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University Micrdcilms International

RUUN /f-FRPOAD AMN ARBOR

Bf OF OR D HOW LONDON W'C 1 R 4 F .J F NP.L A N D 8100144

E h re t, D o n a l d M ic h a e l

A CRITICAL STUDY OF SELECTED PLAYS BY EUGENE WALTER (1874- 1941)

The Ohio State University Ph.D . 1980

University Microfilms International300 N. Zeeb Road, Ann Arbor, MI 48106

Copyright 1980 by Ehret, Donald Michael All Rights Reserved A CRITICAL STUDY OF SELECTED PLAYS

BY EUGENE WALTER (1874-1941)

DISSERTATION

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the

Degree Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate

School of The Ohio State University

By

Donald M. Ehret, B.A,, M.A.

******

The Ohio State University

1980

Reading Committee: Approved by

Donald R. Glancy

David Ayers £ Adviser John Walker Department of Theatre To my parents, Dorothy and Joseph Ehret: My accomplishments are but reflections of their love, their sacrifices, and their positive influence. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I owe much gratitude to Professor Donald Glancy, whose patience, perceptive advice, and thoughtful encouragement have been invaluable in the formulation of this study. His untiring pursuit of excellence has provided me with both an example and a challenge.

I also wish to thank Mrs. Eugene Walter for her gracious permission to photocopy manuscripts of her husband's plays.

I owe an unrepayable debt of gratitude to my mother, Mrs. Dorothy

Ehret; to my brother, Paul Ehret; and to John F. Crawford. Their friendship, unselfish support, and confidence in me helped me through the long and sometimes frustrating process of earning my doctorate.

Without them, I might have given up before achieving my educational goals.

i i i VITA

November 8, 1948 Born - Canton, Ohio

1970 B.A., Mount Union College, Alliance, Ohio

1975 M.A., The Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio

1974-1979 Teaching Associate, Department of Theatre, The Ohio State University, Columbus, Ohio

FIELDS OF STUDY

Major Field: Theatre

Studies in Criticism and Literature. Professor Donald Glancy

Studies in History. Professors Alfred Golding and Charles Ritter

Studies in Production. Professors David Ayers, Roy Bowen, and Donald Glancy

i v CONTENTS

Page

DEDICATION...... ii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... iii

VITA...... iv

INTRODUCTION...... 1

CHAPTER

ONE TRAGEDY, MELODRAMA, AND DRAME ...... 18

TWO STAGE ADAPTATIONS OF NOVELS: MAREVA AND THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME...... 31

THREE THE EASIEST WAY...... 62

FOUR OTHER SOCIAL DRAMES: FINE FEATHERS, JUST A WIFE, AND THE CHALLENGE...... 106

FIVE COMMERCIAL MELODRAMAS: PAID IN FULL, THE WOLF, JUST A WOMAN, THE KNIFE, AND THE HERITAGE...... 153

CONCLUSION...... 202

APPENDIX

A PLOT SYNOPSES...... 216

M a r e v a...... * ...... 215 The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come ...... 221 The Easiest Way...... 226 Fine Feathers ...... 233 Just A Wife...... 237 .ne Challenge ...... 246

v CONTENTS (c o n tin u e d )

Page

APPENDIX

A (continued)

Paid In Full ...... 255 The Wolf. T~ ...... 261 Just A Woman...... 269 The K n ife ...... 275 The Heritage ...... 282

B PLAYS BY WALTER NOT PRODUCED ON BROADWAY ...... 291

BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 293

vi INTRODUCTION

In the history of American drama, Eugene Walter is remembered primarily as the author of The Easiest Way, which, after a short preview run in Hartford, Connecticut, opened in New York on January

19, 1909, at the Selasco-Stuyvesant Theatre^ to a torrent of both critical acclaim and moral condemnation. The intensity of the critical reaction--whether praising the play's truthfulness to life and its innovativeness or condemning its pessimistically degrading view of humanity—evidenced that the debut of The Easiest Way was of no small significance.

Had Walter written no other play than The Easiest Way, his fame among his contemporaries s till would have been assured. In his history of the American drama, Montrose Moses, while admitting his

"full awareness of the literary value of many of Clyde Fitch's plays and recognizing the easy grace with which Augustus Thomas writes dialogue," nonetheless lauded The Easiest Way as being the "best work

Burns Mantle and Garrison Sherwood, The Best Plays of 1909-1919 (New York: Dodd, Mead, and Company, 1933), p. 1. The Easiest Way "ran for 157 performances during its initial New York run and toured during the following season.

1 2

2 an American dramatist has done in recent times." Augustus Thomas, perhaps the most highly regarded playwright of the time and at the time president of the American Dramatist's Club, voiced the opinion 3 that "no man writing in English has a keener dramatic sense" than

Walter. Other critics favorably compared the play to George Bernard

Shaw's Mrs. Warren's Profession and Arthur Wing Pinero's I r i s . Twelve years after the debut of The Easiest Way, the play retained enough of its original impact to prompt Alexander Woolcott to lis t the play among what he considered to be the ten best plays ever written by an 4 American.

While most critics heaped praise on The Easiest Way, others added a nearly equal measure of intense moral condemnation, the most vehement of which came from that staunch defender of idealism in dramatic art, William Winter—at the time in his waning years as a drama critic. In his The Life of David Belasco, Winter suspends his usual praise of that producer to discuss what he considered to be a

"grievous blot on the fair record" of Belasco's career, "the vulgar and repulsive drama called 'The Easiest Way'. . . a long-drawn por­ trayal expositive of the immoral character, unchaste conduct, and

2 Montrose Moses, The American Dramatist (Boston: L ittle, Brown, and Company, 1917), p. 294.

^New York Times, January 23, 1909, p. 5. 4 New York Times, September 11, 1921, sec. 6, p. 1. 3 necessarily retributive experience, of a courtesan," representing on the stage a "domain of licentiousness and bestiality which should never be treated in Drama or illustrated on the Stage." Winter's preference leaned decidedly toward plays of the pleasant variety, plays that depicted, in his own words, not the "vileness that should be shunned" but rather the "beauty that should be emulated and loved."

The cofmercial success of The Easiest Way aroused his concern not only because it dealt with what he considered to be immoral characters and subject matter but also because he fe lt that the play contained 5 little or no "significant impartment."

Winter's judgment that The Easiest Way fails to teach a lesson or to provide the spectator with morally uplifting entertainment was not without justification: even by modern standards, the play contains very little moralizing. Although the title may be inter­ preted as a moral condemnation of the way of life chosen by the heroine at the conclusion of the play, the title also may be inter­ preted as being an ironic corrment: the heroine may have chosen a way of life that is immoral, but that life will not be an easy one; i t rather will be one filled with guilt, disappointment, and disillusion­ ment. The play's lack of moralizing is of particular historical note if one contrasts The Easiest Way with other plays of its time.

Serious American drama of the time suffered severely from the blight

^William Winter, The Life of David Belasco (New York: Moffat, Yard, and Co., 1918), p. 456. 4 of "significant im p e r tin e n tF o r New York's Great White Way it was the "happy days";*’ the Theatrical Syndicate was in power and the pleasant ending was in vogue.^ While successful commercial play­ wrights of the time, such as Augustus Thomas, Clyde Fitch, Charles

Klein, George Broadhurst, and Edward Sheldon, had matured beyond blatant moralizing and didacticism, their plays, nonetheless, ended with uplifting resolutions. Plays such as Clyde Fitch's The City,

Charles Klein's The Lion and the Mouse, George Broadhurst's Bought and

Paid For, and Edward Sheldon's The Boss, while purporting to be plays dealing with serious political, economic, moral, or social problems of the day, contain in their denouement either a resolution of the problem or an elimination of the threat that the problem poses to certain of the sympathetic central characters. Thus what begin as serious plays conclude as seemingly serious plays and thereby provide their audiences with the pleasant and morally uplifting observation that humans are capable of rising above the problems of this world, whether those problems happen to be political, economic, moral, or social in nature.

^Glenn Hughes, A History of the American Theatre 1700-1951 (New York: Samuel French, 1951), p. 320.

^Mantle and Sherwood have called The Easiest Way the "first bold denial of the happy ending in modern [American?j drama, the fir s t deliberate attempt to prove a play could be unpleasant and s till be emotionally appealing because of its essential truth and vitality of its performance." A number of critics of the time praised Walter for not pampering the audience's preference for happy endings. 5

In contrast, Walter did not resolve the central moral, social, and economic problems that serve as powerful catalysts in the development of the action in The Easiest Way. The pressures that aid in driving

the central character, Laura Murdock, to return to her former life as

a mistress are present at the final curtain and, in fact, are primary

factors in creating that final situation; they have not been resolved

away by the playwright in order to make way for a pleasant ending.

Nor does Walter depict Laura as finally rising above the "vileness that

should be shunned"; instead, those pressures that surround her inter­

act with her weak personality during the course of the play. The

resolution is the inevitable result of that interaction—the catas­

trophe of Laura's return to the degrading "easiest way." Thus The

Easiest Way achieves universality in the Aristotelian sense. The

achievement of such universality by an American playwright writing for

the conmercial theatre was perhaps what critics of the time sensed

as being innovative and epoch-making and what prompted those c ritic s

to applaud The Easiest Way for its strict adherence to truth.

Universality is artistic truth—a logical development of a set of

given circumstances toward their inevitable result. Such artistic

truth, such universality, was a rare achievement in the American drama

during Broadway's "happy days."

W alter's f ir s t attempt at smashing the convention of the

pleasant or uplifting ending came approximately a year prior to the

opening of The Easiest Way. Paid in Full, a "hesitant omen of 'The 6

Easiest Way',"^ made its debut on February 25, 1908, at New York's g Astor Theatre and was an imnediate critical and box office success.

Fine Feathers, which opened at the same theatre on January 7, 1913,^ is the only other "unpleasant" play by Walter, besides Paid In Full, that achieves a degree of universality approaching that of The Easiest

Way. As a consequence, those three are considered to be Walter's finest plays.

Eugene Walter was born in Cleveland, Ohio, on November 27, 1874, the son of George Walter and Jane King.^ He was educated in the

Cleveland Public Schools and served in the United States Cavalry during the Spanish-American War, an experience that he later was able to draw upon to provide the background for his military melodrama, Sergeant

James. One of the numerous dramatists of the early twentieth century who worked at one time or another as a newspaper reporter, Walter served on the staffs of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the New York Sun,

the New York Globe, the Seattle S tar, and the Detroit News. Walter's

^Oliver M. Sayler, Our American Drama (New York: Brentano's, 1923), p. 2.

^New York Times, February 26, 1908, p. 7.

^Burns and Mantle, p. 491.

^Biographical information on Walter was obtained from the follow­ ing sources: Barrett H. Clark, A Study of the Modern Drama (New York: D. Appleton-Century Co., 1933), pp. 384-85; Lynde Denig, "Vicissi- tudes of a Playwright No. 1: Eugene Walter," The Theatre, May 1915, pp. 235-37; Montrose Moses, Representative Plays by American Drama­ t i s t s , Volume III (New York: Benjamin Blom, 1921), pp. 707-10; John Parker, ed., Who's Who in the Theatre (London: Sir Isaac Pitman and Sons, 1936), p. 1483; and Arthur Hobson Quinn, A History of the American Drama from the Civil War to the Present Day (New York: Harper and Brothers Publishers, 1927),Vol. II, p. 105. 7 experience as a reporter is reflected in the journalistic bent of many of his plays. His best plays are characterized by a direct depiction of events without an attempt at interpretation; most of his plays were designed to appeal to popular taste or public interest. Two,

The Undertow and The Challenge, strongly reflect characteristics of

"yellow journalism" in their attempts to represent political and corporate corruption and to exploit public interest in newspaper exposes of such corruption.

Walter's first attempt at playwriting came in 1901 while he was on the staff of the Detroit News. The play was entitled Lost—An

Opportuni ty and soon reached the hands of Kirke LaShelle, a producer, who read the script, was impressed by its potential, and returned it to Walter, suggesting that it was well worth rewriting. Walter was dissatisfied with his rewrite attempts until it was suggested to him that he utilize his experience in the cavalry by turning the play into a military drama. The result was Sergeant James, which was pro­ duced by LaShelle and opened at the Boston Theatre, Boston, in

September of 1902. The production, however, was a commercial failure.

That failure prompted Walter to move to New York in order to learn through first-hand experience the practices requisite for com­ mercial success in the business of theatre. For the next three years he worked as an advance man or manager in numerous types of theatrical ventures—Shakespearean drama, modern drama, musical comedies, symphony orchestras, circuses, and burlesques. In the spring of

1905, he was encouraged by his friends, Archie and Edgar Selwyn, to 8 write another play; Walter's playwriting efforts in that sunnier of

1905 resulted in The Undertow, a play exploiting the topical issues of political and corporate corruption and fear of socialist anarchism.

Although the support of George M. Cohan and Henry B. Harris was secured for a New York production of The Undertow, that support was withdrawn when a sim ilarity to a play entitled The Man From Home was discovered. Walter's protests that the similarities were superficial were to no avail; no New York manager would support a production of the play. Only after Walter's initial Broadway success with Paid In

Ful1 in February of 1908 was The Undertow given its professional debut, a stock company production in Los Angeles. Among plays without the prestige of a New York run, The Undertow is said to have broken stock company attendance records throughout the country. A revision of the play, entitled The Challenge, had a successful Broadway run in

1919.

During the sunnier of 1906, working with an idea for a play sug­ gested to him by an actress, Kathryn Grey, Walter completed what was to become his f ir s t Broadway play and the play that would place his name near the top of the l i s t of promising young playwrights of his day. Paid In Full is the story of a shipping clerk who, because of social, economic, and family pressures, embezzles a large sum of money from his employer and, when the theft is discovered, urges his wife to offer herself sexually to the employer in exchange for the husband's freedom from prosecution. The script was refused support by a number of New York producers, among them Charles Frohman and 9

David Belasco. After reading Paid In Full Frohman urged Walter to write a "dress-shirt play"—a play about sophisticated rather than working-class people; David Belasco liked the play, saw distinct

possibilities for its improvement, and suggested that he be made co­

author. Not wishing to subject Paid In Full to Belasco's play-

doctoring services, Walter continued the search for a producer.

Finally, at the recommendation of an actress, Blanche Walsh, a man­

aging team, Wagenhalls and Kemper, decided to give the play a trial

run. Opening in Montreal and touring other Canadian cities, the play met with little comnercial success and was closed. It was reopened

for a tour in northern New York but again fared poorly. When the

closing performance of the tour was announced for Schenectady, Walter,

convinced of the play’s merit, wired various New York c ritic s, inviting

them to see the final performance and to judge for themselves whether

the play was undeserving of a New York tria l. Although Acton Davies

of the Evening Sun was the only c ritic to respond to the invitation,

his reaction to the play was so enthusiastic that the producers

decided to take the play to New York. When Paid In Full opened at

the Astor Theatre in February of 1908, it was an immediate critical

and conmercial success. Running for nearly two years, the play is

said to have grossed $500,000; Walter's share was $100,000.^

^"Biq Earninqs for Biq Plays," The Theatre, November 1913, p. 152. 10

A reviewer for the Evening Post, while criticizing Walter for introducing too many theses and social problems into the play and for following through on very few of them, sensed in Paid In Full faint traces of Maurice Maeterlinck's Mona Vanna and Henrick Ibsen's 13 A Pol 11s House. Such comparison to European dramatists was to become more common in critical commentary on The Easiest Way and Fine 14 Feathers, which ran for seventy-nine performances in 1912. The

Easiest Way won Walter comparisons with both George Bernard Shaw and

Arthur Wing Pinero. Current Literature noted that both Shaw's Mrs.

Warren's Profession and Walter's The Easiest Way were significant dramatic treatments of a social problem but noted that while Shaw's propagandizing is apparent throughout much of his play, Walter allows 15 the story of his play to speak for itself. Bookman pointed to sim ilarities between the heroine of Pinero's Iris and Laura Murdock but concluded that the latter heroine was a much more believable and human creation.^ Fine Feathers, the story of a man who is pressured

13 The reviewer for the Evening Post is quoted in Current Litera­ ture 44 (June 1908), 654-59.

14 Burns and Mantle, p. 491.

^Current Literature 45 (February 1909), 623-24.

1 6 Kenneth Andrews, "Broadway, Our Literary Signpost," Bookman 54 (November 1921), 228-33. Other comparisons of The Easiest Way to Pinero's Iris can be found in Richard Burton, The New American Drama (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Co., 1913), p. 103; Walter Pritchard Eaton, At the New Theatre and Others (Boston: Small, Maynard, and Co., 1910), pp. 93-98; Illustrated London News, February 17, 1912, p. 226; and Moses, ed., Representative Plays by American Dramatists, Vol. I ll, p. 706. 11 into participating in an illegal business deal by his wife's desire for financial security, won Walter comparison with the younger

British realists of his time, such as John Galsworthy and Granville

Barker, who, "by deliberately avoiding a conclusion and by starting the story at a point which presupposes many antecedent causes . . . seek to imitate the d rift of life its e lf —which exhibits no beginnings and no endings, but only an appalling continuity." Clayton Hamilton, although he admitted that Walter's situations were sometimes more characteristic of the theatre than of life , cited Fine Feathers as being the only recent American play to bear comparison with the plays of the young British realists.^7

Five other plays by Walter achieved runs of seventy or more per­ formances on Broadway: The Wolf (Bijou Theatre, April 18, 1908) ran for eighty-one performances, Oust A Wife (Belasco Theatre, February 1,

1910) ran for seventy-nine, Just A Woman (48th Street Theatre,

June 17, 1916) for one hundred and thirty-six, The Knife (Bijou

Theatre, August 12, 1917) for eighty-four, and The Challenge (Selwyn

Theatre, August 5, 1919) for seventy-two performances. Nancy Lee

(Hudson Theatre, April 9, 1918), The Heritage (Playhouse Theatre,

January 14, 1918), The Trail of the Lonesome Pine (January 1912), and

The Man's Name (Republic Theatre, November 15, 1921), which was written in collaboration with Marjorie Chase, had less successful

Broadway runs. His adaptation-translation from the French of Louis

17"The New Realism in the Drama," Bookman, February 1913, pp. 639-49. 12

Verneuil's Jealousy (Maxine Elliott Theatre, October 28, 1928) achieved a run of one hundred and thirty-six performances and was 18 Walter's final Broadway production. In the late 1920's Walter moved to Hollywood to work as a screenwriter and adapter; he died there in

1941.

Analyses of nine of the thirteen plays by Walter that were produced on Broadway comprise the major portion of this study.

Analyses of Trail of the Lonesome Pine and Nancy Lee are not included because neither play is available, either in published or manuscript form. The other two plays have been excluded because they are not solely the work of Walter: The Man's Name was written in collabora­

tion, and Jealousy is, for the most part, merely a translation.

Also included in this study are analyses of two plays by Walter that were not produced on Broadway. The L ittle Shepherd of Kingdom Come and Mareva are interesting examples of Walter's effo rts—one successful and one unsuccessful—at adapting novels for the stage. Additionally,

The L ittle Shepherd of Kingdom Come is the best example, among 19 Walter's plays, of local color.

In light of Walter's commercial success as a playwright, it is

surprising that there exists only one major study of his plays.

18 Statistical information on Walter's Broadway plays is readily available in the appropriate volumes of Mantle and Sherwood's The Best Plays series.

19 A l is t of other plays by Walter that were not produced on Broadway is included in Appendix B. 13

James Joseph Gilmore's master's thesis, The Contribution of Eugene

Walter to the American Drama (1939), is inadequate as a study of

Walter's work. Gilmore devotes a total of only twenty pages to three of Walter's most successful plays, The Easiest Way, Paid In Ful1, and

Fine Feathers. Furthermore, the study contains much wholesale quoting from reviews of productions and articles concerning the plays but contains little critical analysis of the plays by Gilmore himself.

As a result, his conclusions are necessarily general in nature and are, unfortunately, misleading. Gilmore concludes (1) that Walter's contribution to the American drama rests primarily on the innovative­ ness and dramatic skill that Walter brought to the Broadway theatre in The Easiest Way--and to a lesser extent in Paid In Full and Fine

Feathers--and (2) that, for the most part, the remainder of Walter's plays are typical of early twentieth-century conmercial melodrama.

Although based more on Gilmore's study of critical commentary on

The Easiest Way, Paid In Full, and Fine Feathers than on formalistic analysis of the plays themselves, the former conclusion is essentially accurate. The latter conclusion, however, is questionable: because

Gilmore "writes off" the remainder of Walter's plays as being typical of conmercial melodrama and thus undeserving of detailed study, he ignores numerous examples of fine dramatic craftsmanship that can be found in many of those plays.

Besides Gilmore's master's thesis, no other detailed studies of

Walter's work exist, although a minimal amount of critical comment can be found in isolated sections of books written by critics and 14 scholars of dramatic literature contemporary to Walter. Arthur Ruhl devotes a fifteen-page chapter in his book, Second Nights (1914), to a study of Paid In Ful1, The Easiest Way, and Fine Feathers and dis­ cusses what Ruhl calls Walter's "unrelenting" realism and its effect on the credibility and humanness of those plays' situations and characters; Ruhl concludes that Walter's realism stems from his in­ sistence on dragging his characters through brutal circumstances, a practice that is often detrimental to the credibility of the action and the humanness of the characters. Thomas Dickinson, in his Play­ wrights of the New American Theatre (1925), devotes approximately nine pages to a discussion of Walter's work. That discussion focuses primarily on The Easiest Way and contains considerable quoting from

Walter's description of the characters of Laura Murdock and Elfie

St. Clair; also discussed is Walter's attitude toward the element of character and the effect of that attitude on his plays. In his

The Life of David Belasco, William Winter devotes approximately eight pages to a discussion of The Easiest Way and Just A Wife, a discussion that amounts to a moral condemnation of the two plays on the grounds of their subject matter. Still briefer discussionsof Walter's work can be found in Richard Burton's The New American Drama (1913),

Barrett Clark's A Study of the Modern Drama (1933) and The British and American Drama of Today (1915), Charlton Andrew's The Drama Today

(1913), Walter Pritchard Eaton's At the New Theatre and Others (1910), 15 and Montrose Moses's Representative Plays of the American Drama

(1921).20

The plays with which this study deals encompass a wide range of quality--reflective of the range of early twentieth-century American drama. The Easiest May is perhaps the closest approach to tragedy by an American commercial playwright prior to the efforts of Eugene

O'Neill; Fine Feathers, Just A Wife, and The Challenge demonstrate a combination of skillful dramatic craftsmanship, serious intent, and theatrical effectiveness that ranks the quality of those plays well above that of the typical commercial drama of the time. The quality of the remainder of Walter's plays is typical of that of most commercial drama of the time.

A question arises concerning the value of critically analyzing a group of plays of which many are decidedly average in quality.

While a critical study of a body of work of consistently high quality is justified by the positive dramaturgic lessons that can be learned by unearthing the factors responsible for that quality, a study of plays of average or even of below-average quality can yield both positive and negative dramaturgic lessons. Positive lessons can result from a study of the plays' adequacies; negative lessons can result

20 Arthur Ruh., Second Nights (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1914), pp. 164-79; Thomas H. Dickinson, Playwrights of the New American Theatre (New York: MacMillan Co., 1925), pp. 157-67; Winter, Vol. II, pp. 267-71 and pp. 287-89; Burton, pp. 102-104; Barrett H. Clark, A Study of the Modern Drama, pp. 384-89, and The British and American Drama"of To-Day (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co., 1913), pp. 84-89; Eaton, pp. 93-98; and Moses, ed., Representative Plays by American Dramatists, Vol. Ill, pp. 706-10. 16 from a study of the inadequacies. Additionally, a critic's study of a play's inadequacies is, in effect, both descriptive and prescriptive criticism. Such criticism is descriptive in the sense that it attempts objectively to describe (analyze) what is present in a play, even though the materials present and the structuring of those materials has created a less than ideal form; inherent in a discussion of a play's inadequacies is the critic's prescription for a more effective form than that created by the playwright.

The critical approach of this study is that of formalistic criticism and follows a critical system based on A ristotle's Poetics.

Such an approach, because it focuses on the form and structure of a play, is better suited to the ultimate goal of this study—to evalu­ ate Walter's skill as a dramatist. Although analyzing Walter's plays from a biographical point of view, for example, might yield inter­ esting information concerning the circumstances under which the plays were written (Walter's rather consistent focus on external detail, for instance, might well be attributed to his experience as a news­ paper reporter), such an approach would yield relatively little information concerning the form, structure, and overall quality of the plays themselves. Similarly, because many of Walter’s plays are typical of the commercial drama of his time, a sociological critical approach might yield a wealth of information concerning audience taste, theatrical practice, and topical issues of the day; however, such information, although interesting in and of itself, is at best peripheral in its relevance to a study of the plays themselves. 17

Furthermore, any study attempting to discuss the early twentieth century social milieu of New York as reflected in the drama would be better served by studying a representative sampling of plays by a large number of playwrights of the time.

Because a number of Walter's plays possess both tragic and melodramatic traits, this study first discusses tragedy, melodrama, and the sub-genre of drame. The critical stance taken by this study is that tragedy and melodrama are not higher or lower dramatic forms but rather that they are distinctly different forms and that they should be analyzed in light of different standards of form.

Of the plays considered in this study, only one, The Easiest Way, has been published; the other ten are available only in manuscript form at the Theatre Collection of the New York Public Library and at the United States Copyright Office. A detailed synopsis of each play is included in Appendix A; prior to the discussion of each play in the text, the page numbers of the appropriate synopsis will be noted in parenthesis. The text assumes the reader's fam iliarity with the synopses. CHAPTER ONE

TRAGEDY, MELODRAMA, AND DRAME

An unfortunate critical attitude has arisen in the twentieth century, possibly as a reaction against the shoddy dramaturgy typical of much of nineteenth-century commercial melodrama, that views melodrama as a dramatic form inferior to that of tragedy. A less widely held attitude, but one that is more useful to a formalistic c ritic , regards judgments concerning the comparative worth of the various dramatic forms as being a consideration that is irrelevant to the study of a play's structure or to an evaluation of a play's quality as a unified and satisfying work of art. Melodrama and tragedy are distinctly different dramatic forms and thus should be analyzed according to separate criteria.

Form is the overall shape of an object; structure is the arrangement of and relationship among the parts of that object.

Although melodrama and tragedy, both being forms of drama, contain the same general qualitative parts--Plot, Character, Thought, Diction,

Music, and Spectacle--they differ considerably in regard to the specific manner in which those parts are structured. The result is two distinct variations on dramatic form. Effective analysis and evaluation of those two forms is dependent upon a clear understanding

18 19 of the differences in the structural principles that are responsible for making each unique. To analyze a melodrama by applying to it structural principles that are more appropriate to tragedy would be

like analyzing a detective novel by applying to it structural prin­ ciples that are more appropriate to a psychological novel.

In his Poetics Aristotle defined tragedy as an "imitation of an action that is serious and also, as having magnitude, complete in

itself . . .with incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis of such emotions."^ Although Aristotle did not define melodrama in his treatise, one might, using his definition of tragedy as a model, derive such a definition. Melo­ drama, one might conclude, is the imitation of an action that is seemingly serious and also, as having magnitude, complete in

itself . . .with incidents arousing fear and hate, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis of such emotions.

That which is serious is that which involves permanent pain or harm and can range from extended discomfort to such catastrophic occurrences as physical mutilation, mental, moral, or spiritual disruption, and death. A writer of tragedy can heighten the serious­

ness of a dramatic action by creating a sense of inevitability, a sense that the tragic protagonist's suffering was unavoidable.

^Ingram Bywater, trans., The Poetics (New York: Random House, 1954), p. 230. 20

A playwright, in other words, can universalize his material. He structures an action in a manner that demonstrates what appears to be a fact: given that particular dramatic personage in that particular set of circumstances, catastrophe must follow. That the tragic protagonist suffers intensely renders the dramatic action serious; that the tragic action, once set in motion, develops so inexorably toward its final catastrophe adds significantly to the magnitude of the seriousness. If a playwright shapes a dramatic action so that the arrival of the catastrophe is only a possibility, there is then inherent in the incidents preceding that catastrophe the mere threat of permanent pain or harm; if an action is so structured that the arrival of catastrophe is probable, the inherent threat is a more serious one. If, however, the playwright shapes a dramatic action so that catastrophe is its necessary outcome, the incidents preceding the catastrophe no longer carry with them the mere threat of harm; they rather become the mechanism by which the tragic catastrophe is established as being inevitable; in such a case, the antecedent incidents are as serious as the catastrophe itself, be­ cause they contain the surety of, rather than the mere threat of, permanent harm.

Tragedy depicts the interaction of fate and destiny in the course of human lives. Man has no other choice but to play the game of life with the cards that fate has dealt him; how man plays those cards, however, shapes his destiny. Thus, in tragedy, the outcome of the dramatic action—the tragic catastrophe—is typically the result of an 21 interaction between human causality—the actions or omissions of the protagonist--and circumstances. Hence, the tragic protagonist is neither omnipotent nor impotent; his future is neither totally within his control nor totally beyond it. The development of a tragic action thus involves the plotting of a course that leads to an inevitable catastrophe by way of a given character interacting with a given set of unusual circumstances. Deus ex machina catastrophes, in other words, are not the stuff of tragedy; such externally imposed harm does not render the entire action of a play serious and is more 2 appropriate to what Robert Heilman labels the "drama of disaster."

Francis Fergusson refers to tragedy as being a depiction of man's unequal battle with fate. Such a view does not imply that the external forces of circumstances acting on the protagonist are more powerful in shaping his future than are the forces of his own action or inaction; i t rather emphasizes the fact that, in tragedy, circumstances and human nature join forces to create a particular type of fate--one that makes defeat for the tragic protagonist virtually inevitable. In tragedy, character is, in a sense, fate: faced with a given set of circumstances, a tragic protagonist makes decisions regarding the manner in which he should respond to those circumstances; the pattern of those decisions proceeds from the nature

2 Robert B. Heilman, Tragedy and Melodrama: Versions of Experi­ ence (Seattle: University of Washington, 1968), pp. 32ff. "Drama of disaster," as Heilman asserts, falls under the generic category of melodrama. 22 of his character. Once implemented, those decisions cannot be undone, and the results of their interacting with the given and fixed circum­

stances are, consequently, inevitable. Tragedy is structured by a

playwright in a manner that the interaction between those decisions and circumstances results in catastrophe.

In contrast to tragedy, melodrama depicts an action that is not

ultimately serious but rather only seemingly so. Such an action

can take one of two possible forms. First, a dramatic action can be

seemingly serious by reason of its resolution. In such a case the

dramatic conflict involves a threat to the welfare of the melo­

dramatic hero and is resolved by a removal of that threat. Thus what appeared throughout most of the play to have been a serious action—

that is, one leading toward permanent pain or harm for the hero--

proves, once the complete form of the play is revealed, to have been only seemingly so. Such dramatic action has a satisfying effect on an

audience when the factors responsible for the removal of the threat

are inherent in the incidents preceding that removal; the action is

less satisfying when the removal is effected by factors not inherent

or prepared for in the incidents preceding it.

Second, a dramatic action, even though it concludes in catas­

trophe for the hero, can remain seemingly serious by reason of the

incidents preceding the catastrophe--Heilman's "drama of disaster."

In such melodrama the threat to the hero and the catastrophe that

later befalls him are not causally related to his actions; they

occur not because of the hero’s actions but rather despite his efforts 23 to eliminate them. While the catastrophe itself, in such a case, is a serious incident in that it entails permanent harm, the incidents preceding are not ultimately serious, because they do not carry with them the assurance--the necessity of or the inevitability of--catas- trophe. Inherent in those antecedent events may be the possibility or probability of catastrophe but never the inevitability of it.

In a melodrama, a sense that disaster is inevitable is virtually impossible to create because of the nature of the hero’s efforts.

The actions of the typical melodramatic hero are directed toward eliminating the threatening forces. Although the actions of the hero do not invariably result in his victory, they, nonetheless, do not have inherent within them the primary factors that lead to his defeat.

If a melodramatic hero is defeated at the conclusion of a melodrama, the power of the forces threatening him, rather than his own actions, cause that defeat.

In contrast, a sense that disaster is inevitable is inherent in the nature of a tragic action. The tragic protagonist directs his efforts toward achieving what he considers to be a worthwhile goal;

inherent in the means by which he chooses to achieve that goal, how­ ever, are factors that gravitate in the direction of disaster.

Tragedy typically depicts such equivocal aspects of human action--

times when one's attempts to create cause destruction, when the very

source of one's happiness is also the source of one's misery, and when the very act of doing what one must do in order to stay alive

brings one closer to death. 24

The personages of a drama make choices the implementation of which causes the dramatic action to progress from its beginning to its middle and from its middle to its conclusion. Observation of a dramatic agent's pattern of choices enables one to assign traits of character to that agent. Typically, the protagonist of tragedy grapples with moral and ethical choices, while the protagonist of melodrama grapples with expedient choices. Expedient choices are those concerned with the opportune and the temporarily advantageous and with the efficient means of achieving them. Moral and ethical choices—because they are concerned with human values, with the right and wrong of one's actions, and the effect of those actions on the welfare of others—involve questions of more permanence and lasting significance and are, therefore, more appropriate to the greater magnitude of seriousness traditionally associated with tragedy.

Inherent in the incidents of a tragedy is the potential for arousing the emotions of fear and pity. In life, fear is a feeling of pain aroused by the threat of harm and entails concern for one's own welfare. Fear is a self-regarding emotion: we fear for the welfare of another individual only if we sense in that individual or his circumstances a similarity to ourselves or to our own circum­ stances. Fear, as Aristotle notes, can be aroused by the misfortune of one like ourselves. Fear, with its feelings of self-concern, is an important factor in the arousal of pity: we pity an individual involved in circumstances that would cause fear in us were we similarly involved. The more fearful the situation is the more pity we feel for that individual—provided that we recognize or sense some 25

similarity between the individual and ourselves, a similarity that

engages at least a degree of sympathetic concern. In tragedy, a

similar relation between fear and pity is established. Thus the

amount and intensity of pity that a tragedy is capable of arousing

is, to a large extent, dependent upon the amount and intensity of

fear inherent in the play. For an individual to be beset unexpectedly

by accidental harm imposed by some outside force is, to be sure, an

inherently fearful situation; more fearful, however, is a situation

in which an individual's own actions, actions intended to bring about

good, result in or contribute to the occurrence of great harm,

especially when that individual's unintentional self-destruction

appears to have been unavoidable. The intensity of fear is further

heightened if the decisions that result in harm stem from permanent

traits of character rather than from accidentally or arbitrarily

chosen modes of action. Tragedy typically involves the hero in such

eminently fearful and thus eminently pitiable circumstances.

Aristotle notes that the ideal tragic hero is an intermediate

type of personage: "a person not preeminently just and virtuous, whose misfortune, however, is brought upon him not by any vice or

depravity but by some error in judgment." The resemblance of such

an individual to ourselves is one of character. The tragic

protagonist, like ourselves, is neither all-good nor all-evil. Despite

3 The Poetics, p. 238. 26 whatever ennobling traits he typically possesses, he is not free from all human frailty and imperfection.

The catharsis of pity and fear in tragedy involves a playing-out of those emotions to the fullest expression possible within the given circumstances of the play. It involves, in other words, the play­ wright's formulation--actualization—of all the pity and fear inherent in the materials with which he has chosen to deal. Early in a tragedy, fear is aroused by the possibility of catastrophe; it is intensified as the arrival of that catastrophe becomes more probable and reaches its fullest formulation at catastrophe's brink—the point at which the avoidance of disaster is impossible and its occurrence is inevitable. Once the worse that can happen has occurred, the potential for fear decreases in the subsequent incidents, while the intensity of pity increases. By shaping the most pitiable circum­ stances possible, given the particular circumstances of the story, a playwright exhausts the potential for pity inherent in the materials with which he has chosen to deal. Typically, in the final section of a tragedy, the pitiable, painful circumstances are given full and intense expression—either by the tragic protagonist or, if he has died, by surviving characters. The final choral ode and the final episode of Oedipus the King is an example of the former; the funeral march in Hamlet and the Requiem in Death of a Salesman are examples of the latte r.

The incidents of melodrama have the potential for arousing the emotions of fear and hatred. Fear for the welfare of sympathetic 27 characters is aroused when those characters are threatened with pain or harm; hatred is aroused for the source of the threat. The more fearful the circumstances in which a sympathetic character finds himself the greater is the hatred for the individual responsible for the circumstances.

The distinction between what are commonly referred to as the melo­ dramatic hero and the melodramatic villain is one of morality: the hero, despite any accidental, negative traits that he may possess, is essentially good; while the melodramatic villain, despite any accidental, positive traits that he may possess, is essentially evil.

The code of behavior by which the hero consciously or unconsciously governs his behavior is typically one that is accepted as being standard in the real world at the time that the play was written.

Such conforming to accepted morality helps to engage an audience's sympathy and concern for the hero. In contrast, the actions of the villain are in violation of that accepted moral code. The more heinous his offenses against the play's purported standard of morality, the more intense is the hatred aroused for the villain and the more 4 intense is the fear that the standard is in jeopardy. Both the hero and the villain of melodrama possess what Heilman refers to as a

4 Although the melodramatic villain usually takes the form of a character, such need not invariably be the case. Often the villain takes the form of an evil or potentially harmful force. Nature, for example, would be the villain of a melodrama dealing with the attempts of a group of plane-crash survivors to survive in the wilderness. 28

"wholeness" of character. They are not, like the central character of tragedy, torn by internal conflict concerning the morality of their actions; their function in the drama is to be either comfortably good or comfortably evil. Thus, while tragedy depicts the conflict of good and evil within a single individual, melodrama depicts the con­ flict of good and evil in an external world. If a playwright of melodrama depicts mental deliberation on the part of a hero or a villain, such deliberation typically focuses on expedient concerns— decisions concerning how most efficiently to achieve their predetermined goals.5

Pathos, an emotion somewhat sim ilar to pity, is a secondary emotion aroused by melodrama. Pathos and pity are sim ilar in that they both entail pain at the sight of a suffering human being. Unlike pity, however, pathos is a condescending emotion. It is a painful response to the helplessness of a totally innocent sufferer and, thus, focuses almost exclusively on "feeling sorry for" the victim.** As is the case with fear and hatred, there is a causal relationship between

5 To say that the characters of melodrama typically do not concern themselves with moral and ethical choices, however, is not to say that melodrama never deals with morality; on the contrary, the melo­ dramatic form is quite amenable to moralizing. To moralize, however, is not to grapple with questions of ethics or morality but rather simply to blindly advocate or adhere to a particular preset standard of moral i ty .

In contrast to pathos, pity involves an awareness of the suf­ ferer's role in causing or contributing to his own suffering; conse­ quently, pity carries with it a certain amount of fear, a certain awe, at the sight of another human being leading himself irremediably toward misfortune. 29 pathos and hatred. Pathetic situations have the potential for arousing intense hatred—hatred directed toward the agent responsible for the suffering of the innocent.

The catharsis of fear, hatred, and pathos in melodrama involves removing their cause. Because the cause of all three is the villainous force, catharsis is effected simply by eliminating it or by neutralizing its negative powers. Melodramas in which the villainous force defeats the hero or in which that force is not completely eliminated contain an incomplete catharsis of the melodramatic emotions. The modern social problem play, for instance, often concludes with the victimi­ zation of the central sympathetic character by the social problems that the playwright intends to expose. In such cases, the playwright depicts the social problems as villainous forces and the central character as an innocent victim. To resolve the conflict by having the central character defeat the negative forces, by providing the play with a pleasant ending, would deemphasize the magnitude of the social problems. Such incomplete catharsis is appropriate when it otherwise would have been necessary to violate the laws of probability in order to eliminate the cause of fear, hatred, and pathos.

Drame is an intermediate dramatic form. Were the seriously oriented dramatic forms to be arranged on a continuum, with plays that are purely melodramatic at one end and plays that are purely tragic at the other, drames would be appropriately placed in the area between the two extremes. It is perhaps more accurate to label drame not as a distinct generic category, but as a distinction related to 30 the magnitude of seriousness inherent in a play— in the subject matter with which the playwright has chosen to deal or in the manner in which he has shaped his materials. A play that is basically tragic in form, for instance, might be classified as a drame if its subject matter is mundane or commonplace, thus not allowing of a magnitude of seriousness traditionally associated with tragedy.

Similarly, a play that is basically melodramatic in form might be classified as a drame if there is inherent in it a magnitude of seriousness not typical of melodrama.

To a formalist critic, generic classification is a means to an end, not an end in itself. Attaching the label tragedy, melodrama, or drame to a play is intended not so much to provide an absolute classification of the play as to provide critical guidelines for analyzing the play in relation to standards appropriate to its overall form and intended effect. CHAPTER TWO

STAGE ADAPTATIONS OF NOVELS: MAREVA AND THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME

Mareva is based on Serenade au Borreau (Serenade to a Hangman? by Maurice DeKobra, who was noted for his popular novels of romance and international intrigue; The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come is based on a novel of the same title by John Fox, J r., whose novels dealing with life among the inhabitants of the mountain regions of Kentucky and West Virginia made him a popular local color writer.^

Neither of the plays was produced on Broadway; however, because they are the only available examples of Walter's efforts at adapting a novel for the stage and because a critical examination of them pro­ vides occasion to discuss certain considerations regarding the basic nature of the dramatic form, an analysis of the two plays is in­ cluded in this study.

Maurice DeKobra (Neal Wainwright, trans.), Serenade to a Hangman (New York: Payson and Clarke, Ltd., 1929). DeKobra's most prolific years as a novelist were during the 1920's and 1930's. John Fox, Jr., The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come (New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1903). Most of Fox's local color novels were written during the first decade of the twentieth century; a number of them including The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come retained their popularity until well into the second decade of this century.

31 32

The initial set of circumstances from which the dramatic action of

Mareva (Appendix A, pp. 215-20) develops provides the potential for much forceful and emotionally gripping conflict. The husband of a man's mistress offers to save the man from being hanged for murder provided that he agrees to commit suicide one year thereafter. Although stories of revenge are common in dramatic literature, a play dealing with re­ venge pursued in so bizarre a manner is rare. The potential inherent in those basic materials is enhanced by the presence of interesting characters with conflicting drives. There are four major characters i n Mareva: Ibrahim Bey, the proud and well-educated son of a wealthy

Egyptian industrialist and a former French actress, whose two most active drives are his passion for Mareva and his sense of honor;

Mareva, a beautiful femme fa ta le , who despises her husband and is obsessed by her desire to possess Ibrahim; Dr. Hugo Stromberg, a psychiatrist who relishes the idea of subjecting his wife's lover to the agony of anticipating his death for an entire year before

its planned occurrence; and Claudine, a young woman from the Paris

slums, who is selflessly in love with Ibrahim and wants only to make

him happy—even if that means giving him up to Mareva.

Mareva, however, does not fulfill the potential that is inherent

in its basic set of circumstances. Because the action of the play proceeds, albeit episodically at times, from its rather bizarre

inciting incident through a series of conflicts to a climax at the

final curtain, the development of the story is innately suspenseful

enough to secure and maintain at least casual interest; however, the 33 play is neither as forceful in its dramatic action nor as emotionally gripping in its effect as its inciting incident promises. Two struc­ tural weaknesses account for much of the ineffective development of the play's potentially exciting basic materials: (1) the play's dramatically ineffective protagonist and (2) the playwright's frequent use of a narrative, rather than a dramatic, approach to his materials.

The description of the play's protagonist, Ibrahim Bey, given by Captain Mahmoud in the opening moments of the play, creates the expectation of Ibrahim's being an individual with a colorful person­ ality and a strong will capable of influencing circumstances around him:

Briefly, our Egyptian friend was moulded by the most drastic of western patterns--went to Eaton at seven— then Cambridge--then the Soborne [sic]--joined the air forces of France when the war broke out and for two years made an enviable record on the western front— decoration after decoration--wounded—transferred to Palestine and after the armistice became a figure in all capitals--a brilliant polo player at Cairo—the best shot at clay pigeons in Deauville—a reckless gambler with unlimited funds and—here are the exact words: "particularly a nonchalant charmer of occi­ dental ladies--only escaping innumerable scandals through the influence of his undoubted wealth."l

Despite the expectations created by that description, Ibrahim proves to be a weak protagonist from the standpoint of his influence on the development of the dramatic action.

The United States Copyright Office, Mareva MS. Act I, p. 4. Further page references for Mareva will be pTaced in parentheses in the text. The abbreviation, I,T , for example, would indicate Act I, page 4. 34

In traditionally structured plays, there is a close relationship

between the dramatic action and the protagonist. The desire of the

protagonist to achieve a specific goal is the primary catalyst in the

development of the action from its beginning through its middle and

to its climax and conclusion. The protagonist's efforts to achieve

his goal, together with the efforts of other characters either to

help or to hinder him, result in the various incidents that, in their

entirety, form the major conflict of the play. In such a play, most of the suspense is related to the question of whether or not the

protagonist will achieve his goal. Thus, the presence of a protagonist

with a clearly defined goal and the consequent presence of a clearly

defined major conflict are important to maintaining suspense and to

clarifying the relevance of individual incidents to the development

of the dramatic action as a whole.

The inciting incident of Mareva occurs late in Act I.

Dr. Stromberg offers Ibrahim a proposal: Stromberg will secure

Ibrahim's escape from the hangman and from prison that night provided

that Ibrahim write and sign a suicide note, dated for one year there­

after, as a promise that on that date he will take his own life.

Ibrahim's writing and signing the suicide note clearly indicates

his commitment to saving himself from the hangman and from prison.

In that scene, he also expresses the possibility of a more long-term

goal — to stay alive beyond the one-year "lease on life" provided by

Stromberg. "And if I do not carry out this obligation—if I conclude

that there is no moral obligation— " (I, 29), says Ibrahim just before 35

he signs the suicide note. Moments after he signs it, he similarly

remarks, “And if by chance, having regained my liking for life , . . .

I should forget this little formality—this made to order suicide—"

(I, 30). When Stromberg expresses his opinion that "there will be no escape" (I, 30), the expectation of an eventual face-to-face con­

frontation between the two men is created--the expectation of a

scene a fa ire , with the life of Ibrahim at stake.

Thus, by the end of Act I, the expectation has been created

that Ibrahim, having cormiitted himself to escaping Stromberg's plan

for revenge, will embark upon a course of action that eventually will lead him, by his own design or by chance, to a climactic con­

frontation with Stromberg. That expectation is increased in light

of the scene that immediately precedes the encounter between Stromberg

and Ibrahim, in which Mareva and Ibrahim profess their passion for

one another and their desire to live happily together.

The fact that the action of Act II takes place on the final day

of Ibrahim's "lease on life" increases both the expectation of and

suspense related to a possible last minute confrontation between the

two enemies; during Act II, Ibrahim's actions per se, however, do

little to increase that possibility. As a result, although suspense

is maintained during Act II, it is not appreciably increased by

Ibrahim's actions. Ibrahim admits the possibility that his death

is inminent but gives no indication whether he expects it to come

by his own hand or by that of Stromberg during a physical confronta­

tion. Ibrahim gives a copy of his will to Abdul, the supervisor of his 36 estate, and says, "Here are your full instructions—including my will if anything should happen to me--" (II, 11). A few lines later he asks Abdul to care for Claudine should he "meet with an accident"

(II, 12). Neither of those statements clarify whether or not Ibrahim has decided upon a specific course of action with regard to the suicide pact. Later in Act II, he admits to Claudine that he has made no decision. "I am considering--," he tells her, "wondering just what to do—" {II, 15), In light of the fact that, during the act, he forces both Claudine and Mareva to promise not to interfere in the business between himself and Stromberg, Ibrahim appears decidedly opposed to allowing others to work toward saving his life.

At the conclusion of Act II, Ibrahim's implications of his possibly opposing Stromberg's efforts at revenge are more strongly expressed than they are at the conclusion of Act I. In the final scene of Act II, Ibrahim tells Stromberg that the "only thing inevitable is death—from an outward cause—suicide is not inevitable."

He also warns that "people have killed their enemies" (II, 31); he makes no such threat in Act I. What he implies at the conclusion of Act I and again, more strongly and explicitly, at the conclusion of Act II, however, is not put into action until moments before the play's final curtain, at which time he announces to Stromberg that he has decided not to abide by the terms of the suicide pact.

Because Stromberg, before that point in the play, has agreed to spare Ibrahim's life, Ibrahim’s decision has little effect on the dramatic action. 37

The ability of a play to involve an audience emotionally in the dramatic conflict is greatly dependent upon how fiercely the protag­ onist is committed to achieving his goal throughout the play.

A protagonist who does not display deep commitment to his goal, whether in word or action, is poor dramatic material. Such is the case with Ibrahim in Mareva. Because he does not pursue a recognizable course of action, Act II is extremely static; Act III is rescued from being equally as deadly, not by Ibrahim's actions, but by the efforts of Mareva and her friend, Leila.

Not only does Ibrahim's behavior in Act II indicate that he has not decided upon a course of action with regard to the suicide pact, but it also casts serious doubt on whether or not he even is com­ mitted to staying alive. His remaining in Saint Raphael even after he is informed of Stromberg's presence there, his tending to his will, and his demanding a promise of non-interference from Mareva—who, as Stromberg's wife, is in a potentially effective position to mediate between the two enemies—all suggest that Ibrahim is not committed to saving his life. In light of the fact that he is but hours away from the deadline for his suicide and the fact that Strom­

berg has vowed to kill Ibrahim if Ibrahim does not commit suicide,

Ibrahim's indecisiveness is difficult to justify except with reference

to a consideration, the existence of which is only intimated in the play: Ibrahim's sense of duty to the honor code of his caste.

The subject of his honor is mentioned only twice and only briefly.

In Act I, Ibrahim tells Mareva that he will agree to the proposal that 38 is to be offered to him that night only if he "can in honor accept it" (I, 15). When, in his verbal confrontation with Stromberg during Act II, Ibrahim speaks of perhaps not abiding by the terms of the suicide pact, Stromberg's response, although very brief, is the most extensive reference in the play to Ibrahim's honor code. "You

[would] lose all that men of your caste value--," he warns

Ibrahim, "a sense of honor--nearly always absurd, I admit--but part of your assinine code—" (II, 32). Ibrahim's response is the play's only indication of his having questioned, even to a slight degree, the validity of his caste’s honor code. Because his response,

"And if I agree with you about the honor code—absurd—assinine"

(II, 32), is not a clear-cut statement of conviction, it is not a sure indication of his attitude. One can only assume from his other­ wise unexplainable delay in formulating a plan of action that

Ibrahim is experiencing an internal conflict between his sense of honor and his sense of self-preservation. His desire to avoid death is counter-balanced by his desire to avoid the dishonor that would result from his breaking his pledge to Stromberg. The presence of such an internal conflict would explain Ibrahim's other­ wise unmotivated passivity in the face of impending death. Nowhere, however, is such a conflict clearly represented. Walter's failure to do so creates in the character of Ibrahim a serious problem of in­ consistency between the intentions he displays at the end of Act I and his inactivity during much of the remainder of the play. That inconsistency damages the believabi1ity of the character. 39

The action of Mareva would have been more structurally unified and more emotionally gripping had Walter introduced Ibrahim's sense of duty to the honor code as a major obstacle hindering his instinctive efforts to oppose Stromberg's revenge plan. The presence of a strong sense of honor would be believable in a man with Ibrahim's background; furthermore, the fact that Ibrahim owes his life to Stromberg and the fact that Ibrahim is guilty, by law, of adultery with Stromberg*s wife are considerations that understandably would burden the conscience of a man with even a minimally developed sense of honor. Because the presence of such a conflict is not clearly represented,

Ibrahim's passivity in the face of death strains credibility and, from a dramaturgic point of view, causes him to be an ineffective protagoni st.

A playwright who undertakes to adapt a novel for the stage faces a number of challenges that stem from the differences between the art of the novel and the art of the drama. The narrative form provides a writer with freedom to develop his story in a more extensive manner than does the dramatic form. For example, while a novelist is free to compose a work of virtually any length, a playwright--especially one who is writing for the commercial theatre—must conform to an accepted standard of performance time. A novelist can transport his readers fluidly from one locale to another through the descriptive and suggestive power of narration; a playwright's freedom to change locales in his story, however, is restricted by the physical limita­ tions of the medium of stage performance. Similarly, while a novelist 40 is free to communicate directly with his reader through the use of narration, a playwright can use little of such descriptive detail without his plays acquiring traits that are more appropriate to the narrative form and that have a deadening effect on the dramatic form.

The essence of the dramatic form—that which most distinguishes it from narrative forms, such as the novel —is that which Aristotle in his Poetics refers to as praxis, "a doing.11 Because speaking is a form of action, dialogue in a play can be considered to be a form of praxis. The overall effect of a play, however, is not dependent upon individual actions, per se, but rather upon a sense of connection between them. In order for the overall action (i.e., Plot) of a play to be dramatic, the individual scenes should contribute to a sense of inomen t-by-moment progress; the actions of each character should interact with the given circumstances in such a manner that his actions in some way alter those circumstances. A sense of change, or action, is thereby created. Thus, even though speaking, in and of itself, is a form of action, any dialogue that does not contribute to the progress of the overall action is essentially non­ drama tic.

In Mareva such non-dramatic dialogue most commonly takes the form of narration and is especially evident in scenes of exposition. The play begins with a number of scenes involving Osman, Colonel Selim, and Captain Mahmoud that function solely as exposition. In those scenes, Colonel Selim1s questioning of Osman, his request for Captain

Mahmoud's report on Ibrahim's background, and the consequent exposition 41 appear to be motivated by the colonel's Involvement in the plan to free Ibrahim. Presumably, Colonel Selim is acting as the primary liaison between the Turkish government and those individuals, such as

Osman and Karnecki, who are responsible for carrying out the practical aspects of the escape. For a man in such a position, however, Colonel

Selim is remarkably uninformed; his ignorance of certain facts vital to Ibrahim's case is improbable, especially in light of the fact that Ibrahim's execution is but an hour or so away. He asks Osman, for instance, whether Ibrahim is among the men to be executed that night, how soon the execution is to take place, and why Ibrahim is to be hanged rather than shot. That last question prompts Osman to explain that Ibrahim, together with three others, were found guilty, not simply of treason, but of having assassinated a government official. That Colonel Selim would be unaware of such a sensational aspect of Ibrahim's case strains the limits of credibility.

Captain Mahmoud's reporting on Ibrahim’s background is motivated supposedly by Colonel Selim's need to determine with certainty that

Ibrahim has no record of previous involvement with the Bolsheviks: diplomatic embarrassnent might result if the Turkish government executed the son of so prominent an Egyptian citizen on the grounds of circumstantial, rather than political, involvement. The discussion that follows Captain Mahmoud’s report, however, reveals that arrange­ ments for the escape of Ibrahim, and of Mareva, already have been planned in detail. That revelation seriously calls into question the need for the background report. Although a man in Colonel Selim's 42 position of authority presumably would have the power to halt the implementation of the escape plan if evidence were presented that indicated that Ibrahim's involvement in the Bolshevik uprising has serious political significance, Colonel Selim expresses no such intention. Had he indicated that Ibrahim's fate depended upon the information presented by Captain Mahmoud, the reading of the report not only would have borne a causal connection to subsequent action in the play but also would have instilled dramatic conflict into what, as written, is a static and rather unskillfully constructed scene of exposition. The fact that no logical reason is apparent for either

Colonel Selim's questioning of Osman or his requesting the report from Captain Mahmoud calls undue attention to the playwright's reason: to communicate expository information to the audience.

Walter could have done away with much of that which is static and non-dramatic in Act I by eliminating the scenes that involve

Colonel Selim, Captain Mahmoud, and Osman. No incidents that occur later in the play are dependent upon the action depicted in those scenes; furthermore, most of the essential exposition that the scenes contain also is included in the subsequent scene in Act I between

Karnecki and Ibrahim.

Because of the compressed nature of the dramatic form, dialogue should simultaneously perform several dramatic functions. Because it adds to the play's development on several levels--such as character revelation, story progression, and exposition—effective dialogue creates a greater sense of moment-by-moment action, or change, than does dialogue that performs only one dramatic function at a time. 43

The dialogue in the opening scenes of Mareva is entirely expository and thus displays no such dramatic compression.

The first scene in the play to perform multiple dramatic functions, the scene between Karnecki and Ibrahim, does not occur until the middle of Act I. The encounter between the two men con­ tributes to the advancement of the story line, communicates expository

information, and provides insight into Ibrahim's character. Karnecki

tells Ibrahim of the details of the escape plan, of arrangements for

the safe conduct of Mareva, and of the visitor who will present

Ibrahim with a proposal, Ibrahim's acceptance of which is a prerequisite for the implementation of the escape plan. Unlike the expository in­ formation related e a rlie r by Osman, Captain Mahmoud, and Colonel Selim,

Karnecki's presentation of information is necessary to the progress of the story line: the implementation of the escape plan is dependent

upon Ibrahim's consent; a man of his intelligence would not be

likely to give consent before he was aware of all the circumstances

in which he would become involved. The information given by Karnecki

has an effect on Ibrahim's subsequent behavior. In the scene moments

later between Mareva and Ibrahim, the prospect of Ibrahim's escaping

execution and of Mareva's safe conduct creates for the couple the

expectation of a happy reunion in the near future and prompts Mareva

to give Ibrahim an address in Berlin where she can be contacted;

Mareva's failure to respond to Ibrahim's mmerous letters and telegrams

to that address is a factor in his taking another mistress. 44

On two occasions Ibrahim becomes violent with Karnecki in an effort to force information from him. Those incidents vividly reveal

Ibrahim's physicality and aggressiveness and do so in a manner that is more appropriate to the dramatic form than is Captain Mahmoud's describing, in narrative fashion, Ibrahim's prowess in battle and in sports. The presence of Ibrahim's violent outbursts in the scene evidences Walter's ability to combine exposition with lively stage action and character revelation. The scene, as written, could function quite effectively as the opening scene of the play.

The opening scene of Act II, a conversation between Claudine and

Abdul, is another scene of non-dramatic exposition that is essen­ tially narrative in form. At the outset, Claudine, who has been dis­ tressed by Jamil's (Ibrahim's) nervous behavior and her fears for his welfare, questions Abdul. Abdul, however, immediately admits,

"I know but l i t t l e — it has been many years since I have been in the master's confidence" (I, 2). As a result of his lack of information, he functions primarily as a confidant during the scene. He listens to Claudine speak at length of her deep love for Jamil, her concern for his welfare, her belief that he is suffering from a terminal illness, the details of her firs t meeting with him, and the details of her own upbringing. As is the case with exposition early in the play,

Claudine's narration, per se, has no effect on subsequent dramatic action. The knowledge that Abdul gains from Claudine during the scene, for example, does not alter his behavior in the subsequent scene with Ibrahim; in that scene, he simply listens to Ibrahim's 45 instructions, accepts the papers that Ibrahim entrusts to him, and bids his master farewell.

The scene between Claudine and Abdul is unnecessary. It is intended to provide exposition regarding the events that have occurred in the year that has passed between Act I and Act II; how­ ever, all of the vital expository information that is revealed during the scene is repeated in some form in later scenes. Walter, for instance, conmunicates information concerning Claudine's background by having her describe that background; moments later, when Ibrahim scolds Claudine for questioning Abdul behind his back, he expresses disappointment that he has "failed to improve [Claudine's] manners— to cleanse [her] entirely of the Montmartre" (II, 9). Later, when she reveals to Ibrahim that she has been eavesdropping on his conversa­ tion with Abdul, she says, "I s till have all the common manners of the gutter" (II, 12). Several other such references, as well as

Claudine's occasional fiery outbursts, attest to her lower class background and render her earlier description of that background unnecessary. Because of repetition, all of the expository informa­ tion in the opening scene of Act II is tautological.

Even those scenes in Act I and Act II that are intended primarily to depict conflict and advance the dramatic action, rather than to communicate expository information, are weakened by the presence of much narrative material. The confrontation between Stromberg and

Ibrahim in Act I, for instance, includes a detailed description by

Stromberg of the events that lead to his wife's abandoning him; 46 similarly, in an earlier scene, Mareva speaks at length of the circum­ stances that prompted her to marry Stromberg. In Act II, the reunion between Mareva and Ibrahim includes detailed descriptions by both of events of the preceding year. Although those narrations include discoveries that alter the subsequent behavior of characters and, thereby, affect the course of the dramatic action, they, nonetheless, consist primarily of dialogue that is devoted to non-dramatic, past- tense reportage—often needlessly detailed--rather than to present-tense interplay of words, ideas, and emotions. As a result, even scenes of conflict in Acts I and II are characteristically more narrative than dramatic in structure. In contrast, Act III is relatively free of such reportage, a factor that contributes to making Act III con­ siderably more dramatic, more dynamic, than the previous two acts.

In transforming a novel into a play, a playwright must carefully select from the novel material that not only will f it, or can be adapted to f it, within the confines of the dramatic form but also can be formulated into a unified dramatic action, a coherent dramatization of a story. A complete dramatic action, or story, can be described as one that has a beginning, a middle, and an end. An appropriate beginning to a play is composed of incidents that need not be preceded by other incidents in order to be understood; a proper middle is composed of incidents that proceed causally from the beginning and that provide cause for further incidents; and a proper end is composed of incidents that proceed causally from those of the middle and that 47 do not necessitate the occurrence of further incidents. Thus, the occurrence of an appropriate beginning, middle, and end of play is, with regard to a rtistic unity, a matter of causality rather than of chronology. In his How To Write A Play, Walter attributes similar causal interdependence to what he refers to as the premise (cause), the effect, and the outcome of a story. Walter states that the development of the effect, or middle, is the most difficult task con­ fronting a playwright. "The temptation of anyone, in relating the story of an event, is to tell what it was about [the premise] and go 2 as rapidly as possible to the end." In adapting DeKobra's novel to the stage, Walter succumbed to that temptation. Faced with the task of compressing the story to f it within the physical restrictions and limitation of time inherent in the dramatic form, Walter limited the action of the play to the events of two days that are particularly critical to Ibrahim's fate: the day on which he is saved from the hangman by signing the suicide pact (Act I) and the day, one year later, on which he has promised to commit suicide (Acts II and III).

The events of those two days provide the play with a beginning and an end, but there is no appropriate middle. Walter chose not to dramatize the events that form the middle of DeKobra's novel, the most important of which is the gradual development of a warm, loving, and mutually satisfying relationship between Ibrahim and Paprika (Claudine of the

o Eugene Walter, How To Write A Play (New York: Eugene Walter Corp., 1925), Ch. IV, p. 10. 48 play). That relationship provides Ibrahim with a raison d*etre, a reason to want to live beyond the one year limit set on his life by

Stromberg. Stromberg, in fact, has encouraged the development of the relationship between Ibrahim and Paprika, because he realizes that the happier that Ibrahim's life has become during the year the more painful will be the thought of approaching death. As a result, in the novel, the approach of the end of the year is fearful not only because it brings Ibrahim closer to possible death but also because it brings him closer to a possible separation from Paprika. In Walter’s play, however, Ibrahim has no such close emotional attachment to

Claudine (Paprika of the novel). Consequently, the approach of his death in the play is less painful to Ibrahim than in the novel.

Numerous incidents occur in the interim between Act I and Act II.

Those incidents comprise the given circumstances from which the remainder of the play’s action develops; nonetheless, they are not dramatized and, consequently, must take the form of narrated events during Act II. Thus, Act II inherits the difficult task of com­ municating, through exposition, what amounts to the middle of the story.

The most drastic difference between the story of DeKobra’s novel and that of Walter's play is the manner in which each resolves the basic conflict. In the novel, Mareva is successful in her attempt to trick her husband, Stromberg, into releasing Ibrahim from the terms of the suicide pact, and she and Ibrahim steal away together. That a man as intelligent and conniving as Stromberg would be fooled by Mareva's 49

claims of contrition is improbable; furthermore, Stromberg, after

having looked forward for an entire year to the culmination of his

revenge plan, would not be likely to give it up so readily at the

last minute. Walter apparently sensed that improbability in the

novel and altered the ending to render it more believable. In doing

so, he concluded his play with a dramatically effective reversal.

In the play, Stromberg only pretends to have been tricked by

Mareva1s ploy; he pretends to have departed for his hotel but later

steps into the room as Mareva is pleading with Ibrahim to run away with her. When Stromberg reveals that Mareva has given herself sexu­

ally to him in her efforts to secure Ibrahim's release, Ibrahim

renounces her. Mareva, left alone onstage with Leila, curses the

two men as the final curtain falls* That ending is typical of

Walter’s tendency to resolve his stories unhappily. That tendency,

however, does not represent an arbitrary preference for unpleasant

endings on Walter's part, but rather his habit of shying away from

pleasant endings when an unhappy resolution is more plausible.

The skillful handling of exposition and the creation of an

interesting protagonist are two basic challenges that should be met

by a playwright in order to create a dramatically effective play;

Walter met neither of those challenges adequately in writing Mareva.

Although Act I creates the expectation that Ibrahim will be an

interesting and strong protagonist and that he will be a major

catalyst in the development of the dramatic action, he does not, in

the final two acts, fu lfill those expectations. Although Ibrahim is 50 the central character in Act II, his passive attitude--an attitude that is insufficiently motivated by Walter—results in little progress in the story during the act. That inactivity, together with the large amount of exposition contained in the act, renders Act II extremely static. In Act III, Ibrahim appears only in the final moments; while the story moves rapidly during Act III, that movement is due to the presence of Mareva, rather than of Ibrahim, as the central catalyst and dramatic agent.

In Mareva the transformation from narrative to dramatic form is incomplete. The initial draft of a stage adaptation of a novel might be expected to contain a considerable amount of material that is more narrative than dramatic; in such a case, the focus of subsequent revisions would be the creation of a work that is more distinctly dramatic—a work that depicts present-tense interaction of ideas, emotions, and actions rather than past-tense narration of such behavior. Because Walter demonstrated in earlier plays his ability to communicate effectively in distinctly dramatic terms--as well as his ability to create interesting and dramaturgically effective protagonists—it is probable that the existing manuscript of Mareva represents an initial draft of the play. Because there is no evidence to indicate that the play was ever produced, the possibility also exists that Walter, having himself become aware of the severe problems of the script, abandoned the work.

The central character of Fox's novel, The Little Shepherd of

Kingdom Come, is Chad Buford; the story depicts his boyhood with the

Turner family in the mountains of Kentucky, his education as a young 51 gentleman in Frankfort, and his experiences as a soldier in the Civil

War. Walter's stage adaptation evidences his awareness of a basic distinction between the dramatic and the narrative form: the 3 dramatic form is considerably more compact. Had Walter attempted to dramatize the entire story of the novel—an effort that likely would have included much narrative material — the result would have been a superficial treatment of an extensive story line. Instead

Walter limited his play to a depiction of certain of Chad's boyhood experiences; doing so enabled Walter to develop much of the dramatic action at a pleasantly leisurely pace, which, in turn, enabled him to inject a large amount of entertaining and dramatically relevant humor into the play, as well as much fascinating local color.

The most theatrically effective and dramaturgically skillful aspect of Walter's stage adaption is the use of local color, an aspect to which Fox's novel owes much of its appeal. The local color movement, which emerged as a distinct literary movement in the

United States in the 1870's, was concerned with capturing the charac­ teristics of a particular era or a particular region of the country.

The writing was marked by attention to details of setting, social customs, dress, and dialect. The stories characteristically displayed the influence of both romanticism and realism: they were often fanci­ ful and sentimental and employed stereotyped characters and improb­ abilities of plot; nonetheless, the stories possessed a seeming

3 For a discussion of related distinctions between the narrative and the dramatic form, see pp. 3 9-h.G. 52 verisimilitude because of the writers' attention to surface detail.

Although the local color movement reached the height of its popularity in the 1880’s, local color literature retained its appeal well into the twentieth century, as continued terretorial expansion by the

United States and increased population in previously sparsely settled regions of the country created curiosity for learning about those new areas.

Walter's The L ittle Shepherd of Kingdom Come (Appendix A, pp. 221-

26) creates a detailed picture of the life of Kentucky mountaineers in the middle of the nineteenth century by the use of details of local color that have both theatrical value and dramatic relevance. The play's two outdoor settings, both of which depict wooded areas in the mountains of Kentucky, evidence Walter's concern with visual contrast. Act I takes place at sunset in autumn; Act III, scene i, takes place at sun­ rise in spring. The former setting is peppered with goldenrood and the latter with mountain laurel and rhododendron. The setting for Act II and Act III, scene ii — the main room of the Turner's cabin--derives much of its visual interest from its depiction of an uncommon way of

life. Mother Betsy's huge spinning wheel dominates one area of the

room; an enormous open fireplace, before which several pots and

kettles are simmering, dominates another area. From the rafters

hang red peppers and corn husks. The furniture is crude and rough.

Such details of setting are included not merely for theatrical effect; they also aid in creating a physical environment that con­

tributes to making the action of the play credible. For instance, 53

the Turners' and Dillons' habit of settling their quarrels by direct

confrontation rather than by resorting to the law--a habit that has lead to years of feuding--appears to be natural behavior in the en­ vironment in which those characters live. Their behavior toward one another is as straightforward* simple, and direct as is their way of

life. The mountains have isolated them from the more civilized--and more complicated--!ife of the Settlements. Their physicality derives from their continual interaction with nature—hunting, fishing,

farming, killing a chicken for supper, praying for rain, and "snaking"

logs down the river. Thus, the settings not only contribute to the

play's visual interest but also aid in establishing the play's scheme of probability.

The extent to which Walter concerns himself with creating a

relevant background of local color in the stage business is demonstrated

in the following stage directions:

The men take the quids of tobacco from their mouths with an expert hand, shooting them into the fire; the Major wipes his moustache with his handkerchief, taken from the tails of his coat; Red Fox, with the back of his hand. The Schoolmaster keeps his hands deeply in his pockets. Mother Betsy swings the jug over her shoulder in the characteristic grip of the mountaineer, pours a drink (II, 23).4

Such attention to realistic details in the stage business is present

throughout the play.

^The United States Copyright Office, The L ittle Shepherd of Kingdom Come MS, Act II, p. 23. Further page references for the play will be made in parenthesis in the text. 54

There is theatrically effective variety in the play's language; three different accents are spoken. The mountaineers speak in an un­ educated, backwoods dialect that is peppered with such regionalisms as "powerful kind," "mammy," and "I reckon." Walter, perhaps conscious of the theatrical appeal inherent in the sound of such a dialect, was very consistent in his written representation of it. "Where," for instance, is consistently written as "whar"; "ain't" consistently appears as "hain't"; "are" are "air"; "herb" as "yarb"; and "your" as

"yer." Caleb Hazel, the schoolmaster, having been educated in the

North, speaks in a general American accent and employs diction that is more formal than the colloquial speech of the mountaineers; Major

Buford speaks with similar formality, but in a Southern accent.

Walter occasionally used the contrast between the educated vocabulary of Major Buford and the simple vocabulary of the moun­ taineers for comic effect. During the trial of Jack in Act III, scene i, for example, the Squire, who is acting as the judge, has difficulty understanding the "high fallutin'" words used by Major

Buford in his role as the attorney for the defense; that difficulty, together with the Squire's fear that he will show his ignorance in front of a man who obviously knows more than he about formal court procedures, flusters the country Squire so thoroughly that he sweats profusely and dabs his forehead nervously with a handkerchief throug- out the scene.

The presence of Major Buford, who lives in Frankfort, also enabled Walter to point up, in a light-hearted manner, differences between customs in the Settlements and those in the mountains. When 55 the Major enters the Turners' house in Act II wearing a black suit and a black slouch hat, Mother Betsy is quick to make reference to his

"funny clothes" (II, 17). On seeing ladies in the room, the Major removes his hat; that stage business contrasts with the behavior of the mountain men, to whom the polite gesture of removing their coon- skin cars in the presence of a lady never occurs. When Mother Betsy invites the Major to remove his coat, the Major, not accustomed to such informality among strangers, is reluctant to do so. When the group sits down for a drink, Major Buford's love of "moonshine" is apparent but equally as apparent is the fact that his capacity for liquor is far surpassed by that of Mother Betsy, who complains, "Six or seven drinks after my supper . . . is about all I can stand these days without feel in' sort of lazy-like" (III, 23). When the Major expresses surprise at Chad’s drinking "moonshine" along with the adults,

Mother Betsy, naively thinking that she is reassuring the Major, explains that, were company not present, Chad would not be allowed to drink--until after supper.

Walter's use of comedy throughout the play is skillfully inte­ grated into the structure of the play. The humor proceeds from the nature of the characters and from their way of life and, in turn, provides deeper insight into both. An important incident in the con­ flic t between Nathan Cherry and Chad is Nathan's confession of his criminality. That confession is forced out of Nathan by a humorous bit of stage business: Joel picks up Nathan and "shakes him like a rag" (III, ii, 17). That stage business not only is comic but also is 56 consistent with the physicality and direct approach to problems that

Joel has displayed throughout the play. Similarly, other comic touches, such as Melissa's mimicking the circuit rider's praying for rain and Red Fox's wearing his mocassins backwards to confuse anyone who might be trying to follow him, add not only humor but also inter­ esting details of local color.

The dramatic action of The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come develops along two major lines of conflict, that between Chad and

Nathan Cherry, who claims that Chad is legally bound to him for seven years and tries to take the boy away with him to work on his farm; and the feud between the Turner family and the Dillon family, the primary focus of which is the Dillons' attempt to have Chad's dog,

Jack, shot as a sheep-ki1le r . The dramatic action stemming from the latter line of conflict is quite credible, because a clear causal connection between the incidents is established; furthermore, that credibility is enhanced by the physical environment in which the action takes place--by details of local color that render physical con­ frontation a natural mode of behavior, a fact of life, for the mountai neers.

The existence of justified contempt for the Dillon family is depicted not only in the dialogue but also in the physical action of

Act I. During his initial appearance, for instance, Red Fox tells Chad

that the "Dillons was born to hate" (I, 14); later in the act, Melissa

reinforces that opinion and tells Chad of the Turners' hatred for the

Dillons. Also depicted in Act I are circumstances that later involve 57

Chad in a conflict with the entire Dillon clan. Young Tad and Daws

Dillon appear during a conversation between Chad and Melissa and deride the young girl for associating with "poor white trash" and a

"woodscolt." Chad then accuses the Dillon boys of having revealed his whereabouts to Nathan Cherry and of having failed to pass the word to

Red Fox, the herb doctor, concerning the serious illness of Chad's "Aunt

Jane" and "Uncle Jim." When Daws and Tad— resentful of Chad because

Jack beat their dog, Whizzer, in a fight—call Jack a sheep-killer, a brawl ensues, during which Daws and Tad display the Turner family's characteristic lack of fair play by both jumping on Chad.

When Chad is adopted by the Turner family, Chad's personal grudge against the two young Dillon boys is reinforced by the Turners’ hatred for the Dillons. Chad's encounter with the Turner boys and Jack's encounter with Whizzer have contributed to a set of circumstances ripe for confrontation between Chad and the Dillon family. The fact that Chad and Jack have become members of the Turner household in­ creases the possibility of confrontation. When Jack kills Whizzer in an attempt to protect a sheep that Whizzer is attacking, the

Dillons concoct a scheme to get back at Chad, Jack, and the Turners.

Using the presence of blood on Jack's muzzle and sheep's wool behind his ears as evidence, the Dillons accuse Jack of killing the sheep and demand that he be shot.

The conflict during Jack's trial in Act III, scene ii, is inten­ sified by the fact that the trial is both a struggle by the Turners,

Chad? and Major Buford to save Jack and a skirmish in the long-standing 58 feud between the Dillons and the Turners. While the most immediate conflict focuses on Jack's fate, the emotional atmosphere is charged with tension that derives from years of feuding between the two families, tension that occasionally disrupts the court proceedings.

The trial is a climactic scene, not only because Jack's life hangs in the balance but also because the scene is the culmination of the anger that has been growing for a long time between the two families.

The revelation at the conclusion of the trial scene of Whizzer's and the Dillons' guilt is not only a pleasant turn of events but also a quite credible one: precedent circumstances make it so. That credible resolution of the line of conflict involving Chad, the

Turners, and the Dillons stands in sharp contrast to the extremely improbable resolution of the line of conflict involving Chad and

Nathan Cherry. When, in Act III, scene ii, Nathan Cherry returns to

the Turner house to repeat his earlier claim of legal authority over

Chad, Red Fox steps forward and announces that he has unearthed documents hidden at Nathan's farm that prove (1) that Nathan stole

the farm from Chad's parents, (2) that Chad's parents were legally married and, thus, Chad is not a "woodscolt," and (3) that Major

Buford is Chad's great-great-uncle. Thus, with the use of that fortuitous discovery, which is also included in the novel, Walter exposed Nathan Cherry's villainy and assured Chad's happiness.

Walter, perhaps sensing that the resolution to the conflict in­ volving Nathan and Chad was somewhat less that probable, attempted to prepare for Red Fox's revelation by also including certain foreshadowing 59 found in the novel. On a number of occasions, for instance, Red Fox claims that he knows the truth about Nathan Cherry; when Fox leaves for the Settlements, he tells Chad that he is going to find out who

Chad's parents were. When Chad, in Act II, firs t hears Major Buford's last name, he recalls Nathan Cherry having occasionally called him by that name. Although Walter's foreshadowing creates the expectation that a fortuitous revelation will occur, it does not, in and of itself, make the occurrence of such a revelation probable; instead, the foreshadowing simply succeeds in making it predictable. Fox's revelation does not proceed from the development of the onstage action, but rather from an offstage coincidence--Fox's discovery of the hidden documents. Furthermore, nothing in the dramatic action makes the discovery probable or even hints at the existence of such documents.

Dependence upon coincidence, a deus ex machina resolution, and a stereotyped villain for its effect renders the dramatic action that develops from the conflict between Chad and Nathan Cherry reminiscent of the contrived and simplistic plots of much of nineteenth-century melodrama. As such, it appears to be out of place alongside the more skillfully and credibly developed line of conflict involving Chad, the Turners, and the Dillons.

The overall tone of the play is generally light and pleasant, an effect that Walter created not only by including numerous comic touches but also by structuring the dramatic action in a manner that minimizes fear for Chad's welfare. Despite threats to his welfare, 60 it is never highly probable, even at the outset of his problems, that Chad will suffer permanent harm. As depicted at the beginning of the play, the boy hardly could be more miserable. His "Aunt Jane" and "Uncle Jim" have just died, leaving him homeless and lonely; the villainous Nathan Cherry is threatening not only to take Chad away with him to work on his farm but also to kill Chad's beloved

Jack. As a result, pathos is aroused for Chad at the beginning of the play, an emotion that is expressed by the neighbors who are gathered for the funeral. By placing the boy in highly pathetic circumstances and by immediately and clearly establishing Nathan Cherry as an unequivocal villain with no redeeming qualities, Walter rendered the possibility of victory for Nathan Cherry and further misery for Chad so odious that it becomes improbable. Because young Chad's misery is so pathetic and Nathan's villainy so great, any resolution of the conflict that does not provide relief for Chad and punishment for

Nathan would have a decidedly unsatisfying effect. Early in Act I, when Red Fox expresses confidence that he can uncover evidence that will put Nathan Cherry in jail, expectation of relief for Chad is established.

Fear for Chad's welfare also is reduced by the manner in which

Walter structured the conclusion of each of the play's acts. Typical of a traditional well-made play, each act includes a major crisis near its conclusion. Instead of concluding each act, however, at a point at which fear for Chad's welfare is the greatest—a technique for arousing suspense cormonly used by practitioners of the well-made 61 play—Walter introduced circumstances, just before each curtain, that reduce the threat imposed upon Chad by the crisis. Thus, each act ends on a hopeful note. The fear aroused for Chad by Nathan

Cherry's threat to return for him the next morning, for example, is reduced when Tom Turner, at the end of Act I, invites Chad to hide from Nathan by living with the Turners. The loneliness that Chad has been experiencing is also thereby reduced. Similarly, fear aroused for Jack's welfare—and, thus, for Chad's happiness--by the Dillons' accusation that Jack is a sheep-killer is reduced by Chad's repeated question, "Whar's Whizzer?" and the consequent implication that Whizzer is the actual culprit. When, in Act II, scene i, the case against

Jack is dismissed, Old Tad Dillon threatens to inform Nathan Cherry of Chad's whereabouts; just before the curtain, however, Red Fox crosses to Major Buford, whispers to him, and smiles knowingly—stage business that provides reminder of Fox's earlier claim that he knows the truth about Nathan.

With that reduction in the amount of fear for Chad's welfare comes a consequent reduction in the intensity of the related suspense.

That, however, does not weaken the play's theatrical appeal; it rather has the effect of shifting focus toward the play’s primary source of interest— local color. Thus, instead of a melodrama that captures and maintains interest through intense suspense and emotional involvement, Walter created a light-hearted melodrama that derives its appeal through its pleasant, sympathetic, and often comic depiction of life of the mountaineers of nineteenth-century Kentucky. CHAPTER THREE

THE EASIEST WAY

In his handbook for prospective playwrights, How To Write A Play,

Walter indicates that story is the most important consideration in constructing a play, because story carries with it the greatest potential of any dramatic ingredient for creating and maintaining interest and, thus, for accomplishing what Walter considered to be a playwright's primary goal--entertainment. Concerning the premise

(beginning) of a play, Walter states that the "prologue, or first act, . . . must in its expository sense furnish the cause for all the action that follows."^ He admits of two types of inventiveness that a playwright may possess—inventiveness that focuses on depiction of character and its expression and development in action, and inventiveness that focuses on mechanical situations or physical action. Walter indicates that a blending of the two is the ideal expression of a playwright's imaginative and creative powers and that such a blending is responsible for the most entertaining and, conse­ quently, the most satisfying stories. Such a blending results in what

Walter refers to as a drama of character; The Easiest Way is the finest example among Walter's Broadway plays of such a drama,

^Eugene Walter, How To Write A Play (New York: The Eugene Walter Corporation, 1925), Ch. II, p. 8.

62 63

In a drama of character, Walter notes, Act I (the premise) is devoted to telling "not only . . . what the play is about from its physical aspects, but also what it is about from its character aspects." The first act of The Easiest Way effectively performs that twofold dramaturgic function. The act establishes the circumstances from which will proceed the dramatic action of the remaining three acts. Those circumstances include both information concerning the situation in which the personages of the play find themselves and insight into the nature of their characters. Act I is effective from a theatrical point of view because those basic circumstances of situation and character are established through a series of scenes that possess a substantial amount of both internal and external co n flict.

The setting of Act I is the patio of a ranch house owned by a friend of Laura. Perched on the edge of a canyon in the Rocky

Mountains, the house provides its inhabitants with a beautiful view of mountain peaks and open sky. Such an environment is far removed in kind from that which Laura had been living— the theatre d istrict of New York, with its peculiar mixture of low-life criminality and luxurious decadence. In the mountain environment, the economic, career, and social pressures that drew Laura into assuring herself of security through a series of liaisons with rich and influential

New York men are but unpleasant memories to her. Her present environ­ ment has drawn optimism and idealism to the surface of her character.

As such, the environment helps to make credible Laura's decision, 64 made just prior to the start of the play, to abjure her former life as a mistress and to marry Madison. Her relationship with Madison, she notes with an idealism typical to Laura in Act I, has made every other feeling that she previously had held for men "seem so 2 sort of earthly" and has made her "want to be truthful and sincere and humble for the firs t time in [her] life" (p. 178). Laura assures a skeptical Brockton that her mind is made up and that her feelings are not mere infatuation, as Brockton suggests, but rather the

"first conviction" (p. 176). During her absence from New York, she has decided that her life as a mistress is wrong and that doing the

"right thing . . . changes the spelling of comradeship into love and mistress into wife" (p. 178). Whether those assertions are indeed the result of conviction or merely of infatuation, they are, nonthe-

less, prompted by idealistic feelings within Laura—feelings that appear

to be quite natural in the clear atmosphere and picturesque environment of the Rockies.

When Laura informs Brockton that Madison works as a newspaper

reporter, a low-paying position, Brockton quips, "What are you going

to live on--the extra editions?" (p. 177). He reminds Laura that over the past years she has become accustomed to an easy life of luxury and security and that, consequently, it will not be easy for her

2 Eugene Walter, The Easiest Way, Thomas H. Dickinson, ed., Chief Contemporary Dramatists (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1921), p. 178. All subsequent page references to the cited edition of The Easiest Way will be made in parentheses in the text. 65 to "suffer for the little dainty necessities" (p. 178) that she for so long has taken for granted. Because she is at best only a fair actress, Brockton adds, she might encounter considerable difficulty in securing a job without the influence of men such as himself. Laura assures Brockton that she has thought about such considerations; her decision to give up her life as a mistress and to marry Brockton appears to be a firm one.

Although Laura shows some interest in Brockton's announcement that he has bought a beautiful house on New York's prestigious Riverside

Drive and that he has arranged for Laura to be cast in an important role in a new Broadway play, she clearly indicates to Brockton that she would return to him only if Madison proves to be uninterested in marrying her. Laura appears to be firmer in her dedication to Madison than to her newly adopted moral code. Although her decision to do the "right thing" was a moral choice, she perhaps would not have made that choice were it not for one important, expedient considera­ tion: Laura's repudiation of her previous way of life is a pre­ requisite to her marrying Madison. Given that incentive, Laura, who has proven herself in the past six years to be quite lax in making the distinction between morality and imnorality, has the strength of character to make and, at least temporarily, to abide by that diffi­ cult moral choice. The influence of expediency remains a factor in all the important choices that Laura makes during the course of the play. 66

When, after Laura has accepted Madison's proposal of marriage,

Madison suggests that they tell each other everything about them­ selves, so that, in his words, "What's ever said about us by other people, we’ll know i t first" (p. 182), Laura is reluctant to be totally candid. "Well, John," she explains, "there are so many things that I don't want to speak of even to you. It isn't easy for a woman to go back and dig up a lot of old memories and try to excuse them"

(p. 182). Such reluctance suggests that Laura wishes to separate her past life totally from her "wonderfully different sumner" (p. 177) with Madison and from the future she hopes to have with him; and that she believes, by simply closing her eyes to certain unpleasant re a litie s of the past, she can embark on a new life . Act II proves her attitude to be idealism that is, at least for Laura, unrealistic and impractical.

Stage directions suggests that, with Madison, Laura is like a "dainty little kitten purring close to its master" (p. 181). In the past years she has grown accustomed to receiving security and protection from men. That dependence upon male dominance renders her relatively helpless when she is le ft alone in Act II.

The final scene of Act I, an encounter between Brockton and

Madison, provides background information concerning Laura’s past

1ife--information that is important to understanding the effect that poverty has on her in Act II--and provides insight into the character of Brockton and Madison. The fact that the two men are rivals for

Laura's attentions and that their personalities and ways of life are distinctly different enhances the theatrical effectiveness of the scene 67 by creating an immediate atmosphere of tension. Their encounter totters precariously on the brink of physical confrontation.

Madison, dressed in western canvas leggings and brass spurs, is a physically oriented, if somewhat self-righteous, man of the west, who is suspicious of what he considers to be the manipulative and

"crooked" ways of financiers such as Brockton. He describes himself as being honest and energetic, and he firmly believes that he can earn wealth by honest means. He, consequently, looks with disdain on the means by which he suspects Brockton has acquired wealth, for the manner in which he has used that wealth, and for what Madison per­ ceives as being Brockton's decadent moral attitude. Of such men,

Madison says:

You buy yourselves a small circle of friends; you pay them for feeding your vanity; and then you pose with a certain frank admission of vice and degradation (p. 185).

In contrast to Madison's physicality, Brockton is intel­ lectually oriented; he is shrewd and rational. While Madison is self-righteously idealistic in his morality, Brockton is coldly pragmatic in his materialism. "How are you going to support her?"

(p. 184) is a question with which he bluntly confronts his rival.

He warns Madison that he will need an enormous amount of money in order to maintain Laura in the style of life to which she has become accustomed. There is no indication that Brockton's observations, such as "her cabs cost more than your salary" and "she dines at the best places in New York . . . one meal costs her more than you make in a day" (p. 184), are exaggerations. Clearly the period of time necessary 68

for Madison to earn enough money to come for her in New York will be 3 difficult for Laura to face alone.

The gentlemen's agreement that Madison and Brockton make at the

end of Act I suggests two possible outcomes: either Laura will stand

by her decision to remain faithful to Madison—despite any difficul­

ties that she might encounter trying to support herself--or she

eventually will choose the financial security and career success that would accompany her return to a life as a mistress. During Act I

Laura is optimistic and idealistic; she is engaged to a man with whom she believes she is in love, and she is determined to carve out

for herself a new life with him. She is accustomed, however, to luxury

and is more like a helpless kitten needing continual protection,

security, and care, than 1ike a mature, aggressive animal that can

fend for itse lf. Furthermore, although i t is true that she has

enough strength of character to commit herself to a strict moral code of conduct, that commitment has been made under a certain amount of

expedient pressure. Act I concludes just after the sun has set,

leaving visible only the burning embers on the tips of the two men's

cigars--an image that visually reinforces the presence of conflict

3 The question of why Madison could not assist Laura by sending money from Colorado to New York may arise in the mind of the reader. The answer that Walter makes explicit is that Madison is a newspaper reporter and makes little money. A second possible reason, although one that is only implied, is that the moral idealism of both Laura and Madison would exclude any monetary arrangement reminiscent of Laura's former status as a "kept woman." 69 between Madison and Brockton and the resultant conflict of forces

imposed on Laura.

During Act II Walter diminishes the probability that Laura will withstand her hardships and thereby remain faithful to Madison and her new way of life by introducing incidents that pressure her toward returning to Brockton. By the end of Act II, it is apparent that, while Laura had considered her dedication to Madison to be a firm commitment rather than a mere passing fancy, she lacks sufficient determination and strength of character to maintain that dedication once the going gets difficult.

In Act II Laura is living in the second-story back of a cheap

rooming house in the theatre district. There, in ramshackle, one-room accommodations, amid second-hand furniture and a chaotic assortment of tawdry personal possessions, Laura's only reminders of that

''wonderfully different summer" in the healthier environment of

Colorado are a few postcards, three pictures of Madison, and a card­

board box full of telegrams and letters from him. The sharp contrast

between the patio in Colorado, with its scenic view of the Rockies, and

the squalid environment in which Laura is living in Act II visually

reinforces the contrast between Laura's romantic idealism in Act I and the depressed and hopeless desperation she displays throughout much of Act II. Additionally, the squalid environment provides some of the motivation for that change in attitude.

The direction of the action in Act II calls to mind Brockton's warning to Madison in the closing moments of Act I: 70

She's full of heroics now, self-sacrifice and all the things that go to make up the third act of a play, but the minute she comes to darn her stockings, wash out her own handkerchiefs and dry them on the window, and send out for a pail of coffee and a sandwich for lunch, take it from me it will all go Blah! (p. 185)

Laura's tragic catastrophe will stem* not from noble dedication, but from expedient compromise. The choice that is a major factor in precipitating that catastrophe is made by Laura near the end of

Act II. The act is composed of five scenes; each of the first three brings Laura closer to the climactic decision she makes in the fourth scene. The fifth scene, while it succeeds in appending much suspense to the end of Act II, is relatively unnecessary and, as such, creates a number of dramaturgic problems.

In the initial scene of Act II, a scene between Laura and Annie, the rooming-house maid, certain economic pressures are introduced into the circumstances of the play—pressures that prove influential in Laura's decision in scene four. Annie brings word that Mrs.

Farley intends to evict Laura if she does not soon pay three-weeks back rent. Annie indicates that the landlady has suggested that

Laura might borrow money from some of her "stylish friends." Further­ more, "Miss Farley says," Annie continues, "yuh wouldn't have any trouble at all gettin' any man to take care of yuh if yuh wanted to"

(p. 189). Annie suggests a gentleman from the Hippodrome theatre, who has been calling on one of the other ladies in the house and has been inquiring about Laura. Laura's response to Annie's suggestion is an irritated "Oh, shut up!" (p. 189). Laura's strong reaction 71 suggests that she is somewhat susceptible to the temptation of resorting to prostitution as a solution to her financial problems.

After Annie leaves, Laura picks up the latest letter from

Madison, skims a few pages, glances at the remaining ones, and, losing interest, lays the letter down and remarks, "Hope, just nothing but hope" (p. 190). She falls despondently onto her bed with her face in her hands. That stage business marks the beginning of what eventually will prove to be Laura's capitulation to the "easiest way."

In the second scene of Act II, a scene between Laura and Jim

Weston, other factors are introduced that influence Laura's decision in scene four. Jim te lls Laura that he has had "lots of luck" trying to find a job in the theatre, but "it's bad luck." He has "tramped

Broadway for nine weeks until every piece of flagstone gives [himj the laugh when i t sees [his] feet coming" (p. 191). Laura has been aware that the job situation for actors is dismal; Jim, however, relays an even more alarming report—one that directly influences Laura's specific situation. Burgess, a producer who has a number of roles available in upcoming Broadway productions and who has remained uncom­ mitted in his response to Laura's request for work, is financially

supported in his theatrical ventures by a number of rich men, who, in

return for their financial investments, insist that Burgess hire actresses who "ain't so very particular about the location of their

residence and who don't hear a curfew ring at 11:30 every night"

(p. 192). One of the richest of those men is Brockton. Because he wields such power over Burgess's finances, it is apparent that, in 72 order to be hired into one of Burgess's shows, Laura would have to return to Brockton. Although Burgess is not the only Broadway producer, he is, under the circumstances, Laura's best chance for employment: competition for acting jobs is unusually high, and

Laura, as Brockton reminded her in Act I, is only a mediocre actress.

During the six months between Act I and Act II, Laura's determin­ ation to remain faithful to her new moral code has been reinforced by the good example of Jim, who for years has followed through on his conjni tment to earn his living honestly. Even under the pressure of having a wife and children to support, he has never succumbed to the temptation of acquiring money dishonestly, although, as he explains to

Laura, he has had a number of such opportunities. His honesty has brought him and his family many hardships; he does not, however, set himself up as a martyr or as a self-righteous exponent of goodness, but rather faces his problems with good-humored optimism. "I've just got to raise some money or get some work," he tells Laura, "or the firs t thing you know I'll be hanging around Central Park on a dark night with a club" (p. 191). Later in the scene, he quips, "Even if money grows on trees, i t 's winter now" (p. 193). His sense of humor has helped Jim to survive numerous hardships. Laura, unfortunately, lacks such a healthy sense of humor; as a result, her idealistic dedication to the "right thing" has become tarnished by an attitude of self-denial, and she has become self-righteous about her new moral code--an attitude that leads to a confrontation later in the act between herself and Elfie St. Clair. 73

As Jim is about to leave to continue his search for employment,

he observes, "Maybe today is [my] lucky day" (p. 193). His behavior

indicates that he possesses more than a sense of humor; he has a

strength and a resilience that enables him to withstand misfortunes and to survive difficult times relatively unscathed. His good-

humored persistence and practicality eventually pay off; the next

time that Laura sees him, in Act IV, he has accepted a modest-paying

but relatively secure theatrical job in a peaceful midwestern town.

Jim's personality serves as a contrast to Laura's. Unlike Jim,

Laura is neither consistently strong nor resilient. It is Jim's image

of winter outside, rather than his hope for a "lucky day," that

obsesses Laura. Unlike Jim, she is not accustomed to struggle. As

Jim walks out the door, he encourages Laura to "keep your nerve"

(p. 193). She replies, "I w ill," but the moment she is alone—the moment that there is no one with her to bolster her courage--she

shows signs of weakness. She picks up the latest letter from Madison

as if to read it, tosses i t down angrily, buries her head in her

hands, and cries, "I can't stand i t — I just simply can’t stand it"

(p. 193). Laura has come still closer to a capitulation to the

"easiest way."

Ironically, Jim, who so consistently has resisted temptations to

acquire money dishonestly as a way of rescuing himself and his

family from financial problems, admits to Laura that "self-preserva­

tion is the first law of nature" (p. 192). Although he is suf­

ficiently pragmatic to recognize that the urge toward self-preservation 74 is a ruling force in life, he is sufficiently strong to remain faith­ ful, in action, to what he believes to be the morally correct means of self-preservation. In contrast, when Laura is faced with threats to her physical or mental well-being, her nature prompts her to resort to expedient solutions. Although Jim is less overtly idealistic, his good-humored resilience enables him to weather the "winters" in his life; Laura's nature prompts her to seek immediate shelter.

When Elfie St. Clair visits Laura midway through Act II, she is wearing an extravagantly expensive gown and carrying a gold handbag on which are attached a gold cigarette case and powder box. She is an image of what Laura has given up, but also a reminder of what Laura over the past years has grown accustomed to having. Elfie belittles the room in which Laura is living. "Gee! Whatever made you come into a dump like this?" she inquires, "It's the limit." She sits on

Laura's bed and quips, "Say, is this for an effect or do you sleep on it? Makes me think of the old days of Child's sinkers and hall bedrooms" (p. 194). The mere presence of Elfie dressed in her finery is sufficient to make Laura uncomfortably aware of the contrast between her own deprivation and Elfie's luxury; that discomfort is increased by Elfie's implication that Laura's career is regressing to the "old days," when finding employment was not easy, and by Elfie's observa­ tion that lines are beginning to appear on Laura's face.

When Laura explains that she has given up her life as a mistress because she has met a "real man, who did [her] a lot of good—a man who opened [her] eyes to a different way of going along" (p. 195), 75

Elfie scolds her for what Elfie considers to be a romantically idealistic and impractical attitude that will bring much unhappiness.

Elfie reveals that she too once remained faithful to a good, but poor, man, but the man eventually tired of her and abandoned her. From then on, Elfie explains, she has chosen to use her relationships with men solely as a means of security:

No, I've had all the romance I want and I 'll stake you to all your love affairs. I am out to gather as much coin as I can in my own way, so when the little old rainy day comes along, I 'll have a little change to buy myself an umbrella (p. 195).

Elfie's attitude is callously materialistic, almost vulgar, and con­ trasts sharply with Laura's dedication to romantic ideals and tradi­ tional morality. Unlike Laura, however, Elfie's attitude, aside from any question of its morality, has provided her with a workable frame­ work for living from day to day with at least a measure of happiness.

When Laura chides Elfie for living with a man who, as Laura observes, is old enough to be E lfie's father, Elfie defends herself in her typically pragmatic way: "I know he's old, but he's good to me," she retorts, "he's making what's left of my life pleasant" (p. 196).

The contrast between the attitude of Elfie and that of Laura is the primary source of external conflict in the scene. That conflict is paralleled by a similar, internal conflict within Laura herself.

Laura has committed herself to new moral standards, but financial and social pressures have made following through on that commitment very difficult. Act II begins at a point in the story at which Laura is near the breaking point; Laura's emotional reaction at the end of 76

4 the f ir s t scene of the act and again at the end of the second scene indicate that much internal turmoil is present and that some course of action to provide an outlet for that turmoil is iiTininent. The presence of Elfie in the room provides Laura with a visual reminder of a possible course of action—a return to a life as a mistress.

Laura vehemently condemns E lfie's way of life . "I don't see how you dare show your face to a decent woman" (p. 196), she tells Elfie and asks her to leave. At that moment there is a knock at the door.

The visito r is Annie, who has come with a demand from the landlady that Laura pay her back rent immediately. The landlady, as Laura admits under her breath, is taking advantage of the presence of Elfie, an ostensibly well-to-do visitor. Ironically, Laura--who, just seconds before, condemned Elfie for the iumoral way in which she supported her­ self and who did so with a great deal of moralistic self-righteousness— must either immediately acquire thirty-five dollars or face eviction.

The landlady's ploy jars Laura from her moralistic attitude and opens her eyes to materialistic considerations. Laura succumbs to expedi­ ency: she asks Elfie for the money. Elfie, who was sympathetic to

Laura's financial plight before Laura condemned her for immorality, quite understandably refuses Laura's request. When Laura responds with a resentful "You might give it to me . . .1 haven't got a dollar in the world and you pretend to be such a friend to me!1 (p. 196), Elfie

4 For a discussion of those emotional reactions, see p. 71 and P- 73. 77 angrily chides Laura for her hypocrisy:

So, that's the kind of woman you are, eh? A moment ago you were going to kick me out of the place because I wasn't decent enough to associate with you. You know how I live. You know how I get my money—the same way you got most of yours. And now that you've got this spasm of goodness, I'm not f i t to be in your room; but you'll take my money to pay your debts. You’ll let me go out and do this sort of thing for your benefit, while you try to play the grand lady. I ’ve got your number now, Laura. Where in hell is your virtue anyway? You can go to the devil rich, poor, or any other way. I'm off." (p. 196)

At the conclusion of Elfie's tirade, Laura becomes hysterical, falls into her friend's arms, and begs her not to leave. "I can't stand it. I can't be alone," she explains desperately. With that outcry, Laura finally admits of her primary problem—she is not strong enough to face hardship alone. Her previous experience of luxury and security, in which everything was provided for her and in which all decisions were made for her by her men, has not developed in her the stamina and independence necessary in her struggle to maintain her corrrtitment to Madison and to the "right thing."

Laura is able to maintain some sense of moral integrity in her relationship with Elfie. Elfie, in her tirade, has been accurate in her evaluation of Laura's actions, and Laura admits to that accuracy; she recognizes the contradiction between her professed moral code and her expedient decision to ask Elfie for money. When Elfie

relents and offers her "all the money you need" (p. 197), Laura refuses it: taking money from Elfie, after having condemned her for 78

the means by which she acquires it, would be, as Elfie suggested, an

act of hypocrisy.

Laura, herself convinced of the immorality of her former way of

life, cannot return to that life or accept financial aid from those

involved in such a life without being beset with guilt. Nevertheless,

she does not have the stamina to continue to live under her present

poor conditions. Having rejected financial aid from Elfie, Laura

begins seriously to consider returning to Brockton. When she wonders

aloud, "Maybe—maybe if [Madison] knew all about—the suffering--he wouldn't blame me" (p. 197), she is clearly on the brink of making

the decision to return.

Despite pressures that influence her, Laura's decision to return

to Brockton is her own. While the decision is made under a great

deal of emotional stress, Laura, throughout Act II, has thought

about relevant moral, ethical, and practical considerations. With Jim

she has discussed job prospects, as well as the moral implications

of using dishonest, opportunistic, or immoral means to achieve

financial security. With Elfie she has considered the moral implica­

tions of life in the demimonde.

Laura consciously has succumbed to the forces of self-preserva-

tion--that first law of nature of which Jim earlier had spoken. Laura

realizes that she, at least in action, has rejected her moral code.

Her only consolation is a mere hope that Madison, once he is aware of

the hardships she has encountered, will not blame her for her

expediency. 79

Act II concludes with the visual image of a burning le tte r—the farewell letter that Laura has promised Brockton she will mail to

Madison. The image calls to mind the sight of the two burning embers of Madison's and Brockton's cigars at the end of Act I. The image in

Act I enhances the suspense that stems from the dramatic question of whether Madison or Brockton will win Laura; the similar image in

Act II enhances the suspense aroused by the fact that, because of

Laura's burning the letter, the dramatic question established in Act I remains unanswered.

By including the letter episode, which comprises scene five,

Walter provides Act II with a theatrically exciting conclusion--from the standpoint of both visual interest and suspense. The letter episode, however, creates some dramaturgical problems. Aspects of both Laura's and Brockton's behavior in scene five are inadequately motivated--a weakness that renders the letter business an obvious theatrical device imposed by Walter on the play's otherwise credible scheme of probability. It is quite probable, given the circumstances, that Laura would write a farewell le tte r to Madison when Brockton so insists: she believes that returning to Brockton is her only avenue of escape from unbearable living conditions and, consequently, feels that she must meet his demands. Brockton's motivation in demanding that Laura write the letter is his desire to honor the terms of the agreement made with Madison at the conclusion of Act I; improbable, however, is Brockton's insisting that Laura write the lette r immediately. His action is needlessly callous and, as such, 80 is out of keeping with his otherwise gentle, sympathetic, and sup­ portive treatment of Laura in the scene. If he desires to determine whether Laura is serious about returning to him and rejecting her hopes of a life with Madison, nowhere is that motivation made clear.

Furthermore, had Brockton doubted the sincerity of Laura's decision, he would not have bowed so readily to her request to be allowed to mail the farewell letter herself, Walter’s motivation in the matter is more apparent than is Brockton's: Walter wanted to create a theatrically effective and pathetic scene in which Laura is pressured into fulfilling the terms of an agreement that she had no part in making. The pathos inherent in such an incident, however, together with the hatred aroused for Brockton by his callous action, detract from the pity inherent in Laura's decision to be unfaithful to

Madison. That decision should be the point of focus at the conclusion of Act II, because i t is to that decision that the incidents of

Act II have been leading.

Another dramaturgic flaw arises with regard to the logicality of certain of Laura's actions in the letter episode. A question concerning her motivation is le ft unanswered: why does Laura tell

Brockton that she wishes to mail the lette r herself and then, a moment later, instruct Annie to do so? Laura does not at firs t intend to destroy the letter; if she had so intended, she certainly would not have instructed Annie to mail it. While Laura's sudden change of mind could be viewed as being consistent with the flighty and weak- willed aspect of her character, Walter uses that character trait at a 81 moment in the dramatic action that is too opportune for the creation of theatrical effect to be credible within the play's realistic scheme of probability. The fact that Walter has given Laura no clear motivation for her sudden decision not to mail the letter calls undue attention to Walter's own motivation as playwright. By having

Laura ask Brockton to be allowed to mail the letter herself, Walter— by then having her suddenly decide not to mail it--creates an exciting end-of-the-act reversal that provides a great deal of end-of-the-act suspense.

Large jumps in time, such as the six months between Act I and

Act II and the two months between Act II and Act III, occur in a number of Walter's plays. Often a reversal in the fortune of the central character occurs during those spans of time. Between Act I and Act II of The Easiest Way, for instance, Laura's financial situation has changed from luxury to poverty and her outlook on life has changed from hopeful optimism to depression. That change, although extreme, is credible, because Walter has included in Act I factors necessary to make the occurrence of such a reversal probable. In the first act, for instance, Walter has revealed that Laura is, at best, a mediocre actress and that even her modest success as an actress has been due to the influence of such men as Brockton. Near the conclusion of that act, Brockton warns Madison that Laura is accustomed to luxuries and pampering and could not long withstand the stress of financial deprivation and self-sacrifice. Laura's own actions in Act I show her to be a weak, if lovable, person who craves 82 the care and attention of others. Thus, when it is revealed in Act II that Laura's efforts to secure an acting job in the preceding six months have met with no success and that she is gradually breaking down both physically and emotionally under the strain of financial deprivation, the revelation is not unexpected; it has been well prepared for by the circumstances of Act I.

The two months that have passed between Act II and Act III evidence no drastic changes in Laura's circumstances. Act II concludes with

Laura's being saddened by her decision to return to Brockton but, nonetheless, harboring hope of salvaging her relationship with Madison; the opening moments of Act III reveal that Laura is miserable in her life with Brockton, an attitude that has developed from the feelings she displayed at the conclusion of the preceding act.

Two details relevant to the events that have taken place in the story between Act II and Act III raise questions of credibility.

The question of why, in the two months that have elapsed between the act, Brockton has not mentioned to Laura the subject of her farewell letter to Madison is never logically answered. One would expect that the reluctance that Laura exhibited at the end of Act II, when she was asked to write the le tte r, would have prompted Brockton soon thereafter to inquire of Laura whether or not she had mailed it.

When Brockton mentions the subject in Act III, his choice of words implies that the lette r has not been discussed since the evening that

Laura returned to him two months before. "That letter I dictated to you the day you came back to me, and le ft for you to mail--," he asks, 83 did you mail it?" (p. 206). The formation of the gentlemen's agree­ ment between Brockton and Madison, in which each man agreed to inform the other of any change in Laura's affections, comprises the climactic episode of Act I. At that time, the agreement appears important to Brockton: he is forceful in his insistence that Madison take part in it; later the importance that Brockton attaches to it is evident in the fact that, upon Laura's agreeing to return to him, he immediately insists that she write to Madison to inform him of her action. Brockton’s neglecting to mention the letter in the two months preceding Act III indicates a casual attitude toward it, an attitude that is inconsistent with the importance that he has attached to it in the preceding two acts. The presence of the inconsistency is especially unfortunate because Walter easily could have avoided it by changing Brockton's initial mention of the letter in Act III to read, "That letter I dictated to you the day you came back to me—you assured me that you mailed it. . . . Did you?"

Brockton is depicted in Acts I and II as being a much too business-like, rational, and calculating man to neglect a detail so important to the continuation of his relationship with Laura, a rela­ tionship that, as he indicates in Act I, is important to him. He realizes that, as long as Madison remains unaware of Laura's unfaith­ fulness, a marriage between Laura and Madison remains possible.

Credibility is also strained with regard to Madison's intention temporarily to keep secret from Laura the fact that he has "struck it rich" in Colorado and the fact that he is coming to New York to marry 84 her. When he appears at Laura's apartment, he explains that he wanted to surprise her with his arrival and that he had not written to her of his financial success because he first wanted to be certain of its permanence. He ruins the surprise, however, by sending ahead a telegram informing Laura both of his financial success and his arrival. "The papers made such a fuss in Chicago," he explains, "that

I thought you might have [already] heard about it" {p. 213). While

Madison’s explanation gives acceptable motivation for his behavior, the fact that Walter provides such an explanation reveals his awareness that Madison's behavior is not causally related to precedent events. Given the fact that Laura and Madison have continued to correspond regularly by mail and the fact that Laura has been waiting anxiously for eight months for Madison to "strike it rich," one would have expected Madison to share with Laura any encouraging news as soon as it developed. Thus, Madison's secrecy is not, in and of itse lf, probable. In the absence of pro facto preparation, Walter finds post facto explanation to be necessary.

Because drama is an art form that, as Aristotle asserts, imitates human action in the manner of enactment, or impersonation, it can depict better than any other art form the life process of growth, development, and change. That which can be considered a purely dramatic art form is that which depicts human action as "growing" logically from a given set of circumstances, in the manner of present- tense enactment—as opposed to past-tense narration. An incident in a play can be labelled "improbable" if it does not proceed logically from precedent events. Thus the only inherently dramatic justification 85 for the occurrence of a dramatic event lies in the enacted events or circumstances preceding it. In contrast, events not developing from precedent events—episodic events--are more appropriate to narrative forms, such as the novel. Because a novel communicates in the manner of narration, the writer can act as a liaison between the story and the reader and can directly explain or justify the occurrence of any ex machina events—that is, events, the occurrence of which do not proceed logically from precedent events. The narrator, in other words, can explain away any apparent improbabilities.

Such an occurrence in a novel is justified by the nature of the form itself. Madison's keeping secret his financial success and his intended visit to New York is an episodic incident, which requires explanation to make it credible within the play's realistic scheme of probability. Walter provides that explanation through the character of Madison, who, in giving explanation, is performing a function that is more appropriate to the narrative than the dramatic form.

Credibility is further strained by the coincidence of Brockton's reading in the newspaper of Madison's financial success and of his arrival in New York moments before the telegram arrives announcing to Laura the same information. Walter appears less concerned at that point with credibility than with setting the scene for the creation of suspense. Had Laura known of Madison's planned trip to

New York in advance, she could have prevented any meeting between

Madison and Brockton simply by arranging, for instance, to meet

Madison at Elfie's apartment. However, because Madison's presence in 86

New York comes as a surprise, Laura must devote much of the final two acts of the play to efforts aimed at preventing the two men from seeing one another. Similarly, had Brockton made certain two months earlier that Laura's farewell letter to Madison had been sent,

Laura's hopes for a marriage with Madison most likely would have been destroyed two months prior to Act III. Thus Madison's secrecy and

Brockton's neglect are pivotal in delaying the destruction of Laura's hopes, as well as, from a dramaturgic point of view, in rendering probable a climactic face-to-face confrontation involving Laura,

Madison, and Brockton. Because problems of credibility are related to details so important to the development of the dramatic action of

Acts III and IV, the overall believabi1ity of those two acts is significantly lessened.

That Laura will escape the catastrophe of a permanent return to her former way of life is not, in the final two acts, probable. In fact, as the dramatic action develops from the conclusion of Act I to the conclusion of the play, escape becomes increasingly less likely.

That Laura will succeed in achieving happiness with Madison appears highly probable early in Act I because of the optimistic determination she displays and because the surroundings support her optimism; how­ ever, late in that act, as her optimism is depicted in perspective with other aspects of her personality and with certain realities of her past life, a new possibility for Laura's future begins to reveal itself--th a t Laura perhaps has been too conditioned by her past to 87 succeed in establishing herself permanently in a drastically different way of life. At the end of Act I, Brockton's warning to Madison con­ cerning Laura's past begins to focus attention on that new possibility.

Each scene in Act II brings Laura closer to her end-of-the-act decision to return to Brockton. Once she has made that decision--once she then returns to the way of life to which habit has accustomed her--that she will remain there is highly probable. As a result, hopes for her escaping the catastrophe of losing Madison and returning to a life as a mistress are, at the outset of Act III, dim. Had Walter at any time during Act III or Act IV rendered escape for Laura probable, he would have distracted significantly from a sense of inevitability that he has established in the play. As structured, the play plots a course that, with the exception of a few false hopes injected into Acts III and IV for the sake of momentary suspense, leads steadily toward catastrophe for Laura. Those false hopes increase the pain that she experiences once catastrophe has shattered them.

In an effort to render the dramatic action interesting in the interval of time between Laura's burning the letter at the conclusion of Act II and Madison's discovery of Laura's return to Brockton near the conclusion of the play, Walter manipulates the action in a manner that heightens suspense. That manipulation creates a sense, not that escape from catastrophe is likely, but rather that the catas­ trophe simply is being delayed. As a result, the suspense stemming from Laura's efforts to protect herself from threats to her happiness intensifies fear for her welfare, rather than introducing serious hope 88 for her escape from misery. Because much of that fear results from her being the victim of Brockton's hateful efforts to keep her for himself, Walter's manipulation of much of the dramatic action in

Acts III and IV is appropriate to melodrama and, as such, distracts from the tragic line of action that has been established in Acts I and II.

In the initial scene of Act III, suspense is created and maintained by focusing on and leaving temporarily unanswered the question: will

Brockton discover that Laura did not send the farewell letter to

Madison? Walter demonstrates a keen sense of theatricality by building tension in a step-by-step manner during the scene by bringing

Brockton slowly closer to exposing Laura's deceit. Walter further enhances the theatricality by placing the scene's climax at the peak of a physical confrontation between the two characters.

Near the beginning of the scene, Brockton's eye is caught by an a rticle in the newspaper. The article explains that a John Madison will soon be arriving in New York on business related to a soon-to-be- opened mining syndicate, of which Madison is a representative. Brockton does not tell Laura what he has read, but rather, unseen by Laura,

"turns to her with a keen glance of suspicion and inquiry, and then for a very short moment evidently settles in his head a cross-examina­ tion" (p. 203). Pretending to be curious about how Madison is "getting along" (p. 203), he asks Laura whether she has heard from him. When she tells him that she has not, Brockton inquires, "I presume he never responded to that letter you wrote?" "No," she answers (p. 203). 89

Brockton does not voice his suspicions at that time, but rather probes further by continuing, much to Laura's discomfort, to pursue the sub­ ject of Madison. "It would be rather queer, eh, if this young fellow happened to come across alot [sic] of money," he continues, glancing at the newspaper, "not that I think that he ever could, but i t would be funny, wouldn't it?" (p. 203). Brockton asks Laura if she thinks that Madison will ever come East to see her act, and Laura impatiently asks him to drop the subject. Brockton does so. A moment later, the telegram from Madison arrives. Laura's overtly startled response to the telegram's contents further arouses Brockton's sus­ picions. When Brockton inquires about her startled response, she denies being startled, explains that the telegram was sent by "just a friend" (p. 204), and then reminds Brockton that, if he does not soon leave the apartment, he will arrive late at his office. With studied deliberateness, Brockton responds, "If you don't mind, I'll stay"

(p. 204). When Laura explains that she is expecting a v isit from a

fellow-actress whom she met in San Francisco, the conversation momen­

tarily branches off onto the subject of train schedules. As it begins

to appear to Laura that she perhaps has been successful in her deceit,

Brockton takes up the newspaper and pretends to have just discovered

the article concerning Madison. Scrutinizing Laura's reactions care­

fully, he summarizes the contents of the article. The pace and in­

tensity of his cross-examination increase. His questions and

innuendoes become more pressing and direct; Laura becomes more overtly

defensive, as she realizes that she is being tricked. "Are you going

to see him if he looks you up?", he asks. "Just thought you might meet 90 him, that's all" {p. 206), he adds. Laura is now clearly on the defen­ sive. Taking advantage of her obviously vulnerable position, Brockton looks her directly in the eye and confronts her with the question,

"That letter I dictated to you the day you came back to me, and left it for you to mail—did you mail it?" (p. 206). Laura insists that she did. He goads her with more accusatory questions. Finally, he makes a direct statement of accusation: "Laura, you're lying to me"

(p. 206). He demands to see the telegram. Laura refuses and a physical struggle ensues. Finally, she surrenders the telegram.

Once Brockton reads the telegram, the dramatic question of whether he will discover that Laura did not send the farewell letter to

Madison is answered; it is obvious from Madison's message that he is unaware of Laura's return to Brockton. Having answered one dramatic question, Walter creates and maintains further suspense by intro­ ducing another: will Madison learn of Laura's unfaithfulness to him?

Walter manages to keep that question unanswered for the remainder of

Act III and for most of Act IV, thereby assuring the maintenance of suspense until near the conclusion of the play.

Twice during Act III, Brockton threatens Laura with informing

Madison of her unfaithfulness; not until late in Act IV does he carry through with that threat. In the firs t instance, his decision not to carry out the threat is well motivated; in the second instance, however, Brockton's delay is inadequately motivated and, as a result, appears to be a device employed rather mechanically by Walter for the purpose of prolonging the suspense stemming from the unanswered dramatic question. 91

Brockton's fir s t threat occurs immediately after he learns by

reading the telegram, that Laura did not mail the farewell letter to

Madison two months before. Laura's response to Brockton's threat is persuasive in its emotional intensity and its appeal for Brockton's sympathy. Laura begs Brockton to allow her to inform Madison of her unfaithfulness herself:

Then you must let me tell him—yes, you must, If I didn't tell him before, I ’ll do it now. You must go. If you ever had any regard for me—if you ever had any affection--if you ever had any friendship, please let me do this now. I want you to go—you can come back. Then you'll see--you'll know—only I want to try to make him understand that—that may­ be if I am weak, I'm not vicious. I want to let him know that I didn't want to do it, but I couldn't help it. Just give me the chance to be as good as I can be. Oh, I promise you I will tell him, and then, then I don’t care what happens--only he must learn everything from me--please—let me do this—it's the last favor I shall ever, ever ask of you. Won't you? (p. 208)

Furthermore, Brockton is aware that, when he returns to the apartment

later that afternoon, he easily can determine whether Laura has kept

her promise. Thus, his granting Laura's request is credible.

Laura, acting on the advice of Elfie, decides against telling

Madison of her relationship with Brockton. She instead gives her

consent to Madison's plan that they be married and leave for the West

that afternoon. Madison departs temporarily to attend to some un­

finished business. Brockton soon returns to the apartment to discover

Laura packing her luggage. That Laura has not told Madison the

truth is apparent to Brockton. Once again he threatens to tell

Madison himself; he plans to remain in the apartment until Madison 92

returns. An argument ensues, at the climax of which, Laura screams at

Brockton:

No, you won't; you won't stay here. You're not going to do this thing again. I tell you I'm going to be happy. I tell you I'm going to be married. You won't see him; I tell you, you won't tell him. You've got no business to. I hate you. I've hated you for months. I hate the sight of your face. I ’ve wanted to go and now I'm going. You've got to go, do you hear? You've got to get out. Do you hear? (p. 217).

Brockton's reaction to Laura's rage is described by Walter in stage

directions: "Her anger and her rage are entirely new to him. He is

surprised and cannot understand" (p. 217). At the conclusion of her

tirade, he exclaims, "What the hell is the use of fussing with a woman?" (p. 217) and, apparently having given up his intention to wait

for the return of Madison, departs. Alone in the room, Laura

exclaims hysterically, "I want to be happy, I'm going to be married,

I'm going to be happy" (p. 217), and sinks to the floor in exhaustion.

Thus, the Act III curtain descends on a highly theatrical and suspense-

provoking moment.

Brockton's apparent change of heart is illogical. During the

argument that precedes his departure, he is determined to remain until

Madison arrives and is forceful in defending himself against Laura's

accusation that he is responsible for her unhappiness. While

Brockton has never before seen Laura display such vehemence and

intense determination as she does during the argument, that aggression

is hardly sufficient reason for him to retreat or to give up the

argument. Were Brockton to find himself on the verge of losing his 93 self-control—of retaliating with physical violence—his sudden departure might have been motivated by his desire to get away from

Laura before he harms her, behavior that he undoubtedly later would regret. A tendency toward violence is a character trait displayed by Brockton on other occasions during the play; thus, the appearance of the trait during his argument with Laura would be consistent with his character. However, at no time during the scene does he appear to be angry or to be losing control. When Brockton exposes Laura's deceit to Madison by a sudden reappearance in the middle of Act IV, it becomes apparent that Walter has had Brockton depart at the con­ clusion of Act III in order first to raise the hope that Laura may perhaps escape Brockton and marry Madison and then to dash those hopes by Brockton’s last-minute return.

The nature of the agent-patient relationship established in

Acts III and IV differs from that established in Acts I and II.

Laura makes the decisions that create most of the dramatic action in the firs t two acts of the play; she also suffers the consequences, pleasant and unpleasant, of those decisions. In much of Acts III and

IV, however, the role of agent is taken over by Brockton; conse­ quently, Laura, who performs the dramatic function of agent in most of the initial two acts, most often finds herself in the role of patient (recipient) in the final two acts. Thus, the focus, which in the first two acts is sharply concentrated on Laura, in the final two acts is broadened to include the conflict between Laura and

Brockton. 94

When the agent of a dramatic action is also the recipient of that action, the dramatic agent has reason to reflect upon his actions, as well as upon the decisions that lead to those actions.

Any pain or harm resulting from the agent's actions can be eliminated only by eliminating the causative behavior; as a result, the agent- as-patient dynamic tends to create focus upon internal and self- reflective concerns. In contrast, when an agent and a patient are separate individuals, focus on external concerns is created. In such a case, the elimination of pain or harm, or the threat of pain or harm, is dependent on the patient's coping, not with forces within himself, but rather with forces external to himself. The agent-as-patient dynamic functioning in Acts I and II of The Easiest Way is appropriate to tragedy; the agent-versus-patient dynamic functioning in much of Acts III and IV is appropriate to melodrama. Walter thus has created a generic inconsistency between the first two acts and the final two acts of his play. The incidents of the first two acts create an essentially tragic action; the incidents of the last two acts dilute that tragic tone with action that is melodramatic.

Walter, nonetheless, manages to keep the tragic line of action partly intact. Throughout the play the dramatic action develops, at least in part, as a result of an interaction between circumstances in which Laura finds herself and choices that Laura herself makes.

However, the importance of that typically tragic interaction to the development of the dramatic action decreases as the play progresses. 95

Laura's decision in Act I to reject completely her life in the deminonde in favor of a conventionally respectable life with Madison is clearly her own; she is not pressured into accepting his proposal of marriage. In contrast, her decision near the conclusion of Act

II to return to Brockton is made under considerable financial pressure. Laura's decision in Acts III and IV to continue to keep from Madison knowledge of her return to Brockton is one that per­ manently closes the door on all hopes for a reconciliation between

Laura and Madison: "Perhaps I could have forgiven you," Madison regretfully informs her near the end of the play, "if only you hadn't lied to me" (p. 223). Because she firs t discusses the matter with

Elfie, Laura’s decision not to tell Madison of her return to

Brockton appears to be freely made. That decision, however, can be viewed as a defensive reaction, a reaction by which Laura intends to protect herself from Brockton's threat to ruin her plans to marry

Madison. From a dramaturgic point of view, Laura is a patient reacting against the aggressive behavior of a dramatic agent. That dramaturgic consideration shifts focus in the matter of Laura's decision from her tragic role in shaping her own destiny to the melodramatic conflict stemming from Brockton's aggression and Laura's defensive response.

There are, nonetheless, certain considerations relevant to

Laura’s decision not to inform Madison of her return to Brockton that add to the tragic material that Walter develops, albeit scantily, in the final two acts of the play. Laura comnits an error, moral in 96 its implications, that is a factor in shaping her own unhappy destiny and rendering inevitable her permanent entrapment in the "easiest way." At the conclusion of the initial scene of Act III, Laura, prodded rather cruelly by Brockton, intends to inform Madison of her relationship with Brockton over the preceding two months. She hopes to gain Madison's understanding and forgiveness; however, Elfie persuades her against taking such action. She apprises Laura of certain realities of the society—the demimonde—in which they live.

"The thing to do is to lie to all men--they lie to you. . . . Protect yourself" (p. 211), she advises Laura. In the society in which Laura and Elfie function, "self-preservation is the first law of nature"

(p. 192), as Jim Weston admits in Act II. Interaction between men and women in that society, more often than not, is a "game" (p. 211), as

Elfie labels it; in order to preserve even a modicum of happiness,

Laura and herself must play the game. Elfie and Laura provide their men with sexual gratification and with the prestige of having an actress or chorus girl on their arm at social engagements, such as a visit to Rector's after the theatre; their men, in turn, provide them with luxuries and financial security. Continuing to play the game assures the players of continued benefits. As the game progresses over the years, however, demimondaines, such as Laura and Elfie, become more and more addicted to those benefits and become less and less capable of gaining the same benefits in any other way besides playing the game. 97

Considerations that are paramount to the maintenance of conven­ tional respectability in the story are not applicable within the realm of the demimonde. Love, loyalty, constancy, and honesty are, as

Elfie says, "fine and dandy in a book" (p. 212), but are, more often than not, incompatible with survival in the demimonde. Moral com­ promise, or that which would be regarded by respectable society as being moral compromise, is not reprehensible in the demimonde. It is rather a fact of life , a counter-move in a social-sexual game, and a necessity of survival. Elfie sums up the morally indifferent and pragmatic code of the demimondaine when she advises Laura, "What a fellow doesn't know, doesn't hurt him" (p. 212). It is in response to

Elfie's advice that Laura decides against telling Madison of her present relationship with Brockton.

Laura's relationship with Madison exists outside the realm and influence of the demimonde; the behavior necessary to the survival and growth of that relationship is, therefore, governed by a different set of rules—rules that elevate love, loyalty, constancy, and honesty to a position of utmost importance in an intimate relationship between a man and a woman. Laura errs in her attempt to escape the demimonde into a world of conventional respectability by continuing to play by rules that are acceptable only in the demimonde—rules that are morally reprehensible in the world of conventional morality.

Thus, an important causal factor in Laura's downfall is an ironic state of affairs in which the sort of behavior that is necessary for her survival and success in the demimonde is the sort of behavior that 98 guarantees her rejection by conventionally respectable society. Such irony is typical to tragedy and, as such, adds to the seriousness of

Laura's plight. That seriousness, however, is not developed to the fullest potential inherent in the tragic form. Although Laura con­ siders moral factors in the process of making her important decisions, in each case, at least one of her alternatives is expedient in nature; thus, Laura is not confronted with a dilemna of utmost seriousness, such as that which would stem from the necessity of making a choice between two mutually exclusive moral imperatives.

The play does not deal, for instance, with a potential conflict between Laura's duty to herself to make use of her talent as an actress and her duty to the man she loves. Focus on such a moral conflict would have resulted in tragic considerations of far greater 5 magnitude than presently exist in the play.

Expediency is a keynote in the important choices that Laura makes throughout the play. Her decision in Act II to return to Brockton, for instance, is made in full awareness that she is breaching her promise of faithfulness to Madison, but she chooses to return to

Brockton, nonetheless, as a readily available means of rescuing herself from poverty. Her keeping from Madison, in Acts III and IV, knowledge of her return to Brockton is a more expedient means of keeping alive

5 In all fairness to Walter, who was writing in an era in which commercial considerations far outweighed serious artistic considera­ tions, the reader should be here reminded that The Easiest Way achieves a level of seriousness and magnitude that was virtually unheard of in the Broadway theatre of the time. 99 her hopes of a happy married life with Madison than would be confront­ ing him with the truth. Even Laura's decision, made prior to the beginning of the play, to abjure the demimonde is initially motivated, not by her belief that such a life is immoral, but because a rejection of that way of life is a condition of her continued relationship with the man she loves. Walter does not condemn Laura for her expediency.

Instead, he objectively depicts the complex of causal factors, tragic as well as melodramatic in nature, that result in her permanent return to the demimonde.

Madison's reaction to his discovery of Laura's unfaithfulness is self-righteously m oralistic. He has remained faithful to Laura and, at length, condemns her for not having remained faithful to him. He is more occupied with expressing to Laura his disgust and disappointment with her behavior than with attempting to understand why she acted in such a way or in evaluating his own role in the chain of events. His is the attitude of the traditional morality in the world of the play-- a preset code of respectability by which Laura's behavior is quickly and arbitrarily judged. It is an attitude that focuses on narrow­ mindedly upholding principle rather than on sympathetically adapting to human frailties. Madison's is a supportable point of view—that action is the formal cause of character. In his view, Laura is a morally weak person because she continually takes the "easiest way" out of difficult situations. Her past behavior has molded her character, and that character will determine her future behavior. The implication of Madison's condemnatory reaction is that Laura has been doomed to a 100 life of degradation by her own weakness, by her having in his words,

"leaned the wrong way" (p. 224).

The preceding action of the play, however, admits of no such simplistic or moralistic analysis of the causes of Laura's unhappy destiny. While it is true that Laura's own behavior is, in part, responsible for her entrapment in the demimonde, there are also forces, external to Laura, that victimize her. Dramaturgically, her function in the play is twofold: at times, she is the patient of action of which she is the dramatic agent; at other times, she functions as the patient of the aggressive and sometimes villainous behavior of other dramatic agents, such as Brockton and, in the final scene, Madison.

Nonetheless, Walter relegates that complex of causal factors to a position of lesser importance in the scene of confrontation between

Madison and Laura by focusing on Madison's moral condemnation of

Laura's behavior. That Walter is using Madison as a raissoneur, how­ ever, is not likely. For Walter to make such a judgment of Laura's behavior as a summation of the preceding dramatic action would be for

Walter to ignore the implications of that action--that Laura not only sins but is sinned against. To insist that Walter is of Madison's opinion that Laura has taken the "easiest way" would be to call seriously into question the dramaturgic function of Act II, in which

Walter depicts Laura struggling desperately against poverty and in which he depicts Laura's motivation for returning to Brockton to be, not a desire to return to a life of luxury, but rather a desire to escape poverty. Madison is not a raissoneur; he is a character 101 expressing an opinion that is consistent with the self-righteous attitude that he displays throughout the play.

The moments just prior to the final curtain of the play provide a summation, more accurate than Madison's analysis, of the complex of factors that has shaped Laura's unhappy destiny. Those final moments provide a fine example of the expert dramatic craftsmanship of which Walter is capable: the conclusion of the play is satisfy­ ing by reason of its appropriateness to precedent action and stunning by reason of its theatricality.

Having renounced Laura, Madison departs. In defiance of the mis­ fortune that has just befallen her, Laura instructs her maid to “open those trunks, take out those clothes, get me my prettiest dress . . .

Get my new hat, dress up my body, and paint my face" (p. 225). The maid takes a dress and a hat out of one of the trunks and gives them to Laura. There Laura stands with an expensive dress in one hand and a lavish new hat in the other, instructing her maid to "doll me up"

(p. 225); the scene provides an image of the luxury that her life in

the demimonde has brought to her. At that moment, however, the sound of a hurdy-gurdy rises from the street below; it is playing a ragtime melody, a melody that is "suggestive of the low life, the criminality, and prostitution that constitute the night excitement of that section of New York known as the Tenderloin" (p. 225). The music provides ominous foreshadowing.

Laura places blame for her misfortune on men. The fancy clothes are "all they've left of me," she observes b itterly , "they've taken 102 my soul with them" (p. 225). One cannot, at that point, help being reminded of the role that the selfish scheming of men such as Brockton and the self-righteous moral ism of men such as Madison have played in shaping Laura's unhappy destiny. However, when Laura announces,

"I'm going to Rector's to make a hit and to hell with the rest"

(p. 225), one cannot help being reminded also of the role that she herself has played.

The hurdy-gurdy in the street below continues to grind out a rag­ time melody, "spreading before Laura's eyes a panorama of the inevit­ able depravity that awaits her" (p. 225). Struck by a realization of the overwhelming enormity of the situation that now confronts her,

Laura can only cry out "with infinite grief, resignation, and hopeless­ ness" "0 God, 0 my God" (p. 225). The music continues to play, Laura totters unsteadily toward the bedroom, and the curtain slowly falls.

"It is only the exceptional story," suggests Walter in How To

Write a Play, "which will lend itself to a construction where the

[final] curtain descends on a climax that is the essence of the answer, or Result, of the story which has preceded it."** Walter accurately observes in that book that The Easiest Way is an example of such a story.

^Walter, Ch. V, p. 8. 103

Critics have labelled The Easiest May both as a "modern American 7 8 tragedy" and as a "skilfully contrived melodrama." Neither label

is totally accurate; the play is neither purely tragic nor purely melodramatic. Rather, it is a social problem play that achieves a

level of seriousness rare in American drama written for Broadway during

Walter's time. While the social problem with which the play deals--

the misery of a demimondaine—is very limited in scope, the depiction of the factors that lead to the permanence of Laura's misery is re­ markably thorough for a play written in 1908. One fault of most other

so-called social problem plays contemporaneous to The Easiest Way is

their narrow-mindedness--their tendency to attribute the cause of a particular problem to one villainous factor, when, in the actual world, a complex of factors would be responsible.

In The Easiest Way, Walter, in contrast to his contemporaries, was

not narrow-minded in assigning culpability: Laura is both a victim of

villainous forces--human, social, and economic--and a victim of her own actions and omissions. The result is a drame with both tragic and g melodramatic traits. The "uncompromising irony of truth" with which

The Easiest Way was credited by one reviewer stems from the fact that

^The Dramatist, July 1909, pp. 379-80. O Arthur Hobson Quinn, A History of the American Drama from the Civil War to the Present Day, Vol. II (New York: F. S. Crofts, 1936), P-

Q Walter Pritchard Eaton, At the New Theatre and Others (Boston: Small, Maynard, and Co., 1910), p. 94. 104

the play does not single out any one force as being totally responsible for Laura's downfall but instead depicts, in almost reportorial

fashion, a complex of causative forces. Walter did not judge the actions of the characters, nor did he moralize. He simply shaped the

"facts" into a theatrically appealing form.

Two patterns emerge--one tragic and one melodramatic—from the complex of forces that lead Laura toward catastrophe. The presence of a primarily tragic action in the first half of the play and a primarily melodramatic action in most of the second half detracts

from the play's unity of effect. In the final moments of the play, however, the focus returns to the combination of both the external forces that victimize Laura and her own culpability.

While Walter's mixed-genre approach to the development of the

dramatic action establishes Laura both as victim and self-victimizer,

that approach also causes the overall emotional effect of the play

to be somewhat fragmented. Rather than the intensely focused

emotional effect that would have resulted had the materials been

developed along purely tragic or purely melodramatic lines, the

effect is divided among the emotions of fear, hatred, pity, and pathos.

To censure The Easiest Way for its weakness in the area of

unified emotional effect, however, would be to slight the play's merits as a serious social problem play. What the play loses in terms

of a unified emotional effect, it gains in terms of the completeness

with which it analyzes the social problem. In defending The Easiest 105

May against charges of immorality, Walter argued that the "best way to remedy a wrong is first to find out its cause. The Easiest Way meets that challenge in not only a thorough manner but also in a theatrically effective manner.

^New York Times, February 15, 1909, p. 7. CHAPTER FOUR

OTHER SOCIAL DRAMES: FINE FEATHERS, JUST A WIFE, SNU THE CHALLENGE

The plays to be considered in this chapter deal seriously with topical issues; they are drames that derive much of their commercial appeal from the relevance that their subject matter had for the time in which they were written. Fine Feathers deals with business cor­ ruption and the lure of materialism; it was written in 1912—a time when expose's of institutional corruption abounded in newspapers and popular literature. The fact that the feminist movement that, in

1918, culminated in women's suffrage was already very active in 1912 added both relevance and controversy to Just A Wife, which deals with the inferior position of women in society. The Challenge, which depicts a conflict between the government and socialist revolution­ aries, was fir s t produced in 1918, the year following the Russian

Revolution.^

The basic structure of Fine Feathers (Appendix A, pp. 233-39) is that of popular melodrama. Walter made use of exciting plot

The New York Public Library Theatre Collection, Fine Feathers MS, The Challenge MS. The United States Copyright Office, Just A Wife MS^ Page references to these plays will be placed in paren­ theses in the text.

106 107 complications, conflict between good and evil, tense confrontations between characters, suspense, and emotionalism to create a play that would have the potential for considerable commercial appeal. While employing a basically melodramatic structure, Walter managed to create a degree of seriousness and complexity more typical of drame than of pure melodrama.

On the level of physical action, the play's conflict involve

Jane and Bob’s being manipulated by the scheming and opportunistic

Brand, as well as Bob's efforts to fight back; on the level of internal action, the conflict pits Bob's innate honesty, and the love that he and his wife share, against the corrupting lure of material luxuries. In addition to the clear-cut conflict between good and evil, there is also a less clear-cut conflict between Bob's commitment to honesty in his career and his duty as a husband to provide adequately for his wife. Such a conflict between what the circumstances of the play establish as two mutually exclusive moral imperatives is a potentially tragic action. Although Bob's desire and sense of obliga­ tion to provide for his wife is introduced as motivation for his decision to take part in the Brand's cement deal, the primary source of inner turmoil for Bob, after he has accepted the deal, involves, not a conflict between those moral imperatives, but rather his expedient concerns, which are related to the acquisition of more money, and the guilt that he feels as a result of his having acted in a manner that he perceives as being clearly irmoral. As a result, the morally clear-cut conflict between good and evil predominates in Acts III and

IV, and the potentially tragic conflict between moral imperatives 108 provides only a minor undercurrent. Walter added further tragic potential, however, by depicting a progression of events in which the misfortune that befalls the central, sympathetic characters is the result, not merely of villainous or victimizing outside forces, but rather of an interaction between those forces and the actions of the sympathetic characters themselves.

Walter developed thematic considerations that are relevant to the conflict between personal morality and business ethics and, in so doing, provided the play's conflict with a degree of magnitude that it other­ wise would not have had. The thematic considerations are dealt with both indirectly by means of the implications of the story and directly by means of dialogue. Each of the four major characters--Brand, Jane,

Bob, and Dick--represent a different attitude toward the issue of the conflict between business ethics and personal morality. The clearest difference can be seen in the contrast between the attitude of Brand and that of Bob toward the cement deal: "That's stealing" (I, 37), is

Bob's immediate response to Brand's description of the deal; "No, that's business" (I, 37), is Brand's reply. Bob insists on taking into account personal morality in his behavior in the business world.

"Nothing can stop a man when he's honest" (II, 29), Bob believes. To

Brand, on the other hand, Bob's talk of conscience is part of the

"gibberish you find in the yellow paper" (I, 40). Brand's behavior is guided, not by conscience, but by a pragmatic view of the facts of life of the business world in which he functions. His ethical code is callously opportunistic and is an extension into the business world of 109

Darwin's concept of the survival of the fitte s t. Hence, Brand does not view the cement deal as being unethical, but rather as being "sharp practice" and as merely "taking advantage of the foolish and incom­ petent specifications” (I, 38) of the cement contract. To Brand, such is the nature of the competitive, free enterprise system."It's the loose ends that have made the American millionaire" (I, 38), he tells

Bob. When Bob condemns Brand for causing his bankruptcy by urging a stock broker to give him bad advice, Brand replies with a sneer:

So, you took a broker's word, eh? Well, you certainly are a sucker. I ’m glad to get a line on you. So, you are one of that class of citizens who want us to turn the country over to you when you can't even manage your own fla t. You’re one of the great majority, are you? What you fellows need are a few baby rattles and some milk bottles to keep you quiet (III, 21-22)

From Brand's point of view, Bob deserves ridicule because he is ridicu­ lous: he is like a baby trying to play a grown-up's game. While Bob’s moral code condemns dishonesty, Brand's code condemns incompetence.

Bob never loses sight of his moral code, even when he involves himself in the illegal cement deal. His decision to accept the deal is tinged with an awareness of its expediency. " I'll get mine firs t and do my reforming afterwards," he tells Dick, "the way the rest of them do" (II, 31). His determination to blackmail Brand is accompanied by a similar awareness. He tells Jane:

I'm not going to act under the supposition that i t 's right or it's business or it's opportunity. I'm going to make it plain blackmail whether its for ten thousand or sixty thousand. . . . Either we’re crooks or we're honest and if we make up our minds to be crooks le t's get all we can out of it. (I ll, 32) 110

Unlike Brand, who judges his own behavior in relation to a callously opportunistic code, Bob judges his own behavior in relation to a code of personal morality. As a result, while Brand can concentrate

single-mindedly on expedient matters, Bob often is torn by the con­

flict between his expedient behavior and his moral standards. When

news of the dam's collapse arrives, for instance, Brand immediately makes arrangements to flee the country, while Bob immerses himself in

gui1t.

In Acts I and II, Jane does not agree with Bob that his taking

part in the cement deal would be dishonest and immoral; she has been

convinced by Brand that participation would be merely shrewd business.

She considers Bob's refusal to be unfair to her. Jane's attitude is

that of an innocent, but nonetheless materialistic, housewife who is

isolated from the business world of men. All day "you're up in your

office rubbing shoulders with the man who governs things," Jane com­

plains to Bob; Bob is, at least, a "little cog in the great wheel

that makes the world go round—the world that I can't enter," she con­

tinues, "while I have to stay here like a drudge" (II, 27). To her,

$40,000 means re lie f from her daily drudgery and release from her

fear of eventually becoming like her neighbor, Mrs. Collins—"with

paint on [her] face and [her] hands to hide the seams in them, and

wanting a highball to hide the sordidness of it all" (II, 29).

Until Bob apprises Jane, late in Act III, of the criminality of

the cement deal, her involvement in it is somewhat child-like—in

terms of both the naivete she displays in being ignorant of its I l l illegality and the petulance she displays in insisting, much like a spoiled child, that, unless Bob takes part in the deal, she will leave him. Jane, in fact, likens herself to a child when she expresses her disappointment upon overhearing Bob’s refusal of Brand's lucrative offer. "I was like a child coming down on Christmas morning," she tells Bob, "seeing a Christmas tree all beautifully l i t up and before I could touch it you’d kicked it out of the house because you don't believe in Christmas trees" (II, 28). In contrast to Bob, Jane is in an enviable position, at least for two years, of being able to enjoy the pleasures that derive from the $40,000 without being troubled by an awareness of the immorality of the means by which it was acquired.

Although Dick remains aloof from direct involvement in business corruption, he, nonetheless, profits indirectly from its existence.

Ironically, as a purveyor of "yellow journalism," he views his work not without a degree of smug pleasure deriving from his awareness that there is a wealth of corruption to write about. He admits that some detractors call his job "muck-raking" and then boasts, "If that's it,

I'm a pretty good farmer. Crops are fine and the strangest part of it is that I'm really making more money" (III, 9).

The overall action of the play conforms to the structural conven­ tions of the well-made play--conventions conducive to the melodramatic effect. Within each of the four acts, for instance, the action progresses toward a crisis that provides a suspenseful or emotionally

intense conclusion—a fact that evidences Walter's concern with 112 theatrical effect. At the conclusion of Act I, for example, Jane exits to mail Brand his calling card, as an indication of her determination to conspire with him to persuade her husband to take part in Brand's lucrative cement deal; Act II concludes with Bob's rushing from the house to inform his wife, who has just threatened to leave him, that he will accept Brand's offer; in the final moments of the third act,

Bob, who has just been thwarted in his efforts to leave the house to shoot Brand, is in a state of emotional collapse; and the play con­ cludes with Bob’s startling suicide. The conclusion of each act is more emotionally tense than is the conclusion of the act that precedes it--a factor that contributes to making the development of

the play's action increasingly more intense as the story progresses.

There are numerous other examples throughout the play of Walter's

having structured the action in a manner that increases the power of the emotional effect. The pathos inherent in the misery that Bob and

Jane experience upon learning of the collapse of the dam, for instance,

is intensified by the presence, just prior to their receiving the news, of a glirrmer of hope for their happiness. Prior to the arrival of

the news, a telegram arrives from Brand announcing that he has paid

Bob's $10,000 overdraft--an action that relieves Bob from the threat of legal action over the matter. Furthermore, Bob, who earlier has

been determined to expose Brand's and his own wrongdoing in the cement deal, tells Jane that, because of the threat of imprisonment that such an exposure would impose on her, he has decided to remain silent.

Elated by the news, Jane talks of the possibility of a happier future 113 for her and Bob. A few seconds later, Dick arrives to tell the couple of the collapse of the dam. Jane and Bob's momentary relief from the

threats imposed upon them renders their final catastrophe more painful.

Bob's response to Jane's optimism, "One cannot go wrong day after day without--" {IV, 6), which is interrupted by Dick's entrance, arouses fear that something ominous is about to occur. Walter does not have

Dick announce the collapse of the dam immediatelyupon entering;

Walter instead takes advantage of the opportunity to prolong the suspense and the accompanying fear. When Jane happily tells Dick,

"Everything's all right. We're going to start all over again" (IV, 6),

Dick buries his face in his hands and cries, "Oh, my God! My God!" (IV,

6). He does not, however, reveal at that moment what is troubling him; he instead inquires of Bob, who is recovering from the emotional col­

lapse he suffered the night before, "How do you feel . . . strong?

Able to bear anything that I might say to you?" (IV, 6). With anxious curiosity, Bob urges him to reveal his news, but Dick continues his agonizing delay. "Bob! Jane! Listen to me," he says, "The Lusitania sails tomorrow morning at one o'clock. I have your ticket here"

(IV, 6). Again Bob urges Dick to break the news. Again he hesitates,

"Bob! Bob, old boy--" (IV, 7). Finally, after another and a more

forceful plea by Bob, Dick informs them of the disaster.

The manner in which the action inmediately preceding Bob's

suicide is structured also succeeds in heightening suspense and allows

Jane's emotions to grow from anxious curiosity to fear to panic.

After telling Jane that he has thought of a way to save her from the 114 threat of imprisonment for her role in the cement scheme, Bob picks up the phone and dials the operator. The ensuing dialogue reveals his intentions only gradually. When Bob requests of the operator, "Give me 3100 Spring" (IV, 16), the phone number means nothing to Jane and only arouses in her a somewhat concerned curiosity; however, when Bob instructs the party at 3100 Spring to connect him with "the 47th"

(IV, 16), fear begins to mount within Jane as she realizes he is calling the police. "Please send a man to 626 Berkeley Road," Bob says, "It's a suicide. Quick" (IV, 16). Upon hearing that request, Jane, of course, realizes what Bob is about to do and is panic-stricken; before she is able to respond, Bob switches off the light and shoots himself.

While Bob's switching off the light apparently is prompted by his desire to spare Jane the sight of his violent death, from a theatrical point of view, it not only renders the staging of the suicide easier but also creates an exciting visual effect of exploding gunpowder.

A noteworthy accomplishment in Fine Feathers is Walter's success at creating exciting theatrical effects within a credible scheme of probability, one that, for the most part, conforms to natural, or real-life, probability. One of the major factors in that success is

Walter's having built the dramatic action on a firm foundation. The play's opening scenes of exposition, which comprise nearly two-thirds of Act I, establish the basic circumstances from which the play’s major conflict will develop. Those scenes establish the play's realistic frame of reference and depict clearly the way of life that Jane and Bob are forced to live because of their meager income. 115

The scenes are dramatic in form because they depict characters in­ volved in activities and conflicts; the expository dialogue is a natural outgrowth of that involvement. The concerns and activities are of the everyday variety--finding a match to light the gas bracket, finding a quarter to put in the slot of the gas meter, setting the table, com­ plaining about house payments, and worrying about the butcher bill — activities and concerns that, in and of themselves, seem minor, but that, taken as a whole, create a forceful picture of the daily worries, drudgery, and sacrifices that are the basis for Jane's discontent and eventually for Bob's succumbing to the temptation of Brand's lucra­ tive cement deal.

The major incidents of the play take the form of a causally linked c^ain of events. As a result, the overall development of the action is clear and logical. There is a significant amount of motivational detail, particularly in Acts I and II, much of which serves to render highly probable Bob s decision to take part in the cement deal and, thus, to make credible Bob's transformation from an extremely honest and morally idealistic man to one who knowingly involves himself in an illegal and immoral business deal. Bob's decision, at the end of

Act II, to take part in the cement deal represents a decisive charac­ ter reversal that, in turn, precipitates a major plot reversal--from the relatively happy state of affairs for Jane and Bob in Acts I and

II to their misery in Acts III and IV. Thus, the credibility of Bob's decision is essential to the credibility of the remainder of the play's action. 116

While Bob's actions in Act I show him to be honest and moral, circumstances are also present that, in Act II, prompt his expedient decision to take part in the cement deal. In Act I, Bob expresses guilt and regret at his inability to provide his wife with the material luxuries he feels she deserves. He himself is not impervious to the attractions of materialism. He is deeply impressed, for in­ stance, with how beautiful Jane looks in her stylish new hat and comments to Dick, "I tell you, there must be something in that old proverb--' Fine Feathers make Fine Birds'" (I, 26). When Bob wonders why he cannot, like other men he knows, afford frills for his wife,

Dick responds, "It's the system" {I, 26). "Toil doesn't make money-- for the toiler," he continues, "only money makes money" (I, 39).

Pressured by his wife's ultimatum and mindful of Dick's comments,

Bob later decides to join "the system":

If that's the system, if that's the way they play the game, if that's the only way I can decently clothe my wife, decently give her a position, decently pro­ vide what I ought to provide, I'm going to do it.1 (II, 31)

Bob's bitter attitude and his drinking problem in Act III not only are the result of his wild and disastrous speculating in the stock market--behavior that is prompted by an urge to maintain the luxurious way of life that his wife craves--but also are the symptoms of the

self-loathing Bob feels because he has compromised his moral idealism.

Having succumbed under pressure to the temptation of expediency in

Act II, it is probable that, when he is faced with enormous financial

pressures in Act III, he once again will succumb to expediency. His 117 lowering himself to blackmail as a means of rescuing himself from his desperate financial condition is, thus, a credible turn of events.

An extra-formal consideration relevant to natural, or real-life, probability adds credibility to Bob's transformation, during the two years between Act II and Act III, from a fundamentally honest man into a physically and mentally devastated one who is desperate and morally lax enough to blackmail his partner. Fine Feathers was written in an era of "yellow journalism." Journalistic exposes of corruption in big business were common. That phenomenon is referred to in the play both by Brand and by Dick, who refers to his job as "muckraking"

(III, 9), a label attached by President Theodore Roosevelt to exposes of institutional corruption, which, characteristically ignored any good qualities that those institutions also might possess. In writing

Fine Feathers, Walter apparently assumed that his audience would have a strong preconceived attitude concerning the power of big business to corrupt an individual thoroughly. Given the prevalence of "yellow journalism" at the time, Walter's assumption probably was accurate.

That audience attitude allowed Walter to dispense with a depiction of the gradual process by which Bob became physically, mentally, and morally devastated and to concentrate instead upon dramatizing only the exciting highlights of the story. There is, for instance, much less immediate theatrical appeal in a depiction of the gradual process of Bob's transformation than in the play's depiction of only the initial steps and the final catastrophic results of that transformation.

Walter's dependence upon the extra-formal consideration of preconceived 118 audience attitudes to assure the credibility of Bob's character reversal is a dramaturgic practice appropriate to melodrama and drame.

A weak link in the play's causal chain of events results from

Walter's not having made clear precisely what has happened in the five- week interim between Act I and Act II with regard to Jane and Brand's conspiring to persuade Bob to take part in the cement deal. In Act I,

Brand indicates to Jane that, if she is willing, the two of them

"will form a l i t t l e company to show [Bob] what a few comforts are with­ out letting him know about it" [I, 43). Suspense is heightened at the end of Act I when Jane exits to mail Brand his calling card, as a sign of her decision to conspire with him. The expectation is thereby created that their conspiracy will play an important role in efforts to persuade Bob to participate in the cement deal; however, that expectation is left unfulfilled. Although, in the middle of Act II,

Jane tells her husband that she has been meeting with Brand for the past several weeks to make arrangements concerning the deal, pre­ cisely what those arrangements are and what role they play, if any, in Jane and Brand's conspiracy to persuade Bob to take part in the deal are questions that are left unanswered. Because the reason for the meetings between Jane and Brand is not clear, it appears that the meetings have been included by Walter to give cause for Jane's otherwise unexplained delay in confronting her husband with regard to the deal until a week before the deadline for the delivery of the first load of cement to the construction site. The fact that the action of the act takes place so near the deadline lends a theatrically 119 effective sense of urgency to Jane's attempts to convince her husband to accept the deal.

Bob's discovery that his wife has been meeting secretly with Brand prompts Bob to suspect her of being unfaithful. His insinuation con­ cerning her meetings with Brand is a motivational factor in Jane's threat to leave Bob at the end of Act II; that threat, in turn, is an important causal factor in Bob's decision to take part in the cement deal. Thus, although the causal link between the secret meetings and subsequent dramatic action is clear, the relationship between

those meetings and precedent action is not.

Causal unity is characteristic not only of the progress of

the dramatic action of the play as a whole, but also, on a moment by moment basis, of the interaction between characters within various scenes. A fine example of such a dramatic structure within a scene

is the confrontation between Bob and Brand in Act III, during which

Bob forwards his intentions to blackmail Brand. The scene is

structured as a series of discoveries and reversals in an agent-

patient relationship. The scene is, in effect, a cat-and-mouse game,

in which each man, made fearful by the awareness that the other has

the wherewithal to ruin his financial career, makes carefully cal­

culated reactions to his adversary's moves and countermoves.

Brand is the first to assume the role of an aggressor; after

each man states his position with regard to what constitutes a fair

distribution between them of the $200,000 profit that was realized in

the cement deal, Brand vehemently accuses Bob of blackmail and 120 threatens, "I'll take you by the nape of the neck and when I get through with you you'll be up there where you'll have a good view of the river1’ (III, 19). Brand's threatening Bob with the possibility of imprisonment prompts Bob to counter with a similar threat: he tries to impress upon Brand the seriousness of his threat to expose both Brand's and his own wrongdoing should Brand persist in his refusal to give him half of the profit. Bob furthers his claim to the money by arguing that his bankruptcy was caused by Brand's having advised him to make what proved to be an ill-fated stock transaction. Assuming that Bob's threat to expose their wrongdoing is a bluff (an assumption that proves to be a false discovery), Brand mocks Bob for his business ineptitude and insists that he will not give him the money. More strongly than before, Bob reiterates his threat. Brand, now convinced that Bob is not bluffing, strikes out at what he knows to be Bob's vulnerable point--the welfare of his wife. Brand warns Bob that, if the cement deal is exposed, Jane could be tried and imprisoned as an accessory to the crime. That warning prompts Bob to back off.

Fine Feathers combines the theatrical appeal of popular melodrama with the serious intent of social drama. The seriousness of the social statement made by the play is enhanced considerably by Walter's not having employed a happy ending to eliminate the threat that the victimizing forces pose to the society depicted in the play. The play's resolution strongly implies, for instance, that the villainous

Brand will not be punished for his crime. As he boasted to Bob in

Act III, Brand has lawyers and money to protect him. He notes in Act IV 121 that he already has taken action to influence the outcome of the investigation into the cause of the dam's collapse, and, until the uproar over the disaster subsides, he plans to hide safely and, no doubt, comfortably in Europe. Furthermore, he does not even feel the pain of guilt over the lives that were lost in the disaster:

Men, women, and children--a handful of Dagoes and Polacks that the world's better off without. A few brats who couldn't fill a useful position even if they did live to be men and women. How do you know it wasn't an act of God? He brought the water there— I didn’t-- (IV, 12).

At the conclusion of the play, the mechanism still exists by which

Brand, and men like him, can abuse the power that their wealth affords them.

While the play's basic structure is that of melodrama--with its simplistic conflict between good and evil, tense confrontations, sus­ pense, and emotionalism--Walter added considerable magnitude to the

play by developing thematic considerations that are relevant to the

causes and effects of business corruption and by including some

potentially tragic implications. Although, at times, emotionally

gripping plot complications and suspense push the more serious social

issues and tragic implications into the background, it is, nonetheless,

true that the degree of seriousness that Walter managed to instill

into Fine Feathers is no small accomplishment for an individual writing

for the American commercial theatre in 1912.

In writing Just A Wife (Appendix A, pp. 239- 45), Walter abandoned a

well-made play structure, such as that which he employed in Fine Feathers, 122 in favor of a structure typical of the European drama of discussion that was made popular by certain of the realistic plays of Henrick

Ibsen and which was espoused by Bernard Shaw as being the epitome of modern realism. In speaking of what he considered to be the most in­ fluential "technical novelty" in the plays of Ibsen, Shaw stated:

This technical factor in the play is the discussion. Formerly you had in what was called a well-made play an exposition in the first act, a situation in the second, an unravelling in the third. Now you have exposition, situation, and discussion; and the dis­ cussion is the test of the playwright.2

Just a Wife follows the structure outlined by Shaw, with the exception that Walter, using the four-act structure, devoted the final two acts to discussion. The play opens with a scene of exposition, in which

Mary reveals the unusual circumstances of her marriage: that is followed by two major plot complications—the arrival of John late in

Act I and the arrival of Eleanor lateinAct II—which create a critical situation, a situation in which the resulting tensions are so great that something must be done to relieve them. Acts III and IV are composed, for the most part, of scenes of discussion, in which the characters react to the critical situation into which they have been thrust. Because only two plot complications of any consequence occur in Acts III and IV—the termination of the relationship between John and

Eleanor and Mary's declaring her independence from John—the focus of

2 Bernard Shaw, The Quintessence of Ibsenism (London: Constable and Co., Ltd., 1913}, p. 167. 123 the last half of the play is not the story line, but rather the issues being discussed by the characters. 3 Thus, "Thought" is a prominent element in Just A Wife, especially in Acts III and IV. The most frequently occurring area of concern is the dynamics of human power--specifically, the lack of power held by women in the society depicted in the play. John's taking advantage of his more powerful position as a male in his relationships with Eleanor and Mary provides a stimulus for much of the argumentation and emotional expression in the play.

Mary is the first to address directly the problem of what she sees to be the virtual enslavement of women by men. She does so in

Act III while she is expressing her opinion on the question of why

John has terminated his relationship with Eleanor despite the fact that

Eleanor has meant so much to the success of his career over the years.

After all, it is sex that counts, and that's all you have and all I have, and all any woman has. Each one plays a game in life and her sex is her trump card. When that can't take a trick, she loses. Your brain is just as brilliant as it ever was--your intellect is just as active—you're not quite as fascinating as you were ten years ago. Your sex is losing its chief asset and he tired of you. . . . It's the fatality of

3 Aristotle defines "Thought" as the "power of saying whatever can be said or what is appropriate to the occasion" and indicates that it includes all that the dramatic agents say "when proving or disproving some particular point, or enunciating some universal proposition." Ingram Bywater, trans., The Poetics (New York: Random House, 1954), p. 232. The following discussion of thematic considerations in Just a Wife presupposes that the term theme refers to any overall or frequently occurring idea, which may be either explicitly mentioned in the dialogue or implied by the action of the play. 124

your sex and of my sex—it's the thing that makes men dominate. (Ill* 27)

Eleanor is aware that she has been used and discarded. "After you reached a certain position, you knew it wasn't necessary to have me"

(III, 19-20), she tells John.

John is not unaware of his taking advantage of the male's superior position of power to further his own career-related interests.

Eleanor "was a great big element that came into my life , and for a time helped it on," he tells his wife in the closing moments of the play,

"but finally she became an obstacle" (IV, 17-18). John does not con­ sider his treatment of Eleanor and Mary to be callously opportunistic, however; he rather perceives it as being necessary to his fulfilling his role in the "way things were divinely schemed out." According to that divine scheme, John believes his primary moral obligation is not to his fellow men but to the "great forces that go for the advancement of civilization" (IV, 18).

There is similarity between John's philosophy and that of social

Darwinism, an application of Darwin's theory of biological evolution to the evolution of society. There is little difference, for instance, between John's justification of his having used Eleanor to advance his business career and John D. Rockefeller's justification of what many considered to be ruthless competitive activities:

The growth of large business is merely a survival of the fitte s t. . . . The American Beauty rose can be produced only by sacrificing the early buds that grow up around it. This is not an evil tendency in 125

business. It is merely the working out of a law of nature and a law of God.4

Walter, however, did not depict John as being a villain. John puts forth his philosophy in a rational and intelligent manner; a l­ though the philosophy takes the individual human being and his feelings very little into account, it, nonetheless, is a philosophy that puts faith in the ability of the human race ultimately to perfect civilization.

Thus, although John often acts in a callous and unfeeling manner, he does so, not because he is inherently villainous, but rather because his actions are guided by his commitment to a seemingly intelligent and rational philosophy. That philosophy is counter-balanced by Mary's emotional extolment of the power of Christian love, which she sees as being "bigger than this whole evolution" (IV, 20).

Maxcy also expresses a philosophy concerning the dynamics of human interaction. In contrast to John's philosophy, which focuses on the economic, cultural, and scientific advancement of civilization, Maxcy's focuses on human behavior. Maxcy admits, "It's the strong who live on the weak--it's the smart fellow taking advantage of the easy-going man’s mistakes and carelessness" (IV, 8); he has assimilated that observation, however, into a philosophy that is concerned with moral advancement. He explains to Mary:

Everything in the world is worth just so much according to its issues and its relation to something else. Why, the only reason why some young fellows don't drink is because there are drunkards to show them what a tough

4 Quoted in J. Russell Major, The Western World: Renaissance to the Present (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1966), p. 626. 126

game it is; the reason lots of women in the world keep straight is because they know what an awful price they've got to pay when they sidestep the narrow path. You see, all these people who are so awful good ain't really good themselves, but they're taking advantage of those who have made mistakes. (IV, 8)

Maxcy's diction is less educated and more down-to-earth than is John's; as such, it is reflective of Maxcy's more straightforward and personal approach to human relationships. His philosophy is an ethical exten­ sion of the social Darwinists' belief in the "survival of the fittest."

Because Maxcy's philosophy takes into account personal relationships, it is a more humane application of social Darwinism.

The emphasis on the dynamics of human power--and the abuse thereof—is reinforced in a number of indirect references throughout the play. They include Bobby's story of Maxcy's being beaten up for being a "Sheeney"; the reference to Bobby's maintaining his position as a ring leader of thieving bellboys through brute force; the refer­ ence to the bellboys' stealing money from careless and unsuspecting hotel patrons; and Wellesley’s admitting that he is inferior to John, his employer.

In writing a drama of discussion, Walter was faced with the diffi­ cult and critical challenge of creating discussion that not only is perceptive and stimulating in its view of the issues but also is dramatic in form. The initial discussion in the play is that which takes place between Mary and Bobby; that scene, the play's opening scene of exposition, takes up well over half of Act I. Walter succeeded only partly in instilling dramatic qualities into what otherwise is a scene that is essentially narrative in form. 127

The opening scene of exposition is composed of two sections of approximately equal length. First, Mary tells Bobby about the unusual circumstances of her marriage, and then Bobby tells Mary the story of how Maxcy helped him in his transformation from a thieving bellboy into a relatively prosperous and respectable businessman. Because the story of Bobby and Maxcy's past is of minor significance to the development of subsequent dramatic action, the large amount of time that is devoted to Bobby's narrative is unwarranted. The exposition that Mary provides, however, is of primary importance: the set of circumstances that she details at length is the focal point of subse­ quent action. Furthermore, her exposition is more dramatic in form than is that provided by Bobby. Her revelations, for instance, are charged with internal conflict that stems not only from the intolerable circum­ stances of her marriage but also from her anxieties deriving from her anticipation of an inevitable future confrontation with her husband.

Mary is no longer the naive, sheltered girl of sixteen that she was when she was married off to John. Eight years of being neglected have replaced her youthful and naive enthusiasm with wry cynicism. Thus, what she communicates to Bobby is not merely an objective reporting of past events and circumstances; it is also a personal and intensely subjective reaction to them, as well as her efforts to explain their causes.

The exposition provided by Mary, despite its length and essentially narrative form, is given further v itality by Mary's witty and articulate use of language. Concerning her husband's being apparently oblivious 128

to her feminine charms, for instance, she quips, "I don't think he's

taken time even to make an inspection" (I, 16); of her own social

affectations, she notes that she can "coo and gush by the yard"

(I, 9). Her description of her husband's more business-like than marital relationship with her is effective not only because of its

humor but also because of its being so apropos to John's sense of

priorities: "He managed to absorb me into his possessions and assets"

(I, 10). Perhaps the finest example in the opening scene of sk ill­

fully crafted language, however, is Mary's humorously cynical explana­

tion of how John's marrying her was a means of covering up his affair with Eleanor. The speech is noteworthy for its combination of witty

social comment, wry humor, flowing cadence, and its use of parallelism

and antithesis. "Why it's the old thing of the ostrich putting its

head under the sand and nobody seeing him," she explains. "When you

have a wife, Bobby, you are entitled to as many mistresses as you can

afford, but when you have no wife, then you are violating all the rules

of life , from high finance to musical comedy" (I, 17).

Although Mary remains keenly articulate throughout the play, her wry wit disappears after Act II. With the arrival of her husband's mistress, Mary loses her ability to view her circumstances with even a modicum of humor. Her sudden change in outlook introduces a drama­

turgic weakness related to consistency of character. Throughout Acts

I and II, Mary reacts to difficult situations and places herself in

control of them often by resorting to verbal wit. She displays that wit not only in the scene of exposition with her brother but also in 129 her verbal reactions to her husband upon his arrival in Act I and during her dialogue with him in Act II. For example, when John says upon his unexpected arrival, "I thought you would be glad to see me, but I don't want to interfere," Mary responds with the humorous understatement, "No, no, John. You never interfere" (I, 37). Her wit also can be seen in the manner in which she maintains the upper hand during her discussion with John in Act II. When, for instance, John, in an effort to start a conversation with his wife, suggests that they talk about "planets" (a reference to a story that Maxcy has just told him}, the following dialogue ensues:

Mary Prohibited. I cut out stargazing when I assumed your name.

John You'll make me laugh in a minute, Mary.

Mary At least that will be something accomplished.

John You question my sense of humor.

Mary How can I when I think of our marriage!

John You're making i t mighty hard for me, Mary. One moment more and I shall call Wellesley to carry on a conver­ sation.

Mary Thank goodness time flies fast. (II, 34-35)

Mary's use of humor in dealing with difficult situations is not a cocktail party affectation but a character trait that is firmly estab­ lished in Acts I and II by the frequency of its appearance. The 130 regularity with which that trait appears in the first two acts creates an expectation, and a subsequent probability, that the trait will be a part of Mary's character throughout the play. Although it is believ- able—from the standpoint of natural, or real-life, probability—that a woman would lose her sense of humor when confronted with her husband's mistress, such behavior on Mary's part violates artistic probability, the scheme of probability established by her behavior in Acts I and II.

In order for a playwright to create a coherent and artistically unified character, he must depict a dramatic personage acting in a recog­ nizable pattern of behavior. If there is inconsistency in that character's behavior, it must be, as Aristotle points out, "consistently 5 inconsistent." Although Mary's behavior in Acts III and IV is, with regard to a sense of humor, consistently inconsistent with her behavior in Acts I and II, the overall effect is that of two separate charac­ ters—an individual with an extremely witty and wry sense of humor in the first half of the play and an individual with a very sober re­ action to her problems in the second half of the play. Furthermore, that loss of humor and wit lessens considerably the theatrical appeal and v itality of Mary's scenes in Acts III and IV—which is a significant loss in light of the fact that she is involved in all but one of the major scenes of discussion in those two acts.

The unexpected arrival of John near the end of Act I and of

Eleanor near the end of Act II are the only major plot complications

^Bywater, p. 242. 131 that have been externally imposed by Walter in order to advance the dramatic action. They are adequately motivated and are used to bring the circumstances involving John, his wife, and his mistress to a critical point--a point at which the characters feel compelled to confront one another and to express themselves, both emotionally and intellectually, as a means of resolving the crisis. For the remainder of the play, Walter developed the dramatic action, not by resorting to further external complications, but rather by depicting the re­ actions of the characters to the crisis into which they have been thrust.

The two major plot complications in Acts I and II provide the major characters with occasion to discuss in Act III the issues relevant to the crisis. The major portion of Act III consists of three emotion­ ally charged scenes of confrontation: the firs t involves Eleanor and

John; the second, Eleanor and Mary; and the third, Mary and John.

The subsequent discussions contribute more to the development of the action on the level of Thought than on the level of Plot. That is to say, the focus in Act III is upon an "extensification" of the emotions, attitudes, and conflicting ideas inherent in the circumstances.

Despite the fact that the discussions do not comprise a causally linked chain of events, they create, nonetheless, a clear sense that the play's conflict is moving toward resolution: the characters' expressing opinions and attitudes and venting emotions is an important part of their coming to grips with the crisis. Act III evidences an awareness on Walter's part that a satisfying resolution of the conflict that is introduced in Acts I and II must entail more than a mere 132 resolution of its external aspects; the resolution must provide more than an answer to the story-related question of whether Mary or Eleanor— or neither—will end up with John. The dramatic action of Act III also provides a resolution of the emotional and internal conflicts that are inherent in the situation involving the three major characters.

Because the major portion of Acts III and IV focuses on discussion rather than on plot complications, there is a strong dependence upon dialogue as the source of dramatic action in the last half of the play.

That which is dramatic can be thought of as being that which involves activity or change, which can be either external or internal in nature.

Although dialogue, in the sense that it represents speaking, is, in and of itself, an activity, a strong dependence upon dialogue as a source of dramatic action in drama of discussion necessitates that, if such a play is to be inherently interesting, the dramatic potential of dialogue must be exploited to the fullest extent. Discussion, for instance, that depicts uninvolved statements of ideas has little interest beyond that which is inherent in the ideas themselves.

Increased vitality and inherent interest can be achieved if the language is articulate or witty, if i t entails a conflict of ideas, or if it is the external manifestation of characters' inner turmoil.

The effectiveness of a play as a whole, however, is not dependent upon the dramatic qualities or theatrical appeal of each isolated scene, but rather upon the existence of a dynamic, and thereby dramatic, relationship among the various scenes—upon the existence of an overall 133 pattern of development. Although that pattern need not take the form of a causally linked chain of events, there must be, nonetheless, a steady progression of the play's basic materials toward resolution.

Thus, a playwright, in writing a drama of discussion, must create discussions not only that are dramatic, in and of themselves, but also that contribute to the development of the play's overall action.

At the outset of their scene in Act III, both Eleanor and John are resigned to the fact that there is no hope for the future of their rela­ tionship:

Miss Lathrop I suppose between you and me, we've got to go through that scene of saying "goodbye."

John (very calmly) It looks that way.

Miss Lathrop Then I'm ready. (Ill, 13)

L ittle suspense is aroused by the scene, because the question of whether or not the couple will terminate their relationship--a question that is directly relevant to the story line—is answered at the start of the scene. Instead of focusing on that question, the conversation focuses on the relationship its e lf—on such areas of concern as how the rela­

tionship has contributed to the success of John's business career and the reasons for John's gradually having lost interest in Eleanor. The clash of opinions and attitudes and the outpouring of emotion that result do little to move the story line forward but do much to help John and Eleanor to resolve the internal conflict that has built up within each of them. 134

As in the scene between Eleanor and John, the dramatic action in the subsequent scene between Eleanor and Mary consists chiefly of intense emotional expression and a clash of opinions and attitudes.

Their confrontation does not result in any important decision by either of the two women and, thus, does not produce any notable forward progress in the story line; their argument rather results in their gaining further perceptions concerning the relationship that has existed between John and themselves. The scene, thus, provides further extensification of the element of Thought. When Mary indicates near the beginning of the scene, for instance, that, because John and

Eleanor have ended their relationship, she has decided to try to salvage her marriage, Eleanor mocks Mary with the warning, "And you think he will come back to you—you—a dressed up doll — pampered-- brainless—a piece of bric-a-brac to put up some place and look at!

No indeed] John Emerson must have something with a l i t t l e more to i t than that" (III, 25). Mary responds with a bitter observation concern­ ing the role of women in society. When all is said and done, she tells Eleanor, you have "nothing but your sex" (III, 27). Concerning

Eleanor's boasting about her contribution to John’s business career,

Mary says, "You are s till a woman, and as a woman you held your friendship with him" (IV, 27).

The final scene of Act III, a confrontation between Mary and John, is the scene a faire, the climax, of the play. Like the two scenes that precede it, it too is a clash of opinions and attitudes and contributes to the development of the play on the level of Thought. Mary complains 135 to her husband that the idleness and lack of independence that have characterized her married life have rendered her incapable of performing any function useful to herself or to others. In response to her assertion that men place unfair restrictions on women, John declares that men always will have the balance of power in the world; it is their right, but that right, in turn, carries with it grave responsi­ bilities. Mary replies, "If this responsibility is so heavy on your shoulders, I will lighten it a bit" (III, 31). The argument has cul­ minated in an important decision by Mary, a decision that results in a climactic plot reversal. "From now on, I will shape my own life in my own way, and consult no one's judgment but my own," she announces in the final moments of the act. "I am to do just as I please and how I please, and I shall be answerable to no one but myself and my conscience" (III, 31).

In contrast to the two previous scenes, in which a decision voiced at the outset provides the stimulus for an emotional discussion, in the encounter between John and Mary, an emotional discussion provides cause for an important decision made at the end of the scene. The structure of the scene, as a result, is more dramatic: the basic dynamic at work is that of present circumstances (the discussion) growing toward a future result (Mary's decision). Furthermore, the scene's building toward a climactic reversal supplies Act III with a conclusion that is theatrically exciting.

By the conclusion of Act III, the dramatic action has reached a state of resolution. John, Mary, and Eleanor have confronted one 136 another; they have vented their emotions and have expressed their attitudes toward the circumstances in which they have been involved for the past years and which have reached a critical point during the play.

The three characters' reactions to that crisis have brought about significant changes in their relationship with one another. Eleanor and

John have terminated their affair and Eleanor has departed for the train station; Mary has declared her independence from her husband.

The difference between the state of affairs that exists at the end of

Act III and at the end of Act IV is slight and does not warrant the inclusion of a fourth act. Even the scene of reconciliation between

Mary and Eleanor is not so much a logical or necessary extension of the action of Act III as it is an obvious effort on Walter’s part to allow Eleanor to depart on a relatively happy note. Furthermore* in order to do so, Walter was forced to bring Eleanor back from the train station. Her motivation for returning—to ask Mary for forgiveness—is credible; however, the fact that Eleanor has time to return from the station because the train will not be leaving "for an hour or so"

(IV, 3) is too dramaturgically convenient to be credible. Maxcy's lengthy explanation of his moral philosophy serves to convince Mary to speak with Eleanor; the dramaturgic function of the explanation, how­ ever, does not warrant the considerable amount of time devoted to it.

While Maxcy's statement of moral philosophy, because it provides a contrast to John's, adds to the play on the level of Thought, its impact is greatly reduced by its inclusion in an act that is unneces­ sary. 137

The only significant difference between the declaration of freedom that Mary makes at the end of Act III and that which she makes at the end of Act IV is that the la tte r is more specific in terms of how, in the future, it may affect the relationship between John and Mary.

As long as his life is guided by such a callous philosophy, Mary tells her husband in the closing moments of the play, she will have nothing to do with him. So as not to close the door entirely, however, on the possibility of salvaging her marriage, she adds that, although she cannot assure him that she will wait for him, if his philosophy ever becomes tempered by a belief in the power and importance of human love, he should "come back and woo [her] as a lover" (IV, 21).

The final scene of Act IV provides the play with a highly effective conclusion; it suffers, however, from the fact that it occurs at the end of an unnecessary act. More dramatic economy would have been achieved had Walter substituted the final scene of

Act IV for the final scene of Act III and had concluded the play at that point. That change could have been made with relative ease: both scenes are confrontations between John and Mary and involve an argument over the same issues; in both scenes Mary declares her independence.

The latter scene, however, is more fully formulated.

In a "tag speech" in the closing moments of the play, Mary es­ pouses himan love as the most powerful of all forces:

Yes, love—that it is the very basis of all joys and all sorrows and all progress— that i t is the sweetest and the most painful thing in the world--the thing more sought after than anything. (IV, 20) 138

Although Walter can be criticized for having included such a speech, which, because of its blatantly thematic content and its position at the end of the play, gives the impression of being the "moral of the story," his inclusion of that "moral" did not cause him to resolve the dramatic action in an improbable manner. He did not choose, for instance, to demonstrate the redemptive power of love, which Mary so evangelistically extols, by having John succumb to that power and thereby creating a happy ending. Such a sudden change of heart would have been improbable for a man of John’s character. His behavior, such as the business-like formality with which he greets his wife and the insensitive manner in which he breaks off his long and intimate relationship with Eleanor, is consistent with the pragmatic, unfeeling, and self-oriented attitude toward his career that he expresses in the final scene of the play. His marriage has been to him a business arrangement and he has maintained it as such for eight years; thus, a sudden change in the nature of the arrangement from business to love would have been highly improbable.

The possibility exists, however, of a gradual softening of John's callous attitude by the power of love. During the play, John develops a physical attraction to Mary for the fir s t time since they were married, and, in the final scene of the play, he expresses a desire to

"in some way or other . . . have you for my wife, Mary, in every way that the word implies" (IV, 19). The play's final lines of dialogue represent a counter-balance between the two possibilities—on the one 139 hand, that there may be a future reconciliation between the couple and, on the other hand, that they may be saying "goodbye" forever:

Mary If . . . I am free as I am now, come back and woo me as a lover. I won't promise to wait, but if you have sincerity and true gentleness of spirit, you have, should you wish it, as fair a chance as any other man I know.

John As fair a chance as any other man. I know what you mean. Goodbye!

Mary But there must never be another mistake!

John When I come back--if I do come back—there will be no mistake. Goodbye again!

Mary Goodbye!

The final tableau focuses on the less happy of the two possibilities.

As the roar from the motor of John's powerful automobile "dwindles away into the distance," Mary "wearily puts her head in her hands"

(IV, 21).

As an effort by Walter to write a drama of discussion, Just A Wife is, for the most part, dramatically effective in its first three acts.

The overall structure of those three acts accomplishes what Shaw described as being typical of drama of discussion in his time. That structure, Shaw indicated, consists of exposition, situation, and dis­ cussion. In Just A Wife, the exposition and situation are introduced in Act I and Act II. Mary's witty and wry sense of humor and the ample amount of theatrically effective dialogue that results contribute 140 much to the success of those two acts. Also of particular note is the arrival of Eleanor—a turn of events that -not only is credible, be­ cause it is clearly motivated by Eleanor's jealousy of Mary, but also is a coup de theatre.

The play begins at a point very late in the story, a point at which Walter, by employing a credibile turn of events—the arrival of both John and his mistress at Mary's house—was able to bring circum­ stances to such a critical point that decisive reactions on the part of the three characters are virtually inevitable. Those reactions take the form, in Act III, of three emotionally charged scenes of dis­ cussion and argumentation. By deemphasizing physical conflict and plot reversals in the last half of the play, Walter maintains focus on the concerns being discussed. Act III is successful as drama of discussion because each scene of discussion, in addition to being emotionally charged and occasionally intellectually stimulating, plays a sign ifi­ cant role in achieving a satisfying resolution of the play's basic conflict. Act IV fails, largely due to the fact that sufficient reso­ lution has been reached by the end of Act III. Consequently, the scenes of discussion in the final act lack significance.

The effectiveness of Just A Wife as a social problem play, which deals with the inferior position of power held by women in the society depicted in the play, is rendered more serious by the fact that

Walter did not resolve away the basic problem that has functioned as the catalyst for the dramatic conflict throughout the play. He did not settle for the superficial satisfaction that a clearly happy ending 141 would provide. A drama critic contemporaneous to Walter found

similarity in Walter's Fine Feathers to the drama of such British

realists of the time as John Galsworthy and Granville Barker, who, "by

deliberately avoiding a conclusion and by starting the story at a

point that presupposes many antecedent causes . . . seek to imitate

the drift of life itself--which exhibits no beginnings and no endings, C but only an appalling continuity." That comparison is equally as

applicable to Just A Wife, because of the play's late point of attack,

its in-depth depiction of both its characters' reactions to and

their analysis of a single critical situation, and its equivocal con-

clusion.

In both Fine Feathers and Just A Wife, the dramatic action

depicts the effects of a social problem on a domestic situation. In

The Challenge (Appendix A, pp. 246-54), the focus expands to include

not only a domestic conflict but also a larger, political conflict.

The Challenge is a relatively complex and intensely interesting drama

that consists of two inter-related lines of conflict. One involves

a struggle for political power between the establishment government

and the socialist movement; that struggle creates the circumstances

out of which develops a second line of conflict, one that involves

the personal relationship between Dick Putnam and his two closest

®"The New Realism in the Drama," Bookman, February 1913, pp. 639-49. 142 friends—Hal Winthrop and Mary Winthrop, Dick's fiancee. The close relationship between Dick and Hal is threatened when the two men take opposite sides in the struggle between the socialists and the govern­ ment; similarly, Dick's political activism detracts enormously from his commitment to Mary and threatens to break up their plans for marriage. As the larger, political conflict becomes more intense, so does the personal conflict. While The Challenge has variety and interest that derive from two major lines of conflict, it also has dramatic compactness and intensity, because of the close causal con­ nection between the two conflicts.

The Prologue focuses attention on Dick's socialist convictions-- convictions that become basic issues of contention both in the political struggle and in the personal conflict between Dick and the Winthrops.

A clear contrast between the attitude of Dick and Hal toward war raises the possibility that conflict in their philosophies will result in increased tension between the two men as the play progresses. When

Dick asserts that "all wars are monstrous," Hal adds, "but they're necessary just the same" (Prologue, 8). Hal, who has come to

France to attend a meeting of the War Industries Board and who has gained prominence for his civilian contributions to the war effort, praises Dick for his heroism during the war and for what Hal assumes to be Dick's sense of conviction in fine ideals. Dick denies any such noble motivation for fighting in the war and calls his friend a "dear old hypocrite" (Prologue, 10) for pretending to believe that partici­ pation in war can be justified by a noble cause. 143

Dick later tells Mary, after she has expressed hope that his participation in the war is prompted by a corrrii tment to patriotism or

Christiani ty:

No one can go to war to attain a real ideal. . . be­ cause you can never realize an ideal with a loaded gun pointed at it--hatred and vengeance--grief and malice—that's the beginning and the end and the substance of war. (Prologue, 12)

The setting of the Prologue—an army hospital—together with the bandages over Dick's ailing eyes and the pathos inherent in the sound of "American convalescents" singing "Smiles," add emotional support to

Dick's arguments against war. He explains to Mary that the bloodshed and loss of life that he has both seen and caused during the war have prompted him to question the moral validity of his involvement.

Dick's convalescence has given him time to wonder about the causes of war. "God was never a part of war," he says. He tells Mary that war is caused by powerful men who, for their own selfish gain, exploit humans' "passion to k ill"--ju st as those same powerful men, in time of peace, selfishly exploit humans in the labor market. Dick has dedicated himself to opposing such "arrogant exploitation by the master class" because he feels that the "very heart of Christ would be in such a battle" {Prologue, 13).

The Prologue raises the possibility of serious tensions not only between Dick and Hal but also between Dick and Mary; that potential lies primarily in a conflict of allegiances. While Dick's allegiance appears to be to the socialist cause, Mary's allegiance is clearly to her love for Dick and Hal. Thus, she is alarmed by Dick's rhetoric, 144 not because she disagrees with his beliefs, but rather because she fears that his commitment to the socialist cause will create problems for their relationship. "But you'll never let anything come between us and our love? (Prologue, 14), she asks. When Dick suggests that some day she will come to understand and accept his beliefs, Mary's response evidences allegiance to her family and to Hal: "It would be like turning on my own blood. We've always been the masters--we

Winthrops—even Hal is now and I'm proud of him" (Prologue, 13).

Dick's determination to further the socialist cause intensifies, during the course of the play, with each obstacle he encounters, until his expulsion from the socialist party sorely breaks his sp irit. Similarly, Mary's determination to hold onto her hopes for a happy future with Dick intensifies—even as Dick's deeper and deeper involvement in the socialist movement appears to be shattering those hopes--until Dick's long disappearance emotionally disturbs her so severely that she suffers a nervous breakdown.

Walter employs an effective suspense-provoking delay in the development of the conflict between Hal and Dick. The disagreement between them in the Prologue occurs, in passing, during a friendly conversation; that disagreement, nonetheless, serves to foreshadow a later, more serious conflict between them and, thus, creates sus­ pense. Walter increases that suspense by delaying the foreshadowed conflict until near the end of Act II.

In Act I, Dick's socialist convictions bring him into conflict with a ntmber of people; during that time, however, Hal defends Dick, 145 because he believes that Dick's socialist rhetoric is merely in tel­ lectual recreation and represents no serious threat to anyone. When

Dick incurs criticism from Mr. and Mrs. Mather, for instance, for

"running riot with the rabble" and for preaching "dangerous and anar­ chistic" ideas, Hal informs the couple that Dick's management of the

Globe has resulted in enormously increased circulation and profits, and then quips, "There’s nothing socialistic in that, is there?" (I,

12). Even when Shanley, near the end of Act I, tries desperately to convince Hal that, because of Dick's intelligence and managerial skill, the socialists stand a good chance of electing some of their candidates to state offices in the upcoming election, Hal still refuses to regard Dick's political views or activities as a serious threat, either to the political establishment or to their friendship.

Hal's attitude prompts him to refuse to aid Shanley and the political establishment in their efforts to fight the socialists' campaign—a turn of events that increases the suspense inherent in even the early stages of the development of the play's political line of conflict.

Hal's attitude delays the occurrence of the first major crisis in the relationship between Hal and Dick until near the conclusion of

Act II--the same point at which the play's political line of conflict also has reached its firs t major crisis. That crisis is the election of Hoffman, the socialists' gubernatorial candidate. By effecting simultaneously a significant reversal in both the play's political and personal line of conflict, Walter is able to conclude Act II with a crisis of high intensity. Hal is alarmed by the election of Hoffman 146 and even more so by his discovery that Dick has been instrumental in the election; he now realizes that Dick's convictions pose a very serious threat, not only to the political establishment—which Hal, because of his wealth and power, has a vested interest in maintaining— but also, in Hal's view, to Dick himself. Hal warns Dick that the

Workman's Coimittee of Seventy, which provides the leadership for the socialist movement in the state, is composed of "demagogues, parasites, and crooks" (II, 21), who are exploiting Dick's idealistic commitment for their own personal gain.

Beginning with the crisis at the end of Act II, it becomes v ir­ tually impossible to trace the developments in one of the play's two major lines of conflict without reference to developments in the other—a fact that evidences their close causal connection. For instance, Hal's decision to take part in the scheme to bribe the socialist governor into withholding his veto from the militia bill is a decisive factor in the resolution of the play's political con­ flic t: the veto, by depriving the Committee of Seventy of m ilitary power, thwarts their plan to stage a general strike that would be disruptive to the establishment's power structure. Despite the fact that Hal's decision has important ramifications for the play's political line of conflict, his motivation stems from a personal concern for Dick's welfare and for his future with Mary. In the closing moments of Act III, when Shanley congratulates Hal for "standing by the old party--the old principles, the old order of things," Hal is quick and emphatic in his response. "Damn the party, damn the 147 principles, and damn the old order of things,” he says, "there's a boy and a girl who have got to be brought together" (III, 25). Hal's power, wealth, and influence are instrumental to the scheme to bribe Hoffman; Dick's discovery of Hal's involvement in government corruption further alienates Dick from the Winthrops. Similarly, while

Dick's expulsion from the Independent Labor Party is a factor in the demise of the socialist movement, the situation thrusts Dick into circumstances—disillusionment and loneliness--that are influential in his eventual decision to return to Hal and Mary.

The causal link between the two lines of conflict adds complexity to the play's dramatic action; further complexity is achieved by

Walter's having included minor, although influential, conflicts within the circumstances of the two lines of conflict. Tension exists, for example, not only between the government and the socialists but also between individuals within each of those two groups; furthermore, there exists inner turmoil within both Hal and Dick. When Hal con­ spires with Shanley and the politicians to bribe Hoffman, for instance, he does so with reluctance. While he feels that his participation, by helping to bring about the downfall of the Committee of Seventy, in the long run, will help Dick, whom he believes is being exploited,

Hal worries that his participation is a compromise of his own integrity and will destroy his self-respect. "There’s one thing on which I've always agreed with [Dick] Putnam," Hal te lls Shanley and

Mather, "a good end never justifying an evil means" (III, 7). 148

Hal is condemned by Dick for his involvement in the bribery scheme:

You bought him [Hoffman] out—it must have cost you millions . , . you betrayed me—you betrayed the state--you betrayed yourself and Mary and everything that is dear to you. (Iv, 25}

Although quick to defend his involvement to Dick, Hal does not escape feeling guilty about having so brutally disillusioned his closest friend. When Mary, distraught over Dick's disappearance, suffers a nearly fatal nervous breakdown, Hal believes that he is responsible for alienating Dick and blames himself for Mary's condition.

In Act IV Dick comes into serious conflict with his own socialist comrades, who accuse him of conspiring with Hal and vote to expel him from the Independent Labor Party. Incensed by the establish­ ment leaders' use of corrupt tactics, members of the Committee of

Seventy call for the violent overthrow of the government; Dick warns that such tactics will only work to their disadvantage by destroying their chances of winning much needed converts from "this hated class of mine" (IV, ii, 41). Ousted by the party that he had served so faithfully and sorely disillusioned by the call for violence, Dick, after a few months of wandering, seeks solace in his friendship with

Hal and his love for Mary; he cannot, however, escape feeling guilty for having abandoned the intensity of his struggle to help the exploited masses in favor of domestic bliss. "Oh, what am I doing--:> he wonders, "is the ideal being torn from me because I heard the howling of the wolves?" (Epilogue, 9). 149

Walter is effective in his development of the play's "Thought."

He has peopled his play with characters whose actions are motivated

by strong convictions; the characters' willingness to argue in

defense of their convictions creates an interesting conflict of ideas.

In only one instance, Hal's moralizing in the final moments of the

Epilogue, is an argument or point of view put forth by a character

without another character (or characters), at some point, putting

forth a counter-argument that is at least partly valid. Not only does

that dialectical technique of bringing together contradictory argu­ ments enable Walter to depict an objective analysis of the socialist

issue but it also contributes to the play's atmosphere of tension.

Two fine examples of the effectiveness of that technique in calling

attention to both sides of an issue are the exchange of dialogue in

Act III, in which Shanley and Mather attempt to persuade Hal to lend

his support to the bribery scheme; and Bemis's fiery speech in Act IV,

scene ii, in which he argues for the use of violence against the

capitalist establishment. The first example is noteworthy for the manner in which Walter has alternated argument and counter-argument to

create an exchange of dialogue that possesses both intellectual

interest and dramatic vitality. While Hal objects to the bribery

scheme on the grounds of its being both corrupt and covert, Shanley and

Mather argue that, because of the threat of socialist revolution, the

scheme aimed at countering the socialist offensive is, at worst, a

necessary evil. In essence, the verbal confrontation pits Hal's moral

idealism against the political pragmatism of Shanley and Mather. 150

Bemis's speech to the leaders of the Committee of Seventy provides an argument in response to Dick's plea for non-violence.

While Bemis's speech by no means succeeds in providing valid moral justification for the use of violence, it does effectively point up the fact, however, that Bemis's anger—as well as that of his militant comrades—is not entirely unjustified.

But by God you and your class can only be defeated by destruction—it's that way all over the world because I've been there all over the world— Arguments, votes, prayers, trade unions, parties, all of ’em, ain't worth a tinker's dam against you and your class and your money--Look what's happened here--We elect Hoffman--and before we can say Jack Robinson, you've bribed, scared, bought, and wheeled him over to your damned si 1k-stocking- full-bellied gang--. (IV, ii, 37) Beneath the militant rhetoric is a touch of righteous indignation: while he is morally wrong in his call for violence, he is factually accurate (with the exception of his inclusion of Dick) in his accusation that the establishment leaders have employed corrupt

tactics. That accuracy strengthens Bemis's speech as a challenge to

Dick's argument against violent retaliation.

The Epilogue resolves both the external aspects of the play's

two major lines of conflict and the related conflict of ideas. Dick

returns to the Winthrops—to his love for Mary and his friendship with Hal; the victory of the establishment over the revolutionaries

is made complete by the revelation that the Comnittee of Seventy has

disbanded. In the closing moments of the play, Hal informs Dick of

the lesson that can be learned from his experience with the militant

socialists: 151

Oh Dick, laddie, today is Thursday and tomorrow is Friday, and a year from now will be a year from now, and a hundred years will be a hundred years, and s till people will worry and fret and fuss about what they own and they don't own and every fellow will want what the other fellow has—you can't change the leopards spots—and this problem of property will last as long as there are men—But we've got our own lives to live now, and if the cause is of the spirit it is in our hearts—you can't choke virtue down the other fellow's throat, but you can live decently—do your best—th at's our job—Time alone can do the trick and no man can hurry time— . (Epilogue, 8)

Although Hal's statement seems somewhat moralistic and didactic— especially in contrast to the technique of dialectic that is used to develop much of the play's Thought—the statement provides an appropriate resolution of the play's conflict of ideas. Dialectic, as a mode of intellectual investigation, implies an eventual synthesis of previously contradictory ideas; given the complexity of the political and moral issues depicted in The Challenge, however, it is not likely that a synthesis can occur quickly, but that, as Hal asserts, "Time alone can do the trick."

The Challenge not only is an effective dramatization of a social issue but also is exciting theatre. The play presents a relatively complex depiction of various attitudes, pro and con, toward socialism;

Walter communicates those attitudes and ideas through effectively dramatic means: characters do not merely argue in defense of their convictions; they also forward their convictions by means of decisive action. In the development of the dramatic action, Walter's crafts­ manship is evident in the mutual interrelation that exists between the two major lines of conflict—a factor that not only contributes to 152 giving the play a high degree of artistic unity but also intensifies

the dramatic conflict. Walter's use of the dialectical technique of depicting clashes of contradictory—although often equally valid--

ideas, attitudes, and points of view contributes to that atmosphere of

tension. CHAPTER FIVE

COMMERCIAL MELODRAMAS: PAID IN FULL, THE WOLF, JUST A WOMAN, THE KNIFE, AND THE HERITAGE

The Wolf, Just A Woman, The Knife, and The Heritage are clearly melodramatic in form and intended effect. Because the fir s t act of

Paid In Full depicts the social, economic, and personal influences on the behavior of the central character, one might be tempted to label the play as a drame; however, because the remainder of the play drops such serious considerations and instead develops the action as a clear- cut conflict between good and evil, Paid In Full is more appropriately labelled as melodrama. Similarly, although The Knife deals with the topical issue of vivisection, a serious examination of the issue is secondary to the creation of exciting stage action. The appeal of the plays discussed in this chapter derives primarily from suspense, emotionalism, and theatrical effects.^

Act I of Paid In Full {Appendix A, pp. 255-61) creates the expectation that the play will be a serious social drama—a drame dealing with the exploitation of labor by an employer. The basic con­ flic t is melodramatic and, in Act I, is between Joe and his employer,

Hhe New York Public Library Theatre Collection, The Wolf MS, Just A Woman MS, The Knife MS, The Heritage MS, Paid In Ful1 MS, Page references to these plays wiT1—be placed in parentheses Tn the text.

153 154

Captain Williams; Williams is depicted as being essentially a villain and Joe as being essentially a victim. In an angry tirade against

Williams, Joe attributes his inability to earn any more than a meager salary, despite his having worked faithfully forWilliams' steamship company for a number of years, to Williams' treatment of employees:

You keep me on a measely [sic ] salary. You treat men here as the sailors you ki1 led, the niggers you stole. When you came East and you couldn't use the belaying pin any longer you took up the salary sheet and used that as a club to beat men into submission—because you're not on the square—my wife (voice breaks) has got to struggle and slave. (I, 18)

The speech is a primary factor not only in establishing Williams as a hateful character and Joe as a pahetic victim but also in making ex­ p licit thematic concerns inherent in the conflict between the two men.

There is evidence that Joe's opinion of Williams is an accurate one. Jim--who is earning a decent salary with the steamship company and, thus, unlike Joe, has no personal grudge against Williams as an employer—admits after Williams exits, that what Joe said was

"terribly true" (II, 21). Jim is apparently one of those few employees whom Williams considers to be worthy of promotion and salary in­ creases. Furthermore, unlike Joe, Jim has no wife to support and, as he indicates in Act I, can use the threat of quitting to bargain for better pay. As collector for the steamship company, Joe handles a large portion of the company's income and, thus, his position is one of considerable responsibility, but, as Jim observes, because Williams knows that Jim is honest, Williams does not have to use high pay as a means of assuring Joe's trustworthiness. 155

Joe's description of William's villainy extends beyond Williams' practices as an employer and into the past. Joe notes, prior to

Williams' entrance in Act I, that Williams had "sunk old ships to secure insurance money" and, as a sea captain, had "killed men without compunction." Jim asserts that "there is a lot of truth in what Joe says" (I, 10). Williams does l i t t le to alter the negative image of him that Joe's description has created. Williams' behavior evidences his awareness of his own self-importance. He boasts that his new automobile cost five thousand dollars and that he is a self-made man.

He is condescending, albeit unintentionally, when he attempts to compliment Emma's home. "Nice and cozy," he says, "one can see a woman's hand in all the arrangements, and I don't see nothing cheap."

Emma responds coldly, "Thank you, perhaps it is n 't [cheap]" (I, 17).

Because Joe is depicted as being a victim, his situation is in­ herently pathetic; he can do little that is legal to help himself financially. He has worked faithfully for Williams to support Emma and himself but has received only meager financial compensation.

While the precedent action in Act I does not provide moral justification for Joe's stealing money from the steamship company's collections at the end of the act, neither does it create the impression that the theft is a despicable or vicious action. It is rather the action of an essentially good, but weak, man succumbing to adverse pressure. The action of Act I emphasizes, not the immorality of Joe's theft, but the causal factors that have led to it. As a result, while Joe's decision to steal is a conscious one, it is also the logical 156 culmination of a number of influences depicted throughout the act.

The theft is rendered highly probable not only by Joe's dis­ gruntled attitude but also, more importantly, by the outside pressures at work on him. Emma's expression of her discontent and unhappiness is an example of such pressure. When urged by Joe to explain why she turned down an invitation from some of her friends to join them in a theatre party, Emma admits that she is ashamed to appear in public with her old, well-to-do friends:

I've grown coarse and common. Sometimes when I look in the glass I can see the dirt and the grease in my face. (Joe looks aside) You ask me why I can't go? In ashamed, that's why. My clothes are all worn out and you make it harder. (Enter Jim R.U.E.) I have almost reached the limit of endurance. (I, 24)

Joe's feelings of insecurity with regard to his ability to provide adequately for his wife's happiness are increased by the presence of

Jim, who not only earns much more money than Joe but also at one time asked Erma to marry him. As a result, Joe is haunted by the possibility that Erma, forced to lead a frugal life, regrets not having accepted Jim's proposal of marriage. Joe is, understandably, very sensitive to any offer of financial aid from Jim. Further pressures are added by Mrs. Harris, Emma's mother, who makes no secret of her disapproval of the life that her daughter is being forced to live because of her marriage to Joe.

Such circumstances have placed Joe in a pathetic dilemma. He is forced to choose between two alternatives--maintaining his honesty and maintaining his pride and self-respect; the choice of either alternative 157 threatens him with unpleasant consequences. Near the end of Act I, when Jim offers to treat Erma and Joe to an evening at the theatre,

Joe insists that he does not want to be the object of charity. "Allow me to remind you that Emma is my wife," he warns Jim, and then adds,

"I don't see why I can't take my own wife to the theatre, just as well as the Goulds and the Vanderbilts can take their families" (I,

24-25). The action of Act I creates sympathy for such an attitude.

Given the circumstances, however, Joe cannot maintain his pride and self-respect without compromising his honesty. Although Joe could bolster his self-respect as a man deserving of his wife's love by maintaining his honesty despite temptation, Joe's weak nature and the adverse pressures to which he has been subjected render such action unii kely.

The sympathetic emotions aroused for Joe stop abruptly after

Act I. Whereas the Joe of Act I is flawed yet essentially sympathetic, the Joe of Act II is unequivocally villainous. The unexpected appear­ ance of villainy in his character is accompanied by a shift in the play's emotional effect. In Act I Joe's being unfairly treated by his employer and his being subjected to social, economic, and marital pressures that force him into a moral compromise arouse pathos; the theft arouses fear for his welfare. While Joe's bitter and disgruntled attitude toward his financial situation and toward Williams in Act I are unpleasant tra its , they do not make Joe an unsympathetic character, because his attitude is depicted as being justified. Furthermore, those traits are temporary and stem from his being unfairly treated, 158 not from any perverseness of character. Within moments of his appear­ ance in Act II, however, his abrasive and cruel treatment of Emma arouses hatred for Joe, and the remainder of the play reinforces that emotional effect.

An important factor in creating a credible line of action in a play is establishing and fulfilling expectations. The absurdities and improbabilities that often play a decisive role in the resolution of the dramatic conflict in a farce, for instance, are rendered credible, not by any reference to actual life, but by reference to the expectation created by the consistently improbable dramatic action prior to the resolution. The action of Paid In Full loses considerable credibility because Acts II and III fail to fulfill certain expecta­

tions created by Act I. A critic contemporaneous to Walter complained,

"So the play that started in hopefully as a social study was to be

in the end nothing but the fulmination of a young dramatist trying to write a ’strong scene."1 In order to write that "strong scene," Walter abandoned his depiction of the social, personal, and economic causes of Joe's behavior in favor of a more theatrically exciting line of con-

flict--an innocent wife's honor being threatened by the selfishness of

her villainous husband. What begins as a serious social study, a drame,

is developed and resolved as pure melodrama. The point here is not

that drame is superior to melodrama, but that Walter erred in failing

2 Walter Pritchard Eaton, The American Stage of To-Day (Boston: Small, Maynard, and Co., 1910), pp. 50-51. 159 to develop the play's basic set of circumstances in a manner consistent with the form and intent of Act I.

The play's strong scene is the encounter between Emma and Williams, which comprises the major portion of Act III. From the standpoint of both theatrical value and dramatic compactness and intensity, that scene is the best one in the play. The setting—a room in Williams* apartment that is decorated with memorabilia from his career as a sea captain--is not only visually fascinating but also dramatically relevant. As a visual representation of Williams' career as a sea captain, the setting is a reminder of the influences in his past that have played an important role in shaping his gruff, aggressive, and sometimes villainous personality. The dramatic action of the scene provides further perceptions concerning his character, creates much tension and suspense, and culminates in a surprising, but credible, character and plot reversal.

The tension and suspense that are created at the end of Act II by

Emma's decision to visit Williams at his apartment stem from the fact that at least two related dramatic questions remain unanswered--whether

Joe will escape imprisonment for his thievery and whether Emma will be forced to compromise her honor. Given the circumstances as they stand at the end of Act II, two possible outcomes are evident: that Joe will be freed from the threat of imprisonment at the expense of Enina's honor, or that Emma's honor will be spared at the expense of Joe's being imprisoned.

At the outset of Act III, a third possibility is introduced. Prior to Enina's arrival, Williams indicates to his valet that he wishes 160 to prove that he is not as cold-hearted and brutish as people believe him to be. When Williams writes a note and places it on his desk, it is evident that something unexpected is in the offing. Precisely what that something is is not revealed until late in Act III, but, in light of Williams* comment to his valet, it is probable that the turn of events will be a sympathetic gesture on Williams' part. Having created such an expectation, Walter then increases tension and suspense by casting doubt on whether Williams, in fact, will act sympathetically. Despite Emma's eagerness to discuss Joe's predicament,

Williams insists on giving her a narrated tour of the museum-like room.

The tour is an agonizing delay for Emma. From a dramaturgic perspec­ tive, the tour, in addition to providing insight into Williams's character, serves to heighten the suspense relevant to the outcome of the encounter. "This is my ship and when you are on board the ship, you must obey the captain," Williams te lls Emma jovially but firmly.

The stories of his exploits as a sea captain create a vivid mental picture of the harsh and animalistic way of life that Williams had

been forced to live. " It's a hard life and it bred hard men," he con­ fesses, not without a degree of self-satisfaction. He shows her a model of his first ship, the Sally Moran, the crew of which he notes, in jargon appropriate to a sea captain, "would have given cords and spades

to any gang Captain Kidd ever saw" (III, 12); he tells her of cruelly punishing rebellious sailors, of headhunters, and of a Borneo woman

that he kidnapped after having killed her husband in a battle—stories

that greatly shock Enina. Although, while telling his stories, Williams 161

treats Emma kindly, the stories quite vividly establish that he is

capable of appallingly uncivilized behavior—a fact that renders the

situation in which Emma finds herself more threatening.

In the middle of the scene, Williams becomes angered by Emma's

unintentionally derogatory remark, "I never came to a place like

this . . . to talk with a man like you in all my life" (III, 15). That

anger causes him abruptly to lose his polite manner and to assume an

aggressive and threatening manner—a change that casts doubt upon whether he will carry through, after a ll, with his intention to prove

that he is not as brutish as his reputation would indicate. When Emma

inquires, for instance, if there is any way that she can settle Joe's

"debt," William asks bluntly, "Do you have the money?"--a question to

which he obviously knows the answer, but which he nevertheless asks

in order to impress upon Emma the fact that, if she wishes to help her

husband, she is virtually at Williams' mercy. Erma asks if there is

any honorable way in which she can settle the matter, and Williams

responds with a sexual innuendo, "That depends on what you call honor­

able" (III, 17). Erma's virtue appears in imminent danger as Williams

taunts her with the supposition, "Supposing I should make the bid your

miserable husband hoped I would when he sent you here, the hope that

I would consider you worth $16,000" (III, 18). Erma responds to

Williams' directness with an unequivocal rejection of any bargain that

would entail sexual involvement. "I know what you want me to do and

what my husband sent me here for," she says, "He may be willing to sell

me and you willing to buy me but I am not to be sold" (III, 18). She 162

insists that she would rather have Williams kill her than dishonor her.

Much to Emma's confusion and surprise, Williams is overjoyed by her

firm defense of her honor:

I would have staked my life that you were good. There's only two kind of women, the good and the bad, and when they are bad, they are all bad and when they are good . . . they are next to heaven. I knew you were good, and if you hadn't been, you would have h it me hard. . . . Why gal you're safer here than you would be with your mother. For I'd fight for you and I'd fight hard. (Ill, 18)

Williams' sexual insinuations and threatening manner have been merely

his testing the strength of Emma's commitment to virtue. Because she

has passed the test, Williams' rewards her with the note that he wrote

before his arrival, which frees her husband from the threat of prose­

cution and imprisonment and Erma from the threat of scandal. Emma is

tearfully grateful to Williams for his magnanimity.

Walter chose the point in the scene at which the threat to Erma's

virtue appears to be most immediate suddenly to eliminate that threat.

As a result, the plot reversal, even though it has been foreshadowed

by Williams' comnent to his valet at the beginning of the act, is a

surprise; it occurs at a time when it is least expected. Williams

reacts to Erma's defense of her virtue by rewarding her for that

virtue--for the very thing that appears to be in imminent danger of

being compromised- The emotional effect is one of enormous and sudden

r e l i e f .

Joe's willingness to sacrifice Emma's honor to save himself is

particularly loathsome in contrast with Williams' defense of her honor. 163

That contrast is well suited to what Williams reveals to have been his overall plan with regard to Joe and Emma:

I've been watching your husband for a long time. I've known what he was and I wanted you to know, so I le t him go on dragging his anchor ju st so long as I knew you wouldn't be wrecked. Now we both know. ( I l l, 18-19)

Williams' lengthy trip was also part of that plan. His absence pro­ vided Joe with ample opportunity to steal considerably more money than

the relatively small amount that he stole on the night he took Emma to

the theatre two months before. Williams wishes to see Erma united with

Jim, a man who Williams believes to be much more deserving of such a fine woman as Emma. "Think a good deal of that young man," Williams

urges Emma as she leaves the apartment for home, "He's an awfully good

friend of yours" (III, 21).

Although Williams' gesture of magnanimity comes as a surprise,

it is, in retrospect, highly credible. That Williams is fond of Erma

has been made clear earlier in the play. In Act I, for instance,

Williams' intense anger dissipates irrmediately when Emma intercedes

for her husband. Before Williams' departure in Act I, he invites Erma

to go driving with Mrs. Harris, Beth, and himself. Ironically, Joe, in

his desperate effort in Act II to convince Emma that she can help him

by going to Williams' apartment, calls Emma's attention to Williams'

being attracted to her. "Williams likes you--He always did. . . ,"

Joe te lls her, "that's why he's always hanging around here" (II, 26).

Joe errs In his assumption that Williams' obvious fondness for Enina

will make an offer of sexual involvement with her irresistible. "Women

are his weakness" (II, 26), Joe says. He is unaware of Williams' 164 attitude toward women, which prompts the captain to categorize them into those who are all-good and those who are all-bad. Those in the former group he regards as being ladies, and he treats them with respect; those in the latter group, such as the Borneo woman he once kidnapped, he treats as sex objects. It is apparent that he has entertained a number of the latter:

Wi11iams . . . you are the first lady who has visited me at any time day or night. Emma You mean I am the f ir s t woman who ever was here?

Wi11iams I said the first lady. {Ill* 10)

Williams' respect for Enma and his friendship with Emma’s mother--who is worried about her social image--provide him with further reason for not pressing charges against Joe and, thus, avoiding scandal for Joe's family.

Williams' denunciation of Joe, his urging Emma to transfer her attentions to Jim, and, in Act IV, Emma’s leaving Joe are sympathetic actions only if they are viewed as being directed, not against the

Joe of Act I, but against the despicable and morally perverse Joe of the remainder of the play. The emotional effects of Acts II through

IV--fear for Emma's welfare; pathos, which is inherent in Erma's being victimized by her husband and then, seemingly, by Williams; hatred for Joe; and pleasure, which derives from seeing Joe punished by losing his wife to another, more deserving, man--are satisfying only if they are isolated from the emotional effects of Act I. The 165 emotional effects of the last three acts are muddled by the sympathy that the initial act arouses for Joe—a feeling that is totally ignored for the remainder of the play.

In writing Paid In Full, Walter abandoned the relatively complex dramatic conflict that he introduced in Act I favor of the more sim­ p listic conflict in Acts II through IV. Although the basic conflict in Act I is melodramatic--between Williams as the villain and Joe as the victim—Walter develops certain other provocative considerations that raise Act I to a level of seriousness more associated with drame.

Those considerations include the thematic issue of an employer's exploitation of employees and the social, economic, and personal pressures that culminate in Joe's decision to steal. The artistic unity and the overall credibility of the play are damaged by Walter’s abruptly having dropped such considerations a fte r Act I and having replaced them with considerations more appropriate to pure melodrama.

Although Joe's moral compromise at the end of Act I provides some cause for Joe's change into a morally perverse individual, that change, nonetheless, appears to have been prompted less by precedent action than by Walter's desire to create a strong scene—a climactic con­ frontation between the virtuous Emma and the seemingly villainous

Williams, a scene a faire appropriate to the melodramatic effect. If isolated from the action and emotional effect of Act I (which, of course, is impossible), Acts II through IV comprise a theatrically exciting and dramatically effective melodrama. The development of the conflict is credible and, particularly in Act III, is skillfully 166 structured so as to exploit the potential for tension and suspense that is inherent in the circumstances.

Because the play suffers from a lack of overall unity—due to the inconsistency between Act I and the remainder of the play with regard to the play's central character, generic form, and emotional effect--Paid In Full is a seriously flawed dramatic work. Its Broadway success was likely due to the effectiveness of Acts II through IV.

The play was Walter's f ir s t Broadway success and evidences not only his ability to write topical, realistic, and theatrically appealing melodrama, but also his capacity for writing serious social drama.

What Walter failed to demonstrate in the play was an ability to combine the two into a unified dramatic work.

The Wolf (Appendix A, pp. 261-69), Walter's second Broadway play, is an abrupt departure from the topicality and domestic realism of

Paid In Ful1. Its story line is simplistic and is reminiscent of nineteenth-century popular melodrama: a beautiful and innocent young woman is threatened by a lecherous and crafty villain and a callous father, and eventually is rescued from both by a handsome and virtuous hero. The play is purely melodramatic in its form and effect.

Its primary appeal derives from the pleasurable, vicarious experience that it provides of a simple world in which good and evil are clear-cut and in which good triumphs; and from its uncomplicated emotional effect--unadulterated hatred for the villain and sympathy for the hero and heroine. 167

The play was a moderate commercial success despite its hackneyed characters and plot; that success is, in part, due to the enormous popularity at that time of fiction dealing with the Canadian North

Country—a type of literature, the abundance of which was caused largely by the phenomenal success of Jack London’s novel, The Call of the Mild, in 1903. The setting of the play in the Canadian wilderness has the appeal of an escape into a pristine world and, at the same time, provides an environment in which unbridled emotions and physical confrontation appear to be a natural way of life . That environment helps to render sympathetic Jules' determination to avenge the death of Annette by killing MacDonald, which would be reprehensible by the standards of a more civilized society. The setting also provides a logical gathering point for characters of various nationalities--a

Scotch inmigrant, French-Canadian traders, and American surveyors; the consequent presence of three different accents adds interest and variety to the auditory aspect of the play.

The overall structure of the dramatic action is appropriate to the creation of suspense. The central conflict leads toward an obligatory scene between the hero and the villain at the conclusion of the play, and the end of both Act I and Act II serve to heighten the expectation that a climactic physical confrontation is imminent. In the final scene of Act I, Jules informs Baptiste that MacDonald is the man who was responsible for the death of Annette. Baptiste is eager to avenge the death of the girl whom he once loved, but Jules insists 168 that, because Annette was his half-sister, he should be given the chance to kill MacDonald. If he fails, Jules explains, then Baptiste should do the job. As the act curtain falls, Baptiste, alone onstage, prays that he himself will have the opportunity to kill MacDonald. Act II concludes on a similar high note of suspense. Jules and Hilda exit hurriedly, amid the vehement objections and threats of both MacDonald and McTavish. When MacDonald rushes for his rifle , with the intention of pursuing the couple, Baptiste suddenly appears at the window of the cabin with a rifle in his hand. "Stop," he warns, "I keel [kill]"

(II, 34).

The focus on Baptiste at the end of both Act I and Act II is a clever and effective device employed to increase the fear for the welfare of Jules. In light of the fact that Baptiste has agreed to kill MacDonald only if Jules fails in his attempt to do so, Baptiste's appearance at the end of the f ir s t two acts emphasizes the possibility that Jules' imminent confrontation with MacDonald may result in the death, not of MacDonald, but of Jules himself.

In his How To Write A Play, Walter describes what he considers to be, with regard to suspense, an essential dramaturgic function of a play's second act:

Your hero or heroine must at the end of your second act have reached an impasse. He or she must have gone as far as he or she can without making some sort of "showdown,11 to use the vernacular; and that "showdown" will be the closing of your story in the third or fourth act. . . .3

O Eugene Walter, How To Write A Play (New York: The Eugene Walter Corporation, 1925), Chapter IV, p. 19. 169

The dramatic action of the second act of The Wolf creates what Walter refers to as an impasse: MacDonald is determined to have Hilda, but

Jules is equally as determined to save her from MacDonald. That crisis renders a showdown between the two men virtually inevitable! in light of the fact that Jules has vowed to kill MacDonald, it is highly probable that that showdown will take the form of a physical confrontation.

Having created the strong expectation of such an exciting obligatory scene, Walter then delayed its occurrence until the latest possible moment in Act III. While the preparations that Jules makes prior to the arrival of MacDonald--such as making arrangements for the execution of his will, reminding Baptiste of his promise to kill

MacDonald should Jules fail, and saying goodbye to Hilda—succeed in maintaining an atmosphere of suspense, they bear no causal connection to the outcome of the play's final scene. Thus, from the standpoint of the development of the central conflict in Act III, the action is episodic, and all but the final scene is relatively static.

In How To Write A Play, Walter uses the expression, a "play with punchy and explains that "punch," in the theatrical idiom of his time, refers to plays that "rise in some of th eir acts of development to a great height of emotional intensity . . . or, on the other hand, to a 4 situation of great mechanical excitement." Although he claims that any play that possesses a climax has punch, the term is more commonly

4Ibid. 170 reserved, in the dramatic criticism of his time, for plays that possess an unusually thrilling climax--one that has a powerful emotional effect.

The final scene of The Wolf is an example of such punch. The scene includes a number of startling turns of events, such as the unexpected click of MacDonald's rifle, which signals his earlier-than-anticipated arrival; Jules' sudden leap toward the campfire to douse the flames with a pan of water; and Jules' jumping up to grab MacDonald, after the former had been seemingly fatally shot. Because the knife fight takes place in the dim moonlight, the winner is not revealed until, just before the final curtain, Jules lights a match and shines it in the face of the dead MacDonald.

Given the basic set of circumstances and the incidents with which

Walter chose to deal, he has arranged them in a sequence that tells a coherent story and that arouses fear and suspense, hatred, and pathos--effects appropriate to melodrama. There are, however, insuf­ ficient complications in the central line of conflict to arouse more than passing interest in the dramatic action. As a consequence,

The Wolf suffers from a lack of magnitude. Beyond the revelation of events already taken place, only one dramatized incident in Act I—

Jules' discovery that MacDonald is the man responsible for the death of

Annette—has the effect of decisively thrusting the story line for­ ward. The conflict becomes somewhat more complicated in Act II. The act includes three significant developments—MacDonald's persuading

McTavish to give up his daughter, Jules' exposing MacDonald's duplicity 171 to McTavish, and Jules' fleeing with Hilda. It is not until the closing moments of the play’s final act, however, that any further plot complications of significance to the central conflict occur.

Walter, perhaps in an effort to expand the story into three acts, included scenes and incidents that are not necessary to the development of the play's central line of conflict and which, as a result, dilute its intensity. For instance, while knowledge of the background in­ formation that is revealed during the opening two scenes of exposition is necessary to an audience's understanding of subsequent action, the revelation of the information itself has little effect on the sub­ sequent behavior of the characters involved in those scenes. The exposition consists predominantly of what Aristotle refers to as discoveries "made directly by the poet," a type that Aristotle notes is one of the least artistic of those available to a playwright.

Baptiste, McTavish, and Hilda are "made to say [themselves] what the 5 poet rather than the story demands." The scenes contribute much to an audience's knowledge of antecedent events but little to the development of the dramatic conflict per se. Similarly, the scenes in which Huntley teases McTavish about his Scotch nationality have little function other than to serve as entertaining interludes. In Act III, the preparations made by Jules prior to the arrival of MacDonald have the effect more of delaying the play’s climactic final scene than of building toward it.

^Inqram Bywater, tran s., The Poetics (New York: Random House, 1954), p. 244. 172

The Wolf is a superficial potboiler. Its most serious weakness is

not its simplistic characters--its unequivocally evil villain,

innocent heroine, and forthright hero; such simplistic characters are

not inappropriate to pure melodrama. The play suffers more because

of Walter's failure to involve the characters in any more than a few

complications. As a result, despite Walter's efforts at creating

suspense, the play suffers from an overall lack of dramatic

intensity. Its commercial success most likely was due to the fact

that stories dealing with the Canadian North Country were in vogue at

the time and to the theatrical effectiveness of the punch delivered

by the play's final scene.

Punch is also an important factor in the commercial appeal of

Just A Woman (Appendix A, pp. 269-75)- "It would be hard to conceive

of a more trenchant illustration of the term punch," stated a drama

c ritic , "than the wallop handed her husband by [the] much abused

l i t t l e wife" in Just A Woman.^ Anne's false declaration near the

conclusion of Act III that she has been unfaithful to her husband for years and that her child, Ned, is not her husband's son is, in and of

itself, both theatrically and dramatically effective. Her declaration

is unexpected, yet credible, and thwarts the villainous scheme of Jim

and his lawyer to use false testimony to obtain for Jim both a divorce

from Anne and custody of Ned. The plot reversal occurs at the very moment at which the success of the scheme appears assured.

^The Dramatist, April 1916, p. 678. 173

Anne's declaration possesses that quality of dramatic action to which A ristotle refers as "the marvelous." Dramatic incidents

have the "very greatest effect on the mind when they occur unexpectedly and at the same time in consequence of one another."^ Walter creates a

sense of the marvelous both by employing a startlin g climactic reversal

and by including in precedent action circumstances that, in retrospect,

render Anne's declaration highly credible.

Anne's claim that Ned is not her husband's child is a desperate

effort to retain custody of Ned. Anne's love for Ned is clearly estab­

lished in the previous act, as is her determination to provide him with

a simple and honest upbringing. When, in Act II, Jim indicates that

he wishes to send the child to Europe to be educated, Anne objects

strongly. The intensity of her motherly instincts and of her determin­

ation to retain control over her son's upbringing is emphasized in an

incident that occurs at the conclusion of Act II, scene i, Ned enters

from outside, complaining that Mimi, the maid, will not allow him to

play with his toy drum in the garden. Anne tenderly embraces her son

and consoles him, indicating that she, not Mimi, will tell him what he may or may not do.

In the course of the divorce trial in Act III, as the servants

testify that Anne has had sexual relations with her coachman on numerous

occasions, Anne offers no argument in her own defense, other than a

simple statement that she is innocent. She exhibits a naive faith

^Bywater, p. 236. 174

in the power of her innocence somehow to protect her from the damaging evidence being presented against her. The sudden aggressiveness she

displays when the judge informs her that he intends to award Jim custody of Ned would have appeared inconsistent with the passivity she has shown throughout the trial had Walter not clearly established in

the previous act the intensity of her love for Ned and of her determina­

tion to keep him.

Anne's declaration is an effective punch because it possesses

the quality of the marvelous: i t is both surprising and credible.

Its effectiveness, however, is diminished by the improbability of Jim's

subsequent confession. As depicted in Acts II and III, the extent of

his moral dissipation and his unfaithfulness to Anne, as well as

the trouble to which he goes to obtain a divorce, all suggest a

pattern of behavior that is too firmly established to be altered so

easily and so drastically by his wife's admitting to the adultery of which he, as complainant, has been accusing her. Furthermore, the

illegal and callous methods employed by Lascelle to obtain Jim's

divorce, methods to which Jim gives his consent, evidence a total lack

of concern on Jim's part for either the feelings or the reputation of

his wife; in light of that lack of concern, the suddenness of his

remorse strains the limits of credibility.

It is possible that his sudden remorse has been prompted by fear

that Anne's claim that the child is not his son will result in his

losing custody of the child; such motivation, however, is not evident.

"The child is the last thing on earth that the husband desires," noted 175 a drama critic, "It is plumped into the climax merely to propagate the p punch." It appears that such is the case. Although, in Act II,

Jim expresses his desire to have Ned sent to Europe to be educated, nothing in Jim's previous or subsequent behavior evidences concern for the child; on the contrary, throughout Acts II and III, Jim's primary concern is to obtain a divorce so that he can marry his mistress.

Thus, his sudden remorse and confession appears to be more an unsuccess­ ful attempt on Walter's part to "propagate the punch" and, at the same time, to provide a convenient resolution to the conflict than a turn of events that proceeds logically and credibly from Jim's character.

Unlike Anne's declaration of guilt, Jim's confession is not an effective punch because it does not fu lfill the dual criteria for the marvelous; the confession is unexpected, but it is not probable.

Basic to the creation, maintenance, and heightening of suspense, an effect appropriate to the melodramatic form, is the withholding of information as to the outcome of a particular line of conflict.

An appropriate culmination of the building of suspense, then, is surprise--an effect also appropriate to the melodramatic form. In tragedy, because there is a strong emphasis on the causal factors

leading to a climactic culmination, a sense of inevitability is created--a sense that a given set of circumstances is proceeding inexorably toward catastrophe. It is appropriate in melodrama, a genre that deals with conflict that is only seemingly, or temporarily,

^ h e Dramatist, April 1916, pp. 678-79. 176 serious, to establish what might be referred to as a sense of false inevitability as a means of heightening suspense. In such a case, the action seems to be proceeding toward catastrophe for the sympathetic character(s) but, at the last minute, catastrophe is averted. The appropriateness to melodrama of such "midnight reprieves," however, does not absolve the playwright of the obligation to render the unexpected probable.

Acts II and III comprise a relatively compact and--with the exception of Jim's improbable confession--a causally developed line of conflict; there is, nonetheless, a decided lack of compactness and intensity in the development of the dramatic action of the play as a whole. The inclusion of the action of Act I and the Epilogue results in a play that is, in effect, a series of chronologically related highlights from the married life of Jim and Anne. While those highlights are interesting in and of themselves, Walter has failed to structure them into a unified dramatic whole.

Act I is inherently interesting and theatrically effective for its naturalistic detail--the continual sound of factory machinery in the background, the sweaty and grimy laborers wolfing down their supper, and their babbling in foreign accents--and for the vivid contrast that the environment provides to the luxurious surroundings

in which Anne and Jim live in Act II. Knowledge of their shabby beginnings, of their struggling to make ends meet, and of the financial venture that eventually made them rich is unnecessary to an under­ standing of the play's basic line of conflict—Jim's efforts to obtain 177 a divorce in the face of his wife's efforts to save the marriage.

In Act II, Anne's explanation for Jim's moral degeneration suggests a causal link between the action of the two acts: Jim's present dis­ sipation, Anne explains, is a release from the hard work and financial struggles of the early years of their marriage. By dramatizing some of those early hardships and, thus, emphasizing the social and environmental forces that have played a role in Jim's dis­ sipation, Walter has established the basic circumstances for a serious social drame. The conflict that is introduced, developed, and resolved in Acts II and III, however, is pure melodrama. It emphasizes external conflict and suspense, not the influence of environ­ mental or social forces. Jim, Lascelle, and their accomplices are clear-cut villains; Anne is the innocent and pathetic victim of their villainous scheme to prove her an adultress. The action of Acts II and III comprises a moderately effective melodrama, but the action is an inappropriate development of the basic set of circumstances introduced in the play's opening act. Judged from a different point of view, Act I detracts from the relatively unified melodramatic effect created by Acts II and III.

The structure of Acts II and III is essentially dramatic: Act

III depicts the climactic crisis in the marital conflict between Jim and Anne, and Act II depicts the basic set of circumstances from which that crisis develops. Act I and the Epilogue, however, impose on that dramatic structure one that is narrative in nature. 178

Implicit in the narrative form is the assumption that the story

is a reporting of past events. As a result, the narrative form

possesses an implicit credibility: the story is credible because it

recounts events that have already taken place. Implicit in the dramatic form is the assumption that the play is a representation of

presently occurring incidents. Thus, in the dramatic form, the

credibility of the story must be established by a logicality in the

progression of those incidents. Because its action is live, a play

requires a considerable degree of causal connection between incidents.

Such causal connection is, in fact, the essence of dramatic

structure--the logical development of a given set of circumstances

toward an outcome.

Although Walter attempts to establish a dynamic causal relation­

ship between Act I and Act II, and between Act III and the Epilogue,

his attempt falls short because of his dependence upon a structure

that is more appropriate to the narrative than the dramatic form.

The causal connection between Jim's early financial hardships and

his later moral dissipation and extravagence, for instance, is not

established by a logical progression of dramatized incidents, but

rather by Anne's simply reporting that such a causal connection

exists. Similarly, the causal connection between Jim's arrest at the

end of Act III and the happy reunion and reconciliation between Jim

and Anrfein the Epilogue is established by Jim's explanation that his

nearly ten years in prison have reformed him and that now he is ready to

begin lif e anew. 179

The greater the importance of a narrated event or sequence of events to the overall development of a dramatic action the greater is

the disruption to the play's dramatic structure. The fact that Mimi’s ordering Ned not to play his drum in the garden is narrated, for in­

stance, does virtually nothing to disrupt the dramatic structure of

Act II, because the function of the encounter is, in and of itself, minor. It is Anne's dramatized reaction to Ned's report of the encounter

that performs an important dramatic function--that of emphasizing

Anne's determination not to relinquish to anyone her authority over

her child, which, in turn, serves as the motivation for her declaration of guilt at the climax of the divorce trial. The fact that no part

of the process of Jim's character reversal, which takes place between

Act I and Act II, is dramatized, on the other hand, seriously disrupts

the dramatic structure of the play, because the reversal serves the

pivotal function of precipitating a critical plot reversal—from the

relatively happy relationship between Jim and Anne in Act I to the miserable relationship that exists between them in Act II.

An observation by a c ritic contemporaneous to Walter accurately

summarizes the primary dramaturgic error that Walter made in structuring

the action of Just A Woman. Walter "forgets that a play is only a

culminating crisis of a conflict," the critic stated, "and not the g narration of chronological incidents all along the way." While Acts

9Ibid., p. 679. 180

II and III depict a culminating crisis* Act I and the Epilogue depict

incidents that occur, respectively, ten years before and ten years

after the crisis. Both Act I and the Epilogue are obtrusive, because

neither is effectively integrated into the dramatic structure of the

play's central line of conflict.

The structure of The Knife (Appendix A, pp. 275-82) suffers from

no such weakness. All the incidents of the play contribute either to

the development of the play’s central conflict or to its unified emo­

tional effect. As a result, The Knife is a neatly structured, compact, and emotionally intense dramatic work.

The dramatic action makes use of the topical issue of vivisection.

At a time when there was a great deal of argumentation concerning the use of living subjects for scientific experimentation, a play such as

The Knife, which depicts a doctor's experimenting on unwilling human sub­ jects, one of whom dies as a result, was sure to have commercial appeal,

if only for its controversial n a tu re .^ The Knife, however, is not a

Although the term vivisection most commonly refers to experimental surgical procedures on living creatures (hence, the title , The Knife, the broader meaning of the term—any distress-provoking experimentation on living creatures—is more applicable to the action of the play. Preventing vivisection was a cause forwarded by a number of organizations in the New York area at the time that The Knife was run­ ning on Broadway. The New York Times, May 26, 1916, p. 6, col. 6, for instance, reports the Fifth Annual Meeting of the Interstate Conference for the Investigation of Vivisection, which was attended by representa­ tives from such organizations as the American Anti-Vivisection Society of America, the Anti-Vivisection Society of Boston, the Society for the Regulation of Vivisection (Washington, D.C.), the New Jersey Vivisection Investigation League, the New York Vivisection Investigation League, and the Society for the Prevention of Abuse in Animal Experimentation. 181 serious social problem play but an effective commercial melodrama that exploits the controversy inherent in the vivisection issue for the creation of exciting, suspenseful, and emotionally gripping dramatic action.

Walter creates a controversial dramatic statement by depicting

Manning's experimentation on two unwilling human subjects to be a justifiable and praiseworthy action, despite the fact that one of the subjects dies as a result. Although the basic premise of the justifi­ cation for Manning's actions--that the end justifies the means--is expedient in nature, it is nonetheless persuasive, given the circum­ stances depicted in the play and the humanitarian commitment that motivates the doctor's actions and gives the impression, albeit false, that those actions are morally justified. Manning's experiment on the two kidnappers leads to his discovery of a cure for a dreaded dis- ease--a cure that promises to save the lives of millions of human beings. The kidnappers are depicted as being derelicts and dope fiends, who are beyond all hope of reform and who, in Manning's words, have done "nothing but taken from society and have given nothing in return" (II, 25). The kidnappers' role in the process by which the cure is discovered is, in effect, their paying their debt to society.

The kidnappers' cruel treatment of Kate, which includes using her as a prostitute, renders severe punishment justifiable. Manning's use of the kidnappers as experimental subjects is a punishment that is more beneficial to society than would be the typical legal punishment of incarceration: Manning forces them to "give something back for all 182 they've taken" {II, 25). Even the primary legal authority in the play—

Assistant D istrict Attorney Scott—becomes convinced that Manning's actions were justified. So affected is Scott by Kate's shocking description of her being drugged, beaten, and used as a prostitute by her kidnappers that he decides to dismiss the murder charges against the doctor. "The way i t happened, and what has come of it- - is bigger than anything," Scott says, "Bigger than any puny words that men can scribble into law books" (III, 40). Meredith suggests that "it's the way God works" (III, 40). Both Bristol, the kidnapper on whom the cure was effected, and Manning himself make reference to being part of a

universal scheme. Bristol is much taken by the favorable publicity that he has been given since his recovery from the disease and considers himself to be a "messenger of God" (III, 13). Manning accepts the international fame that he is quickly achieving for his discovery with humility; he gives more credit to the forces of social

Darwinism than to his own intelligence and dedication. "I’m just a

little cog in a great wheel that's turning around, the thing that they used to tell you in college was evolution," he te lls Kate. "They happen

to call that cog Dr. Manning, but i t might have been Dr. Smith, or

Dr. Jones, or Dr. Brown" (III, 6). Manning even regards the traumatic events of Kate's abduction to be part of a divine scheme, because the events have led to his use of the kidnappers. When Kate suggests to

Manning that perhaps he no longer wishes to marry her now that she has been "defiled," Manning replies, "Not defiled, but sanctified: Chosen 183 by God as a saint—as the one to suffer and bring about the greatest good for the sick and the dying" (III, 41).

The morality of Manning's decision to use the kidnappers as experimental subjects is seriously questioned on only one occasion.

Under the pressure imposed by the death of Mrs. Hill and the threat of an investigation by the District Attorney's office, Manning decides

to confess what he has done; he explains his decision, saying,

"I would be square with myself, and with my God, and with the work he

has allowed me to do" (III, 22). His explanation suggests an awareness

that he has a moral debt to pay for the wrong that he has done to

Bristol and, particularly, to the dead Mrs. Hill. Manning implies

that his role in the divine plan involves not only his discovering the

cure but also his paying a penalty for the wrong that he committed

in order to make the discovery. Viewed thus, Manning's situation is

pitiable and inherently tragic. There is no doubt that he is guilty,

but the punishment with which he is threatened—imprisonment and

possible execution—appears unjustly severe: his victims are

despicable criminals, and his experiment has resulted in enormous

benefit to mankind. Even so, Manning displays a degree of nobility

in his willingness to accept bravely the consequences for what he

has done.

The ironic and morally equivocal aspects of Manning's situation,

in which both good and evil, rightness and wrongness, are inherent

in his actions, are not further developed beyond his isolated comments

in Act III. The emphasis is instead upon those considerations that 184 provideprovide clear-cut justification for Manning's actions. Conse­ quently, the development of the play's basic conflict remains purely melodramatic: a group of sympathetic characters are threatened by villainous forces. Kate, who is an innocent and thoroughly likable young woman, is the pathetic victim of the cruel and immoral kid­ nappers. Manning's revenge on the kidnappers is depicted as being justified, and the legal system that threatens him during the latter half of the play is depicted as being "foolish enough to demand a penalty" (III, 21) for that ju stifie d revenge. Manning remains a sympathetic character throughout the play, as do Meredith, Ellis, and

Louise--who help Manning in his efforts to find Kate, to apprehend the kidnappers, and to keep secret his illegal experiment. The emphasis in the characters' decision-making is on expedient considerations—on how to deal most effectively with threats and dangers imposed by external forces. In Acts I and II, the conflict pits Meredith,

Manning, and Kate against the kidnappers; in Act III, Manning and

Meredith struggle to protect themselves from prosecution. For the play's sympathetic characters, the play's resolution is unequivocally happy. Kate is saved from the kidnappers and reunited with her fiance', the charges against Manning are dismissed, and society bene­ fits incalculably from the cure that Manning has discovered.

The Knife is effective as entertaining, exciting, and emotionally gripping melodrama. The Prelude contributes to that effectiveness by establishing a solid groundwork for the play's emotional effect. From the standpoint of exposition, the Prelude is unnecessary, because it 185 contains no significant information that, in one form or another, is not also revealed in Act I; the Prelude, however, serves an important dramatic function by establishing sympathy for Kate and Manning at the very outset of the play. Manning's relationship with Kate is depicted as being a notable step forward for the doctor toward a happier and more fulfilling life. He is middle-aged, but has never been romantically involved before; he instead has spent most of his adult life isolated in a medical laboratory. Kate is elated and awed at the prospect of marrying so prominent a physician, and Manning is equally as overjoyed at Kate's revelation that she has loved him for many years. "I'm going away happy--" he tells Kate as he leaves to return to New York,

"happier than I ever thought I could be--or deserve" (Prelude, II).

The sympathy created by the two characters during the Prelude renders Kate's mysterious disappearance a more fearful turn of events.

Similarly, Kate's vivacity and wit and her loving interaction with

Manning serves as a pathetic contrast to her serious condition in

Act II--her physical exhaustion and confused mental state, her f a il­ ure to recognize her fiance', and her fear and suspicion of him. The

increased intensity of fear and pathos, in turn, increases hatred for

the kidnappers. The presence of such intense hatred helps to estab­

lish as just punishment both Manning's experiment on the kidnappers

and the death of Mrs. Hill.

The conclusion of the Prelude, Act I, and Act II are typical of

the structure of a well-made play in that they are calculated to end

the act on a theatrically effective high note of suspense. In the 186 closing moments of the Prelude, for instance, Mammy "reads" the tea leaves in the bottom of Kate's cup and makes the ominous prediction that a "dark cloud" is hovering over Kate and that Kate soon will be placed in a “heap o' danger" (Prelude, 12). The central crisis in

Act I is the mysterious disappearance of Kate. Its seriousness is in­ creased by Manning's and Meredith's decision to find Kate without the help of the police, in order to avoid publicity that could be damaging to the doctor's career. The final moments of Act I increase the suspense inherent in that decision by heightening the expectation of danger. After warning E llis, his assistant, that what they must do to find Kate very well may involve them in illegal activ ities, he instructs Ellis to take his revolver with him, because "it may be an exciting evening" (I, 27). Similarly, in the closing moments of

Act II, Meredith apprises Ellis of the decision to use Bristol and

Mrs. Hill as experimental subjects. "If they don't live through it,"

Meredith says, " I t ’s murder" (II, 26).

The fulfillment of the expectation that is created at the end of

Act I by Meredith's prediction of an "exciting evening" begins irime- diately in Act II. The tense atmosphere of the opening moments of the act is created by visual and aural effects exclusively and, as such, is the finest example in the play of pure theatricality. When the curtain rises on the living room of Mrs. Hill's establishment, the only light is a faint and ominous red glow coming from the fireplace.

Momentarily, the beam of a flashlight appears at the window of the front door, followed by the sound of glass being cut. Slowly a hand 187 reaches through the hole that has been cut and unlocks the door. Two men enter cautiously. As they whisper instructions to one another, it becomes apparent that the intruders are Meredith and Ellis. Meredith cuts the phone wire; he soaks a handkerchief with ether, and the two men exit up the stairs. A woman's muffled scream is heard; that is followed by the muffled curse of a man and the sound of a body falling to the floor. Finally, Meredith and Ellis come down the stairs and turn on the lights.

Despite the fact that the ensuing conversation between Meredith and Ellis reveals that they have apprehended the kidnappers and that

Kate is alive and in an upstairs room, Walter manages to maintain an atmosphere charged with tension. He does so by replacing almost imme­ diately the fear for Kate's welfare, now significantly reduced by her having been rescued, with fear for the welfare of her rescuers. Much of the remainder of the act is devoted to a revelation of the various threats to which the rescuers have exposed themselves because of their methods. Meredith apprises Manning and Louise of the fact that they all are guilty, either directly or as accomplices, of house­ breaking and assault; they cannot turn the kidnappers over to the police, Manning notes, without getting themselves into a "terrible mess" (II, 11). Their only hope of escaping serious legal complications, he warns, is to follow through successfully with their plan to keep their activities secret. There are, however, obstacles to doing so.

Ellis has forced information from Mrs. Hill's estranged husband con­ cerning the whereabouts of Bristol and Mrs. H ill; unfortunately,

Mr. Hill, who is involved in criminal activities of his own, is not a particularly trustworthy individual. Meredith expresses regret that he has had to "trust this stool pigeon" (III, 11). Another serious obstacle involves the problem of what to do with the kidnappers.

Allowing them to go free would be to run the risk of their reporting

Meredith and his accomplices to the police for housebreaking and assault. That problem is solved in the final and climactic scene of the act, when Manning, enraged by the revelation that Kate has been sexually molested during her captivity, persuades Meredith and

Louise to allow him to use the kidnappers as experimental subjects.

That turn of events is an effective culmination of the action of

Act II. The decision to use the kidnappers not only solves the imme­ diate problem of what to do with them but also provides a deserved punishment for their heinous crimes against Kate. Furthermore, that same turn of events precipitates the crisis that is the focus of the dramatic action of Act III—a crisis more serious than any that

Meredith, Manning, and their accomplices have faced previously. In such a way, Walter sets the stage for a further build-up of conflict in the play's final act.

Act III exemplifies Walter's skill at creating suspense. Walter intensifies the dramatic conflict, in effect, by complicating the complication that has occurred at the end of Act II. Furthermore, from the outset of the act until the climax, near the end of the play, the action is structured so as to create a tension-provoking interplay between the possibility that Manning and Meredith will succeed in keeping their illegal activities secret and the possibility that their 189 activities will be exposed. The revelation at the outset of the act

that Mrs. Hill has died as a result of Manning's experiment renders

the threat of exposure a possibility that is enormously fearful, particularly to Manning, who would face imprisonment and possible execution for murder.

In the opening moments of the act, Manning assures Meredith by phone that he has taken steps to prevent any suspicion of foul play with regard to the death of Mrs. Hill. Not long afterwards, however,

Meredith and Ellis arrive with news of another critical complication:

Mrs. Hill’s husband has talked with Assistant District Attorney Scott, who now is on his way to the clinic to speak with Manning. Prepara­

tions made prior to Scott's arrival heighten fear by manifesting

Manning and Meredith’s awareness of the danger posed by Scott's v isit.

Meredith warns that Scott has a "mind like a steel trap" (III, 16)

and, thus, that they must prepare and coordinate carefully their

respective statements to him. Meredith instructs Ellis to remind

Bristol forcefully that, should he reveal that Mrs. Hill and he were

kidnapped and used as experimental subjects against their will, his

crimes against Kate also will be brought to light.

Despite the care with which precautions are taken to assure the

secrecy of Manning's and Meredith's illegal activities, there still

exists the possibility that the precautions will fail, or that unfore­

seen complications will arise. Manning himself creates the f ir s t such

complication; reluctant to have his great medical discovery tainted with

deceit, he announces that he intends to confess to Scott. Meredith 190 succeeds in convincing him against doing so only seconds before

Scott arrives, and, even then, the possibility looms that Manning, who is becoming increasingly distraught, will break down under the pressure of being questioned by Scott and will reveal the truth.

The dramatic action prior to the arrival of Scott creates an atmosphere of such tense anticipation that the climactic scene involving

Scott would have been disappointing, from a theatrical standpoint, were it not as exciting and suspenseful as Walter succeeded in making it. Scott questions Louise, Ellis, Meredith, and Manning and scrut­ inizes their answers carefully. He appears to be satisfied with their answers, but then asks permission to question Bristol--a request that arouses a great deal of anxiety due to the fact that Bristol is one of the individuals on whom Manning conducted his illegal experiment.

The interrogation itself becomes a particularly fearful situation when it becomes painfully evident that Bristol is less prepared than were Manning and his cohorts to answer Scott's probing questions.

Bristol arouses Scott's suspicion, for instance, when, after indicating that he and Mrs. Hill had been unsuccessfully treated by a number of other physicians before coming to Manning's clinic, he is unable to give Scott the names of any of those physicians.

At the point during the scene at which it is evident that Scott is reasonably convinced that, all in a ll, there is insufficient evidence of any misconduct on Manning's part to warrant further in­ vestigation, an unexpected turn of events thrusts Manning and his accomplices into imninent danger of being exposed: Kate returns to the 191 clinic to pay her fiance a visit and, upon her seeing Bristol, memories of the events of her kidnapping begin slowly to return to her. "You're the man at the fortune tellers" (III, 33), she says to

Bristol. Subsequent complications occur in quick succession and, as they do, hope that Manning and his accomplices will save themselves from prosecution grows seemingly dim. Bristol vehemently accuses

Meredith of "framing" him—of arranging to have Kate identify him in front of Scott. Understandably, Scott suspects a cover-up. Meredith and Louise, insisting that Kate is suffering a relapse of a recent i l l ­ ness, attempt to usher her from the room to prevent her from revealing to Scott any more about her kidnapping; Scott, however, demands that she be allowed to stay. Manning blurts out a confession. Scott threatens to have him arrested and charged with the murder of Mrs. Hill.

Walter has developed the dramatic conflict to a point of such high emotional intensity that any resolution that is short of being, in effect, a coup de theatre would be theatrically ineffective, in the sense that it would be an emotional let-down. By providing a turn of events that is both the emotional climax and the resolution of the play's conflict, Walter succeeds in creating the needed coup. In a desperate effort to convince Scott that Bristol, not her fiance', is the person who deserves punishment, Kate reveals the sensational details of her abduction. Kate's emotional story of her having been drugged, used as prostitute, and beaten so moves Scott that he decides against arresting Manning.

As exciting popular melodrama, The Knife is,among Walter's plays, second only to The Heritage in its effectiveness. A theatre critic 192 contemporaneous to Walter wrote:

In "The Knife," a hair-raising new play by Eugene Walter * . . is enough breathlessly suspensive tensity to ani­ mate a dozen ordinary melodramas. Thanks to Mr. Walter's indisputable skill as a builder of plays, the kind of high-pitched excitement ten minutes of which is usually considered plenty for one evening is here maintained for the greater part of three swift-moving a cts.11

The critic's corments are essentially true of Walter's play. Walter has utilized skillfully the potential of the well-made play structure for the creation of suspense and cumulative tension, as well as to accelerate the dramatic action toward a theatrically effective climax. Walter added a degree of magnitude to his melodrama by dealing with the most poten­ tially serious aspect of the vivisection issue—experimentation on human beings. The fact that the dramatic action creates a persuasive case in favor of Manning's experimenting on two unwilling human subjects adds coirmercial appeal to the play by rendering it provocative and controver­ sial.

The Heritage (Appendix A, pp. 282-90) is a tour de force of popu­ lar melodramatic appeals. Walter capitalized on the popularity of the Sicilian Players, who appeared in New York shortly before The

Heritage was written and whose plays featured lurid stories of bizarre passions, bloodletting, and revenge. The catalyst for the central line of conflict in The Heritage is the bizarre "blood lust" inherited by

Antonio, which spurs him on to murder the mysterious Inspector X.

There is an abundance of physical action, including an onstage murder; intense suspense; emotionalism; a love interest; disguises; a climax

^New York Times, April 13, 1917, p. 13, col. 3. 193 with a punch; a "mad scene"; and a substantial amount of pathos. Much theatrical appeal, as well as plot development, are added to the play by purely visual effects, such as the police's breaking down the doors of the saloon, the drawing of lots by members of the Mafia to determine who will kill Inspector X, Antonio's being voluntarily struck over the head with a "black jack," Maria's stealing the inspector's gun from his coat pocket, the disguises used by Antonio and Luigi in Naples, and the murder of Inspector X.

The action of the play calls for three different settings--the music studio in Antonio's home, a dingy Italian saloon, and the terrace of a luxurious restaurant overlooking the Bay of Naples. As is often the case with so-called "realistic" melodramas, much detail and accuracy is called for in the settings as a means of providing a realistic environment for the dramatic action.

Two visual effects are particularly noteworthy, not only because they are theatrically effective, but also because they are fine examples of Walter's having taken care to integrate his theatrical effects into the dramatic structure of his play. Antonio's music studio is dominated by a huge window. In Act IV, scene i i, that window becomes the visual focus of the play's exciting, final plot reversal--Antonio*s confession. Walter's attention to motivational detail is evidenced by the fact that Antonio's leaping to the window and smashing it in order to shout his confession to the funeral proces­ sion below--a piece of stage business that otherwise might be faulted as obviously having been concocted purely for its theatrical effect-- 194 is rendered highly probable by precedent action. The feeling associated with the onset of the fits of violence, to which Antonio, because of his inherited blood lust, is prone, is described by him in

Act III as being a strange desire to "fly out the window and run in the streets and cry11 (III, 25). Furthermore, the fact that, throughout

Act IV, scene ii, Antonio is in an extremely guilt-ridden and agitated state of mind and is quite vehement with the police officers, who he feels have invaded his privacy, contributes to making the onset of the fit a dramatically necessary response to the sound of the inspector's funeral procession passing by the window.

In Act III, Maria's stage business of petting and fussing with her kitten is highly entertaining and, at the same time, serves the dramatic function of character revelation, the nature of which, in turn, arouses fear for Maria's welfare. On several occasions during a minor disagreement with Antonio, Maria handles the kitten roughly.

Maria's behavior alarms her brother, because he fears that it evidences the presence of the blood lust, from which he hopes she has been spared. When Antonio reprimands her saying, "You will only find happiness when you are gentle" (III, 8), Maria's sincere denial that she has been unkind to her kitten indicates that if indeed the blood lust is beginning to show itse lf in Maria, she is oblivious to its presence--a fact that characterizes it as a particularly insidious evil.

The dialogue of the Italian characters in the play, which in­ cludes everyone except the police officers and one of Maria's school­ mates, is written in a sort of formalized English that would aid 195 actors in speaking the dialogue with an Italian accent. That charac­ te ristic of the diction suggests an awareness on Walter's part that the creation of a distinctly Italian atmosphere is important to the credibility of the play's central line of conflict, the primary catalyst of which is Antonio's blood lust. While the basic source of that lust is depicted as being hereditary, certain other factors figure importantly in making that trait probable. Those factors in­ clude the popular belief (and resulting audience preconception) that

Italians are, by nature, passionately violent; the reputation for violence and murder that, even at the time that The Heritage was written, was associated with such Italian brotherhoods as the Mafia; and

Antonio's long family history of bloodshed. Of Antonio's ancestors,

Inspector X makes the vivid observation, "War and loot--loot and war-- grab and kill — kill and grab—the spirit of conquest; that's what happened year after year, century after century" (II, 19). Although the hereditary explanation for Antonio's blood lust is specious, if judged by present-day knowledge of heredity, his proclivity for vio­ lence is credible, nonetheless, as a tr a it that has been passed on to him via family tradition and that has been reinforced by the Italian culture.

Walter's skill at integrating theatrical effects into the play's dramatic structure is evidenced further by Antonio's piano playing, which, throughout the play, serves to underscore the state of

Antonio's mind. In the opening seconds of the play, for instance,

Antonio begins by "softly running some b it of Chopin or the like" and concludes abruptly with a "sudden crash of tone" (I, 1)—a vivid 196 auditory image of the duality that exists within Antonio: his cul­ tured and gentle exterior covers a suppressed but passionately violent nature. In the final moments of Act I, Walter again employs the piano playing in dramatizing the opposing forces at odds within

Antonio. When his good-natured banter with Maria and her school friends concerning Inspector X suddenly gives way to intense anger and excitement the moment they leave, he plays the piano as a means of venting his volatile emotions into a controlled activity. In the final moments of the play, when Antonio, guilt-ridden, is on the brink of a total mental breakdown, the sound of the marching band in the funeral procession playing "Flee As a Bird" acts as an antagon­ istic force that torments him and prompts him to confess to the murder of Inspector X. The desperate struggle within Antonio to maintain emotional and psychological control and to keep his mind off his crime is vividly dramatized through the piano playing. When he firs t hears the band, he tries to distract his mind by playing the piano; his agitated state of mind, however, is betrayed by the "tumultuous master­ piece" (IV, ii, 29) that he pounds out. As his thoughts are forced again to the funeral procession by the sound of the approaching band, he begins unconsciously to play "Flee As a Bird." Finally, he gives up the struggle to maintain control and gives himself over completely to playing the funeral tune. Seconds later, he shouts out 12 his confession for all in the procession below to hear.

"Flee As a Bird" is a religious hymn by Mary S. B. Dana. Its first stanza includes the following lyrics: "Flee as a bird to your mountain, Thou who art weary of sin; Go to the clear falling fountain,/ 197

Because Antonio's blood lust culminates in catastrophe, a number of critics contemporaneous to Walter labelled The Heritage as a tragedy.

While the play is a fine example of what is commonly referred to as a

"tragedy of passion," the play is, nonetheless, melodramatic in its form and effect. Although Antonio's actions are the primary cause of the catastrophe that befalls him, he is depicted as not having a free choice with regard to those actions. Neither are his crimes the result of a moral weakness in his character; he is the unwilling victim of an inherited—and unwanted—aberration. With regard to behavior that is prompted by his blood lust, Antonio is "character- less"--in the Aristotelian sense of the term character. Character, notes A ristotle, is "that which reveals the moral purpose" of the dramatic agent." Accordingly, if an agent is not free to choose, there can be no moral purpose in his actions; without such serious, moral considerations, a dramatic action cannot achieve a degree of magnitude appropriate to tragedy.

The passion that, literally, takes control of Antonio--not

Antonio himself--is the agent of the dramatic action; Antonio is the

Where you may wash and be clean; Fly for the avenger is near thee. . . . " The Book of a Thousand Songs, Albert E. Wier, ed. (New York: Mumil Publishing Co., 1918), p. 138. Although the words of the hymn are not sung in the play, i t is likely that Antonio, who knows the music, is familiar with the words. Thus, the lyrics of the hymn serve as a motivating factor in his con­ fession by offering him not only consolation for his weariness but also the stern warning that the "avenger is near."

^ B y w ate r, p. 238. 198 victim, the patient, of a villainous force, for the presence of which heredity is responsible. As a result, Antonio’s circumstances evoke pathos rather than pity. Such an emotional effect is appropriate to the melodramatic form that Walter has created, and Walter enhances the theatrical appeal of the play by intensifying that emotional effect.

Pathos is inherent, not only in the suffering of Antonio, but also of Maria. She is firs t depicted as being a pathetic victim of her family's heritage of violence when she kills her kitten in Act III; pathos is intensified in Act IV, scene i, when she is unwittingly used as a foil in Antonio’s scheme to murder Inspector X, with whom she has fallen deeply in love; and, in Act IV, scene i i , the build-up of pathos reaches its culmination as she is reduced to mad raving.

Walter uses the kitten to intensify the pathos that is inherent in the discovery that Maria, like her brother, is tainted with the blood lust. The child-like simplicity and directness of the dialogue that Walter has given Maria when she informs her brother that she has killed the kitten is effective in depicting Maria's innocent and vulnerable nature. "I have just killed little kitten-cats and my heart is broken," she says, "I loved kitten-cats, and I killed her"

(III, 24). Maria's vivid account of strangling the kitten chillingly blends the pathetic with the gruesome:

Then I saw kitten-cats tangle the silk, and then I leaped from my seat and took the silk and wound i t and wound it around her neck; and then I pulled and pulled and she screamed, l i t t l e kitten-cats; and when she screamed I pulled harder—and Tony, and Tony, 199

poor little kitten-cats was lying on the floor with its pink tongue hanging out and its eyes all staring. (Ill, 25)

Walter does not include the account of the strangling merely for its sensationalism. The account is, in effect, Maria's reliving the trauma of the incident; as such, it serves, in the absence of an onstage representation of the incident, as a vivid dramatization of the pathetic situation of a normally innocent and gentle young woman helplessly possessed by an evil force within her. Furthermore, the grisly vivid­ ness with which the incident has etched its e lf into Maria's memory renders highly probable her being haunted by the incident in the final scene of the play.

The kitten is a symbol of Maria's innocence, gentleness, and vulnerability; her relationship with the kitten bears a general sim­ ilarity to her relationship with her brother, and, as such, reinforces the emotional effect of the latter relationship. "Didn't I find this kitten out in the street, half-starved, and didn't I bring it home in my arms" (III, 8), she reminds her brother. As Maria has cared for the orphaned kitten, so Antonio, after the death of his father and mother, has cared for Maria. Neither Maria nor Antonio, however, ul­ timately can protect their respective charges from the blood lust.

In the final moments of the play, Maria's disturbed mind confuses the strangling of her kitten with the death of her "Big Boy," Inspector X:

And then l i t t le kitten-cats didn't more any more, and her big eyes were staring at me, and then I said, "Oh, Big Boy, I did love you, I did love and I didn't know it." (IV, ii, 28) 200

A number of interesting ironies exist in the development of

Character and Plot. Inspector X’s four-month stay in Antonio's home affects both Antonio's gentle and his violent nature. He admits to

Maria, "in a way--yes" (III, 9), he has grown fond of the inspector.

Antonio realizes that the inspector's close scrutiny of his behavior is

aimed at helping him overcome the blood lust; thus, as he admits to

Maria, he wants the inspector "to know me well, and to become our very

best friend" (III, 10). At the same time, however, the animalistic

element in Antonio cannot help but feel trapped by the inspector’s

presence and cannot help but feel the urge to attack:

I can’t stand this any longer.' This man knows me; he reads me like a book; he sees that I am growing restless; he sees that I am sick--0h, my God, he sees that I am sick! .... I can't live while he lives!1 (III, 20)

During the course of the play, Maria's feelings for Inspector X

grow from schoolgirl infatuation in Act I to close friendship in Act

III to mature love in Act IV, scene i. Ironically, at the very moment

that she is making the discovery of both the existence and the in­

tensity of her love for Inspector X—during the long and passionate

embrace in Act IV, scene i--she is betraying him by stealing his gun,

as Antonio has instructed her. The stage business of stealing the gun

during the embrace vividly dramatizes the conflict that exists between

Maria's allegiance to her brother and her love for Inspector X.

The Heritage is Walter's best commercial melodrama. It surpasses

his others in both the quantity and the variety of melodramatic appeals.

In The Heritage, as in his other commercial melodramas, Walter employs 201 the overall structure of the well-made play; The Heritage, however, possesses a greater sophistication and complexity in the development of its dramatic action. Walter's use of piano playing to dramatize lyrically Antonio's state of mind, the use of the kitten as a symbol of Maria's innocence and vulnerability, and the presence of dramatic irony add to the play, not only interest beyond that created by the story line itself, but also a poetic quality that raises the play above the level of purely mundane, re a listic melodrama. CONCLUSION

Most of Walter's plays were written while American corrmercial

drama was in the stranglehold of the Theatrical Syndicate. Although

that monopoly fostered increased technical quality in the drama of the

time, it discouraged innovation and encouraged only plays that adhered

to dramaturgic practices with proven commercial value. Entertainment was the paramount consideration. As a result, even in so-called

serious drama, the focus was on theatrical effects rather than on in-

depth problem analysis and on the commercial exploitation of topical

issues rather than on serious dramatic treatments of them.

Walter's best plays exhibit his ability to meet the commercial

demands of his time. The plays feature an abundance of theatricality,

emotionalism, and suspense; and, with the exception of the drama of

discussion, Just A Wife, make use of the potential of the well-made-

play structure for building conflict and tension toward a thrilling

climax. It is in The Knife and The Heritage, however, that Walter's

plays most effectively demonstrate his penchant for exciting stage

action. The two plays, written in the latter part of his Broadway

career, evidence his having mastered the melodramatic form. Unlike

Paid In Full and Just A Woman, in which the f ir s t act creates an ex­

pectation of a serious social study, The Knife and The Heritage are

202 203 purely melodramatic from start to finish. Unlike the conflict in

The Wolf, which is of insufficient magnitude for a full-length play, the conflict in The Knife and The Heritage achieves considerable magnitude; it does so, however, in a manner consistently appropriate to melodrama. There is more than enough development of the dramatic conflict to maintain interest, but the basic nature of that conflict remains a clear-cut struggle between good and evil. Because the compli­ cations are numerous and because they are, for the most part, causally linked, the plays achieve a high degree of both dramatic intensity and compactness.

Walter’s social drames reveal a commitment on his part to a con­ sideration other than pure commercialism—the creation of highly serious dramatic action. The Easiest Way, Just A Wife, Fine Feathers, and The Challenge, for the most part, successfully combine serious intent and theatrically exciting stage action into an artistically unified whole.

In both Paid In Full and Just A Woman, Walter abandoned his early development of the action as social drame and opted for the more superficial--but more commercially promising—appeal of purely melo­ dramatic action. The two plays are, consequently, artistically unsuc­ cessful mixtures of commercial appeal and serious intent. The first act of each play depicts a set of basic circumstances that possesses great potential for dramatic conflict; in both plays, however, the second act reveals the existence of what is, in effect, a different set of circumstances, which is then developed toward a conclusion. The 204

source of the structural problem is Walter's penchant, also evident

in a number of his other plays, for placing in the interim between

the acts incidents that are pivotal in the overall development of the dramatic action. In Paid In Full, for example, Joe experiences a character reversal in the interim between Act I and Act II--from a weak-willed yet essentially sympathetic man concerned with his wife's

happiness to a desperately villainous man willing to sacrifice his wife's honor to save himself from prosecution. Similarly, the Jim of the initial act of Just A Woman is a frugal and hardworking husband, but the Jim of the remainder of the play is dissipated, extravagant, and unfai th fu l.

While it is appropriate for changes in a character to occur as a result of changes in the circumstances in which that character is in­ volved, in Paid In Full and Just A Woman, the reverse occurs: a radi­ cal change occurs in the circumstances of the play as a result of a radical change in the nature of the central character. Walter erred in failing to honor the preeminence of action—failing to allow dramatic action to control the form of character.

Because no clear connection exists between the character reversals and precedent action, the villainy of Joe and of Jim possesses a random, accidental quality. Such randomness is not conducive to the creation

of dramatic intensity which, because of the compact nature of the

dramatic form, demands a clear interrelationship among the parts of

a play. As a result, the randomness of Joe's and Jim's character

reversal weakens the potential intensity of the two plays. Furthermore, 205 because the reversals are so pivotal to the development of the remaining dramatic action, they seriously strain the credibility of the story.

The occurrence of a character and plot reversal during the interim between acts has potential theatrical value; The Easiest Way and Fine

Feathers make effective use of that potential. Laura's dire financial situation and depression in Act II of the former play, for example, contrasts stunningly with her pleasant surroundings and optimism in

Act I. The luxury in which Jane and Bob are living in the third act of

Fine Feathers is a vivid and surprising contrast to their poverty in the firs t two acts; similarly, the change in Bob from a morally sensitive man to a thoroughly dissolute one is shocking by reason of its extreme­ ness. In both plays, however, the reversals are carefully prepared for: they are probable outcomes of precedent actions. In Act I of The Easiest

May, Brockton makes it painfully clear that, despite Laura's ecstatic enthusiasm for setting out on a new way of life, she has neither the talent to succeed on her own as an actress nor the strength of character to withstand the hardships that she may encounter while she waits alone for her fiance'. Throughout the first two acts of Fine Feathers, Bob is sorely pressured by Jane's discontent with their frugal way of life; the intensity of that discontent and her craving for luxuries, together with the guilt that Bob feels because of his inability to provide those luxuries, suggest that Bob will not be content with the money that he makes in the cement deal, but that he will be forced to con­ tinue his struggle for more wealth. The determination that he expresses at the conclusion of Act II to join the system, moreover, renders 206 believable his later being totally caught up in it.

The handlings of the between-the-act character and plot reversals

in The Easiest Way and Fine Feathers are typical examples of Walter's ability to strike a balance between his integrity as a dramatic artist and the commercial necessity of creating theatrical effects. Instead of dramatizing, for instance, the gradual process of Bob's moral dissipation or of Laura's optimism gradually giving way to hopelessness and depression, Walter rather depicted the final--and more theatrically exciting--stages of those processes; however, he also dramatized certain circumstances in the precedent action that allowed him to make

such concessions to theatricality without creating a weak link in the

plays' causal chain of events. Because the factors that precipitate

the offstage reversals are clearly depicted in precedent action, they

are less surprising than those in Paid In Full and Just A Woman; they

are, however, more credible.

A structural device that is common in all of Walter's plays--the

drames as well as the melodramas--is the end-of-the-act reversal.

The device serves to create suspense--an effect that Walter indicates

in How To Write A Play is an important factor in maintining audience

interest and, thus, in achieving what he considers to be a playwright's

primary goal--to entertain. Walter's penchant for such reversals

occasionally resulted in his straining credibility. Jim's sudden

remorse and confession at the conclusion of the divorce scene in

Just A Woman is the most blatant example of the improbability that 207 results from Walter's groping for theatrical effects rather than allow­ ing them to proceed naturally from a logical development of precedent circumstances. Because the reversal serves as the climactic turning point in the play, its improbability is all the more damaging to the overall credibility of the story. At the conclusion of Act I of Fine

Feathers, Jane's leaving to mail Brand his calling card just moments after he has left the stage appears to be more an effort on Walter's part to heighten the suspense inherent in the action of Act I than believable behavior on Jane's part. Similarly, at the end of Act II of The Easiest Way, Walter's desire to conclude with a suspense-provoking turn of events is far more obvious than is Laura's reason for begging

Brockton to be allowed to mail the farewell lette r herself only to decide suddenly to burn it. Fortunately, such concessions to theatrical effect at the expense of credibility and artistic unity are relatively few in Walter's plays. More common are discoveries and reversals that are stunning moments of theatricality and also probable or necessary developments in the progress of the dramatic action.

The melodramas have an abundance of marvelous punches. Captain

Williams' show of compassion after he seemingly has been attempting to seduce Erma in Paid In Full; Kate's sudden recollection, in

The Knife, of the shocking details of her abduction; in The Heritage,

Maria's revelation of her having strangled the kitten, and

Antonio's public confession; and Mary's false declaration of adultery

in Just A Woman are climactic and unexpected turns of events that are rendered credible by precedent action. Those events demonstrate the 208 dramaturgic truism that, while surprise is conducive to the pleasure inherent in the melodramatic effect, the pleasure is increased when the surprising turn of events proves to have been a probable—although not predictable—outcome of prior occurrences.

In the social drames, a different approach to the creation and heightening of suspense is common--an approach that is appropriate to the more serious nature of the dramatic action. The element of surprise is less and the sense of inevitability is greater than in the melodramas. Suspense in the drames stems less from the question of what is going to happen to the central, sympathetic characters than from a sense of waiting for the occurrence of catastrophe, which be­ comes increasingly more likely as the play progresses. In The Easiest

Way, Just A Wife, Fine Feathers, and The Challenge, both the agent- versus-patient and the agent-as-patient dynamic thrust the action forward and create a complex of causal factors that render catastrophe for the sympathetic, central characters virtually unavoidable. In The

Easiest Way, for instance, Laura is the victim not only of her own moral weakness but also of external forces--the villainous conniving of

Brockton, adverse economic conditions, and the dogmatism of standard morality. A combination of internal and external forces is also the cause of Joe's decision to steal company funds in the initial act of

Paid In Full and of Bob's involvement in business corruption in Fine

Feathers. Dick's failure as a social reform leader in The Challenge can be attributed to a similar complex of factors--including his own unbending idealism, the alarming militancy of the Committee of Seventy, 209

and Hal's politically corrupt counter-attacks against the socialists' offensive.

The presence of both the agent-versus-patient and the agent-as-

patient dynamic adds complexity not only on the level of Plot, but

also on the levels of Thought and Character. The central, sympathetic

characters are more fully developed because they are not depicted

simply as victims forced to make a series of expedient choices in

response to external threats; because much of the trouble that befalls

them is the result of their own doing, they regularly engage in self­

searching. Not only do they question the effectiveness of their

decisions in achieving their goals but also they reflect upon moral

and ethical considerations relevant to those decisions. Throughout the

second act of The Easiest May, for instance, Laura is torn between her

desire to escape poverty and her promise of faithfulness to her fiance'.

In Just A Wife Eleanor expresses resentment for Emerson's having taken

advantage of her inferior position as a woman, but she also comes to

the realization that she herself has been the primary cause of Emerson's

having neglected his wife. Bob is haunted by guilt in the final act

of Fine Feathers over his role in the collapse of the dam; similarly,

in The Challenge Dick broods over his decision to abandon the intensity

of his quest for social reform.

As the element of causality becomes more complex, so do the impli­

cations of the dramatic action; the characters, consequently, are

provided with occasion to voice a variety of ideas with regard to the 210 causes of the conflict in which they are involved. Bob, for instance, not only criticizes Brand for his callously opportunistic business phil osophy but also articulates clearly his own awareness of his having succumbed to the corrupting lure of materialism. While Madison points to Laura's weakness as the cause of her being condemned to a life of degradation in the demimonde, Laura herself blames the callous­ ness of men. Hal's observation that the socialists are dangerous anarchists is counter-balanced by Bemis' and Hayes' forceful condemna­ tion of the establishment for its immorality, extravagance, and decadence. In the drama of discussion, Just A Wife, an emotionally laden situation that prompts the expression of varying points of view is the very basis of the play's overall structure.

The complexity in the Plot, Character, and Thought of Walter's social drames creates a sense of realism that extends beyond mere surface appearance—a sense of realism that derives from the plays' relatively in-depth depiction of the sources of their respective conflicts. Most of the plays written for the American commercial theatre of Walter's time that purported to deal seriously with a social problem are narrow-minded in their assignment of culpability: they tend to attribute the cause of a particular social problem to a single villainous factor, when, in the actual world, a complex of factors would be responsible. The effectiveness of those plays as serious social drames is further diminished by their tendency to re­ solve away the causes of the conflict—either by eliminating them or by 211

neutralizing their effect on the central, sympathetic characters. The

result is melodrama with a happy ending.

Walter's social drames do not end happily. Invariably, the central,

sympathetic characters are overcome by negative forces. That does not

represent an arbitrary preference on Walter's part for unpleasant

endings; it is rather indicative of his opinion of what constitutes

a dramatically effective conclusion. Throughout How To Write A Play, he

used the terms outcome and result rather than the more traditional

terms resolution and denouement in referring to the final major

structural component of story. Accordingly, his conclusions do not

resolve, or "unravel," the dramatic conflict; they rather serve as its

culmination. Such a structure is typical of the dramaturgy of Ibsen, whom Shaw credits with the technical innovation of eliminating the

previously standard denouement.

The overall effect of the structure of Walter's drames is that

of a set of circumstances proceeding inexorably toward an unhappy

result. While efforts on the part of the sympathetic characters to

avoid such a result are present—and create suspense—those efforts

fa il. The conclusion of each of the social drames emphasizes the magnitude of the conflict by emphasizing its permanence. Laura is

doomed to a life of degradation, while Brockton continues his life of

stylish decadence. Brand will escape punishment for his involvement in

the cement deal and will continue to prosper from his corrupt business

tactics; Jane, who is less morally insensitive, will be haunted by the

memory of the catastrophic effects of her and Bob's involvement in the 212 deal. Although the final scene of Just A Wife introduces the possibil­ ity of a reconciliation between Mary and her husband, the final tableau--Mary's dejected collapse into a chair—points to the more probable possibility that her marriage has been damaged irreparably.

From the standpoint of a rtistic unity, the plays are complete; they depict a set of circumstances proceeding logically toward a conclusion.

From the standpoint of their potential effect on an audience, however, the plays are emotionally unsettling: an audience cannot leave the theatre with a comfortable feeling that the conflict has been settled or that the threatening forces have been totally eliminated or even neutralized. The drames do not effect a comfortably complete catharsis of the fear inherent in their respective conflicts. Instead, negative forces remain at work in the society depicted by each play.

The Challenge provides a less unpleasant ending. The most overt and imnediately threatening force--the socialists' Committee of

Seventy—disbands, and the play concludes with Hal's prediction that time gradually will solve the social and economic problems that prompted the committee's rage. Despite Hal's comforting assurance, however, Dick remains uneasy--haunted by guilt for having abandoned the intensity of his commitment to social reform. The Challenge, like

Just A Wife, concludes on a bittersweet note that, because of the nature of the precedent action, has more of the bitter than the sweet.

Walter's drames demonstrated to his contemporaries that a play need not end pleasantly or in a morally uplifting manner in order to have strong commercial appeal. With the exception of The Challenge, 213

the drames contain virtually no falling action; they conclude at or

near the high point of the rising action and, thus, at the point of

highest dramatic intensity and theatrical excitement. Further com­ mercial potential lies in the fact that the unresolved quality of the

conclusions is likely to prompt an audience to speculate concerning

the plight of the characters long after the final curtain. The con­

clusions demonstrate Walter's most noteworthy accomplishment as a writer of serious drama--his ability to conform the structure of his drames to satisfying the audience's craving for exciting stage action without, in so doing, compromising the seriousness of the plays' overall

form.

By providing an analysis and evaluation of most of Walter's

Broadway plays, as well as two of his novel adaptations, this study creates a much needed foundation for further studies of Walter and his work. The fact that a number of his plays are well developed on the

level of Thought suggests a need for a detailed examination of the

thematic considerations with which those plays deal. A study of an audience's preconceptions in Walter's time with regard to such areas of

concern as business ethics, social Darwinism, and the role of women in

society would provide further insight into Walter's social drames.

Were more background information concerning Walter's life to become

available, a biographical study would be of particular interest to

theatre historians in light of the fact that Walter's corrinercial success

as a playwright came during a period in which significant strides were

being made in the overall quality of American drama. There is a particular need for further study in the area of comparative criticism, in order to establish the influence of Walter's serious plays on the development of American commercial drama. The brief comparison under­ taken in the present study would suggest that that influence has been underrated by theatre historians. APPENDIX A

PLOT SYNOPSES

Mareva

Act I Setting: A plain room in a prison barracks in Constantinople. June 5* 1931.

A volley of rifle shots is heard. Osman Effendi, the director pro ten of the prison, explains to Colonel Selim that the shots signal the execution of the first of thirty-eight men who have been sentenced to death for their participation in a Bolshevik revolt. Four of those men, because of their direct involvement in the assassination of a high government official, will be hanged rather than shot. Captain

Mahmoud of the Intelligence arrives with a report, compiled from dispatches that have just arrived from Cairo, Paris, and London, on the background of Ibrahim Bey, one of the four men sentenced to be hanged.

The report indicates that Ibrahim, the well educated and woman-chasing son of a wealthy Egyptian industrialist and a former French actress, has no previous history whatsoever of involvement with the Bolsheviks or any other politically active organization. Colonel Selim summons

Ibrahim to the room; while waiting for his arrival, Colonel Selim tells

Captain Mahmoud of secret arrangements that the Turkish government has made for the escape of Ibrahim. When Ibrahim is questioned concerning

215 216 his motives for participating in the Bolshevik revolt, he expresses contempt for the Bolshevik cause. Colonel Selim suggests that a woman's love is perhaps responsible; Ibrahim, however, refuses to confirm those suspicions.

Alone with Karnecki, the lawyer assigned to Ibrahim during his tria l, Ibrahim admits that his participation in the recent revolt was due to his love for a woman named Mareva. Karnecki tells Ibrahim that he will be visited that night by a distinguished man who will offer him a proposal and that, if he accepts its terms, a plan to save him from the hangman and release him from prison will be carried out. Al­ though Karnecki reveals the details of the secret escape plan, he claims that he knows nothing about the proposal to be made by the mysterious caller.

Mareva, Ibrahim's mistress, enters. The two inmediately fall into a passionate embrace and profess their deep love for one another.

Ibrahim te lls Mareva of the escape plan and of the mysterious proposal upon which its implementation depends. She urges him to accept the terms of the proposal whatever they may be. She leaves the prison for an automobile that will take her across the border.

A man enters and introduces himself as Dr. Hugo Stromberg--the husband of Mareva. The two men express their deep contempt for one another. Stromberg relates the terms of his proposal: he will secure

Ibrahim's escape from prison that night, provided that Ibrahim write and sign a suicide note dated for one year thereafter as his promise that, on that date, he will take his own life. After some hesitation,

Ibrahim signs the note. 217

Act I I Setting: The terrace of Ibrahim's villa at Saint Raphael on the French Riviera. June 5, 1932.

Claudine, a woman whom Ibrahim (who for the past year has assumed the name, Jamil el Khazen) has taken as his mistress, expresses concern for Jamil's (Ibrahim's) welfare to Abdul Assiz, the proprietor of

Ibrahim's inherited estate. She notes that Jamil has been anxious lately and that he has been crying out in his sleep, "the fifth of June."

She tells Abdul that Stromberg has told her Jamil is suffering from a severe illness that assuredly would take his life within one year and that she, at the request of Stromberg and without Jamil's knowledge, has been corresponding regularly with the doctor throughout the past year to inform him of Jamil's physical and mental condition. Claudine also suspects that there is another woman in Jamil's life, because he has been mumbling the name, "Mareva," in his sleep. Jamil enters and berates Claudine for questioning Abdul behind his back. Although

Claudine explains her concern for Jamil's welfare and asks him the significance of "the fifth of June" and "Mareva," he insists that they mean nothing to him and that there is nothing worrying him. After

Claudine leaves the terrace, Jamil gives a copy of his will to Abdul and asks him to take care of Claudine should he "meet with an accident." Abdul bids his master a fond farewell, addressing him by his real name, Ibrahim Bey. Claudine enters and admits that she has been eavesdropping and that she thus knows Jamil's actual identity.

Revealing her knowledge of what she believes to be his fatal disease, she insists that he tell her everything about the present danger he is 218 in. He tells her of his suicide pact with Stromberg, the terms of which are to be carried out that night. Claudine shows Ibrahim a telegram she received from the doctor indicating he will arrive in

Saint Raphael that day. Claudine promises that she will not interfere in the business between Ibrahim and Stromberg.

Mareva enters. When Claudine leaves the terrace, Mareva explains her long absence to Ibrahim: Since her escape from Constantinople and until a few months ago, she has been in Russia on a secret mission

to save the life of her father, a Bolshevik activist. As a result, she did not see, until a few months ago, the numerous letters that

Ibrahim has been sending to her address in Berlin; because his letters

implied that he had taken another mistress, Mareva did not contact

Ibrahim in the months since her return to Berlin. She expresses her

disdain for his faithless behavior and tells him that she, aware of

his suicide pact, has come to Saint Raphael to have the pleasure of

seeing him die. When Ibrahim passionately professes his continued

love for Mareva, however, the couple find themselves in each other's

arms. Mareva insists that she will find a way to free Ibrahim from the

threat to his life posed by the pact that he has made with her husband.

Ibrahim, who would consider such interference by a woman an insult

to his honor, threatens to renounce her if she involves herself in the matter. Moments a fter Mareva departs, Stromberg pays a v isit to warn

Ibrahim that, despite any hopes that he may have of escaping the terms

of the suicide pact, his death is inevitable—if not by suicide, by

Stromberg's own hand or that of an assassin. 219

Act III, scene i Setting: The drawing room in Leila's villa on the French Riviera. A few hours later.

Leila returns and informs Mareva that she has successfully carried out the initial step in their scheme to save Ibrahim's life.

She has invited Stromberg to her villa for the evening; Stromberg accepts the invitation, unaware that Leila is a friend of Mareva and that Mareva, whom Stromberg has not seen in two years, will be at Leila's villa to greet him. Claudine enters and begs Mareva to use her influence to save Ibrahim's life. Mareva says that she will help, provided that Claudine will agree to one condition: should Mareva succeed in saving Ibrahim's life, Claudine must allow Mareva to spend one night alone with him and then to allow him to choose which of the two women he wants to keep as his mistress. Claudine agrees.

Stromberg arrives, sees Mareva, and vehemently accuses her of adultery and harlotry. Mareva feigns contrition and insists that she no longer cares for Ibrahim and has not seen him since that night in prison a year before. Stromberg believes her lies and willingly succumbs to her seductive advances.

Act III, scene ii Setting: The same as Act III, scene i. Shortly after ten o'clock of the same night.

Mareva and Leila ply an already inebriated Stromberg with more alcohol and flattery. Leila, claiming sympathy for Ibrahim as a fellow countryman, persuades Stromberg to release Ibrahim from the suicide pact. Stromberg, content with having his wife back again, marks the suicide note with the notation, "unconditionally released," signs it, 220 and gives it to Leila. Mareva asks to be allowed to take the note personally to Ibrahim's villa* pretending that she wants to have the satisfaction of humiliating Claudine by throwing the note in her face as a sign of contempt. When Stromberg agrees, Mareva, under the pretense of wanting to run off with him for a second honeymoon, sends him back to his hotel to pack his luggage. Expressing a bit of con­ fusion, Stromberg leaves. Leila fears that Stromberg suspects their duplicity, but Mareva is confident that he suspects nothing.

Ibrahim, who has made his decision concerning whether or not he will commit suicide that night, arrives in search of Stromberg. When

Mareva shows him the suicide note with Stromberg's indication of release, Ibrahim demands that she tell him exactly how she obtained it.

Mareva avoids the issue and warns that they must leave the villa quickly before her husband returns, but Ibrahim insists on remaining.

Stromberg, who had only pretended to have left the villa, steps into the room and reveals that Mareva gave herself sexually to him in her efforts to secure Ibrahim's release. Ibrahim slaps Mareva. He tells

Stromberg of his decision not to commit suicide; the doctor, however, abides by his earlier decision to release Ibrahim from the pact.

Left alone in the villa with Leila, Mareva with insane rage curses the two men. 221

The L ittle Shepherd of Kingdom Come

Act I Setting: A clearing in the woods in a mountain area of Kentucky known as Kingdom Come. Late 1850's.

The voice of Caleb Hazel, the Schoolmaster, is heard reciting funeral prayers. Young Chad enters tearfully and tells those gathered for the funeral that he has no family and that, because of the death of

"Aunt Jane" and "Uncle Jim"—a couple who took him in when he was wandering the countryside alone with his dog, Jack—he has nowhere to go. Nathan Cherry, a man with whom Chad once lived and from whom Chad ran away when the man threatened to kill Jack, announces to all that

Chad is legally bound to him for seven years. He threatens to take

Chad with him to his farm on the other side of the mountains. The

Schoolmaster, however, insists that Nathan firs t produce papers to prove his legal authority over the boy. Nathan departs for his farm and insists that he will return with the papers the next morning.

Red Fox, a hermit and mountain doctor, appears and reveals that he knows who Chad's parents were; he recormends that Chad run away before Nathan returns. Red Fox indicates that he is going "way down yonder" to the Settlements and will return with evidence to prove that Nathan Cherry is a criminal.

Young Melissa, who has been eavesdropping from some nearby bushes, enters. She and Chad become acquainted; they discover that they both are orphans and agree to regard each other as kin. Melissa invites

Chad to hide from Nathan Cherry at the home of Mother Betsy and Joel

Turner, a couple that took in Melissa when she was homeless. 222

The Dillon brothers* Daws and Tad, enter. Angry because Chad's

Jack earlier beat their dog Whizzer in a fight, the two boys taunt

Chad by calling him a "woodscolt"--a bastard. Chad, in turn, accuses the Dillon brothers of having revealed his whereabouts to Nathan

Cherry. When Tad Dillon calls Jack a "sheep-kiHer," a brawl ensues between Chad and the two Dillons. Tom Turner enters, stops the fight, and sends the Dillons on their way. Tom introduces himself and his two brothers, Rube and Dolph, and invites Chad to stay with the Turners in Kingdom Come.

Act II Setting: Joel Turner's house at Kingdom Come. Six months later.

Melissa, Mother Betsy, and Sintha, her daughter, converse with the

Schoolmaster as they do their household chores. The group expresses concern over a recent lack of rain and hope rain will arrive soon so that Joel and the Turner boys can transport a load of logs down the river by raft to be sold at the Settlements. Sintha teases Melissa about her fondness for Chad; Melissa, in turn, teases Sintha about her affection for the Schoolmaster, who is living temporarily with the

Turners. When Sintha suggests that Chad may take the long trip with

Joel and the Turner boys to the Settlements, Melissa expresses fear that Chad may decide to stay there. Although the Schoolmaster assures

Melissa that Chad will return home—this time—he notes that the time soon may come when Chad will choose to remain at the Settlements to go to college. Reluctantly, Melissa admits to the Schoolmaster that if Chad 223 sincerely would want to leave the Turners, she would not protest; she admits, nonetheless, that his leaving would sadden her greatly.

Red Fox enters with Major Buford, whom he has met in the S ettle­ ments. Major Buford has come to the mountains to look for descendants of his great-uncle, whom the Major has reason to believe settled there many years before. Chad, chewing a wad of tobacco, enters and intro­ duces himself; the Major introduces himself as Major Cal. Much to his surprise, Chad joins him and Red Fox in a drink of moonshine; however, when the Major tells Chad that the boys in the Settlements neither drink liquor nor chew tobacco, Chad, in whom the Schoolmaster has in stilled dreams of someday becoming a great man, throws his tobacco into the fireplace and vows never to drink liquor again. The Major reveals his last name--Buford; Chad remembers that long ago Nathan Cherry occasionally called him by that name.

Alone with Major Buford, Joel Turner talks of his great fondness for Chad, Melissa, and Jack. The Major speaks of the threat of civil war over the issue of slavery, and Joel vows to fight anyone who tries to take his "niggers" away from him.

The Squire and the Sheriff arrive with angry members of the

Dillon family, with whom the Turner family has been feuding. The Squire explains that Chad's dog has been accused by members of the Dillon family of being the sheep-killer that has plagued the area in recent months and that the Sheriff wants to have the dog shot. Although Chad insists that Jack would not kill sheep, the Schoolmaster reveals regretfully that he himself saw Jack return home earlier in the day with 224 some loose wool behind his ear and fresh blood on his muzzle. Chad examines Jack and, noting a bite mark on Jack's hip, he reminds the group that sheep do not bite; he asks the Dillons where Whizzer is--a question that the Dillons avoid answering. The Squire agrees to Major

Buford's suggestion that Jack be given a trial by jury the next morning. The Major volunteers to act as the attorney for the defense.

Chad, accompanied by Melissa, goes off to attempt to find Whizzer.

Act III, scene i Setting: A clearing with benches used as an outdoor meeting place. Early the next morning.

Rube and Tom Turner, Melissa, and Chad anticipate—not without relish--a fight that day between the Turners and the Dillons. Chad hints at a secret plan that will help Jack's case. Members of both families arrive, armed with rifles, and take their places on opposite sides of the clearing. Major Buford assures the court that the defense will prove that Jack is innocent and, furthermore, that the Dillons have conspired to have Jack executed as a sheep-ki1ler. The Major demands that, in accordance with standard court procedure, the "corpus delecti" be produced; the Dillons bring in the body of the dead sheep.

Old Tad Dillon testifies that he, Tad, and Daws saw Jack kill the sheep;

Tad and Daws testify nervously that they agree with what their father has said. Chad rises and demands to know, "Whar's Whizzer?" and Old

Tad insists that the dog is tied up at home. When Chad accuses

Whizzer of having killed the sheep and the Dillons of attempting to cover up the fact, the Turner boys bring in a large box. Chad opens the lid and lifts up the dead body of Whizzer for all to see and 225 indicates that he found the dog buried near the Dillons' house. He points out the wool in Whizzer's teeth and tells the court that the blood found on Jack's muzzle was the blood of Whizzer, whom Jack killed when he saw the dog attacking the sheep. The Squire dismisses the case against Jack. Old Tad Dillon warns that that very night he will journey over the mountains to Nathan Cherry's farm to tell Nathan where Jack and Chad are hiding.

Act III, scene ii Setting: That night in the Turner's house

Neighbors have gathered at the Turner house to celebrate Jack's victory with singing, dancing, and drinking. The fact that the end of the long draught finally has come adds to the joy of the celebration: the Turners soon will be able to float their logs down the river to sell them in the Settlements. The merry-making is interrupted by the arrival of Red Fox. He reveals to those assembled that, many years before, Nathan Cherry stole the farm that he now claims to own from

Chad's mother and father. Red Fox indicates that he has just returned from searching Nathan's house and that he found there not only the deed proving that the farm legally belonged to Chad's parents but also the certificate of marriage between Chad's mother and John Buford--Major

Buford's great-nephew. Nathan Cherry enters and demands that Chad return with him to the farm. Joel Turner picks up Nathan, shakes him

"like a rag," and thereby forces a confession from Nathan of his wrong­ doings. Nathan is handed over to the sheriff. 226

Major Buford tells Chad, his new-found kin, that he will take him

to the Settlements to live there in the Buford home and to be educated as a gentleman. Chad, however, refuses to leave Melissa; the Major agrees to take her also. When Sintha expresses distress over the School­ master's intention to leave for the Settlement, Major Buford suggests

that she too be allowed to go along. Joel Turner gives his permission.

The Easiest Way

Act I Setting: The patio of a country ranch house near Colorado Springs, Colorado. Late summer of 1908.

Laura Murdock is a beautiful twenty-four-year-old actress of mediocre a b ilities, who has achieved moderate success in New York by establishing over the past six years a series of sexual liaisons with a number of financially influential men on the Broadway social circuit.

Laura has just completed a summer stock engagement in Colorado, during which time she has fallen in love with a handsome twenty-seven-year-old westerner, John Madison. Laura is awaiting a v isit from Madison, a

v isit that Laura is confident will include a proposal of marriage.

With her is Willard Brockton, the latest in a line of rich men to whom

she has been a mistress. Brockton has arranged to be her traveling

companion on her scheduled trip back to New York the following day.

When she informs Brockton of her marriage plans, he is quick to remind

her of her previous, ill-fated marriage, but Laura is equally as

quick to assure Brockton that her relationship with Madison is different 227 from any other that she has experienced. Brockton* having grown fond of Laura over the past two years, expresses reluctance to give her up;

Laura, however, reminds him of the agreement that they made at the outset of their relationship--that each of them would have the right to leave the other whenever he or she fe lt like doing so. Brockton, being a fair-minded businessman, agrees to honor that agreement; he assures Laura that he will not stand in the way of her relationship with Madison.

Madison arrives and proposes marriage to Laura; she accepts.

He promises to foreswear his past life of drinking, gambling, and sexual exploits; Laura, in turn, promises to give up her life as a mistress, to return to New York, and to struggle on her own until

Madison gathers enough money to come to New York, take her away from show business, and provide her with the happiness of a traditional married life . They vow to keep no secrets from one another. Laura announces her engagement to Brockton and explains that, under the circum­ stances, she would prefer him to return to New York on a train other than the one on which she intends to travel. Brockton grants her request but expresses doubt about the success of the marriage. When

Madison asks the reason for such doubt, Brocktonasks Laura to leave the patio so that he and Madison can speak privately.

Brockton expresses doubt that Madison is financially capable of providing Laura with the luxuries to which she has become accustomed.

Madison expresses confidence that his own honest and energetic ways will earn him a share of wealth. Brockton warns him that that share of 228 wealth must be earned quickly if he hopes to keep Laura from leaving

him. Madison insists that Laura's love is sincere and that she will

abide by her promise to give up her life as a mistress. As a challenge

to Madison's faith in Laura, Brockton establishes a gentleman's agree­ ment: if Laura returns to him, Brockton will insist that Laura inform

Madison; if Laura leaves Madison, Madison will inform Brockton of her

action.

Act II Setting: Laura's furnished room in a cheap theatrical lodging house in New York's theatre d istrict. Six months later.

Annie, a maid, enters carrying a clean towel and a letter from

Madison for Laura. She observes that Laura has been receiving a letter

from the West daily and that the postmark on the most recent is from

Goldfield, Nevada. Laura indicates that Madison has moved there

recently from Denver. The conversation reveals that Laura, unable to

find work, has pawned all of her valuables and has l i t t le money left.

Through Annie, Laura learns that the landlady is much concerned about

Laura's three-weeks' back rent. With irritation, Laura rejects the

landlady's suggestion that she borrow the money from some of her

friends or that she find a man who will support her in exchange for

her attentions.

Jim Weston, an unemployed publicity agent, enters. He te lls Laura

that Burgess, a producer who has a number of roles available in up­

coming Broadway productions and who has remained uncomnitted in his

response to Laura's request for work, is financially supported in his 229

theatrical ventures by a number of wealthy men who, in return for

their financial investments, insist that Burgess hire actresses who

are sexually permissive. One of the richest among them is Brockton.

Elfie St. Clair, a flamboyant actress approaching middle age,

pays Laura a v isit. She and Laura have become close friends in the

demimonde, but Laura, since her return from Colorado, has avoided all

contact with such former acquaintances and, thus, has not seen Elfie

for nine months. Elfie protests the squalid conditions in which she

finds Laura living and asks her why she has not returned to Brockton.

Laura explains that she has given up her life as a mistress and intends

to be married to a man who has opened her eyes to a more decent way of

life. Elfie scolds Laura for her idealistic and impractical attitude,

an attitude that, she warns, will bring unhappiness. Elfie reveals

that she too once remained faithful to a good, but poor man, but the man eventually tired of her and abandoned her. From then on, Elfie

explains, she has chosen to use her relationships with men solely as a means of achieving financial security. Laura vehemently condemns

Elfie for her way of life. Annie enters with a demand from the landlady

that Laura pay the overdue rent. Faced with eviction, Laura asks Elfie

for the money. Elfie angrily refuses, accusing Laura of hypocrisy.

Laura breaks into tears; Elfie relents and offers to give Laura as much money as she needs. Laura, however, sensitive because of her friend's

accusation of hypocrisy, turns down the offer. Elfie reveals that

Brockton has been waiting in an automobile outside the lodging house 230 and that she has planned an encounter between Laura and Brockton in hopes of reconciling their relationship. Laura decides to return to him.

Laura assures Brockton that her decision to return to him is a firm one. Arrangements are made for moving Laura's possessions to a hotel. Brockton tosses a roll of money onto the bureau for Laura and informs her that, if she wants work, Burgess has a role for her in one of his upcoming productions; Laura indicates that she will visit him in the morning. Brockton then asks Laura to write a letter to Madison, informing him of her decision. When Laura is reluctant to do so,

Brockton insists, indicating that Madison would respect her honesty in the matter. Laura obeys; however, not knowing what to say to Madison, she merely writes what Brockton dictates to her—a reminder to Madison of the agreement between himself and Brockton and a brief statement that Laura no longer loves him. Laura asks to be allowed to mail the le tte r herself, and Brockton gives his permission. After Brockton has gone, she asks Annie to mail it. As Annie is about to take the letter from her, however, Laura suddenly decides not to send it. As soon as

Annie has le ft the room, she burns it.

Act III Setting: Laura and Brockton's apartment in a New York hotel. Two months later.

Suffering from a hangover from a party the night before, Brockton bickers with Laura over the quality of the service provided by Annie, whom Laura has employed as her maid. Brockton discovers in the morning 231 paper an article dealing with Madison, which indicates that he has become wealthy and is expected soon to arrive in New York on business.

Without telling Laura about the article, he asks her whether she has heard from Madison recently; she claims that she has not. A telegram arrives for Laura from Madison, informing her of his financial success and indicating that he will arrive in New York that morning to marry her. Suspicious about the contents of the telegram and about Laura's explanation that it is from an actress-friend whom she met out West,

Brockton, pretending to have just noticed the newspaper article about

Madison, begins to question Laura as to whether she thinks that Madison will visit her while he is in New York. As his questions become more accusatory, Laura's responses become more defensive; finally he demands to see the telegram. After reading its contents, he pressures Laura into admitting that, two months before, she burned the farewell letter to Madison. Infuriated by her deceit, Brockton threatens to tell

Madison, but Laura persuades him to allow her to do so herself. Brockton leaves the apartment, indicating that he will return later that after­ noon. Laura checks the whereabouts of her pistol.

Elfie persuades Laura against telling Madison of her return to

Brockton. Madison arrives and announces his intention that he and

Laura be married that afternoon and that they leave immediately thereafter for their newly built home in Nevada. Laura gives her approval to the plans, and Madison leaves the apartment to tend to some last-minute business. Momentarily, Brockton enters and discovers Laura in the process of packing. After pressuring Laura into admitting that she has 232 not told Madison of her unfaithfulness, he threatens to remain in the apartment until Madison returns. Laura vehemently denounces Brockton and demands that he leave immediately. Taken aback by her show of anger, strength, and determination, the intensity of which he has never before seen her display, Brockton leaves the apartment.

Act IV Setting: Laura and Brockton's apartment. Early afternoon of the same day.

Laura is packing to leave with Madison when Jim Weston enters.

He tells her that he has secured a modest-paying, but relatively secure, job as the manager of a theatre in Ohio. Laura tells him of her plans to be married. They wish each other well.

Madison enters, somewhat troubled. He te lls Laura that two of the business acquaintances whom he has just seen made mention of her and Brockton. He asks Laura whether the men were referring to her relationship with Brockton prior to her trip to Colorado; she assures him that they were. They are about to leave the apartment when

Brockton, having conspicuously unlocked the door with his own key, enters the apartment. Madison draws a gun on Brockton, but Laura stops him from firing. She explains to Madison the dire financial circum­ stances that prompted her return to Brockton, and she pleads with

Madison for forgiveness. Brockton tells Madison of Laura's having secretly burned the letter that would have fulfilled the terms of the gentleman's agreement between himself and Madison. Brockton leaves. Madison expresses disdain for Laura's behavior and indicates 233 that it has destroyed any hopes of a lasting relationship between them.

He tells her that she, accustomed to taking the "easy way," is destined to lead a life of degradation. He leaves.

Laura begins to dress up to go to Rector's to "make a hit" with the men. The sound of a hurdy-gurdy playing a ragtime melody is heard from the street below; it reminds Laura of the type of life to which she appears to be doomed. She cries out, "0 God, 0 my God," as she staggers toward the bedroom.

Fine Feathers

Act I Setting: The Reynolds' cheaply furnished bungalow on Staten Island. Late afternoon, 1910.

Jane Reynolds, a housewife in her mid-twenties, and Mrs. Collins, her middle-aged neighbor, return home from a matinee at the theatre.

The two women complain about how expensive life has become since they purchased homes in the suburbs. "Since I've moved here," quips Mrs.

Collins, "All I've had is fresh air and debtors." Jane worries that her husband Bob will discover that she has used household money to go to the theatre and to buy herself a new hat; furthermore, she remembers with dismay, she has forgotten to prepare supper for him.

Mrs. Collins advises Jane that the best way to handle the situation is not to tell Bob about the theatre outing and the new hat and to feign illness as an excuse for not having prepared supper. Jane reluctantly agrees. 234

Bob arrives hone from work; Mrs. Collins informs him that Jane has been ill and then departs. Jane enters from the bedroom wearing a kimono, and, after momentarily pretending to be i ll, tells Bob of her outing to the theatre and of her having neglected supper. Bob reacts kindly to her honesty.

Dick Meade, a jovial young journalist and the Reynolds' closest friend, arrives for his usual Wednesday night v isit for "pot luck" supper. Jane admits that there is nothing in the house but some bread and milk, but, fortunately, Dick has brought some beer, pickled tongue, and Limburger cheese. When, during the course of the suppertime conversation, Bob mentions that the butcher accused him of not paying an overdue b ill, Jane models her new hat for the men and confesses that she bought it with the money Bob gave her to pay the butcher.

Impressed with how pretty his wife looks in the new hat, Bob remarks to Dick, "Fine feathers make fine birds." When Bob expresses his regret at not earning enough money at his job to buy beautiful things for his wife, Dick replies, " It's the system."

John Brand, a wealthy businessman and one of Bob's former class­ mates, pays a visit and presents Bob with a business proposition. The

Hudson Cement Company, of which Brand is the owner, has been contracted to provide the cement for a dam soon to be built on the Pecos River by the government; Bob is employed as a test chemist with the firm that is building the dam. Bob's responsibility in the project will be to test the "solidifying properties"—and thus the safety—of the cement used.

Brand proposes to Bob that the Hudson Cement Company secretly supply a 235 lower grade of cement than that specified in the contract and that Bob secretly pass off the cement as the higher, specified grade. The plan would profit Brand $200,000, $40,000 of which he would give to Bob for his role in the scheme. "That's stealing," says Bob. "No, that's business," replies Brand. Bub refuses the deal, insisting that his conscience would never allow it.

When Bob leaves the room to answer the door, Brand recommends the cement deal to Jane as an outstanding business opportunity for her husband and urges her to persuade her husband to accept it. Brand hands

Jane his calling card and, noting that the first delivery of cement will not be made for at least six weeks, te lls Jane that, should she decide to conspire with him to persuade Bob, she should mail the calling card as a sign of her decision. After Brand leaves, Jane brings up the subject of the cement deal to Bob, He insists that his decision is final and that the subject is closed to further discussion.

Jane leaves to mail Brand his calling card.

Act II

Setting: Same as Act I. Approximately five weeks later.

A telegram arrives announcing that Brand will arrive that afternoon

to v isit Jane. Mrs. Collins, who has accompanied Jane during the pre­ ceding few weeks on what have become Jane's frequent afternoon outings with Brand, indicates that she no longer will act as Jane's chaperone.

Jane's new clothes have made Mrs. Collins feel ashamed of her own, and, 236

furthermore, she feels that It is wrong for Jane to go out with Brand without Bob's knowing it. Jane assures her neighbor that her relation­

ship with Brand involves only business.

Dick arrives unexpectedly. When Mrs. Collins inadvertently men­

tions the expected arrival of Brand, Dick warns Jane that her husband will be coming home from work early. Bob enters and is followed shortly

by Brand. Bob's insinuations that he doubts his wife's faithfulness

prompt Jane to confront her husband with her discontent. When she

agreed to marry him, she reminds Bob, he promised her that they would be

partners in the decisions made in their marriage. Jane expresses her

resentment at being excluded from the decision concerning the cement

deal. She reveals to her husband that she has been making arrangements

over the past few weeks for his role in the deal. Jane threatens to

leave Bob if he does not take part. She is tired, she says, of the

drudgery and isolation of a life without money. As Jane leaves the

house, she indicates that, should Bob decide to accept Brand's proposal,

she will be at Wanamaker's Restaurant. Dick assures Bob that Jane,

being an impulsive woman, is not serious in her threat to leave her

marriage. "I'm going to take [Brand's] money," Bob announces. He

leaves to inform Jane of his decision.

Act III Setting: The Reynolds' beautiful home on the outskirts of a New York suburb. Two years later.

Dick, whom the Reynolds have not seen in two years, pays a v isit.

Bob enters the room looking pale, haggard, and nervous. Dick notes he

has heard that Bob has been having financial d ifficu lties. Bob con- 237

fesses that he has lost all his money speculating on the stock market at the advice of Brand and that, furthermore, he has signed a $10,000 overdraft on his checking account. Bob vows to take revenge on Brand for his role in Bob's bankruptcy.

Brand enters; he has been invited to the Reynolds house by Bob.

Bob demands an equal share of the $200,000 profit from the cement deal and threatens to expose Brand's wrongdoing--and his own, if necessary—

if Brand refuses to give him the money. Brand boasts that his money and his lawyers will protect him; he warns Bob that the overdraft will destroy Bob's credibility as a witness and that, should Bob expose

their wrongdoing, Jane could be tried as an "accessory before and after

the fact."

When Jane returns from an evening at the theatre, Bob leaves the

room to tell Dick of Jane's arrival. Brand informs Jane of Bob's

bankruptcy, of his overdraft, and of his threat to blackmail Brand for

$60,000. Brand urges Jane to persuade her husband to settle for

$10,000--enough to cover the overdraft.

When Jane tells her husband of Brand's offer of $10,000, Bob

demands that she stop interfering in his business affairs. He informs

her of Brand's role in manipulating him into bankruptcy and tells her

that, despite what Brand would have her believe, their part in the

cement deal constitutes "plain ordinary thievery." Reaffirming his

intention to blackmail Brand, Bob says, "Either we're crooks or we're honest and if we make up our minds to be crooks, let's get all

we can out of it." Jane, appalled by Bob's uncharacteristic display of 238 villainy, denounces her husband's attitude and rushes from the room sobbing. Bob, putting his hand on a concealed gun in his pocket, heads toward the door with the intention of going to Brand's house to kill him. Dick, who has entered from upstairs, stops Bob from leaving; a struggle ensues, during which Dick succeeds in taking the gun from

Bob. Jane enters. In despair, Bob falls onto the sofa. Jane falls across his shoulders and weeps.

Act IV Setting: Same as Act III. The following evening.

A special delivery le tte r arrives and informs Jane and Bob that

Brand has paid Bob's $10,000 overdraft. Jane is ecstatic but Bob feels uneasy. "One cannot go wrong day after day without—" he begins to tell his wife, but his statement is interrupted by the doorbell. Dick enters and informs them that, due to an unprecedented rainfall, the

Pecos River dam has collapsed and hundreds of people are feared drowned.

Dick urges Bob to flee in order to avoid the criminal charges that are sure to follow the investigation into the causes of the collapse.

Brand arrives; he plans to leave the country immediately and indicates that he will provide the money for Jane and Bob to do so. Bob announces that he intends to remain and face whatever punishment may be in store for him. Jane says that she too will stay.

When Dick and Brand leave the room, Jane and Bob express their deep love for one another. Each claims responsibility for leading the 239 other into wrongdoing. Bob tells his wife that he has a plan that will save both of them. Bob phones the police station and says,

"Please send a man to 626 Berkeley Road. It's a suicide." Before

Jane can react, Bob shoots himself. Dick and Brand rush into the room. "That's the answer," exclaims Brand when he sees what has happened. "Somebody said suicide was a confession; that lets me out and the wife too." A long moan of horror and grief escapes from

Jane.

Just A Wife

Act 1 Setting: The patio of Mary Emerson's beautiful home on Long Island. Sunset on a spring evening, 1909.

Mary Ashby Emerson is discussing her marriage with Bobby Ashby, her brother, whom she has not seen since she was married. In order to save her family from bankruptcy, Mary was married off at the age of sixteen to John Emerson, a rich businessman, who is much older than she. Immediately after the wedding, Emerson took his young wife from her family's home in Virginia, set her up in a beautiful house on Long

Island, provided her with a retinue of servants and a generous allow­ ance, and then left her. Thereafter, he visited her only occasionally.

As Mary grew older, she also grew less naive, and she eventually realized that Emerson had married her merely to provide himself with a facade of respectability that would benefit his business career, while he continued his long-standing affair with Eleanor Lathrop. Mary has 240 come to regard her marital situation as being intolerable and is deter­ mined to confront her husband with her dissatisfaction.

When Mary expresses her admiration of her brother's independence and achievements, Bobby admits to her that he owes most of his recent financial success to the influence of his friend, Maxcy Steuer, a young

Jewish man with whom Bobby became acquainted while they both were working as bellboys in a San Francisco hotel and were augmenting their meager wages with thievery. Their close friendship began when Bobby came to Maxcy's defense when he was being harassed and called a

"Sheeney" by a number of fellow employees. Soon thereafter, Maxcy con­ vinced Bobby that they should give up their thieving and attempt to make a respectable living in the business world; working as a team, the two amassed a modest fortune.

Maxcy, who has accompanied Bobby on his visit, enters. He is a straight-forward and likeable young Jewish man, who, according to Bobby, is a " little shy on the English language . . . and perhaps a little loud in the clothes he wears." When Bobby makes reference to Mary's marital problems, Maxcy admits that he has been eavesdropping. The two men offer help and advice, but Mary refuses it and insists that she will handle the matter herself.

The sound of a powerful automobile is heard and, momentarily,

John Emerson and his valet, Wellesley, enter. Politely apologizing to his wife for his sudden intrusion on her privacy, Emerson explains that he will be staying at the house for two days in order temporarily to avoid a court suitmons. After a bit of polite conversation with his 241 wife and her two guests, Emerson retires to his room. Bobby reminds

Mary of her decision to confront Emerson with her discontent and asks her if she is scared. She replies, "Not in the least."

Act II Setting: The living room of Mary Emerson's home. Early the next morning.

Wellesley informs Emerson that he has just spoken with Eleanor

Lathrop by phone. Wellesley fears that Eleanor, suspecting that

Emerson is also at the house, is on her way there. Emerson doubts that she would be so indelicate as to intrude on the privacy of his wife's home, unless she was possessed by an "insane fit of jealousy."

Maxcy enters, and he and Emerson engage in conversation. In an effort to change the subject to the relationship between Emerson and

Mary, Maxcy relates an incident that he claims was a turning point in his life. After an extremely trying day of work, during which he had made very little money and had been insulted by a number of people because of his Jewish background, Maxcy decided to spend some of his hard-earned nickles to look at the planets through a spy glass owned by a street vendor. When the vendor told him that there were people on all those planets, Maxcy was cheered by the thought that somewhere in the vast universe there must be someone who loved him. Looking at the planets gave Maxcy a sense of perspective. "All the money in the world—and all the positions and jobs--" he tells Emerson, "ain't worth anything if there ain't a little love--real love—mixed up in the deal somewhere." 242

Mary's entrance interrupts the conversation between the two men.

Although she is simply dressed, Mary obviously has taken great pains to make herself look as attractive as possible. After Maxcy exits,

Emerson tells her that he never before had noticed how attractive she was. Skillfully, Mary wards off his attentions and informs him that she has no intention of allowing him to amuse himself with her during his visit.

Bobby and Maxcy enter and are soon followed by the unexpected arrival of Eleanor. Mary, observing that Emerson is at a total loss for words, smiles to herself and takes command of the awkward situation created by the appearance of her husband's mistress. With a surprising display of warmth, Mary welcomes Eleanor and then whisks her off to her room to freshen up. Bobby and Emerson argue about Eleanor; Mary's return interrupts the argument just as it is on the verge of becoming a physical confrontation. She chastises Bobby for interfering in business that does not concern him and observes that, because he never has bothered to come to her aid in the past eight years, there is no reason for him to do so now.

Alone with his wife, Emerson apologizes for Eleanor's intrusion.

Mary, pretending that Eleanor's appearance has not upset her in the

least, cool ly assures him that, because he owns the house, he has a right

to invite whomever he wishes. She advises him to go upstairs and tend

to Eleanor, who, Mary observes, is "very much exercised over something" and "needs you much more than I do." Emerson obeys. 243

Act III Setting: The same as Act II. A few minutes later.

After returning from upstairs, Emerson attempts to explain

Eleanor's sudden appearance, but Mary refuses to discuss the subject.

She argues that, if Eleanor's presence is, in fact, improper and thus should warrant explanation and apology, it would be better if the woman left the house before the subject is discussed.

Alone with Wellesley, Emerson reveals that he has grown tired of

Eleanor and that he intends to end their relationship. Wellesley ventures the opinion that Emerson would have been equally as successful without the help from Eleanor that Emerson believes was instrumental in advancing his career.

Emerson announces to Eleanor that their relationship is at an end. He claims that her improper intrusion on his wife's privacy is the reason; Eleanor claims, however, that their relationship has been deteriorating for many years. As she has grown older and less attractive, Eleanor notes with regret, Emerson has gradually lost interest in her. She admits that her unexpected v isit was prompted by her being jealous of Emerson's young wife. Eleanor agrees to leave on the next train. When Emerson leaves the room, Mary, who obviously has been eavesdropping, steps from behind the portieres.

She indicates that she had decided not to interfere in the relationship between Eleanor and Emerson; now that that relationship is over, how­ ever, Mary feels that, for the first time since they were married, there is hope for her and her husband. Angered by Mary's cool attitude 244 and lack of sympathy, Eleanor boasts that her own hard work and in tel­ ligence made Emerson a successful man and claims that she herself suggested that Emerson marry. Thus, Eleanor asserts, she is respon­ sible for any happiness that Mary and Emerson may have.

Mary bemoans the plight of women. While a man's friendship with another man can be built upon and perpetuated by mutual respect, she observes, a man's relationship with a woman depends primarily upon sex; when a woman begins to lose her physical beauty, a man’s interest in her begins to wane--despite any other worthwhile attribute that the woman may possess.

Emerson returns and Eleanor leaves hastily. Mary complains that the idleness and lack of independence that have characterized her married life have rendered her incapable of performing any function that is useful to herself or to others. In response to her assertion that men place unfair restrictions on women, Emerson states that men always will have the balance of power in the world; it is their right, but that right, in turn, carries with it grave responsibilities.

Mary replies with defiance, "From now on I will shape my own life in my own way."

Act IV Setting: The patio of Mary Emerson's home. That evening.

Mary tells Bobby that she is not completely sure whether she is going to leave her husband; she suspects that Eleanor would like to see the marriage broken up. Maxcy philosophizes in an effort to arouse sympathy for Eleanor to whom Mary refuses to speak. Wrongdoers 245 are part of the universal scheme of life, he says, because they provide an example that prevents others from going wrong; thus, one person's misbehavior brings about another person's good behavior. Affected by

Maxcy*s philosophy, Mary agrees to speak with Eleanor.

Eleanor apologizes for the trouble that she has caused Mary and asks for her forgiveness. Mary assures Eleanor that she holds no bitterness toward her. When Eleanor expresses despair over her belief that she has brought "nothing but unhappiness" to others, Mary reminds her of her role in Emerson's successful career. The two bid each other farewell, and Eleanor departs for the train station.

Emerson explains that, whereas Eleanor was once a help to his career, she eventually became an obstacle to it; for that reason, he felt it was necessary to end their relationship. The greatest obliga­ tion a man has is to his career, he says. If God gives a man certain abilities, Emerson continues, he must use them to best advantage, and anyone who interferes is "interfering with the way things were divinely schemed out." Mary insists that, as long as he adheres to such an attitude, she will have nothing to do with him; should that attitude ever become tempered, however, with a belief in the power and importance of love, she adds, "come back and woo me as a lover."

At that time, Mary promises, Emerson would have "as fa ir a chance as any other man." 246

The Challenge

Prologue Setting: The garden of an army hospital in France during World War I .

Hal Winthrop, a wealthy and prominent capitalist, and his siste r

Mary are visiting Dick Putnam, Hal's closest friend and Mary's fiance.

Dick, who has been wounded in action and temporarily blinded, is unaware of their presence. The nurse has informed Hal and Mary that

Dick's eyes have recovered and that the bandages are to be removed that day. At the nurses' cue, Mary removes the bandages; Dick is overjoyed to see his two friends.

Both Mary and Dick express their hatred for war; Hal notes that war is "necessary just the same." He tells Dick that he has come to

France to attend a meeting of the War Industries Board. Mary boasts about her brother's prominence and his importance to the war effort.

Hal expresses his pride in the heroism that Dick has shown during the war and indicates that, while some men may have fought for love of adventure, he believes that Dick has fought out of a sense of con­

viction in fine ideals. Dick denies any such noble motivation and calls

Hal a "dear old hypocrite" for pretending to believe that war can be

justified by a noble cause. Hal wants to argue concerning what he

considers to be Dick's foolish ideas but decides to leave in order to

give Mary and Dick time alone together.

Of her brother's civilian contributions to the war effort, Mary

says, "He did it for the ideal, for liberty, and justice." Dick 247 replies, "No one can ever go to war to attain a real ideal," and tells

Mary of his having realized one day, while he was in the middle of a battle, how senseless war is. He has dedicated himself to opposing the "master class"—the power elite who he believes is responsible not only for war but also for the exploitation of the poor in the peacetime labor market. He assures Mary that nothing will come between them and their love for each other and that eventually she will come to hold some of the same convictions as he. "It would be like turning on my own blood— Mary replies, "we’ve always been the masters—we

Winthrops." The nurse enters and indicates that the time allotted for visiting is over. Mary leaves and Dick lights a cigarette, as a group of "American convalescents" can be heard singing "Smiles."

Act I Setting: A room in the Winthrop home.

Dick comes to v isit Mary and is informed by the maid that she has not yet returned from church. The maid asks Dick to try to persuade

her husband, Bemis, to take a paying job to help support his family.

Since his return from the war, the maid explains, her husband has

refused to work and instead spends his time with the socialist movement. Dick te lls the maid that Bemis is making a significant contribution to society by his involvement in the movement but

assures her that he will talk to her husband about finding a paying

job.

Mary returns and, noting that Dick lately has spent little time with her, complains that his work with the socialist movement has 248 become more important to him than she is. She reminds him that they have been engaged for three years and that she wants to get married soon. "Trust me, dearest--and have just a little more patience," he replies, "I've work to do f ir s t and then we'll be happy." Hal enters with Mr. and Mrs. Mather, Hal's lawyer and his wife, Hal kids

Dick about his radical beliefs. Mr. and Mrs. Mather criticize Dick for "running rio t with the rabble" and preaching "dangerous and anarchistic ideas." When Mrs. Mather complains of the impertinence of hired help nowadays, Dick offers the suggestion, "Perhaps if you didn't regard them as servants--if you could look upon them as fellow workmen--you wouldn’t have so much trouble." Mrs. Mather is incensed.

Hal praises Dick for his excellent managerial abilities and notes

that, since Dick has taken over the management of the New York Globe, a newspaper owned by Hal, circulation and profits have soared. When

Dick expresses a desire to buy the Globe so that he might use it for

socialist propaganda, Hal indicates that he never would allow the paper to be used for such a purpose.

Shanley, an establishment politician, calls on Hal. He informs

Hal that the socialist party has nominated a candidate for every state

office, including governor; Shanley fears that, with the aid of Dick's

intelligence, idealistic dedication, and organizational ability, the

socialists pose a threat to the government establishment in the up­

coming election. Shanley asks Hal to use his personal influence to

dissuade Dick from giving his support to the socialists' campaign.

Hal flatly refuses to use his friendship with Dick in such a way and 249 expresses doubt that Shanley's fears are justified. Shanley warns that soon Hal will regret his refusal to help.

Act II Setting: The "local room" of the Globe on election night.

Nearly all of the election returns are in, and the newspaper is almost ready to go to press. Hoffman, the socialists' candidate for governor, is winning by a wide margin in all areas of the state; it appears, however, that no other socialist candidate will be elected.

Harry Day, a reporter, assures his fellow employees, who are alarmed by the prospect of a socialist governor, that Hoffman will be virtually powerless, because he will be the only socialist holding office. The

City Editor disagrees; he argues that, because the governor controls the state militia, if a general strike is called by the Workman's

CoMnittee of Seventy, the governing body of the socialist organization, establishment leaders would be powerless to stop the strike or the chaos that would result from it.

A messenger arrives with a note from the Committee of Seventy, which authorizes Dick to make an official statement to the press in the committee's behalf regarding the election of Hoffman. When he is questioned about the note, Dick indicates that he is not a member of the cotmittee but that he serves as an advisor.

Hal enters, demonstrably upset by the election of Hoffman. Hal, who has just learned of Dick's advisory connection with the Committee of

Seventy, reprimands Dick for having aided in the election of Hoffman.

"I never expected you to go behind my back and plan and supervise the 250 work of a renegade group of anarchists," he tells Dick. The Committee of Seventy is composed of "demagogues, parasites, and crooks," Hal adds, who are exploiting Dick's idealist comni tment to the socialist cause for their own selfish gain. Mary enters and pleads with Dick to allow their love for one another to take priority over his political commitment. "I must go where my conscience leads me," he says. "It isn’t your conscience that's leading you," Hal adds, "but your delusions." Hal sets a challenge for himself: to bring Dick back to his senses. The two men shake hands. A band outside plays

"Smiles."

Act III Setting: A small private library in the Winthrop house. Sunday morning, several months later.

Mrs. Mather asks Mary why she has not been attending church lately; at first, Mary attributes her laxity to the fact that Hal has been too busy with his work in opposition to the socialist movement to escort her, but she later admits that the real reason is that she finds it painful to face the many members of the congregation who despise Dick because of his political activities. Although she does not agree with Dick's beliefs, Mary says, she s till respects his sense of dedication.

Mather arrives with Shanley, who reveals to Hal that the Comnittee of Seventy plans to call soon for a general strike. The only hope of foiling that disruptive scheme, he explains, is the passage of a bill

that would eliminate the governor's control over the state militia.

While such a b ill, which is now being considered by the state 251

legislature, is expected to pass, Hoffman is expected to veto it.

With the militia still under the socialist governor's control, the establishment will be helpless. The governor must be persuaded by any means, insists Shanley, to withhold his veto. Hal is reluctant

to take part in any corrupt maneuver to influence the governor, but

Shanley and Mather insist that, in order to maintain law and order, they must "fight fire with fire."

Alone with Dick, Hal warns him that the members of the Committee of

Seventy are dangerous and will turn on him once they no longer need

his help. Dick is moved by his friend's impassioned plea but remains

firm to his political commitment. Mary enters; Dick, arguing that he cannot live up fully to both his commitment to her and to the

socialist cause, tells her that he wants to break off their engagement.

"You’ll come back," Mary answers, "and I'll be waiting for you--always and forever." Hal assures Dick that, if he ever becomes disillusioned,

he is welcome back to the Winthrop home. When Dick leaves, Hal com­

forts his sister with the promise, " I'll bring him back."

Hal tells Shanley and Mather that he is willing to do anything

that is necessary to stop the socialist movement, Hal plans to

use his wealth and influence to pressure or bribe Hoffman into with­

holding his veto from the m ilitia b ill. When Shanley congratulates

Hal for "standing by the old party--the old principles, the old order

of things," Hal insists that he is acting out of concern only for

bringing Mary and Hal back together. 252

Act IV, scene i Setting: A committee room adjoining the chambers of the State Legislature.

It is reported that some members of the huge crowd that has gathered outside the capitol are armed. The Police Reporter bursts

into the room and informs Day that the police, expecting trouble, have

been placed on alert. He notes that, although reporters have been

unable to contact the governor concerning the scheduled vote that

evening on the m ilitia b ill, a message from the governor is expected

to be read to the legislature soon. Every member of the militia has

been called for duty, the Police Reporter adds, for a supposed

"exhibition drill"; it is unclear, however, who issued the call. The

Copy Reader suggests that Winthrop is "behind this whole mobilization

business." Day, however, doubts Winthrop's power; "Hoffman's in the

saddle," Day says, "the veto message is written."

Dick enters. His manner makes it apparent that he is expecting

a major victory that evening for the socialist movement. When Day mentions, in passing, the mobilization of police and militia, Dick is

surprised and indicates that, to his knowledge, the governor has not

ordered such action. He concludes that the military build-up is an

effort by the establishment "to intimidate the people."

Alone in the room, Hal, Mather, and Shanley express confidence

that they have the situation under control. Bemis, a member of the

Conrrittee of Seventy, enters and addresses himself to Hal; the two men

exchange insults. Bertolini, another member of the Committee of

Seventy, rushes in and announces that Hoffman has left town. 253

The voice of the Clerk is heard reading to the legislature the governor's message: he has decided not to veto the m ilitia bill.

Dick denounces Hal for having compromised his integrity by having

"bought out" the governor. Bemis accuses Dick of collaborating with

Hal to undermine the socialist movement, but Dick insists that he is willing to go before the Comnittee of Seventy to defend his allegi­ ance .

Act IV, scene ii Setting: A dingy room in a tenement building that serves as a meeting room for the Executive Comnittee of the Workman's Committee of Seventy of the Independent Labor Party.

While Dick is waiting outside the meeting room, the Executive

Committee passes unanimously a resolution to expel Dick from the

Independent Labor Party. Dick is ushered in to face the hostile com­ mittee. He accuses the committee of passing judgment on him without sufficient evidence and without first allowing him an opportunity to

speak in his own defense. Dick insists that he was as astonished as were his fellow party members by the governor's message; Bemis accuses

Dick of lying. Bemis vehemently argues that, because of the power

that wealth has given the capitalist establishment, violence is the

only way to bring about their downfall. Other committee members shout

their agreement. Hayes denounces the blatant immorality, extravagance,

and decadence of the wealthy, as well as their exploitation of the working class. Dick tells the men that, by resorting to violence, they will be destroying their chances of winning converts from "this hated

class of mine." 254

After the committee leaves, a message arrives from Hal that reminds Dick that he is welcome to return to the Winthrop home.

"I can’t go," says Dick, as he chokes back his tears.

Epilogue Setting: A room in the Winthrop home. Five months later.

Mary, heart-broken by the disappearance of Dick, is suffering from nervous exhaustion. Hal blames himself for Mary's condition, because he believes that he is responsible for having driven Dick away.

Mather informs Hal that the Committee of Seventy has disbanded. The establishment politicians, he notes, gratefully attribute the defeat of the socialists' offensive to Hal's money and influence. Day arrives with Dick. He explains that he found Dick living in squalor in the stockyard district of Chicago and that, while he still had been attending socialist functions, his spirit and enthusiasm are broken. Dick agreed to return home only after Day informed him of

Ma ry ' s severe i 11nes s.

Mary and Dick are reunited and pledge their faithfulness to one another. When Dick admits that he feels guilty about abandoning his political activism, Hal assures him that they will work together for justice and brotherhood, but adds that such reform must come about through the "slow march of evolution" rather than through revolutionary means. "Time alone can do the trick and no man can hurry time," Hal says, "Love will find a way." A hurdy-gurdy is heard playing "Smiles." 255

Paid In Full

Act I Setting: The Reynolds' modestly furnished home. New York, 1907.

Joe is discussing household problems with Errma, his wife, as he clears the supper dishes from the table. The butcher bill has not been paid, nor has the gas bill, which is ninety-cents higher than it was last month, "It cost more and more to live each month," Joe complains. He tells Ernna that he again has been denied the raise to which he feels entitled. Joe notes that Jim Smith, who also works for Captain Williams' Latin American Steamship Company, receives raises frequently. Joe asks Emma, whose upbringing has accustomed her to a more comfortable life, if she regrets having married him.

He reminds her that she once had the opportunity to marry Jim; Erma reassures Joe that she married him because she loves him and that that love "was enough to overcome everything," even her mother's opposition to the marriage. In reference to her and Joe's financial struggles,

Erma expresses the belief that, if a person is honest, he eventually wi11 be successful.

Jim pays a visit. Joe talks of the ruthless tactics that over the years have brought wealth to Williams. Joe notes that Williams

"killed men without compunction," "stole niggers," sunk rotten ships for insurance money, bought the Latin American Steamship Company to put Emma's father out of business, and now "starves his employees by refusing to give them decent wages." Joe indicates that, as collector 256 for the steamship company, he is in a position to steal thousands of dollars with relative ease. Showing Jim and Emma the money that he collected that afternoon, he boasts, "I could take all this and not be found." Emma is alarmed, but Jim assures her that her husband would never do such a thing. When alone with Jim, Ennia reveals her anxiety over Joe's being morose and dissatisfied lately.

Mrs. Harris and Beth, Emma's mother and younger sister, enter, accompanied by Williams, who regularly takes them for a drive. Mrs.

Harris notes with regret that her now deceased husband was "one of those weak men who had consideration for others" and who "never thought of looking out for number one"; as a result, she complains, "his will was a disappointment." Referring to the modest furnishings in Emma's house, Mrs. Harris indicates that her daughter deserves better things.

Joe enters. Losing his temper, he calls Williams a "damned slave driver" and condemns him for paying unfair wages. Williams becomes enraged. When Emma intervenes on her husband's behalf, however,

Williams' anger quickly subsides, and he assures Emma that Joe will not lose his job because of the incident. He invites Emma to accompany

Mrs. Harris, Beth, and himself for a drive in his new automobile.

Emma declines.

A group of Erma's friends call to invite her to join their theatre party; Emma politely declines. When pressured by Joe to explain why she did not accept the invitation, Emma admits that she is too ashamed of her appearance. "I'd go to theatre if I could go with you or Jimsey, and hide in some corner," she explains, "but do you think

I want to go to a theatre party looking like some kitchen maid?" Jim 257 offers to treat Emma and Joe to an evening at the theatre and to dinner afterwards. Joe refuses, indicating that he,does not wish to be an object of charity. He tells Emma that he will take her himself.

When Emma exits excitedly into the bedroom to change clothes, Jim drops some money into Joe's lap and indicates that Erma need never know anything about it. Joe again refuses Jim's charity. When Jim leaves, Joe takes some of the money that he has collected that day for the steamship company and puts it into his wallet. Emma returns from the bedroom and the couple leaves for the theatre.

Act II Setting: An apartment in a nice hotel. Two months later.

During a conversation with Beth, Emma recalls the day, two months before, when Joe came home from work and informed her that Williams had given him a substantial increase in salary, as well as six-months retroactive pay. Joe enters with Mrs. Harris, who is complaining about the poor quality of the coffee and the impertinence of the waiter in the hotel restaurant. Mrs. Harris informs Joe that she and Beth plan to attend the theatre that evening and that he is to chauffeur them.

When Joe asks for the newspaper, Mrs. Harris notes that she rarely reads the paper, because it is filled with nothing but stories about men who steal money from their employers. Joe starts nervously.

Jim returns from a business trip with Williams to South America.

As soon as he is alone with Joe, Jim informs him that Williams is aware that Joe has been stealing money from the company. Jim suspects 258 that Williams, in fact, purposely took his recent business trip to provide Joe with ample opportunity to continue his thievery—perhaps to seek revenge for Joe's condemnation of the captain two months before. Jim offers to help Joe and warns that Williams has posted detectives in the hotel.

When Joe leaves to drive Mrs, Harris and Beth to the theatre,

Jim, in order to test what Emma's reaction would be to knowledge of her husband's thievery, makes up a story about "an old friend from

Colorado," who struggled to provide adequately for his wife on a meager income. The wife's upbringing, however, had accustomed her to a more comfortable life , and, although she never complained, the husband could see that she was unhappy. In order to provide her with the luxuries that he fe lt would make her happy, Jim continues, the husband began to steal money—a l i t t le at f ir s t and then large amounts. After Jim finishes his story, Emma notes that she believes what her father once told her--that a "man who drank or gambled was weak, but a man who stole was vicious."

Williams enters. Erma thanks him for Joe's raise inpay, despite

Joe's having instructed her not to mention it to the captain.

Williams, who realizes that Errina knows nothing of her husband's thievery, plays along with Joe's story about the raise. When Joe arrives,

Williams asks him to be in the office before eight o'clock the next morning; "There may be some gentlemen there to see you," he adds.

Iimediately upon Williams' departure, Joe breaks down emotionally and confesses his crime to Emma in Jim's presence. At Emma's request,

Jim leaves, but not before he has promised to try to do something that 259 night about Joe's situation. Joe tells Emma that he stole the money in order to make her happy. His only chance for escaping imprisonment, he says, is for Emma to intercede with Williams. Joe indirectly suggests that Emma give herself sexually to Williams in exchange for his agreement not to prosecute Joe. Emma refuses, but Joe insists that, if he goes to prison, it will be because of her refusal to help him. Emma agrees to go that night to Williams' apartment. Joe phones Williams.

Act III Setting: Captain Williams' apartment. Immediately following.

By phone Joe is informing Williams that Emma will v isit him that night, Williams writes a note and places it on the desk. Jim enters and offers to pay back immediately part of the nearly $17,000 that Joe has stolen and to provide collateral for the rest. Williams declines his offer and indicates that, although he does not doubt Jim's honesty or his ability to pay back the money, he expects that night to "open negotiations" with Emma. Suspecting that Williams' intentions are dishonorable, Jim warns that, if the next time he sees Erma, she cannot look him in the eye and smile, he will come after Williams with a p isto l.

Jim's departure is immediately followed by the arrival of Erma,

Despite her eagerness to discuss the business concerning her husband,

Williams insists on telling her of his experiences as a sea captain and showing her various items of memorabilia that decorate the room. 260

When Williams makes pointed insinuations concerning the "proposition" that he implies Emma has come to offer him, Emma angrily condemns him.

"I know what you want me to do and what my husband sent me here for," she says, "He may be willing to sell me and you willing to buy me, but I am not to be sold!" Much to Emma's confusion and surprise,

Williams is elated by her firm refusal. "I would have staked my life that you were good," he exclaims. He hands Emma the note that he wrote before her arrival; it is for Joe and reads, "Your resignation has been accepted. I wish to inform you that your books have been audited and found perfectly correct." Williams explains that, had

Erma not proven herself to be an honorable woman, he would not have given her the note. Emma sobs for joy.

Jim arrives. Emma looks at him and smiles, which Jim takes as a sign that Williams has done nothing to dishonor her. Jim pulls out his pistol, removes the bullets, and gives them to Williams as a

"souvenir." After Jim exits, Williams urges Emma, "Think a good deal about that young man, he's an awfully good friend of yours." Emma voices agreement and exits. "Damned if it isn 't good to be decent,"

Williams exclaims.

Act IV Setting: The Reynolds' hotel apartment. Immediately following.

Joe is anxiously awaiting his wife's return from Williams' apartment when Mrs. Harris and Beth return from the theatre. Mrs.

Harris scolds Joe for having forgotten to pick them up as he had promised. Discovering that Enina is not at home, she criticizes Joe for 261 allowing his wife to go out so late at night. Joe tells his mother- in-law to mind her own business. When the conversation changes to the theatre, Mrs. Harris complains that the newspapers are "full of pictures of actors and actresses who are all trying to get a divorce."

Emma returns and politely asks her mother and sister to leave, explaining that she is very tired. When Emma shows Joe the note from Williams, Joe is overjoyed. Emma te lls her husband that she is leaving him. "You do not expect me to live with you after what happened tonight," she says. When Joe demands to know what happened between her and Williams, Emma condemns Joe for his willingness to sacrifice her honor to save himself. Joe begs her to stay, but Emma refuses to give in. "You have never been the slightest use to your­ self or to anyone else and you never will be," she says, and she walks out the door.

The Wolf

Act I Setting: In front of McTavish's home on the banks of the Wind River in the Canadian woods. A morning in Indian summer, 1908.

Baptiste, a French-Canadian trader, is telling McTavish, a Scotch settler, about Annette, a half-breed girl with whom Baptiste was once in love. Annette was the half-sister of Jules Beaubien, Baptiste’s close friend. Once Jules' father, Baptiste explains, while trading in the Nippissing country, met an Ojinbway squaw by whom he fathered a child. He left the pregnant squaw, however, to return home to Montreal, and not long after their child was born, the mother died. The child, 2 62

Annette, was taken in by seme kind people, and Jules' father visited her occasionally. Before he died, he asked Jules to take care of

Annette. When Jules arrived in the Nippissing country, however, he discovered that she had died. He learned that Annette's death stemmed from her having been betrayed by an American, who gained her affection by pretending to be in love with her and promising to take her to the United States; however, when she became pregnant, the

American abandoned her. Shunned as a sinner by those around her,

Annette ran away, became lost in the cold wilderness, and died.

Baptiste te lls McTavish that he and Jules have vowed to kill the

American--although neither of them have ever seen the man. McTavish tells Baptiste, "Ye're a fool wastin' yer time chasin’ some man," and insists that it was the woman's fault for tempting the man into sin.

Hilda, McTavish's beautiful daughter, enters carrying a pail to fetch water from the river. When Baptiste offers to help her,

McTavish stops him abruptly. "'Tis her business to haul the water,"

McTavish says, "Weemon are worth nothin' but for work." He te lls

Baptiste that Hilda's mother, a Swede whom he married, not because he loved her, but to "take her off the streets," fell in love with a

Frenchman and ran away with him, leaving McTavish to raise Hilda himself.

He is rearing Hilda s tric tly , he says, so that she does not turn out to be "wanton" like her mother. Because Hilda inherited her mother's yellow hair, McTavish explains, he suspects that she also has in­ herited her mother's "black soul."

Hilda informs her father that MacDonald and Huntley, the two

Americans who recently arrived in the area, work for a railroad company.

MacDonald is a construction engineer and Huntley is his assistant; they 263

have come to the area to survey for the construction of a railroad.

Hilda te lls her father that MacDonald has been very nice to her and

has told her about many of the wonderful sights in the United States.

McTavish warns Hilda to be careful not to "lure Mr. MacDonald to his

destruction."

Huntley enters and good-naturedly makes fun of McTavish by calling

him "Santa Claus," because of his long white hair and beard; and "Sir

Walter Scott," "Robert Bruce," and "Bonnie Prince Charlie," because of his Scotch nationality. McTavish, fuming with frustrated rage,

stomps off into the woods, as Huntley jokingly puts it, "to bite a

tree in two." Huntley te lls Hilda that both he and Jules are fond of

her and that Jules is a good man. When Hilda asks Huntley, who has

heard the story of Hilda’s mother, whether he thinks that her mother was a bad woman, Huntley says that she was not. Hilda thanks him for

his kindness.

The departure of Huntley is followed imnediately by the arrival of MacDonald. Hilda tells him that she hardly can believe that he

is going to take her away from the loneliness and isolation of life in

the Canadian wilderness; MacDonald assures her that he is sincere in

his promise to do so and professes his love for her. When he asks

Hilda if she knows what love is, she replies, "No, but it must be very

beautiful." MacDonald asks her to marry him. Hilda is unsure of how

to respond. With a sob she rushes into the house. MacDonald looks after her with an amused smile as Jules enters.

MacDonald tells Jules that he is attracted to Hilda. Jules admits

that he too is fond of the young woman. "You have a wife in America?" 264 asks Jules; MacDonald admits that he has both a wife and family there.

When a man goes out into the wilderness, MacDonald says, he is en­ titled to "a little amusement." He notes that Jules is not the first

Frenchman that he has had as a rival for a woman's attentions. Once, on one of his trips through the Canadian wilderness, he explains, he met a beautiful half-breed, who was in love with a Frenchman, who was away on a trading trip in the North woods. MacDonald made love to the girl and, when she became pregnant, left her. He learned that, some time later, the girl died.

When McTavish complains to Jules about Huntley's disrespectful manner, Jules suggests that McTavish get back at Huntley by making fun of his country in the same way that Huntley makes fun of Scotland.

McTavish decides that, the next time Huntley insults him, he will look the "young jackanapes" in the eye and say, "Doon with the

President and God save the King!" Jules expresses his concern about

Hilda's friendship with MacDonald. MacTavish says that, if Hilda gets herself into trouble with the man, "I'd know it was the mither

[mother] in her blood and the wickedness in her soul" and claims that it would be his duty to himself and to his church to "take out her life wi* me bare hands."

Huntley enters and immediately greets McTavish with "Hello there,

King Jamie! How's Mary, Queen of Scots?" Beside himself with anger,

McTavish shouts, "Doon wi' the King and long live the President!" as he stomps off into the house. Jules advises Huntley not to anger 265

McTavish. Jules explains that McTavish, whom the Indians and traders call "Madman of the North,” became "unbalanced" when Hilda's mother le ft him. When the conversation turns to romance, Huntley notes that MacDonald is quite a lady's man and that he appears to be taking an interest in Hilda. While he does not mind seeing MacDonald taking advantage of city girls, Huntley says, he will not stand aside and allow MacDonald to take advantage of such an innocent girl as

Hilda. Jules also commits himself to protecting Hilda's virtue.

Hilda confesses to Jules that she dreads the prospect of spending another lonely winter shut up in the cabin, with no one to keep her company but her father. Jules assures her that, despite what her father continually tells her, her “soul is white and always will be."

Hilda admits that she is not sure how fond she is of MacDonald; she is fascinated, nonetheless, by his talk of the "wonderful country beyond the pines and the mountains." Hilda asks Jules why, with all the money that his father left him, he does not live in a big city instead of in the wilderness. He answers, "A man’s heart, Hilda, calls where it will, and he can give no reason."

Jules tells Baptiste he suspects that MacDonald is the man who betrayed Annette, Baptiste is enraged, but Jules insists that, because

Annette was his half-sister, he, not Baptiste, must have the firs t chance to kill MacDonald. If he fails, Jules adds, then Baptiste should do the job. Jules exits, and Baptiste prays that he himself will have the opportunity to kill MacDonald. 266

Act II Setting: The interior of McTavish's cabin. The same afternoon.

Hilda tells MacDonald that she will not run away from her father and give him reason to believe her wicked. MacDonald asks whether she would go away with him if he secured her father's permission.

Hilda is s till reluctant. When MacDonald takes her by the hand, she pulls away and runs out of the house

Huntley warns MacDonald that, if he tries to take advantage of

Hilda, Jules will harm him. Huntley adds that, if the conflict comes to a "showdown,1' he will side with Jules, even if it costs him his job as MacDonald's assistant.

MacDonald tells McTavish hpw he can become rich. MacDonald advises the old man to buy the land at the fork of the L ittle Bear

River. He explains that, while the land is presently worth no more than a dollar a square mile, when the railroad construction begins,

McTavish would be able to sell it for a profit of at least $20,000.

MacDonald explains that he is advising McTavish of the opportunity out of appreciation for his hospitality. MacDonald warns that, with the railroad soon to be built, the area will be swarming with men--a situation that will place Hilda "in the way of temptation." He claims that he has a "fine old Scotch mother" in New York, who would be delighted to spend her time caring for the spiritual welfare of a girl like Hilda. He adds that, with the money from the railroad deal,

McTavish could v isit Hilda and even could go back to Scotland. McTavish gladly agrees to MacDonald's offer and exits to find Hilda. 267

Jules, who has overheard the conversation between MacDonald and

McTavish, accuses MacDonald of lying to the old man. He assures

MacDonald that he has not given up his fight to win Hilda's love.

When Jules threatens to tell McTavish that MacDonald has lied to him,

MacDonald implies that Jules' doing so would be an unmanly tactic.

"Between two men who are trying to win a g irl," MacDonald says, "the sportsmanlike way is to stand on your own feet and fight." MacDonald suggests that both men talk with Hilda alone and that Hilda then be allowed to choose between them. He adds, however, that he frankly feels that Jules does not stand a chance of winning Hilda from him.

Baptiste reports to Jules that the canoe and the food are ready.

Jules cautions Baptiste to be prepared for trouble: if MacDonald tries to take Hilda away, they will stop him. Huntley enters and renews his pledge of support for Jules.

Jules warns Hilda that, although God intended people to love one another, "love is not always good nor always true." He tells her of his half-sister's being betrayed by a man from another country and warns her to be wary of any man who is "not of your race nor of this country."

Hilda tells MacDonald that she has been troubled by an occurrence the previous night that she fears is a bad omen. She heard a pack of wolves pass by the house, she explains, and to the Indians that is a sign that someone in the house will die very soon. Hilda asks

MacDonald if his love for her is a good love. He assures her that it is, and, before she has time to resist, he takes her in his arms and 268 kisses her passionately; she struggles free, slaps his face, and calls him a lia r. McTavish enters, attracted by the commotion. MacDonald claims that Hilda has refused to go with him because she plans to run away with Jules. McTavish condemns his daughter and threatens to kill her as a punishment for her wanton behavior, Jules, however, stops

McTavish from hurting her and insists that MacDonald is lying and, in fact, has a wife, McTavish refuses to believe Jules. Jules reveals

to MacDonald that Annette was his half-sister and threatens to seek

revenge. When Jules asks Hilda with whom she wishes to stay, she assures Jules that she wishes to be with him. The two exit hurriedly.

As MacDonald goes for his rifle, Baptiste appears at the window with

a rifle in his hand. "Stop," Baptiste warns MacDonald, "I keel."

Act III Setting: The portage of the Little Bear River. The same night.

Jules, Hilda, and Huntley enter down the trail. Jules and Huntley

are carrying a canoe, which they place in the water. Baptiste enters

and reports that, from the top of the tr a il, he saw MacDonald in a

canoe about a mile down the river. Jules indicates that MacDonald,

paddling against the current, will not arrive at the portage until

after sunset. Baptiste warns that MacDonald is coming to kill Jules.

Hilda lays down to rest by a log, and Baptiste builds a fire nearby.

Jules hands Huntley a piece of paper on which his will is written.

He instructs Huntley to take Hilda with him to the fork of the river

and to wait there until noon the following day. If Jules does not

arrive by then, Huntley is to go to the bank in Montreal, give Hilda 269 all the money that Jules has there, and see that she is well taken care of by someone.

Jules and Hilda express their love for one another and the hope that they will be reunited the following day. Huntley, Baptiste, and

Hilda leave in the canoe. Jules unpacks his kit bag and, leaving his rifle behind, goes for some water with a pan. He hears the click of a rifle. He murmurs, "MacDonald," as he stops abruptly. He notes the distance between himself and the fire. Hunming a tune, he walks slowly and nonchalantly toward the fire; he suddenly leaps toward it and extinguishes it with the water in his pan. At that same moment,

MacDonald, who is at the top of the trail, fires a shot at Jules, who falls to the ground and pretends to be dead. MacDonald comes down

the trail and slowly approaches Jules' seemingly lifeless body. Jules suddenly leaps up and grabs MacDonald. A fierce knife fight ensues.

Jules stabs MacDonald and then lights a match to look at the face of

his dead enemy.

Just A Woman

Act I Setting: Outside of the Stanley's boarding house on a hill overlooking steel mills in the outskirts of Pittsburgh. Summer of 1916.

Anna is setting the table for supper, which is being served out­

doors because of the extremely hot weather. Anna tells her husband

Jim, who has just returned from a grueling day's work at the mill,

that Mrs. Koshensky has been wailing all day over her husband, who 270 recently was killed in an accident in the mill. A dozen or so mill hands, grimy and sweaty, sit down at the table and devour their food voraciously. The Boy enters, singing a folk song in his native

Polish language.

When Jim and Anna are alone after supper, Anna reveals that, by living frugally over the years, they have managed to save over ten thousand dollars. She indicates that she wants to use the money to provide financial backing for a new steel processing system that The

Boy has invented and that Anna feels can revolutionize the steel industry and make the three of them rich. Jim is opposed to using the money for such a risky venture. Anna tries to change his mind and sends him into the house to look at the plans for the invention.

The Boy appears from around the corner of the house. He tells Anna that, with the money that he hopes to make from his invention, he plans to return to Poland and help his poverty-stricken fellow countrymen. Anna dreams of how the invention will make working in the steel mills safer. The Boy exits, and Jim returns from the house to announce that he s till is opposed to the venture. Anna warns her husband that years of hard labor in the mills has taken its toll on his health. She fears that one day he nay be killed in the mill, like so many other workers. She insists that she has "second sight" and that she is certain that the venture will prove successful and will free them from their life of drudgery. Jim finally gives his permission. 271

Act II, scene i Setting: The library in the Stanley's pretentiously furnished home in Pittsburgh. Ten years 1ater.

Mimi and Sanford, two private detectives posing as servants, are arguing. Sanford insists that Mimi give him a telegram that has arrived for Anna. He wants to open and read it. Mimi protests, insisting that she feels uneasy about spying on Anna, who Mimi considers to be a very nice woman.

Anna confides her anxieties to The Boy, who has returned to

Pittsburgh from Europe in response to a telegram sent to him by Anna.

She reports to The Boy that, three years before, Jim began to spend time in New York and that recently he rarely returns home at all. The

Boy indicates that he has heard rumors from New York of Jim's extra­ vagance, dissipation, and association with a woman of doubtful reputa- tion--behavior that threatens his prestigious position as director of several companies. The Boy advises Anna to divorce Jim, but Anna insists that she will not give up her marriage. Her religion for­ bids divorce and, furthermore, she understands why Jim is behaving in such a manner. His dissipation and extravagance is a release, she explains, from the years of sacrificing and financial struggling earlier in their marriage. Anna is confident that her husband will recover from his temporary moral relapse.

Jim and his lawyer, Lascelle, who have come from New York to

Pittsburgh on the previous day, arrive at the house, Anna greets her husband lovingly but expresses disappointment that he has spent the 272 previous night in town instead of coming directly home. He explains that he had business to take care of in town. When he and Lascelle are alone, Jim protests that he ought to be able to get a divorce without Lascelle's resorting to the use of detectives in the house to spy on Anna. Lascelle insists that he must be allowed to handle the case in his own way. Jim reluctantly agrees.

Anna pleads with Jim not to leave her alone so much, but he is unmoved. He indicates that he wishes to send Ned, their young son, to Europe to be educated. Anna objects vehemently. She begs her husband not to break up their marriage. Jim leaves. Ned enters to complain to his mother that Mimi will not allow him to play his toy drum in the garden. Anna comforts him. "You don't belong to that

French woman," she assures the child, "but to me." She sends Ned back out into the garden. Anna, upset by the incident and broken­ hearted by the prospect of Jim's leaving her, breaks into tears.

Act II, scene ii Setting: The same. Six months later. Eight o ’clock in the evening.

The butler informs the Lady, Jim's mistress, that Jim is asleep.

She insists that he be awakened, explaining that he has promised to take her that evening to dinner and to the theatre. Lascelle reports that the board of governors of Jim's company passed a resolution that afternoon demanding Jim's resignation. Lascelle assures the Lady that Jim will not lose all of his money as a result; he will, however, lose a considerable amount of prestige. "I can stand the loss of 273 prestige all right," the Lady says, "if the money still remains." The two bemoan the fact that not even Jim's bringing the Lady to stay

in the same house with Anna has altered Anna's decision not to grant

her husband a divorce. She instead has moved into another house and continues to wait for her husband to return to her.

Lascelle warns Jim that his debauchery must stop: not only is

it taking its toll on his health and his business career, but also

it will make winning the divorce case against his wife difficut. "At

the present time," Lascelle notes, "all the sympathy is on your wife's side." He indicates that he has a plan with regard to the divorce case but that, in order for the plan to work, Jim must agree to live more conservatively. Jim promises to do so.

The Boy arrives to plead with Jim to take pity on Anna. When Jim

insinuates that The Boy's concern for Anna stems from more than mere friendship, the two men threaten one another. Jim starts to lunge at

The Boy but collapses, too weak to fight. Anna enters and asks to

speak with her husband alone. While she is pleading with him to return

to her, the Lady enters. Anna's back is turned, but she senses the woman's presence nonetheless. Anna warns her that she is merely a part of Jim's "spree" and that, once that spree is over, he will return to

his wife. "I'll be waiting for you," she tells Jim, and, with dignity,

she walks slowly out the door. 274

Act III Setting: A courtroom. Six months later.

Anna has appeared at the divorce trial without a lawyer. She has sent the judge a letter indicating that she is innocent of the charges of adultery lodged against her by her husband; she feels that

no other defense is necessary. The three private detectives who were posing as servants in Anna's house testify that Anna is guilty of adultery with her coachman. The detectives explain that they bored a

hole in the wall behind a bureau in Anna's bedroom and, on numerous occasions, saw her there with the coachman, Anna responds with the simple statement that she is innocent. The Judge informs her that, given the circumstances, he has no other choice but to award custody

of the child to Jim. A sudden intensity rises in Anna. She indicates

that she wishes to take the stand. The atmosphere in the courtroom

becomes tense with anticipation. Anna proclaims that all the testimony against her is true, that she has been unfaithful to her husband for many years and that, in fact, Ned is not her husband's child. Thus,

she insists, her husband has no right to keep the child. Jim rushes

forward. He reveals that he has paid the witnesses to present false

evidence and that his wife is entirely innocent. The Judge orders

the arrest of Jim and the witnesses. The case against Anna is dis­

missed.

Epilogue Setting: Anna's little house not far from the steel mill district of Pittsburgh. Ten years later. 275

Jim, who has spent nearly ten years in prison, is reunited with his wife and child. Jim thanks Anna for her faith in him. He tells her that he believes his years in prison have made a better man of

him and that he is now ready to begin all over again. Anna embraces him tearfully. Ned joins his father and mother. "God is certainly good," says Jim.

The Knife

Prelude Setting: Outside an old manor house in Tidewater, Virginia. 1917.

Robert Manning, a middle-aged doctor, has professed his love

for Kate Tarleton, his ward, and has asked her to marry him; she has

accepted. She expresses her pride at the prospect of being the wife

of a man who is so famous for his medical discoveries. Mamny, Kate's

colored governess, who tells fortunes by "reading" tea leaves, is

overjoyed to hear that her prediction that Kate will marry Manning

has come true. Manning teases Mamny about her "mediumistic propensi­

ties," Kate insists that she too believes in fortune telling. She

is happy to hear that New York is full of fortune tellers. She de­

cides to go shopping in New York.

After Manning leaves, Kate, who is eager for Mammy to tell her

fortune, quickly finishes her tea. Mammy "reads" the leaves in the

bottom of the cup and reports that she sees a "dark cloud" hovering

over Kate and that Kate will be exposed to a "heap o ’ danger." Kate

exclaims, " I ’m frightened, Mammy." 276

Act I Setting: The law office of William Meredith. A week or so later.

Dr. Louise Meredith, the sister of William Meredith, an attorney, informs her brother of the engagement of Manning, who is one of her professional colleagues and a college chum of Meredith.

Louise has had lunch with Kate on the previous day and has found her to be an intelligent, delightful, and pretty young woman.

When George Scott, the Assistant District Attorney, arrives to ask Meredith to do a " little service for the D istrict Attorney's office," Meredith insists that he has sworn off the practice of criminal law. He explains that Louise convinced him that such work has a "distinctly brutalizing effect" and eventually could render him as cunning and treacherous as the criminals with whom he deals. "I've found that the methods for the comnission of crime and the methods for its detection," Meredith says, "are a l it t le too intimately allied for a decent lawyer to mix up in."

Scott reports that a group that is threatening to gain the support of one of the city's large daily newspapers is charging that

Manning's recent medical discoveries are the result of experimenting on live human subjects. Meredith calls such claims preposterous and defends Manning as being a tender-hearted individual who is greatly concerned about the good of humanity. Scott indicates that, while he does not wish to see Manning's important research discon­ tinued, the pressure being put on the District Attorney's office cannot be ignored any longer. He asks Meredith to persuade Manning to 277

tone down the intensity of his research until after an investigation

is completed. Although Meredith agrees to talk with Manning, he

feels that the doctor will not be responsive, because he is on the

verge of discovering a "serum that will benefit mankind almost beyond calculation."

Manning, obviously distraught, arrives and informs Meredith that

Kate has disappeared. Meredith promises to help find her. Manning

explains that, after learning from the Brooks, cousins with whom Kate

is staying, that Kate had not returned from her luncheon engagement with Louise, he went to the Brooks' house and discovered in Kate's

room a newspaper in which an advertisement for a fortune teller had

been circled.

Louise, whom Manning has informed of Kate's disappearance,

returns to the office. When questioned, she indicates that, at lunch

the previous day, Kate did mention that she intended to go to a

fortune teller. Meredith instructs Ellis, his assistant, to find out

all he can about the fortune teller in question, including any infor­ mation that might be in police records. He adds that, in order to

shield Manning from unpleasant publicity, the reason for requesting

the information should be kept secret. When Louise and Manning leave

the office, Meredith warns Ellis that their efforts to find Kate may

involve breaking the law. Ellis expresses his allegiance to Meredith.

Meredith tells Ellis to put his revolver in his pocket, because "it

may be an exciting evening." 278

Act I I Setting: The parlor of a house occupied by Stella Hill and Jimmy B ristol. That night.

Ellis and Meredith gain access to the house by cutting a hole in the glass of the door, reaching through the hole, and undoing the lock and chain. Ellis informs Meredith that Bristol and Mrs. Hill, who have kidnapped Kate, are asleep upstairs and that, because they have been taking drugs, they are probably "dead to the world."

Meredith and Ellis go upstairs and tie up, blindfold, and gag the two kidnappers. Ellis indicates that, if his information is correct, Kate has been drugged and placed in a third floor room.

Louise and Manning arrive. Manning is anxious to go upstairs to examine Kate's condition; Meredith, however, insists that "it's a woman's job" and sends Louise. He tells Manning that Kate was abducted by two underworld characters, who are using the fortune- telling business as a front for "all sorts of crimes." Ellis comes downstairs carrying a woman's clothing; Manning identifies the cloth­

ing as Kate's. Meredith asks Ellis to bring the kidnappers down­ stairs. Louise reports that Kate is in a light coma, but that she

is slowly gaining consciousness. As far as Louise has been able so far to determine, there is nothing wrong with Kate, other than the fact that she is suffering from the effects of some drug that the kidnappers apparently gave her. Meredith instructs Louise to bring

Kate downstairs, in case the group needs to make a quick "get-away."

Ellis signals that he is ready to bring Bristol and Mrs. Hill downstairs. After Meredith turns out the lights, Ellis, at gunpoint, 279 escorts the two kidnappers down the stairs and into an adjoining room, Meredith turns the lights back on. He warns Manning that their present activities are unlawful, and, as a result, they cannot turn the kidnappers over to the police without "getting into a terrible mess" themselves.

Louise indicates that Kate has regained consciousness, but that she is dazed and is suffering from a loss of memory. When Kate is escorted down the stairs and into the room, Manning calls to her, but

she does not recognize her fiance'; Manning becomes emotionally dis­

traught. Meredith asks her some questions, but she can remember nothing except a few very vague and incoherent images. After Louise

takes her into another room, Manning and Meredith express the hope

that, even after Kate recovers from what they beliave to be only a

temporary case of amnesia, she will not remember the traumatic events of her abduction.

Meredith interrogates Bristol but manages to force very little

information from him. Louise enters and reveals that she has dis­

covered that Kate has been sexually molested. Manning, assuming that

Bristol is the guilty party, leaps toward him and threatens to kill

him. Meredith manages to restrain Manning.

Manning is struck with an idea. Explaining that his research

in developing a cure for a dreaded disease has reached a stage at which he needs to experiment on live human subjects, he indicates

that he wishes to use Bristol and Mrs. Hill. Meredith at firs t

objects, but changes his mind when Manning argues that the two 280

kidnappers, being inveterate criminals, are of little use to the world and that the discovery of a cure for the disease would save the lives of countless human beings.

Act III Setting: Manning's private office in his clinic. Two weeks later.

Manning phones Meredith and informs him that Mrs. Hill has just died. He assures Meredith that precautions have been taken to prevent any suspicion regarding the death and that there is "nothing to fear from Bristol."

Kate and Louise, who have spent the past week in the country, arrive while Manning is out of the office. The two women talk of the cure that Manning has discovered and which is being publicized in the newspapers. Louise tells Kate that, in order to discover the cure, Manning was required to "take some rather difficult measures."

Kate indicates that, because her father was a physician involved in medical research, she understands the need for such practices as vivisection; she adds that, should Manning ever need to experiment on a live human subject, she herself would gladly volunteer.

Manning enters and is elated to see Kate in such good health.

After Kate leaves to take her luggage to Louise's house, Louise assures Manning that Kate has no recollection of her abduction.

Meredith arrives and informs Manning that Assistant D istrict Attorney

Scott is on his way to the clinic with regard to a charge made against Manning by Joe Hill, Mrs. H ill's estranged husband. Meredith 281

is convinced that Scott considers the matter to be serious, because

Scott has sutrmoned his father, the District Attorney, back from a vacation in order to assist with the matter. Manning says that he considers imprisonment, even execution, a small price to pay for the great benefit to mankind that has resulted from his recent experiment.

Meredith indicates that he himself has no intention of going to prison. He advises that they stand by their previously agreed-upon

story--that Bristol and Mrs. Hill came to the clinic voluntarily.

To make certain that Bristol does not "squeal" to the authorities,

Meredith instructs Ellis to remind Bristol that he too is guilty of crimes. Manning announces that he intends to confess the truth to

Scott. "I don't want a great work tainted with lies or deceit," he

insists. When Manning warns him, however, that a trial undoubtedly would bring to light the fact that Kate was sexually molested, Man­

ning, wishing to shield Kate from knowing what has happened to her,

decides against confessing.

Scott indicates that Hill has charged that his wife and Bristol were abducted and experimented on by Manning. Manning assures Scott

that the two came to the clinic for treatment voluntarily and that

he did not administer experimental serum until several physicians had

examined the patients and unanimously agreed that both would surely

die, unless some new method of treatment were acfrninistered. Bristol, who, at Scott's request, has been brought into the room, assures

Scott that he and Mrs. Hill came to the clinic voluntarily. Kate

returns unexpectedly, becomes strangely puzzled when she sees Bristol,

and claims that she is certain that she has seen the man somewhere 282 before. Bristol accuses Meredith of "framing" him—of arranging to have Kate identify him in front of Scott. Meredith tries to stop Kate from revealing the memories of her abduction that are now beginning to come back to her, but Scott, who has become extremely suspicious, insists that she be allowed to continue. Manning, not wishing to subject his fiance' to the trauma of telling Scott the details of her abduction, confesses the truth, but defends himself on the grounds of the great benefit to mankind that has resulted from his experiment. When Scott threatens to have Manning arrested for murder,

Kate tells the story of her being drugged by her kidnappers and then used as a prostitute. Deeply moved by Kate's story, Scott decides to drop the case against Manning.

When the others have left, Kate suggests to Manning that perhaps he no longer wishes to marry her, now that she has been "defiled."

"Not defiled, but sanctified!" he replies tenderly, "Chosen by God as a saint--as the one to suffer and bring about the greatest good to the sick and the dying."

The Heritage

Act I Setting: The music studio in Antonio's fashionable New York home on Fifth Avenue. An afternoon in 1918.

Antonio, a well-to-do young Italian man, is playing a classical

selection on the piano; with a sudden crash of tone, he stops and cries out to Guiseppi, his servant, "I cannot stand this much longer." 283

He has not slept the last three nights, Antonio explains, because he cannot rid himself of an ominous anxiety. Guiseppi reyeals that he recently has learned that Antonio is being secretly watched by a detective hired by the police--a man who is known only as Inspector X.

Enrico arrives and indicates that, through connections with the police department, he has learned that Inspector X is aware of the existence of the Mafia organization to which Enrico, Antonio, and

Guiseppi belong. As a result, Enrico adds, the organization has decided that Inspector X must be assassinated. Enrico invites Antonio to a meeting, during which a background report on Inspector X will be presented and a precise time for his assassination will be set.

Through the window of the studio, the three men see Inspector X standing on the corner of the street below. As they watch, Maria,

Antonio's seventeen-year-old sister, passes by the inspector and purposely drops her handkerchief. When the inspector returns it to her, it is apparent that he is taking a particular interest in Maria.

Antonio, Guiseppi, and Enrico exit. Momentarily, Maria and three cf her female classmates enter, chattering excitedly about

Maria's having flirted with a strange man. One of the girls dares

Maria to invite the man into the house; Maria sends Floretta, the maid, for the man. Inspector X is amused by the girls' prank, but the girls are embarrassed. The inspector teases the girls, telling them that they ought to be spanked and threatening to report them to

Maria's brother. "He's an Italian—from Sicily—and if you can be­ lieve everything one hears and reads, why you'd better look out," jokes one of the girls as she draws her finger across her throat. 284

The inspector asks Maria to have her brother call him at the Meadows

Club. He exits.

Antonio enters and confesses to the girls that he has been eaves­ dropping. After teasing them by pretending to be angry with them for bringing a stranger into the house, he indicates that he will call

Mr. X that afternoon. Maria, who is infatuated with the man, is excited. When Maria and the girls exit, Antonio's manner immediately changes to one of suppressed anger. "These sleepless nights! This feeling--this horror that has been coming over me," he says to

Guiseppi as he plays the piano, "now I know."

Act II Setting: The interior of a filthy and sordid Italian saloon in New York. One o'clock in the morning.

Members of the Mafia are drawing folded slips of paper from a hat.

Antonio takes the last remaining slip; it is marked with a black cross, which signifies that he is to be the assassin of Inspector X.

Antonio is ecstatic, but Paul warns him against killing a policeman.

Enrico reports that Inspector X has been following Antonio in Europe for a number of years and only recently has discovered his whereabouts in the United States. A phone call informs the group that a police raid on the saloon is irrminent. Joe peeks through the window, which has been covered with a steel grating, and indicates that police already have surrounded the saloon. Antonio revtals a plan for escape. He hastily writes a note, being careful to disguise his handwriting. The note is supposedly to Antonio and indicates that 285 the life of his sister will be in danger if he does not appear at the saloon that night with $10,000. He dirties the note and places it on a table for the police to discover; he hopes that it will remove any suspicions the police may have concerning his presence at a saloon that is apparently suspected of having Mafia connections. At Antonio's request, Guiseppi strikes Antonio over the head with a "black jack";

Antonio and Guiseppi are tied up. Joe fires gunshots to attract the police. Accompanied by Inspector X, the police break into the saloon, as most of the Mafia members pretend to be asleep upstairs, hide in the basement, or escape through a trap door to the roof. After the police find Antonio and Guiseppi, the inspector asks to speak with

Antonio alone. He inmediately informs Antonio that he sees through his letter scheme. The inspector notes that he is aware of the long history of violence associated with Antonio's family and of Antonio's having inherited a mental disease--a "blood lust"--from his father.

After threatening Antonio with the possibility of arrest for what the inspector believes to be numerous murders committed by Antonio throughout Europe, the inspector presents two other alternatives:

Antonio can coTrcnit himself to a mental institution or he can allow the inspector to closely observe his behavior by allowing the inspector free access to Antonio's home for a period of eight months. Antonio reluctantly chooses the latter alternative. 286

Act III Setting: Antonio's music studio. Four months later.

Antonio finishes playing the piano for Maria and her school friends. Maria's friends leave, escorted by Antonio. Maria, who has not been informed of the circumstances under which her brother and

Inspector X have become acquainted, tells the inspector that she has noticed that sometimes Antonio appears to resent his presence in the house. Inspector X expresses his fondness for Maria and assures her that, no matter what happens, he will do his best to protect her.

Floretta enters carrying Maria's kitten; she explains that she caught it running away down the street. Maria takes the kitten and scolds it.

Antonio returns and Maria tries to persuade him to play the piano for a reception at her school. The kitten in her arms begins to show signs of fear. A few moments later, as Maria tells her brother how irritated she sometimes getswith her girlfriends, she begins to handle the kitten roughly. Antonio watches Maria closely and breathes a sigh of relief when her temper quickly subsides. When she again begins to handle the kitten roughly, he warns her, "You will only find happiness when you are gentle."

Inspector X tells Antonio that he is a sick man, but that his sickness can be cured. He warns Antonio, however, that, although

Antonio's behavior appeared quite normal during the firs t few months of observation, recently a "growing irritability has been increasing daily." The inspector fears that within the next four months Antonio will be struck again with the dreaded blood lust. Antonio 287 sarcastically claims that the inspector is suffering from hallucina­ tions .

As soon as the inspector exits, Antonio cries out, "I can't stand this any longer!" He explains to Guiseppi that he can no longer tolerate the inspector's continually watching him. "I can't live while he lives!!" Antonio exclaims. He te lls Guiseppi to instruct

Enrico to go to Italy and contact the Mafia there. He, Maria, and

Inspector X will follow soon.

Maria enters and tells her brother that she has strangled her kitten. When she describes to Antonio the strange feeling that came over her and that prompted her to kill the kitten, Antonio comforts her and tells her that a similar violent urge has overtaken him too—

"many, many times."

Act IV, scene i Setting: A terrace of a fashionable restaurant in Naples overlooking the bay. Evening.

Enrico and Guiseppi discuss the arrangements that have been made for Antonio's murder of Inspector X. While Floretta, Maria, and

Inspector X have been in Naples, Antonio has remained in Palermo; that day he has come secretly to Naples. A Mafia member, disguised as Antonio, will be seen that evening in Palermo in order to give the police the impression that Antonio is s till in Sicily. An automobile is wa:r:ng nearby the restaurant to provide Antonio with a swift means of escape after the murder. No one but Mafia members will be allowed on the terrace that evening. 288

Antonio enters. He tells Enrico that, a few days before,

Inspector X was involved in a minor fight with an Italian student who had been following Maria. Antonio is dressed like that student and, thereby, hopes to establish the student as the primary murder suspect.

Maria enters, having been summoned to the restaurant by a phone call from her brother. He tells Maria that Inspector X has been trying for a long time to uncover sufficient evidence to have Antonio arrested for a murder he once committed. He wishes to speak with the inspector, he tells his sister, but feels that, for his own protection, the inspector should be unarmed. He asks Maria to secretly take the inspector's gun from him.

Antonio leaves the terrace and Inspector X enters. Maria professes her love for him. The inspector takes her in his arms and kisses her; during the long, passionate embrace that follows, Maria,

"almost subconsciously," takes the gun from the inspector's coat pocket and hides it in the folds of her evening gown. When Inspector

X promises not to harm Maria's brother, Maria reveals that Antonio is in the restaurant. The inspector now suspects that he is in grave danger, "You have brought me here to be murdered!" he says to

Maria, but Maria insists that she knows nothing. Antonio enters and, with "maddened frenzy," shoots Inspector X. "Remember. It was the student who shot him," shouts Antonio to Maria, who falls onto a bench with a "heart-rending groan." 289

Act IV, scene ii Setting: Antonio's music studio. A week or so later.

Two police officers, Ferris and the Captain, have been searching

Antonio's house but have been unable to find any incriminating

evidence, despite the fact that they strongly suspect that Antonio was involved in the murder of Inspector X. The Captain notes that

the police have been able to decipher a part of Inspector X's

diary, which indicates that the inspector regarded Antonio as a

"dangerous case of homicidal insanity." When Guiseppi is questioned,

he testifies that Antonio was in Palermo on the night of the murder.

Antonio enters; he is haggard and pale. He expresses his annoy­

ance with the presence of the police officers and accuses them of

treating him and his sister as if they were common criminals. When

the Captain mentions that Inspector X's funeral procession will

pass by the house soon, Antonio is startled. The Captain leaves

but indicates that Ferris will remain nearby.

Antonio expresses to Guiseppi his sense of guilt over having murdered the man withWiom his sister was in love. He fears that she

is dying. Maria returns from police headquarters, where she was

interrogated. She is enormously weary and is obviously on the verge

of a total mental collapse. The sound of the marching band in the

approaching funeral procession can be heard. In order to distract

his mind from thoughts of the funeral, Antonio begins to play the

piano. As the band gets closer and closer, Antonio becomes more and 290 more tormented by the sound. Finally he leaps to the window seat,

smashes the window with a chair, and shouts to the funeral procession

below, "I did it! I tell you, I did it! I killed him! I killed

him!" Ferris steps into the room. APPENDIX B

PLAYS BY WALTER NOT PRODUCED ON BROADWAY

Lost—An Opportunity (1901)^

Sergeant James (1902)

The Flag Station (1905)

The Undertow (1907)^

By the Light o f a Match (1907)

The Real Issue (1908)

Without Knowledge (1909)

Another Way (1909)

Mrs. Maxwell's Mistake (1910)^

The Better Way (1914)

The L ittle Shepherd of Kingdom Come (1916)

When thti Chickens Come Home (1916)^

Friendship (1917)

The Small Town Girl (1917)

Poor L ittle Sheep (1919)

^The dates in parentheses indicate the approximate year of com­ position . 2 The Undertow is an early version of The Challenge. 3 Mrs. Maxwell's Mistake is an early version of Fine Feathers. 4 When the Chickens Come Home was written in collaboration with Cronin Wilson. 291 292

The Mongrel (1920)

The Toy Girl (1920)

Under Northern Skies (1921)

The Onlooker (1922)

The Flapper (1922)

Thieves In Clover (1924)

Different Women (1927)

Mareva (1932)

Marriage Contract; Althea (1938)^

Going Through

The Man Who Met God

Carriage Contract; Althea was written in collaboration with Bradley King. SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

Books

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Carpenter, Bruce. The Way of t he Drama--A Study of Dramatic Forms and Moods. New York: Prentice-Hal1, 1929.

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Dickinson, Thomas H. Playwrights of the New American Theatre. New York: MacMillan, 1925.

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_ . At the New Theatre and Others. Boston: Small, Maynard, and Co., 1910.

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______, ed. Representative Plays by American Dramatists. New York: Benjamin Blom, 1921.

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Walter, Eugene. The Challenge. New York Public Library Theatre Collection, (typewri tten)

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______. Fine Feathers. New York Public Library Theatre Collec­ tion. (typewri tten)

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Arts and Decoration 14 (November 1920): 13.

Benchley, Robert. Life, November 9, 1928, p. 17.

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Metcalfe, J. S. Life 55 (February 17, 1910): 284; 67 (January 27, 1916): 160-61; 69 (April 2, 1917): 728; 71 (January 24, 1918): 142; 71 (April 25, 1918): 682.

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New York Times, February 27, 28, 1908; April 19, 1908; July 14, 23, T W 8; January 1 , 17, 20, 23, 24, 1909; February 12, 17, 1909; March 8, 1909; April 4, 1909; June 8, 10, 1909; September 30, 1909; February 2, 1910; April 9, 1911; January 2, 28, 1911; February 11, 1911; April 13, 1917; January 15, 20, 1918; April 14, 1918; 297

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