"Say It With Flowers"

A Scandal Among the Shades: Enacted in a Fashionable Cemetery

FRANCES MARION

SCENE: A cemetery at midnight. The hyacinths are in bloom. They bend their vain, pale faces over a mirroring brook. The grass is dappled with clover and buttercups vaguely discerned in the moonlight. The tall hushed cypress trees rise like burnt-out torches above the stone wall which encloses the cemetery. In the silent background, two mausoleums, bluish-white in the moonlight, stand facing the brook. A marble bench forms a triangle with the walls. Must there always be— even in a cemetery—a triangle? A blue-black sky holds its silver moon.

The doors of the two mausoleums open, very slowly. Two ghosts walk out. One was once a man. You will guess this at once by the way he slams shut the door of his mausoleum. The other is a woman ghost. She tip-toes out, as if in fear. When the door of her vault has closed, she laughs. Her laughter is like the wind in the cypress trees—or rippling water under the hyacinths—whichever you prefer. The man ghost watches the woman ghost out of the corner of his eye. The woman ghost pretends not to see the map. ghost. Both are curious. The man ghost seats himself upon the stone bench. The woman ghost kneels beside the brook and dips her long white fingers into the water, telling herself that it is to cool them, but really in order to see if she is looking well. She smiles, satisfied with the charming reflection. Then, only, is she ready to speak to the man.

OMAN GHOST: (Her voice is startled but charming) Good evening.

MAN GHOST: Hul-lo there! What a surprise to find you here.

WOMAN GHOST: I heard the stirring of spring.

MAN GHOST: I, too. May is such a satisfying month. June brings the insects, July, the dust.

WOMAN GHOST: I hate dust.

MAN GHOST: SO do I. It makes me think of those long dead.

WOMAN GHOST:{sympathetically) We have been quite deserted the last three months. You don't mind my mentioning it, do you?

MAN GHOST: Not at all. I'm afraid the winter has been hard on my wife. Poor little Maria.

WOMAN GHOST: I, too, was married—on earth.

MAN GHOST: I know. I've seen him here many times. Such a methodical, dreary sort of man. A single track mind.

WOMAN GHOST: Poor dear . . .

{Is it wistfulness that makes her lean a little closer to the man ghost ? Wistfulness and sympathy?)

How did you know he was all that?

MAN GHOST: He always brought the same kind of wreath and was so punctilious in his grieving. He came here every other Thursday —at precisely the same hour.

WOMAN GHOST: Yes, how nice of him. {It pleases her to dwell upon this) He suffers so.

MAN GHOST: {He has a sense that he doesn't wish to be outdone) So does Maria! For five months she was most faithful to my memory.

WOMAN GHOST: Grief is becoming to a pretty woman—especially to Maria.

MAN GHOST : Think of what a loss was hers, my dear.

WOMAN GHOST: {At the treacle of his words "my dear," she starts perceptibly) I beg your pardon, we've known one another only a few months.

MAN GHOST:{He watches her for fear she will draw away from him, and smiles when there is no perceptible move on her part) Of all the women here, I have chosen you alone for my confidante.. I should think you would be flattered.

WOMAN GHOST : I have thrown off my earthly vanities {triumphantly) I have risen above—flattery!

{The man's smile deepens to the spectre of a grin as her eyes seek her own reflection in the mirror of the pool.)

MAN GHOST: Even a woman ghost loves to deceive herself.

{When she looks up again she is quite radiant.)

WOMAN GHOST: What a pity the women of the earth do not know that in death there is no age.

MAN GHOST:(with elaborate condescension) How much more content a man ghost is than a woman ghost. He has no vanity. Perhaps you have noticed that my wife—when writing my epitaph—touched very delicately upon my lack of vanity.

{The woman ghost is conscious of a chill at the mention of his wife.)

WOMAN GHOST: Ah, yes, she overlooked nothing . . . How sorry I felt for her. She seemed so lonely and dejected when I last saw her here. She was kneeling at your tomb, weeping so tearlessly.

MAN GHOST:(quite dramatically) One night, she fainted from her grief.

WOMAN GHOST: A Thursday night it was. My husband was here. He caught her in his arms and carried her to the brook.

MAN GHOST: Where he dashed cold water in her face. Stupid idiot! How little he knows of women.

WOMAN GHOST: He ruined her new weeds. Such smart weeds, too. She was quite angry.

MAN GHOST: NO wonder you "dearly departed" from him.

(The woman ghost sighs—she is just a little bit sorry for herself.)

WOMAN GHOST: But he was kind. Good men are always clumsy. Honest men seldom have savoir faire.

MAN GHOST: That was three months ago. We haven't seen them since. {A little uneasily) Yes—three months—you don't suppose . . .

WOMAN GHOST : Suppose what ?

MAN GHOST: Their meeting here—under those tragic circumstances ... led them to . . .

WOMAN GHOST: HOW absurd you are. I believe you're jealous of the living!

MAN GHOST: Jealous! No—jealousy is for the flesh: you and I are creatures of—the soul.

WOMAN GHOST:(archly) Indeed! What was it then?

MAN GHOST: I—was only worried about my wife. I'd hate to see her tying herself to a stupid blunderer like your husband.

WOMAN GHOST: What do you mean? My husband, a blunderer! {very indignantly) You're wrong! She would be lucky to get him, the affected little fraud. He's too good for her. Much too good, I tell you!

MAN GHOST: S-sh — be quiet! You'll awaken his mother!

WOMAN GHOST:(She looks with fear toward her husband's family vault) She won't awaken. She sleeps, as she lived, punctiliouslv.

MAN GHOST: HOW I hate the conscientious dead.

WOMAN GHOST: (with annoying persistence) But, what if there were a romance between my husband and your wife? Why not? The living can't always be chained to the ghosts of the dead. That isn't in the scheme of things. It is only the dead who are eternally faithful.

MAN GHOST: But I believe in conventions, don't you? It's not a year since we left them. A year is the traditional time for mourning.

WOMAN GHOST: I thought, during those first few weeks that she used to come here, that your wife really grieved. She came without her make-up. Her eyes were swollen. She looked quite old—and plain . . . (after a brief reflection) Do you remember that first night we talked it all over? We both confessed that it was futile of the living to cling to their ghosts. They can't call us back; their grieving only disturbs us.

MAN GHOST: Of course, we might have rested very comfortably if we hadn't worried about their grieving.

WOMAN GHOST: Yes—we are most unselfish ghosts. {Satisfied with herself—and perhaps a little bit satisfied with him—she moves nearer. She sighs and sits beside him on the bench) How warm the moonlight is to-night. The hyacinths are blooming. Their perfume is heavy. I am drowsy with it.

(The drum of footsteps, coming closer, disturbs them. And they would be very frightened, if they were not ghosts. A man's weight crunches upon the pebbles of the cemetery path. They hear a woman's dainty tread. She is leaning timidly upon the arm of the man. They are Maria, the wife of the man ghost; and Gilbert, the husband of the woman ghost. Both are in mourning. Maria is gowned in the most fashionable of Parisian mourning. Gilbert has a wide mourning band on his arm. On his hat there is also a mourning band. In his right hand he carries a large and wholly conventional wreath. The woman carries a few loose flowers—calla Mies—in her hand.)

GILBERT: Well, here we are at last.

MARIA: It seemed such a long walk, this time. I am quite tired.

GILBERT : Rest on the bench, my dear.

MAN GHOST:{rising from the bench) I suppose we'll have to get up.

WOMAN GHOST: Yes, we might disturb them.

MARIA: {as she droops on the bench) Thanks, Gilbert dear.

WOMAN GHOST: Gilbert dear! Did you hear that?

MAN GHOST: Damn!

MARIA : (after a few nervous moments) Now, Gilbert, that we are here—I'm wondering if all our dreams are to be shattered. We face the cold reality of our obligations . . . has the test failed us? {Shuddering) How cold the night is!

GILBERT: (with compassion) I'm afraid you're just chilled by the surroundings. Or, perhaps, a passing urge of conscience. When I suggested that we come here together to see if they still governed our hearts, I knew what would happen. There are many probationary phases to pass through. Life is a mathematical problem. We can work it out together. For there is a solution—it only takes application, and will.

MAN GHOST:{yawning) How tiresome your husband is!

WOMAN GHOST: And yet—that's the way he won me.

MAN GHOST: I won Maria by reciting poetry to her.

WOMAN GHOST: I have always adored poetry.

GILBERT: Come, Maria, I must lay my offering before her. I know she is here, ready to give us her blessing. If the dead could only speak, they would wish us happiness.

MARIA: I'm—I'm afraid . . .

MAN GHOST: Poor little thing.

WOMAN GHOST: Don't worry. He will comfort her.

(As if in answer, Gilbert takes Maria in his arms.)

GILBERT: Come, come, my dear. Be not afraid. The heavy odour of the hyacinths has affected you—unpleasantly.

MARIA: Perhaps you are right . . . the hyacinths . . . you are so big and strong, Gilbert, I will lean on you and look to you for everything. What strength in your arms!

GILBERT: Just my morning exercises, dear.

WOMAN GHOST: I Can see that he will be a very contented husband.

MAN GHOST: (shrugs his shoulders) It was when she began to flatter me, in just that way, —that I decided to marry her.

{The woman ghost reaches over and touches the man ghost lightly on the arm, a touch that is almost a caress.)

WOMAN GHOST: Poor dear . . .

{Then she looks long and intently upon her husband. She sighs) Poor Gilbert.

GILBERT: Come, Maria, let us leave. Let us go away happy! Happy because we have received their blessing.

WOMAN GHOST: He always did take things for granted!

GILBERT: First, I must place this wreath upon her tomb. (He hangs it by a wire to the door of his dead wife's mausoleum.)

{Maria walks over to her husband's mausoleum. With arms outstretched she stands, a crucified figure, scattering her caUa Mies before her, conscious, faintly, of her sorrow.)

MARIA: Goodbye, my poor husband. Sleep well. I shall never forget you.

GILBERT:{facing his wife's mausoleum) My poor wife . . . you will always be my first love . . . {With precision) Every Decoration Day I shall come here—to bring you a wreath.

MAN GHOST: That same old wreath! (Gilbert reaches out for Maria's hand⅜ Maria reaches for his.)

MARIA AND GILBERT: {together) Farewell . . . Farewell to the dead!

(They try to force a note of tragedy into their voices. But the night is growing cold and they are glad to be on their way. The drum of their departing footsteps has no longer the sound of a funeral march. A surprisingly long time passes before the two ghosts speak. The woman ghost looks after the fast departing Gilbert and Maria.)

WOMAN GHOST: They are so false to us, so unutterably false. {Sighing.)

MAN GHOST: (ironically) Now that we have achieved their perfect happiness, we can sleep that dreamless, uncomplaining sleep for which our souls cried out when their grief was holding us to the damp dark earth.

WOMAN ' GHOST : Fiddlesticks!

MAN GHOST : Are you unhappy?

WOMAN GHOST:(A quaver in her voice) No!

MAN GHOST: That's good. {He rises) Brace up, little ghost! {with almost patronizing tenderness) I shall leave you now .... don't forget your wreath, dear. It will be your last.

I have heard those brave promises before.

WOMAN GHOST:{with a sigh) Good-night.

MAN GHOST: Good-night.

{He watches her half enter her mausoleum and stand there with the door ajar. Then he turns his footsteps toward his own tomb. But, at the doorway, he pauses and looks back at her —sick with loneliness, and sighs. She sighs also—and, leaving her doorway, returns to his side.)

WOMAN GHOST: Joseph! {Her voice is honey laden.)

MAN GHOST:{tenderly) _ Eleanor! I thought you were weary and eager to be away.

WOMAN GHOST: I'm afraid, and I'm just a little bit . . . lonely.

MAN GHOST: Lonely! And that splendid, substantial, marble house of yours, filled with people.

WOMAN GHOST : They are his people! I am just a guest there. Quite an unwelcome guest.

MAN GHOST : That is rather uncomfortable, I'll admit. Were his people smug and boring, too?

WOMAN GHOST: Yes, they never liked me! {Sidling toward him) And you, Joseph, aren't you lonely in there {pointing to his vault), all alone ?

MAN GHOST : I wasn't to be alone long. This little house was meant for two. My wife designed it. She was to rest here beside me.

WOMAN GHOST: She never will; I know it —after what we saw to-night.

MAN GHOST: No—she'll never survive your husband. They'll make room for her between you and his mother, no doubt.

WOMAN GHOST: Poor little Maria . . . {Her glance moves in the direction of the cemetery gate)—but I hope they will be happy, don't you ?

MAN GHOST: {fiercely, as he, too, looks toward the gate) Oh, yes! . . . Good-night.

WOMAN GHOST: Oh, Joseph. One thing more!

MAN GHOST:{He pauses at the door of his mausoleum) What is it, Eleanor?

WOMAN GHOST: I—oh . . . well, nothing . . . just the moonlight and the hyacinths. How sweet they are, nodding in their perfumed sleep. {She waves a light hand toward the dreary vault which she has so long been inhabiting) It is very stuffy in here, with all those stupid people.

MAN GHOST:{already smiling possessively) Yes, dear, I understand. Eleanor, listen to me! Won't you come into my lonely tomb, just an hour or so—and rest?

WOMAN GHOST: How well you read a woman's heart.

MAN GHOST: A man has to be a ghost to read the heart of a woman.

{At the door of his mausoleum—built so cozily for two—the woman ghost hesitates, as any poMe, conventional ghost would do, and wonders if it would be quite the right thing to do.)

WOMAN GHOST: Well, if I come in, I suppose we can blame it on the . . .

MAN GHOST: On the moonlight.

WOMAN GHOST: {lazily and dreamily) Or on the hyacinths.

{She takes his arm respectfully, and, together, they go into the man ghost's mausoleum and close its charming iron door.)

At first there is silence, then, among the leaves, there is intimate gossip. The moon discreetly seeks a veil of clouds. The brook babbles on, a little more audibly. The wind whispers among the cypresses.

And, though winter is at hand, it is still writ in perennials, on the wreath which Gilbert placed on the door of his wife's tomb, "Oh, Death, where is thy sting?"

Frances Marion, the author of this little satire, is best known as the writer of moving picture scenarios, her greatest fame having been derived from the screen plays which for many years she wrote for Mary Pick ford— among them Stella Maris, from the W. J. Locke novel; Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, from the Kate Douglas Wiggin story; Pollyanna, from Eleanor Porter's book, and M'Liss, from the story by Bret Harte. The niost recent of her scenarios is Humouresque, from the Fanny Hurst story. She is at present at work on a three-act play for Marie Doro.

* Copyright, U. S. A. 1921, by Vanity Fair Publishing Company