_Will (enters)._ Yes.
_Peggy._ For how much?
_Will (in a voice of agony)._ _Guess_ how much?
_Peggy._ Tell me!
_Will._ Two-fifty.
_Peggy._ Two-fifty!
_Will._ Two dollars and a half!
_Peggy._ Great God!
_Will (furiously)._ How do they expect a poet to live on two dollars
and a half for a poem?
_Peggy (hysterically)._ They don't expect poets to live! They don't
care anything about poets! Poets are cheap!
_Will (catches her by the arm, stares at her)._ Peggy! Peggy! This
play has got to succeed! It's got to succeed! People have got to
like it!
_Peggy._ Oh, Will. I hope they like it! I could get them by the
throats and choke them until they promise to like it! I could fall
down upon my knees and beg them to like it! _(To audience, with
intensity.)_ _Don't_ you like it? Don't you like it? Tell us that
you like it! Tell us!
CURTAIN.
ACT IV.
_(SCENE--The attic, the following afternoon. Scene of the Play-play
is the drawing room, as in Act I._
_At rise: The Real-play, showing Will busy working on his Mss.,
Left. Peggy Right, putting Bill to sleep._
_Peggy._ Now, Mr. Bill, you're going to have a nice nap.
_Bill._ I feel better.
_Peggy._ I'm so glad to hear it. And Will's most through with his
play, and then he'll take you to the park.
_Bill._ Say, Peggy!
_Peggy._ Now, go to sleep.
_Bill._ But say!
_Peggy._ Well?
_Bill._ I think I'm hungry.
_Peggy._ There's nothing in the house, dear.
_Bill._ No bread, Peggy?
_Peggy._ No, but we'll get some when you wake up. _(Goes Left and
sits by Will. Silence, while he works over papers. He is pale and
haggard; she watches him anxiously.)_
_Will. (Leans on hands.)_ Oh, dear.
_Peggy._ Tired, Will?
_Will._ I'm getting a beastly headache.
_Peggy._ Will, you know you oughtn't to work when your stomach has
quit like this.
_Will._ Hang my stomach!
_Peggy._ But, dear--
_Will._ Why do authors have to have stomachs? They're never of any
use.
_Peggy._ Listen, Will. You can't do good work when you're so tired.
_Will._ I can do good work! You'll see it's good. I've nearly
finished the fourth act now. Come, read it--and forget about my
stomach. _(She moves over to him. The Play-play begins to appear.)_
The scene is Dad's drawing-room again. Jessie is there; she's
worrying about Jack, and Bob is trying to comfort her. _(Full light
on Play-play.)_
_Bob._ He's all right, Jessie. Anybody'd think he'd gone to war!
_Jessie._ He was never away for so long before.
_Bob._ Don't I seem a fairly healthy specimen, Jessie?
_Jessie._ I suppose so, Bob.
_Bob._ Well, I've done what he's doing. I've done it for a year. And
I survived.
_Jessie._ But you knew how, Bob.
_Bob._ I didn't when I started.
_Jessie._ It snowed last night; I lay awake till daybreak worrying
about him.
_Bob._ My dear girl, men have got snow on their clothes before this.
_Jessie._ He's been gone a month!
_Bob._ Listen, Jessie! You know there's misery and suffering in the
world, don't you?
_Jessie._ Yes, I suppose so.
_Bob._ And could you wish Jack to live all his life in indifference
to such things--just idle and play, and spend the wealth that other
people produce for him?
_Jessie. (Clenching her hands.)_ Oh, if he'd only come home! _(The
telephone rings.)_
_Bob._ I'll answer it. _(Goes to phone.)_ Hello. _(A pause; then
exclaims.)_ Why, what's happened? _(Another pause; he turns to
Jessie.)_ It's Jack!
_Jessie (leaps up.)_ Jack!
_Bob._ Ssh. _(In phone.)_ Yes, what's that? What's the matter? Well,
I declare! Sure, Jessie's here. Yes, Dad's upstairs. No, I won't
tell him. Perhaps he won't. Hey? In two minutes? All right! Bye-bye!
_(Turns.)_ He's coming home!
_Jessie._ Bob!
_Bob._ He's around at the subway station. He'll be here in two
minutes.
_Jessie._ But what's happened?
_Bob._ He wouldn't say. Just says he gives up--he's coming home.
_Jessie._ Thank Heaven! _(A pause.)_ But Bob! What can it mean?
_Bob._ It means he's lost his wager.
_Jessie._ I don't care! He's coming home! Jack! Jack! _(She dances
and claps her hands.)_ Oh, I'm so happy! So happy! _(The light
begins to rise on the Real-play-enough to reveal Bill getting up
from the cot. He looks about guiltily, climbs up to a shelf after a
bowl. There is a crash. Instantly the Play-play vanishes.)_
_Will. (Starting.)_ What's that?
_Peggy. (Leaps up and runs Right.)_ Bill!
_Bill._ Boo-hoo-hoo!
_Peggy._ What's the matter?
_Bill._ I didn't go to do it!
_Peggy._ But what--
_Will._ Didn't you know we were busy?
_Bill._ I-I was hungry!
_Peggy._ Poor Bill! Never mind, dear! _(Clasps him in her arms.)_
There was nothing in the bowl.
_Bill._ I th-thought there might b-b-be.
_Peggy._ Never mind! Poor little fellow! He was hungry!
_Bill._ I couldn't sleep, Peggy.
_Peggy._ All right, never mind. We won't scold you. It doesn't
matter about the old bowl--we've got nothing to put in it anyway.
Now, don't cry--you'll get yourself all excited. _(Sound of singing
heard off Right.)_
_Bill._ Oh! There's the Beggar-kid! _(Runs to window.)_ Say, Peggy!
Can't I go down and listen to him? I won't go off the steps, and I
won't talk to anybody.
_Peggy._ You're sure you feel well enough?
_Bill._ I'll feel better, Peggy. Please! Please!
_Peggy._ You'll truly not go off the steps?
_Bill._ Word of honor, Peggy!
_Peggy._ All right, then.
_Bill._ Hooray! Now, I'll get the roses in my cheeks! _(exit at door
Left; Peggy closes window and sound of singing stops)._
_Peggy._ It's a crime that child isn't in the country!
_Will (drawing her to table)._ What do you think of my fourth act?
_Peggy._ Why dear, it's just as I said about Act One, you need more
life in the scene, more variety and color.
_Will._ But how can it be got?
_Peggy._ I told you before--you must bring in Gladys.
_Will._ Gladys at this stage of the play?
_Peggy._ Of course! You're bringing home Belle, and you want a
character contrast--the daughter of the tenements and the princess
of the plutocracy. Gladys is still in love with Jack, and here he's
coming home with another girl!
_Will._ Oh, Peggy, that's so cheap!
_Peggy._ Wait, Will--let me work it out for you. I can show you what
I mean. Let me have your pencil.
_Will (groans)._ Go on!
_Peggy._ See now--it's the same scene--_(begins to write, Will
reading over her shoulder. Play-play begins to appear)._ Only Gladys
is pouring tea--
_Will._ Isn't that just like her! Always pouring tea!
_Peggy._ Shut up! There's Jessie and Bob. Gladys has her very finest
society manner--she wouldn't for the world let anyone think that
she was excited by the telephone-message. _(full light on
Play-play)_
_Gladys._ Well, Jessie, I have had a most enjoyable evening. But I
must be going now.
_Jessie._ What? When Jack is coming?
_Gladys.__ Oh, would Jack want to see me? Surely not! No, I must
really go _(rises and starts to door)._ Good-bye!
_Will._ You're not going to have her go off?
_Peggy._ Wait! Let me write!
Jessie (rises, runs and stops Gladys)._ No, dear! Please wait!
_Gladys._ What for?
_Jessie._ Do a favor for me, Gladys. I know Jack still loves you. I
want you to stay here! I want you to hear it from his own lips. Let
me hide you behind this screen _(starts towards screen with her)._
When Jack comes in, I'll speak about you--
_Will (vehemently)._ That won't do! _(Gladys and Jessie stop.)_
_Peggy._ Why not?
_Will._ It's rotten!
_Peggy._ But I want her to do it! _(Gladys and Jessie start towards
screen again.)_
_Will._ I won't have it I say! It's undignified!
_Peggy._ Oh, don't be silly, Will!
_Will._ I say I won't have it! Let Gladys go on pouring tea!
_(Gladys starts towards tea table.)_
_Peggy._ Let them hide, I say! _(Gladys starts to screen.)_
_Will._ Stop, I say! _(Gladys stops, stands dazed and helpless.)_
_Peggy._ Why can't you give me a chance to write?
_Will._ I can't stand it, I tell you!
_Peggy._ But I want to show you how it would go.
_Will._ I don't want to see it! I won't read such things!
_Peggy._ But if I'm to have Gladys at all--
_Will._ You can't have her! She's got no business in my play! _(He
leaps up in fury.)_ To hell with her, I say--to hell with her!
_(Gladys turns and flees off with a scream; the Play-play fades.)_
_Peggy._ Will, dear, _why_ must you be so unreasonable?
_Will._ Now see, do you want to read what I've written, or don't
you?
_Peggy._ Yes, dear, of course.
_Will._ Well then, drop this tomfoolery and go on!
_Peggy (resignedly)._ All right, I'll do it.
_Will._ We've got that scene to finish. I've got a climax that isn't
bad, I think. Jessie and Bob have just had the telephone-message.
_(Light begins to rise on the Play-play.)_ Jessie's dancing with
happiness, but suddenly the thought comes to her, What will Dad say?
_(Full light on Play-play; Peggy and Will make secret exit.)_
_Jessie (in distress)._ Bob, do you suppose Dad will take Jack's
money from him?
_Bob._ I don't know. It'll all depend.
_Jessie._ Oh, we mustn't allow it! It would be wicked! You go
upstairs, Bob, and stay with Dad until I can find out what's
happened.
_Bob (rises)._ A good idea!
_Jessie._ Maybe I'll have to hide Jack until we can break the news.
_(As she speaks Dad appears in the doorway behind her.)_ You see,
Bob, we must handle him carefully--he's an old man and he's liable
to fly off, and we can't tell what he might do in a sudden rage.
He's not really responsible, you know.
_Dad (stepping forward)._ What's this?
_Jessie (starting)._ Oh, Dad!
_Dad._ What's this you're trying to keep from me?
_Jessie._ Why--it wasn't from you, Dad.
_Dad._ Who was it from, hey? Answer me!
_Jessie._ Why--Dad--
_Dad (raging)._ So I'm not really responsible! You have to handle me
carefully, do you? What is it? Out with it.
_Jessie._ Why Dad--it's nothing--
_Dad._ I know better. Out with it!
_Bob._ Really, Dad--
_Dad._ Answer me!
_Jessie._ Why Dad--it's only that I've spent some money.
_Dad._ Spent some money!
_Jessie._ I've been buying clothes, and I was afraid when you saw
the bills--
_Dad._ Where are the bills?
_Jessie._ I'll show them to you.
_Dad._ Where are they?
_Jessie._ Upstairs. Please don't scold me too much, Dad. _(Starts to
lead him off.)_ You see, I didn't realize at the time--
_Dad._ I know. That's always the way with my children. They never
realize anything!
_Jessie._ It isn't so bad--_(The front door bell rings, she
starts.)_ Oh!
_Dad._ What's the matter?
_Jessie._ Nothing. Come on!
_Dad._ Wait till I see what this is.
_Jessie._ It's nothing, Dad.
_Dad._ How do you know it's nothing?
_Jessie._ I want to show you the bills.
_Dad._ Well, wait just a moment. The bills won't run away.
_Jessie (aside to Bob)._ Lost!
_Dad._ Why, what's that? Isn't that Jack's voice? Why-why-good God!
_(Jack appears in doorway, with Belle on His arm, Dolly and Bill
behind him. All stare.)_
_Jack (staggers to chair with Belle)._ Excuse me, please. _(He
proceeds to loosen Belle's coat, tears away her collar. She is half
fainting.)_ Get me a glass of wine! Quick! _(Bob obeys.)_ A fan,
somebody! _(Jessie seizes a newspaper and hands it to him. Dolly
kneels at Belle's other side.)_ She'll be all right in a
moment--she's exhausted. Ah! Better? _(He rises and speaks swiftly,
intensely.)_ You see what's the matter. The girl is ill; she's
nearly dying. I had to get help for her. _(To Bob.)_ You must excuse
me, old man. I had to give up the wager. This was too much for me.
You see--_(Hesitates.)_ I guess you were right. I ran into the
reality of life, and it floored me. You may kid me all you please,
I'll take my medicine. But there was this girl--I had to come back,
you see. _(To Dad.)_ Excuse me, Dad, for making such a mess of it.
But I couldn't punish this girl for my sins. I had to give up my
quarter of a million, and save her life.
_Dad._ What's the matter with the girl?
_Jack._ She's been worked to death. Standing on her feet in a
restaurant fourteen hours a day.
_Jessie._ Oh!
_Jack._ And you see, Jessie--I remembered how you'd gone to Florida
and got well. _(To the others.)_ Look at the difference! Look at the
contrast between them. That was what knocked me out--I couldn't get
away from it. I've got to send this girl to Florida and give her the
same chance that Jessie had.
_Jessie._ Who is she?
_Jack._ She was a waitress. She helped me when I was starving. And
now I have to help her. She's as good as gold, Jessie, and you must
be kind to her. It wasn't fair that she should die, just because I'd
been an idler, a good for nothing! Bob--you'll be satisfied when you
know what a lesson I've had. You can't imagine how I feel, coming
out of it--it's like escaping from a nightmare! I can't quite
believe it's over. _(He stands staring before him)._ And then I
think--I've brought her out with me, but how many others I left
behind me! Tens of thousands of others, down there in a pit! Belle,
look at me! It was a bad dream, and now it's over! Here's my
sister--see! She was as sick as you, and now, how well she is! Look
at her cheeks--touch her--take her hand. And you shall be like that,
you shall start for Florida right away! Can't you believe it, Dolly?
_Dolly._ It seems to me we've got some explanation coming to us,
Jack.
_Jack._ Oh, I forgot. This is my sister. This is Dolly, Belle's
sister, and this is Bill--a little news-boy who helped me when I was
down and out.
_Bill._ Good evenin', ladies and gents.
_Dolly._ It was some kind of joke you played on us, Jack?
_Jack._ It was a wager I had made. I went out to shift for myself
and see how I'd get along. I wasn't playing any joke on you, Dolly.
_Dolly._ It was a pretty poor joke on Belle, I think.
_Jack._ How do you mean?
_Dolly._ You promised you'd marry her!
_Dad._ What!
_Jessie._ Marry her!
_Dolly._ That's what he told her. Didn't you, Jack?
_Jack._ Why--I--
_Dolly._ It's all right, Jack--since's we've caught on in time.
_Jack._ No, no, don't misunderstand me. It was just that I didn't
want to tell my family just yet.
_Dad (starting forward)._ Why, you infernal jackass!
_Jack._ Dad--
_Dad._ You have the impudence to come here and tell me that you
promised to marry a waitress in a restaurant!
_Jack. Yes, Dad---
_Dad (raging)._ Are you mad? When you've just proven that you can't
earn enough to fill your own belly? You come here whining for
forgiveness, and then tell me you'll marry a girl of the streets--
_Jessie._ Dad! Stop!
_Dolly._ Excuse me, Jack--we'll get out of this. _(Rises.)_
_Jessie._ No--wait! Please, Dad--
_Dad._ Let her go! There's no place for her here.
_Dolly._ Come, Belle, _(Lifts her.)_
_Jessie (Hysterically)._ Dad, how can you be so cruel?
_Dad._ Keep out of this, Jessie.
_Jack._ If they go, I go too, Dad.
_Dad._ Go, and good riddance to you.
_Jack._ If I go, I'll never return.
_Dad._ Has anybody asked you to?
_Bob._ Wait a minute, Dad.
_Dad._ Let me alone, Bob. I'll attend to this.
_Jessie (rushing to Jack)._ Jack! Jack! Wait!
_Dolly._ Come on, Belle! This is no place for us!
_Jack._ I'll take her myself. _(Exits left with Belle)._
_Jessie._ Jack! Dad doesn't know what he's saying!
_Dad._ Who says I don't know what I'm saying? Who says I'm not
responsible for my own acts? Who says I have to be handled
carefully? I'll have you all understand--
_Jessie (clutching Dad)._ Don't you see the girl's nearly dead?
_Bill._ I'll get out too _(To Dad.)_ Say Mister--_(Dad stares at
him)._ You're worse'n my stepfather! _(Exit with Dolly)._
_Jessie (hysterically)._ Dad! Dad! I beg you--have mercy. _(Flings
herself sobing upon him)._
_Bob._ Really, Dad, you're treating him pretty badly!
_Dad._ I haven't asked your opinion, sir!
_Bob._ Well, I guess I'll go with him!
_Dad._ As you please, sir! _(Bob exit. The Play-play begins to
fade)._
_Will (in low voice)._ That's as far as I've done. _(A pause.)_ It's
near the end. What do you think of it?
_Pegyy._ Why, Will, you know what I told you before--
_Will (in a voice of despair)._ That it's all wrong! That I don't
know how to write a play. That I've got to do it all over!
_Peggy._ I never said that, Will. But I told you that you couldn't
put an audience through all those harrowing adventures, and then
pile an unhappy ending on top. You simply can't get away with such a
proposition.
_Will._ But surely, I can't have this play end happily!
_Peggy._ Where's the law to prevent you?
_Will._ The law of truth prevents me.
_Peggy._ What do you mean? Couldn't Dad forgive Jack?
_Will._ No!
_Peggy._ Why not?
_Will._ Because Dad hasn't forgiven me.
_Peggy._ But Will, there are plenty of other Dads--and they aren't
all so heartless. You'll simply have to choose another father for
this play. You can't write for your own satisfaction--you've got to
think about the box-office.
_Will (leaping up and flinging out his hands)._ Oh, my God! The
box-office! Have I got to slaughter my artistic instincts to feed
the greed of a box-office? For God's sake, Peggy, take this play and
write it to suit the taste of Broadway! Or shall I tear up the
darned stuff? _(Seizes Mss.)_
_Peggy (interfering)._ Will!
_Will._ I've got a play written, and you come and tell me to write
another. And when I take it to the manager, he'll tell me to write a
third. And his wife will read it, and I'll have to write a fourth!
And then there's the stage-manager--perhaps he has a wife too! Who
else, for the love of Mike?
_Peggy (laughing)._ Why there's the star, and the leading lady--in
this case you've got two actresses fighting for precedence, tearing
each other's eyes out over the question of dressing-rooms. Then
there's the press agent and the property-man, and the dramatic
editors of a dozen newspapers, who'll tell you next morning exactly
why your play fell flat. _(Puts her arms about him.)_ Will, dear,
don't be so impatient. Try to understand what I mean! Such a
frightfully depressing ending--everybody in the play has lost
everything!
_Will._ But that isn't so!
_Peggy._ Jack has lost his wager, and his quarter of a million
dollars--and his home!
_Will._ But see what he's gained.
_Peggy._ What?
_Will._ In the first place wisdom, and in the second a wife.
_Peggy._ Few people in the audience know anything about wisdom, and
everyone of them knows that he could buy a wife for less than a
quarter of a million dollars.
_Will._ That's all very well--for a funny line. But there's many a
man would give that much money to find a noble-hearted and faithful
and loving woman, who would stand by him through all the trials of
his life! I gave up more than a quarter of a million myself, and do
you suppose it ever occurs to me to regret the bargain? Do you
suppose I'd be willing to wipe you and Bill out of existence if I
could get my money back?
_Peggy (lays her hand, on his)._ Will, dear, that's very sweet of
you, but it's not the same in your play. In the first place, Bill
isn't Jack's child; and then Belle is dying. You see, you've told
such a dreadful story--
_Will (irritably)._ Don't tell me that all over again!
_Peggy._ Forgive me! You've got a headache, and you're worn out--we
oughtn't to try to argue now. You simply can't get this play right
while you're so over-wrought. Take a little time off, and rest and
get a fresh view of it.
_Will._ But we'll starve to death in the meantime!
_Peggy._ No, dear, we needn't. Let me go and get a job to tide us
over the trouble. So you can do your work without killing yourself--
please, dear, please!
_Will (in thought)._ Listen, Peggy. If we're going to make a break,
I've thought of something better.
_Peggy._ What is it?
_Will._ I'll go and see Dad.
_Peggy._ Oh, Will, you couldn't do that!
_Will._ I've been thinking about it for the last three days. You
see, putting him in the play has brought him back to my thoughts.
I've shown him harsh and narrow--but still I realize that I love
him. Perhaps he can't help it if he has a bad temper; and if he's
stubborn--well, I've been as stubborn as he. I've waited all these
years for him to come; and may be it was my place to make the first
move. Now he's old--he can't last much longer; and if he died, I'd
be sorry all my life that I hadn't been more generous to him. It
isn't his money--after all, he's my father. If I have to humble
myself somewhere, perhaps I ought to give him the first chance. _(A
pause.)_ What do you think?
_Peggy._ I don't know, Will. It couldn't do any harm, I suppose. _(A
pause)._
_Bill (pounds suddenly on door Left)._ Let me in!
_Peggy (leaps up)._ What's the matter?
_Bill (rushes in)._ Oh! Oh!
_Will and Peggy._ What is it?
_Bill._ A man tried to kidnap me!
_Will and Peggy._ _What?_
_Bill._ Tried to--to take me away!
_Peggy._ Bill!
_Bill._ An old man--in an automobile!
_Will._ You don't mean it, Bill?
_Bill._ He got out and asked my name. Then he asked me if I'd like
to go for a ride. I remembered what you'd told me about kidnappers.
So I ran upstairs.
_Peggy (staring at Will)._ Do you suppose it could be--
_Will._ I'll go and see. _(The bell rings Left; He stops)._
_Bill._ It's the old man! He's after me! _(Shrinks behind, Peggy)._
_Will._ We'll see. _(Opens door. Dad stands in entrance)._
_Bill (whispers)._ The old man!
_Dad (enters without a word; looks about)._ Well, young fellow! So
this is where you live!
_Will (in a low voice)._ Yes, Dad.
_Dad._ And this is the woman?
_Will._ Yes, Dad.
_Dad._ And the boy?
_Will._ Yes, Dad.
_Dad._ Humph! _(A pause.)_ Did it never occur to you I might like to
see my grandson?
_Will._ I--I didn't know, Dad. _(A pause)._
_Dad (in a breaking voice)._ Well, now you've forced me to humble
myself, what have you got to say to me?
_Will (starting)._ Oh, Dad! Forgive me!
_(Seizes his hands)._ Dad, I'm ashamed of myself! I was coming to
you to-day. Honestly I was!
_Dad (returning to his gruff manner)._ Well, young fellow, I'm glad
to hear you've learned a little sense, at least! How've you been
making out? Not very well, I judge.
_Will._ Not at all well, Dad.
_Dad._ Humph! Too proud to tell me, hey? The woman looks pale; and
the child too. _(To Bill.)_ Come here, youngster. So this is my
grandson! _(To Will.)_ It's all very well for you to make war on
your old father and break his pride; but you'd no right to use your
child like this. _(Looks at Mss. on table.)_ What's this!
_Peggy._ It's Will's manuscript. A play.
_Dad._ So that's what he is doing, instead of taking care of his
wife and child? _(Punches Mss. with his cane and scatters it in
every direction over the floor)._
_Will._ Oh!
_Peggy._ Don't do that! We have so much trouble keeping it straight
anyway. _(Gathers up Mss. and replaces it on table)._
_Dad._ What's in the thing? Let me look at it. _(Starts to examine
it)._
_Peggy (in sudden alarm)._ No, no!
_Dad._ Hey? Why not?
_Peggy._ Not yet. Wait--Will has to revise it. You see--_(She
laughs.)_ He's got his local color wrong again.
_Dad (gazing from one to the other)._ What's the joke?
_Peggy._ You see, Dad--Will's been having a hard time, and it's made
him pessimistic. He's written a play, and he was ruining it with an
unhappy ending. But now--oh, now it has a happy ending! It'll be a
success! _(Rushes to Will.)_ Oh, Will, I see just how it goes! I've
got the very words! Let me write them, while they're fresh in my
mind! (Runs to table, takes pencil and paper.)
_Dad._ But what--
_Peggy._ Wait! Wait! Excuse us, please! It's so important! Here,
Bill--take your grandfather! Take him up on the roof and let him see
the view! Take him downstairs and let the beggar-kid sing for him! I
want just ten minutes to get this down! _(Pushes Dad and Bill off
Left.)_ Just ten minutes, please! _(Shuts them out.)_ Now, Will,
come here! You see how it is now! Dad has relented, your happy
ending is all ready made! You're not making any concession to the
box-office--you're simply following truth--the natural human
instincts of a father, who loves his son, in spite of all his
mistakes and his own bad temper! He orders him out--but all the time
his heart is breaking--he's eager for an excuse to relent. Oh, Will,
you must see that!
_Will (reluctantly)._ Yes, I suppose so.
_Peggy._ All right then! We go back to your scene in Dad's
drawing-room--just after Jack has carried Belle out. _(Play-play
begins to appear.)_ Dad stands there, with Jessie clinging to him,
weeping, imploring. And Bob is trying to argue with him. Dad doesn't
answer at first--wait, I'll write the scene! _(Full light on
Play-play. Will makes secret exit.)_
_Bob._ Dad, listen to reason now! Don't make this dreadful mistake.
Jack has had his lesson. Can't you see he's had it--the very thing
we all wanted for him? He's learned something about the reality of
life!
_Jessie (to Bob)._ Make Jack wait! Don't let him go away! Hurry!
_(Bob exit.)_ Dad, you must forgive him! That's a good girl he's
brought here--can't you see that? And she's ill--she's as ill as I
was! Don't you remember how you worried about me? You aren't really
cruel, Dad--
_Dad._ I don't want to be cruel. But I won't have him--
_Jessie._ You must forgive him, Dad! _(Jack appears in doorway, with
Bob, Dolly and Bill behind him.)_ Jack! Come ask him to forgive you!
He's your father! You must do it, to save the girl's life!
_Jack (advances)._ Don't misunderstand me, Dad. I don't ask for the
money. I've lost my claim to it, I don't care what you do with it.
But I must save this girl! Don't you see what's happened to me?
Don't you see what I've gained by my adventure?
_Dad._ What have you gained?
_Jack._ In the first place wisdom! In the second a wife--a
noble-hearted and faithful and loving woman, who will stand by me
through all the trials of my life! Isn't that worth more than a
quarter of a million dollars? Answer me, Dad--_(Stretches out his
arms to him.)_ Oh, Dad, isn't it so?
_Dad (gruffly)._ Well, young fellow, I'm glad to hear you've learned
a little sense, at least! _(He embraces Jack.)_
_Peggy (leaping to her feet and pointing to the Play-play scene)._
There! There! There's your happy ending! There's your Pot-boiler!
CURTAIN.
POSTSCRIPT
In connection with this play there is a story which should be told,
for reasons which will be revealed in the telling.
"The Pot-boiler" was written in 1912, and entered for copyright in
February, 1913. I took the manuscript to a friend, Edwin Bjorkman,
editor of the "Modern Drama Series," and the most widely read
student of dramatic literature known to me; also to Edgar Selwyn and
Margaret Mayo, who knew thoroughly the contemporary stage. These
friends confirmed me in my belief that I had hit upon that rare
phenomenon--an entirely new idea to the stage. There are many
examples of the "play within a play," but up to that time there had
never been a play which showed the WRITING of a play: the processes
which go on in the mind of a playwright, and how he uses his
personal experiences in his work.
"The Pot-boiler" was accepted for production by William Harris, Jr.,
at the Hudson Theatre, New York. After many delays, Mr. Harris came
to the conclusion that the play needed some rewriting to give it
that "punch" which is essential to production in the neighborhood of
Broadway. He sought to interest a certain well-known playwright, who
will be here designated as Mr. X, in the idea of collaborating with
me on the play. Mr. X read the manuscript and offered to collaborate
on condition that two changes should be made: first, the play should
be changed from a "shirt-sleeve play" to a "dress-suit play"--that
is, the characters should be rich people; and second, the last act
should be located in a manager's office, and show the acceptance of
the play. As I did not care for these suggestions, Mr. X dropped the
matter, and Mr. Harris allowed his rights in the play to lapse.
A year or so later, happening into Mr. Harris' office in the Hudson
Theatre, he asked me with a smile, "Have you seen your play?" And
when I asked what he meant, he added. "They have put it on
downstairs." Needless to say, I purchased a ticket for the
performance, and saw a play which differed from my play in two
essentials--these being precisely the modifications which Mr. X had
tried to persuade me to make!
The new play was announced as the work of two playrights, whom I
will indicate as Smith and Brown; it was produced by a firm of
managers, whom I will indicate as Jones and Robinson. I went to see
Messrs. Jones and Robinson, who assured me they had never even heard
of my play. While I was in the office, Mr. Smith, one of the
playwrights, sought an interview with me, and assured me that he
also had never heard of my play, his work was absolutely original. I
gave him the names of various persons who had read my play,
including Mr. X; and Mr. Smith assured me earnestly that he was a
stranger to all of them. I accepted his statement; but as I was on
my way out of the office of Messrs. Jones and Robinson, I beheld the
name of Mr. X printed upon one of the doors of their private rooms,
and upon inquiry I learned that Mr. X was employed on a regular
salary as a play-reviser for this firm!
I went away pondering the situation. What I was asked to believe was
as follows: Mr. Smith had composed a play having all the essential
features of my new and original play, and differing only in the two
modifications--these being the very same two modifications which
Mr. X had urged me to make in my play. Mr. Smith had taken this play
to the firm which employed Mr. X, and this firm had accepted the
play and produced it, without Mr. X, their chief play-reviser,
ever seeing it--or else without his mentioning that it was my play,
with the two modifications in my play which he had recommended. The
play had been taken to the Hudson Theatre, owned by William Harris,
Jr., who had accepted my play and submitted it to Mr. X, and the
play had actually been produced at this theatre for nearly a week
without either authors or managers ever hearing of my play!
I may be unduly suspicious, but I could not credit this peculiar
chain of coincidences. I took the matter to the Author's League,
whose executive committee read my play, saw the other play, and
agreed that I had cause for inquiry. Mr. Louis Joseph Vance,
representing the league, undertook to interview Mr. X, who was an
intimate friend of his, and sent Mr. X a telegram asking for an
appointment. Mr. X did not answer. Mr. Vance assured me that this
was the first time the gentleman had ever failed to reply to such a
request from him. Subsequently, Mr. Vance made an appointment to
meet Mr. X at luncheon, and hear his explanation of the matter; but
Mr. X failed to keep the appointment. I went ahead with plans for a
law-suit, whereupon Messrs. Jones and Robinson withdrew their play.
My reasons for telling the story are two. First, I think it well
that would-be playwrights should have some idea what they may
encounter when they venture into the jungles of Broadway; and
second, because critics and play-goers who saw the play of Smith and
Brown will wish to know which play was written first.
