Thomas Wolfe, page 552
Slow Curtain
[¬]
THE THIRD NIGHT
A Play of the Carolina Mountains
[The Carolina Playbook, September 11, 1938]
The Characters
Captain Richard Harkins, a degenerate Southern gentleman . . . The Author
Dorset, his henchman . . . Jonathan Daniels
Cogswell, a mulatto . . . Fred Cohn
The Old Man . . . Chester Burton
Scene: The living room of a dilapidated dwelling of the “Old Man” in a deserted mountain section of North Carolina, some miles west of Asheville.
Time: A stormy night in the autumn of 1858.
The gloomy living room of a decaying country house in a dark mountain valley of the Blue Ridge. The plaster is cracked; great patches of it have fallen from the high ceiling. The rear wall is broken by a single uncurtained window at the right and an open doorway at the left, through which another room is partly visible. At the right, downstage, is an ample fireplace with a rude table and two chairs before it. A door at the left leads outside.
A smouldering fagot gives a half light to the bare, gaunt room; the corners are almost in darkness. Before the fireplace in the room at the rear The Captain is sitting, his profile silhouetted by the glow of the hearth.
Cogswell and Dorset are seated at the table. Cogswell is playing a game of solitaire with a pack of greasy cards. Dorset is thumbing the pages of a well-worn family photograph album with an air of detached curiosity. The light is just sufficient to accentuate the lines of each man’s face. Cogswell’s, the face of the degenerate, is weak but sensitive and mobile. He is a young man, half negro. In him have cumulated many of the superstitions of the black race. Dorset is thickset, unemotional, unexpressive—ox-like, as he sits in squat stolidity, thumbing the pages of the album with pudgy fingers. He looks over at Cogswell out of his little, pig-like eyes. The two men are strongly contrasted. Dorset speaks ponderously with a slow drawl, Cogswell with nervous rapidity. Both are roughly dressed. They are without coats and wear heavy boots. Cogswell is smooth-faced; Dorset has a short, unkempt beard.
There is a dark silence except for the moaning of the storm outside. Cogswell plays a card or two.
Dorset. [Thumbing the album.] This is the third night, ain’t it, an’ we’re still here.
Cogswell. [Looking up with a nervous start, as he puts down a card on the table.] The third—the third, you say? The third . . . since we done it?
Dorset. Sure. Had you lost track?
Cogswell. The third—that’s bad; we should ’a’ left befo’.
Dorset. That’s the Cap’n—that quair way of his’n. [He motions toward the door at the rear—then turns to Cogswell, eyeing him intently.] What’s wrong, Cogswell? We’re right enough here, ain’t we?
Cogswell. [Half embarrassed.] I reckon . . . only—God, Dorset, listen to that rain . . . listen to that wind howl!
Dorset. [Indifferently.] Yeah. Purty bad storm, I reckon.
[There is silence for a moment. Dorset turns a page in the album.
[The Captain enters. He is very tall and slenderly built, fashionably dressed in the style of his period. He is a dark, handsome man of aristocratic bearing and fine, but somewhat dissipated, features. He wears a well-groomed moustache.
[He goes to the window and looks out at the storm, then turns, looks intently with sinister foreboding at Cogswell and Dorset, and goes back into the rear room.]
Cogswell. I don’t like the way he acts.
Dorset. He don’t mean nothin’. ’S his way, you know.
Cogswell. [After a pause.] What’s that book you’re readin’?
Dorset. ’Taint no book. It’s a album.
Cogswell. What’s that?
Dorset. You put picters of yer folks in it—a photygraph album, they calls it.
Cogswell. [In a subdued voice.] Was it . . . was it the . . . Old Man’s?
Dorset. Yeah, I reckon. Found it upstairs while I was rummagin’ ’round today. Found his picter in it—a lot of ’em. See here—[He pushes the album over to Cogswell and traces with his finger.] Here’s one with “sixteen” under it—this boy, you see here—that’s the old duck at sixteen. Another’n here at twenty-three. Here’s one at forty—you can tell him here all right.
Cogswell. [With a shiver.] Yeah, that’s him . . . that’s him . . . he was a lot older but y’ can tell that’s him, all right. [He shudders.] I can’t forgit how the ol’ bird looked when the Cap’n killed him, how he laughed all up in his throat when the Cap’n shot him . . . a bloody gurgle it were.
Dorset. [Bluntly.] Forgit it. I ought to ’a’ been here to do it for you an’ not a-traipsin’ down the mountain for grub that night.
Cogswell. [Not heeding.] An’ the funny part is that he knew the Cap’n—
Dorset. [Staring at him in astonishment.] What’s that?—You’re crazy!—Knew the Cap’n? Why he couldn’t. He ain’t never been in these parts before. Said he hadn’t.
Cogswell. [Glancing nervously toward the rear room where The Captain is pacing up and down.] He did all the same, he spoke his name.
[The Captain comes to the open door. He pauses a moment and looks into the front room—a cynical, half brooding look. The men sense his presence. They are silent but glance nervously at each other and fidget under his gaze, not daring to look up until he retires.]
Cogswell. [Looking craftily toward the door before he speaks.] Damn him! I wish he wouldn’t look at us like that. ’Tain’t like he’s human. No, it ain’t.
Dorset. [Defending his chief.] He’s all right . . . [There is a pause.] You say the Ol’ Man spoke the Cap’n’s name? Tell me about it. I want in here when it happened.
Cogswell. The first thing that struck me funny was the noise the Cap’n made when he come in. An’ him knowin’ all the time that the Ol’ Man was asleep upstairs. Right over his head!
Dorset. [Unbelieving.] You say he made a noise, an’ him as soft-steppin’ as a cat?
Cogswell. I know, I know, but he did. Went clumpin’ over the floor like no one was ’round, like he didn’t care. I says “Cap’n, be keerful, you’ll wake the Ol’ Man.”
Dorset. What did he say?
Cogswell. Nothin’. He looked at me an’ grinned that mean little grin of his’n. ’Bout that time th’ ol’ bird heard us. He hit the floor an’ come thumpin’ down the stairs . . . thought we were after his money, an he wa’n’t far wrong. I tell you he was a funny sight in his night shirt, an’ his red night cap, an’ his ol’ shanks like two sticks as he come down a-glarin’ at us.
Dorset. [Almost eagerly.] Go on, man. The Cap’n, the Cap’n—what did he do?
Cogswell. When he heard the Ol’ Un’ comin’, he turned his back.
Dorset. What?
Cogswell. Yeah, that he did! An’ then the Ol’ Un’ come down the stairs into the room an’ started screamin’, “What do you want? Who are you? Burglars, by God!” An’ he ran over to the stone where his money is . . .
Dorset. [Impatiently.] Go on, go on!
Cogswell. The Cap’n turned an faced him, never sayin’ a word. An’ the Ol’ Uns eyes nearly popped out’n his head—he was that put to it . . .
Dorset. What did the Cap’n do then?
Cogswell. In a minute th’ Ol’ Man croaked out, “Richard Harkins—Richard Harkins—Richard Harkins!”
Dorset. An’ the Cap’n, what did he say?
Cogswell. Nothin’. Jes’ grinned his mean grin, the one that makes you fidgety, you know.
Dorset. [Dully.] Yeah, I know. . . . Go on, Cogswell.
Cogswell. Finally the Ol’ Man starts laughin’, jes’ stands there laughin’ . . . a gaspin’, gurglin’ land o’ laugh . . . make yo’ blood freeze.
Dorset. Didn’t he talk none?
Cogswell. Yeah. Finally he says, still laughin’, “I fooled you, didn’t I, Captain Richard Harkins; I fooled you, hey? You thought you’d take her but I fooled you. An’ now she’s gone, she’s dead. I took her away from you an’ she died, she died!” An with that he started laughin’ his bloody laugh again. The Cap’n shot him then. Standin’ still an’ cold as ice, the Cap’n shot him through the neck. He fell still laughin’—right by that stone where his money is. [He shudders as the recollection.]
Dorset. Yeah, I know. I was comin’ back when I heard the shot an’ I hurried in. The blood spots are still there—but why didn’t you tell me this before, Cogswell? Why didn’t you?
[The Captain is heard pacing in the adjoining room.]
Cogswell. [Whining now, as he gazes in that direction.] It was him, damn him! I’m afeard o’ him an’ the way he looked at me that night, an’ I swore to myself I wouldn’t tell no one if I got out of here. But—[Listening to the rain as it drives against the house.] God, Dorset, this is the third night! [He is almost whimpering as his overstrained nerves give way.] The Cap’n done it, Dorset; I didn’t know ’bout it or I wouldn’t ’a’ come along. The Cap’n killed him, Dorset. It wa’n’t no work o’ mine, Dorset, and this is the third night. . . . We oughtn’t to be here!
Dorset. [Eyeing him curiously.] What’s in the third business, Cogswell?
Cogswell. Third is bad all the time. On the third night the hoot owl screeches; the third time the dog barks; the third night—
Dorset. Bah! That’s the nigger in you showin’ up. [Cogswell springs up furiously with clenched fist, but in a moment sinks sullenly back into his chair, cowed by Dorset’s threatening contempt. Dorset turns away, meditating with his sluggish mind on Cogswell’s account of the killing. While Cogswell fools nervously with the cards, he turns the pages of the album, muttering.] The Ol’ Man talked of a girl, huh . . . that’s funny . . . damn funny—[Half indifferently.] Now, I wonder . . . [Suddenly he stiffens in his seat as his glance rests on a certain photograph in the album. He speaks hoarsely.] Good God! The picture, the locket picture; it’s the girl!
Cogswell. [Frightened, stares at him.] What . . . what do you mean?
Dorset. [Excited] Here it is! . . . Why didn’t I see it when you tol’ me ’bout the Ol’ Man’s talk of the girl . . . an’ him knowin’ the Cap’n?
Cogswell. What . . . what are you talkin’ ’bout?
Dorset. The Cap’n carries a locket ’round his neck. Got a girl’s picter in it. When he’s drinkin’ he takes it out an’ curses under his breath, slow an’ soft an’ steady—awful, I tell you.
Cogswell. He’s drinkin’ now.
Dorset. An’ it’s the same as this picter here, the Ol’ Man’s daughter. . . . Don’t you see, Cogswell? It’s plain as the nose on your face. [Cogswell shakes his head.]
Dorset. Why the Cap’n come back to kill ’im. That’s what he come for. Why, I don’t even believe he wanted his money. The Ol’ Man must’ve took his daughter away from the Cap’n long ago. Don’t you see?
Cogswell. [In an awed tone.] God, Dorset, is that it?—How long you been with that man, Dorset?
Dorset. Five year. He picked me up in Memphis. Five year last week it was, when we picked you up in Asheville.
Cogswell. [Interrupting.] I had nothin’ to do with it, I tell you. I never knew there was to be a killin’. I just come to show you the way.
Dorset. [Grinning at him.] Yes, you did. You’d heard of the Ol’ Man’s money, that’s what you wanted.
Cogswell. [Sullenly.] Well, mebbe you’re right. . . . But it wa’n’t no work o’ mine.
Dorset. [Taunting him.] Anxious to git out of it, ain’t you?
Cogswell. [Whining again.] You would be too, if you knew all ’bout the Ol’ Man.
Dorset. What’s that?
Cogswell. [Lowering his voice and glancing around nervously.] They say ’round here he was a witch-man—half-way crazy, he was. Whenever anything went wrong with farmers or when there was a big drouth, they put it on the Ol’ Man.—Mind, I’m not sayin’ they’re right. I’m jes’ tellin’ you. . . .
Dorset. Forgit it. He’ll have a hard time witchin’ anybody now, from his bed six feet under his wood pile. I reckon we fixed his witchin’ business when we throwed dirt in his face. [He laughs coarsely.]
Cogswell. [Quaking.] Fo’ God’s sake, don’t talk that way. [Dorset laughs at him. Then both are silent and listen to the storm outside. Dorset continues ruminative, hardly noticing his companion.] What do you know ’bout it? [He rises and goes to the fireplace.] The Cap’n, the Ol’ Man, and the locket girl—all hooked up together! This is a funny worl’. An’ after all this time, the Cap’n comes back an’ gits him. It must’ve been a long time, too. I been with him five year now. . . . Five year with that man. . . .
Dorset [Reflectively, standing with his back to the fire.] Five year up an’ down an’ ’round about. Gamblin’, that’s the Cap’n’s line. Smooth an’ slick, that’s the Cap’n! On river boats he used to fleece ’em right an’ left. At the race track in New Orleans—in Memphis . . . five year with him . . . an’ . . . an’ yet . . . I might ’a knowd somethin’ was up.
Cogswell. Why’d you know?
Dorset. I been with ’im five year an’ this is the first time he’s ever . . . [He pauses.]
Cogswell. [Finishing it.] Killed? That what you mean?
[Dorset nods]
Dorset. That’s what.
Cogswell. Who is he, anyhow?
Dorset. [With grim humor.] You ought t’ as’d the Ol’ Man. He could’ve tol’ you. [Leaning toward him confidentially.] Why, at times, Cogswell I think the Cap’n’s crazy. [He jerks his finger toward The Captain who is now sitting before the fireplace in the rear room, his back to the two.] Sometimes he gits out by hisself an’ talks—talks, mind you, when there’s nobody ’round. I found him that way one time. “Cap’n,” I says, “what are you doin’?” “Talkin’,” he says short-like, and walks away. He’s crazy, or he’s a funny way of jokin’, I tell you.
Cogswell. [Shivering.] What’s keepin’ us here now? Why does he stay in this ol’ house, Dorset?
Dorset. He’s all right. Waitin’ till the Asheville stage comes by tomorrow.—Just comes twice a week, don’t it?
Cogswell. [Eagerly.] Do we leave tomorrow then?
Dorset. I reckon. [Ruminating.] I wonder how the Cap’n ’ll split! I wonder what our share will be?
[As if in answer to the question The Captain now enters the room. They stare at him, almost in awe.]
The Captain. [In a cold, severe tone, looking at neither of them.] We leave here tomorrow morning.—We will divide the money now.
Cogswell. [Cringing, yet eager.] Cap’n, [The Captain does not look at him.] . . . now, can’t we go now . . . tonight!
The Captain [Sharply.] That would be foolish, in this storm. Besides—[For the first time The Captain observes Cogswell’s twitching face.] Eh! Do you wish to go now, Cogswell?
Cogswell. [Almost tearfully.] Yes . . . damn it, I do!
The Captain. Very well. Lift the stone, Cogswell.
[The Captain goes to the window and gazes out at the storm, indifferent to the division of the money. Cogswell drops eagerly to his knees and lists the hearthstone, looking nervously at the blood stains on it. An iron money box fits neatly into the cavity below. Cogswell lists the lid easily. The box is filled with coins and paper money, the Old Man’s hoard. Cogswell gives a long exultant sigh as he leans forward, half raising his arm. Dorset, looking at the gleaming mass, bends swiftly forward. His eyes glitter. Outside the storm is still raging.]
Cogswell. [After a moment.] Cap’n . . . for us two, about how much?
The Captain. [Speaking carelessly, over his shoulder.] As much as you like.
[The two men, dazed at their good fortune, gaze stupified at each other. Then with a gloating laugh, Cogswell delves both hands into the box, letting the coins ripple through his fingers.]
[Suddenly there is a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a roll of thunder which increases in volume until it fills the room. Out of the thunder comes a low, throaty chuckle. The Captain recoils. In a moment the sound passes. Cogswell is paralyzed. Dorset passes a hand before his eyes. He forces a grim smile.]
Cogswell. God help us all . . . the laugh . . . the Ol’ Man’s laugh!
Dorset. [Evasively.] It was the thunder.
Cogswell. You fool!
The Captain. [Ironically, cold.] Why don’t you take your share, Cogswell?
Cogswell. [Whimpering.] I’ll have none of it, I swear I won’t!
[The room has darkened but Cogswell and Dorset are vividly silhouetted in the hearth glow. The Captain stands in semidarkness near the window. He is very erect.]
Dorset. [Staring at The Captain—dully and slowly.] Let’s leave it, Cap’n, let’s leave it be.
Cogswell. [Whining, rubbing his hands pitifully.] Yes, yes, Cap’n . . . Let’s leave it be, let’s leave it be. . . . The Ol’ Man’ll git us! I tell you he will, Cap’n.
[The Captain laughs sharply. There is a brilliant flash of lightning, followed by a loud peal of thunder which converges in the room. The Captain walks slowly over to the hearth and faces the door. He appears not agitated, but resolved. The men kneeling on the hearth are stupified. Cogswell is beginning to whimper with fear. The Captain does not notice them. He opens his shirt bosom and rips from its chain a locket which he wears around his neck. Then laughs harshly.]
The Captain. [Very softly.] Journey’s end.
[He hurls the locket into the ashes and re-buttons his shirt. He stands waiting with an intense, listening attitude. The two men stare up at him with open mouths. The wind and rain are heard beating violently against the old house. The door at the left blows open and the rain drives into the room. The Captain bends forward, losing his composure a little. He speaks with repressed emotion.]
The Captain. All right! What is it. . . what is it, I say? What do you want?
[He crosses the room slowly, moving toward the door. A vivid flash of lightning which sustains itself for some time makes him turn instinctively toward the window. Dimly outlined through the misted window pane, appears the face of the ghostly Old Man—even as they killed him. From beneath his red flannel nightcap long stringy white locks may be seen, and in his throat a small bluish hole from The Captain’s gun. He is looking at The Captain and chuckling, a horrible soundless chuckle now. But, as the light disappears and the thunder rolls again, it swells to the awful throaty chuckle converging gradually until it fills the entire room, then dies away slowly in the storm. The Captain is leaning intently toward the window, fascinated. He regains his composure and his dignity quickly, however, and stands facing the spectre in the window. The figure passes slowly by—around the house.]
