Street Scene (1929)/Act I
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Setting by Jo Mielziner
ACT ONE
SCENE: The exterior of a “walk-up” apartment-house, in a mean quarter of New York. It is of ugly brownstone and was built in the ’90’s. Between the pavement of large, gray flagstones and the front of the house, is a deep and narrow “area-way,” guarded by a rusted, ornamental iron railing. At the right, a steep flight of rotting wooden steps leads down to the cellar and to the janitor’s apartment, the windows of which are just visible above the street level. Spanning the area-way is a “stoop” of four shallow, stone steps, fllanked on either side by a curved stone balustrade. Beyond the broad fourth step, another step leads to the double wooden outer doors of the house; and as these are open, the vestibule, and the wide, heavy glass-panelled entrance door beyond are visible. Above the outer doors, is a glass fanlight, upon which appears the half-obliterated house number. At the left side of the doorway is a sign which reads: “Flat To-Let. 6 Rooms. Steam Heat.”
On either side of the stoop, are the two narrow windows of the ground-floor apartments. In one of the windows, at the left, is a sign bearing the legend: “Prof. Filippo Fiorentino. Music for all occasions. Also instruction.” Above, are the six narrow windows of the first-floor apartments, and above that, the stone sills of the second-floor windows can just be seen.
To the left of the house, part of the adjoining building is visible: the motor entrance to a storage warehouse. Crude boarding across the large driveway and rough planks across the sidewalk and curb indicate that an excavation is in progress. On the boarding is painted in rude lettering: “Keep Out”; and at the curb is a small barrel bearing a sign with the words: “Street Closed.” To the wall of the warehouse is affixed a brass plate, bearing the name: “Patrick Mulcahy Storage Warehouse Co. Inc.”
To the right of the house, scaffolding and a wooden sidewalk indicate that the house next door is being demolished. On the scaffolding is a large, wooden sign reading: “Manhattan House-Wrecking Corp.”
In the close foreground, below the level of the curb, is a mere suggestion of the street.
AT RISE: The house is seen in the white glare of an arc-light, which is just off-stage to the right. The windows in the janitor’s apartment are lighted, as are also those of the ground-floor apartment, at the right, and the two windows at the extreme left of the first-floor. A dim, red light is affixed to the boarding of the excavation at the left.
In the lighted ground-floor window, at the right of the doorway, Abraham Kaplan is seated, in a rocking-chair, reading a Yiddish newspaper. He is a Russian Jew, well past sixty: clean-shaven, thick gray hair, hooked nose, horn-rimmed spectacles. To the left of the doorway, Greta Fiorentino is leaning out of the window. She is forty, blonde, ruddy-faced and stout. She wears a wrapper of light, flowered material and a large pillow supports her left arm and her ample, uncorseted bosom. In her right hand is a folding paper fan, which she waves languidly.
Throughout the act and, indeed, throughout the play, there is constant noise. The noises of the city rise, fall, intermingle: the distant roar of “L” trains, automobile sirens and the whistles of boats on the river; the rattle of trucks and the indeterminate clanking of metals; fire-engines, ambulances, musical instruments, a radio, dogs barking and human voices calling, quarrelling and screaming with laughter. The noises are subdued and in the background, but they never wholly cease.
A moment after the rise of the curtain, an elderly man enters at the right and walks into the house, exchanging a nod with Mrs. Fiorentino. A Man, munching peanuts, crosses the stage from left to right.
A Voice
[Off-stage]: Char-lie!
Mrs. Fiorentino
[She speaks with a faint German accent]: Good evening, Mrs. Jones.
Mrs. Jones
[Stopping beneath Mrs. Fiorentino’s window]: Good evenin’, Mrs. F. Well, I hope it’s hot enough for you.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Ain’t it joost awful? When I was through with the dishes, you could take my clothes and joost wring them out.
Mrs. Jones
Me, too. I ain’t got a dry stitch on me.
Mrs. Fiorentino
I took off my shoes and my corset and made myself nice and comfortable, and tonight before I go to bed, I take a nice bath.
Mrs. Jones
The trouble with a bath is, by the time you’re all through, you’re as hot as when you started. [As Olga Olsen, a thin, anemic Scandinavian, with untidy fair hair, comes up the cellar steps and onto the sidewalk]: Good evenin’, Mrs. Olsen. Awful hot, ain’t it?
Mrs. Olsen
[Coming over to the front of the stoop]: Yust awful. Mrs. Forentiner, my hoosban’ say vill you put de garbage on de doom-vaider?
Mrs. Fiorentino
Oh, sure, sure! I didn’t hear him vistle. [As Mrs. Jones starts to cross to the stoop]: Don’t go ’vay, Mrs. Jones. [She disappears from the window.]
Mrs. Olsen
[Pushing back some wisps of hair]: I tank is more cooler in de cellar.
Mrs. Jones
[Sitting on the stoop and fanning herself with her parcel]: Phew! I’m just about ready to pass out.
Mrs. Olsen
My baby is crying, crying all day.
Mrs. Jones
Yeah, I often say they mind the heat more’n we do. It’s the same with dogs. My Queenie has jes’ been layin’ aroun’ all day.
Mrs. Olsen
The baby get new teet’. It hurt her.
Mrs. Jones
Don’t tell me! If you was to know what I went t’roo with my Vincent. Half the time, he used to have convulsions.
Willie
[Raising his head and bawling]: Hey, ma!
Mrs. Jones
[Disapprovingly]: If you want your mother, why don’t you go upstairs, instead o’ yellin’ like that?
Willie
[Without paying the slightest attention to her, bawls louder]: Hey, ma!
Mrs. Maurrant
[Appearing at the one of the lighted first-floor windows]: What do you want, Willie?
Willie
Gimme a dime, will ya? I wanna git a cone.
Mrs. Maurrant
[To Mrs. Olsen and Mrs. Jones]: Good evening.
Mrs. Olsen
Mrs. Jones
Good evenin’, Mrs. Maurrant.
Mrs. Maurrant
[To Willie]: How many cones did you have today, already?
Willie
[Belligerently]: I’m hot! All de other guys is havin’ cones. Come on, gimme a dime.
Mrs. Maurrant
Well, it’s the last one. [She disappears.]
Mrs. Jones
You certainly don’t talk very nice to your mother. [To Mrs. Olsen]: I’d like to hear one o’ mine talkin’ that way to me!
Mrs. Maurrant
[Appearing at the window]: Remember, this is the last one.
Willie
Aw right. T’row it down.
Mrs. Maurrant
Catch it!
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Twisting her neck upwards]: Good evening, Mrs. Maurrant.
Mrs. Maurrant
Good evening, Mrs. Fiorentino. [Calling after Willie]: And don’t come home too late, Willie!
[But Willie is already out of earshot.]
Mrs. Fiorentino
Why don’t you come down and be sociable?
Mrs. Maurrant
I’m keeping some supper warm for my husband. [A slight pause]: Well, maybe I will for just a minute.
Mrs. Fiorentino
She has her troubles with dot Willie.
Mrs. Jones
I guess it don’t bother her much. [Significantly]: She’s got her mind on other things.
Mrs. Olsen
[Looking about cautiously and coming over to the left of the stoop between the two women]: He vas comin’ again today to see her.
Mrs. Jones
[Rising excitedly, and leaning over the balustrade]: Who—Sankey?
Mrs. Olsen
[Nodding]: Yes.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Are you sure, Mrs. Olsen?
Mrs. Olsen
I seen him. I vas doostin’ de halls.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Dot’s terrible!
Mrs. Jones
Wouldn’t you think a woman her age, with a grown-up daughter—!
Mrs. Olsen
Two times already dis veek, I see him here.
Mrs. Jones
I seen him, meself, one day last week. He was comin’ out o’ the house, jest as I was comin’ in wit’ de dog. “Good mornin’, Mrs. Jones,” he says to me, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Good mornin’,” says I, lookin’ him straight in the eye—[Breaking off suddenly, as the vestibule door opens]: Be careful, she’s comin’.
Mrs. Maurrant
Goodness, ain’t it hot! I think it’s really cooler upstairs.
[She comes down the steps to the sidewalk.]
Mrs. Jones
Yeah, jes’ what I was sayin’, meself. I feel like a wet dish-rag.
Mrs. Maurrant
I would have liked to go to the Park concert tonight, if Rose had got home in time. I don’t get much chance to go to concerts. My husband don’t care for music. But Rose is more like me—just crazy about it.
Mrs. Jones
Ain’t she home yet?
Mrs. Maurrant
No. I think maybe she had to work overtime.
Mrs. Jones
Well, all mine ever comes home for is to sleep.
Mrs. Fiorentino
The young girls nowadays—!
Mrs. Olsen
My sister was writin’ me in Schweden is same t’ing—
Mrs. Jones
It ain’t only the young ones, either.
[A baby is heard crying in the cellar.]
Olsen’s Voice
[From the cellar]: Ol-ga!
Mrs. Olsen
[Hurrying to the right]: I betcha the baby, she’s cryin’ again.
Olsen’s Voice
Ol-ga!
Mrs. Olsen
Yes. I come right away.
[She goes down the cellar steps.]
Mrs. Jones
What them foreigners don’t know about bringin’ up babies would fill a book.
Mrs. Fiorentino
[A little huffily]: Foreigners know joost as much as other people, Mrs. Jones. My mother had eight children and she brought up seven.
Mrs. Jones
[Tactfully]: Well, I’m not sayin’ anythin’ about the Joimans. The Joimans is different—more like the Irish. What I’m talkin’ about is all them squareheads an’ Polacks—[With a glance in Kaplan’s direction]:—an’ Jews.
Buchanan’s Voice
[From a third story window]: Good evening, ladies.
The Women
[In unison, looking upward]: Oh, good evening, Mr. Buchanan.
Buchanan’s Voice
Well, is it hot enough for you?
Mrs. Jones
I’ll say!
Buchanan’s Voice
I was just saying to my wife, it’s not the heat I mind as much as it is the humidity.
Mrs. Jones
Yeah, that’s it! Makes everything stick to you.
Mrs. Maurrant
How’s your wife feeling in this weather?
Buchanan’s Voice
She don’t complain about the weather. But she’s afraid to go out of the house. Thinks maybe she couldn’t get back in time, in case—you know.
Mrs. Jones
[To the other women]: I was the same way, with my Vincent—afraid to take a step. But with Mae, I was up an’ out till the very last minute.
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Craning her neck upward]: Mr. Buchanan, do you think she would eat some nice minestrone—good Italian vegetable-soup?
Buchanan’s Voice
Why, much obliged, Mrs. F., but I really can’t get her to eat a thing.
Mrs. Jones
[Rising and looking upward]: Tell her she ought to keep up her strength. She’s got two to feed, you know.
Buchanan’s Voice
Excuse me, she’s calling.
Mrs. Jones
[Crossing to the railing, at the left of Mrs. Fiorentino]: You’d think it was him that was havin’ the baby.
Mrs. Maurrant
She’s such a puny little thing.
Mrs. Fiorentino
[With a sigh]: Well, that’s the way it goes. The little skinny ones have them and the big strong ones don’t.
Mrs. Maurrant
Don’t take it that way, Mrs. Fiorentino. You’re a young woman, yet.
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Shaking her head]: Oh, well!
Mrs. Jones
My aunt, Mrs. Barclay, was forty-two—[Breaking off]: Oh, good evenin’, Mr. Maurrant!
Mrs. Fiorentino
Good evening, Mr. Maurrant.
Maurrant
’Evenin’. [He goes to the stoop and seats himself, mopping his face.] Some baby of a day!
Mrs. Maurrant
Have you been working all this while, Frank?
Maurrant
I’ll say I’ve been workin’. Dress-rehearsin’ since twelve o’clock, with lights—in this weather. An’ tomorra I gotta go to Stamford, for the try-out.
Mrs. Maurrant
Oh, you’re going to Stamford tomorrow?
Maurrant
Yeah, the whole crew’s goin’. [Looking at her]: What about it?
Mrs. Maurrant
Why, nothing. Oh, I’ve got some cabbage and potatoes on the stove for you.
Maurrant
I just had a plate o’ beans at the Coffee Pot. All I want is a good wash. I been sweatin’ like a horse, all day.
[He rises and goes up the steps.]
Mrs. Fiorentino
My husband, too; he’s sweating terrible.
Mrs. Jones
Mine don’t. There’s some people that just naturally do, and then there’s others that don’t.
Maurrant
[To Mrs. Maurrant]: Is anybody upstairs?
Mrs. Maurrant
No. Willie’s off playing with the boys. I can’t keep him home.
Maurrant
What about Rose?
Mrs. Maurrant
I think maybe she’s working overtime.
Maurrant
I never heard o’ nobody workin’ nights in a real-estate office.
Mrs. Maurrant
I thought maybe on account of the office being closed to-morrow—[To the others]: Mr. Jacobson, the head of the firm, died Tuesday, and tomorrow’s the funeral, so I thought maybe—
Mrs. Jones
Yeah. Leave it to the Jews not to lose a workin’ day, without makin’ up for it.
Maurrant
[To Mrs. Maurrant]: She shouldn’t be stayin’ out nights without us knowin’ where she is.
Mrs. Maurrant
She didn’t say a word about not coming home.
Maurrant
That’s what I’m sayin’, ain’t it? It’s a mother’s place to know what her daughter’s doin’.
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Soothingly]: Things are different nowadays, Mr. Maurrant, from what they used to be.
Maurrant
Not in my family, they’re. not goin’ to be no different. Not so long as I got somethin’ to say.
A Girl’s Voice
[Off-stage]: Red Rover! Red Rover! Let Freddie come over!
Jones
Hello, Mr. Maurrant.
Maurrant
[Curtly]: ’Evenin’.
Jones
Good evenin’, ladies.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Mrs. Maurrant
Good evening, Mr. Jones.
Jones
[Seating himself on the left balustrade]: What’s the matter with your hubby, Mrs. Maurrant? Guess he’s feelin’ the heat, huh?
Mrs. Maurrant
He’s been working till just now and I guess he’s a little tired.
Mrs. Jones
Men are all alike. They’re all easy to get along with, so long as everythin’s goin’ the way they want it to. But once it don’t—good night!
Mrs. Fiorentino
Yes, dot’s true, Mrs. Jones.
Jones
Yeah, an’ what about the women?
Mrs. Maurrant
I guess it’s just the same with the women. I often think it’s a shame that people don’t get along better, together. People ought to be able to live together in peace and quiet, without making each other miserable.
Mrs. Jones
The way I look at it, you get married for better or worse, an’ if it turns out to be worse, why all you can do is make the best of it.
Mrs. Maurrant
I think the trouble is people don’t make allowances. They don’t realize that everybody wants a kind word, now and then. After all, we’re all human, and we can’t just go along by ourselves, all the time, without ever getting a kind word.
Sankey
[Stopping at the right of the stoop and removing his hat]: Good evening, folks! Is it hot enough for you?
The Others
Good evening.
Mrs. Maurrant
[Self-consciously]: Good evening, Mr. Sankey.
Sankey
I don’t know when we’ve had a day like this. Hottest June fifteenth in forty-one years. It was up to ninety-four at three P.M.
Jones
Six dead in Chicago. An’ no relief in sight, the evenin’ paper says.
Mrs. Fiorentino
It’s joost awful!
Sankey
Well, it’s good for the milk business. You know the old saying, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.
Mrs. Maurrant
Yes. You hardly get the milk in the morning, before it turns sour.
Mrs. Jones
I’m just after pourin’ half-a-bottle down the sink.
[Maurrant leaves the window.]
Mrs. Fiorentino
You shouldn’t throw it avay. You should make—what do you call it?—schmier-käs’.
Sankey
Oh, I know what you mean—pot-cheese. My wife makes it, too, once in a while.
Mrs. Maurrant
Is your wife all right again, Mr. Sankey? You were telling me last time, she had a cold.
Sankey
Was I? Oh, sure, sure. That was a couple weeks ago. Yes, sure, she’s all right again. That didn’t amount to anything much.
Jones
You got a family, too, ain’t you?
Sankey
Yes. Yes, I have. Two little girls. Well, I got to be going along. [He goes to the left of the stoop and stops again]: I told my wife I’d go down to the drug-store and get her some nice cold ginger-ale. You want something to cool you off in this kind of weather.
Mrs. Jones
[As Sankey passes her]: If you ask me, all that gassy stuff don’t do you a bit of good.
Sankey
I guess you’re right, at that. Still it cools you off. Well, good-night, folks. See you all again.
[A dowdy Woman, wheeling a dilapidated baby carriage, appears at the left, and crosses the stage.]
Jones
What’s his name—Sankey?
Mrs. Jones
Yeah—Mr. Sankey.
Maurrant
He’s the collector for the milk company.
Miss Cushing
[Coming down the steps]: Good evening.
The Others
Good evening, Miss Cushing.
Mrs. Maurrant
How is your mother today, Miss Cushing?
Miss Cushing
[Pausing at the left of the stoop]: Why, she complains of the heat. But I’m afraid it’s really her heart. She’s seventy-two, you know. I’m just going down to the corner to get her a little ice-cream.
Olsen
Phew! Hot!
Mrs. Jones
[Significantly, as she crosses to the center of the stoop and sits]: Between you and I, I don’t think her mother’s got long for this world. Once the heart starts goin’ back on you—!
Mrs. Fiorentino
It’s too bad.
Mrs. Maurrant
Poor soul! She’ll have nothing at all when her mother dies. She’s just spent her whole life looking after her mother.
Mrs. Jones
It’s no more than her duty, is it?
Mrs. Fiorentino
You could not expect that she should neglect her mother.
A Voice
[Off-stage]: Char-lie!
Mrs. Maurrant
It’s not a matter of neglecting. Only—it seems as if a person should get more out of life than just looking after somebody else.
Mrs. Jones
Well, I hope to tell you, after all I’ve done for mine, I expect ’em to look after me, in my old age.
Mrs. Maurrant
I don’t know. It seems to me you might just as well not live at all, as the way she does. [Rising, with affected casualness]: I don’t know what’s become of Willie. I think I’d better walk down to the corner and look for him. My husband don’t like it if he stays out late.
Mrs. Jones
[Rising excitedly]: Didja get that? Goin’ to look for Willie! Can ya beat it?
Mrs. Fiorentino
It’s joost terrible!
Jones
You think she’s just goin’ out lookin’ for this guy Sankey?
Mrs. Jones
[Scornfully]: Ain’t men the limit? What do you think he come walkin’ by here for? [Mincingly]: Just strolled by to get the wife a little ginger-ale. A fat lot he cares whether his wife has ginger-ale!
Mrs. Fiorentino
Two little girls he’s got, too!
Jones
Yeah, that ain’t right—a bird like that, wit’ a wife an’ two kids of his own.
Mrs. Fiorentino
The way he stands there and looks and looks at her!
Mrs. Jones
An’ what about the looks she was givin’ him! [Seating herself again]: You’d think he was the Prince of Wales, instead of a milk-collector. And didja get the crack about not seein’ him for two weeks?
Mrs. Fiorentino
And joost today he was upstairs, Mrs. Olsen says.
Olsen
[Pointing upwards]: Some day, her hoosban’ is killing him.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Dot would be terrible!
Jones
He’s li’ble to, at that. You know, he’s got a wicked look in his eye, dat baby has.
Mrs. Jones
Well, it’s no more than he deserves, the little rabbit—goin’ around breakin’ up people’s homes. [Mockingly]: Good evenin’, folks! Jes’ like Whozis on the radio.
Jones
D’ya think Maurrant is wise to what’s goin’ on?
Mrs. Jones
Well, if he ain’t, there must be somethin’ the matter with him. But you never can tell about men. They’re as blind as bats. An’ what I always say is, in a case like that, the husband or the wife is always the last one to find out.
Miss Cushing
[Breathlessly, as she comes up the left of the stoop]: Say, what do you think! I just saw them together—the two of them!
Mrs. Jones
[Rising excitedly]: What did I tell you?
Mrs. Fiorentino
Where did you see them, Miss Cushing?
Miss Cushing
Why, right next door, in the entrance to the warehouse. They were standing right close together. And he had his hands up on her shoulders. It’s awful, isn’t it?
Jones
Looks to me like this thing is gettin’ pretty serious.
Mrs. Jones
You didn’t notice if they was kissin’ or anythin’, did you?
Miss Cushing
Well, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Jones, I was so ashamed for her, that I hardly looked at all.
Jones
[Sotto voce, as the house door opens]: Look out! Maurrant’s comin’.
Miss Cushing
[Tremulously]: Good evening, Mr. Maurrant.
Maurrant
[On the top step]: ’Evenin’. [To the others]: What’s become of me wife?
Mrs. Jones
Why, she said she was goin’ around the corner to look for Willie.
Maurrant
[Grunts]: Oh.
Mrs. Jones
They need a lot of lookin’ after, when they’re that age.
[A momentary silence.]
Miss Cushing
Well, I think I’d better get back to my mother. [She goes up the steps.]
Mrs. Jones
Mrs. Fiorentino
Jones
Good night, Miss Cushing.
Miss Cushing
Good night. [As she passes Maurrant]: Good night, Mr. Maurrant.
Maurrant
’Night.
[She looks at him swiftly, and goes into the vestibule.]
A Boy’s Voice
[Off-stage]: Red Rover! Red Rover! Let Mary come over!
Shirley
[To the neighbors outside; she speaks with the faintest trace of accent]: Good evening.
The Others
[Not very cordially]: Good evenin’.
Shirley
It’s been a terrible day, hasn’t it?
Jones
Mrs. Jones
Yeah.
Shirley
[Going to the other window]: Papa, here’s your tea. Haven’t you finished your paper yet? It makes it so hot, with the lights on.
Kaplan
[Lowering his newspaper]: Oll right! Oll right! Put it out! Put it out! There is anahoo, notting to read in de papers. Notting but deevorce, skendal, and moiders.
Shirley
There doesn’t seem to be a breath of air, anywhere.
Mrs. Jones
[Sotto voce]: You wouldn’t think anybody would want to read that Hebrew writin’, would ya? I don’t see how they make head or tail out of it, meself.
Jones
I guess if you learn it when you’re a kid—
Mrs. Jones
[Suddenly]: Well, will you look at your hubby, Mrs. F.! He’s sure got his hands full!
[She looks towards the left, greatly amused.]
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Leaning far out]: Joost look at him! [Calling]: Lippo, be careful you don’t drop any!
Lippo
[Off-stage]: ’Allo, Margherita!
Lippo
[Shouting]: Who wantsa da ice-cream cone? Nice fresha ice-cream cone!
Mrs. Fiorentino
Lippo, you will drop them!
Mrs. Jones
[Going up to him]: Here, gimme your violin.
Lippo
[As Mrs. Jones hands the violin to Mrs. Fiorentino]: T’ank you, Meeses Jones. ’Ere’s for you a nica, fresha ice-cream cone.
Mrs. Jones
[Taking a cone]: Why thank you very much, Mr. F.
Lippo
[Going up to the window]: Meeses Fiorentino, ’ere’s for you a nica, fresha ice-cream cone.
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Taking the cone]: It makes me too fat.
Lippo
Ah, no! Five, ten poun’ more, nobody can tell da deef!
Mrs. Jones
[Enjoying her cone]: Ain’t he a sketch, though?
Lippo
Meester Jones, you eata da cone, ha?
Jones
Why, yeah, I will at that. Thanks. Thanks.
Lippo
Meester Maurrant?
Mrs. Maurrant
Naw; I got me pipe.
Lippo
You lika better da pipe den da ice-cream? [Crossing the stoop]: Meesa Kaplan, nica, fresha cone, yes?
Shirley
No, thanks. I really don’t want any.
Lippo
Meester Kaplan, yes?
Kaplan
[Waving his hand]: No, no! Tenks, tenks!
Mrs. Jones
[To Jones]: You oughta pay Mr. F. for the cones.
Jones
[Reluctantly reaching into his pocket]: Why, sure.
Lippo
[Excitedly]: Ah, no, no! I don’ taka da mon’. I’m treata da whole crowd. I deedn’ know was gona be such a biga crowd or I bringa doz’. [Crossing to Olsen]: Meester Olsen, you lika da cone, ha?
Olsen
Sure. Much oblige’.
Lippo
[Seating himself on the stoop, with a long sigh of relaxation]: Aaah! [He tastes the cone and smacking his lips, looks about for approval.] Ees tasta good, ha?
Jones
[His mouth full]: You betcha!
Mrs. Jones
It cools you off a little.
Lippo
Sure. Dassa right. Cool you off. [He pulls at his clothing and sits on the stoop.] I’ma wat, wat—like I jus’ come outa da bad-tub. Ees ’ota like hal in da Park. Two, t’ree t’ousan’ people, everybody sweatin’—ees smal lika menageria.
Mrs. Jones
[Sotto voce]: She’s from the Charities. [Coming over to the stoop and calling into the vestibule]: If you’re lookin’ for Mrs. Hildebrand, she ain’t home yet.
Miss Simpson
[Coming to the doorway]: Do you know when she’ll be back?
Mrs. Jones
Well, she oughta be here by now. She jus’ went aroun’ to the Livingston. That’s the pitcher-theayter.
Miss Simpson
[Outraged]: You mean she’s gone to a moving-picture show?
Olsen
[Calmly]: She’s comin’ now.
Lippo
[Rising to his feet and calling vehemently]: Mees Hil’brand! Hurry up! Hurry up! Ees a lady here.
Miss Simpson
[Coming out on the steps]: Well, good evening, Mrs. Hildebrand!
Mrs. Hildebrand
[Flustered]: Good evening, Miss Simpson.
Miss Simpson
Where have you been?—to a moving-picture show?
Mrs. Hildebrand
Yes ma’am.
Miss Simpson
And where did you get the money?
Mrs. Hildebrand
It was only seventy-five cents.
Miss Simpson
Seventy-five cents is a lot, when you’re being dispossessed and dependent upon charity. I suppose it came out of the money I gave you to buy groceries with.
Mrs. Hildebrand
We always went, Thursday nights, to the pictures when my husband was home.
Miss Simpson
Yes, but your husband isn’t home, And as far as anybody knows, he has no intention of coming home.
Kaplan
[Leaning forward out of his window]: Ees dis your conception of cherity?
Shirley
Papa, why do you interfere?
Miss Simpson
[To Kaplan]: You’ll please be good enough to mind your own business.
Kaplan
You should go home and read in your Bible de life of Christ.
Mrs. Jones
[To Mrs. Fiorentino]: Will you listen to who’s talkin’ about Christ!
Miss Simpson
[Turning her back on Kaplan and speaking to Mrs. Hildebrand]: You may as well understand right now that nobody’s going to give you any money to spend on moving-picture shows.
Lippo
Ah, wotsa da matter, lady? [He thrusts his hand into his pocket and takes out a fistful of coins.] ’Ere, you taka da mon’, you go to da pitcha, ever’ night. [He forces the coins into Mrs. Hildebrand’s hand.] An’ here’s for da bambini. [He gives each child a nickel.]
Mrs. Fiorentino
[To Mrs. Jones]: Dot’s why we never have money.
Mrs. Hildebrand
[Bewildered]: I really oughtn’t to take it.
Lippo
Sure! Sure! I got plenta mon’.
Miss Simpson
[Disgustedly]: We’d better go inside. I can’t talk to you here, with all these people.
Mrs. Hildebrand
[Meekly]: Yes ma’am.
Mrs. Jones
Wouldn’t she give you a pain?
Lippo
I tella you da whola troub’. She’s a don’ gotta nobody to sleepa wit’.
[The men laugh.]
Mrs. Jones
[To Mrs. Fiorentino]: Ain’t he the limit!
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Greatly pleased]: Tt!
Lippo
Somebody go sleepa wit’ her, she’s alla right, Meester Jones, ’ow ’bout you?
[Shirley, embarrassed, leaves the window.]
Jones
[With a sheepish grin]: Naw, I guess not.
Lippo
Wot’sa matter? You ’fraid you’ wife, ha? Meester Maurrant, how ’bout you?
[Maurrant emits a short laugh.]
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Delighted]: Lippo, you’re joost awful.
Lippo
[Enjoying himself hugely]: Alla ri’. Ahma gonna go myself!
[He laughs boisterously. The others laugh too.]
Mrs. Jones
[Suddenly]: Here’s your wife, now, Mr. Maurrant.
Lippo
’Allo, Meeses Maurrant. Why you don’ come to da concerto?
Mrs. Maurrant
Well, I was waiting for Rose, but she didn’t get home. [To Maurrant, as she starts to go up the steps]: Is she home yet, Frank?
Maurrant
No, she ain’t. Where you been all this while?
Mrs. Maurrant
Why, I’ve been out looking for Willie.
Maurrant
I’ll give him a good fannin’, when I get hold of him.
Mrs. Maurrant
Ah, don’t whip him, Frank, please don’t. All boys are wild like that, when they’re that age.
Jones
Sure! My boy Vincent was the same way. An’ look at him, today—drivin’ his own taxi an’ makin’ a good livin’.
Lippo
[Leaning on the balustrade]: Ees jussa same t’ing wit’ me. W’en Ahm twelva year, I run away—I don’ never see my parent again.
Maurrant
That’s all right about that. But it ain’t gonna be that way in my family.
Mrs. Maurrant
[As Miss Simpson comes out of the house]: Look out, Frank. Let the lady pass.
Miss Simpson
Excuse me.
Lippo
Meeses Hil’brand, she gotta de tougha luck, ha? Tomorra, dey gonna t’row ’er out in da street, ha?
Miss Simpson
[Stopping at the right of the stoop and turning towards him]: Yes, they are. And if she has any place to sleep, it will only be because the Charities find her a place. And you’d be doing her a much more neighborly act, if you helped her to realize the value of money, instead of encouraging her to throw it away.
Lippo
[With a deprecatory shrug]: Ah, lady, no! I give ’er coupla dollar, maka ’er feel good, maka me feel good—dat don’ ’urt nobody.
[Shirley reappears at the window.]
Miss Simpson
Yes it does. It’s bad for her character.
Kaplan
[Throwing away his cigarette and laughing aloud]: Ha! You mek me leff!
Miss Simpson
[Turning, angrily]: Nobody’s asking your opinion.
Kaplan
Dot’s oll right. I’m taling you wit’out esking. You hoid maybe already dot poem:
“Orgenized cherity, measured and iced,
In der name of a kushus, stetistical Christ.”
Miss Simpson
[Fiercely]: All the same, you Jews are the first to run to the Charities.
Kaplan
[Leaning out of the window]: Come back and I’ll tal you somet’ing will maybe do good your kerecter.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Lippo!
Mrs. Jones
[Highly amused]: Look at him, will ya?
Lippo
[Laughing and waving his hand]: Gooda-bye, lady! [He comes back to the stoop.]
Kaplan
[To the others]: Dey toin out in de street a mudder vit’ two children, and dis female comes and preaches to her bourgeois morelity.
Mrs. Jones
[To Mrs. Fiorentino]: He’s shootin’ off his face again.
Shirley
Papa, it’s time to go to bed!
Kaplan
[Irritably]: Lat me alone, Shoiley. [Rising and addressing the others]: Dees cherities are notting but anudder dewise for popperizing de verking-klesses. W’en de lendlords steal from de verkers a million dollars, dey give to de Cherities a t’ousand.
Maurrant
Yeah? Well, who’s puttin’ her out on the street? What about the lan’lord here? He’s a Jew, ain’t he?
Mrs. Jones
I’ll say he’s a Jew! Isaac Cohen!
Kaplan
Jews oder not Jews—wot has dis got to do vit’ de quastion? I’m not toking releegion, I’m toking economics. So long as de kepitalist klesses—
Maurrant
[Interrupting]: I’m talkin’ about if you don’t pay your rent, you gotta move.
Mrs. Maurrant
It doesn’t seem right, though, to put a poor woman out of her home.
Mrs. Fiorentino
And for her husband to run away—dot vos not right either.
Lippo
I betcha ’e’s got ’nudder woman. He find a nice blonda chicken, ’e run away.
Mrs. Jones
There ought to be a law against women goin’ around, stealin’ other women’s husbands.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Yes, dot’s right, Mrs. Jones.
Maurrant
Well, what I’m sayin’ is, it ain’t the landlord’s fault.
Kaplan
Eet’s de folt of our economic system. So long as de institution of priwate property exeests, de verkers vill be at de moicy of de property-owning klesses.
Maurrant
That’s a lot o’ bushwa! I’m a woikin’ man, see? I been payin’ dues for twenty-two years in the Stage-Hands Union, If we’re not gettin’ what we want, we call a strike, see?—and then we get it.
Lippo
Sure! Ees same wit’ me. We gotta Musician Union. We getta pay for da rehears’, we getta pay for da overtime—
Shirley
That’s all right when you belong to a strong union. But when a union is weak, like the Teachers’ Union, it doesn’t do you any good.
Mrs. Jones
[To Mrs. Fiorentino]: Can y’ imagine that?—teachers belongin’ to a union!
Kaplan
[Impatiently]: Oll dese unions eccomplish notting wotever. Oll dis does not toch de fondamental problem. So long as de tuls of industry are in de hands of de kepitalist klesses, ve vill hev exploitation and sloms and—
Maurrant
T’ hell wit’ all dat hooey! I’m makin’ a good livin’ an’ I’m not doin’ any kickin’.
Olsen
[Removing his pipe from his mouth]: Ve got prosperity, dis coontry.
Jones
You said somethin’!
Kaplan
Sure, for de reech is planty prosperity! Mister Morgan rides in his yacht and upstairs dey toin a voman vit’ two children in de street.
Maurrant
And if you was to elect a Socialist president tomorra, it would be the same thing.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Yes, dot’s right, Mr. Maurrant.
Jones
You’re right!
Kaplan
Who’s toking about electing presidents? Ve must put de tuls of industry in de hends of de vorking-klesses and dis ken be accomplished only by a sushal revolution!
Maurrant
Yeah? Well, we don’t want no revolutions in this country, see?
[General chorus of assent.]
Mrs. Jones
I know all about that stuff—teachin’ kids there ain’t no Gawd an’ that their gran’fathers was monkeys.
Jones
[Rising, angrily]: Free love, like they got in Russia, huh?
Maurrant
There’s too goddam many o’ you Bolshevikis runnin’ aroun’ loose. If you don’t like the way things is run here, why in hell don’t you go back where you came from?
Shirley
Everybody has a right to his own opinion, Mr. Maurrant.
Maurrant
Not if they’re against law and order, they ain’t. We don’t want no foreigners comin’ in, tellin’ us how to run things.
Mrs. Fiorentino
It’s nothing wrong to be a foreigner. Many good people are foreigners.
Lippo
Sure! Looka Eetalians. Looka Cristoforo Colombo! ’E’sa firs’ man discov’ America—’e’s Eetalian, jussa like me.
Maurrant
I’m not sayin’ anythin’ about that—
Olsen
[Removing his pipe]: Firs’ man is Lief Ericson.
Lippo
[Excitedly, going towards Olsen]: Wassa dat?
Olsen
Firs’ man is Lief Ericson.
Lippo
No! No! Colombo! Cristoforo Colomb’—’e’sa firs’ man discov’ America—ever’body knowa dat!
[He looks about appealingly.]
Mrs. Jones
Why, sure, everybody knows that.
Jones
Every kid learns that in school.
Shirley
Ericson was really the first discoverer—
Lippo
[Yelling]: No! Colomb!
Shirley
But Columbus was the first to open America to settlement.
Lippo
[Happily, as he goes back to the stoop]: Sure, dassa wot Ahm say—Colomb’ is firs’.
Olsen
Firs’ man is Lief Ericson.
[Lippo taps his forehead, significantly.]
Lippo
Looka wot Eetalian do for America—’e build bridge, ’e build railroad, ’e build subway, ’e dig sewer. Wit’out Eetalian, ees no America.
Jones
Like I heard a feller sayin’: the Eye-talians built New York, the Irish run it an’ the Jews own it.
[Laughter.]
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Convulsed]: Oh! Dot’s funny!
Jones
[Pleased with his success]: Yep; the Jews own it all right.
Maurrant
Yeah, an’ they’re the ones that’s doin’ all the kickin’.
Shirley
It’s no disgrace to be a Jew, Mr. Maurrant.
Maurrant
I’m not sayin’ it is. All I’m sayin’ is, what we need in this country is a little more respect for law an’ order. Look at what’s happenin’ to people’s homes, with all this divorce an’ one thing an’ another. Young girls goin’ around smokin’ cigarettes an’ their skirts up around their necks. An’ a lot o’ long-haired guys talkin’ about free love an’ birth control an’ breakin’ up decent people’s homes. I tell you it’s time somethin’ was done to put the fear o’ God into people!
Mrs. Jones
Good for you, Mr. Maurrant!
Jones
You’re damn right.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Dot’s right, Mr. Maurrant!
Mrs. Maurrant
Sometimes, I think maybe they’re only trying to get something out of life.
Maurrant
Get somethin’, huh? Somethin’ they oughtn’t to have, is that it?
Mrs. Maurrant
No; I was only thinking—
Maurrant
Yeah, you were only thinkin’, huh?
Kaplan
[Rising to his feet again]: De femily is primerily an economic institution.
Mrs. Jones
[To Mrs. Fiorentino]: He’s in again.
Kaplan
W’en priwate property is ebolished, de femily will no longer hev eny reason to exeest.
Shirley
Can’t you keep quiet, papa?
Maurrant
[Belligerently]: Yeah? Is that so? No reason to exist, huh? Well, it’s gonna exist, see? Children respectin’ their parents an’ doin’ what they’re told, get me? An’ husbands an’ wives, lovin’ an’ honorin’ each other, like they said they would, when they was spliced—an’ any dirty sheeny that says different is li’ble to get his head busted open, see?
Mrs. Maurrant
[Springing to her feet]: Frank!
Shirley
[Trying to restrain Kaplan]: Papa!
Kaplan
Oll right! I should argue vit’ a low-kless gengster.
Maurrant
[Raging]: Who’s a gangster? Why, you goddam—!
[He makes for the balustrade.]
Mrs. Maurrant
[Seizing his arm]: Frank!
Jones
[Seizing the other arm]: Hey! Wait a minute! Wait a minute!
Maurrant
Lemme go!
Shirley
[Interposing herself]: You should be ashamed to talk like that to an old man!
[She slams down the window.]
Maurrant
Yeah? [To Mrs. Maurrant and Jones]: All right, lemme go! I ain’t gonna do nothin’.
Mrs. Jones
[Who has run over to the right of the stoop]: Maybe if somebody handed him one, he’d shut up with his talk for a while.
Lippo
’E talka lika dat een Eetaly, Mussolini’s gonna geeve ’eem da castor-oil.
Mrs. Jones
[Laughing]: Yeah? Say, that’s a funny idea!
Jones
No kiddin’, is that what they do?
Mrs. Fiorentino
Yes, dot’s true. My husband read it to me in the Italian paper.
Mrs. Maurrant
Why must people always be hurting and injuring each other? Why can’t they live together in peace?
Maurrant
[Mockingly]: Live in peace! You’re always talkin’ about livin’ in peace!
Mrs. Maurrant
Well, it’s true, Frank. Why can’t people just as well be kind to each other?
Maurrant
Then let ’im go live with his own kind.
Jones
[Coming down the steps]: Yeah, that’s what I say.
Mrs. Jones
I was just thinkin’ about the castor-oil.
Lippo
Sure, ’esa funny fell’, Mussolini. [Doubling up in mock pain]: ’E geeve ’em da pain in da belly, dey no can talk. [Suddenly]: Look! ’Eresa da boy. ’Esa walk along da street ’an reada da book. Datsa da whola troub’: reada too much book.
[While Lippo is speaking, Samuel Kaplan appears at the left. He is twenty-one, slender, with dark, unruly hair and a sensitive, mobile face. He is hatless, and his coat is slung over one shoulder. He walks along slowly, absorbed in a book. As he approaches the stoop, Shirley, in a kimono, appears at the closed window, opens it, and is about to go away again, when she sees Sam.]
Shirley
[Calling]: Sam!
Sam
[Looking up]: Hello, Shirley.
Shirley
Are you coming in?
Sam
No, not yet. It’s too hot to go to bed.
Shirley
Well, I’m tired. And papa’s going to bed, too. So don’t make a noise when you come in.
Sam
I won’t.
Shirley
Good night.
Sam
Good night.
[Shirley goes away from the window.]
Sam
[To the others, as he seats himself on the curb to the right of the stoop]: Good evening!
Several
’Evening.
Lippo
[Approaching Sam]: ’Ow you lika da concerto? I see you sittin’ in da fronta seat.
Sam
I didn’t like it. Why don’t they play some real music, instead of all those Italian organ-grinder’s tunes?
Lippo
[Excitedly]: Wotsa da matter? You don’t lika da Verdi?
Sam
No, I don’t. It’s not music!
Lippo
Wot you call music—da Tschaikov’, ha?
[He hums derisively a few bars from the first movement of the Symphonic Pathetique.]
Sam
Yes, Tschaikovsky—and Beethoven. Music that comes from the soul.
Mrs. Maurrant
The one I like is—
Lippo
Dotsa da Spreeng Song from da Mendelson.
Mrs. Maurrant
Yes! I love that.
[She goes on humming softly.]
Mrs. Fiorentino
And the walzer von Johann Strauss.
[She hums the Wienerwald Waltz.]
Mrs. Jones
Well, gimme a good jazz band, every time.
Lippo
[Protesting]: Ah no! Ees not music, da jazz. Ees breaka your ear.
[He imitates the discordant blaring of a saxophone.]
Jones
[Bored]: Well, I guess I’ll be on me way.
Mrs. Jones
Where are you goin’?
Jones
Just around to Callahan’s to shoot a little pool. Are you comin’ along, Mr. Maurrant?
Maurrant
I’m gonna wait awhile.
Mrs. Jones
[As Jones goes toward the right]: Don’t be comin’ home lit, at all hours o’ the mornin’.
Jones
[Over his shoulder]: Aw, lay off dat stuff! I’ll be back in a half-an-hour.
[He goes off, at the right.]
A Voice
[Off-stage]: Char-lie!
Mrs. Jones
Him an’ his pool! Tomorra he won’t be fit to go to work, again.
Sam
[Who has been awaiting a chance to interrupt]: When you hear Beethoven, it expresses the struggles and emotions of the human soul.
Lippo
[Waving him aside]: Ah, ees no good, da Beethoven. Ees alla time sad, sad. Ees wanna maka you cry. I don’ wanna cry, I wanna laugh. Eetalian music ees make you ’appy. Ees make you feel good.
[He sings several bars of Donna é mobile.]
Mrs. Maurrant
[Applauding]: Yes, I like that, too.
Lippo
Ah, ees bew-tiful! Ees maka you feela fine. Ees maka you wanna dance.
[He executes several dance steps.]
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Rising]: Vait, Lippo, I vill give you music.
[She goes away from the window. The lights go on, in the Fiorentino apartment.]
Lippo
[Calling after her]: Playa Puccini, Margherita! [He hums an air from Madame Butterfly. Then as Mrs. Fiorentino begins to play the waltz from La Bohème on the piano.] Ah! La Bohème! Bew-tiful! Who’sa gonna dance wit’ me? Meeses Maurrant, ’ow ’bout you?
Mrs. Maurrant
[With an embarrassed laugh]: Well, I don’t know. [She looks timidly at Maurrant, who gives no sign.]
Lippo
Ah, come on! Dansa wit’ me! [He takes her by the hand.]
Mrs. Maurrant
Well, all right, I will.
Lippo
Sure, we hava nica dance.
[They begin to dance on the sidewalk.]
Lippo
[To Maurrant]: Your wife ees dansa swell.
Mrs. Maurrant
[Laughing]: Oh, go on, Mr. Fiorentino! But I always loved to dance!
Mrs. Jones
[Following Maurrant’s stare and seeing Sankey]: Look out! You’re blockin’ traffic!
Sankey
[Stopping at the left of the stoop]: I see you’re having a little dance.
[Mrs. Maurrant sees him and stops dancing. Lippo leans against the right balustrade, panting. The music goes on.]
Sankey
Say, go right ahead. Don’t let me stop you.
Mrs. Maurrant
Oh, that’s all right. I guess we’ve danced about enough.
[She goes up the steps, ill at ease.]
Sankey
It’s a pretty hot night for dancing.
Mrs. Maurrant
Yes, it is.
Sankey
[Going towards the right]: Well, I got to be going along. Good night, folks.
The Others
[Except Maurrant]: Good night.
Lippo
[As he seats himself at the left of the stoop]: Stoppa da music, Margherita!
[The music stops.]
Maurrant
[Stopping her]: Who’s that bird?
Mrs. Maurrant
Why, that’s Mr. Sankey. He’s the milk-collector.
Maurrant
Oh, he is, is he? Well, what’s he hangin’ around here for?
Mrs. Maurrant
Well, he lives just down the block, somewhere.
Mrs. Jones
He’s just been down to the drug-store, gettin’ some ginger-ale for his wife.
Maurrant
Yeah? Well, what I want to know is, why ain’t Rose home yet?
Mrs. Maurrant
I told you, Frank—
Maurrant
I know all about what you told me. What I’m sayin’ is, you oughta be lookin’ after your kids, instead of doin’ so much dancin’.
Mrs. Maurrant
Why, it’s the first time I’ve danced, in I don’t know when.
Maurrant
That’s all right, about that. But I want ’em home, instead o’ battin’ around the streets, hear me?
Mrs. Maurrant
[Coming down the steps]: Why, Willie, what’s the matter? [Reproachfully, as Willie comes up to her, sniffling]: Have you been fighting again?
Willie
[With a burst of indignation]: Well, dat big bum ain’t gonna say dat to me. I’ll knock da stuffin’s out o’ him, dat’s what I’ll do!
Maurrant
[Tensely, as he comes down the steps]: Who’s been sayin’ things to you?
Willie
Dat big bum, Joe Connolly, dat’s who! [Blubbering]: I’ll knock his goddam eye out, next time!
Mrs. Maurrant
Willie!
Maurrant
[Seizing Willie’s arm]: Shut up your swearin’, do you hear?—or I’ll give you somethin’ to bawl for. What did he say to you, huh? What did he say to you?
Willie
[Struggling]: Ow! Leggo my arm!
Mrs. Maurrant
What difference does it make what a little street-loafer like that says?
Maurrant
Nobody’s askin’ you! [To Willie]: What did he say? [He and Mrs. Maurrant exchange a swift involuntary look; then Maurrant releases the boy.] G’wan up to bed now, an’ don’t let me hear no more out o’ you. [Raising his hand.] G’wan now. Beat it!
Mrs. Maurrant
Wait, Willie, I’ll go with you. [She goes up the steps, then stops and turns]: Are you coming up, Frank?
Maurrant
No I ain’t. I’m goin’ around to Callahan’s for a drink, an’ if Rose ain’t home, when I get back, there’s gonna be trouble.
Mrs. Maurrant
[Entering the vestibule]: Well, good night, all.
The Others
Good night.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Lippo!
[She sees that something is wrong.]
Mrs. Jones
Say, you missed it all!
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Eagerly]: Vat?
Mrs. Jones
[Volubly]: Well, they was dancin’, see? An’ who should come along but Sankey!
Mrs. Fiorentino
Tt!
[A light appears in the Maurrant apartment.]
Mrs. Jones
Well, there was the three o’ them—Mr. Maurrant lookin’ at Sankey as if he was ready to kill him, an’ Mrs. Maurrant as white as a sheet, an’ Sankey, as innocent as the babe unborn.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Did he say something?
Mrs. Jones
No, not till after Sankey was gone. Then he wanted to know who he was an’ what he was doin’ here. “He’s the milk-collector,” she says.
Mrs. Fiorentino
It’s joost awful.
Mrs. Jones
Oh, an’ then Willie comes home.
Lippo
Da boy tella ’eem ’is mamma ees a whore an’ Weelie leeck ’im.
Mrs. Jones
Well, an’ what else is she?
Sam
[Unable longer to restrain himself]: Stop it! Stop it! Can’t you let her alone? Have you no hearts? Why do you tear her to pieces, like a pack of wolves? It’s cruel, cruel!
Lippo
[Rising to his feet and yelling after him]: Wotsa matter you?
Mrs. Jones
Well, listen to him, will you! He must be goin’ off his nut, too.
Lippo
’Esa reada too mucha book. Ees bad for you.
Mrs. Fiorentino
I think he is loving the girl.
Mrs. Jones
Yeah? Well, that’s all the Maurrants need is to have their daughter get hooked up wit’ a Jew. It’s a fine house to be livin’ in, ain’t it, between the Maurrants upstairs, an’ that bunch o’ crazy Jews down here.
Mrs. Jones
[As Mrs. Olsen comes up the cellar steps and over to the stoop]: Well, good night.
Mrs. Fiorentino
Good night, Mrs. Jones.
Lippo
Goo’ night, Meeses Jones.
Mrs. Jones
Wait a minute, Mrs. Olsen. [I’ll go with you.
[Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Olsen enter the house. Olsen yawns mightily, knocks the ashes from his pipe, and goes down the cellar steps. Willie Maurrant leans out of the window and spits into the area-way. Then he leaves the window and turns out the light. A Policeman appears, at the right, and strolls across the stage.]
Lippo
[Who has gone up the steps]: Margherita, eef I ever ketcha you sleepin’ wit’ da meelkaman, Ahm gonna breaka your neck.
Mrs. Fiorentino
[Yawning]: Stop your foolishness, Lippo, and come to bed!
Mrs. Fiorentino
Good evening, Miss Maurrant.
Rose
[As they pass the window]: Oh, good evening, Mrs. Fiorentino.
Rose
[Stopping at the foot of the steps]: Well, this is where I live, Mr. Easter. [She extends her hand.] I’ve had a lovely time.
Easter
[Taking her hand]: Why, you’re not going to leave me like this, are you? I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you.
Rose
[Laughing]: We’ve been doing nothing but talking since six o’clock.
[She tries gently to extricate her hand.]
Easter
[Still holding it]: No, we haven’t. We’ve been eating and dancing. And now, just when I want to talk to you—[He puts his other arm around her.] Rose—
Rose
[Rather nervously]: Please don’t, Mr. Easter. Please let go. I think there’s somebody coming.
[She frees herself, as the house-door opens and Mrs. Olsen appears in the vestibule. They stand in silence, as Mrs. Olsen puts the door off the latch, tries it to see that it is locked, dims the light in the vestibule and comes out on the stoop.]
Mrs. Olsen
[As she comes down the steps]: Goot evening, Miss Maurrant.
Rose
Good evening, Mrs. Olsen. How’s the baby?
Mrs. Olsen
She vas cryin’ all the time. I tank she vas gettin’ new teet’.
Rose
Oh, the poor little thing! What a shame!
Mrs. Olsen
[As she goes down the steps]: Yes, ma’am. Goot night, Miss Maurrant.
Rose
Good night, Mrs. Olsen. [To Easter]: She’s got the cutest little baby you ever saw.
Easter
[Rather peevishly]: Yeah? That’s great. [Taking Rose’s hand again]: Rose, listen—
Rose
I’ve really got to go upstairs now, Mr. Easter. It’s awfully late.
Easter
Well, can’t I come up with you, for a minute?
Rose
[Positively]: No, of course not!
Easter
Why not?
Rose
Why, we’d wake everybody up. Anyhow, my father wouldn’t like it.
Easter
Aren’t you old enough to do what yow like?
Rose
It’s not that. Only I think when you’re living with people, there’s no use doing things you know they don’t like. [Embarrassed]: Anyhow, there’s only the front room and my little brother sleeps there. So good night, Mr. Easter.
Easter
[Taking both her hands]: Rose—I’m crazy about you.
Rose
Please let me go, now.
Easter
Kiss me good-night.
Rose
No.
Easter
Why not, hm?
Rose
I don’t want to.
Easter
Just one kiss.
Rose
No.
Easter
Yes!
Rose
[Her bosom heaving]: It wasn’t nice of you to do that.
Easter
[Going over to her]: Why not? Didn’t you like it? Hm?
Rose
Oh, it’s not that.
Easter
Then what is it, hm?
Rose
[Turning and facing him.] You know very well what it is. You’ve got a wife, haven’t you?
Easter
What of it? I tell you I’m clean off my nut about you.
Rose
[Nervously, as the house-door opens]: Look out! Somebody’s coming.
Mrs. Jones
[As she comes down the steps]: Oh, good evenin’.
Rose
Good evening, Mrs. Jones, It’s been a terrible day, hasn’t it.
Mrs. Jones
Yeah. Awful. [Stopping]: I think your father’s been kinda worried about you.
Rose
Oh, has he?
Mrs. Jones
Yeah. Well, I gotta give Queenie her exercise. Good night.
Rose
Good night, Mrs. Jones. [To Easter]: I’ll soon have all the neighbors talking about me.
Easter
[Going over to her again]: What can they say, hm?—that they saw you saying good-night to somebody on the front door-step?
Rose
They can say worse than that—and what’s more, they will, too.
Easter
Well, why not snap out of it all?
Rose
Out of what?
Easter
[Indicating the house]: This! The whole business. Living in a dirty old tenement like this; working all day in a real-estate office, for a measly twenty-five a week, You’re not going to try to tell me you like living this way, are you?
Rose
No, I can’t say that I like it, especially. But maybe it won’t always be this way. Anyhow, I guess I’m not so much better than anybody else.
Easter
[Taking her hand]: Do you know what’s the matter with you? You’re not wise to yourself. Why, you’ve got just about everything, you have. You’ve got looks and personality and a bean on your shoulders—there’s nothing you haven’t got. You’ve got It, I tell you.
Rose
You shouldn’t keep looking at me, all the time, at the office. The other girls are beginning to pass hints about it.
Easter
[Releasing her hand, genuinely perturbed]: Is that a fact? You see, that shows you! I never even knew I was looking at you. I guess I just can’t keep my eyes off you. Well, we’ve got to do something about it.
Rose
[Nervously snapping the clasp of her hand-bag]: I guess the only thing for me to do is to look for another job.
Easter
Yes, that’s what I’ve been thinking, too. [As she is about to demur]: Wait a minute, honey! I’ve been doing a little thinking and I’ve got it all doped out. The first thing you do is throw up your job, see?
Rose
But—
Easter
Then you find yourself a nice, cozy little apartment somewhere. [As she ts about to interrupt again]: Just a minute, now! Then you get yourself a job on the stage.
Rose
How could I get a job on the stage?
Easter
Why, as easy as walking around the block. I’ve got three or four friends in the show-business. Ever hear of Harry Porkins?
Rose
No.
Easter
Well, he’s the boy that put on Mademoiselle Marie last year. He’s an old pal of mine, and all I’d have to say to him is: [Putting his arm around her shoulder]: “Harry, here’s a little girl I’m interested in,” and he’d sign you up in a minute.
Rose
I don’t think I’d be any good on the stage.
Easter
Why, what are you talking about, sweetheart? There’s a dozen girls, right now, with their names up in electric lights, that haven’t got half your stuff. All you got to do is go about it in the right way—put up a little front, see? Why, half the game is nothing but bluff. Get yourself a classy little apartment, and fill it up with trick furniture, see? Then you doll yourself up in a flock of Paris clothes and you throw a couple or three parties and you’re all set. [Taking her arm]: Wouldn’t you like to be on Broadway?
Rose
I don’t believe I ever could be.
Easter
Isn’t it worth trying? What have you got here, hm? This is no kind of a racket for a girl like you. [Taking her hand]: You do like me a little, don’t you?
Rose
I don’t know if I do or not.
Easter
Why, sure you do. And once you get to know me better, you’d like me even more. I’m no Valentino, but I’m not a bad scout. Why, think of all the good times we could have together—you with a little apartment and all. And maybe we could get us a little car—
Rose
And what about your wife?
Easter
[Letting go her hand]: The way I figure it is, she doesn’t have to know anything about it. She stays up there in Bronxville, and there are lots of times when business keeps me in New York. Then, in the Summer, she goes to the mountains. Matter of fact, she’s going next week and won’t be back until September.
Rose
[Shaking her head and going towards the stoop]: I don’t think it’s the way I’d want things to be.
Easter
Why, there’s nothing really wrong about it.
Rose
Maybe there isn’t. But it’s just the way I feel about it, I guess.
Easter
Why, you’d get over that in no time. There’s lots of girls—
Rose
Yes, I know there are. But you’ve been telling me all along I’m different.
Easter
Sure, you’re different. You’re in a class by yourself. Why, sweetheart—[He tries to take her in his arms.]
Rose
[Pushing him away]: No. And you mustn’t call me sweetheart.
Easter
Why not?
Rose
Because I’m not your sweetheart.
Easter
I want you to be—
Easter
My God, what’s that—a murder?
Rose
It must be poor Mrs. Buchanan. She’s expecting a baby.
Easter
Why does she yell like that? God, I thought somebody was being killed.
Rose
The poor thing! [With sudden impatience, she starts up the steps.] I’ve got to go, now. Good night.
Easter
[Taking her hand]: But, Rose—
Rose
[Freeing her hand quickly]: No, I’ve got to go. [Suddenly]: Look, there’s my father. There’ll only be an argument, if he sees you.
Easter
All right, I’ll go.
[He goes towards the left, as Maurrant appears at the right.]}}
Rose
[Going up to the top step]: Good night.
Easter
Good night.
Rose
[As Maurrant approaches]: Hello, pop.
Maurrant
[Stopping at the foot of the steps]: Who was that you was talkin’ to?
Rose
That’s Mr. Easter. He’s the manager of the office.
Maurrant
What’s he doin’ here? You been out wit’? him?
Rose
Yes, he took me out to dinner.
Maurrant
Oh, he did, huh?
Rose
Yes, I had to stay late to get out some letters. You see, pop, the office is closed tomorrow, on account of Mr. Jacobson’s funeral—
Maurrant
Yeah, I know all about that. This is a hell of a time to be gettin’ home from dinner.
Rose
Well, we danced afterwards.
Maurrant
Oh, you danced, huh? With a little pettin’ on the side, is that it?
Rose
[Rather angrily, as she seats herself on the left balustrade]: I don’t see why you can never talk to me in a nice way.
Maurrant
So you’re startin’ to go on pettin’ parties, are you?
Rose
Who said I was on a petting-party?
Maurrant
I suppose he didn’t kiss you or nothin’, huh?
Rose
No, he didn’t! And if he did—
Maurrant
It’s your own business, is that it? [Going up the steps]: Well, I’m gonna make it my business, see? Is this bird married? [Rose does not answer.] I t’ought so! They’re all alike, them guys—all after the one thing. Well, get this straight. No married men ain’t gonna come nosin’ around my family, get me?
Rose
[Rising agitatedly, as the house-door opens]: Be quiet, pop! There’s somebody coming.
Maurrant
I don’t care!
Buchanan
[As he comes down the steps]: I think the baby’s coming!
Rose
[Solicitously]: Can I do anything, Mr. Buchanan?
Buchanan
[As he hurries towards the left]: No, I’m just going to phone for the doctor.
Rose
[Coming down the steps]: Let me do it, and you go back to your wife.
Buchanan
Well, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s Doctor John Wilson. [Handing her a slip of paper]: Here’s his number. And the other number is her sister, Mrs. Thomas. And here’s two nickels. Tell them both to come right away. She’s got terrible pains. [Another scream from upstairs.] Listen to her! I better go back. [He dashes up the steps and into the house.]
Rose
Oh, the poor woman! Pop, tell ma to go up to her. Hurry!
Maurrant
Aw, all right.
Mae
[To Rose]: Hello, Rose. What’s your hurry?
Rose
[Without stopping]: It’s Mrs. Buchanan. I’ve got to phone to the doctor.
[She hurries off.]
Dick
[As they approach the stoop]: Say, who’s your little friend?
Mae
Oh, that’s Rose Maurrant. She lives in the house.
Dick
She’s kinda cute, ain’t she?
Mae
[Seating herself on the stoop]: Say, accordin’ to you, anythin’ in a skirt is kinda cute—providin’ the skirt is short enough.
Dick
Yeah, but they ain’t any of ’em as cute as you, Mae.
Mae
[Yawning and scratching her leg]: Yeah?
Dick
Honest, I mean it. How ’bout a little kiss?
Dick
[Removing his lips]: Say, you might show a little en-thoo-siasm.
Mae
[Rouging her lips]: Say, you seem to think I oughta hang out a flag, every time some bozo decides to wipe off his mouth on me.
Dick
De trouble wit’ you is you need another little snifter.
[He reaches for his flask.]
Mae
Nope! I can’t swaller any more o’ that rotten gin o’ yours.
Dick
Why, it ain’t so worse. I don’t mind it no more since I had that brass linin’ put in me stomach. Well, happy days!
[He takes a long drink.]
Mae
[Rising indignantly]: Hey, for God’s sake, what are you doin’—emptyin’ the flask?
Dick
[Removing the flask from his lips]: I t’ought you didn’t want none.
Mae
Can’t you take a joke?
Dick
[Snatching the empty flask]: Say, you wanna watch your step, baby, or you’re li’ble to go right up in a puff o’ smoke.
Mae
[Whistling]: Phew! Boy! I feel like a t’ree alarm fire! Say, what de hell do dey make dat stuff out of?
Dick
T’ree parts dynamite an’ one part army-mule. Dey use it for blastin’ out West.
Mae
[Bursting raucously into a jazz tune]: Da-da-da-da-dee! Da-da-da-da-dee!
[She executes some dance steps].
Dick
Say, shut up, will ya? You’ll be wakin’ the whole neighborhood.
Mae
[Boisterously]: What the hell do I care? Da-da-da-da-dee! Da-da-da-da-dee! [Suddenly amorous, as she turns an unsteady pirouette.] Kiss me, kid!
Dick
I’ll say!
Dick
[Taking Mae’s arm]: Come on!
Mae
Wait a minute! Where y’ goin’?
Dick
Come on, I’m tellin’ ya! Fred Hennessy gimme de key to his apartment. Dere won’t be nobody dere.
Mae
[Protesting feebly]: I oughta go home. [Her hand to her head.] Oh, baby! Say, nail down dat sidewalk, will ya?
Dick
Come on!
[Rose appears, at the left.]
Mae
Sweet papa! [She kisses Dick noisily; then bursts into song again.] Da-da-da-da-dee! Da-da-da-da-dee! [As they pass Rose.] Hello, Rose. How’s de milkman?
Dick
[Raising his hat with drunken politeness]: Goo’ night, sweetheart.
Buchanan’s Voice
Miss Maurrant, did you get them?
Rose
[Looking up]: Why yes, I did. The doctor will be here right away. And Mrs. Thomas said it would take her about an hour.
Buchanan’s Voice
She’s got terrible pains. Your mother’s up here, with her. [Mrs. Buchanan is heard calling faintly.] I think she’s calling me. [Rose goes towards the stoop and sees Vincent.]
Vincent
Hello, Rosie.
Rose
Good evening.
[She tries to pass, but he blocks her way.]
Vincent
What’s your hurry?
Rose
It’s late.
Vincent
You don’ wanna go to bed, yet. Come on, I’ll take you for a ride in me hack.
[He puts his arm about her.]
Rose
Please let me pass.
[Sam appears at the window. They do not see him.]
Vincent
[Enjoying Rose’s struggle to escape]: You got a lot o’ stren’th, ain’t you? Say, do you know, you’re gettin’ fat? [He passes one hand over her body.]
Rose
Let me go, you big tough.
Sam
[Simultaneously]: Take your hands off her!
Vincent
Well, look who’s here! [Mockingly]: Haster gesehn de fish in de Bowery? [Menacingly]: What de hell do you want?
Sam
[Chokingly]: You keep your hands off her!
Vincent
Yeah? [Sawing the air with his hands]: Oi, Jakie!
Rose
Let him alone!
Sam
[Inarticulately]: If you touch her again—
Vincent
[Mockingly]: If I touch her again—! [Savagely]: Aw, shut up, you little kike bastard!
Rose
[Her fists clenched]: You big coward.
Vincent
[Standing over Sam]: Get up, why don’t you?
Rose
[Crossing to Sam]: If you hit him again, I’ll call my father.
Vincent
[As Mrs. Jones and the dog appear at the right]: Gee, don’t frighten me like dat. I got a weak heart.
[He is sobered, nevertheless. Sam picks himself up].
Vincent
[As Mrs. Jones approaches]: Hello, ma.
Mrs. Jones
[With maternal pride]: Hello, Vincent. What’s goin’ on here?
Vincent
Oh, jus’ a little friendly argument. Ikey Finkelstein don’t like me to say good evenin’ to his girl friend.
Rose
You’d better keep your hands to yourself, hereafter.
Vincent
Is dat so? Who said so, huh?
Mrs. Jones
Come on, Vincent. Come on upstairs. I saved some stew for you.
Vincent
All right, I’m comin’. [To Rose]: Good night, dearie.
Mrs. Jones
Aw, let ’im alone, Vincent.
Vincent
[As he goes up the steps]: Who’s touchin’ him? A little cockroach like dat, ain’t woit’ my time [To Rose]: Some sheik you picked out for yourself!
Mrs. Jones
[Going up the steps]: You seem to have plenty of admirers, Miss Maurrant. [Pausing on the top step]: But I guess you come by it natural.
Sam
[Hysterically, as he rushes to the foot of the stoop]: The dirty bum! I’ll kill him!
Rose
[Turning and going to him]: It’s all right, Sam. Never mind.
Sam
[Sobbing]: I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!
Rose
It’s all right, Sam. Everything’s all right. Why should you pay any attention to a big tough like that? [Sam does not answer. Rose caresses his hair and he grows calmer.] He’s nothing but a loafer, you know that. What do you care what he says?
Sam
[Without raising his head]: I’m a coward.
Rose
Why no, you’re not, Sam.
Sam
Yes, I am. I’m a coward.
Rose
Why, he’s not worth your little finger, Sam. You wait and see. Ten years from now, he’ll still be driving a taxi and you—why, you’ll be so far above him, you won’t even remember he’s alive.
Sam
I’ll never be anything.
Rose
Why, don’t talk like that, Sam. A boy with your brains and ability. Graduating from college with honors and all that! Why, if I were half as smart as you, I’d be just so proud of myself!
Sam
What’s the good of having brains, if nobody ever looks at you—if nobody knows you exist?
Rose
[Gently]: I know you exist, Sam.
Sam
It wouldn’t take much to make you forget me.
Rose
I’m not so sure about that. Why do you say that, Sam?
Sam
Because I know. It’s different with you. You have beauty—people look at you—you have a place in the world—
Rose
I don’t know. It’s not always so easy, being a girl—I often wish I were a man. It seems to me that when you’re a man, it’s so much easier to sort of—be yourself, to kind of be the way you feel. But when you’re a girl, it’s different. It doesn’t seem to matter what you are, or what you’re thinking or feeling—all that men seem to care about is just the one thing. And when you’re sort of trying to find out, just where you’re at, it makes it hard. Do you see what I mean? [Hesitantly]: Sam, there’s something I want to ask you—[She stops.]
Sam
[Turning to her]: What is it, Rose?
Rose
I wouldn’t dream of asking anybody but you. [With a great effort]: Sam, do you think it’s true—what they’re saying about my mother?
[Sam averts his head, without answering.]
Rose
[Wretchedly]:I guess it is, isn’t it?
Sam
[Agitatedly]: They were talking here, before—I couldn’t stand it any more! [He clasps his head and, springing to his feet, goes to the right of the stoop]. Oh, God, why do we go on living in this sewer?
Rose
[Appealingly]: What can I do, Sam? [Sam makes a helpless gesture.] You see, my father means well enough, and all that, but he’s always been sort of strict and—I don’t know—sort of making you freeze up, when you really wanted to be nice and loving. That’s the whole trouble, I guess; my mother never had anybody to really love her. She’s sort of gay and happy-like—you know, she likes having a good time and all that. But my father is different. Only—the way things are now—everybody talking and making remarks, all the neighbors spying and whispering—it sort of makes me feel—[She shudders.] I don’t know—!
Sam
[Coming over to her again]: I wish I could help you, Rose.
Rose
You do help me, Sam—just by being nice and sympathetic and talking things over with me. There’s so few people you can really talk to, do you know what I mean? Sometimes, I get the feeling that I’m all alone in the world and that—
[A scream of pain from Mrs. Buchanan.]
Rose
[Springing to her feet]: Oh, just listen to her!
Sam
Oh, God!
Rose
The poor thing! She must be having terrible pains.
Sam
That’s all there is in life—nothing but pain. From before we’re born, until we die! Everywhere you look, oppression and cruelty! If it doesn’t come from Nature, it comes from humanity—humanity trampling on itself and tearing at its own throat. The whole world is nothing but a blood-stained arena, filled with misery and suffering. It’s too high a price to pay for life—life isn’t worth it!
[He seats himself despairingly on the stoop.]
Rose
[Putting her hand on his shoulder]: Oh, I don’t know, Sam. I feel blue and discouraged, sometimes, too. And I get a sort of feeling of, oh, what’s the use. Like last night. I hardly slept all night, on account of the heat and on account of thinking about—well, all sorts of things. And this morning, when I got up, I felt so miserable. Well, all of a sudden, I decided I’d walk to the office. And when I got to the Park, everything looked so green and fresh, that I got a kind of feeling of, well, maybe it’s not so bad, after all. And then, what do you think?—all of a sudden, I saw a big lilac-bush, with some flowers still on it. It made me think about the poem you said for me—remember?—the one about the lilacs.
Sam
[Quoting]:
“When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d and yet shall mourn, with ever-returning Spring.”
[He repeats the last line]:
I mourn’d and yet shall mourn, with ever-returning Spring? Yes!
Rose
No, not that part. I mean the part about the farm-house. Say it for me, Sam.
[She sits at his feet.]
Sam
“In the door-yard, fronting an old farm-house, near the white-washed palings,
Stands the lilac-bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom, rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.”
Rose
[Eagerly]: Yes, that’s it! That’s just what I felt like doing—breaking off a little bunch of the flowers. But then I thought, maybe a policeman or somebody would see me, and then I’d get into trouble; so I didn’t.
Buchanan’s Voice
Miss Maurrant! Miss Maurrant!
[Sam and Rose spring to their feet and look up].
Rose
Yes?
Buchanan’s Voice
Do you mind phoning to the doctor again? She’s getting worse.
Rose
Yes, sure I will. [She starts to go.] Wait! Maybe this is the doctor now.
Buchanan’s Voice
[Excitedly as Dr. Wilson appears at the left]: Yes, that’s him. Mrs. Maurrant! Tell her the doctor’s here! Doctor, I guess you’re none too soon.
Dr. Wilson
[A seedy, middle-aged man in a crumpled Panama]: Plenty of time. Just don’t get excited.
Rose
I hope she won’t have to suffer much longer.
Maurrant
[Appearing at the window, in his under-shirt]: Rose!
Rose
[Rather startled]: Yes, pop, I’ll be right up.
Maurrant
Well, don’t be makin’ me call you again, d’ya hear?
Rose
I’m coming right away.
[Maurrant leaves the window.]
Rose
I’d better go up now, Sam.
Sam
Do you have to go to bed, when you’re told, like a child?
Rose
I know, Sam, but there’s so much wrangling goes on, all the time, as it is, what’s the use of having any more? Good night, Sam. There was something I wanted to talk to you about, but it will have to be another time.
Sam
[Trembling and rising to his feet]: Rose, will you kiss me?
Rose
[Simply]: Why, of course I will, Sam.
Rose
[Freeing herself gently]: Don’t be discouraged about things, Sam. You wait and see—you’re going to do big things, some day. I’ve got lots of confidence in you.
Sam
[Turning away his head]: 1 wonder if you really have, Rose?
Rose
Why, of course, I have! And don’t forget it! Good night. I hope it won’t be too hot to sleep.
Sam
Good night, Rose.
[He watches her, as she opens the door with her latch-key and goes into the house. Then he goes to the stoop and seating himself, falls into a reverie. A Policeman appears at the right and strolls across, but Sam is oblivious to him. In the distance, a home-comer sings drunkenly. A light appears, in the Maurrant hall-bedroom, and a moment later, Rose comes to the window and leans out.]
Rose
[Calling softly]: Hoo-hoo! Sam! [Sam looks up, then rises.] Good night, Sam. [She wafts him a kiss.]
Sam
[With deep feeling]: Good night, Rose dear.
[The curtain falls slowly]