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Copyright, 1936, by Maxwell Anderson

ACT I

PHINEAS.   If you had been willing to name this man, sinner with you and equally guilty, we should have been willing, according to our custom, to call you both before the congregation, there to receive castigation fitting your desert and thereafter, the penalties of your guilt borne uncomplainingly, to be readmitted to the body of the church. But you, recalcitrant girl as you are, bring on yourself a heavier verdict through silence. Your case has been considered by the elders of the vestry, and you are to be thrust out from the congregation, neither is there to be entertainment vouchsafed you by communicants. You have chosen your place with whoremasters and whalers of the water-front. You are free to go to that place.

GIRL.   (Looking up.) I am free?

PHINEAS.   You are free to seek your own place, for the old will know you no more.

GIRL.   Oh, sir; oh, sir—he will die!

MUNGO.   You were given a choice. It’s still not too late.

GIRL.   I can’t tell that! Truly I can’t tell it!

MUNGO.   You know his name. You have but to say his name.

GIRL.   But if I were to say it—forgive me—you would be sorrier than I!

PHINEAS.   (Thundering.) We know no exceptions and no favorites here!

URQUHART.   If the lass wishes to keep her mouth shut, let her keep it shut, then. We’ve no call to drag down a respected citizen along with her.

PHINEAS.   Guilt is guilt and calls for punishment!

URQUHART.   She’s willing to take it alone. Let her take it.

GIRL.   But if you cast me out—if the congregation casts me out—me and the babe—we’ll have no place to go. He’ll die—there’ll not be a crust—and I’ve had little enough for him where I am——

PHINEAS.   I’ve spoken to your master and mistress. You’ll find it useless to return there.

GIRL.   Please, sirs—he’s but a bairn, and it wasn’t his fault. Oh, please, sirs—you couldn’t want him to die——

PHINEAS.   We can make no distinction between the sin and the fruits of the sin. It would be as well if he were to die—and better for your soul.

GIRL.   Oh, God forgive you, God forgive you——

MUNGO.   Ask your own forgiveness, woman! You’re the one needs it!

GIRL.   (Timidly.) Mrs. McQueston——

MRS. MCQUESTON.   I’ve no part in this. (R. door opens and RUEL MCQUESTON enters. He pauses.)

GIRL.   But you know how it is when you have a babe and love him, Mrs. McQueston. I’ve had plenty to bear with him, but I love him. Couldn’t you speak to your son, couldn’t you ask him—just to let us live——?

MRS. MCQUESTON.   (Rising deliberately and going to GIRL.) Go out! You’ve heard what was said to you here! Go out. And go far from us. (GIRL pauses. MRS. MCQUESTON spits in her face. GIRL turns, wiping off the spittle with shawl that is wrapped round child, and goes to door R., fumbling blindly for handle. RUEL crosses room, opens door for her, lets her out and faces company.)

RUEL.   Sorry to intrude, I’m sure. (MRS. MCQUESTON returns toward chair where she was sitting.)

PHINEAS.   She could have opened the door for herself.

RUEL.   Just one of those niceties the cloth could never comprehend, brother. A gentleman opens a door for a lady in distress. (He goes to stove.)

PHINEAS.   A lady, brother?

RUEL.   Do you mean to tell me that in all those rules of the church there’s nothing said, absolutely nothing, about common courtesy?—Besides, she’s a quite personable wench, and I have no doubt a most obliging armful.

PHINEAS.   If you have occasion to use this room we can remove our session.

RUEL.   I do have occasion to use the room, God defend me. I came in to get warm—there being no coal fire elsewhere. The family fortunes have fallen so low, gentlemen, that we keep but one fire, and on session days, while you confer so snugly here over the black destinies of man, the rest of the family must needs huddle in the kitchen. I’m loath to speak of this, as it may hurry your already hasty decisions, but my proximity to the kitchen maids tends to undermine their morals. It follows that the more you build up morality in the parlor the more I tear it down below stairs, a regrettable cancellation.

MUNGO.   We were about to leave, Reverend Phineas.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Ruel!

RUEL.   Yes, Mother?

MRS. MCQUESTON.   You’ve said enough, and you can go.

RUEL.   Back to the kitchen, Mother?

MRS. MCQUESTON.   You’ve dishonored us in every tavern on the harbor. Be content with that. I may have hatched a devil, for you speak like one, but in this house I’m mistress and you’ll give at least lip service to the things of God!

RUEL.   Mother, Mother, to make me out a devil you make yourself the devil’s dam, which is something of a stain to my progenitors—

PHINEAS.   Must you be taught respect to our mother—you wastrel?

(Bustles up to RUEL, who is amused.)

RUEL.   Come, come, little Phineas. You’re at a disadvantage, both in your shoulders and your epithets. However, I’ll leave if my errand’s welcome. I came to tell you news of brother Nat.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   What news?

RUEL.   I may stay, then? Thanks. Why, it seems you were right in what you heard from New Bedford. Brother Nat is back, he’s captain and owner of a five-master, and the damn thing’s loaded to the gunnels with spices from the Celebes. (To MUNGO and URQUHART.) Excuse the language, but our hope is, gentlemen, that brother Nat is returning rich to restore the fading fortunes of our somewhat seedy family. He was treated a bit cavalierly on his exit, being at that time a vagabond sailor, but something tells me he will be received with intoxicating warmth——

PHINEAS.   We can discuss the family fortunes in private——

RUEL.   Oh, yes! we will.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Where did you hear this?

RUEL.   You can see the lights of a coasting lugger from the window. When she came in I recognized the Silver Pennant of New Bedford. The second mate is a friend of mine, Mr. Happy Penny—I assure you the name’s no fiction, though his christened monicker being Merriment Penny we call him Happy for short. Mr. Penny had seen Captain Nathaniel, our distinguished brother, and spoken to him. It’s true as Gospel, and perhaps even more reliable, that Nat is rich, healthy and bound for home. He had put into New Bedford only to refit after a storm and is on his way here now. Does this earn me a place among the blest?

MUNGO.   Mrs. McQueston, I congratulate you.

URQUHART.   It’s not often a prodigal returns better off than he went.

MUNGO.   How long has he been away?

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Seven years. Seven years without a word.

RUEL.   And seven lean years at that.

PHINEAS.   He’s an evil man. Rich or poor, brother or not, he’s evil.

RUEL.   But you’ll forgive him, Phineas, you’ll forgive him. Oh, you’ll forgive more than you know.

PHINEAS.   And what do you mean by that?

RUEL.   Oh, there’s a latter end to my story. It has a sting in the tail. I shall retain this sequel until the visitors leave.

URQUHART.   Why—in that case——

MUNGO.   Yes—we shall say good-night, Reverend Phineas.

RUEL.   Oh, no hurry—the suspense is good for us all.

PHINEAS.   Brother Ruel is not the spokesman for our family, gentlemen. I hope you will disregard his dismissal.

URQUHART.   No more words, sir, no more words. You have important matters in hand, and we’re off. Bring the prodigal round to mid-week prayers, Mrs. McQueston. He’ll need a little praying after seven years at sea. (Takes her hand.)

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Thank you. I will.

URQUHART.   And good-night, sir.

PHINEAS.   Good-night, then—since you wish it.

MUNGO.   Good-night. We can find the door.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Good-night. (MUNGO and URQUHART go out C.)

RUEL.   Draw as long a face as you can, Dominie—it’ll grow longer while I talk.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Will you put an end to this, and say out what you have to say?

RUEL.   Indeed I will, Mother, and enjoy it. I sat over a glass with Mr. Happy Penny and he furnished me with further details of the arrival. Details of a most scandalous sort. Oh, this world, this world! To what depths of degradation may a wandering sailor be carried by his passions! Brother Nathaniel brings two women with him in the after-cabins.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   What sort of women?

RUEL.   What sort? Well, to tell the truth, they’re black.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Black? (RUEL bows.) Slaves?

RUEL.   Well, the story runs he’s married to one or both of them, though on this point Mr. Penny left me dark, being a timid man in family affairs and not liking to put embarrassing questions to Nathaniel.

PHINEAS.   He’s married to black women?

RUEL.   Now perhaps only to one, and to defend our brother’s taste for the moment, perhaps only to the younger and lighter-skinned of the two.

PHINEAS.   Where do these women come from?

RUEL.   I don’t know. I have only the most alarming suspicions.

PHINEAS.   How long have they been with him?

RUEL.   I fear it’s not an affair of the moment. There are two children.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Children!

RUEL.   Two children.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Black children!

RUEL.   Well, not black. Shall we say a faint coffee-color?

PHINEAS.   This is an invention—a hoax you perpetrate on us for your own amusement. “Shall we say a faint coffee-color.” Faugh!

RUEL.   At least it is amusing to speculate. I admit I haven’t seen them with my own eyes, and the whole affair may be exaggerated.

PHINEAS.   I rather think so. And I wonder at my weakness of brain in being taken in by you. I’m not usually so open a target.

RUEL.   No, Phineas, you’re not.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   This was all a fabrication, then?

RUEL.   Madam, I own I’ve sometimes permitted my fancy to run away with me in the presence of Phineas. Brother or not, this Phineas is a consummate half-wit, and it’s a temptation to lead him on. But in this case I leave all to the great fabricator himself, and scorn to embroider on his matchless doings. I have seen things, madam, in my circumscribed travels, which would lead me to believe anything, quite anything, of the great author of all and what he allows. I say this seriously, madam, speaking though I do to those who cannot understand me.

PHINEAS.   I’ll believe none of your preposterous nonsense!

RUEL.   It’s seldom necessary to encourage a fool in his folly.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   (Coming up to RUEL.) And do you quote that saying to Phineas? You who grew up a mocker in a godly town and a godly household, you who spent more than your share when there was plenty, and bring nothing but grief into the house now we’re poor! A friend of rogues and fornicator with street women! A follower of Paris fashions who’s never gone out to earn what would buy him a shirt! The shirt you wear was bought by this same brother of yours, who has used his wits to far better advantage, for all your fine sayings!

RUEL.   All that’s quite true. When I was young there was too much money in the house to be good for me, and now that I need it I’ve an aversion toward going out to get it. Quite true.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Then keep silent when your brother speaks, out of mere decency!

RUEL.   Silent I am, silent I shall be.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Yes, till you need a shilling. Then you’ll speak fast enough.

RUEL.   Possession, possession, ah, it’s possession makes a man.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Then you’re none.

RUEL.   Then I’m none, as you say. (He turns out a pocket ruefully. Door R. opens and VENTURE MCQUESTON wife of PHINEAS, looks in, enters, followed by FAITH INGALLS.)

VENTURE.   Phineas!

PHINEAS.   Yes?

VENTURE.   May we come in?

PHINEAS.   Yes. What is it?

VENTURE.   Haven’t you heard?

PHINEAS.   Heard? No.

But here’s cousin Faith

and she says Nathaniel’s coming!

Yes, my dear,

but we’ve heard that.

But coming now—this moment—

look out the window—there’s a ship warping in

with a star on every mast-head—Count the lanterns!—

she’s a five-master! The whole town’s running down

to the harbor front, and everyone I’ve seen

says it’s the Queen of the Celebes!

(They look out window U. L.)

And by

what process of divination can they read

her name at night?

And who but Captain Nat

would run the shoals in the dark? By the cut of his jib

and his dashing ways you shall know him, cousin Phineas,

and know him I do!

Could it be?

If he made a quick run

he could be here, yes.

It’s like him to waste sperm-oil

at every mast-head.

Waste it! Now let’s allow

one celebration in seven years. He’s coming

straight in. He’ll dock at your wharf below.

He’s welcome

to the berth. It’s empty.

And has been for some time—

and would be?

Oh, and would be.

He said when he left

he’d never cross that bar again till he

could buy the town for cash.

Have you heard from him

in all this time, my dear?

Once, only once.

Do I sound possessive? He’s forgotten me,

as the fish forgets the hook, only remembering

the cicatrice in his lip.

I very much fear

he’s forgotten all of us.

What would make you think so?

Isn’t he here?

He comes to dazzle us,

but he’ll go his own way, I doubt, and quite as well

so far as I’m concerned.

I believe you credit

that absurd story about the blackamoor

he’s supposed to have married.

No.

No. I should hope not.

He was nobody’s fool. Look, look how they run—

you’d think it was the second coming.

Well, in some ways

it was less expected.

Shall we be on the pier

when he disembarks? Come.

If he wants to see us

we shall be here.

Now, please—if he wants to see you——

Who else would he care to see?

I’ll make no part

of his triumph!

But aren’t you glad that he’s come back—

and glad that he’s rich?

I shall be more concerned

about the state of his soul. There are better things

in this world than money.

Oh, not in this world, cousin.

The other world.

No, this.

Oh, but that’s tiresome,

really it is, at this moment. Come with me, please,

all of us. Here’s a brother of yours returning,

the giddiest, maddest tar that ever followed

the whistling of a wind—and damned his eyes

if he cared where he went—and in he blows

with a fortune reaped on the outlands of the moon

somewhere, anywhere—went out with half a florin

to bless himself, and back now a merchant prince

with gold he coined in a sunset! I may have loved him

once, but so did you, I should think, at least

enough to bid him welcome.

He’ll be happier

if I’m not there with my long face and black coat

to make my comment.

Ruel?

Oh, I’ll be along.

Could I go, Phineas?

If it’s compatible

that you should walk the road and cling to the palings

with a mob at your heels.

I’m sorry.

They’re warping in

at the foot of the street. They’ll have the gang-plank down

before we get there.

Quick, then.

(A flash from outside lights the room.)

I think they’re burning

Greek fire on the point.

(He turns toward door C.)

  Heigh-ho! Well, anyway,

somebody’s ship came in!

(RUEL and FAITH go out C. door. VENTURE still stands at window U. L.)

I wish to speak

with my mother, Venture.

Yes, Phineas.

(She goes out R.)

The ways

of God are strange. The sinner always triumphant;

the babbler and the reveller sit at meat,

while those who serve Him hope for a dinner of herbs

and rise up hungry. It’s too much to ask

that I beg of Nathaniel!

How are we off without him?

There’s nothing left. You’ll lose the house and the wharf

if it goes much longer.

He’ll not let that happen,

now that he’s here.

Do you bargain with him, then!

It’s out of my hands.

(LETTY, a servant, comes to door R.)

LETTY.   Madam, there’s an officer came to the kitchen door, a Mr. Penny, looking for Mr. Ruel.

PHINEAS.   That will be this Happy Penny, then.—Mr. Ruel’s gone out.

LETTY.   I’ll tell him. Thank you, sir.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Ask Mr. Penny if he’ll step in a moment. I’d like to see him.

LETTY.   Yes, madam. (She goes out R. door.)

MRS. MCQUESTON.   He’s seen these women of Nathaniel’s. (She sits.)

PHINEAS.   I’d rather trade no gossip.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Listen, then, and benefit by it. (Door opens and HAPPY PENNY, an open-faced young seaman, is ushered in.)

HAPPY.   Good evening, ma’am. Good evening, sir. (PHINEAS bows.)

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Is this Mr. Happy Penny?

HAPPY.   Yes, Mrs. McQueston.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   This is my son, the Reverend Phineas McQueston.

HAPPY.   Pleased to meet you, sir.

PHINEAS.   And you.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   I’ll come straight to the point, Mr. Penny. I’m told you saw my son Nathaniel at New Bedford.

HAPPY.   Yes, ma’am. I did. Aboard the Queen of the Celebes. Which is now in below.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   I have heard that he’s married. Is that true?

HAPPY.   Now as to that I couldn’t say.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   There were two women on board, I hear?

HAPPY.   Yes, ma’am.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   And two children?

HAPPY.   Yes. One of the women was, I should say, a nurse like.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   A black woman?

HAPPY.   Not to say black, no.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Not of our race?

HAPPY.   No, ma’am.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Neither of them?

HAPPY.   No, ma’am.—But in turn you couldn’t really blame him, I should say.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Why?

HAPPY.   Because the young one’s quite a—a—I wouldn’t know what words you’d use, Mrs. McQueston. You might not say she was a looker, Mrs. McQueston, but, in turn, I should say any man would say she was.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Where does she come from?

HAPPY.   Now that, in turn, I don’t know—he not having said. He not having said a word about her. Not to me.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   I believe that’s all I wished to know, then, Mr. Penny. You probably wish to go down to the dock?

HAPPY.   Yes, ma’am. I was looking for Mr. Ruel.

PHINEAS.   He has preceded you.

HAPPY.   Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am. Thank you. Good evening. (PHINEAS bows.)

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Good evening. (PENNY goes out R.)

PHINEAS.   Then he’ll not be coming here.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   He might, he might.

PHINEAS.   Would you let him in?

MRS. MCQUESTON.   I think so.

PHINEAS.   And his women?

MRS. MCQUESTON.   He’ll not bring them here.

If he’s dragged his shame

all this way from the Pacific, why then he means

to flaunt it in our faces. I tell you the man’s

a dung-hill of evil! Degenerate, eater of ordure,

lower than Ruel because he has more sinew

and daring to carry it through!

We send over-seas

to wean the pagans of their wood and stone,

and should we do less for Nathaniel?

Do you mean that?

How long is a man enamored of black flesh

when there’s better to be had? I’ve heard it said

a man might have a lust to do his kind

with a lesser than himself, in his pride of manhood,

despising the thing beneath him, but then to live

his years with this thing despised, I think he’d hate

the flesh he used.

(A pause.)

Where have you heard such things?

A woman knows them whether she’s heard them or not.

And a woman knows when she’s used. And woman or man,

a black’s a slave, and start as high as she likes

she’ll sink to be a slave, and be used for flesh

and hate her own flesh for it!

You think beyond me.

Yes. I would hope so. I should like to think

beyond the immediate disgrace, and find

what lies on the further side.

There’s disgrace enough.

Even though I disown him, never see him,

think of the fingers pointed at me: there’s

that preacher whose brother married a nigger wife

and fetched her home! How much is a man of God

expected to endure?

Aye, your enduring!

(She rises.)

He’s my son, bear in mind—and I suckled him

as much as you—the fingers that point, the voices

that rail, they’ll cut you only because they touch

your place as a minister—but they’ll search me deep,

in an old wound! I have one son already

no mother envies me, and now another

comes home to roost, this with his pockets lined

in gold that might be a stay to my old age,

only he sleeps a heathen whore in his bed,

and I’m cut off for her! Has it crossed your mind

what scalding medicine I’d drench her with

if I had the nursing of her? But that way we

get nothing, and she keeps it all! We’ll wait!

Hold down whatever boils inside, and move

when we know what game he plays!

(There is a distant shout outside, “Captain NATHANIEL!”)

Well, we’ll soon know.

(Straggling voices are heard singing outside.)

A-roving, a-roving,

We’ll sing once more, to the distant shore,

But we’ll go no more a-roving

By the light of the moon!

They’re bringing him on their shoulders.

A-roving, a-roving,

To get dead tight in the dead of night,

But we’ll go more a-roving,

By the light of the moon!

(Door is heard opening outside C.)

Set me down, boys, set me down! This is no fitting way to

enter a parson’s house!

Put him down, lads.

Lower the topsail! Hard a-port now! We’re in!

Reef your jib, Happy!

Son-of-a-gun, you’re heavy!

NATHANIEL.   (Outside.) Feet-first, if you don’t mind! (A trampling on the stoop outside C.)

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Let him in, Phineas. (PHINEAS goes to C. door, opens it. There are a number of men in hallway, among them HAPPY. MRS. MCQUESTON goes to a chair, sits heavily as if half-fainting.)

NATHANIEL.   (Coming into view in C. hallway.) Now I’d ask you in, gentlemen, only this is my mother’s house, as you know, and I’m home after a long absence.

HAPPY.   (Outside.) Never apologize to a sailor, sir! (He laughs.)

PHINEAS.   Will you come in, gentlemen?

NATHANIEL.   Phineas, as I live and swim! (Catches Phineas’ hand.)

PHINEAS.   Come in, sir. (RUEL and FAITH appear at C. door, and enter.) Come in, all of you. (HAPPY steps inside.)

Well, the truth is, you see,

we know what it’s like, coming into port, so we’ll leave you,

and we beg your pardon, ma’am, I’m sure—it’s only—

we had to give a salute.

That’s right.

And now,

in turn, we’ll say good-night.

And good-night, and thanks,

thanks for the ride, too!

Man, we’ll give you a ride

on any similar occasion!

Right.

Good-night, and to all here.

Good-night. Good-night.

Good-night, captain. Good-night. Good-night. Good-night.

(PHINEAS closes door. NATHANIEL, RUEL and FAITH remain. VENTURE has entered from door R. NATHANIEL looks round room, his back to door C. His eye finally comes to his mother.)

And so the sum and substance of it is

I’m back, yes, and I never believed I’d get here—

and I hardly believe it now. Damn my two eyes

but this is a big world, Mother!

You use big words

to tell about it, son.

Now, there’s the girl,

there’s the mother! I half expected you’d

rear up and show me the door if I used a word,

and that was why I used it. I’m welcome, then,

damn my eyes and all?

Where did you think

to find a welcome, if not here?

Now, God

forbid all boasting, but when I chose sea-faring,

and went out that door with my extra shirt done up

in a blue bandana, there were no fond farewells,

as I remember—and so, one never knows

how he’ll be liked coming home.

You’ll find we like you

exactly as you like us.

That’s good with me,

and then to spare, if you knew how a man could long

for a cool green coast, and maybe a cool green friend

or two, left over from his youth. We never

were much for kissing in this room, but God,

God, how I’m glad to see you!

(Takes her face in his hands and kisses her brow.)

Thank you, son.

And Phineas, too.

(He takes PHINEAS’ hand.)

  In all these seven years

there’s a hand’s never drawn back from shepherding

his flock, I could swear to that. And Ruel’s a man,

by thunder—I hadn’t noticed!

I’m old enough,

but so far singularly of no account

in the local records.

Take your time. A life’s

a damn sight longer than you think.

(He looks at FAITH.)

No spark,

no glimpse? But all those fond farewells you said

you missed at the door, I have a faint recollection

they were spoken elsewhere!

But you were a scrub with pig tails,

and a mamma-washed face! It’s Faith!

Why, so it is!

And now she walks like a queen, and I didn’t know her!

Give us a kiss for the old-time ways and days,

when we were all younger and less beautiful.

Girl, you’ve betrayed me!

(They kiss.)

How?

Getting out of hand,

growing up into goddess, and me away!

Lady, it needs looking into.

And may I ask

where you took lessons in blandishment?

God’s truth—

I’m solemn as an owl. And this will be

our brother Phineas’ wife, and she’ll kiss me too

like a good sister-in-law.

Yes, sir.

(He kisses VENTURE.)

And now,

my hearties, as I said before, I’m back,

and it turned out better than I thought it would,

for I own a ship with two hundred tons of spice

and gums mowed away in her hold. At present prices

I don’t know what it’s worth, but when I left

it would have ransomed the devil out of hell

and kept the Lord God in pocket money.

(A pause.)

Brother,

they’ll tell you I’m no merchant, but two hundred—

two hundred tons of spices—

And more than that,

I know where pepper grows in the Celebes,

and there’s more there. All we want. What’s the stuff worth here?

A drug on the market?

Man, you’re just in time.

The tea’s been getting weaker day by day

from the McQueston kitchen. Would you take

two hundred thousand for it?

No.

I thought not.

Well, it’s worth more.

I’ve done it, then.

Oh, yes.

And you can buy the town, as you said you would

when you went away.

Then I can tell you the rest.

I’ve had enough of this washing up and down

across salt waters. There’s too damn much salt water

on our terrestrial pumpkin, and now I’m here

with two feet planted on New England rock

I want to shake off my sea-legs, sink my pile

in our old chandlery business—McQueston Sons—

and take root where I’m remembered. Have you got the wharf?

Can you use the capital?

Man, man, oh, man,

I tell you our tea’s been weak.

Will you take it, Mother,

and take me in?

(MRS. MCQUESTON rises, goes to NATHANIEL.)

You’ve come in time. But only

just in time. There’s no business left. The wharf’s

been pledged, and the house.

Then we’ll have them back again.

You’re sure you want it?

If I was ever sure

of anything, Mother.

And what must we do for you?

Why, take me back.

Will you make it difficult?

You’ve heard about her, then. It’s true I’m married.

I’m wed to a princess of the Celebes,

and I’ll want you to take her, too.

I’ve heard it said

that when men settle in tropic parts they buy

a native girl to live with. I’ve not heard

they bring them home as wives.

But I’ve brought mine,

and she stays with me.

And she’s a black, and worships

some pagan fetish.

Black? She’s a Malay princess,

but one shade darker than I am myself

with too much wind and sun. And she’s a Christian,

a damn sight better Christian than I am,

or most of us.

But keep her out of my sight

if she comes here!

She’ll take to you, Phineas.

She knows her Bible, forward and back, as well

as any divine in Salem. Taught herself

her English out of it, runs with Bible talk

like an Old Testament prophet.

Why are you here?

You mate with some aborigine in a jungle,

beget your children on her, and bring her here,

to spread your baboon kisses on white women

as if nothing had happened!

I’m sorry. I kissed your wife.

That won’t happen again, I thank you. You

should travel, brother. Or read. You’ll find Malays

quite twice as erudite as yourself, and proud

as Lucifer.

How do you wipe the smell off

when you get up in the morning? To lie there tangled

into an animal’s entrails, and you a man,

and you want to smirch us with it!

We’ll go elsewhere.

I think we can manage. Eat your cabbage-whey,

you and your virginal women!

(He turns abruptly.)

Wait!

For what?

There was a man of Salem once who married

an Indian squaw—and brought her here to live—

wait till I finish!—but they had no neighbors;

no one spoke to him in the street. He lost

what work he had. He drank himself to death,

and the children died. The squaw went back to her tribe,

and it’s said they stoned her. Think well what you do

before you fetch in this bride.

These sitters at home

that think their brain’s the only brain there is,

and the rest’s all outer darkness! Sending out

your missionaries to civilizations so old

and wise they laugh at your Jesus-myth! Believing

that you’re the chosen of Heaven because your skin’s

a half-shade lighter than others’! I’ve seen these peoples

you rank with animals, and I know them. They

can give you cards and spades at any game

except sheer asininity. At that

the Aryan tops the world! I’ve taken a wife

from among the Malays, and she’s more beautiful,

and has a better head, and sweeter ways,

and higher pride, and makes a better lover

than any celery-top among you! Aye,

and by God I’d trust her farther! That’s my choice,

and we’ll go elsewhere!

No. You’ll bring her here.

I’ve given you my warning, but if you must

you must, and we’ll do as we can.

I can do without you,

having heard Phineas.

He’s not master here.

He’ll keep a civil tongue.

I’ll want more than that.

If she’s as you say, Nathaniel, she’ll be welcome

anywhere, I should think.

Would you make her welcome,

and let her feel it?

Yes, and be happy to.

Where is she?

I left an order with the mate.

He’s to escort them up.

I’ll go to meet her.

And so will I.

You, too?

Why, yes, why not?

If you love her, that’s enough.

Then thanks for that.

And I’ll go with you.

(They start toward C. door.)

  But not if there’s any doubt

how she’ll be treated. She’s both proud and weary

and I’ve offered her a haven.

I too am proud

and old and weary, but she shall share my roof—

since you ask it. Let her come.

(RUEL, FAITH and NATHANIEL go out door C.)

With your pardon, Mother,

I’ll not be here—nor will my wife. Perhaps

that will smooth matters.

You’ll be in your room?

Yes. And Venture will be, let’s say, in the kitchen.

At any rate not here.

Yes, Phineas.

(She goes out R.)

And I’ll be quiet.

It won’t be for long.

No?

Not for long.

Come. I must see to her room.

(They go out together to front hall C. The room is empty for a moment, then door R. opens and a dark little girl of six, very pretty and in Malay costume, comes in. She stands doubtfully a while, looking about, and finally comes to C. of room to stare at ship model. She runs a hand delicately over the smooth black arm of a polished chair. OPARRE enters C., a tall, regal woman, with a noble and beautiful, though somewhat barbaric, face. She is also in Malay costume. VENTURE follows her.)

They were here a moment ago. They may have gone

to meet you. Will you wait here while I find them?

It has been said in my country it’s an ill omen

to come by the wrong door.

He didn’t know—

the man didn’t know. I’ll find them.

Would you, please?

(VENTURE goes out C. A Malay nurse—TOALA—comes in

from kitchen R., carrying a young child asleep.)

Is she asleep, Toala?

Yes.

Sit here.

We must wait a little.

Dear Princess, is there any way to go

from this place to our Celebes, and cross

no water?

No, Toala, there’s no way

but in the ship. Why do you ask?

Perhaps

a time might come when one would wish to go,

and wish for ground underfoot.

Yes. It might be.

Mother, is this our house?

It may be, Durian.

I want to go to our house.

Hush, we must wait.

Kneel at your chair, and listen while I pray.

I must make a prayer.

Is it for me too, Mother?

Yes, for you, too.

(She kneels at window, DURIAN also kneels.)

  Dark oracles of heaven,

that blaze and burn, swung by an unseen hand,

forgive me if I give my god no name,

for men have many. But there is one law only

over the suns and tides, and He sits alone,

giver of laws, and I worship Him, and ask,

under what name is chosen, for those I love,

peace in this house. The terrible sea has been

my child-bed, and my children’s cradle. Blood

and a black treason lie at their beginning,

and murdered men look down upon our sleep

and curse, and will not live again, and yet

these are the ways of men, and a woman bears them,

forgiving, and a god forgives. What wars

they make, what pitiful scars they leave, what eyes

lie staring at your moon, and will not waken,

this we have seen together, but these men-children

are children still, and loved, and a woman’s heart

goes out to them, even guilty. Drive us no more

for the evil we have done, let us eat our bread

beyond the salt of weeping or the sea,

these little ones and him I love, and I,

here on this shore. Yet if a gift is destined

for me alone in years to come, withhold it,

take it again, and pour on that bright head

I pillow in the night whatever meed

has been reserved for me. Forgive me, too,

that I should worship one who is a man

and hold him dearer than my god. For thus

have you who are my god made me, a woman,

to worship in your image. This is my prayer,

the prayer of the Princess Oparre, spoken in night,

on an unknown coast, among strangers.

(She rises. DURIAN has fallen asleep at chair.)

  It’s silent here.

Not even the wash of water. And Durian sleeps.

I wish we might stay here.

(She goes to window U. L. MRS. MCQUESTON comes to hall door C., carrying a candle, sees visitor and steps back, loathing in her face. OPARRE turns.)

Who are you?

Oparre.

These are your children?

Yes.

Must she—touch my chair?

(Her breath comes with difficulty.)

She is clean, madam.

You are his wife.

His wife?

I am the wife of Nathaniel McQueston.

I am his mother.

Yes, he has your brow.

He’s like you. I should have known.

(A pause.)

There’s a room ready.

I’ll show you to it.

But tell me—we intrude here?

We’re not wanted?

Why should you think so?

This—

your welcome to me.

It’s my custom to use

few words. You’re welcome.

I would not have come—

only he asked it.

It may be that our manners

are not like yours. When I have said you’re welcome

I have said all I can.

Then we are still

no better than wanderers, to be given shelter

and say farewell at morning. I had hoped

for a little respite.

I’ll show you where you sleep.

We are your guests.

(She bows her head briefly, then takes a step toward the sleeping DURIAN. PHINEAS appears C. and speaks to his mother from hall.)

There’s an odor in the house,

Mother, something like incense.

It’s her perfume—

Yes. I burned an incense before I came

to sweeten the cabins.

(PHINEAS enters and sees OPARRE.)

I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

(He turns to go.)

This is Nathaniel’s wife.

Aye.

This is my son.

Phineas, my son.

(Silence. PHINEAS stands frozen, with averted face.)

There should be no greeting

between us?

That’s as you like.

I wish you well

in all your ways, the brother of my husband.

May there be peace between us.

And do you wish well

to Nathaniel?

Yes.

It would have been far better

if you had never seen him.

Do you think so?

You must know it.

No.

Why, keep him, then.

You’ll know it shortly.

You are bitter toward me.

Aye, I’m bitter.

(Door C. opens. NATHANIEL, RUEL and FAITH come into hall.)

They’re here before us.

There, damn it,

we passed on the road, sweet, somewhere. Are we met?

Has there been exchange of courtesies?

I’ve offered

to light her to her room.

The babes are tired;

that may be best. Another brother of mine,

Oparre—this one called Ruel—and Faith Ingalls,

a good friend now lang syne.

You will forgive me.

I am strange to your customs.

You’re welcome, sister,

with all my heart.

(He takes her hand.)

And with mine.

(She does likewise.)

I thank you, truly.

And now shall we put these sleepy ones to bed

before we talk?

I must know what your brother means.

(She looks at PHINEAS.)

What brother? Were you speaking, Phineas?

What have you said?

I’ve said all I had to say.

Repeat it for us. We’re at a disadvantage,

having been more or less absent.

She asked for it.

I told her only it would be better far

if she had never seen you.

You told her only—

only so much?—What do you know of her

or me—or our history? The man’s an oaf,

my dear. You must make allowances.

It was meant—

what he said—and meant darkly.

He’s all made up

of black looks and black sayings. They breed them that way

to fill our New England pulpits. It’s a business.

Let it pass.

No.

I say let it pass

and get the babes to bed. He’s a quack prophet

and believes in witches. They’re all cracked, these preachers.

He thinks he’s Jehovah.

Yet I shall sleep but ill

where there was unkindness toward me. I wished him well.

Sir, I wish you well still.

(PHINEAS is silent.)

  Shall I take them up?

Yes.

(Oparre gathers DURIAN into her arms and goes out to hall C.,

followed by nurse with child. MRS. MCQUESTON precedes

them up the stairs with candle.)

And let me warn you, Phineas, the time’s

gone by when you’re man enough for me. I took

your orders once, but the shoe’s on the other foot,

you’ll find!

You think to own us now because

you’ve piled up certain quantities of stuffs

in a ship’s hold? God is not bought, nor weighs

your value by your having.

Your church sells out,

like all the others, regularly. Who built

the fold you ply your trade in now? A thief,

that robbed your flock of sheep for thirty years

and paid his way to paradise by standing

the costs of their meeting-house. You reckon without

the power of Mammon, Phineas. For myself,

the deacons will be here tomorrow morning

wanting to sell me a pew.

With a pagan wife

and octaroon children?

Yes, with whatever I have

so long as I have money!

Then mind you keep it,

for it’s all you have.

I’ll keep it, but if I don’t

I’d lose it to one of these holier-than-thous

that pull a long face over their hymns on Sunday

and dismember their victims Monday. They’ll after me

like a flight of buzzards when they smell me out

with silver on me!

Hear, hear!

And you’ll be among them

if I’m any judge of medicine-men!

There was once

a man who said to himself in his heart, O soul,

be comforted, we have wealth for many days;

take your ease, be merry——

I know; it was unfortunate; he died;

there was also a man who had nothing at all; he died,

so that proves very little.

(MRS. MCQUESTON and OPARRE come down into hall C.)

Take your choice,

the woman or my friendship! But not both!

(OPARRE enters C. MRS. MCQUESTON follows.)

Keep your friendship, yes, and your brotherly love,

you damned psalm-singing cur!

I have wronged you, wronged you,

my husband, coming here.

Not an ounce, my sweet.

You’re worth the pack of them.

You see, for him,

for what was best to him, I’d have stayed away

or drowned myself in the sea—oh, this I speak

you must believe—it is not hard to die

if one should love but a little—to pull the tides

across the eyes and lie quiet to bring rest

to him you love—this is not hard at all——

You came here at my asking, and I make

no apologies!

(OPARRE takes courage from him, and smiles.)

Yet seeing he loved me, and I stood

before him flushed with that love, I have dared to say:

I, even I, Oparre, lower in blood,

of pagan nurture, may I not step from darkness

in this garment like a glory he puts round me,

the garment of his love? Wearing this glory,

and proud of it, yet timid in what I am

and know myself to be, I have made my prayer

that I may be found worthy of your god

and your cities and your ways, to walk among you

almost as you—not quite despised. If I

am over-bold in this, my punishment

is sure and deep and mortal.

(To NATHANIEL, pleading.)

  You must let them answer.

You must not answer for them.

(To MRS. MCQUESTON.)

  You wept above stairs,

you who are his mother—I saw the tears

wrung from you, when you thought I had not seen,

and you were crying, O my son, my son,

O why were you not caught by your bright hair

among the branches?—You have wished him dead

rather than here with me.

I remembered him

asleep in that room where those two of yours are lying,

but I’m neither bent nor broken. I won’t cry out

again. Not again.

What is it that I have done?

How have I hurt you?

Your blood! The black blood in your veins!

Isn’t that enough?

Be silent!

Yes. Yes it is.

I feel that it is. But will you pardon me

if I ask a little for life? Where I was born

my father was the sultan of a tribe

of Minahasese. I have heard, before his time,

oh long before, the Mohammedans came down

to teach us Allah with their swords, and all

the tribes fell down to Allah. But in their hearts

they kept the old pagan rites and mysteries—

reverencing them in secret. These too were gods

of blood, revengeful, with their mouths agape

for human flesh, haters of all not ours,

so that to kill an alien in their sight

was grateful to them. My father had no son,

and I was his heir. He took me, a child, to battle,

and once when there were three leaders slain and brought

to the palace gate, he gave me a spear to carry

with an enemy’s head thrust on it. The blood ran down

upon my hands and dripped among my tears,

for I’d seen the man die. This was our way of life,

and I dared not let them hear me weep, for I

was to govern, and tears were womanish; were I

as other women I might not rule. But then

when I was grown, a Christian came bound for death

on a certain altar. I saw him, and begged his life

that he might be my slave. This was your son.

—Oh, I had been hard and vengeful too, and taken

life in my hands! Still somewhere I had heard

of a God, the Christ, who had pity—and I asked

for news of this god. He answered mockingly,

your son, no lover of gods, till once, at last,

he gave me this little book of the testaments,

and I carry it always.—Now pity me for this!

Born in deep cavern darkness, blind, and standing

suddenly in sun! As though a dog,

for worship of a man who was his god

should hunger to be man! As one new dead,

feeling warm tears upon his mouth, might grieve

to lift his heavy clay! Barbarian,

rooted in under jungle, passionate

beyond your knowing, gross in my mind and blood,

still thrusting up toward a memory of light,

not quite forgotten!

You bring your light with you, lady,

a lamb led in among butchers!

No!

I can hear

the sharpening of knives on every hearth-stone

in this little suburb of heaven!

Your eyes are kind!

Is there hope for us here?

I don’t know.

But you,

you have no knife for me?

What lies between

two women who love one man—that lies between us.

I meant not to tell you, but when I hear you speak

I must be honest, too. Whatever comes,

or whatever I smile and say in after-time,

put no trust in me.

You love him.

Yes.

I’ve always loved him. But your ways are those

of a princess, or a queen.—I’m touched and sorry,

and because of that I tell you, trust me not,

for I’m your enemy.

If I should answer

as when I was a princess, I would say,

guard yourself well who take it on yourself

to be enemy of mine! My enemies

have suffered more than I! But in this place,

still carrying in my heart the secret Christ

by whom you live, I answer, I am your friend

who have seen my husband as I see him.—Dark

as your words have been, dark as your looks at me,

evil as you may think you are, your evil

is as the play of children to the world

we two have left behind us. You are gentle

even now in your anger. There is a kindness

even in your abhorrence. Teach me that kindness.

I would live by it, for my soul is sick

of murder and a life that can be lived

only by striking quickly.

What murder is this

you speak of? What life was lived by murder?

Mine.

Tell us what murder, then?

Has it been your notion

that matters are conducted in the south seas

without an occasional letting of blood?

Sir, bloodshed

smells the same here as there!

Not quite. Oparre

governed a province, and sentenced men to death,

if that’s a crime!

It was more than that!

We’ll say

no more about it!

Sir, if this winter coast

is tarnished by our footsteps in the snow,

as I feared it might be; if the Christ you worship

gives sanctuary only to his own

lest they be polluted, say this at once, and we

shall rouse the children, and be away. I came

only with a hope.

We have no place here for you!

I have done what I can. Nathaniel—

we shall go now?

Yes.

Let the babes sleep.

This has come on us too quickly, and we’ve said

what we’ll regret. It’s not been easy for us—

we’ll not find it easy—the words come hard—

but take a welcome for this night at least,

and rest,—and let us try.—I fear you, lady,

and fear what’s in myself—for I meant to speak

no words but welcome, till a blindness rose

before my eyes, and I cried out, and you heard me—

Oh, my son, my son, and my youth that’s gone,

and my high hopes gone! Why then, they’re gone, and we’re here,

and this is as it is. Let us sleep, let us rest,

those who can rest and sleep. I bid you welcome,

a woman and his wife. A stranger, too,

but one we shall know better.

(She offers OPARRE her hand.)

I shall not kiss you,

not yet, perhaps tomorrow.

What must I do?

Take her hand. With Phineas’ kind permission

we’ll stay the night.

Stay, then.

I’m sorry I came

by the wrong door. Perhaps it can be mended.

Good-night.

Good-night.

Good-night, Oparre.

Thank you.

It brings a warm flood round my heart to hear

my name, and gently spoken.—It was one time

the name of a princess, and I remember her

and look for too much honor.

(She goes out to C. and up stairway.)

CURTAIN

ACT II

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Where is she?

LETTY.   She was there, looking at the flowers.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Never mind. It’s their house now.

LETTY.   Only she comes and goes like a ghost. It’s frightening. She was there.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Never mind. Let it be. (LETTY goes out door R. MRS. MCQUESTON sweeps carefully with hearth-broom where DURIAN stood near flowers, then goes to window. NATHANIEL and RUEL come in from front door C., followed by a BAILIFF. NATHANIEL speaks before they enter.)

NATHANIEL.   Come in, come in, Harry. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?

BAILIFF.   There’s no need to come in. I just had something to give you. (He brings out a folded paper.) If you don’t mind, sir.

Nathaniel.   Not in your professional capacity, I hope?

BAILIFF.   Yes, sir. It’s a service.

NATHANIEL.   What?

BAILIFF.   Yes, sir.

NATHANIEL.   Well, I’ll be damned. Where have I run afoul of the law? (BAILIFF comes forward, hands NATHANIEL paper. NATHANIEL opens it.)

BAILIFF.   Yes, sir. (He starts out C.)

NATHANIEL.   Wait a minute! What is this you serve me with?

BAILIFF.   It’s only that you’re to appear before the magistrate, sir.

Nathaniel.   For what reason?

BAILIFF.   I’m sorry—but—it’s named there in the paper, I think.

NATHANIEL.   Before Justice Urquhart—to show cause why I’ve not given bond for two slaves! What slaves have I?

BAILIFF.   I don’t know, sir.

NATHANIEL.   I have no slaves! (He tears paper, tosses it back to BAILIFF.) Take that back to old yellow-face and tell him so.

BAILIFF.   It’s not my province to take it back, sir, having once delivered it.

NATHANIEL.   Then tell him yourself! Tell him I’ve never owned a slave, and never will, which is more than he can say for himself!

BAILIFF.   Good day, sir. (He turns to C. door, puts on hat carefully, looks insolently at NATHANIEL, goes out.)

RUEL.   From Judge Urquhart?

NATHANIEL.   Yes. And if he’s for bringing me into court I have a matter of an over-due note I’d like to take up with him.

RUEL.   He was asking for a loan lately. This seems hardly the way to get it.

NATHANIEL.   I refused his loan—and this is no doubt his answer. How deep is he into us now?

RUEL.   Seven thousand.

NATHANIEL.   I should have been watching that. It’s a lot more than he’s good for. He sunk his claws in us once when he had us down, and he’ll do it again.

RUEL.   It was Phineas let him have the money.

NATHANIEL.   I was willing to lend a little—to keep him a friend. And this is my reward. Give bond for two slaves! Meaning my wife, and her servant! Damn Phineas and his friends! I was too cursed charitable when I took our reverend brother in as a partner!

RUEL.   To say nothing of my unworthy self——

NATHANIEL.   You’ve played straight and earned what you got, but Phineas—and his church members! A thousand here for good-will—and a thousand there for good-will—and their women pass me in the street with their noses to windward! The well’s dry from now on—and they’ll begin to miss the water. I’ve made the last voyage I intend to make into the China Seas. I brought back plenty, and it was enough to set us up again, but I’ll spread no more of it among his light-fingered elders. It doesn’t come so easy as they might think. And it won’t come so easy to them from now on.

RUEL.   Then it’s good-bye to Urquhart’s friendship.

NATHANIEL.   It costs too much! He can go—with some others like him. This town’s been run too long for the overly righteous. It’s time we gave the devil his chance, eh, Mother?

MRS. MCQUESTON.   The devil will have his own, no doubt. I’ve hoped you were not one of them.

NATHANIEL.   I may be, at that. I met up with the devil once in the South Seas, horns and all, and the old boy was more than gracious. In fact, you owe my presence here to his kindly interest. The children of light were just about to spit me on an altar when the children of darkness intervened. It’s a long story, but never speak ill of the devil, Mother. He’s your son’s patron saint.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   As I said, he will have his own. See to it that you are not one of them.

NATHANIEL.   He’d never hold his own among the God-fearing New England merchants I do business with. Just because I’m not a candidate for heaven they feel a moral obligation to take away my earthly possessions. The pious Urquhart’s been running up a thundering bill with the full intention of taking bankruptcy to avoid paying us.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Have you refused him credit?

NATHANIEL.   I haven’t, but I intend to.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   It’s better not to refuse it.

NATHANIEL.   Why?

MRS. MCQUESTON.   He’ll take it.

NATHANIEL.   You amaze me, Mother. How is he going to take credit if I don’t give it?

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Never mind. Offer it now or you’ll be the one who’s asking favors.

NATHANIEL.   Do you understand this, Ruel?

RUEL.   No. But I’m well aware that the appalling moral obliquity of this neighborhood is only equalled by its aptitude for business chicane.

NATHANIEL.   In other words, give them what they want or they do you out of it.

RUEL.   They try to.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Who was done out of this house, then? Phineas or yourselves?

NATHANIEL.   Mother, your son Phineas put it up to me—either I got out or he would. Now I might have gone, that’s true, but in walking up and down the world, accompanied by my friend the devil, I have made the curious discovery that too much honor is given the medicine-men of all nations, and too little respect paid to those who bring home what is grudgingly called the bacon. I am myself a bacon-bringer of a fairly engaging sort. Phineas is a medicine-man of the approved variety—sharp-faced, close-fisted, narrow-brained and even a little tight in the hind quarters. As his superior in mind, quality and stature I take my place above him in this world, and I occupy this house because it’s the best in town and I like it. I understand that Phineas moved out this morning, bag and baggage, wife and wifeage, and I’m glad to hear it. We can use the room.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   God deliver you from your pride!

NATHANIEL.   God deliver me from the followers of the lowly Nazarene, and their fake humility.—(To RUEL.) I’ll take a look at these vacated quarters.

MRS. MCQUESTON.   If it’s convenient for you, Phineas wishes to see you here this afternoon.

NATHANIEL.   Phineas—so soon?

MRS. MCQUESTON.   Phineas and Elder Urquhart.

NATHANIEL.   I see, a begging errand. Well, let them come. (He goes toward hall door C., followed by RUEL. HAPPY enters hall door C.) How are you, Happy?

HAPPY.   Excellent, sir. Thank you.

NATHANIEL.   Looking for Ruel?

HAPPY.   Yes, sir. That is—yes, sir. (MRS. MCQUESTON goes out door R.)

NATHANIEL.   Well, there he is. Come along when you’re free, Ruel.

RUEL.   I will. (NATHANIEL goes out through hall C.)

HAPPY.   Fine day.

RUEL.   What’s on the mind?

HAPPY.   Well——

RUEL.   The usual eel-skin appendage?

HAPPY.   To tell the truth—there’s more than that.

RUEL.   You give me pause, Happy. What’s it about?

HAPPY.   As a matter of fact it’s about Captain Nathaniel.

RUEL.   My brother?

HAPPY.   Yes, sir.

RUEL.   Then why didn’t you speak to him about it?

HAPPY.   I meant to—that’s the truth—but when I saw him—I didn’t.

RUEL.   Maybe it’s something I shouldn’t know?

HAPPY.   You should know it. Or he should. It might be better if you told him. You see, it’s a little hard for me to talk to him—since he’s got so much money. He doesn’t make it easy.

RUEL.   I see.

HAPPY.   Not that I don’t understand it, what with being over-run with borrowers, and the like. Only I’d rather you passed it on to him.

RUEL.   Well, I will. What is it?

HAPPY.   There’s been a lot of talk around—underneath, you know—about one of the sailors who came in on the Queen of the Celebes.

RUEL.   I haven’t heard it.

HAPPY.   No, I don’t suppose you would. The man’s gone now—shipped off for the Arctic whaling in the Levantine Moon—but he roiled up a lot of stuff before he went.

RUEL.   Yes?

HAPPY.   The story is he found a diary on board in the forecastle, all written in Dutch. Now he couldn’t read Dutch, and nobody could that saw the diary, but as near as they could gather from it the Queen of the Celebes used to be a Dutch boat with a foreign name.

RUEL.   That’s quite possible.

HAPPY.   Yes, I know it is. In fact, I know she was.

RUEL.   You know it?

HAPPY.   Yes, sir. Having a good chance on a fine dark night when I was on watch, I went down under her stern and found out the name’d been painted over. She used to be the Nick Apteros out of the Hague. But nobody will know that now because I took the paint right down to the wood and put on the Queen of the Celebes again, and nobody ever knew it was done.

RUEL.   Wasn’t all that a bit unnecessary?

HAPPY.   Was it?

RUEL.   It’s true she had no ship’s papers when she came in, but then strange things can happen in the Southern Pacific.

HAPPY.   Yes—and the theory is that something strange did happen.

RUEL.   Such as?

HAPPY.   Not that I believe it, remember. But the talk that goes round is that she’s a stolen ship, that her crew was murdered.—In other words, they say there’s been piracy somewhere.

RUEL.   Where is this diary now?

HAPPY.   That, in turn, I don’t know. I wish I did—but I never saw it.

RUEL.   Do you suppose the sailor took it with him?

HAPPY.   There’s been more talk than ever since he left.

RUEL.   Somebody has it, then?

HAPPY.   I’m afraid of it.

RUEL.   How serious is it—if this were true of Nathaniel? Suppose he had stolen the ship and made away with the crew?

HAPPY.   Why, that’s piracy. Only it’s not true. Not that.

RUEL.   I know. But suppose it were. It’s a capital offense under international law—isn’t that so?

HAPPY.   Yes, sir.

RUEL.   We must find this diary.

HAPPY.   Yes, sir. That’s what I think.

RUEL.   And now I know why you didn’t speak to Nathaniel. It’s not exactly an agreeable subject.

HAPPY.   No, it’s not.

RUEL.   There’s someone coming up the steps. We’ll go to my room. (FAITH enters C. They meet her at door.)

FAITH.   Are there folk indoors on a day like this?

I’m afraid so.

Business, you know. Business goes on as usual—

men must grub for silver.

Shame on you then—

it’s raining gold outside!

That’s more than it’s doing

here within doors.

(NATHANIEL returns through hall C.)

  Will you forgive us worms

if we leave to go on grubbing?

Go mend your nets

if it makes you feel important! I’ve an errand

the kitchen way.

We see you here too seldom,

Mistress Faith.

Your pardon——

Yes——

(RUEL and HAPPY go out C. and up stairs. FAITH goes toward kitchen door R.)

It’s not

quite flattering, this haste.

Why—it was true—

I have an errand.

But never one to me.

Not for some months. If you’d known I was here

you’d have gone to another neighbor.

(She pauses, then lifts her hand to R. door.)

You’ll excuse me—

the haste was real.

Am I a shadow then

to be seen through—walked through—like a dog in the room

through which you need to pass?

No.

No. A dog

would get more greeting.

Was I uncourteous?

I’m sorry if I was.

When I walk to the wharf

three or four men may pass a word with me,

the rest look the other way—the women sweeping,

drag in their rugs and shut the doors behind them

lest I should catch an eye and speak. You’d think

I carried leprosy. Some half year gone

I had my last good word from you. Your rugs

are hauled in fast enough when I go by,

if you recall.

But not to be unkind.

Truly.

It’s hard to breathe in a vacuum

and I’ve lived in one of late.

I thought you happy.

You’re happy with her.

Yes.

Let’s say no more.

It’s better to say nothing of such things.

Such things as what?

We have our separate lives

to live. Let it go at that.—But I could warn you,

if you want a kindly warning, you won’t win

the town’s good word by lending money to them.

A creditor’s always hated.

I know that.

I’ve discovered that. A little late.

Then keep

your fortune for yourself. They laugh at you

behind your back for these loans.

And you? Do you

laugh with them?

No. I make very little use

of laughter this last year.

What things are these

it’s better not to speak of?

Nothing.

Then

for God’s sake give me a word or two sometimes

just to water the desert. I begin

to hate these streets and the people on them. Yes,

and hate myself.

I tried to be kind at first—

to say we could meet as always, put good luck

and bad behind.—I had my share of bad,

but that could be forgotten. Then I couldn’t.

Little by little I couldn’t.

Why? Am I

so changed?

Yes.

I don’t feel it.

Not in yourself.

But when we think of you we think of her.

And it’s not as if she were one of us. I’ve never

thought much about what it was like to be

a negro—but—if you still loved me, say,

and I’d married a black—how would you think of me—?

would it seem to change me?

That’s it, then?

I tried—

I tried not to have the thought—but it haunted me—

at nights—when you were with her.—It’s better, I know,

not to speak of such things.—But we’ve been friends—

I wanted to be your friend. And I choke on that—

it won’t go down.—And if that’s true of me,

who wish you well, you know how it is with the others

who wish you all misfortune.—I’m a fool

to let you know of this.—It’s you who win.

You have your way in the town—live as you please—

we can’t hurt you.

No. But I can be driven

mad!—And sometimes I think I am mad.—Say

you’d married a negro—for love—and loved him still—

and had two dark-skinned children—and you lived

in a few rooms with this same black love of yours—

and black children, and a black servant—while the town

stepped round you carefully—pointing, whispering,

never to you—always among themselves—

laughing a little when you come down the street—

behind their hands—some excellent jest, no doubt,

at your expense.—It’s hard to maintain your love—

you begin to gnaw at this thing you’re chained to, even

hate where you love—curse at it in secret, curse

yourself and all the world equally. That’s why

I stopped you here this morning. I must speak

to someone—I must have some touch with the world

outside those rooms upstairs. But now you tell me

you’re like the rest.—I’ll wake some morning and find

the bed-clothes stained with blood—and know I’ve killed her—

her—and the children—and that damned negroid thing

that waits on us—and not dare to look—but know

I’ve done it. I thought you might have saved me. Well—

let it go. You can’t.

But this is horrible.

It’s everyday. It’s all the days there are.

And all alike.

But it must end.

There’s no end,

except that time goes on, and time makes changes—

time sometimes makes changes.

(DURIAN runs down the stairs C., through hall and on into the outdoors. FAITH turns toward window. OPARRE comes down stairs dressed like the women of Salem, looks out after DURIAN, then enters room.)

These children have good eyes! She clung to our room

until today—because, she tells me gravely,

she was afraid of the man in black, but now

he’s gone, and she can run!

(To FAITH.)

  I’m glad to see you.

I had hoped you would come often.

Thank you.

See,

when she stoops over a rose she touches it

and gives it a child’s name. Forgive me, she’s

not beautiful to you?

Yes. Yes, she is.

She flashes like quick-silver. And changes, too,

I think, quick as quick-silver.

This dress is new.

Yes,

I have cast my Malay chrysalis

and emerge with little wings! May it be a sign

that I am now New England!

But did you make it?

Yes, from the outside in, I fear, not knowing

the secrets of your needlework. It’s wrong?

It’s beautiful.

If only this swarthy face

of mine were not above it.

The best of us

could do no better.

You see, Nathaniel,

my handiwork is praised.

It’s a marvel, and

goes marvelous well with you.

And the face?

The face

is still my favorite of faces.

Then—

I have done well—I won’t be laughed at, truly,

for wearing it?

You’ll be envied.

I’ll take it off.

You think I shouldn’t wear it.

Oh, please—indeed

it’s beautiful—and you must wear it.

Yes?

You are the first to see it. Perhaps the others

will like it if you like it.

The others?

The women—

the women of Salem.

If they judge by the eye

they’ll have no fault to find.

But they’ll not judge so—

is that your meaning?

Not at all.

We’ll try.

You could help me if you would.

I’m afraid—I couldn’t.—

Not I.

No? I forget. We are enemies.

That makes a bond between us. I’ve heard it said,

good enemies make good friends.

I wish you no harm.

I hadn’t meant to stay. I’ll go.

Yes, surely.

Surely, if you wish it.

(Silent, FAITH crosses room, goes out R.)

It’s that she loved you,

and it comes to mind.

Yes.

Do you know what I plan?

No, dear—what is it?

To make a change, a great change.

I’ve kept myself a prisoner in my room

too long. We shall not win them if I sit

cross-legged and brooding.

No—I know.

And—yes,

now that the winter’s over and the spring

warms up my tropic blood, I begin to hope—

it’s so old a thing, this hope, men cherish it

beyond all reason,—and so I dream and wonder

whether this Salem has not grown accustomed

to my barbaric face and step—may not now

almost receive me—

Almost?

I’d be content

with a half-countenancing—if the women-folk

would say once, Yes, my dear, we sew tomorrow;

come draw a hem with us! Not really caring

if I accept, not bothering much about me

as I sit there sewing—oh, smiling a little over

my odd ways with the needle—but still not angry

that I should come——

Would this help?

It would pour oil

in old and sinister wounds. You know they sew

for foreign missions. They sit in a circle there

conversing of the scandals of this world—

mostly of me—while making decent garments

for little heathen girls across the seas

that run stark naked. It’s a sweet thought; no, truly,

it is sweet of them.

Pardon me. Did I smile?

Would you sew for their foreign missions?

I’m so starved

for a word with my women-kind—it does no harm

to clothe the little things—

Who told you about it?

Ruel—and, oh, he brought me a picture, too,

they passed about the circle to stir their zeal

for the work in hand. Ten little nudities

caught somewhere on an island, grouped in a ring

all innocent of costume. And it’s supposed

they’ve seen a resemblance, and I was one of these

with nothing on. Which face they thought was mine

I couldn’t tell, but if I go I’ll swear

that I was one.

Well, they shall ask you to go

if you want them to. But I’d rather you went as yourself

and not as a sample heathen.

Oh, any way

that pleases them, take off my clothes, perhaps,

and pose there for their little savage child,

grown older, if it would help.

Don’t shock them, darling;

a lack of clothing is a cardinal sin

in temperate regions.

Could I ask something more?

Why, yes—what is it?

I see these men and wives

of Salem, up and down the street, on days

that may be pre-arranged, go walking out

to visit one another—he in his best,

she in a satin gown—or bombazine,—

And this was most amusing back at first—

when I watched them from my window. Only now

I feel a simple longing to be one

of these same wives, to walk beside my husband

with a gloved hand on his arm,—it’s laughable,

I know, for me to think it—yet might we, some time,

or would it be too strange?

To walk with me—?

You shall certainly take my arm, and wear a gown,

and drink tea with them if you like. It’s not

so very entertaining.

And sometime, too,

could I pour tea for them—and you’d wait there with me

and sit beside me? If you were there—— (She pauses.)

I wonder——

I wonder what my mother’d think of that—

but we’ll persuade her.

Is she supposed to pour

all the tea that’s poured in this house?

No, no. The mistress

pours her own tea—and you’re mistress here.

Have you wished

for another mistress, dear—or been sorry at all

for the days when you first loved me?

Never.

Because

if you had I could forgive you, but not her

and not myself.

Why think of it?

The fire

that melts down mountain barriers, and runs

the rock to lava, if it should cool, would leave

only the frozen slag between us, fixed

with cold, glassy, impenetrable.

It will cool

when the great fire under the mountains cools, Oparre,

not till then. The longer it lies quiet

the madder it will burn.

Does it burn still?

With the same madness, sweet. So that when I touch you

this ground I stand on shifts away from me

and we’re alone on a certain coral edge

where you turned to me and I kissed you. A goddess rose

from that shallow water, to make me half a god

and keep me so—keep me still——

I’ve wished

there might be one coast on this earth that was neither

yours nor mine. I’m alien here. You were alien

where I was loved. Is there nowhere a kingdom

that would count us equals? None?

Could we go back?

No.

Then we stay here,

and make them like it.

Can we never make them friends?

We can face them—and face them down! If I have to buy

the chattel mortgages of half the town

till we own the dishes they eat from! Whom I choose

I choose, and she I choose shall be equal with them

or set above them!

Is it still so desperate?

That we must buy our welcome?

They give you nothing

in this town you don’t pay for!

I fear my dress

and the pretty plans for having them to tea—

these are hopeless, then.

I’m afraid so.

Then we’ll go.

We made a kingdom for ourselves at sea,

and could again.

I can’t leave. I don’t know

whether they were too foxy for me, or I played

the game right into their hands—but I’ve sunk what I had

in this damned chandlering business—what with debts

and capital invested and people owing—

till I couldn’t raise a stiver to go to sea—

and even the ship’s a company matter now—

not my own!

We’re fast here.

Square on the bar

till the cash comes in again. It’s safe enough;

we’re rich if we stay here, but if we go

we’ve nothing.

I would rather go with nothing

than purchase their good-morning—live here on suff’rance

because they owe us money——

They’ll accept us

before the year’s out! One at a time they’ll come

with their hats on their bellies to ask us out to tea

or dinner—or what have you!

Dearest—I’ve loved you

past worship, and more now since you do this thing

to make a home for me—but is it worthy

of what we are—what you wished to be?—I’ve made you

less than yourself! To lash and threat and bargain

for place and friends! Though we take nothing with us

let us go with nothing but our bare hands

to live elsewhere as we can.

Yes, but live where?

One town’s like another. We’re people of substance here,

and they’re at our feet. But suppose we had to face it

with no hold over them? I think you’d find

they could make it devilish bitter.

It’s bitter now.

But it could be worse. By just how much you own,

things can be worse if you lose it.

I have nothing.

Nothing but your love. All else I’ve lost

or given or flung away. Pitch an Indian camp

with skins to cover us in a smoking tepee—

you’d find me loving as here. And proud to love you.

And happier.

Let them keep it? Let our Phineas

swallow it down, what we played with lives to get,

and won’t get again?

Yes.

Well, I can’t do it—and won’t.

We stay—and fight it out.

(RUEL and HAPPY come to hall door C. from stairs.)

I beg your pardon.

Could Penny speak to you a moment, Nat?

Something important.

Why, yes—what is it? We’ve

no secrets, have we?

He’d rather see you alone,

if you don’t mind.

It’s nothing about myself, sir—

something you should know.

We’ll go upstairs.

Have you heard this?

Yes. I’ll wait here. You may want me.

Let’s get it over. I’ll be back.

(NATHANIEL and HAPPY go up stairs C.)

We’ve had

one sunny day at least.

Yes.

Isn’t that Durian

skittering down the lawn? (She nods.)

      She’ll break some hearts

when she’s fourteen and past. Or is it sooner

with children of the south?

Yes—sooner.

Then

I speak for her hand in marriage. She’s enchanting—

just the way she draws breath.

Why did he wish

to speak with Nathaniel?

He? I don’t know. Oh—Happy—

nothing in special. Some rumor. Some trade, I guess—

business, no doubt.

You know what it is.

I do?

Yes, but it’s nothing.

I thought you were my friend.

I am, too. If you should ever need a friend

remember that I am, Oparre. Not

a summer friend, but one to count on.

Tell me.

We have something to fear?

What makes you think so?

Only a catch in his voice.

I don’t know yet.

It’s better not to say it till it’s known.

Yes.—Do you have a legend in your tongue

of a palace built of words, and how a beggar

lived there, and drank a magic wine, and ate

what magic food he wished, and how the floor

was solid underfoot, the walls were stone,

the gates were barred with iron—then one day

because of one word spoken, a casual word,

all this was suddenly gone; where the palace stood

a little stream ran through willows?

Yes.

Suppose

a whole world built on a word, a sky and stars,

grass underfoot, sand at the ocean’s edge,

and men and women, and all they have—but this

one word unsaid and the world’s not there. Was never

there, has not been, cannot be imagined. This

is a woman’s world when she loves. If I should lose him,

if one word were unsaid, the earth’s gone. Then

where it rode, there’s only a little ailing wind

lost quickly in the night.—He changes here.

He’s not as he was. Have you seen it?

No, I haven’t.

He’s just the same as always.

Then it’s my fear.

I was afraid he grew more like them, reckoned

too much in dollars.

When you’ve been poor your dollars

mean a lot to you.

Then I’m mistaken.

Yes.

He’s as I’ve always known him.

(There are steps on porch outside C. PHINEAS, URQUHART and MUNGO come to door through hall C. PHINEAS enters C., followed by others.)

Yes?

Is your brother

Nathaniel here?

I think so.

Would you call him?

No.

Why not?

Sir, the lady of the house

is here, and awaits your greeting.

Give her my greeting

if you wish, and call Nathaniel!

(OPARRE walks slowly out C. and up stairs.)

I hadn’t hoped

to see these pleasant faces all together

again in this house. Some other deacon’s got

his maid with child, no doubt?

Whatever business

you may have to attend to—go tend it.

Come—

that’s not so bad! I live here.

Go or stay—

it’s nothing to us.

I’ll remain.

(NATHANIEL comes in from stairs, C., PENNY behind him.)

Good evening, sirs.

You wished to see me?

Yes.

Well, fire away.

In this company?

It’s about a loan, I believe—

or, at least, an extension of credit. I see no reason

for privacy.

You may wish you’d kept it private.

Why should I make it easier for you? No,

we’ll out with it once for all, by Judas—make it

a proclamation to the citizens

of Salem—Jesus junior here and all

his sycophant apostles! I’ve made loans

and bought up worthless mortgages and made

investments in your water-logged concerns

till I’ve run short of cash and patience! Now

we face about. It’s time for a reckoning!

I can lend nothing more to Justice Urquhart

on note or bond or mortgage, signatured

by whom you please! This goes for the entire town!

No more! The spring’s run dry where you drank your fill

through this last drouth!

Come, brother——

You’re about to say

you know there’s money left in the till. Not much—

and what there is is needed! More than that,

I could use some of what you’ve got already

and may go after it. There are notes over-due,

mortgages to foreclose, some businesses

I could sell over a ring of godly heads

if I insist on cash. And I shall do it

unless you make my stay here pleasanter

than you made it this last winter.

In what way

can we be of service to you?

Not by setting

a plague-cross on my door, and scudding by

with heads averted, not by summonsing

my presence to give bond for slaves, when all

my household is my wife and her one servant

and her two children! For that simple insult,

Justice Urquhart, I shall require of you

to the last penny, what shows on my books

as owing me from you! To be paid tomorrow

before the sunset! Or in lieu of that

that your fine wife in her silk neckerchief

invite my wife to tea, and have us there

together, with your whole church-going crowd,

and treat us to your best, and treat us well,

as you may wish for mercy!

It was of your wife

we came to speak. What was her origin?

And where were you married?

She’s a woman, born of woman, better born

than the best of those you’ve lived with.

Then tell us first

where you purchased the Queen of the Celebes.

The ship?

Is this an admiralty court? My brother,

my history’s my own.

You’ll answer, though—

now or later.

By what right do you ask

your questions?

Sir, as co-sharer in the ship

I’m legally liable if there were fraud

or violence behind your title to her.

Well, sir, if there were fraud or violence

you’d lose by making it known. But there was none.

Sleep easy. I came by her honestly. How it occurred

I keep to myself.

Do you, though? I came by chance

on part of her history. She was once, as you know,

I think, of Dutch registry—and her name, translated,

was The Wingless Victory.

It’s news to me.

She was never so called since I’ve known her.

But she was.

And you’ll admit it.

Why, damn your soul—what cause

would I have to deny it if it were true?

Good cause.

Let me inform you where you took that ship,

and how and from whom. There were three sailors on her—

three Dutchmen, one of them named Van Zandt. She lay

off Singapore at the time. You killed these men,

took a new crew from the port and changed her name,

sailed her home with her cargo, and that’s the story

of how you came back to Salem.

Three mutineers

tried to take the ship from me, her captain and owner,

and got themselves killed. That’s all there was to it. Hell,

they earned what they got. And so did I!

One sailor

of those who came with you from Singapore, picked up

a ship’s log in his berth. The data’s there,

complete—enough to constitute an indictment.

There’s a translation made. If the facts were published

your stature might be lessened by a good deal—

or lengthened by some inches.

Here’s the plain truth:

I was a prisoner once to a certain sultan

in the Celebes. He was Oparre’s father,

and refused to trade with foreigners, hated the Dutch

because they’d burned his villages some years

before I came there. Well, a Dutch ship came in

looking for spice, and we persuaded him

to load it up and then capture it. We wanted

to get away, Oparre and I. We took

three Dutchmen who survived and stole the ship

from the sultan—ran toward Singapore—on the way

these three decided to wrest the ship from me

and I shot them down. The rest you know. I managed

to pick up a crew and get home. The ship was forfeit

before I took it. The Dutch had no more claim

than I had to it.

A court would hold so?

What court

will ever hear about it?

The courts will hear.

I shall let them know.

Why, you fool, whatever we own

goes down the drain, ship, business, stock and all,

if the law gets hold of it!

Yes, and well I know that—

and so do you. And more than that, you’re open

to criminal process.

For what?

For piracy!

If you care to cut your own throat, bring it on!

I will.

Save on one condition.

To hell with your conditions!

I’ll make no pact with you.

You see, it happens

we have the evidence in our hands. If we

are silent, then there’s nothing said; you’re safe.

And we’ll say nothing, burn the diary

and the log-book—if you send the woman Oparre

back to her people.

Well, I prefer to hang.

The woman Oparre! Damn you, when you speak

of my wife, do so by her title!

Is she your wife?

You have heard me say so!

When you put in at New Bedford

on your way home, you sought out a minister

and asked him to marry you—but he refused.

What words you may have mumbled over yourself

and her, on the high seas, I don’t know. But she

is not legally your wife.

I owe it to her

that I’m alive and here. I’m more bound to her

than book, bell and candle binds you! She betrayed

her father, coming with me. If she went back

he’d make short work of her.

Send her where you like,

only far enough. The ship’s rigged out and ready

for a voyage to Indo-China. Let the woman go,

or I swear I’ll go through with this. You’ve held the whip,

and pushed your black brood on us, and laughed to see

how we took the stench! We’ll wipe that laughter out,

one way or another!

You’d do that?

Yes! We’ve made

our plans! Make yours!

Look, Phineas—

this is hardly a question on which a man

makes compromises. You have a wife of your own.

You chose her yourself. You’d brook no interference

in your life with her. I’ll stand just as little in mine.

It follows that you ruin us both to wreak

a revenge on me I’ve scarcely earned.

The cases

are not quite comparable, thank you. Then

you’ve given your answer?

(NATHANIEL is silent, then turns away, walks to window. MRS. MCQUESTON slips in quietly from door R. NATHANIEL turns back.)

You’re one of them, no doubt?

You’ve heard of this?

(She closes her month grimly.)

  Well, speak!

I’ve heard of it.

We give you a further choice. If it suits you better

follow your woman. We’ll press no suit against you,

if you’re both away.

Leaving the money safe

in your reverend hands!

Take with you what you can gather.

And that’s exactly nothing. Well, we’ll go,

We’ll go together, and leave you to your virtue

that undresses under sheets!

I’m sorry to hear it—

and you’ll be sorry later.

How do I know

what proofs you have? You’d lie about it. Yes,

and you have lied! Where’s this sailor—this Van Zandt

and his record books?

Bring him in.

(MUNGO goes out to porch C., returns with VAN ZANDT, a sailor,

who looks about him questioningly, then fixes on NATHANIEL. He

takes a small black-bound book from his pocket.)

  Do you wish to hear him?

No! Take him out! I know what he has to say!

Take him out!

(MUNGO nods to VAN ZANDT, who puts up his book

hesitatingly again and goes out C.)

And get out, all of you! We can live without you.

Very well.

But let me tell you

what you’re doing, you disciples of the word

and seekers after holiness! You’re willing

to compound what you say’s a felony, if I’ll

accede to your dirty bargain—compound it with you

and send my wife away! But if I won’t

then I can either get out of town or hang,

one or the other, while you three line your nests

with stolen goods! Set that in the mealy records

of your mealy-mouthed church of God! It’ll look well there,

while you fur your coats with what you thieve from me

and pray for heathen sinners. Money-changers!

A money-changer’s an honest man compared

with these pilfering churchmen!

Good-day, then.

Where are you going?

To the custom house. I wash my hands of you.

The authorities will be informed, and can take

whatever steps they wish.

(PHINEAS, URQUHART and MUNGO start toward door C. TOALA

comes down stairs and looks in, seeking DURIAN. She steps

back apologetically. NATHANIEL’S eyes are riveted on her.)

Give me a moment.

You can afford to wait.

You have this moment,

and then no more. We don’t trust what you’d do

if you had more.

Send her back, then. Send her.

I’ll have nothing to do with it.

I didn’t hear you?

I say get it over! Send her back! You’ve wanted

just that—and you’ve got it! And what was good in me

goes with her! Make away with her if you must,

but you’ll not get what I have!

You stay in Salem?

I stay in Salem. What’s mine’s still mine, by God,

and you won’t get it!

Go find your mistress. Ask her to come here.

(TOALA goes up stairs C. NATHANIEL sits.)

For God’s sake—do it yourselves—I can’t tell her—

no—I won’t be here——(He rises.)

You want it yourself.

You’ve wanted her away. I’ve seen it.

Devil!

Say what names you please. You’ll be glad she’s gone.

I knew it would come. Shift the blame on us if you like.

We’ll take it.

Then you send her back to her death

It’ll mean death to her.

Women don’t die so easy.

They bear pain better than men.

I’ll go.

No—stay.

She’ll listen to no one else.

(NATHANIEL sits again. RUEL, after a look at NATHANIEL, suddenly crosses room and signals PENNY. They go out C. toward porch, together. OPARRE comes down the stairs and into the room. NATHANIEL stares at floor.)

Is there something—wrong?

Speak to her. (He moves away.)

Lady, the ship is victualed and waiting

to catch the tide in the morning. It’s the plan

that you sail with her. You’ll need some time, no doubt,

for your preparations.

What ship is this?

What ship?

The Wingless Victory.

I know no vessel

by such a name.

The Queen of the Celebes,

if you insist.

You spoke of a plan. Whose plan?

It’s been agreed upon.

By my husband?

He

accedes to it.

For myself—I could be glad.

I wished to go, but my husband did not wish it.

How does this come?—Will you not speak to me,

Nathaniel?

They came on the history

of how I took the ship, that’s all, stumbled on it—

so they make me out a pirate. Under the law

perhaps I was.

Would you make use of this?

For myself, as I told you, where I go

will grieve me little, so we’re away and clear

of venomous tongues. But for Nathaniel

it’s bitter—and bitterly unjust. To earn

a place and fortune in a world where both

come late or seldom—to earn them young and then

face exile—for no fault—because he loved me—

for there’s no other reason—this is a sentence

bred of your malice——

(NATHANIEL rises, facing her.)

You misunderstand—

I’ve known him

long and well now. What you have seen in him

since he came home—his anger, and his pride—

these are not real.—No, I have known him watch

a wounded man two days and nights, and nurse him

tenderly as a child. I’ve seen a child

turn toward him in an illness when his hands

were gentlest and most grateful. He’s not hard,

but kindly, careful, pitying towards those

who have been hurt or need help. You’ll find him so

if there’s ever a need among you. This is no man

to banish from your town.

He’s not banished, lady.

The plan is you go alone.

But, gentlemen,

my husband is accused of piracy.

Of what am I accused?

We’re satisfied

if you go, and he stays here.

Why, then, forgive me,

but you will learn it’s not in your power to part

two who would stay together. You may decide

these things for those who love by custom. We

have a world beyond you.

(RUEL and FAITH come quietly to hall door C.)

Damn it, are you deaf

and blind?

Deaf and blind to such as you!

Then ask him!

Then for your satisfaction, but not mine,

I do ask him. They have planned to part us,

my husband. Is there any answer fitting

such men as these?

We’ll go away together.

You hear?

I know

a certain island where the Netherlanders

never touch. It’s not on their charts, but all

the natives say it’s rank with pepper trees

down to the water. Give me a ship again

and capital, and we’ll hunt this island down

and build another fortune. Phineas,

it may bleed the firm down dangerously

but stake me with what’s left, and I’ll try again

and pay you back twice over. It’s too damned little,

but it might do.

No money, no argosy,

no profit, though it came to a dozen times

the venture, how would that compensate us for a soul,

a soul sent forth and lost?

What soul?

Your own.

Mind your own soul, and I’ll mind mine!

I take

small interest in a treasure or return

that hangs on human sacrifice, a brother

lost into everlasting fire to snatch

one poor ship-load of spices. If you go,

and go with her, back to the ancient witchcraft

by which she lives, back to her obscene gods,

you’re lost to life forever. Do you think to pay me

in coin for this?

By God, you’ve taken coin

from me before!

To hold you here, to break

her witch’s power upon you! For myself

I want no penny of gain! Yes, if you stay,

you shall have every penny you’ve put in,

for I don’t want it, have no use for it,

want nothing out of it! But the woman Oparre

has hung her walls with idols, worships them

in secret, corrupts your heart, blackens your mind

and snares your body with her flesh! Go with her,

and you go penniless! Renounce her here

and take back what was yours!

You offer freely

what you’ll never be asked to give.

The man’s gone mad!

She worships your Christ!

What is your worship, woman?

What god do you bow down to?

When I came

I worshipped as you worship, but when I knew you

there was a kind of blackness in my heart

for a long time. Sir, there are gods and gods,

each with his many faces, some of good

and some of evil, each race with its own,

but the most jealous are the lesser gods,

such as you own, of bitterness and wrath

and eternal fire. And when I try to pray

then all these lesser gods go through my mind,

angry and savage, thrusting away the Christ,

and I pray to the unknown god.

And who is he?

He is the unknown god.

And that won’t do.

I see that by their faces. We take our way

to the other end of the world tonight, foot-loose

and nothing in our pockets.

Will it be so hard?

Hard? To have nothing—no cash—no home—the ship

gone, too—two children to take care of—just

our hands—beach-combers, you and I—a white man

living with a Malay—faking palaver

to get a dollar from a sailor?—Yes,

that’s how we’ll look to them—and what we’ll be

till we can get a start.—When they’ve sunk to the beach

they stay on the beach, I’ve noticed.

Is there no way

I could make it easier? If we love enough

we could be parted, even by a world

and yet not lost. If what they want of you

is that you let us go alone, they count

on the great distance and the years to change

your need for me. But I shall not be changed,

nor you.—Would this be sufficient?

Quite sufficient.

Shall I go alone, Nathaniel?

It’s not safe

for a woman in the Indies.

I shall keep safe

if I may wait for you.

Would you, Oparre?

Would you take what money I have, wait there in the east

till I can leave?

Go with her. If you’re here

you know what will come of it—you’ll stay, and then

you won’t forgive yourself. Go with her.

Christ—

do you know me so much better?

Yes.

We’ve found

a plan, and a way out of it! Let us alone!

Who’s to live my life?

You’ve made your decision?

Sir—

will you all pardon if I ask—would you leave me

alone with my husband—for a moment? This—

this should be between us only. I will call you—

very quickly—

(One by one they go out C., leaving OPARRE alone with

NATHANIEL.)

  There’s such a thing as a love

that holds the world well lost—I thought it was ours—

perhaps it was only mine.

I love you enough.

You don’t know what they’ve done.

I see it quite well.

They’ve made you choose between us.

If you think I choose them—

you’re wrong. I want no part of them.

What is it—

what is it you choose?

I love you still—but they’ve made

our love a torment—it’s the world that does it—

it won’t have us together.—We touched at ports

before we came here—east and west—and always

I saw them pointing at us—there goes a white man

with a black woman—they think us obscene—somehow

they make it obscene.—They make me ashamed of my love—

as you were ashamed of me before your father——

Never!

He hated me—as they hate you here—

and he’d have killed me—if we hadn’t tricked him

and got away.—I tell you it can’t be done—

hard as we’ve tried!

You want me to go alone?

For God’s sake, yes.

And will you follow?

I don’t know! I don’t know!

I should say nothing, I know—

now that you’ve said this. I should let it go

and be silent. Only—if I’m silent now—

that’s the end. One clutches at a pillar

when the temple falls, though it carry you down.

It’s not

the money—or the ships—that’s something, but

when we’re together we’re in an empty world—

we live nowhere—we’re not counted—we’re

some kind of horrible presence they’re always trying

to explain away——

Then—only one word more.—

Will there be a world—any world—in the midst of men

and houses—or what’s to buy and sell—or say—

if we part here—and the world we had together

goes down with the sun?

I don’t know. But I know

I’m beaten, and we’re parted. Perhaps a woman

never knows when she’s beaten. They won’t have it!

Nowhere on this earth will they have it! Look—

I’ve tried to meet it—every way there was,

with force and money and flattering—it’s no use—

it was no use from the beginning!

I’m to go

and you’re to stay.

Find another answer for me!

Then I’ve never known you, nor you me.

I’ve never known you, and I’m alone.

Good God,

don’t you know I’m tortured, too?

Did you want me to go?

Does this fall in with your plan?—

A man of wood—

A figure-head of pith and straw—an effigy

cut out of paper would feel more! You tortured!

Your feeble rankling! If you felt pain you’d know

what danger you stand in now! Look to yourself!

Speak!—cry out if you’re anguished!

I’ve done my crying!

Cry out, I say! I want to hear you cry!

Are you iron or tin or bronze—to stand and say

I’m to go—and let it go! (She goes toward him.)

It’s no use.

Cry out!

If you’re not wood I’ll make you cry with my hands!

With my hands! Do you hear me!

(She strikes him across the face.)

This is not worthy of you.

Not worthy of me! He’s cut out of stone and his heart

bleeds water! Will you not cry?

(The men appear at door C.)

  Speak! Weep!

Let me see your tears! Here are mine!

Be still!

Come in!

All these white frightened faces, come in and hear!

We have news for you. I have been misled

a long time by your Christ and his beggar’s doctrine,

written for beggars! Your beseeching, pitiful Christ!

The old gods are best, the gods of blood and bronze,

and the arrows dipped in venom! You worship them, too,

Moloch and Javeh of your Old Testament,

requiring sacrifice of blood, revenging

all save their chosen! You vouchsafe no pity

to the alien, and I’ll give none. I have been a princess,

and I remember that gladly now. I come

of a race that can go mad and strike! Why, yes,

you fear me, and you should! Your pallid lips

and pallid hands and hearts, your milky hearts

that know neither love nor hate, your weasel warren

that squeaks and clusters! What could there be between us,

between the eagle and the rat, save death—?

and we’ve bred together—it sickens me—we’ve bred—

and I’ve been brought to bed of you! Your lips

were on my mouth! Your rodent flesh on mine,

in rodent ecstasy! I’ll tear you out

from my breast, tear my breast down to bone and hard

till that shame’s gone from my people!

(DURIAN comes in doubtfully from porch C., looking for OPARRE.)

Mother.

Yes.

Mother,

The sun’s gone down.

Yes, it’s gone down. You, too,

your hands and eyes were made of this, my shame,

a mingling with my enemy. Your lips

speak of him silent; you are my love and hate

at war, incarnate. Take counsel! Never look

like him if you would live!

(She kneels beside DURIAN.)

  I frighten you,

my bird, your little heart beats fast. You’ve played

late in the sun. You’re weary. Oh, God, if you

were lost, as he’s lost to me! Keep me from that,

you pitiless gods. (She rises.)

  We’ll sleep on the ship tonight,

and be gone tomorrow.—Over this house the light

darken, the fogs draw down, the evil of graves

seep and flood on you till you know the hell

I walk through living, walk toward when I die,

and will not leave me now!

(NATHANIEL turns suddenly, goes out C.)

  Gazers and fools—

you have seen an end as of mountains torn asunder

to bleed in fire, and still you stand and gape,

witless—with your white witless faces! Go out!

Leave us alone!

(She sinks to her knees, sobbing, her arms round DURIAN; others turn to go.)

CURTAIN

ACT III

Scene 1

Princess Oparre, give me the little dagger.

Why—should I give you the dagger?

Because it’s not safe.

What has happened? What have I done?

TOALA.   You have been in a great fury, Princess, and torn your hair, and hung the tapestry of the old god. There was darkness in your eyes. I looked behind your eyes and saw only darkness.

I have been mad.

Yes, Princess.

Why was I mad? What have I said?

Dear Princess, give me the dagger.

I have forgotten—I have forgotten.—Yes—— (She pauses.)

Aye—aye—aye!—Oh, now I remember—!

and now it comes again!—Oh, pity me, save me—

whatever gods there are—it comes in a fall

of fire—I cannot turn but I face it—see—

a desert without shadow—only sun

scalding in fire! I shall go mad again—

take this and keep it from me!

(She throws dagger to a far corner.)

  Let me be mad

and not remember! I cannot bear this thing

he has laid on me. When a woman has a child

the pain comes—and then goes—but this never goes,

never leaves me! I must eat death—I must—

I must die—for he never loved me! Never! Ah, yes,

but not now! Not while I live—not while he lives—

and again, again, the flame!—

(TOALA picks up dagger.)

  Have I hurt them?

No.

Why was this body gathered out of dust

and bitten to my image? Let that day be evil

when a lover took a lover to mould the face

that stares up blind from my agony! Stares up

and cries, and will not be still! Let all women born

take a man’s love with laughter, and leave it; take

the coil of animals they give, and rise

in mockery. And you dark peoples of the earth,

cling to your dark, lie down and feed and sleep

till you are earth again; but if you love,

love only children of the dark—keep back

from the bright hair and white hands, for they are light

and cruel, like the gods’, and the love that breeds

between us is honeyed poison. Let no flesh

of theirs touch flesh of yours; where they have touched

the welt rots inward! They are unclean, unclean

and leprous to us! To lie with them is sweet,

but sweet with death! I bear that death in me

in a burning tide that rises—choking.—Oh, God—

torture me no more!

You must sleep, dear Princess.

You must have some rest.

Has he come here?

No.

There’s been no one.

He will not come. I waited

till the wave broke. I heard a wind in the rigging,

and a clock struck in blackness, and the babes

went supperless to bed. I knew it then—

he would not come—the wind was alive with whips

and my eyes were blind.—The children must be fed.

I’m here now.

Yes.

And we must wake and feed them

that they may live, after I am dead, live out

their lives in the brothels of the east—the place

prepared for half-breeds. Take between their knees

the sewage of old oriental kingdoms

for a little silver. Smiling among the bells,

quick with disease, till they too die, and make

an end of all our love. Why should I live,

or they, when life comes down to a candle end

to light our crawling? Where is the little knife?

I want it back!

No, no!

Would you have us live?

Yes, Princess.

What god do you worship, Toala?

Forgive me,

I worship the old god.

Then, in the temples

of the old god, what is found fitting for her

who leaves her father’s house against his will

to lie with an alien?—Say it.

She must die.

And for her children—in the old god’s temples,

what is found fitting for them?

Yes, they, too.

Yes—and the children’s slave!

When we first came

from the Celebes you brought a little phial

of water hemlock, and you have it still.

Why did you bring it?

Because I knew I must die!

Because I knew then I must die! Not you—

not you, Princess Oparre!

You brought it for me—

foreseeing all these things. Is it not so?

The men of the west have not been true, dear Princess.

They are not true to us.

You brought it for me!

Yes, Princess.

Why, yes, you knew it,

and I should have known. The laws of the ancient god

will be found best in the end. Why, then, the pain

goes from my heart, and all the dread is gone—

if I may die! You have been my slave, but now

we are two women of one race, and you

have been the wiser. Choose, then, what you will have—

but, as for me and my unwanted babes,

give us to drink of this darkness you have carried

so far for us.—We have borne names too long

across the face of earth, but we shall sleep

and turn back to nameless ground.

(TOALA kneels, touches her forehead to OPARRE’S sandal.)

  Quick, then—the fire

mounts up in me; quick, lest I should see the sun

of another morning! Lest I should see his face—!

Lest still I should remember—him—

CURTAIN

ACT III

Scene 2

        Golden eyes, sombre eyes,

        Sleep, now sleep;

        The sun is drowned

        Where the sea is deep.

        The sea is deep

        Where the sun is drowned.

        Darksome eyes, golden eyes,

        Sleep, sleep sound.

        Heavy eyes, laden eyes,

        Sleep with me;

        The moon is shattered

        Into the sea;

        The sea is shattered

        Under the moon.

        Darkling eyes, laden eyes,

        Sleep, sleep soon.

When we have first conceived to bear a child

still there’s a whisper in the blood, a fear

lest some swart ancient strain look back at us

from opening eyes. But yours were golden eyes

trembling toward amber, and the little one’s

shadowed, but sweet and grave. This was happiness.

The little dancing body, delicate

to run the wind, to set a foot on moon-glade

and leave no print—to bear his pointed ears

and sweet blunt hands, but with a grace your own—

how the hard sobs come strangling round my heart,

watching your morning! This was happiness.

In a sea of agony, where one surge follows

after another, to beat us down before

there’s a chance to rise, in a sea of fire, where waves

of fire wash over me, I must know that, must still

know we were happy once, and he gave us that

as he gives us torment now! Oh, stubby fingers,

dearer than my own eyes that see them, dearer

because they are like his, he wants us no more,

and we must go! Oh, web of beauty, woven

of his delight, woven in mystery, worn

so proudly, he puts you off, discards you now,

still warm with him. Now to retrace our steps

while the oceaned agony follows, washing down

the sands in fire! Now to go on alone—

now to go on alone. Does she sleep, too?

Yes.

Then we’ll lay them down. For the last time.

And we’ll lie down, as if to sleep.

Yes, Princess.

Why is it I’m not weeping? I’m wept out

and can weep no more.

(They carry children into the inner cabin through door D. R.

After a moment there is a knock at the passage-door L.

OPARRE comes out from cabin R.)

Yes?

It’s Ruel, Oparre.

Could I see you a moment?

Yes.

(Door L. opens. RUEL enters. HAPPY stands behind him.)

If we’re not wanted

tell us at once, and we’ll go. But it’s no night

to sleep, we found, and finally we came,

because we’d been walking up and down so long,

cursing——

I’m a trouble to you——

No—

not you—the pack of fiends that drives you, maybe—

and then this luck to fall on you—at this moment—

I tell you we’ve been cursing—well, we have—

we’ve cursed the earth black and blind—but there’s nothing to do—

Nothing—

And almost saved you—Penny here—

almost, but they’d found the diary, and the log—

and laid their plans——

It doesn’t matter now,

but thank you.

No, it doesn’t matter now.

Now that it’s done.—There’s an offer I could make

I came to make it. Now that we’re here I think

it does no good. Where will you go?

But that

is what we men and women never know

of our tomorrow, whither we’ll go, what winds

will blow across what water.

You’ll go to your father.

No.— (A pause.)

If you’d accept what’s left of a life,

mine’s yours for the taking. It’s been small good to me

or any one. I’ve never had a worship

till now when I’ve worshipped you. What help I am

or could be—I offer you that.

What use could I make

of a life?

You’ll be alone.

All life’s too long

when you live after death. Lest I should hurt you, I thank you.

Be happy elsewhere.

I tell you I won’t have this!

Yes, but you will. Such things are borne. Such things

as you have never dreamed are borne. Become

a custom, meaningless. This stake through my heart,

I’ve worn it till it gives no pain. So long

pain has no meaning. I have seen the jugglers

walk through fire. It’s nothing.

You have no place to go.

No. But I go.

You can’t help me.

Good-night.

Good-night.

(RUEL and PENNY turn and go out L., closing door. OPARRE

kneels under tapestry.)

The earth rolls toward the dark,

and men begin to sleep. God of the children,

god of the lesser children of the earth,

the black, the unclean, the vengeful, you are mine

now as when I was a child. He came too soon,

this Christ of peace. Men are not ready yet.

Another hundred thousand years they must drink

your potion of tears and blood. I kneel and adore you,

having blood on my hands, having found it best

that evil be given for evil. Receive me now,

one who might once have been a queen, but followed

after a soft new dynasty of gods

that were not mine. I am punished, and must die.

I ask not that my death be easy, no,

for the pain quickens in me like a loved birth

and drowns another pain, too sharp, too sharp

for woman born of woman, loving men

as they must love, too well. Let it climb and burn,

this pain, till I forget he was, slip down

the night, a black among blacks, your worshipper,

and unremembering. Being gone from him

I wish no heaven or hell, but only earth

that cannot be hurt again—blind earth, blind dark,

blind water running to silence. This is a prayer

from one who is not, made to an ancient god

who will die as I am dying, when the earth

has passed him and goes on.

(She bows her head. Door of the passage opens L. and

NATHANIEL enters. She looks up, then stands.)

Why have you come here?

I find—I must go with you.

Some hours ago

it was too late for that. It’s too late now.

Be bitter as you like. If you have words

that cut and tear, loose them on me. I know

what hell you’ve faced here, for I faced it, too,

walking alone.—I was mad—to think a parting

could ever part us.

And did you dream a meeting

could bring us together now?

They may have it all,

ship, goods and money—whatever we brought with us,

may it prosper them—because I’ve nothing left

if I let you go.—A man must keep something within

or it’s no use living——

Have you found that, too?

Aye—it’s your victory—take it—if I wanted to live

without you, it can’t be done.—I know it now,

and you know it.

Because you love me?

Because your love

and what we’d been together, and all the old days

came tearing at me, and wouldn’t let me alone.—

Where you might go, what might happen to you—or the children—

out there in the east—— Come, put your arm round me, Oparre,—

say it can be forgotten! All I ask now

is rest from what I’ve done!

We ask for rest,

and sometimes find it in the end. Not here.

Not now.

For God’s sake be kind. I’ve suffered, too—

and I’ll be patient, I swear I will—I’ve learned

that I must be patient—only be kind tonight—

don’t shrink from me.—Do you see that I’ve come back,

and it’s to be as it was?

To be as it was.

Aye, girl, all as it was. One touch of your hand

and I’ll be healed.

Though you should love forever

and stand before me, pleading, though I should love you,

and have this love to offer, not once, forever,

will you touch my hand again.

It’s only your anger

makes you say it, Oparre.

Not once, forever,

not till the tides of suns, in the infinite years,

wash my reluctant earth by chance to drift

toward earth that hung on you. We are parted. Take

that word for an end.

But you love me.

You’ve been ashamed

to call me yours—ashamed to say “she’s mine”

in any company—and I’m ashamed

to say that you were mine, and my dark body

remembers you. I hold you free of blame.

You’re but one of a colorless tribe, a tribe that’s said:

those who are black are slaves, to be driven, slept with,

beaten, sent on, never loved. Beyond law, we are

reptilian, to be trodden. You I forgive,

but not your tribe or race—or the white of your hands;

the insult I have had, the blood in me

will not forgive.—It will be no man’s slave,

nor will my daughter’s!

I swear it—I swear it, Oparre——

And though you swear till the night come down in fire

to vouch your word, you are not believed, and my blood,

my dark blood, richer and prouder than your own,

will pour on the ground before I stretch a hand

to the race you drew from. We are less than you.

You part the earth among you, burdening us

with your labor and your lust. Among yourselves

you think to breed and rule, breed up in men

a race of kings to climb through the centuries

on us who bear you. But your veins turn pale;

Your pride is the pride of merchants, crawling; your anger—

your very anger’s afraid of death, and crawls

lest you should die. You will need us then, your race

of kings will breed water-thin in the after-time

for lack of what we could lend you—fire at the heart,

the word that goes with the hand, a dignity

savage, imperial, choosing rather to die

than live unwanted.

There’s no home left for you

in the Celebes. You’ll come there a woman, helpless,

among the Eastern traders——

Have you known me helpless

save where I gave my love? But that’s gone now,

and I meet my world alone.

I came prepared

to face this sentence with you. If you won’t have it

there’s nothing I can offer. But think, Oparre,

we have been happy, and could be.

It’s burned out.

Only you and yours will cling to a tawdry end

of remembered love, till it’s down to rags and habits

hung on your hate.

Must we say farewell?

Yes.

Where are the children?

Asleep.

If it’s good-bye

I must see them a moment.

(He steps toward cabin door R.)

No.

I won’t wake them.

No!

They’re not yours now!

I shall see them if I like.

As you value happiness, and what was ours

and what may yet be yours—say your farewell

to me and quickly, and go!

I shall see them, though.

(He goes into inner cabin D. R. OPARRE walks unsteadily

across cabin as if in a dream, and sinks suddenly beside

bench, her head fallen on her arm. NATHANIEL re-enters R.)

Oparre! Toala’s dead on the floor! The children—

I can feel no heart-beat—! Oparre! Oparre!

I know.

There’s a black hemlock grows in the Celebes

for which we know no antidote.

Damn you! What right

had you to kill the children?

They’re not wanted.

The white men of the East would have made them whores.

It is not fitting the daughters of a queen

should be whores or slaves. We drank of it together.

You drank it?

Would I let them go alone?

All that was once between us is erased

and has not been, will not be remembered, leaves

no shadow.

This is your revenge, a fiend’s

revenge! It’s as well you die! A fiend out of hell

could do no worse.

I wanted you—never to know.

Then we’d have gone into silence, and left you free.

I never wanted you to know, oh, truly.

The error has been mine. I loved you enough—

to leave you.

God forgive me if I love you—

even dying—while they lie dead——

Oh, Durian, Durian—

and my babe—not to see you—it will soon be dark——

Is there nothing to do? Quick, tell me?

Nothing. But only

if you would put your hand against my lips.

(She stares up blindly.)

It was all lies I said. I loved you and died

because I loved you. Is any death found better

than to give your life for your love? Oh, quick, your hand

on my lips.

I murdered you.

My sweet, my sweet—

as it was by the coral edge—in the Indian sea—

the black wave—out of night——

(Her head droops forward. Door L. suddenly opens and RUEL enters.)

I’m sorry—I heard

someone cry out.

Come in. Oparre’s dead—

(He rises.)

and the children.

God! I knew it.

Will you do this for me—?

Say nothing of this—the ship will sail tomorrow,

and I go with it.

I’ll go, too, then.

Yes?

I’ve had enough of my native town.

I go

to be with her while I can. What I’ve left of life

I shall know what it is to love one dead,

and seek her and not find. Let the sands of years

sift quickly and wash long. I shall have no rest

till my dust lies down with hers.

CURTAIN

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed; otherwise alternative spellings have been retained.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

[The end of The Wingless Victory, by Maxwell Anderson.]