unhappily) — ^When you were just beginning to do so
well — (Judy has come in unnoticed, carrying a tray. She
stands in the foyer-archway, listening unhappily,)
. Harry {putting an arm around Grace tenderly) — Darling,
you'll have to help me. . . . {She looks at him anxiously.) It
may take a little while to get started and I thought for the next
few months you and the kids might — {He pauses.) Well, I

JUNIOR MISS 173

was thinking you and the children might visit the folks in Kansas
aty . . .

Ghace — Oh, darling. . . .

Hahsy {cheer f My) — It's going to be tough on me too, but
with a break I may be able to send for you sooner.

Grace — Don't look so tragic, darling. We've been through
this once before and we can go through it again. Besides, I can't
believe anyone as brilliant as you ^1 have any trouble getting
just the right thing. (Cheerfully.) But you've got to i^omise
me one thing, darling; if you're going to eat in restaurants, you're
not going to eat vc^ cutlets — ^you know what they do to you.
And I'm not going to lie awake nights in Kansas City, wonder-
ing if I still have a husband.

Hasky (tenderly) — Do you know something, Grace — I'm very
fond of you. (Suddenly he notices Judy, looks wamingly at
his wife. Judy comes forward slorvly, her eyes filled with tears.)

Judy — ^Here — Here's your — (She goes toward Grace, who
takes the tray from her as it starts to tUt over.)

Harry (comfortingly) — Don't, Judy — Please, baby —

Judy (wailing) — Oh, Daddy! . . .

Harry — Come on! Didn't you just tdl me how much fun it
was going to be?

Judy— Oh, don't, please— I didn't know —

Grace — There's nothing to cry about, Judy. Don't you want
to travd, and visit your grandparents?

Judy — No.

Harry — You're going to get your eyes all red and swollen for
the party.

Judy (tragically) — ^Who cares about the party? It's all my
fault — I did it — and I don't blame you for hating me!

Grace — ^Judy, what a thing to say —

Harry — You had nothing at all to do with . . . (Cheerfully.)
Now, what are you going to wear at the party?

Judy (sobbing louder) — I don't know — and I don't care! Do
you realize what I've done? I've broken up the whole family!
(Grace and Harry look at each other helplessly.)

Grace (tearfully) — ^Judy, I want you to stop saying those
silly — those stupid — those idiotic — Oh, Harry — (Suddenly
she breaks and starts to weep. She turns, hurries into the bed-
room, Harry looking after her unhappily.)

Harry — Don't, Judy, Judy, please, baby . . . Grace —

Her father and mother have gone into the bedroom. Judy,
biting her lips to fight back a sob, squats grimly into a Yogi posi-

174 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

tion on the floor and goes into her rhythmic breathing exercises.
For a second or two she gets along nicely, then in the middle of
a breath, she sobs violenUy and bursts into tears.

Coming from her bedroom, snifi&ng, Lois finds Judy sobbing.
From her she hears the story of their being sent away to ELansas
City. With that announcement their troubles merge and they
are sisters in distress —

"Gee, Lois, you're wonderful," sobs Judy. "I don't know how
you put up with me as long as you did."

"Don't be a goonl After all, we're sisters, aren't we?"

They are in each other's arms when Fuffy's knock is heard.
"Fuffyl At a time like this!" Lois is disgusted.

Fuffy is wearing a wrapper, her hair is up in curlers and she
is convinced that she smells beautiful. Also she would like an
opinion on nail polishes. She has put a different shade on each
nail of one hand, ranging from mother-of-pearl to deep purple.

"Revolting! Does your mother know you're using it?" de-
mands Lois.

"I'm not gonna tell her. I'm just going to walk out with
gloves on. . . . {Holding up her pinkte.) This is the one /
like. . . . It's almost black."

"I think it's perfectly disgusting for a child of fourteen to try
to act like a femme fat ale/''

With that Lois sweeps into her own room, leaving Fuffy to
stare after her scornfully. "Boy, what a poison puss!" says
Fuffy. "Don't you dare call my only sister Lois a poison puss! "
answers Judy, tibreateningly, and that takes Fuffy completely by
surprise —

"Okay, okay — I take it back!" She is backing away from
the pugnacious Judy. "Say, what's the matter with you? Are
you goin' screwy? Boy, you've changed since the last time I
saw you!"

Judy {nodding profoundly) — ^Yes, Fuffy — You know, in the
last fifteen minutes I've aged fifteen years.

Fuffy {impressed) — ^What happened?

Judy — I can't tell you anything except that we have suddenly
become poverty-stricken.

Fuffy {awed) — No kiddin'?

Judy {nodding) — Yes, and what's more — ^I'm not going to the
party.

Fuffy — ^You're not?

Judy {enjoying herself tremendously) — ^What's the use? It'd

JUNIOR MISS 175

be a farce to pretend that I'm enjoying myself at a time like
this.

FuFFY — But what happened?

Judy — ^Never mind — ^you saw the "Grapes of Wrath," didn't
you? Well, we're practically Okies.

FuFFY — Oh, Judyl You mean you're migrating away?

Judy — ^Yeah — ^Pop lost his job and we're going to live in
Kaiisas City.

FuFPY — How ghastly! . . . But what about me? You're
the only true friend I ever had. We've been through so much
together!

Judy (sadly) — ^Yes, we've been bosom friends ever since that
first day in the elevator when we first decided to be bosom
friends.

FuFFY — ^And what about the basketball team? We'll never
find another roving center like you/

Judy (nods and sighs) — It can't be helped. The school is not
suffering any more than I am.

FuFPY — Oh, Judy, you just can't go. You're the only thing
that makes my family bearable.

Judy — But what can I do?

FuFFY — ^There must be something. . . . (Suddenly struck with
an idea,) Maybe you could get a job and take some of the
strain off your father.

Judy — ^A job! What kind of a job?

FuFFY — Oh, any kind of a job just to begin with. Even if it's
only thirty-five or forty dollars a week.

Judy (eagerly) — Oh, that's wonderful, Fuffy. Then I could
redeem myself! Wouldn't that be super? /

Fuffy — ^We'U cut school tomorrow and go 'round answering
all the classified ads.

Judy (offering her hand) — ^What a pal!

Willis and Ellen are at the door. They have been to see J.B.
and are pretty glum as a result. Ellen had hoped for a new
understanding after the first shock, but J.B. had merely "gathered
momentum over night," and there was no hope of a reconcilia-
tion. Now Willis and Grace are looking for a place to live.

Grace has an idea. Hilda is going; the children can have
Hilda's room; Willis and Ellen can have the children's room and
everything will be fixed until Willis finds something to do. Nor
can Grace see why Willis and Harry, who had been successful in
an earlier partnership, should not work together again. Harry is

176 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

ready to try, but Willis is fearful be would be a handicap — and
the idea is dropped.

Now there is new excitement. J.B. is in the lobby and wants
to come up. Grace hopes he has realized what a fool he has been
and wants to make amends, but Harry is sure J.B. is looking
for his daughter. Anyway, Ellen doesn't want to see her father;
doesn't want him to know where she is. "It would just mean
another awful row," Ellen feels. "I can't go through it again.
I don't want to hear myself repeating some of the things I said."

Harry was right. J.B. is looking for Ellen. If she isn't there
where is she? "You know where die is, Grace! You better tell
me, and damn quick, tool"

"Stop bellowing — ^you're not in the office now. This is my
house!" Harry reminds him.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know where they are. Besides, your daughter doesn't
want anything to do with you — and I'm damned if I blame her! "

"Sure! It's all my fault — she did nothing — nothing at all!"

"I'm not going to argue the merits of your case. Would you
mind looking for her some place else?"

"If she's not here, she's coming here! And I'm not going to
leave until I've had a talk with her!"

"Just a minute! You can't wait here. This isn't a Greyhound
Bus Terminal!"

"Well, I'm waiting nevertheless! Try to evict me."

"Now, lissen, you — !"

"Oh, come on, Harry — " pleads Grace, taking her husband's
arm. "Let him sit here if he wants to make a fool of himself!"

"We're going out to dinner in a few minutes and you can have
the house to yourself. Just go on sitting there like an old poop! "
Harry follows Grace into the bedroom.

Judy, coming into the room and facing J.B. quite fearfully,
is ready to admit that everything has been her fault. Probably
she is, as J.B. says, a menace and should be put away some place.

She listens miserably as J.B. mutters to himself, seeking some
justification for his attitude toward Ellen and ^e is relieved
when the phone rings. Hilda announces that Mr. Haskell Cum-
mings is in the lobby.

Haskell Cimimings! The name is startling to J.B. "Tell him
to wait!" he shouts, ready to take the phone away from her.
Pushing Judy into her room, J.B. returns a little stealthily to
the phone. He is soon connected with his office and tr3ring to
make one Fowler understand —

JUNIOR MISS 177

''This is very important, so get this straight/' J.B. is saying
in a mufBed voice. ''Graves is tr3dng to steal Haskell Ciunmings
from under our nose. Now I want you to contact Barton ri^t
away. Where? White Sulphur Springs? What's he doing down
there? He could take a bath up here, couldn't he? All right —
111 have to handle this myself."

He hangs up just as Harry, a dangerous gleam in his eye,
comes back into the room.

"Haven't you gone yet?" demands Harry.

J.B. (very hurt) — ^Harry, it's hard for me to believe that you'd
do a thing like this. . . .

Harry {puzzled) — Do what?

J.B. — Surely you can get along without stooping to shyster
methods 1

Hasry {echoing him) — Shyster methods? {He stares at

JXJDY.)

J.B. — ^What else do you call it — sticking a gun in my stomach!

Harry — ^What the hell are you talking about?

J.B. — Please, Harry, don't be the innocent with me — I know
the game you're trying to play — I know when I'm licked! Here's
my proposition — a junior partnership and you bring Cunmiings,
Reade and Barton into the firm! {The phone rings again. J.B.
goes to the phone and grabs it. Listens a moment.) Tell him
to wait! {He hangs up and turns to Harry, desperately.) Now
look, Harry, I've gone through a great deal in these last two
days — I don't claim I've been a hundred per cent right, but
God knows I've had provocation. ... It seems to me you ought
to meet me halfway — after all that little monster of yoiws mar-
ried off my daughter. How about it, Harry — a junior partner-
ship, and you bring Cummings, Reade and Barton in with us?

Harry {bewildered) — J.B., I honestly don't know what you're
talking about.

J.B. {wearily) — ^AU right, you don't understand — I under-
stand. Is it a deal?

Harry — Deal?

J.B. — It's a deal! {Grabs Harry's hand, shakes it, then
crosses to the phone happily.) Okay, you can send Mr. Cum-
mings up now!

Now, as junior partner, J.B. should be willing to tell him where
his daughter is. Harry does, and the next minute a changed
father has rapped on the door and been admitted to a confer-

178 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

ence with Ellen and her husband.

At the phone Harry confirms the presence of Mr. Cummings
in the lobby — Mr. Haiskell Cummings, /r. A light dawns. ^'Oh,
my God/' explodes Harry, just as Judy arrives to be gathered
happily into her excited father's arms. What has he ever done
to deserve such a daughter! And they're not going to Kansas
City.

''Grace, I want you to meet one of the outstanding personali-
ties of our time — and very likely to be the first woman president
of the United States. (The doorbell rings.) There he is."

He has given Judy a gentle pat as she starts for her bedroom.
Judy stops to give him a hug, and her mother another.

Right royally does Judy's father receive Judy's young man.
Takes his hat and coat; offers him the most comfortable chair;
offers him a cigarette; compliments him upon the fit of his dinner
coat and is pleased to learn that his tailor is Rogers Peet.

''Mr. Graves, may I ask you a question?" ventures Haskell, a
little overwhelmed by the attention he is receiving.

"Why, you certainly may, Cummings, you certainly may."

"Mr. Graves, is it considered de rigeur at a formiaJ party to
smoke a pipe?"

"Why, it's the derigeurest thing you can do."

J.B., Willis and Ellen come from the children's room, chatting
amiably. "When I make a mistake, Willis, it's a beaut!" J.B.
is saying.

"Not at all; I've made a few myself," answers Willis, friendly-
like.

Ellen — ^Don't let him off the hook that easy.

J.B. — ^Where's Mr. Cummings, Harry?

Harry — Brace yourself, J.B.

J.B.— Huh?

Harry — May I present Mr. Haskell Cummings — ^Junior!

Haskell — ^How do you do?

J.B.— What?

Harry — ^He's taking Judy to a party.

J.B. — ^Well, I'll be damned. {The bedroom door opens and
Judy poses there a moment, dramatically. She wears a white net
dress, that billows out below the waist. Her dark brawn hair
lies in soft curls around her neck. On her feet she wears blue
satin sandals and over her arm she carries Lois' fur' jacket. In
her hand she holds a large chiffon handkerchief in which she has
wrapped lipstick and powder. Her nails are tinted and she is

JUNIOR MISS 179

very carefully made up. Judy looks slimmer and older, as pretty
as Lois — a Junior Miss.)

Judy — Good evening!

Harry {staring at her open-mouthed) — ^Welll Well. . . .

Haskell {turning cheerfully) — Hi'ya, there, Ju — I {He stops
and stares as he takes her in.)

Judy — ^Haskell! Aren't you nice to be so prompt!

Harry {taking her cape) — ^Allow me. {He slips it on her
shoulders admiringly.)

Judy {handing Haskell the handkerchief) — Here, Haskell.
Keep these in your pocket for me. I'm simply terrible. I lose
everything. {She turns and kisses her father.) Well, good night,
Daddy. {She walks across to her mother , her skirts swaying and
her soft hair moving gently across the collar of her cape. She
bends down and kisses her mother lightly.) Good night. Mother
dear. Don't wait up.

Grace {nodding open-mouthed) — Have a nice time, darling.

Judy {shrugging her shoulders, her eyes drooping wearily) —
Well, you know parties. . . . {She nods brightly to Lois.)
'Night, Lois dear ...

Lois — Good night, Judy.

Judy — Good night, all I (Haskell mutters a good night as he
opens the door. Judy pauses in the doorway.) I do love to
dance though — don't you?

Haskell — Good night! {To J.B.) Good night, sir. . . .

Judy — Good night, Mr. Curtis. {She kisses him.)

J.B. {resignedly)-— Okay, Harry. {To Haskell.) Yoimg
man, you're going out with a hell of a girl!

Ha^ell puts the pipe in his mouth. Judy and he turn to go as

THE curtain falls

CANDLE IN THE WIND
A Drama in Three Acts

By Maxwell Anderson

BEING a dramatist of achievement in the theatre carries an
obvious handicap. Each successive play is expected to top all
its predecessors in both its importance to the theatre and to the
times it is written to reflect. Disappointment in a master drama-
tist's work is spoken with a kind of personal resentment, even by
those who are his greatest admirers and strongest wellwishers.

Maxwell Anderson has gone through this experience many
times. The quality of his work is no more imeven fundamentally
than that of any writer whose sincerity and integrity are be-
yond question. But often his choice of theme or subject, or his
failure to bring theme and subject into effective expression in
the theatre, has developed in his plays weaknesses that have
been charged against his unevenness as a playwright.

"Candle in the Wind," an October, 1941, contribution to the
New York theatre, which was just then desperately in need of
an inspiring drama to give the early season a lift, suffered such
a reception. The Pla3n¥rights' Company and the Theatre Guild
joined forces for its production. Helen Hayes played the role
of its star. The play furnished a thoughtful and interesting
evening in the theatre, but there was still that note of disap-
pointment that, as said, inevitably follows the production of a
drama by one from whom only great works are expected.

"Since Mr. Anderson is a man of force and principle, and
since Miss Hayes is a woman of exalted spirit," Brooks Atkinson
wrote in the New York Times, "their statement of timeless truths
is courageous and sobering. But in spite of the unity of convic-
tion on both sides of the footlights, 'Candle in the Wind' . . .
left at least one playgoer last evening unstirred by things in
which he deeply believes." Pretty much the same note of quali-
fied approval ran through the reviews of Mr. Atkinson's col-
leagues.

The playgoing public, however, was more generously respon-
sive. "Candle in the Wind" continued for three months in
New York, and was then sent on tour with excellent box office

results.

180

CANDLE IN THE WIND 181

At the opening of Mr. Anderson's drama we are in a comer
of the gardens behind the palace at Versailles in the early fall
of 1940. There is a flight of steps that runs back to a path
leading to and away from the Palace terrace. It is very early
in the morning. Fargeau, a workman, is sitting on the terrace
balustrade reading a newspaper and Henri, with a park broom
in his hand, is looking over his shoulder. What they read, being
an account of the fall of occupied France, is emotionally dis-
tressing to them. And to Deseze, a park attendant, who shortly
comes upon them.

''I tell }rou they should be shot down, the traitors who write
such things, and those who print them," Fargeau is saying, ex-
plosively.

"The journalists are merdy the historians of the present, my
dear Fargeau. They write what exists. They can hardly choose."
Deseze is more conservative.

"Why, you fool, do you believe these lies? This is all the
doings of the secret agents 1 This is how they win! Up in Bel-
gium their secret agents ran through the villages crying, 'All is
lost! Fly I The Germans have broken through I Tliey are
butchering the peasants!' And the peasants believed them, and
clogged the roads — ^and the nation was destroyed! And now
you believe them!"

"We saw them take Paris and march on South. It's not diffi-
cult to believe the rest."

"I know they took Paris. They can take a city! They have
done that before. But France is not taken in a day nor a week!
Nor in a hundred years."

Presently a German Captain and a Lieutenant are heard talk-
ing in German down the path. They are, it soon appears, in
search of the Trianon. Getting their directions they go on, still
gossiping volubly.

Now, two New Hampshire schoolteachers, Charlotte and
Mercy, have come down the path. They, too, are seeking in-
formation. From their Baedeckers and maps tibey are, as they
tell Deseze, "attempting to reconstruct the past, with the most
inadequate evidence."

". . . There was once a lake here at Versailles," Charlotte
announces, while Deseze listens politely. "Lilies grew at the
margin, mingled with sedge, and large swans floated about on its
surface. Could you tell us where it was?"

"When was that lake here. Madam?"

"At the time of Louis XVIth."

182 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

'1 fear I cannot help you. Ancient as I appear, and old as is
my uniform, my recollection stops this side of Louis XVIth."

Nor can Deseze sympathize with their further desire to recon-
struct the picture of the gardens as they appear to Marie An-
toinette—

''The whole earth is at war, mesdames," says Deseze, with a
touch of impatience. ''All nations are in danger, and mine is
already overrun. The Germans take Paris and pour down to
the Pyrenees, and you hunt for the ghost of Marie Antoinette,
in the gardens of Versailles."

A somewhat excited feminine call for "Madeline" is heard in
the near distance. A second later a young woman runs down
the steps as though in amused flight from the caller beyond.

The newcomer is Madeline Guest, probably in her late twenties,
modishly garbed and attractively petite. Madeline is hoping
to hear Deseze say that he has seen an officer in the park this
morning, but there is no such good news as yet.

Presently Maisie Tompkins, Madeline's companion, appears.
She is tall and broad and, not being the long-distance type, is
puffing a little from her effort to keep up with Madeline. Neither
is Maisie entirely in sympathy with Madeline's determination
to keep this particular tryst. Certainly it isn't a very safe place
to meet a French officer, for all it may be an "enchanted spot."

"Raoul told me the legend," Madeline explains, happily. "Lost
things are 'found here. And if a woman waits here and wishes
hard enough, the man she loves will turn, wherever he is, and
come this way."

"I'm not superstitious," says Maisie, curtly, and adds: "Do
you mind if I say some things strai^t from the shoulder, Made-
line?"

Madeline — ^About Raoul?

Maisie — Yes.

Madeline — ^Yes, I mind a little, but you'U say them anyway,
and I can't go away at the moment.

Maisie — ^Well, I should have some privileges, darling. After
all, I've known you since high school. We ran through our
fifteens and twenties together, and you always got the boy I
wanted. Then we went on the stage together, and you always
got the parts I wanted too. Now you're a star and I'm selling
frocks, and I still can't find any malice in my heart for you, just
the same old foolish fatty degeneration. {Opens her bag, taking
out bag of chocolates.)

CANDLE IN THE WIND 183

Madeline — ^Maisie, you're an angel.

Maisie — By Rubens, I know. (Pops a chocolate into her
mouth.) And so I shall speak my mind. In the first place, I
don't think bell meet you here this morning.

Madeline — ^Why ?

Maisie — ^That p(iessage was sent yesterday from Brest, wasn't
it? Is it likely that he would get here this morning without a
road open or a railroad operating? And all those German patrols
about?

Madeline — ^Yes, it is likely.

Maisie — Well, suppose your charm works, and he does get to
this enchanted region — and he isn't caught, and everything's all
right — then we come to another question. He went through hell
to meet you here — ^how much does it mean to you? And how
much would you do for him?

Madeline — ^I'd do anything for him. ... I thought you liked
Raoul, Maisie.

Maisie — ^I do. I like him a lot. But I feel a bit protective
about him — and you. You're an American and he's a Frenchman.
He's a serious minded journalist and you're an actress. He's
attacked Hitler in his column for years. The Germans prob-
ably hate him as much as anybody in France. Well now, what's
going to happen to him? He can't stay in this country —

Madeline — ^He could come to America with me.

Maisie — ^Wdl — ^when you get to America — ^and start living in
the same house — are you sure it's all going to be rosy? How
much will you have in common — ^what will you talk about — ^you
don't read editorials.

Madeline — ^I know what you mean — that worried me too—
but we've talked about these things, Raoul and I.

Maisie — ^Well, if you've got it all worked out, I'm wrong.

Madeline — Shall I tell you what he said to me, Maisie? He
said that in the theatre you've played so much at love, are you
sure you're in love with me? Are you sure you're not acting?

Maisie — ^And what did you say?

Madeline — ^I said I was sure.

Maisie — Is that all?

Madeline — You know it is true when you're an actress it's
easy to put meaning into words you don't mean. I used to do
that, even offstage. But not any more. I don't think I could
ever play at love again.

Maisie — Because of him?

Madeline — Yes. And more than- that. You can't play at

184 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

serious things any more. The whole worid's changed. Maybe
it's because the Germans have set out to kill all love and kind-
ness, and instead of killing it, they've made love and kindness
more precious than ever.

Maisie feels that she must be getting back to her job, though
even that is getting a little difficult. ''It's hard to fit a Berlin
hausfrau into a Paris model. There's something fundamentally
wrong with the combination, and I mean fundamentally. (Rises.)
I don't like to leave you here. I have a sinking feeling that
you'll have to find your way back to Paris alone." At that
moment Raoul St. Cloud appears at the head of the path, a little
like an apparition. Tall and handsome, hatless and wearing a
French officer's imiform, Raoul stands for a moment before he
calls softly to Madeline and she answers.

''The gods are with you, and 111 be on my way," says Maisie.
"And never listen to me again on any subject, darling. I'm al-
ways wrong." She turns and disappears in the park as Raoul
comes down to the foot of the stairs.

"I'd have come toward you, but I can't move. You're not
wounded?"

"No." She is in his arms now for a long embrace. "Did you
pray for me?"

"Yes."

Raoul — I knew you must have. I've been through miracles.
I've prayed to you so long, from so many unimaginary places —
that saved me — I think there must be a God.

Madeline — There must be.

Raoul (holding her in his arms) — How I've wanted you —
how I've wanted you.

Madeline — Oh, my darling — I was so afraid your ship was
lost.

Raoul — ^It was.

Madeline — ^They said it would be impossible for a man to
come through free and alive.

Raoul — Yes, it was impossible, that's how I knew you prayed.

Madeline — ^Let me look at you —

Raoul — I'd have died in the sea if it hadn't been for you.
How did you do it, darling?

Madeline — You had time to think of me?

Raoul — ^Every time it got desperate I found myself thinking
of you, I could feel you there, saving my life — ^you were like a

CANDLE IN THE WIND 185

goddess, with your hand stretched over me. {They kiss, then
break; he looks around nervously.) I can't stay here too long,
there may be mopping up operations.

Madeline — ^I didn't know there was fighting still!

Raoul — ^Here and there, where men are stubborn.

Henri passes through. Yes, the two Germans are still in the
Trianon. He will keep watdi of them, and let Mademoiselle
know. Raoul goes on with his story. When Dunkirk was taken
Raoul's captain had refused to surrender. Their destroyer had
fought a lonely battle against four submarines. When finally
they were sunk Raoul was thrown into the sea somewhere about
the middle of the channel —

''A man can swim just so long in a frigid sea, with salt water
chopping over him, and no notion of East or West. I got rid of
my dothes in the water, and my coat with the one letter I ever
had from you, and in undressing I lost my precious piece of
plank, so I had nothing to cling to, but I clung to you — ^just to
you, my darling, and without you I'd be frozen, and drowned and
dead."

''It's unfair that men go through such things, and women
can't help them!"

''But you haven't listened! You couldn't have helped me
more with a lifeline! Darling, you know I'm sane enough, I like
to see things as they are, but coming straight out of it this way,
with no sleep and no breakfast — ^it seems like something more
than mortal!"

There is a little restaurant outside the grounds. Madeline
would take Raoul there, but first he must have a change of
clothes, a workman's suit preferably. Madeline will go for
these. There is also a matter of getting a wire off to Raoul's
friends. He must go to them as soon as possible.

^'A few of us are going south to try to find the French fleet.
We still have a fleet, you know, even though we have no coun-
try."

"But the war's ended," protests Madeline, her eyes wide with
anxiety.

"Not for me, dear, not for any of us who isn't helpless."
Raoul is confident that soon slie will understand; that if it were
in her power to make the decision for him, she would tell him
to go. If America were in desperate straights she would not think
much of those men who ran away —

"My darling! " Raoul is holding Madeline closely in his arms.

186 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

*We fell in love so quickly — ^we were so sure of each other — that
I hardly paused to think of what world you came out of — or
you to question mine. Now we face these things sharply, in an
hour of battle. . I am a Frenchman — and fight for France. For
years I fought with my pen against them, but not well enough.
Not well enough, darling, and so now we must all fight as we can
— desperately — ^with whatever arms there are — "

Oh, I wonder — I wonder — ^how many chances we're given. If
we part again. What if this time it's so long and so cruel, and
the iron cuts so deep that we change? It's such a fragile thing
— the meeting of lovers. There must be a place, and a time for
them to meet — and they must somehow stay alive and somehow
reach that tiny focus in eternity which is all they have. And
they must want to find each other — the flame must survive the
wind. How do we dare part, Raoul, knowing how all the chances
are against us?"

''Most lovers of the world are parting just that way these
days."

"But those lovers have no gulf between them. Don't you see,
Raoul, you're willing to die for something I don't understand.
And that comes between us."

"You'd die for it too, if it came to a choice."

"I, Raoul? What would I die for?"

"Rather than live ignobly."

"I don't know."

"But I know. Because I saw you from a long way off — ^when
I was there in the sea. And I know."

"You always do this to me, make me believe in miracles."

Before Madeline can leave Henri is back to warn them. The
Germans are leaving the Trianon. Guards have been put at the
park exits. Madeline must go and leave Raoul to do the best
he can. But he must not fight with the Germans. Better a
labor camp than that he should die —

". . . If you're alive there's still at least a chance! A chance
to get free! A chance to live!" Madeline has run to Raoul,
pleadingly. "Even for France it's wrong to die! It's giving up,
saying it's no use any more! Please, darling — "

Now the German Captain and the Lieutenant are heard ap-
proaching. Quickly Raoul sits upon the bench, his face turned
away, Madeline between him and the approaching officers. They
start up the steps and are about to pass on when the Captain
sees Raoul. He comes back and demands Raoul's papers which,
as Raoul explains, must be somewhere in the sea between France
and England —

CANDLE IN THE WIND 187

"Will you stand up, please?" The Captain is very polite, but
firm. "We are obliged to arrest all stragglers. We had hoped
to find none, but unfortunately for both of us, you are here. We
have placed a patrol at each exit, and you will therefore not at-
tempt to use your arms, for you are a sensible person. Your
automatic, please."

Raoul (starting to remove his gun from holster) — This is a
tame end for a soldier.

Madeline — ^No, no, Raoul. Please. (He unhooks his belt
and hands gun to Captain.)

Raoul — For the moment.

Captain — ^You see — every man's luck runs out sometime.

Raoul — ^Even Hitler's?

Captain — ^We shall see.

Lieutenant — Das well uns auf Heilten.

Captain — Das macht den nicht. Come on, this way.

Madeline — He's not serving against you, his ship was sunk,
he's here only to see me.

Captain — I can well believe you, my dear.

Madeline — But you can't take him now. There's to be an
armistice now. The war's ended. He's no danger to you, one in
so many millions.

Captain — I'm sorry, we have our orders.

Madeline — ^Then we must have a few minutes — ^to say what
must be said —

Captain — If there's nothing against him, he will be released
tomorrow, my dear.

Madeline — You say that, but it's not true!

Captain — ^Will you show me your passport? An American?

Madeline — ^Yes.

Captain — ^This gentleman is in my custody, mademoiselle. I
prefer that there is no interference, no argument, no outcry in
the streets. Will you go quietly to your hotel, or shall I detail
a soldier to escort you?

Madeline — ^I will go quietly.

Captain — Good. Come on, vorwaerts!

Madeline — Darling, till I see you —

Raoul — ^Yes, Madeline —

Raoul follows the Captain and the Lieutenant into the park.
The New Hampshire ladies have returned. They see the soldiers.
They would, if they could, help Madeline.

"If there is anything we can do — "

188 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

"Thank you — ^no — there's nothing."

Madeline has followed Raoul and his aq>tors into the park.
The curtain falls.

On the outskirts of Paris the Germans have taken a disused
pumping station and turned it into a concentration camp. In
the ''front office" the commandant, Colonel Erfurt, sits at an
elaborate desk near a huge metal door before which a guard is
stationed. Lieutenant Schoen, his assistant, is seated across the
room at a table near a kind of entrance cage fashioned of tim-
bers and heavy wire.

Colonel Erfurt is a handsome and commanding figure; a hard
face, a brusque military manner. Lieutenant Sdioen is the
younger man, a gentler t3rpe, but equally brusque.

Proceeding with the business of the day. Colonel Erfurt would
continue the interviewing of visitors. At the Lieutenant's sug-
gestion he agrees first to see Corporal Behrens, a new guard as-
signed to the camp. The Corporal is ushered in through two
doors of the wired entrance cage. He is a huge brute of a man,
and knows the answers expected of him by rote. The specialty
which he has developed is that of punishments. He has had two
years of this. Colonel Erfurt is satisfied. Let Lieutenant
Schoen continue the examination —

"Why are men punished in the Third Reich?" asks Schoen.

"Because they are guilty."

"And how do you faiow they are guilty?"

"Because they are condemned by the state, and the state
makes no errors."

"If you discovered that the state had made an error, would you
report it to the proper authorities?"

"It is impossible, sir, that the state has made an error. In
any conflict between the state and the individual, the state is
right, and the individual is wrong."

"But suppose God whispers in a man's heart, and tells him
truth so that he is right, and the state is mistaken."

"It is impossible, sir. There is no God except the state, and
the state carries out our Fuehrer's will."

Colonel Erfurt is satisfied. Let Behrens be sent to assist with
the punishments in the third tier.

The outside guard has announced two visitors. They are M.
and Mme. Fleury, a country couple, dust-covered, bedraggled
and miserable. They have come, with a proper card, hoping to
see their son. On order they "Heil, Hitler I" They are per-

CANDLE IN THE WIND 189

mitted to face Colonel Erfurt. He examines them curtly. They
are from Tours. They are poor people. They own a small
farm.

''Listen to me carefully ," Erfmt warns them. 'It is my cus-
tom to use kindness, but it is not my custom to repeat my words.
This camp is here for a special purpose. It does not contain all
grades and varieties of prisoners. We have here only political
or philosophical offenders who have given us reason to believe
them dangerous. It will not be possible for you to see your
son."

"But he is the gentlest of men," Mme. Fleury protests.

"Of course. I know."

"M. Director, we have walked here this hundred miles, for
there was no transport, even if we could pay, and we could not."

"I'm sorry. Madam — "

On second thought Colonel Erfurt thinks there may be a way.
Interviews are permitted only in the public interest. If the
Fleurys would be willing to ask their son a simple question — ^if
they would ask him how they can communicate with him without
the knowl^ge of the authorities —

"My son told us that we must never — even to save his life —
we must never assist you."

"Your son is ill — ^he is confined to his cot. He will be up and
about in a few days, but he is ill. If you wish to see him — "

"Yes, yes — ^we wUl ask the one question."

The Fleurys are turned over to a guard and ushered through
the metal door.

And now comes the word that Madeline Guest, the American
actress, is waiting. Miss Guest has been there several times and
they have looked into her background.

On Erfurt's orders Madeline is admitted to the wire cage. She
presents her card. She, too, is commanded to "Heil, Hitler 1"
She would ignore that issue, even to the extent of flatly refusing
the order. Lieutenant Schoen is disturbed. Colonel Erfurt
brusquely takes over. Madeline is admitted.

The Colonel is suavely solicitous. He begs Madeline to be
seated. He is pained that evil fortune finds one in whom she is
interested confined in his prison. It is possible something can be
done. If so he will be glad to help.

It is Raoul St. Cloud whom Madeline wishes to see. For
sentimental reasons? Madeline does not answer. Is she married?
She is not. Would she be willing to make sacrifices — important
sacrifices — to see M. St. Cloud? She would. Still, there must

190 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

be further investigation —

'I'm not entirely a free agent. Miss Guest/' explains Colonel
Erfurt. ''There are rules. I have to look into the case a little
further before I can answer that question. And a little earlier
or later in the day doesn't matter. Or does it?"

"Yes, it does matter."

''I should have thought the lover would reflect! The sooner I
see him, the sooner it's over — the later I see him the fewer hours
of absence left in the day. But no lover reflects."

''As you know, Colonel Erfurt, if you wish to make conversa-
tion I must listen."

"Ah, I see — ^you think I am wasting time! No, no — ^there is a
purpose. It is true that I take an artistic pleasure in the beauty
and vehemence of a passion, but as I study it I always think of
the value it may have, not for me, but for the state. You see?"

"I understand you."

Colonel Erfurt would have Lieutenant Schoen bring him the
St. Cloud papers. When they arrive they are studied carefully —

"Oh, yes, I thought I remembered," the Colonel remembers.
"M. St. Qoud is by way of being an amateur anthropologist?"

"I believe so, yes."

EsFUST — He has found relief from joiunalistic routine by
examining the facial index and tracing the ancestry of mankind?

Madeline — ^Yes.

Erfurt — ^It would be easier if he had stuck to journalism.

Madeline — ^Why do you say so?

Erfurt — ^I have here a review of "Mein Kampf," written by
M. St. Qoud in 1931 f or L^ Journal des Debats. Unfortimately,
he analyzes our Fuehrer's theories somewhat to their disad-
vantage. He also takes occasion to comment on our Fuehrer's
anatomical construction.

Madeline — ^That was printed in 1931?

Erfurt — ^Yes.

Madeline — ^And it is still held important?

Erfurt — Unfortimately, again, there were recriminations in
the press, and to make matters worse, our leader was subjected
to personal attack — ^which he remembers.

Madeline — Does this — ^have a bearing— on my request for an
interview?

Erfurt — ^Miss Guest, this dossier carries a stamp, which might
be interpreted "No Privfleges." Now a visit from you would
be considered a privilege, I'm certain.

Madeline — I may not see him?

CANDLE IN THE WIND 191

Erfust — I'm sorry, you may not see him.

Madeline — ^There was — ^a promise.

Erfust — From whom?

Madeline — He refused his name. But he was a German
official.

Erfurt — ^You should have insisted on the name. Would you
accept such a commitment from a stranger?

Madeline — But he knew you. He has influence with you.

Erfurt — How do you know?

Madeline — ^It was he who arranged this appointment.

Erfurt — ^At a price?

Madeline — ^Yes.

Erfurt — ^There is a Latin adage— caveat emptor.

Madeline — But if he was not a responsible official — how does
it happen he could arrange a meeting with you?

Erfurt — ^Ah, yes — I understand. There perhaps we should
be willing to acknowledge a defect. State control is the only
efficient control, but it requires a large corps of officials — a
bureaucracy, if you like. And under a bureaucracy, there comes
a time when the government mills grind slowly, and a modest
amount of bribery becomes necessary to the functioning of the
state.

Madeline — ^Then your government is for sale?

Erfurt — ^No, no — ^not at all. But the government, being wise,
accepts this unavoidable bribery as a new form of taxation. Of
whatever you paid the officer for the interview, he will keep only
a part. The government will take its share. And thereby we
convert a weakness into a source of strength. You are an Amer-
ican citizen, and therefore not taxable, yet we have collected a
tax from you.

There is a rattling at the inner door. The guards are bringing
M. and Mme. Fleury from their interview with their son. They
appear hopelessly crushed. Schoen unlocks the entrance cage
to let them through. As she reaches the gate Mme. Fleury,
moaning pitifully, starts to collapse. The guard pulls her up
sharply and the Fleurys are hurried through the outer door.
Madeline has risen to face Colonel Erfurt, who is apologizing
for this interruption —

Madeline — Colonel Erfurt, I cannot accept what you have
said as final. It isn't easy to speak of love in this new world
you have made. This wilderness of pain and lost children. I
can't defend my love. I only know that since he was taken, I

192 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

have had no hope of his return, no rest from the torment save in
seeking him. Since I have known he was here — the walls of this
cruel and ugly prison have gone with me wherever I am. Since
I have thou^t there would come a moment when I mi^t see
him — I have lived only in the hope — of that one point in time.

EsFURT — I believe you. Miss Guest, and I would help you if
it were possible.

Madeline — Others go through that door.

Erfust — ^No one will ever go through it to see Raoul St. Qoud.
(Rises.) That is and wiU remain quite impossible. There is a
terrible word written on these papers. The word Sterben. It
means 'Ho die." It is not often used. I do not often see it.
But when I do, I know for certain that all decisions in that par-
ticular case are out of my hands.

Madeline — ^I cannot believe you, and I will not. These de-
cisions are out of your hands only if you wish it so. You must
let me see him —

Erfurt — ^It's impossible —

Madeline — ^Nothing's impossible! Perhaps I make a difficulty
for you, perhaps it is easier to put me aside and go on with your
work! But I shan't be put aside! You will not stop me! I
shall haimt this prison. I shall not leave France till I have
seen Raoul St. Cloud!

Erfurt — Shall I tell you what will happen if you stay in
France?

Madeline — ^I know what must happen!

Erfurt — ^You will say to yourself, there must be a way out.
There must be a weakness. There must be somewhere a corrupt
guard. These hastily constructed camps cannot be impervious.
You will go to work to find this one weakness you need, this
little crevice which may widen to a crack in our system. You
will use all the ardor and the ingenuity of a woman in love, and
you will fail! Your love, your talent, your time and your money
will be wasted. Now that you have heard this, now that you
know this — will you be sensible? Will you give up this living
dead man, and your dead love, and go sensibly back to America?

Madeline — ^No!

Erfurt — No? You are spoiled and soft, you Americans. You
have never been up against sharp iron. It is your destiny to be
beaten! Schoen, lassen sie raus.

Madeline — ^I will never be beaten. Never. I will stay — and
I will win!

The curtain falls.

CANDLE IN THE WIND 193

ACT II

Madelme Guest's sitting room at the Hotel Palza Athenee in
Paris is pleasantly furnished. There are French windows look-
ing out on the boulevard, a large and comfortable sofa and the
usual desk and chairs common to hotel sitting rooms. One chair
has been wedged under the door knob of the door leading to
the hall. It is September, 1941.

At the moment Cissie, Madeline's maid, is sitting on the sofa
mending a stocking. When there is a knock at the door she
listens but does not move. A second knock and a flow of Maisie
Tompkins' Americanese convinces Cissie that to remove the chair
is safe.

Madeline, Maisie learns, is, as usual, out seeing German offi-
cials, but should be home shortly. As for the chair under the
door knob, that is Cissie's idea and Cissie knows what she is
about. She learned about German soldiers in Vienna, that being
her native dty, when Austria fell; in Prague when Czecho-
slovakia fell and in Paris when France fell— always in hotels.

"Look, Mademoiselle," Cissie explains. "A German soldier
works by what is on his little card. He has orders on a little card.
What to do with the proprietor, what to do with the guests. What
to do when the door is open, and what to do when the door is
locked. But what to do, when a chair is under the door, he
does not have. Sometimes he goes away to find out."

"But he comes back."

"Then you have time. You can get the hell out."

At the window Maisie reports the boulevard to be filled with
goose-stepping soldiers as far as a person can see in either direc-
tion. But it is bad to look out of the windows. Sometimes, says
Cissie, the temptation to drop things on them is hard to resist;
sometimes someone else drops something, and the Germans, see-
ing you at the window, shoQt you.

The food shortage is becoming more and more acute. Maisie,
a meat eater by habit, is beginning to feel a variety of urges.
If she could have a whole horse to herself she thinks she might
be ha{^y. She has even considered cannibalism. More than
a little frightened by the look in Maisie's eye, Cissie quickly
finds two water crackers that she has been hoarding and proffers
Maisie one of them. Maisie eats it, crumbs and all, and is
momentarily appeased.

The matter of getting Madeline away from Paris is of vital
interest to both Cissie and Maisie. Cissie has come to work for

194 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Madeline on the promise that she would be taken to America.
And as for Maisie —

"Well, IVe been sitting around this modern version of hell
long enough now waiting for her to give up and go back with me.
But she's a monomaniac now. It's really an obsession with her.
She won't give up, and she won't go."

There is a knock at the door. Both women listen quietly.
The door knob is slowly turned. Then the caller goes away. It
is a proof of Cissie's belief. When Maisie insists on opening the
door to investigate there is a German soldier named Mueller
standing there. He is looking for Madeline, he says, and he
will be back.

Shortly Madeline appears. She is glad to see Maisie and
would have her stay. She would also have something to eat, if
there were anything, which there isn't — nothing but the other
water cracker and a little birch bark tea.

Maisie isn't surprised that Madeline looks tired, but Madeline
insists that she isn't. ^7^^^ shabby, and down at heel and com-
pletely out of cold cream," announces Madeline, throwing herself
on the couch.

"You've been going it like a soldier for a whole year, Made-
line," Maisie reminds her. "And whether youll admit it or not,
you're tired and hungry, and just about done in. I can remember
four distinct plots to get Raoul out of that camp. Four times
you've built up a fantastic and elaborate machine — complete
with corrupt guards, escape, transportation, fake passport, under-
ground passage out of occupied France, and God knows what
all, and then it always crashed because somebody squealed and
he couldn't get out of camp after all. Now it's about to happen
again — I can see there's that same feverish hope in your eyes
that's been there so often before. And it won't work, and then
you'll be in despair again."

"This time — we have a chance."

'*It's come down to that now. This time you have a chance.
You used to be sure, remember?"

"Darling, the chance was never so good before. Never once.
There are three guards on the inside, helping."

"You believe they're helping?"

"Yes, I've got to, Maisie."

"You believed it before."

"Oh, Maisie — I can't let a chance go by, Maisie. I can't,
darling. They torture people there — and they die under it. Sup-
pose we came a day late. And then suppose we came just in time,

CANDLE IN THE WIND 195

when they were about — to kill him. I want to come in time,
Maisie."

Madeline has only a little money left now. Before that is
gone she promises to turn over ^to Maisie enough to get the three
of them back to America. Maisie shall have it tomorrow. And
that means that after what she is spending tonight she will be at
the end of her resources.

The soldier Mueller is back. He waits patiently while Maisie
gets out. He must talk with Madeline alone. He had not met
her at the Tabarin, as promised, because he had been followed.
He has just been able to shake off the spies. It is not because
he, personally, is mistrusted; just a custom; everybody is watched
a little to make sure. Mueller brings Madeline a note from Raoul.
And now they are discussing a planned daylight escape. Made-
line must know about that before she will advance any more
money —

Mueller — ^It must be tomorrow at three, because we take
advantage of something which will happen at the camp tomorrow
at that hour —

Madeline — ^What will happen?

Mueller — Sometimes the state wishes prisoners to be free,
but cannot dismiss them publicly. Tomorrow it is arranged that
certain prisoners depart under fire.

Madeline — And how do you know this?

Mueller — ^I am one of the guards assigned to assist.

Madelit^e — Tell me how it will be done. Do you mean that
in the confusion — M. St. Cloud will somehow slip out of the
enclosure with the others?

Mueller — Something like that. The fence is being repaired
at one point. Guards and prisoners go back and forth through
the opening. Now, at exactly three o'clock, an automobile will
be drawn up across the road, and certain prisoners are instructed
to jump into the car which will drive away. The guards will fire
over the car. M. St. Cloud will be among the prisoners chosen
for work at the bridge, and he will slip into the car also. The
driver is a friend of mine. He will take M. St. Cloud to the
room you specified in the Bordeaux Apartments.

Madeline — ^And the men for whom the escape was planned?

Mueller — I will tell them at the last moment that another
is to join them.

Madeline — ^And the guards who are helping you. You are

196 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

sure of them? They are ready and willing to go through with
this?

Mueller — Don't worry, they will carry out their part.

Madeline — ^I think that's everything. Have you made my
appointment with Colonel Erfurt for three o'clock?

Mueller — Yes, there is an appointment made for you with
Colonel Erfurt at three o'clock. We count on you to keep him at
his desk with a discussion of the prison rules.

Madeline — ^Yes, I know — ^I hate that office. I shall hate to
go there again. But if itll help. Did you bring the book?

Mueller — ^Yes, and I have marked the page. It would be
better if you could get there a little before three, just to keep
him in his office.

Madeline (rising) — ^I shall keep him there if I can. As long
as I can. (Takes book from him,) 111 study this tonight. (Puts
book on desk, opens drawer and takes out two envelopes.) Now
I have put half the money in this envelope, as I promised. The
other half I will give to the driver of the car when he brings M.
St. Cloud to the apartment.

Mueller — I will have to have that now.

Madeline — ^That was not our bargain.

Mueller — The others refuse to take part unless I can put
the money in their hands tonight. You see, after the break, we
must all three leave France instantly. We have no wish to die
here.

Madeline — Very well.

Mueller has gone, Maisie has come back. There is rejoicing
in Madeline's sitting room. Now the packing must go forward.
Now they must get Cissie a visa, even if it is expensive. The
women will go by plane, Raoul by underground to the coast,
where a fisherman will pick him up and take him to England.
Maisie isn't quite satisfied with that part of the arrangements.
Is it safe?

**Safe?" echoes Madeline. "No, not safe — ^he couldn't be safe
of course. But cared for and watched over. When a prisoner
escapes in France, the whole nation hides him, helps him, sends
him on his way. And everyone that helps Raoul will be in
danger of death — but they'll help him. Oh, Maisie, there are
such gallant, such wonderful people in the world. They make
one believe in so many things, that England will win, that France
will be free, and that he will be free tomorrow — only, Maisie — "

"Yes, darling."

CANDLE IN THE WIND 197

''It's been a year, and I begin to find so much gray in my
hair. When I look in the mirror, there are deep lines in my face
that he never saw there. Will he turn away from me, Maisie?"

''Nonsense. There'll be plenty of gray in his hair, and lines
in his face."

"One thing I know now, I went into this love easily, lightly
even, but I ^ball never see beyond it while I live."

In the prison camp Colonel Erfurt is seated at his desk, facing
Raoul St. Qoud. Two additional guards are at the inner door.
Colonel Erfurt has sent for Raoul to suggest an arrangement
that might be made. Raoul must have noticed that he has been
treated better than the other prisoners during the year of his
imprisonment. It is because the Fuehrer has thought of a use
for him —

"You are influential among French journalists," says Colonel
Erfurt. "If you become a friend, if you begin to see virtues in
the policy of co-operation with Germany — ^you will be set free."

"My convictions are unchanged, sir."

"And can you imagine conditions under which they would
change?"

"No, I cannot."

"You have seen men here walk into a room strong, confident
and defiant. You have seen them reduced inch by inch to the
status of the amoeba — ^reduced to crawling, whimpering, shape-
less, mindless blobs of butcher meat."

"Yes, I have seen this, to your shame."

"Could you hold out against us?"

"If the allegiance of the amoeba is of any value to you, that
you may have, no doubt, at any time. But while I am able to
stand and face you, and my mind is clear, I am my own man,
and I fight to keep France free!"

For the moment Raoul is willing to reason with Colonel Erfurt,
and to consider the offer of freedom and its conditions. But in
the end his conviction stands. He is aware of the weaknesses of
all governments, and he knows that of the National Socialists.
Within the Fuehrer's government the danger is distrust —

"No man trusts another, no branch of the government trusts
another, the leader himself trusts no man," declares Raoul.
"You yourself, torturing your prisoners in the leader's name,
never know when the purge will strike you, never know when
some underling will start up from beneath to denounce you and
put you to torture in the Fuehrer's name."

198 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

"That is your answer?"

"Among you all there is not one who dares trust even his own
brother — -for you know that men are devils, ad men, and must be
devils under your regime."

The guards are called. Raoul is sent back. He is to receive
two lashes, "just to taste and try," and then put back to work.
Let the guards act quickly!

Colonel Erfurt is in a fiendish mood. He turns now upon
Lieutenant Schoen, accusing him, first of laxity in discipline, and
then with having been sent there to spy on his superior. The
Lieutenant is quick to deny the accusations, but in the end ad-
mits what Colonel Erfurt knows — that he (Schoen) has each
week made a supplementary report to Berlin. Colonel Erfurt also
knows that his lieutenant had been directed to do this and to
tell no one.

At five minutes to three Madeline Guest is announced. Colonel
Erfurt will see her, though the interview must be short. Made-
line has come with two requests: First, as she will not be able
to remain much longer in France she would like to beg again an
interview with Raoul. That situation, she is inform^, remains
unchanged.

Second, Madeline, who has read a book of rules, has discovered
that it is quite within the powers of a commandant of a prison
camp to grant interviews with inmates at his own discretion.
Colonel Erfurt admits as much, but insists that for the granting
of such an interview he would be held most strictly accountable.
He does not intend to take any chances with Raoul St. Cloud.

There is an interruption. Corporal Mueller has come with a
request that a pass be stamped. Colonel Erfurt stamps the pass,
smiling vaguely at Madeline as he does so.

Yes, he assures her, M. St. Cloud is still there. And well.
Thanks partly to her. Because they knew that Madeline was in
touch with friends in her own country they did not want reports
of a prisoner's mistreatment drifting back. Now, however, since
America's attitude has become definitely hostile, there was less
reason for leniency.

The clock strikes three. A second later a siren and bell are
heard, followed by a series of shots. Lieutenant Schoen goes to
the gate and admits two guards. Their pistols are drawn. One
guard takes a position at the Colonel's desk; the other goes into
Uie prison. Then the sirens die out. Colonel Erfurt would calm
Madeline —

"Don't be disturbed," he is saying; "this is not an alert. Once

CANDLE IN THE WIND 199

in a whfle we allow some prisoners to escape. We blow the siren
and do a great deal of shooting and running about, and some
certain prisoners drive away in a car, but because we wanted
them to go, it is all prearranged. It's a political matter."

Soon Lieutenant Schoen is able to report that everything is
again in order. Now Madeline would go. There is no reason
why she should prolong the interview. But Colond Erfurt is not
ready to have her leave —

". . . You have kept a long and bitter vigil here in France,
I know," he is saying. ''Even I am not insensible to that. There
is a character in Shakespeare who says — ^'Some good I mean to
do, despite of mine own nature.' Well, I shall take a leaf from
Shakespeare. Let them bring in St. Cloud 1"

But Madeline, visibly disturbed, does not want to see St. Cloud
today; she does not feel well; she has waited so long; she will
come tomorrow. Colonel Erfurt is insistent. Lieutenant Schoen
is told to order St. Cloud brought in, and does. And now the
guard has arrived with Raoul —

''Oh, Godl" Madeline has bowed her head in her hands and is
crying quietly.

"You weren't expecting this, I know," blandly observes Colonel
Erfurt. "You thought him elsewhere. Now I could have ar-
ranged that too, only it would have meant the end of my career
very definitely. An ordinary escape might have been forgiven,
but M. Raoul St. Cloud I must keep safe, or step down into the
ranks. Therefore, I keep him safe. Perhaps I should warn you
to look well at each other, for this may be your last meeting."

Madeline — Raoul.

Raoul — Yes, Madeline.

Madeline — ^You know how hard I have tried.

Raoul — Yes, I know.

Madeline — ^We have been betrayed, I think.

Raoul — Yes, many times. And again today. You must leave
France, Madeline, and take up your life again, youVe wasted too
much time on the impossible.

Madeline — ^Are you in pain, Raoul? You moved as if you
were in pain.

Raoul — ^No, no. We're well treated here. Don't worry about
that.

Madeline — Did you receive my messages?

Raoul — ^No, they allow no messages. But sometimes a whis-
per comes through the prison walls. I've known where you were.

200 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Sometimes even known what you did. When it was u^^iest here,
the days and nights were filled with words from you to me.

Madeline — Could I kiss you?

Raoul — No, not here. It's enough to see you — that's what
I've prayed for.

Erfurt {after a pause) — ^If you have no more to say, p^haps
we'd better go on to other matters. Is that all?

Raoul — ^Never believe we've lost, even though we should lose,
we have won. They know what they are, and no words can
cover it.

Madeline — We\e not lost yet, never believe I'd say we've
lost.

Erfurt — ^Take him back to his cell. You are dismissed. And
don't say that you'll strike me, or that you'll die, for I speak from
long experience. And you'll do neither. You'U go home again,
and for the last time.

Madeline — ^Yes.

Erfurt — ^You are dismissed. Schoen —

Madeline has gone slowly through the gate, which Lieutenant
Schoen closes. '^And yet something perishes with them when
they are exterminated," Erfurt continues. "A kind of decadent
beauty one hates to lose."

Erfurt is studying a ring on his finger. Schoen salutes and re-
turns to his desk as the curtain falls.

It is early evening of the same day. In Madeline Guest's
hotel sitting room Maisie Tompkins and Cissie, the maid, are
busy tying tags on suit cases. Cissie also is babbling a little
excitedly. If she should get her visa she will not need the passage
with the fisherman across the channel; is it really true that any-
one can buy fruit and cheese and butter on the streets in New
York? Surely not all they want; not from wagons!

Cissie is also worried. Would they dare arrest an American
lady in Paris? It is four o'clock and Mile. Guest is not back I
And true it is she has tried and tried to get M. St. Qoud out of
the camp! Isn't that —

"High treason? It certainly is," interjects Maisie. "It's high
treason in this country to steal a cake of soap — it's high treason
to think Hitler walks like a woman — ^but he does. So we're all
guilty."

Then Madeline comes. She looks, as Maisie says, as though

CANDLE IN THE WIND 201

she were about to collapse, but insists she isn't tired. She has
seen Raoul. He is still in camp. Let Cissie unpack her bags.

"I've been trying to think, but I can't think yet," she says,
noting Maisie's despairing expression. "He'd been beaten. I
could see it."

"I hate to say this, Madeline, but it's a hard fact, and we
must face it. They'll never let go of Raoul." Maisie's tone is
firm, yet pleading.

"They've got to, Maisie."

"Don't have the bags unpacked. We must go now. You can't
help Raoul without money, you can't even live. Now listen.
There's another cable from California today, they're still offering
you a fortune."

"I feel that if I let go, just once, for a day — it might be
deadly to him."

"But the sooner you're home, the sooner you can return, the
sooner you can help."

There is a knodc at the door. It is Lieutenant Schoen. He
wants to see Miss Guest — ^alone. Madeline is not interested. If
he has any honest business with her he can talk before Miss
Tompkins. She is an old and trusted friend.

Lieutenant Schoen decides to talk. He is, as she knows, from
Direktor Erfurt's office. He has seen Madeline there many times.
He has also seen M. St. Cloud. He feels he knows them well;
that they are not ordinary people. He does not blame her for
being suspicious, but he feels that he can advise her wisely con-
cerning the possibility of M. St. Qoud's escape from the camp.

Madeline is not impressed. She has heard similar stories from
others. These others have all betrayed her to Colonel Erfurt.
She has no more money. Schoen is not discouraged. Madeline
still has that large diamond on her finger. He is in desperate
need of money. He is willing to take any chance to get money.
He has a plan —

"Erfurt goes to Berlin tomorrow. I shall be in charge of the
camp for some days. I should place M. St. Cloud in solitary
confinement and place with him the tools with which to free
himself. There is a defect in our solitary system, and it has
several times occurred to me that I would know how to escape
from it."

Schoen is also certain he could dispose of the diamond for a
goodly sum, enough to cover all necessary expenses.

Still Madeline is not impressed. "It always comes to this in

202 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

the end/' she sighs. "A certain amount of money — a plausible
plan of escape. And then something always goes wrong."

ScHGEN — How could I prove to you that I am not like the
others?

Madeline — Could it be proved?

ScHOEN — ^I have glimpsed something in you — ^and in M. St.
Cloud — ^that I admire. I do honestly wish M. St. Cloud might
have his liberty.

Madeline (rising, crosses dawn to Maisie and takes her hand)
— Maisie — Maisie —

Maisie — ^What position does this officer occupy at the camp?

Madeline — IVe seen him always in Colonel Erfurt's office.

Maisie — ^Are you the director's secretary?

ScHOEN — His assistant.

Maisie — The game grows fairly obvious, Madeline. They've
run out of messengers. They think you may have saved a few
dollars — ^no doubt they've noticed the diamond on your finger,
but they can't find a new face in their Gestapo to collect from
you. The Direktor looks around him, and here's his old standby,
Lieutenant Schoen, as reliable as they come. "We'll send
Schoen," he says. "Ah — but she knows Schoen, she's seen him
a dozen times!" "Never mind, tell a big enough lie, and it's
always believed." That's out of the horse's mouth. But you
don't know how to dramatize your story, Lieutenant. I've heard
several of Erfurt's little prattlers, and you're easily in last place.

Madeline {going behind Maisie and putting her hands on
Maisie's shoulders) — I have tried to believe you, Lieutenant
Schoen. The others I have believed — enough to employ them.
But I have heard the story too often, it no longer convinces me.

Schoen — I'm sorry. I have never been a good salesman. I'm
truly sorry. But I cannot give up so easily. Perhaps you will
think better of me later this evening. When you are alone. It
must be this evening, or not at all. Let me leave a telephone
number. {Goes to desk, writes number on pad.) I can be
reached at this number at any time before six.

Maisie — ^Would an honest man dare to leave his telephone
number about? Certainly not I

Madeline — I will not deal further with Colonel Erfurt or his
agents.

Schoen — ^You believe me his agent?

Madeline — ^I do.

Schoen {after long pause)— You are right, Miss Guest. I was

CANDLE IN THE WIND 203

sent by Erfurt; believe none of us.

Madeline — Thank you.

ScHOEN — But I speak the truth when I say that I wish you
well.

Madeline — Thank you.

ScHGEN — Good night.

Madeline — Good night.

There does not appear to be anything more to do. Madeline
has taken Schoen's telephone number from the desk, torn the
card in two and thrown it in the waste basket. Maisie thinks
perhaps they had better see about Cissie's visa now. If they
don't mind, Madeline will stay in the hotel; she is in no mood
to face people.

Maisie and Cissie have gone. Madeline is sitting disconso-
lately on the sofa as they go out. She gets to her feet quickly
and begins pacing the room. Now she has thrown herself on
her face on the sofa. She finds her hand-bag and from it takes
out a small mirror and stares at her reflection.

"Yes, Madeline," she mutters, sobbingly; "you must learn to
live without Raoul. If there's to be no Raoul, you must learn
to live without him. Wipe out these lines, and weep less these
sleepless nights, for you must go forward without him. That is
your lesson, Madeline. Learn it by heart, and never forget.
(Sobbing.) I can't, I can't— Oh— God help me, I can't!"

She has gone back to the desk and is searching for the torn
card with the telephone number on it as the lights fade and the
curtain falls.

Madeline is still in her room. It is later the same evening.
The heavy velvet drapes have been drawn across the windows
and the desk lamp is lighted. There is a knock at the door. A
second later Madeline has admitted Lieutenant Schoen.

Madeline had asked him to come. Why? He had warned
her that she should trust no one. Madeline is convinced that
she can trust him. When the lieutenant had told her that he
had come to betray her she knew it to be the first honest word
she had heard from him. Whether he intended it or not he had
become her friend with that confession. Why did he speak the
truth to her?

"I have been sorry for you for many months," admits Lieuten-
ant Schoen. "And for M. St. Cloud. One must look on at
many things — but there comes a time when one wishes to put

204 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

the victim out of his misery. It's not a crime, even in the Reich,
to feel sympathy with the suffering."

"But to help, is that a crime?"

"Even in your own country, it is a crime to aid a criminal."

Has the Ueutenant ever thought of what it would be like to
live in a country where there is freedom of thought? Madeline
would know. In his country such freedom is regarded as a dis-
eased condition, Schoen answers. But Madeline knows that he
has thought of these things.

"No wild thing was ever put in a cage without wishing for
freedom," says Madeline. "And of all wild things in the world,
the most uncontrollable — ^the least tameable — ^is the human mind.
No King or Priest or Dictator has ever tamed it. It cannot rest
in captivity. And the mind of Germany is caged."

"Caged by our enemies."

"Do you believe that?" The lieutenant is looking nervously
about the room. "No, you are free here. In this room there is
no compulsion on you to lie."

"This is not a useful conversation."

"I have seen many men in the world you live in who hate that
world. There is a certain veiled regard in the eyes of those who
must forever dissemble their unrest, who dare not speak out.
And of all those who carry that look about with them, you have
seemed to me the most unhappy. This afternoon, in Erfurt's
office, that look was on your face. I didn't know what it meant
then, but I do know now."

Again Lieutenant Schoen would go, but Madeline holds him
back. She gives him the ring, despite his protest.

"You know what I must do with it," repeats Schoen, a note of
appeal creeping into his voice. "Yet, how can I, if I remember
you here, hoping that it's used for him! Take it badk. You
don't know what you ask of me! Suj^se it's true that I'm
caught in a net, that I hate it? That I — it's evil to be in prison,
but if you escape, you're an outlaw everywhere. So — one sticks
to the prison, and turns to the torture machine, and by and by
we shall conquer the earth, no doubt, and give it a rest from
torture."

Some of the things that he has told her are true, Schoen admits.
It is true that Erfurt is going to Berlin. It is true that escape
from the solitary cells might be managed. But how can she tell
when he is lying and when he is not? How could she ever be
sure that he had ceased to be her enemy?

"I'm sure of it now," insists Maueline. "I was sure of it when

CANDLE IN THE WIND 205

I called you — ^and if it isn't true you should not have come here,
for you knew why I called you."

ScHOEN (putting the ring in his vest pocket) — ^It b my duty to
keep the ring. I must go.

Madeline — I shall wait for your message.

ScHOEN — I think there will be no message. Good night.

Madeline — ^Wait, let me look at you. (Looks into his face.)
You see, there are tears in your eyes.

ScHOEN — Yes, but I have seen tears in Erfurt's eyes, when a
man lay dying. And he let the man die. You must not depend
on our tears.

Madeline — ^I shall depend on yours.

ScHOEN (back to audience) — ^If I call you tonight, then we
shall try to work something out together. But if I don't call,
then put it aU out of your mind, for there's nothing to be done.

Madeline — But you will call.

ScHOEN — Good night. (Opens door and goes out.)

Madeline — Good night.

Madeline stands at the door a moment, then sinks on to the
chair as the curtain falls.

ACT III

Two days later, in the early evening, we find Henri and Deseze
in the comer of the garden of Versailles where we first met them.
It is Henri who is reading the paper this time, checking on the
list of names of those executed recently as hostages. Their old
friend and fellow worker, Fargeau, is named in tonight's list.

"He did what we have all wanted to do," sighs Deseze. "Yes,
I remember now what he said to me: 'I am too old for many
things, but not too old to die.' "

Lieutenant Schoen has walked in from the garden. He is look-
ing for one named Henri. He would have Henri follow him —
but as a favor. There is no charge against Henri.

They have gone when Madeline appears. For a moment
Deseze does not recognize her. It has been nearly a year since
they met. Will she be meeting the officer? No, he will not be
coming this evening. He is a prisoner. Nor has it been pos-
sible for Madeline to help him —

"I have tried for a year," she tells Deseze, sadly. "I think
now I'd have done better to dig a tunnel under Paris with my

206 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

own hands, till it came up under his cell."

''Yes. One thinks of fantastic things like that."

''And when youVe given up hope one clings to fantastic hopes,
impossible hopes. I tihink I came here tonight because of an old
superstition about this place. You know it?"

"Yes."

"Nobody believes it of course — and yet I came here."

"I shall pray that as you sit here in the twilight, your hopes
will return to you, and that they will come true."

"Thank you."

Now Charlotte and Mercy, the New Hampshire schoolteachers,
have come, as they did before. They, too, have changed, but
they hold a little more firmly to their dream of restoring the
garden as it was in Marie Antoinette's time. It is easier now,
because they have found the lake they were looking for.

"Many days we walked here in these gardens," explains Mercy.
"A little sad and a little hungry. And then, suddenly, we saw
the lake. I think I saw it first."

"Yes, you saw it first," admits Charlotte.

"The lake was there, with the swans, and the sedge, and the
water-lilies, and the path to the Orangerie. Oh, all as it was."

"And now we no longer need help with the restoration, because
we walk here in that old world daily."

"And every day as we stand at the entrance we see the lake
and the old buildings, and the servants carrying fruits and sweet-
meats into the Trianon. And so we have escaped those new
soldiers. We're quite beyond them now. That is our secret."

"Yes, that is our secret. Because they can't touch us there
in the gardens of the past. And so we have eluded them,
haven't we?"

Madeline isn't sure. "I don't know," she says, sadly. "Per-
haps we've all tried to elude them, each in his own way. I'm
afraid we haven't succeeded, any of us."

Charlotte and Mercy are worried as they go back to their
dream garden. Perhaps they should not have told their secret.
"Some^ing goes out of it. Some of the shining goes from it,"
says Mercy.

Lieutenant Schoen has come down the path. He has come
because M. St. Cloud has told him where he will find Madeline.
He is not betraying her. He has not tried to reach her before
because he has had no chance, but he has done what he could
to help her. M. St. Cloud is free. Everything so far has gone
miraculously well —

CANDLE IN THE WIND 207

'^He came this far in the night in his prison suit," Schoen is
sa3dng. ''But we have found a workman who will lend him
clothes, and he makes the exchange now. We planned to meet
here, for he hoped you might be here."

''But he's in grave danger, they must have discovered the
escape, they must have followed him."

"I have made an official inspection of the empty cells this
morning, he was gone, and I carefully sent the pursuit in the
wrong direction. It has all gone well. You have only to wait
here until he comes."

"Oh, forgive me, forgive me, for any evil I have thought of
you. It was unfair to ask this of you. I knew that, and I can
never thank you and repay you. Why are you trembling?"

"Is it so easy to break with all youVe ever known? To thrust
your neck under the ax? I have seen too many executions, but
I have come to the end of this quarrel with myself. This quarrel
over whether it is better to be what you are and die for it, or
to be what they would have you, and live. Perhaps I have found
a sort of courage."

"Where will you go?"

"You must not worry about me, I have my own private war
to fight. But, however it goes, not everything is lost. For I am
now a soldier against what I hate, and it's good to fight alone.
Good-by, and thank you."

Lieutenant Schoen has kissed Madeline's hand and bounded
away into the park. A moment later Deseze reappears. He
has come to warn Madeline that shortly a workman will pass
that way. Yes, he may have time to stop for a moment. Deseze
and Henri will guard the paths and warn her should anyone
come. The gardens are practically deserted in the early evening.

Raoul comes, making his way furtively through the shadows.
Now he lifts his cap, Madeline recognizes him and they are in
each other's arms —

Raoul {holding her close) — Dare I believe it?

Madeline — Dare I believe it? So many times I've thought
I saw you, so many times I've heard a voice behind me, and
turned, thinking it was yours.

Raoul — If I could only hold you forever. It's been a year.

Madeline — Only a year? It's been so many years. (They
kiss,) Oh, my darling — ^perhaps you shouldn't have come here.

Raoul — ^No place is safe any more. And I had to see you.
This is a miracle — a miracle like the others. Madeline, if you

208 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

hadn't been eternally true, if your love hadn't been stronger
than all of them, I'd have been lost long ago. I don't want to
leave you again.

Madeline — Oh, but you must, if we're ever to meet again.
You must — and you know it —

Raoul — ^Yes, I must — I know, but not yet. I can't go yet.
Do many people pass this way?

Madeline — ^The park's deserted in the evenings, we can take
a few minutes.

Raoul — But I have a habit of keeping in the shadows. Come.
The Lieutenant tells me I must climb these steps, and turn right
when I've passed the gate. Beyond that I know nothing. You
must tell me, sweet, where do I go?

Madeline — ^There's only one way out of France, and that's
England. I have your passage. You can reach Cherbourg by
tomorrow evening. Yes, with a little luck, I'm sure you can.

Raoul — ^Luck never fails me, while you remember me.

Madeline — Then it won't fail you now. You'll reach Cher-
bourg in time, and find the little boat, and the Captain will take
you across safely, and, oh, I think there must be a God, as you
said long ago, for I carried this about with me even after I'd
given up!

Raoul — ^There must be. Because you are here — and somehow
you've got me out of that hell. Your arms are real. {Takes her
in his arms.) I'm risen from the dead.

Madeline — ^And I've been dead, and I'm alive again. (They
kiss.)

Now Raoul must go and without her. Those who travel under-
ground have taught Madeline the rules: ^Travel fast, travel
light and travel alone." On an envelope she gives him are three
penciled words. Raoul is to go first to where they direct him.
There he will receive other instructions.

''Keep safe, my darling," he warns, kissing her. ''You must not
be seen with me. Perhaps you should wait here a moment and
then leave by the other gate."

"Yes, darling, till Englandl"

"Till England."

Deseze comes soon to report that he has seen Raoul through
the gate and away. And Henri has turned up in his makeshift
clothes. With a fervent "Thank you!" Madeline finds relief in
tears. "I thought I had no tears left, but for happiness I have,"
she says, struggling to smile. And now she, too, must go.

CANDLE IN THE WIND 209

''I want to be in London before he comes/' Madeline explains.
^'And somehow I will, somehow I will. Once when he came
safely out of the sea, he said that my hand had been over him
there on the water. Now I know what he meant — for his hand
is over me now. Good-by, Henri."

In the distance a whistle is blown. From the top of the steps
Deseze and Henri can see soldiers entering the park. Mademoi-
selle must hurry. Deseze will let her out another gate.

Madeline refuses to go. Let them leave her there. The longer
the soldiers spend with her the farther Raoul will be on his way.

Again the whistle is blown, close at hand this time. Now Cor-
poral Shultz appears. It will be necessary for them all to re-
main there until they are questioned. There has been an escape
from the prison camp and the pursuit comes this way. Presently
Corporal Shultz is followed by a guard that deploys itself stra-
tegically.

Now Captain Hoffman has come to take charge. Soldiers are
bringing together all the people in the park. They will be ques-
tioned by Colonel Erfurt.

A moment later the Colonel arrives. There is an exchange of
reports concerning the pursuit in German. The reports finished,
the guard is withdrawn, taking Deseze and Henri along. Now
Colonel Erfurt is ready for Madeline, for whom they had looked
first at her hotel.

When he returned from Berlin, says Colonel Erfurt, he dis-
covered that there had been an escape from the camp. Obvi-
ously Lieutenant Schoen had been connected with it. Schoen
has disappeared and they are searching for him. Has Madeline
seen him? No.

'Where is Raoul St. Cloud?"

"I don't know."

Erfurt — ^You do know, of course you do. You told me once
you would do this; now, by a combination of chances, you have
succeeded. Now, tell me — ^where is he?

Madeline — Suppose I did tell you — ^how would you know I
hadn't lied to you?

Erpurt — Of course, it will be necessary to hold you until your
lover has been recaptured.

Madeline — You wouldn't dare I

Erfurt — If you had been a French woman, you would have
been arrested and your money confiscated, a year ago. We let
you alone because of your nationality, and your name. But now

210 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

we no longer care greatly what you think of us. You will help
me recapture St. Cloud, or face trial for aiding in his escape.

Madeline — You could let me go— I am only to meet him —
some time — a long way from here — if I can find him. There's
so little chance of any happiness. You could let me go.

Erfurt — Only if I have him in your place. AA an3rthing
you like for St. Cloud, except his freedom, and you shall have it.
Ill make his captivity light. I'll save his life if I can. You
shall see him as often as you like — ^but his freedom, he must not
have.

Madeline — But he is free.

Erfurt — ^Very doubtfully. Well catch up with him, wherever
he is.

Madeline — ^If you're so certain of that, why do you ask my
help? I think you've lost him. Colonel Erfurt, and you think so
too. As for your promises to treat him well, no child would
believe you.

Erfurt (closing in on her) — ^No? As yet you have not quite
understood. I must have him, or I must give an accounting to
Berlin. I don't think I could find the words to say to my su-
perior, St. Cloud is free. They might be my last words, my last
in office, my last as what I am.

Madeline — But you will say them.

Erfurt — ^No. I cannot say them. I shall have to employ
whatever means I can to make you speak.

Madeline — ^And do you believe you could ever make me
speak?

Erfurt — Oh, yes, there is no human will — not even a fanatic's,
not even a lover's — that can hold out against us.

Madeline — But I can hold out to the end. A soldier should
have no reluctance about dying. You've made soldiers of us
all. Women and children and all.

Erfurt — There is no need to discuss your civilization or mine.
We are hard because we must be, and your case is like any other,
and must be dealt with.

Madeline — ^Very well. He's free. Raoul is free. Do as you
like with me. Take your revenge, but you must still go to Berlin
and tell them Raoul is free!

Erfurt — HauptmannI (Captain Hauptmann and three
guards enter,) Take a last look about you at your free world.
I have not yet spoken the word that will shut you up, but when
I do s[)eaJL it I will not take it back!

Madeline — I came into this fight tardily and by chance, and

^as.^amm

CANDLE IN THE WIND

211

unwillingly. I never thought to die young, or for a cause. But
now that I've seen you dose, now that IVe known you, I'd give
my life gladly to gain one half inch against you. I'd give my life
gladly to save one soldier to fight against you. But I took
Raoid from you, and I shall not give him back.

Erfurt (after a pause) — Give me your passport. You will
go with the guard. We take our enemies one at a time, and your
country is last on the list. But your time will come.

Madeline {as she turns to mount the steps) — ^We expect you.
In the history of the world there have been many wars between
men and beasts. And the beasts have always lost, and men
have won.

THE CURTAIN FAI^S

LETTERS TO LUCERNE
A Drama in Three Acts

By Fsitz Rotter and Allen Vincent

THE acceptance of a war play in war time is inevitably un-
predictable. Audience reactions are easily influenced by varied
and often biased reasoning. Particularly in a theatre capital in
which there live, as the sight-seeing bus lecturers used to shout,
"More Germans than there are in Berlin, more Italians than
there are in Rome, more Jews than there are in Jerusalem," etc.
Successful war plays are usually written some years after the
war, or wars, they seek either to chronicle or explain.

During the early part of the season of which this volume is
a record there were three dramas inspired by the Second World
War produced in New York. "The Wookey," by Frederick Haz-
litt Brennan, telling of the bombed and the brave of London in
the great blitzkrieg of 1940, was no more than a quasi-success.
Norman Krasna's "The Man with the Blond Hair,'' telling of
an escaping Nazi aviator who was reconstructed in the East Side
flat of a New York Jewish family, was a quick failure, and even
Maxwell Anderson's "Candle in the Wind" was frankly accepted
with more enthusiasm for the popular Helen Hayes' playing of its
heroine than because it inspired respect for its author's creation.

A fourth war play was this "Letters to Lucerne," of which,
both as drama and as a human document, this editor was one
of the few enthused champions. "Letters to Lucerne" came from
Hollywood, by way of Rosalie Stewart, a dramatists' agent of
standing on the coast.

The idea for the play had been submitted to her by Fritz
Rotter, a young Viennese song writer who did not yet trust his
halting English when it came to putting his ideas into a play
script. Stirred by the possibilities of the story, Miss Stewart
suggested that Allen Vincent should work on the play, which he
did.

Dwight Deere Wiman, in California looking for actors for a

revue he had in mind, heard of the play through Miss Stewart

and immediately bought it. When he had it cast he was a little

set up by the fact that he had included the daughters of no less

than five who were celebrities in one artistic field or another.

212

• ^•slljilll is sola's St4\l*-A -

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 213

There were Sonya Stokowski, daughter of Leopold Stokowski, the
conductor; Mary Barthelmess, daughter of Richard Barthelmess
and Mary Hay, of stage and screen fame; Faith Brooks, daugh-
ter of Clive Brooks, English actor and director; Phyllis Avery,
daughter of Stephen Morehouse Avery, author, and Nancy
Wiman, daughter of the producer himself. The heroine was
played by Greta Mosheim, an actress of standing in Germany
before she ran out on Mr. Hitler's Nazi Government.

Because of its cast, which also included Katharine Alexander,
a Broadway favorite of other years, the opening night of the play
was socially quite on the plush side. The morning after the re-
views were pretty depressing, though not without reservations.

As the curtain rises on ''Letters to Lucerne" we are facing the
main hall of a girls' school in Switzerland, near Lucerne. It is
noon of a day in late summer. Brilliant sunshine floods into the
room through double doors at back, with windows at either side.
"The atmosphere is gay and comfortable." Leading from the
main hall at one side are doors to the dining hall, and at the
other side a door to the study hall. A curving stairway leads to
dormitories and sitting rooms on the floor above.

Olga Kirinski, "about seventeen and very attractive," has the
room to herself at the moment. Obviously she is waiting for
someone, dividing anxious moments between looking out the door
and peering into a mirror to be sure that her hair is still in place.

Presently Gustave the gardener appears, carrying a small bou-
quet. He is not the one Olga is waiting for. She greets him a
little impatiently with the promise that as soon as the folks
arrive at the foot of the hill she will warn him. They will not
be there for a quarter hour yet. Gustave, too, is anxious. He
must not miss the ceremony of greeting Madame.

Olga has had another quick look out the door and patted
another stray lock into place when Ema Schmidt, "a young
Nordic goddess, with an air of quiet authority, a calm, balanced
poise unusual in one of her age," appears on the stairs.

It isn't Ema for whom Olga is waiting, either, but there is
evidently a strong bond of friendship and sympathetic under-
standmg between the two. Hans, Ema's brother, it soon appears,
is the expected one. Olga is simply mad about Hans, and a
little disappointed that Erna will not conspire with her to have
him miss his train so he would have to stay over another day.
Ema isn't interested —

"I've conspired with you quite enough," says Ema. "I've
chaperoned a widking trip through Gstaad Valley — and a very

214 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

dull walking trip it was too. I did it for mysdf — ^I made a
match.''

^'Ob^ you did make a matdi. TUnk if I had never met him.
Think if we had not gone on our walking trip!''

''You would have met him eventually. I planned that from
the very first."

Olga is also worried for fear Ema's family is not going to
approve of her. But Ema thinks that silly. Surely CMga should
know from the letters ^na has read her that the Schmidt family
is not like that —

''You cannot teD much from letters," insists Olga. ^I did not
really know about Hans from them. They did not make him
half as wonderful as he is. . . . Ema — ^I do not think this letter-
reading is such a good idea."

"But they are one of the most important parts of our lives.
They are why we all know each other so well! You are not
fooling me. You're thinking about the letters you will have from
now on, aren't you?"

"I couldn't read Hans' letters to the others! Think what fun
Bingo and SaUy would have. They are always teasing me be-
cause I haven't any beau."

"But think of the fun you can have now — refusing to read
them what Hans writes."

Gretchen Linder, "a cool, collected, efficient, but pleasant
woman in her mid-thirties," has appeared to welcome Ema and
Olga and to ask about their holiday. It must have been nice
for Olga to meet Ema's family. And now the tmth comes out.
Ema and Olga had not gone to Ema's home, as they were ex-
pected to do. They had gone on a walking trip with Ema's
brother instead, through the Gstaad Valley. They hadn't in-
tended to tell about it at all, but now that Hans is coming there
to get his fare home (he always loses money, so Ema has to
keep it for him) they feel it would be better to tell all.

Miss Linder is not too severe. They should have asked Mrs.
Hunter first, and doubtless she would have disapproved. But so
long as they did nothing wrong — ^well, Mrs. Hunter is broad-
minded, too. Miss Linder is even willing to help them now with
their watching for Hans, and to warn them as soon as she sees
him. Olga is grateful, and exdted, and her eyes are dancing —

A tuneful whistling heralds Hans' approach. A moment later
he has passed the window, put down his knapsack and is stand-
ing in the door. "He is a fine looking young man with an in-
gratiating smile, a very masculine kind of gaiety about him."

riuwsBaaHMri

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 21S

Hans admits that he is late, and for two very good reasons.
First, he doesn't like long farewells; second, he had a little trouble
with his English landlady, who had wanted to charge him for
the time he had been away, just because he had carelessly left
a few things in his room.

''You only do these things because you think they make you
picturesque and romantic, when underneath you are entirely sen-
sible," chides Ema. ''All this pretending to be unreliable 1"

"You do not do Hans justice, Ema," interjects Olga. "He is
not . . . humdrum and practical, like other people."

"There — ^you see? It is romantic." Hans is quite pleased.

''When Olga cools down she will probably find it very boring,
having to run around picking up things after you — ^minding your
money — "

"I win never cool down, Ema! Not about Hans!"

Ema has gone for the fare money and Hans has tumed eagerly
to Olga. He is dependable, he is assuring her fervently; and he
can be depended on to love her the rest of his life

Olga — ^It does not matter whether you love me or not — ^be-
cause I shall always love you — ^that is what is so wonderful — the
feeling that I have you to love. ... It is not fair! I do not
deserve it.

Hans (kissing her hand) — Olga! Don't say that! You make
me feel foolish. I am the one who is grateful. I'm what Ema
calls a moonstmck moron only for Ema's benefit. She likes me
to be helpless and unreliable so she can order me around and
do things for me. But . • • I know how she feeb because I
want to do things for you now. I want to take care of you and
make a wonderful life for you —

Olga — Because I am hdpless?

Hans {pulling Olga to him) — ^I know you are not — But I
like to think that you would be — ^without me.

Olga — ^I would, Hans. I will be nothing without you.

Hans — ^And how did you get along before we met?

Olga {taking his face in her hands) — I was not even alive be-
fore we met. I did not know it, but I was not even alive!
{Kissing him. There is a pause.) It is too long to wait — three
and a half months — Christmas will never come this year.

Hans {laughing) — But it wiU^ Olga.

Olga — You are coming to Warsaw? You promise?

Hans {rising) — ^Nothing could keep me away. Well go to
Warsaw — ^you and Ema and I — then you will stop with us for

216 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

two or three days in Berlin on the way back to school. We will
have a lot of time together at Christmas.

Olga (stepping back one step) — Hans — I want to ask you
something foolish. . . . You know when you came in and stood
there in the doorway?

Hans — Yes. . . .

Olga — Do it again — stand there again, just like you were.
Erna will come back and she'll want to say good-by . . . and I
want to remember you like that — standing in the light.

Hans — I love you, Olga —

She has gone to the dining hall door and stands there, looking
back at Hans. For a moment she stands, quietly, and then
backs slowly through the door, still staring at him as she goes.

Erna has come with the money. Let him be careful not to
lose it on the way to the train. Hans is not listening. There
is something he wants to tell Erna. Something is happening. He
doesn't know what. But he has had a telegram. Erna must
promise him to take care of Olga; always to be her friend; no
matter what happens. That she must promise.

"All right — I promise! " agrees Erna, a little impatiently. "But
it's so silly — ^we're friends now and always will be. Olga loves
you and some day she and I will be sisters."

"I'm not sure, Erna. . . . I'm not sure."

"What do you mean? Hans!!"

"Whatever happens — whatever happens — ^you're sticking to
Olga. Maybe it will come out finally — maybe it will be all right
— ^but I don't see how it can."

"You're just being melodramatic — like when you were a
boy—"

"All right — I'm being melodramatic. But remember what I
said — You've already promised — that's good enough for me."

"I don't like your going like this — Hans — ^you've always told
me everything — ^please don't — "

The whistle of the train in the distance can be heard. The
next minute Hans has grabbed up his knapsack and started run-
ning down the hill. For a long moment Erna stands looking
after him, still puzzled by what he has said. . . .

Miss Linder is back. Olga had passed her in the dining hall.
She hopes Olga is not going to be unhappy. And what is it that
is worrying Erna?

"... He said something just now, Miss Linder — He said I
'was to take care of Olga.' He said something was happening —

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 217

what can it be — ^he was so serious."

Now there is a commotion outside the door. Gustave, the
gardener, is back, waving his bouquet. Margarethe, the cook,
takes her position with him in a welcoming line. Olga and Erna
have dashed off to meet the arrivals. For a moment there is a
wild babble of girlish voices. Then Mrs. Hunter appears. ''She
is smartly dressed for travel, is about forty, good-looking and
gentle." Margarethe curtsies; Gustave advances smiling to prof-
fer his bouquet. It is all in the tradition of the school and pleas-
ing to Mrs. Hunter, as it had been pleasing for years to her
predecessor. Remembering the homecomings is one of the things
that has always made Mrs. Hunter glad to get back. . . .

Bingo Hill is the first of the girls to come bursting in. She
is an American, ''smart, full of energy and vitality," and given to
drawling one word in a sentence in exaggerated fashion. At the
moment Bingo is excited about the glimpse she caught of Ema's
brother running for the train. "My dear, he's godlike," she
assures Mrs. Hunter. "I could kill m3rself. He's the most be-
guiling-looking human being I ever laid eyes on!"

Felice Renoir has also arrived, and with a hug for Erna.
Felice is petite and French and bubbling with an account of the
recipes she has brought Margarethe from Italy. Also baby garlic
for her sauces.

Sally Jackson, also American, and definitely from the South,
is too concerned about the state of her hair, after a washing in
Italy and a long train ride, to pay much attention to the others.
Which reminds Mrs. Hunter that the girls have but twenty min-
utes to get ready for lunch, if they want to change.

Being more interested in their accumulated mail than in a
change they decide to wait for Frangois, the postman. Then
Marion Curwood arrives. Marion is English and "very tweedy,
even though it's summer weather."

Marion has just received a package from the carriage which
is to figure in the ceremonies. It is a hand-illumined scroll the
travelers have brought for Erna announcing to the world that she
is first in her class — ^"Prima in Schola — Prima in cordibus nostris
— ^Prima in Omnibus" — ^Madame Hunter had paid for the frame.
Erna is a little embarrassed, but plainly moved.

And now Frangois, the aging postman, wearing a uniform a
little too large for him, has arrived with the mail and the one
English sentence he has been studying hard to learn: "It is
with pleasure that one carries the post to the young ladies of the
school of Madame." He bows formally to Madame, and to the

218 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

young ladies, and goes on his way.

There is a concentrated but orderly rush for the mail, with
accompanying comment. Bingo is so bored because her one
letter is from the Guaranty Trust. She will certainly be glad
when she stops being a ward. Sally is losing no time in ripping
open one of her letters, which brings a charge from Olga that she
is peeking. ''You know you ought to wait until tonight/' says
Olga.

'*0h, this isn't night time mail," insists Sally. "It's not a love
one or a family one or anything interesting like that — ^it's just an
old bill. Of course, if you all want me to read my bills aloud to
you, I'd be mighty glad to oblige. They're real fancy reading!"

Margarethe has come to sound another warning about lunch
and there is a general movement toward the stairs. Out of a
babble of inconsequential comments Bingo's voice can be heard
declaring a growing resentment of Ema —

''Honestly, Ema, I'm sick and tired of the wonder of you.
Best scholar, best tennis, best Latin, and now you've got the best
brother I"

"You are the best flatterer."

A moment later Mrs. Hunter and Miss Linder find themselves
alone for the first time. They are both happy to be back. A
change is good for one but to be back is better.

"We're nothing but a pair of escapists," Mrs. Hunter is saying.

Miss Linder — ^The way things go in the world now, everyone
with any sense wants to get away from it.

Mrs. Hunter — It's because we're safe here. Until I came
back here to stay I always had to fight that feeling that nothing
good could really last. . . . Running away from school to marry.
. . . Gerald, so proud and happy when he went off to the Ax-
gonne. . . . Dead in two weeks. . . . Then that senseless post-
war thing. . . . Now, it's starting again! Gretchen, is this an-
other Munich — or is it the real beginning? If it is real, think
what it's going to mean to these girls.

Miss Linder — ^I don't think there is any question of its being
real, Caroline.

Mrs. Hunter — Somehow we've got to keep them away from
all that — ^keep them safe.

Miss Linder — ^We'll do it, Caroline. We can try anyway.

Mrs. Hunter — ^Yes, we can try.

The curtain falls.

In the girls' dormitory at Mrs. Hunter's school that night

HBB^HriBkBHHMmiArti

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 219

Felice, Sally, Marion, Erna, Olga and Bingo are getting settled
for the letter reading ceremony that has long be^ the group's
custom. Their six beds are arranged along tiie back wall, with
night tables and lighted lamps between them. Over Ema's bed
is the testimonial given her by the girls that afternoon. The
girls are in their ni^t clothes or negligees, generally relaxed and
comfortable. For a few days they are to have the school to
themselves. Then Miss Hartzwig will be back with the junior
students.

"Dinner was simply elegant tonight, without all those brats
throwing rolls at each other," announces Bingo.

It is nearly 10 o'clock and time for the letters. By general
consent it is agreed only those that arrived in the last mail will
be read. There isn't time for the accumulations, though Marion
thinks it might be nice if everyone would make a prfcis of the
back letters, so they all could keep ever3rthing straight — ^like the
notes they put at the top of serials — ^'The story so far — "

Felice is the first to read. Her letter is from her father. The
girls had hoped it would be from Jean Jacques — ^but it isn't.
Felice is reading —

" *My darling — ^I am writing you only so that there will be a
letter waiting when you return from your journey. There is
very little news. Everything is politics, politics, politics and I
am afraid I am not very interested in these things. We are most
happy and grateful because your brother finises his military
service in three weeks and will be at home again. Your mother
is well and busy. We send our love — ' "

Felice is sorry she cannot translate better, but that is the best
she can do. Sally, who is next, has one from that awful Walker
Lee boy that should pin their ears back. Walker Lee is the boy
Sally had sent the ring back to. ''He had a nerve, anyway, send-
ing me an ol' ring in the mail! Even if it was insured and cus-
toms paid. Imagine! . . . Just listen: 'My dream girl that
was! ! I' Isn't that simply sickening! 'I guess these things have
to happen to a man.' Man! He's nineteen and a half. 'You
have broken my heart, but you will always be enshrined in it.
I am glad that you sent the ring back, because Dad didn't know
that I had charged it to him and I can return it without getting
into any trouble. I will write you soon. My love always — '
Isn't that romantic! Isn't that touching and gallant! Hell
write me soon! ! What a break for a girl!"

Felice Is sympathetic. She thinks Walker was quite practical
about his father. Bingo hasn't any sympathy to offer. After

220 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

ally Sally brought it on herself. She knew Walker was a goon.
Now, how about Marion?

There is a general shifting of positions to get nearer Marion,
who is clearing her throat and tsJ^ing a swallow of water before
she begins the one from "His Nibs." That's Bingo's classifica-
tion. His name is really Eric. Reads Marion —

" 'My Darling — ^It's been stifling here, and I ought to have
gone to Scotland a week ago, but I've been having a most inter-
esting time of it with an American. Fellow named Johnstone,
who was with the MacMullan expedition. We've combed the
British Museum from top to bottom but cannot find any justifi-
cation for Throgood's conclusions . . .'"

'^What on earth is he talking about?" Sally wants to know.

''I don't know. Isn't it sweet of him to assume that I do? I
suppose it's archeology."

"Anthropology," prompts Erna, and Marion makes a face at
her for being superior.

" 'I can't think why you wanted to go off to Italy of all places.
I worried a good bit because they said on the wireless that mobs
were smashing windows in the Embassy in Rome. Hope you
weren't hurt. Do write and let me know how everything was.
It is too bad that Italy has to go to pot this way — ' There's
nothing else but love and all that. . . ."

Sally likes the love parts, but Bingo doesn't care much for the
way the Marquess writes them. And now it is discovered that
Erna has forgotten Merriweather and must find her at once.
Merriweather is important to Erna because she is a rag doll she
has been sleeping with ever since she was seven. Silly, Sally calls
it. Marion thinks it sweet, but it interrupts her postscript — to
which she returns —

" 'Chamberlain has managed to get an eight weeks' recess for
the House of Commons, so the situation can't possibly be really
serious, and thank heaven for that, as I hate to think of you
there in the middle of things.' "

"Middle of things! " interrupts Bingo. "We couldn't be farther
away if we were in Tibet."

" 'If there has to be a war I expect it will be between Russia
and Germany over the Northern situation — ' What on earth is
the Northern situation? . . ."

Erna is back with Merriweather, taking Sally's chiding in good
spirit. "I know it's silly — but it's a habit. I've had her in my
bed so long that I can't go to sleep without her, I honestly can't."

"It's probably a substitution fetish or something," decides

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 221

Sally. ''You imagine that Merriweather's somebody else — some
handsome man — "

"Oh, shut up, Sally — ^the way you talk!" This from Bingo.

"Ill bet I'm right."

"Nonsense — it's disgusting." It's Marion who settles that.

Ema's turn is next, but Bingo has waited as long as she can
to read her guardians' report and proceeds with that. This one
is from one of the bank's lawyers relating that a crooked trustee
had been caught up with and convicted; that what was returned
to the estate was traded in and a thousand shares of American
Can bought to replace it, and that another trustee had been
appointed to replace the guUty one.

Now something that Bingo has said about Ema's handsome
brother, brings Olga quickly into the conversation and before
she knows it she is defending and explaining her interest in
Hans, both to the surprise and the amusement of the others. Of
course they are all wrong, Olga protests; a girl doesn't fall in
love in just one afternoon; they're just jumping to conclusions.

Ema is reminded of the time Hans thought of himself as a
Greek God. "He made up the most wonderful stories about him-
self—except that they were all just very mixed up versions of
myths and the Bible and Shakespeare and everything like that.
Only, whatever the story was, he was always the hero. His favor-
ite one of all was Icarus. What he did to that story!"

"Icarus Schmidt," it appears, having been presented with a
wonderful pair of wings by his father, was troubled because of
a war then raging between his country and certain enemies whom
Icarus secretly liked very much. When the Lord Chamberlain
suggested that Icarus gather together many spears and fly with
them high in the air over the country of the enemy and drop
them on the enemy Icarus would have liked to protest but did
not dare.

So Icarus told the Lord Chamberlain to have many spears
made and when they were ready he lashed on his wings, took the
spears and flew high over the country of the enemy. He could
hear the cheers of his people growing fainter and fainter as he
flew. A lookout on a hill saw Icarus coming and sent a warning
to his people, who promptly gathered in the great public square —

" *When he looked down and saw these people that he loved,
he knew that he could not kill them, nor could he betray his own
people,' " relates Ema. " 'So he took the spears and put their
points against his body, and flew swifter than he had ever flown
before, straight down against the rocks of the hOl. The spears

222 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

were driven through him.' "

''Ohy no! " protests Olga, with a shudder. Ema goes

^ 'When the people saw that he was dead, and when they real-
ized what he had done, they carried word to the country of
Icarus and made peace with his people and buflt a great shrine
to his memory. . . .' "

It is a very beautiful story, Marion thinks, but to Fdice, it's
very sad. Sally has an idea that she would like to fly, sedng
Robert Montgomery is in Monte Carlo.

Ema would postpone reading her letter if she could, but the
girls won't let her off. It is from her mother, says Ema, who is
very sorry not to have had her daughter home for the holidays,
but hopes she had a good time with—

*'It's really not interesting, really it isn't," protests Ema.
^Just about relatives and things — ^'Your Uncle Ernst has gone
away for an extended trip' — that's the one who's the priest — it's
all full of things like that—"

Bingo— We want to hear the part about Hans — ^that's what
we want to hear, isn't it, Olga?

EsNA — ^It just says ^e hopes I had a nice visit with him.
(She is obviously covering up more than the reference to the girls'
walking trip.) ''At last things here look full of hope — the coun-
try wiU certainly have a fine future under our great leader, and
I expect all of your father's investments will improve under the
new order of things — " It doesn't sound like her writing, some-
how—

Mabion (half rising) — Oh, everyone in your country talks like
that now — All those military maneuvers and things — She's
probably just caught the spirit of the times.

EsNA — ^But she's so impractical and — oh, well — 'When Hans
gets back it will be wonderful to have first-hand news of you.
. . ." That's all.

Bingo— As soon as you're asleep I'm going to snitch that thing
and find out what she really said. There's more in this than
meets the eye — ^you've been up to something about Hans, and
you can't tell me different.

Masion — Oh, Bingo, not now. Hurry up, Olga — ^you're the
last.

Olga (getting letter) — ^This is from my father.

Masion — Oh, good.

Olga — ^*'You ought to be at home now — ^Warsaw is so beauti-
ful these summer evenings and I miss you when I take my walk.

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 223

When you return for Christmas we have a great surprise for you,
but I am so excited that I must spoil it by telling you now. The
house has been entirely done over — ^it was your mother's idea,
and at first I did not approve at all, but now that it is done, I
am the most enthusiastic of the whole family. Your cousin
Antonia comes down next week from Danzig to live with us, as
things are so imsettled there. That will please you, I know, as
you've always been such friends. This is the first year in so
long that everyone in the family seems to be doing well, and to
be content and prosperous. I take a lot of satisfaction in this.
By all means bring as many friends as you like to stay for the
holidays."

Sally — ^I haven't a thing to wear.

Olga — ^''We will open up the house in the country and have a
real old-fashioned Christmas. All my love. . . ."

Bingo— He's a darling. Well, that's all of them. Good night.

Bingo has snapped off her light. Marion follows. Felice puts
out her light, then kneels for her prayers. Sally follows Fedice,
but Sally's prayers are short and snappy and she is back in bed
with a jump. Ema, seeing that all the lights are out except
Olga's, passes Olga the letter, which Olga reads with glowing
eyes and then with puzzled frowns at those parts that trouble
her. She has given the letter back to Ema now, and taken lip
her diary. "I'm so happy, Ema — so happy," she whispers.

Erna — It's lovely, isn't it?

Olga — I have so much to catch up — so much to say. . . .
'^Icarus Schmidt." (She smiles,) I wish I had a picture of him.

Erna — ^I'll get you one — ^I have some in my tmnk downstairs.

Olga — Nonv, Ema, now I

Erna — Of course not. I'd wake up the whole house. Tomor-
row.

Olga — ^You promise!

Erna (lies dawn) — Yes.

Olga — I want to write down everything — ^how happy I am —
how wonderful it is. {Thumbing diary,) What's the date, Ema?

Erna (sleepUy)—Wh2Lil

Olga— The date!

Erna — The thirty-first of August.

Olga (as she hunts for the right page) — ^August 31, 1939.

The curtain falls.

224 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

ACT n

It is ten days later, mid-morning of a sunny day. Mrs. Hunter
is standing at the table in the main hall sorting unopened letters
into separate piles and putting rubber bands around them. These
are letters that have come for those girls who are not returning
to the school. They have to be returned — to England, France,
Germany, the United States, Canada, South America — and there
is a question whether they wiU get through.

Gretchen Linder is back from the village. The girls are still
in the study hall. Mrs. Hunter had tried to manage a history
class, but had had to give up. The girls all want to stay on,
Mrs. Hunter reports, and if Madame Rameau had managed to
keep the school open all through the First World War Mrs. Hun-
ter doesn't see why it can't be done again —

"Of course Olga can't go now, and I don't think Ema wants
to — she mustn't," Miss Linder reminds her. ''Bingo has no
family — I do not know about her — ^but the others — "

''I told them I would speak to them when the study hour was
over. I wanted a chance to talk to you first."

Gustave has come to suggest that, things being as they are,
he would like to take out all the flowers and put in things to eat,
as he had done in the other war. He would like to buUd a hot-
house, too, next to the tool shed. He is told he can do whatever
he thinks best.

'Twenty girls aren't coming back. Do you realize how much
money that means?" Mrs. Hunter is saying, after Gustave has
left. "My chemistry teacher gone — the coachman called up —
three-fourths of my pupils not coming back — and yet, you know,
I have a stubborn, perverse determination to keep going."

Miss Linder — ^If the school stayed open during the last war
there is no reason it can't stay open now. Somehow I don't fed
very much of a threat to Switzerland.

Mrs. Hunter — You know why that is, don't you? They've
all got to have a bank — a clearing house — ^win or lose. Switzer-
land serves that purpose. No ordinary rules apply any more.
We may be bombed tomorrow — but somehow I don't think that
very probable as long as Germany has to maintain any kind of
exchange with other countries.

Miss Linder — Doesn't the fact that this is an American
School give you some sort of immunity?

Mrs. Hunter — ^There is no such thing as immunity these

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 22S

days. However, we have got a chance — (Crosses to center
doors.) — a slim chance. You know what this place means to
me — (Crosses to Miss Linder.) — to both of us. It's an island —
a refuge. I want to keep it that way.

Miss LiNDER — You're such an idealist, Caroline!

Mrs. Hunter — Idealist! IVe always had a sort of secret
contempt for people who died for lost causes! I thought they
simply weren't strong enough to fact facts. . . . Now / want to
fight for a lost cause. Only it's not going to be lost!

Miss LiNDER — But if the girls do stay — think of the compli-
cations, think of the trouble there's bound to be.

Mrs. Hunter (turning to face Miss Linder) — I'm going to
keep that away from here!

Miss Linder — ^You can't stop them from knowing what's going
on in the world, you can't keep them shut up as if they were in
jail. You can't stop their letters from home!

Mrs. Hunter — ^I wish I dared to.

Olga has come from the study-hall to ask if she may go to her
room. She cannot make herself study. ''Her face is white and
stricken," and Mrs. Hunter is worried. Try as she will she has
not bee^ able to comfort Olga. There is no news coming
through, except the German side. The radio Mrs. Hunter has
had taken out. She had come upon Felice and Marion and
Erna listening to a news broadcast the night before —

"I couldn't hear what it said — it was turned so low — ^just that
it was news. But I saw one look, one look that Felice gave Erna.
After all if I can't control six schoolgirls, it rather loots like I'm
in the wrong business, doesn't it?" .

Miss Hartzwig will not be coming back, naturally — ^with her
father an officer and her brother in the Gestapo. And Mar-
garethe has a note from Hilda — she'll be at her old job of muni-
tions making. So far as the work is concerned, Margarethe is
sure she and Gustave can manage. They can close the dining
hall and have their meals there, in the main hall. . . .

Miss Linder will stay on. Already she has been to the village
to see about changing her nationality. But there again is a
problem —

^'Gretchen, if you do change your nationality, I mean, well,
suppose Germany wins?" Mrs. Hunter is worriwi.

**Germany is not going to win. But even if she docs — ^I don't
understand my country, Caroline."

''I was only thinking — Margarethe was talking to someone in

226 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

the village yesterday. She came back and told me a horrible
story. The Germans are supposed to be 'organizing' their na-
tionals here getting ready in case they dedde to invade. If that
happens — ^and if you've tried to change your citizenship — ''

"I'm going to change my citizenship."

''But Margarethe said they have already taken some of their
own countrymen — people who wouldn't support the third Reich.
They get them across the border and then they shoot them.''

"Then I shall be careful about going too near the border."

"But they have men working for thrai everywhere, Gretchen —
men you wouldn't su^)ect — "

"Please, CaroUne."

"Francois will be here pretty soon. Well wait and see if
there are any new developments with this morning's mail. Please
tell the girls I want to speak to them after Frangois's gone."

The girls are called from the study hall. Marion and Felice
are putting their books on the table when Ema comes in. "She
seems as if she were a young girl at her first party, not quite sure
of herself." She looks a little anxiously up the stairs, then
turns and goes out the door.

"What are we going to do about her and Olga?" Marion is
worried.

"But what is there to do?" Felice is firm.

Masion — ^It is going to be — ^well, so awful. I catch myself
feeling oddly about Ema.

Felice — ^Why not?

Marion — ^Why not! Oh, Felice —

Felice — ^There's a war going on— one must expect these
things.

Marion (rising) — She hasn't anything to do with that — she
doesn't even understand what the war is about. But she seems
to believe in those letters she reads!

Felice (coldly) — ^Ema is our enemy.

Marion — Felice! That's not true!

Felice — Of course it's true. The French are supposed to be
Latin — the romance languages. The English are cold — ^Nordic —
Anglo-Saxon, whatever you like. And yet they are the dreamers
and we are the realists.

Marion — Oh, Felice. . . .

Felice — ^You think that just because it seems nicer to have
everyone love one another, then that is the way it shall
that's the way it must be.

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 227

Marion — ^Please don't talk like that, Felice. You don't really
mean it — ^you know you don't.

Felice — I mean a great deal more than I have saidl You
Will see. • • •

With a pleasant ''Bon jour. Mademoiselle, voici la poste,"
Francois puts the mail on the table. The girls gather round, but
without the excitement of other days. Ema, coming back from
the yard, quietly takes her own letter and one for Olga, who has
come down the stairs. She hands Olga's letter to her and there
is an exchange of rather pathetic smUes.

It is easy to guess the contents of the letters from the expres-
sions on the girls' faces. "Felice and Marion's faces are hard
and their eyes glow with almost a fanatic hatred, and Marion
looks at Felice and suddenly realizes what she meant when she
said that Ema was their natural enemy."

The coming of Mrs. Hunter helps to break the tension and
soon the girls are settled comfortably to hear her decision.

'1 am going to keep the school open," Mrs. Hunter begins.
'^Naturally I'd like to find out how many of you want to stay
here, and how your people fed."

Masion — Of course we want to stay.

Mss. Hunter — ^It isn't exactly a question of what we want to
do, it's what we can do. What about you, Marion?

Mabion — ^My people simply can't make up their minds,
Madame. I put it straight to my father — I asked him if I'd
be any good at home. He wrote back and said he'd rather have
me stay here until they knew just how things were going to be.
Then the very next day I had a letter from Mother saying she
thought I ought to come home —

Mrs. Hunter — What do you want to do?

Marion — Stay here — of course!

Mrs. Hunter — Fdice?

Felice — ^Mama and Papa both think it is better for me here.
They say that if there is any quick necessity it will be very
simple for me to get home. It is not very brave of me, Madame,
but — ^I think it is safer here.

Mrs. Hunter— Sally?

Sally — I want to stay here, of course — ^we all want to stay
here. Mother says she sent me an air mail last week, maybe it
will come this afternoon or tomorrow.

Mrs. Hunter — ^Ema?

228 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

Erna {with an effort) — ^This is like home to all of us, Madame.
Of course I want to stay here, if I may.

Bingo — ^Madame, I think you ought to tell us what you hon-
estly would like. I want to stay and I don't really see how that
old Guaranty Trust can make me come home if I don't want to,
but you've got to be considered. Everybody seems to be walking
out on you — ^won't it be pretty difficult.

Mrs. Hunter — If we all work together, it shouldn't be diffi-
cult at all. Madame Rameau kept the school open all through
the last war, but I know what it mean^, I was here then. I
want to be perfectly frank with you. Later on it may be hard
to get provisions — ^things may not be as comfortable as they have
been. I honestly don't think that Switzerland is in any danger.
You're all going through the part of your schooling that is most
important. To me it is a sort of challenge — a challenge in more
ways than one. Now that you all want to stay we have got a
chance to demonstrate real practical democracy right here. I'm
going to ask you to either cable or send express letters to your
people. In a few days' time, we ought to have answers from all
of them.

Marion — ^We're all grateful to you, Madame. We all love
and respect you — Oh, blast it! I can't make a speech, but you
know what I mean.

Sally — ^Madame, I'm going to stay here no matter what any-
body says! I'm not going home when things are happening in
Europe! If worse comes to worse I'll go to Paris and be an am-
bulance driver.

Mrs. Hunter (smiling) — I think you're just a little young
for that, Sally.

Marion — ^That's the trouble.

Mrs. Hunter — ^Well, it's decided then — ^we do stay open.

Bingo — Come hell or high water!

At Mrs. Hunter's suggestion the girls have piled out to the
stables to help Gustave. They will hitch up the old nags and go
careening through the village collecting old windows with which
to build the hot house, if Bingo has her way.

Ema and Olga have made their excuses and stayed behind.
They want to talk with Madame Hunter. Olga, especially, is
grateful because the school is going on. The others do have some
place to go. She has none. But she is worried about making
it unpleasant for the others —

'^ . . It's just that I'm glad there will be classes and things

h^Ui^MBU

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 229

to do — Going through ordinary motions seems to help some-
how. But what I really wanted to say was this — ^the other girls
are sympathetic — they feel sorry for me because of what is hap-
pening— I don't want them to feel any less friendly toward Ema
because of that."

"I don't think they'll do that, Olga."

"I just thought—"

"You mustn't worry, Olga. We're all friends — they know that
you and I aren't going to let things make any difference."

Margarethe has called Mrs. Hunter away to the phone. Be-
tween Ema and Olga there is a renewal of their understanding
S3rmpathy. Ema can understand how Olga feels about being self-
conscious and unhappy when she is with the others. Even now
Olga does not want to wait until Mrs. Hunter comes back —

"I know — You have to be by yourself," says Ema, putting
her arms around Olga and hugging her fondly. ^'Go on, Olga.
Ill make some excuse."

"Whatever happens, Ema, we will be friends, always. And
not just because of Hans — ^just because I love him — "

"That's the first time you have mentioned his name. I've been
terribly worried about how you must feel because of him."

"But I love him, Ema. You know that. He cannot help it —
what Germany's doing, I mean. I would understand even if he
was called up, even if he had to go and fight against my own
country — I know I would understand."

Olga has tumed and started up the stairs. Suddenly Ema is
conscious of the letter in her own hand. Her arm drops. Olga
has tumed. "Talking to you helps so much, Ema," she says,
smiling a tmstful, almost happy smile. Ema somehow manages
to smile back. She is staring again at the letter in her hand, "an
expression of complete, hopeless despair on her face," when Mrs.
Hunter retums. Immediately their talk tums to Olga, and what
it may be possible to do to help her. And to Ema's problem,
too.

"Madamel When Olga said, a little while ago, that she didn't
want the other girls to feel unfriendly toward me — she was only
hinting at the tmth. She doesn't begin to realize how they really
feel about me — Felice and Marion, an)rway."

"What do you mean, Ema?"

Erna — The letters, Madame. Every time I hear Francois ring
the bell now I feel guilty — and frightened.
Mrs. Hunter — ^Emal

230 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Erna — Olga had a letter just now — she was afraid to open it.
I know how she feels — ^it is awful. Only I have been a fool about
my letters. They are making trouble, Madame.

Mrs. Hunter — ^What have they said? Do you mean there
has been an actual row about them?

Erna — ^No, Madame — but I hear from no one but my mother
now — She talks of nothing but the war and how wonderful
things are going to be for G^inany — and of course that makes a
difference.

Mrs. Hunter {putting arm around Erna) — ^Ema — ^I knew
about Felice. I knew that she was feeling — ^well — patriotic. I
think you'll have to stop reading the letters — that all of you will
have to stop.

Erna — ^It would help.

Mrs. Hunter — 111 speak to the others.

Erna — No — Madame. They would say that I had been com-
ing to you and complaining.

Mrs. Hunter — ^Then you suggest it to them, Erna. If it
came directly from you it would make everything easier.

Erna — Maybe it would be better if they don't even know
about my letters — if they did not see them coming.

Mrs. Hunter — ^How could you keep them from knowing?

Erna — Margarethe could get them from Francois — ^he could
leave them at her cottage and she could give them to me later.

Mrs. Hunter (pause) — If it will make you fed any better
about it we can certainly do that.

Erna — ^Thank you, Madame. You see, I don't know what to
feel about my country. If it is true what they said on the radio —
if Germany is really doing those horrible things — ^I would have
to hate my own people. I have to try to bdieve my mother
. . . but I did not mean to make the girls angry.

Mrs. Hunter — Erna — ^young people can be cruel. They don't
mean it. But you can't fight it because you know it isn't de-
liberate. You just have to stand it. I can help you do that,
Erna — because I know in a few days it will be gone.

Erna — ^I don't think so, Madame, I think I should even move
out of the dormitory, to one of the junior class bedrooms.

Mrs. Hunter — No, Erna! You can't do that. You mustn't
divide the school into factions — Olga would certainly be on your
side — so would Sally and Bingo. There mustn't be any question
of taking sides.

Erna — ^I did not think of that — ^it was foolish of me.

Mrs. Hunter — ^Ema — ^I want to see if it isn't possible to live

LETTERS TO LUCERNE . 231

through whatever comes without its touching you girls. I know
it can be done — ^I know it. And you've got to help me more
thim any of the others. It's going to take a lot of courage — but
I can depend on you.

Erna {looking at her letter her attitude changes) — ^No. It is
a temptation to show you this — to cry on your shoulder about
it — ^but that would only make things worse — more complicated.

Mrs. Hunter — But that's what I'm here for, Ema — ^to take
care of complications. What is it? Please tell me —

Erna — ^No, Madame. I think I can do this by myself. You
said I was to help you.

She is smiling at Mrs. Himter as she starts up the stairs. The
curtain falls.

Later, in the dormitory, Felice, Marion and Sally are excitedly
searching around Ema's bed. The other girls are still in the
dressing room. The search is for Ema's letter. Sally is sure
Ema did not have it on her when she undressed. It was not
in her locker downstairs. Marion had looked there.

The girls have fixed up a substitute letter which they hope to
slip into the envelope of Ema's letter. It is a kind of comic
valentine substitute, Marion explains, to make Ema see how
stupid her letters have really been. Sally is sure it's going to
be a lot of fim.

Felice has slipped her hand beneath Ema's mattress and
come upon the letter just as Bingo's voice heralds the return
of the others. The searching three have hopped quickly into
their beds and assumed casual, even nonchdant, attitudes as
quickly as possible. Felice shoves the discovered letter under
her pillow.

''I don't think you belles are making it any easier," Bingo
mutters, as she crosses to her bed ahead of Olga and Ema. Ema
is the last to appear. She is carrying the doll, Merriweather,
with her.

There is an uncomfortable, watchful waiting, as the prepara-
tions incident to the letter reading are concluded. Sally works
ostentatiously at her night makeup. She is determined to keep
her hand in. There might be a fire. But she gives up finally,
under a barrage of protests from Bingo and Marion.

When they are sdl ready, and the letters are called for, Ema
makes her suggestion — that they do not go on with the letter
reading. ''It's time for u^ to begin growing up, don't you think?

232 , THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

This letter business seems rather childish to me."

The cries of protest are immediate and very strong. Sally
thinks Ema needn't get so superior about it. Fdice is convinced
the letters are more interesting now than they ever have been,
since they now reveal both sides of a question. Marion is siure
all the rest want to go ahead.

Only Bingo can understand how Ema feels. Olga is inclined
to be neutral, but she finds that reading the letters somehow
makes the unhappiness easier to bear.

"There!" cries Felice, triumphantly. "You see? It is five
against one — or four against two, if Bingo chooses to be on
your side. Anyway — the vote is carried. I will start. . . ."

"Wait a minute I " Ema has risen. "There's one thing, it may
be no good, but I'd like to try it. We've got to stay here to-
gether for some time. We don't have to — but apparently we're
going to. Don't you think it would make it easier for us to
get along together, if we're going on with the letters, if we cut
out the parts that might start arguments — the parts where people
say things about other countries?"

"But that's what is interesting, Ema — that's what makes it
exciting," insists Felice.

"You might try it once — I think it's a hell of a good idea,
myself," says Bingo. And when Marion suggests that evidently
what is going on in the world is of no interest to her, Bingo adds:
''It means a great deal to me — but friendship means more. . . .
I think it would be a good idea — ^to cut out the bitter parts.
Won't you try it an)rway?"

"There is not much left when the bitter parts are gone — but
we will start," protests Felice. She has risen and is sittmg at
the foot of her bed as she begins — " 'My dearest — "

"That's Jean Jacques, isn't it?" chirps Sally.

"Yes. But — Do not get your hopes up, Sally. This is not
one of his beautiful letters — "

" 'My dearest — ^because of the censorship I do not know how
much of this letter will get through to you — Here one thinks that
this war which is not a war will not last for long. Even though
they say that the west wall is impregnable, our Maginot is even
stronger and it will soon be stalemate. The enemy have sent a
few planes over but there have been no bombs dropped!' Now
we come to a few choice phrases that Bingo is too sensitive to
hear — 'The enthusiasm for Gamelin is formidable, and everyone
is in high spirits about our eventual success. I cannot warn you
strongly enou^ about — * **

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 233

"About what, Fdice?"

^'I did not intend to read that — I had forgotten what it says
here."

"Oh, go on — ^it sounds exciting I"

"No. It is not important."

"Is it against Germany?"

"Sally!" Bingo is disgusted.

"It is quite interesting, but it is bitter," says Felice, looking
at Ema — "About methods of spreading propaganda and ac-
quiring information — No, I shall not read it."

" 'Your brother has been called back to the service and your
mother and father are extremely proud. I am so glad that you
have decided to stay there until we have once and for all settled
the question of that . . .' Ah, more bitterness! Then he goes
into a rather sweet love passage, which, for once, I shall keep
to myself. That is all."

Felice has gone back to bed. "You're just being mean," pouts
SaUy.

"No. I want to keep it to myself. Go on with yours, Sally."

Sally's letter is long and earnest, is from her mother, and is
not too clear about an3rthing except that she thinks Sally should
stay where she is, however her cables may read. Mrs. Jackson is
compelled to submit the cables to Sally's father, and it is Father's
idea that Sally should come home.

" 'Let me know if there is anything you need, and don't write
your father what I said, as he thinks I agree with him about
your coming home. Lots of love — ' "

"She's a dream girl — that's what she is," ventures Bingo.

"It's only on paper that she's such an idiot. She really makes
sense when you talk to her."

"I'd hate to think she's any different — ^I love her the way she
is on paper."

Marion is next. "Mine are all dull ones — depressing beyond
words," she sighs. "They say things like —

" 'This time there are no flags flying — ^no bands playing.
Everything is quiet and calm — ^in a frightening, sinister way. It
is like a horrible inevitable acceptance of doom.' Things like
that— definitely not entertaining reading. Let's hear Ema's —
hers are so triumphant — they give us all a lift!"

Ema has no letter to read. The letter they saw her get she
destroyed. Then what about the letter Felice found? Of course
they have it. And they mean to make Ema read it. But Ema
does not intend to read any letters, ever again.

234 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

Bingo thinks they are stupid tiying to make trouUey but
Felice, Marion and Sally are not to be put ofiF. Ema pleads
with them not to quarrel with Bingo. She knows that it is
she they want to fight — and she will not fight —

"You and your damned nobility/' sneers Marion, bursting
with anger. '^You're so above all of it, aren't you? So bloody
superior and smug — ^just because you think your country's going
to win. I suppose you think you can afford to be big-hearted
and gracious about it all!"

"I don't know what to say — ^I don't know what to do — "
Ema has turned to face Olga.

"That tone of the martyr! That is what I cannot face any
longer," shouts Felice, holding out Ema's letter. "See if you
can be big-hearted and gracious about this — " She has opened
the letter and begins to read —

" *My dearest child — Things are going so well for our armies.
In just a few short days so much has been done. The excite-
ment here is beyond all belief — ' Of course I cannot get all the
delicate shadings in — my German is rather rusty, thank God!"

Ema has jumped up from her bed. "Give me my letter!" she
cries. "You do not know what's in it. Please do not read it!
I can't stand it!"

"You cannot stand it," shouts Marion, grabbing Ema and
holding her. "What of us? Do you think we like it? Do you
think we want to pretend that nothing's happened? Isn't it
better to face it, in the open?"

Olga, too, would help, but Felice holds her off and goes on
triumphantly with her reading —

" The censorship makes it hard to know what to say but you
must know by now that Warsaw is as good as captured."

"Don't read it — for the love of God don't read it!"

" Today we have had word that Hans was there in the first
bombing flight over the city, and for his bravery he has been
given the Iron Cross — first class . . .'"

Felice has been spacing each word, savagely and viciously.
Now she pauses. "Icams — ^the great hero," i^e sneers. "He's a
murderer^

Again Ema has tried to break from Marion and reach Felice
to tear the letter away from her, but Marion is the stronger.
Suddenly Bingo's voice pierces the air and brings them all up
with a start —

"Stop it! God damn it, stop it! Give Erna that letter!"

Marion has released Erna and Ema has taken her letter. She

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 235

turns pathetically to Olga, realizing what must be going through
her mind. Suddenly they have all turned toward Olga, who has
taken her own letter from the night table and is opening it.
Now she starts to read it in a cold, mechanical voice —

'' 'My cousin: I have to tell you that your mother and father
are dead. They were killed when your house was completely
destroyed by an explosion of a bomb dropped from a German
plane. I have tried to think of a way to break this news to you
— ^but there is no other way but to tell the truth. The horrible
speed of everything that has happened. There was no place
to go, no way to escape — the sp^ was unreal and paralyzing.
I am going to try and reach Bucharest. Perhaps some day I wUl
see you — Perhaps I can try to make up to you for the wonder-
ful kindness you and yoiu* mother and father have always shown
me. My love — ^Antonia."

There is an appalling silence. Ema is the first to move. She
goes to Olga, who turns her head away. Slowly Ema goes back
to her own bed and takes up her bathrobe. The doll Merri-
weather falls to the floor. Without noticing, Ema slowly takes
her traveling clock from the table, walks to the door and goes
out.

For a moment the others stare after her. Olga starts as though
to follow Ema. She sees the doll on the floor and picks it up.
She would take Merriweather with her. Suddenly she stops and
is staring at the wall —

'^No ... 1" she cries, as the doll falls to the floor.
''No ... !" She has gone back to the foot of Ema's bed as
the curtain falls.

ACT III

Three days later, in the Main Hall, Mrs. Hunter, Miss Linder,
Felice, Marion, SaJly and Bingo are flnishing lunch. There is
an empty chair next to that of Mrs. Hunter. The day is cloudy.
Gustave is serving and Margarethe has just walked through the
room and upstairs.

Mrs. Hunter has evidently been lecturing her charges on their
failure to restore the friendliness that has previously existed
between them. This is the seventh meal that Erna has missed,
and Mrs. Hunter is determined that it shall be the last. She
has tried to do what she could. She has thought that if she
could bring Ema and Olga together the rest of them would
make it up, but so far this has not been possible.

Felice would defend the others by insisting that it is all Bingo's

236 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

fault, because she told Mrs. Hunter, but Mrs. Hunter refuses
to accept that exciise. After all neither she nor Miss Linder
is blind. They have known that Bingo was taking Ema's side
and was still friendly with her —

Bingo — I'm friendly with her, all right, Madame. I love Ema.
But I don't blame the others for being sore at me — ^the other
night she was the under-dog and I was just standing up for
her — ^showing off, I guess.

Mrs. Hunter — I thought I could keep the war away from
here — I thought we could ignore it — and go on with things the
way they were.

Felice — But Ema is our enemy, Madame.

Mrs. Hunter — Ema I Just because she happens to be bom
in Germany? You're trying to fight a war — a war you know
nothing about. You're trying to reduce it to terms of this school.
You can't do that — You simply wanted some excitement — ^you
made it for yourselves.

Marion — That isn't fair, Madame. It isn't just us — ^it's —

Mrs. Hunter — ^Wait a minute, Marion. You're going to say
something about patriotism and love for one's country. I'm not
talking about that. (Rises.) I'm talking about — ^Awareness.
I'm talking about knowing what's happening to other people.
Ema is your friend — she's the same girl she was two weeks ago.

Marion — It isn't Erna, Madame. It's what she stands for.

Mrs. Hunter — Somehow I've got to show you that what's
happening is happening to human beings — ^you can't make one
person suffer — somehow you've got to see it through her eyes —

Felice — ^Her coimtry is making the whole rest of the world
suffer.

Mrs. Hunter — I'm not asking you to be tolerant of an enemy
country — I'm asking you to be considerate of a human being!
... I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to preach at you. I shouldn't
have done it, except that I'm bitterly disappointed in myself. . . .
I want you to do something for me. We're going back to classes
holding to our regular schedule. And I want Bingo to go and
get Erna. Where is she, in the kitchen?

Miss Linder — I think so, Madame.

Mrs. Hunter — I want her to come in here. I know that if
you can only keep up the appearance of friendship that real
friendship will come back. It isn't going to be easy. Go on.
Bingo.

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 237

Bingo (rising and crossing to door) — ^What if she won't come,
Madame?
Mrs. Hunter — She will.

There is an awkward silence during which the girls toy guiltily
with their food. It is broken finally by Miss Linder's announce-
ment that Olga is improving and will probably be able to sit in
the summer house for a little while this afternoon.

Now Bingo and Erna have come from the kitchen. Bingo
"smiling with grim determination," Erna '^bracing herself for
an ordeal." Mrs. Hunter would have Erna take the empty chair
beside her and join them with the dessert. Erna has finished her
lunch in the kitchen with Margarethe but she does sit down and
pretend to eat.

There are awkward attempts at starting conversation and sus-
taining it after it is started. Mostly it is about the little progress
that is being made with the summer house. Also a little about
the English class and the themes that have to be finished.

Margarethe has appeared from upstairs to report that Olga
has not touched her lunch. The effect is to create another pro-
longed silence that finally drives Sally to jump up from the table,
with a mumbled "Excuse me," and disappear. Felice begs to
be permitted to return to her English composition.

Marion makes a brave try at being friendly. She would have
Erna come with her and measure the hothouse — after she
(Marion) runs up to her room to get her jumper.

Erna makes a brave fight to keep back the tears, but now
she has turned and buried her face in her arms on the back
of the chair. Her body is shaken by her long-drawn-out sobs.
Mrs. Hunter motions Miss Linder to leave, but asks Bingo to
stay.

Mrs. Hunter (rising and crossing to Erna) — ^Ema — ^Ernal
We're your friends— please let us help you.

Erna — I cannot stay here — they hate me.

Mrs. Hunter — Of course you can stay here — they don't know
what they're doing, Erna — they're only hysterical and upset —

Erna (stops sobbing; her voice controlled) — ^It is frightening
— because I feel that it isn't me. They are making me into the
kind of German they talk about — the kind they hate — just by
the way they are treating me.

Bingo — ^Erna, they're all mixed up and excited — they can't
help it

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here tban any place eke — vbr <fid / have to spafl it? — Just be-
cacse I 2m a Gcnnan — ^n^ becaiae nnr facuchcr —

Mas. HrxTEX im a %nm t^m^ » — Ema — «e aie staHiug dasscs
aeain. I'd like yoa tc be there. Yoo needb t have a theme
today — ^jcit tiy sittzng with the class. ... Go for a little walk —
youH fed better.

E.2^s — Yes. Of coarse I want to be in the class ... I wiD go
to the bothotse — Marion said she was going there — Maybe I
fan make friends with her —

is starting out. She manages a little sm3e at the door
and disappears past the window. Bingo remembeis suddenly
that she has a tlxme to write. Miss Under appeals at the head
of the stairs. She has seen a policeman coming up the drive and
has come to warn 3irs. Hmiter. 9ie b also fri^tcned for her-
self. It may be the authorities are investigating Germans. Al-
ready thc>' have sent some away —
'Tm frightened, Caroline/' Miss Under admits, '^f he asks

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 239

''111 talk to him, Gretchen. Ill let you know the moment he
has gone."

The policeman, it turns out, is Herr Koppler, a brother of
Hilda, the kitchen maid who had left Madame Hunter's employ
a few da3rs before. He has come to make inquiries concerning a
girl named Ema Schmidt. He is not at liberty to say why he
wants to know mdiere Ema is, but that is his mission.

Mrs. Hunter does not know where Ema Schmidt is. Nor will
she let Hert Koppler question her pupils until she knows why he
wants the information. Herr Koppler is reluctant to give up his
search, but does finally withdraw.

Bingo has come hurriedly from the study room, but is im-
mediately sent back. ''You can watch for Ema through the
window in there," Mrs. Himter tells her, excitedly. "The mo-
ment she's near the house, go and ask her to come to the sitting
room."

"He's working. for Germany, isn't he?"

"There isn't any doubt about that. They hunt out their own
nationals — ^and force them to work with them."

Marion and Olga have come from upstairs, Marion with her
arm around Olga. They are on their way to the summer house,
where they are hoping they may sit a little while in the sun.
But now Sally has come in and is indicating by a fairly frantic
dumb show that she wants to talk with Marion. Marion promises
to come back as soon as she makes Olga comfortable.

The girls have gone and Margarethe, having cleared the table,
is on her way to the kitchen when Bingo comes in from the
study hall. It is for Bingo that Margarethe has been looking.
She has a new letter for Ema. It is at her cottage.

They will both have to be terribly careful about the letters
from now on. Bingo warns Margarethe. Perhaps it woiild be
better if Margarethe were to bring the new letter to Bingo.

Sally and Felice have appeared at the top of the stairs. Sally
is acting very mysteriously. She has something awfully im-
portant to tell Felice and Marion, but she won't say what it is
until Marion comes back. That may be childish, as Felice says,
but they'll change their tunes when they hear all.

Marion, like Felice, refuses to be stmck dumb with the im-
portance of Sally's discovery, even if it is about Ema —

"... I thought we were going to drop all that," protests
Marion, wearily. "Didn't you hear what Madame said? It's
only fair to give Ema a clumce — ^if she's willing to forget it and
try to be friendly. I don't see why we shouldn't do the same."

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LETTERS TO LUCERNE 241

back to the gate. He's standing there right now, watchmg this
place — looking for Ema.

Felice — ^Where is Ema?

Masion — Felicel

Sally — ^I don't know — ^but I do know it's up to us to find
out, and if the police want her, you won't think I'm such a fool.
You're scared to do it — but if she's helping Germany^ I'll tell
'em about her — ^you just see if I don't!

Felice — I think that I will walk down — perhaps the man will
ask me questions — I can find out what is the matter —

Marion — No, Felicel Don't!

Felice — ^I do not need to give anything away. I can find
out what he wants. I will be able to tell from the sort of ques-
tions he asks.

Sally — ^Maybe it would be better if I did it.

Marion — ^Neither one of you is going to do it. It may be
dangerous — Madame ought to know that he is here.

Sally — ^We've got to do something. We've got to find out —
the police couldn't be looking for Ema except for one reason.
One of us has got to go and tsdk to him. . . .

They hear someone coming and are quickly on the watch.
Margarethe does not see them as she comes into the room. When
they speak to her she tries to hide the letter she is carrying back
of her.

Is she looking for Ema? Sally would know. Ema has gone to
the summer house to sit with Olga. That is joyful news to Mar-
garethe— that Ema and Olga are friends again is fine. She has
forgotten all about the letter. And now Sally has sidled around
in back of Margarethe and snatched the letter from her hand.
She holds on to it, despite Margarethe's frantic protests —

"It is wrong!" shouts Margarethe. ^'You are stealing what
does not belong to you! I wiU speak to Madame!"

"You better be careful what you say to her — sneaking letters in
behind her back!" answers Sally.

"The Ku Klux rides again!" calls Bingo with withering scom.

Sally stands her ground. The Swiss police are after Ema, and
they will probably be very interested in what is in Ema's letter.
There's a man down at the gate right now looking for her. They'll

Mrs. Hunter is coming down the stairs. "What is the matter?"
she demands.

"Please, Madame — Miss Sally has taken a letter that was for

242 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Miss Ema," explains Margarethe.

"She's been sneaking letters in to Ema and I caught her at
it, that's all. Helping the Germans . . ."

'That's not true, Sally. There has been no sneaking about it.
I knew that Margarethe was getting Ema's letters for her. Give
it to me, Sally."

Under protest Sally complies. The situation, she insists, is
more serious than Mrs. Hunter thinks. It is, Mrs. Hunter agrees,
a situation with which she is unable to go on. She has decided
that she will have to send them all home.

Now there is consternation as well as protest. ^We can't help
it if we are loyal to our countries, Madame," ventures Marion.

"I'd be very much ashamed of you if you weren't loyal," sajrs
Mrs. Hunter. "But loyalty doesn't mean persecuting someone
without any reason."

Marion, Sally and Felice are continuing their argument, their
emotions rapidly mounting. Ema has appeared in the doorway.
For a moment she listens and then, a little savagely, as she loses
control of herself, she shouts —

Erna — ^You think you are the only ones who are suffering.
Don't you know that I love my people just as much as you love
yours?

Marion — Our countries didn't start this war I We're not
smashing down farms and killing people and blasting cities ofiF the
face of the earth I

Mrs. Hunter — Marion!

Erna — Madame, it is my letters that have made all the trouble
here. It is letters like that, that have done it. I have kept them
away from you and that is why you cannot know how impos-
sible it is for me to stay here. I want to read it to you now.
I have to show you why you must let me go away. It does
not matter what anyone thinks of me any more. I only want
to stop all this trouble. I only want to go away. Please,
Madame, may I read it?

Mrs. Hunter {handing her the letter) — ^Yes.

Erna {staring at the envelope) — ^This has been mailed Express
from Zurich. But my mother cannot be in Switzerland. {She
opens the letter and starts to read.)

"My darling — I am praying that this will reach you. Old
Heinrich, who used to be our gardener when you were little, is
going to try to reach Switzerland. He will try to cross Lake
Constance and get to Zurich; it is very dangerous but he has
promised that he will get there and that if he is caught he will

LETTERS TO LUCERNE 243

destroy this before it can be found — " (Erna's voice is puzzled
—baffled.)

"I am not a brave woman — if I were I would shield you from
the truth — but my only comfort will be that you know the truth
— ^that you can share it with me." (Her manner changes — her
voice is beginning to mounts in realization,)

^^I have not been able to say an3rthing — ^because of the censors.
Even now your father would be horrified if he knew I was writ-
ing this to you. But you see, he does not know the truth as he
will soon have to know it. . . . Your brother is dead — ^your
brother is dead — " (Olga turns to Miss Linder for support.)
'^They sent his Iron Cross from the Chancellery^ and your father
was so proud — He was killed in the first days of fighting near
Warsaw — and they said he was a hero. He was, my diarling,
but-not for the reason that they gave." (There is pride in Erna's
voice now,) "Hans' good friend, Wilhdm Brandt, was there —
he saw it happen — ^he saw Hans deliberately crash dive his ship
— ^before they ever reached Warsaw. It was Wilhelm who re-
ported his death — ^he was flying next to Hans in the rear of the
formation — and he told the officers that it was a lucky anti-
aircraft shot — but he told me the truth. Hans waved to him —
then he fell. ... No matter what happens now — ^as long as you
and I live we can take pride in what he has done. It was partly
for Olga — partly for his love — because he loved her deeply — "
(Olga breaks from Linder and looks at Erna.) ^^ — but it was
mostly because it was the only thing he could do — ^the only way
he could protest and deny this terror that has swept over our
coimtry. . . . Now they are beginning to dose in on us. There
are signs that they suspect Hans' death — that there may be
accusations of treachery — then your father and I will have to
face them — They may even try to reach you — But you must
not be afraid of them because they cannot hurt you. You have
your pride in Hans — ^your faith in decent people. I am so deeply
grateful for the knowledge that you are in a place where you
can be safe — ^where you do not have to suffer for your beliefs —
where you have enough to eat — ^where you are surrounded by
kind people who love you — "

Erna stands for a moment, utterly crushed. As she starts for
the door Olga nms to her and touches her. Erna turns and they
are quickly in each other's arms. Felice has started toward
Erna and Olga; Sally, Marion and Bingo are stirring uncertainly
as

THE CURTAIN FALLS

JASON
A Comedy in Three Acts

By Samson Raphaelson

NOT the least controversial of the new plays of this laggard
season was one called "Jason," written by the Samson Rapbad- .j
son whose previous successes had included his study of a tcm*
peramental playwright in "Accent on Youth" and that of a
lightly egotistical advertising genius in "Skylark." ''Jason" con-
tinued the dissection of what might be called the creative writiiig
craft by putting a dramatic critic on the fire. The New York
reviewers were not taken completely by surprise, having been
duly forewarned, but they were a trifle shaken to discover that,
far from lampooning the practitioners of their suspect profession,
the author had treated them with far more re^)ect than con-
descension. Mr. Raphaelson, it appeared, was studiedly deter-
mined to be fair. Only in those external matters of their living
conditions and work routines did the drama critics find them-
selves extravagantly represented, which was amusing rather than
irritating to most of them.

"If drama critics live with the magnificence of Jason, this
department is being cheated, and hereby puts in for a stiff raise,"
protested Brooks Atkinson of the New York Times.

"I trust Mr. Raphaelson won't mind if I point out that I have
not dictated a review at midnight in the luxurious fashion of his
Jason for exactly forty-one years," wrote John Mason Brown
in the World-Telegram. "Neither, I suspect, have any of my
confreres. Nor do dramatic critics drink sherry when they fore-
gather. Or live as snugly as the over fastidious Jason does in a
country house in the city without a typewriter in sight."

In general the New York reviewers found the Raphadson play
about one of their kind an acceptable portrait and occasioiudly
even flattering. ^'My chief disappointment in Mr. Raphadson's
portrait is that Jason Otis seems such a prig," wrote John
Anderson in the Journal- American. "He is dever, learned and
fastidious. Clearly he has a bite much worse than his bark,
but he lacks the lustrous urbanity of Mr. Nathan, the infectious
enthusiasm of Dr. WooUcott, the shaggy humanity of the late
Mr. Broun and warmer qualities which I, as an admittedly preju-
diced friend, find among my colleagues along the aisle."

244

1 3-|='o.it|-°-|-' ^ i^S 2

JASON 245

^^ason" was produced in mid- January and, to the surprise of
many experts, developed a fairly healthy attraction for those
average playgoers who are more interested in the theatre and its
drama than tibey are in drama critics and their egos. It continued
for 125 performances, the chief role being played during that
time by three different actors — Alexander Knox, George Mac-
ready and Lee J. Cobb — ^who, naturally, projected three reviewers
of separate and distinct virtues. Later Charles Bickford, re-
turned from Hollywood, took over the role and played it over a
newly formed suburban circuit.

The living room in the New York home of Jason Otis is "a,
man's room. Warm, friendly, furnished in excdlent taste." As
we face the room there is a stairway that wmds down from the
floor above at the left, and at the back 'Trench doors open on
a small front yard containing a tree and a patch of grass, bounded
by a brick wall with a gate opening to the street." It is about
4.30 of an October afternoon.

As we enter the room Miss Crane, Jason's secretary, "a nonde-
script person of about thirty,'^ comes from the hall. She is
carrying several pages of typed manuscript. She is scribbling
an address on an envelope she finds in a desk drawer when
Violet, ''a middle-aged colored maid," brings in a package and is
closely followed by a young man wearing a Western Union mes-
senger's cap. He appears a little old for a messenger and much
too alert. Violet would put him out if she could, but she can't.
Miss Crane finds the messenger a little impertinent as he follows
her about the room asking question after question about her work
and the man she works for. She can't do much about that, either.

Does Jason dictate his letters? No. Does he dictate his crit-
icisms? Yes. With that much information Miss Crane leaves
him. The messenger is not discouraged. He continues the in-
quiry. Violet is more responsive.

Does Mr. Otis have enough to do to keep him busy all day?
If so, what? ''He sees a show, writes it up the same night — and
then what does he do with the rest of his time?"

Mr. Otis reads books, Violet tells him. All those books in the
book cases. He writes books, too. He writes more books than
all the other drama critics put together. Is he a bachelor? He
was until a month ago. Now he's married.

"Do you suppose his wife likes this perfect room?" demands
the messenger.

"Huh?" Violet is beginning to wonder about this strange
young man.

I^ HEsT FLASS OF I941-C2

. . . ITiiiin . . .

"Way wcjold I

jiM*d nant at

Suppose

Sff Jim caniid as
CD ak to ic . . /

'Y'ur're biack. jret't van? T^ac 3 reason

-*! sever talked oa a asd at mw fioe.'^

"Sore. Azd ^e okf^s dent ddnk rfber calk id

-Wei i> tiey r^

-Whj. it aH (irfiwH <at c&e fannL Sodk birds are pretty
atripid, Fs do pnixxzsazcis faird-kiver. but every ooce in a whik
yja nm mtc a bcrd caac s so damn smart . . .'^

-^Ifoccu man, are yon rzsikc in your mmd? I think you'd
better coise to . . ."

At that CGoaent Jason Ods ames dovn tbe stairs* bumming
cbeerfaQy to hnnadf. 'Jason is m his bte thirties^ workDy, in-
rHWrnal " As Mo£ei afetIkaLii\rfy wxthdraws^ and the mrssmger
ioQgws Jason's movecaents with obvioos taesdnatian. the writer
2oes strafzht to his desk f<3r the typewritten dieeCs Miss Crane
has left there. They are to so to the Evemm§ WoHd. He is
Vxksn^ them over when the osdziated nirssnigei cahnly int^-
mpcs him —

'Voo thooght that play was terribfef didn't you?''

''How do yoQ know?*' parries Jason.

Messengeb — I read yoar opening paragraph.

Jason Istarmg al ike Mrs>FNGFB, awms€d}^Ohy did you? I
hope you liked it!

Messences — It wasn't bad, but iriiat fascinates me is . . .
(He takes tke skeets out of Jason s kami so casuaUy ikai Jason
is paralyzed for ike moment.) Take something like this: '*If
you write a play wherein your hero has tuberculosis, can't pay
the interest on the mortgage, and at the same time g^ appendi-
citis and pleurisy, don't caU in an audience: call in a doctor . . ."
Did you write that because it sounds good?

JASON 247

Jason (taking the papers from htm) — ^That's none of your
business, my boy.

Messenger — ^What do you mean it's none of my business?
I'm one of your readers. Whom do you write for — me, or the
owner of the New York Evening World?

Jason (after a pause) — ^What did you want to know?

Messenger — ^Well — that's a clever little paragraph. I'd like
to know how a critic works out something like that. Does it
come easUy?

Jason (after studying the Messenger for a moment and de-
ciding, with some humor, to accept the situation) — ^Very.

Messenger — ^No walldng up and down the room all ni^t,
maybe, trying to figure out your opinion?

Jason — ^I usually dictate it with my feet on the sofa, a whiskey
and soda by my side, and two cuties on my knee.

Messenger — ^You're kidding me, aren't you?

Jason — If you're asking whether I know what I think — ^yes,
I always know what I think. Every critic should.

Messenger — Suppose you didn't know — ^would you say so?

Jason (half to himself) — ^I never faced that problem.

Messenger (sitting down — solemnly) — That's very interest-
ing— very interesting.

Jason (sitting down, too, and leaning toward the Messenger
— sweetly) — Incidentally, I'm taking your nmnber, and I'm
going to ask Western Union to fire you.

Messenger (taking off his Aa/)— Oh, that. That's not mine.
I gave the boy a dollar — ^he's having an ice-cream soda around
the comer. But let's get back to you. Do you get any excite-
ment when you knock o£f a paragraph like this — any joy? Do
you want to run out on the streets and holler: '*Hey, mister —
listen to what I just found out — ^we can get dnmk together on
iti"

Now the truth begins to dawn upon Jason. This is the yoimg
man who has been asking for an appointment; the young man
who has written a play which he has tried to induce Jason to
read. His name is Mike Ambler.

As for Mike, he is not at all startled by being discovered. He
is indeed the young playwright in question. He is quite disap-
pointed to find that the drama critic's routine is so ordinary. He
thought they alwa3rs went through hell in composing their crit-
icisms. He can't understand. He goes through hell with every-
thing he writes, and he writes only about imaginary people.

248 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

'^ . . I don't know what I really think of about them," admits
Mike; '^whether they're bright or dull, good or bad, strong or
weak. All I know is they're wonderful."

'^What's that — ^your play?" demands Jason, as Mike draws a
green manuscript from his coat.

''It's my first play, and it's so beautiful that sometimes 1
think I'll never write another as good — ^but that's just a pass-
ing mood. Better read it tonight. We're in rehearsal — ^we open
next Monday."

Jason isn't interested. He had told Mike over the telephone
that he never read plays before they were produced. Mike is
still puzzled. ''I should think, now that you've talked to me,
you'd realize that I was a genius."

"Well, you must be patient," reasons Jason. "Next Monday,
when your play opens, I'll probably find it out — to my amaze-
ment."

Mike isn't sure. Jason might not like the play. After all he
(Mike) is the first great American playwright and it isn't always
easy for anyone to digest a masterpiece. Mike would, with
Jason's permission, explain his play, but Jason's impatience in-
creases. He is expecting friends. Good I Mike would love to
meet Jason's friends. Especially his fellow critics —

"Are they anything like you?" Mikes wants to know.

"From your viewpoint — ^yes," answers Jason.

Mike — That's fascinating. Listen, I can do something for
you all, I can disturb you. I can remind you of the days when
you weren't critics. I can make you hear the birds sing again.
Why, I can tell all of you about my play.

Jason (wistfully) — Mr. Ambler, if I asked you to get to hell
out of here— do you think that would help?

Mike — ^Jason, I'm going to give you a quick picture of the
play, and then you'll realize . . . Listen, Jason — it's humanity
the way God would see it. Why, He's crazy about people. He
and I both, get me? Take Mama, for instance. Mama is semi-
symbolic — one moment representing motherhood, the next mo-
ment lust and corporation dividends. . . . Jason, this play is
mysterious, like a baby, like the Einstein Theory. It's as real
as what's going to happen yesterday, or what has happened to-
morrow. It's full of lies like every truth, and full of truth like
every lie. It's me — ^it's you — ^it's what you don't know you are,
because you're being it. It's every bum in the park . . . The
title is "Hooray for the Madam." Do you like it?

JASON 249

Jason — Do you know what you're talking about?

Mike — Occasionally. I figure I do about twenty-five per cent
of the time. What's your average?

Jason — ^Ninety-nine.

Mike (impressed) — Really?

Jason — But it's easier for me, I'm sure, because I don't find
myself as difficult to understand as you must find yourself.

Mike — I don't understand myself at all. I'm too dazzling.
Do oxygen and nitrogen understand themselves? Does a loco-
motive, a flower, a woman's shoulder coming out of the bathtub?
(By now Mike has dropped the manuscript on the table again,
and Jason picks it up.)

Jason (with finality, as he gives Mike the manuscript) —
Listen, Woman's Shoulder — take your manuscript. Locomotive,
go away I (Picking up the Messenger's hat and throwing it to
Mike.) Good-by, Flower I

Mike (after a pause) — ^Let me thank you. This has been a
deeply moving experience. You've presented me with the prob-
lem of yourself, but my shoulders are broad enough to carry it.
(Brightening,) I'm beginning to get ideas already. Do you
know what you need, Jason?

Jason — ^Yes — solitude.

Mike — ^Nol Just the opposite! You need people. Look at
this beautiful house — it has too many walls. Break down one
of those walls I Walk out on the street — ^pass the time of day
with a stranger waiting for a bus or sitting on a park bench. Ask
him to drop in. Offer him a sandwich and a glass of beer. Then
walk up to another — a. plumber out of work — ^and still another —
maybe a young couple who can't afford to go to Coney Island.
. . . You don't think it's practical, huh?

Jason (a little wearily) — ^You guessed it.

Mike (studying him) — ^There's something about you ... I
don't know what it is . . . but I think you're a good guy. You
make me sad, but optimistic. So long, Jason.

With obvious relief Jason calls to Violet to get another mes-
senger. Then he would talk with Mrs. Otis, who is upstairs and
has, at the moment, advanced from her toenails to her finger-
nails, by Violet's report.

Lisa Otis "is a beautiful girl of about twenty-three, wearing
a house-robe smart to the point of absurdity and very becoming
to her." She stops at the bend in the stairs that her husband
may not miss the picture, and is '^brimming with affection for

250 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

him" when she completes the descent.

Jason had some idea of talking with Lisa about Violet, who is
getting a little on his nerves. When they were married Lisa
had told Jason that she was without kith or kin. That was true,
Lisa reassures him. Her father was the last of his branch of the
Breckinridges of Virginia and her mother —

"Oh, Jason, you would have worshiped her I She was so sweet
and fragile, and she looked so lovely in the morning out in the
garden."

"Sometimes you make your mother soimd as if she lived in
the Woman's Home Companion, instead of the sunny South,"
ventures Jason.

It was the wrong thing to say. Lisa is on the verge of tears,
even after Jason has taken her in his arms and comforted her
with a kiss. And now Jason has forgotten what it was he wanted
to report about Violet, as well as everything else that was in his
.mind. He has helped Lisa imwrap the most beautiful pair of
shoes he has ever seen and cheerfully adjusted himself to the
news that there is one hell of a dress to go with them.

"Darling, when are you going to tell me about money, and
things like that?" Lisa is a^ng, sweetly.

"You mean you'd like to know whether we can afford the
shoes and the dress which you have already bought."

"Yes, dear."

"My idea of an attractive woman is a woman I can't afford."

Lisa remembers that one. Jason did not just make it up. It
was in one of his little books he wrote ten years ago. So was
the one he delivered to his managing editor the other night at
dinner: " ^A liberal is a nice fellow who doesn't know he's a Com-
munist, or a nice fellow who doesn't know he's a Fascist . . .' "
repeats Lisa.

"But he's always a nice fellow," adds Jason.

"That's it."

"Darling — (He drops onto the sofa beside her and puts his
arm around her,) if I'd ever dreamt that after one month of mar-
riage you would be doing this to me, I'd have avoided you like a
rattlesnake."

"You've been awfully cross for the last week," pouts Lisa, snug
in his embrace. "What's the matter? Honeymoon over? Re-
action?"

"For a kid of twenty-three, you're awfully slick and smart.
You dress your mind the way you dress your body."

Jason holds his wife closely for a moment, wishing fervently

JASON 251

the while that she wOI shut up. Which she does presently, at the
appearance of Miss Crane. Lisa does not leave, however, even
when Jason takes up the task of dictating an addition to his
Sunday article —

^'Ready?" he calls to Miss Crane, whose pencil is poised above
her notebook. "Ready," she answers, and the dictation begins —

" Tinally, I am forced to the conclusion that Mr. Glendale's
elegance is phony. One gets the impression that his plays are
being told by a gentleman in full dress, but on closer inspection,
one discovers it is only the butler. In other words, Mr. Glen-
dale wears his subtlety on his sleeve.' "

"That's awfully clever, dear." Lisa is interested.

" 'The rumor that . . .' I hate the word dever, darling . . .
(To Miss Crane.) Where was I?"

" *. . , wears his subtlety on his sleeve.' "

" 'The rumor that it takes Mr. Glendale only a week to write
a play, and that he does it in bed, fails to alienate me. I believe
many a good play can be, and has been, written swiftly and in
bed. And many splendid novels . . . Aiid many brilliant opin-
ions, Mr. Ambler — penetrating, sincere and true . . .' "

"Mr. Who?"

"I was thinking of something else. Cut that out, and keep the
rest. That's all. Miss Crane."

The added copy is to be sent by a new messenger. Lisa is
enormously impressed with her husband's brilliance — ^if he will
permit her to substitute "brilliant" for "clever" —

"Because I really mean brilliant," protests Lisa. "These things
come out of you so easily. When I'm writing a letter, I bite my
nails, and I tear up one sheet after another. . . . (Jason stops
fondling her knee,) Am I saying something wrong again?"

"It's not you. It's me. Darlmg," Jason says, slowly, "I've
been a critic too long. It's getting me. And I don't know what
to do about it."

"I do I" proudly announces Lisa, picking up a large box from
a nearby chair. "I think a great big gasp is what you need."
And she draws from the box a gorgeous evening gown. "Wdl?"
she demands.

"I'm gasping," admits Jason. But he does wish that she
would cultivate a greater resourcefulness. She might think up
something "more diverting than extravagance."

Lisa agrees, and she has done just that. She has thought up
an enormous party to which shall be invited all the people Jason
doesn't know, but who know him. Katharine Comdl, for in-

252 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

stance. Helen Hayes and Jock Whitney. Lisa has prepared a
list — a wonderful list— including the Mayor. And Herbert Mar-
shall. Gertrude Lawrence. Jascha Heifetz. A couple of Whit-
neySy Orson Welles, a couple of Vanderbilts, Sinclair Lewis —

"1 know him — does diat matter?'' interrupts Jasen. Lisa
squelches him with a withering "Wise guy I"

Jason is soon tired of even thinking of the new game. He
knows that he has, as she says, everything in the world to make
him happy, but —

"Everything buL I've been living for artistic pleasure, just
as a rou6 lives for sensual pleasure. I've absorbed wine and
women* like works of art, and works of art like wine and women.
There's nothing creative in my life. I've lived like a critic. I
haven't lived. It's not unusual. Millions of people haven't lived
But it's bad when you begin to suspect it . . . The roue can
find salvation with Dr. Buchman or the Salvation Army. (He
goes to Lisa, strokes her hair.) Not I. I'm too clever. I'm
stuck.''

"You are in a bad way, aren't you? I wish I knew more about
men."

"I wish you did too. I wish / did."

Lisa thinks she may have been to blame. Perhaps she has been
following his written formula too closely. She is free to confess
that she landed him by being "capricious and shallow and ex-
travagant." Now she is going to change. What Jason needs is
somebody deeper, and Lisa will become deeper. No more smart
magazines. Lisa will start on "Hamlet" that very night. . . .

Violet has come to announce Mr. Bronson. She has sent for a
new messenger, but the old one is still in the kitchen. He has
been telling Violet about his play. Very interesting . . .

George Bronson is one of Jason's colleagues, "a solid fellow of
about fifty, unpretentious, neatly dressed, competent." Perhaps
a little on the gloomy side. George doesn't think much of him-
self as a hack reviewer. "I do my stint every day for the half
million readers of the Globe" says he. "I don't publish any
books or give lectures or go on the radio. I'm an ordinary citizen
— and that makes me a much better risk as a husband than
Jason."

"Oh, stop bragging about your mediocrity, will you?"

Lisa doesn't understand, but Jason explains: "It's very simple.
George pleases five hundred thousand and one people — namely,
the readers of the Globe and his wife. He's a failure. I please
one person — ^namely, myself. I'm a success."

JASON 253

Violet has brought m the sherry and reported the playwright
messenger getting along famously in the kitchen. He is right
in the middle of the second act at the moment. That is about all
Jason can stand, but before he can move into action Lisa takes
over and agrees to get rid of the brash young man.

Bronson has brought a play script with him. As it soon turns
out this is another copy of the same play the eager author is now
tr3dng to read in the kitchen. Nevertheless, it has impressed
Bronson tremendously. Either it is ^'a remarkably good or a
terribly bad piece of work." And how did Bronson come by it?
Why, the young man telephoned that he was a photographer on
Life and would like to take a few intimate shots of George.
Being invited to come he brought his play instead of a camera.

"I'll tell you all about this script/' Jason finally explodes. "It's
flashy, it's insolent, it's full of bright, imexpected phrases — and
it's phony from cover to cover. ... It took me a few minutes to
get his number, but when I did, I tossed him out. He's a shallow
anarchist posturing as a profound individualist."

"I thought he was refreshing, in a way," admits Bronson.

Now BUI Squibb, another of Jason's critical colleagues, has
arrived. "Squibb is in his late thirties; keen, sensitive, well-
dressed." In his hand he, too, carries a green manuscript, and
very shortly this is discovered to be a third copy of the mes-
senger's play.

"I bet he's been at every drama reviewer in New York," growls
Jason. "The fellow is impudent and vulgar, dazzling those who
are so afraid to admire themselves that they get a kick out of any-
body who climbs into their lap and hollers, *I'm Napoleon 1' "

Before they can agree on what they really think of the intrud-
ing dramatist and his work Lisa is back in a state of some excite-
ment. She has come to get some yellow paper. In the kitchen,
she reports, Mr. Ambler has just had an idea for improving his
third act —

"Can you imagine, he got his idea just through something I
said," Lisa is explaining, with shining eyes. "It had nothing
whatever to do with his play — but it gave him an idea about
something else, which made his mind leap way back to his play,
which had nothing whatever to do with the other thing, either."

Jason — ^Well, what's he going to do — ^write it here in the house?
Lisa — Oh, yes. He has to get it down while it's hot. {She
starts for the haU.)
Jason — ^Wait a minute . . .

254 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Lisa — ^I can't, darling. He might lose his inspiration. You
see, he started on Violet's kitchen pad— but he's superstitious
about yellow paper, and all she had was a pencil. . . . Oh, yesl
May I borrow your fountain pen? {As she goes back to the
desk, opens the center drawer and brings forth a fountain pen.)
He's much more comfortable with a foimtain pen.

Jason — Now, see here, Lisa — do you realize that IVe been
trying to get rid of this fcdlow?

Lisa — Yes, I know — ^he explained it to me — ^it's only because
you don't like to read manuscripts. But, darling, this is different.
I never saw a creative artist creating before. And you always
say the creative artist is the most important of all; and I thou^t
they wrote quietly at home, but he doesn't — and I really think
this is a chance for me to learn all about it from the bottom. . . .
(The silence overwhelms her. She looks from one of the men
to the other, then back to Jason.) Or am I wrong?

Jason — ^Wdl — ahem — as usual, not exactly!

Lisa {eagerly) — That's what I thought I Thank you, darling.
. . . {She starts for the hall, but at the same moment Mike
enters.)

Mike {on fire with creativeness, ignoring the men) — Oh, there
you are. . . . {Grabbing the paper and the fountain pen.)
That's it — that's what I want! ( Going quickly to the desk and
getting set to write.)

Squibb — Oh, hello.

Mike {to himself) — God, I hope I don't lose this! {As the
three men, paralyzed, watch him.) It'll put comets and the
perfume of hone3rsuckle into that third act . . . {Half shutting
his eyes to hold the mood.) I can see it like a painting, like a
sweetly tragic dream — ^honeysuckle and comets against a back-
ground of Papa's red flannel drawers hanging on the clothesline!
{He plunges into his work, writing away with the fountain pen,
oblivious to everything else. Jason looks with dismay at Bron-
soN and Squibb, who look back at him helplessly but with a slight
touch of humor. Lisa stands near Mike, but not too near,
watching him in fascination. Pretty soon she goes closer and
reads over his shotdder as he works. There is a silence of several
moments, during which Jason doesn't know what to do.)

Jason {finally, to Lisa) — ^Well — I hope we're not intruding!

Lisa — Oh, not at all. And you can go right on talking — Mr.
Ambler doesn't mind. Why, when he gets an inspiration, just so
long as he has yellow paper . . . Why, he can work in bars, in
the park, down by the river — oh, anywhere! Go right ahead!

JASON 2SS

(Ske goes back to watching Mike.)
Jason {after a slight pause) — ^That's — that's just dandy.

Jason has turned to his friends. Let them continue their con-
versation. What were they talking about? Oh, yes — so it was.
Mike, the pla3rwright. Well, let them choose another subject.
Jason will be damned if he is going to be driven from that room.

They try the Critics' Circle election as a topic, but that doesn't
go too well. "Frankly, I'm fed up with the Critics' Circle,"
admits Jason. "We get to know each other, to understand each
other — ^we rub the ^ges off each other, and pretty soon well
talk alike, think alike, write alike."

Presently they are aware that they are beginning to feel pretty
uncomfortable. Even a little flabbergasted. Mike writes on
and Lisa continues a fascinated observer over his shoulder. Still
Jason refuses to admit defeat. Perhaps if they tried singing —

The next minute they are grouped in approved barber-shop
style and have swung lustily into "I've Been Workin' on the
Railroad." By the time they have reached the first chorus Lisa
has turned to stare at them. Mike "has gradually come up from
his work, a look of pleasure dawning on his face." Now Mike
has decided to join the singers. He throws one arm chummily
around Jason's shoulders and catches up with the melody just
as they swing into "Can't you hear the darkies callin'? . . .
Dinah — blow — ^your homl"

One by one the others, as they become aware of Mike, stop
singing. In fact, Mike is the only one left to do justice to the
final and proudly sustained "Ho-o-o-omI" But he is not in the
least discouraged. "That was great! " he declares, slapping Jason
jovially on the back. But even this thrill must not be per-
mitted to interfere with his work. Mike goes quickly back to
the desk. Lisa follows to continue looking over his shoulder.

"Boys, I give upl" sighs Jason, turning to face his friends.
"Who knows — maybe he is a genius; maybe this is a historic
moment. . . . Let's give him five minutes, and then, if the son
of a bitch is still here, I'll kick him out — ^and the hell with poster-
ity!"

For a moment after Jason, Bronson and Squibb have marched
out through the garden, Mike and Lisa are unaware of having
been left alone. Mike writes on feverishly. Lisa picks up each
page as he finishes and reads it avidly. Suddenly she stops read-
ing. She has found something that displeases her. "Oh, I don't
like this!" she says. "This is terrible! Listen, you . . ."

2S6 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

But Mike can't be bothered. He continues to write. Lisa
refuses to be put off. The people he is writing about — the white
trash of the South — are dirty and stupid —

"Are you calling my play dirty and stupid?" demands an out-
raged Mike, jumping up and grabbing the yellow sheets from her
hands.

''I call it vile. The way that girl talks is all wrong. . . . She's
vflel"

Mike — ^Are you crazy? You never read anything more beau-
tiful in your life than this: (He reads.) ''Listen, Misto-, you
heard me when I said five dollars. Don't get funny, Mister, or
111 raise the price to what I'm worth, and that's a million."

Lisa — ^That's dirty — ^just dirty!

Mike (going on) — ^''I was the girl in the bus you didn't have
the nerve to talk to. I was Hedy Lamarr in the moonlight. . . .
I gave you consolation for your obscurity ... I gave you that
thing you crave most of all, the swaggering, wicked sense of being
a man."

Lisa — ^I don't want you in my house!

Mike (picking up to get rhythm) — **. . . the swaggering,
wicked sense of being a man. I did something glorious for you,
Mister — and two and a half dollars will not pay for it. Three
dollars . . . That's my best and final pricel'' (During the last
part of this speech Lisa stands with her hands over her ears. He
goes over to her and pulls one of her hands down,) What's the
matter with you, anyway?

Lisa (pulling away from him — breathing hard) — ^I don't like
you or your play. I loathe mean, cheap, common people. They're
not beautiful — ^they're filthy. They're diseased, and miserable,
and nasty, and low . . .

Mike (interrupting sharply) — ^How do you know?

Lisa — ^I — ^it's none of your business.

Mike — ^How do you know?

Lisa — I — I'm from a fine old Southern family . . . My father
was Colonel Breckinridge — and I've heard about the poor people.
. . . Why, every Southerner knows . . . Those lint-heads I

Mike — ^Lint-heads? That's a mill-town word. It's a fighting
word. Honey, you swung that one from the floor. That word
came right off your shoe tops.

Lisa (frightened) — ^What do you mean?

Mike — I mean, you poor kid, you're no lady.

Lisa (with a childish desperation) — My father was Colonel

JASON 2S7

Breckinridge of Virginia, and if he was here right now . . .

Mike (as he grabs her wrist) — ^You made that up. No lady
ever hated the poor the way you do.

Lisa {struggling) — ^Let me go — ^you — ^you trash!

Mike — Listen, I spent five years down South. I know the
back country and the mill-towns. Why are you ashamed? You
should be proud!

Lisa — ^Proud of being a lint-head?

Mike — Sure. The sidewalks of Tenth Avenue made me, and
the dust of the mill-towns made you. . . .

Lisa {out of control) — ^Take that back! I'll kill you if you
say that — if you ever say that again! What do you think I've
been fighting all my life? Those ignorant girls in their torn
dresses — I saw what happened to them . . . My cousins, and
the kids next door, and the kids on the street . . . My mother
stupid enough to work herself to the bone, and the house still
dirty . . . My father out of a job half the time and drunk the
rest of the time, and me with never a pair of shoes to my name —
not one pair . . .

Mike (suddenly) — ^How old were you when you ran away?

Lisa — Fifteen. . . .

Mike — ^You poor, tortured, confused kid! (She is limp as he
puts his arm around her and draws her to him tenderly.) God,
how dumb you are!

Lisa (breaking away, almost snarling) — Don't you call me
dumb! I'm as smart as anything, and don't you forget it. I've
got guts. I made a lady of myself . . . My diction is better
than yours ... I talk as well as Herbert Marshall, see? And
I've got the most cultured husband in America!

Mike (putting his arm around her again) — I only said you
were dumb, darling. I didn't say you weren't wonderful. I love
dumb people — and you're beautiful inside. . . . (He draws her
closer to him.)

Lisa — You don't know anything about what I am inside. I'm
everything inside.

Mike — ^And you're beautiful outside, too.

Lisa — ^What are you trying to do?

Mike (gently) — This is great. I like this. I was beginning
to get discouraged. I haven't been in love for at least two weeks.

Lisa (breaking away, coldly) — You are trash, all right. Do
you think you're going to blackmail me?

MiKS (puzzled) — Blackmail . . . ?

Lisa (picking up his pages of writing) — Better not try itl

258 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

{Handing them to kirn, grimly.) Go on — get out.

Mike (staring at her) — ^You make me want to cry.

Jason {coming in) — Oh — finished, are you?

Lisa {taking Jason's arm possessively) — ^Mr. Ambler was just
going, darling.

Jason — Good! And if you ever get the impulse, don't drop in
again.

Mike {going to the desk and picking up the remaining sheets
and the fountain pen) — ^Jason, 111 always love your house, be-
cause I wrote a beautiful scene in it, and because I've already
done more living here than you have. Ill never forget the sight
of either one of you. The sight of something dying is always
vivid. . . . I'm not giving up. I'm going to talk to God about
you both. There's one spark of hope. You sang "I've Been
Workin' on the Raflroad" — and she sang "Dixie." . . . Good-
by.

Jason — I hope God doesn't mind — but 111 have that fountain
pen!

■

Mike calmly returns the pen, salutes them both and is gone.
Lisa is greatly relieved, but Jason apparently is troubled. He
can't quite understand Lisa's violent change of attitude. As a
matter of fact Mike is beginning to grow on Jason. He thinks
now he wants to read his plays —

"He is everything that I'm not," admits Jason, in an effort
to explain his feelings to the puzzled and outraged Lisa. "He
believes; I am skeptical. He is full of himself; I am full of good
taste. . . . I'm sick and tired of my bright, neat, pungent,
sophisticated and puny little mind."

"Shut up," shouts Lisa, picking up an ashtray and smashing
it on the floor. But Jason goes on —

"I'm sick and tired of the intricate bookkeeping system with
which I could add up everything — for m3^elf , and for the not so
many thousands of literary snobs who read me. I have a secret
suspicion that I never really had a thought in my life — that think-
ing begins with feeling, and that feeling has something to do
with all the people in the world. . . ."

Lisa has been ranging the room savagely. Now she picks up
Jason's beloved antique and holds it poised, ready to smash it,
too —

"If you break that vase I'll hate you," says Jason, firmly,
without raising his voice. "I mean it. That vase is very old —
and very beautiful."

JASON 2S9

'TTou hate me already."

"I love that vase. . . . Now will you please leave me alone
with this manuscript — ^which, for all I know, may bring something
new and beautiful into my life — ^if not into yours. . . ."

Lisa has slowly put down the vase. They look at each other
for a silent moment. Lisa has turned and gone up the stairs.
Jason takes up the Ambler manuscript and b^ins to read as the
curtain falls.

ACT II

The following Monday morning, in the Otis living room, we
find Jason and Mike sipping highballs. Mike is lolling con-
tentedly on the sofa and Jason is sprawled upon a nearby chair.

Their adventures of the day have been revealing and amusing
to them both. Jason actually has had fun. Mike is pleased
at that discovery. It means that Jason is breaking through his
shell. Jason is free to admit that he is also Mike's friend. Now
he would like to play craps, if Mike is ready.

Mike is ready, and pleased, but crap shooting is a serious busi-
ness with him. ''I used to make my room and board with dice
and poker," admits Mike.

Jason has gone to find money and dice. Mike, turning his
gaze upward, begins a little prayer: "Oh, Lord, You did a won-
derful job when you made me, and I want to thank You," he
recites. "You have granted me the divine gift of loving myself.
I love myself deeply, Lord. I'm sure that pleases You. ... I
observe my deeds with gentle indulgence. Therefore, I find all
men infinitely delightful and engaging — for have You not made
them in my image? (Unobserved by Mike, Jason comes down
the stairs. He stops on the last step, listening with a gradually
widening smile.) Their sins are my sins, and thus I can forgive
them with Your heavenly smile. Oh, Lord, follow my example
and have mercy on those who do not understand me— but don't
let it be the critics of New York! And don't let it be tonight!
A little luck — ^just a little — would help. Lord. . . . And one of
these days I promise to do the same for You!"

Jason has come down the stairs. "You don't change your
style even for God, do you?" he says.

"Why should I kid Him, of all deities? He knows me. He
knows I'm a poseur, full of uncertainty and guile, but noble, yet
foolish, but great. . • ."

The crap game starts haltingly. Mike has trouble concen-
trating. Suddenly he is greatly worried about how he is to get

260 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

through the night. How can he stand the adventure of having his
play acted? Suddenly his confidence is leaving him. He is afraid
of many things, including the critics. Only Jason is sure now —

"Now, look here," says Jason, comfortingly; **you're a nin-
compoop if you don't realize that you're a profound and beau-
tiful artist; and if you don't grasp the fact that your work is
saturated with the grandeur of simple human beings, then your
mind is trivial and petty — and we both ought to be ashamed of
yourself I"

"Okay — Let's have those dice," shouts Mike, and the game is
resumed.

Jason doesn't know much about craps, but he learns readily
and loses gracefully. Still Mike finds it hard to concentrate.
He is relieved when Lisa comes to report that all is in readiness
for the party — ^with plenty of sandwiches (roast beef, ham and
turkey) and plenty of drinJcs (three cases of beer and four gallons
of red wine). Neither Jason nor Mike has much idea of how
many guests they have invited to the party. They can only
count seven, really. Lisa thinks seven should be enough to give
Jason the "cross section" he is looking for.

"Darling, you're not really excited about this party, are you?"
asks Jason, sensing Lisa's lack of enthusiasm.

"Don't be silly. I've got Swiss cheese in my fingernails — and
butter all over your face," she adds, running her hands play-
fully over Jason's cheek.

"Do you know — ^Lisa didn't like the people in your play when
she first read it," comments Jason, wiping his cheek. Lisa con-
tinues on upstairs.

"Didn't she?" Mike is watching Jason closely.

"The only snobbery I can endure is that of the well-bom
Southerner. It has the fragrance of all decaying things. But I
think she's getting over it."

"I don't like the way you talk about that girl, Jason. She's
a great woman."

"I like the way you talk about her," admits Jason with simple
sweetness.

They have returned to their crap game when George Bronson
arrives. Bronson is puzzled, first, as to what kind of party it is
that Jason is giving and, second, why should Mike Ambler be
there? Seeing that they are to review the Ambler play that night
Bronson, for one, would prefer to be free from the charm of the
author's personality until after he has seen ^'Hooray for the
Madam."

JASON 261

"You fill me with melancholy, George," declares Mike. "We
got up this party for you and Squibb. {Turning to Jason.)
Didn't we?"

"No, we didn't," corrects Jason. "But it's a thought. . . .
George, I dropped in on Mike this morning, and we took a stroll
along the dod^s. Mike and I got to chatting with some people."

"You mean — strangers?"

"Oh, naturally."

"What's natural about it?"

"You see?" Jason has turned to Mike. "We talk different
languages already 1"

"George, haven't you ever walked up to a stranger and passed
the time of day?" Mike is serious.

"Not that I can remember."

"Whom do you talk to?"

"Other critics, women's organizations, relatives, his managing
editor, the desk clerk at the Harvard Club, and his wife — in the
order named."

"Well, that makes everything clear 1"

"Not to me."

"George, you've spent your whole life in the fifth row on the
aisle," says Jason. "Mike has spent his life among people. His
play defies the footlights, the customary mood of audiences. And
until you get the feel of people, you'll never understand *Hooray
for the Madam.' "

Bronson is going, still uncertain about Jason and whatever it
is that has come over him. Jason thinks he will walk along with
his friend. Mike would go, too, but Jason doesn't want Mike.
What further experimenting he does talking with strangers he
prefers to try alone.

Left to himself, Mike is suddenly conscious that there is quite
a bit of money left from the unfinished crap game. He throws
the dice, apparently makes his point and picks up the dice just as
Lisa comes down the stairs.

"Hello, Wonderful!" Mike calls. Lisa is in no mood for
banter. She is looking for Jason who, Mike tells her, is out
soliciting customers for his party. Lisa would go on, but Mike
stops her —

"One question: Were you ever actually in Virginia?"

Lisa {mth great deliberateness) — I was bom there and lived
there until Father died— didn't you know?

Mike — The aristocracy fascinates me. Give me a picture of

262 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

a typical day in a Southern mansion.

Lisa (after a moment's hesitation) — Gladly. I was awakened
in the morning by a chorus of a hundred darkies dnging planta-
tion songs, then twenty mammies, in yellow bandannas, lifted
me gently out of my bed and carried me to a solid gold bathing
pool. (With a deadly change of tonk.) And, after t(Hnorrow
morning, you lousy heel, when you'll have your good reviews and
all you want out of Jason, I never expect to set eyes on you
again!

Mike (after pause) — ^Take your shoes off.

Lisa— What?

Mike — ^Take those high-heeled pretty shoes off, and your
silken stockings, and come out and get your naked feet into the
grass again.

Lisa — Can't you see me doing it? Listen, you — ^I'm never
going barefoot again — ^never in all my life — except on a deep,
soft rug.

Mike — ^Take your shoes off.

Lisa — ^The rug in my bathroom is the most gorgeous that
money could buy. And when I step out, I wear the most beau-
tiful bedroom dippers anyone ever saw. I have five pairs of
bedroom slippers, see? And I have twenty pairs of shoes!

Mike — ^Even if you had a million shoes, you still couldn't run
away from yourself.

Lisa — ^You cheap, ready-made, unpressed organ-grinder — I
warn you: after tomorrow, you're out.

Mike — If I were a gentleman, I'd slink away — but being an
artist, wild horses couldn't keep me from Jason. Do you know
what kind of kid he was?

Lisa (turning away from him) — ^No.

Mike — You should. It's important. He never had a fight
with another kid, and yet they were all afraid of him— can you
imagine that? He had words. The other kids were not perfect,
and he had the knack of seeing perfection and nailing it. Words!
They were better than a left jab, a right hook, the one-two to
the chin. He wore them in his belt like cartridges. That's how
critics are bom! His mother devoted her life to him. It's a
lousy idea, but she did. So after she died, when he felt he ought
to go around with girls, do you know how he went at it? He
read Freud, Jung and Adler — found out that he had a mother
fixation y kissed a couple of those girls at the right intellectual
moment, and the net result was that he danced a little, wooed

JASON 263

a little, and revered his mother's memory without pain. . . .
Isn't that sweet?

Lisa (harshly) — Is that why you're hanging around?

Mike— Sure. I can't get the guy out of my mind. Him on
the green lawns of Boston Back Bay, and me on the streets of
New York. Him with books piled high in his crib, and me
stealing them from the public library. Him terrifying the other
kids with unforgettable epithets, and me — ^well, I hope to God
when I licked them, that wasn't what they remembered. There's
no love sweeter than the love you have for kids you lick; a licked
kid is reasonable and attentive; you should fill his listening
heart with bright hope — ^and I did, always.

It may be his interest in Jason that holds Mike's interest, but,
seeing that he had tried to kiss her, Lisa thinks that may have
something to do with it, too. Mike is contemptuous of the
suggestion — "Hell, nol " says he. "I embrace a woman the way
I write a beautiful sentence. I mean it — ^that's why it doesn't
last. . . ."

They have moved close together now. Lisa, "sensing another
kind of closeness," moves away. Mike is following her, with his
eyes, with his questioning. How did she get away from the
South? he would know.

Lisa, "remembering deeply," recalls some of those experiences.
She had hitch-hiked; she had said she was seventeen; she had
stolen a dress, and money, and bought shoes; she used to steal
magazines like Vogue and Harper's Bazaar,

How had she learned to talk so pretty? By listening to a
radio; by listening to Herbert Marshall. In New York she had
worked as a salesgirl, and as a model and finally in a bookshop,
where she met Jason.

"Were you a virgin?" demands Mike.

"Jeez, do you think I'm a goddam fool? Of course I was a
virgin I"

There is a pause. "Take your shoes off!" orders Mike, ap-
proaching her.

"Don't be funny."

Mike — ^You're beautiful — and you don't love him.
Lisa — Don't make me laugh.

Mike — You want to love him. You want to love him so badly
that it's tearing you to pieces. But you can't, because you don't

264 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

love yourself. You're hating yourself with every breath you
draw. • • •

Lisa — ^Listen, you — ^you handyman — ^I could have had a Wall
Street millionaire. I could have had a lawyer with a yacht
But I went after him — ^because he's a gentleman!

Mike — ^What's a gentleman? I'm better than all the gentle-
men in the world.

Lisa — ^You! Why, if you were the greatest writer that ever
lived — ^he'd still be top man. He's the one who criticizes you!
He's criticized Rockefeller, Mrs. Astor, and the President of the
United States. I've been smart enough to land him, and if you
think I'd waste my time spitting on you . . .

Mike — ^Take your shoes off.

Lisa — Guttersnipe !

Mike — ^Lint-head . . . (Lisa, breathing hard, suddenly slaps
him across the face. Mike watches her, fascinated. They stand
looking at each other breathlessly for a moment, and then sud-
denly Mike slaps her.)

Lisa {in a strange voice) — Don't! You mustn't . . . Please
don't!

Mike — ^You liked it!

Lisa (backing away from him, wide-eyed) — ^I hated it! It's
what I ran away from. . . . My father . . .

Mike — You loved your father! {He goes over to her.) I'm
not a sadist, but this is very interesting. I think 111 have to
slap you again.

Lisa {fascinated and terrified) — Don't! Please don't! Oh,
Mike, don't slap me. . . .

Lisa is facing Mike, trembling and cowering. They hear some-
one coming and move apart. It is Jason. He is back from an-
other adventure and full of it. He had dragged Bronson along
the street, threatening to speak to every shabby person they
passed. Bronson was terribly fussed.

Suddenly Jason notices Lisa. What's wrong? Nothing, Lisa
insists. He had been talking out of turn to Lisa, Mike explains.
She'll be all right if Jason will leave her alone for awhile.

^'She's a racehorse two-stepping around the paddock; she's a
dream coming back like thunder in the middle of the day," says
Mike.

Jason goes on with his adventure. He had spoken to several
people. After awhile he had lost Bronson. Mike is worried.
He thinks he had better be looking for George at the Harvard

JASON 26S

Club. Maybe he can pick up Squibb, too. . . .

Lisa and Jason are alone. Lisa is desperate. Mike had made
love to her, she confesses, a little hysterically. She doesn't want
him in the house. Jason is interested, but not excited.
^^ . . There is such a thing as an atmosphere of gallantry," he
says. "But men don't create that by themselves — "

Lisa is attractive. Jason expects his friends will always be
paying her compliments, flirting with her —

"Aren't you jealous?" demands an outraged Lisa.

"Darling, please — don't. I've seen too many plays."

He has gone to her now, and is caressing her. "You've read
everything I ever wrote about women," he is saying. "By your
own confession, you used it to trap me. Well, use it some more.
Be amiable, be friendly, and make it clear to Mike and all the
others that you're not interested. I promise you'll have no
more trouble."

"I don't like himl"

"I'm sorry — ^but I've taken him into my life, for better or for
worse." Jason's decision is abrupt.

"What is this, for heaven's S£^e, a triangle?"

"Well, you're doing your best to make it one."

"I? You've taken Mike for better or worse — and I . . . My
God, I'm the Lady in Redl"

"You're getting redder every minute."

For a second Lisa is quiet. Then she resumes her argument.
Jason, she insists, is making himself the laughing stock of New
York with this ridiculous party; with his prancing around talk-
ing about poetry; sneaking up on strangers and snooping into
their personal business. Lisa has had her experiences and she
knows. Poor people are no good. "I tell you they're ignorant
because they want to be ignorant! They're dirty because they
want to be dirty. And I hate Mike Ambler!"

"Oh, this isn't your fault, I suppose," counters Jason. "If
you were older, or — or wiser . . . Oh, I don't know . . . You
think you love me, don't you?"

**DonH say that!" shrills Lisa, remembering what Mike had
said.

"You love my furniture, my reputation, the style of the girls
I used to go with, my bright remarks. I love your face, your
voice, your high spirits. I love what may eventually be in your
heart. . . . It's not a bad beginning — if we let this party stream
into us and fill us with something bigger than all that. A poet
has dropped into our lives. The things he stands for — ^human-

266 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

ity, color, song, reality — are coming into this house today. If
we can learn to take them in our arms, well end up in each
other's arms."

"And if we can't?"

"Then we're through."

Mike has come through the garden gate, followed by an old
man. "The old man is dressed neatly but shabbily, and is a
little the worse for wear. His eyes are watery, his face is weak —
but there is a flicker of spirit in him somewhere."

Mike introduces his companion as Mr. Humphrey Crocker, a
gentleman with plenty of time for the party, seeing this is "his
day off, his year off, his century off — "

"Look him over, folks. Mr. Crocker is a capitalist. There,
but by the grace of God, stands J. P. Morgan, John D. Rocke-
feller, Henry Ford. His mind is rotten with money — the money
he hasn't got — the money the other fellow has. Look at his
smile — ^it's sweet, the smile of an angel."

Mr. Crocker's reaction to Mike's explanatory eulogy is one
of placid acceptance. He evidently enjo}^ hearing himself de-
scribed as a prince of the earth who enjo}^ a great contentment
because of the things for which he is not responsible. And yet
a prince of the earth who is ashamed and bitter with disappoint-
ment.

Then Mike leaves them to continue his search for Squibb.
"I'm in great form today — and I don't want him to miss me,"
announces Mike, as he disappears again across the yard.

There isn't much that Jason and Lisa can do for Mr. Crocker.
He doesn't drink and he's just et. Presently Lisa has left them,
plainly disgusted, and Jason carries on as a sort of interested
interrogator. Mr. Crocker, it transpires, is a curiously self-con-
tained person who has sailed the seven seas and never been
stirred by a single adventure. Maybe there ought to be stories
he could tell, but there ain't. He just minded his own business
and was content.

Presently Bill Squibb arrives, also curious about Jason's party.
He, too, meets Mr. Crocker and takes part in the quiz, but with-
out changing the results.

"What boat were you on, Mr. Crocker?" asks Jason.

"Sailing vessel — three-master — schooner type."

"Sailing vessel!"

"Carried freight between nineteen-ten and nineteen-twenty."

"What was your job?"

JASON 267

^^Started as a second-class seaman, ended up as a — second-class
seaman."

''I see. Steady, eh?" Squibb is interested.

"Always. Never got anyyfhtre"

Mr. Crocker's sailing carried him all through the First World
War period, but, he repeats, without adventure. He'd never run
across a U-boat. He'd been in lots of colorful ports — Bombay 1
Calcutta! Rio de Janeiro 1 Nothing ever happened. Been
through a coupla hurricanes. Excited? Nah! "Seasick 1"

Before he took to sailing, Mr. Crocker had been a stagehand
at the Metropolitan. Sure, he knew Caruso. Interesting?
"Nahl Jist a kinda fat Eyetalian. He tended to his business
and we tended t' oiurs."

"What line of work you in?" Crocker finally asks Jason.

"I'm a drama critic. And so is this gentleman."

'Well, what do you know. A drama critic."

"I measure, and I weigh.'*

"Sounds bad."

"That's why I'm trying to fill my house with people — people
whom I meet, not professionally, not socially, but by the simple
process of seeing them and saying Hello. That's why you're in
my house, Mr. Crocker. I hope to get something from you —
I'm willing to give in return."

"Mister, you depress me. I thought I was going to have some
fun. Excuse me — but I'll be saying good-by."

At the French doors Crocker turns and surve3rs Jason and
Squibb quizzically. "Peculiar people 1" he mutters as he goes
through the yard.

Squibb can take no more. He is willing to promise on his word
of honor that he will not say a word about what has happened —
but he is leaving. "If I encounter a noble soul in patched pants
with a imiversal message. 111 send him to you. So long, Jason."

The next three guests to arrive are Nick Wiggins, "a nonde-
script young fellow"; Kennedy, "a husky Irish-American of about
fifty"; and Mrs. Kennedy, "a fine, solid woman." Jason, the
host, would have them all sit down. But they prefer to stand.

Kennedy, it soon appears, is in a belligerent mood. Being as-
sured by Wiggins that Jason is, indeed, the man, Kennedy would
like to know if Jason did, at such and such a time, on such and
such a Second Avenue bus, engage Mr. Wiggins and his fiancee
(the Kennedy daughter) in conversation? He did.

Then, is it true that, after enticing them into a discussion of
the cost of living, did he or did he not invite the yotmg people

268 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

to something by way of a party? He did.

"Why?" Mr. Kennedy wants to know.

^1 — I see what you mean/' stutters Jason, after an awkward
pause.

"He said there'd be ham, and roast beef, and cheese, and
pickles," Mr. Wiggins chimes in; "and the other fellow said
there was a room with a piano in it if we wanted to dance — and
this one said we'd have all the beer we could drink."

"Well? I haven't heard anything out of you except 'Yes' and
'Certainly' and *I wouldn't be surprised.' "

"I don't quite know what to say. I assure you I have no ulterior
motive. I merely wanted the pleasure of these people's company.
Others are coming, too. If you and Mrs. Kennedy would join
us, I'd be more than pleased."

"Who are you, an)nvay?"

"I — ^I'm a drama critic."

"Woman, what's that?"

"It's like Louella Parsons — only they write about plays instead
of pictures."

"What does one of them fellows want with the likes of us?"

"Don't ask me."

"Hasn't he got friends of his own?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Aren't there people living next door, if he wishes to pass the
time of day? He must have relatives somewhere! There's some-
thing fimny here. I don't like it. {Turning to the others,)
Let's go 1"

Before they can leave Lisa has come gaily down the stairs
and greeted the Kennedys with genuine cordiality. She is Mrs.
Otis and she is glad to welcome any of her husband's friends.
His wife? The Kennedys are surprised and pleased. That puts
an entirely different complexion on the matter. Now Mr. Ken-
nedy is ready to relax. Why hadn't Jason said he was a married
man? Sure, Kennedy could do with a drop of whiskey. And
Mrs. Kennedy wouldn't mind a sandwich and a bottle of beer.
Nick, too — but no mustard on his, please 1

Soon the spirits of the party have risen noticeably. Lisa b
all for having fun. Perhaps they would like to go into the other
room and dance. Nick has brought his mouth organ along and
is soon playing "Tavern in the Town" with enthusiasm.

Now Lisa has danced around the couch and pulled Jason to
his feet. The Kennedys are clapping their hands to the music.
A moment later Kennedy has taken Jason's place. "Man — I

JASON 269

don't doubt you're a good drama critic — but you're a terrible
dancer. Out of the way!" says Kennedy, as he waltzes away
with Lisa and Nick changes the tune to the livelier "Turkey in
the Straw."

Violet has come to announce that the sandwiches are ready
in the dining room, which is inviting news to the guests. Lisa, a
bit overwrought emotionally, is tr3ang to catch her breath. She
evidently is in a strange mood. Jason, flushed with a new in-
terest, is looking at her deeply —

"Darling — ^you are wonderful," he is saying. "I'm crazy about
you."

"I — ^I want to be alone for a little while," she answers.

"I'm trying to tell you something, dear."

"Listen, damn you — ^you asked for this, and you're going to
get it." Lisa is almost sobbing. Suddenly her voice is hard and
cold. "I'm no Breckinridge of Virginia. My father was an un-
employed millhand. I was never in Virginia in my life. My
name is Breckinridge, but it's Lizzie Breckinridge from Coopers-
town, South Carolina. I'm no gentlewoman — and I never was —
and I never want to be any more."

"Now I'm beginning to realize why I married you ... I must
have known instinctively that you were not a lady I"

"Go away, will you?"

"Darling— don't you understand — I'm in love with you!"

"Don't telt me that now — I don't want to hear that nowl I
have to get used to — to what I ami I'm common . . . {Sob-
bing.) You got me into this, and — ^and — leave me alone, will
your

"All right, dear," says Jason, gently, as he quietly leaves her.
From the other room comes the sounds of the continuing party.
Nick has returned to "Tavern in the Town."

For a moment Lisa stands quite still, breathing heavily. Then
she sits down and kicks off her shoes. She is starting to take
off her stockings as Mike comes through the gate into the yard.
She does not see him at first and he stands watching her in-
tently. Now Lisa stands up. For a moment she and Mike stand
looking at each other. The next moment they are in each other's
arms. Lisa has relaxed completely as Mike kisses her fervently.

Jason has come into the hall looking for a chair. He sees Lisa
in Mike's arms, still kissing. He turns and quietly carries the
chair back into the other room. Presently he can be heard talk-
ing to someone. Now he backs into the room, as though de-
liberately giving Mike and Lisa a chance to separate and pull

270 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

themselves together. When Jason turns Lisa has quickly put
her shoes on and is standing leaning on the door frame looking
into the yard.

Mike reports no success at the Harvard Qub. He could not
find Squibb. Jason would have them both go into the other
room and join the party. Quickly Lisa tiums to face him —

Lisa — ^Jason ... I have something to tell you about Mike
and me • . .

Mike — ^You can't do that. Not now. It's a long subject — ^it
has to do with your whole family tree. Right now Jason's big
adventure is waiting in the other room. Here — have a cigarette.
(Mike picks up a cigarette and offers it to her. There is a rise
in the chatter of the unseen guests. After a moment's hesitaiion,
she takes the cigarette.) Jason, it's after five. In four hours
'^Hooray for Madam" will be on the stage, launched, like a ship
in the sea — and I'll be helpless . • . Jason — do you think Squibb
is coming to the party?

Jason (concentrating with an effort) — ^Why — he was here for
a little while . . .

Mike (anxiously) — ^You mean he came and went?

Jason — ^Yes.

Mike — ^What do you mean yes? Did he get disgusted? Did
he disapprove? Was he skeptical? Or did he just have another
engagement? Jason, wouldn't it be ghastly if he and Bronson —

Jason — It doesn't matter how they feel about your party. Or
about your manuscript. When they see it on the stage, they'll
really see it.

Mike — ^You mean — ^when they see it, they'll like it?

Jason — ^That's what I mean.

Lisa — ^Jasonl

Mike — ^Take it easy. Here — ^have a light. (He strikes a
match, waits until, after a moment's hesitation, she decides to
take the light. She realizes he is trying to steady her and accepts
the breathing spell. To Jason.) I wonder if yoi^U still like it
by tonight.

Jason — ^Nothing will change my mind about your play . . .

Mike — I'm glad to hear that . . .

Jason — Well, let's go . . .

Lisa (putting her cigarette down) — Listen to me!

Violet (entering) — There's four more people just came —

Jason — Show them into the dining room, Violet.

Violet — Yes, sir. (She goes.)

JASON 271

Mike (to Lisa) — Come on — ^hold your horses. The three of
us have a job to do. This is Jason's big moment, don't forget.

Jason — ^That's very true, dear.

Lisa (to Jason) — ^I don't care. I've got to say this ... He
knows all about me, see? He knew it the first day he came. And
today —

Jason — ^I'm not surprised at all . . . I've been thinking about
you, too — alone in here with the discovery of yoursdf . . .
(Noise of party grows louder.) and . . . Look, dear — ^the guests
are pouring into the house — they're Mike's contribution to my
ludicrous and obstinate quest for a new life . . .

Mike (taking her arm) — Come on — ^let's give them every-
thing we've got.

Lisa (breaking cavay) — ^I'm not going. I can't. I've got to
have this out ri^t now I

Jason (with sudden violence) — Shut up, damn it. I know
you kissed himi (Lisa and Mike stand paralyzed,) I've been
standing here trying to forget it, to forgive it, to imagine it never
happened — for if it means anything at all, it means I've lost
you both. And I'm not blind — ^I can see it means something.
Well, I don't want to face it now — ^I haven't the wit, nor the
courage. ... Ill face it later — ^after I've gone through with this
party as I must, and after I've seen your play and written about
it. And then I'll fight. Ill put up a struggle. I won't give you
up lightly — either of you! ... In the meantime — (He steps
into the hall, the party noises surging up again.) — shall we join
the people?

"There's a moment's hesitation. Then Lisa, followed by Mike,
goes through into the hall. Jason goes after them. The party
grows louder. We can hear Nick's harmonica again, playing
'Turkey in the Straw.' " The curtain falls.

ACT III

At eleven o'clock the evening of the party the Otis living room
is in half darkness, only the lamp on the desk being lighted.
When Violet comes down the stairs and starts to dean up the
glasses, bottles, etc., she finds Mrs. Kennedy playing solitaire,
and Kennedy, his coat off, asleep on the sofa.

Violet reports Lisa as still upstairs and still suffering a head-
ache. It may have come from the overstrain of dancing with

272 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Kennedy, suggests Mrs. Kennedy, but Kennedy, waking slowly,
doesn't think so. "I never overstrained a woman in me life —
dancing, or any other way," asserts Kennedy with conviction.

However, as to the party Kennedy is a little vague. ''Did we
have a good time?" he would know from Mrs. Kennedy.

"Yes — I think we did," says she. "A little on the imusual
side, but good."

Kennedy has a faint recollection of having broken Jason's
favorite vase, and the memory of that makes him uncomfortable.
"Oh, God. I hate breaking things — ^it doesn't do the Irish any
good," he says.

Mike Ambler drifts in. He has changed his shirt, but other-
wise he is as he was in the afternoon. He has just come from
the theatre and is pretty sick about it. "My God, 111 never
write another play as long as I live. I'm a wreck! " he says.

"What's the matter — didn't the people like it?" Kennedy asks.

"How do I know?"

"Wasn't you there?"

"Sure I was there. Up in the balcony. They laughed at the
most unexpected places. All of them. They all laughed. You'd
think they gave each other a signal. And when it was funny,
they didn't laugh. I ran away between the acts — ^I didn't dare
listen to what they might say. Why did I ever write a play?"

"Maybe a bit of nourishment is what you need. Violet! "

But Mike will have nothing to do with food. Hell try a
drink instead. And he would like to know about the party.
It was, Mrs. Kennedy assures him, a very nice party. Nobody
got drunk except Kennedy. "After Mr. Otis went the ladies
made each other's acquaintance, while the gentlemen had a
friendly game of pinochle," says she.

His experience at the theatre is still worrying Mike. He knows
that after the second act three of the critics — Bronson and two
others — didn't like his play. An usher had heard Uiem talking
to each other.

Now Jason is on the phone. Mike is burning with curiosity
to know what he thought of the play, but he won't let Violet
ask. Jason has called to say that he is walking home.

"I couldn't have stood it if he said it was lousy," wails Mike,
trying to explain to Kennedy the reactions of a playwright at a
first night. "It all looked different there on the stage, with
people sitting in the dark, not saying anything. I hate silent
people! . . . Oh, Kennedy, Kennedy . . . these eleven men
speak to millions of people in New York — and they're syndi-

JASON 273

cated all over the country. If they say one word like 'second-
rate/ it'll hang around my neck for years. Half the critics all
over the country will say 'second-rate.' All the dub women —
can you imagine five hundred thousand women standing in a
row, pointing at you, and saying Thooey!' "

"Every time I read bad remarks about the President or the
Mayor/' puts in Mrs. Kennedy, ''I think, my goodness, how grand
it is to be so important that they can call you names and you
don't even bother to punch them in the nose."

"Yeah — that's the way you feel about it. But the President
and the Mayor and I — ^we suffer. The city, that's the Mayor's
baby. The country, that's the President's baby. And 'Hooray
for the Madam' is my city and my country and my mother and
my child. I'd kill, I'd steal, I'd lie — I'd even use cliches —
there's nothing so low that I wouldn't do it to protect my play
—or it's author."

Now Bill Squibb has arrived, and Mike is upon him with a
rush. Did he like the play? Was it clear? Does Bronson —
The rush is stopped by Squibb's smiling admission that yes, he
liked it; he thought it was glorious in fact; he would like to
congratulate the author, and he is positively not kidding.

Mike is "inarticulate with happiness." He would introduce
Squibb to the Kennedys — two really great people; he would
know more about Squibb's reaction to the play; and Bronson 's.
His hysteria is mounting when Squibb stops him. Does Mike
know where his (Squibb's) copy of "Hooray for the Madam" is?
He wants to quote from it — "some of the dialogue between the
two elephants at the zoo."

That sets Mike off again. He's glad Squibb wants to quote
from it, he's glad Squibb liked that scene — and will Squibb
please be careful in the traffic on his way home?

Squibb has gone and Mike is proposing that they all have a
drink. They're great people, the Kennedys; if they weren't great
Jason Otis wouldn't have them in his house. "You're America,"
announces Mike; "you're the original hunk of wood out of which
it's all cut. • • . Here's to all the people in this house — beautiful
people."

Kennedy and Mike raise their glasses. Mrs. Kennedy, having
no glass, takes a swig from the bottle.

Now Mike, grown suddenly thoughtful, thinks he will have a
look at the lady upstairs. . . . When he comes back he is very
happy. When Mrs. Kennedy would know how he found Lisa
he is ready to shout. "She's the dawn in Carolina — the dew on

274 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

the fence railing. She's the distant rumble of the train over
the hiU. . . ."

Jason has come through the hall door. He is haggard and
nervous, but he brightens at the si^t of the Kennedys and is
again the perfect host. He is pleased that they liked the party.
When Kennedy shamefacedly admits the breaking of the vase
Jason's poise does not desert him. "Ill never forgive myself /*
Kennedy is saying. '^I can't forget it. Was it expensive?"

'Tes. It was expensive." Jason has put his hand on Ken-
nedy's shoulder. ''And every time I look at the table it stood
on, I'll remember you both — and when I do, 111 see something
more beautiful in its place. I want you to remember it that
way, too."

''He makes it out that you did him a favor by breaking it,"
says Mrs. Kennedy, in awed tones.

"You're right — everybody in this house is beautiful." Ken-
nedy agrees with Mike.

The Kennedys have gone. Mike and Jason are alone. ''You
were heroic about that vase," says Mike. "I could have killed
them," admits Jason.

Mike {his anxiety overcoming kirn) — ^Jason —

Jason — ^Why are you here?

Mike — ^Jason — I can't stand the suspense any longer. Aren't
you going to tell me what you think? Do you still like it?

Jason (slowly) — Yes — I still like it. Did you see Lisa?

Mike — Do you still think it's great?

Jason — Did you see Lisa?

Mike {after an almost imperceptible kesitation) — ^No.

Jason — I'm glad. I didn't want you to see her — and / don't
want to see her — And I didn't want to see you, either — ^until
I'd finished my notice. I asked you to telephone me at mid-
night.

Mike {kumbly) — ^I'm sorry, Jason. You haven't told me— do
you still think it's great?

Jason {slowly) — ^Well, the word great shouldn't be used li^tly.
I thought the manuscript was great. But tonight I saw it on the
stage — in its final form. I had to think it over. That's why I
walked home.

Mike — ^And . . . ?

Jason — It's never taken me so long to form an opinion. You
see, somehow you and your play have become one and the same
thing to me. I found myself standing on the corner of Forty-

JASON 27S

ninth Street and Sixth Avenue — ^and doubting you, you as a
person. I was visualizing what had happened between you and
Lisa today when you were alone — and my imagination took an
unhealthy leap.

Mike — ^Let me tell you about this afternoon — and about this
evening too. I might as well tell you.

Jason — ^Nol You see, in that moment of doubt, I had the
extraordinary experience of seeing your play in a different light.
What had seemed eloquent became glib. Sincerity became super-
ficial . . .

Mike — But, Jason — ^if youTl only let me tell you —

Jason — Not now. I'm all right now. I was all right by the
time I reached Fifth Avenue. I think your play is great.

Mike (tkrUled) — ^You mean it?

Jason — ^Yes.

Mike — You won't change your mind — ^you really think so?

Jason — Go away. Telephone me at midnight, will you please?

Mike (offering Jason his hand) — In the name of drama and
literature we're friends.

Jason (taking Mike's hand) — ^That's how I want it to be.

Mike — ^And in the name of humanity.

Jason — Don't say any more. (Mike drops Jason's hand.)

Mike — ^All right, Jason.

Miss Crane has come to take Jason's dictation. She has called
a messenger for a quarter to one instead of twelve-thirty, she
explains. Now she has settled herself at the desk, with pencil
poised. Jason begii

Jason (dictating slowly, fighting to retain his detachment) —
In **Hooray for the Madam" the American theatre welcomes an
enchanting new personality. Mike Ambler, in this, his first play,
brings innocence and beauty to Broadway. (He pauses, looks up
the stairs,) Let us forget all the formulas for the well-made
drama. Ambler is both more and less than a playwright — ^he is
a poet who reports, with the wondering eyes of a child, the heart-
break and the laughter of the common man. The common man
is beautiful . . . (He happens to glance into the wastebasket,
and pauses. He reaches into the wastebasket, bringing forth a
large, easily recognizable chunk of the vase which had decorated
the living room. After a moment, he drops the chunk back into
the wastebasket.) ... is beautiful. To imply that one there-
fore must rush out and embrace the first taxidriver or plumber

276 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

who comes along is perhaps going too far — ^but that is because
not only the plumber has his limitations, but also the party of the
first part. It would take Walt Whitman, Abraham Lincoln, or
Mike Ambler to achieve it — and even then, the plumber might
not respond neatly by shaking hands and crying '^Brother!" . . .
And yet when Mike Ambler cries ^'Brotherl'' he does it with
supernal music.

He pauses to inquire about Lisa, when Violet appears on the
stairs. Lisa is better and would have him call her when he is
through working. He tries to go on with his dictation and
changes his mind. He will call Lisa now.

When Lisa appears on the stairway, she is dressed for the
street. Why? She will tell him when he has finished his review.
He insists on an answer now — and gets it. Lisa has decided that
after what has happened, she can't stay there. She must go to
Mike. She must find out what his kiss meant. Is she in love
with Mike?

"I don't know I How do I know? I've only seen him twice
in my life — and I kissed him." Lisa is quite evidently in pain.
"I never kissed anybody — not one person — before I met
you." . . .

''How did you happen to be kissing him?" Jason demands, with
difficulty.

Lisa — Oh — (She lights a cigarette.) — he was nagging at me,
telling me to take off my shoes and stockings. He wanted me to
go out in the garden and stand on that little hunk of grass.

Jason — ^What for?

Lisa — Because I was alwa3rs barefoot when I was a kid. I
slapped him. And then he slapped me — and then somehow, it
made me feel like a kid again — ^when my father would slap me.
I got all scared and excited — and he seemed to know . . .

Jason — Know what?

Lisa — Something, ... It was as if we were both in Carolina —
both being kids. (She sits,) I — ^I wanted my mother all of a
sudden — although ^e never cared a damn about me . • . Then
you came along — ^and you said if I didn't roll in his mud, you
were through with me. I didn't want to lose you.

Jason — Didn't you?

Lisa — No, I didn't. And all the time I was still feeling that
slap — and the things he said . . . And I was hating you, for
throwing me at him. And the Kennedys — they did something to

JASON 277

me, too. When I got through dancing, I was really back in
Carolina — I was suddenly remembering a lot of forgotten things
that happened — glorious things — feeling them. ... I had to be
alone.

Jason — ^And then he came in. (Pause,) Well! (WHk grow-
ing relief.) That's not so bad! Why, it looks to me as if — by
heaven, this man Ambler is amazing! He's actually done some-
thing for you. He made you meet yourself!

Lisa (with a strange, disturbed manner) — Is that what he did?

Jason — Of course! (He sits beside her.) Why, it's obvious!
He's done the same thing for me! If not for him, I wouldn't be
loving you so much right now. . . .

Lisa (suffering) — ^Wouldn't you?

Jason (moving closer to her) — I love you more than ever.
(Lisa moves away almost imperceptibly.) Why, darling, this is
wonderful! I never felt about a woman the way I feel about
you — the way I began feeling this afternoon. . . . It's been a
horrible day for both of us, dear — but it's been a good day, too.

Violet comes in. She is carrying a folded sheet of note paper,
and is disconcerted at finding Mrs. Otis downstairs. At his de-
mand Violet obediently hands the note to Jason. Now let her
tell Mr. Ambler to come in. Jason reads the note to Lisa —

"My darling, my love — it lifted my heart to see you again, so
pale and bright. Please be sure not to talk to him until he has
finished his review. I'll be on the comer, listening for your step
like the roar of a distant train over the hills. Mike. P.S. Bring
along some money. Well need at least twenty-five dollars."

Why hadn't Lisa told him that she had seen Mike? Because
Mike had asked her not to. What had they talked about? . . .

Mike has joined them. "He is a little frightened, but main-
tains a surface air of friendliness." Jason turns on him —

"Now, Jason — ^you asked me not to tell you. I was trying to
— ^to explain. . . ."

Jason (hating him) — ^You weren't trying to explain anything.
You were going to lie. You told me you hadn't seen her.

Mike — I didn't want to upset you. But I'm glad we're all
together now. Everything is becoming beautiful again. The
truth is always beautiful. (Drunk with his own logic, he re-
taxes, sits.) Let's all remember this night as the night we faced
the truth. It'll keep our friendship perfect — the way you wanted
it^ Jason.

278 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Jason (after pause, to Lisa) — ^Yon can see my lawyer tomor-
row—-or any other lawya:. (Lisa rises, picks up her coat.) Go
to Reno — or stay in New York — tharell be no trouble about
alimony. And good luck to you both.

Mike — ^Now, Jason, you're getting romantic. I wasn't think-
ing about marriage. Were you, Lisa? Of course, it's possible
I'U love her tomorrow as much as I do tonight. Maybe she'll be
crazy about me — she probably will. It might even last a week
or two — ^there was one time in my life when it lasted three and
a half months.

Jason (quietly) — ^I think I know what to do about you.

Mike (rises, comes to Jason) — ^Now wait a minute — ^if you
don't like this idea — Say! How about my moving in here?
You've got a guest room. Then she won't have to go. With
me in the house, everything will come to a head in a few days,
instead of dragging on the way it would with conventional peo-
ple. Why waste some of the best years of your life — and Lisa's?
(Suddenly aware of the murderous expression on Jason's face.)
You're sore! What is this? When you said this afternoon that
you didn't want to lose us both, you touched my heart.

Jason — You're a swine.

Mike — I don't get this! She's a young girl. Do you think
you're the only man shell ever love? And if it's somebody else,
why not me — ^your friend?

Jason (raging) — I'm going to kill you I

Mike (retreating solemnly) — My God, Jason — I'm frightened.

Jason (following him) — You'll be unconscious in a minute.

Mike — ^Waitl (Pushing a chair between them,) This is a
matter of life and death — I have to tell you something!

Jason (circling the chair) — ^Not me! Ill twist your tongue
out!

Mike — Jason — ^you mustn't touch me — ^I've got another play
in me! I'm very strong, but suppose accidently you hurt me?

Jason — It won't be accidentally!

Mike — I knew a fellow once and another fellow threw a bottle
at him and he injured his brain. (With terrible anxiety,) Jason,
this is a great play — it's bigger than "Hooray for the Madam"
— let me just tell you the opening scene!

Jason (throws chair out of way, grabs Mike and daps his hand
over Mike's mouth) — ^I'll shut you up, all right!

Mike (pulling Jason's hand down) — You've got to admit I'm
a genius — I may write the great American drama — those were
your own words —

JASON 279

Jason {full of loathing) — ^You're a fraud and a mediocrity.
You're an eloquent half-wit. You're the idiotic victim of your
malevolent self. (Mike stands staring at him.) You're a night-
mare licking its chops under the impression that it's a daydream.
(Mike slowly backs away,) Your work is lazy fantasy mas-
querading as imagination.

Jason has stopped suddenly. Without turning his head he
calls to Miss Crane. Let her read him the opening paragraph of
his review. She does. Now let her tear that up and start over —

Jason (dictating — his eyes blazingly on Mike) — "Hooray for
the Madam" is a play cunningly designed to dupe literary fellows,
which critics are often said to be. It seems original, but it is
merely novel. All the symbols of innocent pleasure, of child-
like joy, and the deeper symbols of humanity, are juggled and
flashed in a manner to delude the imwary sophisticate.

Mike {numbly) — ^Jason, there are three critics at least who
don't like the show. If you do this, it may destroy me I

Jason {never taking his eyes off Mike) — ^Mr. Ambler's writing
seems heartfelt, but it is merely sentimental with trimmings. It
is the product of an articulate half-wit, of a writer who is the
cheerful, idiotic victim of his malevolently prankish self.

Mike — You're murdering me in cold blood.

Jason — Where Steinbeck in his "Tortilla Flat" gives us the
eternal godhead through the vagaries of wine-guzzling, shiftless
trash, Mr. Ambler offers a troupe of incredible eccentrics.

Mike — I have a new play in my heart, but I'm losing it . . .
I'll never be able to write again.

Jason {inexorably going on) — ^The play is overburdened with
feeble fantasy masquerading as virile imagination. And even
here it is full of clumsy plagiarisms from Tchekov and Gorky.
If this man's work is original, then Eugene O'Neill, Franz Werfel,
Sinclair Lewis, Thomas Mann and Evelyn Waugh are hacks.
You can find equal originality in the nearest lunatic asylum.

Mike {with a cry of great pain) — ^You've said enough! {Pause.
He moves slowly to the French doors, stops.) I'm going. {It
is, in a way, an invitation to Lisa. But she is immovable, as if
she hadn't seen or heard Mike.) I'm going. . . . {StiU no
response from Lisa, whose eyes never leave Jason. Now the
coat falls from her hand.) They say it's good for a poet to have
his heart broken. They say it's good for him to be ridiculed
and scorned by the world. They say it all turns into bigger and

280 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

better poetry. In that case, I ought to thank you both. I wish
I could. (He goes, Lisa turns away from Jason, thinking.
Jason, looking at her, starts dictating again,)

Jason — The egotistical challenge of this sort of writing is dan-
gerous also to the unformed, imaginative mind. It can ^lit a
maturing person in two and toss him, or her, back into the limbo
of adolescence. It turns black into white and white into black —
not with the disarming malice of an Oscar Wilde, but with
evangelical fervor.

Lisa {unable to control herself any longer, goes to him with
great excitement) — Jason, you've made me see him so clearly!
YouVe taken him apart I YouVe shown me what he really isl

Jason {turning to Miss Crane, continuing as if she hadt^t
spoken) — Almost any night, standing on a soapbox, you will find
Mr. Ambler's counterpart, some hyper-thyroid uttering words
and ideas wondrous to behold, full of meaningless excitement,
bearing a startling resemblance to the things which gifted people
say and think. The so-called plot defies description, but I will
sandpaper my finger and try to hold down one typical episode.
. . . {He pauses to think,)

Lisa {rushing to him, tears in her eyes) — Oh, Jason, I'm just
beginning to understand you, to appreciate you. You love me!
You really love me! You love me in a way that I never knew
anything about until tonight. You're fighting for me with —
Oh, your words are like — ^why, you're out in the ring right now
swinging with both fists! This is thrilling — don't stop!

Jason {shouting — in pain) — I've got a deadline to meet! —
will you leave me alone, for God's sake?

Lisa {with utter meekness) — Yes, darling. {He stands, wait-
ing impatiently. She reaches to him with her hands, timidly,
hesitates, then goes over to her hat and coat, picks them up and,
with her tearful eyes still on him, goes up the stairs, looking
at him happily untU she disappears, Jason stands stUl a mo-
ment,)

Jason {to Miss Crane) — ^Where was I?

Miss Crane — ^**I will sandpaper my finger and try to hold
down one typical episode."

Jason {after pause) — Throw it away. Miss Crane. We can't
use it.

Miss Crane — ^All of it?

Jason — All of it.

Miss Crane — Oh, it sounds awfully good.

Jason {deeply thinking) — It doesn't happen to be my opinion.

JASON

281

Miss Crane — ^I still have the first one you dictated.

Jason — ^I'm afraid that^s not my opinion either. (Pause.)
I'm just beginning to find out what I think of a man. Both the
hate and the love are true.

Miss Crane — ^Excuse me — but it's a quarter after twelve.

Jason {after another pause) — Yes. All right. Ready?

Miss Crane — Ready.

Jason {dictating slowly, in control, many emotions under-
neath) — In seeking a proper evaluation for a living work of art,
the reviewer faces himself as well as it. A balanced opinion is
not a mild, bloodless compromise. It is a struggle, sometimes
involving sweat and tears. The critic, like the artist, must go
through fire. It is thus, humble and burnt, that I present my con-
clusions about '^Hooray for the Madam," by Mike Ambler, which
is both a work of art and a trap for the fastidious. One moment
it is an ineffectual nightmare; the next moment it is a rhapsody
straight from heaven, more real than automobiles or governments.
Call Ambler a fool, a mountebank — and you won't be wrong.
But, however reluctantly, you must also call him an angel. . . .
As he talks,

the curtain falls

ANGEL STREET
A Melodrama in Three Acts

By Patsick Haiolton

IT had been a pretty dull season in the New YoA theatres, up
to early December. Nothing resembling a ''smash" hit, as the
Broadway classicists describe it, had occurred through the busier
production months of October and November. Nothing veiy
promising in the way of drama was in sight

When Shepard Traube announced the production of a melo-
drama he had brought back from the Pacffic Coast and renamed
"Angel Street" he did not raise expectations so much as the
fraction of a degree. The play had been known previously as
^'Gaslight." Under that title it had had some little success in
London, but it had been tried in several summer theatres in Amer-
ica without causing anything resembling a stampede, and its re-
ception in Hollywood had been quite conservative.

Traube, being the author of an informative brochure entitled
"So You Want to Go into the Theatre?" had cannily protected
himself by selling shares in the venture to something like fifteei
angelSy who contributed approximately $15,000. Hope ran high
with the angels opening night, when the curtain rose on '^Angd
Street," but audience expectations were, if an3rthing, a little
below normal. The Messrs. Shubert, lessees of the John Golden
Theatre, had ordered just enough tickets printed to cover the
first three performances — a Friday night opening and two per-
formances Saturday — evidently expecting a quick failure.

And then occurred one of those fantastic theatre surprises that
serve to keep speculative investors producing bank rolls and keq)
experienced, but incorrigibly optimistic, playgoers ^proaching
each new play with the hope in their hearts that something like
"Angel Street"— or "Men in White" or "The ChUdren's Hour"—
will happen.

The reviewers' notices were on the rave side. This corre-
spondent ran gaily from the theatre to his typewriter, there to
deliver himself a little wildly of the statement that he had, in-
deed, just seen the theatre really come alive for the first time
that season.

Curiously, all this excitement was caused by nothing more
important than a modest but skillfully wrought bit of theatre.

282

ANGEL STREET 283

''Angd Street" is one of those good old Victorian thrillers^ com-
mon to the stage thirty or forty years ago, which depends en-
tirely upon the interest it builds in its characters and the sus-
pense it holds as to their adventure of the evening. True, this
is an especially well-written thriller. The author, Patrick Ham-
ilton, has a gift for words and scenes equaled by few of his con-
temporaries. But after it is all added up, it is no more than
a good melodrama exceptionally well staged.

"Angel Street" was an immediate, though never exactly a sensa-
tional, success. It ran through the season easily, and to good
profits. Naturally, there were those who did not aJways rei^nd
to the drama with the same enthusiasm that moved the first
audience. A majority, however, were thrilled and made happy
by this particular theatre experience.

The first scene of "Angel Street" is property terrifying. We
are in a gloomy living room on the first floor of a four-story
house in London the latter part of the last century. "The room
is furnished in all the heavily draped and dingy profusion of the
period, and yet, amidst this abundance of paraf^emalia. an air
is breathed of poverty, wretchedness and age."

It is late afternoon, "the zero hour, as it were, before the
feeble dawn of gaslight and tea." Stretched out on the sofa in
front of the fire Jack Manningham is sleeping heavily. "He is
tall, good-looking, about forty-five, heavily mustached and
beard«l and perhaps a little too well dressed."

Sitting near Mr. Manningham at a center table, Bella Manning-
ham is sewing. "She is about thirty-four, has been almost a
beauty, but now has a haggard, wan, frightened air, with rings
under her eyes, which tell of sleepless nights and worse." Big
Ben has just struck 5. From a distance the jingle of a mufiin
man's bell can be faintly heard. It is the bell that first attracts
Mrs. Manningham's attention. She listens to it "furtively and
indecisively, almost as if she were frightened even of this,'' then
decides upon action and goes to the bell cord. Elizabeth, cook
and housekeeper, "a stout, amiable, subservient woman of about
fifty," answers and is given whispered instructions.

Mr. Manningham, however, is not sleeping as heavily as sup-
posed. His position has not changed the fraction of an inch,
but his eyes are open now and he is demanding in rather par-
ticular detail a report as to what is going on. What is Mrs.
Manningham doing, and why? And why does she seem so ap-
prehensive about doing it? The fire's in ashes. Will she please
call and have it replenished? No, no, no, no— she is not to put

284 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

the coal on. Haven't they had that out many times before?
What does she suppose servants are for? And why should they
be considered —

"Consider them?" Mr. Manningham is quite firm. "There's
your extraordinary confusion of mind again. You speak as
though they work for no consideration. I happen to consider
Elizabeth to the tune of sixteen pounds per annum. And the
girl ten. Twenty-six pounds a year all told. And if that is
not consideration of the most acute and lively kind, I should like
to know what is."

"Yes, Jack, I expect you are right."

"I have no doubt of it, my dear. It's sheer weak-mindedness
to think otherwise."

Mr. Manningham is up and moving about, now. When Nancy,
the second maid, arrives to put on the coal he becomes quite
chatty. Nancy, being a "self-conscious, pretty, cheeky girl of
nineteen," is not displeased with this attention nor with its e£fect
upon Mrs. Manningham. Nancy likes to be called impudent and
an evident heart-breaker. Of course she isn't, but — "Won't you
tell us the name of your chemist?" Mr. Manningham persists.
"Perhaps you could pass it on to Mrs. Manningham — and help
banish her pallor. She would be most grateful, I have no doubt."

"I'd be most happy to, I'm sure, Sir."

"Or are women too jealous of their discoveries to pass them on
to a rival?"

"I don't know. Sir. . . . Will that be all you're wanting, Sir?"

"Yes. That's all I want, Nancy — (She stops,) Except my
tea."

"It'll be coming directly, Sir."

Mr. Manningham is quite surprised when Mrs. Manningham
reproaches him for humiliating her before the servants. He cer-
tainly must have seen how he was hurting her, she insists; that
Nancy was really laughing at her; has long been laughing at her
in secret. No, Mr. Manningham has not noticed any sudb thing.
And if Nancy does laugh at her, isn't it her own fault?

"You mean that I'm a laughable person?" demands Mrs.
Manningham.

"I don't mean anjrthing," insists Mr. Manningham. "It's you
who read meanings into everything, Bella, dear. I wish you
weren't such a perfect little silly. Come here and stop it. I've
just thought of something nice."

The something nice that Mr. Manningham has thought of is
a visit to the theatre. He has heard that Mr. MacNaughton, a

ANGEL STREET 28S

celebrated actor, is playing a season of comedy and tragedy and
he thought Bella would liUke to see him.

Mrs. Mannin^am is completely thrilled at the prospect. What
perfect heaven that would mean! To go with Jack to the the-
atre! Mrs. Manningham can hardly realize such joy. And
would she prefer seeing Mr. MacNaughton in comedy or tragedy?
Would she prefer to laugh or to cry?

"Oh — I want to laugh," laughs Mrs. Manningham. "But
then, I should like to cry, too. In fact, I should like to do both.
Oh, Jack, what made you decide to take me?"

She has gone to the little stool beside his chair and leans against
him as she talks.

"Well, my dear, you've been very good lately, and I thought
it would be well to take you out of yourself."

Mrs. Manningham — Oh, Jack dear. You have been so much
kinder lately. Is it possible you're beginning to see my point
of view?

Mr. Manningham — ^I don't know that I ever differed from
it, did I, Bella?

Mrs. Manningham — Oh, Jack dear. It's true. It's true.
(Looks at him.) All I need is to be taken out of myself — some
little change — to have some attention from you. Oh, Jack, I'd
be better — I could really try to be better — you know in what
way — if only I could get out of myself a little more.

Mr. Manningham — How do you mean, my dear, exactly,
better?

Mrs. Manningham {looking away) — ^You know. . . . You
know in what way, dear. About all that's happened lately. We
said we wouldn't speak about it.

Mr. Manningham {drawing away and looking away) — Oh,
no — don't let's speak about that.

Mrs. Manningham — No, dear, I don't want to — ^but what I
say is so important. I have been better — even in the last week.
Haven't you noticed it? And why is it? Because you have
stayed in, and been kmd to me. The other night when you
stayed in and played cards with me, it was like old days, and I
went to bed feeling a normal, happy, healthy, human being. And
then, the day after, when you read your book to me, Jack, and we
sat by the fire. I felt all my love for you coming back, then,
Jack. And I slept that night like a child. All those ghastly
dreads and terrible, terrible fears seemed to have vanished. And
all just because you had given me your time, and taken me from

286 THE BEST FLAYS OP 1941-42

broo£iig OQ mysdf in this hoiae all day and n%^t
Mb. Manningham irdsing ker kead)—! wonder if it k thai

—or whether it's merely that your medidiie is begiiiiiiiig to boe-

fit 3^00?
Mks. Mannikcham— No, JaA, dear, it's not my medidne.

IVe taken my medidne rdigiously— havent I taken it rdfmnshr?

Much as I detest it! It's more than medidne that I i^tlt's

the medidne of a sweet, sane mind, of interest in something

Don't ywt see ^riiat I mean? ^'

Mk. Manningham— Wdl—wc arc talking about ^oomy sub-
jects, aren't we? ^

Mrs. Manningham— Yes. I don't want to be ^oomy dear
—that's the last thing I want to be. I only want you to under-
stand. Say you understand.

Ms. Manningham— Wdl, dear. Don't I seem to? Haven't I
just said I'm taking you to the theatre?

Mrs. Manningham — ^Yes, dear . . . Yes, you have. Oh
and you've made me so happy — so happy, dear. '

There is still the question of comedy or tragedy to be settled
Mrs. Manningham is too hai^yy to care greatly. To go to the
play with her husband — ^that is enough.

But when Nancy comes with the tea Mrs. Mannin^iam puts
the question to her. What would she choose — comedy or
tragedy? It's comedy for Nancy, every time. Mrs. Manningham
makes a note of that. When Nancy turns to leave the room
she sticks her tongue out at the girl. ''The little beast! Let her
put that in her pipe and smoke it!"

''But what has she done?" demands Mr. Manningham.

"Ah — ^you don't .know her. She tries to torment and score off
me all day long. You don't see these things. A man wouldn't.
She thinks me a poor thing. And now she can suffer the news
that you're taking me to the theatre."

"I think you imagine things, my dear."

They are at tea now, and Mrs. Manningham's happiness con-
vinces Mr. Manningham that he should have thought of t^t^ing
her to the theatre oftener. He, too, is fond of the theatre. As a
young man he had wanted to be an actor; thought serious^ of
trying to be. If he were an actor, Mrs. Manningham suggests,
she ^ould have a free seat and come every night to see him —
and to protect him from all the designing hussies who would be
after him. The idea is not displeasing to Mr. Manning^iam.

Mrs. Manningham is still chattering gaily when Mr. Manning-

ANGEL STREET 287

ham suddenly stiffens. He is looking fixedly at the back wall.
Now he rises and going to the fireplace, turns his back on Mrs.
Manningham. When he calls to her his voice is calm, yet men-
acing.

"Bella!"

"What is it? What's the matter? What is it now?" Mrs.
Manningham's voice has dropped almost to a whisper; her face
is ashen.

Mr. Manningham (walking over to fireplace and speaking
with his back ta her) — I have no desire to upset you, Bella, but
I have just observed something very much amiss. Will you
please rectify it at once, while I am not looking, and we will
assume that it has not happened.

Mrs. Manningham — ^Amiss? What's amiss? For God's sake
don't turn your back on me. What has happened?

Mr. Manningham — ^You know perfectly well what has hap-
pened, Bella, and if you will rectify it at once I will say no
more about it.

Mrs. Manningham — ^I don't know. I don't know. You have
left your tea. Tell me what it is. Tell me.

Mr. Manningham — ^Are you trying to make a fool of me,
Bella? What I refer to is on the wall behind you. If you will
put it back, I will say no more about it.

Mrs. Manningham — The wall behind me? What? (Turns,)
Oh . . . yes . . . The picture . . . Who has taken it down?
Why has it been taken down?

Mr. Manningham — ^Yes. Why has it been taken down?
Why, indeed. You alone can answer that, Bella. Why was it
taken down before? Will you please take it from wherever you
have hidden it, and put it back on the wall again?

Mrs. Manningham — But I haven't hidden it, Jack. (Rising.)
I didn't do it. Oh, for God's sake look at me. I didn't do it.
I don't know where it is. Someone else must have done it.

Mr. Manningham — Someone else? (Turning to her.) Are
you suggesting perhaps that I should play such a fantastic and
wicked trick?

Mrs. Manningham — No, dear, no! But someone else.
(Going to him.) Before God, I didn't do it! Someone else, dear,
someone else.

Mr. Manningham (shaking her off) — ^Will you please leave
go of me? (Walking over to bell.) We will see about **some-
one else."

288 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

&iss. Manningham (crossing to front of couck) — Oh, Jack —
don't ring the bell. Don't ring it. IXm't call the servants to
witness my shame. It*s not my shame for I haven't done it — but
don't call the servants! Tell them not to come. (He has rung
the bell. She goes to kirn.) Let's talk this over between our-
selves! Don't call that girl in. Please!

Mr. Manningham has shaken himself free of his wife and
rung the bell. Elizabeth answers. Let Elizabeth have a look
at the room, at the walls, particularly, and see if she notices any-
thing wrong. It is not hard for Elizabeth to note the missing
picture. With that she had nothing to do. Nor ever has had.
Will she fetch the Bible from the desk and kiss it as a token of
her truthfulness? Elizabeth hesitates a moment but finally does
as she is bid. So much for Elizabeth. Now let Nancy be sent.

*']ack — spare me that girl," pleads Mrs. Manningham, wQdly.
''Don't call her in. I'll say anything. Ill say that I did it. I
did it. Jack, I did it. Don't have that girl in. Don't!"

'^Will you have the goodness to contain yourself?" calmly de-
mands Mr. Manningham.

Nancy is quick to notice the missing picture and to add her
denial of any knowledge concerning it. Kiss the Bible? Wliy
not? Nancy is smiling as she leaves the room.

As Mr. Alanningham moves to replace the Bible on the desk,
Mrs. Manningham intercepts him, snatching the book from his
hands.

"Give me that Bible I" she screams. "Give it to me! Let me
kiss it, too! There! There! There! Doyousee that I kissit?"'

Mr. Manningham (putting out his hand for the Bible) — For
God's sake be careful what you do. Do you desire to commit
sacrilege above all else?

Mrs. Manningham — It is no sacrilege. Jack. Someone else
has committed sacrilege. Now see — I swear before God Al-
mighty that I never touched that picture. (Kisses it,) There!

Mr. Manningham (grabbing the Bible) — Then, by God, you
are mad, and you don't know what you do. You unhappy
wretch — you're stark gibbering mad — like your wretched mother
before you.

Mrs. Manningham — ^Jack — ^you promised you would never
say that again.

Mr. Manningham — ^The time has come to face facts, Bella.

ANGEL STREET 289

If thk progresses you will not be much longer under my pro-
tection.

Mrs. Manningham — Jack — I'm going to make a last appeal
to you. I'm going to make a last appeal. I'm desperate, Jack.
Can't you see that I'm desperate? If you can't, you must have
a heart of stone.

Mr. Manningham (turning to her) — Go on. What do you
wish to say?

Mrs. Manningham — ^Jack, I may be going mad, like my poor
mother — but if I am mad, you have got to treat me gently.
Jack — before God — I never lie to you knowingly. If I have
taken down that picture from its place I have not known it.
/ have not known it. If I took it down on those other occasions
I did not know it, either. Jack, if I steal your things — ^your rings
— ^your keys — ^your pencils and your handkerchiefs, and you find
them later at the bottom of my box, as indeed you do, then I do
not know that I have done it. . . . Jack, if I commit these fan-
tastic, meaningless mischiefs — so meaningless — ^why should I take
a picture down from its place? If I do all these things, then I
am certainly going off my head, and must be treated kindly and
gently so that I may get well. You must bear with me, Jack,
bear with me — not storm and rage. God knows I'm trying, Jack,
I'm trying! Oh, for God's sake believe me that I'm trying and
be kind to me I (Lays her head on his chest,)

Mr. Manningham — Bella, my dear — have you any idea where
Ihat picture is now?

Mrs. Manningham — ^Why, yes, I suppose it's behind the cub-
board.

Mr. Manningham — ^Will you please go and see?

Mrs. Manningham (vaguely) — Yes . . . yes . . . Yes, it's
here.

Mr. Manningham — Then you did know where it was, Bella.
You did know where it was.

Mrs. Manningham — ^No! No! I only supposed it was! I
only supposed it was because it was found there before! It was
found there twice before! Don't you see? I didn't know . . .
I didn't!

Mr. Manningham remains studiedly calm through Mrs. Man-
ningham's threatened hysteria. Sooner or later, he warns, they
will have to face facts, but for the moment he will say no more.
He is going out and he thinks Bella should go to her room and
lie down. This suggestion causes Mrs. Manningham further dis-

290 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

tress. She begs not to be sent to her room. Why must he always
go and leave her alone after one of these terrible scenes?

Mr. Manningham is of no mind to argue the point. He is
going out and while he is out he will pay the groca-'s bill--if
^e will tell him where she put the bill. On the top of the
secretary? No, it isn't there. Mr. Manningham searches care-
fully. The bill is not to be found. Mrs. Manningham is again
frantic with fear. Soon she is pawing excitedly through all the
drawers of the secretary, screaming that she knows she put the
bill there that morning. Now Mr. Manningham has followed her
to the desk and with his hands on her shoulders, is shaking her
violently —

"Will you control yourself?" he shouts. 'Will you control
yourself? . . . Listen to me, Madam, if you utter another sound
I'll knock you down and take you to your room and lock you
in darkness for a week. I have been too lenient with you, and I
mean to alter my tactics.*'

''Oh, God hdp me I God help me I" She has simk to her
knees.

"May God help you indeed." He has lifted her to her feet
"Now listen to me. I am going to leave you until ten o'clock.
In that time you will recover that paper, and admit to me that
you have l3ringly and purposely concealed it ... if not, you
will take the consequences. You are going to see a doctor,
Madam, more than one doctor. And they shall decide what
this means. Now do you understand me?" He has taken his
coat and hat and is moving toward the door.

"Oh, God — be patient with me. If I am mad, be patient with
me."

"I have been patient with you and controlled myself long
enough. It is now for you to control yourself, or take the conse-
quences. Think upon that, Bella. {Opens doors,)"

"Jack . . . Jack . . . don't go . . . Jack . . . You're still
going to take me to the theatre, aren't you?"

"What a question to ask me at such a time. No, Madam, em-
phatically, I am not. You play fair by me, and I'll play fair
by you. But if we are going to be enemies, you and I, you will
not prosper, believe me."

The door slams behind Mr. Manningham. Whimpermgly Mrs.
Manningham picks her way to the secretary and renews her
search for the bill. She finds her medicine and takes that, with
a shudder of disgust. She has thrown herself down on the couch
and is sobbing bitterly when there is a knock at the door. Eliza-

ANGEL STREET 291

beth has come to say that a gentleman has called and is quite
determined to see Mrs. Manningham. Elizabeth, too, is anxious
that her mistress see the man —

''Madam, Madam. I don't know what's going on between you
and the Master, but youVe got to hold up, Madam. You've got
to hold up."

"I am going out of my mind, Elizabeth. That's what's going
on."

"Don't talk like that. Madam. You've got to be brave. You
mustn't go on lying here in the dark, or your mind will go. You
must see this gentleman. It's you he wants — ^not the Master.
He's waiting to see you. Come, Madam, it'll take you out of
yourself."

The caller is Detective Rough of Scotland Yard. ''He is
middle-aged, graying, short, wiry, active, brusque, friendly, over-
bearing. He has a low warming chuckle." His attitude toward
Mrs. Manningham is gentle, almost paternal, and plainly aimed
at inspiring her trust.

He knows that she doesn't know him from Adam; he doesn't
wonder that she thought he had come to see her husband, but
she is wrong. Detective Rough has come to see her, and has
chosen this particular time because Mr. Manningham is not there.

"You're the lady who is going off her head, aren't you?" blurts
Detective Rough, while busily divesting himself of coat, hat and
scarf. The thought makes him chudkle, but it terrifies Mrs.
Manningham.

"What made you say that?" she all but screams. "Who are
you? What have you come to talk about?"

Rough — ^Ah, you're running away with things, Mrs. Manning-
ham, and asking me a good deal I can't answer at once. Instead
of that, I am going to ask you a question or two. • . . Now,
please, will you come here, and give me your hands? (Pause.
She obeys.) Now, Mrs. Manningham, I want you to take a good
look at me, and see if you are not looking at someone to whom
you can give your trust. I am a perfect stranger to you, and you
can read little in my face besides that. But I can read a great
deal in yours.

Mrs. Manningham — ^What? What can you read in mine?

Rough — ^Why, Madam, I can read the tokens of one who has
traveled a very long way upon the path of sorrow and doubt —
and will have, I fear, to travel a little further yet before she
comes to the end. But I fancy she is coming to the end, for all

.^s^s^

292 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

that. Come dow, are you going to trust me, and listen to

Mrs. Manningham (ajter a pause) — Who are you?
knows I need help.

Rough (still holding her hands) — I very much doubt
God knows anything of the sort, Mrs. Manningham. If be
I believe he would have come to your aid before this. ""
am here, and so you must give me your faith.

Mrs. Manningham (withdrawing her hands and withdrawing
a step) — Who are you? Are you a doctor?

Rough — Nothing so leamed. Ma'am. Just a plain police de-
tective.

Mrs. Manningham (shrinking away) — Police detective?

Rough — Yes. Or was some years ago. At any rate, stiU de-
tective enough to see that you've been interrupted in your tea.
Couldn't you start again, and let me have a cup? (Be stands
back of chair and holds it for her.)

Mrs. Manningham — Why, yes — yes. I will give you a cup.
It only wants water.

Rough (crossing around above table and to back of chair) —
You never beard of the celebrated Sergeant Rough, Madam?
Sergeant Rough, who solved the Claudesley Diamond case — Ser-
geant Rough, who hunted down the Camberwell dogs — Sergeant
Rough, who brought Sandham himself to justice. (He has kit
hand on back of chair as he looks at her.) Or were all sucb sen-
sations before your time?

Mrs. Manningham {looking up at Rough) — Sandham?
Why, yes — I have heard of Sandham — the murderer — the throt-
tler.

Rough — Yes — Madam — Sandham the Throttler. And you are
now looking at the man who gave Sandham to the man who
throttled him. And that was the common hangman. In fact,
Mrs. Manningham — you have in front of you one who was
quite a personage in his day — believe it or not.

With a cup of fresh tea to toy with, Detective Rough starts
a kindly cro5S-<xamination from which he learns that the Man-
ninghams have been married live years: that they had traveled
some, lived in Yorkshire and then, about six months ago, bought
the house in Angel Street. Mrs. Manningham had a bit of
money, and Mr, Manningham thought this a very good invest-
ment.

Does Mr. Manningham always leave her alone in tbe evening?
Yes, he goes to his club on business. And does he give her the

'ANGEL STREET

Mr5. Mannineham: But my husband! My husband is up thrrel

Raagb: Precisely that. Mr». MaiminBham. Vput husband. You sec, I am »rrsi(l you a
<■ a tnlcnbly danscrnus gcnltrman. Now drink this quickly, as wf have a irrcat deal lo

"^'"•"■- ""■■"'■ ■■ ivptcd buih thcic drinks from ll\c toxkhA *tA ■s.i'wSu.X*

irr 35 thr curtain falls.

(Judilh Evelyn, Uo G- CarroU^

ANGEL STREET 293

run of the house while he is out? Yes, all except the top floor.

Detective Rough would have Mrs. Manningham know that he
has been keeping track of things in her house through informa-
tion that he gets through the maid, Nancy. Nancy, it appears,
has been walking out with a young man who is an operator in
Detective Rough's employ and there isn't much that Nancy
knows or has surmised about her employers that Detective Rough
doesn't know^also. Nor would Detective Rough think of per-
mitting Mrs. Manningham the satisfaction of discharging Nancy.
To the contrary, before they are through Mrs. M. will probably
be greatly indebted to Nancy. For the present, however, Detec-
tive Rough's plan must remain a secret.

But, to get back to the top floor. Does no one ever go up
there? No one — ^not even a servant to dust. That, to Detec-
tive Rough, is a little funny. And how about this idea of Mrs.
Manningham's — that her reason was playing her tricks? When
did she first get that notion into her head —

"I always had that dread," admits Mrs. Manningham. "My
mother died insane, when she was quite young. When she was
my age. But only in the last six months, in this house — things
began to happen —

Rough — ^Which are driving you mad with fear?

Mrs. Manningham (gasping) — Yes. Which are driving me
mad with fear.

Rough — Is it the house itself you fear, Mrs. Manningham?

Mrs. Manningham — Yes. I suppose it is. I hate the house.
I always did.

Rough — And has the top floor got anything to do with it?

Mrs. Manningham — ^Yes, yes, it has. That's how all this
dreadful horror began.

Rough — ^Ah — ^now you interest me beyond measure. Do tell
me about the top floor.

Mrs. Manningham — I don't know what to say. It all sounds
so incredible. . . . It's when I'm alone at night. I get the idea
that — somebody's walking about up there. . . . (Looking up,)
Up there. ... At night, when my husband's out. ... I hear
noises, from my bedroom, but I'm afraid to go up. . . .

Rough — ^Have you told your husband about this?

Mrs. Manningham — ^No. I'm afraid to. He gets angry. He
says I imagine things which don't exist. . . .

Rough — ^It never struck you, did it, that it might be your own
husband walking about up there?

294 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Mrs. Manningham — ^Yes — ^that is what I thought — but I
thought I must be mad. (As she turns to Rough.) Tell me how
you know.

Rough — ^Why not tell first how you knew, Mrs. Manningham.

Mrs. Manningham (rising and going toward fireplace) — It's
true, then! It's true. I knew it. I knew itl When he leaves
this house he comes back. He comes back and walks up there
above — ^up and down — up and down. (Turning to fireplace.)
He comes back like a ghost. How does he get up there?

Rough (rising, crossing to Mrs. Manningham) — ^That's what
we're going to find out^ Mrs. Manningham. But there are such
commonplace resources as roofs and fire esaqpes, you know. Now
please don't look so frightened. Your husband is no ghost, be-
lieve me, and you are very far from mad. (Pauses.) Tell me
now, what made you first think it was him?

Mrs. Manningham — ^It was the light — the gaslight. ... It
went down and it went up. . . . (Starts to cry.) Oh, thank God
I can tell this to someone at last. I don't know who you are,
but I must tell you. (Crosses to Rough.)

Rough (taking her hands) — ^Now try to keep calm. You can
tell me just as well sitting down, can't you? Won't you sit down?
(He moves back.)

Mrs. Manningham — ^Yes . . . yes. (She sits down on end
of sofa.)

Rough (looking around) — ^The light, did you say? Did you
see a light from a window?

Mrs. Manningham — No. In this house. I can tdl every-
thing by the light of gas. You see the mantel there. Now it is
burning full. But if an extra light went on in the kitchen or
someone lit it in the bedroom then this one would sink down.
It's the same all over the house.

Rough — Yes — ^yes — that's just a question of insuSBcient pres-
sure, and it's the same in mine. But go on, please.

Mrs. Manningham (after pause) — ^Every night, after he goes
out, I find myself waiting for something. Then all at once I
look around the room and see that the light is slowly going down.
Then I hear tapping sounds — ^persistent tapping sounds. At first
I tried not to notice it, but after a time it began to get on my
nerves. I would go all over the house to see if anyone had put
on an extra light, but they never had. It's always at the same
time — about ten minutes after he goes out. That's what gave
me the idea that somehow he had come back and that it was he
who was walking about up there. I go up to the bedroom but I

ANGEL STREET 295

daren't stay there because I hear noises overhead. I want to
scream and run out of the house. I sit here for hours, terrified,
waiting for him to come back, and I always know when he's com-
ing, always. Suddenly the light goes up again and ten minutes
afterwards I hear his key in the lock (A look at doors.) and he's
back again.

Other things have been happening lately to cause Mrs. Man-
ningham to wonder about the stability of her mind. For one, her
memory has been playing her tricks. Often Mr. Manningham
will give her things to keep and she will lose or mislay them.
His rings and studs have disappeared and been found in the bot-
tom of her workbox. The key to a certain door has disappeared,
after the door had been locked, only to turn up again also
among her things. Just this morning there was the matter of
the picture that had been taken from the wall. Then —

''We have a little dog," Mrs. Manningham continues. ''A few
weeks ago it was found with its paw hurt. ... He believes ., . .
Oh, God, how can I tell you what he believes — that I had hurt
the dog. He does not let the dog near me now. He keeps it in
the kitchen and I am not allowed to see it I I begin to doubt,
don't you see? I begin to believe I imagine everything. Per-
haps I do. Are you here? Is this a dream, too? Who are you?
{Rises and steps away,) I'm afraid they are going to lock me
up."

Now Detective Rough is all sympathy. It has occurred to him
that Mrs. Manningham could do with a little medicine. Not the
horrible, bitter stuff that she has been taking — a little medidne
the detective knows about, and that he always carries with him —

"You see," he explains, "it has been employed by humanity
for several ages, for the purpose of the instantaneous removal cl
dark fears and doubts. That seems to fit you, doesn't it?"

"The removal of doubt. How could a medicine effect that?"

"Ah — that we don't know. The fact remains that it does.
Here we are. (Produces what is obviously a bottle of whiskey,)
You see, it comes from Scotland. Now, Madam, have you such
a thing handy as two glasses or a couple of cups?"

"Why — ^are you having some, too?"

"Oh, yes. I am having some above all things. . . ."

They have had their medicine, which tastes like "something
between ambrosia and methylated spirits," as Rough sees it, and
they have settled again to their exchange of confidences. Now
it is the detective's turn, for he must tell Mrs. Manningham the

296 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

revealing story of the cabman's friend. She was an old lady
who had died many years ago. She was a kindly person of great
wealth and decided eccentricities, and her principal mania was
the protection of cabmen. She had provided them with shelters,
clothing and pensions, and saved them much of the world's pain —
"It was not my privilege to know her," Detective Rough is say-
ing, "but it was my duty, on just one occasion, to see her.
(Turns to her.) That was when her throat was cut open, and she
lay dead on the floor of her own house."

Mrs. Manningham — Oh, how horrible! Do you mean she
was murdered?

Rough — Yes. (Crosses to end of sofa.) She was murdered.
I was only a comparatively young officer at the time. It made
an extremely horrible, in fact I may say lasting, impression on
me. You see the murderer was never discovered but the motive
was obvious enough. Her husband had left her the Barlow
rubies. (Crosses to other end of sofa,) And it was well known
that she kept them, without any proper precautions, in her bed-
room on an upper floor. (Turns to her,) She lived alone ex-
cept for a deaf servant in the basement. Well, for that she paid
the penalty of her life.

Mrs. Manningham — But I don't see —

Rough — There were some sensational features about the case.
The man seemed to have got in at about ten at night, and stayed
till dawn. Apart, presumably, from the famous rubies, there
were only a few trinkets taken, but the whole house had been
turned upside down, and in the upper room every single thing was
flung about, or torn open. Even the cushions of the chairs were
ripped up with his bloody knife, and the police decided that it
must have been a revengeful maniac as well as a robber. I had
other theories, but I was a nobody then, and not in charge of the
case.

Mrs. Manningham — ^What were your theories?

Rough (crossing up right) — ^Well, it seemed to me, from all
that I gathered here and there, that the old lady might have
been an eccentric, but that she was by no means a fool. It
seemed to me — (Crossing to back of sofa.) — ^that she might have
been one too clever for this man. We presume he killed her to
silence her, but what then? What if she had not been so care-
less? (Slowly crossing to her.) What if she had got those
jewels cunningly hidden away in some inconceivable place, in the
walls, floored down, bricked in, maybe? What if the only per-

Ill ^1 -ita

ANGEL STREET 297

son who could tdl him where they were was lying dead on the
floor I Would not that account, Mrs. Manningham, for all that
strange confusion in which the place was found? {Crosses back
of sofa.) Can't you picture him, Mrs. Manningham, searching
through the night, ransacking the place, hour after hour, growing
more and more desperate, until at last the dawn comes and he
has to slink out into the pale street, the blood and wreckage of
the night behind. (Turns to her,) And the deaf servant down
in the basement sleeping like a log through it all.

Mrs. Manningham— Oh, how horrible! How horrible indeed.
And was the man never found?

Rough — ^No, Mrs. Manningham, the man was never found.
Nor have the Barlow rubies ever come to light.

Mrs. Manningham — Then perhaps he found them after all,
and may be alive today.

Rough — I think he is almost certainly alive today, but I don't
believe he found what he wanted. That is, if my theory is right.

Mrs. Manningham — ^Then the jewels may still be where the
old lady hid them?

Rough — ^Indeed, Mrs. Manningham, if my theory is right the
jewels must still be where she hid them. The official conclusion
was quite otherwise. The police^ naturally and quite excusably,
presumed that the murderer had got them, and there was no re-
opening of matters in those days. Soon enough the public for-
got about it. They always do. I almost forgot about it myself.
But it would be funny, wouldn't it, Mrs. Manningham, if after
all these years I should turn out to be right.

Mrs. Manningham is still confused. What has all this to do
with her? What, indeed? echoes Detective Rough. That is what
he, too, would like to know and what he hopes to find out. It
is just possible that the man who had murdered old Mrs. Barlow
had, after fifteen years, decided to have another search of the
Barlow house. The criminal, it is said, often returns to the scene
of his crime. And in this case there is something more than
morbid compulsion. There are still the Barlow jewels to be
accounted for. There is real treasure to be unearthed if a man
could take his time for a thorough search of the house without
arousing suspicion. And how would he most likely go about —

Mrs. Manningham has suddenly leaped to her feet. The lights
are going down! Mr. Manningham has come back I He is in the
house and Detective Rough must get out, quietly, quickly —

^'Quiet, Mrs. Manningham, quiet I" cautions the detective.

298 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

going to her, taking her arms in his hands. ^'You have got to
keep your head. Don't you see my meaning, yet? Don't you
understand that this was the house?"

"House? What house?"

''The old woman's house, Mrs. Manningham. . . . This house,
here, these rooms, these walls. Fifteen years ago Alice Barlow
lay dead on the floor in this room. Fifteen years ago the man
who murdered her ransacked this house — below and above — ^but
could not find what he sought. What if he is still searching,
Mrs. Manningham? {Indicating upstairs.) What if he is up
there — still searching? Now do you see why you must keep
your head?"

"But my husband, my husband is up there!"

"Precisely that, Mrs. Manningham. Your husband. You see,
I am afraid you are married to a tolerably dangerous gentleman.
Now drink this quickly, as we have a great deal to do."

Detective Rough has recovered both their drinks from the
mantel and stands holding Mrs. Manningham's glass out to her
as the curtain falls.

ACT n

There has been no lapse of time. Mrs. Manningham accepts
the drink Detective Rough offers her, her eyes staring bewilder-
edly at him. When she finds her voice she demands to know
how the detective knows that this is indeed the Barlow house.
Rough knows because he was one of those assigned to the case.
How can he possibly believe that Mr. Manningham may have
had anything to do with the murder? Because it was a part of
his work to interview a variety of the murdered lady's acquaint-
ances and relatives, nephews and nieces. Among these he most
vividly remembers a young man named Power — Sydney Power —
of whom it isn't likely that Mrs. Manningham has ever heard.
No, she has not —

"Well, he was a kind of distant cousin," the detective is sa3ring,
pouring himself another drink as he continues; "apparently much
attacheid to the old lady, and even assisting her in her good
works. The only thing was that I remembered his face. Well,
I saw that face again just a few weeks ago. It took me a whole
day to recollect where I had seen it before, but at last I re-
membered."

Mrs. Manningham — ^Well — ^what of it? What if you did re-
member him?
Rough — It was not so much my remembering Mr. Sydney

ANGEL STREET 299

Power, Mrs. Manningham. What startled me was the lady on
his arm and the locality in which I saw him.

Mrs. Manningham — Oh — ^who was the lady on his arm?

Rough — You were the lady on his arm, Mrs. Manningham,
and you were walking down this street.

Mrs. Manningham — What are you sa3ring? Do you mean
you think my husband — ^my husband is this Mr. Power?

Rough — ^Well, not exactly, for if my theories are correct —

Mrs. Manningham — ^What are you saying? (SHs.) You
stand there talking riddles. You are so cold. You are as heart-
less and cold as he is.

Rough (coming down to left of table) — ^No, Mrs. Manning-
ham, I am not cold, and I am not talking riddles. (Sets his
drink down on the table,) I am just trying to preserve a cold
and calculating tone, because you are up against the most awful
moment in your life, and your whole future depends on what you
are going to do in the next hour. Nothing less. You have got to
strike for your freedom, and strike now, for the moment may not
come again.

Mrs. Manningham — Strike —

Rough (leaning across the table) — You are not going out of
your mind, Mrs. Manningham, you are slowly, methodically, sys-
tematically being driven out of your mind. And why? Because
you are married to a criminal maniac who is afraid you are be-
ginning to know too much — a criminal maniac who steals back to
his own house at night, still searching for something he could not
find fifteen years ago. Those are the facts, wild and incredible
as they may seem. His name is no more Manningham than mine
is. He is Sydney Power and he murdered Alice Barlow in this
house. Afterward he changed his name, and he has waited all
these years, until he found it safe to acquire this house in a legal
way. He then acquired the empty house next door. Every night,
for the last few weeks, he has entered that house from the back,
climbed up onto its roof and come into this house by the sky-
light. I know that Jbecause I have seen him do it. You have
watched the gaslight, and without knowing it been aware of the
same thing. He is up there now. Why he should employ this
mad, secretive, circuitous way of getting what he wants, God him-
self only knows. For the same reason, perhaps, that he employs
this mad, secretive, circuitous way of getting rid of you: that is,
by slowly driving you mad and into a lunatic asylum.

Mrs. Manningham — ^Why?

Rough — The fact that you had some money, enough to buy
this house, is part of it, I expect. For now that he's got that out

300 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

of you, he doesn't need you any longer. Thank God you are not
married to him, and that I have come here to save you from the
workings of his wicked mind.

Mrs. Manningham — ^Not married? . . . Not married? . . .
He married me.

Rough — I have no doubt he did, Mrs. Manningham. Unfor-
tunately, or rather fortunately, he contracted the same sort of
union with another lady many years before he met you. More-
over, the lady is still alive, and the English law has a highly ex-
acting taste in monogamy. You see, I have been finding things
out about Mr. Sydney Power.

Mrs. Manningham — ^Are you speaking the truth? My God
— are you speaking the truth? Where is this wife now?

Rough — I'm afraid she is the length of the world away — on
the Continent of Australia to be precise, where I know for a
fact he spent two years. Did you know that?

Mrs. Manningham — No. I — did — ^not — ^know — ^that.

Of course, if Detective Rough could find that other Mrs. Man-
ningham, his work would be easier, but as he can't, his most
earnest hope is that the present Mrs. Manningham will help him
get the evidence he needs. Of course, if she were really married
to Mr. Manningham the detective could understand her shock
at the thought of betraying him. But perhaps if she knew how
slight is her real obligation to the man she married; if she knew,
as Detective Rough knows, how the persuasive Mr. Manningham
comes really to life at night, and how exciting are many of his
less serious excursions into the resorts of the town; if she knew
his taste in unemployed actresses, for instance, she would feel
differently —

"Mrs. Manningham, it is hard to take everything from you,"
admits Detective Rough, "but you are no more tied to this man,
you are under no more obligation to him than those wretched
women in those places. You must learn to be thankful for that."

"What do you want me to do? What do you want?"

"I want his papers, Mrs. Manningham — ^his identity. There is
some clue somewhere in this house, and we have got to get at it."

So far as Mrs. Manningham knows, the only place that Mr.
Manningham keeps any papers is in his bureau— ^is desk, there
in that room, and that is always locked. Locked it may be, but
it doesn't look too formidable to Detective Rough, who long has
boasted to himself that if he had developed a turn for burgling
he might easily have been a genius.

ANGEL STREET 301

•

A cursory examination of the desk convinces Rough that it will
not be hard to master. He has his coat off, and is starting to
work on the locks when the lights begin slowly to go up. Mr.
Manningham evidently has left the top floor and is coming back.
Mrs. Manningham is the first to notice the lights. Her hysteria
mounts with her fear, and she pleads with Detective Rough please
to get out of the house quickly.

The detective is not unduly excited. He would have a talk
with Elizabeth before he leaves, if Mrs. Manningham will call the
maid. Mr. Manningham may be on his way, but it will take
him at least five minutes to get around to the front of the house.
Much can be accomplished in five minutes.

Elizabeth, too, is effected by the tenseness of the moment.
Would she be willing to help her mistress, blindly, without asking
questions? Elizabeth would. Could she, then, hide Detective
Rough in her kitchen for a short space of time — in the oven if
necessary — that Mr. Manningham may not see him leaving the
house? Elizabeth could, and would, but unfortunately Nancy is
entertaining a young man in the kitchen at the moment. Eliza-
beth had agreed not to summon the detective if Nancy were
there, but Nancy, who was going out, had suddenly changed her
plans. No, Nancy did not know that Detective Rough was in
the house. He might hide in their bedroom — ^Elizabeth's and
Nancy's — but what if Nancy should go up there before she went
out —

There is Mr. Manningham 's dressing room adjoining the living
room. There is a big wardrobe in the dressing room at the back.
Detective Rough decides to investigate. He is back in a moment
to declare the accommodations perfect. And just in time too.
Mr. Manningham is at the front door —

"Now, we really have got to hurry," announces the detective.
"Get off to bed, Mrs. Manningham, quick! And you, Elizabeth,
go to your room. You can't get downstairs in time. Hurry,
please. . . ."

"To bed? Am I to go to bed?" wails Mrs. Manningham.

"Yes, quick. He's coming." For the first time Detective
Rough loses his professional calm.

"Don't you understand? Go there and stay there. You have
a bad headache — a bad headache." He has turned down the gas
bracket above the fireplace. "Will you go, in heaven's name?"

Mrs. Manningham hurries up the stairs and Elizabeth disap-
pears in the hall. Rough is still taking his time as he turns
down another gas jet and tiptoes toward the dressing room. The

302 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

front door is heard to slam. Rough is just disappearing into the
dressing room when suddenly he feels his head and realises he has
left his hat behind. Quickly he turns about, recovers the hat
and dis^pears through the dressing room door.

A second later Mr. Mannlngham appears in the doorway. He
looks guardedly about the room, closes the hall doors after him,
glances inquiringly up the stairs and, being satisfied, turns up
the gas jets. Now he has taken off his hat and coat, thrown
them on the sofa and rung the bell for Elizabeth.

Elizabeth reports that so far as she knows Mrs. Mannin^iam
has gone to bed with a bad headache. She will dear away the
tea things, and would Mr. Manningham care for supper? Mr.
Mannin^am would not. He is having supper out, and has come
home only to change his linen. Elizabeth suggests quickly that,
if he likes, she will fetch him a fresh collar from his dressing
room, but Mr. Manningham prefers to make his own selection.

Mr. Manningham disappears in the dressing room. Elizabeth
stands motionless, taut with suspense, until he returns, leisurely
buttoning his cdlar, which he adjusts in front of the living room
mirror.

It is about Mrs. Manningham and her condition that Mr. Man-
ningham wants to talk to Elizabeth. She probably has noticed
a definite change in her mistress recently. For his own part he
is at his wit's end —

"I have tried everything," says Mr. Manning^iam. ''Kindness,
patience, cunning — even harshness, to bring her to her senses.
But nothing will stop these wild, wild hallucinations, nothing will
stop these wicked pranks and tricks."

Mr. Manningham has decided that he wants a different tie,
and again disappears in the dressing room for a tense moment.
He is still talking as he returns.

'*1 suppose you know about Mrs. Manningham's mother, EUiza-
beth. . . . She died in the madhouse, Elizabeth, without any
brain at all in the end. . . . You know, don't you, that I shall
have to bring a doctor to Mrs. Mannin^am before long, Eliza-
beth? I have fought against it to the last, but it can't be k^t
a secret much longer."

"No, Sir. ... No, Sir. . . ."

"I mean to say, you know what goes on. You can testify to
what goes on, can't you?"

"Indeed, Sir. Yes."

"Indeed, you may have to testify in the end. Do you realize
that? (Pause. Then sharply.) Eh?"

ANGEL STREET 303

"Yes, Sir. I would only wish to help you both, Sir."

"Yes, I believe you there, Elizabeth. You're a very good soul.
I sometimes wonder how you put up with things in this house-
hold— ^this dark household. I wonder why you do not go.
You're very loyal."

"Always loyal to you, Sir. Always loyal to you."

"There, now, how touching. I thank you, Elizabeth. You will
be repaid later for what you have said, and repaid in more ways
than one. You tmderstand that, don't you?"

"Thank you, Sir. I only want to serve. Sir."

Having completed his dressing Mr. Manningham is ready to
depart. He is going out, he repeats, and he is even going to try
to be a little gay. Surely Elizabeth cannot think that that is
wrong. Elizabeth agrees that Mr. Manningham should get all
the pleasure he can, while he can.

With the slamming of the front door. Rough pops out of the
dressing room and a moment later Mrs. Mannin^iam appears on
the stairs. Now they must get back to work on Ae desk drawers.
Even though there is no way of their being warned of Mr. Man-
ningham's return, this is a diance they wiU have to take. . . .

It doesn't at first appear that they have found anything in the
desk. Detective Rou^ has found a brooch, and a watch and
finally a grocery bill — ^all of which Mr. Manningham had accused
his wife of having lost, or hidden — And a letter 1 A letter ad-
dressed to Mrs. Manningham — from her cousin — ^which is excit-
ing to Mrs. Manningham.

"Is your husband's correspondence with your relations very
much to the point at the moment?" inquires the detective, with
a slight impatience.

"You don't understand," explains the excited Mrs. Manning-
ham. '^hen I was married I was cast off by all my relations.
I have not seen any of them since I was married. They did
not approve my choice. I have longed to see them again more
than anything in the world. When we came to London — to this
house, I wrote to them, I wrote to them twice. There never was
any answer. Now I can see why there never was any answer."

It is a pleasant affectionate letter, as Mrs. Mannin^iam reads
it. Her cousins were overjoyed at hearing from her again and
were looking forward to their renewing old ties. If she would
come to them in Devonshire they would give her their Devon-
shire cream to fatten her cheeks and their fresh air to bring the
sparkle back to her eyes — The thought is too much for her, and
she breaks down. "Dear God, they wanted me back!" she sobs.

304 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

"They wanted me back all the time — "

She is crying softly on the sympathetic shoulder of Detective
Rough, and being reassured by his promise that she will yet see
her cousins and be happy again. Then back to the de^L goes
Rough. Finally he gets out his tools and forces the most stub-
bom of the locks. There is nothing else for him to do.

Again they are disappointed. There seems to be nothing but
papers in the drawer and these of no great significance. They
have, sighs the detective, apparently lost their gamble. And how
can they account for the forcing of the desk? Mrs. Manningham
grows a little panicky at the thought.

Detective Rough is putting the things back in the first drawer
— the watch and the brooch — and trying to remember just where
they were placed, when something about the brooch attracts his
eye. It was only second-hand, Mrs. Manningham tells him. She
discovered that when she found an affectionate inscription to
someone else inside it.

That inscription adds to the detective's interest. He has a
feeling he has seen this brooch before. That feeling is strength-
ened when Mrs. Manningham shows him how to pull a tiny pin
which she had discovered by accident. That permits the brooch
to open out like a star. There were several beads inside it orig-
inally, she explains, but they were all loose and Mrs. Manning-
ham had taken them out and put them in an old vase. Can she
find them? She can. The vase is still on the mantel. Did there
happen to have been nine of them originally, Rou^ would like
to know. Yes, there were. But some may have been lost. De-
tective Rough's excitement is mounting as he fits the beads back
into the brooch and is examining them with his jeweler's ^ass.

"Did you happen to read this inscription at any time, ma'am?"
he is asking. " 'Beloved A.B. from C.B. Fifteen fifty-one.'
Does nothing strike you about that?"

"No. What of it? What should strike me?"

RouGH'i—Really, I should have thought that as simple as
A.B.C. Have you got the others? There should be four more.

Mrs. Manningham — Yes. Here they are.

Rough {taking them) — Thank you. That's the lot. (He is
putting them in brooch on the table.) Now tell me this---have
you ever been embraced by an elderly detective in his shirt
sleeves?

Mrs. Manningham — ^What do you mean?

Rough — For that is your immediate fate at the moment.

ANGEL STREET 305

(Puts down brooch and comes to her,) My dear Mrs. Manning-
ham — {Kisses her.) My dear, dear Mrs. ManninghamI Don't
you understand?

Mrs. Manningham — ^No, what are you so excited about?

Rough {picking up brooch) — There, there you are, Mrs. Man-
ningham. The Barlow rubies— complete. Twelve thousand
pounds' worth before your very eyes I Take a good look at them
before they go to the Queen.

Mrs. Manningham — But it couldn't be — ^it couldn't. They
were in the vase all the time.

Rough — Don't you see? Don't you see the whole thing?
This is where the old lady hid her treasure — ^m a common trinket
she wore all day long. I knew I had seen this somewhere be-
fore. And where was that? In portraits of the old lady — when
I was on the case. She wore it on her breast. I remember it
clearly though it was fifteen years ago. Fifteen years! Dear
God in heaven, am I not a wonderful man!

Mrs. Manningham — ^And I had it all the time. I had it all
the time.

Rough — ^And all because he could not resist a little common
theft along with the big game. . . . Well, it is I who am after
the big game now.

Detective Rough is hurrying into his things now. He has a lot
to do and it must be done quickly. Leave her? Of course he
will have to leave her. But — First they will have to put the
brooch right back where they found it. Then he must summon
Sir George Raglan, "the power above the powers that be." The
broken desk they will have to risk for the present. As for Mrs.
Manningham —

"You will serve the ends of justice best by simply going to
bed," the detective is saying. . . . "Go there and stay there.
Your headache is worse. Remember — be ill. Be anything. But
stay there, you understand. V\\ let myself out."

He has started for the door when Mrs. Manningham is again
attacked by a great fear. Pitifully she pleads with him not to
leave her. She has a feeling that something will happen. But
Detective Rough is not too sympathetic —

"Have the goodness to stop making a fool of yourself, Mrs.
Manningham," he says. "Here's your courage." He hands her
his flask. "Take some of it, but don't get tipsy and don't leave
it about. Good-by."

Mrs. Manningham starts up the stairs. Rough is at the door.

306 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

He turns again. ''Mrs. Manningham/' he calls. She stops.
''Good-by/' he repeats, motioning her an up the stairs.

Wlien she is out of sight he goes through the doors and doses
them after him. The curtain falls.

ACT ni

It is eleven o'clock that night. The Manningham living room
is practically blacked out until Mr. Manningham appears from
the hall and turns up the lights. Ringing for a niajd, he dis-
covers that everyone has gone to bed. A second later, however,
Nancy puts her head around the hall door. She has just come in,
but is perfectly willing to substitute for Mrs. Manningham or
Elizabeth. She fetches Mr. Manningham's milk and biscuits and
then goes to call Mrs. Manningham. Her husband would like to
see his wife immediately.

Mrs. Manningham, Nancy reports, has a headache and is try-
ing to sleep. Mr. Manningham is not surprised. It is hard to
remember when his wife was not suffering from a headache. For
the moment he turns his attention to Nancy.

Does Nancy realize that she enjoys condderable liberty in
that house? Liberty that includes two nights off a we^; liberty
that permits her to stay out as late as her master, and probably
in the company of young men? Nancy is not loathe to admit the
charges. As for the gentlemen friends — ^Nancy feels sure that
she can take care of herself. Perhaps at times ^e is not too par-
ticular about that.

"You know, Nancy, pretty as your bonnet is, it is not any-
thing near so pretty as your hair beneath it," says Mr. Man-
ningham. "Won't you take it off and let me see it?"

"Very good, sir. It comes off easy enough. There (Ifs off,) —
Is there anything more you want, sir?"

Mr. Manningham — Yes. Possibly. Come here, will you,
Nancy?

Nancy (dropping hat on chair) — ^Yes, Sir. ... Is there any-
thing you want, Sir? (He puts his hands on her shoulders.)
What do you want? . . . eh . . . What do you want? (Man-
ningham kisses Nancy in a violent and prolonged manner.
There is a pause in which she looks at him, and then she kisses
him as violently.) There! Can she do that for you? Can she
do that?

Mr. Manningham — ^Who can you be talking about, Nancy?

■ li ^hafc^^^JBB^^M^^^^^^i^—

ANGEL STREET 307

Nancy — ^You know who I mean all right.

Mr. Manningham — You know, Nancy, you are a very re-
markable girl in many respects. I believe you are jealous of
your mistress.

Nancy — She? She's a poor thing. There's no need to be
jealous of her. You want to kiss me again, don't you? Don't
you want to kiss me? (Ms. Manningham kisses Nancy.)
There! That's better than a sick headache — ain't it — a sick
headache and a pale face all the day.

Mr. Manningham — Why, yes, Nancy, I believe it is. I think,
however, don't you, that it would be better if you and I met
one evening in dififerent surroundings?

Nancy — ^Yes. Where? I'll meet you when you like. You're
mine now — ain't you — cos you want me. You want me— don't
you?

Mr. Manningham — ^And what of you, Nancy. Do you want
me?

Nancy— Oh, yes! I always wanted you, ever since I first
clapped eyes on you. I wanted you more than all of them.

Mr. Manningham— Oh — there are plenty of others?

Nancy — Oh, yes — there's plenty of others.

Mr. Manningham— So I rather imagined. And only nine-
teen.

Nancy — ^Where can we meet? Where do you want us to
meet?

Mr. Manningham (slowly crossing to fireplace) — Really,
Nancy, you have taken me a little by surprise. I'll let you know
tomorrow.

Nancy — HowTl you let me know, when she's about?

Mr. Manningham — Oh, I'll find a way, Nancy. I don't be-
lieve Mrs. Manningham will be here tomorrow. ^

Nancy — Oh? Not that I care about her. I'd like to kiss you
under her very nose. That's what I'd like to do.

Mr. Manningham — ^All right, Nancy. Now you had better
go. I have some work to do.

It isn't easy for Nancy to be turned away. She would, if she
could, convince her master that his work at the moment is quite
unimportant. But she gives way, reluctantly, to wait until he
finds a chance to communicate with her the next day. She closes
the hall doors as she goes out.

Now Mr. Manningham has found certain papers on the sec-
retary and takes them to the desk. He gets out his keys and is

308 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

about to unlock the drawer when he discovers that it has been
opened. Further investigation reveals that the seomd drawa*
has been opened. Quickly he goes back to the bdl cord and sum-
mons Nancy. This time she is to summon Mrs. Manningham
and bid her come downstairs, whatever her ailments — a mission
Nancy undertakes with undisguised pleasure.

A moment later Nancy is back with the announcement that
Mrs. Manningham not only refuses to come downstairs, but that
she has closed and locked her door. Just shamming, she is, in
Nancy's opinion, and she would like to see Mr. Manningham
batter the door in.

Mr. Manningham has a better plan. He will write a note to
Mrs. Manningham which Nancy can slip under the door. But,
first, let her go into the basement and bring up the little dog.
On second thought Mr. Manningham decides that will not be
necessary. They will just let Mrs. Manningham assume that
they have the dog.

While Nancy is gone Manningham busies himself changing the
scene by placing an armchair in front of the fireplace, as though
for a ceremony. He is standing calmly waiting when Nancy re-
turns to report that the note had done the trick — ^her mistress is
on her way down. Nancy is still curious. She would like to
have a more intimate part in the experiment.

"Good night, old dear. Give her what-for, won't you?" she
advises, cheerily, as she throws her arms about Manningham's
neck and kisses him. "Ta-tal"

Mrs. Manningham hesitates as she comes down the stairs.
Her eyes are wide with fear and wonder. Mr. Manningham has
taken his position in front of the fireplace, facing a chair he has
placed for his wife. He meets her excitement with an exagger-
ated calm. He would have her come and take the seat he has
indicated. The dog? What has he done with the little dog?
Not a thing. That was only a ruse to get her to pay some atten-
tion to his commands. Why will she not sit in the chair in front
of him? Is she afraid of him? No, she is not afraid.

Slowly Mrs. Manningham comes toward the chair. Mr. Man-
ningham's eyes are fixed steadily upon her. Now there is a
smirk at the comers of his cruel moudi. As she walks across the
room she reminds him greatly of a somnambulist. Has she ever
seen a somnambulist? No?

^'Not that funny, glazed, dazed look of the wandering mind —
the body that acts without the soul to guide it? I have often

ANGEL STREET 309

thought you had that look, but it's never been so strong as
toni^t."

"My nund is not wandering!" insists Mrs. Manningham.

In that case Mr. Manningham would like to know how it hap-
pens that, although she had reported that she had gone to bed,
she appears fully dressed? Mrs. Manningham does not know.
That, Mr. Manningham insists, is a curious oversight.

"You know, you give me the appearance of having had a
rather exciting time since I last saw you," Mr. Manningham is
saying, as he leans menacingly over her. "Almost as though you
have been up to something. Have you been up to anything?"

"No. I don't know what you mean."

"Did you find that bill I told you to find?"

"No."

"Do you remember what I said would happen to you if you
did not find that bill when I returned tonight?"

"No."

"No?" Mr. Manningham has gone to the table and poured
himself a glass of milk. "Am I married to a dumb woman, Bella,
in addition to all else? The array of your physical and mental
deficiencies is growing almost overwhelming. I advise you to
answer me."

Mrs. Manningham — ^What do you want me to say?

Mr. Manningham — I asked you if you remembered some-
thing. (Going back to fireplace with glass of milk,) Go on,
Bella — ^what was it I asked you if you remembered?

Mrs. Manningham — I don't understand your words. You
talk round and round. My head is going round and round.

Mr. Manningham — It is not necessary for you to tell me,
Bella. I am just wondering if it might interrupt its gyratory
motion for a fraction of a second, and concentrate upon the pres-
ent conversation. {Sips milk.) And please, what was it I a
moment ago asked you if you remembered?

Mrs. Manningham (labored) — ^You asked me if I remem-
bered what you said would happen to me if I did not find the
bill.

Mr. Manningham — ^Admirable, my dear Bella! Admirable!
We shall make a great logician of you yet — a Socrates — a John
Stuart Mill! You shall go down in history as the shining mind
of your day. That is, if your present history does not altogether
submerge you — take you away from your fellow creatures. And
there is dainger of that, you know, in more ways than one. (Puts

310 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

milk on mantel.) Wdl — ^what did I say I would do if yoa did
not find that bill?

Mrs. Manningham (chokmg) — ^You said 3rou would lodL me
up.

Mr. Manningham — Yes. And do you bdieve me to be a
man of my word? {Pause m which she does not answer.) You
see, Bella, in a life of considerable and varied experience I have
hammered out a few principles of action. In fact, I actually
fancy I know how to deal with my fellow-men. I learned it
quite early actually — at school in fact There, you know, there
were two ways of getting at what you wanted. One was along
an intellectud' plane, the other along the physicaL If one fafled,
one used the other. I took that lesson into life with me. Hith-
erto, with you, I have worked with what forbearance and pa-
tience I leave you to judge, along the intellectual plane. (Crosses
down and over to her.) The time has come now, I believe, to
work along the other as well — You will understand that I am a
man of some power. . . . (She suddenly looks at him.) Why
do you look at me, Bella? I said I am a man of some power and
determination, and as fully capable in one direction as in the
other. ... I will leave your imagination to work on what I
mean. . . . However, we are really digressing. . . .

Craftily Mr. Manningham returns to the cross-examination.
Where had she looked for the bill? In his desk? No? Why
should she try to lie to him? He knows. He knows that her
poor, dark, confused, rambling mind has led her into playing
some pretty tricks. Her mind is tired? Indeed, it is tired. So
tired that it can no longer work. She dreams. She dreams
"maliciously and incessantly — "

"You sleep-walking imbecile, what have you been dreaming
tonight — where has your mind wandered — ^that you have split
open my desk? What strange diseased dream have you had to-
night—eh?"

Mrs. Manningham — Dream? Are you saying I have
dreamed. . . . Dreamed all that happened? . . .

Mr. Manningham — ^All that happened when, Bella? To-
night? Of course you dreamed all that happened — or rather all
that didn't happen.

Mrs. Manningham — ^Dream. . . . Tonight ... are you say-
ing I have dreamed? . . . Oh, God — ^have I dreamed . . . Have
I dreamed again . . .

ANGEL STREET 311

Mh. Manningham — ^Have I not told you — ?

Mhs. Manningham (storming) — ^I haven't dreamed. I
haven't. Don't tell me I have dreamed. In the name of God
don't tell me that!

Ms. Manningham (forcing her down into a small chair) —
Sit down and be quiet. Sit down! (More quietly and curiously.)
What was this dream of yours, Bella? You interest me.

Mrs. Manningham — ^I dreamt of a man — (Hysterical.) — ^I
dreamt of a man —

Mr. Manningham (now very curious) — ^You dreamed of a
man, Bella? What man did you dream of, pray?

Mrs. Manningham — ^A man. A man that came to see me.
Let me rest! Let me rest!

Mr. Manningham — ^Pull yourself together, Bella. What man
are you talking about?

Mrs. Manningham — ^I dreamed a man came in here.

Mr. Manningham (grasping her neck) — I know you dreamed
it, you gibbering wretch! I want to know more about this man
of whom you dreamed. Do you hear! Do you hear me?

Mrs. Manningham — ^I dreamed ... I dreamed . . .

Suddenly her gaze is fixed on the door of the dressing room.
Detective Rough is standing there. He advances toward them as
Manningham releases Bella's throat and she falls back into the
chair.

"Was I any part of this curious dream of yours, Mrs. Man-
ningham?" Rough is asking, quietly. ". . . Perhaps my presence
here will help you to recall it."

"May I ask who the devil you are, and how you got in?" shouts
Manningham.

"Well, who I am seems a little doubtful. Apparently I am a
mere figment of Mrs. Manningham's imagination. As for how
I got in, I came in, or rather I came back— or better still, I
effected an entrance a few minutes before you, and I have been
hidden away ever since."

"And would you be kind enough to tell me what you are doing
here?"

"Waiting for some friends, Mr. Manningham, waiting for some
friends. Don't you think you had better go up to bed, Mrs.
Manningham? You look very tired."

Rough can see no reason for his gomg into a long explanation
as to who he is or what he is there for, seeing he is only a fig-
ment. But he does agree with Mr. Manningham that Mrs. Man-

312 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

fiingham should go to her room. Mrs. Manningham, stiD staring
at both of them wonderingly, goes slowly up the stairs. Again
Manningham would have an explanation from Roiigli, and again
an explanation is denied him. Suddenly Rou^ is imfxiessed with
the idea that the gaslights are being lowered. Can't Manningham
see that the lights are going down? They surdy are —

'^ — ^Eerie, isn't it?" Rough is saying, as the lights become no-
ticeably lower. "Now we are almost in the dark. . . . Why do
you think that has happened? You don't suppose a light has
been put on somewhere else. . . . You don't suppose that stran-
gers have entered the house? You don't suppose there are other
spirits — fellow spirits of mine — spirits surrounding this house now
— spirits of justice, even, which have caught up with you at last,
Mr. Manningham?"

Mr. Manningham — ^Are you off your head. Sir?

Rough — ^No, Sir. Just an old man seeing ghosts. It must be
the atmosphere of this house. {He looks about.) I can see them
everywhere. It's the oddest thing. Do you know one ghost I
can see, Mr. Manningham? You could hardly believe it.

Mr. Manningham — ^What ghost do you see, pray?

Rough — ^Why, it's the ghost of an old woman, Sir ... an old
woman who once lived in this house, who once lived in this very
room. Yes — in this very room. What things I imagine!

Mr. Manningham — ^What are you saying?

Rough — Remarkably clear, Sir, I see it. ... An old woman
getting ready to go to bed — here in this very room — an old
woman getting ready to go to bed at the end of the day. Why!
There she is. She sits just there. {Pointing to chair.) And now
it seems I see another ghost as well. {He is looking at Manning-
ham.) I see the ghost of a young man, Mr. Manningham — a
handsome, tall, well-groomed young man. But this young man
has murder in his eyes. Why, God bless my soul, he might be
you, Mr. Manningham — ^he might be you! {Pause.) The old
woman sees him. Don't you see it at all? She screams — screams
for help — screams before her throat is cut — cut open with a
knife. She lies dead on the floor — the floor of this room ... of
this house. There! {Pointing to floor in front of table.) Now
I don't see that ghost any more.

Mr. Manningham — What's the game, eh? What's your
game?

Rough {confronting Manningham) — But I still see (he g^ost
of the man. I see him, all through the night, as he ransacks the

■■Mi

ANGEL STREET 313

house, hour after hour, room after room, ripping everything up,
turning everything out, madly seeking the thing he cannot find.
Then years pass and where is he? . . . Why, Sir, is he not back
in the same house, the house he ransacked, the house he searched
— and does he not now stand before the ghost of the woman he
killed — in the room in which he killed her? A methodical man,
a patient man, but perhaps he has waited too long. For justice
has waited too, and here she is, in my person, to exact her due.
And justice found, my friend, in one hour what you sought for
fifteen years, and still could not find. See here. Look what she
found. (Going to desk.) A letter which never reached your wife.
Then a brooch which you gave your wife but which she did not
appreciate. How wicked of her! But then she didn't know its
value. How was she to know that it held the Barlow rubies!
{Opening it out,) See. Twelve thousand pounds' worth before
your eyes! There you are, Sir. You killed one woman for those
and tried to drive another out of her mind. And all the time
they lay in your own desk, and all they have brought you is a
rope around your neck, Mr. Sydney Power!

Mr. Manningham — You seem. Sir, to have some very re-
markable information. Do you imagine you are going to leave
this room with such information in your possession? {Going up
to door as though to lock it.)

Rough — Do you imagine. Sir, that you are going to leave this
room without suitable escort?

Mr. Manningham — May I ask what you mean by that?

Rough — Only that I have men in the house already. Didn't
you realize they had signaled their arrival from above, your own
way in, Mr. Manningham, when the lights went down?

A second later Manningham has made a rush for the door. As
he throws it open, he faces two officers. He would tiun and try
another way out, but the men have grabbed him. It is a lively
struggle during which Rough feels impelled to take some part.
He delivers a kick in Manningham's shins, another in his groin,
that are quite discouraging to the prisoner, and he pulls down
the bell cord for the men to tie Manningham with. Then he
takes a paper from his pocket and begins to read —

"Sydney Charles Power, I have a warrant for your arrest for
the murder of Alice Barlow. I should warn you that anything
you may say now may be taken down in writing and used as
evidence at a later date. Will you accompany us to the station
in a peaceful manner? You will oblige us all, and serve your

314 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

own interests best, Power, by coming with us qnietly. (Man-
MiNGHAM renews struggle.) Very well — ^take bim away. . . ."

As the men are about to follow instructions Mrs. Mamiingham
appears on the stairs. She would, if the Inspector will permit it,
like to speak to her husband — ^alone. Rough, at first inclined to
refuse the request, decides to grant it. Manningham is tied
securely to the chair. The detective and his men withdraw,
Roug^ promising not to listen.

Wlien they are alone, Mrs. Manningham goes slowly to the
door and locks it. Now she is back, looking at her husband
fixedly, and listening as he begs her to he^ him. In his room
she will find a razor. Let her cut his bonds. Then he can make
a jump for it from his dressing room window.

Dutifully, still mumbling to herself, Mrs. Manningham goes
for the razor and returns with it. As she takes it from its case,
a scrap of paper falls out. It is the missing grocery biU! Found
at last! And she didn't lose it I Bella is hysterically happy at
the discovery. It takes her min^ so completely off the razor she
can remember nothing of it. His pleading that she cut the cords
comes vaguely to her. Now she is moving toward him looking
wonderin^y at the razor and he cringes before her —

'^You are not suggesting that this is a razor I hold in my
hand?" she intones. ''Have you gone mad, my husband?"

Mr. Manningham — Bella, what are you up to?

Mrs. Manningham (with deadly rage that is close to insan-
ity)— Or is it I who am mad? {She throws the razor from her.)
Yes. That's it. It's I. Of course it was a razor. Dear God —
I have lost it, haven't I? I am always losing things. And I can
never find them. I don't know where I put them.

Mr. Manningham (desperately) — Bella!

Mrs. Manningham — I must look for it, mustn't I? Yes — if
I don't find it you will lock me in my room — ^you will lock me
in the madhouse for my mischief. (Her voice is compressed with
bitterness and hatred.) Where could it be now? (Turns and
looks around.) Could it be behind the picture? Yes, it must be
there! {She goes to the picture swiftly and takes it down.) No,
it's not there — ^how strange! I must put the picture back. I
have taken it down, and I must put it back, lliere. (She puts
it back askew.) There! (She is raging like a hunted animal.)
Where shall I look? The desk. Perhaps I put it in the desk.
(Goes to the desk.) No — it is not there — ^how strange! But
here is a letter. Here is a watch. And a bill — See, I've found

«■

ANGEL STREET

315

them at last. (Going to kirn.) You seel But they don't help
you, do they? And I am trying to hdp you, aren't I? — ^to help
you to escape. . . . But how can a mad woman help her hus-
band to escape? What a pity. . . . (Getting louder and louder.)
If I were not mad I could have helped you — ^if I were not mad,
whatever you had done, I could have pitied and protected you I
But because I am mad I have hated you, and because I am mad
I am rejoicing in my heart — ^without a shred of pity — ^without a
shred of regret — ^watching you go with glory in my heart!

Ms. Manningham (desperately) — Belial

Mrs. Manningham — ^Inspector! Inspector! (Up to door,
pounds on door, then fUngs it open.) Come and take this man
away! Come and take this man away! (Rough and the others
come in swiftly. Mrs. Manningham is completely hysterical
and goes down to lower end of desk.) Come and take tiiis man
away! (Rough gestures to the men. They remove Manning-
ham. Mrs. Manningham stands apart, trembling with homi-
cidal rage. She is making tiny animal sounds. Rough takes her
by the shoulders sternly. She struggles to get away. He slaps
her across the face. She is momentarily stunned. He puts her
down into a chair. Elizabeth enters, quickly takes in the situa-
tion. Gets a glass of water from table and standing back of Mrs.
Manningham, holds her head and gives her a drink,)

Rough (watching them for a second and . . . his eyes on
Mrs. Manningham whose wild fury has dissolved into weeping)
— I came from nowhere and gave you the most horrible evening
of your life. Didn't I?

Mrs. Manningham — The most horrible? Oh, no — the most
wonderful!

THE CURTAIN FALLS

UNCLE HARRY
A Drama in Three Acts

By Thomas Job

THERE were several satisfying factors developed in the pro-
duction of "Uncle Harry" late in the season. It had been a par-
ticularly disappointing season, for one thing, as report has fre-
quently been made, and there was practically no hope at all of
seeing even a halfway worthy drama uncovered late in May.
Also the venture presented Eva Le Gallienne and Joseph Schild-
kraut in acting partnership again. That fact was hailed with
satisfaction by both their individual followings, which are of
healthy proportions, and the joint public that came to admire
them when they first played "Liliom" for the Theatre Guild the
season of 1920-21.

As a third satisfying factor, Thomas Job, the author, had been
accepted as a native dramatist of more than average promise with
his first play, a dramatization of Anthony TroUope's "Barchester
Towers,", in which Ina Claire was starred by the Theatre Guild
the season of 1937-38. It was therefore a rewarding experience
to have him prove that such promise had not been misplaced.

"Uncle Harry" is, as the saying goes, "pure theatre." Mean-
ing that it is an artificially contrived drama depending on nothing
as serious as a theme, social or political, and with no more than
a single hope that it would furnish an evening's intelligent enter-
tainment offered as an excuse for its production.

Mr. Job boldly reveals his murderer's identity in the first scene
of the play. Thereafter he proceeds, with definite skill, both to
guide and follow that murderer through the commission of a per-
fect crime. The attention of the audience is held taut, not with
the suspense that is the major sustaining force of nine out of ten
mystery murder plays, but by building the evidence by which the
wrong person is convicted of the crime with such circumstantial
perfection that the story interest is never dulled.

In the parlor of the Blue Bell Tavern, in a small town in
Canada, a matter of thirty years ago. Miss Phipps, "a very much
the barmaid" type, shows Mr. Jenkins, "a small commercial trav-
eler," into the back room where she thinks he will be more com-
fortable. The back room is just ofif the end of the bar, being set

316

•. ■ ^-i^^M

UNCLE HARRY 317

in a sort of inglenook, with a small table surrounded by benches
on three sides.

Mr. Jenkins is properly appreciative of Miss Phipps' consider-
ation. He sips his tankard of ale, allows that a man has to be up
and coming to get anywhere in these hard times and prepares to
make out his report to the manufacturers of Pelham's Perfection
Soap. He barely has spread out his papers and begun to write
when he is joined by a man who has been sitting at the bar,
apparently absorbed in his newspaper.

In his casual give and take with Miss Phipps, Mr. Jenkins had
referred to the hanging that day of a murderer named Tomkins.
It was the murderer's faulty reasoning that had tricked him, de-
clared Mr. Jenkins. He had buried his poor wife's legs in the
chicken yard, but had tried to bum her head in the fireplace, and
that is why he was eventually hanged.

It was about this hanging that the man who has come from
the bar would like to talk to Mr. Jenkins. It is the man's opinion
that Tomkins, the murderer, was well pleased at the way things
turned out. "The end crowns the work, Mr. Jenkins," ventures
the newcomer. "Murderers, like artists, must be hung to be
appreciated."

"I don't agree with you there," protests Jenkins. "Murderers
have to lie low. They owe it to themselves."

"Yes, that's the paradox of murder. It's very sad. Because
murder is a beautiful art if you look at it properly. Yes, that's
the pathetic part of it."

Take, as the man insists on doing, the Quincey case. Does
Jenkins remember? That was one of the few perfect murders.
True, it was settled "just like that," as Mr. Jenkins illustrates
with a snap of his fingers, but the authorities were wrong. Quite
wrong.

"I'll have to convince you, I see," the stranger continues, with
practically no encouragement from Mr. Jenkins. It'll be a pleas-
ure, since your analysis of the Tomkins' case struck me as
shrewd. But Tomkins was too ingenious, and ingenuity always
betrays itself. Tomkins tried to create circumstances, not take
advantage of them. An artist, Mr. Jenkins, must create from
what he knows. He invents nothing, he arranges."

"Does he?"

"Have you ever read 'Murder as One of the Fine Arts' by
Thomas de Quincey? Ah, you should — ^you'd find it instructive.
De Quincey emphasizes the fact that your true murderer works
with a few bold decisive strokes. Some say that the Quincey

318 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

family here was descended from him, but the refaiticmship was
never estabh'shed."

Mr. Jenkins, having his way, would concentrate on his home
work, but the man must tell his story. He calls for Miss Fbipps
and proceeds —

Man — The Quinceys lived in a pleasant little house on Union
Street, here in town. You know, respectable —

Jenkins — Stuffy, like?

Man — Precisely, precisely, Mr. Jenkins. You'll find its parallel
all over — ^Europe, die States . . .

Jenkins — ^My wife's cousin lives in Boston, and we go
there . . .

Man — ^Exactly. Exactly. Well, Harry Quincey lived here
with his two unmarried sisters, Hester and Lettie. The family
was not important, but quite beyond reproach. One of these
mixed marriages, father English, mother French.

Jenkins — Me, I'm pure English.

Man — ^Extraordinary. The parents died, and these three
were left a legacy. Not much, but enough to keep them in com-
fort if they lived together. Note that, Mr. Jenkins, if they lived
together. You can see at once the situation that a clause like
that would create.

Jenkins — ^Private incomes, huh? I'm against private incomes.
I'm a salaried man m3rself.

Man — So I should judge from your air of skeptical self-im-
portance.

Miss Phipps (coming from bar) — ^What do you want? —

Man — This gentleman could do with another beer. (She
stares at him but does not move,) What's the matter, Miss
Phipps? Don't you want to fill the order? (She goes.) Every-
one called Quincey Uncle Harry —

Jenkins — Uncle Harry?

Man — A term of affection and contempt which the boys of
the local grammar school fastened on him. He used to teach
drawing there gratuitously since he wasn't a qualified teacher.
The name Uncle Harry dung, but he never reaOy liked it.

Jenkins — ^Why not?

Man — We all like to be considered sharp fellows, sir, and the
term "Uncle" somehow irritates by its suggestion of ineffectuality.

Mr. Jenkins again grows restless. If this is to be a long tale —
It is, admits the man, and calls Miss Phipps to change the gen-
tleman's order to brandy. When the drink is brought the bar-

UNCLE HARRY 319

maid is caught obviously staring at the man —

'^A bit afraid of you, isn't she?" ventures Mr. Jenkins.

"Naturally," quietly answers the man. "You see, I'm the
murderer. I'm Uncle Harry."

With a start Mr. Jenkins jumps to his feet. "What?" he cries.

"Now take it easy, Mr. Jenkins. I just want you to listen."

"Why are you running around loose?"

"Because of the cunning ways of God. I'm trying to cir-
cumvent them. Through you and through thoughtful men like
you. I tell lots of people."

"What are you trying to get out of it?"

"I want the world to know me for what I am. Then I won't
be Uncle Harry any more. Then perhaps Lettie will let me be."

"Don't be impatient. Ill explain it all. Ironic, isn't it?
Tomkins hangs on the gallows and Uncle Harry walks the streets
as free as air — ^yet he's far from satisfied. Now follow me closely,
Mr. Jenkins, and youll see how success, like a curse, has a curious
way of coming home to roost."

The curtain falls.

Briefly the lights are dimmed. When they are raised we are in
the living room of the Quinceys, "very neat and comfortable
and indicating a conservative though not particularly old-
fashioned taste." A stairway to the upstairs room rises from
the back. It is a wet afternoon in October and a fire is burning
in the fireplace. Hester and Lettie Quincey are sitting facing
each other, talking to a visitor, Lucy.

"Hester is 48, a large, domineering woman. Lettie is 44,
smaller and less obviously aggressive, though she has a touch
of waspishness that can be effective enough when she chooses
to use it. Both women share an indefinable air of self-righteous-
ness. Lucy is obviously a visitor, a perfectly nice, healthy young
woman of about thirty. Her outstanding characteristic is her
extreme normality. She has obviously dressed up for the occa-
sion and is determined not to show how triumphant she feels."

Lucy is proudly showing Hester and Lettie her engagement
ring. It has three rubies — small, but still three — and the setting
makes them look larger. Lucy is, she admits, a lucky girl. She's
only 30. Her fianc^, Lucy admits, is 38.

"Any children?" Lettie would know.

"Not yet," laughs Lucy.

Hester — ^Lucy, you're a caution.

320 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Lettie — ^Imagine what a surprise this will be to Harry.

Lucy — ^A nice one, I hope.

Hester — Bound to be.

Lettie — ^Thinking he left you high and dry has both^ied him
no end.

Hester — ^Harry's so sensitive.

Lucy — Glad to take a load off his conscience.

Lettie — I said to Harry at the time, "If that girl doesn't sue
you for breach of promise, Harry, well, she's a saint, that's all."

Lucy {looking at her pointedly) — If I'd sued anyone, it
wouldn't have been Harry.

Hester (covering up) — ^And I can't tell you how sweet I think
you were to call and tell us about Mr. — or Mr. —

Lucy — ^Waddy. George Waddy.

Hester — Oh, yes . . . Waddy.

Lettie — ^Aren't you glad now, Lucy, that you decided to wait?

Lucy — Did I decide? I don't remember?

Hester — ^Home's the best place for Harry.

Lucy — That's what you said at the time, Hester.

Hester — Did I? Doesn't that show you now?

Lucy — It does, Hester dear, it shows me.

Lettie (after a brief, uncomfortable pause) — Oughtn't we
start tea?

Hester — ^Without Harry?

Lucy — I don't think you ought to go to the trouble. Besides
I've about a million things to do and —

Lettie — I bet you're buying the trousseau.

Lucy — Oh — a little here and there. It's all going to be quite
simple.

There is a knock at the door. That would be Harry. Lettie
would let him in, but it is Hester's turn. Lucy is quite fussed
wondering what Harry will say. They have, Lettie calls, a great
surprise for him.

Harry "is a quiet, unobtrusive man who gives the impression
of being little. His features are delicate and fine but marred by
a pudginess, the result of being spoiled for about forty years.
His hands are small and beautiful, and he has a warm, hesitant
way of talking."

For a second Harry and Lucy stare at each other, then their
greetings are casual. It will be four years in March since they
have seen each other. Harry has missed Lucy, he says, but
Lucy refuses to believe that. And now for the surprise. The

UNCLE HARRY 321

girls insist Lucy should tell it —

Lucy — ^Well — ^I hardly know how to start. It — ^it's like this.

Uncle Harry — ^Yes?

Lettie — She's engaged. That's the long and short of it.

Hester — To Mr. George Waddy, engineer.

Lucy — ^And doing nicely, too.

Lettie — Show Harry your ring, dear.

Lucy (showing) — It isn't much.

Uncle Harry — Very lovely.

Hester — Three rubies, did you notice?

Uncle Harry — I noticed, all right. Did you come to tell me
this, Lucy?

Lucy — I just wanted you to know.

Lettie — She knew how interested we'd be.

Uncle Harry — Is tea ready?

Hester — In two shakes of a lamb's tail. I was baking a cake
— so we'll celebrate.

Lettie — ^And I'm making a pie. This is going to be high tea.

Uncle Harry — It's the least we can do for the lady . . .
Excuse me. (He goes upstairs,)

Hester — He turned pale. Did you see, Lettie?

Lettie — ^I'm sure I didn't. And besides why should he?

Hester — White as a sheet. You never keep your eyes open
for these little —

Lucy (uneasily) — Really, Hester, I don't fed I should stay to
tea. The trdin leaves at 5:30 and I've got such a lot —

Hester — ^Nonsense, Lucy. This is a celebration. You
wouldn't let us down.

Lettie — Harry'd be heartbroken, too.

Lucy — Heaven forbid.

Nona, a healthy retainer and chatty, does not help matters by
greeting Lucy wiUi a welcome based on the assumption that she
has come to ''kiss and be friends" with Harry. Lucy only hopes
to be friends, she admits, embarrassedly. Lettie also would ex-
plain her feeling. She has never disliked Lucy; she just thought
Lucy wasn't the right girl for Harry.

''Is there a right girl for him?" Lucy asks, with a trace of hurt.

"Probably. She'll show up sometime. And if she doesn't,
Where's the tragedy?"

"Harry will never get married. But you might have given
him a chance."

322 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

''Who's stopping him? . . . Lucy, you didn't come here to
compare the two, did you?'*

Before Lucy can answer there is an interruption from Hester.
She would have Lettie come to the kitchen to watch her cake.
Then Harry appears. He has changed into a youngish tweed
suit a bit too tight for him, and is wearing a tie that is quite
lively.

One after the other they each have something to say about
Harry's resurrection of the old suit. "Men either shrink or
spread after forty," Lucy suggests, rather enjoying the situa-
tion. . . .

As soon as they are alone Lucy extends the hand of friendship
to Harry. So far as she is concerned all is forgiven. As for
that, there is nothing for which she has to forgive him, insists
Harry. She knows he had wanted to marry her —

''Not enough to give up Hester and Lettie, though," Lucy
reminds him.

"And all these years I've thought — "

"So have I — And thank God that's over."

"Time's a great healer, eh?"

"So is another man."

"So you did come to gloat after all."

Lettie, coming in to set the table, must take another fling at
Harry's tight suit. She was just about to give it to the Salvation
Army. But perhaps, now diat he is taking an interest in his
clothes, he will get him a new suit. She had seen one in the
tailor's window that she decided was just the thing for him. But
Harry is content with the old one.

Lettie — ^That's Harry for you. He collects old things like a
magpie. You should see your letters, Lucy.

Uncle Harry — ^Lettie —

Lettie — Just my fun. He keeps them all tied up, Lucy.

Lucy — ^In a pink ribbon?

Lettie — In a shoelace.

Uncle Harry — Easier to untie.

Lettie — Remind me to dust them, Harry, when I clean your
top right-hand drawer on Saturday. Shan't be long now. (Exits
to kitchen,)

Uncle Harry — Some day 111 throw something at her. Some-
thing hard.

Lucy — She wouldn't notice it. (A pause.)

Uncle Harry (fingering his lapel) — Remember?

UNCLE HARRY 323

Lucy — Unhuh.

Harry — Beacon Hill.

Lucy — I know.

Harry — The evening we climbed up there. (Lucy turns
away,) Did you ever tell George Waddy about that evening?

Lucy (defiantly) — ^Yes, I did.

Harry — You do believe in cards on the table, don't you?
What did he say?

Lucy — ^Hc said forget it.

Uncle Harry — Modem sort of man, isn't he?

Lucy — Yes.

Uncle Harry (fingers her ring) — It's not as easy to forget
as George seems to think. At least it isn't to me. Look. (Paints
to a canvas.) Like it?

Lucy — Harry . . . Harry, that's lovely.

Harry — I did it from memory. I didn't dare go back.

Lucy — ^Why didn't you?

Uncle Harry — It wouldn't have looked the same.

Lucy — ^No— no, it wouldn't. Not any more.

Uncle Harry — There's the tree, our tree, you notice.

Lucy — ^Where you cut our names.

Uncle Harry — I've put them in. Hearts and all.

Lucy — Like a couple of kids.

Uncle Harry — Grand, wasn't it?

Lucy — It was ... I like the view of the town in the sunset
light. Remember how we picked out your house and I said it
was following us around?

Uncle Harry — It was following us around. You had flowers
in your hair.

Lucy — ^And we talked of the life we were going to have and
it was all so perfect — and so easy.

Uncle Harry — ^Well — ^well — ^you're not crying, Lucy?

Lucy (a bit shaky) — ^Yes. It was so long ago.

Hester has brought a steaming cake from the kitchen and gone
back to help Lettie with her pie. Hester, Lucy remembers, al-
ways was jealous of Lettie's cooking, '^^ousl Of her?
Rubbish!" There is scorn in Hester's voice.

Now Lucy and Harry have returned again to their own ad-
justments. Harry is hoping Lucy will be hapi>y with this George.
Lucy is thinking of George, not as she thought of Harry, but as
giving her a home and family. "No lady's complete without
babies, you know," laughs Lucy.

324

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

**Is George also eager for babies?"

''He says he can hardly wait to start. The devQ."

"Hot-blooded."

''Why shouldn't he be? What's wrong, Harry? Jetloos?"

"Wliat do you think?"

"You mustn't be a dog in the manger."

"Having a hell of a good time, aren't you?"

"Do you blame me? Harry, what are you trying to do?**

Harry has grabbed Lucy and is kissing her with fervor. 'Vet
so easy to forget, is it, Lucy?" he says.

"Not so easy," Lucy admits.

From the kitchen comes the sound of Hester's and Lettie^
voices. They are still jabbing at each other about their respec-
tive housewifely virtues.

"Lucy — Lucy, if it weren't for those two, would you — would
you come back to me?"

"Would there be any 'you' to come back to? It would be the
same all over again."

"Not this time."

"No? You've been spoiled so much, that I don't believe yoa
could live as a man ought to. — You're too used to being smothr
ered."

''Lucy—"

"Don't torture yourself, Harry. Hester and Lettie are etenuL''

"Would you marry me? George or no George?"

"That, Uncle Harry, is a leading question."

"That's all I wanted to know."

Hester and Lettie have brought the tea. At table the talk
turns again to Lucy's engagement and how it came about. That
was simple enough, Lucy relates. George, being an engineer^
was there building a bridge. He had taken Lucy home a few
times in his automobile and one night she had fruikly told him
that if that was the way he felt about it he had better ask
father — and that was all there was to it.

Nona has come in with a dog in a basket. It is the
Weary Willie that Lucy remembers. Very old now and with im-
paired hearing. Lettie can't understand why Nona should bring
the animal in — spoiling their tea that way.

"It isn't her fault you're not dead already," Nona whispers in
Weary Willie's ear. "But Mr. Harry stuck up for you."

The tea proceeds with another quarrel about the food. Lettie's
"pi^e de resistance" a canned gooseberry pie, is much too acid
for Harry, insists Hester, who promptly takes his piece away from

UNCXE HARRY 32S

him. Gooseberry pie is much better for him than Hester's hot
cake, insists Lettie. It is a wonder Harry doesn't go mad with
Hester constantly bothering him —

'^Bothering — ^you call it bothering and me devoting my whole
life to him?"

"It would be better for everyone if you didn't. ... I some-
times think one of us would be all that Harry needs to look after
him."

"You, I suppose."

Now Harry has interfered. After all he is able to decide for
himself what is best for him. He will eat a half piece of Lettie's
pie, and give the other half to Hester.

"Tifece de resistance!'" sneers Hester, glancing contemptu-
ously at her plate. . . .

George Waddy has called. Everybody is surprised, especially
Lucy. What can George be up to now? she wonders.

George is revealed as "a good-looking practical man of about
forty, dressed in tweeds, a bit self-conscious and very much the
fianc^." He is very happy at finding his darling. Just hap-
pened to be in the neighborhood on business, and, having the
automobile, he thought —

Of course, he did. Lucy is very proud of George. She intro-
duces him to the nice Quincey family, about which he has al-
ready heard so much he feels quite well acquainted. Especially
Harry. George feels greatly indebted to Harry —

"I — I'm glad to meet the better man," says Harry, as they
shake hands.

"Not the better — ^just the luckier," answers George. "If I'm
half as good as she deserves I'd be an angel."

The sisters invite George to tea, but he has just had lunch
and can only take a cup — ^and a piece of cake. Then he would
like to see Mr. Quincey's paintings —

"You must call him Uncle Harry — everybody does," corrects
Lucy, and George willingly complies. Harry hasn't been paint-
ing much the last three years, according to Harry, but Hester
insists he is at it all the time. Both sisters have their favorite
studies. Hester's is that tiger behind bars. Lettie likes the
"Beacon Hill" number, whi(£ is also Lucy's favorite. Perhaps
Uncle Harry will do them a picture for a wedding present, Lucy
suggests. They would be proud to hang it over the mantel and
boast of knowing the artist personally. . . .

Lucy and George have to hurry on. And when will Uncle
Harry be seeing Lucy again? At the wedding, Lucy thinks.

326 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

''Good-by, Uncle Harry/' George is saying. '^It's been a treat
to have met you. I used to be mighty jealous of you, I don't
mind saying."

''And you're not jealous any more?"

"Not a scrap. Not any more."

"That's good."

Now Lettie has come running downstairs with a surprise pack-
age for Lucy. It is something that might make George furious —
in a nice way — so Lucy better not open it until she gets home.

Lucy and George have gone. Harry is inclined to ^ow a bit
of temper when be thinks of George, but Lettie is quite pleased
with everything.

"Lucy's idea of a husband/' she says, "is a man who spends
half his time getting increases in salary and the other half in
kissing her and so forth."

Not a bad program, Harry agrees. He realizes, however, as
Lettie says, that Lucy would never have spoQed him as his sisters
do. And Harry is one, as his mother had said, ¥4io has to be
spoiled.

There is a call from Hester in the kitchen. She wants Lettie
to come and help her. Lettie prefers to sit and talk with Harry.
She sometimes thinks Hester doesn't realize what a sympathetic
understanding she and Harry really enjoy. Hest^ doesn't know
what it means to be together, as they are now.

"We're pretty well ofif, r^ly," Lettie is saying. "Hester or
no Hester. Sort of settled. Father knew a thing or two when
he left us just enough to stick together. He was a great one for
famUy."

"Yes. His family." There is a pause. "Hadn't you better
go and give Hester a hand before she blows the kitchen roof
off?" Harry suggests.

Lettie — I must, I suppose. Yes, it's all very comfortable, and
to think that that Lucy — ^well, she's got a nice little surprise
waiting for her when she gets home.

Uncle Harry — Surprise!

Lettie — ^I gave h^ back her old letters.

Uncle Harry — My letters!

Lettie — Bootlace and all. You won't want them any more.
Will you? (Waits for an answer.) Will you, Harry?

Uncle Harry (very quiet) — ^No, no. Why should I?

Lettie — It will show her we're done with her. For good.
(Pause again. She becomes anxious.) Won't it?

UNCLE HARRY 327

Uncle Harry — ^Unquestionably.

Lettie {very hurt) — You're cross with me.

Uncle Harry (violently)— Cross with youl (Quiet again.)
All you do is make me look like a fool.

Lettie — Ohy don't be cross with me. I couldn't bear it. It
was nasty of me, I know, now I look back on it. Horrid. But
I knew you'd understand. I just had to. It's all right, Harry,
isn't it?

Uncle Harry — ^Yes, it's all right.

Lettie — Kiss and be friends then. (Kisses him an cheek,)
We've got to put up with each other's little ways, haven't we?
It's the only way to get along. Smile at me, sir, or I'll go and
drown myself in the teapot. There.

Uncle Harry — Go and help Hester.

Lettie (going to fireplace) — Besides I always hated them.

Uncle ILuiry — ^What?

Lettie — ^Those damn letters.

Lettie has no sooner disappeared through the kitchen door
than Harry has begun pacing the room angrily. Stopping at the
mantel he picks up a cup and deliberately breaks it.

Hester, Lettie and Nona, coming from the kitchen, are still
discussing their triumph over Lucy. Much good it has done
her to come there to crow over Harry. Still, Letty thinks, Hester
should not have acted as she had at the table. And Hester is
convinced that Lettie had asked for all she got. Again Harry
must step in to halt the battle and Hester flounces back to the
kitchen.

Now Lettie has found the broken cup. Who did that? Harry
thinks perhaps George Waddy had left it too near the edge of the
mantelpiece, and — "Thank heaven it's only the second best set,"
interrupts Lettie.

There are bits of cake left from the tea. Harry takes them
into the kitchen for Weary Willie. Weary is a sick dog — too
sick ever to get well again, probably.

"He'd be better off out of his misery," suggests Lettie.

"Nonsense, Lettie, he — " And then Harry has a better idea.
"Perhaps you're right, Lettie. Perhaps you're right at that."

Lettie — ^Harry, you really agree with me?

Uncle Harry — He knows he isn't necessary any more.

Lettie — It would be for the best all 'round.

Uncle Harry — But Hester —

328 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Lettib — She'd boil, that's all. Simply boU.

Uncle Hasry — Yes, indeed. We'll have to keep it dark from
Hester.

Lettie — ^That'll be fun.

Uncle Harby — ^Hardly fun, Lettie. It's an mipleasant busi-
ness. I hate to do it.

Lettie — It's better than letting him suffer. When will we do
it?

Uncle Harry — The sooner the better . . . Tonight, perhaps.

Lettie {leans over the back of the sofa) — How does one go
about it?

Uncle Harry — Poison, Lettie. Poison will be quickest and
Hester will never know.

Lettie (pause) — Chloroform?

Uncle Harry — ^No — She'll struggle too much. Hydrocyanic
acid will do the trick.

Lettie — ^What's that?

Uncle Harry — Something very quick — ^same as Prussic acid.

Lettie — ^Will it hurt?

Uncle Harry — It'll be over too soon.

Lettie — ^Ughl (Silence.)

Uncle Harry (^after pause) — ^Lettie I You might get some
if you're down town tonight.

Lettie — I was going to the Post Office.

Uncle Harry — ^Drop in at the druggust's and get some.

Lettie — Can you buy it just like that?

Uncle Harry — ^You have to sign for it. You sign your
name. . . . Ben's will be the best place. Ben won't niake any
difficulty.

Lettie — 111 go right away — then I won't have to help wash
up.

Uncle Harry — Sneak out, eh?

Lettie — It'll serve her right for the way she behaved at tea.
(Goes to the hall tree.) How much of this stuff shall I get?
(At door.)

Uncle Harry — ^Tell Ben what you want it for. Say you want
a good dose.

Lettie — Oh, I hate to, somehow. (Appears with mackintosh
and umbrella.)

Harry — ^The poor devil.

Hester (from kitchen) — ^Lettie!

Uncle Harry (after pause)— She^s calling you. Think how
she'll feel when she finds you gone I

UNCLE HARRY 329

Lettie — ^That's just what she needs.
Uncle Harry — Don't forget — Ben's.
Lettie — I'll remember.

Again Hester has burst in from the kitchen determined that
Lettie shall come and do her share of work. She is pretty mad
when she finds Lettie gone. And who broke the cup? Harry!
Nonsense I Harry never broke anything in his life. It probably
was Lettie — that's why she ran away.

"She's going to say. that George broke it," murmurs Harry.

"She is, is die? Oh, won't I give it to her for this?"

Harry would regret that. But if she must, won't she please
wait until he gets back from the Blue Bell? He must go to the
Blue Bell. It is Wednesday and the boys will be expecting him
to play the piano. He couldn't let them down.

"Harry, when are you going to stop being a little martyr?"

"Soon, very soon now."

"No one gives a thank-you for all you do."

"That's right, Hester. You've got to be a devil to make people
really esteem you. Wait till I get back, before hauling poor
Lettie over the coals."

"All right. I want you to be here when I face her with it,
an5rway. And don't you defend her."

"I won't lift a finger to defend her . . . Not a little finger!"

Harry is looking at Hester "speculatively and almost glee-
fully." Then he begins to chuckle.

"What are you looking at me like that for?"

"Just taking a good look at you, Hester. You're such a big
live woman."

"Don't be a fool, Harry. And what in heaven's name is there
to laugh at?"

Uncle Harry is chuckling —
" ^When the rain rains and the goose winks.
Little knows the gosling what the goose thinks.' "

The curtain falls.

The boys in the back room at the Blue Bell are singing ''A
Capital Ship." They are D'Arcy, Blake and Albert with Uncle
Harry at the piano. Their tendency, according to D'Arcy, is to
"Americanize" the harmony, and there should be no '^American-
izing" — ^no harmonizing in correct quartet singing.

They get around to "I Want to See My Sister Flo," and also
to another round of drinks. Uncle Harry has been calling for

330 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

double Scotches, which is going a bit strong for Harry, thinks
D'Arcy. But Harry wants to be happy. ^'Blessed are the meek
for they shall inherit the earth/' quotes D'Arcy, and Harry
smiles a little vacantly. He would like to go on with the dis-
cussion, but already it has led Albert to blurt out —
"If you weren't so meek — ^your sisters — "
'*Yes. What have you to say about my sisters?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing. When did they have their last little
tiff?" The others would stop Albert, but he must finish. Every-
body knows the sisters quarrel — ^"just like cats and dogs."

Uncle Hahky — It is not true I

D'Arcy— Of course it's not true. The thing to do with Albert
is to pay no attention to him. He's a gossip.

Albert — ^Who's a gossip?

D'Arcy — ^Let's face the facts — ^you are.

Albert — It isn't a question of gossip — ^you can see for your-
self, whenever he comes in after they've been fighting you've
only got to look at him. Like someone who's been kicked in the
seat of his trousers and is doing his damnedest to act as if he
hadn't been kicked in the seat of his trousers. Oh, you can't
miss it. I bet there's been more trouble tonight.

Uncle Harry — ^Just a slight argument.

Albert — ^There you are. I know. {Pats Harry on the shoul-
der.) I'm sorry, old man. It's too bad. We're all sorry for
you. Aren't we, gents?

D'Arcy — ^Now you bring the subject up — ^we are. You're a
lesson, Uncle Harry, a great moral lesson. We all ought to be
like you. We aren't and we don't want to be, but we ought to
want to be like you, make no mistake about Uiat.

Blake — ^That's putting the matter in a nutshell.

Uncle Harry — ^This is kind of you, gentlemen. But I assure
you the reports are grossly exaggerated. If there is some slight
bickering, who's to blame for it? I'm to blame.

Albert — You're to blame! He says he's to blame. Anyone
would as soon blame Jesus.

D'Arcy— Albert!

Albert — ^All right. I wasn't being blasphemous, what's more.
He does remind me of Jesus in the small.

Uncle Harry (apparently a little drunk) — Hester and Lettie
are too fond of me.

Blake — It's because they're not married.

Uncle Harry — ^That's right. Lettie wants to do all the work

UNCLE HARRY 331

and Hester says no — and there you are! Still Lettie shouldn't
have said it.

D'Arcy — Said what, Uncle Harry?

Uncle Hakry— Oh, it was just nothing, just nothing.

Albert — But what was it? Harry, we're all friends here.

D'Arcy — Of course we are.

Blake — Sure.

Uncle Harry — ^That's right. Does a man good to get these
things off his chest. Lettie said this afternoon that one of them
was enough to look after me. That hurt Hester.

Blake — ^H-m. Too bad I

Uncle Harry — ^Just in the heat of the moment, of course.
But still—

D'Arcy — ^We should never let our tempers get the best of us.

Uncle Harry — ^That's right.

Albert — ^That's damn ri^t. Shake hands on it. Uncle Harry.

Ben, the druggist, has arrived. ^'Ben is a young, sociable
fellow. Obviously accustomed to being the life and soul of
the party." He would have Miss Phipps hurry his beer. He
wants to catch up with the others. When he gets his drink his
eyes fall on Harry, and a mysterious smile twinkles in his eye.
"Old Caesar Borgia" he calls Harry. Harry's sister, "Lucrezia
Borgia," had just been in Ben's place.

"Sounds like a couple of foreigners to me," ventures Albert.

"So they were, Albert, my boy — ^historical foreigners. They'd
poison you at the drop of a hat."

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, Ben," says Uncle Harry.

Ben — See, he's trying to cover up his tracks. Sending your
sister to get poison.

Uncle Harry (quickly) — ^Was it Lettie?

Ben — Certainly it was and she signed your name.

Uncle Harry — Signed my name for what?

Ben — For the poison. Didn't you know you have to sign
for it?

Uncle Harry — Do you?

Ben — She seemed to know more about this than you do.

Uncle Harry — ^What did she get?

Ben — Hydrocyanic acid.

Uncle Harry — Beg your pardon.

Ben — Prussic acid.

Uncle Harry — I suppose she wanted it to clean clothes.

332 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Ben — ^That's a good one. Clean clothes, eh? One whiff of
that stuff and that's the last clothes you'll ever dean. So you
be careful.

Uncle Harry — Is it as deadly as all that?

Ben — It's quick — that's the best you can say for it. Weary
Willie won't suffer long — but it'll pinch him a bit at first.

Uncle Harry — My dog?

Ben — She said that something ran out of his poor ears all
the time.

Uncle Harry — ^That's all wrong.

Ben— What?

Uncle Harry — Nothing — ^it's all right.

Ben — You're sure, aren't you?

Uncle Harry — It's all right — it's quite all right.

Blake — ^That's the sad part about dogs; they die.

Albert — ^This acid stuff, Ben. What does it do to you?

Ben — Plenty. Hydrocyanic acid if taken internally unites
with the haemogloben in the blood to the exclusion of oxygen.

D'Arcy— That's bad.

Ben — ^And that causes a unique t3q)e of chemical suffocation.

Albert — Is that worse than just plain suffocation?

Ben — ^Anything chemical is worse than anything plain. I
saw a case once of prussic acid poisoning. It wasn't nice.

Blake — ^A human case!

Ben — Human! It had been human.

Albert — Geeze!

Suddenly Harry decides to go home. Let Ben play for them.
What time is it? Only 9. Harry usually stays until 10:15. But
he isn't feeling very well tonight. Might be the whiskey.

Harry's gone. Ben has confirmed Lettie's purchs^ of the
acid. It's just possible, he thinks, that Lettie is planning to kill
the dog behind poor old Harry's back —

"You should have seen Sister Lettie bujring the stuff," says
Ben. "Sly as if she had murder up her sleeve. Wouldn't talk
to my Pop either. Nothing would do for her but she had to see
me."

"Why did Harry leave so early?" Albert wants to know.

"It was the whiskey, he said."

"Whiskey has its faults but it doesn't make a man go home
early," allows Ben, as the curtain falls.

It is 9:30 the same evening. The wind has risen and a rain

UNCLE HARRY 333

is beating against the window in the Quinceys' living room. The
gas has been lit and the fire is burning brightly in the fireplace.
Lettie is sitting reading at one side of the fireplace. At the
other side a man's slippers have been placed in front of a chair
and a smoking jacket is laid over the back of it.

Presently there is a knock at the door. Harry is back from
the Blue Bell. He has been drinking water, he says, with three
friends — Haig and Haig and Johnny Walker — which, he explains,
is supposed to be a joke.

Hester is sitting in her room, in the cold and dark, Lettie re-
ports. If she wants to make a martyr of herself, let her.

Did Lettie get that stuff? She did. And did she have a time
getting it! Ben wouldn't give it to her at first, not until she told
him it was for Harry. There was enough of it, Ben had said,
to settle the hash of a whole kennel.

Lettie had better put the stuff out of the way, Harry thinks.
Some place where Hester won't see it. Or Nona. Let her put
it in the jar with the matches. Harry is the only one who uses
the jar. But, first, perhaps she had better write something on
the wrapper. It says "Poison" on the bottle plain enough, but no
one ever notices print. It would be better if Lettie were to write
"Danger!" or "Don't touch!" on it, Harry thinks. Lettie does —
and puts the package in the matches jar.

Now Harry is ready to read to Lettie, but he thinks they should
calm Hester down first. Lettie is for letting Hester stew in her
own juice. "She's really cross because Lucy preferred my pie,"
says Lettie.

"There's the matter of the cup too."

"What cup?"

"The broken one. She thinks you've done it."

"How dare she? Why, I've never in my life — "

"I told her that," says Harry.

Nona is home, after dismissing her depressed fianc^ at the
back door. He wouldn't come into the kitchen. Miss Lettie
kept coming in too often, he said. "Tell him he should be more
charitable," laughs Harry. "Lettie likes a little excitement, too."

"Did you see me break a cup, Nona?" demands the still angry
Lettie.

"What cup?"

"The cup that George Waddy used. Did I break it or didn't
I?"

"Why should you?"

"There!" announces Lettie, and flounces up the stairs.

334 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

There's been another scene. Nona can see that. But Hany
would warn her not to criticize people. Wfll she please reach
him a match from the jar? She does. But Harry 1^ it go out.
She reaches for another, and finds a padmge — a package Miss
Lettie has been writing something on — ^''Dangerl^ ^'Don't
touch!" Should she open it? She should not. Harry will look
after it. Hell ask Miss Lettie what it is.

"And the sooner I know the better 111 feel,'' admits Nona.
"I don't mind 'Danger' — ^it's the 'Don't touch' part that gets
me."

From upstairs comes the sound of angry voices. Lettie and
Hester are evidently having a lively exchange of words. Uncle
Harry decides he had better investigate. He dashes up the
stairs.

'Toor Uncle Harry! You do have a dreadful time!" mutters
Nona. She has unwrapped the package and read the label:
'^Hy-dro-cyanic acid! " Lettie suddenly appears on the stairs and
shouts to her to put that package down. ''Put it down, you
little fool! If you even smdt it you'd be a sick woman."

It isn't plain to Nona what anyone would want prussic add
in a decent house for and Lettie, to satisfy the maid's curiosity,
finally has to tell her that they are planning to put Weary Willie
out of his misery. Mr. Haxry had ordered it. Mr. Harry?
"Yes," Lettie repeats, "Mr. Harry ordered iti" Nona is still
muttering doubtfully as she goes into the kitchen.

Now Harry has brought a very quiet, but evidently still angry
Hester down from upstairs and would start the way to a fanoily
reconciliation. They have both acted as though they w&rt about
five years old —

"We all know you do it out of high spirits, but other people
don't believe that," Harry is saying. "You're a fine, dignified
couple of women but as soon as you start in on each other, bang
goes the dignity and you behave — "

"I won't be talked to that way."

"It's just for your own good. You don't want to be the laugh-
ingstock of the town, do you?"

"Who is?"

"I'm afraid you both are rapidly becoming so. You know
how they talk. That business this afternoon was most unfortu-
nate."

They all know that Lucy has a tongue, Harry points out, which
is all the more reason why they should be careful when she is
around. They are both agreed to that.

UNCLE HARRY 335

"You are, Harry, quite right," Lettie admits. "I sometimes
think though that Hester and I will only be at peace in our
graves."

"Lettie Quincey, what a dreadful thing to say!" Hester is
quite shocked.

"Oh, shut up!" snaps Lettie.

"There — ^nothing like letting the sun go down upon your
wrath. Now we'll have a cup of cocoa to seal the treaty."
Harry is again the successful conciliator and calls to Nona to
make the cocoa. "The trouble is that you need such a little
thing to start you off," Harry goes on. "If it were a really big
cause you'd stick together like glue, but give you a tiny reason
and it's all up."

Nona will have to make the cocoa over the fire in the fire-
place, seebg the kitchen stove is out. During her preparations
Lettie and Hester try for an understanding without success. It
isn't that Hester cares about the broken cup — or wants to keep
the set full — it's the principle of the thing. If Lettie had come
to her and admitted she had broken the cup in place of sneak-
ing out —

Who sneaked out? That was just for fun, Harry tries to ex-
plain. Anyway, why should she consult Hester about everything
she does? Lettie wants to know. "Simply because you bullied
us when we were children you think you can do it now. And
you call it 'showing consideration.' "

"Oh, I understand. You wish I weren't here at all. Then
you'd be free to gallivant as you please and let the house go to
rack and ruin. Don't think I've forgotten what you said this
afternoon."

"The cocoa's ready," announces Nona, going into the kitchen
for the cups.

"What did you say this afternoon, Lettie?" Harry wants to
know.

"You said I wasn't wanted," continues Hester. "You said that
one of us was enough to look after Harry."

"And I meant it too. So the cup was just an excuse for your
bad temper?"

"Excuse I"

"That's true — ^you don't need an excuse. I wish you'd stayed
upstairs. I wish you weren't here. It was so peaceful till you
came down."

"Yes, I'm just a nuisance, I know."

336 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

"Why don't you break that china dog and call it quits?" Harry
suggests.

**Yes, why don't you? Heaven knows it's the only thing I can
call my own."

"I will, too/' shrills Hester. The next moment she has seized
the china dog from the mantelpiece and is threatening to throw
it into the fireplace. Lettie jumps to grab her hand. There is
a struggle ending when Hester slaps Lettie soundly in the face.
With a cry of "You — ^you devil I" Lettie sinks to the sofa, sob-
bing. "You asked for it I" Hester answers defiantly.

Again Harry must step in and stop the fight. He forces Hester
to put the china dog back on the mantel. Then Hester storms
upstairs.

"Well, I will say this: the house doesn't lack for entertain-
ment— of a sort," says Nona as, taking a hint from Harry, she
withdraws to the kitchen.

"I hate her I" mutters Lettie, sobbing afresh.

"She's always been jealous of you," agrees Harry. Even when
they were children, catching tadpoles in a pond in Clark's
meadow, Hester had broken Lettie's jampot when Harry had said
she (Lettie) was the best fisherman in the world. "We're still
children," insists Harry.

"She is. That's evident," agrees Lettie.

"You can't be cross with a child."

"She isn't a child — she's a vicious, bad-tempered old woman — "

It is Harry's idea that Lettie should make the first advances
toward a further reconciliation. Hester has gone to bed, and is
probably crying her eyes out. If Lettie will take Hester's night-
cap of cocoa to her — Lettie positively refuses. Very well, then,
Harry will do it. That, Lettie insists, would be worse. Finally
Lettie agrees. She'll take Hester her cocoa, but she'll not kowtow
to her.

First, however, Hester's cocoa should be sweetened. Hester
likes it sweet. If Lettie will bring the sugar bowl from the
kitchen — ^Harry would like more sugar, too. Lettie has gone for
the sugar. Quickly Harry pours the poison into Hester's cup.
Now he adds the sugar and bids Letty hurry before Hester goes
to sleep.

"You should do this with forgiveness in your heart," Harry
says, sweetly.

"I'm a Christian, I hope, but I'm a Christian within decent
limits," answers Lettie, taking the cocoa upstairs.

Harry goes nervously to the window. "A vicious gust of wind

UNCLE HARRY 337

and rain blows into the room. He closes the window, pulls down
the blind and carefully wipes his face with the handkerchief."
He turns as he hears Lettie's step on the stair. She still has the
cup of cocoa. Hester had refused to take it. ''She says anything
that I gave her would be like poison to her/' reports Lettie, and
Harry doubles up with laughter. Lettie can see nothing funny in
what she has said.

Lettie thinks now they should let Hester enjoy her sulks while
they drink their cocoa. Harry has decided that he doesn't want
any at the moment, though he had ordered it. And he shouts at
Lettie when she is about to drink from Hester's cup —

"Now you're angry, too. And with me," pouts Lettie.

''Sulks are catcMng," admits Harry.

Lettie — Don't you want to read that poetry?

Uncle Harry — ^Not interested.

Lettie — Please, I'd love to hear it. (Pause.) Would you if I
went up and talked to Hester?

Uncle Harry — If you don't go all the squabbling will start
again in the morning. And I'm sick of your squabbles.

Lettie — But you saw her strike me. How can you expect —
Where are you going?

Uncle Harry — ^Up to Hester.

Lettie — I'd rather go myself.

Uncle Harry — ^You'd fail again.

Lettie — I wouldn't. You'll see.

Uncle Harry — And the peace offering will be getting cold.
Well — (Makes for the stairs.)

Lettie — I insist on going. You sit down and pour out for
both of us and I'll be back in a jiffy — and you'll see that every-
thing will be all right.

Uncle Harry — Since you insist.

Lettie — Shell drink it this time if I have to pour it down her
throat.

Uncle Harry — Lettie!

Lettie — ^Yes.

Uncle Harry — ^Lettie — if it was just you and me and there
was no Hester —

Lettie — ^We'd be much happier.

Uncle Harry — ^And I wanted to get married — ^what would
you say?

Lettie — ^What would become of me?

Uncle Harry — Yes, that's what I thought you'd say.

338 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

LETTm— Welly what dse should I say?

Lettie has again disappeared up the stairs. Hany goes to the
kitchen door and calls Nona. He would have her come in and
drink her cocoa with him. Nona is quite pleased. Ddig^ted,
too, to hear of what Lettie has done —

''I wish I could do a thing like that," admits Nona, stirring
her cocoa. ^'That's the kindest thing that I ever heard of."

"It's just what Miss Lettie would do," insists Harry.

"H'm. It's more like what you'd do, Mr. Harry, if I may
say so. Maybe you used your blarney on her."

"No blarney at all. She seemed very anxious to do it. Sim-
ply insisted."

"If things go on like this well have a nice house of it here —
Good night, Mr. Harry."

Nona is starting away when Harry stops her. Does she re-
member where he had hidden the package she had found in the
match jar? He had not hidden it, Nona remembers. He was
going to, but he left it on the table.

"Then where is it?" demands Harry.

"Miss Lettie found me with it and did I get a bawling out.
She—"

Lettie is coming down the stairs. "It's all settled," she calls,
cheerily. "You'd better go to bed, Nona. Ironing tomorrow I"

"I know." Nona has started upstairs. "It's wonderful what
a fuss we can make by just living."

"Did she drink it?" Harry demands of Lettie, as Nona dis-
appears.

"She will as soon as she's finished the serial she's reading in
'Leslie's.' "

"It'U get cold."

"She likes it cold. (Pours cocoa.) Shall we have ours now?"

"You've earned it, Lettie," says Uncle Harry, passing his cup.

It is all cozy and peaceful now, Lettie agrees. ShaU they go
on with their reading? Harry is agreeable. Seeing Hester is
not there, it might be nice to find something appropriate for her.

"She was mighty condescending," Lettie is saying, as she sips
her cocoa. "I'll never give in to her again."

"You won't have to," says Harry.

Lettie — Kindness is just lost on her.

Uncle Harry — This will be a great moment for Hester.
Imagine her reaching out for it victoriously. She's beaten you.

UNCLE HARRY 339

hands down. It's at such a time that a person should be careful.

Lettie — ^What things you say! (Pause.) After all my good
work you should pick a piece to suit me.

Uncle Harry — It will suit you, too. Eventually.

Lettie — I don't see how anything could suit us both.

Uncle Harry — Here we are. The loveliest swan song ever
written. Shakespeare's. Dirge from Cymbeline. (Reads.) :

'Tear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en the wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
Like chimney sweepers, come to dust.

"Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished — " (There is a choked scream
from above.)

Lettie (after a silence) — That's Hester.

Uncle Harry — ^There's no need to hurry.

Lettie — She's ill. She may need — (Sound of Hester's
dropping to the floor.)

Uncle Harry — Hester needs nothing any more.

Lettie — ^What do you mean? (Uncle Harry indicates bot-
tie.) You've used it.

Uncle Harry — The cocoa you gave her.

Lettie — ^You —

Uncle Harry — Murdered her . . . Why should she go on
living?

Lettie — Youll be hanged for this.

Uncle Harry — Somehow I don't believe that I will be hanged.

Lettie — You, Harry, you of all people.

Uncle Harry — Yes. I rather depend upon that attitude.

Lettie — ^Where are you going?

Uncle Harry (at stairs) — Just to see.

Lettie (almost in a collapse) — I can't believe it — I can't be-
lieve it I

Uncle Harry — Better that two of us should die than three
rot together.

Lettie — I can't believe it and go on living.

Uncle Harry — I'm glad you see it that way.

340 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Nona (entering) — I've been in . . . I heard the noise she
made and I ran into her room — ^I saw her.

Lettie — She's dead?

Nona — Yes. I won't ever forget her face. It was no flfaiess
that took her off and you can't tell me that it was. (Ske sees
the bottle in Lettie's hand,) So that's why you got that stuff —
that's why you said that Mr. Harry . . . You tried to put it
of! on him. (Becomes hysterical.) Oh, God! God! I didn't
think you had it in you. No, I didn't think you had it in you.

Uncle Harry (jrom the stairs, quietly) — ^You see, Lettie, the
way it is?

Lettie is looking up at him as the curtain falls.

In the parlor of the Blue Bell Tavern the following December
a couple of Uncle Harry's friends are awaiting the verdict of
the jury that has tried Lettie Quincey for the murder of her
sister, Hester. It is 5:30 in the afternoon and so far nothing has
come from the jury room. But, as Ben remarks to Albert, the
jury has only been out half an hour. And there is no doubt
about the verdict. It's certain to be "Guilty."

"Bad business, hanging a woman," says Albert. "If she hadn't
tried to put the blame on poor Uncle Harry, I'd have been
sorry for her. You certainly helped settle her hash for her
there, Ben. How did it feel to be on the witness stand?"

"How did I do?"

"Fine. You spoke up smart as a whip."

"I wanted to do all I could to help the poor chap."

"Where you were best was the way you laid it on about how
guilty she looked when she came in to buy the stuff."

"I thought I was better where I told how Harry was upset
when he found out she bought the poison."

"You were good there, too."

"But he helped himself more than anybody without knowing
he was helping himself. The prosecution didn't need to treat
him as a hostile witness."

"Every time he tried to help her he put his foot in it worse.
It was a fair treat to see the way the prosecution balled him up."

"We'll have to be very kind to him."

It is Miss Phipps, the barmaid, who sounds the first note of
doubt. Miss Phipps never has believed entirely in Uncle Harry.
"He's too good to be possible," is the way she puts it. Miss
Phipps has seen a lot of men in her time, and she still insists
there is something queer about Harry.

UNCLE HARRY 341

''If you don't believe in him you got to believe in the facts/'
insists Ben, sticking up a handful of fingers to be used as markers.
''Look at them fair and square: First — those two had always
hated each other. Second — as the plain evidence of that girl and
Nona shows, they had a real set-to on the day of the murder with
slapping indud^. Third — ^Lettie said Hester would be better
out of the way. Fourth — she buys the poison. Fifth — she gives
the poison. It's open and shut. The only point in doubt is: Did
she buy the poison to give the dog and change her mind and give
it to her sister, or did she mean to give it to her sister right from
the first? In any case it comes to the same thing."

Now Uncle Harry himself appears, looking very solemn and
a little abused. Awkwardly Ben and Albert try to show their
sympathy for him, and he as awkwardly accepts it. Harry can't
drink with them. He is expecting to meet a lady there, but there
is no reason for them to hurry away. She hasn't come yet. He
thinks perhaps if Ben would play something lively it would help
him get his mind off his trouble.

Ben is at the piano, playing softly, when Blake rushes in with
the news. "She's done for!" he reports from the doorway, with-
out noticing Harry.

"Guilty?" asks Albert.

"Guilty — ^yes, guilty as hell!"

"I — I must go to her," mutters Harry, rising quickly from the
bench. "Excuse me."

There is nothing he can do, the boys convince him. The law
will not let anyone see her before the next morning, after her
jailors have given her something to make her sleep. Harry sinks
back on the bench. He could do with a cup of tea, now.

Soon after his friends have left Harry, Lucy appears. He
greets her with a nervous eagerness he tries to restrain. He had
not wanted to send for her before — ^not until it was settled. But
now it is settled.

It must be dreadful for him, Lucy feds. ''I think you're
splendid," she is saying. "That moment in the witness box
when you said that if there were any justice you should be in
the dock and not Lettie — ^well, it was the most touching thing I've
ever seen."

Miss Phipps has arrived with the tea, taken a good look at
Lucy and departed. Lucy will pour. She is glad that Harry
does not blame her for testifying against Lettie. It was the only
thing she could do. She is glad, too, though it may sound brutal
to say it, that Harry will have his own life to lead now. He is

342 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

free, and st31 young.

''It's queer what a strange business life is," Harry b sajmag,
with increased eagerness. "You go on ior years and nodiing
happens and all of a sudden — bang, your old life's gone and
there's a new one coming up. Nothing's eternal, thank God.
I remember once getting up at dawn and catdiing a train and
before breakfast I was a hundred miles away. I thougjht of my
old self lying in bed doing nothing when I could always be doing
that. It's like that now."

"Is it?" Lucy is a little puzzled. She starts to leave. "That's
all I had to say. — ^Except whatever happens you can depend
on me."

Uncle Hassy (quietly but triumphant) — Before you go, Lucy,
what are we going to do about George?

Lucy (amazed) — George!

Uncle Harry — ^Itll be a blow to George and it's a pity.

Lucy — ^What difference can it possibly make to George?

Uncle Harry — ^He seemed pretty fond of you, that's all.

Lucy — Of course he is fond of me.

Uncle Harry — Then we'll have to make him understand?

Lucy — Understand what?

Uncle Harry — ^That you're mine.

Lucy (muttering) — Good God.

Uncle Harry — ^What's wrong, Lucy?

Lucy (walking away with her back to him) — But —

Uncle Harry — ^I know it's too early to talk about it. But I
couldn't bear the thought of George going around with you any
longer. Kissing you whenever he wanted and —

Lucy — You poor man!

Uncle Harry — I'm not a poor man. Not any more.

Lucy — ^You're not yourself and I'm not surprised. A tragedy
like yours is enough to upset anyone.

Uncle Harry — It isn't a tragedy to me. I'm free, Lucy.
You said so yourself.

Lucy — ^I didn't mean it that way.

Uncle Harry — Sit down. (Lucy sits.) Now. Remember
the afternoon when you came to tea with us — I asked you then
would you marry me if it weren't for Hester and Lettie. Do you
know what you said?

Lucy — Something. I don't know. I've forgotten whatever
it was.

Uncle Harry — ^You said, "That, Uncle Harry, is a leading

UNCLE HARRY 343

question — " Very well. It's time to answer it now. And there's
only one answer to a leading question and that's yes. I depended
on that.

Lucy — You were terribly mistaken, Harry.

Uncle Haiiry — But how could I have been?

Lucy — ^I suppose I might have encouraged you. I was a fool,
but you were so pathetic and then there was some — some nostal-
gia mixed up in it too. Yes, that's what it was but I swear I
never had the slightest intention of —

Uncle Haiiry — But you're not going to marry George as
things are?

Lucy — I certainly am.

Uncle Harry — No.

Lucy — ^It's quite final, Harry.

Uncle Harry (after a pause) — After what I've done for youl

Lucy — ^What have you done?

Uncle Harry — Lucy . . .

Lucy — Please don't make me say nasty things to you. It'll
make me feel worse than I feel already.

No, Lucy insists, it is not that George stands between them.
It would be the same, George or no George. There would still
be the question of the disgrace I "Haven't you heard that it isn't
the person who gets hanged who suffers most? It's his family,"
says Lucy. "They have to live with the murder." And when
Harry would protest she goes on —

"How could I marry you? How could any girl marry you?
How could you have the nerve to ask her? And if a woman was
mad enough to do it and didn't care if she were stared at all
her life, what about the children? It wouldn't be fair to them."

"That's a cruel way to look at it."

"Not cruel — ^just the ordinary way and I'm afraid I'm a very
ordinary person. Good-by, Uncle Harry."

"Can't I see you again?"

"No."

"Lucy, stay with me, Lucy." He has gone to her and taken
her hand. She is staring at him. "Don't look at me like that!"
She steps away from him and quickly leaves the room.

"Lucyl" He calls wildly. She has gone on. For a moment
Harry stares after her. "So, it was all useless I" he mutters,
sinking down on the piano stool.

Harry is picking out the notes of a song as Miss Phipps looks
in at the door and beckons to Blake, Albert and Ben in the bar.

344 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

They are all staring at him silently through the door as the
curtain falls.

Three weeks later, about four in the afternoon, the Govanor
of the Prison is sitting in his room interviewing a man across
the desk from him. It is a large formal room with a large, log-
burning fireplace and an armchair standing in front of it.

The Governor is ''a decent, unimaginative man, obviously of
the military type." The man to whom he is talking is a Mr.
Burton, ''a neat, eager little man, smoking a cigar."

Mr. Burton has come to report that his assistant, Perce Downs-
berry, who is to officiate at the hanging, has fortified himself
with a pint of whiskey. That's against the rules, but Mr. Burton
is of the opinion that an exception will have to be made in this
instance.

"Funny about Perce," Burton reports. "As long as it's a man
no cucumber could be cooler than he. But when it comes to a
woman, well, he gets rattled."

The Governor is inclined to overlook Perce's infraction of the
rules this once, which eases Mr. Burton's conscience and leads
him to predict that ever3rthing will go off with a "minimum of
embarrassment," seeing that the Quincey woman is the quiet
rather than the noisy type.

Suddenly Uncle Harry appears. His appointment was for 7,
but as he wanted to talk with the Governor before he saw his
sister, he has come early. Harry has brought a manuscript he
wants the Governor to read. This, it transpires, is Uncle Harry's
confession. The Governor reads it with a mounting amazement —

"... 'Here I gave her the little bottle. It was my hope that
she would hold it until the servant found her with it. lliis she
did. Thus I entangled my sister in a net of evidence from which
escape was as impossible as for a fly in the web of a spider. No
hand could unspin the painstaking lies I had drawn about her.
Only the reputation of a lifetime . . ."

Uncle Harry — ^You realize, Mr. Governor, the implication in
those last remarks.

Governor — ^Astonishing 1 Why are you confessing all this?
(Stands.)

Uncle Harry — ^There's no longer any reason why I should
live.

Governor — You're not doing this to save your sister?

Uncle Harry — ^There's no point in Lettie dying any more.

UNCLE HARRY 34S

How long will it be before you can release her? I suppose therell
be a few formalities.

Governor — ^This is magnificent of you, Mr. Quincey. {Picks
up confession.)

Uncle Harry — ^Not at all!

Governor — ^And now you'd better be going.

Uncle Harry — ^Why don't you arrest me? I've confessed.

Governor — It doesn't hold water, old man.

Uncle Harry (rising) — ^I killed my sister Hester and in-
volved Lettie. That's dear enough.

Governor — ^Too dear. You can't expect the government to
hang you on your mere assertion, sir. This way, Mr. Quincey.
(Crosses to door.) We respect your attempt, we honestly do.

Uncle Harry — ^I rather expected that this might happen.
Red tape seldom has much vision. Why do you think I wrote all
this out?

Governor — You had your reasons, probably.

Uncle Harry — ^Excdlent ones, I assure you. The proof is
right here. (Taps manuscript.) Now look. You've read all
the conversation Lettie and I had on the night Hester died. It
didn't come out in the trial. But Lettie will remember it. She's
bound to remember it. Suppose her account agrees with what
I've written here?

Governor — I wouldn't care to trouble her now.

Uncle Harry — You must, sir, you must I It's your duty.

Governor — The whole thing is impossible.

Uncle Harry — The world is full of impossibilities.

Governor — ^It's devilish irregular. However . . . (He
crosses to desk, picks up phone.) Bring up the prisoner from
the condemned cell. Yes, bring her here.

The Governor is not sure he is doing the prisoner a kindness
in confronting her with Harry. She has refused to see him the
last three weeks. Harry is not surprised. Lettie never was one
to forgive a wrong.

When Lettie comes, accompanied by a matron, Harry speaks
to her. She ignores him and walks quickly to the armchair in
front of the fire. It will be a novelty to sit in an armchair
again — perhaps she could have one in her — ^her room, this being
her last night —

"TTiere's going to be no last night for you, Lettie," breaks in
Harry.

^'Mr. Governor, you shouldn't have made me look at that

346 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

man/' protests Lettie, quietly. "He has been dreadful to me.
. . . Send him away, please. He's wicked. BeycHid bdief."

She is not to be troubled long, the Governor agrees. First
he would like to ask her a few questions: She had maintained
during the trial that her brother was responsible for the crime.
She had, admits Lettie, but no one would believe her. They
will believe her now, Harry insists, because he has told them
that he did it, and she will be cleared —

''You know what red tape is, Lettie," Harry says, with some
eagerness. ''I was afraid they might not believe me, so I've
written the whole business down. All you've got to do is to
tell the Governor word for word what we said after Hester
screamed. If what you say agrees with this, then you're free."

"At least, it will create a reasonable doubt," admits the Gov-
ernor.

Lettie is puzzled. She would get things straight. Harry has
admitted that he killed Hester. That being so, Lettie would like
to talk with Harry alone, before they go any further. This, the
Governor is agreed, would be quite irregular, and could not be
permitted. In that case Lettie will say nothing more. What
she has to say to her brother must be said to him alone.

The Governor stands firm until the Matron points out that
no harm could come from such an interview and it might prove
important. The Governor weakens —

"Very well, Miss Quincey, we'll give you five minutes. . . .
You will be under surveillance, you understand. You remain
here."

With the Governor and the Matron gone, Lettie would know
coldly what it is that Harry is up to now. He is, he says, trying
to save her life. Yes, he admits, it is a bit dull at home, espe-
cially since Nona had left right after the verdict. Lettie is not
surprised. This sort of thing does drive people away.

"That's what Lucy pointed out," admits Haxry.

"Lucy! Does she come to see you?"

"She married George last week."

"A fair weather friend," chortles Lettie. "I always said so.
... So it was Lucy, was it, who was the cause of all this? So
that's why you're here I Can't live without herl Selfish Harry.
Selfish as ever. ... Do you suppose I don't see through you?
It's just like the little trick you had of giving your toys away
when you'd broken them and you'd act so big and generous about
it too, and everyone was supposed to look, oh, so grateful, and
then they'd all say how fine you were. Now you've broken your

UNCXE HARRY 347

life and you want to give that away. But it won't do, Harry.
Not this time."

The thought of djdng doesn't worry Lettie any more. Nor is
she moved by Harry's argument that it will be great fun to go
on living, now that she can be the Lord of the Manor.

"What would be the good of that?" demands Lettie. "What
would I want to be bossing an empty house for? It would be
silly. I've always been a good woman and now I've finally found
peace. I'm all right. I'm not afraid and that's much better
for me than trying to go back to a life that's over and done with.
But you — No, be quiet a minute because this is my last word.
What are you going to do. Uncle Harry? You've a nasty time
ahead of you. You're a great one for company, and where your
company's coming from now I'm sure I don't know. You'll walk
up and down the streets and people will smile at you and cross
to the other side of the road and then you'll go home and the
memory of Hester and me will be there to meet you at the door.
And everything you do in that house will remind you of some-
thing I did, or Hester said, and youll sit in your chair in an
empty room — alone — and my little china dog will stare down at
you and you'll be alone. And so it will go on and on. I wouldn't
be in your shoes for anything in the world."

"Lettie, you can't do that. You'll tell the truth! You've
spoilt everything for me. Don't spoil this. Please don't spoil
this."

The Governor and the Matron have returned. No, Lettie has
nothing to say. Who did the murder? It has been agreed that
she did. Let the verdict stand.

"He's always been headstrong, sir," Lettie is saying to the
Governor, indicating Harry. "Full of the wildest ideas. First
he wanted to go to Paris to paint pictures as if he couldn't paint
all he wanted to at home. He's done some lovely ones too, I
must say. Then he wanted to marry a perfectly ordinary girl
and it was hard to make him see sense about that. And now he
wants to die. That shows you, doesn't it?"

"That wiU be all, Miss Quincey."

Lettie — I hate to leave this fire. I always was like a cat
about fires. You won't forget about that armchair, will you?

Governor — You shall have it. You are a brave woman to
refuse to take advantage of your brother's sacrifice.

Uncle Harry — You're not going?

348 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Lettte — ^You wouldn't care to say good-by, Uiide Hany?
(Goes to the door.)

Uncle Harry — ^You've got to dday it. Just for a little while,
Mr. Governor. Then shell break down and tdl the truth. She
wouldn't be so cruel as to keep on lying. You see, if she dies
tomorrow 111 be alone with what I've doiie.

Lettte {with a simle) — You see, Harry, the way it is. (She
exits with Matron.)

Uncle Harry (rushing to Governor) — She said it! That's
what I said to her last night. That proves it! Look in this
and youll see. (Shows confession to Governor.) Ill find it
for you. I know precisely where it is. (He looks kurriedly
through the confession.) I'm sure I put it down. Maybe I
didn't think those words important. But I did say them. I
swear I did. (He goes to door.) Come back, Lettie. Can't I
have a say in my own life? Only this once, that's all I ask. (%,
God damn you, Lettie. Don't you see what youVe done to
me! (He breaks down weeping.)

Governor (filling water glass from decanter on desk, gives
it to Uncle Harry) — Drink this.

Uncle Harry — ^Thank you.

Governor — ^Youll be all right.

Uncle Harry — ^Yes, I'll be all right.

Governor (handing him confession) — Take this with you.

Uncle Harry — I don't need to. Ill tell everyone my^f.
Ill make you all see some day. I'll be free of her yet.

Governor — Better be on your way now, Mr. Quincey.

Uncle Harry — On my way — (Takes kat. Laugks iron-
ically,) They say murder will out! Murder will out! But not
my murder! Not Harry Quincey 's murder! My God! That's
a good one. (He starts out the door.)

THE CURTAIN FALLS

HOPE FOR A HARVEST
A Comedy in Three Acts

By Sophie Treadwell

THE second Theatre Guild play of the seascHi was Sophie
Treadweirs "Hope for a Harvest," with Fredric March and
Florence Eldridge pla3ang the leads. This family acting com-
bination, second only to the Lunts in country-wide popularity,
had tried the Treadwell play on the road. Starting in the Spring
they had played it in such centers as Boston, Pittsburgh, Balti-
more and Washington and had been received with a good deal
of enthusiasm.

As so frequently happens, the New York reception of the
play was slightly chilled by the reactions of the professional play
reviewers. These exacting worthies were quidL to admit the
seriousness of Miss TreadwelPs theme, and to credit her com-
plete sincerity in its statement, but they were depressed because
the play was not more exciting dramatically.

Richard Watts, Jr., of the Herald Tribune summed up this
reaction intelligently when he wrote: "Because *Hope for a
Harvest' has something of importance to say, and says it with
unmistakable sincerity, one hias from the start a sympathetic
concern with it and a far deeper respect for its heart and mind
than for far more expert dramas of a lesser integrity. It really
is striving to speak to the soul of America with gravity and
idealistic fervor. The unfortunate thing is that in expressing
the author's heartfelt interest in the future of the nation in a
time of desperate crisis the play goes in for some unpersuasive
and undramatic theatrical matters which destroy the greater
part of its effectiveness."

Individual reactions to the effectiveness of a drama being as
varied in character as the individuals expressing them differ
in mind, temperament and general biological conditioning, the
Marches shook themselves free of the critics' chill and con-
tinued. They had a good deal of audience warmth to sustain
them for five weeks. Then they returned to Hollywood and
their cinema chores.

"Hope for a Harvest," in pattern, belongs to that simple type

of folk drama that flourished twenty or thirty years ago, when

experts were fewer and audiences were larger. It has its scenes

349

3S0 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

of drama, frequently flaring into touches of melodrama^ alternat-
ing with scenes of comedy relief provided by character types com-
mon to the native drama. It even revels in an old-fashioned
happy ending that ties up loose ends, loose characters and loose
emotions.

Standing directly on a country highway in the San Joaquin
Valley, in California, and on land that once was known as the
Thatcher ranch, is the house of Mrs. Matilda Martin — ^**a typical,
ugly, five-room, one-floor house of thirty years ago." We enter
the Martin house by way of the kitchen — "a mixture of shining
new improvements against a background of old-fashioned shab-
biness." An old wood stove is flanked by a new gas stove with
oven and cupboard; there is a bright new radio on a small table
and a shiny new refrigerator in the corner. A tall Hoover
cabinet sits in an alcove, and a large oval table is covered with
a worn oilcloth. Through the window can be seen the top of
a Tydol gas pump and a coca-cola sign.

It is 11 o'clock on a Sunday morning in the early summer.
Matilda Martin is sitting at the table sorting eggs, taking them
from a bucket, weighing them and assigning them to a variety
of bowls in front of her. Mrs. Martin ''is a bright, still vigorous
old lady of over seventy; she has blue eyes, fine, regular fea-
tures, and her white hair is drawn into a small, neat knot at
the top of her head. . . . There is an unmistakable air of re-
finement, of race, of gentleness about her, as though her sharp,
almost grim way of talking were a shell — a defensive shell —
against the hardness of her life."

The radio is going. Mrs. Martin is hearing the last of the
romance of Elizabeth and Jack Manders, when in bursts her
niece, Tonie Martin, "a small, dark-eyed girl of sixteen, her
pretty face over made-up, her hair short and tousled, worn down
in her eyes." Tonie wears colored slacks, a white shirt, cheap
cut-out red sandals, and yet "in spite of this cheap, vulgar ex-
terior there is in her beautiful black eyes a look, not only of pas-
sion, but of loneliness, bewilderment and appeal." Under her
arm Tonie carries a Sunday paper. She is no sooner in the
room than she shuts off the radio, spreads out the paper and is
soon at her puzzles.

By her half-hearted replies to Mrs. Martin's queries Tonie
reports that she has been selling gas to Al, the duster; that she
does a lot of flying with Al and doesn't consider it as dangerous
as "doing sixty on this lousy old highway," and that she has
her own ideas as to what her part of the work around the house

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 3S1

should be. She serves the customers at the gas pump and doesn't
think it's fair that she should also be expected to get her father's
Sunday dinner. As for that, she's got everything ready for
dinner — in cans. Soup, spaghetti, chow-mein, com. Besides —

"I got to help Al dust the De Lucchi orchard tomorrow morn-
ing," says Tonie. "Got to get out at four."

"You better get to bed before three then," grimly advises Mrs.
Martin. "Where were you last night?"

"Oh, driving around."

"Driving around where?"

"Oh, I don't know — ^up at Pete's place and — "

"Out every night till morning chasing around with Billie.
Up every morning before it's light flying around with that old
Al. I'd give up one or the other if I were you."

"Which?"

"Maybe I'd give up both of 'em — if I were you I"

"Well, you ain't me, Granma."

Granma turns on the radio again, but not for long. Tonie
turns it off. Let Granma look at the funnies while she (Tonie)
concentrates on the puzzles. If Tonie wins a million dollars —
or even ten thousand — she'll be buying herself an airplane. And
she might win if she could think of a "cinnamon" for love.
Which reminds Tonie that personally she doesn't think much
of love. She isn't ever going to get married. Neither does
she intend to be an old maid —

"They say if you're an old maid you go daffy or get dopey
or something," says Tonie.

"Good Godfrey! So that's the latest, eh?" Mrs. Martin is
plainly irritated. "Well, when I was a girl, it was the married
women who were daffy and got dopey. The old maids were up
on their feet from dawn till night doing all the work for the
rest of them, taking care of the kids and — "

"That was just it, Granma. Married women had a lot of kids
then. Now they don't have any. That makes a difference."

It is getting pretty late for Tonie's father. He ought to be
getting up, even if he did get in late the night before. Tonie has
an explanation for that, too —

"I think Pa's got a girl," says Tonie.

"What are you talking about?" demands a shocked Granma.

"He's got a girl and he's sleeping with her. He started to
sleep with her last Saturday night."

"Antoinette Martin, how you talk!" Mrs. Martin is shocked
but her curiosity is also high. "Who said so?"

352 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

'1 said so. Last Sunday didn't you notice how good-humored
he was — and at the same time kind of hangdog?"

"That's nothing."

"But he went in — ^and put flowers on Ma's gravel" Tome's
lip is trembling.

"Well?"

"Because he was guilty! He felt guilty!" cries Tonie.

A moment later Elliott Martin has appeared. He is "a man
about forty-five, a Westerner, a rancher — a characteristic fine
American type — but gone to seed."

Neither his daughter nor his mother is very cordial in re-
sponse to Elliott's good mornings. Mrs. Martin is ready to get
his breakfast — eggs, of course — and Tonie grudgingly answers
his queries about the puzzles. This is the last batch. If ^e
wins, she is, as she has told him, going to buy herself an air-
plane. Even if she only wins the third prize she can get a
Cub. . . .

The talk has turned to Victor de Lucchi. A boy at the gas
pump wants to know where Victor lives. He doesn't live where
he did any more, Tonie calls to the boy. Victor's gone away
to school to be a priest. He's coming back, the boy insists.
That's bad news for Elliott-—

"Good God!" he exclaims, lowering his paper with a swish.
"Is that going to start again? I thought we were rid of that
fellow. I thought he was gone for good. I'm not going to have
it, I tell you! You're going to get outa here and be somebody!
What do you think I'm giving Al all his gas and oil for? To
make an aviator out of you! Then let you marry this Dago —
this—"

"Dago? He's one of the finest bo)^ in the country. He's — "

"He's a foreigner!"

"He's not. He was born here, he went to school here — he — "

"His folks are foreigners! — Just common immigrants — "

"And what were ours?"

"Ours!" Elliott is completely astonished.

"We're Americans!" announces Mrs. Martin, stopping half-
way to the stove. "You got good blood on your father's side —
Scotch and English."

"Got good blood on my mother's side too — ^Irish and Indian!"
snaps Tonie.

Her father has put down his paper and faced Tonie, angrily.
"No more of that, young lady. I'm not going to let you get
bogged down here like I was. No! You're going to get out —

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 3S3

get away — ^be something — ^be somebody — be — "

'^Oh, shut upl" answers Tonie, jumping up and starting for
the door.

"Did I ever talk to you like that, Ma? (Suddenly, to Tonie.)
And look at you — wearing those pants on Sunday 1 Didn't I ask
you not to wear pants on Sunday? Didn't I? Didn't I?"

'^Oh, Pal" Tonie has started for the door when it suddenly
opens and Carlotta Thatcher walks in. Carlotta "is an interest-
ing-looking woman — dressed in worn but beautifully cut and be-
coming Summer traveling clothes. She looks weary to the point
of exhaustion, but there is a nervous intensity about her that
gives her personality — excitement."

Carlotta is looking for the Martin place — and doesn't recog-
nize it. Doesn't recognize her cousin Elliott or her Aunt Mat at
first. And they have some difficulty recognizing her —

"Lot! God I I can't believe it I" exclaims Elliott as he moves
around the table toward her. "All these years — and you walk
in just like — Where did you drop from?"

"Paris."

"For cripe's sakel How did you get here?"

"I started on foot — then trains — then the boat — ^then —
America I From New York I drove."

The queries come thick and fast, but Mrs. Martin manages to
hold Elliott off until she gets the all but exhausted Carlotta into
a chair and comfortable. Carlotta does look tired — and sick —
but—

"This place will make me well/' she says, with a smile; '"this
earth, this sun and all of you."

Carlotta won't let Elliott bring her things in. She plans to
go on to the ranch. That would be the old ranch Granma
Thatcher left Carlotta, Elliott explains to Tonie, who seems a
little startled by the news.

"This is my girl, Antoinette," Elliott explains to Carlotta.
"Her mother died last winter — and — " His excitement having
subsided, a buried resentment begins to trouble Elliott. "Pretty
well lost touch with us altogether, haven't you, Lot?"

"I know, but ever since the war started — I — "

"This war or the last? Ever since you went away."

"No, Elliott, ever since she married," Mrs. Martin puts in.

"Well, she married right away, didn't she?"

"You haven't written us a real good letter since — not 'til he
died."

Carlotta will not join Elliott at breakfast, but she would like

354 THE BEST PLAYS OF 19AIA2

to be invited to dinner. She has been thinking a good deal about
those fried chicken-hot biscuit dinners she used to get at die
ranch. It's Tonie who gets the Sunday dinners now, they explain
to her, and there isn't much cooking goes with them.

Little by little Carlotta is made acquainted with the new con-
ditions under which the family has been living the last several
years. Tonie, for example, is going to be an aviator; there isn\
anything she doesn't know about an engine already. A mechan-
ical genius her father would call her. Of course Tonie's mother
hadn't been much— one of the ''squatter" McCanns, according
to Aunt Mat, and that's nothing to joke about.

"You say you drove out, Lot?" Elliott is saying.

"Yes," answers Carlotta, eagerly. "And you know, Elliott,
I drove the same road that Grandma Thatcher drove her ox team
over ninety years ago — as near as I could figure it. I stayed at
Emigrant Gap last night and I came down out of the mountains
with the sun this morning. You remember, Elliott, how Grandma
Thatcher used to tell us how the great valley looked that day
they drove down into it? Miles and miles of just the land and
the sky and the great oak trees. The Promised Land. Not a
human being or a house anywhere."

The trip had taken her ten days in a second-hand Ford. No,
Carlotta is not rich! Hadn't her artist husband left her well
off when he died?

"Oh, I had some money in the Paris bank — but that's all
gbne, of course," sighs Carlotta. "Everything's gone — every-
thing— I sold my engagement ring to buy this old car — "

The news is evidently a surprise to Elliott and Aunt Mat,
and a silence faUs momentarily upon them. Elliott drinks his
coffee slowly and Mrs. Martin fusses with the eggs at the stove —

"How long are you going to stay?" asks Elliott, after a pause.

"The rest of my life," promptly answers Carlotta.

Elliott — ^You going to live here?

LoTTA — Yes. I've come home.

Elliott {exchanging glances with his mother) — ^Wdl — ^what
are you going to live on if —

LoTTA — The ranch. How does the old place look?

Mrs. Martin — Oh, it's just gone to ruin, Lottie!

Elliott — ^It's not the only one. All the old ranches are nothing
but dumps now.

LoTTA — ^Yes — I saw the Pearson place as I came down the
road from the hills, and the Merrilk' — and the Gordons'! —

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 3SS

all the fine old ranches I used to know! The trees cut down,
the bams falling in — ^the — What's happened?

Elliott — Oh, nobody lives in 'em any more but Dagoes and
Japs. They've driven us out, Lot!

LoTTA — How?

Elliott — Oh, undercut us — ^underlived us— overbred us —
an inferior race will always breed out a superior one —

LoTTA — ^I thought — when I left Europe I was getting away
from all that!

Elliott — You walked right into it again! Wait till you see
your mail box — there's a whole row of 'em there — ^where just our
one Thatcher box used to be — Cadematori, Yamaguchi — San-
guinetti — Matsumoto — Cardozo — Ito — all living on what was just
our one ranch — ^and all despising each other — and —

LoTTA — But I thought in America!

Elliott — Oh, they all have automobiles and lipsticks and
washing machines — but underneath they are just what they weret
— ^New soil but old roots —

LoTTA — How do they all make a go of it if —

Mrs. Martin — By hard work!

Elliott (defensively) — ^And big families!

Mrs. Martin — That all work!

Elliott — ^And a low standard of living — ^a low standard of
living! (To Lotta.) They're just a lot of peasants!

LoTTA — Peasant?

Elliott — You know what a peasant is, don't you? You
lived in Europe long enough!

LoTTA — I didn't think the word existed in America!

Elliott — A lot of words don't exist, but the thing itself does.

A carload of ''Okies" has driven up to the gas pump. They are
the "peasants" of the new order. "They used to come in broken
down old wagons — ^now they come in broken down old cars,"
says Mrs. Martin.

"Well, that's a difference," protests Elliott. "It took guts
to start out that long haul in a wagon — and it took endurance
not to fall by the way — Now it doesn't take a damn thing —
just hoist yourself into an old wreck of a car — ^tum it west on
the finest highways in the world and just keep sitting till an
ocean stops you. The old car'll get you there — ^it's dumb and
lazy proof."

Tonie has disappeared and there is no one there to sell gas
to the "Okies." Presently a spokesman for the bunch arrives.

^.1

3S6 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

He is Nelson Powell^ ''a thiiiy dilapidated man, yellow hair bamt
by the sun and fair skin, tanned a deep brown."

Powell and his folks are looking for work. He'd like to {ddL
Elliott's peaches, if they are going to be picked. They arent.
Elliott plans to leave 'em hang on the trees and rot. There's
no price for 'em.

''Let 'em hang, eh?" meditates Powell. ''Well, I reckon that's
all you can do — No price. Cherries was good and apricots —
We cleaned up on cots. Now, we was counting on peaches.
Well, I reckon all we can do is wait for grapes, but, Jesus, grapes
is a hell of a long ways off. Well, I reckon well just have to
go back on relief — tiU grapes. (Pause.) We wasn't figuring
on going back till Winter."

The Powells have gone on to the village, fortified with a
"coke and three straws." They'll find a free camp in the village.
"Pure old American stock, Lotta," says Elliott, with a shrug.
"Deteriorated."

"But where do they come from?"

"Oklahoma — ^Texas — Missouri — Kansas — Illinois. From all
over. They've turned the place into a regular sluml Their
lousy camps all over — and their rotten little shacks."

"Poor people!" mutters Carlotta, watching the departure from
the window.

Carlotta finds it hard to understand why Elliott is letting his
peach crop rot on the trees. She remembers when peaches were
his life's work, and he was experimenting enthusiastically with
a new brand of his own. Elliott insists that it hasn't paid him
to harvest his crop since he was married. He has a service
station now. That keeps him going. And he hasn't any land.
Just a patch his mother gave him — an old river bed that he
had filled in —

"I put up a sign 'Dump Here' and all the Dagoes and Japs in
the neighborhood dumped in all their junk," laughs EUiott.
"First thing I knew I owned a nice little piece of land right on
the highway — put my gas tanks up, bought that shack out there
from a fellow down the road, got a Dago to move it up here for
me on a truck and there I was — independent. That's all the land
I own — that little piece of fill-in — Grandma cut me out of the
ranch — ^you know — gave you my share."

LoTTA — I guess she figured you had your share of it, Elliott —
through your marriage. Grandma always considered that Mc-
Cann place still our land, you know.

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HOPE FOR A HARVEST 357

Elliott (darkly) — I was tricked out of that piece.

LoTTA — Tricked out of it? How?

Elliott — By a damned Dago. I guess you don't remember
that de Lucchi? That first Dago that bought into the old ranch?

LoTTA — Oh, yes — how Grandma hated to have to sell to him I
Don't you remember, Elliott, how she shut herself up in her room
and cried? We tiptoed to the door to listen.

Elliott — ^We had never heard her cry before. It scared us
to death.

LoTTA — ^Afterwards, you went out to the bam — ^and hid up in
the hay.

Elliott — ^I took a solemn vow out there then, I'd drive him
off some day! {Grimly.) Well — I haven't. He's driven me
off. That Dago that started there with ten acres I And bor-
rowed every cent from the bank to do that, well, he owns every-
thing around here now — He always had his eye on the Mc-
Cann place and just after my wife died, just that week — ^he went
over and persuaded my father-in-law to sell it to him. He knew
the old man never wanted me to have it. The old man never
wanted that piece of land to come back to us, any of us, so he
sold it to this de Lucchi and went into town and went on a big
spree and died. I didn't even get any of the money, nor Tonie
either, because he made a will that all of it should be spent on
his funeral.

LoTTA {smiling) — ^Was it a good funeral?

Elliott — I'll say it was. It was a hell of a good funeral.

Tonie is still missing and Mrs. Martin must work in and out
of the house, selling gas to the motorists that stream up and down
the highway. On Sunday they just drive one way till they get
tired and then turn around and come back, according to Aunt
Mat.

The talk turns to other cousins and Carlotta learns still more
of the family activities. Cousin Bertha, for example, is still
gallivanting around. She and her folks have three automobiles,
but they're still broke, like everybody else. Bertha's son, Billie,
has turned out to be a good deal of a "flibbitty jibbitt," good for
nothing but to chase girls. '^Know what he is making a collec-
tion of?" demands Mrs. Martin. "BrazeersI Whenever he goes
out with a new girl, he dares her to give him her brazeer and
they're such little fools, they do it."

His parents have spoiled Billie, Mrs. Martin is convinced.
They've tried to make a big shot of him. Now they're bent on

358 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

sending him to college. ''You know what your grandmother used
to say — 'No use to give a ten-thousand-dollar education to a ten-
cent boy/ "

As for Elliott, both Carlotta and Mrs. Martin are agreed that
he is a changed man. He's gone to seed, in Aunt Mat's estima-
tion. And he began to go to seed the day that Carlotta went
away —

"You and Elliott were awful close, Lottie — I guess you
never knew how much you meant to him," says Aunt Mat. "I
guess he never knew it either till you were gone. Elliott's one
of those people can't get along alone."

LoTTA — I guess everybody's that way — really — ^Auntie — I
know I am.

Mrs. Martin — Some are — some aren't — ^like horses — some
horses are only good single — and some only good in a team.
Elliott's like that. After you went he moped around with his
head hanging over the corral fence — for days. Then he got to
moseying over to Vema's place — and the first thing we knew he'd
married her.

LoTTA — ^Were they happy?

Mrs. Martin (sharply) — ^What's happy? I don't know.
{Irritably.) You could never get anything out of Elliott. But
that was no marriage for a fine boy like Elliott.

LoTTA — You must be awfully glad to have him back again,
Aunt Mat.

Mrs. Martin (tartly) — Can't say as I am. There's the both
of 'em now — ^they just take up the whole place. They're always
sittin' in my chair — and playing the radio! — ^What they want
to hear — ^not what I want to.

LoTTA — It must keep you from being lonesome?

Mrs. Martin — There're worse things than being lonesome.
(Pause,) Anyway you don't get lonesome any more — ^with a
radio. A radio is the finest company there is — and you can turn
it off if you get sick of it — that's more than you can do with
humans. I have my chickens too — chickens are a lot of com-
pany— and they don't talk back. I used to see Elliott every day
anyway. All Uiose years he was working with his peaches — ^he
was over here every day working. Now he's out at that gas
station all day — gassing! "Gas Station" — that's a good name
for it — gas and gas. That's all most of 'em do around here —
sit around — ^talk hard times — ^wait for a boom. Something for
nothing! Something for nothing! Elliott is just like all the rest

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 359

of 'em now. That service station's just been his finish!

LoTTA — Oh, Aunt Matl

Mrs. Martin (defending him now) — ^He does the best he
can I guess. He pays all the living — and he bought me all this
stuff. (Indicating refrigerator, etc.) Bought it all on tick, of
course. That's the way everybody does. They coimt up the
stuff they owe for like it was money in the bank. Tonie says I'm
old-fashioned and Bertha says so too, because I won't even take
out enough to get me a permanent and I've been wanting to get
me a permanent ever since they had 'em. I've always hated
my hair stringing down, ever since I was a girl.

LoTTA (gently) — ^Why not, if you want it?

Mrs. Martin — Because it's spending my money and I won't
spend it!

LoTTA — But why not, if —

Mrs. Martin — Because it's independence! Money is inde-
pendence! And I'm going to be independent till I die! I've got
my chickens and money in the bank — and —

There's excitement at the gas pump now. A truck load of
Japs has driven up. Tonie is back to fill their tank for them,
but there is a white boy holding the hose for her. The white
boy is Victor de Lucchi. That starts Elliott from his chair with
a vengeance. He has told the de Lucchis to keep off his place
and that's the way it's going to be, whatever Aunt Mat or any-
body else may think of it. As for Victor —

"He's a De Lucchi and a Dago and I'm not going to have
him hanging around my place. I'm not going to have him hang-
ing around my girl. I'm not — "

The door opens and in walks Victor. "He is a boy about 18
— a handsome boy — but there is something of a pallor in his
dark skin, something of strain in the corners of his mouth and
his black eyes shine with nervous excitement."

Victor would like to know what Elliott wants. For him to
stay off the place? That's all right with Victor. He had no
intention of coming there anyway. He had caught a ride on
the truck and the truck had run out of gas. As for his father's
having cheated Elliott, Victor doesn't believe his father ever
cheated anybody. He worked hard for everything he's got.

"Damned Dago — " Elliott mutters.

"You say that again and I'll — "

Immediately Tonie is between them, pleading with Victor not
to fight. He can't fight, if he's going to be a priest! But Victor

360 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

isn*t going to be a priest —

Now Cousin Bertha's boy, Billie — ^William Jennings Barnes —
''a good-looking, typical small town boy of about twenty — a
country boy who has become a town boy— dressed in his best
suit for Sunday — " has come through the door. For a moment
Billie and Victor stare at each other. Billie is surprised that
Victor is back, and more surprised that he is back to stay —

''Well take that up later," growls Elliott, not liking the way
Victor is looking at Tonie. . . .

Billie is pleased to meet Carlotta. ''Your mother and she are
first cousins — ^like her and Elliott," explains Mrs. Martin. But
he is more interested in knowing when Tonie is going to get off —

"These kids are just about as big chums as we were, Lot —
always together," says Elliott.

Billie's mother is on the phone, and Billie is anxious that she
should not know where he is. She thinks he's calling on the
social Irma Belding in town. Hearing of Carlotta's arrival,
Bertha would have her up for luncheon right away —

"We used to have dinner around here in the middle of the
day," laughs Elliott; "then it was lunch, now it's luncheon."

Elliott and Carlotta have gone on to Bertha's, Elliott all dressed
up in his new suit for the first time in months. Aunt Mat has
gone to look after her chickens.

Billie and Tonie, left alone, are not exactly at their ease.
Billie, hearing that Carlotta plans on going to the old Thatcher
ranch house, is worried. Won't she get on to something if she
should go upstairs? She won't, Tonie explains, because she had
gone over and straightened things up. "Boy! That was a nar-
row squawk!" says Billie.

He can't quite understand what makes Tonie act so funny,
however. Or why she pushes him away when he would put his
arm around her. If that's the way she is going to act he is going
into town. Which will be all right with Tonie. Let him go and
let him stay. She is perfectly willing to be left alone —

"All right 1 Suits me — ^you'll be left alone all right," snaps
Billie. "You're not the only oo in my goo — ^you're not the
only—"

"Going to take Irma Belding up to Pete's?"

"You've said itl"

"Well, you'll see me there if you do."

'*Say — ^you going to start going out with that Dago again?
(Tonie does not answer.) Pass the garlic, dear! (He waves
his hand in jront oj his nose.) Phewl"

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 361

'^Good-byl" shouts Tonie, running to the door and looking
after him. Now she has turned back into the room and has
begun to glide around, making a whirring noise with her mouth,
like an airplane. Around the table she glides, making sharp
banks at the comers. She is just passing the door when Carlotta
opens it and smiles at what she sees. Tonie laughs, too, but a
second later she is feeling dizzy and has to reach out for sup-
port. It must be the smell of gas all day that gets her down,
Tonie thinks. A moment later she has gone back to the gas
tank and Carlotta is left holding the glass of water she had
brought for her.

For a moment Carlotta stares after Tonie. Then she turns
and looks around the room, which ''seems to close in on her" —
she begins to cry. She is trying to control her sobs when Elliott
comes back —

''I'm so sorry, Elliott — so ashamed," apologizes Carlotta. "I
don't like to miake a mess of myself like this. I'm just a little
tired, I guess."

"But what's wrong?"

LoTTA — ^It's just that — ^I don't know — there is just nothing I —
recognize — here any more.

Elliott — ^You mean — me?

LoTTA (swiftly) — I mean everything! All these little shacks —
and the hot dog stands — and the cheap dance halls — all so shabby
— and dirty — and dreary. Don't you remember how it used to
be? — ^Now it's just a slum!

Elliott — ^Everything changes, Lotta — ^we can't —

LoTTA — ^A country sluml I didn't suppose there was such a
thing I

Elliott — ^You must have seen it! — ^all along the way I Miles
after miles of it — why —

LoTTA — Yes I But I thought when I got home! Now you
tell me that, too, is gone — ^just a dump— that's what you said —
an old dump—

Elliott— Old places are like old people, Lotta — they come
to the end of their lives and —

Lotta — They should die! They're weary and exhausted and
they want to die! Their life is finished — They haven't any-
thing to go on for — they — (She breaks into a paroxysm of
weeping,)

Elliott (moving toward her comfortingly) — ^You need rest.

Lotta — ^That's what I came here to find, Elliott. I thought

THE BEST PIATS OF 19M-42

I eadd
fer— «h.I

Xcd dfeia and ^ftcfwanb — 5^3s iIobII
Eflfe<ct, to fie awake
nJwTwrf jnoci — cats op al yum
widi fiiie:. Yoo bopo to break down

Enjorrr — Fcan, LoCta? What ieais?
IxriTA — Oh, tlie fear of bong
old ahne. Of boni^ poor — <lrMitmr,

I knov

bow tembHj ocnrotk all this mst soond to jfoo, EfioCt. Yoo're
such a nrinna], matter-of-fact posoo —

Elliott — Are yoo sore this all isn't jost the «ar. Lot?

Lr/TTA — Sol The war jost made it worse! Fd been throi^
it an before. I knew what it meant. I jost couldn't stand it
any more! It was Uke living throi^ some fiigbtful insaniiy
again. Even before I was bombed out I knew I had to get back
to this place — thereH be peace there, I thon^t P^ace. There
I won't be alone— can rest — there I can work agun — there I can
hope Bg^in — hope for a harvest — and have a home.

Elliott — \l'en, yon're here, LoL

LoTTA (eagerly)— YoaH hdp me, EIBott? advise me— and—

Elliott (brusquely) — ^I on^t to be pretty good at that!
Failures are always good at —

LoTTA — Don't say that!

Elliott (suddenly) — ^It's good to have 3^00 back. Lot!

LoTTA — I guess that's niiat I've been waiting to hear! —

Elliott (patting her shoulder) — God . . . Wdl, I guess we
better get going — huh? Berthall be wondering what's happened
to us — (In doorway.) Oh, for the love of Mike! There's still
those Okies! Got a flat and can't fix it!

LoTTA (going to the door and calling) — Say you!

Powell's Voice — ^Yeah?

LoTTA — I've got work for you!

Powell's Voice — ^Where at?

LoTTA — ^My ranch!

Elliott — Oh, Lot! For Pete's sake! You're walking right
into it! (Lotta laughs — throws the door open and walks out.
lie foUows her,) Walking right into iti

The curtain falls.

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 363

ACT II

A week later, in the living room of the old Thatcher ranch
house, Carlotta is standing on a stepladder in front of the fire-
place restoring a picture of Grandma Thatcher to its rightful
place on the wall. ''It is a beautiful picture and when it is hung
seems to add a presence to the room."

The living room is worn and shabby, furnished in the fashion
of fifty years ago, but ''there are several good pieces of old
walnut and mahogany, among them a beautiful old desk and a
table."

Presently Tonie appears. She has come across the slough from
the Martin place and is eager to talk with Carlotta. "You're not
a sap and yet you're not a wise guy," ventures Tonie, in ex-
planation of her urge for a confidential chat. "You seem to be on
to everything all right, and yet you don't seem to be hardboiled
. . . you're good, but you're not mean. People around here —
if they're good they're mean. ... If * I tell you something.
Cousin Lot, will you keep it?"

Carlotta's word being given, the confession proceeds. Tonie
and Victor de Lucchi are going to be married. That's why
Victor came home from the priest school; that's why he gave
up being a priest. Nor does Tonie care what her father sajrs — ^he
gives it to Tonie for going with a Dago and he's going with one
himself.

To prepare herself for standing up before a priest some day,
Tonie has been going to church. To Victor's church. She
doesn't like church as well as she does flying — she feels pretty
near like being an angel when she's flying — but she'd like to
understand better what they talk about in church. What exactly
do they mean by "confession"? Tonie would know. The priest
was giving the people in church hell about confession. Tonie
would like to know how it's done.

Carlotta tries to explain that when one person tells another
what he's done that's wrong, that's a confession, and the con-
fessor is freed of his sense of guilt. "You don't have to be re-
ligious to believe this," explains Carlotta. "Doctors believe it
— lots of people. They know that almost everybody at one time
or another has a feeling inside of having done something wrong
and this feeling makes them unhappy — makes them sick some-
times. And they don't seem to get rid of it except by telling it."

"Does it have to be the church? Couldn't you just tell it to

364 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

somebody — somebody good?"

"I don't know, dear. We're getting in pretty deep now. Doc-
tors think it's enough to tell it, but the church says — "

The appearance of Elliott breaks up the conference. He has
come looking for Tonie. His ma wants Tonie to take her to the
village to get a permanent Everybody's getting ^ruced up since
Carlotta came back.

Elliott has come to see if Lotta has any more furniture moving
jobs for him. They've moved about everything in the room
three or four times, but Carlotta is making a home there, and, as
she explains, she must have harmony —

^'There's a sort of enchantment about it to me," admits Car-
lotta; '^a sort of enchantment in this whole place — of the old
and the familiar and — "

"And the lost."

"But it isn't lost. It's all here. Look at that desk. Grand-
ma's beautiful old desk — that she sent all the way home to Con-
cord for — look at this old table — ^where we used to do our home-
work nights."

"Oh, yeah! Gosh I You used to keep my nose to the grind-
stone all right — (Mocking,) — ^*Now well do our arithmetic — ^now
we'll do our spelling — ' "

The man Powell is in to report that he is finished with the
fence job Carlotta gave him and is wondering what he should
do next. One look at the fence is completely discouraging to
Carlotta, but she thinks perhaps Mr. Powell can lay a few bricks
in the path if he can follow the pattern previously set down.
A child of six could do it, but Elliott assures her that Powell
won't be able to —

"And if you think he's no good, have you tried to get anything
out of his wife?" asks Elliott. "I tell you their women are so
damned lazy they won't even do their own day-dreaming — ^want
a machine to do that for them — they'll sit around all day with a
sink full of dirty dishes listening to 'Valiant Lady* and 'Life Can
Be Beautiful.' "

Powell, Lotta admits, is a good deal of a problem but she
hasn't the heart to fire him — with a wife and three kids. "They're
so utterly helpless ; I just can't turn them loose," insists Carlotta.
"What's he got to face the world with?"

"He's not your responsibility," insists Elliott.

"Well, who is responsible for what happens to the people of a
country — their rulers?"

"This fellow's his own ruler, ain't he?"

«1

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 365

There being no immediate answer to that, Elliott would have
Carlotta sit down and enjoy some of the harmony she has been
creating. He would also like to justify his own life to her if he
could. He had to quit experimenting with his peaches because
he married and had to make a living. And he did all right for a
while, even without the college education Grandma Thatcher
wanted to give him the year she sent Lotta to Europe —

''Maybe she shouldn't have/' Carlotta is saying. "Maybe I
should have stayed home — ^where I belonged and— here — it's as
though I'd foimd myself again. Do you know that feeling — of
being on the right road after — "

'1 know how it feels to be on the wrong road. I've felt that
most of my life."

"You have, EUiott?"

"Yep."

"Since when?"

'Oh — I don't know — always, I guess."

'Europe was what did it to me. I always felt an outsider
there — really. Of course as long as Ted lived — any place seemed
to be home. But this — ^is home!"

Elliott doesn't appreciate Carlotta's reverence for the old place.
There are only two things an American can do with his ancestral
home — restore it or destroy it, says he. In that case Carlotta
proposes to restore hers. She may even have some effect on re-
storing the whole neighborhood —

"Why, when people drive by and see this beautiful old pioneer
house back here . . . they'll think how fine we are in this
neighborhood! — ^how strong — how proud — ^how — "

Elliott (grimly) — They won't think anything of the kind.

Lotta — What will they think?

Elliott (turning to her) — It's only a mile more to the next
hot dog stand — ^two miles to the next gas station — and only three
to Pete's. You're such a dreamer, Lot! You always were —
even as a kid — full of hop! Everything's gone! Lottal Gone —
can't you —

Lotta (tears in her eyes) — ^No! It hasn't! It's just — gone
down — been neglected! It just needs what everything needs —
care — ^love — and a lot of hard work.

Elliott — And a lot of hard money! All this costs money!
And you say —

Lotta — I know I haven't any money! But I've got land!
Rich land! Don't you remember, Elliott, how the geography

366 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

said that this valley and the Nile Valley had the richest growing
earth in the world!

Elliott — But what good is it — ^if you can't sell thp stuff it
grows? Listen, Lot. I grew the finest peaches in the world.
That's no joke! I grew the finest peaches in this county. This
county grows the finest peaches in California — and California
grows the finest peaches in the world! And for eight years —
it hasn't paid me to take them off the trees.

LoTTA— Oh, Elliott! That's heart-breaking!

Elliott — I'll say it's heart-breaking! Take the heart out of
anybody to work and plan — struggle and contend — ^year after
year — ^year after year — and for nothing!

LoTTA — Is it every year the same?

Elliott — No! It's every year different! One year, no prices
— one year, no crop — ^another year swell crop but Europe's quit
buying — another year swell price but the canneries have a strike
— ^next year the teamsters take a hand — ^they wouldn't let us haul
our own fruit in our own trucks — I drove up to the cannery gate
— they pulled me off, tipped my whole load over — all my peadies
lying there in the dirt — I tell you, a man gets fed up.

LoTTA— Oh, Elliott — don't say that! That's what happened
in Europe! People were fed up! Tired — disillusioned — ^they
wanted order and a chance to do their work — ^and something to
work for — they were fed up and so they gave up — I was in
Rome when it first happened — then Germany — ^and now France.
I've just come from France! It's the people like you, iiriien you
give up! Elliott, you mustn't give up!

Elliott remains entirely unconvinced. What does Lotta know
about farming? What had she ever learned before she went to
Paris? She rode horseback, helped a little in the house, monkeyed
around trying to paint and went to school. And she thinks she
can come back now and do better as a farmer than those who
had stayed there and worked their whole life at it!

Carlotta refuses to give up. At least she can make her living
there — ^if Grandma Thatcher did. Grandma had nine duldren
to look out for. Carlotta has none. She'll have to have money
to start with, Elliott warns. She'll have to put a mortgage on
the old place — probably two or three mortgages. Shell have to
have an electric pump. She'll have to have a well. She'll have
to have a tractor. She can't go back to horses and mules. And
how is she going to keep paying for these things, plus interest
and taxes and insurance?

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 367

''I was counting on the big grain field/' ventures Lotta.

"There isn't any money in grain any more! Doesn't pay to
put it in! No price! Too much of everything! The govern-
ment pays us not to plant."

"Not to plant!"

"Yes, didn't you know that — not to plant! There's just too
much of everything — that's why we're all starving to death!
An3rway — if you could get a price — ^you can't raise a crop on
that fidd now! — ^it's worn out!"

"Worn out?— the earth?"

"Yes. Land wears out, just like a house does, or a person-^
or—"

"Like a person!"

"You want to be a farmer! — ^and you don't even know that!
You think just because you love the land — ^the earth! Well, just
wait until you've fought weeds — and bugs — and rot — and drought
— and rain — and frost for a few years — maybe you won't love it
so much. All you people that talk about coming back to the
land! You all give me a pain in the neck. Farming needs
highly specialized training nowadays! Why, just to grow a
decent peach is a life's work, and you have to know bow to
handle men and handle machines — and how to buy and sell —
A farmer's a trader! And a gambler! There's no other work
on earth that's as big a gamble as farming! And when a man's
all that! — ^has got the knowledge and the training and the char-
acter to be all that — ^what good does it do him? He just can't
make a living, that's all! He just can't — "

Bertha Barnes is standing in the doorway. "Bertha is a
strong-looking woman in her forties; elaborate permanent, over-
made-up, red nails, wearing cheap, loud, unbecoming clothes; a
country woman trying to look like a town woman; she has a
hearty, insensitive voice."

Bertha has come over to show them her brand new car, a black
sedan with nickel trim. "How do you all have all these cars and
everything when you say you are starving to death?" Carlotta
wants to know. "We are starving to death," Bertha insists.
"Why, just to keep up the payments keeps us broke."

Bertha would add her protest to Elliott's about Carlotta's
crazy notion of trying to restore the Thatcher place. It's a
terrible old house; not a place in it fit to lay your head. Grand-
ma's beautiful old room? Nobody's been in that for years.

That is where Bertha's wrong, Carlotta tells her. Somebody
has just walked out of Grandma's room — and left the bed nicely

368 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

•

made up. Who? Carlotta thought Elliott would know.

"There were two coca-cola bottles — and an empty whiskey
flask on the shelf/' Carlotta reports. Evidently somebody had
broken in. So far as Elliott knows the house has always been
locked.

"They were just a harmless couple — glad of a place to sleep/'
Carlotta decides. "One of them was a woman. There was a
cigarette stub with lipstick on it — under the bed."

Elliott decides not to wait for Bertha to take him home in the
new car. He'll try it some other time. But he suspects Tonie
will enjoy it — ^with Billie. Which reminds Bertha, after Elliott
has gone, that she wants to talk to Carlotta about Tonie. She
isn't going to have her Billie running around with Tonie. She
just isn't good enough for him.

"Why, she is only a child," Carlotta protests.

"Child nothing! — an3rway, that doesn't make any difference.
I'm not going to have her out in my new car with Billie, parking
with him up some dark road — ^you know what that means."

"Nonsense— didn't we used to go out with our beaux in a
buggy?"

"A buggy ain't a car — anyway, times have changed — girls have
changed. Why, these kids around here, they'll pile in a car with
some fellow they hardly know, tear up to a roadhouse, get a
drink, a couple of drinks, tear on to another till they're so full
of the devil — so excited and exhausted that — '^

"Why do their parents let them?"

"Let themi It's easy for you to talk, you've never had a child.
Oh, I look out for Billie. Why, Billie goes with the nicest
people in town I — the Belding girl is crazy about him, and I guess
you know who the Bddings are! He's the President of the First
National and she's President of the Friday Morning Club. And
Irma's the Junior League! That's the kind of people we want
Billie to go around with. Just because we're farmers doesn't
mean we can't go with nice people. We want to get Billie off
the farm."

Bertha is continuing her argument against Carlotta's attempt-
ing to make even so much as a living out of the farm when Joe
de Lucchi walks in on them. "Joe is a man over sixty; a strong
Italian farmer with bright eyes, a red face and a lusty good
humor, all of which is partly his nature and partly good red
wine." He has brought a huge coolie-basket filled with fruit and
melons that he has just picked for Carlotta. Carlotta remembers
Joe. She was just a little girl peeking in the door the day Joe

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 369

had come to buy his land from Grandma Thatcher, and she re-
members that after the deal was closed that Grandma cried and
cried. That was the first piece of Thatcher land to go. Now
Joe has come to buy the last piece, if Carlotta will sell. Carlotta
insists she has no intention of selling.

"What are you goin' to do? Mortgage?" demands Joe.

Carlotta doesn't answer, but her gesture indicates her helpless-
ness.

"That's no good, Missa Thatch," Joe goes on. "What's you
want to do that for? You worry, and you work and you worry
and what ees the end? You loosa your place. The bank get
the place and you get nothin'. Better sella Missa Thatch. Better
have something in the bank than something owe the bank."

LoTTA — ^You began with a bank.

Joe — I began, but I'm a no finish! I was a young man, I was
a strong man and I work lika dog, all the days and half the
nights, me and my old lady both, and all oiu* kids. You ain't
so yoimg no more, and you ain't got nobody. How you end up,
huh? You end up an old lady without no shirt on you. ... I
tella you what you do, Missa Thatch. You don't sella all your
land. You sella justa one piece. That's the way your grand-
mother did . . . when times is hard and she feel, maybe she a
little old — a little weak. She don't make no mortgage. She
sella a piece here — a piece there. You sella justa one piece — to
me.

LoTTA — ^What piece?

Joe — That piece between my place and the old McCann place
I gotta now.

LoTTA — ^Where the slough goes?

Joe — ^That the place.

LoTTA — But they say that land isn't good for anything any
more. They say it's — ^wom out —

Joe — Sure! I know. She's neglect! But she's a good land
too. The land is like human, Missa Thatch. Sometimes she's
just no good — bom no good. Sometimes she bom good — but
she neglect. This land neglect but she don't have to stay like
that. This land work hard for somebody. Now somebody work
hard for this land. You just leave her to me.

LoTTA — ^You can bring it back?

Joe (roaring) — Sure, I can bring her back! Why you think
I want to buy, huh? I nobody's fool. Why — ^we got twenty —
twenty-five feet top soil here! (Laughs.) The land issa no

370 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

spoil. Itsa people who are spofl. Nobody don't want to work it
no more. Nobody's gotta no patience. AD thisa farmer around
here — all they wanta do is — one crop. And they dcm't want to
work to do that! Pay somebody to put it in« Pay somebody to
take it off! This they call farming! Your cousin Jim Barnes —
he put in wheat. Wheat no price — psshh! he's, broke. Your
cousin Elliott Martin — he got peaches. Peacha no price — ^broke.
My peacha no price — I gotta plums. Plums no price — ^I gotta
bean. Beana no price — I gotta tomato. Tomato no price — ^I
gotta potato. Potato no price — ^what the Hell! — that's all the
more we gotta eat! We live — me and my old lady and my kids
— ^we live. Live good! Farming no just a business — a one crop
selling business — farming is a way you live — ^it's a life!

LoTTA (eagerly) — That's just what I want to find here, Mr.
De Lucchi! A life!

Joe — Sure. You sella me this piece and you keepa the rest,
huh? Then you have money to get what you need. (Coaxing,)
You can dig a well — ^you can buy a pump! The water come
out — ^whsshh! — like that! — ^and spread on the ground — ^wida like
that! And the sun come down — everything grow. Yoiu: whole
place look like a garden — Plenty fruit, plenty veg — some chick!
In the morning you get up — ^you take a fresh egg — a fresh egg! —
you go out — ^you pick a little parsley — ^you chop. You put a
little oil in the pan — or a little sweet butter — oh! You must
have a cow!

LoTTA — Wholl milk her?

Joe (roaring) — You will! Youll milk her! A nice, gentle,
easy cow! My old lady she use to milk twelve cow!

LoTTA (doubtfully) — I don't think I'm strong enough for that.

Joe's picture of Carlotta as a farmer expands with his eloquence
until she, too, becomes enthused and the deal is made. Carlotta
agrees to sell him the piece of slough land that he wants, and
Joe rushes to the door to call Victor to bring in a jug of wine
from the back of the car so they can drink on the d^. Now
the only thing to settle is the price. Joe would drive a bargain
there. The land, of course, isn't worth as much as it was when
he bought from Grandma Thatcher. It isn't worth as much as
he paid for the McCann place, which was $50 an acre.

Carlotta thinks it is — and more. She wants $100 an acre.
Joe argues and pleads and tries to wheedle her, but Carlotta
sticks to her price.

Joe's attention is momentarily diverted by the arrival of Victor

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 371

with the wine. It is then that he learns for the first time that
Carlotta and Victor have already met — ^which means that Vic
has been over to the Martins' — and that's against orders. Victor
is not going to be allowed to marry — ^he's going to be a priest —

"I told you the day I come home I'm not going to be no — "

Victor can get no further. His father is standing over him
menacingly, wild with anger —

"But you didn't say why I We don't know why! Now we
know why!" Joe is throwing himself around as though he were
in pain. "Jesu Maria I You aren't going to marry no Tonie
Martins I No and no! " He has turned apologetically to Carlotta.
"Excuse me, Miss Thatch. This nothing against you, but I don't
want my boys marry no American girls. We got one already!
That's enough! My boy, Gino, he marry American girl —
troub' — troub' — troub' — all the time troub'! She don't like
what he eat — she don't like what he drink — she don't like what
he say. The shirt on his back she no like — fine silk shirt, she no
like. Dago shirt. 'I'ma no Dago,' she say. My boy getta mad
and give her a slap in the face shesa talk like that. Then she
go away — she go 'way all right — but two three days she come
back. In the day shesa no like no Dago— but at ni^t she's like
aU right— all right."

Presently Joe's anger is spent. He is still mad at Victor, but
not too mad to let him write a check for $500 for Miss Thatch.
That would be a down payment — the rest to be paid with the
deed. A moment later Joe has gone with Carlotta to show her
the line to be surveyed to determine his new holdings.

As soon as Carlotta and Joe disappear Tonie comes in from
the kitchen. She had seen Victor drive into the Thatcher place
with his father and had been waiting for a chance to talk with
him. Victor and Tonie are happy together. So long as they
are going to get married sometime, Victor doesn't see any reason
for waiting. Why can't they run away to Reno and get married
right away? Nobody would stop them there, even if they were
not of age.

They can't do that, Tonie explains, suddenly becoming very
serious. There is something she must tell him — something he
will understand because it is a confession and because he's good.
Tonie has been living with Billie Barnes and she is in trouble.

For a second Victor is too shocked fully to understand. Tears
come to his eyes as he puts his head in his hands on the desk.
Tonie, too, has some trouble understanding. She did not think
he would take it that way. She thought he would forgive her

372 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

like a priest would. ''We can get married, Vic — ^just the
Nobody will know."

"Ill know," answers Victor, pitifully.

ToNiE — But if you forgive me and I'm free of it — ^why —

Victor — Doesn't Billie know?

ToNiE (shaking her head) — ^No.

Victor — ^You've got to teU himl

ToNiE — I won't either tell himl

Victor — You got tol

ToNiE — I won't! I'm not going to let him have any claim
on me I I don't like himl

Victor — You don't like himl

TONIE — ^No.

Victor (seizing her by the arms) — ^Then why did you —

ToNiE — ^Why? — ^I don't know! It just happened! We was
up to Pete's drinkin' and dancin' one night and when we was
going home in the car — What's the use pretending! Irma
Belding and those girls — they go out with a fellow in a car and
pet — and pet — ^pretend it's nothing — pretend they^re just too
nice. Billie was telling me about 'em — ^how they act! It made
me sick! I thought if I ever want a fellow — ^I'll —

Victor (turning to her) — ^Was that the only time?

ToNiE (hesitating) — ^No— no — then we started coming over
here.

Victor — ^Here?

ToNiE (crying out) — I never loved him, Vic! I never loved
anybody but you, but he was always after me. And you were
gone — gone forever. (Looking at him,) There was never any-
thing like this between you'n me, Vic. Before you went away
we just looked at each other! That's all — hardly touched a
hand — (With sudden passion.) But I tell you there's more
for me in just the touch of your little finger than in his whole
body!

Victor — But you got to marry him!

ToNiE — ^I won't either marry him.

Victor — ^What are you going to do?

ToNiE — I'm going to marry you!

Victor — Now?

ToNiE — ^Why not? It can grow up with ours, Vic!

Victor — ^No!

ToNiE — ^Why not?

V^iCTOR — You're not straight!

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 373

ToNiE — ^I am, too, straight. I'm just as straight as anybody —
I didn't have to tell you— did I? I could have gone off with you
tonight— couldn't I? You'd never know — ^neverl — ^if I hadn't
told you.

Victor — I wish you hadn't told me. Why did you?

ToNiE — Because I didn't want to make a sap out of you! —
that's why! I just couldn't bear — to make a sap out of you,
Vic! (Takes his arm,) Oh, marry me, Vic, please — ^I've —

Victor — I'm going back to the Fathers.

ToNiE — ^No — Victor — ^no, you mustn't do that!

Victor — ^I've got to, now.

ToNiE — But you aren't right for that life! You told me they
said you weren't right for Uiat life! Because you never could
get rid of me in your mind —

Victor — ^111 get rid of you, now.

ToNiE {clinging to him) — ^No — ^you won't, Victor! No, you
won't! {At the door,) Victor — please! — please don't leave me
like this! What's to become of me! What —

Victor {pulling away from her) — ^You got to marry — him!

ToNiE — ^No! — I won't! I won't marry him I 111 get rid of
it first! I won't have it! I'll—

Before Tonie can get through the door Carlotta and Joe de
Lucchi are back. Joe is suspicious, but he accepts Tonie's state-
ment that Victor has gone. Now the check is signed and ac-
cepted. They'll postpone the drink until the deed is transferred,
but Joe will leave the wine for Carlotta to put in her cellar.

After Joe has left Carlotta turns to the unhappy Tonie. She
would like to have Tonie come and live with her, but Tonie isn't
interested. In fact Tonie is frankly belligerent and resentful.
Carlotta makes her sick! All that business Carlotta's been tell-
ing her — It makes her sick! Tonie is out the door and away
before Carlotta can stop her.

Powell, the Okie, has come for his pay. The Powells are leav-
ing. Work's too hard, the wages too low. Powell and his missus
can do better. Sometimes they make as much as eight dollars a
day — ^sometimes. Besides Mrs. Powell don't like it here. Too
lonesome. She likes the camps better.

Elliott is back. He doesn't like the thought of Carlotta stay-
ing in the old ranch house alone. But it seems pretty safe to
Carlotta, after Europe. Now Elliott has discovered the basket
of fruit that De Lucchi has brought Carlotta. Fine fruit it is.
Elliott can remember when he was raising as fine peaches as

374 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

those — His reawakening enthusiasm is crushed when he hears
that Carlotta has decided to go back to fanning again; to ^'work
like a mule — and live like a hog" if necessary.

"Work isn't the answer to life — work and more work — ^^riiat
we want is more leisure," spouts Elliott.

LoTTA — ^What's leisure good for if it just means sitting around
— empty and dreary — gassing — ^and —

Elliott — That's a dig at me, I suppose, and my service sta-
tion— ^well, what if I do sit around, dishing out gas — I'm not
being pushed around by a lot of Dagoes — I'm not —

LoTTA — Oh, Elliott! This Dago business. It's so cheap and
insulting — and ignorant.

Elliott — I know I'm ignorant! I've never been to college!
I've never been to Europe! I'm just a nobody — a —

Lotta — ^That's childish!

Elliott — All right — I'm childish, too!

LoTTA — This prejudice of yours — is childish —

Elliott — You try sitting there on a bunch of old tin cans all
day — ^while all the land around you — the land that was your
people's —

LoTTA — That's just rationalizing your own — (Stops abruptly,)

Elliott — Failure! Say it! I know I'm a failure! Why
don't you —

LoTTA (going to him) — You're not a failure, Elliott. You just
have to take hold again. Why, you can start tomorrow!

Elliott (grimly) — ^No — I can't!

LoTTA — You can begin experimenting again! You can begin
working in your orchard again!

Elliott — No — ^not again.

LoTTA — ^Why not?

Elliott (swiftly) — ^Everything I had I gave that orchard, Lot.
I can't do it again! I staked my life on it! I —

LoTTA — ^Everybody stakes his life. On somebody or some-
thing.

Elliott — But when your stake breaks up under you —

LoTTA — Then you've got to find another one — ^that's all —
That's what I came back here for — ^to find a new stake! Elliott'
Let's find our new stake together. This place! Let's bring this
place back together. It's your home as much as mine. Oh, I
know the land is a little worn out — but we can subsoil and —

Elliott — Subsoil! Say! Where did you get that?

LoTTA — ^And dig a well and buy a pump and —

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 37S

Elliott — Sure — if we had the money.

LoTTA — IVe got the money!

Elliott — ^How?

LoTTA — ^IVe sold some land, Elliott.

Elliott— Land? What land? Who to?

LoTTA — ^To Mr. De Lucchi.

Elliott (waving angrily at basket of fruit) — ^Joe? Did he
bring — That piece that joins the McCann place to his?

LoTTA — Yes.

Elliott (suddenly) — What about the slough? You didn't
let him have the slough, did you?

LoTTA — ^Why, yes.

Elliott — Good God! You know what this means to me,
don't you?

LOTTA — ^No!

Elliott — ^He's going to drown me out — that's what it means!

Elliott's excitement grows with the thought of what is going
to happen. Of course De Lucchi will fill in the slough and the
water will back up on Elliott's place. Just as it ba^ed up on
the McCann place when Elliott filled in his slough. But that
was different. No Dago is going to play the same trick on Elliott,
by God! Carlotta will have to call the deal off.

Carlotta has no thought of going back on her word to De
Lucchi. "What if he does drown out your service station," she
says. "Maybe it will be a good thing. Maybe youll get back to
work then! Your own work! Oh, I know things haven't been
easy for you. They've been full of disappointments. I know
things have broken down around you — ^but that doesn't mean
you have to break down inside, too! Quit! sit around— dish out
gas all day — to a lot of — "

"And what if I dish out gas?" shouts Elliott, furiously. "I'm
making my livings ain't I? Not asking anything of anybody, am
I? Not you! Nor this Dago! Nor anybody else. And I'm
going to stay here dishing out gas — ^and not you — ^nor this Dago
— nor anybody else is going to stop me! I'll see you all in hell
first!"

"Oh— Elliott! Please don't!" Carlotta has followed him to
the door.

"That's all right!" he calls back. "You've shown where you
stand all right! You've shown where you stand!"

Elliott has slammed the door. Carlotta stands looking after
him, her hand on the fruit basket, as the curtain falls.

376 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

ACT in

One morning, a month or so later, the sun is streaming in the
living room of the Thatcher ranch house. There are fresh cur-
tains at the windows and the furniture has been rearranged.
Presently a large middle-aged woman, elaborately overdressed,
appears on the porch and rings the tinkle bell before helping
herself to a chair.

She has come in answer to Carlotta's ad in the village paper.
She thinks she might like to be Carlotta's housekeeper if there
isn't too much work and if all the conveniences have been mod-
ernized, she admits when Carlotta greets her. She is a widow,
but her money is disappearing rapidly and she cannot get on
relief so long as she has any money left. She has decided to
work out until her writing begins to pay.

No, she never has done any writing before, but she is taking
a course. The man in the East with whom she is studying by
correspondence, and to whom she has paid $100 down, has as-
sured her that after one learns to write one can often sell a
single piece for as much as a thousand dollars.

It is Carlotta's cow that discourages her. ''No, I guess the
place wouldn't suit me," she concludes with a sigh. "There's too
much work. You got a cow — and you ain't got an automatic
hot water heater — and then, too — I kinda like a man around —
you know how it is — they're kinda handy."

Tonie Martin is at the door. She is dressed in her best and
appears a little excited. Her appearance is a surprise to Carlotta,
who had about given up seeing her again. Tonie has come to
apologize for the things she said. Also, if Carlotta hasn't any-
body to help her, Tonie would like to apply for that job. She
didn't win the puzzles prize. Didn't win a thing.

Carlotta will be glad to have Tonie live with her, but she is
afraid Elliott may have something to say about it. Elliott has
also been keeping away from Carlotta; didn't even answer a
letter she had written him proposing a new plan that might work
to their mutual advantage.

That letter would be the one Elliott tore up without reading the
day the notice of Carlotta's deed transfer to Joe de Lucchi ap-
peared in the paper, Tonie thinks. Elliott has been an unhappy
man ever since — "Just keeps by himself most of the time," Tonie
says.

Tonie would like to draw an advance on her wages, if Car-

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 377

lotta doesn't mind. She would like $20 for something that she
has to do in town. After that is attended to she will be glad to
come to work. No, Tonie hasn't been seeing anything of Victor
recently. So far as she knows he has gone back to the priest's
school. Nor has she been seeing anything of Billie. She is, she
thinks, going to enjoy working for Carlotta — ^while she is waiting
to be an aviator — ^but she would appreciate it if Carlotta didn't
tell any of the town folk about their arrangement. It might
affect her social standing.

''But what is finer for a girl than to know how to make a
home?" Carlotta would like to know. ''Even an aviator has to
have a home. Everybody has to have a home. ... I can teach
you about all kinds of homes. Irma Belding and those girls
won't know anything about making a home when they get mar-
ried, but you — {Gently.) The only thing I can't teach you,
darling, is about your children when you have them."

"I'm not going to have any."

"You're not?"

Tonie shakes her head. "You never did," she says.

"I know, but—"

"Did you ever want one?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then why didn't you?"

"I guess — because — I was a coward."

"Coward?"

"You see when I first married — it was in the war — and that
made me afraid. And afterwards, we were poor — and that made
me afraid."

"But afterwards — why didn't you have one then?"

"Then — I couldn't." For a second Carlotta hesitates. "That
sometimes happens," she goes on. "If a woman doesn't have
her child — ^when she can — sometimes — afterwards — she can't
have one — at all."

"She can't?"

"There seems to be some sort of law in life that if we don't
take things when they come — "

Joe de Lucchi is at the door. He is ready to begin work on
the slough, but he doesn't want to go on the Martin place without
Elliott's O.K. Tonie will fetch Elliott. As she rushes past De
Lucchi he is struck by her appearance. Tonie doesn't look too
good to Joe. Whassa mat? It is because she has lost Victor,
Carlotta explains. Tonie is unhappy. Joe has insisted that
Victor be a priest, and that —

378 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

'Isa my old lady, Missa Thatch/' Joe explains, confidentiaDy.
"She want — so — ^what the hell — I want too. But longa time —
I no like so much — ^I thinka betta stay on the place — worka
hard — getta married — plenty kids. {Loudly.) No Tonie
Martins!"

"Why, she's a wonderful little girl. You just don't und^^tand
her. Shell make a wonderful little wife for the right boy. She's
got grit. She's happy and loving — and — "

"Loving, all right — sure — but no work! . . . She's a spoiled.
All theesa girl is the same — everybody is a tell she's a wonder-
ful! Every dat goes a moofies — ^what she see? — ^just girla girla
girla — girl is wonderfiJ — iss come home — turns radio — ^what she
hear — girla girla girla — ^Martha — Betty — ^Jane — all wonderful —
so she think — I'm a girl — ^I'm wonderful! I no gotta work —
I no gotta cook — ^I no gotta have kids — I no gotta do nothing —
I'm a girl — ^it's enough — I'm wonderful!"

There is a racket outside. That would be Joe's new three-
thousand-dollar Diesel tractor, the virtues of which he is explain-
ing when Elliott appears. Tlie men greet each other with ex-
plosive grunts. Mr. De Lucchi, Carlotta explains, wants to start
work filling in his part of the slough. He has agreed to put
pipes under Elliott's fill-in to carry the water through to the
drain canal along the road, and Carlotta has taken enough ofi
the price of the land to pay him for it.

Elliott will have nothing to do with the plan. He's not ac-
cepting charity from anyone, including Carlotta.

That's all right with Joe de Lucchi. He'll take his tractor and
go home, though he was plaiming that the money he saved on
the land would help pay for the Diesel. A moment later he has
bounced out.

"Why didn't you let him do the work, Elliott? . . . Why do
you keep this up?"

"I don't know — Danm it! — I can't help it," admits a slightly
chastened Elliott. "I been telling myself for the last month —
everything you told me here — but just the first minute I see him
— damn Dagoes — I just don't like 'em — it's in the blood — ^I
guess."

"Nonsense! It's in your head!"

"I know — prejudice — ignorance and all the rest — ^you needn't
tell it to me again."

"I wish I hadn't said all those thmgs, Elliott."

"That's all right — did me good — I guess."

Elliott confirms the report that he is pulling up his trees.

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 379

They've deteriorated from one year's neglect to the extent of
being no good any more. He'll take the trees out and put in
some quick turn-over crops. Prices are going up with the war —
The situation has set Elliott thinking — and that's hard work, too,
when you're not used to it — "Thinkin' and diggin'— diggin' and
thinkin'— "

"There's something awful wrong, Lot — about what people like
us have let happen to our land," admits Elliott. "Two hundred
million acres of it just plain used up since we took it over from
the Indians. You see, the Indians respected the land — they
knew there are gods in it. We ain't got any gods any more. Just
a lot of machines — {Hears the tractor.) Like that — Hear
that thing out there? God, look at it tearin' into the earth —
pulling for sixty horses — sixty horses that ain't there any more —
to eat, and to fertilize. Just one smart machine. It's smart, all
right. But maybe what we're lettin' it do to us is stupid. We
been too damn busy making things to think what they're doing
to us — They've made us damn lazy for one thing! There isn't
a kid around here who'll put a shovel in the ground for you.
Hell sit on the seat of that damned thing — but he won't put a
shovel in the ground — a shovel brings him down I Think of
that! — a democracy — and work brings you down — Everybody
wants to be something they ain't — bigger — not better! Bigger!
As Ma says — 'something for nothing — something for nothing.' "

Elliott has stopped, more than a little surprised at himself.
"God — I thought I had given up gassing," he laughs.

Now the talk has turned to Tonie. Carlotta would like to
have Tonie come here to live, if Elliott is willing. Something's
gone wrong with Tonie, Carlotta thinks—

"She's lost her way, somehow — ^you know how it is when
you're that age — ^you can lose your way so easily. Life suddenly
isn't anything the way you thought it was — and — "

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, she's in love with Victor and — "

"That's all over. He's gone back to—"

"And it's made her ill. She's sick with love of him! She's a
passionate — primitive girl, Elliott, and a child — she needs some-
one who — "

Elliott guesses the rest. That's why Tonie had fainted dead
away when she heard she hadn't won a puzzles prize! Elliott
might have guessed —

"When I used to see her playing around in the dirt at the
feet of her lazy, drunken, half-breed grandfather — I knew then! — •

380 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

I knew enough from working with my fruit stock to know —
then—"

''Nonsense I You used to cross all kinds of stock. How could
you tell how she was going to turn out? — ^How could you?"

''Where is she? Where did she go?" With that Elliott has
stormed out of the house, imheeding Carlotta's pleading call.

A moment later Tonie comes in through the kitc^n. She
wants Carlotta to take back her money and to release her from
her promise to take the housekeeper's job. She's been thinking
things over and she has made other plans. She's going to try
and get in touch with Billie —

Aunt Mat has arrived. She thought she would find Tonie
there. Her father's looking for her — and he's on the warpath
for fair. Now Cousin Bertha has appeared — ^fuU of news that
she is almost too excited to deliver. Her Billie's married! ! And
to Irma BeldingI Can they beat that! They had driven up to
Reno, where they didn't have to file a notice, and did it.

And is Bertha pleased! Now they won't have to send Billie to
college. Mr. Belding will surely give him a job in the bank.
Being in a bank is just as good as going to college.

"Tonie, did you know what was up?" Bertha suddenly asks.
Tonie has been standing with her back to them while Bertha
has been telling the news. No, Tonie had not known.

"I thought maybe Billie told you. You haven't been ringing
him up for weeks. Well, I gotta get along — going in to call on
Mrs. Belding . . ."

Bertha and Aunt Mat have gone. Tonie has collapsed in a
chair, sobbing. Carlotta would comfort her, but Tonie doesn't
want that. Nor will she tell what is wrong.

The sound of the De Lucchi tractor coming up the road is
heard. A moment later Victor de Lucchi has appeared in the
doorway. "He looks strong and is elated with work and the
new tractor." No, he had not gone back to school. Not yet.
He's going to help finish the work on the slough first. He has
come to warn Carlotta to close her windows against the dust.
They'll be working the tractor for the next two days and nights
— under flood lights at night. That's what you cdl farming
these days.

Vic has started for the door when Tonie comes in from the
kitchen and calls to him. She has news for Victor. Billie Barnes
and Irma Belding were married yesterday. They drove to Reno
and —

Tonie can get no farther. Her helpless gesture toward Victor

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 381

ends in a dead faint. Victor tries to catch her as she sinks to the
floor. He is holding her when Carlotta starts for the phone.
She will call a doctor. "She wouldn't want no doctor/' Victor
adviseS; picking Tonie up in his arms. She wouldn't want no-
body to know— except him. It's Billie — She told him, Vic
says, because she didn't want to make a sap out of him —

Tonie is opening her eyes now. "I'm here," Vic is saying;
"and we're going to get married right away."

"You can't, Victor," protests the confused Carlotta.

"But there isn't anybody now — but me."

"You're going back to school — ^you're going to be a priest."

"No. I'm going to stay here and work — and marry Tonie."

"But you aren't of age — ^your parents won't let you."

"They will when I tell 'em — ^theyll make me."

"But it isn't yours, Victor."

"I don't care. I'm going to marry her anyway."

They can be in Reno in four hours, Vic says, and Carlotta is
eager they should take her car. But there still is Elliott to deal
with. He stalks into the problem now with the statement that
Tonie is not going to marry Victor, no matter what has hap-
pened, but is less belligerent about it when he hears that it is
Billie's child that Victor is demanding his right to father.

"Victor wants to marry Tonie," Carlotta explains, "because
he loves her and he has been taught what love means."

Then Joe de Lucchi strides into the scene. Joe, too, would
like to know whassa matter? He sends Victor to tell Carlotta
to close her windows and now what does he find —

"I'm going to marry Tonie, Papa — "

"No! No! And no I Yousa go back to school I Yousa
be a—"

"Nol No! And nol They said I ain't right for that life,
Papa. And you said so too. You told Mama better I marry
and have kids and — "

"But no Tonies!" Joe is shouting now.

"She's going to have one already. Papa."

"Whassa you say?"

"She's going to have a kid."

Joe wheels on his son and slaps him soundly in the face. "So
the Fathers say you no right for that life! I say it so too and
no right for it! You betcha my life you no right for it! What
you do now, eh? What you going to do?"

"I told you. Papa, I'm going to get married."

"What they going to live on? Where are you going to live?

382 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

You no come backa my place I "

'They can come here. Tonie will have this place some day.
This place will be theirs."

"Wait a minute — The whole place?"

**Yes, the whole place. I haven't anyone to leave it to."

" — ^And the old lady's place, too?"

"Some day. All that's left of the old Thatcher ranch."

"By Jeez — all my life I look at this place — since that first day
I come — I look at this place, and nowl Good! O.K.I It's a
go I — ^We gotta drink on this."

Carlotta has gone to the kitchen to get the wine Joe had left
at their last sales talk and Joe has followed to help her bring
in both wine and glasses, when the children decide not to wait
for the drinking. With Elliott's decision that they had better
get going they are on their way.

"That's a good boy you got there, Joe! A great boy!" de-
clares the suddenly expanding Elliott, with the second toast.

"You betcha my life he's a good boy," agrees the now affable
Joe. "Kid already, eh? Alia my boys isa good boys. Isa good
girl you got there, too. A great girl. Works hard — plenty kids
— and thisa place."

"To our children I" proposes Carlotta.

It would be nice, Carlotta thinks with her second glass, if Joe
would give the children the McCann place. That's a nice little
house. All right. Joe give.

Now Elliott and Joe decide to drink to each other. Then Joe
must go back to work. He has an idea how he can make the
McCann place nice — now he has the new tractor.

"Joe's all right," decides Elliott, finishing another drink. And
straightway decides that he will give the children his service
station. They couldn't make a living out of the McCann place —
and, an3n¥ay, Elliott has decided to go back to farming. Hell
go in on the Thatcher ranch with Carlotta —

"That is— if the offer's still good," adds Elliott, to which
Carlotta makes a happy gesture of assent. "You don't know
anything about farming — and I'm the best damned farmer in
the county — there isn't a Jap or a damned Italian in the whole
place that can — of course I can't promise anything big — ^but we
can make us a living — If we stick together we can make us a
living."

LoTTA — ^We can make us a life! —

Elliott — Yeah. You know, Lot — ^we'll be a good team —

HOPE FOR A HARVEST 383

that's what Ma always says about me — that I'm only good in a
team — she don't know the half of it — ^like that big, strong sorrel
we used to have — Chief — ^just lay back in the traces — wouldn't
pull for a damn — till you hitched him up with Daisy — ^then he'd
pull like all hell I (Moves up to wine — pours another glassful.)
You never should a gone away! You never should have gone!

LoTTA — Haven't you had about enough of that?

Elliott (pours — then crosses to her and gives her a glass) —
No! We've drunk to everybody else around here — ^now we're
going to drink to you and me — How does that soimd to you,
eh? You and me — ^how does that sound?

LoTTA — Sounds good.

Elliott — You know what I'm going to do? — ^I'm coming in
here with you.

Lotta (soothing) — ^I know, Elliott — ^we're going to run the
ranch together and —

Elliott — No! In here! Here. Right in here! Yep! —
I've made up my mind! — ^made up my mind the first week you
got here — ^probably wouldn't have told you for a year or so yet —
if it wasn't for the kids going ofif like this — ^and maybe— -this
Dago red — anyway — It's the thing to do — the sound practical
thing to do — Everything for it — ^nothing against it — ^not a thing
— ^why shouldn't we marry?

LoTTA — ^Elliott, please.

Elliott — ^Why not? We're both alone. I haven't anybody
now — neither have you. Alone we haven't an3rthing to look
forward to — not a damn thing.

Lotta — I know — but —

Elliott — Me?

LoTTA — ^No! — but to make a new life now — to —

Elliott — It wouldn't be a new life, Lot. Just a new graft on
an old root.

LoTTA — ^AU those delicate adjustments one has to go through
to make a go of it. We're beginning to get old, Elliott.

Elliott — ^That's just why we got to stick together. Well
keep each other young — don't you know that? People like you
and me who knew each other young — they keep seeing each
other that way — ^you look just the girl to me. Lot, you used to
be — only a little better-looking — (She looks away archly. He
laughs.) — it's people like us who need love the most. Lot — and
who know how to live together — not kids! Kids expect too much
— and give too little. People like us — we learned not to expect
too much of people — and we have time to be kind to each other —

384

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Why, just to be there — ^to talk to each other and eat with each
other — sit in a chair alongside of each other — Just to keep each
other from being so damned lonesome all the time. Whyl

LoTTA — ^Are you so very lonesome, Elliott?

Elliott — Lonesome? IVe been lonesome my whole life —
ever since you went away — anyway — You never should have
gone, Lot — never should have gone.

LoTTA — ^Well — ^now IVe come home.

Elliott — Yep. Now youVe come home. (Takes her hand.)
I guess you got what you come for too — a home and a harvest —
isn't that what you said?

the curtain falls

THE PLAYS AND THEIR AUTHORS

"In Time to Come," a drama in prologue and seven scenes by
Howard Koch and John Huston. Copyright, 1940, by Mr.
Koch as "Woodrow Wilson." Copyright and published, 1942,
by The Dramatists' Play Service.

Howard Koch, one of the leading scenario writers in Hollywood,
wrote the first draft of "In Time to Come" and called it "Wood-
row Wilson." John Huston was called in later. When certain
suggested changes were made in the script the result of their
collaboration was given the new title. Mr. Koch is a New Yorker
by birth, has an A.B. from Bard College and an LX..B. from
Columbia. He gave up a career as a lawyer to write for the stage
and the screen. His first play was one called "Great Scott,"
and his first production to attract attention was that of "Give
Us This Day," produced in 1933. He also wrote a Lincoln
Play, "The Lonely Man," which had a Chicago production with
John Huston playing the Lincoln role. It was Koch who wrote
the famous Martian incident which, with Orson Welles reading
it over the radio, scared the daylights out of certain simple New
Jersey farmers who heard it. He and Huston did the scenarios
for both "Sergeant York" and "In This Our Life." Mr. Koch
has just finished the American version of "Girl from Leningrad,"
now called "Russian Girl," which is to be the first Soviet film to
be made in America. He has been writing a drama called "If
This Be Treason," and looks forward to a routine that will permit
him to write one play and one picture each year.

John Huston is Actor Walter Huston's son. His writing life,
which he took up after a variety of adventures, including one
as a professional prizefighter and another as a lieutenant in the
Mexican cavalry, has been largely devoted to the screen drama.
He also has been a contributor to the American Mercury maga-
zine. He has collaborated on many successful pictures, includ-
ing "Juarez," "Dr. Ehrlich's Magic BuUet" and "High Sierra."
Recent achievements have included the writing and directing
of "The Maltese Falcon," "In This Our Life" (with Mr. Koch)

and "Across the Pacific."

385

386 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941A2

^The Moon Is Down," a drama in three acts by John Steinbeck,
from his novel of the same title. Copyright, 1940, 1941,
by the author. Copyright and published (as a novel), 1942,
by The Viking Press, Inc., New York.

John Steinbeck's last appearance in this series of playbooks
was in the issue of 1937-38, the season he wrote "Of Mice and
Men." That play also had been written first as a novel, with an
idea to its later dramatization, which was made by George S.
Kaufman. Mr. Steinbeck followed the same pattern with "The
Moon Is Down," though this time he made his own dramatiza-
tion. The playwright was bom 41 years ago in California, edu-
cated in the public schools and later took special courses at
Stanford University. He tried free-lance writing in New York
as a young man, resented the attitude of certain editors, returned
to California to write his first novels, "Cup of Gold," "Pictures
of Heaven," "To a God Unknown," "Tortilla Flat," "Of Mice
and Men."

"Blithe Spirit," a comedy in three acts by Noel Coward. Copy-
right, 1941, by the author. Copyright and published, 1941,
by Doubleday, Doran & Co., Garden City, New York.

Noel Coward has been more active in war work than he has
been in the theatre the last two or three seasons. He did man-
age to write "Blithe Spirit" with the deliberate and expressed
hope that it would take the minds of as many of his countrymen
as saw it off their war miseries for a few hours. The farce has
been a great success in both England and America, though it
has not got farther than New York and Chicago up to now.
Mr. Coward has lived forty-three years and done a lot of writing.
His recent successes have included an autobiography, "Present
Indicative," and a volume of short stories, "To Step Aside."
He was born in the parish of Teddington, near London; went on
the stage when he was 12 ; enlisted in the last war. He was repre-
sented in these volumes with "Design for Living" in 1932-33.
His popular plays have included "Private Lives," "Hay Fever,"
"Bitter Sweet" and "Cavalcade."

"Junior Miss," a comedy in three acts by Jerome Chodorov and
Joseph Fields, based on the book by Sally Benson. Copy-
right, 1942, by the authors. Copyright and published, 1942,
by Random House, Inc., New York.

THE PLAYS AND THEIR AUTHORS 387

The Messrs. Chodorov and Fields broke into the lists of top-
flight playwrights last season with their first dramatization of
Ruth McKenney's New Yorker magazine stories entitled "My
Sister Eileen." Turning again to their favorite magazine source
for a second inspiration, they decided to whittle a comedy out
of the sub-deb fetches that Sally Benson had also contributed
to the New Yorker, and had later put into a book. "Junior
Miss" was the happy result. George Kaufman having staged
their "Eileen" play, it was perfectly natural that Moss Hart
should want to stage "Junior Miss," Mr. Hart being Mr. Kauf-
man's favorite collaborator, and vice versa. Both Mr. Fields, who
is the son of the late Lew Fields of Weber and Fields, and Mr.
Chodorov were bom in New York and went to school in their
home town. Fields thought he'd be a lawyer, but took to writing
instead. Chodorov went into newspaper work as soon as possible
after he left school. They have been successful as scenarists in
Hollywood, where their present writing partnership was formed.

"Candle in the Wind," a drama in three acts by Maxwell Ander-
son. Copyright, 1941, by the author. Copyright and pub-
lished, 1941, by Anderson House, Washington, D. C. Dis-
tributed through Dodd, Mead & Co., New York.

Maxwell Anderson has been a frequent contributor to "The
Best Plays" series, this being his twelfth appearance. His first
plays were written in the early 1920's, the first being "The White
Desert," which failed, his second the "What Price Glory?" on
which he collaborated with Laurence Stallings, and which was a
great success. His verse dramas, "Elizabeth the Queen," "Mary
of Scotland" and "Valley Forge," established his position as one
of the topflight American dramatists. He won a Pulitzer prize
with "Both Your Houses" and two New York Drama Critics*
Circle awards with "Winterset" and "High Tor." He was born
in Atlantic, Pa., in 1888, the son of a minister, and has done
considerable writing for newspapers and magazines, also a little
schoolteaching, in addition to his playwriting.

"Jason," a comedy in three acts by Samson Raphaelson. Copy-
right, 1942, by the author. Copyright and published, 1942,
by Random House, Inc., New York.

This is Samson Raphaelson's third contribution to this theatre
record. In 1934-35 he wrote "Accent on Youth," included in the

3»8 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

volume of that year, and in 1939-40 he was the author of the
very successful comedy called "Skylark/' which was the spring-
board from which Gertrude Lawrence sprang to "Lady in the
Dark." He has been a writing man since he left the University
of Illinois, has sold short stories and magazine articles, advertis-
ing copy and dramas. His "Jazz Smger," which George Jessel
played for two seasons, was his first success. "Young Love" and
"The Wooden Slipper" were also his. He was bom in New
York, but lived, worked and went to school in Chicago.

"Letters to Lucerne," a drama in three acts by Fritz Rotter and
Allen Vincent. Copyright, 1941, by the authors. Copy-
right and published, 1942, by Samuel French, New York.

This moving drama of the second World War resulted from
the joining of two definite Hollywood talents — those of Fritz
Rotter, formerly of Vienna, Austria, and Allen Vincent, always
of these United States, he having been bom in Spokane, Wash-
ington, and graduated from Dartmouth College. Mr. Rotter,
having made a career as a song writer (some 1,200 songs written
by him include "I Kiss Your Hand, Madame" and "Two Hearts
in Three-quarter Time") he decided the writing of the lyrics
for these, and often the composing of the scores as well, was
really a trivial business. So he turned to writing and suppl3ring
ideas for the screen, and to writing for the theatre. In 1936 he
came to America, went to Hollywood, stmggled with the lan-
guage and the bosses and finally became a superior sort of "idea
man." He couldn't write out his scenarios very well, but he
could tell the stories so well he sold most of them before a word
had been put on pq)er.

Mr. Vincent, meantime, having left college, decided to become
an actor. He played parts with Doris Keane in "Romance,"
and in Noel Coward's "The Vortex," "The Grand Street Follies,"
the first "Little Show" and "The Vmegar Tree." He went to
Hollywood as a juvenile and remained to take up writing. That
is how he met Rosalie Stewart, the play agent who has mothered
the genius of many writers, including George Kelly. Miss
Stewart introduced Mr. Vincent to Mr. Rotter. Mr. V, she
said, wrote the best dialogue in screenland and Mr. R sparked
the best ideas. Let them work together. They did and "Letters
to Lucerne" was the result of their first joint effort.

THE PLAYS AND THEIR AUTHORS 389

''Angel Street/' a drama in three acts by Patrick Hamilton.
Copyright, 1939, by the author. Copyright and published
as ''Gaslight," 1939, by Constable & Co. Ltd., London.
Copyright and published as "Angel Street," 1942, by Samuel
French, New York.

The author of this Victorian thriller, which he called "Gas-
light," was bom in London in 1904 and educated at Westminster.
He took to the stage, playing in companies touring the provinces,
as soon as he could get away from school and later, because he
wanted to be a writer, became a stenographer in London. He
was 21 when his first novel, "Monday Morning," was published.
"Craven House" and "Two Pence Coloured" followed. His first
play to be produced in London and New York was one called
"Rope" and later "Rope's End." He went back to novel writ-
ing and did a "Midnight Bell" trilogy. "Gaslight" came along
in 1938, was something of a success in London but was imsuc-
cessfully hawked about America for two years before Shepherd
Traube took it, made a few alterations as to scene sequence, and
produced it as "Angel Street." It proved an overnight success
in New York. Mr. Hamilton's newest work is again a novel,
another Victorian thriller called "Hangover House," published
the spring of 1941 by Random House. He is a keen student of
Victorian literature and the spectacular crimes of the period.
His sister is Diana Hamilton of the London stage. She is the
wife of the Sutton Vane who wrote "Outward Bound."

**Uncle Harry," a drama in three acts by Thomas Job. Copy-
right, 1941, by the author. Copyright and published, 1942,
by Samuel French, New York.

This is Thomas Job's second play to be given a Broadway hear-
ing. His first was the "Barchester Towers" in which Ina Claire
was starred by Guthrie McQintic in 1937. He was bom in the
small village of Conwil in South Wales, his father being Welsh
and his mother English. He was graduated from the University
of Wales and took his M.A. in 1924. He majored in literature
and the history of languages. He came to America in 1925 and
for ten years taught English in a Midwestern college, eventually
establishing a department of drama. Began writing dramas to
provide his students with stage material for their class work.
He has written three plays since "Barchester Towers" — "Rue

390

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

with a Difference," "Dawn in Lyonnese" and *TJnde Harry."
He is now teaching pla3rwriting and dramatic literature at Car-
negie Tech. in Pittsburgh, and hopes eventually to make play-
writing his chief concern.

"Hope for a Harvest," a drama in three acts by Sophie Tread-
well. Copyright, 1940, by the author. Copyright and pub-
lished, 1942, by Samuel French, New York.

In the 1928-29 volume of "The Best Plays" Sophie Treadwell
was represented by a drama called "Machinal," one of the out-
standing productions of that season. Of recent years she has
devoted most of her time to story and scenario writing, working
in her native California. During her junior and senior years at
the University of California she did a good deal of acting with
the dramatic clubs and societies. After her graduation she
played in stock and did some singing in vaudeville. She was
for a time a protege of the late Mme. Helena Modjeska and
helped compile the Modjeska memoirs. Two of her early dramas
were "Gringo" and "Oh, Nightingale."

PLAYS PRODUCED IN NEW YORK

June 15, 1941— June 15, 1942
(Plays marked with asterisk were still playing June 15, 1942)

IT HAPPENS ON ICE

(386 performances)

A skating show in two acts. Second edition resumed by
Sonja Henie and Arthur M. Wirtz at the Center Theatre, New
York, July 15, 1941.

Principals engaged —

Hedi Stenuf Georg Von Birgelen

To Ann Dean Gene Bere

Betty Atkinson Charles Hain

Mar:^ Jane Yeo Skippy Baxter

Edwina Blades Le Verne

Freddie Trenkler Fritz Dictl

Tommy Lee Charlie Slagle

Dorothy Allan A. Douglas Nelles

Rona and COS Thael The Four Bruises

June Forrest Jack Kilty
Staged by Leon LeonidofT; dances directed by Catherine Littlefield;

settings and costumes by Norman Bel Geddes.

"It Happens on Ice" ran for 180 performances at the Center
Theatre from October 10, 1940, to March 8, 1941. The second
edition opened April 4, 1941, and ran until June 14, 1941. The
two engagements totaled 276 performances. The second edition
resumed after a month's vacation on July 15, 1941, making a
total of 662 performances (not consecutive).

(Closed April 26, 1942)

PAL JOEY

(104 performances)

A musical comedy in two acts by John OTHara; music by
Richard Rodgers; lyrics by Lorenz Hart. Returned by George
Abbott to the Shubert Theatre, New York, September 1, 1941.
(Moved to St. James Theatre, Oct. 21, 1941.)

Cast of characters —

Toey Evans Gene Kelly

Max A verell Harris

The Kid Janet Lavis

391

392 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Gladys Vmenne Allen

A^es Diane Sindair

Linda English Anne Blair

Valerie Charlene Harldns

Albert Doane Phil King

Vera Simpson Vivienne Sefal

Escort Edi9<ni Rice

Terry Jane Fraser

Victor Van Johnson

Ernest }$^^ Clarke

Stagehand .Darid Jones

The Tenor Norman Van Embnrgh

Melba Snyder Jean Casto

Waiter Dummy Spevlin

Ludlow Lowell David Bums

Commissioner O'Brien .^ames I^ne

Assistant Hotel Manager Cliff Dunstan

Specialty Dancer: Shirley Paige.

Act I.— Scenes 1, 3 and 5~Night Gab in Chicago's Sonth Side.
2 — Pet Shop. 4 — Vera's and Joey's Rooms. 6 — Tailor Shop.
7 — ^Joey Looks into the Future. Act II. — Scenes 1 and 3 — Chez
Joey. 2 and 4 — ^Joey's Apartment. 5— Pet Shop.

Staged by George Abbott; dances directed br Robert Alton; settings
and lighting by Jo Mielziner; costumes by John Koenig.

"Pal Joey" ran for 270 performances from December 25, 1940,
to August 16, 1941, at the Barrymore Theatre, New York, re-
turning after a two weeks* vacation to the Shubert Theatre, New
York. The two runs made a total of 374 performances (not con-
secutive).

(Qosed November 29, 1941)

LADY IN THE DARK

(305 performances)

A musical play by Moss Hart; music by Kurt Weill; lyrics by
Ira Gershwin. Returned by Sam H. Harris to the Alvin Theatre,
New York, September 2, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Dr. Brooks Donald Randolph

Miss Bowers Jeanne Shelby

Liza Elliott Gertrude Lawrence

Miss Foster Evelyn Wyckoff

Miss Stevens Ann Lee

Maggie Grant Margaret Dnle

Alison Du Bois Natalie Schaf er

Russell Paxton Eric Brothersoa

Charley Johnson Walter Coy

Randy Curtis Willard Parker

Joe Ward Tallmoa

Tom George Bockman

Kendall Nesbitt Paul McGrath

Helen Virginia Peine

Ruthie Gedda Petry

Carol Beth Nichols

Marcia Margaret Westberg

Ben Butler Dan Harden

Barbara Patricia Deering

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

ins Kuch CroDp Du»ccn;
Deiring, June MuLucn,

The Albcrtina Kuch Cronp Du»ccn; Sita Quuiae,

«, June MuLucn. Betb Nichols, Wani WcDcr-
t Watbcrf, lerome Andrew!, George Bockmui,
Fred Heun, Jidm Sweet, WUIum Howdl, Edwud

ic Singers: Cathfrmc Coond, Jean Cnmmicg, Oral Deis. Stella
Hughes. Gcdda Pctry, Jont Rulhctford, Florence Wjmsn. Robert
ArnoJd. Robert Ljon, Evan K. Taylor. Carl N'icbolas, l^n Frank,
" ■ -Tierman. WElJiam Marel, Larry Sicalc,

rn: Anne Brvcken, Sally Fer^son, JacqneliDc Uaanillan,

TheCliildi

Lois Volkman. Joan Volkman. Bonnie Bakei
Robm Milla, Cearge Ward, William Welch, S

I Mou Hart; prodndion and lighting br

..-r-T by Alberiina Raacb; n. -^

vanel: seltingi by Harry Horner ; coalumca by Irene SharafI and Hittie
Carnegie.

First New York openmg of "Lady in the Dark" was at the
Alvin Theatre on January 23, 1941. After 162 performances it
dosed June 15, 1941, re-opening September 2, 1941. This made
an interrupted run of 467 performances.

After the eleven-week rest Gertrude Lawrence resumed the
run of "Lady in the Dark" at the Alvin with four new leading
men — Eric Brotherson, succeeding Danny Kaye; Paul McGrath,
succeeding Bert Lytell; Walter Coy replacing Macdonald Carey
and Willard Parker taking over Victor Mature's rdle. There
were also minor changes in the ensemble.

(Closed May 30, 1942)

VILLAGE GREEN

(50 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Carl Allensworth. Produced by
Dorothy and Julian Olney and Felix Jacoves at the Henry Miller
Theatre, New York, September 3, 1941.

Cast of characters —

lodge Homer W. Peabody Frank Crana

^■- "-ntham J ■■ '"-

t Pcabody Ui

Jeremiali
Henry A

Bentham JoM^ Allen

'"t Peabody Laura Pierpont

Peabody Perry Wilaon

. .John C>ann
•• It Brigga

Hubert Carter Henry

- - - Calvin Tl

Horace SburtleS Calvin t

Godkin John IU*old

- - ■ Mai(- - ■

Harmony Godkin Maida Reade

George Martin jorcph R. Gury

A Boy Se<nit Julian Olney. Jr.

The Reverend Arthur McKnigfat Frank Wilcra

Dawton Norman Unyd

Acti I, n and III. — In Judge Peabody'i Home, North Oitfard, New
Hampibirc.

Staged by Felix Jacovea; aetting by Raymond Sovey.

394 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941A2

Homer Peabody had been ninnmg for Congress on the Demo-
cratic ticket in the Republican stronghold of Connecticut for
16 years, and laughing amusedly at defeat. Now comes a pro-
gressive young artist to paint a symbolical nude in a postoffice
mural. The artist is in love with Judge Peabody's daughter and
the nude just naturally takes on Harriet Peabody's features.
Town scandal threatens and the Judge takes a stand for freedom
of expression in art which rallies the progressives of both parties
to his aid and gets him elected.

(Closed September 27, 1941)

THE WOOKEY

(134 performances)

A drama in three acts by Frederick Hazlitt Brennan. Pro-
duced by Edgar Selwyn at the Plymouth Theatre, New York,
September 10, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Ernie Wookey G«orge Sturgeon

Aunt Gen Carol Gooaner

Mrs. Wookey Nora Howard

Primrose Wookey Heather Angd

Constable Simpson Henry Mowbray

Walt Gibbs Neil Fitzgerald

Mr. Wookey Edmund Gwenn

Rory McSwiggin Horace McNalhr

Cousin Hector Victor Beecroft

Mr. Archibald Byron Russell

A. R. P. Warden Roland Bottomly

Dr. Lewishohn Everett Ripley

First Boy Allen Shaw

Second Boy Gilbert Russell

Third Boy John Moore

First Girl Grace Collins

Second Girl Cora Smith

The Vack Lady Olive Reeves-Smith

The Curate Sean Dillon

First-Aid Man Harrv Sothem

Messenger Allen Shaw

Subaltern Gilbert Russell

Colonel Glenn Charles Francis

Navvies ( John Tervor

1 Milton Blumenthal

Act I. — Parlor of the Wookey Home in the East End Dock Area of

London, the day before England's Entrance into World War II. Act

II. — Scene 1 — Back Yard of Wookey Home, June, 1940. 2 — Parlor.

^ Act III.— Scene 1— Back Yard, September, 1940. 2— -Mr. Wookey's

A Basement.

I Staged by Robert B. Sinclair; settings by Jo Mielziner.

,^ Mr. Wookey was a tugboat captain who served in the B.E.F.

in the First World War but disagreed with the government on
the Second. He wrote 10 Downing Street, telling Churchill

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2 395

exactly what to do, and then quit the whole bally mess. When
he heard a relative was in trouble at Dunkirk he took the tug-
boat over to help. He made seventeen crossings after that.
When his own home was bombed he realized that Britain's war
was every free man's war, got himself a machine gun and went
out to meet Jerry face to face.

(Closed January 3, 1942)

BROTHER CAIN

(19 performances)

A drama in three acts by Michael Kallesser and Richard Nor-
cross. Produced by American Civic Theatre at the Golden The-
atre, New York, September 12, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Mom Kasia Orzazewska

Pete William T. Terry

Hugo Jack Lambert

Joe Royai Raymond

Annie Anita Lindsey

Paul Frederic deWilde

Marion Grace Linn

Mr. Tyler Richard Karlan

Process Server George Edwards

Acts I and III. — The Kowalski Home-Kitchen and Living Room.
Act II. — Gangway in a Coal Mine.

Staged by Charles Davenport; settings by I^uis Kennel.

Paul was a coal miner's son whose brothers chipped in to help
him realize his thirst for learning by sending him to college.
When he came back with a degree from the law school he found
his old Polish mother still loyal but his stupid brothers resentful
and bitter. He tried to help them by going back into the mines.
No good. He brought suit against the company under a New
Deal compensation act, got his brothers fired and his mother
dispossessed. He was pretty sure of a settlement out of court,
however, and planned to marry a mine executive's daughter.

(Closed September 27, 1941)

THE MORE THE MERRIER

(16 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Frank Gabrielson and Irvin Pincus.
Produced by Otto Preminger and Norman Pincus at the Cort
Theatre, New York, September IS, 1941.

396 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Cast of characters —

Miss Craig Dorrit Kehon

Harvey Royal Lonis Hector

Senator Broderick J> C Nugent

Jackson Herbert Dofify

Crivers .Robert Gray

Daniel Finch Frank Albertson

Bugs Saunders Grace McDonald

Joseph Dolma Keenan Wypn

Mr. Cartwri|;ht John McKee

Mrs. Cartwnght Mrs. Priestly Morrison

Bus Driver Scott Moore

Mrs. Keek Lucia Seger

Lucille Keek Brenda Struck

Fat Man Ralph Chambers

Younff Man with a Radio Saint Subber

Mr. Jupiter Max Beck

Sinister Man .Daniele Pcmse

Miss H(»ben Doro Merande

Al Goblin Teddy Hart

Harry Scrawis Millard Mitchell

George Smith Jack Riano

Forrest Lockhart Will Geer

Capt. James John Barnes

First State Trooper Lee Frederick

Second State Trooper James Albert

Mr. Dewey Guy Sampsel

Mrs. Dewey Jane Standish

Doc Strube G. Albert Smith

Acts I, II and III.— Main Hall of Harvey Royal's Castle in the
Colorado Rockies.

Staged by Otto Preminger; setting by Stewart Chaney.

Harvey Royal, egocentric owner of a chain of newspapers, is
trying to be elected Governor of Colorado. He leaves his castle
in the mountains in charge of Daniel Finch, a publicity man,
while he goes to the convention. A storm comes up, a bus is
stalled and the passengers swarm in, mistaking the castle for a
hotel. Two crooks have blackjacked a passenger with funds and
are trying to get the body out of the house when Harvey Royal
returns. He tosses the cadaver oS a balcony and thinks he is
responsible for the victim's death. Some fun. Turns out there
was a reward on the murdered man's head anyway.

(Qosed September 27, 1941)

CUCKOOS ON THE HEARTH

(129 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Parker W. Fennelly. Produced by
Brock Pemberton at the Morosco Theatre, New York, Septem-
ber 16, 1941. Moved to Mansfield Theatre, November 2 and to
the Ambassador, November 21, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Amos Rodick Walter O. Hill

Lulu Pung Janet Fox

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 397

Charlotte Carlton .Margaret Callahan

Donald Carlton Carleton Young

Sheriff Preble Percy KUbride

Zadoc Grimes Howard Freeman

"Doc" Ferris George Mathews

The Professor Frederic Tosere

The Rev. Dr. Clarence Underbill Howard St John

Peck .James Coots

I>r. Gordon Henry Levin

A State Trooper Arthur Hnghes

Prologue.— -Outside Harmony Hearth, the Home of the Carl tons in
Maine. Acts I, II and III. — Living Room of Harmony Hearth.

Staged by Antoinette Perry; setting by John Root.

Donald Carlton is summoned to Washington. He is obliged
to leave Charlotte, his young and pretty wife, alone on their
lonely Maine farm, with a dim-witted cousin. Lulu Pung, and
an eccentric novelist who is practically stone deaf. A blinding
storm threatens and the Sheriff stops in to announce that a sex-
crazed patient has escaped from the sanitarium up the road.
Three strangers are blown in by the storm; they threaten Mrs.
Carlton with death and worse unless she gives them the formula
for a poison gas Mr. Carlton has gone to tell Washington about.
Mrs. C. is being strangled at the end of the second act when
Amos Rodick, from the General Store, appears to explain that
that is only what the novelist imagined happened. Wliat really
did happen is revealed in a second second act, and includes the
outwitting of the three spies.

(Closed January 3, 1942)

THE DISTANT CITY

(2 performances)

A play in three acts by Edwin B. Self. Produced by John
Tuerk at the Longacre Theatre, New York, September 22, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Mom Quigley Gladys George

Pete Cjuiglcy Ben Smith

Edna Scott Gertrude Flynn

David Hacket Robert Vivian

Reverend Jonas West Lee Baker

Mrs. Beatrice Prentiss West Merle Maddem

Lester Prentiss Leonard Penn

Mrs. Laura Prentiss Louise Stanley

Sergeant McKiernan Len Doyle

Policeman Gilbert Morgan

Chaplain Morgan Farley

Warden Burke Garke

Guard Larry Hugo

Act L — Kitchen in Home of Mom and Pete Quigley. Act II.— -Garden
Porch in Home of Reverend West. Act III. — The Warden's Office. A
Big City in the Middle West.

Staged by Edward Byron; settings by Samuel Leve; costumes by
Helene Pons.

398 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Mom Quigley had been something of a trollop in her youth,
but her life had yielded her a son, Pete. Pete became a re-
spected collector of garbage and was good to his Mom, hanging
her on the wall in an armchair when she got in his way. Pete
had for years been in love with Edna Scott. When Edna tells
him the minister's son has got her into trouble, he is willing to
marry her anyway, but the minister's son, fearing repercussions,
strangles Edna and throws the blame on Pete. Pete is convicted
and sent to the electric chair, which distresses Mom. Having
been an atheist, she prays for help. Then she realizes that in the
distant city of Heaven she and Pete will be just as important as
anybody and quits praying.

(Closed September 23, 1941)

GHOST FOR SALE

(6 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Ronald Jeans. Produced by Daly's
Theatre Stock Company and Alex Cohen at Daly's Theatre,
New York, September 29, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Martin Tracey Evan Thomas

Pope Jack Ljmds

Eleanor Tracey '. Mary Heberden

GcoflFrcy Tracey Leon Janney

Sir Gilbert Tracey Austin Fairman

Tudy Ruth Gilbert

Fluff (Udy Tracey) Elsie Mackie

Pleasance Ambleton July Blake

Basil Pennycook Guy Tano

Hermione Proudf oot Sara Fanelle

Mr. Blow Martin Balsam

Mr. Whiteside Ronald Alexander

Mr. Quale Anthony Kent

Mr. Wilberforcc. Steve Colton

Acts I, II and III. — Library of Tracey Manor, Hertfordshire, Eng-
land.

Staged by Ilia Motyleff; setting by Cleon Throckmorton.

Martin Tracey wants to buy the Tracey ancestral estate from
Sir Gilbert and tries to frighten Sir Gilbert into the sale by
hiring a ghost to haunt it. The sale is made, but the ghost stays
on to haunt Martin, who finally sells to young Geoffrey Tracey,
who had been cheated out of it in the first place.

(Closed October 4, 1941)

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 399

MR. BIG

(7 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Arthur Sheekman and Margaret
Shane. Produced by George S. Kaufman at the Lyceum Theatre,
New York, September 30, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Henry Stacey George Baxter

Paula Loring Fay Wray

Leo Orton Judson Laire

Myra Davenport Nina Doll

ioan Starling Ann Evers
fack James MacDonald

Dr. Willoughby Richard Barbee

Bill Ray Mayer

Stanwood Le Roi Operti

Mrs. Jessup Eleanor Phelps

Oscar Cullen Harry Gribbon

Mr. Jessup Jack Leslie

Harley L. Miller Hume Cronyn

Charles G. Wakeshaw Florenz Ames

The Little Man E. J. Ballantine

Amy Stevens Betty Fumess

Carter George Pctrie

Ncsbitt Robert Whitehead

Kennedy David Crowell

Eric Reynolds Barry Sullivan

Rodney Oscar Polk

Broadway Sarah Mitzi Hajos

Johnny Tilley Sidney Stone

Mrs. Tarpin Sarah Floyd

Man From Brooklyn Harry M. Cooke

Molly Higee Ruth Thane McDcvitt

Jack Lamperson John Parrish

The Man From Boston Harold Grau

Check Room Boy James Elliott

Photographers | ^y**"*^ ^.3t°°

( Edward Fisher

{Benson Springer
Robert Rhodes
Rodney Stewart
Peter Lawrence
Irwin Wilcox
Fred O'Dwyer
Acts I, II and 111. — In a Theatre.
Staged by George S. Kaufman; setting by Donald Oenslager.

Henry Stacey, actor producer of a New York stock company,
is taking a bow with his actors at the close of a first night open-
ing when he is shot and killed by a poisoned needle dart. At-
tending the show are a Police Commissioner and a District At-
torney who is a candidate for the Gubernatorial nomination.
The D.A. takes charge of the investigation, holds the audience in
its seats, takes advantage of the occasion to deliver several short
political pleas for support, and finally, by 11 o'clock, having

400 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

been aided by a variety of fortuitous drcumstances arranged by
the pla3n¥rights, uncovers the guilty party.

(Qosed Cklober 4, 1941)

♦ BEST FOOT FORWARD

(302 performances)

A musical comedy in two acts by John Cecfl Holm; music
and l3nics by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane. Produced by
George Abbott at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre, New York,
October 1, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Dtitch Miner Jack Jordan. Jr.

Fred Jones htm WilU, Jr.

Freshman Rkliard thdc

Junior Danny Danids

Honk Hoyt KenneUi Bowers

Satchd Moyer Bobby Harrell

Goofy Qark Lee Roberto

Chuck Green TomniT I>bc

Dr. Reeber Fleming Ward

Old Grad Stuart Langley

Minerva June Allyson

Ethd Victoria ScbooU

Miss Ddaware Water Gap Betty Anne Nyman

Blind Date Nancy Walker

Bud Hooper Gil_ Stratton, Jr.

Ictt

Professor Lloyd Rocer

Waitress Norma Lebn

Jack Ha^erty Marty May

Gale Joy Roaemary Lane

Chester Billings Vincent York

Helen Schlessinger Maureen Cannon

Prof. Williams Robert Griffith

Other principals: Billy Parsons, George Staisey, Stanley Donen,
Buddy Allen and Art Williams.

Act I.-— Scenes 1 and 8 — Gymnasium. 2 and 5 — Room at Eagle
House. 3 — Room in Boys' Dormitory. 4 and 7 — Hall Outside Girls'
Cot Room. 6 — Girls' Cot Room. Act IL — Scenes 1, 4 and 8 — Gym-
nasium. 2 — Room in Boys' Dormitory. 3 — Exterior of Dormitory.
5 and 7 — Hall. 6 — Room in Eagle House.

Staged by George Abbott; dances directed hr Gene Kelly; aettings
and lighting by Jo Mielziner; costumes by Miles White.

Bud Hooper thought it would be a good joke to invite Gale
Joy, the movie glamour girl, to be his date at the Winsocki
prom, never thinking he would get more than a refusal and an
autograph out of it. Miss Joy, about to toss the invitation aside,
is advised by her press agent to accept Bud's invitation for the
good the publicity might do her. G^e arrives in Winsocki, ac-
companied by her agent, arouses the jealousy of Bud's regular
girl and, at the prom, is stripped down to her silhouette by
souvenir-hunting classmen. This threatens a scandal when the
principal walks in. Everybody clothed and happy at the finale.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 401

AH, Wn-DERNESSl

(29 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Eugene CNeQl. Revived by The
Theatre Guild, Inc., at the Guild Theatre, New York, October
2, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Nat Miller Harry Carey

Essie Ann Shoemaker

Arthur Victor Chapin

Richard William Prince

Mildred Virginia Kajre

Tommy Tommy Lewis

Sid Davis Tom TuUy

LUy MUler Enid Markey

David McComber Hale Norcroas

Muriel McComber Dorothy Littlejohn

Wint Selby Walter Craig

Belle Dennie Moore

Nora Philippa Bevans

Bartender Zachary Scott

Salesman Edmund Dorsay

Act I. — Scene 1 — Sitting Room of Miller Home in I^rge Small-Town
in Connecticut 2 — Dininjr Room. Act II. — Scene 1 — iBack Room of
Bar in Small Hotel. 2 — Sitting Room. Act III. — Scenes 1 and 3 —
Sitting Room. 2- — Strip of Beach on Harbor.

Staged by Eva Le Gsulienne; production under supervision of Theresa
Helburn, Lawrence Langner and Eva Le Gallienne; settings by Watson
Barratt.

The original production of Eugene CNeilPs "Ah, Wilderness I"
was staged at the Guild Theatre, New York, in October, 1933. It
had 289 performances before starting a country-wide tour that
lasted the better part of two years. George M. Cohan was the
star of a cast that included Gene Lockhart, Eda Heinemann,
Marjorie Marquis and Elisha Cook, Jr.

(Closed October 25, 1941)

ALL MEN ARE ALIKE

(32 performances)

A farce in two acts by Vernon Sylvaine. Produced by Lee
Ephraim at the Hudson Theatre, New York, October 6, 1941.

Cast of characters—^

Sydney Butch Eustace Wvatt

Mrs. Featherstone Ethel Morrison

Major Gaunt A. P. Kaye

Collins Stapleton Kent

Alfred T. Bandle Reginald Denny

MacFarlane Ian Martin

Wilmer Popda^ Bobby Clark

Franlcie Mamott Lillian Bond

Miss Trellow Mary Newnham-Davis

402 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Albert Batch MHton Karol

Olga Tereldine Drormk

Constable WUHam Valentine

Cyrano De Veau Rolf e Sedan

Thelma Bandle Cora Wttherspoon

Elizabeth Popday Vdma Royton

Acts I and II. — Lounge Hall of Alfred Bandle'a Country Residence
in Surrey. England.

Staged by Harry WagstalF Cribble; setting by Frederick Fox.

Alfred Bandle takes his pretty secretary, Frankie Marriott,
and retires to the country to work. He is shortly followed by
his curious, but hopeful, partner, Wilmer Popday, and later by
his own wife as well as Wilmer's. Complications certainly
ensue.

(Closed November 1, 1941)

ANNE OF ENGLAND

(7 performances)

A drama in three acts by Mary Cass Canfield and Ethel
Borden based on a play, "Viceroy Sarah," by Norman Ginsbury.
Produced by Gilbert Miller at the St. James Theatre, New
York, October 7, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Mr. Throstlewaite Oswald Marshall

Lady Mary Churchill Elizabeth Inglise

Anne, Lady Sunderland Frances Tannehill

Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough ("Mrs. Freeman") ... .Flora Robson

John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough Frederic Worlock

Footman to the Marlboroughs Geoff rev Borden

Lord Godolphin, Lord Treasurer Reginald Mason

Abigail Hill (Afterwards Mrs. Masham) .Jessica Tandy

Mr. Harley Leo G. Carroll

Mrs. Danvers Margery Maude

Duchess of Somerset Cherry Hardy

Captain Vanbrugh Anthony Kemble Cooper

Anne, Queen of England ("Mrs. Morley") Barbara Everest

George, Prince of Denmark Hans Von Twardowski

Mr. St. John Edward Langley

Colond Parke Colin Hunter

Footmen to the Queen { "^iSSde Js" sS35

Pages to the Queen { ^"jack lS?J

Act I. — Scene 1 — Marlborough House. 2 — Kensin^on Palace. Act
II. — Kensington Palace. Act Ifl. — Scenes 1 and 3 — Kensington Palace.
2 — Marlborough House.

Staged by Gilbert Miller; settings by Mstislav Dobujinsky.

Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, long the friend and confidant
of Queen Anne of England (166S-1714), seeks to promote her
own importance at court by inducing Anne to appoint Abigail,
Sarah's young cousin, a lady of the bedchamber. Abigail, being

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 403

sly and ambitious, comes to resent Cousin Sarah's patronizing
domination and craftily worms her way into the good graces of
the Queen. As a result of the intrigue a good deal of trouble
develops between Queen Anne and the Marlboroughs. The
Duke (Winston Churchill's ancestor) resigns his commission in
the army, peace at any price is sought with the France of Louis
XIV, and there are depressing days ahead for England.

(Closed October 11, 1941)

VIVA O'BRIEN

(20 performances)

A musical comedy in two acts by William K. and Eleanor
Wells; lyrics by Raymond Leveen; music by Marie Grever.
Produced by John J. Hickey, Chester Hale and Clark Johnson
at the Majestic Theatre, New York, October 9, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Jeeves .Cyril Smith

Emilio Morales Milton Watson

Betty Dayton Ruth Qayton

Manuel Estrada Roberto Bernardi

Lupita Estrada Victoria Cordova

Tom Harold Diamond

Dick Hugh Diamond

Harry Tom Diamond

J. Foster Adams Edgar Mason

rrof essor Sherwood John Cherry

Mrs. Sherwood Ann Dere

Senora Estrada Adelina Roatina

Pedro Gonzales Gil Galvan

Don Jose O'Brien Russ Brown

Carol Sherwood Marie Nash

Gateman Hugh Diamond

Maria Mara Lopez

Dolores Tanya Knight

Ramon Rudy Williams

Juan Joe Frederic

Native Carrier Pete Desjardins

Zambrano James Phillips

Boatman Joe Frederic

Vicente Gil Galvan

Rani Tony (Oswald) Labriola

Ship's First Officer Cyril Smith

Secretary of Mexican Consulate Terry La Franconi

{Pete Desjardins
Ray Twardy
Betty O'Rourke
Act I. — Scene 1 — Swimming Pool, J. Foster Adams Estate, Miami
Beach, Fla. 2 — Airport, Pan*American Airways, Miami. 3 — Interior
of Airliner. 4 — South of the Border. 5. — La Casa de Estrada, Merida,
Mexico. 6 — Edge of the Forest, Yucatan. 7 — The Sacred Pool.
Act n. — Scene 1 — Street in Merida, Mex. 2 — Edge of the Forest,
Yucatan. 3 — Floating Gardens of Xochimilco, Mexico. 4 — Plaza del
Toros, Mexico City. 5— Deck of a Cruise Ship. 6— Walking the Plank.

404 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

7— Swimming Pool on Adamt Estate.

Staged by Robert Milton ; settings bj Clark Robinson : comedy •%«»«»
directed by William K. Wells; dances by Chester Hale; costmnes by
John N. Booth, Jr. •

A party organized at cocktaQ hour in Miami starts South in
search of a fabled wishing stone. The progress throu^ Mexico
and Yucatan to a Malayan jungle is frequently interrupted by
hordes of dancing girls, fancy divers and hopeful comedians.

(Closed October 25, 1941)

AS YOU LIKE IT

(8 performances)

A comedy by William Shakespeare with incidental music by
Henry Holt. Revived by Ben A. Boyar and Eugene S. Bryden at
the Mansfield Theatre, New York, October 20, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Orlando Alfred Drake

Adam Ross Matthew

Oliver Arthur L. Sachs

Dennis Kenneth Tobejr

Charles Peter Cusanelli

Celia Carol Stone

Rosalind Helen Craig

Touchstone Leonard Elliott

Le Beau John Lorenz

Duke Frederick David Leonard

Corin Harry Sheppard

SUvius John Call

Jac<)oe8 Philip Bonraeaf

Amiens Murvrn Vye

Duke David Leonard

Audrey Valentine Vernon

Sir Oliver Martcxt James O'Neill

Phoebe Paula Trueman

William Kenneth Tobcy

Lords, Pages, Foresters, Attendants: Randolph Echols, Wallace
House, Florence Winston, John Lund, Allyn Rice, Ruth Krakovska«
Doloris Hudson.

Scene: In the Usurper's Court and in the Forest of Arden.

Staged by Eugene S. Bryden; settings and costumes by Lemuel
Aycrs.

The last previous revival of "As You Like It" on Broadway
was that of the Surrey Players in October, 1937. It was done
in 1932 by the Shakespeare Repertory Company, in 1930 by the
Chicago Civic Repertory and in 1923 by the American National
Theatre with Marjorie Rambeau the Rosalind, Ian Keith the
Orlando, Jerome Lawlor the Oliver and Walter Abel the Jacques.

(Closed October 25, 1941)

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 40S

GOOD NEIGHBOR

(1 performance)

A play in three acts by Jack Levin. Produced by Sam Byrd
at the Windsor Theatre, New York, October 21, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Yankel Barron Gustav Shadct

Hannah Anna Appel

Heinrich Howard Fischer

Whitcy Albert Vees

Mrs. Jacobs Edith Sha/ne

Mrs. kurtmann Grace Niills

Officer Clydesdale . . .' Donald Arbury

Luther Arthur Anderson

Bessie Ednz Mae Harris

Miss Jolly Helen Carter

Barney Lewis Charles

Miss Jaff rey Susanne Turner

Western Union Boy Leslie Barrett

Doctor Henry Sherwood

Hildie Marcella Powers

Dave Sam Byrd

Leader of the Cavaliers Winfield Smith

Second Cavalier John A. Steams

Act I. — Hannah's Second*Hand Shop in an American City. Acts
II and III. — Hannah's Kitchen.

Staged by Sinclair Lewis; settings by Frederick Fox.

Hannah Barron has her problems. Her husband is a hypo-
chondriac. Her son Dave goes to sea and sends her a thousand
dollars which she is supposed to save, but which she doles out
to suffering neighbors, and her son Barney marries a no-good
wife. Dave comes ashore and wants his money to get married.
Mama could get it by turning over a half-wit German boy
she has hidden in her house to save him from hooded Cavaliers
who want to lynch him. But Mama holds to the principles of
the Golden Rule and Good Neighborliness. The Cavaliers shoot
her, but Dave gets her life insurance and she is content.

(Closed October 21, 1941)

CANDLE IN THE WIND

(95 performances)

A drama in three acts by Maxwell Anderson. Produced by
The Theatre Guild, Inc., and The Playwright's Company at the
Shubert Theatre, New York, October 22, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Fargeau Philip White

Henri Benedict MacQuarrie

Deseze Robert Harrison

406 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941^2

Charlotte Leooa Sbbevts

Mercy N^ Harriaoa

Maddine Guest lidcB Hayes

Maitie Toinpkms Evdjn Varden

Saool St. Cloud Umit Borcll

German Captain Harro^Mellcr

German Lieutenant Kaad

Col. Erfurt Joka

Lieut. Schoen Tonii

Corporal Behrent Mario Gan^

Madame Fleurjr Michelette Borani

M. Fleury Stanley Jessnp

First Guard Brian Connanijit

Second Guard Ferdi Hoffman

Cissie Lotte Lenya

Corporal Mueller Joseph Wiseman

Third Guard George Amire

Fourth Guard Guy Moneii penny

Corporal Schultz William Malten

Captain Bruce Femald

Act I. — Scene 1 — Garden at Versailles, June, 1940. 2 — ^Pumping
Station on Outskirts of Paris, Now Office of Concentration Camp.
Act II. — Scenes 1 and 3 — Madeline's Apartment in the Plaza Athenae.
1941. 2 — Office of Concentration Camp. Act IIL— Garden at Ver>
sallies.

Staged by Alfred Lnnt; production superrised by Lawrence Langner
and Maxwdl Anderson; settings and lighting by Jo Mielziner.

See page 180.

(Qosed January 10, 1942)

THE LAND IS BRIGHT

(79 performances)

A drama in three acts by George S. Kaufman and Edna
Ferber. Produced by Max Gordon at the Music Box, New
York, October 28, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Blake Herbert Duffy

Matt Carlock Jack Hartley

Jesse Andrews Roderick Maybee

Ollie Pritchard Grover Burgess

Lacey Kincaid Ralph Theadore

Tana Kincaid Martha Sleeper

Deborah Hawks Ruth Findlay

Ellen Kincaid Phyllis Povah

Letty HoUister Flora Campbell

Count Waldemar Czarniko Arnold Moss

Grant Kincaid Leon Ames

Flora Delafield Mnriel Hutchison

Dan Frawley G. Albert Smith

Miss Perk Edith Russell

Dorset Walter Beck

Anne Shadd Louise Larabee

Clare Caron. K. T. Stevens

Linda Kincaid Diana Barrymore

Wasme Kincaid Hugh Marlowe

Chauffeur Norman Stuart

Maid Elaine ShqMird

Jerry Hudson Robert Shayne

Theodore Kincaid William Roenck

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 407

Joe Tonetti James La Ctirto

Greta lili Valenty

Bennet Russell Conway

Timothv Kincaad Dickie Van Patten

Ellen Hudson Constance Briffbam

Lacer Kincaid John Draper

Bart HUfiard Charles McQdland

Count Waldemar Cxamiko II Arnold Moss

Acts I, II and III. — Fifth Avenue Home of the Kincaids, New
York City.

Staged bv George S. Kaufman; setting by Jo Mielziner; costumes
by Irene Sharaff.

Lacey Kincaid amassed a fortune of $200,000,000 by various
questionable industrial triumphs in the West and founded the
Kincaid dynasty. Coming East he built a Fifth Avenue mansion
for Ellen, the boarding house keeper's daughter he married, and
sought to force his way into New York's social life by bu3dng a
decaying French Count for their daughter Tana. The generation
of Kincaids that followed Lacey ran with the hounds and hunted
with the rats of society, but the third generation, sobered by
events leading up to and including the Second World War, were
on their way to a social and moral reform at the last curtain.

(Closed January 3, 1942)

♦ LET'S FACE IT

(263 performances)

A musical comedy in two acts by Herbert and Dorothy Fields,
based on "The Cradle Snatchers"; music and lyrics by Cole
Porter. Produced by Vinton Freedley at the Imperial Theatre,
New York, October 29, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Madge Hall Marguerite Benton

Helen Marcy Helene Bliss

Dorothy Crowthers Helen Devlin

Anna Kalita Humphreys

Winnie Potter Mary Jane Walsh

Mrs. Fink Lois Bolton

Mrs. Wigglesworth Margie Evans

Another Sfaid Sally Bond

Maggie Watson Eve Arden

iulian Watson Joseph Macaulay
7ancy CoUister Vivian Vance

George Collister J*^™^ To<^<^

Cornelia Abigail Pigeon Edith Meiser

iudge Henry Clay Pigeon Fred Irving Lewis
folly Wincor Marion Harvey

Margaret Howard Beveriy Whitnc/

Ann Todd Jane Ball

Phillip Henry Austin

Jules Tony Caridi

Eddie HUliard Jack Waiiams

Frankie Bums Benny Baker

Muriel McGUlicuddy Sunnie O'Dea

408

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

{ean Blanchard Nanette Fabny
jcutenant Wiggins Honston Riduurds

Jerry Walker Danny Kaye

Gloria Gunther Betty Moran

Sigana Earle Miriam FranJdin

Master of Ceremonies William LilUng

Private Walsh Fred Nay

Dance Team Mary Parker, Billy Danid

Mrs. Wiggins Kalita Hom^reys

Royal Guards: Tommy Gleason, Ollie West, Roy Russell, Ricki Tanzi,

Henry Austin, Toni Caridi.
Vocalists: Marguerite Benton, Helene Bliss, Janice Joyce, Beverly

Whitney. Lisa Rutherford, Frances Williams.
Guests: Billie Dee, Mary Ann Parker, Sally Bond. Jane Ball, Peggy
Carroll, Sondra Barrett, Jean Scott, Jean Trybom, Marflynn
Randels, Marion Harvey, Miriam Franklin, Pegnr Lattlejohn,
Pat likely, Zynaid Spencer, Renee Russell, Pamela Qifford, Edith
Turgell.
Selectees: Garry Davis, George Florence, Fred Deming, Dale Priest,
Mickey Moore, Jack Riley, Joel Friend, Fred Nay, Frank Ghegan,
Randolph Hughes.
Act I. — Scene 1— The Alicia Allen Milk Farm on Long laland.
2 — Service Club at Camp Roosevelt. 3 — Parade Grounds. A — Mrs.
Watson's Summer Home, Southampton, L. I. Act II.—- Scene 1 — Mrs,
WaUon's Home. 2 — Boathouse of Hollyhock Inn. 3 — Hollyhock Inn
Gardens. 4 — Exterior of Inn. 5 — Service Club.

Staged by Edgar MacGregor; dances and ensembles by Cliarles
Walters; music directed by Max Meth; settings by Harry Homer;
costumes by John Harkrider.

Maggie Watson, Nancy ColHster and Cornelia Pigeon, sus-
picious of their husbands' hunting trips, invite Jerry Walker,
Frankie Bums and Eddie Hilliard from a nearby army camp
to come over and help entertain them. Complications ensue
when the husbands return and the boys* girl friends show up un-
expectedly. The story stems from the farce, "The Cradle
Snatchers," a 1925 hit written by Russell Medcraft and Norma
MitcheU.

HIGH KICKERS

(171 performances)

A musical comedy in two acts by George Jessel, Bert Kalmar
and Harry Ruby from a suggestion by Sid Silvers. Produced
by Alfred Bloomingdale at the Broadhurst Theatre, New YoAy
October 31, 1941.

Cast of characters —

— IN THE PROLOGUE —

The Candy Spieler Billy Vine

High Kickers Chorus Themselves

Two American Showgirls Joyce Mathews, Rose Teed

Schultz Joe Marks

Geo. M. Krause, Sr. (Kelly) George Jessel

Sophia Mary Klarlow

The Doctor Rollin Baaer

George M. Krause, Jr Dick Monahan

The Stylish Four Shaw, Bay, Young, Griffin

Mamie Betty Bruce

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Sophie Tucker Henelf

Geo. H. KriuR. Jr Ceor(e Jeucl

S. Kanfnun HiTt Jtclc Mana

"-F McKm ■-■-

..LeeSullinn

lipple Pranklyn Fox

Mayor John Wilberf orce Chick York

" - --- Wilberfortt ; ■^°V, ^'^

"lyor .

Chief of Poiiee ,

Belljr Be«t]r Brace

SMart Horiui Dancen Themielvei

Betty Jane Betty Jane Smith

The Fianiit Ted Shieiro

A Slate Hand Chax ChiM

Stuart Moi^an Daacert
Showcirl*: Sunnr Ainiworlh. Barbara Brewster, Claris Brewaier,
Lucille Caiey, BoniU Edwardi, Eleanor Half, Joyce Matheoa,
BeItT Stewart, Roie Teed.
DancinR Clrli: Jeao Anihony. Helen Barric, Stcphcnie Cekan,
Marilyn Hale, Frances Hammond, Ann Hrim, Ellen Howard,
Marjorie Jackun, Dorothy Jellera, Mary-Robin Mirlow. Ray Mc-
Giegor. Bobbie Prieser, Helen Spruill, Marion Wames.
Boys: Bob Bay, Bob Shaw, Harry Mack. Victor Griffin, Harold

Younc. Donald Wel^muller.
Act I.— Scene I— Inside Pjnera Burlesque Theatre— Year 1»10.
2~Tlie High Kickers in Parin. 3— A Dressing Room in Iho Cellar.
*— Dancme Time Away. S— Stage Door of n Theatre in Chamberrille.
U, S. A.— Year 1S4I. 6— Backstage. 7— The Opening Night. »—
In Panama. 9— Sophie Tucktr's Drclsing Room. 10— The Strip.
Act II.— Scene 1— Courtroom in Chamberville. 2— On the Street
nni.ide the Court. J— Hotel Lobby. 4— Boudoir of Mrs. Wilber-
S — Specially— Chai Cbaae. 6 — Oulaide of Hayot'* Estate.

—In the G

~ !d b] _.

andill; settings by Nit

Slaged by Edward Sobel; mutic directed by Val Era
CarlRandi "

George M. Krause, Jr., inherits his father's "High Kickers"
burlesque troupe. Sophie Tucker goes along as a sort of guardian
and friend. The troupe is arrested in Chamberville, O., but
Sophie is able to expose the Mayor's wife as an old trouper and
gets them off.

(Gosed March 2S, 1942)

THE MAN WITH BLOND HAIR

(7 performances)

A play in three acts by Norman Krasna. Produced by Frank
Ross at the Bdasco Theatre, New York, November 4, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Harry Cohy Ruikin

Matt Robert William*

John Alfred Ryder

Vrank Connon Jame* Gregory

Rath Hoffman Eleanor Lynn

Sidney Curl Conway

Cari Re« WillUma

stumer Bernard Lenro*

410 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

Mrs. Hoffman Don Weissmmn

Messenger Boy. George Walladi

McCarthy Francis DeSales

Harvey , . . . .Owen Martin

Act I. — Scenes 1 and 2 — Roof of East Side Tenement on Summer
Evening. 3 — The Hoffman Living Room. Acts II and IIL— The Hoff-
man Living Room.

Staged by Norman Krasna; settings by Howard Bay.

Carl and Sturaer, German aviators, escape from a prison camp
in Canada, get to New York and are pidced up by the police.
While being held for the Federal government a group of East
Side boySy one a rookie policeman, get them out of the police
Station with the intention of beating them up. Stumer escapes.
Carl is given a chance to throw himself off a tenement roof.
Ruth Hoffman, hoping to keep her boy friends out of trouble,
hides Carl in her Jewish mother's apartment. After two days
with the kindly Hoffmans, Carl discovers the truth about Ameri-
can Democracy. Given a chance to shoot it out with police
captors he begs for help.

(Closed November 8, 1941)

♦ BLITHE SPIRIT

(257 performances)

A farce in three acts by Nod Coward. Produced by John C.
Wilson at the Morosco Theatre, New York, November 5, 1941.
Moved to Booth Theatre, May 18, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Edith Jacqueline Clark

Ruth Peggy Wood

Charles Clifton Webb

Dr. Bradman Philip Tongc

Mrs. Bradman PhylHs Joyce

Mrs. Arcati Mildred Natwick

Elvira Leonora Corbett

Acts I, II and III. — Living Room of the Charles Condomines House
in Kent.

Staged by John C. Wilson; setting by Stewart Chaney.

See page 109.

THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER

(9 performances)

A comedy in three acts by A. N. Langley. Produced by
Alfred de Liagre, Jr., at the Cort Theatre, New York, Novem-
ber 8, 1941.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 411

Cast of characters-^

Cordcr Ivsn Triesanlt

Grant Magill Gordon Oliver

Nurse Pyngar Mary Boylaa

Bickey Frances Heflin

Essie Stuyvesant Pauline Lord

Gerda Karen Morley

Wilfred Marks Alan Hewitt

Roland Wayne Harold Landon

Yippcr Pickford Frank Albertson

Doctor Drew Nicholas Joy

Policeman Charles BInox

Acts I, II and III. — Living Room of Essie Stuyvesant's House on
East 88th Street. New York City.

Suged by Alfred de Liagre; setting by Raymond Sovey.

Essie Stuyvesant is a flibbertigibbet with a family on her
hands. Her oldest dau^ter is about to give birth to her first
child. Her youngest daughter is in the throes of a particularly
violent calf-love affair. Her sister is gradually discovering that
her husband is a cad if not a scoundrel. The rent collector is
about to toss Essie and her brood into the street, and the family
doctor, an old flame, is hoping Essie will light long enough to
consider his proposal of marriage. Everything is settled by
curtain time.

(Qosed November IS, 1941)

SPRING AGAIN

(241 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Isabel Leighton and Bertram Bloch.
Produced by Guthrie McClintic at the Henry Miller Theatre,
New York, November 10, 1941. Moved to the Playhouse, Janu-
ary 12, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Halstead Carter C. Aubrey Smith

Nell Carter Grace George

Elizabeth Betty Breckenridge

Edith Wcybright Ann Andrews

Girard Weybri^Iit Richard Stevenson

Millicent Cornish Javne Cotter

Tom Cornish .John Craven

Bell Boy Joe Patterson

Robert Reynolds Ben Lackland

Dr. Lionel Carter , Robert Keith

{oe Crumb Michael Strong
M J. O'Connor Lawrence Fletcher

A Western Union Boy George Spelvin, Jr.

William Auchinschloss Joseph Bulof!

Arnold Greaves ^ William Talman

Acts I. II and III. — Living Room of the Carter's Apartment, in
New York City.

Staged by Guthrie McClintic; setting by Donald Oenslager.

412 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

Ndl Carter has lived with her husband, Halstead, for a good
many not too happy years. Nell's chief irritation is Halstead's
hero worship of his father, the late General Carter, who did
something heroic at Shiloh and has been done into statues and
brochures periodically ever since. During one spell of rebellion
Nell writes the true history of all the stuffy Carters and sells
it as a radio serial. She has to recall it in the end, however, to
avoid a family scandal and also to guarantee peace in her own
home.

(Qosed June 6, 1942)

MACBETH

(131 performances)

A tragedy by William Shakespeare, arranged in two acts and
19 scenes; incidental music by Lehman Engel. Produced by
Maurice Evans in association with John Haggott at the National
Theatre, New York, November 11, 1941.

Cast of characters —

First Witch Grace Coppin

Second Witch Abby Lewis

Third Witch William Hansen

Duncan, King of Scotland Harry Irvine

Malcolm Ralph Clanton

Donalbain William Nichols

Menteith Ernest Graves

Angus Philip Huston

Lennox Erf ord Gage

Caithness Walter Williams

Fleance Alex Courtnay

Sergeant John Ireland

Ross Harry Brandon

Macbeth Maurice Evans

Banquo Staats Cotsworth

Lady Macbeth Judith Anderson

A Messenger John Straub

Se)rton Irving Morrow

A Porter William Hansen

Macduff Herbert Rudlev

An Old Man John Parisn

A Page Jackie Aycrs

First Murderer John Ireland

Second Murderer John Straub

I^dy Macduff Viola Keats

Boy. Richard Tyler

A Doctor Harry Irvine

A Waiting-Gentlewoman Grace Coppin

A Young Soldier Alex Courtnay

Si ward. Earl of Northumberland Gr^ory Morton

Lords, Gentlemen, Gentlewomen, Oflicers, Sdldiers, Attendants and
Messengers: Evelyn Helmore. Abby Lewis, Ada McFarland,
Jackie Ayers, John Parish, William Nichols, Melvin Parks, Al*
fred Paschall.

Act I. — Scene 1 — Desert Place. 2 and 4 — Camp Near Forres. 3 —
A Heath. 5 — Room in Macbeth's Castle. 6 and 7 — The Castle. Act
IL— Scenes 1 and 3— Palace. 2— Park. 4— A Heath. 5 — Fife.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 413

MacdufTs Castle. 6— Before King's Palace, England. 7— Macbeth't
Castle. 8— Country near Dunsinane. 9 — Room m Castle. 10— Camp
Near Bimam Wood. 11 and 12— The Castle.

Staged by Margaret Webster; settings by Samuel Leve; costumes by
Lemuel Ayers.

Recent revivals of the tragedy of "Macbeth'* in New York
have been those of Philip Merivale and Gladys Cooper in 1935,
Lynn Harding and Florence Reed in 1932. Jack Carter and
Edna Thomas played a Negro version in 1936 under WPA aus-
pices, and John Cromwell and Margaret Wycherly gave a single
performance in 1937, sponsored by the Barter Theatre.

(Qosed February 28, 1942)

THEATRE

(69 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Guy Bolton and Somerset Maugham.
Produced by John Golden at the Hudson Theatre, New York,
November 12, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Julia Lambert Cornelia Otis Skinner

Mr. Purkiss Leon Shaw

Evie Viola Roache

Michael Gosselyn Arthur Margetson

Roger Gosselyn Frederick Bradlee

Tom Fennell John Moore

ievons J. Colvil Dunn
)olly De Vries Helen Flint

Lord Charles Temperley Francis Compton

Avice Crichton Jane Gordon

A Stage Manager George Spelvin

Sergeant Stanley Harrison

Acts I and II. — Living Room of Julia and Michael in Hampstead.
Act III. — Scenes 1 and 2 — ^Julia's Dessing Room at Siddons Theatre.
3— The Stage.

Staged by John Golden; settings by Donald Oenslager.

Julia Lambert, the most popular actress in London, has di-
vorced her actor husband, Michael, but continues to live pub-
licly as his wife. She is worried both about her advancing years
and her possible loss of sex appeal. She is anxious that her
growing son, Roger, should continue to appear as young as pos-
sible, and she deliberately welcomes an affair with her husband's
secretary, Tom Fennell, to reassure herself of her continuing
attraction for men. Finally, deciding against further experiment,
Julia tricks her husband into a remarriage.

(Closed January 10, 1942)

414 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

LITTLE DARK HORSE

(9 perfonnances)

A comedy in three acts by Theresa Hdbiim, «ih^[ilf<1 from a
French comedy by Andre Birabeau. Produced by Donald Black-
well and Raymond Curtis at the Golden Theatre, New York,
November 16, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Agatha Wanaa Panl

Dr. Roubert Rolfe Sedan

Louise Monfa^et Leona Powers

Madame Onzain Cecilia Loftns

Catherine Anita Magee

Jean-Pierre (Jipe) Raymond Roe

Patrick (Patoche) Edmund Abel

Madame Vellenaad ELatherjn Givney

Madame Monfavet Ann Maaon

Emil Onzain Walter Slexak

Noel R. V. Whitaker

FnuKoia Monfaret Grant Mills

Acts I, II and III.~-Living Room of the Monfavet House in Pro-
vincial France. Some Years Before the Present War.

Staged by Melville Burke; setting by John Koenig; costumes by
Frank Spencer.

Francois Monfavet, living in a provincial French village, is
taken suddenly iU. In going through his desk the family dis-
covers that he has been paying tuition for a boy at a military
school. They assume the boy is illegitimate, and that, under the
circumstances, he should be taken into the family. They send
for the boy and discover him to be black. Francis, the father,
had spent three years in the Congo and little Nod is one of the
results. A threatened commimity scandal is averted when Noel
is turned over to Emil Onzain, a bachelor uncle.

(Qosed November 22, 1941)

RING AROUND ELIZABETH

(10 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Charl Armstrong. Produced by
Allen Boretz and William Schorr in association with Alfred
Bloomingdale at the Playhouse, New York, November 17, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Laarette Carpenter Styles Katherine Emmett

Hubert Cherry Herbert Yost

Mercedes Marilvn Erskine

Vida , Ruth Chorpenning

Jennifer Katharine Bard

Elizabeth Cherry Jane Cowl

Irene Oliver Diantha Pattison

Harriet Gilpin Lea Penman

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2 41S

Ralph Sherry McKay Morris

Anay Blayne , '^^17 Sullivan

Policeman Gilbert O. Herman

Dr. Holliater Edwim Cooler

Acts I, n and III. — Living Room of Elizabeth Cherry's House,
in SmaU Mid-Western City.

Staged by William Schorr; setting by Raymond Sovey.

Elizabeth Cherry finds herself revolving closer and closer to a
nervous breakdown in her squirrel cage of a home. Suddenly
she decides to forget everything and become a stranger to her
own family. Amnesia, the doctor calls it. As a stranger Eliza-
beth is able to straighten out a few family problems before she
permits herself to recover.

(Qosed November 25, 1941)

♦JUNIOR MISS

(246 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Jerome Chodorov and Joseph Fields.
Produced by Max Gordon at the Lyceum Theatre, New York,
November 18, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Harry Graves Philip Ober

Joe Slenneth Forbes

Grace Graves Barbara Robbins

Hilda Paula Laurence

Lois Graves Joan Newton

Judy Graves Patnda Peardon

Funy Adams Lenore Lonergan

J. B. Curtis Matt Briggs

Ellen Curtis Francesca Bmning

Willis Reynolds Alexander B^ldand

Barlow Adams John Cushman

Western Union Boy James Elliott

Merril Feurbach Peter Scott

Sterling Brown Robert Willey

Albert Kunody Tack Manning

Tommy ArbucUe Walter Collins

Charles Jack Geer

Henry .John Hudson

Haskell Cummings Billy Redfidd

Acts I, II and III.— The Graves' Apartment

Staged by Moss Hart; setting by Frederick Fox.

See page 145.

WALK INTO MY PARLOR

(29 performances)

A drama in three acts by Alexander Greendale. Produced by
Luther Greene at the Forrest Theatre, New York, Novembi^
19, 1941.

416 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

Cast of characters —

Theresa Rotiiui Galli

IHo Silvio Minciotti

Salvatore Dnane MdUnaey

Carmella RiU Piazza

Gino Nicholaa Come

Grace Helen Waren

Nick Lou Polan

Laigi Joseph De Santis

Rose Hildegarde Halliday

Aurora Rachel Mtllay

Dadish .Joseph Jalian

Acts I, II and III. — Living Room of the Sarellis in an Italian Section
of Chicago.

Staged bj Luther Greene; setting by Paul Morrison.

The Sarellis family is living precariously in the Italian section
of Chicago. Ilio, the father, and his good son, Salvatore, can
make no more than $11 a week selling fruit. Gino, a bad boy^
goes in for crime, and induces his mother, Theresa, an honest
soul but weak, to take up the passing of counterfeit money. Car-
mella, married to Luigi, loves Gino, and things get depressingly
mixed before Gino decides to leave home and mother and reform.

(Closed December 13, 1941)

THE SEVENTH TRUMPET

(11 performances)

A drama in three acts by Charles Rann Kennedy; music by
Horace Middleton. Produced by Theatre Associates at the
Mansfield Theatre, New York, November 21, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Sam Brodribb A. G. Andrews

Percival Peter Gushing

Deborah Broome Leslie Bingham

Ladj Madeleine Carmen Mathews

Father Bede Ian Madaren

Brother Ambrose Thaddeus Suaki

Bomber 666 Alan Handley

Acts I, II and III. — Lawn of a Primitive Chapel of Saint Lazarus,
Near Glastonbury, England.

Staged br Charles Rann Kennedy; supervised by Jean Rosenthal;
lighting and setting by Jo Mielziner.

Percival, a London bobby who plucked a time bomb off Lud-
gate Hill at the expense of a shattered body, arrives at Glaston-
bury, England, the morning after Nazi bomber 666 has blown
the Monastery of St. Lazarus to bits. Thereafter Percival, Lady
Madeleine, Deborah Broome, Father Bede, Brother Ambrose
(from Greece) and Sam Brodribb, all Christian socialists variously
advanced, expound the call to faith and an international brother-
hood to meet the Nazi menace.

•

(Closed November 29, 1941)

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

417

HOPE FOR A HARVEST

(38 performances)

A drama in three acts by Sophie TreadweU. Produced by The
Theatre Guild at the Guild Theatre, New York, November 26,
1941.

Cast of characters —

Mrs. Matilda Martin Helen Carew

Antoinette Martin Jvdy Parriih

Elliott Martin Fredric March

Carlotta Thatcher Florence Eldridge

Nelson Powell John Momy

Victor de Lncchi Arthur Franz

Billy Barnes Shelley Hnll

Bertha Barnes Edith King

Joe de Lucchi Alan Reed

A Woman Doro Merande

Act I. — Kitchen of Mrs. Martin's House. Acts II and III. — Living
Room of the Old Thatcher Ranch-House.

Staged by Lester Vail; supervised by Lawrence Langner and
Theresa Helbam; settings by Watson Barratt.

See page 349.

(Closed December 27, 1941)

* SONS 0' FUN
(231 performances)

•

A vaudeviUe revue in a prologue and two acts by Ole Olsen,
Chic Johnson and Hal Block; songs by Jack YeUen and Sam £.
Fain. Produced by the Messrs. Shubert at the Winter Garden,
New York, December 1, 1941.

Principals engaged —

Ole Olsen
Carmen Miranda
Frank Libuse
Rosario Perez
Lionel Kaye
Ben Beri
Valentinoff
Vilma Josey
Margaret Brander
Richard Craig
Catherine Johnson
Moran ft Wiser
Watson ft O'Rourke
Sutler Twins

Chic Johnson
Ella Logan
Joe Besser
Antonio Rnis
James Little
Kitty Murray
Ivan KiroT
Stanley Rom
Milton Charleston
Martha Rawlins
Eddie Davis
Parker ft Porthole
Carter ft Bowie
Mullen Twins
Blackburn Twins

Crystal Twins

The Pitchmen: Al Ganz and Al Meyers.

The Biltmorettes: Edna Isenburg, Joan Baker and Beverly Sweet

Staged and lighted by Edward Duryea Dowling; supervised by Harry
Kaufman; dances directed by Robert Alton; settings by Raoul Pene
Dubois.

418 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

After three years of the Olsen and Johnson 'llellzapoppin,"
this ''Sons o' Fun" might just as well have been called ^'More of
the Same."

TWELFTH NIGHT

(IS performances)

A comedy in a prologue and two acts by William Shakespeare;
music by Joseph Wood. Revived by The Chekhov Theatre
Players at the Little Theatre, New York, December 2, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Viola Beatrice Straight

Sea Captain Frank Rader

Sebastian Ronald Bennett

2nd Sea Captain Charles Bamett

Orsino John Flynn

Curio Nelson HarreU

Valentine Lester Bacharach

Sir Toby Belch Ford Rainejr

Maria ^*^ Haynsworth

Sir Andrew Aguecheek Hard Hatfield

Feste Alan Harkness

Malvolio Sam Schatx

Olivia Mary Lou Taylor

Fabian Youl Bryner

Servants: Daphne Moore, Eleanor Barrie, Alfred Boylen, Margaret
Boylen, and Penelope Sack.

Prologue — Seacoast of Ilyria. Act I. — Scene 1 — ^Apartment in
Duke's Palace. 2 — Street Before Olivia's House. 3 and 6 — Room
in Duke's Palace. A — Room in Olivia's House. 5 — Cellar in Olivia's
House. 7— Olivia's Garden. Act II.— Scene 1— Street Before Olivia's
House. 2 — A Prison. 3 — Room in Olivia's House.

Staged by Michael Chekhov and George ShdanoflF; settings and cos-
tumes by Michad Chekhov.

A stylized staging of the Shakespearean comedy which is well
known to the college campuses of the West and Middle West

(Closed December 13, 1941)

SUNNY RIVER

(36 performances)

A musical comedy in two acts by Oscar Hammerstein, 2nd;
music by Sigmimd Romberg. Produced by Max Gordon at the
St. James Theatre, New York, December 4, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Children Carol Renee, Joan Shepherd, Edwin Bmoe Moldow

Old Henry Richard Haey

Gabriel Gcrvais Ainsworth Arnold

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 419

Mother Gervais Ivy Scott

Jemn Gervaifl Bob Lawrence

Jim Donmld Clark

Harry George Hdmes

Emil Gordon DUworth

Emma. Yield Charles

LoliU Ethel Levey

Aristide Owair Polk

George Marshall Dudley Oements

Iad|[e Pope Martineau Frederic Persson

Mane Sanvinet Muriel Angdus

Daniel Marshall Tom Ewell

Cecilie Marshall Helen Claire

Madeleine Caresse Joan Roberts

Martha Peggy Alejcander

Specialty Dancer Jack Riano

Specialty Dancer Bfiriam LaVelle

Achille Caresse WiUiam O'Neal

The Drunk Howard Freeman

Act I. — Scene 1 — Levee Street, New Orleans. 1806. 2 — Patio of
the Cafe des Oleandres. 3 — Upstairs Sitting Room of M. and Mme.
Jean Gervais. 1911. A — ^Jean's Dressing Room. 5— Reception Hall.
Act II. — Scene 1 and 3 — Patio of Cafe des Oleandres. 2 — Levee
Street.

Staged by Oscar Hammerstein, 2nd. ; dances by Carl Randall ; settings
by Stewart Chancy; costumes by Irene Sharaff.

Marie, with a voice, was making her way with the other girls
at Lolita's place called the Cafe des Oleandres when Jean Gervais,
a highborn young man, fell in love with her. This so greatly
upset Cecilie Marshall, who hoped to marry Jean, that she told
Marie she (Cecilie) and Jean had been lovers for ages. Marie
thereupon took a loan of $5,000, ran away to Paris, became a
great opera singer and came back to sing Jean into subjection
a second time. They were about to continue the old love when
Cecilie was found fainting on their doorstep and they gave up.

(Closed January 3, 1942)

♦ANGEL STREET

(224 performances)

A drama in three acts by Patrick Hamilton. Produced by
Shepard Traube at the Golden Theatre) New York, December
5, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Mrs. Manningham Judith Evdjn

Mr. Manningham .Vincent Price

Nancy Elizabeth Enstis

Elizabeth Florence Edney

Rough Leo G. Carrol!

Acts I, II and III. — House on Angel Street, Pimlico District of
London. 1880.

Staged by Shepard Traube; setting and costumes by Lemuel Ayers;
lighting by Feder.

See page 282.

420 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

GOLDEN WINGS

(6 performances)

A drama in three acts by William Jay and Guy Bolton. Pro-
duced by Robert Milton at the Cort Theatre, New York, Decem-
ber 8, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Pam Margot Stevenson

Bessie Valerie Cossart

}ohn. Acting Flight Lieutenant Lowell Gilmore
ane, a Member of the W.A.A.F Cathleen Cordell
oe, an Aircraftsman Edmond Stevens

Huehie Green*

Peter Boyne

William Rykey

Gerald Savorr

Geoffrey ^

WhL hPflot Officer.

Norman J

Rex, Flight Lieutenant Lloyd Goug^

Tom. Pflot Officer Gordon Oliver

Judith, a Flyer in the Ferry Service Signe Hasso

Kay, a Farmerette in the Land Service Fay Wray

Wing-Commander Forbes Evan Thomas

Hunt, a Pilot Officer William Packer

f4'~}N.wmpcr Men [^HL^S^

Acts I, II and III. — Lounge of Chilgrove Service Quo. December,
1940.
Staged by Robert Milton; setting by Watson Barratt.

* On leave of absence from the Royal Canadian Air Force,

Rex and Tom are fliers in the RAF. Rex, an aristocrat on
the loose, takes a fancy to Tom's girl, Judith. Judith doesn't
mind, but Rex's fianc^, Kay, feels pretty bad about it. Rex
and Tom work up to a fight in which Tom strikes Rex, his supe-
rior officer. The fight is patched up, but Rex advises Tom to
keep out of range of his guns the next time they are in the air.
In the next fight Tom is killed. Rex swears he had forgotten all
about the quarrel once he was tailing Heinkels, but a court-
martial and a scandal threaten.

(Qosed December 12, 1941)

BROOKLYN, U.S.A.

(57 performances)

A drama in three acts by John Bright and Asa Bordages.
Produced by Bern Bernard and Lionard Stander at the Forrest
Theatre, New York, December 21, 1941.

Cast of characters —

The Dasher Tom Pedi

Smiley Manone Eddie Nugent

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 421

Nick Santo Victor Christian

Josephine Irene Winston

Si Omitx Ben Ross

Lena Rose Adelaide Klein

Louis Cohen Martin Wolf son

A Customer Lou Leif

Willie Berg Sidney Lumet

Mike Zubriskie Robert H. Harris

iean Julie Stevens
IcGill Byron McGrath

Philadelphia Henry Lascoe

Tony Mazzini David Pressman

Albert Roger Dc Koven

A Guard Eli Siegel

Act L — Scene 1 — Section of Brooklyn Waterfront. 2 — Brooklyn
Candy Store. 3 — Brooklyn Barber Shop. Act IL — The Candy Store.
Act IIL — Scene 1 — Pre-eacecution Cells in Sing Sing. 2 — Candy Store.
Staged by Lem Ward; settings by Howard Bay.

Nick Santo is a comparatively innocent and honest representa-
tive of organized labor whom the bosses want put out of the way.
They engage Smiley Manone's mob to do the job. Nick is mur-
dered in a barber's chair. Smiley and the mob are eventually
rounded up by an honest and persistent District Attorney. (Plot
and details have been credited to a Brooklyn murder syndicate
known to the press as "Murder, Inc.," which District Attorney
William O'Dwyer recently ran into Sing Sing.)

(Closed February 7, 1942)

PIE IN THE SKY

(6 performances)

A comedy by Bemadine Angus. Produced by Edgar Mac-
Gregor and Lyn Logan at the Playhouse, New York, December
22, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Monte Trenton, Jr Oscar Shaw

Vera Trenton Luella Gear

Nellie Marjorie Peterson

Dan Harmon Ben Laughlin

Art Winton Lucian Self

Roger Montgomery Trenton, III Herbert Evers

Sylvia Kent Leona Powers

Corinne Bassett Enid Markey

Suzy Bransby Barbara Arnold

Lily de Lacy Lyn Logan

Pepino Rodrigo Kirk Alyn

Mr. Sterling Ted Emerv

Homer Bassett Herbert Corthell

William Taylor Bram Nossen

Emile LeBeau Rafael Corio

Acts I, II and III. — Living Room of the Trenton Residence, Fifth
Avenue, New York City.

Staged by Edgar MacGregor; setting by Donald Oenslager.

422 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

The Monte Trentons are practicaDy bankrupt. If they can
marry their personable son, Roger, to LQy de Lacy, a man hunter
with a lot of widow money, they can be saved. Could have hap-
pened if Roger hadn't preferred brunettes.

(Qosed December 27, 1941)

LETTERS TO LUCERNE

(23 performances)

A drama in three acts by Fritz Rotter and Allen Vincent.
Produced by Dwi^t Deere Wiman at the Cort Theatre, New
York, December 23, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Olga Kirinski Sonym Stokowsld

Gustave Alfred A. Hesse

Ema Schmidt Crete Mosfaeim

Gretchen Linder Beatrice De Neergaard

Hans Schmidt Carl Case

Margarethe Lilia Skala

Mrs. Hunter Katherine Alexander

Bingo Hill Nancy Wiman

Felice Renoir Mary Barthdmess

Sally Jackson Phyllis Avery

Marion Curwood Faith Brook

Francois Kenneth Bates

Koppler Harold Dyrenforth

Act I. — Scene 1 — ^The Main Hall. 2 — A Dormitory. Act II. — Scene
1— The Main Hall. 2— The Dormitory. Act III.— The Main HalL

Staged by John Baird; settings by Raymond Sovey.

See page 212.

(Closed January 10, 1942)

BANJO EYES

(126 performances)

A musical comedy in two acts by Joe Quillan and Izzy Elinson,
from a play by John Cecil Holm and George Abbott; lyrics by
John La Touche and Harold Adamson; music by Vernon Duke.
Produced by Albert Lewis at the Hollywood Theatre, New York,
December 25, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Miss Clark Jacqtieline Sasana

Mr. Carver E. J. Blunkall

Erwin Trowbridge Eddie Cantor

Sally Trowbridge June Clyde

Harry, the Bartender Richard Rc4>er

Charlie Bill Johnson

Ginger Virginia Mayo

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 423

The De Biarcos Sally and Tony De Marco

Patsy Lionel Stander

Fraxude Ray Mayer

Mabel Audrey Christie

Tommy Tommy Wonder

The General John Ervin

The Captain James Fkrrd!

The Filly Ronnie Cunningham

"Banjo Eyes" Mayo and Morton

The Quartette George Richmond, Phil Shafer,

Doug Hawkins, Geo. Lovesee

Act I. — Scene 1 — The Display Salon of Canrer Greeting Card Co.
2 — Bar in Midtown Hotel. 3 and 5— Mabel's Room. 4 — ^The Dream
Pastures. Act II. — Scene 1 — Bar. 2 and A — Erwin's Home, Jackson
Heights. 3 — Dream Pastures. 5 — Camp Dixon. 6 — Clubhouse, Bel-
mont Park. 7 — Grandstand, Bdmont Park.

Staged and lighted by Hassard; book directed by Albert Lewis;
dances by Charles Walters; settings by Harry Homer; costumes by
Irene SharafF.

Erwin Trowbridge is the greeting card salesman who figured
out a system of bating the races in ''Three Men on a Horde."
In "Banjo Eyes," an adaptation of that comedy, he gets his in-
formation in dreams that take him to the stables of the racers.
The horses give him the tips on condition that he will not gamble.
Erwin is practically shanghaied by a gang of touts and has a
lot of trouble before it is time to call it an evenmg.

(Closed AprU 12, 1942)

CLASH BY NIGHT

(49 performances)

A drama in two acts and seven scenes by Clifford Odets. Pro-
duced by Billy Rose at the Belasco Theatre, New York, De-
cember 27, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Jerry Wilenski Lee J. Cobb

Joe W. Doyle Robert Ryan

Mae Wilenski Tallulah Bankhead

Peggy Coffey Katherine Locke

Earl Pfciffer Joseph Schildkraut

Terry's Father John F. Hamilton

Vincent Kress Seth Arnold

Mr. Potter Ralph Chambers

Tom Art Smith

A Waiter William Nunn

A Man Harold Grau

Abe Horowitz Joseph Shattuck

An Usher Stephan Eugene Cole

Acts I and II. — Wilenski Home, Staten Island, New York. Summer
of 1941.

Staged by Lee Strasberg; settings by Boris Aronson.

Mae Wilenski is fed up with life and her husband, the cloddish
but honest Jerry Wilenski. When Earl Pfeiffer, a fairly dashmg

424 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

young motion picture projectionist, comes to board with the
Wilenskis Mae, after a short struggle, decides to submit to his
advances. Jerry, sluggishly awakening to the situation, stalks
Earl to his projection booth and strangles the life out of him.

(Closed February 7, 1942)

IN TIME TO COME

(40 performances)

A drama in prologue and seven scenes by Howard Koch and
John Huston. Produced by Otto Preminger at the Mansfield
Theatre, New York, December 28, 1941.

Cast of characters —

Woodrow Wilson Richard Gaines

Edith Boiling WUson Nedda Harrigan

Captain Stanley Randolph Preston

Tumulty William Harrigan

Cdonel House Russell Collins

iudge Brandeis Bernard Randall
Hllan James Gregory

Terry Harold J. Kennedy

Smith PhUip Coolidge

Price Edgar Mason

Gordon Robert Gray

Dr. Gary Grayson Alexander Clark

Henry White John M. Kline

Professor Seymour Maurice Burke

Signor Orlando Vincenzo Rocco

Signer Martino Joseph Quaranto

Monsieur Pichon Arnold Korff

Sonino Rene Roberti

Clemenceau Guy Sorel

Lloyd George Harold Young

Senator Lodge House Jameson

Prologue — Congress in Joint Session, April 6, 1917. Scenes 1, 6 and
7— President W^ilson's Study in the White House, Washington, D. C
2 — An Enclosed Deck Reserved to American Delegation on S.S. George
Washington Approaching Brest Harbor. 3 and 5 — Living Room in
House Occupied by the President Near Pare Monceau. 4 — Conference
Room at Quai Dorsay. The action ends on March 4, 1921.

Staged by Otto Preminger; settings by Harry Homer; costumes by
John Koenig.

See page 34.

(Closed January 31, 1942)

THE FIRST CROCUS

(5 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Arnold Sundgaard. Produced by
T. Edward Hambleton at the Longacre Theatre, New York,
January 2, 1942.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 42S

Cast of characters —

Henrik Jorislund Edwin Philips

Inip Jorialund Martha Hedman

Avis J orislund Barbara Engdhart

Milford Torislund Eugene Schid

Lars Hilleboe Lewis Martin

Ansgar Jorislund Herbert Nelson

Herman Nelson Hugo Haas

Videt Melby Jocelyn Brando

John Hanson Jack Parsons

Tr^rgve Knutsen Clarence Nordstrom

Miss Engebretsen Joan Crovdon

Mrs. Tens Oppedal Elizabeth Moore

Alfred Oppedal Harry Maull

Sigvald Pickett Nordahl Robert Pastene

Paul Johnson Charles Furcolowe

Richard Johnson Milton Karol

Bor^hild'jensen Connie Maull

Munel Fevdd Josephine McKim

Acts I and III. — The Torislund Living Room in Albion, Minnesota.
Act II. — Scene 1 — ^The Albion Schoolhouse. 2 — The Jorislund Living
Room.

Staged by Halsted Welles; settings by Johannes Larsen.

Inga Jorislund is determined that her children shall become
persons of social consequence in the new world to which' the
Jorislunds are devoted. She is temporarily defeated in her ambi-
tions when her youngest son, Milford, cheats himself into a*
school prize given to the student who finds the first crocus in
the Spring and is exposed, and when her daughter, Avis, becom-
ing disgusted with being too rigidly ruled at home, determines
to leave home and live her own life elsewhere. Inga also borrows
money from the school fund, which her husband has to sell his
overcoat to pay back before a scandal results. Only mother's
ambition survives the defeats.

(Closed January 6, 1942)

PAPA IS ALL

(63 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Patterson Greene. Produced by
Theatre Guild, Inc., at the Guild Theatre, New York, January
6, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Mama Jessie Royce Landis

Jake Emmett Rogers

State Trooper Brendle Royal Seal

Emma Celeste Holm

Mrs. Yodcr Dorothy Sands

Papa Carl Benton Reid

Acts I, II and III. — Kitchen of the Aukamp Farmhouse, North of
Lancaster, Pa.

Staged b^ Frank Carrington and Agnes Morgan; supervised by
I^wrence Langner and Theresa Hdburn; setting and costumes by
Eradine Roche.

426 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Papa is a Hitler in the home. He won't let Mama go to the
movies. He won't let Emma have a beau. He woo't let Jake
study engineering. When he discovers that Emma has sneaked
out with a boy he goes gunning for the boy. Jake gets the family
Ford stalled on a raQroad track, whacks Rapa over the head
with a wrench and leaves his body in an en^ty freigjit car.
When the Ford is demolished he reports that Papa is '^aO" (mean-
ing dead in Pennsylvania German). There is much happiness
until Papa turns up again. Finally the law doses in on Papa
and he is definitely ^'all" for at least a few years.

(Qosed February 28, 1942)

JOmWY ON A SPOT

(4 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Charles MacArthur, from a story
by Parke Levy and Alan Lipscott. Produced by John Shubert
at the Plymouth Theatre, New York, January 8, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Cameraman Jack Bratnmrd

McClure Arthur Marlowe

Danny William Foran

Ben Kusick Paul Huber

Creeper Sanford Bidcert

Julie Glynn Edith Atwater

Heeler Tom Morriaon

Doc Blossom Will Geer

Nicky Allen Keenmn Wyim

Salesman Jack McCauley

Barbara Webster Florence Sundstrom

Lucius Olvester Polk

Colonel Wigmore Michadl Harris

Mayor Lovett Charles Olcott

Pepi Pisano Tito Vuolo

Pearl Lamonte Dennie Moore

Judge Webster Joseph Sweeney

Chronicle Reporter Ricnard Karlan

Chronicle Cameraman Burton Mallory

Chief of Police G. Swayne Gordon

Sergeant of State Troopers John CBialle/

Flanagan Harry Meehan

Warden Ben Roberts

Dapper Gamay Wilson

Captain of State Troopers Phil Sheridan

Acts I, II and III. — The Governor's Oflice in a Southern State.

Staged by Charles BiacArthur; setting and costumes by Frederick
Fox.

Nicky Allen is campaign manager for the Governor of a
Southern State who is trying to get himself elected to the U. S.
Senate. On the eve of the election the Governor, an alcoholic,
passes out in the resort of his favorite trollop. Later Nicky

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2 427

learns that the Governor is dead and the rest of his day is given
over to getting the body out of the bordello and into the state
house, that his patron may die decently and be buried with
dignity.

(Closed January 10, 1942)

THE LADY COMES ACROSS

(3 performances)

A musical comedy in two acts by Fred Thompson and Dawn
Powell; music and lyrics by Vernon Duke and John LaTouche.
Produced by George Hale in association with Charles R. Rogers
and Nels(m Seabra at the 44th Street Theatre, New York, Janu-
ary 9, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Jill Charters Evelyn Wyckof!

Tony Patterson Ronald Graham

Otis Kibber Joe E. Lewis

Elmer James Morton L. Stevens

Mary ^^^ Douglas

Alberto Zord Stiano Braggiotti

4 Shoppers The Martins

Mr^ Riverdale Ruth Weston

Campbell « Gower (Champion)

Kay Jeanne (Tyler)

Babs Appleway Wynn Murray

Ernie Bustard Mischa Auer

Baroness Hdstrom Helen Windsor

Ballerina Comique Eugenia Delarova

Ballerina Lubov Rostova

The Phantom Lover Marc Piatt

Models: Betty Douglas, Evelyn Carmel, Patricia Donnelly, Judith
Ford, Dorothy Partington, Arline Harvey, Joan Smith, Drucilla
Strain.

Autograph Seekers, Reporters, Guests, Etc.

Act I. — Scene 1 — A Railroad Station. 2 — Jill's Room in a Hotel.
3 — Blue Room at Chez Zoral. 4 — Red Room. Act II. — Scene 1 — At
Mrs. Riverdale's EsUte. 2— On Way to Bathing Pavilion. 3— Bath-
ing Pavilion. 4 — After the Party. 5 — Bedroom. 6— Garden. 7 —
Railroad Station.

Staged bv Romney Brent; choreography by George Balanchine;
settings and costumes by Stewart Chaney; production under super*
vision of Morrie Ryskind.

Jill Charters dreams she is a spy and when she awakens, by
golly, she is a spy. Her adventures involve several distressed
comedians and a few comediennes, including Ruth Weston, who
has to hide the papers in her girdle.

(Closed January 10, 1942)

428 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

THE RIVALS

(54 perfonnances)

A comedy in two acts by Richard Brinsley Sheridan with songs
and lyrics by Arthur Guiterman and Macklin Marrow. Produced
by The Theatre Guild at the Shubert Theatre, New York, Janu-
ary 14, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Lydia Languish Hula Stoddard

Lucy HdcB Ford

Julia Frances Reid

Mrs. Malaprop Mary Boland

Sir Anthony Absdote Walter Hampden

CapUin Absolute Donald Burr

Faulkland Robert Wallsten

Acres Bobby Clark

Boy Walt Draper

Sir Lucius O'Trigger Philip Bonmenf

David Horace Sinclair

Footman George Boots

Footman William Whitehead

Act I. — Scenes 1 and 4 — Mrs. Malaprop's Lodgings. 2 — Captain
Absolute's Lodgings. 3 — ^The North Parade. 5 — Acres* Lodgings.
Act IL — Scenes 1 and 3 — Mrs. Malaprop's Lodgings. 2 — ^The Nortli
Parade. 4 — King Mead Fields. Bath.

Staged by Eva Le Gallienne; production under supervision of
Theresa Helbum and Lawrence Langner; settings and costumes by
Watson Barratt.

A major revival of "The Rivak'* was made by the Players'
Club in 1922, with Francb Wilson as Acres, Mary Shaw as
Malaprop and Tyrone Power as Sir Anthony. In 1923 the
Equity Players staged a revival, again with Miss Shaw and Mr.
Wikon, Maclyn Arbuckle playing the Sir Anthony. Minnie
Maddem Fiske organized a "Rivds" company in 1924-25 with
herself as Malaprop, James T. Powers as Acres and Tom Wise
as Sir Anthony. Again in 1930 she played Malaprop to the
Acres of Powers and the Sir Anthony of John Craig.

(Qosed February 28, 1942)

ALL IN FAVOR

(7 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Louis Hofifman and Don Hartman.
Produced by Elliott Nugent, Robert Montgomery and Jesse
Duncan at the Henry Miller Theatre, New York, January 20,
1942.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 429

Cast of characters —

Tony Ralph Brooke

Wack Wack (Harry McDongal) Raymond Roc

Weasel Arnold SUnr

Flip Bob Rcadick

Marco (Lover) Leslie Barrett

Mr. Piper Frank Conlan

Peewee (Ed^r McDougal) Tommy Lewis

Helen Gloria Mann

Jean Claire Frances

Cynthia Frances Heflin

Bixby J. C. Nugent

(Gorman James R. Waters

Officer Callahan Harry Antrim

The Professor ^ f Milton Herman

Sasha I Hank Wolf

Myron V (Radio Voices) < Freddie Geffen

Raymond [ I George Spelvin, Jr.

Young Lady J v Joy Genen

AcU I. II and III.— Club Revel, Washington Heights, New York.

Staged by Elliott Nugent; setting by Samuel Leve.

Harry (Wack Wack) McDougal and a gang of his Washington
Heights pals in New York organize a Club Revel. Runnmg into
debt for their basement rooms they decide to take in a few girls
to help the treasury. Cynthia, one of the girls, loses her purse,
can't get back to Brookl)^ and stays the night in the club rooms
with Wack Wack. From the perfectly innocent adventure scandal
threatens which, added to continued financial difficulties, is about
to break up the club when Wack Wack's younger brother, Peewee,
wins the jackpot at a radio quiz show.

(Closed January 24, 1942)

JASON

(125 performances)

A drama in three acts by Samson Raphadson. Produced by
George Abbott at the Hudson Theatre, New York, January 21, '
1942.

Cast of characters —

Miss Crane Ellen HaU

Violet Eulabelle Moore

Messenger Nicholas Conte

{ason Otis Alexander Knox
.isa Otis Helen Walker

George Bronson Raymond Greenleaf

BiU Squibb William Niles

Humphrey Crocker E. G. Marshall

Nick Wiggins Abraham Knox

Mr. Kennedy Tom Tully

Mrs. Kennedy Edna West

Acts I, II and III. — Living-Room of the New York Home of Jason
Otis.
Staged by Samson Raphadson; setting by John Root

430 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Jason Otis is a dramatic critic. Mike Ambler (Messenger) is
a slightly wacky playwright who loves humanity. Mike bas a
play accepted and sedLS out Jason to explain its meaning. Jason
would throw Mike out of his house if he could, but M&e is
tenacious. He not only sta3rs on, but he makes love to Jason's
wife. The night Mike's play is produced Jason catches Mrs.
Jason in the playwright's arms. In spite of which he writes an
honest (and favorable) criticism of Mike's play.

(Closed May 9, 1942)

BOSTON COMIC OPERA COMPANY— JOOSS BALLET

DANCE THEATRE

(63 performances)

Presenting a repertory of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas and
Kurt Jooss dance drama. Produced by the Messrs. Shubert at
the St. James Theatre, New York, beginning January 21, 1942.

H.M.S. PINAFORE
(18 performances)
Cast of characters —

The Rt Hon. Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B Florenz Ames

Captain Corcoran Bertram Peacock

Ralph Rackstraw Morton Bowe

Dick Dcadcyc Robert Pitldn

Bill Bobstay John Henricks

Bob Becket Edward Piatt

Tommy Tucker Master Arthur Henderson

Josephine Kathleen Roche

Cousin Hebe Margaret Roy

Little Buttercup Hden Lanvin

First Lord's Sisters, His Cousins. His Aunts, Sailors, Marines, Etc

Scene: The Quarterdeck of H.M.S. Pinafore, Off Portomooth,
England.

Staged by R. H. Bumside; music directed by Louis KroU.

THE GREEN TABLE

A dance drama in eight scenes by Kurt Jooss; music by Fred-
eric Cohen.

Cast of characters —

Death Rolf Alexander

The Standard-Bearer Tack Ganaert

The Old Soldier Jack Skinner

The Woman Bunty Slack

The Old Mother Eva Leckstroem

The Young Soldier Henry Shwarz

The Young Girl Noelle de Moaa

The Profiteer Hans Znllig

Directed by Kurt Jooss; costumes by H. Heckroth.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 431

THE MIKADO
(February 3, 1942)
(19 performances)
Cast of characters-^

The Mikado of Japan Robert Pitkin

Nanki'Poo Morton Bowe

Ko*Ko Florenz Ames

Poo-Bah Bertram Peacock

Pish-Tush I'rcdcric Penwon

Yum- Yum Kathleen Roche

Pitti-Sing Mary Roche

Peep-Bo Margaret Roy

Katisha Helen LauTia

Chorus of School Girls, Nobles, Guards and Coolies.

Act I.— Courtyard of Ko-Ko's Palace in Titipu. Act II.— Ko-Ko*a
Gardens in Titipu.

THE BIG CITY
Cast of characters —

The Young Girl Noelle de Mosa

The Young Workman Hans Zullig

The Libertine Jack Gansert

Scene 1— The Street. 2— -The Workers' Quarters. 3— The Dance
Halls.

Costumes by H. Heckroth. Ballet by Kurt Jooss. Music by Alex-
ander Tansman.

A BALL IN OLD VIENNA
Cast of characters —

The Debutante Ulla Soederbaum

Her Admirer Hans Zullig

Her Aunts Elsa Kahl, Bunty Slack

The Eligible Young Man Lucas Hovinga

His Sweetheart Noelle de Mosa

The Dancing Master Henry Shwarz

His Partner Eva Leckstroem

( Lydia Kocers, Jack Skinner

Dancing Couples ^ Joy Bolton -Carter, Alfredo Corvino

( Marguerite De Anguera, Jack Gansert

Scene — Vienna in the 1840's.

Staged by Leon Greanin; costumes by Aino Sllmola. Choreography
by Kurt Jooss. Music by Joseph Lanner; arranged by Frederic Cohen.

THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE
(February 17, 1942)
(11 performances)
Cast of characters —

The Pirate King Bertram Peacock

Samuel Frederic Persson

Frederic Morton Bowe

432 THE BEST FLAYS OF 1941-42

llajor-General Stanley Florenz Ames

Sergeant of Police Robert Phkm

Mabel Kathleen Roche

Edith Mary RodM

Kate Margaret Roy

I sabel Mane VaMes

Ruth Hden Lanvw

General Stanley's Wards; Pirates and Police.

Act I. — A Rocky Seashore on the Coast of CpmwalL Act II. — ^A
Ruined Chapel by Moonlight.

THE PRODIGAL SON
Cast of characters —

The Father Jack Skinner

The Mother Elsa Kahl

The Son Rolf Alexander

The Mysterious Companion , Jack Gansert

The Young Queen Noelle de Mosa

The Seductress Bnnty Slack

Two Harlots Joy Bolton-Carter, Lydia Kocers

Young Men and Women, Mob: Alfredo Corvino, Lucas Hovinga,

Lydia Kocers, Eva Lekstroem, Alida Mennen, Peter Michael,

Lavina Nielson, Marguerite de Anguera, Henry Shwarz, Ulla

Soedcrbaum, Richard G. Wyatt^ Hans Zullig, Jack Dunphy.

Staged by Kurt Jooss; costttmes by Dimitri Bouchene. Legend in

dance by Kurt Jooss. Music by Frederic Cohen.

lOLANTHE
(February 23, 1942)
(S performances)
Cast of characters —

The Lord Chancellor Florenz Ames

Earl of Mountararat Robert Pitkin

Lord Tolloller Morton Bowe

Private Willis Frederic Persson

Strephon Phillip Tully

Queen of the Fairies Helen Lanvin

lolanthe Margaret Roy

Celia Mary Roche

Flcta Marie Valdex

Phyllis Kathleen Roche

Fairies — Peers.

Act I. — An Arcadian Landscape. Act II. — Palace Yard, West-
minster. Date— Between 1700 and 1882.

TRIAL BY JURY
(February 28— March 1, 1942)
(7 performances)
Cast of characters —

Judge Florens Ames

Plaintiff Mary Roche

Counsel for Plaintiff Bertram Peacock

Defendant PhUlip Tully

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 433

Foreman of Jury Frederic Persson

Usher Robert Pitkin

Chorns of Bridesmaids, J[ury and Spectators.

Scene — A Qmrt of Justice.

Followed bj H.M.S. Pinafore,

THE GONDOLIERS
(March 3, 1942)
(3 performances)
Cast of characters —

The Duke of Plaxa-Toro Florenz Ames

Luiz Phillip Tully

Don Alhambra Bolero Robert Pitkin

Marco Palmieri Morton Bowe

Giusei>pe Palmieri Bertram Peacock

Antonio Edward Piatt

Francesco Lawrence Shindel

Giorgio Frederic Persson

The Duchess of Plaza-Toro Helen Lanvin

Casilda Margaret Roy

Gianetta Kathleen Roche

Tessa Mary Roche

Fiamctta Marie Valdex

Vittoria Phyllis Blake

Giulia Mary Lundon

Inez Florence Keezel

Act I.—- The Piazzetu, Venice. Act II. — The Pavilion in the Palace
of Barataria.

(Closed March 14, 1942)

* PORGY AND BESS

(165 performances)

A folk opera in three acts by DuBose Heyward; music by
George Gershwin; lyrics by DuBose Heyward and Ira Gershwin,
founded on play by DuBose and Dorothy Heyward. Revived
by Cheryl Crawford at the Majestic Theatre, New York, January
22, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Maria Georgette Harvey

Lily Helen Dowdy

Annie Catherine Ayers

Qara Harriett Jackson

Jake Edward Matthews

Sportin' Life Avon Long

Mingo Jimmy Waters

Robbins Henry Davis

Serena Rubv Elzy

Jim Jack Carr

Peter Robert Ecton

Porgy Todd Duncan

Crown Warren Coleman

Bess Anne Brown

434 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Ift Policeman WaUm

2iid Policeman Paal Da Foot

Detective Gibha Peanae

Undertaker John Garth

Frazier J. Roiaanmd Johnaoa

Nelaon William Bowen

Strawberry Woman Hdca Dowdj

Crab Man Wffliam Woolfolk

Coroner Al West

ResidenU of Catfish Row, Fishermen, Children, Stevedores, Etc
The Eva Jessye Choir.

Act I. — Scene 1 — Catfish Row. 2 — Serena's Room. Act II. — Scenes
1 and 3 — Catfish Row. 2 — ^A Palmetto Jmigle. 4— Serena's Room.
Act III. — Catfish Row.

Staged by Robert Ross; settings by Herbert Andrews; costnmes bj
Paul du Pont.

A dramatization of Du Bose Heyward's "Porgy," made by the
author and his wife, Dorothy, was produced by the Theatre Guild
in New York October 10, 1927, with Frank Wilscm in the name
part. On the same date in 1935 an operatic version was produced,
also by the Guild, at the Alvin Theatre, New York, with Todd
Duncan as Porgy and Anne Brown as Bess. The drama had 231
performances, the opera 120. Including an engagement in London
Wilson played the role of Porgy 850 times.

CAFE CROWN

(141 performances)

A comedy in three acts by H. S. Kraft. Produced by Carly
Wharton and Martin Gabd at the Cort Theatre, New York,
January 23, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Customer Blenrin Williams

Rubin .Ted Co^ut

Sam fay A(fler

Kaplan Alfred White

Mendel Polan Daniel Ocko

lacobson Frank Gould

Mrs. Perlman Paula Miller

Hjmie Sam Jaffe

Looie Lou Polan

Walter Whitner BisseU

Beggar Solen Burry

Toplitac Eduard Fjrana

Lester Freed Sam Wanamaker

Norma Cole Mary Mason

Ida Polan Mitzi Hajos

David Cole Morris Camorricy

George Burton George PeCrie

Lipslqr Robert Leonard

Anna Cole Margaret Waller

Florist Michael Gorrin

Messenger Boy Tom Jordan

Acts I, II and III. — Cafe Crown, Theatrical Restaurant on Second
Avenue, New York City.

Staged by Elia Kazan; setting by Boris Aronson.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 43S

David Cole, for years the leader of the Yiddish Theatre in
New York, returns to his old haunts in Second Avenue after a
considerable absence, following quarrels with his wife and daugh-
ter. He has a play for whidi he is seeking backing. H3rmie,
the busboy at the C^fe Crown, who has previously put his savings
into all the Cole ventures, agrees to help with the new play until
he discovers it is a modernized version of Shakespeare's ''King
Lear." No more Shakespeare for Hymie. Backing is found,
Hymie rdents, the play goes into rehearsal and the Cole family
is reunited.

(Qosed May 23, 1942)

* GUEST IN THE HOUSE

(129 performances)

A drama in three acts by Hagar Wilde and Dale Eimson.
Produced by Stephan and Paul Ames at the Plymouth Theatre,
New York, February 24, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Ann Proctor ^ Louise Campbell

Lee Proctor .Joan Spencer

Hilda Hildred Price

The Rev. Dr. Shaw Walter Beck

Aunt Martha Proctor Katherine Emmet

Miriam Blake Pert Kelton

Dan Proctor William Prince

Douglas Proctor Leon Ames

John Oscar Sterlinc

Evelyn Heath Mary Anderson

Frank Dow Richard Barbee

Mrs. Dow Helen Stewart

Miss Rhodes Frieda Altman

Cam Tracy J. Robert Breton

Acts I, II and III. — Living Room of Proctor Home Near Trumbull,
Connecticut.

Staged by Reginald Denham; setting by Raymond Sovey.

Evel5m Heath is taken in by her relatives, the Douglas Proctors.
Presumably she is suffering from a heart ailment. Deliberately
she plays on the S3rmpathies of Mr. Proctor, causing him to take
to drink and neglect his work. This brings about an inharmonious
home condition that starts Mrs. Proctor toward a nervous break-
down and sets little 10-year-old Joan copying Evelyn's neurotic
invalidism. When the Proctors finally decide to be rid of Evelyn,
she tears open her blouse and calls the authorities to witness
that she has been attacked by Mr. Proctor. In the end Evelyn
is a victim of one of her own traps.

436 THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2

LILY OF THE VALLEY

(8 performances)

A drama in three acts by Ben Hecht. Produced by GObert
Miller at the Windsor Theatre, New York, January 26, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Smalcy Edmund Dorsej

Butch David Kerman

Bcitlcr Charles Mendick

Andy Miller Joseph Pevncy

Joe Wfll Lee

Man Paul R. Lipson

Lieutenant Balboa Clay Oement

Bum John Philliber

Emma Jolonick Minnie Dupree

Mae Alison Skipworth

Blakie Gagin Richard Taber

Frances Katharine Bard

Shorty Myron McCormick

Willie David Hoffman

Annie Grania O'Mallcy

Mr. Whittleson Eugene Keith

Rev. S wen Houseman Siegfried Rtimann

Mike John Shdlic

Acts I, II and III. — Office of Lieutenant Balboa in the County
Morgue, Xcw York City.

Staged by Ben Hecht; setting and lighting by Harry Homer.

Lieutenant Balboa, in charge of the County Morgue in New
York, is discussing with Andy Miller, official photographer, the
recent collection of unclaimed dead. As they talk the deceased
file solemnly into the Lieutenant's office. A fire in a nearby
Bowery Mission sends the Rev. Swen Houseman in search of
shelter. He is the only one to whom the shades are visible. When
he sets up his paraphernalia for a regular nightly gospel meeting
the shades are his audience and give their life's testimony. A
miser among the dead reveals the hiding place of his savings;
the Rev. Houseman recovers the money; a morgue attendant mur-
ders Houseman for the money and is headed for the chair.

(Closed January 31, 1942)

SOLITAIRE

(23 performances)

A comedy in two acts by John Van Druten from a novel by
Edwin Corle. Produced by Dwight Deere Wiman at the Ply-
mouth Theatre, New York, January 27, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Celia Anna Fraaldtn

Virginia Stewart Pat Hitchcock

Claire Ensley Joan McSweeney

Mrs. Stewart Sallj Bates

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2 437

Mr. Stewart Btn Smith

Ben Victor Kilian

Gosh Harry Gresham

Tex Tony Albert

Heavy Howard Smith

Dean Frederic Toiere

First Officer Blair Davies

Second Officer Charles Geors^e

Third Officer Robert Gilbert

Ryland John D. Seymour

Act I. — Scenes 1 and 5 — The Stewarts* House and Qarden in
Pasadena. California. 2, 3 and 4 — The Arroyo. Act II. — Scenes 1
and 3 — ^The Arroyo. 2 and A — ^The Stewaru' House.

Staged by Dudley Digges; settings by Jo Mielziner.

Virginia Stewart, aged 12, meets Ben, a philosophic drifter, on
a Streetcar the day Ben is taking a pet rat back to his shack at
the bottom of the arroyo below the Stewarts' bungalow. Fasci-
nated by the adventure, Virginia goes to call on Ben and the
rat. A warm, understanding friendship springs up between them
and is happily continued until the rougher element in the arroyo,
led by Dean, a commimistic tramp, brings the law down on the
drifters and gets Ben arrested with the others. Virginia's father
pays Ben's fine and sends him on his way.

(Closed February 14, 1942)

HEDDA GABLER

(12 performances)

A drama in three acts by Henrik Ibsen; translated by Ethel
Borden and Mary Cass Canfield. Revived by Luther Greene at
the Longacre Theatre, New York, January 29, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Miss Juliana Tesman Margaret VVycherly

Berta Octavia Kenmore

George Tesman Ralph Forbes

Hedda Tesman Katina Paxinou

Mrs. El vsted Karen Morley

Judge Brack Cecil Humphreys

£ilert Lovborg Henry Daniell

Acts I, II and Til. — The Tesmans' Drawing-Room.

Staged by Luther Greene; setting by Paul Morrison.

Other recent revivals of "Hedda Gabler" have been modern-
ized adaptations of the Ibsen text. One of recent importance
was that of Alia Nazimova in 1936, with Harry EUerbe playing
Tesman, Edward Trevor the Lovborg, McKay Morris the Judge
Brack and Viola Frayne the Mrs. Elvsted. This ran for 32
performances at the Longacre Theatre in New York and met
with considerable success on tour. Other recent Heddas include
Eva Le Gallienne, who played Hedda through the middle 1930Sy
Blanche Yurka in 1929, Emily Stevens in 1926.

(Closed February 7, 1942)

438 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

THE FLOWERS OF VIRTUE

(4 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Marc Connelly. Produced by Cheryl
Crawford at the Royale Tlieatre, New York, February 5, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Ezequid Leon Belasco

Tomasina Maria Morales

Shddon Williams Teas Barker

Rafad Garda Charles BcU

Carlotta Garda laobd Elaom

Paoo Peres Peter BeauTais

General Orijas Vladimir Sokoloff

Maude Bemis Kathryn GiTiiey

Tona Canndita Fortson

Serafina Maria Ferreira

Nancy Bemis Virginia Lederer

Grover Bemis Frank Craren

Trinidad Perez S. Tliomas Gomez

Colonel Gomez Samson Gordon

First Orijista WiUiam Roeridc

Second Orijista Jose WtUie

Third Orijista Kumar Goshal

Fourth Orijista Tony Manntno

Acts I, II and III. — CarlotU's Garden in Las Flores de la Virtud,
Mexico.

Staged by Marc Connelly; setting by Donald Oenslager.

Grover Bemis has been working for months as a dollar-a-year
man in Washington, trying to stimulate interest in the defense
of the United States. He suffers a nervous breakdown and his
family takes him to the little town of Las Flores de la Virtud in
Southern Mexico to get back his health. There he runs into
General Orijas, just out of jafl, who is starting a Hitlerian putsch
with which he hopes to eliminate the honest leader of the people,
Trinidad Perez, and reduce the inhabitants to slavery. Grover
Bemis takes a hand. Through his knowledge of electrical ma-
chinery he is able to start the power plant General Orijas has
crippled. The natives accept this as a miracle and the General
is given the heave-ho.

(Closed February 7, 1942)

OF V WE SING

(76 performances)

A topical revue in two acts and twenty-five scenes, l3nics by
Alfred Hayes, Lewis Allen, Roslyn Harvey, Mike Stratton, Bea
Goldsmith, Joe Barian and Arthur Zipser; music by Alex North,
George Kleinsinger, Ned Lehack, Beau Bergersen, Lou Cooper
and Toby Sacher; sketches by Al Geto, Sam D. Locke and Mel

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 439

Tolkin. Produced by American Youth Theatre in association
with Alexander Cohen at Concert Theatre, New York, February
11, 1942.

Principals engaged —

Adele Jerome Phil Leeds

Lee Barrie Perry Brusldn

Betty Gmrrett John Wynn

Stisanzie Remos Buddy Yarus

Eleanore Basely Daniel Nagrin

Letty Stever Curt Conway

Mary Titus Jp^^ Flemming

Connie Baxter Robert Sharron

Ann Garlan Bvron Milligan
Staged by Perry Bruskin, mtnic directed by Lou Cooper, dance
directed by Susanne Remos.

A semi-professional revue produced first as "V for Victory"
in September, 1941, at the Malin Studio Theatre.

(Closed AprU 25, 1942)

HEART OF A CITY

(28 performances)

A drama in three acts by Lesley Storm. Produced by Gilbert
Miller at the Henry Miller Theatre, New York, February 12,
1942.

Cast of characters —

Judy Gertrude Muss rove

Frenchie Jean McNally

Bcttv Terry Fay

Bubbles Virginia Bolen

Diana Jjtoae Wilson

Ann Cora Smith

Pamela Augusta Roeland

Toni Margot Grahame

George Skdton Knaggs

Valerie Frances Tannehtll

Patsy Caroline Bergh

Rosalind Beverly ^ Roberts

Joan Virginia Peine

Leo Saddle (L.S.) Dennis Hoey

Tommy Romney Brent

Mrs. Good Bertha Behnore

Anna Miriam Goldina

Gloomy Victor Beecroft

First Pilot Officer Peter Boyne

Second Pilot Officer Bertram Tanswell

Third Pilot Officer Fred Stewart

Czech Officer Richard Stevens

Fourth Pilot Officer Edward Langley

iune Harda Normann
'ifth Pilot Officer John Ireys

Bob Rodney Stewart

Polish Officer Jonathan Harris

Wing Commander Robert Whitehead

Group Captain Austin Fairman

Sergeant Louis Meslin

440 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Paul Lundy Richard Aialey

Act I. — The SUr Dressinff Room of Windmill Theatre, London.

Act II. — Scene 1 — Officers' Mess at Bomber Station and The Fidd.

2 and 3 — The Dressing Room. Act III. — The Dressing Room.
Staged by Gilbert Miller; settings by Harry Homer.

Judy of the Windmill Theatre, ''the little theatre in Shaftes-
bury Avenue that carried on through the great London blitz,"
b in love with Tommy, a song writer. Tonmiy, for his part,
loves Rosalind, the leading lady, who finds out quite suddenly
that she loves Paul, a handsome R.A.F. flyer she meets at a camp
concert. Rosalind and Paul are married, Judy and Tommy are
killed in a bombing. Life and the show at Uie little Windmill
Theatre go on.

(Closed March 7, 1942)

THEY SHOULD HAVE STOOD IN BED

(11 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Leo Rifkin, Frank Tarloff and David
Shaw. Produced by Sam H. Grisman in association with Alex-
ander H. Cohen at the Mansfield Theatre, New York, February
13, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Al Hartman Grant Richards

Barney Snedeker Jack Gilford

Sam Simpkins Santord Meisner

Mr. Cooper LeRoi 0|>ertl

Harry Driscoll Russell Morrison

Vivian Lowe Florence Sundstrom

Henry Angel Edwin Philips

George Jensen John Call

Jtxlius P. Chatfield Richard Irving

A Policeman Robert Williams

Killer Kane Ton^ Canzoneri

Mike Gilroy William Foran

Peggy Chatfield Katherine Meskill

Announcer Randolph Preston

Referee Arnold Spector

First Man George Matthews

Second Man Martin Ritt

Third Man Norman Budd

Homblower Topper Jordan

Acts I and II.— An Office in New York City. Act Ill.—Scene 1—
The Garden. 2 — The Office.

Staged by Luther Adler; settings by Samuel Leve.

Al Hartman and a group of associate promoters are seeking to
induce Killer Kane, a title-holding pugilist, to lend his name to
a restaurant for which they will furnish a chef named Henry
Angel. A further scheme to raise money is to match Henry, the
chef, with Kane, the pugilist, for a fight in which Kane will "take
a dive" and his backers will clean up. With Kane and Henry

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2 441

both determined to lose the fight matters become complicated,
not to say confused.

(Closed February 21, 1942)

PLAN M

(6 performances)

A play in three acts by James Edward Grant. Produced by
Richard Aldrich and Richard Myers at the Belasco Theatre,
New York, February 20, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Private Stuart Guy Spaull

Private Russell Thaddeus Suski

Orderly Horton A. P. Kaye

Mrs. Bodleigh Joanna Duncan

Marjorie Barr Anne Burr

Colonel Clegg Supleton Kent

Wing Commander Rambeau Ellies Irving

Mrs. Barr Margery Maude

Rear Admiral Spring Charles Gerrard

Brigadier Hnsted Neil FitzGerald

General Sir Hugh Winston Len Doyle

Dr. Hawes Lumsden Hare

Colond Corliss Douglas Gilmore

Private Thurston Lathrop Mitchell

Private McCoy Edward LeComte

Sir Ethan Foy Stuart Casey

Admiral Farnsworth Reynolds Denniston

Acts I, II and III. — General Hugh Winston's Headquarters, War
Office, J^ondon, England.

Staged by Marion Gering; letting by Lemuel Ayers.

Gen. Sir Hugh Winston, British chief of staff, has been taking
electric cabinet treatments under the direction of Dr. Hawes.
On an appointed day Dr. Hawes locks Sir Hugh in the cabinet,
places a cyanide of potassium gag in his mouth, and turns the
British War Office over to Colonel Corliss and other German
agents. Colonel Corliss's chief assistant turns out to be an
exact ph3rsical duplicate of Sir Hugh. The substitute Sir Hugh
takes command, substitutes a false 'Tlan M" for that being held
to meet a German invasion and brings the invasion to the verge
of a complete success.

(Closed February 23, 1942)

UNDER THIS ROOF

(17 performances)

A drama in three acts by Herbert Ehrmann. Produced by
Russell Lewis and Rita Hassan at the Windsor Theatre, New
York, February 22, 1942.

442 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Cast of characters —

Granny Warren Lootse Galloway

Abner Warren George L. Spanlding

Cornelia Warren Barbara O'Nefl

Ezra Warren Russell Hardie

Horace Dniry Howard St. John

Nora Hilda Brace

Gibeon Warren Peter Hobbs

David Warren John Draper

Mr. Gassaway Harlan Brtns

Senator Flower Watson White

Eileen O'Shaughnessy Alexandra Brackett

Shawn O'Shaughnessy Walter Burke

Sidney Snow James O'Neill

Acts I, II and III. — Living Room of Farm House Buut by Zebulon
Warren During the I770's Outoide of Boston and Near Wachussett.

Staged by Russell Lewis; setting by Perry Watkins; costumes by
Ernest Shrapps.

Abner Warren had two sons, Ezra and Gibeon. In 1846
Gibeon, inspired by the radicals who were sui^x)rting the aboli-
tionists, decided to cast his lot with the fight for freedom.
Cornelia Warren, who had planned on marrying Gibeon, de-
cided radicals were nothing to wait for and married his brother
Ezra instead. In 1864 the son, David, bom to Cornelia and
Ezra, decides also to fight for liberty, joins the forces of the
North in Missouri Territory, and is later killed in the Battle of
the Wilderness. After the war Ezra gets mixed up in a crooked
transcontinental railway deal, and finally crashes in the panic of
1873. Cornelia decides she will stand by Ezra.

(Qosed March 7, 1942)

A KISS FOR CINDERELLA

(48 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Sir James M. Barrie.* Produced by
Cheryl Crawford and Richard Krakeur in association with John
Wildberg and Horace Schmidlapp, at the Music Box Theatre,
New York, March 10, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Mr. Bodie Cecil Humphreys

Policeman Ralph Forbes

Miss Thing Luise Rainer

Mr, Jennings Victor Morley

Mrs. Maloney Emily Loraine

Marion Doris Patston

Coster Le Roi Operti

Gladys Abby Bonime

Delphine Elizabeth Leland

Ching Ching Marilyn Chu

Gretchin Patsy O'Shea

Godmother Edith King

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 443

AT THE BALL —

Courtien: Elinor Breckenridge, Helen Kramer, Jean Reeves, Lukas

Hovinga, John Taras, Robert Wilson

Pages Victor Chaptn. Fred Hunter

Lord Mayor Victor Morlejr

Lord Times Roland Bottomley

Censor Glen Langan

King Cecil Humphreys

Queen Ivy Troutman

Frince Ralph Forbes

Beauties: Jacqueline Gately, Blanche Faye, Olga Daley, Doris

Hughes, Beatrice Cole.

Venus Eunice Lee

Bishop Le Roi Operti

Ellen Jacqueline Gateley

Dr. Bodie Edith King

Danny Glen Langan

Nurse Sarah Burton

Act I. — Mr. Bodie's Studio in London. Act II. — Scene 1, 3 and
5— Street. 2--Celeste et Cie. 4 — The Ball. Art III.— Dr. Bodie's
Home in the Country.

Staged by Lee Strasberg; settings by Harry Homer; choreography
by Catherine Littlefield; costumes by Paul du Pont.

Miss Thing, a little London drudge, decides during the first
World War that she can best help Britain by adopting an assort-
ment of war orphans. She collects boards to build pens for them
so they may be safely left when she goes out to work. The police
become suspicious and the policeman on her street decides to
make an investigation. After his visit Miss Thing is romantically
interested in her memory of him. The night she tells the chil-
dren she is going to Cinderella's ball she falls asleep in her door-
way, is all but frozen to death, and in her delirium dreams that
she is Cinderella and that her Policeman is her Prince. In the
hospital later she learns the truth, but is made happy with a
pair of glass slippers. Maude Adams first played ''A Kiss for
Cinderella" at the Empire Theatre, New York, December 25,
1916.

(Qosed April 18,. 1942)

* PRIORITIES OF 1942

(209 performances)

A variety show assembled by Qifford C. Fischer; ensemble
music and lyrics by Marjery Fielding and Charles Barnes. Pre-
sented by Clifford C. Fischer by arrangement with the Messrs.
Shubert at the 46th St. Theatre, New York, March 12, 1942.

Principals engaged —

Lou Holtz Haxel Scott

Willie Howard Helen Reynolds Skaters

Phil Baker and The Nonchalants

Paul Draper Gene Sheldon and
Joan Merrill Loretta Fischer

444 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

The Barnra Diane Denise

Johnny Masters and Lari and Concliita

Rowena Rollins Beverley Lane

Choreography by Marjery Fielding; music directed by Lou Forman.

JOHNNY 2x4

(65 performances)

A melodrama in three acts by Rowland Brown. Produced by
Rowland Brown at the Longacre Theatre, New York, March 16,
1942.

Cast of characters —

Creepy Lester Lonergan, Jr.

Pete Lew Eckels

Bottles Yehudi Wyner

Mike Maloney Ralph Chambers

Johnny 2x4 Tack Arthur

The Yacht Qub Boys: Charles Adlcr, George Kelly, Rod McLennan,
Don Richards.

Laundry Man Frank Verigun

Coaly Lewis Barry Sullivan

Beetle-Puss Bert Reed

Mary Collins Evelyn Wyckoff

Dutch Jack Libert

Martin Arthur L. Sachs

Mabel Isabel JeweU

Knuckles Kelton Harry Bellaver

Butch Marie Austin

Rudy Denton Douglas Dean

Burns Sam Raskyn

Ohio Customer Eddie Hodge

Midal Bert Frohman

Apples Leonard Sues

Billy the Booster James La Curto

Harry, a Waiter Al Durant

Cigarette Girl Monica Lewis

Maxine Karen Van Ryn

Dot Wilma Drake

Jerry Sullivan Russel Conway

Kean Thom Conroy

Bottles, Grown Up Lance Elliott

The B Girls: Marianne O'Brien, Muriel Cole, Irene Charlott, Josi
Johnson, Natalie Draper, Carolyn Cromwell.

Acts I. II and III.— Johnny 2x4 Club in Greenwich Village. 1926-
1933.

Staged by Anthony Brown; setting by Howard Bay.

In the flush prohibition period 'J^^^^y ^ ^ ^" opened a speak-
easy for the sale of liquor to thirsty violators of the law in Green-
widi Village, New York. He was given his name because of his
skill playing a 2 x 4 portable piano. Shortly Johnny ran into
trouble, principally with the beer racketeers. Then his gangster
friends fell into the habit of getting themselves shot up and
trying to hide out in his night club. Finally the worst of his
gangster enemies was bumped off by a sympathetic horn player.
Johnny started in 1926 and went out in 1936, with repeal.

(Closed May 9, 1942)

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 445

NATHAN THE WISE

(28 performances)

A drama in two acts and eight scenes adapted by Ferdinand
Bruckner from a play by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. Produced
by Erwin Piscator in association with the Messrs. Shubert at
the Belasco Theatre, New York, April 3, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Nathan Herbert Berghof

Daja Bettina Cerf

Rahel Olive Dcering

A Knight Templar Alfred Ryder

A Lay Brother Ross Matthew

The Patriarch Gregory Morton

The Sultan Saladin Bram Nossen

Monks Liehert Wallerstein, Jack Bittner

Act I. — Scenes 1, 3 and 4 — Courtyard of Nathan's House. Act
II. — Scene 1 — Cloister. 2 — Palace of Sultan. 3 — Courtyard of
Nathan's House. A — ^Judgment Room in Palace of Sultan.

Staged by James Light; settings by Cleon Throckmorton; costumes
by Rose Bogdanoff.

Rahel, daughter of Nathan the Jew, is saved from a burning
building by a Knight Templar from Germany, held as a prisoner
by the Sultan Saladin in the Third Crusade. The young people
fall desperately in love. When the Templar learns by Nathan's
confession that Rahel is really a Christian reared as a Jew he
is horrified to the point of seeking the advice of the Church.
Death, according to the Christian law, should be Nathan's punish-
ment. Saladin sits in judgment on both Christian and Jew, hears
Rahel plead for Nathan's life, which shames the Templar into a
broader tolerance and permits the joining of the lovers.

"Nathan the Wise" was produced at the Studio Theatre, New
York, by the New School for Social Research, March 11, 1942,
and ran for 11 performances before being transferred to the
Belasco. The Ferdinand Bruckner version is in a free English
verse, and represents a fairly drastic cutting of the Lessing classic.

(Qosed April 25, 1942)

THE MOON IS DOWN

(71 performances)

A drama in two parts and eight scenes by John Steinbeck.
Produced by Oscar Serlin at the Martin Beck Theatre, New York,.
April 7, 1942.

446 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Cast of characters —

Dr. Winter Whitford Kane

Joseph JoMph Sweeney

Sergeant Edwin Gordon

CapCaun Bentick John D. Seymour

Major Orden Ralph Monan

Madame Orden Leooa Powers

Corpora] Charles Gordon

Colonel Lanser Otto Kracer

George Corell E. J. Ballanttne

Annie ;J'^''^ Sermoor

Soldier Kermit Kegley

Major Hunter Russell Couins

Lieutenant Prackle Carl Gose

Captain Loft Alan Hewitt

Lieutenant Tonder William Eythe

Soldier Victor Thoriey

Molly Morden Maria Padmer

Alex Morden Philip Foster

Win Anders Geom Keane

Tom Anders Lyie Bettger

Part I. — The Drawing-Room of the Mayor's House in a small
Mining Town. Part II. — Scenes 1, 3 and 4 — The Drawing-Rooiii.
2 — Living*Room of Molly Morden's House.

Staged by Chester Erskin; settings by Howard Bay.

See page 72.

(Closed June 6, 1942)

AUTUMN HILL

(8 performances)

A drama in three acts by Norma Mitchell and John Harris.
Produced by Max Liebman at the Booth Theatre, New York,
April 13, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Gussie Rogers Beth Merrill

Mary Barton Dorrit Kdton

Bob Ferguson William Roerick

Judge Hendricks Qyde Franklin

Tony Seldon Jack Effrat

Julie Smith Elizabeth Sutherland

Al Robert Wflliams

Frank James Gregory

Acts I, II and III. — Living Room of Remodeled Colonial Dwelling
in a New England Village.

Staged by Ronald Hammond; setting by Lemuel Ayers; lighting
by Fcder.

Gussie Rogers has lived as companion to Matilda Hatfield for
twenty years^ expecting to be left something when Matilda passes.
After Matilda's death it is discovered she has left no will. A
nephew, Tony Seldon, moves in to collect his inheritance as next
of kin. The lonely Gussie grows fond of Tony, but he, being a
crook, sets up a counterfeiting plant in the basement of the Hat-
field house while waiting for a court decision. With discovery

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 447

imminent Tony kills a man and Gussie kills Tony to keep him
from being sent to the electric chair.

(Closed April 18, 1942)

YESTERDAY^S MAGIC

(55 performances)

A drama in three acts by Emlyn Williams. Produced by The
Theatre Guild at the Guild Theatre, New York, April 14, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Mrs. Banner Brenda Forbes

Barty Patrick O'Moore

Fan CatUeen Corddl

BeTan James Monks

Maddoc Thomas Paul Muni

Cattrin Jessica Tandy

Robert Alfred Drake

Mrs. Lothian Margaret Dooflass

Acts I, II and III. — Room at the top of a House in Long Acre,
London, W.C2.

Staged by Reginald Denham ; production under supervision of Theresa
Helburn and Lawrence Langner; setting by Watson Barratt.

Maddoc Thomas in his day was a great actor on the London
stage, but the liquor got him. For ei^t years he suffered a suc-
cession of failures that brought him finally to impersonating Santa
Claus in the Selfridge department store. His loyal daughter,
Cattrin, sticks by him and, when he is offered a small straight
part in a musical comedy, helps him back on his feet. This
touch of success impells Cochran, the famous manager, to give
Maddoc a chance to revive King Lear as a test of his ability to
come back. Before his first performance Maddoc hears that
Cattrin, feeling that her father will soon be re-established on
the stage, is planning to marry and go to America. The shock
sends Maddoc back to the bottle, and finally to his death.

(Closed May 30, 1942)

WHAT BIG EARS

(8 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Jo Eisinger and Judson O'Donnell.
Produced by L. Daniel Blank and David Silberman at the Wind-
sor Theatre, New York, April 20, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Jean Martin Ruth Weston

Joey Smithers Edwin Philips

448 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Gabby Martin Taylor Holmes

Lucas Owen Martin

Betty Leeds Joy Geffen

Milford Ralph Bunker

McCall Owen Lamont

The Professor Reynolds Evans

Muldoon Georse Chnrch

Police Lieutenant Herbert Duffy

Olympe Grogan Ethd Morrison

Dr. Treadle Hans Robert

Brewster Frederick Howard

Nick Dennis, Sterling Mace, Pitt Herbert, Royal Rompel, Louis
Charles, Warren Goddard, Tom Daly.

Act I. — A Furnished Room in Los Angeles. Act II. — A Victorian
Cottage in Beverly Hills. Act III. — Room in Hotel Savoy, New York.

Staged by Arthur Pierson; settings by Horace Armistead; costumes
by Kenn Barr.

Joey Smithers used to dress up as an old lady and act as a
stooge for Gabby Martin the time they were running a patent
medicine pitch at the carnivals. Going broke in Hollywood Joey
gets a day's work as an extra by again getting into his make-up.
The picture people are impressed to the point of offering him a
contract to play Whistler's Mother. The explosion occurs when
the bankers summon the little old lady (Joey) to New York.

(Qosed April 25, 1942)

KEEP 'EM LAUGHING

(77 performances)

A variety show assembled by Clifford C. Fischer; sketches by
Arthur Pierson and Eddie Davis. Produced by Clifford C.
Fischer by arrangement with the Messrs. Shubert at the 44th
Street Theatre, New York, April 24, 1942.

Principals engaged —

William Gaxton Victor Moore

Hildegarde Paul and Grace Hartmaa

Zero Mostel Stuart Morgan Dancers

Fred Sanborn Jack Cole and Dancers

Miriam La Velle Kitty Mattern

Shirley Paige The Bricklayers

Peggy French Al White Beauties

Jack Tyler George E. Mack
Phil Romano and His Orchestra

Staged by Qifford Fischer; settings and draperies by Frank W.
Stevens.

(Closed May 28, 1942)

CANDIDA

(27 performances)

A comedy in three acts by CJeorge Bernard Shaw. Revived by
the American Theatre Wing War Service, Inc., for the benefit

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2 449

of the Army Emergency Fund and the Navy Relief Society for
four matinees and one evening performance at the Shubert The-
atre, New York, April 27, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Miss Proserpine Gamett Mfldred Natwtck

Alexander Mill SUnler Bell

James Mavor Morell Raymond Massey

Mr. Burgess Dudley Digges

Candida Katharine Cornell

Eugene Marchbankft Burgess Meredith

Acta I, II and III. — Sitting Room in St. Dominic's Parsonage in the
Northeast Suburb of London.

Staged by Guthrie McQintic; setting and costumes by Woodman
Thompson.

Katharine Cornell first played "Candida" in 1924, revived it
in 1937, and played the Shaw heroine this year as a benefit for
both Army and Navy relief associations. This particular cast of
volunteers represents what many insist is the greatest company
to appear in the comedy in America. Other American Candidas
have included Dorothy Donnelly, Peggy Wood, Ellen Von Volken-
berg and Hilda Spong.

(Closed May 31, 1942)

THE LIFE OF REILLY

(S performances)

A comedy in three acts by William Roos. Produced by Day
Tuttle and Harald Bromley at the Broadhurst Theatre, New
York, AprU 29, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Johnny Ramsay George Mathews

Snake Footc John Call

Mike Norman Tokar

Rocket Rcilly Peter Hobbs

Hankins Len Hollister

Frank Francis Nielsen

Jackie Moultrie Glenda Farrell

Smitty John Shellie

Horace Moultrie LoringSmith

Miss Collins Theodora Bender

Mildred Walker ChariU Bauer

Harriet Guerita Donnelly

Miss Hook PoUy Walters

Cooper Howard Smith

Act I. — Writing Room on Mezzanine. Crescent Hotel, Brooklyn,
N. Y. Acts II and III.— Scene 1— The Moultries* Room. 2— Rocket*a
Room.

Staged by Roy Hargrave; settings by Samuel Leve.

Rocket Reilly is the star southpaw of the Brooklyn Dodgers.
He has been suspended for several days, but is to be allowed to

450 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941^2

pitch a crucial game against the N. Y. Giants. Rocket is under
the influence of a fortune teller, who insists that he is going to
commit a murder before midnight the day before the game. Just
to oblige, Rocket does shoot a gambler and insists on being
arrested. The Brooklyn police refuse to keep him from the game
and give him the third degree in an effort to force him to deny
the crime. Rocket insists on dying to prove his belief m capital
punishment. He is finally restrained, and the man he shot comes
to life.

(Closed May 2, 1942)

HARLEM CAVALCADE

(49 performances)

A Negro vaudeville show assembled and produced by Ed
Sullivan, at the Ritz Theatre, New York, May 1, 1942.

Principals engaged —

Noble Sissle Amanda Randolph

Floumoy Miller Una Mae Carlisle

Hawley and Lee The Peters Sisters

Moke and Poke Jimmie Daniels

The Gin^ersnaps The Harlemaniacs

Jesse Cnor Tom Fletcher

Pops and Louie Red and Curley

Monte Hawley Johnny Lee

Garland Wilson Edward Steele

Tim Moore Joe Bjrrd

Maude Russell Wini auid Bob Johnson

5 Crackerjacks Miller Brothers and Lois

Staged by EaI Sullivan and Noble Sissle; music directed by Bill
Vodery; dances by Leonard Harper; costumes by Veronica.

(Closed May 23, 1942)

THE WALKING GENTLEMAN

(6 performances)

A drama in three acts by Grace Perkins and Fulton Oursler.
Produced by Albert Lewis and Marion Gering at the Belasco
Theatre, New York, May 7, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Mrs. Shriver Margery Maude

Doris Arlene Francis

Dr. Blake Richard Gaines

Miss Marshall Ruth Thea Ford

Savage Qay Qement

Father Benoit Arnold Korff

Fraxier George Spaulding

Sam Hertz Clarence Derwent

Jim Lake Cledge Roberto

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 4S1

ElectricUn Roderick Maybee

Elsie Ellis Marfo Rauton

Newcome Rom Cfaetwjmd

Connie Jane Forbes

Lanvon David Stewart

Poole A. J. Herbert

Marmot (Hear Polk

Basil Forrest Victor Francen

Wrinkles Lew Heam

Myrtle Tracey TonI Gilman

Omcer Blum Roderick Maybee

Act I. — Scene 1— Dr. Gerald Blake's Office in Large New York
Hospital. 2— The Avenue Theatre, New York City. Acts II and
III. — An Apartment in New York City.

Staged by Marion Gering; settings by Harnr Homer; lighting by
Feder.

Doris Forrest, having divorced her husband, Basil Forrest, the
actor, is eager to marry Dr. Blake, the famous psychiatrist. She
still feels that Basil has a fascination for her and thinks to break
the spell by accepting his invitation to return to acting with
him when his leading woman is found hanged in her dressing
room. Basil is connected by the police wi± the death of the
actress, as well as with the deaths of several other women who
have come into his life. 'His impulse to murder is traced by the
psychiatrist to his lost love for Doris, whom he would also have
strangled if the police had not stepped in.

(Qosed May 12, 1942)

THE STRINGS, MY LORD, ARE FALSE

(IS performances)

A drama in two acts by Paul Vincent Carroll. Produced by
Edward Choate in association with Alexander Kirkland and John
Sheppard, Jr., at the Royale Theatre, New York, May 19, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Alec. Ralph Cullinan

Geordie Sherman MacGregor

Sarah Frances Bavier

Canon Courtcnay Walter Hampden

Councilor Bill Randall Colin Keith-Johnson

"Ma" Morrisey Ruth Virian

Maisie Gillespie Constance Dowlinff

ierrv Hoare Philip Boumeut
ladge Joan Hayden Shepard

Sadie O'Neill Margot Grahame

Ross John McKee

Louis Liebens Will Lee

Iris Ryan Ruth Gordon

Ted Bogle. Art Smith

Monsignor Skinner Reynolds Evans

Inspector Steele Gordon Nelson

Councilor McPearkie Tom Tolly

Provost Grahamson Hale Norcross

Veronica Alice MacKenxie

Religious Man Hard Hatfield

452 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

R. P. Mesfcnger Aim Miaat

Act I. — Scene* 1 and 2 — Refuge Room in Presbytery of Canoa

Coortenay of St. Bride's Charch, Port Ifooica, a Stcd Town in

Firth of Clyde, Scotland. Act II. — Scene 1 — Crypt Underneath Cknrch

of St. Bride's. 2— The Refnge Room.

Staged by Elia Kazan; settings by Howard Bay.

Canon Courtenay was shepherding his flodi at St. Bride's
church in Port Monica, a steel town in the Firth of Qyde, and
taking in all the strays who a{^lied, when the Luftwaffe bombed
Scotland in the spring of 1941. Large was the Canon's heart,
broad was his understanding and many were his adventures.
Iris Ryan, the most aristocratic of his canteen workers, found
herself with child by the wrong man; Veronica mig^t have lost
the baby bom to her during a blitz if it had not been for the
kindly sympathy and help of Sadie O'Neill, a noble harlot with
flaming hair and a heart of gold; grafting Councilor McPearkie
would never have been exposed and honest CouncOor Bill Ran-
dall might never have discovered that he loved Iris Ryan enough
to forgive her her adventure with sex if it had not been for the
good Canon and the shelter he offered his people.

(Qosed May 30, 1942)

* UNCLE HARRY

(29 performances)

A drama in seven scenes by Thomas Job. Produced by Clif-
ford Hayman and Lennie Hatten at the Broadhurst Theatre, New
York, May 20, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Miss Phipps Wanna Paal

Mr. Jenkins Guy Sampsel

A ^lan Joseph Schildkraat

Hester Adelaide Klein

I>ettie Eva Le Gallienne

Lucy Beverly Roberts

Nona Leona Roberts

George Waddy Stephen Chase

D'Arcy John McGovem

Albert A. P. Kayc

Blake Ralph Theodore

Ben Karl Maiden

The Governor Colville Dann

Mr. Burton Bruce Adams

Matron Isabel Arden

Scenes 1 and 7 — The Tavern. A small town in Eastern Quebec,
Canada. 2 — Tea Time. 3 — Musical Interlude. A — The Nightcap.
5 — The Verdict. 6 — The Confession.

Staged by Lem Ward; settings by Howard Bay; costumes by Peggy
Clark.

See page 316.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 453

ALL THE COMFORTS OF HOME

(8 performances)

A farce in two acts adapted by William Gillette from a play
by Carl Laufs; revised by Helen Jerome. Revived by Edith C.
Ringling in association with Mollie B. Steinberg at the Longacre
Theatre, New York, May 25, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Alfred Hastings Gene Terrold

Tom McDow Oliver B. Prickett

Theodore Bender, Esq Nicholas Joy

Josephine Bender Dorothy Sands

Evangeline Bender Florence Williams

Mr. Egbert Pettibone William David

Rosalie Pettibone Grace McTamahan

Emily Pettibone Peggy Van Vleet

Christopher Dabney Wallace Acton

Tudson Langhome Guy Spaull

Fifi Oritansld Celeste Holm

Augustus McSnath Percy Helton

Victor Smythe Stuart Lancaster

Thompson Richard Stevens

Katy * Virginia Runyon

Gretchen Jordie McLean

Bailiff John Regan

Acts I and II. — Parlor in Egbert Pettibone's House.

Staged by Arthur Sircom; setting by Harry G. Bennett; costumes
by Paul duPont.

Alfred Hastings, serving as caretaker for his Uncle Egbert's
house, rents out lodgings to an assortment of comedy characters.
He is variously aided by Tom McDow, who gets half the profits
and most of the laughs. When Uncle Egbert and his family
return, Alfred and Tom are exposed, but not before Alfred and
Evangeline, the ingenue, have made a match of it. "All the
Comforts of Home" was adapted from a German original fifty-
two years ago by William Gillette. In the first New York produc-
tion at Proctor's 23d St. Theatre in 1890 Maude Adams played
Evangeline and Henry Miller was the Alfred.

(Closed May 30, 1942)

COMES THE REVELATION

(2 performances)

A comedy in three acts by Louis Vittes. Produced by John
Morris Chanin and Richard Karlan at the Jolson Theatre, New
York, May 26, 1942.

454 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Cast of characters —

Benjamin Barney G. Swavne Gordon

Ma Flanders Mary Perry

Zachary Flanders Peter Hobbs

Grandpa Crane Wendell K. Phillips

Sopbronia Flanders Carroll Hartley

Joe Flanders Wendell Corey

Pa Flanders Will Gecr

Orris Hockett Grover Burgess

Oliver Sampson John Thomas

Ellen Crale Leslev Woods

William Garrett Richard Karlan

David Garrett William Thornton

Judy Garrett Audra Lindley

James Q. Silsbury Mitchell Harris

Grammus George Leach

Lily Milland June Stewart

Mrs. Barney Sara Floyd

Mrs. Hockett Mona Moray

Mrs. Garrett Katbr^ Cameron

Sheriff Maurice Minnick

Sheriff's Deputy Clay Yardin

Acts I, It and III. — Kitchen of House on Flanders Farm, Dork-
mg, New York.

Staged by Herman Rotsten; setting by Ralph Alswang.

Joe Flanders buys a book that advances the theory that the
American Indians were really the lost tribes of Israel. Having
a gift for preaching, Joe trades on the credulity of his neighbors,
draws a crowd of excited religious fanatics to his drunken father's
home and proceeds to trick and rob them. Ellen Crale, the girl
he seduced and later married, convinced of his deceit and aware
of his unfaithfulness, assists in his exposure in the end.

(Closed May 27, 1942)

♦ TOP-NOTCHERS

(37 performances)

A variety show assembled by CliflFord C. Fischer. Produced
by Clifford C. Fischer and the Messrs. Shubert at the 44th Street
Theatre, New York, May 29, 1942.

Principals engaged —

Gracie Fields A. Robins

Argentinita AI Trahan

Walter O'Keefe Zero Mostel

Jack Stanton The Hartmacs

Pilar Looez Marguerite Adams

Evelyn Brooks Pablo Miquel

Benigno Medina Frederico Rey

Carlos Mintaya Hoffman

Bricklayers Six Willys

Al White Girls Phil Romano's Orchestra

"Keep 'Em Laughing" produced by Mr. Fischer and the
Messrs. Shubert at the 44th Street Theatre, April 24, 1942, after

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 45S

its seventy-seventh performance changed into "Top-Notchers"
with new principals, new songs and new acts added to much of the
old program which was retained. Gracie Fields and Argentinita
took the places left by William Gaxton and Victor Moore.

♦ BY JUPITER

(14 performances)

A musical comedy in two acts by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz
Hart based on "The Warrior's Husband" by Julian F. Thompson;
music arrangements by Don Walker and Buck Wamick. Pro-
duced by Dwight Deere Wiman and Richard Rodgers at the
Shubert Theatre, New York, June 3, 1942.

Cast of characters —

Achilles Bob Douglas

A Herald Mark Dawson

Agamemnon Robert Hightower

Buria Jayne Manners

First Sentry Martha Burnett

Second Sentry Rose Inghram

Third Sentry Kay Kimber

Sergeant Monica Moore

Caustica Maidel Turner

Heroica Margaret Bannerman

Pomposia Bertha Belmore

First Boy Don Liberto

Second Boy Tony Matthews

Third Boy William Vaux

Hippolyta Benay Venuta

Sapiens Ray Bolger

Antiope Constance Moore

A Huntress Helen Bennett

An Amazon Dancer Flower Hujer

Theseus Ronald Graham

Homer Berni Gould

Minerva Vera-Ellen

Slaves Robert and Lewis Hightower

Amazon Runner Wana Wenerholm

Hercules Ralph Dumke

Penelope Irene Corlett

First Camp Follower Vera-Ellen

Second Camp Follower Ruth Brady

Third Camp Follower Helen Bennett

Fourth Camp Follower Joyce Ring

Fifth Camp Follower Rosemary Sanlcey

Act I. — Scene 1 — A Greek Camp, a Week's March from Pontus.
2 — Terrace of Hippolyta's Palace in Pontus. Act II. — Scene 1 — Be-
fore Hippolyta'a Tent. 2 — ^The Greek Camp. 3 — Inside Theseus' Tent.

Staged by Joshtia Logan; dances by Robert Alton; music directed
by Johnny Green; aettings and lighting by Jo Mielziner; costumes by
Irene Sharaff.

DANCE DRAMA

The fourth New York season of the Ballet Russe de Monte
Carlo ran from October 8 until November 2, 1941, at the Metro-
politan Opera House under the management of S. Hurok, the
direction of Leonide Massine and the musical direction of Efrem
Kurtz and Franz Allers. A repertory of about thirty productions
started with "Poker Game," by Balanchine, with Stravinsky
music; '^Labyrinth" by Leonide Massine and Salvador Dali with
Shubert C Major Symphony music, and "Gaite Parisienne," by
Massine, with Offenbach music. "Labyrinth" and "Saratoga"
were new to New York. "Saratoga" with music by Jaromir
Weinberger, choreography by Massine and setting by Oliver
Smith had its world premiere. Other dance dramas were from
the regular repertory. "St. Francis," by Massme and Paul
Hindemith, was added to the repertory in a later engagement.

Ballet Theatre, produced by the New Opera Company in asso-
ciation with S. Hurok, began a month's engagement November
12 and ended December 14, 1941, at the 44th Street Theatre.
"Bluebeard," by Michel Fokine, Meilhac and Halevy, with music
by Jacques Offenbach, had its first New York showing, as also
had "Stavonika," by Vania Psota based on Dvorak's music and
designed by Alvin Colt, and "Beloved" by Bronislava Nijinska
with Schubert-Liszt music. Other dance dramas were from the
repertory.

A return engagement in April at the Metropolitan opened with
Michel Fokine's new ballet, "Russian Soldier," to music of Proko-
fieff. Another new work was "Pillar of Fire," by Antony Tudor,
music of Schoenberg.

The Jooss Ballet, under the management of Leon Greanin and
directed by Frederic Cohen, opened at the Maxine Elliott Theatre,
September 22, 1941. The repertory included the premieres
"Chronica," by Kurt Jooss and Berthold Goldschmitt, "Drums
Sound in Hackensack," by Agnes de Mille with music by Frederic
Cohen, and "A Spring Tale," by Kurt Jooss, with music by
Frederic Cohen.

The Jooss Ballet returned for a brief engagement in the Fall
at the Windsor Theatre in a joint program with a repertory of
Gilbert and Sullivan operettas presenting "The Green Table,"

"The Big City," "A BaU in Old Vienna" and "The Prodigal Son."

456

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194 M2 457

Ruth St. Denis and a small company of*dancers began a series
of four performances at the Carnegie Chamber Music Hall open-
ing December 4, 1941, with "Radha," "Incense," "The Cobras,"
"The Nautch" and "Yogi."

Le Meri and Natya Dancers presented three dance dramas of
India at the Guild Theatre in December.

Martha Graham and company presented three dance dramas
at the Concert Theatre, with Louis Horst as music director, in
December. "Punch and Judy," with music by Robert McBride,
spoken text by Gordon Craig, was presented for the first time.

Doris Humphrey and Charles Weidman opened their second
repertory season at the Studio Theatre, December 26, 1941, with
"Decade" by Miss Humphrey, music by Aaron Copland, spoken
text by Alex Kahn, Lionel Nowak the musical director. Other
dance dramas included "Flickers," by Weidman, with music by
Nowak, "On My Mother's Side," by Weidman and Nowak and
"Alcina Suite," with Handel music and "Variations from New
Dance," by Doris Humphrey and Wallingford Riegger.

Argentinita with her company of dancers appeared at the Cos-
mo(>olitan Opera House February 12, 1942, and again at the
Shubert Theatre for a series of three week-ends in March.

Dance Players, Inc., under the management of Eugene Loring,
opened April 21, 1942, at the National Theatre, New York, with
"Billy the Kid." During the engagement the following dance
dramas were presented for the first time: "The Man from
Midian," based on a poem by Winthrop B. Palmer, with score
by Stefan Wolpe; "Jinx," by Lew Christensen with music by
Benjamin Britten, and "City Portrait," by Eugene Loring with
music by Henry Brant and decor by Reginald Marsh. Other
selections were from the repertory.

OFF BROADWAY

The Savoy Opera Guild under the direction of Lewis Denison,
leased the Cherry Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village and gave
three performances a week of Gilbert and Sullivan operas con-
tinuously through the season of 1941-42, starting with ^^Mikado/'
June 19, 1941. During the season Sylvia Cyde, Charles Kingsley,
Well Clary, Bernard O'Brien, Seymour Fenzner, Ruth Giorloff
and others sang "Cox and Box,'' "Pirates of Fenzance," "Rud-
digore," "lolanthe," "Trial by Jury," "Yeoman of the Guard,*'
"Finafore," and "The Gondoliers." Arthiu: Lief was the music
director.

Other Gilbert and Sullivan operas produced during the season
were "Firates of Fenzance" produced by Bluehill Troupe and
staged by Richard Skinner at the Heckscher Theatre, April 15;
"Fatience," "Finafore" and "Trial by Jury," staged by Allen
Hinckley and produced by the Village Light Opera Group at the
Heckscher Theatre, beginning December 12, 1941, and "Cox and
Box" and "Finafore," directed by John F. Grahame and Alexander
Maissd at the Frovincetown Flayhouse, N. Y., June 11, 1942.

The Studio Theatre of the New School for Social Research,
under the direction of Erwin Fiscator, produced foiu: pla3rs dur-
ing the season, one of which, "Nathan the Wise," was later moved
to the Belasco Theatre. "The Days of Our Youth," by Frank
Gabrielson, opened the season in November and dosed after 12
performances. Leon Janney and Curt Conway headed the cast
and James Light staged the production. Ferdinand Bruckner's
"The Criminals," translated by Edwin Denby and Rita Matthias,
opened December 20 and continued for IS performances. San-
ford Meisner directed. The cast included Lili Darvas, Warner
Anderson, Faul Mann and Herbert Berghof. The third produc-
tion was "Nathan the Wise" (11 performances) and the fourth
and last play was "War and Feace" dramatized from the Tolstoi
novel by Erwin Fiscator and Alfred Neumann in collaboration
with Harold L. Anderson and Maurice Kurtz. Hugo Haas,
Alfred Urban, Warner Anderson, Faul Mann, R. Ben Ari and
Dolly Haas were in the cast. Erwin Fiscator directed.

The Blackfriars' Guild opened its season October 30, 1941,
with "Up the Rebels," by Sean Vincent. Dennis Gurney di-
rected. In December "Song of Sorrows," by Felix Doherty,

458

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 459

was presented for the first time and "The Years Between," by
Edward Burbage, another premiere, opened February 5, 1942.
**The White Steed," by Paul Vincent Carroll, was played by the
Irish Repertory Players and staged by J. Augustus Keogh. The
season closed with "Savonarola," by Urban Nagle, with 12 per-
formances. An all male cast of 22 was headed by Brandon Peters.
The drama was directed by Dennis Gumey.

In December Madison Square Garden housed the "Ice Follies
of 1942," and at the end of the season, in June, the "Skating
Vanities of 1942," a musical comedy on roller skates, had a brid
engagement.

The American Actors Company produced "Out of My House,"
by Horton Foote, at the Humphrey-Weidman Studio January 7,
1942. The play was staged by Mary Hunter, Horton Foote and
Jane Rose. In the cast were William Hare, Casey Walters and
Thomas Hughes.

William Saroyan's one-act play, "Across the Board on Tomor-
row Morning," preceded by "Theatre of the Soul," a one-act play
by Nicolas Evreinov, was produced by Theatre Showcase, March
20, 1942. Staging by William Boyman and Bemarr Cooper.

Martin Blaine presented "It's About Time," a revue in two
acts, at the Barbizon-Plaza Concert Hall, March 28, 1942.
Sketches were written by Peter Barry, Arnold Horwitt, Arthur
Elmer, Sam Locke, David Greggory and Reuben Shipp; lyrics
by Mr. Greggory; music by Will Lorin, Al Moss and Genevieve
Pitot; settings by William Martin and Walter Ketchum.

Robert Henderson staged and presented a play in three acts
called "Me and Harry" at the Studio Theatre, April 2, 1942.
The play was written by Charles Mergendahl.

"Mexican Mural," by Ramon Naya, was presented and staged
by Robert Lewis at the Chanin Theatre, New York, April 25,
1942. Included in the cast were Libby Holman, Perry Wilson,
Montgomery Clift, Norma Chambers, Mira Rosovskaya and
Kevin McCarthy.

Three interesting productions were "The Valiant" and "Bound
for Mexico," produced by the Victory Players, a group of blind
performers. May 28, 1942; the Lighthouse Players' production
of "Women Without Men," by Philip Johnsra; "GaUant Lady,"
by C. C. Clements, and "Silent Voice," by Esther Shephard.
A performance of "Arsenic and Old Lace" by Joseph Kesselring
was played entirely in sign language by the GaUaudet College
Dramatic Club May 10, 1942.

As a result of the war many pageants, patriotic rev\ies and

460 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

plays were presented. The first of these was "Fun To Be Free,"
a revue and pageant by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur with
music by Kurt Weill and staged by Brett Warren, was produced
by Fight for Freedom, Inc., October 5, 1941, at Madison Square
Garden. In charge of the presentation was Laurence Schwab
and prominent stage, screen and radio actors were in the cast.
The show was under the supervision of Billy Rose.

"Johnny Doodle," a musical play in two acts by Jane McLeod
and Alfred Saxe, with incidental music and direction by Lan
Adomian, was produced by the Popidar Theatre at the Popular
Theatre, March 18, 1942.

The Navy Relief Benefit Show at Madison Square Garden,
March 10, 1942, was under the direction of Marvin Schenck and
Sidney Pierpont. Lieutenant Commander Walter Winchell,
Tyrone Power, Bert L3^ell, Ray Bolger, George Jessel and Jack
Haley were alternating masters of ceremony. Andre KosteUmetz
led his own orchestra and many celebrities assisted.

"Salute to Negro Troops," by Carleton Moss, was presented at
the Apollo Theatre, Harlem, for a week*s run starting March 27,
1942. It had previously been given at the Cosmopolitan Opera
House. This was a pageant of the history of the Negro in
America and was staged by Brett Warren.

"Gratefully Yours," a revue by Peter Jackson with sketches
contributed by John Van Druten, Herbert Farjeon, Harold Rome,
Patricia CoUinge, Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse, was pre-
sented at the Imperial Theatre under the direction of Constance
Collier and Robert Ross, April 7 and April 12, 1942. Fifty-four
British refugee children from 8 to 16 years old, sons and daugh-
ters of actors and actresses, gave the performance for the Amer-
ican Theatre Wing War Service and the British and American
Ambulance Corps. Miss Collier and Gertrude Lawrence took
part in the prologue.

College Plays in New York

The Mask and Wig Club of the University of Pennsylvania
produced its fifty-fourth annual musical, "Out of this World,"
at the Holl)rwood Theatre, New York, December 13, 1941. The
musical was based on a scenario by John C. Parry. Dr. Clay A.
Boland wrote the score, S. B. Reidmer the lyrics, John C. Parry,
Louis de V Day, Sidney Wertimer, Jr., and Fred Griffiths the
dialogue. The production was under the supervision of Dr.
Boland. Proceeds turned over to the relief fund for Pearl Harbor.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

461

The Triangle Club of Princeton University presented their
fifty-third annual production, "Ask Me Another," at the Mans-
field Theatre, New York, December 18, 1941. This friendly
satire on quiz programs was written by Mark Lawrence, W. C.
* Matthews, J. A. Nevius, Charles H. Burr, Gordon Bent, F. O.
Bimey, Clinton E. Wilder and Norman Cook; music and l3rrics
by Mark Lawrence, Howard Anderson, William Jamison, Roger
W. Bissell, J. A. Schumann and Gordon Bent. The production
was supervised by Norris Houghton.

The Columbia University Players presented their forty-ninth
annual varsity musical in the Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Astor,
March 26, 1942. "Saints Alive," in two acts, was written by
Edward Falasca, Jean Sosin and Robert Bergman with music
by Albert Sherwin, Edgar J. Carver and Morton Lippman. The
production was supervised by Paul Winkopp; music directed by
Lee Wainer; dances by Frank Gagen.

The Mimes and Mummers of Fordham College presented
Goldoni's "A Servant of Two Masters" as their annual varsity
production at the Penthouse Theatre, New York, April 23y 1942.

The Yale Dramatic Association presented "The Waterbury
Tales" at the Hotel Waldorf-Astoria, December 22, 1941. This
musical comedy was based on an idea by William H. Schubart, Jr.
The sketches and lyrics were by John W. Leggett, Samuel J.
Wagstaff and William Schubart; music by Dudley P. Felton,
Franklin B. Young, Albert W. Selden, Richard L. Brecker and
John Gerald. Directed by Burton G. Shevelove; dances staged
by Dean Goodelle; settings by Peter Wolf; costumes by Joe
Fretwell, III.

STATISTICAL SUMMARY

(Last Season Plays Which Ended Runs After June 15, 1941)

Number
Plays Performances

Hellzapoppin 1,404 (Qoscd December 17, 1941)

Johnny Belinda 321 (Closed June 21, 1941)

Native Son 114 (Closed June 28, 1941)

Pal Joey 374 (Qosed November 29, 1941)

Panama Hattie 501 (Closed January 3, 1942)

Separate Rooms 613 (Closed September 6, 1941)

The Beautiful People . 120 (Closed August 2, 1941)

The Com Is Green 477 (Closed January 17, 1942)

The Doctor's Dilemma. . 121 (Closed June 21, 1941)
The Man Who Came to

Dinner 739 (Qosed July 12, 1941)

Watch on the Rhine. ... 378 (Closed February 21, 1942)

"Claudia" closed March 7, 1942, with 453 performances and
reopened May 24, the return engagement adding 24 perform-
ances by June IS, making a total of 477. "Pal Joey" ran for
270 performances in the first engagement and 104 in the return
engagement, making a total of 374 performances.

LONG RUNS ON BROADWAY

To June IS, 1942
(Plays marked with asterisk were still playing June IS, 1942)

Number
Plays Performances

Tobacco Road 3,182

Abie's Irish Rose .... 2,327

Hellzapoppin 1,404

Lightnin' 1,291

Pins and Needles 1,108

♦Life with Father 1,093

The Bat 867

White Cargo 864

You Can't Take It with

You 837

Three Men on a Horse 83 S

The Ladder 789

The First Year 760

The Man Who Came to

Dinner 739

Seventh Heaven 704

Peg o' My Heart 692

The Children's Hour. . 691

Dead End 687

East Is West 680

Irene 670

Boy Meets Girl 669

The Women 657

A Trip to Chinatown . . 657

Rain 648

The Green Pastures . . . 640

♦My Sister Eileen 624

Is Zat So 618

Separate Rooms 613

Number
Plays Performances

Student Prince 608

Broadway 603

Adonis 603

Street Scene 601

Kiki 600

♦Arsenic and Old Lace. . S98

Blossom Time S92

Brother Rat S77

Show Boat S72

The Show-Off S71

Sally 570

Rose Marie 557

Strictly Dishonorable. . 557

Good News 551

Within the Law 541

The Music Master .... 540

What a Life 538

The Boomerang 522

Blackbirds 518

Sunny 517

Victoria Regina 517

The Vagabond King ... 511

The New Moon 509

Shuffle Along 504

Personal Appearance. . 501

Panama Hattie 501

Bird in Hand 500

Sailor, Beware I 500

Room Service 500

DRAMA CRITICS' CIRCLE AWARD

For the second time in its seven years' existence the New York
Drama Critics' Circle failed to select a best play of American
authorship to represent the theatre season. In an ofiBcial an-
nouncement covering its deliberations the Cirde pointed out that
''while it was organized to encourage native playwrights and
honor native dramatists, it had also the third obligation of main-
taining the standards of the theatre and of dramatic criticism,
and that it felt it would cause a serious confusion of standards
if it merely made a selection from a group of pla3rs, none of which
seemed up to the standards of the previous awards." The vote
was 11 to 6 in favor of abiding by this decision. Of the six
reviewers favoring the selection of a best play, four voted for
the Koch-Huston "In Time to Come" and two for John Stein-
beck's "The Moon Is Down." Noel Coward's "Blithe Spirit"
received practically the unanimous endorsement of the Circle as
being the best of the imported plays of the season. It received
12 votes, to two for "Angel Street" and four "no decisions." The
only previous "no decision" season was that of 1938-39, when
Robert Sherwood's "Abe Lincoln in Illinois" and Lillian Hell-
man's "The Little Foxes" split the vote. Drama Critics' Circle
Awards have been:

1935-36 — ^Winterset, by Maxwell Anderson
1936-37— High Tor, by Maxwell Anderson
1937-38 — Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck
1938.39_No decision. ("The Little Foxes" and "Abe Lin-
coln in Illinois" led voting.)
1939-40— The Time of Your Life, by William Saroyan
1940-41— Watch on the Rhine, by Lillian HeUman
1941-42— No award.

PULITZER PRIZE WINNERS

"For the original American play performed in New York which
shall best represent the educational value and power of the stage
in raising the standard of good morals, good taste and good man-
ners."—The Will of Joseph Pulitzer, dated April 16, 1904.

In 1929 the advisory board, which, according to the terms of
the will, ''shall have the power in its discretion to suspend or to
change any subject or subjects • • . if in the judgment of the
board such suspension, changes or substitutions shall be conducive
to the public good," decided to eliminate from the above para-
graph relating to the prize-winning play the words "in raising the
standard of good morals, good taste and good manners."

The committee awards to date have been:

1917.18— Why Marry? by Jesse Lynch Williams

1918-19_None

1919-20— Beyond the Horizon, by Eugene O'Neill

1920-21— Miss Lulu Bett, by Zona Gale

1921-22— Anna Christie, by Eugene O'Neill

1922-23— Icebound, by Owen Davis

1923-24 — ^Hell-bent fer Heaven, by Hatcher Hughes

1924-25— They Knew What They Wanted, by Sidney Howard

1925-26— Craig's Wife, by George Kelly

1926-27 — ^In Abraham's Bosom, by Paul Green

1927-28— Strange Interlude, by Eugene O'Neill

1928-29— Street Scene, by Elmer Rice

1929-30 — ^The Green Pastures, by Marc Connelly

1930-31 — ^Alison's House, by Susan Glaspdl

1931-32— Of Thee I Sing, by George S. Kaufman, Morrie

R3rskind, Ira and George Gershwin
1932-33 — Both Your Houses, by Maxwell Anderson
1933-34 — ^Men in White, by Sidney Kingsley
1 934.3 S_The Old Maid, by Zoe Akins
193S-36_Idiot's Delight, by Robert E. Sherwood
1936-37— You Can't Take It with You, by Moss Hart and

George S. Kaufman
1937-38— Our Town, by Thornton Wilder
1938-39 — ^Abe Lincoln in Illinois, by Robert E. Sherwood
1939-40— The Time of Your Life, by William Saroyan
1940-41— There Shall Be No Night, by Robert E. Sherwood
1941-42_No award.

(

PREVIOUS VOLUMES OF BEST FLAYS

FlajTS chosen to rqiresent the theatre seasons from 1909 to
1941 are as follows:

1909-1919

"The Easiest Way," by Eugene Walter. Published by G. W.
DillinghMn, New York; Houston MifiBin Co., Boston.

"Mrs. Bumpstead-Lei^/' by Harry James Smith. Published
by Samuel French, New York.

''DisraeU/' by Louis N. Parker. Published by Dodd, Mead
and Co., New York.

"Romance," by Edward Sheldon. Published by the Mac-
millan Co., New York.

"Seven Keys to Baldpate," by George M. Cohan. Published
by Bobbs-Merrill Co., Indianapolis, as a novel by Earl Derr
Biggers; as a play by Samuel French, New York.

"On Trial," by Elmer Reizenstein. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

"The Unchastened Woman," by Louis Kaufman An^)acher.
Published by Harcourt, Brace and Howe, Lie, New Yoii^.

"Good Gracious Annabelle/' by Clare Kummer. Published by
Samuel French, New York.

"Why Marry?" by Jesse Lynch Williams. Published by
Charles Scribner's Sons, New York,

'John Ferguson," by St. John Ervine. Published by the Mac-
millan Co., New York.

1919-1920

''Abraham Lincoln," by John Drinkwater. Published by
Houghton MifiQin Co., Boston.

"Clarence," by Booth Tarkington. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

"Beyond the Horizon," by Eugene G. O'NeilL Published by
Boni & Liveright, Inc., New York.

"D^class6e," by Zoe Akins. Published by Liveright, Inc, New
York.

466

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 467

'The Famous Mrs. Fair/' by James Forbes. Published by
Samud French, New York.

"The Jest/' by Sem Benelli. (American adaptation by Edward
Sheldon.)

"Jane Qegg/' by St John Ervine. Published by Henry Holt
& Co., New York.

"Mamma's Affair/' by Rachel Barton Butler. Published by
Samuel French, New York.

"Wedding Bells," by Salisbury Field. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

"Adam and Eva/' by George Middleton and Guy Bolton. Pub*
lished by Samuel French, New York.

1920-1921

^'Deburau," adapted from the French of Sacha Guitry by
H. Granville Barker. Published by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New
York.

"The First Year/' by Frank Craven. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

"Enter Madame," by Gilda Varesi and Dolly Byrne. Pub-
lished hy G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.

"The Green Goddess," by William Archer. Published by
Alfred A. Knopf, New York.

"Liliom/' by Ferenc Molnar. Published by Boni & Liveright,
New York.

"Mary Rose/' by James M. Barrie. Published by Charles
Scribner's Sons, New York.

"Nice People," by Rachel Crothers. Published by Charles
Scribner's Sons, New York.

"The Bad Man," by Porter Emerson Browne. Published by
G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.

"The Emperor Jones," by Eugene G. O'Neill. Published by
Boni & Liveright, New York.

"The Skin Game/' by John Galsworthy. Published by Charles
Scribner's Sons, New York.

192U1922

"Anna Christie," by Eugene G. O'Neill. Published by Boni
& Liveright, New York.

"A BUI of Divorcement/' by Clemence Dane. Published by
the Macmillan Company, New York.

"Didcy," by George S. Kaufman and Marc Connelly. Pub-
lished by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.

468 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

^He Who Gets Slapped," adapted from the Ruaaan of Leonid
Andreyev by Gregory ZQboorg. Published by Brentano's, New
York.

"Six Cylinder Love,'' by William Anthony McGiure.

"The Hero," by Gilbert Emery.

''The Dover Road," by Alan Alexander l^lihie. Published by
Samuel French, New York.

"Ambush," by Arthur Richman.

"The Circle," by William Somerset Maugham.

"The Nest," by Paul Geraldy and Grace George.

1922-1923

"Rain," by John Colton and Clemence Randolph. Published
by Liveright, Inc., New York.

"Loyalties," by John Galsworthy. Published by Charles Scrib-
ner's Sons, New York.

"Icebound," by Owen Davis. Published by Little, Brown &
Company, Boston.

"You and I," by Philip Barry. Published by Brentano's, New
York.

"The Fool," by Channing Pollock. Published by Brentano's,
New York.

"Merton of the Movies," by George Kaufman and Marc Con-
nelly, based on the novel of the same name by Harry Leon
Wilson.

"Why Not?" by Jesse Lynch Williams. Published by Walter
H. Baker Co., Boston.

"The Old Soak," by Don Marquis. Published by Doubleday,
Page & Company, New York.

"R.U.R.," by Kard Capek. Translated by Paul Sdver. Pub-
lished by Doubleday, Page & Company.

"Mary the 3d," by Rachel Crothers. Published by Brentano's,
New York*

1923-1924

"The Swan,'* translated from the Hungarian of Ferenc Molnar
by Melville Baker. Published by Boni & Liveri^t, New York.

"Outward Bound," by Sutton Vane. Published by Boni &
Liveri^t, New York.

"The Show-off," by George Kelly. Published by Little, Brown
& Company, Boston.

"The Changelings," by Lee Wilson Dodd. Published by E. P.
Dutton & Company, New York.

"Chicken Feed," by Guy Bdton. Published by Samud Firendi,

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 469

New York and London.

''Sun-Up/' by Lula Vollmer. Published by Brentano's, New
York.

'^Beggar on Horseback/' by George Kaufman and Marc Con-
nelly. Published by Boni & Liveright, New York.

^Tarnish," by Gilbert Emery. Published by Brentano's, New
York.

/'The Goose Hangs High/' by Lewis Beach. Published by
Little, Brown & Company, Boston.

^'Hell-bent fer Heaven/' by Hatcher Hughes, Published by
Harper Bros., New York.

1924-1925

**What Price Glory?'* by Laurence Stallings and Maxwell An-
derson. Published by Harcourt, Brace & Co., New York.

"They Knew What They Wanted," by Sidney Howard. Pub-
lished by Doubleday, Page & Company, New York.

''Desire Under the Ehns," by Eugene G. ONeill. Published
by Boni & Liveright, New York.

*'The Firebrand," by Edwin Justus Mayer. Published by Boni
& Liveright, New York.

"Dancing Mothers," by Edgar Selwyn and Edmund Goulding.

''Mrs. Partridge Presents," by Mary Kennedy and Rutti
Warren. Published by Samuel French, New York.

"The Fall Guy," by James Gleason and George Abbott. Pub-
lished by Samud Fraidi, New York.

"The Youngest," by Philip Barry. Published by Samud
French, New York.

"Mmick," by Edna Ferber and George S. Kaufman. Published
by Doubleday, Page & Company, New York.

"Wild Birds," by Dan Totheroh. Published by Doubleday,
Page & Company, New York.

1925-1926

"Craig's Wife," by George KeUy. Published by Little, Brown
& Company, Boston.

'*The Great God Brown," by Eugene G. O'Neill. Published by
Boni & Liveright, New York.

"The Green Hat," by Michad Arlen.

"The Dybbuk," by S. Ansky, Henry G. Alsberg-Winifred Kat-
adn translation. Published by Boni & Liveright, New York.

"The Enemy/' by Channing Pollock. Published by Brentano's^

470 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

New York.

''The Last of Mrs. Cbeyney," by Frederick Lonsdale. Fob-
lished by Samuel French, New York.

''Bride of the Lamb/' by William Hurlbut Published by Bool
& Liveright, New York.

"The Wisdom Tooth," by Marc ConneOy. Published hf
George H. Doran & Company, New York.

'The Butter and Egg Man," by George Kaufman. Published
by Boni & Liveright, New York.

"Yoimg Woodley," by John Van Druten. Publisbed by Simon
and Schuster, New York.

1926-1927

''Broadway," by Philip Dunning and George Abbott. Pub-
lished by George H. Doran Company, New York.

"Saturday's Children," by Maxwell Anderson. Published by
Longmans, Green & Company, New York.

"Chicago," by Maurine Watkms. Published by Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc., New York.

"The Constant Wife,'^ by William Somerset Maugham. Pub*
lished by George H. Doran Company, New York.

"The Play's the Thmg," by Ferenc MoUiar and P. G. Wode-
house. Published by Brentano's, New York.

"The Road to Rome," by Robert Emmet Sherwood. Pub-
lished by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.

"The Silver Cord," by Sidney Howard. Published by Charles
Scribner's Sons, New York.

"The Cradle Song," translated from the Spanish of G. Martinez
Sierra by John Garrett Underbill. Published by E. P. Dutton &
Company, New York.

"Daisy Mayme," by George KeQy. Published by Little, Brown
& Company, Boston.

"In Abraham's Bosom," by Paul Green. Publisbed by Robert
M. McBride & Company, New York.

1927-1928

"Strange Interlude," by Eugene G. O'Neill. Published by Boni
& Liveri^t, New York.

"The Royal Family," by Edna Ferber and George Kaufman.
Published by Doubleday, Doran & Company, New York.

"Burlesque," by George Manker Watters. Published by Dou-
bleday, Doran & Company, New York.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 471

'^G>quette/' by George Abbott and Ann Bridgets. PaUished
by Longmans, Green & G)mpanyy New York, London, Toronto.

''Behold the Bridegroom," by George Kelly. Published by
Little, Brown & Company, Boston.

"Porgy," by DuBose Heyward. Published by Doubleday,
Doran & Company, New York.

'Taris Bound," by Philip Barry. Published by Samuel Ftench,
New York.

''Escape," by John Galsworthy. Published by Charles Scrib«
ner's Sons, New York.

"The Racket," by Bartlett Cormack. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

"The Plough and the Stars," by Sean O'Casey. Published by
the Macmillan Company, New York.

1928-1929

''Street Scent," by Elmer Rice. Published by Samuel French,
New York.

"Journey's End," by R. C. Sherri£f. Published by Brentano's,
New York.

"Wings Over Europe," by Robert Nichols and Maurice Browne.
Publish^ by Covid-Friede, New York.

"HoUday," by PhiUp Barry. Published by Samuel French,
New York.

"The Front Ps^e," by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur.
Published by Covid-Friede, New York.

"Let Us Be Gay," by Rachel Crothers. Published by Samuel
French, New YorL

"Machinal," by Sophie Treadwdl.

"Little Acddent," by Floyd DeU and Thomas MitchelL

"Gypsy," by Maxwell Anderson.

"The Kingdom of God," by G. Martinez Sierra; English ver-
sion by Helen and Harley Granville-Barker. Published by E. P.
Dutton & Company, New York.

1929-1930

*'The Green Pastures," by Marc Conndly (adapted from "OP
Man Adam and His Chillun," by Roark Bradford). Published
by Farrar & Rinehart, Inc., New York.

"The Criminal Code," by Martin Flavin. Published by Horace
Liveri^t, New York.

"Berkdey Square," by John Balderston. Published by the
Macmillan Ccnnpany, New York.

472 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

^Strictly Dishonorable/' by Preston Storges. Pahmbed by
Horace Liveright, New York.

''The First Mrs. Fraser/' by St. John Ervine. Published by
the Macmillan Company, New York.

''The Last Mile," by John Wezley. Published by Samud
French, New York.

''June Moon," by Ring W. Lardner and George S. Kaufman.
Published by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.

"Michael and Mary,'- by A. A. Milne. Published by Chatto
& Windus, London.

"Death Takes a Holiday," by Walter Ferris (adapted from the
Italian of Alberto Casella). Published by Samuel French, New
York.

"Rebound," by Donald Ogden Stewart Published by Samuel
French, New York.

1930-1931

"Elizabeth the Queen," by Maxwell Anderson. Published by
Longmans, Green & Co., New York.

'Tomorrow and Tomorrow," by Philip Barry. Published by
Samuel French, New York.

"Once in a Lifetime," by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart.
Published by Farrar and Rinehart, New York.

"Green Grow the Lilacs," by Lynn Riggs. Published by Sam-
uel French, New York and London.

"As Husbands Go," by Rachel Crothers. Published by Samuel
Frendi, New York.

"Alison's House," by Susan Glaspell. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

"Five-Star Final," by Louis Weitzenkom. Published by Sam-
uel French, New York.

"Overture," by William Bolitho. Published by Simon &
Schuster, New York.

"The Barretts of Wunpole Street," by Rudolf Besier. Pub-
lished by Little, Brown & Company, Boston.

"Grand Hotel," adapted from the German of Vicki Baum by
W. A. Drake.

1931-1932

"Of Thee I Sing," by George S. Kaufman and Mwrie
music and lyrics by George and Lra Gershwin. PuUi^ed by
Alfred Knopf, New York.

"Mourning Becomes Electra," by Eugene G. O'NeOL Pub-
lished by Horace Liveright, Inc., New York.

"Reunion in Vienna," by Robert Emmet Sherwood. Published

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 473

by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.

"The House of Connelly," by Paul Green. Published by
Samuel French, New York.

"The Animal Kingdom," by PhiUp Barry. Published by
Samuel French, New York.

"The Left Bank," by Ebner Rice. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

"Another Language," by Rose Franken. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

"Brief Moment," by S. N. Behrman. Published by Farrar &
Rinehart, New York.

"The Devil Passes," by Benn W. Levy. Published by Martin
Seeker, London.

"Cynara," by H. M. Harwood and R. F. Gore*Browne. Pub-
lished by Samuel French, New York.

1932-1933

"Both Your Houses," by Maxwell Anderson. Published by
Samuel French, New York.

"Dinner at Eight," by George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber.
Published by Doubleday, Doran & Co., Inc., Garden City, New
york.

"When Ladies Meet," by Rachel Crothers. Published by Sam-
uel French, New York.

"Design for Living," by Nod Coward. Published by Double-
day, Doran & Co., Inc., Garden City, New York.

"Biography," by S. N. Behrman. Published by Farrar & Rine-
hart, Inc., New York.

"Alien Com," by Sidney Howard. Published by Charles Scrib-
ner's Sons, New York.

"The Late Christopher Bean," adapted from the French of
Ren6 Fauchois by Sidney Howard. Publi^ed by Samuel French,
New York.

"We, the People," by Ehner Rice. Published by Coward-
McCann, Inc., New York.

"Pigeons and People," by George M. Cohan.

"One Sunday Afternoon," by James Hagan. Published by
Samuel Ftenchi New York.

1933-1934

"Mary of Scotland," by Maxwell Anderson. Published by
Doubleday, Doran & Co., Inc., Garden City, N. Y.

474 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

''ISm in White/' by Sidney Kingsky. Published hy Omd,
Friede, Inc., New York.

<<Do(dsworth/' by Sinclair Lewis and Sicbey Howard. Pub-
lished by Harcourty Brace & Co., New York.

''Ah, Wilderness," by Eugene O'NeilL Published by Random
]Souse New York.

''They Shan Not Die,'' by John Wedcy. Published by Alfred
A. Knopf, New York.

''Her Master's Voice," by Gare Kummer. Published by Sam-
ud French, New York.

"No More Ladies," by A. E. Thomas.

''Wednesdajr's Child," by Leopold Atlas. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

<'The Shining Hour," by Keith Wmter. Published by Double-
day, Doran & Co., Idc, Garden Gty, New York.

"The Green Bay Tree," by Mordaunt Shairp. Published by
Baker International Play Bureau, Boston, Mass.

1934-1935

''The Children's Hour," by Lillian HeOman. Published by
Alfred Knopf, New York.

"Valley Forge," by Maxwell Anderson. Published by Anderson
House, Washington, D. C. Distributed by Dodd, Mead & Co.,
New York.

"The Petrified Forest," by Robert Sherwood. Published by
Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.

"The Old Maid," by Zoe Akins. Published by D. Appleton-
Century Co., New York.

"Accent on Youth," by Samson Raphaelson. Published by
Samuel Frendi, New York.

"Merrily We Roll Along," by George S. Kaufman and Moss
Hart. Published by Random House, New York.

"Awake and Sing," by Clifford Odets. Published by Random
House, New York.

"The Farmer Takes a \K^e," by Frank B. Elser and Marc
Connelly.

"Lost Horizons," By John Hayden.

"The Distaff Side," by John Van Druten. Published by Alfred
Knopf, New York.

1935-1936

"W^terset," by Maxwell Anderson. Published by Anderson
House, Washington, D. C.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 475

"Idiot's Delight," by Robert Emmet Sherwood. Published by
Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.

''End of Summer," by S. N. Behrman. Published by Random
House, New York.

'Tirst Lady," by Katharine Dajrton and George S. Kaufman.
Published by Random House, New York.

"Victoria Regina," by Laurence Housman. Published by
Samuel French, Inc., New York and London.

"Boy Meets Girl," by Bella and Samuel Spewack. Published
by Random House, New York.

"Dead End," by Sidney Kmgsley. Published by Random
House, New York.

"Call It a Day," by Dodie Smith. Published by Samuel
French, Inc., New York and London.

"Ethan Frome," by Owen Davis and Donald Davis. Published
by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.

"Pride and Prejudice," by Helen Jerome. Published by Double-
day, Doran & Co., Garden City, New York.

1936-1937

"High Tor," by Maxwell Anderson. Published by Anderson
House, Washington, D. C.

"You Can't Take It with You," by Moss Hart and George S.
Kaufman. Published by Farrar & Rinehart, Inc., New York.

"Johnny Johnson," by Paul Green. Published by Samuel
French, Inc., New York.

"Daughters of Atreus," by Robert Tumey. Published by
Alfred A. Knopf, New York.

"Stage Door," by Edna Ferber and George S. Kaufman. Pub-
lished by Doubleday, Doran & Co., Garden City, New York.

"The Women," by Clare Boothe. Published by Random
House, Inc., New York.

"St. Helena," by R. C. Sherriff and Jeanne de Casalis. Pub-
lished by Samuel French, Inc., New York and London.

"Yes, My Darling Daughter," by Mark Reed. Published by
Samuel French, Inc., New York.

"Excursion," by Victor Wolfson. Published by Random House,
New York.

"Tovarich," by Jacques Deval and Robert E. Sherwood. Pub-
lished by Random House, New Y(»:k.

476 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

1937-1938

''Of Mice and Men/' by John Steinbeck. Published by Covid-
Friede, New York.

"Our town," by Thornton Wilder. Published by Coward-
McCann, Inc., New York.

"Shadow and Substance," by Paid Vincent Carroll. Published
by Random House, Inc., New York.

"On Borrowed Time," by Paul Osbom. Published by Alfred A.
Knopf, New York.

"The Star-Wagon," by Maxwell Anderson. Published by An-
derson House, Washington, D. C. Distributed by Dodd, Mead &
Co., New York.

"Susan and God," by Rachel Crothers. Published by Random
House, Inc., New York.

"Prologue to Glory," by E. P. Conkle. Published by Random
House, Inc., New York.

"Amphitryon 38," by S. N. Behrman. Published by Random
House, Inc., New York.

"Golden Boy," by Clifford Odets. Published by Random
House, Inc., New York.

"What a Life," by Qifford Goldsmith. Published by Drama-
tists Play Service, Inc., New York.

1938-1939

"Abe Lincoln in Illinois," by Robert E. Sherwood. Published
by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York and Charles Scribner's Sons,
Ltd. London.

"The Little Foxes," by Lillian Hellman. Published by Random
House, Inc., New York.

"Rocket to the Moon," by Qifford Odets. Published by Ran-
dom House, Inc., New York.

"The American Way," by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart
Published by ftandom House, Inc., New York.

"No Time for Comedy," by S. N. Behrman. Published by
Random House, Inc., New York.

"The Philadelphia Story," by PhiUp Barry. Published by
Coward-McCann, Inc., New York.

"The White Steed," by Paul \^cent Carroll. Published by
Random House, Inc., New York.

"Here Come the Clowns," by Philip Barry. Published by
Coward-McCann, Inc., New York.

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 477

"Famfly Portrait," by Lenore Coffee and William Joyce Cowen.
Published by Random House, Inc., New York.

"Kiss the Boys Good-bye," by Clare Boothe. Published by
Random House, Inc., New York.

1939-1940

"There ShaU Be No Night," by Robert E. Sherwood. Pub-
lished by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.

"Key Largo," by Maxwell Anderson. Published by Anderson
House, Washington, D. C.

"The World We Make," by Sidney Kmgsley.

"Life with Father," by Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse.
Published by Alfred A. Knopf, New York.

"The Man Who Came to Dinner," by George S. Kaufman and
Moss Hart. Published by Random House, Inc., New York.

"The Male Animal," by James Thurber and Elliott Nugent.
Published by Random House, Inc., New York, and MacMillan
Co., Canada.

"The Time of Your Life," by William Saroyan. Published by
Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc., New York.

"Skylark," by Samson Raphaelson. Published by Random
House, Inc., New York.

"Margin for Error," by Clare Boothe. Published by Random
House, Inc., New York.

"Morning's at Seven," by Paul Osbom. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

1940-1941

"Native Son," by Paul Green and Richard Wright. Published
by Harper & Bros., New York.

"Watch on the Rhine," by Lillian Hellman. Published by
Random House, Inc., New York.

"The Com Is Green," by Emlyn Williams. Published by
Random House, Inc., New York.

"Lady in the Dark," by Moss Hart. Published by Random
House, Inc., New York.

"Arsenic and Old Lace," by Joseph Kesselring. Published by
Random House, Inc., New York.

"My Sister Eileen," by Joseph Fields and Jerome Chodorov.
Published by Random House, Inc., New York.

"Flight to the West," by Elmer Rice. Published by Coward,
McCann, Inc., New York.

478

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

^'Claudia," by Rose Franken Maloney. Published by Farrar
& Rinehart, Inc., New York and Toronto.

''Mr. and Mrs. North," by Owen Davis. Published by Samuel
French, New York.

''George Washington Slept Here," by George S. Kaufman and
Moss Halt. Published by Random House, Inc., New Yoik.

WHERE AND WHEN THEY WERE BORN

(Compiled from the most authentic records available.)

Abba, Marta Milan, Italy 1907

Abbott, George Hamburg, N. Y 1895

Abel, Walter St. Paul, Minn 1898

Adams, Maude Salt Lake City, Utah 1872

Addy, Wesley Omaha, Neb 1912

Adler, Luther New York City .\ 1903

Adler, Stella New York City 1904

Aherne, Brian King's Norton, England . . . 1902

Akins, Zoe Humansville, Mo 1886

Allgood, Sara Dublin, Ireland 1883

Ames, Florenz Rochester, N. Y 1884

Anders, Glenn Los Angeles, Cal 1890

Anderson, Judith Australia 1898

Anderson, Mary Trussville, Ala 1917

Anderson, Maxwell Atlantic City, Pa 1888

Andrews, A. G Buffalo, N. Y 1861

Andrews, Ann Los Angeles, Cal 1895

Angel, Heather Oxford, England 1909

Anglin, Margaret Ottawa, Canada 1876

Anson, A. E London, England 1879

Arden, Eve San Francisco, Cal 1912

Arling, Joyce Memphis, Tenn 1911

Arliss, George London, England 1868

Ashcroft, Peggy Croydon, England 1907

Astaire, Fred Omaha, Neb 1899

Atwater, Edith Chicago, 111 1912

Atwell, Roy Syracuse, N. Y 1880

Atwill, Lionel London, England 1885

Bainter, Fay Los Angeles, Cal 1892

Baker, Lee Michigan 1880

Bankhead, Tallulah Huntsville, Ala 1902

Banks, Leslie J West Derby, England . . 1890

Barbee, Richard Lafayette, Ind 1887

Barrett, Edith Roxbury, Mass 1904

Barry, PhUip Rochester, N. Y 1896

Barrymore, Diana New York City 1921

479

480 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Barrymore, Ethd Phfladelphia, Pa 1879

Barrymore, John Philadelphia, Pa 1882

Bariymore, Lionel London, England 1878

Barton, James Gloucester, N. J 1890

Baxter, Lora New York 1907

Behrman, S. N Worcester, Mass 1893

Bell, James Suffolk, Va 1891

Bennett, Richard Cass County, Ind 1873

Bergner, Elisabeth Vienna 1901

Berlin, Irving Russia 1888

Best, Edna Sussex, England 1900

Binney, Constance Philadelphia, Pa 1900

Boland, Mary Detroit, Mich 1880

Bolger, Ray Dorchester, Mass 1906

Bondi, Beulah Chicago, 111 1892

Bordoni, Irene Paris, France 1895

Boumeuf, Philip Boston, Mass 1912

Bowman, Patricia Washington, D. C 1912

Brady, William A San Francisco, Cal 1863

Braham, Horace London, England 1896

Brent, Romney Saltillo, Mex 1902

Brian, Donald St. Johns, N. F 1877

Brice, Fannie Brooklyn, N. Y 1891

Broderick, Helen New York 1891

Bromberg, J. Edward Hungary 1903

Brotherson, Eric Chicago, HI 1911

Brown, Anne Wiggins Baltimore, Md 1916

Bruce, Nigel San Diego, Cal 1895

Bryant, Charles England 1879

Buchanan, Jack England 1892

Burke, Billie Washington, D. C 1885

Burr, Ann Boston, Mass 1920

Byington, Spring Colorado Springs, Colo. . 1898

Byron, Arthur Brooklyn, N. Y 1872

Cabot, Eliot Boston, Mass 1899

Cagney, James New York 1904

Cahill, Lily Texas 1891

Calhem, Louis New York 1895

Cantor, Eddie New York 1894

Carlisle, Kitty New Orleans, La 1912

Carminati, TuUio Zara, Dalmatia 1894

Camovsky, Morris St. Louis, Mo 1898

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2 481

Carpenter, Edward Childs Philadelphia, Pa 1871

Carroll, Earl Pittsburgh, Pa 1892

CarroU, LeoG AVeedon, Enfiland 1892

Carroll, Nancy New York City 1906

Catlett, Walter San Francisco, Cal 1889

Chandler, Helen Charleston, N. C. 1906

Chaplin, Charles Spencer London 1889

Chase, Ilka New York 1900

Chalterton, Ruth New York 1893

Christians, Mady Vienna, Austria 1907

Cburcbill, Berton Toronto, Can. 1876

Claire, Helen Union Springs, Ala. 1908

Claire, Ina Washington. D. C 1892

Clive, Colin St. Malo, France 1900

Coburn, Charles Macon, Ga. 1877

Cohan, George M Providence, R.I 1878

Cohan, Georgette Los Angeles, Cal 1900

Colbert, Claudettc Paris 1905

Collier, Constance Windsor, England , . 1882

Collier, WillUm New York 1866

Collinge, Patricia Dublin Ireland 1894

Collins, Russell N'ew Orleans, La 1901

Colt, Ethel Barrymore Mamaroneck, N. Y. .1911

Colt, John Drew New York . . 1914

Conklin, Peggy Dobbs Ferry, N. Y 1912

Conroy, Frank London, England 1885

Conte, Nicholas Jersey City, N. J 1916

Cook, Donald Portland, Ore 1902

Cook, Joe Evansvilie, Ind 1890

Cooper, Gladys Lewisham, England 1888

Cooper, Violet Kemble London, England 1890

Corbett, Leonora London, England 1908

Cornell, Katharine Berlin, Germany 1898

Corthell, Herbert Boston, Mass 1875

Cossart, Ernest Cheltenham, England , . 1876

Coulouris, George Manchester, England 1906

Courtieigh, Stephen New York City 1912

Coward, Noel Teddington, England 1899

Cowl, Jane Boston, Mass 1887

Craig, Helen Mexico City 1914

Craven, Frank Boston, Mass 1880

Crews, Laura Hope San Francisco, Cal 1880

Cronyn, Hume • Canada 1912

482 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Crosman, Henrietta Wheeling, W. Va 1865

Crothers, Rachel Bloomington, 111. 1878

Cummings, Constance Seattle, Wash 1911

Dale, Margaret Philadelphia, Pa 1880

Davis, Donald New York 1907

Davis, Owen Portland, Me 1874

Davis, Owen, Jr New York 1910

De Cordoba, Pedro New York 1881

Digges, Dudley Dublin, Ireland 1880

Dinehart, Allan Missoula, Mont 1889

Dixon, Jean Waterbury, Conn . 1905

Dowling, Eddie Woonsocket, R. I. 1895

Dressier, Eric Brooklyn, N. Y 1900

Dressier, Marie Cobourg, Canada 1869

Dudley, Doris New York City 1918

Duncan, Augustin San Francisco 1873

Duncan, Todd D^vUle, Ky 1900

Dunn, Emma England 1875

Dunning, Philip Meriden, Conn 1890

Dupree, Minnie San Francisco, Cal 1875

Durante, Jimmy New York City 1893

Edney, Florence London, England 1879

Eldridge, Florence Brooklyn, N. Y 1901

Ellerbe, Harry Georgia 1905

Emery, Gilbert Naples, New York 1875

Emery, Katherine Birmingham, Ala 1908

Erickson, Leif California 1917

Errol, Leon Sydney, Australia 1881

Ervine, St. John Greer Belfast, Ireland 1883

Evans, Edith London, England 1888

Evans, Maurice Dorchester, England 1901

Farley, Morgan Mamaroneck, N. Y 1901

Farmer, Frances Seattle, Wash 1914

Famum, William Boston, Mass 1876

Fassett, Jay Elmira, N. Y 1889

Ferber, Edna Kalamazoo, Mich 1887

Ferguson, Elsie New York 1883

Ferrer, Jose Puerto Rico 1909

Field, Sylvia Allston, Mass 1902

Fields, W. C Philadelphia, Pa 1883

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 483

Fischer, Alice Indiana 1869

Fitzgerald, Barry Dublin, Ireland 1888

Fletcher, Bramwdl Bradford, Yorkshire, Eng. . . 1904

Fontanne, Lynn London, England 1887

Forbes, Ralph London, England 1905

Foster, Phcebe New Hampshire 1897

Foy, Eddie, Jr New Rochelle, N. Y 1906

Eraser, Elizabeth Brooklyn, N. Y 1920

Friganza, Trixie Cincinnati, Ohio 1870

Gahagan, Helen Boonton, N. J 1902

Gaxton, William San Francisco, Cal. 1893

Geddes, Norman Bel Adrian, Mich 1893

George, Grace New York 1879

Gerald, Ara New South Wales 1902

Gershwin, Ira New York 1896

Gielgud, John London, England 1904

GiUmore, Frank New York 1884

Gillmore, Margalo England 1901

Gish, Dorothy Massillon, Ohio 1898

Gish, Lillian Springfield, Ohio 1896

Gleason, James New York 1885

Golden, John New York 1874

Goodner, Carol New York City 1904

Gordon, Ruth Wollaston, Mass 1896

Gough, Lloyd New York City 1906

Granville, Charlotte London 1863

Granville, Sydney Bolton, England 1885

Green, Martyn London, England 1899

Green, Mitzi New York City 1920

Greenstreet, Sydney England 1880

Groody, Louise Waco, Texas 1897

Gwenn, Edmund Glamorgan, Wales 1875

Haines, Robert T Muncie, Ind 1870

Hall, Bettina North Easton, Mass 1906

Hall, Natalie North Easton, Mass. 1904

Hall, Thurston Boston, Mass 1882

Halliday, John Brooklyn, N. Y 1880

Halliday, Robert Loch Lomond, Scotland ... 1893

Hampden, Walter Brooklyn, N. Y 1879

Hannen, Nicholas London, England 1881

Hardie, RusseU Griffin Mills, N. Y 1906

484 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Hardwicke, Sir Cedric Lye, Stourbridge, England. 1893

Hargrave, Roy New York City 1908

Harrigan, William New York 1893

Harris, Sam H New York 1872

Haydon, Julie Oak Park, El 1910

Hayes, Helen Washington, D. C 1900

Hector, Louis England 1882

Heflin, Van Walters, Okla 1909

Heineman, Eda Japan 1891

Heming, Violet Leeds, England 1893

Henie, Sonja Oslo, Norway 1912

Hepburn, Katharine Hartford, Conn 1907

Hemreid, Paul Trieste, Italy 1905

Hobart, Rose New York 1906

Hoey, Dennis London, England 1893

Holm, Celeste New York City 1916

Hopkins, Arthur Cleveland, Ohio 1878

Hopkins, Miriam Bainbridge, Ga 1904

Holmes, Taylor Newark, N. J 1872

Howard, L^lie London, England 1890

Huber, Paul Wilkes-Barre, Pa 1895

Hull, Henry Louisville, Ky 1893

Humphreys, Cecil Cheltenham, England 1880

Hunter, Glenn Highland Mills, N. Y 1896

Huston, Walter Toronto 1884

Hutchinson, Josephine Seattle, Wash 1898

Inescort, Frieda Hitchin, Scotland 1905

Ingram, Rex Dublin, Ireland 1892

Jagger, Dean Columbus Grove, Ohio . 1904

Joel, Clara Jersey City, N. J 1890

Johann, Zita Hungary 1904

Jolson, Al Washington, D. C 1883

Johnson, Harold J. (Chic) . . Chicago, 111 1891

Joslyn, AUyn Milford, Pa 1905

Joy, Nicholas Paris, France 1892

Kane, Whitford Lame, Ireland 1882

Karioff, Boris Dulwich, England 1887

Kaufman, George S Pittsburgh, Pa 1889

Kaye, A. P Ringwoixl, England 188S

Kaye, Danny New York City 1914

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 48S

Keith, Ian Boston, Mass 1899

Keith, Robert Scotland 1899

Kelly, Gene Pittsburgh, Pa 1912

Kerrigan, J. M Dublin, Ireland 188S

Kerr, Geoffrey London, England 189S

Kilbride, Percy San Francisco, Cal 1880

King, Dennis Coventry, England 1897

Kingsford, Walter England 1876

Kingsley, Sydney New York 1906

Kirkland, Alexander Mexico City 1904

Kirkland, Muriel Yonkers, N. Y 1904

Kruger, Alma Pittsburgh, Pa 1880

Kruger, Otto Toledo, Ohio 189S

Landi, Elissa Venice, Italy 1904

Landis, Jessie Royce Chicago, 111 1904

Lane, Rosemary Indianola, la 1916

Larimore, Earl Portland, Oregon 1899

Larrimore, Francine Russia 1898

Lauder, Harry Portobello, Scotland 1870

Laughton, Charles Scarborough, England 1899

Lawford, Betty London, England 1904

Lawrence, Gertrude London 1898

Lawson, Wilfred London, England 1894

Lawton, Frank London, England 1904

Lawton, Thais Louisville, Ky 1881

Lederer, Francis Karlin, Prague 1906

Lee, Canada New York City 1907

Le Gallienne, Eva London, England 1899

Lenihan, Winifred New York 1898

Leontovich, Eugenie Moscow, Russia 1894

Lillie, Beatrice Toronto, Canada 1898

Locke, Katherine New York 1914

Loeb, Philip Philadelphia, Pa 1892

Loftus, Cecilia Glasgow, Scotland 1876

Logan, Stanley Earlsfield, England 188S

Lord, Pauline Hanford, Cal 1890

Love, Montagu Portsmouth, Hants 1877

Lukas, Paul Budapest, Hungary 189S

Lunt, Alfred Milwaukee, Wis 1893

Macdonald, Donald Denison, Texas 1898

March, Fredric Racine, Wis 1897

486 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Margetson, Arthur London, England 1897

Margo Mexico 1918

Marshall, Everett Worcester, Mass 1902

Marshall, Herbert London, England 1890

Massey, Raymond Toronto, Qmada 1896

Matthews, A. E Bridlington, England 1869

Mature, Victor Louisville, Ky 1916

May, Marty New York City 1900

McClintic, Guthrie Seattle, Wash 1893

McCormick, Myron Albany, Ind 1906

McGrath, Paul Chicago, 111 1900

McGuire, Dorothy Omaha, Neb 1918

Menken, Helen New York 1901

Mercer, Beryl Seville, Spain 1882

Meredith, Burgess Cleveland, Ohio 1909

Merivale, Philip Rehutia, India 1886

Merman, Ethel Astoria, L. 1 1909

Merrill, Beth Lincoln, Neb 1916

Mestayer, Harry San Francisco, Cal 1881

Miller, Gilbert New York 1884

Miller, Marilyn Findlay, Ohio 1898

Miranda, Carmen Portugal 1912

Mitchell, Grant Columbus, Ohio 1874

Mitchell, Thomas Elizabeth, N. J 1892

Mitzi (Hajos) Budapest 1891

Moore, Grace Del Rio, Tenn 1901

Moore, Victor Hammonton, N. J. 1876

Moran, Lois Pittsburgh, Pa 1909

Morley, Robert Semley, Wiltshire, England . 1908

Morgan, Claudia New York 1912

Morgan, Helen Danville, 111 1900

Morgan, Ralph New York City . 1889

Morris, Mary Boston 1894

Morris, McKay San Antonio, Texas 1890

Moss, Arnold Brooklyn, N. Y 1910

Muni, Paul Lemberg, Austria 1895

Nagd, Conrad Keokuk, Iowa 1897

Natwick, Mildred Baltimore, Md 1908

Nazimova, Alia Crimea, Russia 1879

Nolan, Lloyd San Francisco, Cal 1903

Nugent, J. C Miles, Ohio 1875

Nugent, Elliott Dover, Ohio 1900

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 487

O'Brien-Moore, Erin Los Angeles, Cal 1908

O'ConneU, Hugh New York 1891

Odets, Clifford Philadelphia 1906

Oldham, Derek Accrington, England 1892

Olivier, Laurence Dorking, Surrey, England . . 1907

Olsen, John Siguard (Ole) . . Peru, Ind 1892

O'Malley, Rex London, England 1906

O'Neill, Eugene Gladstone New York 1888

Ouspenskaya, Maria Tula, Russia 1876

Overman, Lynne Maryville, Mo 1887

Pemberton, Brock Leavenworth, Kansas . . 1885

Pennington, Ann Philadelphia, Pa 1898

Philips, Mary New London, Conn 1901

Pickford, Mary Toronto 1893

Pollock, Channing Washington, D. C. 1880

Powers, Leona Salida, Colo 1900

Powers, Tom Owensburg, Ky 1890

Price, Vincent St. Louis, Mo 1914

Pryor, Roger New York City 1901

Quartermaine, Leon Richmond, England 1876

Rains, Claude London, England 1889

Rambeau, Marjorie San Francisco, Cal 1889

Rathbone, Basil Johannesburg 1892

Raye, Martha Butte, Mont 1916

Reed, Florence Philadelphia, Pa 1883

Rennie, James Toronto, Canada 1890

Revelle, Hamilton Gibraltar 1872

Ridges, Stanley Southampton, England 1891

Ring, Blanche Boston, Mass 1876

Robinson, Edward G Bucharest, Roumania 1893

Robson, Flora South Shields, Durham, Eng.1902

Robson, May Australia 1868

Roos, Joanna Brooklyn, N. Y 1901

Ross, Thomas W Boston, Mass 1875

Royle, Selena New York 1905

Ruben, Jos6 Belgium 1886

Sanderson, Julia Springfield, Mass 1887

Sands, Dorothy Cambridge, Mass. . 1900

Savo, Jimmy New York City 1895

486 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

Margetson, Arthur London, Enghnd 1897

Margo Mexico 1918

MarshaDy Everett Wofccster, Mass 1902

Marshall, Herbert London, Eng^d 1890

Massey, Raymond Toronto, Cainada 1896

Matthews, A. E Bridlington, En^and 1869

Mature, Victor Louisville, Ky 1916

May, Marty New York City 1900

McClintic, Guthrie Seattle, Wash 1893

McCormick, Myron Albany, Ind 1906

McGrath, Paul Chicago, lU 1900

McGuire, Dorothy Omaha, Neb 1918

Menken, Helen New York 1901

Mercer, Beryl Seville, Spain 1882

Meredith, Burgess Cleveland, Ohio 1909

Merivale, Philip Rehutia, India 1886

Merman, Ethel Astoria, L. 1 1909

Merrill, Beth Lmcoln, Neb 1916

Mestayer, Harry San Francisco, Cal. 1881

Mfller, Gilbert New York 1884

Miller, Marilyn Findlay, Ohio 1898

Miranda, Carmen Portugal 1912

Mitchell, Grant Columbus, Ohio 1874

Mitchell, Thomas Elizabeth, N. J. 1892

Mitzi (Hajos) Budapest 1891

Moore, Grace Del Rio, Tenn 1901

Moore, Victor Hammonton, N. J. 1876

Moran, Lois Pittsburgh, Pa 1909

Morley, Robert Semley, Wiltshke, England . 1908

Morgan, Claudia New York 1912

Morgan, Helen Danville, 111 1900

Morgan, Ralph New York City 1889

Morris, Mary Boston 1894

Morris, McKay San Antonio, Texas 1890

Moss, Arnold Brooklyn, N. Y 1910

Muni, Paul Lemberg, Austria 189S

Nagel, Conrad Keokuk, Iowa 1897

Natwick, Mildred Baltimore, Md 1908

Nazimova, Alia Crimea, Russia 1879

Nolan, Lloyd San Francisco, Cal 1903

Nugent, J. C Miles, Ohio 187S

Nugent, Elliott Dover, Ohio 1900

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 487

O'Brien-Moore, Erin Los Angeles, Cal 1908

O'ConneU, Hugh New York 1891

Odets, Clifford Philadelphia 1906

Oldha^, Derek Accrington, England 1892

Olivier, Laurence Dorking, Surrey, England . . 1907

Olsen, John Siguard (Ole) . . Peru, Ind 1892

O'Malley, Rex London, England 1906

O'Neill, Eugene Gladstone New York 1888

Ouspenskaya, Maria Tula, Russia 1876

Overman, Lynne Maryville, Mo 1887

Pemberton, Brock Leavenworth, Kansas 1885

Pennington, Ann Philadelphia, Pa 1898

Philips, Mary New London, Conn 1901

Pickford, Mary Toronto 1893

Pollock, Channing Washington, D. C. 1880

Powers, Leona Salida, Colo 1900

Powers, Tom Owensburg, Ky 1890

Price, Vincent St. Louis, Mo 1914

Pryor, Roger New York City 1901

Quartermaine, Leon Richmond, England 1876

Rains, Claude London, England 1889

Rambeau, Marjorie San Francisco, Cal 1889

Rathbone, Basil Johannesburg 1892

Raye, Martha Butte, Mont 1916

Reed, Florence Philadelphia, Pa 1883

Rennie, James Toronto, Canada 1890

Revelle, Hamilton Gibraltar 1872

Ridges, Stanley Southampton, England 1891

Ring, Blanche Boston, Mass 1876

Robinson, Edward G Bucharest, Roumania 1893

Robson, Flora South Shields, Durham, Eng.1902

Robson, May Australia 1868

Roos, Joanna Brooklyn, N. Y 1901

Ross, Thomas W Boston, Mass 1875

Royle, Selena New York 1905

Ruben, Jos6 Belgium 1886

Sanderson, Julia Springfield, Mass 1887

Sands, Dorothy Cambridge, Mass. . 1900

Savo, Jimmy New York City 1895

fame 15^ V^l—frnt II. 1M2

H£dtfddpa&&: fan i|%r*i awr s Vrv Ymk m
llCt: XL Loofai Ib -lltt lPk:aaxzr 130^:

2 AID-
1

'Hie Darfia^ cf tfe Goib^ nd 'TIk GU of
Wc^*: dtbtn m Sem \yA m ^Tht Tmm^ of
retired in 1926: rttunatd m 19S3. to

dttircsaD of die

first WorU War. Bora Fartlmd, Ore: dU

CaM^ DecaDfaer 25, 1941.
BcnnzDOy J. Harryr actor, piaqrangiit, (firBdory 67.

YeOov Jacket,"^ with George C Haadum, Jr.;

Tree,'' with Harrisoo Rhodes; first Nev YoA

in -The First Born," 1S97: sqifnrtcd

director for the ifessrs. Shobert. Born Son

cfied Sew York, March 26, 1942.
Bovers, Robert Hood, composer, conductor, 64. Cdndncted for

\lctor Herbert: best known cxxnpositiGns '"Odncse LDDabr"

and ""East Is West." Bom Chauibci&burg, Fi.; ified New

York, December 29, 1941.
Cameron, Hagli, actor, 62. Started as callboy in San Francisco

with James O'XeiD m ''The Coont of Monte Cristo*"; co-
starred with Fannie Brioe; leading mmedian in Music Box

revues; recently in pictures. Born Dnluth, Minn.: died

Sem York, November 9, 1941.
Calve, Emma, singer, &3. Metropolitan Opera House ddxit as

Santuyya in "CavaDeria Rustkana"; popular in grand open

from 1893 to 1906; best remembered r^ name part in

490

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2 491

''Carmen"; married Alnor Gaspari, tenor. Bom Bastide,
France; died Millau, France, January 5, 1942.

Carle, Richard (Charles Nicholas Carleton), actor and play-
wright, 69. Thirty years on stage in America and England;
debut in "Niobe," 1911 ; wrote and appeared in "The Tender-
foot'' and "The Spring Chicken"; played many film roles
in recent years. Bom Somerville, Mass.; Died Hollywood,
Calif., June 28, 1941.

Cooke, Eddie, manager and press agent, 73. Represented Klaw
& Erlanger, Kiralfy Bros., Nixon, Zimmerman, William A.
Brady, Winchell Smith and John Golden for fifty years.
Bom New York City; died New York, January IS, 1942.

Dimcan, Malcolm, actor, 60. Started with Richard Mansfield
in Boston in "Cyrano de Bergerac,'' 1899; s^peared in New
York in "Five Star Final," "Dinner at 8," and "Merrily We
Roll Along." Bom Brooklyn, N. Y.; died Bayshore, L. I.,
May 2, 1942.

Fields, Lew (Lewis Maurice Schanfields), actor and producer, 74.
Famous comedy team of Weber and Fields; started partner-
ship in 1877 at Bowery, Music Hall; partnership continued
until 1904; opened Lew Fields Theatre with "It Hs^pened
in Nordland"; appeared recently with Weber in radio pla3rs
and pictures, notably in "Blossoms on Broadway" and
"Lillian Russell." Born New York City; died Beverly
Hills, Calif., July 20, 1941.

Franklin, Irene, actress and song writer, 65. Famous on stage,
screen and in vaudeville in America, Europe and Australia;
prominent as entertainer during first World War; started
as child actress with Minnie Palmer; toured United States
and England with her husband, Burt Green, with whom she
wrote many songs. Bom St. Louis, Mo.; died Englewood,
N. J., June 16, 1941.

Gest, Morris, producer, 61. Famous as a producer of spectacles;
started in Boston 1900; associated with F. Ray Comstock
from 1905 to 1928; produced more than 50 plays, including
"Aphrodite," "The Wanderer," "Chu Chin Chow," "The
Miracle" and "Chauve Souris"; brought Moscow Art The-
atre, Russian Ballet and Max Reinhardt to America; man-
aged Midget Village at New York World's Fair, 1939-40;
married Rene Belasco. Born Vilna, Russia; died New
York, May 16, 1942.

Goodrich, Arthur F., playwright, 63. First play "Yes and No,"
1917; best known plays "Caponsacchi," with Rose A. PaJ-

492 THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42

mer; "So This Is London"; wrote new version of "Riche-
lieu" for Walter Hampden. Born New Britain, Conn.; died
New York, June 26, 1941.

Grattan, Lawrence, actor and playwright, 71. Many years in
stock and vaudeville; headed Lawrence Grattan Players in
Chicago; wrote 21 vaudeville sketches in which he acted
with his wife, Eva Taylor, on Orpheum circuit. Bom Con-
cord, N. H.; died New York, December 9, 1941.

Hackett, Charles, singer, 52. Widely known internationally as
opera singer and concert artist; debut Metropolitan Opera
House in "Barber of Seville," 1919; last appearance in
"Mignon," 1939; with Chicago Civic Opera Company ten
years; bom Worcester, Mass.; died Jamaica, N. Y., Janu-
ary 1, 1942.

Hamilton, Hale, actor, 62. Twenty years on stage, twelve in
pictures; played name part in "Get-Rich-Quidc Walling-
ford" for years in America and England; last outstanding
part in picture, "Adventures of Marco Polo." Bom Topeka,
Kan.; died HoUywood, CaUf., May 19, 1942.

Harris, Sam H., producer, 69. Partner of George M. Cohan,
with whom he produced fifty plays, many of them written
by Cohan; on his own since 1919; recent productions in-
cluded "Of Thee I Smg," "You Can't Take It with You,"
"Once in a Lifetime," "Dinner at 8," "Stage Door" and
"Lady in the Dark"; president Producing Managers' Asso-
ciation. Bom New York City; died New York, July 3, 1941.

Intro()odi, Josie, actress, 75. Light opera comedienne known for
roles in Gilbert and Sullivan operas and popular musical
comedies; last New York engagement in "Oh, Evening Star,"
1936. Born New York; died New York, September 19,
1941.

Jackson, Joe (Joseph Francis Jiranek), comedian, 62. Inter-
nationally known for trick tramp bicycling act; first ap-
pearance in New York at Fifth Avenue Theatre, 1911; last
appearance backstage at the Roxy Theatre, New York,
where he collapsed and died at the end of his performance.
Bom Vienna, Austria; died New York, May 14, 1942.

Kramer, Wright, actor, 71. Supported Fanny Davenport and
other stars in early years of century; toured extensively in
vaudeville; recently in pictures. Bom Chicago, 111.; died
Hollywood, Calif., November 14, 1941.

Lee, Auriol, actress and director, 60. Staged "There's Always
Juliet," "The Distaff Side," "The Wind and the Ram," and

THE BEST PLAYS OF 194M2 493

others in New York and London; first appearance in London,
1900; with Forbes-Robertson in "The Light That Failed,"
1903; toured United States in "The Man Who Stayed at
Home." Born London, England; died near Hutchinson, in
automobile accident July 2, 1941.

Leonard, Eddie (Lemuel Gordon Toney), comedian and song-
writer, 70. Minstrel and vaudeville headliner for forty-five
years; began with Primrose & West; wrote many songs, in-
cludmg "Ida," "Roly Boly Eyes," and "Just Because She
Made Them Goo-goo Eyes"; last engagement Billy Rose's
"Diamond Horseshoe," 1940. Bom Richmond, Va.; died
New York, July 29, 1941.

Lombard, Carole (Carol Jane Peters), actress, 32. Gained fame
in motion pictures; co-starred with William Powell in "Ladies'
Man," George Raft in "Bolero," John Barrymore in
"Twentieth Century," etc. Bom Fort Wayne, Ind.; died
in airplane crash returning to California from patriotic war-
bond campaign in East, Ja[iiuary 16, 1942.

Mcintosh, Burr, actor, author, 79. First appearance in New
York in 1885; remembered as Ta£fy in first American pro-
duction of "Trilby"; as Squire Bartlett in the first "Way
Down East" company, and in the title rdle of "The Gentle-
man from Mississippi"; pioneer in motion pictures. Born
Wellsvflle, Ohio; died Hollywood, Calif., April 28, 1942.

Mordant, Edwin, actor, 74. Began career in Baltimore as mem-
ber of Ford Sto(^ company; with Charles Frohman in New
York; leading man in Henry W. Savage Stock Co. in Phila-
delphia; leading man first American stock company in
Mexico City. Bom Baltimore, Md.; died Hollywood, Calif.,
Febmary IS, 1942.

Morgan, Helen, actress, singer, 41. Began in Chicago's neigh-
borhood theatres; first appearance in New York in "Sally";
appeared in White's "Scandals," "Show Boat," Ziegfeld's
"Follies," "Sweet Adeline," etc.; in vaudeville; remembered
for songs "My Bill" and "Why Was I Bom?" Bora Dan-
ville, 111.; died Chicago, 111., October 8, 1941.

Morton, Sam, actor, 79. Famous as leader of The Four Mortons,
including his wife and children, in vaudeville for years; last
appeared in "The Sidewalks of New York," 1931; one of
the founders of the White Rats in New York. Bom De-
troit, Mich.; died Detroit, Mich., October 28, 1941.

Paderewski, Ignace Jan, pianist and statesman, 80. Interna-
tionally famous for many years; professional debut in Vienna

THE BEST FIA15 OF 1941-42

A U: fan

m 1939;
1937.
York, Jane 29, 1941.

»■ m* ''««•• ^tl^

N'ev York E

San and Joarasd of

Rcprescntatrfcs o€ J

Scoda: c&d Xcv York. AneiA 30, 1941.

. ' ) « I < * -.•• n

Xeni

♦J

67. Started stage
career imii E. H. Sotbcni in '^Tfamirf"; appeared with
Maode Adams in "The Little Minister' and *"Tlie Pretty
Seder of Jose'*: tet jppeaiiaaLe with Nat Goodwwi in "^ikhf
yUoTj?'^: represented manj well known actcxs and actresses.
Bom Boston, 3fass.; Ad Jamaica, X. Y^ Xovember 13,
1941.

PoDock. Allan, actor, 64. British actor fir^ seen in Xew York
in support of >lrs. Patri^ Campbdl: pbyrd with Eleanor
Robson in "^The Dawn of a Tomorrow^: broosht '^A Bill
of Divorcement*' to Xew York in whidi Kathanne Comdl
scored her first Broadway success; last Xew York engage-
ment with Billie Borke in "^Jerry." Bom I^Midnn, En^bnd;
died En^and, January 18, 1942.

Royle, Edwin Mflton, actor, playwri^lit, 79. Flayed in support
of Booth and Barrett, Louis James and other oU-time stars;
co-starred with Sdena Fetter (Mrs. Rayit) m Tricnds,
'^Captain Impudence'' and other plays n^ich he wrote; big-
gest success '^The Squaw ^lan," starring William Faversham.
Bora Lexington, Mo.; died New York, February 6, 1942.

SaxoD, Marie, actress, 37. Dandng ingenue in musical comedies;
started with her mother, Pauline Saxon, in vaudeville; last
Broadway appearance in ^ps-a-Daisy," 1928; appeared in
pictures, notably "Broadway Hoofer." Born Lawrence,
Mass.; died Harrison, N. Y., November 12, 1941.

Scribner, Samud A., theatrical manager, 82. Active in theatre
and amusement world for nearly 70 years; headed Burlesque
Wheel, 40 theatres, 40 road shows, from Boston to Omaha;
organized Columbia Amusement Co.; president of Theatre
Authority, Inc.; activdy associated with Actors' Fund and
Percy Williams Home. Bora BrodLvine, Pa.; died Bronx-
vflle, N. Y., July 8, 1941.

Skinner, Otis, actor, producer, author, 83. In sixty years played
more than 325 parts; gained international fame for ShAe-

THE BEST PLAYS OF 1941-42 495

spearean roles; won citations for outstanding diction; first
appearance 1877, Philadelphia Museum; first New York
appearance Niblols Gardens in '^Enchantment/' 1879; mem-
ber Augustin Daly's company; launched his own company
1894; remembered as star of "Kismet," "The Honor of the
Family," "Mister Antonio," etc. ; wrote many books, includ-
ing his autobiography, "Footlights and Spotlights"; appeared
in picture "Kismet." Bom Cambridge, Mass.; died New
York, January 4, 1942.

Stevens, Thomas Wood, author, director, 62. Director of Good-
man's Theatre, Chicago; headed drama department of
Carnegie Institute of Technology; head of University of
Arizona Art Department; wrote masque, "Drawing of the
Sword," for Red Cross during first World War; his pageant,
"Joan of Arc," was produced at Doremy, France, in 1918;
wrote "The Theatre from Athens to Broadway." Bom
Daysville, 111.; died Tucson, Ariz., January 29, 1942.

Stewart, William G., singer and director, 74. Comic opera bari-
tone well known in early 1900's; authority on Gilbert and
Sullivan repertory, which he staged for Federal Theatre
project in Calif omia. Bom Qeveland, Ohio; died Glendale,
Calif., July 16, 1941.

Taylor, Charles A., producer, playwright, 78. Wrote and pro-
duced many melodramas, includmg "Yosemite" and "Rags
and Riches," in which his wife, Laurette Taylor, first ap-
peared in New York; prominent as picture director. Born
South Hadley, Mass.; died Glendale, Calif., March 20, 1942.

Weber, Joseph M., actor and manager, 74. First appearance at
Bowery Music Hall, 1877, with Lew Fields; became famous
comedy team, presenting a series of musical travesties at the
Weber and Fields Music Hall, New York, from 1895 to
1904, including "Fiddle-de-Dee," "Hoity-Toity," "Pousse
Cafe," etc.; later became a producer, scoring a big success
with "The Climax," "Alma, Where Do You Live?", etc.
Born New York; died Los Angeles, Calif., May 10, 1942.

Zweig, Stefan, playwright, 60. Wrote "Volpone" and "Jeremiah,"
produced by the New York Theatre Guild; many of his
books widely read and freely translated; screen drama of
"Marie Antoinette" adapted from his work. Bom Vienna,
Austria; died Petropolis, Brazil, February 23, 1942.

THE DECADES' TOLL

(Persons of Outstanding Prominence in the Theatre
Who Have Died in Recent Years)

Bom Died

Abom, Milton 1864 1933

Ames, Winthrop 1871 1937

Anderson, Mary (Navarro) 1860 1940

Baker, George Pierce 1866 1935

Barrymore, John 1882 1942

Belasco, David 18S6 1931

Benson, Sir Frank I8S9 1939

Bernhardt, Sarah 1845 1923

Campbell, Mrs. Patrick 1865 1940

Crabtree, Charlotte (Lotta) 1847 1924

De Koven, Reginald 1861 1920

De Reszlte, Jean I8S0 1925

Drew John 18S3 1927

Drinkwater John 1883 1937

Du Maurier Sir Gerald 1873 1934

Duse, Eleanora 18S9 1924

Fiske, Minnie Maddem 1865 1932

Frohman, Daniel 1851 1940

Galsworthy, John 1867 1933

Gorky, Maxim 1868 1936

Greet, Sir Philip [Ben) 1858 1936

Herbert, Victor 1859 1924

Patti, Adelina 1843 1919

Pinero, Sir Arthur Wing 185S 1934

Pirandello, Luigi 1867 1936

Rejane, Oabrielle 1857 1920

Rogers, Will 1879 1935

Russell, Annie 1864 1936

Schumann-Heink, Ernestine 1861 1936

Sembrich, Marcella 1859 1935

Shaw, Mary 1860 1929

Skinner, Otis 18S8 1942

Sothem, Edwin Hugh 1859 1933

Terry, Ellen 1848 1928

Thomas, Augustus 18S7 1934

Yeats, William Butler 1865 1939

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Abbott, George, 8, 422, 469,
471

Adamson, Harold, 422

Akins, Zoe, 465, 466, 474

Allen, Lewis, 438

Allensworth, Carl, 4, 393

Alsberg, Henry G., 469

Anderson, Maxwell, 5, 180, 212,
405, 464, 465, 469, 470, 471,
473, 474, 475, 476, 477

Andreyev, Leonid, 468»

Angus, Bemardine, 421

Ansky, S., 469

Anspacher, Louis Kaufman, 466

Archer, William, 467

Arlen, Michael, 469

Armstrong, Charlotte, 7, 414

Atlas, Leopold, 474

Bagnold, Enid, 29

Baker, Melville, 468

Balderston, John, 471

Barian, Joe, 438

Barnes, Charles, 443

Barrie, James M., 12, 442, 467

Barry, Philip, 468, 469, 471, 472,

476
Baum, Vicki, 472
Beach, Lewis, 469
Behrman, S. N., 473, 475, 476
Benelli, Sem, 467
Benson, Sally, 7, 145, 386
Bergenson, Beau, 438
Bernstein, Henri, 23
Besier, Rudolf, 472
Biggers, Earl Derr, 466
Birabeau, Andre, 414
Blane, Ralph, 4, 400
Bloch, Bertram, 6, 411
Block, Hal, 417
Bodeen, De Witt, 30, 33
Bolitho, William, 472
Bolton, Guy, 7, 18, 413, 420,

468
Boothe, Clare, 475, 477

470, Bordages, Asa, 8, 420

Borden, Ethel, 5, 10, 402, 437

Bradford, Roark, 471

Brennan, Frederick Hazlitt, 4, 212,
394

Bridgers, Ann, 471

Bright, John, 8, 420
387, Brown, Rowland, 444

472, Browne, Maurice, 471
Browne, Porter Emerson, 467
Bruckner, Ferdinand, 445
Butler, Rachel Barton, 467
Byrne, Dolly, 467

Canfield, Mary Cass, 5, 10, 402, 437

Capek, Karel, 468

Carroll, Paul Vincent, 14, 451, 476

Casella, Alberto, 472

Chodorov, Jerome, 7, 145, 386, 415,

477
Coffee, Lenore, 477
Cohan, George M., 466, 473
Cohen, Frederic, 430, 431, 432
Colton, John, 468
Conkle, E. P., 476

473, Connelly, Marc, 11, 438, 465, 467,

468, 469, 471, 474
Cooper, Lou, 438
Corle, Edwin, 436
Cormack, Bartlett, 471
Cowan, William Joyce, 477
Coward, Noel, 6, 31, 109, 386, 388,

410, 464, 473
Craven, Frank, 467
Crothers, Rachel, 467, 468, 471, 472,

473, 476
Crouse, Russell, 477

Dane, Clemence, 467
Davis, Donald, 475
Davis, Eddie, 448
Davis, Owen, 465, 468, 475, 478
467, Dawless, Smith, 33

Dayton, Katharine, 475
Dell, Floyd, 471
497

498

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Deval, Jacques, 475
Dodd, Lee Wilson, 468
Drake, W. A., 472
Drinkwater, John, 466
Duke, Vernon, 422, 427
Dunning, Philip, 470

Ehrmann, Herbert, 441

Eisinger, Jo, 447

Elinson, Izzy, 422

Eliscu, Edward, 31

Elser, Frank B., 474

Emery, Gilbert, 468, 469

Engel, Lehman, 412

Ervine, St. John, 466, 467, 472

Eunson, Dale, 11, 435

Fain, Sam E., 417
Fauchois, Rene, 473
Fennelly, Parker W., 4, 396
Ferber, Edna, 5, 406, 469, 470, 473,

475
Ferris, Walter, 472
Field, Salisbury, 467
Fielding, Marjery, 443
Fields, Herbert and Dorothy, 407
Fields, Joseph, 7, 145, 386, 415, 477
Fischer, Clifford C, 12, 443, 448,

454
Flavin, Martin, 471
Forbes, James, 467
Franken, Rose, 3, 18, 473, 478

Gabrielson, Frank, 395
Gale, Zona, 465

Galsworthy, John, 467, 468, 471
George, Grace, 468
Geraldy, Paul, 468
Gershwin, George, 9, 433, 465, 472
Gershwin, Ira, 392, 433, 465, 472
Geto, Al, 438
GUbert, W. S., 10, 430
GiUette, WiUiam, 453
Ginsbury, Norman, 5, 402
Glaspell, Susan, 465, 472
Gleason, James, 469
Goff, Madison, 30
Goldsmith, Bea, 438
Goldsmith, CUfford, 476
Gore-Brown, R. F., 473
Gomey, Jay, 18, 31
Goulding, Edmund, 469
Granville-Barker, H., 467, 471

Grant, James Edward, 11, 441
Green, Paul, 465, 470, 473, 475, 477
Greendale, Alexander, 7, 415
Greene, Luther, 415
Greene, Patterson, 9, 425
Grever, BdUurie, 403
Guiterman, Arthur, 428
Guitry, Sacha, 467

Hagan, James, 473

Hamilton, Patrick, 8, 28, 282, 389,

419
Hammerstein, Oscar, 2d, 8, 418
Harris, John, 446
Hart, Lorenz, 14, 391, 455
Hart, Moss, 392, 465, 472, 474, 475,

476, 477, 478
Hartman, Don, 428
Harvey, Roslyn, 438
Harwood, H. M., 473
Hayden, John, 474
Hayes, Alfred, 438
Hecht, Ben, 10, 436, 471
Helbum, Theresa, 401, 414
Hellman, Lillian, 21, 464, 474, 476,

477
Heyward, Dorothy, 433
Heyward, Du Bose, 9, 433, 471
Hoffman, Louis, 428
Holm, John Cedl, 4, 8, 400, 422
Holt, Henry, 404
Hopwood, Avery, 17, 24
Horwin, Jerry, 33
Housman, Laurence, 475
Howard, Sidney, 465, 469, 470, 473,

474
Hughes, Hatcher, 465, 469
Hurlbut, William, 470
Huston, John, 9, 34, 385, 424, 464

Ibsen, Henrik, 10, 437

Jay, William, 420

Jeans, Ronald, 398

Jerome, Helen, 453, 475

Jessel, George, 5, 408

Job, Thomas, 14, 316, 389, 452

Johnson, Chic, 417

Jooss, Kurt, 430, 432

Kallesser, Michael, 395
Kahnar, Bert, 408

INDEX OF AUTHORS

499

Katzin, Winifred, 469

Kaufman, George S., 5, 386, 406, 465,

467, 468, 469, 470, 472, 473, 474,

475, 476, 477, 478
Kaye, Sylvia Fine, 5
KeUy, George, 465, 468, 469, 470, 471
Kennedy, Charles Rann, 7, 416
Kennedy, Mary, 469
Kesselring, Joseph, 477
Kingsley, Sidney, 465j 474, 475, 477
Kleinsinger, George, 438
Koch, Howard, 9, 34, 385, 424, 464
Kraft, H. S., 10, 434
Krasna, Norman, 6, 212, 409
Kunmier, Clare, 466, 474

Langley, A. N., 410
Lanner, Joseph, 431
Lardner, Ring W., 472
La Touche, John, 422, 427
Laufs, Carl, 453
Lavery, Emmett, 33
Leback, Ned, 438
Leigh ton, Isabel, 6, 411
Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 445
Leveen, Raymond, 403
Levin, Jack, 405
Levy, Benn W., 473
Levy, Parke, 426
Lewis, Sinclair, 474
Liebman, Max, 5
Lindsay, Howard, 477
Lipscott, Alan, 426
Locke, Sam D., 438
Lonsdale, Frederick, 470

MacArthur, Charles, 426, 471

Marquis, Don, 468

Marrow, Macklin, 428

Martin, Hugh, 4, 400

Maugham, Somerset, 7, 18, 413, 468,

478
Mayer, Edwin Justus, 469
McGuire, William Anthony, 468
McKenney, Ruth, 387
Medcraft, Russell, 408
Meloney, Rose Franken, 478
Middleton, George, 467
Middleton, Horace, 416
Milne, Alan Alexander, 468, 472
Mitchell, Norma, 446
Mitchell, Thomas, 471
Molnar, Ferenc, 467, 468, 470

Morris, Ray, 33
Myers, Henry, 31

Nichok, Robert, 471
Norcross, Richard, 395
North, Alex, 438
Nugent, Elliott, 477

O'Cascy, Scan, 471

Odete, CUfford, 9, 423, 474, 476

O'Donnell, Judson, 447

Olsen, Ole, 417

O'Hara, John, 391

O'Neill, Eugene, 5, 24, 29, 401, 465,

466, 467, 469, 470, 472, 474
Osborn, Paul, 476, 477
Oursler, Fulton, 14, 450

Parker, Louis N., 466
Perkins, Grace, 14, 450
Pierson, Arthur, 448
Pincus, Irvin, 395
Pollock, Channing, 468, 469
Porter, Cole, 5, 19, 407
Powell, Dawn, 427

Quillan, Joe, 422

Randolph, Clemence, 468
Raphaelson, Samson, 8, 9, 244, 387,

429, 474, 477 %

Reed, Mark, 475
Reizenstein, Elmer, 466
Rice, Elmer, 465, 471, 473, 477
Richman, Arthur, 468
Rifkin, Leo, 440
Riggs, Lynn, 472
Rodgers, Richard, 14, 391, 455
Romberg, Sigmund, 8, 418
Roos, William, 13, 449
Rotter, Fritz, 8, 212, 388, 422
Ruby, Harry, 408
Ryskind, Morrie, 465

Sacher, Toby, 438

Saroyan, William, 29, 464, 477

Self, Edwin B., 397

Selwyn, Edgar, 469

Shairp, Mordaunt, 474

Shakespeare, William, 404, 412, 418

Shane, Margaret, 399

Shaw, George Bernard, 13, 29, 448

Shaw, David, 440

500

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Sheekman, Arthur, 399

Sheldon, Edward, 466

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 428

Sherriff, R. C, 471, 475

Sherwood, Robert, 464, 465, 470,

472, 474, 475, 476, 477
Sierra, G. Martinez, 470, 471
Silvers, Sid, 408
Smith, Dodie, 475
Smith, Harry James, 466
Spewack, Bella and Samuel, 475
Stallings, Laurence, 387, 469
Steinbeck, John, 13, 34, 72, 386, 445,

464, 476
Stewart, Donald Ogden, 472
Storm, Leslie, 11, 439
Stratton, Mike, 438
Sturges, Preston, 472
Sullivan, A. S., 10, 430
SulUvan, Ed, 13, 450
Sundegaard, Arnold, 424
Swann, Francis, 25
Sylvaine, Vernon, 401

Tansman, Alexander, 431
Tarkington, Booth, 466
Tarlofif, Frank, 440
Thomas, A. E., 474
Thompson, Fred, 427
Thompson, Julian F., 14, 455
Thurber, James, 477
Tolkin, Mel, 438
Totheroh, Dan, 469
Treadwell, Sophie, 7, 349, 390, 417
TroUope, Anthony, 316
Turney, Catherine, 33
Turney, Robert, 475

UnderhOl, John Garrett, 470

Van Druten, John, 10, 436, 470,4

Vane, Sutton, 389, 468

Varesi, Gikia, 467

Vincent, AUen, 8, 212, 388, 422

Vittes, Louis, 453

VoUmer, Lula, 469

Walker, Don, 455
Walter, Eugene, 466
Warnick, Buck, 455
Warren, Ruth, 469
Watkins, Maurine, 470
Watters, George Manker, 470
Weill, Kurt, 392
Weitzenkorn, Louis, 472
Wells, William K. and Eleanor,
Wexley, John, 472, 474
wade, Hagar, 11, 435
Wilder, Thornton, 465, 476
Williams, Emlen, 13, 447, 477
Williams, Jesse Lynch, 465, 466,
Wilson, Harry Leon, 468
Winter, Keith, 474
Wodehouse, P. G., 470
Wolfson, Victor, 475
Wood, Cyrus, 17, 24
Wood, Joseph, 418
Wright, Richard, 477

Yellen, Jack, 417

Zilboorg, Gregory, 468
Zipser, Arthur, 438

INDEX OF PLAYS AND CASTS

Abe Lincoln in Illinois, 464, 465, 476
Abie's Irish Rose, 27, 463
Abraham Lincoln, 466
Accent on Youth, 21, 244, 387, 474
Across the Board on Tomorrow

Morning, 29
Adam and Eva, 467
Adonis, 463

Ah, WUdemess, 5, 30, 401, 474
Alien Com, 473
Alison's House, 465, 472
All in Favor, 428
AU Men Are Alike, 401
All the Comforts of Home, 453
Ambush, 468

American Sideshow, 17, 21
American Way, The, 476
Amphitryon, 38, 476
Angel Street, 8, 19, 20, 28, 282, 389,

419, 464
Animal Kingdom, The, 473
Anna ChrisUe, 24, 29, 465, 467
Anne of England, 5, 402
Another Language, 473
Arsenic and Old Lace, 3, 18, 20, 25,

28, 463, 477
As Husbands Go, 472
As You Like It, 404
Autumn Hill, 446
Awake and Sing, 474

Baby's Name Is Oscar, The, 33

Bad Man, The, 467

BaU in Old Vienna, A, 431

Banjo Eyes, 8, 422

Barchester Towers, 316, 389

BarretU of Wimpole Street, The, 472

Bat, The, 463

Beautiful People, The, 462

Beggar on Horseback, 32, 469

Beggar's Opera, 25

Behold the Bridegroom, 471

Berkeley Square, 471

Best Foot Forward, 4, 400

Beyond the Horizon, 465, 466

501

Big City, The, 431

BiU of Divorcement, A, 467

Biography, 473

Bird in Hand, 463

Bitter Sweet, 25, 31, 386

Blackbirds, 463

Blackouts of 1942, 32

BUthe Spirit, 6, 18, 20, 21, 28, 109,

386, 410, 464

Blossom Time, 21, 24, 30, 463

Boomerang, Tlie, 463

Both Your Houses, 387, 465, 473

Boy Meets Girl, 463, 475

Bride of the Lamb, 470

Brief Moment, 473

Bright Champagne, 33

Broadway, 463, 470

Brooklyn, U. S. A., 8, 420

Brother Cain, 395

Brother Rat, 463

Burlesque, 470

Butter and Egg Man, The, 470

By Jupiter, 14, 455

Cabin in the Sky, 24, 30

Cafe Crown, 10, 434

Call It a Day, 475

Candida, 13, 21, 448

Candle in the Wind, 5, 20, 180, 212,

387, 405

Catch as Catch Can, 33

Cavalcade, 386

Changelings, The, 468

Charley's Aunt, 19, 21

Chariot's Revue, 30

Chicago, 470

Chicken Feed, 468

ChUdren's Hour, The, 21, 282, 463,

474
Circle, The, 468
Clarence, 466
Clash by Night, 9, 423
Claudia, 3, 18, 20, 21, 25, 28, 462,

478
Comes the Revelation, 453

502

INDEX OF PLAYS AND CASTS

Constant Nymph, The, 30
Constant Wife, The, 470
Coquette, 471

Corn Is Green, The, 3, 20, 462, 477
Cradle Snatchers, 5, 407, 408
Cradle Song, 470
Craig»s Wife, 465, 469
Criminal Code, The, 471
Cuckoos on the Hearth, 4, 396
Cynara, 473

Daisy Mayme, 470

Dance Drama, 456

Dancing Mothers, 469

Daughters of Atreus, 475

Dawn in Lyonnese, 390

Dead End, 463, 475

Death Takes a Holiday, 472

Deburau, 467

D6class6e, 466

Design for Living, 386, 473

Desire Under the Elms, 469

Devil Passes, The, 473

Devil's Disciple, The, 29

Dinner at Eight, 32, 473

Disraeli, 466

Distaff Side, The, 474

Distant City, The, 397

Doctor's Dilemma, The, 21, 23, 30,

462
Dodsworth, 474
Don't Feed the Actors, 33
Dover Road, The, 468
Drunkard, The, 32
Dulcy, 467
Dybbuk, The, 469

Easiest Way, The, 466

East Is West, 463

Elizabeth the Queen, 387, 472

Emperor Jones, The, 467

End of Summer, 475

Enemy, The, 469

Enter Madame, 467

Escape, 471

Escape to Autumn, 30

Ethan Frome, 475

Excursion, 475

Fall Guy, The, 469
Family Portrait, 477
Famous Mrs. Fair, The, 467
Far Off Hills, The, 33

Farmer Takes a Wife, The, 474

Firebrand, 469

Firefly, The, 25

First Crocus, The, 424

First Lady, 475

First Mrs. Eraser, The, 472

First Year, 463, 467

Five-Star Final, 472

Flight to the West, 33, 477

Flowers of Virtue, The, 11, 438

Fool, The, 468

Front Page, The, 471

Fun for the Money, 31

Gaslight, 8, 28, 283, 389

George Washington Slept Here, S2,

478
Ghost for Sale, 398
Girls in Uniform, 17
Give Us This Day, 385
Golden Boy, 476
Golden Wings, 420
Gondoliers, The, 433
Good Gracious, Annabelle, 466
Good Neighbor, 5, 405
Good News, 463
Good Night, Ladies, 16, 17, 20, 21,

24
Goose Hangs High, The, 469
Grand Hotel, 472
Grand Street Follies, The, 388
Great American Family, The, 33
Great God Brown, The, 469
Great Scott, 385
Green Bay Tree, The, 474
Green Goddess, The, 467
Green Grow the Lilacs, 472
Green Hat, The, 469
Green Pastures, The, 463, 465, 471
Green Table, The, 430
Gringo, 390

Guest in the House, 11, 435
Gypsy, 471

Harlem Cavalcade, 13, 450
Hay Fever, 386

He Who Gets Slapped, 25, 468
Heart of a City, 11, 439
Hedda Gabler, 10, 437
Hell-bent fer Heaven, 465. 469
Hello Out There, 29
Hellzapoppin, 3, 8, 15, 18, 21, 24,
32, 418, 462, 463

INDEX OF PLAYS AND CASTS

503

Her Master's Voice, 474

Here Come the Clowns, 476

Hero, The, 468

High Kidcers, 6, 21, 408

High Tor, 387, 464, 475

Hit the Deck, 25, 31

HJd.S. Pinafore, 430

Holiday, 471

Home from Home, 33

Hope for a Harvest, 7, 349, 390, 417

House of Connelly, The, 473

Icebound, 465, 468

Ice Follies of 1942, 25

Idiot's Delight, 465, 475

In Abraham's Bosom, 465, 470

In Time to Come, 9, 34, 385, 424,

464
lolanthe, 432
Irene, 463
Is Zat So, 463
It Happens on Ice, 4, 391

Jane Clegg, 469

Jason, 8, 9, 244, 387, 429

Jazz Singer, 388

Jest, The, 467

Jim Dandy, 29

John Ferguson, 466

Johnny 2x4, 12, 444

Johnny Belinda, 462

Johnny Johnson, 475

Johnny on a Spot, 426

Journey's End, 471

Jump for Joy, 31

June Moon, 472

Junior Miss, 7, 28, 145, 386, 415

Keep 'Em Laughing, 12, 448

Key Largo, 477

Kiki, 463

Kingdom of God, The, 471

Kiss for Cinderella, A, 12, 442

Kiss the Boys Good-bye, 477

Knickerbocker Holiday, 25

Laburnum Grove,. 4

Ladder, The, 463

Ladies in Retirement, 33

Ladies in Waiting, 33

Ladies' Night, 17, 24

Lady Comes Across, The, 427

Lady in the Dark, 4, 388, 392, 477

Land Is Bright, The, 5, 406

Last MOe, The, 472

Last of Mrs. Che3mey, The, 470

Late Christopher Bean, The, 473

Left Bank, The, 473

Let's Face It, 5, 407

Let's Have a Baby, 16, 20

Letters to Lucerne, 8, 212, 388, 422

Let Us Be Gay, 471

Life of Reilly, The, 13, 449

Life with Father, 3, 13, 16, 18, 21,

23, 25, 27, 28, 463, 477
Lightnin', 463
Liliom, 14, 316, 467
LUy of the Valley, 10, 436
Little Accident, 471
Little Dark Horse, 414
Little Foxes, The, 33, 464, 476
Little Show, The, 388
Lonely Man, The, 385
Lost Horizons, 474
Lottie Dundass, 29
Louisiana Purchase, 21
Lovely Miss Linley, 33
Loyalties, 468

Macbeth, 6, 21, 412

Machinal, 390, 471

Male Animal, The, 23, 31, 33, 477

Mamba's Daughters, 24, 30

Mamma's Affair, 467

Man Who Came to Dinner, The, 23,

30, 32, 462, 463, 477
Man with Blond Hair, The, 6, 8,

212, 409
Marco Millions, 25
Margin for Error, 477
Mary of Scotland, 387, 473
Mary Rose, 467
Mary the 3d, 468
Meet the People, 18, 27, 31
Men in White, 282, 465, 474
Merrily We RoU Along, 474
Merry Widow, The, 25
Merton of the Movies, 468
Michael and Mary, 472
Mikado, The, 10, 431
Minick, 32, 469
Miss Lulu Bett, 465
Moon Is Down, The, 13, 34, 72,

386, 445, 464
More the Merrier, The, 395
Morning's at Seven, 477

504

INDEX OF PLAYS AND CASTS

Mourning Becomes Electra, 472
Mr. and Mrs. North, 19, 20, 25, 33,

478
Mr. Big, 399

Mrs. Bumpstead-Leigh, 466
Mrs. Partridge Presents, 469
Much Ado About Nothing, 33
Murder in a Nunnery, 33
Music in the Air, 25, 31
Music Master, The, 463
Music to My Ears, 31
My Dear Children, 17
My S»ter Eileen, 3, 18, 20, 21, 23,

24, 28, 30, 145, 387, 463, 477

Nathan the Wise, 13, 445

Native Son, 20, 462, 477

Nest, The, 468

New Moon, The, 463

Nice People, 467

No More Ladies, 474

No Strings Revue, 31

No Time for Comedy, 23, 476

Of Mice and Men, 386, 464, 476

Of Thee I Sing, 465, 472

Of V We Sing. 11, 438

Oh, Nightingale, 390

Old Maid, The, 465, 474

Old Soak, The, 468

or Man Adam an' His ChiUun, 471

On Borrowed Time, 476

On Trial, 466

Once in a Lifetime, 32, 472

One Sunday Afternoon, 33, 473

Our Town, 465, 476

Out of the Frying Pan, 25, 33

Outward Bound, 389, 468

Overture, 472

Pal Joey, 3, 4, 19, 21, 391, 462

Panama Hattie, 3, 19, 21, 462, 463

Papa Is All, 9, 16, 18, 20, 425

Parb Bound, 471

Patricia, 23

Patsy, The, 23

Peg o' My Heart, 463

Personal Appearance, 463

Petrified Forest, The, 474

Philadelphia Story, The, 33, 476

Pie in the Sky, 421

Pigeons and People, 473

Pins and Needles, 463

Pintes of Ptaxamot, 431

Flu M, 11, 441

Play's the Tlui«, Tht, 470

Plougfa and the SCan» Tki4n

Porgy, 434, 471

Porgy and Bcas, 10, 433

Pride and Ptejucfice, 47S

Priorities of 1942, 12, 441

Private Lives, 586

Prodigal Son, The, 432

Prologue to Glory, 476

Quiet, Please, 23

Racket, The, 471

Rain, 463, 468

Rally Round the Giris, 31

Rebound, 472

Reunion in Vienna, 472

Riddle for Mr. Twiddle, A, 30

Ring Around Elizabeth, 7, 414

Rivals, The, 9, 20, 21, 428

Road to Rome, 470

Rocket to the Moon, 476

Romance, 388, 466

Room Service, 463

Rope, 389

Rope's End, 389

Rose Burke, 23, 30

Rose Marie, 32, 463

Royal Family, The, 32, 470

Rue with a Difference, 389

R.UJl., 468

Saflor, Beware, 463

St. Helena, 475

Sally, 463

Saturday's Children, 470

Separate Rooms, 462, 463

Serena Bkmdish, 29

Seven Keys to Baldpate, 466

Seventh Heaven, 463

Seventh Trumpet, The, 7, 416

Shadow and Substance, 476

She Lost It in Campeche, 32

Shming Hour, The, 474

Show Boat, 463

Show-Off, The, 23, 463, 468

Show Time, 32

ShufQe Along, 463

Silver Cord, The, 470

Sim Sala Bim, 24

Six Cylinder Love, 468

INDEX OF PLAYS AND CASTS

505

■ Skin Game, The, 467

■ Skylark, 33, 388, 477
^ Solitaire, 10, 436

■i Sods o' Fun, 8, 417

Spring Again, 6, 411
I Springtime for Henry, 23, 31
1 ' Stage Door, 475

Star and Garter, 6

SUr-Wagon, The, 476

Strange Interlude, 465, 470

Street Scene, 463, 465, 471

Strictly Dishonorable, 463, 472

Strings, My Lord, Are False, The,
14, 451

Student Prince, The, 21, 463

Sunny, 463

Sunny River, 8, 418

Sun-up, 469

Susan and God, 476

Swan, The, 468

Take My Advice, 16, 20
Tarnish, 469
Theatre, 7, 18, 20, 413
* There ShaU Be No Night, 477
They Can't Get You Down, 18, 21,

31
They Knew What They Wanted,

465, 469
They Shall Not Die, 474
They Should Have Stood in Bed,

11, 440
Three Men on a Horse, 8, 423, 463
Time of Your Live, The, 464, 477
To Live Again, 33
Tobacco Road, 24, 30, 463
Tomorrow and Tomorrow, 472
Top-Notchers, 454
Tovarich, 475
Trial by Jury, 432
Trip to Chinatown, A, 463
Twelfth Night, 418

Unchastened Woman, The, 466
. Uncle Harry, 14, 316, 389, 452
Under This Roof, 441

Vagabond King, The, 25, 31, 463
Valley Forge, 387, 474
Varieties of 1942, 25

Viceroy Sarah, 5, 402
Victoria Regina, 463, 475
Village Green, 4, 16, 20, 393
Vinegar Tree, The, 23, 388
Viva O'Brien, 403
Vortex, The, 388

Walk into My Parlor, 7, 415
Walking Gentleman, The, 14, 450
Walrus and the Carpenter, Tlie, 410
Warrior's Husband, The, 14, 455
Watch on the Rhine, 3, 20, 25, 28,

462, 464, 477
We, the People, 473
Wedding Bells, 467
Wednesday's Child, 474
Western Union, Please, 18, 20
What a Life, 463, 476
What Big Ears, 447

What Price Glory, 387, 469
When Ladies Meet, 473
White Cargo, 463
White Collars, 27
White Desert, The, 387
White Steed, The, 476
Why Marry ?, 465, 466
Why Not?, 468
Wild Birds, 469
Wings over Europe, 471
Winterset, 387, 464, 474
Wisdom Tooth, The, 470
Within the Law, 463
Women, The, 463, 475
Wooden Slipper, The, 388
Woodrow Wilson, 34, 385
Wookey, The, 4, 212, 394
World We Make, The, 477

Yellow Jacket, 33

Yes, My Darling Daughter, 475

Yesterday's Magic, 13, 447

You and I, 468

You Can't Take It with You, 32,

463, 465, 475
Young Love, 388
Young Woodley, 469
Youngest, The, 469

Zis Boom Bah, 31

INDEX OF PRODUCERS, DIRECTORS AND DESIGNERS

Abbott, George, 4, 392, 400, 429

Abravanel, Maurice, 393

Adler, Luther, 440

Aldrich, Richard, 441

Alswang, Ralph, 454

Alton, Robert, 392, 417, 455

American Civic Theatre, 395

American Theatre Wing War Ser-
vice, 13, 448

American Youth Theatre, 11, 439

Ames, Stephen and Paul, 11, 435

Anderson, John Murray, 32

Anderson, Maxwell, 406

Andrews, Herbert, 434

Annistead, Horace, 448

Aronson, Boris, 423, 434

Ayers, Lemuel, 404, 413, 419, 441,
446

Baird, John, 422

Balanchine, George, 427

Barr, Kenn, 448

Barratt, Watson, 401, 417, 420, 428,

447
Bay, Howard, 410, 421, 444, 446, 452
Bennett, Harry G., 453
Bernard, Bern, 420
Blackwell, Donald, 414
Blank, L. Daniel, 447
Bloomingdale, Alfred, 408, 414
Bogdanofif, Rose, 445
Booth, John N., Jr., 404
Boretz, Allen, 414

Boston Comic Opera Company, 430
Bouchene, Dimitri, 432
Boyar, Ben A., 404
Brent, Romney, 427
Bromley, Harald, 449
Brown, Anthony, 444
Brown, Rowland, 444
Bruskin, Perry, 439
Bryden, Eugene S., 404
Burke, Melville, 414
Burnside, R. H., 430
Byrd, Sam, 405

506

B3rroD, Edward, 397

Carnegie, Hattie, 393

Carrington, Frank, 425

Carroll, Earl, 32

Chaney, Stewart, 396, 410, 419, 427

Chanin, John Morris, 453

Checkhov, Michael, 418

Choate, Edward, 451

Clark, Peggy, 452

Cohen, Alexander H., 11, 398, 439,

440
Connelly, Marc, 438
Cooper, Lou, 439
Crawford, Cheryl, 9, 12, 433, 438,

442
Curran, Homer, 25
Curtis, Raymond, 414

Daly's Theatre Stock Company, 398

Davenport, Charles, 395

de Casalis, Jeanne, 475

de Liagre, Alfred, Jr., 24, 410, 411

Denham, Reginald, 435, 447

Digges, Dudley, 437

Dobujinsky, Mstislav, 402

Dowling, Edward Duryea, 417

Dubois, Raoul Pene, 417

Duffy, Henry, 23, 30

Duncan, Jesse, 428

duPont, Paul, 434, 443, 453

Elliott, Clyde, 16
Ephraim, Lee, 401
Ernie, Val, 409
Erskin, Chester, 446
Evans, Maurice, 6, 412

Feder, 419, 446, 451

Fielding, Marjery, 444

Fischer, Clififord C, 12, 443, 448, 454

Forman, Lou, 444

Fox, Frederick, 402, 405, 415, 426

Freedley, Vinton, 5, 407

Freeman, Charles K., 17

INDEX OF PRODUCERS, DIRECTORS, DESIGNERS S07

KroD, Louis, 430

Gabel, Martin, 434
Geddes, Norman Bd, 391
Gering, Marion, 441, 450, 451
Golden, John, 18, 413
Gordon, Max, 8, 406, 415, 418
Greanin, Leon, 431
Green, Johnny, 455
Greene, Luther, 415, 416, 437
Gribble, Harry Wagstafif, 402
Grisman, Sam H., 11, 440

Haggott, John, 412

Hale, Chester, 403, 404

Hale, George, 427

Hambleton, T. Edward, 424

Hammerstein, Oscar, 2d, 419

Hammond, Ronald, 446

Hargrave, Roy, 449

Harkrider, John, 408

Harper, Leonard, 450

Harris, Sam H., 392

Hart, Moss, 145, 387, 393, 415

Hassan, Rita, 441

Hassard, 423

Hatten, Lennie, 452

Hayman, Clifford, 452

Hecht, Ben, 436

Heckroth, H., 430, 431

Helburn, Theresa, 401, 417, 425, 428,

447
Henie, Sonja, 391
Hickey, John J., 403
Homer, Harry, 393, 408, 423, 424,

436, 440, 443, 451
Houseman, John, 24

Jacoves, Felix, 393
Johnson, Clark, 403
Jooss Ballet Dance Theatre, 430
Jooss, Kurt, 430, 431, 432

Karlan, Richard, 453

Karson, Nat, 409

Kaufman, George S., 387, 399, 407

Kaufman, Harry, 417

Kazan, Elia, 434, 452

Kelly, Gene, 400

Kennedy, Charles Rann, 416

Kennel, Louis, 395

Kirkland, Alexander, 451

Koenig, John, 392, 414, 424

Krakeur, Richard, 442

Krasna, Norman, 410

Lang, Howard, 17

Langner, Lawrence, 401, 406, 417,

425, 428, 447
Larsen, Johannes, 425
LeGallienne, Eva, 401, 428
Leonidoff, Leon, 391
Leve, Samuel, 397, 413, 429, 440, 449
Lewis, Albert, 422, 423, 450
Lewis, RusseU, 441, 442
Lewis, Sinclair, 5, 405
Liebman, Max, 446
Light, James, 445
Littlefield, Catherine, 391, 443
Logan, Joshua, 455
Logan, Lyn, 421
Lunt, Alfred, 406

MacArthur, Charles, 426
MacGregor, Edgar, 408, 421
McClintic, Guthrie, 13, 389, 411, 449
Meth, Max, 408
Mielziner, Jo, 392, 394, 400, 406,

407, 416, 437, 455
Miller, Gilbert, 11, 402, 436, 439,

440
Milton, Robert, 404, 420
Montgomery, Robert, 428
Morgan, Agnes, 425
Morrison, Paul, 416, 437
Motylefif, nia, 398
Myers, Richard, 441

New School for Social Research, 445
Nugent, Elliott, 428, 429

Oenslager, Donald, 399, 411, 413,

421, 438
Olney, Dorothy and Julian, 393
Olsen and Johnson, 8

Pasadena Community Playhouse, 32

Pemberton, Brock, 4, 396

Perry, Antoinette, 397

Pierson, Arthur, 448

Pincus, Norman, 395

Piscator, Edwin, 445

Playwrights' Company, 5, 180, 405

Pons, Helene, 397

Preminger, Otto L., 34, 395, 396, 424

Randall, Carl, 409, 419

508 INDEX OF PRODUCERS, DIRECTORS, DESIGNERS

Raphaebon, Samson, 429
Rasch, Albertina, 393
Remos, Susanne, 439
Ringling, Edith C^ 453
Robinson, Clark, 404
Roche, Emeline, 425
Rodgers, Richard, 455
Rogers, Charles R., 427
Root, John, 397, 429
Rose, BiUy, 9, 423
Rosen, Al, 17
Rosenthal, Jean, 416
Ross, Frank, 409
Ross, Robert, 434
Rotsten, Herman, 454
Ryskind, Morrie, 427, 472

Schmidlapp, Horace, 442

School for Social Research, 13

Schorr, William, 414, 415

Seabra, Nelson, 427

Selwyn, Edgar, 394

Selznick, David O., 24, 29

Serlin, Oscar, 13, 27, 72, 445

Sharafif, Irene, 393, 407, 419, 423, 455

Shdanoff, George, 418

Sheppard, John, Jr., 451

Short, Hassard, 393

Shrapps, Ernest, 442

Shubert, John, 426

Shubert, Lee, 12

Shubert, Messrs., 282, 417, 430, 443,

445, 448, 454
Shumlin, Herman, 20
Silberman, David, 447
Sinclair, Robert B., 394
Sircom, Arthur, 453
Sissle, Noble, 13, 450
Slhnola, Aino, 431
Sloan, Lee, 16

Sobd, Edward, 409

Sovey, Raymond, 393, 411, 415, 422,

435
Spencer, Frank, 414
Standcr, Lionel, 420
Steinberg, MoOie B^ 453
Stevens, Frank W^ 448
Strasberg, Lee, 423
Students' Theatre, 13
Sullivan, Ed, 13, 450

Theatre Associates, 416

Theatre GuiW, 5, 7, 9, 13, 14, 18, 20,

180, 316, 349, 401, 405, 417, 425,

428, 434, 447
Thompson, Woodman, 449
Throckmorton, Ckon, 398, 445
Todd, Biichael, 6
Traube, Shepard, 8, 282, 389, 419
Tuerk, John, 397
Tuttle, Day, 449

Vail, Lester, 417
Veronica, 450
Vodery, Bill, 450

Walters, Charles, 408, 423

Ward, Lem, 421, 452

Watkins, Perry, 442

Webster, Margaret, 413

WeUes, Halsted, 425

Wells, William K., 404

Wharton, Carly, 434

White, Miles, 400

WUdberg, John, 442

Wilson, John C, 19, 410

Wiman, Dwight Deere, 8, 10, 18, 212,

422, 436, 455
WirU, Arthur M., 291

* :, * -

I X

SWING 1984
651778

I X

-T'^^Bi^^—.^

SPRING 1984
651778

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