EText by Dagny
This Etext is for private use only. No republication for profit in print or other media may be made without the express consent of the Copyright Holder. The Copyright Holder is especially concerned about performance rights in any media on stage, cinema, or television, or audio or any other media, including readings for which an entrance fee or the like is charge. Permissions should be addressed to: Frank Morlock, 6006 Greenbelt Rd, #312, Greenbelt, MD 20770, USA or frankmorlock@msn.com. Other works by this author may be found at http://www.cadytech.com/dumas/personnage.asp?key=130
By Frank J. Morlock
C 1985
Elegy the First Sacrifice Louise Pallant
Elegy the Second Revelation The Beast in the Jungle
Elegy the Third Redemption The Altar of the Dead
These plays may be performed separately or in a cycle.
If performed as a cycle, Marcher should always be played by the same actor. The actress who plays Louise in Louise Pallant should play the Unnamed Woman in The Altar of the Dead. The role of Linda in Louise Pallant should be played by the same actress who plays May Bartram in The Beast in the Jungle.
Characters:
Louise Pallant, a woman of forty years
Linda, her daughter
Man, about fifty years old
Scene: A terrace on a European hotel overlooking a lake. Sometime
in the 1880s.
Scene I. A man and a woman are seated on the terrace of a European
hotel. They are having drinks. It is obvious that they know each other
well. But there is an air of constraint, of forced cordiality between
them.
Man
I like this hotel, Louise. It's so modern.
Louise
Don't you remember that—ever so long ago—
Man (gallantly)
Not so long ago—
Louise
Twenty years. That you wouldn't look at anything in Europe that
wasn't a thousand years old?
Man
Well, as we advance in life, age loses its charm. Speaking of
charm, I think your daughter is delightful.
Louise (oddly)
Do you like Linda?
Man (enthusiastically)
She's a finished product.
Louise (flatly, but with a touch of irony)
Certainly she's all I've tried to make her.
Man (still enthusiastic)
And more!
Louise (glumly)
And more.
Man
My nephew has taken to her the way I once took to you.
Louise
I hope with more pleasant results—for him.
Man
Linda is a darling. She reminds me of you.
Louise
Then, you ought to beware.
Man
Beware of what?
Louise
For your nephew.
Man
I think he is made of tougher stuff than I was.
Louise
You know, you really ought to have had children. There's always
been something so paternal about you.
Man
Well, it wasn't to be. After our little—affair is not the exact
word —our falling out—I had no heart for marrying another woman.
Louise (pleased, but with a touch of remorse)
So, I left my mark on you?
Man
Not a delicate way of putting it, my dear, but yes. You left your
mark.
Louise
I feel sorry about very few things in my life. But I do feel sorry
about that. (pause in which the Man says nothing) What do you mean to
do with your nephew?
Man
It's more a question of what he means to do with me. Really, I know
very little about him.
Louise
Your sister's child?
Man
Yes.
Louise
Does he have brothers and sisters?
Man
No.
Louise
That makes your responsibility all the greater, doesn't it?
Man
How so?
Louise
Well, he is all his mother has.
Man
Oh, I'll keep him alive, I suppose.
Louise
How much is he worth, your nephew?
Man
Several millions. It's like you to ask.
Louise
Of course. I'm a social climber. You know that.
Man (quietly)
I despise you with all my heart, my dear.
Louise
I know that, too. But the last laugh is yours. You got rich—though
you had no reasonable expectation of doing so—and the man I married in
your stead—not because I loved him, we both know that, but whose bank
account I fancied to be more my style—went to the dogs. You're even
with me.
Man
I really don't find much satisfaction in that.
Louise
But, you do find some?
Man
Certainly. I wouldn't be human if I didn't.
Louise
I'm glad you admit it. I really would hate you if you pretended to
be above that sort of thing.
Man
I wish I were above it.
Louise
It's perfectly natural. I didn't play my cards very well, did I?
Man
I suspect you played them as well as you knew how. It wasn't your
fault fate played you a dirty trick.
Louise
You think I'd do the same thing again, don't you?
Man
Shall we say, I think it a possibility.
Louise
Is that why you—?
Man
Why I?
Louise
Why you allow yourself only to be friends with me?
Man
What do you mean?
Louise
It's perfectly simple. I'm a widow with a grown daughter. You're a
bachelor. There's nothing to prevent us from remedying the mistake we
once made, is there? It's quite common, you know.
Man
That presupposes the old wounds have healed.
Louise
Ah—
Man
I think, perhaps—
Louise
You still love me, don't you?
Man
I like to think not.
Louise
Would it surprise me if I told you I still care for you as much as
before?
Man
Not at all. Because you never cared for me at all.
Louise
That's not true.
Man
If you cared, you wouldn't have done what you did.
Louise
I was greedy.
Man
And now you're not?
Louise
You won't believe that, especially as now you are wealthy.
Man
That's right. I won't believe it.
Louise
All right then. We'll say no more about it. But really, you're
quite amazing. You distrust me—but you're quite prepared to treat my
daughter as if she were an angel.
Man
I don't quite see what Linda has to do with us?
Louise
Men are so blind! Can't you see anything? Are you prepared to
accept the consequences?
Man (totally at sea)
What consequences?
Louise
Why, the very same consequences that ensued when you and I first
became acquainted.
Man
Do you mean she'll throw him over?
Louise
You're not kind. You're not generous. I'm trying to warn you.
Man
You mean that my nephew may fall in love with your girl?
Louise
Certainly. It looks as though the harm may already be done.
Man
Then, your warning comes too late. But, why do you call it harm?
Louise
Haven't you any sense of the rigor of your office? Did his mother
send him here for you to find him the first wife you can pick up? Are
you going to let him put his head in the noose the day after his
arrival?
Man
Heaven forbid I should do anything of the kind. His mother doesn't
want him to marry young.
Louise
And, what do you think?
Man
Well, falling in love—at any age—is an act of folly.
Louise
You're too primitive. You ought to leave this place tomorrow.
Man
So as not to see Archie fall?
Louise
You ought to fish him out now—before he sinks—and take him away.
Man
Do you think he's in very far?
Louise
Over his head. If I were his mother, I know what I would think. I
know perfectly well how she must regard such a question.
Man
And, don't you know that in America the way the mother regards it
is not important?
Louise
Well, we're not in America. We happen to be here.
Man
It seems to me my responsibility begins only if your daughter is in
danger.
Louise (laughing bitterly)
Oh, don't worry about Linda.
Man
If you think she's in danger, I'll carry him off tomorrow.
Louise
It would be the best thing you could do.
Man
I don't know. It doesn't strike me that on her side there are any
real symptoms.
Louise
You are very annoying. You don't deserve the help I'm trying to
give you.
Man
Why should we assume that your daughter, who is stunning enough to
make a great match, will fall into my nephew's arms. Has she said
something?
Louise
We never exchange confidences. We don't need to.
Man
There might be an exception on a great occasion like this.
Louise
You're a fool! If your nephew proposes to my daughter she'll gobble
him down in one gulp.
Man
All right. I'll sound him out.
Louise
Don't. Don't. You'll spoil everything. Remove him quickly, that's
the only thing.
Man (nettled)
Do you really object to my nephew as a son-in-law?
Louise
My poor friend, you're incredibly superficial.
Man
Possibly! But, it seems odd that you should offer me a lesson in
consistency.
Louise
Touche, old friend.
BLACKOUT
Scene II. The same, the next day. Louise and the man are talking.
The man is very angry with Louise.
Man (with polite but quiet fury)
This is second time you've tried to run out on me.
Louise
I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I thought it was for the best.
Man (suspiciously)
Were you trying to make us follow you?
Louise
Not at all! I see you still suspect my motives.
Man
There was a time when I didn't. I've learned.
Louise
I sometimes think you haven't learned a thing.
Man
Did you know Linda wrote to us?
Louise
She showed me her letter. I let her send it because I didn't know
what to do.
Man
Why, if you were sincere in leaving us and saving Archie?
Louise
Because I don't like opposing her to her face.
Man (incredulous)
Afraid of that girl?
Louise
That girl! Much you know about her! I didn't think you'd try to
stop us. I didn't assume that.
Man
I'm like you. I don't venture to oppose Archie to his face.
Louise
I see. In a way, I'm glad.
Man
Is there anything I should do?
Louise
You could tell him that she's no good. That she's a bad, hard girl
who'd poison any good man's life.
Man
That's a little extreme, isn't it? To do that, I'd have to believe
it.
Louise
I hoped you'd be too disgusted with us after the way we were
leaving you.
Man
I was furious for that matter. It might have served if Linda hadn't
written her goodbye note. That patched it up. I think you are being
unfair to Linda.
Louise (ignoring him)
It doesn't really matter. I suppose, whether the crisis comes a few
weeks sooner or a few weeks later, Linda has marked him.
Man (pooh-poohing her)
Bless my soul. How very grim! Do you mean she's in love with him?
Louise
It's enough if she makes him think she is.
Man
What has she done? So far as I can see, she's been civil to him.
Her note was nothing.
Louise
I don't think you've heard everything she's said to him.
Man
No more have you, I take it!
Louise
No. But, I know my own daughter. She's a most remarkable young
woman.
Man
You take an extraordinary tone about her. Such a tone as I think
I've never head on a mother's lips.
Louise
You make my reparation—my expiation—difficult.
Man
What on earth are you talking about?
Louise
You know perfectly well what I mean.
Man
I don't see what good it does me—or how it makes up to me that you
abuse your daughter!
Louise
Oh, I don't care. I'll save him.
Man
Why do you want to save him? You talk as if your daughter is a
monster. I take it you're not serious.
Louise (with conviction)
She's ambitious, she's luxurious. She's determined to have what she
wants—more on the make than anyone I've ever known. Of course, you're
perfectly right to point out that she takes after me.
Man
But I haven't said that!
Louise (ignoring his remark)
But, does that make me like it any better?
Man
Louise, you're wonderful, yet terrible.
Louise
You've made up your mind about me. But you'll have to change if you
want any generosity.
Man
Is this part of the reparation? I don't see what you ever did to
Archie?
Louise
It's enough that he belongs to you. But, it isn't for you I do it.
It's for myself.
Man
Doubtless for reasons of your own which I can't penetrate. But,
can't you sacrifice something else? Must you sacrifice your only child?
Louise
My child is my punishment.
Man
It seems to me that you are hers.
Louise
Hers? What does she know of such things? What can she ever feel?
She's cased in steel. She has a heart of marble. It's true. It's true!
She appalls me.
Man
Louise, you owe me nothing. I want no one injured for my sake.
Louise
For your sake? Oh, I'm not thinking of you! It's a satisfaction to
my own conscience—for I have one—little as you may think I've a right
to speak of it. I've been hideously worldly—and I've taught her to be
so. That's all the instruction I've ever given her—and she has learned
the lesson well. So well that I'm horrified at my work. She's profited
so well by my beautiful influence that she's gone far beyond the great
original. I'm horrified because she's horrible.
Man
To me, it's more horrible to hear a mother say such things.
Louise
Why so, if they're abominably true? You were always a
sentimentalist. I don't care what I say as long as I save him.
Man
Do you expect me, then, to repeat—?
Louise
Not in the least. I'll do it myself.
Man
Louise—
Louise
I was very glad to see you again, but it would have been better if
we had never met.
Man
I don't agree as to that. You interest me.
Louise
I don't care. If I convince him.
Man
You won't. Never had a girl less the appearance of bearing such
charges out. You know how I've admired her.
Louise
You know nothing about her! I do. She's the work of my hand.
There's not a tender spot in her. To succeed, she'd see me drown in
that lake. She'd push me in—and never feel a pang. That's my young
lady! To climb to the top—to do that at any cost, or by any meanness
and crudity, is the only thing she has a heart for. She'd lie for it,
she'd steal for it, she'd kill for it! God in his mercy has let me see
it in time. It's myself he has let me see—myself as I was for years.
But, she's worse, I assure you. Worse than I intended or dreamed, and
God knows, I was bad enough.
Man
Have you ever spoken to her? Have you ever put before her this
terrible indictment?
Louise
How can I, when her answer would simply be: “I am what you made
me”?
Man
Then, why do you want to play her a trick?
Louise
You simply won't understand. I'd play that boy a far worse one if I
were to stay my hand.
Man
If he loves her, he won't believe a word of it.
Louise (grimly)
Perhaps, but I will have done my duty.
Man
What will you say to him?
Louise
Never mind. I'll think of something. Only, I must lose no time.
Man
If you're so bent on gaining time, why did you let her go boating
with him?
Louise
Let her? How could I prevent it?
Man
But, she asked your permission?
Louise
That is all part of the comedy.
Man
Then, she doesn't know you hate her?
Louise
I don't know what she knows. She has depths and depths, and all of
them bad. But, I don't hate her in the least. I just pity her for what
I've made her. But, I pity still more the man who may find himself
married to her.
Man
There's not much danger of their being any such person at the rate
you go on.
Louise
I beg your pardon—there's a perfect possibility. The world is full
of gullible men. She'll marry, and marry well. She'll marry a title as
well as a fortune.
Man
So, that's what you're after. It's a pity my nephew hasn't a title.
Louise
You think I want that! God forgive you. Your suspicion is perfectly
natural. How can anyone tell with people like us?
Man
You couldn't do more if he were my son.
Louise
Oh, if he had been your son.
Man
He would have quite the most remarkable mother-in-law. But, why
does Linda want him if she's as ambitious as you say?
Louise
Oh, she's worked it all out. If she's made up her mind, it's
because she sees what she can do.
Man
Do you mean she's talked it over with you?
Louise
Lord! What do you take us for! We don't talk things over. We never
for a moment name anything ugly—we only just go at it.
Man
But, in this case, the poor thing can't possibly be aware of your
point of view.
Louise
No. Because in this case, I haven't played fair. She has no reason
to suspect I'd cheat. There ought to be honor among thieves. But, it
was open to her to do the same.
Man
What do you mean by the same?
Louise
She might have fallen in love with a poor man. That would have done
me.
Man
A rich one is better. He can do more.
Louise
Surely—and we have reason to know that. Having to count pennies
makes one mercenary. And that's why Linda is of the opinion that a
fortune is always a fortune. She knows all about your nephew: how much
he has, how much he will get, to the penny—and exactly on what sort of
footing it will enable her to live. Your nephew's exactly the sort of
thing we were looking for. He'd be perfect—if he weren't your nephew.
From head to foot, he was made on purpose. Dear Linda was her mother's
own daughter when she recognized him on the spot.
Man
Poor Linda, poor Linda.
Louise
She'll live to do better.
Man
How can she, if he's perfection?
Louise
Better for him.
Man
Why did you throw me over, a woman like you?
Louise (after a pause)
Well, my friend, if I hadn't thrown you over, how could I do this
for you?
Man
Maybe it wouldn't be necessary.
BLACKOUT
Scene III. The same, the next morning. The Man is reading a
newspaper when an innocent, modestly dressed young woman of about
twenty enters.
Linda
Have you seen Archie?
Man
My nephew seems to have disappeared.
Linda
I'm very glad. You can tell him that if you like.
Man
I suspect he'll come at once.
Linda (decisively)
Then, don't tell him! I don't want him to come. He kept me out too
late last night. That sort of thing isn't done here—and everyone was
staring when we got back. I begged him to bring me in, but he wouldn't.
I felt as though everyone was looking at us. It was terrible.
Man
So, that was why he sneaked in last night without so much as
looking me in the face.
Linda
Mama was so angry that she took him aside and gave him a scolding.
She has very old fashioned ideas. (noticing her mother coming in)
Haven't you, mama?
Louise (entering)
I still have some sense of morality. Would you mail these letters
for me?
Linda
I need money for postage.
Louise
Here, darling. Take a large bill.
Linda
Darling mother, you haven't got too many of them, have you?
(Linda leaves.)
Louise
She's amazing, she's amazing!
Man
Does she know what you've done?
Louise
She knows I've done something. And she's making up her mind what it
is. She'll satisfy herself soon enough—if your nephew doesn't come
back—and I think I can promise you he won't.
Man
And won't she ask you?
Louise
Never!
Man
And you won't tell her!
Louise
Don't you remember what I told you about our relations—that
everything is implied between us and nothing is expressed. If we
understand each other it's enough.
Man
And do you?
Louise
We shall understand each other now and nothing will be changed.
Man
Certainly she's amazing and so are you. What did you say to my
nephew?
Louise
Hasn't he told you?
Man
No. And he never will.
Louise
I'm glad of that.
Man
But, I'm not so sure he won't come back. He was of half a mind to.
Louise
That's your imagination. If you knew what I told him, you'd be
sure.
Man
And did he believe you?
Louise
Time will show. But I think so.
Man
And how did you make it plausible to him that you should take so
unnatural a course? The way you put it about Linda was very bad?
Louise
It was horrible.
Man
But what could you have said?
Louise
It was quite simple. First of all, I penetrated the little comedy
about his being your nephew. He's your son, isn't he?
Man
Yes, if you must know.
Louise
Illegitimate?
Man
That goes without saying. My sister was childless and adopted him.
But I don't see what that—
Louise
Linda is his sister. That's what I told him.
Man
Good God!
Louise
I was pregnant by you when I threw you over. My husband was simple
enough to believe Linda was his child. I made sure of that by becoming
his mistress at the earliest possible opportunity. The fact that Linda
was a little slow coming helped, too. When I became pregnant I knew I
had to act quickly. I could have married you easily enough. In fact, I
was intending to until Pallant came along. If it's any satisfaction to
you, I intended to marry you at first. Then he came along, and I had to
rethink my position. It took character of a sort to do what I did.
Actually, I got pregnant to get a better hold on you. Neither of you
suspected a thing. Neither of you were the sort to throw a woman over
once you'd been intimate with her. And besides, I knew if I missed my
chance with Pallant you would still be available.
Man
This is appalling.
Louise
You see how bad I was.
Man
Under the circumstances, I'm glad you acted to stop it. So, Linda
is my daughter?
Louise
Are you pleased? You like her, despite everything I've said, don't
you? I'm glad.
Man
She's the most charming girl I've ever seen. Even if she is as
heartless as you say, I can't help feeling proud of her.
Louise
She's astonishing.
Man
Given the facts, I suppose you had to prevent incest.
Louise
Oh, I didn't do it for that reason. Besides, it's not a certainty,
or at least I would have convinced myself it wasn't a certainty. I
would have done it anyway. I can't let her go on like this.
Man
So, you wouldn't stick at incest?
Louise
Oh, no.
Man
There's a complication.
Louise
What's that?
Man
I thought it would be sweet revenge on you if I—seduced your
daughter.
Louise
What!
Man
And I'm no longer the inexperienced fool I once was. I hope you are
right when you say it's not an absolute certainty she's my daughter.
Louise
So, we are all punished. The wheels of the gods grind slowly but
exceedingly fine, don't they?
Man
Exceedingly fine.
CURTAIN
Characters:
May Bartram
Marcher
Scene I. A room, neatly furnished. Marcher goes in with May
Bartram.
Marcher
I recognized your voice. It was Rome. I remember it exactly.
May
I'm sure you don't remember everything.
Marcher
I think I'll prove I do. It was about eight years ago in Rome. You
were with your aunt and uncle, and let me see—we were introduced by
the Pembles. And, somehow or other, we got caught in a violent
thunderstorm and had to hide in some excavations near the Palace of the
Caesars.
May
Well, it's close. It was actually about ten years ago. It was in
Naples, not Rome that we met. I was with my mother and my brother, and
it was the Boyers, not the Pembles, that introduced us. We knew the
Boyers, not the Pembles.
Marcher
But, the Palace of the Caesars?
May
No, it was in Pompeii.
Marcher (disappointed)
Well, it was a long time ago.
May
You see, you really didn't remember the least thing about me!
Marcher
Well—I didn't entirely forget. Old age, I guess. But, has it
really been ten years?
May
Decidedly!
Marcher
It seems a shame that nothing more came of it than that. I didn't
do anything foolish in that thunderstorm, did I?
May
You were a perfect gentleman. No, there was nothing romantic. But,
you told me something I've never forgotten though. Have you forgotten?
Marcher
I probably told you I was in love with you, or something of that
sort. I remember the storm, but I honestly don't remember saying that.
May
I suppose I really shouldn't bring it up.
Marcher
I was a perfect ass in those days. But, I'd like to hear you tell
me just what kind of an ass I was.
May
If you've stopped.
Marcher
Who knows? Maybe I haven't.
May
If you haven't, I think you'd remember. If I thought what you said
was silly or foolish, I wouldn't remember it. Actually, it was about
yourself. Has it ever happened?
Marcher
Do you mean I told you?
May
Has the thing you spoke of ever come to pass?
Marcher
I, I, don't know what you mean, or—
May
I'm sorry.
Marcher
I do know what you mean. I'd forgotten that I took you so deeply
into my confidence.
May
Perhaps, because you've taken so many others.
Marcher
I've taken no one. Not a single creature since then, or before, for
that matter.
May
So, I'm the only one who knows?
Marcher
The only person in the world, unless you told someone.
May
I've never told anyone and I never will.
Marcher
Good. That's right, just as it is.
May
Then, you still feel the same way?
Marcher
I'm very grateful to you for not laughing at me. Then or now. What
account—what exactly did I tell you?
May
You said from your earliest recollection you had a sense of being
kept for something rare—strange—quite possibly terrible. That sooner
or later this strange thing would happen to you.
Marcher
Do you call that very simple?
May
It's a dreadful idea.
Marcher
Do you understand it?
May
Do you still have this feeling?
Marcher
Always!
May
But, it hasn't come yet?
Marcher
No—not yet. It's not something I'm to do—nothing heroic, like
winning fame or fortune. I'm not such an ass as that. No doubt it would
be much easier if it were.
May
It's to be something you merely suffer or experience?
Marcher
Say, to confront—face to face.
May
It isn't the danger of falling in love?
March
Did you ask me that before?
May
No. I wasn't so free and easy then. But it's what strikes me now.
Marcher
Perhaps, it's no more than that. The only thing is, I've been in
love.
May
And it hasn't proved such a cataclysm?
Marcher
Here I am, you see! A few wounds and bruises, but in one piece.
May
Then, it wasn't love you've experienced.
Marcher
Well, I thought it was. It was agreeable, delightful, miserable,
but it wasn't what my affair is to be.
May
You expect something unique? Something no one else has ever
experienced?
Marcher
It's not what I want or expect; it's just an apprehension that
haunts me. That I live with, day by day.
May
Is it a sense of coming violence?
Marcher
Not necessarily. Only, when it comes, it will be unmistakable. I
think of it simply as “it.” “It” will appear quite naturally.
May
Then, why will it be so strange?
Marcher
It won't be to me.
May
To whom then?
Marcher
Well, to whoever knows about it. Say to you.
May
Oh, then, I'm to be a part of it?
Marcher
Well, you are since I've told you.
May
I mean at the catastrophe.
Marcher
That depends on yourself. Will you watch with me?
May
Are you afraid?
Marcher
Don't leave me now.
May
Are you afraid?
Marcher
Do you think me simply out of my mind? Do I strike you as a
harmless lunatic?
May
Harmless, perhaps, but no lunatic. I understand you. I believe you.
Marcher
You feel my obsession?
May
I feel it.
Marcher
Do you think it may be real?
May
Yes.
Marcher
Will you stand watch with me?
May
Are you afraid?
Marcher
Did I tell you so at Naples?
May
No.
Marcher
Then, I don't really know. I wish I knew. Tell me if you see me
frightened. If you'll watch with me, then you'll see.
May
All right, kind sir. I'll watch with you.
Marcher
What a way to spend a date.
(They both laugh.)
BLACKOUT
Scene II. The same. May's birthday, several years later. Marcher
arrives with some presents.
May
It's so nice of you to think of my birthday.
Marcher
It would be selfish of me not to.
May
What saves us is that we are so very ordinary.
Marcher
How so?
May
Well, you at least—you're distinguishable from other men. You
spend your time, like they do, with dull women—not perhaps without
being bored—but without minding it. I'm your dull woman—a part of
your daily bread for which you pray at church. That covers your tracks.
Marcher
And, how do you cover yours? I sometimes think it isn't fair for me
to occupy so much of your time.
May
Are you impatient?
Marcher
For the thing to happen that never happens? For the beast to jump
out?
May
Yes.
Marcher
It's in the lap of the gods. There's no choosing—nothing one can
do. So, why be impatient?
May
Yes. it will come in it's own way.
Marcher
Have you begun to wonder if anything will happen after all?
May
You're far from my thought.
Marcher
What's the matter, then?
May
Well. I've become more sure than ever that my curiosity will be
repaid. Is it possible you've grown afraid?
Marcher
Afraid? You asked me that long ago.
May
Oh, yes. We've said little about it since.
Marcher
You've been very delicate about it. For if I am afraid, then we
wouldn't know precisely what to do.
May
There have been times when I thought you were.
Marcher
You see, I'm not afraid now.
May
You're used to living dangerously. You know the beast is there, but
you're indifferent.
Marcher (ironically)
Heroic.
May
Certainly.
Marcher
Courageous.
May
That, too.
Marcher
But, the man of courage knows what he's facing. I don't, you see. I
can't name it.
May
You're not afraid. But, it isn't the end yet. You've everything
still to see. Your vigil is not over.
Marcher
What do you see? You know something I don't? You have figured out
what's going to happen? (May is silent) You know and you're afraid to
tell me. It's so bad that you're afraid to tell me. You're afraid I'll
find out.
May
You'll never find out.
(Pause.)
Marcher
Let's drop it. I shouldn't bring that up on your day anyway. Let me
repeat the question I asked you earlier. How do you cover your tracks?
May
With you, of course. You have a woman and I have a man.
Marcher
Aren't you talked about?
May
Oh, yes.
Marcher
But, having a man makes you all right?
May
Certainly.
Marcher
It shows you're not just living for me and my obsession.
May
Not exactly. It's our intimacy that's in question.
Marcher
I see. You help me pass for a man, and I help you pass as an
ordinary woman. Is that it?
May
That's it. My job is to help you pass for a man like any other.
Marcher
How kind you've been to me. How shall I ever repay you?
May
By going on as you are.
Marcher
I dread losing you.
May
We could marry.
Marcher
One doesn't invite a lady on a tiger hunt.
May
John, there's something I must tell you. I'm not well. I have a
cancer of the blood.
Marcher
Good God!
May
I'm sorry, John.
Marcher
What if you should leave me before it happens!
BLACKOUT
Scene III. The same, a few months later. May is seated in a chair,
obviously failing.
Marcher
I thought the point you were making just now was that we had looked
things in the face.
May
Including each other? But, you're quite right, we have faced many
things together—some of them dreadful—some still unspoken.
Marcher
But we haven't faced the worst yet. I still believe you know
something I don't. You've shown me that before.
May
I've shown you nothing, my dear.
Marcher
You can't hide it. You practically admitted it months ago. You said
I'd never find out and I don't pretend I have. I'm only afraid of
ignorance. That's why I wish you'd tell me—why I appeal to you. You're
leaving me to my fate.
May
It will be the worst.
Marcher
More monstrous than all the monstrosities we've named?
May
Yes. More monstrous. But, remember, it's only my idea.
Marcher
I feel your idea is right. You must tell me more. If you don't,
you're abandoning me.
May
No, no. I'm with you still. I haven't forsaken you.
Marcher
Then, tell me if I will consciously suffer?
May
No, never.
Marcher
Well, that's not so bad. And you call that the worst?
May
You think it's not so bad?
Marcher
Why not? I see—if I don't suffer.
May
You see what?
Marcher
What you mean, I think.
May
It's not what you think! I see what you think.
Marcher
It isn't that I'm a blockhead? It isn't that it's all a mistake?
May
A mistake! Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. You've been right.
Marcher
I haven't waited all these years to see the door shut in my face,
have I?
May
The door isn't shut. The door is open.
Marcher
Then, something will come through it.
May
It's never too late.
Marcher
Tell me!
May
I'm afraid I'm too ill.
Marcher
Too ill to tell me?
May
Don't you know now?
Marcher
Now? I know nothing.
May
Oh.
Marcher
Are you in pain?
May
No.
Marcher
What has happened?
May
What was to happen.
Marcher
I wish you'd stop talking riddles.
BLACKOUT
Scene IV. A few weeks later. The room is in shadows. The curtains
have been drawn. May lies in her bed.
May
You've nothing more to wait for. It has come.
Marcher
Really?
May
The thing that we began to watch for.
Marcher (excited)
It is a positive, definite occurrence with a name and date.
May
Positive. Definite. I don't know about the name. But, oh, with a
date.
Marcher
But, come in the night—come and passed me by.
May
Oh, no. It hasn't passed you by.
Marcher
But, if I'm not aware of it—and it hasn't touched me?
May
That's the strangeness of it. You're not aware of it. But it has
touched you. It has done its office. It has made you all its own.
Marcher (incredulous)
Utterly without my knowing it?
May
Utterly. It's enough that I know it. Be content. It happened to
you.
Marcher
But, what? Is it something we feared?
May
Did we ever dream, in all our dreams, that we should sit here and
talk thus?
Marcher
It might have been that we couldn't talk.
May
Well, not from this side. This is from the other side.
Marcher
All sides are the same to me.
May
No!
Marcher
I—
May
We're here.
Marcher
Much good it does us.
May
It does us what good it can. It's past. It's behind. Before.
Marcher
Before?
May
Before, it was always coming. That's over.
Marcher
But, I don't care what comes now. I believe you—but I can't
pretend to understand. Nothing for me is past. Nothing will pass till I
pass. How can the thing I've never felt be the thing I was cut out to
feel?
May
You suffer your fate—not necessarily know it.
Marcher
How in the world?
May
You don't understand.
Marcher
But—
May
Stop. Don't try to know, when you needn't know.
Marcher
Is it that you're dying?
May
I would live for you still, if I could. But I can't.
BLACKOUT
Marcher
But, when May died a few days later, I came to know. The Beast
sprang. The horror of it I can't express. It was the certainty that I
would never have any feelings for anyone. That I was totally alone in a
universe that I didn't care about and that was totally indifferent to
me.
CURTAIN
Characters:
John Marcher, a man in his late fifties
The Woman, in her middle thirties.
The scene is a small altar in a large church. The altar is
surrounded by candles. John Marcher is in the act of lighting a candle
when the curtain rises.
Marcher After May Bartram died, I had the intense feeling that I
was bereft, deserted—alone.
Mary was buried in the cemetery of a suburban church. She was a
ghost
now. But she was always with me. Still, I had other ghosts:
parents, friends, relatives. Little by little, I formed the habit of
remembering my dead. It had come home to me that there was something I
had to do for them. So I resolved to do something. What could I do?
I found no quick solution. Mary was gone, who had been my most
cherished companion for many years. One by one, those I numbered my
friends dropped off. I had the sensation that my social life consisted
of going from one funeral to another. Slowly, an idea came to me. I
realized that whatever religion I had—it was like the religion of the
Egyptians, a religion of the Dead. I had no imagination about such
things. It merely answered my love of great offices, of ceremonies, and
rituals.
The poorest could build such temples of the spirit—could make
them
blaze with candles, and smoke with incense—and make them flush
with pictures and flowers.
On the second anniversary of May Bartram's death, I spoke with the
minister of this church, and in a little recess between two arches,
with the permission of the authorities, I erected this altar of
candles. That night, walking home, it struck me as good there should be
such things as churches.
Now it was possible to make public in a way my rites that
memorialized
my grief. I endowed the church with money for this altar. All that
is mine is the number of candles. From time to time a new candle is
kindled. Each candle represents someone dear to me.
Now my dead have something that is theirs and theirs alone. The
day is
written here on which I had the first acquaintance with death—and
the successive phases of the acquaintance were marked—each with its
own flame.
I knew the name for which each candle burned. It brought each dear
one
within reach.
It was a year later that I learned of the death of Acton Hague.
Ten
years before he had been the closest of my friends. But he was a
traitor, a Judas. Hague died famous—a near great politician. My only
feeling was relief that there was no mention of our quarrel in the
reports of his death. That was the only emotion I felt. That and the
feeling of sudden cold. I tried to rid myself of his memory. For Acton
Hague no candle would ever rise on any altar of mine.
A year passed and there were more candles to light.
(The Woman in Black comes in. Marcher has moved away from the altar. The woman kneels before the altar praying and then leaves.)
Marcher
I began to notice that my altar attracted others. In particular, a
woman in black who came often. She was young. But she looked as if her
dead were as numerous as my candles. She must have had a succession of
sorrows. Slowly we struck up an acquaintance. One day I walked her
home. She was very pretty. She might have been a divorced duchess or an
old maid who taught the harp.
There was never a word said to her that wasn't beautifully
understood.
For a long time I didn't know her name. But names were not
important— only the perfect practice of our grief.
(The Woman returns.)
Woman
I pity you—for the number of your candles.
Marcher
Why?
Woman
Because each candle represents someone dear to you, doesn't it?
Marcher
Of course.
Woman
For myself, the more the better. I should like
hundreds—thousands—a great mountain of light.
Marcher
Your dead are only one.
Woman (wistfully)
Only one. Isn't this a new candle?
Marcher
Yes. Friend by friend has dropped away. There are more candles on
my altar than houses left to enter. The chapel is—
Woman
The chapel is full.
Marcher
Oh, no. The chapel will never be full until a candle is set up
before which all the other altars will pale. It will be the tallest
candle of all.
Woman
What candle to you mean?
Marcher
I mean, dear lady, my own. Will you be priestess at my altar? I'll
make you trustee when I die. Will you do the office?
Woman
And, who will kindle even one for me?
(The lights dim.)
Marcher
We were growing old together in our piety. Sometimes I accompanied
her to her door. I never went in. Occasionally we went out together to
a concert.
Woman (lighting a candle at the altar)
My aunt is dead.
Marcher
I knew when I saw you that you had suffered some loss.
Woman
She never knew I knew you. I wished her not to. She was very kind
to me.
Marcher (to the audience)
We went to her rooms for the first time in all the years I had
known her. There in her bedroom I saw a picture with candles lit before
it. (to her) Acton Hague!
Woman (delighted)
Did you know him?
Marcher
He was a friend of my youth. And you knew him!
Woman
Knew him? (laughing throatily) I was his—mistress—why not speak
in plain English.
Marcher (quietly, but bitterly)
So, It was Acton Hague to whom you came every day at my altar.
Woman (proudly)
Yes.
Marcher
How strange that we never knew each other.
Woman
I never, never speak of him.
Marcher
Why not, if you are so devoted to him?
Woman
And you?
Marcher
I never speak of him because years ago he did me an unforgettable
wrong.
Woman
Oh.
Marcher
My God, how he must have used you!
Woman (passionately)
I've forgiven him!
Marcher
So, you loved him terribly?
Woman
Yes, terribly. Women are different from men. They can love even
where they've suffered.
Marcher
I assure you—I've forgiven him too.
Woman
If I'd even suspected, I wouldn't have brought you here.
Marcher
So, we might have gone on in our ignorance till the last.
Woman
What do you call the last?
Marcher
You'll see—when it comes. Did he ever speak of me?
Woman
You have forgiven him?
Marcher
How could I continue this conversation if I hadn't?
Woman
Then, in the lights of your altar there is a candle for him?
Marcher (sharply)
There's never a light for Acton Hague.
Woman
But, if he's one of your dead?
Marcher
He's one of the world's dead, if you like. He's one of yours, but
he's not one of mine. Mine are only the dead who died possessed by me.
They're mine in death because they were mine in life.
Woman
He was yours once—even if later he ceased to be yours.
Marcher
That's not good enough.
Woman
Those whom we've once loved—
Marcher
—are those who can hurt us most!
Woman
You haven't forgiven him!
Marcher
What was it he did to you?
Woman
Everything. Goodbye.
Marcher (taken aback)
You mean we won't see each other any more?
Woman
Not as we have in the past. Not here.
Marcher
What's changed for you?
Woman
You don't understand how I feel.
Marcher
I didn't understand before because I didn't know. Now, I do. I see
what a fool I've been for years.
Woman
You set up your altar for your own dead—when I wanted one, it was
ready. So beautiful, so perfect. I used it with gratitude, with the
gratitude I've always shown you. I told you long ago that my dead
weren't many.
Marcher
We had different intentions; I don't see why—?
Woman
The spell is broken
Marcher
Perhaps you're right.
Woman
If I had known that you knew him, I should have taken for granted
that he had his candle. What's changed is that I know now he has never
had one.
Marcher
Stay.
Woman
Will you give him his candle?
Marcher
I can't do that.
Woman
Then, I can't continue. Goodbye. (gives him her hand)
Marcher
Can I see you at your home?
Woman
Yes. But it won't work.
Marcher
I'll try, if you will. Why did you never let me come to your place?
Woman
Because my aunt would have seen you and I should have had to tell
her how I came to know you.
Marcher
What would have been the objection to that?
Woman
It would have entailed explanations.
Marcher
Surely she knew you went to church every day?
Woman
She didn't know what I went for.
Marcher
And you never mentioned me to her?
Woman
Certainly not.
Marcher
What did he do to you?
Woman
She would have told you. That was my reason?
(Exit Woman.)
Marcher
He had used her and ruthlessly abandoned her. That was all. That
was his way.
I had never thought of myself as hard, but now I simply can't
light
that candle for him. I might have eventually, if it hadn't been for
her. I was jealous. To make her lover equal to the others was too much
of a concession to make. I had no illusions about the effect of my
refusal. I knew perfectly well that it would make a rupture between us
and it did.
She stayed away.
It was strange. I had never admitted or even suspected that I was
in
love with her. My jealousy came as a surprise. To light a candle
for Acton Hague would not be in pity for him. It would be to glorify
him. To glorify the man who had sullied the woman I loved and who still
worshipped him.
I appealed to her not to abandon me in my age. Her terms were the
same. Why does she like him so much more than she likes me?
I had by this time reached the age of renouncement. But it hadn't
been
so clear to me—never before so vivid that now was the time to give
up everything.
Woman (coming half way back)
One more candle. Just one.
Marcher
Never! The chapel in my dreams is now a dark cavern. The candles
may burn, but they have lost their lustre. If anything is wrong,
everything is wrong!
Months went by. I felt so lonely that finally I went back, too. My
dead would not let me forsake them. For six months, I went every
day, but she never came.
There was no one to add to the list. All my candles were lit. I
wandered the fields of light from taper to taper, from fire to
fire, from name to name, from one saved soul to another. Over and over
I called the roll. It was complete. I rearranged the candles (doing
so), redistributed them. Sympathy and harmony were everything. I
shifted this and that.
Just one more was needed to round it off. Perfect symmetry.
Then one day she was there.
(The Woman comes to the altar and kneels.)
Kneeling. I had given myself to my dead and it was good. This time
my
dead would keep me. Suddenly I saw the face of May Bartram in the
candles. She smiled at me.
Marcher (to the Woman)
God sent you.
Woman
You're very ill. You shouldn't be here.
Marcher
God sent me, too. I was ill when I came, but the sight of you does
wonders. I've something to tell you.
Woman
Don't tell me. Let me tell you. This afternoon, by a miracle, the
sense of our estrangement left me. Something changed in my heart. I
could come for what you yourself come. So, here I am. I'm not here for
Acton Hague. I'm here for them.
Marcher
They're here for you. They're present tonight as they've never
been. They speak for you, don't you see? In a passion of light—they
sing out like a choir of angels. Don't you hear what they say? They
offer the very thing you've asked of me.
Woman
Don't talk of it, don't think of it. Forget it.
Marcher
They say there's one missing—just one more. Isn't that what you
wanted? Yes, one more, one more.
Woman
No more—no more!
Marcher (collapsing)
The final one.
Woman (holding him, crying)
No more, no more.
CURTAIN