ACT I.
Scene:The drug-store of the prison hospital.
A long counter runs all the way across the stage, from right to left, at the back part of the stage. On the far side of the counter, away from the audience, the convicts file by, entering at the right and going off at the left, having their orders for drugs filled by the clerk. On the side of the counter nearest to the audience is the portion of the room in which the drugs and supplies are kept, and in which the clerk works. This portion has an entrance at right, to the hospital, and one at the left, to a hall. At right center is a flat-topped desk, with a chair facing left; another chair on the other side of the desk. All the way under the counter, and along the walls at right and left, are rows of shelves occupied by boxes and bottles large and small, as in an ordinary drug-store. These shelves turn upon pivots, making possible a quick change of the room, at the end of Act II and of Act IV, into a bank.
At rise:Those convicts who have listed themselves as sick are getting their evening supply of drugs. They file along from right to left, hard-faced, desolate looking men both white and black, clad in the old-fashioned black and white striped convict suits. They shove bits of paper over the counter, and take their pills or powders, for the most part silently, sometimes with a grunt or a growl. A guard stands by the door, watching them, a club in his hand; the guard wearing blue uniform with brass buttons.
Bill Porter, the night drug-clerk on duty, takes the prescriptions and fills them silently and swiftly; they are all standard prescriptions, which he has ready mixed and measured, and for the most part all he does is to shove out two or three pills, or a powder folded up in blue paper. He is a smooth-shaven, fair-haired man of thirty-seven, not stout but well filled out, benevolent, but reserved in manner. He wears a white hospital costume, clean, but old and worn. The Negro, Joe, a trusty, is puttering about the place, making a pretense at dusting off the contents of the shelves with a rag. He wears a dingy grey uniform, with black stripe down the trousers.
Biggins(next to the last man in the line; a lean, wiry street-rat and pickpocket; he talks out of the corner of his mouth, so that the guard will not detect him): Say, Buddy, can’t yer give us somethin’ different from these here white pills?
Porter: I am filling your prescription.
Biggins: Well, can’t yer wait till yer make yer rounds, an give us somethin’ else?
Porter: If you want me to prescribe for you, you’ll have to apply when I’m making my rounds.
Biggins: Thanks, Buddy, fer the tip. The croaker’s been t’rowin’ dese here white bullets down me troat fer a month now—
Purzon(the last convict in the line; a big man, broad, beefy-faced, noisy, who has passed worthless checks by posing as a ranchman): Cheer up, kid, there’s nothin’ in ’em but a lump of dough. (he hands over his slip of paper, and receives a couple of pills). Don’t I get a powder too? The croaker said I should.
Porter: He didn’t write it down.
Purzon: Well, for God’s sake, what kind of a deal is that? He told me I was to have digitalis.
Porter: There’s digitalis in one of those pills.
Purzon: Well, they look exactly alike! A fat lot they care what they feed you in this joint—that bonehead croaker don’t take as much trouble as if he was keepin’ dogs.
Porter(sternly): Move along now. If you have any quarrel with the doctor, say it to him.
Purzon(snarling): Ah, you fat stool-pigeon!
Porter: Move on! I’ve never yet reported a man in this place, but I’m not paid to listen to you abuse my chief.
(The guard, noticing the talk, approaches and pokes Purzon roughly with his stick; the last of the line moves off.)
Joe(coming forward, humbly; a large, athletic-looking black fellow, in the thirties): Please, suh, Misteh Porteh, could you gimme a little tention befo you shuts up de boxes?
Porter: What is it?
Joe: Ah got what you might call a little inclination to de constipulation, an Ah could use a couple of dem double-barrel shotgun shells. (as Porter shoves him a couple of pills) Thankee, boss. (he resumes his pretense at dusting, and Porter puts the covers on his boxes, and goes to his desk with a weary sigh) Ah bet you is tahd when you gets done wid dat line. (silence) Dey mussa been two hundred men in dat line dis evenin. Dey keeps a comin an a comin, an it doan seem to do em no good. (he is inviting conversation, but Porter sits at his desk lost in thought) Misteh Porteh—
Porter: Well?
Joe: Dey sho is a lot of misery in dis place.
Porter: There is.
Joe: Dey sho is onemountainof misery in dis place!
Porter(looks at papers on his desk, crumples them up into a ball, and makes as if to throw them into a wire trash-basket, which stands at the side of his desk nearest to the audience; he discovers that the basket is full to overflowing): See here, don’t you remember my saying anything to you about keeping a little room at least on thetopof this trash-basket?
Joe: Yes, boss, dasso. Ah’s powerful fogetful; but you does sho fill up dat trash-basket! Seems like you spen de whole night writin paper an tearin it up.
Porter: Have they made you custodian of the hospital stationery?
Joe: No, boss, Ah’s only de custodian of de hospital trash-baskets. But if yo jes wouldn’t roll em up into balls, so dey fill up so much room! If you wouldn’t tear em into little bits, so dey spill out through de holes!
Porter: I don’t care to have my writings read in this place.
Joe: Yes, boss, Ah understan; but make yoself easy—Ah cant read a line of his hyar hanwritin.
Porter: Well, save me the job of nagging.
Joe: Yes, boss, Ah sho try. But you know how it is, if Ah was a first-class rememberin niggeh, I wouldn’t be doin a term in de Ohio State penitentiary, Ah’d be a spick and span porteh in a Pullman car, jing-jinglin de quartehs in mah pocket. (imitating car porter) Nashville de nex stop, suh! Brush you off, suh?
Porter: Quit your chatter and get out of here!
(Joe takes trash-basket and runs; Porter takes mail from pocket and glances at letter; then sits in attitude of despair, his head in his hands. Joe returns with empty basket, and begins to make a pretense of sweeping the floor with a broom, at the same time peering at Porter, trying to see his face.)
Porter(without looking up): Wouldn’t it be possible for you to get this room swept before I come on duty?
Joe: Misteh Porteh, you dunno how dey keep me on de jump in dis place—
Porter: They seem to turn you loose at this precise hour every evening, so you can come in and fill my lungs with dust.
Joe: Ah’ll jes keep a sorteh circulatin roun wid dis broom, so de capn think Ah’m workin if he comes, but Ah wont make dust enough to botheh you. (Porter continues to sit in attitude of dejection; Joe manifests first curiosity, then sympathy; he tries to attract attention) Ah-hum! (Porter does not look up) Ah-hum!
Porter: What is it, Joe?
Joe: Misteh Porteh—
Porter: Well?
Joe: Ah’s got somethin else besides dis hyar constipulation.
Porter: What you got?
Joe: Ah’s got somethin—you might call it a sorteh constipulation of de vocabulary.
Porter: How’s that?
Joe: Ah wuks roun dis hispital, an Ah keeps mah eyes open, an Ah sees Misteh Porteh doan say much to nobody in dis place. Ah thinks it oveh, an Ah thinks maybe he’d like it if Ah was to come up an say, right still and quaht: Misteh Porteh, Ah’s jes a niggeh.
Porter: Indeed, Joe!
Joe: Dey got me in de penitentiary in de state of Ohio, Misteh Porteh, but Ah was raised down in Tennessee, an Ah knows what a genleman is; so Ah comes to you an says: Ah’s a niggeh.
Porter: Well, Joe, I’m glad you spoke. I won’t be so lonesome!
Joe: Ah wants you to know,Misteh Porteh, it warnt makin notrouble fo white folks what got me in his place. It was a black man what Ah cut. Ah had a little yellah gal, an dat niggeh hadnt no business to be foolin wid her. Ah wouldn’t a done him no real harm, if it hadnt been dat he come on me so quick, Ah didn’t have a chance to bend mah razor back. You knows how it is wid razors?
Porter: No, Joe, I don’t think I ever fought with razors.
Joe: Well, you bends him back, all de way roun, an den you only got bout a half inch of blade, an he doan cut so deep, you cant do no real harm. But Ah mos cut dat black man’s neck through, so de jedge, he give it to me hard. Ah says to him, Jedge, if you knowed what Ah knows bout dat niggeh, you’d pay me fo service to de state of Ohio. But it was a Yankee jedge, an he doan smile.
Porter: He gave you life?
Joe: Not dat bad—twenty years. Ah reckons to git six years an eight months off fo good behavior—an den, Misteh Porteh, Ah’s goin back to de good ole state of Tennessee. Dey got me up hyar to work in de steel mills—Ah thought Ah’d make some money an buy me a tater patch an a mule; but Ah’s goin back home, wha dey knows what a genleman is. You comes from de South, Misteh Porteh?
Porter: North Carolina.
Joe: Ah knowed it! Dey was somethin in de way you looked at me. Mah ole daddy belonged to de Jedge Adair famly. You ever heah of de Judge Adair famly in Nashville? Ah lak to tell you bout dat famly, Misteh Porteh, den you see Ah knows what a genleman is, an how to talk to em.
Porter: Sit down, Joe.
Joe: Naw, suh, Ah reckon Ah keep circulatin dis hyar broom roun jes a bit—de capn he might come a driftin in hyar, an you knows how it is, Ah doan take no littlest chance fo to lose mah job as trusty—Ah wants to spend dem extra six years an eight months in de state of Tennessee, an not in de state of Ohio. Well, de Jedge Adair famly was one of de tip-top families, dey was sho nuff quality. But den de wah come, an you know how de Yankees come to Nashville, an de slaves was free. Mah ole daddy wanted to stick by de famly, but dey couldn’t keep him, dey didn’t have enough to eat fo dem selves. De Jedge he died, an dey was only Miss Azalea Adair lef, an dey was dis fine ole mansion all fallin in ruins, an dis fine lady livin in it an not enough to eat. She done married a man—he jes married her fo to live off what he thought she had, an when she doan have no money he curse her an he strike her—yes, Misteh Porteh, an you knows what would be goin on in de heart of an old slave what was raised in de famly, an knowin things was goin on like dat, an Miss Azalea Adair so proud, an hidin it all from de world. Well, mah ole daddy he got out an work fo de Yankees and save up an buy him a hack an a horse, an he drive, an make a little money, an when he know Miss Azalea Adair not have anything to eat, he take her a dollar or two. An den Major Caswell—dat’s de husban’s name—he find out she got dat money, an he take it away from her, so he kin go down an show off in de bar-roomof de big hotel, struttin roun an treatin all de genlemen what he know. You ever hear anything like dat in de South, Misteh Porteh?
Porter: No, I can’t say I ever did.
Joe: Well, Miss Azalea Adair she try all de time to find some way to earn money. Dey had a great liberry in de house, an she read all dem books, an got dem in her haid, an she begin to write. Of course, de editors up Noth, day was glad to git what a great lady like Miss Azalea Adair write, so dey sent a man down from New Yok fo to see her an pay her money, an git her to sen some mo writin. An mah ole daddy, he was de hackman what met dat Yankee man, an drove him to Miss Azalea Adair’s home. It was a ole hack, de horse was so weak he could hardly stagger—cause you see how it was, all de money what de fares brung in had to go to keep Miss Azalea Adair alive. Well, dat Yankee man, he pay Miss Azalea Adair fifty dollars fo what she write, an den he go away. An Major Caswell—dat’s de husban—he find out she got dat money, an he grab her by de wrist an twist it till she mos faint—she too proud to make a soun, you know—an he take dat money an sneak off. Mah old daddy, he peek through de do an he see dat happen. He take de kitchen knife an sneak out an folleh de Major—it was in de night, an black dark—an he stab him through an kill him an take de money. Yes, suh, he was a white man, too, but dis ole niggeh slave, he kill him.
Porter: And did they catch him?
Joe: Mah old daddy? Naw, suh, boss, dey doan ketch him, he die in his bed wid de preacher prayin oveh him an de angels a waitin fo his soul. Maybe de police have some idea what happen, but dey wasn’t anbody care much bout dat ornery Major Caswell. An Miss Azalea Adair course she doan never speculate nothin, cause my ole man he doan take her dat fifty dollars all to onst, he jes kinds string it out, one or two dollars when he see day warnt nothin in de pantry.
Porter: What a story! What a story! And you say—by George! You say that happened in Nashville?
Joe: Yes, Misteh Porteh.
Porter: Well, now, that’s a funny thing. I was reading the other day—here, I think I have it in these magazines—here’s a fellow who says you couldn’t tell an interesting story about Nashville, Tennessee!
Joe: What’s de matter wid Nashville?
Porter: He thinks it’s too slow, too old-fashioned. Here’s what he says. (reads) “Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville, Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States that are ‘story cities’—New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San Francisco.”
Joe: Well, Ah doan know nothin bout books, Misteh Porteh—
Porter: I know a little, and hope to know more. I’m writing some stories, and maybe some day I’ll write that story about Miss Azalea Adair. Is she dead?
Joe: Yes, suh, dey all daid.
Porter: I’ll quote that fellow who says you couldn’t write aboutNashville, Tennessee. I tell you Joe, you can write about any place where human beings live—provided you know how to get into their hearts and report what’s going on there; it doesn’t matter who they are—white or black—or where they are—in jail, or in Nashville. A story is a report on human hearts. I’ll call this one “A Municipal Report”; quote the statistics about Nashville—all the commonplace things, and then tell how I go there, and run into the old hackman that was once a slave, and drives his tumble-down old rig to earn a dollar, to buy food for his starving mistress in the mansion! I can make them cry over that! (a pause)
Joe: Misteh Porteh.
Porter: Well?
Joe: Somethin—Ah dunno if Ah’d ought to say it. Ah was in dis room las night, when you got through wid sewin up dat feller wid de busted haid—an you was all alone—leastways you thought you was, an Ah didn’t like to make no noise. (a pause) Ah like to say dis, Misteh Porteh, you doan have to feel shamed—dey’s lots o fellers cryin in dis place. (a pause) Dey gits you locked up, an yo cell-mate’s snorin—oh, den de tears come a runnin onto de pillow. You know, Misteh Porteh, dey was a little kinky headed yalleh baby, de prettiest little thing you ever see; Ah thinks what become of him, maybe he’s crying tonight cause he doan get enough to eat—it jes seem like mo’n Ah can stan.
Porter: You were married, then?
Joe: Naw suh, we wasn zacly married—dis was a kindeh what you might say engagement baby. (grins) But Ah guess Ah done loss dat yelleh gal fo keeps now, she doan write to me, Ah reckon she got some new felleh. (a pause) You got folks outside, Misteh Porteh?
Porter: I’ve got a little girl.
Joe: Sho nuff? Well, now! How ole dat little gal?
Porter: Eleven.
Joe: Her mammy daid?
Porter: Yes.
Joe: Dat’s hard! Dat’s sho nuff hard, Misteh Porteh! She got folks takin care of her?
Porter: She lives with her grandparents.
Joe: Ah wondeh, is you got a picture of dat chile?
Porter: Yes, I have. (he opens drawer of desk and hands a photograph to Joe)
Joe: Dat’s a pretty little gal! A sho nuff sweet chile! What dey call her, Misteh Porteh?
Porter: Margaret’s her name.
Joe: Margaret. Dat’s a right nice-soundin name. Ah doan wondeh you miss dat little lily. Do she know whah her pappy is?
Porter: She has no idea.
Joe: Oh, doan you let nobody tell her, Misteh Porteh!
Porter: Never until I tell her with my own lips.
Joe: Dat’s right, dat’s right! She’ll believe what her pappy tells her. Ah bet it ain’t so bad as some folks made it look like.
Porter: That is a question I never discuss with anyone in this place.
Joe: Ah understan you, boss. Ah reckon you aint showed dis hyar picture to many. But when a genleman from de South talk wid a niggeh, it’s like he was a chile, talkin to his black mammy. Dat little Miss Margaret got a ole mammy what take care of her?
Porter: Yes, Joe. (he puts away photograph) Every night I sit here and write, and all the time I’m thinking of one thing, to get enough money to send Margaret a present at Christmas. I didn’t have anything for her birthday, and I’m sure not going to fail again! Miss Azalea Adair will help me out.
Joe: She’d a liked dat first rate, Misteh Porteh.
Porter: What did she look like?
Joe: She had white hair, an her dresses was old, but de laundrin was new; a little lady, hardly anything to her; gentle an quaht—you know what dem Southern ladies is.
Porter: And your old daddy, tell me about him.
Joe: He was a big black man, big as me; proud feller, his grandaddy was a king in de Congo. Yes, suh, Misteh Porteh, suh, you needn’t laugh, dat’s a fact; dey was lots o great men captured an sold to be slaves. Uncle Caesar, dey call him, an he wore a long coat like de ginrals in Ginral Lee’s army. It was ole and patched, an de rain had washed it an de sun had faded it, but you could see it was a ginral’s coat—gold lace an tassels on it, an when dey was all gone, mah ole daddy he was boun to show it was a ginral’s coat, so he had mah mammy sew on rope to make loops an tassels an eppilets an things. An he would have to git himself tied up in it wid twine, cause all de buttons was gone, only one las button up near de top, a fine yelleh button, big as a half dollar. Yes suh, dat was a sho fine coat—Ah reckon mah ole daddy he wear it befo de throne of grace, cause dey done buried him in it. He stan by de do’ of de hack, wid his whip in one han an a ole feather duster in de odder, an he make like to dust off de seat of de hack, an he say: “Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral, suh. Kyar you anywhere in de town fo fifty cents.” He sho knew how to git de money out of genlemen.
Porter: I know, I’ve had them operate on me. I can see a whole mob of them, lined up in front of a depot; they come charging at you—like a race riot, a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with whips.
Joe: Jes so, boss; jes so!
Porter: Uncle Caesar, as you describe him, might be the old hackman who drove me and Miss Athol Estes, that summer night when we ran away to get married. I was afraid the old hack would fall to pieces at the next bump. We hadn’t very far to go—for Miss Athol sang in the choir of the Presbyterian church, and the minister wasgood enough to marry us. One thing more; tell me what Major Caswell looked like.
Joe: De Major? He was one of dese fellers dat hunt roun in a hotel lobby, like a starved dog lookin fo a bone. He would hit a spittoon wid a squirt of tobacco juice farther’n any man in de place. He was always fightin de war oveh—I heerd de Judge tell him once, he was one of dese perfessional Southerners. He had a big face, kindeh red an pulpy-like, an sleepy. I tell you who he look like, dat convict feller what was cursin at de doctor jes now. You could take him fo de Major on a dark night. (a voice calling,off-stage right: “Joe!”) Da’s de capn! (calls) Yes, boss!
Porter: See here, you black-skinned rascal, if you tell anybody what we’ve been talking about, I’ll take the ebony hide off you!
Joe(grins): Naw, suh, Misteh Porteh, suh, Ah knows mah place. Us Southerners got to stan together. You lemme be yo body-servant, Ah take care of you like you belonged to de Jedge Adair famly! (moves reluctantly towards exit) You was in de drug business befo you come hyar, Misteh Porteh?
Porter: When I was a lad I worked five years in my uncle’s drug-store.
Joe: Ah bet you like to member dem days!
Porter: It was the little town of Greensboro. You know how it is down South in the springtime, the sweet odor of the honeysuckle, and the mocking-birds singing; this time in the evening there’s chairs in front of the store, and the girls come in their white muslin dresses, and the perfumes you sold them yesterday now make you kind of drunk while you’re squirting out vanilla and strawberry flavors! And Babe Harmony, clerk to the justice of the peace, has fetched his old guitar. (faint sound of music: “Carry me back to old Virginny.”) He’s singing wha de cotton and de golden taters grow—
Joe(waving his hands): Oh, Misteh Porteh, doan tell me bout dem things, you make me spen de whole night cryin! Ah got to hustle, boss, Ah dassn linger, Ah doan want to spen dem extra six years an eight months in de state of Ohio! (runs off right; the music continues faintly)
Porter(sits at desk, in meditation): A Municipal Report. Nashville, Tennessee. What have I got about Nashville? That old atlas, perhaps! (digs out atlas from under a pile of books) T-E—Tennessee—Nashville. (reading slowly) “Nashville, a city, port of delivery, and the capital of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River, and on the N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads. This city is regarded as the most important educational center in the South.” Umm‑m‑m‑. “Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing centers of the country. It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods, grocery and drug business.” That’s bully! (sits lost in thought; gradually the lights shift to pale violet color) Uncle Caesar! His grandaddy was a king in the Congo!(Uncle Caesar enters at right, silently, like a ghost. Music: “Old black Joe.” He is Joe, the convict, made up in the role of his old father, with a woolly grey wig, a dilapidated coachman’s hat, and the extraordinary “ginral’s coat” previously described. He carries a coachman’s whip in one hand, and a feather duster in the other.) He must have got that coat from some Confederate officers. It was worn all through the war, it has been in battles. And that one button, that yellow button, big as a half a dollar, the last of the tribe, reminder of the dead glory. He looks out for customers, he hunts them as his grandaddy used to hunt heads in the Congo. He’s one of the crowd of hackmen—he storms down on you like a race riot, a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with whips!
(Uncle Caesar looks about, with growing energy and excitement; appearing to discover Porter, he stretches out the whip, crying): Kyar you anywhere in de town, boss, fo fifty cents! (he dusts an imaginary hack with his duster) Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral.
Porter: Driver, take me to the home of Miss Azalea Adair.
Uncle Caesar(stretches out his arm, as if barring Porter’s way; an expression of suspicion and enmity on his face): What’s dat? (then, recovering himself, with blandishing air) What you gwine da fo, boss?
Porter: What’s that to you?
Uncle Caesar: Nothin, suh, jes nuthin. Only it’s a lonesome kind of part of town and few folks ever has business out dah. Step right in, de seats is clean.
Porter: All right; if that old hack of yours don’t fall to pieces at the next bump. (a pause; Porter turns his eyes to the atlas, and reads). “The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets, of which 137 are paved; a system of waterworks which cost $2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains.” (takes out his purse, rises, and offers Uncle Caesar a half and a quarter dollar) Here’s a quarter extra for you.
Uncle Caesar: It’s two dollars, suh.
Porter: How’s that? I plainly heard you call out: “Fifty cents to any part of the town.”
Uncle Caesar: It’s two dollars, suh. It’s a long way from de hotel.
Porter: It’s within the city limits, and well within them. Don’t think that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills over there in the East? Well, I was born on the other side, in North Carolina. You old fool nigger, can’t you tell people from other people when you see ’em?
Uncle Caesar(grins): Is you from de South, suh? Ah reckon it was dem shoes of yourn fooled me. Dey is somethin sharp on de toes fo a Southern genleman to wear.
Porter: Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?
Uncle Caesar: Boss, fifty cents is right; but Ah needs two dollars, suh; Ah’mbleegedto have two dollars. Ah ain’tdemandinitnow, suh; after Ah knows whah you’s from; Ah’m jes sayin dat Ahhasto have two dollars tonight, and business is mighty po.
Porter: (reaches for his pocket) You confounded old rascal, you ought to be turned over to the police. But you know; you know; YOU KNOW!
Uncle Caesar: Yes, boss, Ah knows; Ah knows; AH KNOWS! (bowing and scraping, slides into the background)
Porter(returns to study of the atlas; reads): “In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict.” That’s the history of it; but that wouldn’t satisfy Major Caswell. He’s a professional Southerner. A good phrase! I know the type. When he bangs the bar with his fist, the first gun at Fort Sumter re-echoes. When he fires the last one at Appomattox, I begin to hope for a chance to get away! (Major Caswell enters right, silently; he is the convict Purzon, made up as a Southern gentleman, with a string tie, a slouch hat and a Prince Albert; he stands in shadow, barely visible; behind him is the frail figure of a woman, still less visible). But he twists the wrist of a woman! The rat with the blabbing lip! (the Major turns upon the woman and enacts the role of twisting her wrist and taking some money from her by force; she moans feebly) But she’s too proud to make a sound! She’s a Southern lady—God bless her—and she hides her grief from the world! (the woman sinks to the ground, invisible in the darkness; the Major comes forward, holding the money in his hand; he counts it with exultation)
The Major: Fifty dollars! A real haul that time! I can live like a gentleman fo once. Step up, suh, say the word, suh, the drinks are on me. The South comes back to her own! The guns of Fort Sumter re-echo again! The Confederate General Hood drives the damn Yankees in rout befo him, and Nashville is free once mo, a place fit fo a gentleman to live in. What’ll you have, Colonel?
(Uncle Caesar has been crouching in the shadows, watching the scene. He nowsteals out with a butcher knife in his hand and leaps upon the Major, who turns and defends himself, trying to hold the Negro off. In the struggle the Major tears the button from Uncle Caesar’s coat; as the Negro stabs him, he falls, clutching the button in his hand. Uncle Caesar takes the money from him, and then steals off).
Porter(has been watching the drama with excitement, now and then gesturing as if he were directing the actions of the players; he now advances, gazing upon the body): Stabbed him to the heart! A white man he was, and the old Negro slave killed him! But he leaves a clue—see, the Major has torn the one last button from the old Negro’s coat, and he holds that button in his dead hand! That’s where I come upon the scene—I’ll be the man from New York who brings the fifty dollars to Miss Azalea Adair. I discover how Major Caswell robbed his wife; I know that the Negro will take the money back to her; so I take that button out of the Major’s hand—(hestoops and takes the button) So when the police come and find the body, they don’t know what to make of it! (two policemen enter silently; they discover the body, make a swift investigation, and then pick up the body and carry it off, right) And so the old Negro escapes, and dies in his bed with the preacher praying over him, and the angels waiting for his soul. And something has happened—(exulting)—a drama! A real story—in Nashville, Tennessee! (a pause) Oh, they’ll have to take that story! That’s a masterpiece, and I know it! I’ll get money for that—and buy Margaret a real present. What’ll it be? A pony, perhaps! No, that would cost too much to keep. It’ll be a doll, the most beautiful doll in the very fanciest shop in New York. Margaret, dear, how would you like to have a doll—a big one in a pink crepe dress, with pink ribbons in her hair—and when you lay her down she closes her eyes, and when you squeeze her she says “Mamma!”
(Margaret enters, at left, moving softly, in dream fashion; a frail, sensitive, eager child, dressed in white muslin; she carries the big doll as described, and gazes at it with ecstasy. Music.)
Porter: Do you like it, dear?
Margaret: Oh, Papa, she’s so sweet! Just listen! (she squeezes the doll, which says “Mamma!”) She says “Mamma!” Oh, I wish Mamma could be here to hear her! (runs to Porter) But you’re here. Papa! You’ve come back to me. Have you come to stay?
Porter: Yes, sweetheart, never to go away.
Margaret: Oh, Papa, I’ve missed you so! Why did you stay so long?
Porter: That’s a sad story, dear.
Margaret: They wouldn’t tell me a thing about it—where you were or what you were doing.
Porter: Listen, dear, it’s hard for me to tell you, but I have to tell you some day. You’ll never doubt Papa, will you?
Margaret: Doubt you, Papa?
Porter: No, of course not. It’s something very cruel, and I hate to make you unhappy, but you must know, you must! All those years—three and more while Papa was away from you—they had put him in prison.
Margaret(horrified): In prison!
Porter: Yes, dear. There were people who accused Papa of taking some money that didn’t belong to him—money from a bank. But listen, Margaret, dear, you’ll never doubt what Papa tells you—
Margaret(wide-eyed): Why, of course not, Papa!
Porter: I want you to know that Papa never got that money. Other people got it and they blamed it on him. They ran the bank carelessly, and Papa was never a good hand to take care of money, you know. And Mamma was ill, we had many dreadful troubles. When they accused Papa—oh, it was cruel, with things about it in the newspapers, and Papa had to go into court, and be charged with it, and have to tell things about other people that he couldn’t bear to tell.I ought to have gone, Margaret, dear, I ought to have faced it out and told everything. But I always hated money so, and money matters—I was on my way to the trial, and I fell into a sort of panic, I just couldn’t face it, I went to New Orleans and took a steamer to Central America. You remember the first time Papa was away, for half a year—you were young then—
Margaret: I remember it, Papa. Mamma and I packed up your overcoat, and some good things to eat, and sent them to you.
Porter: I had been traveling all over Central America and South America and Mexico. First I thought I could get some sort of little home there, and have you and Mamma come; but I couldn’t earn a living there, and I was so unhappy. Then I learned that Mamma was worse—at the very time she packed that overcoat she was hardly able to move. So I got desperate, I didn’t care what happened to me, I came back, and Mamma died in my arms. And then I gave myself up, I let them take me and try me in court. I sat and hardly knew what was happening to me; I didn’t say a word that I might have said in my own defense. My heart was breaking, dear, but I couldn’t let you know it—I had to pretend to be happy, and make jokes, and tell you I’d be back soon—(he sobs, and the child with him) I had to tell grandma and grandpa to hide from you where I was, and wait until I came out. I wanted to tell you with my own lips, so you would know Papa was innocent—
Margaret: Of course, Papa! Of course!
Porter: Oh, sweetheart, I can never tell you about that place, and what I suffered there. Only one thing kept me alive—the thought that some day I’d be with you again. All the time I was in the prison I used to write stories—I was the night drug-clerk, I slept in the day-time and was on duty at night, and I’d spend long hours writing stories. Some of them were published—and do you know what I spent the money for? To send presents to you! That lovely dolly—I spent hours thinking about that dolly, and how happy it would make you. I used to sit at my desk and imagine you with that dolly, all the sweet things you’d say to it—
Margaret(gazing enraptured at the doll): Oh, such a sweet dolly! Oh, Papa—did you know, when you lay her down she shuts her eyes, and that makes it easy to play she’s asleep! And when you squeeze her she says “Mamma!” Do you suppose I could teach her to say “Papa”?
Porter: Maybe I can find another that will say “Papa!”
Margaret: And a baby dolly, and a mammy dolly to take care of her! A whole dolly family! Oh! Oh! (claps her hands) And Papa! Such a lovely pink dress! I’m going to make her an every-day dress, because this is too fine except for parties.
Porter: Do you know what that dress reminds me of, Margaret? The one your Mamma wore the day we were married.
Margaret: Tell me about it!
Porter: Well, you see, grandma and grandpa didn’t want Mammato marry, because she wasn’t well, even in those young days. But we just loved each other too much, so we ran away, and were married by the Reverend Mr. Smoot of the Presbyterian church, where Mamma sang in the choir. It was a day in the summertime—in Texas; I can see Mamma in the lovely pink crepe dress, soft and fluffy—
(Athol enters, right, as described, a frail delicate girl of eighteen, wearing a pink dress to match that of the doll. Music: “Silver threads among the gold.”)
She was the loveliest thing in the whole wide state of Texas that morning—and Texas is a wide state, I tell you! I was thinking about her last night, and I wrote: (he reads from manuscript, and meantime Margaret slips back into the shadows, and Athol comes forward, manifesting pleasure in the words). “The Bride! Word of words in the epiphany of life and love. The scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation—such is the bride. Holy is the wife; revered the mother;galluptious is the summer girl—but the bride is the certified check among the wedding presents that gods send in when man is married to mortality.... Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 H. P. touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin.”
Porter(rises and goes to Athol): Dearest! You have come!
Athol: For always, Will.
Porter: For always, and for happiness.
Athol: You’re going to be good to me, Will?
Porter: With the goodness of a whole choir of angels, and the choir of the First Presbyterian Church thrown in! The goodness of a case of the finest oldsilk-velvet Kentucky Bourbon, with due accompaniments of sugar, mint and ice—
Athol: Oh, Will, what a metaphor! You know what you promised me about your fondness for Bourbon!
Porter: Let it be inscribed—a promissory note—on the back of our marriage certificate.
Athol: It is inscribed on my heart, Will—
Porter: Where I shall read it most frequently! Marriages are laundered in heaven, their promises sprinkled by the celestial water-wagon—
Espiritu de la Vina(enters left; a Spanish girl with vivid brunette coloring, clad in scanty dancer’s costume of scarlet and orange. She carries castanets, with which she emphasizes her mockery. She passes, ogling Porter, and singing)
A beber, a beber, a apurarLas Copas de licorQue el vino hara olvidarLas penas del amor.
A beber, a beber, a apurarLas Copas de licorQue el vino hara olvidarLas penas del amor.
A beber, a beber, a apurarLas Copas de licorQue el vino hara olvidarLas penas del amor.
A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.
Athol: Will, who is that woman?
Porter: A Mexican girl I used to know—a long time ago, dear, when I was ranching—
Athol: Why should you know such a woman?
Porter: It was before I met you, dearest. There was no disloyalty to you.
Athol: But, Will—
Porter: Every man has a temptation, Athol; and she was mine. I have resisted her; I shall always resist her—more easily with you by my side.
Athol: What is her name?
Porter: Espiritu, they call her—Espiritu de la Vina. She is gay, and men flock to her—but I have chosen the water-wagon for my chariot to heaven!
(Espiritu dances off left, with a burst of mocking laughter)
Porter(to Athol): Dearest love, there is no one in the world for me but you. We have a lifetime of bliss before us. (he looks about impatiently) Where’s that old nigger hackman? He swore he’d be here on time! (shouts) Hey, there, you good-for-nothing old grandson of a bob-tailed monkey, what do you mean by being late when you know I’m trying to elope with the sweetest girl in the whole wide state of Texas?
Caesar(runs on, right): Yes, boss, here Ah is, Johnny on de spot! (makes as if to dust off the seat of a carriage) Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral, suh. Kyar you anywhere in de town fo fifty cents. Dis de young lady? She’s a sho nuff sweet bride! Right dis way, Miss, de preacher is a-waiting! (Music: Lohengrin wedding march. The Negro offers her his arm, gallantly, and leads her off, right, as if escorting her to the coach) Dis way, ma’am, dis way to de weddin festivities!
(Porter stands gazing after them, yearningly. Gradually the white light returns; a brisk step is heard)
Dr. Walters(night physician of the prison, a young man, enters left): Well, Porter?
Porter: Good evening, doctor.
Dr. Walters: Everything all right?
Porter: A few men dying, as you know.
Dr. Walters: I hear that poor fellow, Jimmie Valentine, is laid up again. Wonder how he hangs on.
Porter: It’s a poor place for his kind of trouble.
Dr. Walters: Yes, they all ought to be out in the sunshine. But then they’d all run away. So what can you do?
Porter: I have no answer for that, doctor.
Dr. Walters: They say Jimmie Valentine was a first-class safe-cracker.
Porter: So he tells me.
Dr. Walters: Used to make a specialty of opening a safe in a few seconds, they say—he had a trick all his own. Well, he’ll have a chance to try his skill on the golden gates.
Porter: Doctor, I’m told Valentine has an old mother outside, and he’s never been allowed to see her. Have you any idea of the reason?
Dr. Walters: I never have ideas on such subjects, Porter; I leave them to the warden. I think you’d be well-advised to do the same.
Porter: Yes, sir; I understand you.
Dr. Walters: Have those medical supplies come?
Porter: Yes. They’ll be unpacked and on the shelves before morning.
Dr. Walters: Those aspirin tablets made up?
Porter: All ready.
Dr. Walters: You know, Porter, we can buy such things made up, if you prefer.
Porter: No, sir, I’ve plenty of time—no complaint on that score. I was brought up to percolate my own paregoric and roll my own pills.
Dr. Walters: By the way, Porter—this is serious—I’ve been looking into the matter of that missing alcohol; there’s more of it gone.
Porter: Is that so, doctor?
Dr. Walters: Is there anybody you suspect?
Porter: Well, you know how it is in a prison, there are many men who might take alcohol; but there’s no one I have any reason to name.
Dr. Walters: Well, it has certainly got to be stopped. I don’t like the job of playing detective, but some one has to do it. I’ll slip a little drug into the alcohol, and make somebody mighty sick.
Porter: I’ll do my best to watch, doctor; but you know I’m not here all the time.
Dr. Walters: I have an interesting dissection to do this evening. If there are any calls, you might go for me.
Porter: All right, doctor.
Dr. Walters: You’ve come to know our line of drugs about as well as I do.
(He goes off. Porter sits at desk, his head in his hands. The light fades to red. Sound of guitar and castanets, rising louder. Espiritu de la Vina enters, dancing seductively; she directs her attention to Porter, who gradually looks up, gazing at her; she sings)