Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays - LightNovelsOnl.com
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STRICKLAND. Good G.o.d!
[_And utterly unnerved he collapses to a chair. There is a long pause._]
THE GIRL [_crossing slowly to the window, and drawing aside the curtain_]. Look! What a beautiful night! The thousands of sleeping houses! The millions of s.h.i.+ning stars! And the lights beneath! And in the distance, how the stars and the lights meet! So that one cannot say: "Here G.o.ds ends; Here Man begins."
[_The telephone rings, harshly, and shrilly. Strickland goes to the receiver._]
STRICKLAND [_quietly_]. Yes?... You're afraid I'm going to miss the train?... Yes? Well, I'm _going_ to miss the train!... I'm going to stay and face the music! [_Hysterically._] I'm an honest man, d'ye hear me?
I'm an honest man. [_And furiously, he pitches the telephone to the floor, and stands panting, s.h.i.+vering, on the spot. From the window a soft radiance beckons, and trembling in every limb, putting out his hands as if to ward off some unseen obstacle, he moves there slowly._]
Did you hear what I told him? I'm going to make good. I'm going to face the music! Because I'm an honest man! An honest man!
[_He gasps, stops abruptly, and in a sudden panic-stricken movement, tears the curtains down. The window is closed--has never been opened--but the girl has vanished. And as Strickland, burying his face in his hands, drops to his knees in awe,_
_The Curtain Falls._]
NIGHT
A PLAY
BY SHOLOM ASCH
Translated by Jack Robbins.
Copyright, 1920, by Sholom Asch.
All rights reserved.
NIGHT was originally produced by the East-West Players, at the Berkeley Theatre, New York City, April 7, 1916, with the following cast:
THE OUTCAST [_prost.i.tute_] _Miriam Reinhardt_.
THE DRUNKARD _Mark Hoffman_.
THE BEGGAR _Maxim Vodianoy_.
THE b.a.s.t.a.r.d _Jack d.i.c.kler_.
THE FOOL _Max Lieberman_.
THE THIEF _Gustav Blum_.
HELENKA _Elizabeth Meltzer_.
THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE _Bryna Zaranov_.
Produced under the direction of GUSTAV BLUM.
Applications for permission to produce NIGHT must be addressed to Mr. Sholom Asch, 3 Bank Street, New York.
NIGHT
A PLAY BY SHOLOM ASCH
[_Night in a market place. A small fire burns near a well. On a bench near it sleeps the Beggar. The old Prost.i.tute is warming herself. There is the sound of dogs barking in the distance. Vast shadows move about the market-place. The Drunkard emerges from the gloom of the night._]
DRUNKARD. Good evening, Madam Prost.i.tute. [_Listens to the dogs._] Why are the dogs whining like this to-night?
PROSt.i.tUTE. They must be seeing things.
DRUNKARD. Yes, your black soul. Perhaps they think you a devil. That's why they chase all over the butchers' stalls. No wonder. They've reason to be afraid.
BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.
PROSt.i.tUTE. A drunkard and a prost.i.tute are the same thing. None of us is clean of sin.
BEGGAR [_sleepily_]. Don't take me for a "pal."
[_Sleeps on._]
DRUNKARD. Leave him alone. He sings hymns the whole day long.
BEGGAR. Poverty is no sin.
DRUNKARD. Don't mix in. [_To the Prost.i.tute._] What do dogs see at night?
PROSt.i.tUTE. They say that on the first of May the Holy Mother walks through the market place, and gathers all the stray souls.
DRUNKARD. What have the dogs got to do with it?
PROSt.i.tUTE. They are people laden with sins. People who died without the Holy Sacrament, and who were buried outside of the fence. At night they roam about the market in the shape of dogs. They run about in the stalls of the butchers. The devil, too, stays there, but when the first of May comes and the prayers begin, the Holy Mother walks through the market-place. The souls of the d.a.m.ned cling to her dress, and she takes them with her to Heaven.
[_Pause for a minute._]
BEGGAR [_turning in his sleep_]. Strong vinegar bursts the cask. Her soul must be black indeed.
DRUNKARD. It's awful to look into it. You'll be among them yet....
PROSt.i.tUTE. I'm not afraid of that. The mercy of G.o.d is great. It will reach even me. But all of you will be among the dogs too. Those who live in the street come back to the street after death.
BEGGAR. The street is the home of the beggar. Poverty is no sin.
[_Stretches himself and sleeps on. There is a pause. The Fool comes out of the darkness. He is tall, with a vacant, good-humored face, dressed in a soldier's hat, with a wooden toy-sword in his girdle. He grins kindly._]
DRUNKARD. Ah, good evening, Napoleon. [_He salutes the Fool._] Where do you hail from?
FOOL [_grins and chuckles_]. From Turkey. I have driven out the Turk.
