[AUSTIN opens the note and reads it. As he does so JINNY has passed on to the desk and sees AUSTIN's unfinished letter to RUTH, which after a little hesitation she picks up and reads. AUSTIN, having read RUTH'S note, looks up thoughtfully a second, and then re-reads it. JINNY is furious over what she reads. As she finishes she gives a little cry from the very depths of her heart. JINNY. Oh, Jack! JINNY. Nothing! [She sinks by the desk, crushing the letter in her hand. She looks over at him, and then down at the letter, and then back at him. AUSTIN. Maggie! JINNY. [Rising suddenly. She speaks with a voice trembling with only half-contained emotion and passion.] I told her to wait in the hall; may I read it? [Holding out her hand for the letter. AUSTIN. Now look here, Jinny,-I always let you read everything, don't I? JINNY. [Hiding his letter behind her back.] Yes. [Holding out her other hand.] Give it to me! AUSTIN. Now begin to show that you really are going to turn over a new leaf, and that your love is going to have perfect confidence, and don't ask to see this letter. JINNY. But I do ask to see it! AUSTIN. If it tells you that, the letter lies! Give it to me! JINNY. No! I'll read it to you! [Reads with bitter emphasis.] "The satisfaction of the visit to Brooklyn prevents me from being disappointed at having missed your telegram till too late to go to your house to-night!" So you and she went to Brooklyn, did you, and that's why you came back too late to go to the theater with me? You cheat! [She screams in her madness. A pause.] Why don't you answer-why don't you say something? AUSTIN. Because if I speak as I feel, I'm afraid of saying something I'll regret all my life! JINNY. You don't deny, then? AUSTIN. Yes! that is due to Ruth. Whatever you may feel about me, you have no right to insult her! JINNY. Oh, there's more to the letter! AUSTIN. Jinny, don't you see what you're doing? JINNY. Yes, I'm getting at the truth at last! [Reads.] "My heart aches for the blow you must have this evening! The man who loves you-" AUSTIN. You shan't read any more; you're mad now! [Tearing the letter away from her. JINNY. I don't need the letter, the words are burning in here! [Pressing her hands to her AUSTIN. Then this time I must refuse forehead.] "The man who loves you isn't you! JINNY. What! is it even more compromising than your letter to her? AUSTIN. What letter? [Looking first on the desk, he looks across at her and sees it in her hand. He is angry, but also frightened for fear it has told her her brother's secret.] And you've read it? JINNY. It lay open on the desk there, and anyway the end justifies me! AUSTIN. [In an agony.] What does it tell you? I forget what I wrote! JINNY. It tells me that my jealousy all along has been right, that I've been a fool to let you blind me! AUSTIN. [With a great sigh of relief.] Is that all? JINNY. [Beside herself.] "Is that all!" Isn't that enough? Dear God, isn't that enough? That there's an understanding between you and Ruth to get rid of me! bad, only weak. However, I feel once we can shake off the burden of this present marriage"-oh! you-you brute to say that!"you will never have cause to complain of him again! So far I have been able to keep Jinny in perfect ignorance, but I feel the blow must fall upon her now-" [Interrupted. AUSTIN. Shall I tell you the truth? JINNY. You don't have to; I've found it out for myself! AUSTIN. [In weariness, in disgust, in utter hopelessness.] No! what's the use. You've done it now-let it go! Let it all go-the whole thing! What's the use!-it's finished! A knock on the door at Right.] Come in! [Maggie enters and closes the door behind her. MAGGIE. Please, sir, Miss Chester came upstairs and made me knock again to see if there was an answer and if you will see her now or not. JINNY. [Suddenly-aflame with her idea.] Yes! Maggie, show her in! AUSTIN. No, no! What do you want to do! I'll see Miss Chester to-morrow, Maggie. [JINNY has crossed to the door, Right. JINNY. Ruth! Ruth! RUTH. [Off stage.] Yes? May I come? JINNY. Do come in! [She recrosses room; she and AUSTIN face each other for a second. AUSTIN. [In a lowered voice.] For God's sake, be careful! RUTH. Jinny! [RUTH enters Right. [Going to her quickly to embrace her. [JINNY, without speaking, draws away and stares at her with a look of hatred. RUTH, seeing it, stops short, and looks from JINNY to AUSTIN for explanation-she turns to AUSTIN and gives him her hand, which he takes, presses, and drops; JINNY's shoulders contract at this moment; RUTH immediately turns again to JINNY. RUTH. What is it, Jinny? [To AUSTIN.] Surely she doesn't blame me in any way. JINNY. Blame you! AUSTIN. She doesn't know. JINNY. That's a lie! I know everything, Ruth! I know why you followed my husband to Rome, and why he sent for you to come back here. I know that you and he were in Brooklyn this afternoon, and that you only plan to get rid of me by some me divorce, and by hook or crook to marry each other! AUSTIN. Geoffrey is not at your house? RUTH. No, he left when I came on here. As I wrote you in the note I sent upstairs, I was too stunned by what he told me to answer then, and I wanted a word of advice with you. [She turns to JINNY.] I knew what I thought was my marriage to your brother must be kept secret, but I could not learn why. This was my trouble, which, after your marriage, I selfishly laid on your husband's shoulders, thinking he might help me! [No answer from JINNY, who stands as if struck dumb and into stone.] Mr. Austin only learned the whole truth when we met that day in Rome. I did not learn till to-day that I was not honestly your brother's wife. I had to be told, because divorce proceedings are to be started at once to break-the other marriage. [No answer from JINNY] To spare me, and above all to spare you the knowledge of your brother's sin, your husband has kept Geoffrey's secret from you. You have well repaid him! [She turns again to AUSTIN.] Good-by-I feel to-night I couldn't marry Geoffrey again. He's tumbled so far off his pedestal he has fallen out of my heart. But still-we'll see; I've told him to come to-morrow. Thank you from the bottom of my heart—it's full of gratitude, even if it is broken! [She goes out Right. [JINNY slowly turns, almost afraid to look at AUSTIN. He stands stern, with set face. JINNY. [In a low voice, ashamed to go near him.] Can you forgive me? Can youAUSTIN. Ugh! [Crossing room for his coat. JINNY. I'm mad! You know I don't know what I do. But I love you—I love you! Forgive me! AUSTIN. Never! [Taking up his coat gas bracket at the Right and turns on the gas. She lights it to see if the gas is all right; then blows it out. She then crosses to the other bracket and turns that on; she goes to the chandelier at center, and, mounting a chair, turns on its three jets. She then sits down by the table with AUSTIN's picture before her, and looking into its eyes, her elbows on the table, her head in her hands, she waits.] Oh, Jack, my beloved! I couldn't help it-I never for one minute stopped loving you bette. chan [He goes out, slamming the door behind everything else in my life, but no more than him. I could stop loving you could I stop or help being jealous! Once the cruel idea has got hold of me it seems to have to work its way out! Everything gets red before me and I don't seem to know what I say or do! It's no excuse, I know. I've got no excuse, only I love you! You'll forgive me when I'm gone, won't you, Jack? You'll know I loved you!— loved you so I couldn't live without you!— loved you!-loved you! [She kisses the photograph tenderly, adoringly, slowly, in tears.] Loved-you-loved you!-loved[Her head drops forward as THE CURTAIN FALLS ACT IV1 SCENE I Dawn of the next day. At the rise of the curtain JINNY is by the open window, whose curtains she has thrown aside. The sky is blood-red and streaked with gold the moment before sunrise. JINNY is worn and haggard, with hair disheveled. JINNY. [Turning and leaning against the window.] Day at last! What a night-what a night-but now it's morning and he hasn't come back! He means it! And it's my own fault-it's my own fault! [She shivers. She closes the window and comes away. After a moment's pause she goes deliberately and looks at the several gas fixtures in the room. She then closes all the doors and locks them. She carefully draws down the shade and closes in the curtains of the window. She hesitates, then pulls aside the curtains and the shade, and takes a long, last look at the dawn. She closes it all in again. She gets Austin's picture from the desk and places it on the table near the center of the room. She then goes to the 1 The scene remains the same as in the preceding act. SCENE II The The same morning, three hours later. curtain rises on the same scene in a dull, cold, early morning light. The lamp has burnt itself out. A tiny ray of sunlight steals through a slip between the curtains. JINNY sits by the table, her arms spread over it and her head on her arms-she is perfectly still. AUSTIN'S picture is before her. There is a moment's silence. Voices are heard outside, approaching door, at Right. Gradually what they say is distinguished. MAGGIE. No, sir. She hasn't been to bed; I've been to her bedroom-that door's not unlocked. TILLMAN. She's been here all night? MAGGIE. Yes, sir. But twice in the night, sir, I came to the door and spoke to her and she wouldn't answer me-but I could hear her walking up and down and sometimes talking to herself. TILLMAN. [Calls softly.] Jinny! [Knocks softly.] It's father! [No answer \ It looks as if she were asleep now. AUSTIN. [At a little distance.] Father! TILLMAN. I'm outside the library door. AUSTIN. [Nearer.] I can't wait-have you seen her? Will she see me? TILLMAN. She's locked herself in here. She's not been to her own room. AUSTIN. Not been to bed at all! Poor Jinny-God forgive me. TILLMAN. Maggie says she's walked the floor all night. [He knocks on the door Right. AUSTIN. [Outside the door, Right, rather softly.] Jinny! I'm so sorry! I can't say how sorry! I've thought it out through the night, and I think I understand things better. [He waits a moment for an answer.] Jinny, answer me! you shall be as jealous as you like, and I'll always explain and kiss away those doubts of yours, and I'll have no more secrets from you, dear. Not one! Jinny! [As he calls there is a slight movement of one of JINNY's arms. With a note of alarm.] Father! I can't hear a sound of breathing! [A moment's pause as they listen.] She threatened it-she threatened it several times! [With great determination.] We must get into this room-do you hear me we must get in if we have to break the door down! [They shake the door. He calls a little louder.] Jinny, Jinny darling-do you hear me? [JINNY makes a sort of feeble effort to lift her head, but fails.] Jinny, for God's sake, answer me! I love you, Jinny-Jinny! | [Very slowly JINNY lifts her head and, with difficulty, she hears as if in a dream; she is dazed, barely alive.] She doesn't answer! TILLMAN. See if the key is in the lock. TILLMAN. Get the other keys, Maggie. AUSTIN. Gas, I tell you! O God! she's killed herself! Jinny! Jinny! articulate whisper! She tries again, but fails. MAGGIE. Here's a key, sir. [JINNY tries to go to the door; she staggers a few steps and then falls. [They try one key-it does not unlock the door; they try another. [JINNY half raises herself and makes an effort to crawl, but is unable and sinks back upon the floor. AUSTIN. Break the door in, father! We daren't waste any more time! TILLMAN. No, this has done it! [They open the door and rush in. They stop aghast at JINNY and the oppressiveness of the gas in the room. TILLMAN. Jinny! AUSTIN. Quick-the window! [TILLMAN tears aside the curtains and throws open the window. The sunshine of full morning pours in. He then rushes to the opposite gas burners and turns them off. Kneeling quickly beside her.] Jinny! My wife! My beloved! [He takes her up in his arms and hurries to the window. TILLMAN. Are we too late? AUSTIN. I don't know. No! she's breathing and see-see!-she knows me!-she knows me! [JINNY smiles at him pathetically. Send Maggie for the doctor! [TILLMAN goes out Right. AUSTIN. Jinny, forgive me! Forgive me! Forgive me! [She slips her two arms up and joins them about his neck. AUSTIN kisses ker.) Father! We've saved her! Oh, thank God, we've saved her! [Bringing her to big chair and putting her in it, he kneels at her feet. JINNY. [Whispers faintly.] Dear Jack! You forgive me-all my beastly jealousy? AUSTIN. There's one thing stronger even than jealousy, my Jinny. And that's LOVE! That's LOVE! [He kisses her hands, and THE CURTAIN FALLS STEPHEN CRANE (1871-1900) Crane, the fourteenth child of a Methodist preacher who had only some nine or ten years more to live, was born in Newark, New Jersey, on 1 November, 1871. He was a delicate child, too much subject to colds and a sore throat from his earliest days. As he grew up he became strong, but in his early manhood he fell a victim to chronic and severe indigestion and the threat of trouble from his lungs never left him;-on the contrary, becoming a reality, it was the immediate cause of his early death on the night of 4 June, 1900. Into his few years he crowded a vast deal not only of varied experience, but also of literary work, despite the fact that, as his wife said, his great difficulty was that he could not write steadily with sustained application. His formal education was fragmentary, and it brought him but the slightest positive benefit. He spent a year and a half in 1887-1888 in the Hudson River Institute, at Claverack, New York, where he became eminent as a baseball player and as a fighter the fight in which he showed his strength having been started, curiously enough, by Crane's assertion that Tennyson's poetry was "swill." Thence, after a summer of work for his brother, who ran a press bureau at Asbury Park, Crane went to Lafayette College, where he stayed a year (18891890). At this time he considered Tolstoy the world's greatest writer and was also reading Flaubert, though with less admiration. The following year was spent at Syracuse University, where he acted as correspondent for the New York Tribune, and this was the end of his collegiate life. He had already determined to become a writer, and his mother, who was soon to die, gave her approval, telling him only that he must always be good and independent and honest. Independence and honesty were precisely his aims in his work, and, if he was neither good nor careful, he was at least better than would be supposed from the marvelous and scandalous tales which envious gossipers freely invented or circulated concerning him, as his biographer (Thomas Beer) has made clear. Crane now became outwardly a journalist. He was not a good reporter, but his startling and colorful writing opened to him the doors of newspapers and periodicals. His real work, however, was the search for the intense and burning core of "reality." He turned in disgust from the sentimentalism and prim decorum characteristic of much popular American fiction in his day, and felt that even the self-confessed realists saw life through blinders. He concluded that the bare, essential truth about life was to be discovered by stripping it of its decoration, of its accretions of culture and respectability. His biographer tells an illuminating story of later days. When Crane and Acton Davies were warcorrespondents in Cuba in 1898 the latter "was moaning for his dear Broadway. He wanted such and such dishes at his pet restaurant, such wines and a lustrous lady to sit across from him. Crane cut short the dream by saying, 'Why don't you just say you want a good meal and a girl and be done with it?"" This is the measure of his simplification of life in his search for the "real." In 1891, in New York, he thought the Bowery the center of the human stage, and there sought to know prostitutes and tramps. Maggie, A Girl of the Streets (printed at Crane's expense, after unsuccessful efforts to sell it, at the end of 1892) was the outcome, a novel of power which won the admiration of W. D. Howells, who tried in vain to secure recognition for it. Howells did, however, succeed in helping Crane in another direction, for he read to him some of the poems of Emily Dickinson, which aroused Crane's keenest interest and impelled him to his own striking experiments, in a loose unrhymed form of verse, which, both in style and in aim, remarkably anticipated some of the distinctive American poetry of the early twentieth century. Crane's verses are all contained in two thin volumes, The Black Riders and Other Lines (1895) and War is Kind (1899). Meanwhile the search for the "real" continued, and Crane began to imagine that it would be rewarded by the study of war, which, he thought, by its cruelties and terrors strips men of their accidental trappings and exposes their essential natures. This interest brought forth The Red Badge of Courage (1895), a masterly novel written with true insight which was at once successful and which has been widely read ever since its publication. The same interest continued to excite Crane, and sent him to Florida in the middle 1890's in the hope of witnessing trouble in Cuba, and then as a war-correspondent to Greece, and finally back to Cuba in 1898. Thus material was gathered for a number of short-stories. During the last several years of his life (save for the interval when he was in Cuba) Crane lived in England, latterly near Rye, when he won the cordial friendship of Henry James. He also was a valued friend of Joseph Conrad. |