JAMESIAN ELEGIES

A Cycle of Plays Adapted from The Stories of Henry James

EText by Dagny
  • LOUISE PALLANT
  • THE BEAST IN THE JUNGLE
  • THE ALTAR OF THE DEAD
  • 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.


    LOUISE PALLANT


    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

    THE BEAST IN THE JUNGLE


    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


    THE ALTAR OF THE DEAD


    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