Thompson Buchanan, novelist and playwright, was born at New York City, June 21, 1877. Before he was thirteen years of age his family settled at Louisville, Kentucky; and from 1890 to 1894 he attended the Male High School in that city. Being the son of a retired clergyman of the Episcopal church, it was fitting that he should select the University of the South as his college, and in September, 1895, he reached the little town of Sewanee, in the Tennessee mountains, and matriculated in the University. He left college without a degree in July, 1897, and returned to his home at Louisville, where he shortly afterwards became police court reporter for the now defunct Louisville Commercial. Mr. Buchanan was connected with the Commercial until 1900, save six months of service as a private in the First Kentucky Volunteer Infantry during the Spanish-American War. He saw service in the Porto Rico campaign with his regiment and, after peace was declared, returned to his home and to his position on the paper. In 1900 Mr. Buchanan went with The Courier-Journal; and during the same year he was dubbed a lieutenant in the Kentucky State Guards. In 1902 he left Colonel Watterson's paper for The Louisville Herald, of which he was dramatic critic for more than a year. The year of 1904 found Mr. Buchanan in New York on The Evening Journal, with which he was connected for four years, when he abandoned journalism in order to devote his entire attention to literature. Mr. Buchanan's first book, The Castle Comedy (New York, 1904), a romance of the time of Napoleon, which many critics compared to Booth Tarkington's Monsieur Beaucaire, was followed by Judith Triumphant (New York, 1905), another novel, set in the ancient city of Bethulia, with the Judith of the Apocrypha as the heroine. His dramatization of The Castle Comedy was so generally commended, that he decided to desert the field of fiction for the writing of plays. His first effort, Nancy Don't Care, was met with a like response from the public, and the young playwright presented The Intruder, which certainly justified belief in his ultimate arrival as a dramatist, if it did nothing more. The play that brought Mr. Buchanan wider fame than anything he has done hitherto was A Woman's Way, a comedy of manners, in which Miss Grace George created the character of the wife with convincing power. Marion Stanton is quite unfortunately in love with her exceedingly rich, but bored, husband, Howard Stanton, who seeks the society of other women, one of whom happens to be with him when his motor car is wrecked near New Haven at a most unseemly hour. The New York "yellows" are advised of the accident and they, of course, desire details—which desire precipitates the action of the play. "Scandal," in type the size of an ordinary country weekly, is flashed across the "heads" of the big dailies, extras are put forth hourly, a family conference is called at the home of the Stantons, a rich young widow from the South is regarded by the papers as Stanton's partner in the accident, and a very merry time is had by all concerned. The way the woman took out of her difficulties is unfrequented by many, although it should have been well-worn long before Marion made it famous. The drama was one of the authentic successes of 1909, and it certainly established its author's reputation. A novelization of A Woman's Way (New York, 1909), was made by Charles Somerville, and accorded a large sale, but how infinitely better would have been a publication of the play as produced! Quite absurd novelizations of plays are at the present time one of the literary fads which should have been in at the birth and death of Charles Lamb. The Cub, produced in 1910, a comedy with a mixture of melodrama and farce, was concerned with a young Louisville newspaper man, "a cub," who is assigned to "cover" a family feud in the Kentucky mountains. That he finds himself in many situations, pleasant and otherwise, we may be sure. A celebrated critic called The Cub "one of the wittiest of plays"—which opinion was shared by many who saw it. Lula's Husbands, a farce from the French, was also produced in 1910. The Rack, produced in 1911, was followed by Natalie, and Her Mother's Daughter, all of which were given stage presentation. Mr. Buchanan spent most of the year of 1912 writing and rehearsing his new play, The Bridal Path, a matrimonial comedy in three acts, which is to be produced in February, 1913. None of his plays have been issued in book form, but, besides his first two romances and the novelization of A Woman's Way, two other novels have appeared, entitled The Second Wife (New York, 1911); and Making People Happy (New York, 1911). That Thompson Buchanan is the ablest playwright Kentucky has produced is open to no sort of serious discussion; with the exception of Mr. Dazey and Mrs. Flexner he is, indeed, quite alone in his field. Kentucky has poetic dramatists almost without number, but the practical playwright, whose lines reach his audience across the footlights, is a rara avis. Augustus Thomas, the foremost living American playwright, resided at Louisville for a short time, and his finest drama, The Witching Hour, is set wholly at Louisville, although written in New York, but Kentucky's claim upon him is too slender to admit of much investigation. Mr. Buchanan has done so much in such a short space of time that one is tempted to turn his own favorite shibboleth upon him and exclaim: "Fine!"

Bibliography. The Theatre Magazine (April; May, 1909); The American Magazine (November, 1910); The Green Book (January, 1911).

THE WIFE WHO DIDN'T GIVE UP[92]

[From A Woman's Way (Current Literature, New York, June, 1909)]

Act III, Scene I. Mr. Lynch, the reporter, enters, joining General Livingston, Mrs. Stanton's father, and Bob, Morris, and Whitney, all of whom have had escapades with the winsome widow.

General Livingston. I represent Mr. Stanton, and I tell you, sir, I do not propose to have him hounded in this damnable fashion any longer. I shall hold you personally responsible.

Lynch. General, you're the fifth man who's said that to me since three o'clock.

General Livingston. (Sharp.) What!

Lynch. And if you do physically assault me, General, I shall certainly land you in the night court, and collect space on the story spread on the front page, sure—"Famous old soldier fined for brutally assaulting innocent young newspaper man."

(General Livingston stands completely dumbfounded, his hands twitching, quivering with rage.)

General Livingston. (Gasps almost tearfully.) Have you newspaper men no sense of personal decency, personal dignity?

Lynch. Don't be too hard on us, General. During business hours, our associations are very bad.

General Livingston. What do you mean?

Lynch. We have the name of the lady who was with Mr. Stanton in his car at the time of his accident. We have learned all about the trip and we have the woman's name. So I have come to give Mr. Stanton a——

General Livingston. (Interrupting.) Would the papers print that?

Lynch. Would they print it? Well—(Smiles significantly.)

General Livingston. Then I shall say nothing, but our lawyers will take action.

Lynch. They'd better take it quick. You'll have fifty reporters up here by to-morrow night. If Mr. Stanton refuses to say anything, we will simply send out the story that the woman in the car with him at the time of his automobile accident was——(Pauses, then with dramatic emphasis.) Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore.

General Livingston. (Starting back in amazement.) Good gracious!!

Bob and Morris. (Turn, face each other, absolute amazement showing on their faces, speak together.) Well, what do you think of that? (Whitney alone is not surprised. The situation is held a moment, then Stanton enters. He does not see Lynch at first.)

Stanton. (As he comes on.) General, I wish to apologize——(Stops short, seeing Lynch.)

General Livingston. (Whirling on Stanton.) Apologize! Apologize! How dare you, sir! (Losing his self-control.) My great-grandfather killed his man for just such an insult——

[Marion enters to save the situation. The reporter withdraws for a moment, while the general informs her that Mrs. Blakemore must leave the house at once. Marion demurs.]

Marion. Father, I told you once what concerns my own life I must settle my own way. I don't want to appear disrespectful, but you cannot coerce me in my own house. (Walks past him to the door and opens it.) Good evening, Mr. Lynch.

Lynch. (Sincere tone.) I hope you will believe me, Mrs. Stanton, when I tell you it is not a pleasure to me to have to come on this errand.

Marion. Thank you, Mr. Lynch.

Lynch. I'd rather talk to Mr. Stanton.

Marion. Sorry, but——(Her manner is pleasant and friendly, but firm. Lynch evidently likes her and with a shrug he accepts situation.)

Lynch. Then please understand my position, and how I regret personally the question that, as a newspaper man, I must put. (Marion bows.) Bluntly, Mrs. Stanton, we have the name of that woman.

Marion. Yes.

Lynch. And we are going to publish it unless it can be proven wrong.

Marion. I'd expect that. Who is she?

Lynch. Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore. (Lynch pronounces the name regretfully. Marion stares at him a moment in amazement, then throws back her head and gives way to a peal of laughter. The men on the stage stare at Marion amazed.)

Marion. Oh, this is too good! Too good! Forgive me, Mr. Lynch. (Goes off into another peal of laughter, turns to the men.) Howard, Dad, all of you, did you hear that? What a splendid joke! (The men try awkwardly to back her up.)

General Livingston. Splendid! Haw! Haw!

Bob. Fine, he, he!

Morris. (At head of table.) Ho, ho. I never knew anything like it.

Whitney. I told Mr. Lynch he was on a cold trail.

Lynch. (Grimly.) You can't laugh me off.

Marion. (Struggling for self-control.) Of course not. But you must forgive my having my laugh first. I'll offer more substantial proof. (Opens door, letting in immediately the sound of women's talking and laughter which stop short as though the women had looked around at the opening of the door. Calling in her most dulcet tone.) Elizabeth!

Mrs. Blakemore. (Her voice heard off stage.) Yes, Marion, dear. (An amazed gasp from the men. Mrs. Blakemore appears at the door.)

Marion. Come in! (Mrs. Blakemore enters, looks about quickly, almost fearfully. Marion slips her arm about Mrs. Blakemore's waist in reassuring fashion, laughing, but at the same time giving Mrs. Blakemore a warning pressure with her arm.) Don't say a word, dear. The greatest joke you ever heard! Come! (Mrs. Blakemore, following suit, slips her arm about Marion. They come down stage to Lynch, their arms about each other's waist most affectionately. The men are staring at them dumfounded. Marion and Mrs. Blakemore stop opposite Lynch. Marion speaks gaily.) Mr. Lynch, of the City News, may I present Mrs. Elizabeth Blakemore?

Lynch. (In amazement.) Mrs. Blakemore!

Mrs. Blakemore. (Bowing pleasantly.) Glad to meet you, Mr. Lynch.

Lynch. (Repeating, dazed.) Mrs. Blakemore!

Marion. (Gaily.) And you see she's not lame a bit from her broken leg.

Mrs. Blakemore. What's the joke?

Marion. (Taunting.) You would not expect, Mr. Lynch, to find plaintiff and corespondent so friendly.

Mrs. Blakemore. (Gasping.) Plaintiff! Corespondent!

Marion. Yes, dear. Mr. Lynch came all the way up from down town to tell me that I am going to bring a divorce suit against Howard, naming you as corespondent. Now wasn't that sweet of him? (She keeps her warning pressure about Mrs. Blakemore's waist.)

Mrs. Blakemore. (Taking the cue.) This is awful! Horrible!

Marion. Now, dear, don't lose your sense of humor. (To Lynch.) Are you satisfied, Mr. Lynch?

Lynch. Forgive me. Mrs. Stanton, but you are so confounded clever you might run in a "ringer." (Reaches in his pocket, brings out a picture, holds it up and compares the picture with Mrs. Blakemore. Finally looks up.) Guess you win, Mrs. Stanton.

Marion. Thanks. (Bows satirically.)

Lynch. Yes, you must be right I don't believe even you could put your arm about the other woman. (A suppressed, gasping exclamation from the men.)

Marion. That observation hardly requires an answer, Mr. Lynch.

Lynch. Sorry to have disturbed you. Good night!

All. (With relief.) Good night.

[The flabbergasted reporter withdraws, but Marion still keeps her arm about Mrs. Blakemore. When he re-opens the door, as if he had forgotten something, he finds the picture undisturbed. Mrs. Blakemore thanks Marion for her generosity, and goes out, followed by the others. "Good night, my friend," the widow remarks, "you'll get all that is coming to you." Stanton calls back Marion who has also deserted the room.]

Stanton. Marion! Marion!

Marion. (Enters.) Has she gone?

Stanton. Who?

Marion. Puss?

Stanton. Oh, she's not my Puss.

Marion. Not your Puss, Howard? Then whose Puss is she?

Stanton. God knows—maybe. Marion. I've loved you all the time. I've been a fool, a weak, dazzled fool. I love you. Won't you forgive me and take me back?

Marion. Take you back? Why, I've never even given you up. Do you think I could stand for that cat—Puss, I mean—in this house and me off to Reno?

Curtain.