PERSONS OF THE PLAY

Ulrich Michaelis
Matthew Beeler
Mary Beeler, his wife
Martha Beeler, his sister
Annie Beeler, his daughter
Rhoda Williams, Mrs. Beeler’s niece
Dr. George Littlefield
Rev. John Culpepper
uncle Abe, an old negro
an Indian boy
A young mother with her baby
various sick people and others attendant upon them

A large old-fashioned room in Matthew Beeler’s farm-house, near a small town in the Middle West. The room is used for dining and for general living purposes. It suggests, in architecture and furnishings, a past of considerable prosperity, which has now given place to more humble living. The house is, in fact, the ancestral home of Mr. Beeler’s wife, Mary, born Beardsley, a family of the local farming aristocracy, now decayed. At the rear is a large double window, set in a broad alcove. To the right of the window is the entrance door, which opens upon the side yard, showing bushes, trees, and farm buildings.

In the right wall of the room a door and covered stairway lead to the upper story. Farther forward is a wall cupboard, and a door leading into the kitchen. Opposite this cupboard, in the left-hand wall of the room, is a mantelpiece and grate; farther back a double door, leading to a hall. Off the hall open two bedrooms (not seen), one belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Beeler, the other to Rhoda Williams, a niece of Mrs. Beeler, child of her dead sister.

The room contains, among other articles of furniture, a dining table (with detachable leaves to reduce its bulk when not in use for eating purposes), an invalid’s wheel-chair, a low sofa of generous size, and a book-shelf, upon which are arranged the scientific books which Mr. Beeler takes a somewhat untutored but genuine delight in. Tacked upon the wall near by are portraits of scientific men, Darwin and Spencer conspicuous among them, cut from periodicals. Other pictures, including family daguerreotypes and photographs, are variously distributed about the walls. Over the mantel shelf hangs a large map of the United States and Mexico, faded and fly-specked.

As the curtain rises, the room is dark, except for a dull fire in the grate. The ticking of the clock is heard; it strikes six. Martha Beeler, a woman of forty-five, enters from the kitchen, carrying a lighted lamp. She wears a shawl over her shoulders, a print dress, and a kitchen apron. She places the lamp on the table, which is set for breakfast, and puts coal on the grate, which soon flames more brightly.

She goes into the hall and is heard knocking and calling.

MARTHA.

Rhody! Rhody!

Matthew Beeler, a man of fifty, enters. He is not quite dressed,
but finishes as he comes in. Martha follows him.

Where’s that niece of yours got to now?

BEELER.

She’s helping Mary dress.

MARTHA.

What in time’s Mary gettin’ up for? She’s only in the way till the work’s done.

BEELER.

She’s restless.

MARTHA.

Significantly.

I shouldn’t wonder. Pause. I hope you know why Mary didn’t sleep.

BEELER.

Evasively.

She’s always been a light sleeper, since she got her stroke.

MARTHA.

Look here, Mat Beeler! I’m your born sister. Don’t try to fool me! You know why your wife didn’t sleep last night.

BEELER.

Maybe I do, Sis.

Points to the ceiling.

Is he up yet?

MARTHA.

Up! I don’t believe he’s been abed.

They listen, as to the tread of some one on the floor above.

Back and forth, like a tiger in a cage!

BEELER.

Shrugs.

Queer customer.

MARTHA.

Yes.

Imitates him.

“Queer customer,” that’s you. But come to doin’ anything about it!

BEELER.

Give me time, Sis, give me time!

MARTHA.

How much time do you want? He’s been in this house since Wednesday night, and this is Saturday morning.

BEELER.

Well, he’s payin’ his board, ain’t he?

At window, rolls up curtain.

Goin’ to have just such another day as yesterday. Never seen such a fog.

MARTHA.

Never seen such a fog, eh?

Comes nearer and speaks mysteriously.

Did you happen to notice how long that fog has been hangin’ over this house?

BEELER.

How long? Why, since Thursday.

MARTHA.

No, sir, since Wednesday night.

BEELER.

Looking at her, astonished.

Martha Beeler! You don’t mean to say he brought the fog?

She flounces out without answering. He lights lantern, with
dubious head-shaking, and holds it up before the print portraits.

Mornin’, Mr. Darwin. Same to you, Mr. Spencer. Still keepin’ things straight?

Grunts as he turns down his lantern, which is smoking.

I guess not very.

The hall door again opens, and Rhoda Williams, a girl of twenty,
enters, with Annie Beeler, a child of ten. Rhoda is running, with
Annie in laughing pursuit.

RHODA.

Taking refuge behind the table.

King’s X!

ANNIE.

Catching her.

You didn’t have your fingers crossed.

RHODA.

Turning Annie about, and beginning to button the child’s long
slip.

And you didn’t have your dress buttoned.

ANNIE.

That doesn’t count.

RHODA.

Yes, it does, before breakfast!

BEELER.

At the outer door.

How does your aunt strike you this morning?

RHODA.

Sobered.

She seems wonderfully better.

BEELER.

Better!

RHODA.

I don’t mean her poor body. She’s got past caring for that.

BEELER.

With sarcasm.

You mean in her mind, eh?

RHODA.

Yes, I mean better in her mind.

BEELER.

Because of what this fellow has been sayin’ to her, I suppose.

RHODA.

Yes, because of that.

BEELER.

As he puts on an old fur cap.

An out-and-out fakir!

RHODA.

You don’t know him.

BEELER.

I suppose you do, after forty-eight hours. What in the name of nonsense is he, anyway? And this deaf and dumb Indian boy he drags around with him. What’s his part in the show?

RHODA.

I know very little about either of them. But I know Mr. Michaelis is not what you say.

BEELER.

Well, he’s a crank at the best of it. He’s worked your aunt up now so’s she can’t sleep. You brought him here, and you’ve got to get rid of him.

Exit by outer door, with inarticulate grumblings, among which can
be distinguished.

Hump! Ulrich Michaelis! There’s a name for you.

ANNIE.

What’s a fakir?

Rhoda does not answer.

Cousin Rho, what’s a fakir?

RHODA.

Humoring her.

A man, way off on the other side of the world, in India, who does strange things.

ANNIE.

What kind of things?

RHODA.

Well, for instance, he throws a rope up in the air, right up in the empty air, with nothing for it to catch on, and then he climbs up the rope!

ANNIE.

Don’t he fall?

Rhoda shakes her head in portentous negation.

Steps are heard descending the stairs. The child fidgets
nervously.

ANNIE.

Listen! He’s coming down!

RHODA.

Yes, he’s coming down, right out of the blue sky.

ANNIE.

In a panic.

Let me go.

She breaks away and retreats to the hall door, watching the stair door open, and Ulrich Michaelis enter. Thereupon, with a glance of frightened curiosity, she flees. Michaelis is a man of twenty-eight or thirty, and his dark, emaciated face, wrinkled by sun and wind, looks older. His abundant hair is worn longer than common. His frame, though slight, is powerful, and his way of handling himself has the freedom and largeness which come from much open-air life. There is nevertheless something nervous and restless in his movements. He has a trick of handling things, putting them down only to take them up again immediately, before renouncing them for good. His face shows the effect of sleeplessness, and his gray flannel shirt and dark, coarse clothing are rumpled and neglected.

RHODA.

As he enters.

Good morning.

MICHAELIS.

Watching Annie’s retreat.

Is is that child afraid of me?

RHODA.

As she adds the finishing touches to the breakfast table.

Oh, Annie’s a queer little body. She has her mother’s nerves. And then she sees no one, living here on the back road. If this dreadful fog ever lifts, you’ll see that, though we’re quite near town, it’s almost as if we were in the wilderness.

The stair door opens, and an Indian boy, about sixteen years old, enters. He is dressed in ordinary clothes; his dark skin, longish hair, and the noiseless tread of his moccasined feet, are the only suggestions of his race. He bows to Rhoda, who returns his salutation; then, with a glance at Michaelis, he goes out doors.

Rhoda nods toward the closing door.

It’s really him Annie’s afraid of. He’s like a creature from another world, to her.

MICHAELIS.

Looks at her in an odd, startled way.

Another world?

RHODA.

Oh, you’re used to his people. Your father was a missionary to the
Indians, you told me.

MICHAELIS.

Yes.

RHODA.

Where?

MICHAELIS.

At Acoma.

RHODA.

Where is that?

MICHAELIS.

Standing near the wall map, touches it.

In New Mexico, by the map.

RHODA.

Comes nearer.

What is it like?

MICHAELIS.

It’s as you say another world.

RHODA.

Describe it to me.

MICHAELIS.

I couldn’t make you see it. It’s centuries and centuries from our time. And since I came here, since I entered this house, it has seemed centuries away from my own life.

RHODA.

My life has seemed far off, too my old life

MICHAELIS.

What do you mean by your old life?

RHODA.

She breaks out impulsively.

I mean I mean . Three days ago I was like one dead! I walked and ate and did my daily tasks, but I wondered sometimes why people didn’t see that I was dead, and scream at me.

MICHAELIS.

It was three days ago that I first saw you.

RHODA.

Yes.

MICHAELIS.

Three nights ago, out there in the moonlit country.

RHODA.

Yes.

MICHAELIS.

You were unhappy, then?

RHODA.

The dead are not unhappy, and I was as one dead.

MICHAELIS.

Why was that?

RHODA.

I think we die more than once when things are too hard and too bitter.

MICHAELIS.

Have things here been hard and bitter?

RHODA.

No. All that was before I came here! But it had left me feeling . The other night, as I walked through the streets of the town, the people seemed like ghosts to me, and I myself like a ghost.

MICHAELIS.

I cannot think of you as anything but glad and free.

RHODA.

When you met me on the road, and walked home with me, and said those few words, it was as if, all of a sudden, the dead dream was shattered, and I began once more to live.

Bell rings.

That is Aunt Mary’s bell.

Rhoda goes out by the hall door, wheeling the invalid chair. Martha enters from the kitchen, carrying a steaming coffee-pot and a platter of smoking meat, which she places on the table. Michaelis bows to her.

MARTHA.

Snappishly.

Hope you slept well!

She goes to the outer door, rings the breakfast bell loudly, and exit to kitchen. Rhoda enters, wheeling Mrs. Beeler in an invalid chair. Mrs. Beeler is a woman of forty, slight of body, with hair just beginning to silver. Her face has the curious refinement which physical suffering sometimes brings. Annie lingers at the door, looking timidly at Michaelis, as he approaches Mrs. Beeler and takes her hand from the arm of the chair.

MICHAELIS.

You are better?

MRS. BEELER.

Speaks with low intensity.

Much, much better.

He puts her hand gently back on the chair arm. Martha enters with other dishes. She pours out coffee, putting a cup at each plate. Mr. Beeler has entered from the kitchen, and the boy from outside. Beeler, with a glance of annoyance at his wife and Michaelis, sits down at the head of the table. Rhoda pushes Mrs. Beeler’s chair to the foot of the table and stands feeding her, eating her own breakfast meanwhile.

Michaelis sits at Mrs. Beeler’s right, Martha opposite. At Mr. Beeler’s right is the Indian boy, at his left Annie’s vacant chair. Martha beckons to Annie to come to the table, but the child, eyeing the strangers, refuses, taking a chair behind her mother by the mantelpiece. Mrs. Beeler speaks after the meal has progressed for some time in silence.

MRS. BEELER.

Mat, you haven’t said good morning to our guest.

BEELER.

Gruffly.

How are you?

He helps himself to meat and passes it to the others; the plate goes round the table. There is a constrained silence. Annie tugs at Rhoda’s skirt, and asks in dumb show to have her breakfast given her. Rhoda fills the child’s plate, with which she retreats to her place by the mantel.

MRS. BEELER.

Why doesn’t Annie come to the table?

She tries to look around. Rhoda whispers to Mrs. Beeler, who looks
at her, puzzled.

Why doesn’t Annie come?

RHODA.

She’s afraid.

MRS. BEELER.

Afraid! What is she afraid of?

RHODA.

You know how shy she is, before strangers.

MRS. BEELER.

Annie, please come here! Annie!

The child refuses, pouting, and gazing at Michaelis.

RHODA.

I wouldn’t urge her. She doesn’t want to come.

MARTHA.

Trenchantly.

Don’t blame her!

MRS. BEELER.

Gently reproving.

Martha!

MICHAELIS.

Holding out his hand to Annie.

Won’t you come here, my child?

Annie approaches slowly, as if hypnotized.

You’re not afraid of me, are you?

ANNIE.

Shyly.

Not if you won’t climb up the rope.

MICHAELIS.

Puzzled.

Climb up what rope?

RHODA.

It’s a story I was foolish enough to tell her. Do eat something,
Auntie.

MRS. BEELER.

I’ll drink a little more tea.

Rhoda raises the cup to Mrs. Beeler’s lips.

BEELER.

You can’t live on tea, Mary.

MARTHA.

I guess she can live on tea better than on some things!

With a resentful glance at Michaelis.

Some things that some folks seem to live on, and expect other folks to live on.

Michaelis looks up from Annie, who has been whispering in his ear.
Beeler nods at Martha in covert approval, as she takes up dishes
and goes into the kitchen.

MRS. BEELER.

Leans forward across the table to Michaelis.

Don’t mind my sister-in-law, Mr. Michaelis. It’s her way. She means nothing by it.

BEELER.

Between gulps of coffee, as he finishes his meal.

Don’t know as you’ve got any call to speak for Martha. She generally means what she says, and I guess she means it now. And what’s more, I guess I do, too!

MRS. BEELER.

Beseechingly.

Mat!

BEELER.

Throws down his napkin and rises.

Very well. It’s none of my business, I reckon, as long as it keeps within reason.

He puts on his cap and goes out through the kitchen.

ANNIE.

To Michaelis, continuing the whispered conversation.

And if you do climb up the rope, do you promise to come down.

MICHAELIS.

Yes, I promise to come down.

MRS. BEELER.

Leans over her plate. The others bow their heads.

Bless this food to our use, and this day to our strength and our salvation.

RHODA.

As they lift their heads.

Perhaps it will be light enough now without the lamp.

Michaelis, holding Annie’s hand, rises, goes to the window, and rolls up the shades, while Rhoda extinguishes the lamp. The fog is still thick, and the light which enters is dull. Rhoda unpins the napkin from her aunt’s breast, and wheels her back from the table. The boy crouches down by the grate, Indian fashion. Annie looks at him with shy, half-frightened interest.

MRS. BEELER.

Gazing out, from where she sits reclining.

The blessed sun! I never thought to see it rise again so beautiful.

RHODA.

Looks at her aunt, puzzled and alarmed.

But, Auntie, there isn’t any sun! It’s

She breaks off, seeing Michaelis place his finger on his lips as a
signal for her to be silent. Mrs. Beeler turns to Rhoda, puzzled.

MRS. BEELER.

There isn’t any sun? Why

Rhoda pretends not to hear. Mrs. Beeler turns to Michaelis.

What does she mean by saying there is no sun?

MICHAELIS.

She means she doesn’t see it.

MRS. BEELER.

Still puzzled.

But you see it, don’t you?

MICHAELIS.

I see the same sun that you see.

MRS. BEELER.

Looks again at Rhoda, then dismisses her wonderment, and looks out
at the window dreamily.

Another day and to-morrow the best of all the days of the year.

ANNIE.

What day is to-morrow?

She leaves Michaelis and comes to her mother’s side.

What day is to-morrow?

MRS. BEELER.

With exultation in her voice.

My child, to-morrow is the most wonderful and the most beautiful day of all the year. The day when all over the whole world there is singing in the air, and everything rises into new life and happiness.

ANNIE.

Fretfully.

Mamma, I don’t understand! What day is to-morrow?

MRS. BEELER.

To-morrow is Easter.

ANNIE.

With sudden interest.

Easter! Can I have some eggs to color?

MRS. BEELER.

Ask Aunt Martha.

ANNIE.

Singsong, as she skips out.

Eggs to color! Eggs to color!

Rhoda has meanwhile fetched a large tray from the cupboard and has
been piling the dishes noiselessly upon it.

RHODA.

Shall I wheel you in, Aunt Mary?

MRS. BEELER.

Yes, please.

Rhoda wheels the chair toward the hall door, which Michaelis
opens. Mrs. Beeler gazes at him as she passes.

Will you come in soon, and sit with me? There is so much that I want to hear.

MICHAELIS.

Whenever you are ready.

MRS. BEELER.

I will ring my bell.

As they go out, Martha bustles in, gathers up the dish tray and is
about to depart, with a vindictive look. At the door she turns, and
jerks her head toward the boy.

MARTHA.

Is it against the law to work where he comes from?

MICHAELIS.

Abstractedly.

What? No.

MARTHA.

Then he might as well do me some chores. Not but right, payin’ only half board.

MICHAELIS.

To the boy.

Do whatever she tells you.

The boy follows Martha out. Michaelis stands by the window in
thought. As Rhoda reenters, he looks up. He speaks significantly,
with suppressed excitement.

She saw the sun!

RHODA.

Poor dear Auntie!

MICHAELIS.

You pity her?

RHODA.

After an instant’s silence, during which she ponders her reply.

I think I envy her.

She removes the cloth from the table, and begins deftly to put the
room in order. Michaelis watches her with a kind of vague
intentness.

MICHAELIS.

How long did you say she had been sick?

RHODA.

More than four years nearly five.

MICHAELIS.

She has never walked in that time?

RHODA.

Shakes her head.

Nor used her right hand, either.

MICHAELIS.

With intensity.

Are you certain?

RHODA.

Surprised at his tone.

Yes I haven’t lived here long, but I am certain.

MICHAELIS.

She has tried medicine, doctors?

RHODA.

Uncle has spent everything he could earn on them. She has been three times to the mineral baths, once as far as Virginia.

MICHAELIS.

But never as far as Bethesda.

RHODA.

Bethesda? Where is that?

MICHAELIS.

The pool, which is called Bethesda, having five porches.

RHODA.

Oh, yes. The pool in the Bible, where once a year an angel troubled the waters, and the sick and the lame and the blind gathered, hoping to be healed.

MICHAELIS.

And whoever first, after the troubling of the waters, stepped in, he was made whole of whatsoever disease he had.

RHODA.

If anybody could find the way there again, it would be Aunt Mary.

Pause.

And if anybody could show her the way it would be you.

She goes on in a different tone, as if to escape from the
embarrassment of her last speech.

Her saying just now she saw the sun. She often says things like that.
Have you noticed?

MICHAELIS.

Yes.

RHODA.

With hesitation.

Her brother Seth the one who died has she told you about him?

MICHAELIS.

Yes.

RHODA.

What she thinks happens since he died?

Michaelis nods assent.

And yet in most other ways her mind is perfectly clear.

MICHAELIS.

Perhaps in this way it is clearer still.

RHODA.

Startled.

You mean that maybe she really does see her brother?

MICHAELIS.

It may be.

RHODA.

It would make the world a very different a very strange place, if that were true.

MICHAELIS.

The world is a very strange place.

Pause.

RHODA.

Tell me a little about your life. That seems to have been very strange.

MICHAELIS.

Vaguely, as he seats himself by the table.

I don’t know. I can hardly remember what my life was.

RHODA.

Why is that?

MICHAELIS.

Gazing at her.

Because, since I came into this house, I have seen the vision of another life.

RHODA.

With hesitation.

What other life?

MICHAELIS.

Since my boyhood I have been

He hesitates.

I have been a wanderer, almost a fugitive . And I never knew it, till now I never knew it till I looked into your face!

RHODA.

Avoiding his gaze.

How should that make you know?

MICHAELIS.

Leans nearer.

All my life long I have walked in the light of something to come, some labor, some mission, I have scarcely known what but I have risen with it and lain down with it, and nothing else has existed for me. Nothing, until I lifted my eyes and you stood there. The stars looked down from their places, the earth wheeled on among the stars. Everything was as it had been, and nothing was as it had been; nor ever, ever can it be the same again.

RHODA.

In a low and agitated voice.

You must not say these things to me. You are I am not . You must not think of me so.

MICHAELIS.

I must think of you as I must.

Pause. Rhoda speaks in a lighter tone, as if to relieve the
tension of their last words.

RHODA.

Tell me a little of your boyhood. What was it like that place where you lived?

MICHAELIS.

Becomes absorbed in his own mental pictures as he speaks.

A great table of stone, rising five hundred feet out of the endless waste of sand. A little adobe house, halfway up the mesa, with the desert far below and the Indian village far above. A few peach trees, and a spring a sacred spring, which the Indians worshipped in secret. A little chapel, which my father had built with his own hands. He often spent the night there, praying. And there, one night, he died. I found him in the morning, lying as if in quiet prayer before the altar.

RHODA.

After a moment’s hush.

What did you do after your father died?

MICHAELIS.

I went away south, into the mountains, and got work on a sheep range. I was a shepherd for five years.

RHODA.

And since then?

MICHAELIS.

Hesitates.

Since then I have wandered about, working here and there to earn enough to live on.

RHODA.

I understand well why men take up that life. I should love it myself.

MICHAELIS.

I didn’t do it because I loved it.

RHODA.

Why, then?

MICHAELIS.

I was waiting my time.

RHODA.

In a low tone.

Your time for what?

MICHAELIS.

To fulfil my life my real life.

RHODA.

Your real life?

He sits absorbed in thought without answering. Rhoda continues,
after a long pause.

There in the mountains, when you were a shepherd that was not your real life?

MICHAELIS.

It was the beginning of it.

RHODA.

With hesitation.

Won’t you tell me a little about that time?

MICHAELIS.

In the fall I would drive the sheep south, through the great basin which sloped down into Mexico, and in the spring back again to the mountains.

RHODA.

Were you all alone?

MICHAELIS.

There were a few men on the ranges, but they were no more to me than the sheep not so much.

RHODA.

Weren’t you dreadfully lonely?

MICHAELIS.

No.

RHODA.

You hadn’t even any books to read?

MICHAELIS.

Takes a took from his coat pocket.

I had this pocket Bible, that had been my father’s. I read that sometimes. But always in a dream, without understanding, without remembering.

His excitement increases.

Yet there came a time when whole chapters started up in my mind, as plain as if the printed page were before me, and I understood it all, both the outer meaning and the inner.

RHODA.

And you didn’t know what made the difference?

MICHAELIS.

Yes.

RHODA.

What was it?

MICHAELIS.

I can’t tell you that.

RHODA.

Oh, yes!

MICHAELIS.

There are no words to tell of it.

RHODA.

Yet tell me. I need to know. Believe me, I need to know!

MICHAELIS.

Slowly, groping for his words.

It was one morning in the fourth spring. We were back in the mountains again. It was lambing time, and I had been up all night. Just before sunrise, I sat down on a rock to rest. Then it came.

RHODA.

What came?

He does not answer.

You saw something?

He nods for yes.

What was it?

MICHAELIS.

Rises, lifting his arms, a prey to uncontrollable excitement.

The living Christ! Standing before me on the mountain, amid the grazing sheep. With these eyes and in this flesh, I saw Him.

Long pause.

RHODA.

In a low tone.

You had fallen asleep. It was a dream.

MICHAELIS.

Shakes his head in negation.

That wasn’t all.

He turns away. She follows him, and speaks after a silence.

RHODA.

Tell me the rest. What happened to you, after after what you saw that morning in the mountains?

MICHAELIS.

Begins to talk slowly and reluctantly.

I lived straight ahead, with the sheep for two years.

RHODA.

Hesitating.

Did you ever see anything again?

MICHAELIS.

No. But twice I heard a voice.

RHODA.

What kind of a voice?

MICHAELIS.

The first time it came at night. I was walking on the top of the mountain, in a stony place. It it was like a wind among the stones.

RHODA.

What did it say?

MICHAELIS.

It said, “Prepare! Prepare!”

RHODA.

And the second time?

MICHAELIS.

In the same place, at dawn. The voice said, “Go forth, it is finished!” I looked round me and saw nothing. Then it came again, like a wind among the stones, “Go forth, it is begun!”

RHODA.

And you obeyed?

MICHAELIS.

I found a man to take my place, and started north. Three days after, I climbed the mesa toward my old home. Above, in the pueblo, I heard the sound of tom-toms and wailing squaws. They told me that the young son of the chief lay dead in my father’s chapel. I sat beside him all day and all night. Just before daylight

He breaks off abruptly.

RHODA.

Go on!

MICHAELIS.

Just before daylight, when the other watchers were asleep, the power of the spirit came strong upon me. I bowed myself upon the boy’s body, and prayed. My heart burned within me, for I felt his heart begin to beat! His eyes opened. I told him to arise, and he arose. He that was dead arose and was alive again!

Pause. Mrs. Beeler’s bell rings. Michaelis starts, looks about him
as if awakened from a dream, then slowly goes toward the hall door.
Rhoda follows and detains him.

RHODA.

In a low tone.

How long had he lain for dead?

MICHAELIS.

Three days.

RHODA.

With hesitation.

I have heard that people have lain as long as that in a trance, breathing so lightly that it could not be told, except by holding a glass before the face.

MICHAELIS.

Startled.

Is that true?

RHODA.

I have read so.

MICHAELIS.

I wonder I wonder.

He stands in deep thought.

But I have had other signs.

RHODA.

What other signs?

MICHAELIS.

Many, many. Up and down the land!

Pause.

I wonder. I I almost wish it were so!

With bent head he goes out. Rhoda stands looking after him until the inner door closes, then sits before the fire in revery. Beeler comes in from the barn. He wears his old fur cap, and holds in one hand a bulky Sunday newspaper, in the other some battered harness, an awl, twine, and wax, which he deposits on the window seat. He lays the paper on the table, and unfolds from it a large colored print, which he holds up and looks at with relish.

BEELER.

These Sunday papers do get up fine supplements. I wouldn’t take money for that picture.

RHODA.

Looks at it absently.

What does it mean?

BEELER.

Reads.

“Pan and the Pilgrim.” Guess you never heard of Pan, did you?

RHODA.

Yes. One of the old heathen gods.

BEELER.

Call him heathen if you like! The folks that worshipped him thought he was orthodox, I guess.

He pins up the print, which represents a palmer of crusading times
surprised in the midst of a forest by the god Pan.

RHODA.

What does the picture mean?

BEELER.

Well, Pan there, he was a kind of a nature god. The old Romans thought him out, to stand for a lot of things.

RHODA.

What kind of things?

BEELER.

Natural things, with plenty of sap and mischief in ’em. Growin’ plants, and frisky animals, and young folks in love.

He points to the figure of Pan, then to the Pilgrim, as he talks.

There he sits playin’ Jenny-come-kiss-me on his dod-gasted mouth-organ, when along comes one of them fellows out of a monastery, with religion on the brain. Pikin’ for Jerusalem, to get a saint’s toe-nail and a splinter of the true cross.

Martha enters from the kitchen and potters about the room “redding
up."

Look at him! Do you think he’ll ever get to Jerusalem? Not this trip! He hears the pipes o’ Pan. He hears women callin’ and fiddles squeakin’ love-tunes in the woods. It’ll take more than a monk’s robe on his back and a shaved head on his shoulders to keep him straight, I reckon. He’ll call to mind that young fellows had blood in their veins when Adam was a farmer, and whoop-la! he’ll be off to the county fair, to dance ring-around-a-rosy with Matildy Jane!

Pause, as he takes off his cap and light his pipe.

Like to see our friend Michaelis meet up with Mr. Pan. Don’t believe Michaelis ever looked cross-eyed at a girl.

He examines Rhoda quizzically.

You wouldn’t make up bad as Matildy Jane yourself, Rho, but sufferin’ Job, he can’t tell the difference between crow’s feet and dimples!

MARTHA.

Don’t you be so sure!

BEELER.

Hello! Dan’el come to judgment! Never seen an old maid yet that couldn’t squeeze a love story out of a flat-iron.

MARTHA.

I may be an old maid, and you may be an old wind-bag, but I’ve got eyes in my head.

To Rhoda.

Where did you meet up with him, anyway?

Rhoda, plunged in thought, does not answer.

BEELER.

Wake up, Rhody! Marthy asked you where you met up with our new boarder.

RHODA.

On the road, coming home from the village.

BEELER.

What made you bring him here?

RHODA.

He wanted a quiet place to stay, and this was the best I knew.

MARTHA.

Guess it was! A snap for him.

She goes out by the hall door.

RHODA.

Rises, takes the lamp off the mantel, and during the following
cleans and refills it.

BEELER.

As he takes off his coat, and hangs it up.

Rhody, ain’t this religious business rather a new thing with you? Up there in St. Louis, didn’t go in for it much up there, did you?

RHODA.

Looks at him quickly.

Why do you ask that?

BEELER.

Oh, I gathered, from things I heard, that you cared more about dancin’ than about prayin’, up there.

She turns away.

That young fellow that was so sweet on you in St. Louis year before last, he wa’n’t much in the psalm-singin’ line, was he?

RHODA.

Startled and pale.

Who told you about him?

BEELER.

Oh, Mary’s friends, the Higginses, used to write us about your affairs. We thought it would be a hitch-up, sure as shootin’. Studyin’ to be a doctor, wasn’t he?

RHODA.

Uncle, please never speak to me about him again!

BEELER.

All right, all right, my girl. I’ve been young myself, and I know youth is touchy as a gumboil when it comes to love affairs. So it’s all off, is it?

RHODA.

Yes.

BEELER.

Sits down to mend the harness.

If you’re partial to the pill trade, we’ve got a brand new doctor in town now. Took old Doctor Martin’s place. He’ll be up here to see Mary in a day or two, and you can look him over.

RHODA.

What is his name?

BEELER.

Tries in vain to recall it.

Blamed if I can remember. Only seen him once. But I tell you, he’s smart as tacks. Chuck full of Jamaica ginger. The very kind I’d have swore you’d take to, a while back, before you lost your fun and your spirit. When I first saw you on your father’s farm out in Kansas, you was as wild a little gypsy as I ever set eyes on. I said then to your dad, “There’s a filly that’ll need a good breakin’.” I never thought I’d see you takin’ up with these Gospel pedlers.

Martha comes in from the hall and fusses about, dusting, etc. She
points in the direction of Mrs. Beeler’s room.

MARTHA.

They’re prayer-meetin’ it again. And Mary lyin’ there as if she saw the pearly gates openin’ before her eyes.

BEELER.

Half to himself as he works.

Poor Mary! Mary’s a strange woman.

MARTHA.

To Rhoda.

Your mother was the same way, Rhody. The whole Beardsley tribe, for that matter. But Mary was the worst. It begun with Mary as soon as her brother Seth got drowned.

BEELER.

Looks up, angry.

None of that, Sis!

MARTHA.

I guess my tongue’s my own.

BEELER.

No, it ain’t. I won’t have any more of that talk around me, do you hear? I put my foot down a year ago.

MARTHA.

Points to his foot derisively.

It’s big enough and ugly enough, Heaven knows, but you can put it down as hard as you like, it won’t keep a man’s sperrit in his grave not when he’s a mind to come out!

BEELER.

Astonished.

Martha Beeler!

MARTHA.

That’s my name.

She flounces out into the kitchen, covering her retreat with her
last speech.

BEELER.

Looking after her.

My kingdom! Martha! I thought she had some horse sense left.

RHODA.

Slowly, as the finishes with the lamp.

Uncle, it’s hard to live side by side with Aunt Mary and not

BEELER.

In angry challenge.

And not what?

RHODA.

And not believe there’s something more in these matters than “horse sense” will account for.

BEELER.

Hotly, as if a sort point has been touched upon.

There’s nothing more than science will account for.

He points to a shelf of books.

You can read it up any day you like. Read that book yonder, chapter called Hallucinations. Pathological, that’s what it is, pathological.

RHODA.

What does that mean?

Beeler taps his forehead significantly.

Uncle, you know that’s not true!

BEELER.

Growls to himself.

Pathological, up and down.

Rhoda replaces the lamp on the mantel.

Martha opens the kitchen door and calls in.

MARTHA.

Here’s Uncle Abe!

BEELER.

Uncle Abe? Thought he was a goner.

Uncle Abe enters. He is an old negro, with gray hair and thin, gray beard. He is somewhat bowed, and carries a stick, but he is not decrepit. His clothes are spattered with mud. Martha enters with him; she is stirring something in a bowl, and during the following continues to do so, though more and more interruptedly and absent-mindedly.

BEELER.

Hello, Uncle Abe.

UNCLE ABE.

Good-mawnin’, Mista Beeler.

BEELER.

Where’ve you been all winter? Thought you’d gone up Salt River.

UNCLE ABE.

Shakes his head reassuringly.

Ain’ nevah goin’ up no Salt River, yo’ Uncle Abe ain’t.

BEELER.

Indicating Rhoda.

Make you acquainted with my wife’s niece, Miss Williams.

Uncle Abe bows.

RHODA.

Pushing forward a chair.

Sit down, Uncle. I don’t see how you found your way in this dreadful fog.

UNCLE ABE.

Fawg don’ matta’ nothin’ to me, honey. Don’ mean nothin’ ’tall.

He speaks with exaltation and restrained excitement.

Yo’ ol’ Uncle keeps on tellin’ ’em, dis hyah fawg an’ darkness don’ mean nothin’ ’tall!

Rhoda and Martha look at him puzzled.

Beeler, busy over his harness, has not been struck by the old
negro’s words.

BEELER.

How’s the ginseng crop this year?

UNCLE ABE.

They ain’ no mo’ gimsing!

BEELER.

No more ginseng? What do you mean?

UNCLE ABE.

De good Lawd, he ain’ goin’ fool roun’ no mo’ wif no gimsing!

BEELER.

Amused.

Why, I thought your ginseng bitters was His main holt.

UNCLE ABE.

With a touch of regret.

Use to be, Mars’ Beeler. It shore use to be. Yes, sah. Bless de Lawd!

Shakes his head in reminiscence.

He sartinly did set sto’ by them thah bitters.

BEELER.

With lazy amusement.

So the Lord’s gone back on ginseng now, has He?

UNCLE ABE.

Yes, sah.

BEELER.

What makes you think so?

UNCLE ABE.

Solemnly.

Roots all kill by de fros’!

His manner grows more and more mysterious; he half closes his
eyes, as he goes on in a strange, mounting singsong.

Knowed it more’n a monf ago, fo’ dis hyah blin’ worl’ lef’ de plough in de ploughshare an’ de ungroun’ wheat betwixen de millstones, and went a-follerin’ aftah dis hyah new star outen de Eas’, like a bride follerin’ aftah de bridegroom!

Martha taps her forehead significantly, and goes back to her
batter.

BEELER.

New star, Uncle? Tell us about it. Sounds interesting.

UNCLE ABE.

Stares at each of them in turn.

Ain’ you-all heerd?

BEELER.

You’ve got the advantage of us.

UNCLE ABE.

Ain’ you-all heerd ’bout de Healer?

BEELER.

Healer? What kind of a healer?

UNCLE ABE.

With mounting indignation at Beeler’s tone.

De Bible kin’, dat’s what kin’! De kin’ what makes de lame fer to walk, and de blin’ fer to see, an’ de daid fer to riz up outen their daid col’ graves. That’s what kin’! Mean to say you-all ain’ heerd nothin’ ‘bout him, you po’ chillun o’ dawkness?

Martha and Beeler look at each other in amazement. Rhoda sits
looking at the old negro, white and tense with excitement.

BEELER.

Nope.

Recollecting.

Hold on!

MARTHA.

To Beeler.

Don’t you remember, in the papers, two or three weeks ago? Where was it? Somewheres out West.

BEELER.

Believe I did read some such goin’s-on. Don’t pay much attention to such nonsense.

UNCLE ABE.

Solemn and threatening.

Tek keer, Mistah Beeler! Tek keer what you say ’fore dese here cloudy witnesses. Don’ you go cuttin’ yo’self off from de Kingdom. Nor you, Mis’ Martha, nor you, honey. Don’ ye do it! It’s a-comin’. Yo’ ol’ Uncle Abe he’s seen and heerd.

RHODA.

Tell us quickly what you mean!

UNCLE ABE.

Mean jes’ what I says, honey. Night fo’ last, de Healer, he come, like’s if he jes’ plum’ drop from de sky.

More mysteriously.

An’ whar’s he gone to? You listen to yo’ ol’ Uncle Abe a-tellin’ you. He ain’ gone no-whars! He’s jes’ meechin’ roun’ in de fawg, a-waitin’ fer de Lawd to call folks. En He’s a-callin’ ’em! He’s a-callin’ ’em by tens an’ by hundreds. Town’s full a’ready, honey. Main Street look jes’ lak a fiel’ hospital, down Souf durin’ de wah!

MARTHA.

Meeting Beeler’s astonished look.

What did I tell you? Maybe you’ll listen to me next time.

RHODA.

To Uncle Abe, in a low, agitated voice.

This man you call the Healer is he alone?

UNCLE ABE.

No, honey; folks says he don’ nevah go no-wheres by hisse’f. Always got that thah young man wif ’im what he raise from de daid.

BEELER.

Rises, with a shrug.

Good evening!

He crosses to the portraits of Darwin and Spencer.

You made quite a stir in your time, didn’t you? Well, it’s all up with you!

MARTHA.

In a voice strident with nervousness.

Raised from the dead?

UNCLE ABE.

That’s what they says, Mis’ Martha. Folks calls ’im Laz’rus in ref’ence to de Bible chil’ what riz up jes’ same way lak’, outen de daid col’ tomb.

The Indian boy enters from the kitchen, his shoes and trousers spattered with mud. Uncle Abe looks at him, then at the others, and whispers to Rhoda. Martha bustles forward, hiding her agitation in scolding speech.

MARTHA.

Well, did you get my coffee and my sal-soda?

Lazarus points, without speaking, to the kitchen.

BEELER.

To Martha.

Did you send him to the store?

MARTHA.

Yes, I did send him to the store. If I had my way, I’d send him further.

The boy hesitates, then goes stolidly out by the stair door. Uncle
Abe lifts his arm ecstatically.

UNCLE ABE.

That’s him! I tell ye that’s the chil’ what’s said “Howdy” to the daid folks down yonder. I’se seen ‘im in my dreams, an’ now I’se seen ’im wif dese hyah two eyes. O Lawd, bless dis hyah house o’ grace!

BEELER.

I guess it’s about time that fellow come out and exploded some of this tomfoolery.

He starts towards his wife’s room.

RHODA.

Stopping him.

Please don’t.

BEELER.

Peevishly.

There’s got to be an end to this hoodoo business in my house.

Annie enters from the kitchen, dabbled with dye. She holds two
colored eggs in her hands.

ANNIE.

Look! I’ve colored two.

MARTHA.

Good gracious, child. What a mess!

ANNIE.

Pa! Play crack with me! Just once, to see how it goes.

BEELER.

Go in and ask your mother if she’ll let you.

Annie, her eggs in her apron, opens the hall door. About to pass
out, she stops, drops the eggs with a scream, and runs back, gazing
towards the hall as she takes refuge behind Rhoda’s skirts.

ANNIE.

Pa! Auntie! Ma’s walking!

Mrs. Beeler enters, walking uncertainly, her face full of intense
exaltation. Michaelis comes just behind her, transfigured by
spiritual excitement.

BEELER AND MARTHA.

Starting forward.

Mary!

RHODA.

Aunt Mary!

Mrs. Beeler advances into the room, reaching out her hand to Annie, who takes it in speechless fright. She bends over and kisses the child’s head, then stretches out her other hand to her husband.

MRS. BEELER.

Mat, I’m cured! The Lord has heard our prayers, for His saint’s sake.

BEELER.

Why, Mary, I can’t believe this it’s too it’s not possible!

MRS. BEELER.

Looking at Michaelis.

It is written that he who has faith, even as a grain of mustard seed .
I have had faith.

MARTHA.

Law, you’ve had faith enough any time these five years, Mary. There was something else wanting, ’pears to me.

MRS. BEELER.

There was wanting the word of true belief, saying, “Suffer no more!
Stoop and drink of the waters of mercy and healing.”

Outside, the shrill soprano of a woman is heard, taking up a hymn. At the sound Michaelis goes to the window. He stands rigid, listening to the hymn to the end of the verse, when other voices join in the chorus. The fog has partially cleared.

MICHAELIS.

Turning slowly to Rhoda.

Who are they?

RHODA.

Sick people.

MICHAELIS.

How did they find out I was here?

RHODA.

It was known you were somewhere near. They have been gathering for days. They saw the boy, just now, in the village.

MRS. BEELER.

Comes a step or two nearer Michaelis.

Your great hour is at hand!

He looks distractedly about. The light has faded from his face,
giving place to strong nervous agitation, resembling fear. He
speaks as if to himself.

MICHAELIS.

My hour! My hour! And I and I !

He puts his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out some vision of
dread.

MRS. BEELER.

You will not fail them? You cannot fail them, now.

Michaelis looks at Mrs. Beeler, then for a long time at Rhoda. He
gathers himself together, and gazes steadfastly before him, as at
some unseen presence.

No. I have waited so long. I have had such deep assurances. I must not fail. I must not fail.

CURTAIN