The Project Gutenberg eBook of More Portmanteau Plays, by Stuart Walker.

Each of the above three volumes handsomely bound and illustrated. Per volume net $1.75

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ILLUSTRATIONS

Stuart Walker with the Working Model of His Portmanteau Theatre Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree, Act III 34

The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree, Act III 63

The Very Naked Boy 80

Jonathan Makes a Wish, Act I 130

Jonathan Makes a Wish, Act II 149

INTRODUCTION

During the period which has elapsed between the publication of Portmanteau Plays, and that of the present volume our country entered upon the greatest war in history, and emerged victorious. It is far too early to estimate what effect that war has had or may have upon all art in general, and upon the dramatic and theatric arts in particular, but there is every indication that the curtain is about to rise on the great romantic revival which we have watched and waited for, and of which Stuart Walker has been one of the major prophets.

During the actual period of the war many of the creative and interpretative artists of the theater were engaged either directly in army work or in one of its auxiliary branches. It is amusing to recall that the present writer met Schuyler Ladd serving as Mess Sergeant for a Base Hospital in France, Alexander Wollcott, late dramatic critic of the New York Times, attached to the Stars and Stripes in Paris, and Douglas Stuart, the London producer, in an English hospital at Etretat, the while he himself was serving as an enlisted man on the staff of the same hospital. These are minor instances, but when they have been multiplied several hundred times one begins to see how closely the actor, the critic, and the producer were involved in the struggle. Again the problem of providing proper entertainment for the troops was, and still is, a serious one. In the great number of cases it seems highly probable[Pg vi] that the entertainment along such lines done by the men themselves was far more effective than that provided by outside organizations. More than once, however, it appeared to the writer that here was a field especially suited to the Portmanteau Theater and to its repertory. The question of transportation, always a crucial point with such a venture, was no more difficult than that presented by many companies already in the field, and doing immensely inferior work. My return to America put me in possession of the facts of the matter, and without desiring in any way to cast blame, much less to indict, or to emphasize unduly a relatively unimportant point, it seems only fitting that there should be included in this record the reasons for what has seemed to many of us a lost opportunity. They are at least much more brief than the apologia which precedes them.

The Portmanteau Theater, its repertory of forty-eight plays, and its trained company, was offered for war purposes under the following conditions: no royalty was to be paid for any of the plays, no salary was to be paid Mr. Walker; the company was to go wherever sent, whether in or out of shell fire, in France or in England; the only stipulation being that the members of the company should be remunerated at the same rate paid an enlisted man in the United States army, and that the principal members should receive the pay of subalterns. On the whole an arrangement so generous that it is almost absurd. To this offer the Y. M. C. A. turned a deaf ear. Their attention was concentrated on vaudeville at the[Pg vii] moment, and with one hand they covered their eyes while with the other they clutched their purse strings. The War Camp Community Service could see no way in which the Theater could function for the men either at home or abroad. The Portmanteau was, in a word, too "high-brow" a venture for them. The reader is referred to the Appendix of this volume showing the repertory in use at that time. Another official contented himself with the statement that the problem of transportation involved rendered the project impracticable. The matter is too lengthy to discuss here, but the writer, who was able to observe the situation at first hand, knows this to be an error. The navy then asked for plans and estimates so that a number of Portmanteau Theaters might be constructed aboard the ships. Mr. Walker offered to put all his patents at the complete disposal of the Navy Department, and himself was ready to draw plans and make suggestions. The navy approved the idea, and with sublime assurance requested Mr. Walker to proceed with the work of construction—at his own expense. It was impossible; the money could not be afforded, and the venture was abandoned. It is therefore very evident that there was an opportunity, and that that opportunity was lost; but it was not the Portmanteau which lost it. At any rate we are left free to take up the history of Mr. Walker's theater and his plays at the point where we left off in the first book of the series.

The close of the highly successful season at the Princess Theater in New York, the winter of 1915-1916, was followed by twelve weeks on the[Pg viii] road, three of which were spent in Chicago, and then by thirteen weeks in Indianapolis. It was in this last city that the production of the adaptation of Booth Tarkington's book, "Seventeen," changed all plans by its instant popularity. On the way East, a stop was made in Chicago, and before that city had time to do much more than voice its enthusiasm, the company left for New York. During the fall of 1917 Seventeen was played regularly, with the addition of some special performances of the repertory. Seventeen was played in New York for two hundred and fifty-eight performances (Chicago had already had one hundred), and the special performances of The Book of Job were renewed in the spring. It was during the next fall, that of 1918, that a second Seventeen company was sent out on the road. That company is still out, the total playing time for the work since its production being (April, 1919) just one hundred and four weeks. The next summer, 1918, included a repertory season of thirteen weeks, again at Indianapolis, and four in Cincinnati, while the following winter, just past, chimed ten weeks of repertory at the Punch and Judy Theater in New York. To sum up in brief then—Mr. Walker has, beginning in the spring of 1916 and ending in the spring of 1919, played seventy-six weeks of repertory, in which he has produced forty-eight plays. This does not include the Seventeen run which, as I have said, totals one hundred and four weeks to date. It is safe to claim that this represents as successful repertory work as has been done in the[Pg ix] United States so far. We shall, however, return to that presently.

In the fall of 1917, so important to the Portmanteau company, a change of management was instituted, by which the following staff came into control: Stage Director—Gregory Kelly: Stage Manager—Morgan Farley: Musical Director—Michel Bernstein: Manager—Harold Holstein: Press Representative—Alta May Coleman: Treasurer—Walter Herzbrun. The changes were excellent, and were thoroughly justified in their results. An arrangement was made with the Shuberts, whereby booking was greatly facilitated, and with its structure thus reinforced, the Theater was in an excellent position to "carry on."

It may be remembered by those who read the first book of the Portmanteau Series that in my introduction I placed the greater portion of my emphasis on the theatrical side; that is, the Portmanteau as a portable theater rather than as a repertory company. It is my intention here to reverse the process, and this for two reasons. First: Mr. Walker has in the last two years by no means confined himself to the Portmanteau stage. The recent run at the Punch and Judy Theater in New York was upon a full size stage, and this was not at all an exception. The Portmanteau was, and is, an idea, but that idea has no very definite connection with repertory as such. There is no longer the need, in this particular instance, that there once was, for the invariable use of the Portmanteau, except as convenience requires.[Pg x] At the very beginning, when the company often played for private persons, the portable stage was indispensable. But so thoroughly did the Portmanteau idea justify itself that from being a crutch it grew into a handy staff, always valuable, but no longer essential. All that has been said of it, and of its possibilities, is quite as true today as ever it was, but now having proved his original thesis, if so it may be called, Mr. Walker may well be content to work out the future gradually and in his own way. Second: the repertory idea is certainly of infinitely more importance than any theatrical device or contrivance, however interesting and valuable such a departure may be in itself. As to any difference in the acting necessitated by the change from a small to a large stage that amounts to little. It is entirely a difference in quality, an ability to temper the interpretation to the surroundings, and as such would apply as readily to the staging and setting of a play as to the acting itself. On a large stage one might take three steps to convey an impression where on a small stage one step would produce the same effect. An arch or pylon would obviously have to be of greater proportions on a large stage than on a small one. Yet in both these instances the ultimate effect is precisely the same. Let us turn then to a consideration of the Portmanteau, not as a theater, but as a repertory company.

There is certainly no space here, and just as certainly no necessity, for dwelling long upon the prime importance of repertory. Several excellent books have been written on that absorbing subject,[Pg xi] and we may surely take for granted that which we know beyond all doubt to be the truth, namely, that repertory as opposed to the "long run" and to the "star" system is the ultimate solution of a most vexatious and perplexing problem—how to change the modern theater from an industry to an art. The disadvantages of the present mode of procedure are too evident to call for recapitulation; witness the results obtained. On the other hand there can be no question that there is a practicable and simple panacea in repertory; see what has been done by the Abbey company in Dublin, by Miss Horniman's players in Manchester, by the Scottish Repertory Theater, on a smaller scale, in Glasgow, by John Drinkwater's repertory theater in Birmingham, concerning which I have, unfortunately, no exact data, but which I understand is doing remarkable work with distinct success, and by the Portmanteau company in the United States. It would be well also to include Charles Frohman's season at the Duke of York's Repertory Theater in London; in fact the inclusion of this seventeen weeks' season would be inevitable. Where the experiment has failed it has failed for reasons which did not, in any way, shape or manner, invalidate the principle at stake. Thus, to cite the great example on our own side of the water, the New Theater was doomed to failure from the very start in the fact that it was born crippled. It may be restated to advantage, just here, that from the spring of 1916 to the spring of 1919, a period of three years, Mr. Walker has produced forty-eight plays, has given seventy-six weeks of repertory, and has had a nearly unbroken[Pg xii] run of one hundred and four weeks with one play which has been commercially successful beyond the others. Of the forty-eight plays produced during this time eighteen had never been seen before on any stage; four were entirely new to America (except for a possible itinerant amateur performance); and twenty-six were revivals, modern, semi-modern, and classical. It is my belief that this record will take a creditable position in the history of American repertory. Abroad, however, its place is less secure, but even here the Portmanteau is by no means snowed under.

In the other great English speaking country there are four outstanding examples of repertory work, as has already been stated. On the Continent the situation is entirely different; there is no "problem" there, for the repertory theater has long been an established fact. France, in the Comedié-Française, and Germany, in several of her theaters before the war, merely provide us with a criterion. In Great Britain, however, and in America, we are in the process of building and adjusting, so that the examples of one will reasonably affect the other. At the risk of being misunderstood we shall pause long enough to call attention to the Irving Place Theatre,[1] of New York, a German house supporting German plays, and attended very largely by a German clientele, but notwithstanding all this a repertory theater of standing, and of some distinction, from which we might learn several useful lessons. However, it[Pg xiii] is with the Anglo-American stage that we have to do at the moment.

Doubtless, first in importance comes the Abbey Theater Company of Dublin. From December, 1905, to December, 1912, there were produced at the Abbey Theater (I am unfortunately unable to include the several important tours made) seventy-four plays, of which seven were translations. Of the rest but few were revivals, as the history of the Irish literary movement will show. They were plays written especially for the theater, for particular audiences, and to achieve definite purpose as propaganda. Moreover, when the Abbey was tottering on the brink of failure, Miss Horniman came to the rescue with a substantial subsidy which enabled the theater not only to proceed, but finally to establish itself on a sound running basis. Mr. Walker's company has had to fight its own way from the very start.

In Manchester, Miss Horniman's own repertory company at the Midland Theater and finally at the Gaiety has been distinctly and brilliantly successful. In a period of a little more than two years there were produced fifty-five plays; twenty-eight new, seventeen revivals of modern English plays, five modern translations, and five classics. This is a repertory as well balanced as it is wide. In 1910, however, there was inaugurated the practise of producing each play for a run of one week, so that from that time on the theater was open to the criticism of being not a repertory in the fullest sense of the term, but a short run theater. But for that matter, I do not think that there is a repertory theater either in England or in[Pg xiv] America which fulfills the ideal conditions set down by William Archer who had in mind, as he wrote, the repertory theater of the Continent.

"When we speak of a repertory, we mean a number of plays always ready for performance, with nothing more than a 'run through' rehearsal, which, therefore, can be, and are, acted in such alternation that three, four or five different plays may be given in the course of a week. New plays are from time to time added to the repertory, and those of them which succeed may be performed fifty, seventy, a hundred times, or even more, in the course of one season; but no play is ever performed more than two or three times in uninterrupted succession."[2]

This applies exactly to the Comedié-Française, which, in the year 1909, presented one hundred and fifteen plays, eighteen of which were performed[Pg xv] for the first time, the remainder being a part of the regular body of the repertory of that theater. In the first decade of the present century there were no less than two hundred and eighty-two plays added to the repertory of the Comedié. It may be of service to remember, however, that the Comedié-Française was established by royal decree in 1680. If the Globe Theater of Shakespeare's day had lived and prospered up to the present we might have an example to match that of France.

It is probable that if one were to use the phrase "repertory in America" the wise ones of the theater would raise their eye-brows stiffly and remark, "There is none." That would be nearly true, but not altogether so. It is my desire here to sketch in brief the early beginnings of what has been termed the "independent theater" movement,[3] from which repertory in this country unquestionably grew, up to the time of the establishment of the "little theaters" which now dot the country, and into which movement that of the "independent theater" eventually merged.

In 1887 there was inaugurated by A. M. Palmer at the Madison Square Theater, of which he was manager at that time, a series of "author's matinées" which appear to have been in some sense try-outs for a possible repertory season. Only three plays were produced, however, before Mr. Palmer decided against the scheme as impracticable. It is interesting to note that these three plays were all by American authors—Howells, Matthews, and Lathrop. The attempt was[Pg xvi] actually not repertory in the strict sense, but it undoubtedly marks a tendency, slight, but evident, to incline in the right direction.

Some four years later, in the fall of 1891, a Mr. McDowell, son of General McDowell of Civil War fame, started the Theater of Arts and Letters with the idea of bringing literature and the drama into closer relationship. Five plays were produced, and among the names of the authors (again they were all natives) one finds several which have since become famous. Commercially, the venture was a total failure, and the authors did not even collect their full royalties. A short tour was made with several of the more successful plays, one by Clyde Fitch (a one-act which was afterwards expanded into The Moth and the Flame), one by Richard Harding Davis, and one by Brander Matthews. All three of these were one-act. American authors were willing enough to write plays, but they apparently could not succeed, except in isolated instances, in writing good ones. There was evidently an utter dearth of suitable material. Nevertheless, when foreign plays were put on no better fortune ensued, unless they represented the old school of pseudo melodrama, and farce adapted from the French and German, such as Augustin Daly delighted in. Daly too had discovered that to encourage the American playwright was to court disaster.

In 1897 The Criterion, a New York review of rather eccentric merit, endeavored to establish the Criterion Independent Theater modeled on the Théâtre-Libre of Antoine. A company was recruited, headed by E. J. Henley, and performances[Pg xvii] were given at first the Madison Square Theater, and then the Berkeley Lyceum. It was frankly intended that the appeal should be to a small, select audience, and, in spite of the jeers of the press, five plays were produced—one Norwegian, one Italian, one French, one Spanish, and one American. A glance through the list shows us that the American play, by Augustus Thomas, is the only one which has not since entered into the permanent literature of the stage. Internal differences, and imperfect rehearsals combined to overthrow the venture which, after one season, was abandoned. The success of the last production, however, El Gran Galeoto, inspired Mr. John Blair to produce Ibsen's Ghosts with Miss Mary Shaw at the Carnegie Lyceum in 1899. From this sprang The Independent Theater, generously backed financially by Mr. George Peabody Eustis of Washington.

The list of the patrons of this theater reads like a chapter from "Who's Who." Many of the men associated with the plan gave their services free or at a nominal cost. The three persons more directly responsible for the artistic side of the work were Charles Henry Meltzer, John Blair, and Vaughan Kester, while among the patrons were W. D. Howells, Bronson Howard, E. C. Stedman, E. H. Sothern, Charles and Daniel Frohman, and Sir Henry Irving. Six plays were given, this time none of them of American origin. The press and critics were most bitter in their denunciation of these foreign importations, as they had been on the previous occasion. There was, however, on the part of the audiences a definite[Pg xviii] tendency to let drop the scales from their eyes, and to awake to the new forces in the drama and the theater as represented by Ibsen, Hervieu, the Théâtre-Libre, and the Independent Theater. But in spite of all this, one season's work saw the conclusion of the project. A part of the repertory was given in other cities, notably Boston and Washington, but, though a very real interest was aroused, it was not sufficient to permit the company to continue. About two thousand dollars represented the deficit at the end of the season; by no means a discreditable balance, albeit on the wrong side of the ledger, when one considers the circumstances. The actual results of the work are summed up in a privately printed pamphlet written by Mr. Meltzer than whom no one was more closely in touch with the whole independent movement.

"They have succeeded, thanks to Mr. George Peabody Eustis, the general manager of the scheme, in giving twenty-two performances of plays recognized everywhere abroad as characteristic, interesting, and literary.

"They have extended the 'Independent' movement from New York to Boston and Washington.

"They have encouraged at least one 'regular' manager to announce the production next season of an Ibsen play.

"They have interested, and occasionally charmed, an intelligent minority of playgoers,[Pg xix] who have grown weary of the rank insipidity, vulgarity, and improbability of current drama.

"They have bored, angered, and distressed a less intelligent majority of playgoers and critics.

"They have prepared the way, at a by no means inconsiderable cost of time, thought, and money, for future, and perhaps, more prosperous movements aiming at the reform of the American stage."

Coming at the time it did, sponsored by the best minds in America, and worked to its conclusion by whole hearted enthusiasts, The Independent Theater did, beyond all doubt, have a very vitalizing effect on both the stage and the drama of this country. The next step, perhaps the climactic one of the series, was longer in coming (1909).

The New Theater has been our greatest attempt and our greatest failure. The details of these two seasons have been placed before the public so many times that there is no necessity for doing more here than suggesting a broad outline. If the enterprise had, from its very inception, been in the hands of capable men who knew their work, instead of being handicapped by wealthy amateurs the history of a failure might never have been written. In its first season The New Theater presented thirteen plays at intervals of a fortnight. Of these, four were classics, three were original works by native authors, and two by contemporary British dramatists. During the second season, at the end of which the idea was given up and the New Theater abandoned, eleven[Pg xx] plays were produced; six of these were of British origin, semi-modern; one was a classic; three were Belgian, and one was American. I have counted in this season, two plays produced the season before, the only revivals. Altogether then, twenty-two plays were given, only five of which can be considered as home products. Mr. Ames, the Director, was balked at every turn by the combined forces of Fifth Avenue and Wall Street, while the outrageous and impossible construction of the theater itself proved an insurmountable handicap. In addition it was now found almost impossible to induce the American dramatist to turn from the great profits of the long run Broadway theaters to the acceptance of one hundred and fifty dollars a performance at the New Theater. There was something to be said on both sides. The New Theater was a splendid and costly attempt, and it taught us several invaluable lessons, chief among them the occasional unimportance of money.

Probably next in order comes the short repertory of Miss Grace George at the Playhouse in 1915 and 1917. This lasted for about one season and a half, and, while there was promise of continuation, the project was finally abandoned. It is only fair to say that Miss George worked under the peculiar disadvantage of entire lack of sympathy, and indeed, open antagonism as well, on the part of several of her most important confréres. The real trouble seemed to be one of those that affected the New Theater, that is, Miss George was totally unable to secure American plays for her purposes. In the period of[Pg xxi] her project she produced seven plays; five the first year, and two the next. Of these, five were modern British plays, one was a translation from the French, and one was semi-modern American. Again it will be observed that American plays were simply not forthcoming, a condition widely different from that obtaining during the nineties when the Theater of Arts and Letters, and the Criterion Independent held their short sway. Miss George's effort was distinctly worth while, but in the end there was added only another gravestone to the cemetery of buried hopes.[4]

With the advent of the "little theater" movement, from about 1905, there are many small companies and theaters which can, in a broad sense, fairly be termed repertory. To discuss any number of them would require a book in itself, and the reader is referred to "The Insurgent Theater" by Professor Dickenson as the work most nearly fulfilling this need. Probably the Washington Square Players of New York are typical, more or less, of them all, and their repertory for two years is given in the Appendix. Aside from the natural conditions resulting from the war, one reason of their failure seems to have been their pernicious desire to be "different" at any cost. In spite of their excellent work they ultimately found that cost to be prohibitive, but the discovery was made too late.[5] The majority of the little theaters are, however, too entirely[Pg xxii] provincial in their appeal to warrant an assumption of any great influence, in spite of their vital and unquestionable importance.[6]

It will be observed that in speaking of Stuart Walker's work I have used the phrase repertory company, not, repertory theater. That is, of course, part of the secret. A theater anchored to one spot is obviously at a disadvantage. It cannot seek its audience, but must sit with what patience and capital it has at its disposal, and wait for the audience to come to it. With a touring company the odds are more even. An unsuccessful month in one city may be made up by a successful one in another. The type of play that captivates the west may not go at all in the east, and the other way about. There are plays now on the road, and which have been there literally for years, doing excellent business, which have never ventured to storm the very rocky coast bounding New York. And there are plays which have had crowded houses in the metropolis which have slumped, and deservedly so, most dismally when they were taken out where audiences were possessed of a clearer vision. Hence it is easy to see that Mr. Walker, playing in both the east and the west, in small cities and in large ones, can do what the New Theater and the Playhouse could not do. True, they could send their companies out on tour, but the New Theater with its huge stage and panoramic scenery could find but[Pg xxiii] few theaters which could house it, and the whole idea of both that and Miss George's company was a fixed repertory theater. Indeed in both of them the faults of the "star" system were never wholly absent.

The facts that I have been able to give here seem to point to but one conclusion. That is, that Stuart Walker's repertory company stands numerically on a par with anything else of the kind ever attempted in the United States, and that it is not unworthy of comparison with the best repertory work in England. It must be borne in mind that, in some measure, all this has been done on a fairly small scale. There has not been the money at hand to do it otherwise, nor has there been the necessity. The company may be compared better with the Gaiety of Manchester than with the Duke of York's Theater. And too, as with the Gaiety, many of the players have been relatively unknown before their advent on the Portmanteau stage. It is the definite mission, or some part of it at any rate, of the repertory company to encourage new dramatists, new players, and new stage effects when such encouragement is advisable. To be merely different is by no means to be worth while.

The three plays included in this volume have all been presented successfully both in the east and in the west. The two long plays—The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree and Jonathan Makes a Wish—both have the distinction of being popular with audiences and unpopular with critics, a condition of affairs not as unique as it might seem. As for the third, The Very Naked Boy, it is a thoroughly[Pg xxiv] delightful trifle, unimportant as drama, yet very perfect in itself, and has been liked by nearly everyone. Combining, as it does, comedy and sentiment, it possesses all the elements that go to make for success with the average audience.

The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree is founded on an old Japanese legend, how old no one knows. Mr. Walker became interested in Japanese folk-lore through a collection of ballads; it is amusing to observe how his fondness for ballads has followed him through all his work, and this play was the result. From the first it went well. Apparently no one could resist the pathos of the intensely human story which culminated in so tragic a form. One might think that the appeal in a play of this type, written by an author so well known as an artist in stagecraft, would be largely visual. While that appeal is unquestionably there in abundance, the real essence of the tale is the vitally human quality of its characters. One is indeed inclined to believe that we take our pleasures sadly, when he has seen an audience quite dissolved in tears at a performance of this play, and all the while enjoying themselves unutterably. It is a drama of imagination and of emotion. The cold, hard, and more often than not deceiving light of the intellect plays but a small part. It is the human heart with its passions, its fears, its regrets, and its aspirations that concerns us here; not the human mind with its essentially microcosmic point of view, and its petty, festering egoism. The play is beautiful because it is true, and equally it is true because it is beautiful. It seems to me quite the best and soundest[Pg xxv] piece of work Mr. Walker has done so far, though he himself prefers his later play, Jonathan Makes a Wish.

This last play is more realistic—stupid term!—than anything of a serious nature that the author has so far attempted. It is, however, the realism of Barrie rather than that of Brieux, and this at any rate is consoling. The first act is extraordinary, splendid in thought, in technique, and in execution. Therein lies the trouble, if trouble there be. Neither of the two acts following can reach the level of the first, and with the opening of the second act the play gradually, though hardly perceptibly, declines, not in interest, but in strength. The transposition of the character of the Tramp from an easy going good nature in the first act to that of a Dickens villain in the second may require explanation. The last sensation the boy has is that of the blow on his head, and his last visualization is that of the Tramp's face bending over him. Thus, in his delirium, the two would inevitably be associated. The story of the delirium, the second act, is peculiarly well done. One feels the slight haziness of outline, the great consequence of actually inconsequential events, the morbid terror lurking always in the near background, which are a very part and parcel of that strange psychological condition which is here made to play a spiritual part. The last act suffers for want of material. In reality, all that is necessary is to wind up the play speedily and happily. It seems probable that the introduction of the deliciously charming Frenchwoman, played so delightfully by Margaret Mower, would give[Pg xxvi] the needed color and substance to this portion. As it is, one feels a little something lacking—but only a little. That the play is, as one pseudo-critic remarked, an argument in favor of infant playwrights, is too absurd to discuss. If it argues at all, it is that the relationship between the child world and the adult must be democratic, not tyrannic, and that flowers grow, like weeds, only when they are encouraged, not trod upon. The play is interesting, true, and imaginative to a degree; if it is not wholly satisfactory, it but partakes of the faults of virtue. Audiences, young, old, metropolitan and urban, have responded to the work in a manner which left no doubt of their approval. In New York it was slow in taking hold, and unfortunately the company was obliged to leave to fill other engagements just at the time when a more definite success was at hand. In the west the spirit of the thing caught at once; there was no hesitation there.

From the beginning there has been a very definite plan in Mr. Walker's mind as to what his objective point was to be, and especially in view of what I have said of his company in connection with repertory it may be interesting to suggest the outline of that plan here. This is no less than to establish in some city a permanent repertory theater and company, and to use the Portmanteau Theater and company for touring purposes. It is an amusing thought; the little theater would shoot out from under the wing of its parent as a raiding party detaches itself from its company, but the consequences would be, one hopes, less destructive on both sides. The thought, however, is really[Pg xxvii] much more than amusing; it is of very real consequence and importance. It will readily be seen that in this we have a combination of the advantages of both the stationary and the touring repertory company, and hence, double the chances of success. And Mr. Walker would by no means be restricted to one Portmanteau Theater. If conditions warranted it he could as easily construct and send out a dozen on the road, taking his work into every nook and corner of the theater-loving country. In fact the ramifications of the idea are so vast that it is useless to endeavor to do more than suggest them here. The reader will see for himself what great possibilities are involved, and what an effect this might have on all repertory work in America.

During the last two years the work of Mr. Walker's company has improved in every way. The addition of new members, such as Margaret Mower, and particularly George Gaul, whose performance In The Book of Job was, in my opinion, one of the finest ever seen on the American stage, has naturally served to strengthen the fabric greatly. The older members of the company, Gregory Kelly, McKay Morris, Edgar Stehli and many others, have all improved in their work, increasing in assurance and finish. The success that has attended the fortunes of the theater has made possible finer stage effects (the Dunsany productions have been immensely improved) and the repertory has been greatly enriched by some really fine plays, and has been enhanced by others of a more popular character. One thing must be said, however, in all fairness. It has seemed to the[Pg xxviii] writer that of late there has been an increasing tendency on the part of Mr. Walker's scenic artists and costume designers to fall away from the plain surfaces and unbroken lines of the new stagecraft, and to achieve an effect which one can only characterize as "spotty." This can best be appreciated by those who know the two American productions of Dunsany's one-act play, The Tents of the Arabs. I am rather regretfully of the opinion that, aside from the actual playing and reading of the parts, Sam Hume's production was superior to that of Mr. Walker. An opulence of variegated colors does not always suggest as much as flat masses. The set used by Mrs. Hapgood in her production of Torrence's Simon the Cyrenian illustrates excellently the desired result. It is, however, Stuart Walker's privilege to adapt the new ideas, and to make such use of the old, as seems best to him. One is sometimes inclined to miss, nevertheless, the simplicity of his earlier work, especially when it is compared with the splendor, not always well used or well advised, of his later productions. His company has always read beautifully, and its reading is now better than ever. The only adverse criticism, if adverse criticism there be at all, lies against the Stage Director himself. I am especially glad to be able to say this, for the producer whose work is too good, too smooth, is surely stumbling to a fall. The very fact that there is definite room for improvement in the Portmanteau presentations, leads one to feel, knowing the record of the company, that these improvements will be made.

To return for a moment to an earlier phase of[Pg xxix] our discussion, it may be both interesting and profitable to note the fact that while the Abbey, the Manchester, and the New Theaters were all aided by material subsidies, the Portmanteau has stood on its own legs, albeit they wabbled a trifle on occasion, from the very start. A little, but only a little, money has been borrowed, and there has been just one gift, that of $5000. This last was accepted for the reason that it would enable the Theater to mount sets and costume plays in a rather better fashion than heretofore. While it was not absolutely essential to the continued existence of the Portmanteau it made presently possible productions which otherwise would have been postponed indefinitely; in British army slang it would be called "bukshee," meaning extra, like the thirteenth cake in the dozen. The record of the Portmanteau is its own, and that of its many friends who have been generous in contributing that rarest of all gifts, sympathetic understanding.

Before withdrawing my intrusive finger from the Portmanteau pie I should like to pay a small tribute to Stuart Walker himself. I do not think I have ever known a man who gave more unsparingly of himself in all his work. That dragon of the theater, the expense account, has often necessitated someone shouldering the work of half a dozen who were not there. Always it is Mr. Walker who has taken the task upon his back, cheerfully and willingly, and despite physical ills, under which a less determined man would have succumbed. His never wavering belief in his work and his ability to do that work have brought him through many a pitfall. It is not a petty vanity,[Pg xxx] but the strong conceit of the artist; that which most of us call by the vague term ideals. The spirit of the Portmanteau is to be found alike in its offices and on its stage; a spirit of unselfish belief that somehow, somewhere, we all shall "live happily ever after" if only we do the work we are set to do faithfully here and now. The theater, the organization which has that behind it, in conjunction with a keenly intelligent co-operation or team-play, will take a great deal of punishment before it goes down. Mistakes have been made, of course; otherwise neither producer nor company were human; but it is in the acknowledgment and rectification of errors that men become great.

The repertory theater, the new drama, and stage craft, have an able ally in the Portmanteau. We may look far afield for that elixir which will transmute the base metal of the commercial theater to the bright gold of art, but unless we remember that the pot of treasure is to be found at this end of the rainbow, and not the other, our search will be in vain.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to acknowledge with gratitude the assistance given me by Mr. Brander Matthews, Mr. Montrose Moses, and by Mr. Charles Henry Meltzer in obtaining data, verifying dates and names, and by their kindly advice.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Since America's entrance in the War given over to the "movies."

[2] Mr. John Palmer, in his book, "The Future of the Theater," gives the following as the programme for the then, 1913, projected National Theater. The war intervened, however, and the venture has been lost sight of for the moment. This statement is even more reasonable than that of Mr. Archer, for this is intended for practical use in England while his was merely taken from France.

"... it seems desirable to state that a repertory theater should be held to mean a theater able to present at least two different plays of full length at evening performances in each completed week during the annual season, and at least three different plays at evening performances and matinées taken together ... and the number of plays presented in a year should not be less than twenty-five. A play of full length means a play occupying at least two-thirds of the whole time of any performance. But two two-act plays, or three one-act plays, composing a single programme, should, for the purposes of this statute, be reckoned as equivalent to a play of full length."

As Mr. Palmer remarks "this statute is both elastic and watertight."

E. H. B.

[3] See Appendix for complete repertories.

[4] Announcement has just been made that Miss George will continue her repertory during the season of 1919-1920.

[5] They only failed for $3000, however: the rent of a Broadway theater for a week.

[6] This statement hardly applies to The Neighborhood Theater, or to that successor to The Washington Square Players, The Theater Guild, the work of which at the Garrick Theater, New York, during the first part of 1919 has been excellent in the very highest degree.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE PORTMANTEAU THEATER

THE PROLOGUE

As the lights in the theater are lowered the voice of Memory is heard as she passes through the audience to the stage.

Once upon a time, but not so very long ago, you very grownups believed in all true things. You believed until you met the Fourteen Doubters who were so positive in their unbelief that you weakly cast aside the things that made you happy for the hapless things that they were calling life. You were afraid or ashamed to persist in your old thoughts, and strong in your folly you discouraged your little boy, and other people's little boys from the pastimes they had loved. Yet all through the early days you had been surely building magnificent cities, and all about you laying out magnificent gardens, and, with an April pool you had made infinite seas where pirates fought or mermaids played in coral caves. Then came the Doubters, laughing and jeering at you, and you let your cities, and gardens, and seas go floating in the air—unseen, unsung—wonderful cities, and gardens, and seas, peopled with the realest of people.... So now you, and he, and I are met at the portals. Pass through them with me. I have something there that you think is lost. The key is the tiny regret for the real things, the little regret that sometimes seems to weight[Pg 4] your spirit at twilight, and compress all life into a moment's longing. Come, pass through. You cannot lose your way. Here are your cities, your gardens, and your April pools. Come through the portals of once upon a time, but not so very long ago—today—now!

She passes through the soft blue curtains, but unless you are willing to follow her, turn back now. There are only play-things here.

THE LADY OF THE WEEPING WILLOW TREE

A Play in Three Acts[Pg 6]

Characters

WEEPING WILLOW TREE

ACT I

[Before the House of Obaa-San. At the right back is a weeping willow tree, at the left the simple little house of Obaa-San.

Why do you always pity Obaa-San? Are her clothes not whole? Has she not her full store of rice?

What does Obaa-San know of a heart, silly O-Katsu? She has had no husband to die and leave her alone. She has had no child to die and leave her arms empty.

How could one love Obaa-San? She is too hideous for love. She would frighten the children away—and even a drunken lover would laugh in her ugly face. Obaa-San! The grandmother!

If we could not laugh at Obaa-San, how then could we laugh? She has been sent from the dome of the sky for our mirth.

The grandmother of the weeping willow tree! It's well for the misshapen, and the childless, and the loveless to have a tree to love.

But, O-Sode, the weeping willow tree can not love her. Perhaps even old Obaa-San longs for love.

Do we not come daily to her to talk to her? And to ask her all about her weeping willow tree?

Some hideous Gaki! Like the Gaki of Kokoru—the evil ghost that can feed only on the unrest of humans. Their unhappiness is his food. He has to find misery in order to live, and win[Pg 10] his way back once more to humanity. To different men he changes his shape at will, and sometimes is invisible.

O Gaki of Kokoru! My heart hangs within me like the weight of years on Obaa-San.

Where then should I feed? Unless I feed on your unhappiness I should cease to live—and I must live.

I care not where or how I feed. I am in the sixth hell, and if I die in this shape I must remain[Pg 11] in this hell through all the eternities. One like me must feed his misery by making others miserable. I can not rise through the other five hells to human life unless I have human misery for my food.

Faith? Yes, perhaps—but only on perfect faith. If I found perfect faith—ah, then—I dare not dream.—There is no faith.

You shall be free—as free as anyone can be—when I have made the misery of Obaa-San complete.

She has never fully known her misery. Her heart is like an iron-bound chest long-locked, with the key lost.

She can not understand you! She can not see me unless I wish! Earth people never see or hear!

[Obaa-San enters. She is old, very, very old, and withered and misshapen. There is only laughter in your heart when you look at Obaa-San unless you see her eyes. Then[Pg 13]—

You have lost your way. Far, far back beyond the ferry landing at Ishiyama to your right. That is the way to Kyushu.

I am no grandmother!—Who sent you here to laugh at me?—O-Sode-San? 'Tis she who laughs at me, because—

Yes, yes, old woman. That is it. Old woman!—Who are you? I am not wont to cry my griefs to any one.

Ay! Even I—she whom they call Obaa-San—have griefs.—Even I! But they are locked deep within me. No one knows!

I shall not speak. Who cares?—What is it I shall do? Tell my story—unlock my heart—so that O-Sode-San may laugh and laugh and[Pg 15] laugh. Is it not enough that some evil spirit feeds upon my deep unrest?

How can one feed upon your unrest when you lock it in your heart? (The voices of O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San are heard calling to Obaa-San) Here come some friends of yours. Tell them your tale.

Good morning, O-Sode-San. Good morning, O-Katsu-San. May the bright day bring you a bright heart.

I am no grandmother! I am no grandmother! I am no mother! O-Sode, can you not understand? I am no mother.—I am no wife.—There is no one.—I am only an old woman.—In the spring I see the world turn green and I hear the song of happy birds and feel the perfumed balmy air upon my cheek—and every[Pg 16] spring that cheek is older and more wrinkled and I have always been alone. I see the stars on a summer night and listen for the dawn—and there never has been a strong hand to touch me nor tiny fingers to reach out for me. I have heard the crisp autumn winds fight the falling leaves and I have known that long winter days and nights were coming—and I have always been alone—alone. I have pretended to you—what else could I do? Grandmother! Grandmother! Every time you speak the name, the emptiness of my life stands before me like a royal Kakemono all covered with unliving people.

Did I not care! Grandmother! Grandmother! Why? Because I loved a weeping willow tree. Because to me it was real. It was my baby. But no lover ever came to woo. No words ever came to me.—Think you, O-Sode-San, that the song of birds in the branches is ease to an empty heart. Think you that the wind amongst the leaves soothes the mad unrest in here. (She beats her breast) I have no one—no one. I talk to my weeping willow tree—but there is no answer—no answer, O-Sode-San—only stillness—and yet—sometimes I think I hear a sigh.—Grandmother! Grandmother! There! Is that enough? I've bared my heart to you. Go spread the news—I am lonely and old—old.—I[Pg 17] have always been lonely. Go spread the news.

I need no pity.—Now my heart is unlocked. The dread Gaki of Kokoru who feeds upon unrest can come to me and feed upon my pain. I care not.

Yes. It is my tree. Perhaps there, too, someone in deep distress is imprisoned—as I am imprisoned in this body.—Hai! You do not know. You do not know!

You have been lonely, Obaa-San, but you have always been lonely. I know the having and I know the losing.

Ay. 'Tis better to long for love than to have it—and then lose. Look at me, whom the villagers call the bitter one. He came to me so long ago.—It was spring, Obaa-San, and[Pg 18] perfume filled the air and birds were singing and his voice was like the voice from the sky-dome—all clear and wonderful. Together we saw the cherry trees bloom—once: and on a summer night we saw the wonder of the firefly fête. My heart was young and life was beautiful. We watched the summer moon—and when the autumn came—Ai! Ai! Ai! Obaa-San.—I knew a time of love—and oh, the time of hopelessness! And I shut my heart. I did not see, Obaa-San.

But what is that? To her—my little girl—I gave all my dreams. I felt her baby hands in mine and in the night I could reach out to her. I lived for her. And then, one day—Obaa-San, I had known the joy of motherhood and I had known the ecstasy of—child—and now—Her little life with me was only a dream of spring, but still my back is warm with the touch of her babyhood. The little toys still dance before my eyes. Oh, that was long ago.—Now all is black.

All blackness can never fill a mother's heart.—O-Katsu-San, you have known the baby's hand in yours. But I am old—and I have never known, can never know.—I'd go to the lowest hells if once I might but know the touch of my own child's hand.[Pg 19]

Just once—for one short day—to fill the empty place in my heart that has always been empty—and a pain—

Obaa-San, for so they called you, tell me—did you say you'd go to the lowest hells if you might know the touch of your own child?

You can not feed me now. That cry was the wind amongst your branches. Come. I bid you come to life, to human form.

[When he touches the trunk of the tree, Aoyagi steps forth. She is small. Her little body is swathed in brown and from her arms hang long sleeves like the branches of the weeping willow. At first she shrinks. Then freedom takes hold on her and she opens her arms wide.

As free as one in life. You are bound to the tree as one might be bound to his body in a dream—but you may wander as one wanders[Pg 21] in a dream—free until the waking—then when the tree suffers, you shall suffer. Though you be leagues away, you shall suffer.—But first you shall dream.—Now you are to be the daughter of Obaa-San.

Do not call yet.—You are to wed the first young man who passes here and you are to follow him.

[The Gaki's voice is heard calling Obaa-San. She comes in and looks about. At last her old tired eyes see Aoyagi. For a moment they face each other.

[Obaa-San does not know what to think or do. A strange giddiness seizes on her and a great light fills her eyes.

My pain is stilled. There is no emptiness. It is a dream—a dream of spring and butterflies—Aoyagi!

[She stretches out her arms and silently Aoyagi glides into them—as though they had always been waiting for her.

It seems as though the weeping willow tree had warmed and shown its heart to me.

I care not who or what you are. You are here—close to my heart and I have waited always. I know I dream—I know.

Oh, how I've dreamed of you! When I was very, very young and had my little doll, I dreamed of you. I used to sing a lullaby and still I sing it in my heart:

I grew into womanhood and still I dreamed of you. And, dreaming still, I grew old. And all the world it seemed to me, made sport of[Pg 24] my longing and my loneliness. The people of the village called me grandmother. The children echoed the grownups' cry and ran from me. Now—Aoyagi—you are here. Oh, the warmth—the peace. Come let me gather flowers for the house. Let me—

OBAA-SAN (suddenly becoming the solicitous mother, she handles Aoyagi as one might handle a doll)

You seem very happy, Aoyagi. And your mother is very happy, too.—And I am hungry now.

But where would I have my food? Not in your heart, not in hers—I should starve and I must live.

[He points to the road. Aoyagi looks in that direction as The Gaki disappears. Riki comes in. Occasionally one may hear a bit of a lullaby sung in the old cracked voice of Obaa-San:

Riki is a poet, young, free, romantic. He faces Aoyagi a little moment as though a wonderful dragonfly had poised above his reflection in a pool.

Come with me. Butterfly, butterfly, alight upon the Willow Tree And if you rest not well, then fly home to me. See! I make a little verse for you.

No—like the Oshidori—we can go only by two and two along the silent stream—and as Oshidori in silence and in happiness float on and on and seem to cleave the mirrored sky that lies[Pg 27] deep within the dark waters, so we must go, we two, just you and I, to some silent place where only you and I may be—and look and look until we see the thousand years of love in each other's hearts.

I love Obaa-San, my mother.—I feel happy in her arms;—I felt at peace;—but now I feel that I must go to you.—I am fearful—yet I must go.—You are—

Look—out there—a mountain gleaming in the fresh spring air.—Amongst the trees I know a glade that waits for you and me.—A little stream comes plashing by and silver fishes leap from pool to pool—dazzling jewels in the leaf-broken sunlight. Tall bamboo trees planted deep in the father earth reach up to the sky.—And there the hand of some great god can reach down to us and feed our happiness—

Riki—I must go—I feel the strong hand leading me—I feel the happy pain—I long—I would stay with Obaa-San; but, Riki, I must go.—Yon mountain gleaming in the sun—the bamboo trees—the silver fishes—you—

[Obaa-San enters carrying an armful of wistaria blossoms. She is radiant. Then—she sees the lovers—and she understands. The blossoms slip from her arms.

We always search for someone—we humans.—Sometimes we find—sometimes we wait always.

For my sake, be happy. Some day I shall be Obaa-San no more—and what of you then? Go, my little darling, go with Riki.—Some day, you will return.

[Very simply she steps into Obaa-San's outstretched arms and then, as though they had been forever empty, Obaa-San stands gazing into space with her arms outstretched. Aoyagi and Riki go out.

[She lays her hand upon her heart and, looking into space, turns to the house. There is the[Pg 30] empty tree—her empty heart! The Gaki comes in.

I am very lonely. I have lived my lifelong dream of spring and butterflies a single instant—and it is gone.

[The Gaki, hidden, has been triumphant. Suddenly he seems to shrivel as if drawn with rage.

I waited, oh so long—you know.—I opened my arms.—My dream came true.—I sang my[Pg 31] lullaby—to my child.—A lover came;—they have gone.

I opened my arms here—like this.—She stepped into them as though she had been there always—and now she has gone.—In one short moment I lived my mother-life.

No! No! Some kindly spirit from the sky-dome came to me.—I have had one moment of happiness complete.—I dreamed and I have known. Now I shall dream again—a greater dream—a greater dream.

What! I can not feed! My Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree is gone! Obaa-San has built a circle of happiness about her head. Hai! I shall die in this shape.—I must feed.—Perhaps she tries to trick me.—I shall listen.—Why does she not weep?—Why do they not wail?

[He starts for the house. As he nears it, the voice of Obaa-San is heard crooning the little lullaby:

THE GAKI (defeated, seems beside himself. Suddenly he looks out and sees the mountain-peak) I'll find them in the bamboo glade. Perhaps I can make unhappiness there. Riki and Aoyagi!

ACT II

This is the glade on the mountain side—the glade where Aoyagi and Riki think to find their happiness. Here must I feed or I shall die in this shape.—Hai!—They come.

... and so like every other prince who is a real prince, he charged to the top of the hill before his men; and they, following him, fell upon the enemy and victory was theirs.

Now I am the Prince. With sword in hand I come to you. From Kyushu to Koban I've fought my way to you;—through forest, marsh and mountain path I've striven for you. Now I am here.—Look at me.

My little princess! I did not come to you sword in hand; I did not fight my way from Kyushu to Koban. But I strove for you through forest, marsh and mountain pass.—Within me throbbed a mighty song that I could not sing. I saw almost all the world, it seems, and once I heard a voice that seemed to call to me alone. It was at the ferry of Ishiyama. I followed the sound—and there she stood all aglow in the morning sunlight. But when I saw, the song still throbbed within my heart and I could not sing to her.—Someone else called to me—"Hai! Hai! Hai!"

For all I know she may still be standing there in the morning sunlight all aglow.—I have found you!

Ay—how can I say? Now all the world is fair because I see only you in earth and sky and everything.

How can I say? I heard her voice;—a song was in my heart—a song for you.—I saw her—the song staid locked in my heart for you.[Pg 36]

I do not understand it all.—Obaa-San—you—this happiness.—I have known happiness, but not like this.—When I was in the weeping willow tree—sometimes I was happy and sometimes I was hurt.—Oh, Riki, Riki, this glade is like the weeping willow tree! Whenever the soft air sways the leaves, I feel the same sweet joy as when the little breezes played amongst my branches. The rain—oh, the gentle little rain that cooled me in the hot summer—the drops that danced from leaf to leaf and felt like smiles upon my face. Tears! The rain is not like tears, Riki.

The dew! It came to me like a cool veil that the morning sun would lift and little breezes bear away. Then sometimes—the voice, the loneliness of Obaa-San.

Look where her home lies. Far down there beyond that stream, see—there is Kyushu.

Oh, Riki, my Riki, my august lord, why, why can I stay here in happiness with you when I know that Obaa-San is miserable and alone?

I can not say? I only know that we are here[Pg 37]—you and I—and we are happy. Two make a world, Aoyagi. Why? How? I do not know.

[Riki goes out. Aoyagi, left alone, feels the air in the old way. She sways slightly in the breeze, then flutters toward the steps.

[She evidently sees the place where Obaa-San lives. Her eyes dim a bit and slowly she hums the old lullaby:

[Aoyagi turns quickly, questioning him almost fearfully with her eyes. There is something of the Aoyagi of the time when The Gaki bade her leave Obaa-San.

I passed no one—except—a tall woman who was climbing slowly and singing a wonderful song—which I had heard once near the ferry at Ishiyama.

Riki?—Oh, yes the name—I heard it—once—at the ferry at Ishiyama. He has been there.

I heard it, strange to say, at Ishiyama. Perhaps they brought it from—where did you say?

And I heard it—yesterday—at Ishiyama. There the wonderful woman was singing. (She looks at him) The one I passed just now.

That is a mistake.—You are wrong.—I know my—Ah! what is it here—that hurts me, tears me, seems to choke me! Riki!—I am all in all to him—he told me that.—He can not make poems for another.

I should not have told anything.—Forgive me.—I did not know.—To speak truth is deep in[Pg 41] my heart.—I have no gracious subtleties.—I am sorry—

In the valley there is a mist. I can no longer see the silver stream at Kyushu.—Who are you?—I am afraid!—Riki—Riki—

Yes.—There is a mist in the valley and I can not see the silver stream at Kyushu—

[She does not see The Gaki who goes in the direction opposite to the one Aoyagi has indicated.

Oh, the little day—the little day—of love beyond love.—Riki—my mother, Obaa-San.—Yesterday the mountain-top gleamed like the topmost heaven in the spring sunlight. Today—the valley dies in mist and the mountain-top is lost in the sky.

We came up the mountain path side by side, Riki. Without question I gave myself to you.[Pg 42]

She can bridge the distance with her heart. A mother can always bridge all distance with her heart.

I went down the path and crossed the stream to take a shorter way. I met a stranger—

Did she know your song to me—"Butterfly, butterfly, alight upon the willow tree"?

Little Aoyagi—my love—she will be tender with you.—And when your tears are gone, she'll bear your message on to Obaa-San.[Pg 46]

[He goes to her, but she draws away. For a moment he is uncertain what to do;—then—he speaks.

Riki!—No!—We came up the mountain-path together—side by side.—We—but now, Riki, we go two ways.—I to Obaa-San—you to—

[Aoyagi rushes upon him and before she realizes what she is doing, she strikes him. He stands petrified a moment, then faces her very calmly.

I shall find the stranger-woman and send her to you.—I can no longer help you.[Pg 47]

Hai! Hai! Hai! I watched the sunrise only yesterday and I trembled with the wonder of the dew-cooled dawn. Life seemed all peace and—today—I have known a mother's love and my mother.—I have known a lover's touch—love beyond love.—I am waking from a dream. The Gaki said I'd waken—I'd be as free as one in life. Oh, what is this thing they call life? No happiness complete—a vision of a mountain top—a climbing to the goal—a bamboo glade—oh, the mist at Kyushu.—When I go back to Obaa-San—I shall love her so—but oh, the memory of Riki—the mountain gleaming in the sun—

Lady, I am here again. It seemed to me that I must return to you. Something seemed to call. (Aoyagi almost collapses) I feed! I feed![Pg 48]

Talk to me—as you would to yourself.—I hear but I shall not speak what I hear.

Riki—no, I can not speak even to myself. Deep in me there is a hurt.—I can not tell—

Ay, my perfect faith.—He spoke to me and then I bowed to my august lord.—I followed him without question.—And he forgets so soon.

I'll guide you down the mountain side.—Come, we'll take the shorter way—the by-paths—across the stream—through the little glade—

No, let us go down the path.—I want to see my footprints—side by side with his.

[Aoyagi starts a moment as though to fly along the path before the lady comes.—She sways slowly—and then falls in a pitiful little heap.—The Gaki takes her in his arms and, utterly triumphant, starts up the mountain-side.[Pg 50]

We'll go up—up—sweet Aoyagi, to the snow peak—gleaming in the sun.—You'll find the mountain-top—not lost in the sky.—Your perfect faith!—Oh, you silly human—oh, futile love—climb, Aoyagi—climb without love.—But first we'll make footprints for the lover's eyes.—Blindness will lead him to the mists at Kyushu.—Jealousy will lead you to the lonely stars.

[He holds Aoyagi so that her feet touch the ground—toward the downward path. Then with a wild laugh, he turns toward the mountain top. As the laughter dies, the voice of Riki is heard calling

[The laugh of The Gaki is heard once more very far away—as he ascends the mountain with his burden.

The Curtains Close.

ACT III

Before the House of Obaa-San

[It is moonlight. As the curtain opens, Obaa-San is heard singing the lullaby; from the distance the voice of Riki calls.

I left her in the bamboo glade—and when I returned she was gone. Her footprints pointed toward the path—and then were lost.

I do not know, Riki, what has come to pass—but this I know—I am waiting for her.—I am waiting for her. Go seek for her—and bring her back to me.

Foolish Riki! He searches in the valley. Mad Aoyagi! Alone with the lonely stars!—Oh, wondrous misery that makes itself.

This has been a restless night for age. (He disappears. O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San enter)

Good-morning, O-Sode-San. Good-morning, O-Katsu-San.—The lily hands of sleep have passed you by.

A strange unrest has seized upon me. I think—and[Pg 54] think of my little one. She is glorious in my heart, and words with wings seem to flash before my eyes like fireflies in the darkness.

Ah, yes—if there is anyone to hear them. All my long, long years before Aoyagi came to me, my heart sang, and words freighted with my dreams and my love would come to me—here; and they would die because they found no ear attuned to them.—Tell me what you thought, O-Sode-San.

Ay, bitter dream-words. And for the bitterness I am paying dearly.—Over and over the words came to me:

Oh, I am ashamed—ashamed.—And just now Riki came to me—and told me he could not find Aoyagi.

I am waiting here.—She may find her way back.—I would not have her come to an empty house.—Come—let's go within—and dream that yours and yours and mine are on their way to us.

[Aoyagi, utterly forlorn, enters. She looks at the house, turns and sees the mountains, covers[Pg 56] her eyes, and drags herself wearily to the willow tree. She moans as though winter had fallen upon the world and were taunting her. The Gaki enters.

So far—so far!—I am weary.—When I awoke, I was on the mountain-top—alone.

Oh—the stars, the lonely, lonely stars! I tried to touch them—they seemed so near.—I found the path—the glade—our footprints—strange people—I am here. Let me back! Let me back!

What would you do if you were free—climb to the mountain top to see the lonely stars?

He was alone. A lady from Ishiyama—(Aoyagi shudders with dread) brought me a message in the early night—

My little darling, I do not know what really happened; but this I know, you did not speak fairly to Riki or Riki did not speak fairly to you. Almost every unhappiness comes because we speak too much of our pride and speak too little of our hearts.

My child, a lady bound for Ishiyama passed by! Had she been singing all the love-songs of all the worlds; had she been fairer than the lotus-flower, why should you have doubted Riki?

A stranger!—a stranger!—Oh, why—why—why do the eyes of love grow blind because a stranger speaks? You, Aoyagi, did not see the lady bound for Ishiyama. You did not hear her song—and yet upon the ears and eyes of a stranger you would shatter your love.—I saw the lady.—She was singing.—She was not fair.—If she had been—Oh, my little child—Riki is Riki, your august lord, the lord of your life. When he comes back, go to him and speak from your heart.

I need not tell your heart.—It is only your head that can not learn to speak unprompted.—Do you love Riki?

Riki, my august lord, listen to my heart.[Pg 62]—Forget my anger.—Tell me once again that you love me.—I'll believe.

You know—I have always loved you.—When you were a song in my heart, I loved you so! And now—

That was yesterday—see, this is today: the dawn has spread across the sky. What shall we do? Look back upon the bitterness of yesterday, or try to see the fears of tomorrow, or live in the gladness of today?

The Gaki of Kokoru is here at the tree. He will not let us live in happiness. He let me go with you because he meant to feed upon the misery of poor Obaa-San.

He has not come upon us yet. We are struggling against tomorrow. This is the dawning of today.

Come, Aoyagi; come, Riki. We have found happiness at our door. Within there is rice and tea. Come.

There is love!—Now what shall I do for misery? Old Obaa-San remembers happiness. She has taught O-Katsu and O-Sode to remember happiness. The lovers are reunited;—now they understand.—And I—I, ah, I must die in this dread shape and stay in this hell through all the eternities unless I bring new misery to them. What can I do? (He turns to see the tree) Ah—I shall kill the tree—slowly—slowly—and I'll feed upon them all. Aoyagi is bound to the tree as one is bound to his body in a dream.—I'll kill the tree.

[He draws his short sword and smites the tree. There is a cry from the house and Aoyagi enters quickly, followed by Riki, Obaa-San, O-Katsu-San, and O-Sode-San. Aoyagi holds her heart.

Aoyagi! (She droops in his arms. Obaa-San lays her hand upon her dear child's head. O-Katsu-San understands. The Gaki in triumph smiles again. Aoyagi cries out and shudders as she clings to Riki) Oh, whatever power gave strength to me and led me to my love, give me the chance to save my love.

The Gaki of Kokoru! Ay, I know! I know! I fight a fear, Obaa-San. Hold Aoyagi fast—with all your love.—I shall find the Gaki of Kokoru! (The Gaki smites the tree again and again, and at each stroke Aoyagi fails more and more until she finally crumples in a heap among the three old women) All strength![Pg 64] All faith to me! Into my hands give the power to break the bitterest hell asunder! Into my eyes put light that I may see the cowardly fears that infest our way.—Gaki! Gaki! where are you?—I pass about you and in my heart I carry fearlessness and faith.—Upon your wickedness I hurl belief.—Ah, now, I see you.

Do not let me die in this sixth hell! Do not let me die! Once I was human—like you and you. I came into this hell because I was bitter in life.—I made misery for others.—I put mischief in their minds.—

Let me go! Do you think it did not punish me to see your misery, to bring misery upon you? That is what these hells are. In life we can not always see what wretchedness we make; in the hells we see and know and understand, but we can not escape our evil until we've sucked the bitterness, the horror to the blackest end. Oh—five hells lie between me and human life. In each I may perchance forget the lesson learned before. Let me live! Let me live!—I can not fight your faith!—Let me live!

[He tears himself from Riki and once more rushes to the tree. Aoyagi writhes a moment in agony. Riki leaps upon The Gaki, throttling him once more. The struggle is terrific.

[With one supreme effort, The Gaki draws himself[Pg 66] to his full height and seems about to crush Riki. He leaps upon the prostrate Aoyagi and flings her body high above his head. Riki starts for him.

[He laughs the hideous laugh of triumph which rang out on the mountain side yesterday.

In your heart there is only hope and beautiful memory. Old fool, I can not feed on you.—But now in my arms I hold the precious gift by which I shall pass from hell to hell.

Silly old woman, you, too, like Obaa-San, can not feed me. Age learns to grasp at bubbles and pretend that they are stars.

Ay, and in the memory of the firefly fête you'll make a poem that will leave you all melting-like and holy—then where shall I feed?

Obaa-San, are you content? I'll let her die at my own hand before I'll let him live.

[He draws his dagger and leaps toward The Gaki; but old Obaa-San is too swift for him. She catches his hand.

O Gaki of Kokoru—I stand before you, no longer a suppliant. I am old and in my years I have known all the wanting, all the hopelessness one can know in life. But in your evil way, you brought to me a moment of happiness yesterday and in that moment I saw the beauty that I had always believed must be and yet that I had never known. In your evil arms you hold the treasure of my life—you hold the songs that filled the heart of Riki. But you do not feed, oh, Gaki of Kokoru. You can not feed. Oh, Gaki, what is this sixth hell of yours?—Who made it? Some man who was afraid of the joy of life;—it was too beautiful for his belief. Misery makes itself: so happiness makes itself. You stand before us, holding the darling of our dreams, but there is no misery[Pg 68] so great as yours. See! I stand before you—unafraid—and in my heart lies happiness.—Aoyagi rested in my arms and my breast is warm and there is a glory where her dear head lay. In my life—if you take her from me—there will be an emptiness.—There will be long silences in the days to come; but my breast will still be warm with her touch and my ears will still hear the sweet words you cannot unsay—the lullaby I sang.—Oh, Gaki—it has been sung to her.—The climbing to the mountain gleaming in the sun—the glade where love found the perfect mystery—that cannot be undone whether we live or die.—Love that has been can never be undone.

[The Gaki looks from one to the other, but finds only that splendid happiness that is almost pain. He loosens his hold upon Aoyagi and turns to Riki with her.

She is yours!—I have met perfect faith.—Five hells lie before me—but I have met a perfect faith.—You cannot know what wonder I am knowing. From the sixth hell I have seen a perfect faith.—I am content to die in this shape. Strike, Riki!

But a peace has come upon me, a peace that I have never known.—I seem to be on wings—afloat in the sky.—Stars and suns swing gently by—and cool clouds brush my brow.—Five hells lie before me.—Can it be, in each I shall[Pg 69] find peace like this?—(He falls on his knees) Now a fire rages deep in me—a pain—I'm torn.—Oh, Obaa-San, I die—I die.—Come to me—touch me—let me feel your gentle hands.—So! So!—I have never known such gentleness.—Oh, I am cold—cold! Hold me—

Obaa-San—I see—I see.—The hells were made by some man afraid of the joy of life.—It was too beautiful for his belief.—Riki—Aoyagi, there is the mountain gleaming in the morning light.—Go—see your footprints side by side.—A Gaki's feet trod upon them, but left no mark—and they are there side by side.—O-Sode-San, I look across the River of Heaven;—there stands your lover waiting for you—an empty boat is here to bear you to him.—O-Katsu-San,—the messenger of the other world bears your little one upon his broad, warm back.—They are smiling, O-Katsu-San—Obaa-San—

[He points to Riki and Aoyagi. Obaa-San goes to them and lays her hands upon them.

The Curtains Close.

THE VERY NAKED BOY

An Interlude Before the Curtain[Pg 72]

CHARACTERS

A hallway with a heavily-curtained doorway in the centre. Right of this are two chairs with a tabouret between them. Right and Left are curtained arches.[Pg 73]

Genevieve! You make it impossible for me to talk to you.... I'll apologise if it will help.

[She seats herself, fully prepared for all the discussion she can force from him.

I didn't do it—and besides if I did what difference does it make? I'm free white and twenty-one.[Pg 75]

Well, it's my hand, and besides I don't see why I should be cross-questioned by you.

[He grasps her hand, not too violently. She gasps slightly, smiles pleasantly and becomes stern.[Pg 78]

[He reaches for her hand reverently and this time she seems content to let matters rest.

You shall not go. You shall listen to me. You have no right to treat me as a plaything when I love you so! I love you so! I love you so! I think of you all day long, I lie awake at night wondering what stars are looking upon you and I find myself envying them—every one of them.

I won't listen. You must hear me out. I've waited days and days and days for this chance to speak to you, and you've trailed me about like—like—like a poodle. I'm tired of it because I love you so.

I want you to marry me, and marry me you shall if I have to carry you away with me. Oh, Genevieve, my darling Genevieve, just know that for this moment I am almost completely happy. You are close to me and I do not feel any struggle against me. Oh, if you will only listen to me, I do not mean to be brutal. I[Pg 80] have torn your dress. I have mussed your precious hair. But I love you so! I love you so!

[They embrace one long moment when an arm comes out between the curtains and tugs at his coat.

He lets go of her as though he had been shot, turns and sees the naked arm and the top of the Boy's head.

[He presses her head against his breast and looks surreptitiously at the curtains.

[By this time she has become lyric and swept her arms against the curtains: with a cry, rushing to him for protection.

[Boy moves as though to part the curtains. She screams a stifled little scream and both he and she rush to the curtains to hold them together.

Old man, can't you see how it is? We're—we're going to be engaged—and Ethel is out there—and—and—well—

Bob, be a man! You are childish and common. You are old enough to know better and I think it's an outrage for you to subject your sister to this fright. We can't go out of here just now—and[Pg 84] you're making it very embarrassing for us.

Mr. Gordon—there's a cape in that closet. Will you get it for Bob.... He says he's cold.

Imagine my being with a gentleman and having a very naked boy pop into the conversation.

The Boy rises and as he does so the cloak falls about him until, when he steps out of the curtains, he discloses trousers and shoes.

Father was going to get strict and keep me off the water tonight and just as I came down here to get my sweater I heard him coming to the coat room so I jumped behind the curtains and let him pass and then Joe and Ethel came in and I couldn't let them see me this way. And then somebody else came and then you came in—well, I got cold.

[He and She look fondly at each other and He murmurs, "Genevieve" as he reaches out for her.

The Boy begins to sing, "Oh, Genevieve, Sweet Genevieve," and they become aware of him, turning upon him and pursuing him with a warning cry of "Bob."

The End

JONATHAN MAKES A WISH

A Play in Three Acts[Pg 88]

CHARACTERS

ACT I

Jonathan Makes a Friend

[The scene represents the lumber room in the carriage house on John Clay's suburban estate. The room is crowded with old trunks, paintings, barrels, boxes, chests, furniture showing long residence during slow epochs of changing taste. Everything is in good order and carefully labelled. At the right of the room is a door opening onto the stairs which lead to the ground floor. A small window is set high in the peak of the gabled end up centre. At the left a chimney comes through the floor and cuts into the roof as though it had been added by Victorian standards of taste for exterior beautification. An open stove intrudes its pipe into the chimney. The single indication of the life of today having touched the place is the studied arrangement of an old rosewood square grand piano. The keyboard is uncovered. On the top is a tiny theatre—a model masked and touched with mystery, according to early adolescent standards. Two benches stand in front of the piano, and the piano stool is meticulously set in place. A flamboyant placard leaning against the music rack announces:[Pg 90]

The light in the room is dim, although it is quite bright out of doors. There are two low windows which are heavily barred. The little theatre is so arranged that when the manipulator stands on the box to work it, his head can be seen over the masking.

The curtain rises disclosing an empty room. Presently laborious steps are heard on the stairs and a key is turned in the lock. Then Aunt Letitia enters followed by Susan Sample. Aunt Letitia is a motherly old woman who has been in the Clay home for many years. She may have preferences, but like the buildings on the estate, she stays where she is. Susan Sample is a tall, slender girl of fourteen with a very gentle manner and a way of looking at people that indicates a receptivity rarely met in one so old. Letitia goes to one of the trunks marked E R in large white letters and unlocks it.

E. R.... That's a secret, Susan, that little girls aren't supposed to know.[Pg 91]

I've been living in this house for thirty-five years, Susan, and I've known the secrets of all the boys and girls from time to time.

Oh, they all had secrets when they were young. Nathaniel had fewer than any of them and...

That is his secret, Susan, and we mustn't ask too many questions. Nathaniel is coming today. I won't ask any questions.... He was a fine young man. Yes, he's coming back today, my dear. He was the baby of the family.

You little chatterbox! Between you and Jonathan I have to fight to keep anybody's secrets.

[Steps are heard on the stairs, young eager steps, and Nathaniel Clay bursts into the room. He is an eternally young man of thirty-five, who has touched the dregs and the heights of the world and remained himself.

NATHANIEL [taking Letitia in his arms, then holding her from him as he inspects her.

[Susan has forgotten her costume in her admiration for Nathaniel. She puts it down on the bench in front of the piano.

Yes, time has been flying, Nathaniel. This young lady is Mary Sample's daughter.

How do you do? I can't believe it. You were only a little pink cherub up there in the sky when I ran—

She hates to go. She's never seen anyone just like you: and I have only seen one.

No, no, my dear. Emily was married, left the stage. She wasn't happy. The boy was her only comfort.

He's my nephew. Why, I'm Uncle Nathaniel. Oh, Aunt Letty, I'm getting to be an old man!

Nathaniel, Jonathan doesn't know about his mother. I sent Susan away because I didn't want her to associate these things with Jonathan's mother.[Pg 96]

Yes, yes, dear. All that has been talked over many times, but John is the head of the family and he doesn't approve of the stage.

John is austere, Nathaniel. He is a Clay through and through and he holds to the traditions of the family.

I never oppose John. He feels that he is right. But it is very hard sometimes to live up to his rules.

Will John antagonize me? I came back to see my home—to see you, my dear aunt. But I am a grown man now.

Won't you try to be patient? It will be pleasanter for me. And I have waited so long to see you, Nathaniel. There are seventeen very, very long years for us to talk about. Let John have his way.

Well, I'll try for a few days. But I give you warning, my ideas have been settling during the past few years, too.

Yes, I remember that, dear Aunt; but John isn't[Pg 98] my father. He is just a brother to whom fate gave a fifteen years' start by birth.

[As a voice calls, "Nathaniel, are you up there?" Nathaniel looks at Letitia.

John Clay enters. He is an austere, pompous man of fifty who has the softness of the tithe-collector and the hardness of the tax-collector. He speaks with an adamantine finality which is destined to rude shattering.

I shall be here for two weeks, John, and if I should tell you all about myself today, I should have nothing to talk about tomorrow.[Pg 99]

I came out here to ask you to be very careful of your conversation before the children.

I do not care to have them or Jonathan hear about any revolutionary or other unusual ideas.

I shall try not to contaminate the children and Jonathan. How old are the children?

Brother John, no age is the silly age. Fourteen is the age of visions and enchantments and fears. What a boy of fourteen sees and hears takes on a value that we cannot underestimate. Most men are defeated in life between fourteen and twenty. At fourteen a boy begins to make a lens through which he sees life. He thinks about everything. Ambition is beginning to stir in him and he begins to know why he likes things, why he wants to do certain things. He formulates lasting plans for the future and he takes in impressions that are indelible. Things that seem nothing to old people become memories to him that affect his whole life. The memory of a smile may encourage him to surmount all obstacles and the memory of a bitterness may act as an eternal barrier.

No, John, I am only a bachelor who is very much in love with life in general and one lady in particular.

One would think to hear you talk that the most[Pg 101] important things in life were a boy of fourteen and his moorings.

I am the same theorist—a little older, a little more travelled. The trouble with you, John, is that you think no age is important except your own. You always thought that, even when you were fourteen. Oh, I know I wasn't born then, but I know you.

No, no, I beg your pardon. I came back to see my home and Aunt Letitia and the children—and you, and I—I think—Jonathan.

Nathaniel, when your letter came telling me that you had decided to come back to see us, I was going to ask you not to come—

I was older than you; my judgment was mature; I was the head of the family, in my father's place.

We didn't speak the same language. I wanted something out of life that you couldn't understand; that my father couldn't understand. I determined to get it by myself.

You were willing to leave all the work of our father's business on my shoulders.

I preferred to work out my salvation alone, without interference. My going away gave you a free hand. John, don't tell me that you were not overjoyed that my flight gave you all my father's fortune.

Perhaps not, John, but he must be allowed to grow toward his goal. Eighteen is not too young for a man to fly through the air in defense of his country, or you. The burden of the world today is on the shoulders of men from eighteen to eighty, share and share alike.... I wanted to be a writer—

And our brother Henry wanted to be a musical composer and our sister Emily wanted to be an actress! A fine putout for the leading commercial family of this state!

Well, John, our brother and our sister have[Pg 104] paid the final penalty. They have died. Henry left a handful of worthless little tunes and Emily left a trunkful of costumes as monuments to their folly. And now Emily's boy is here under your wing.

Nathaniel smiles and crosses to the piano and lifts the cloth that covers the theatre; then he looks at the placard and laughs joyously.

People like to have other names. Look at all artists—like writers, pugilists, and actors, and base ball players. And the Sr. Is an effort to appear older.

Well, I'm breaking him of all that nonsense. I allow him only a certain number of hours for play. Emily used to spoil him and it's been a task to conquer him.

He reads all the time and he wants to write plays and poetry; but I am conquering that silliness.

I think I am going to like my nephew. John, I'll come into the house shortly. I think I'll look at this toy a moment and I'll get Aunt Letitia to show me some of Emily's things. A mere matter of sentiment.

Thank you. (John goes out. Nathaniel looks musingly at Letitia who has been sitting silently on Emily's trunk, knitting, Nathaniel crosses to her and sits on a stool at her feet) Does John always talk to you so much, little church mouse?[Pg 106]

I have been a poor relation for thirty-five years, my boy, and to be a successful poor relation, one must learn the art of silence.

Perhaps—I should—yes—I should have written, but I didn't. You see, Aunt Letty, I was a sensitive boy. All my life I had dreamed of doing my own work. I saw Henry disappointed in life, I saw Emily made miserable enough through the traditions of the family. John couldn't understand me and I couldn't understand him. There was no common meeting-ground. John was the head of the family and so deeply was the idea of submission to rule ingrained in me that I could think of only one way out of my restraint. I wouldn't study engineering, and I wouldn't continue at Somerset School. Well, I ran away from my ancestral castle to find my way in a new world. I think I have found it.

[At this moment Jonathan enters the room. He is a slender boy of fourteen with a deep problem in his eyes. When he smiles before his elders, which is seldom, he seems always prepared to restrain the smile. His voice is just changing and this adds to his reticence. He has a tremendous capacity for expressing wonderment and, as usual with one of his type, he is capable of great displays of temper. He gives the impression of thinking about everything he sees. He is at the age of wonder and only custom prevents the world from becoming the promised land of visions and enchantments.

The two stand face to face for a moment. For Nathaniel it is the first moment of a new relationship. For Jonathan it is a moment of uncertainty. He has heard himself called "Poor Jonathan" and he is facing another male relative.

Then I know who you are! (Jonathan looks at him in surprise) You are the celebrated dramatist, Alexander Jefferson, Sr.

No, sir. I read it on the billboards. (Jonathan[Pg 109] laughs with a catch in his breath) And I should like to attend a performance, Mr. Jefferson.

A lot of plays, sir. Mother and I used to write little plays. I don't write many any more.

They're not very good, but Susan always wants me to write the poetry for the music.

[Aunt Letitia has repacked the trunk and locked it. She sees that Nathaniel and Jonathan are getting on famously.

Jonathan and Nathaniel look at each other for an embarrassed minute, then Jonathan takes refuge at his theatre.

[Jonathan goes to a box on the piano in which there are many manuscripts carefully bound. He hands one to Nathaniel.

Oh, yes. I wish I could write real plays, but there's no one to help me now. My mother used to correct them and tell me what was wrong. She knew a lot about the theatre and she used to tell me all sorts of things. But now Aunt Letitia doesn't say anything. Sometimes she comes to a show, but she can't help me. And Uncle John doesn't like the theatre. He thinks I'm too old to give shows, but I can't help it. There's nothing I like so much.

Those are the ones mother liked best and these—(showing blue ones) are the ones I liked best.... I like them all now, but it used to be lots of fun to choose our favorites.

You see, Uncle John wants me to go to Somerset School to study engineering and learn the business.

I—why I'd—Oh, come now, Jonathan—you know John is the head of the Clay family and you and he must decide this question.

I don't see how anyone can decide what you want to be—no matter how old he is.

He said I had to study engineering or go to work in the factory next fall for good.

Yes, sir. But everybody can't be alike. You and Uncle John aren't anything alike.

I'll tell you—it might not work with everybody, you know—but it works with me.

My mother used to sing me a song called—"There is a green hill far away." I always liked that song because it gave me a feeling of[Pg 116] contentment and happiness. I imagined that I could see that hill with its pleasant green slopes and at its foot lay a little cottage all cool and pleasant and open to the winds. There were no locks and bolts to keep one out or to keep one in. I used to imagine that I was climbing that hill to the top of the world and when I reached the summit I could see—

Its very bigness made me happy in my imagination.... Then when I grew up and heavy troubles came to me I remembered the Green Hill Far Away and one day I found such a hill and I climbed it—clear to the top—and there below me lay the world—the whole wide world—and I told the world something then and felt the better for it.... Jonathan, there is nothing like a hilltop to make a man feel worth while.

I know what you mean.... But I always want to jump when I look down from any place, do you?

But boys don't all think the same. They're different[Pg 117] just like men, only they don't know so much.

Just about the same height, but my legs were like pipe stems and I was very much ashamed.

Well, it all depends upon the way you look at it,[Pg 118] Jonathan. The world has never been able to agree as to what is and what is not silly. Mr. Browning, the poet, might have considered hooks and eyes the silliest things in the world; but to Mr. de Long, they were, no doubt, the most important things in the world. Many men agree with Mr. Browning and many ladies agree with Mr. de Long.

[Susan and Mlle. Perrault enter. Mlle. Perrault is a Frenchwoman of exquisite grace and poise. She speaks English fluently, but with a charming accent and an occasional Gallic phrase larding her pleasant sentences. Her entrance into the room is electric. She has already won Susan.

Ah, there you are, Mr. Nathaniel Clay. I met la belle Susanne in the roadway and she told me you were in the lumber room in the carriage house and I say to her, "We shall track him to his lair." Besides, I want to see what a lumber room is.

Villain! And this is Jonathan. How do you do? Susanne tells me you write poetry and she writes music and she promise me that you will sing for me.[Pg 119]

Ah! Susanne tell me you have a theatre and you write plays and paint scenery and write poetry and sing songs and she say if I come here to the lumber room in the carriage house you will play me a tragedy and sing me a song.

Having introduced yourself to everybody, will you tell me, Susan, how Mlle. Perrault learned so much in such a little time?

She was sitting like a little fairy in the grass by the roadway, and I stop my car and ask for Mr. Nathaniel Clay and she say you are here in the lumber room in the carriage house and she tell me many things—because we like each other very, very much and we walk very, very slowly.

Now! Now that you know all about Miss Susan Sample and Mr. Jonathan—(He realizes he doesn't know Jonathan's second name) I think I shall introduce you by your pen name, Jonathan—Mr. Alexander Jefferson, Sr.

I am going to let them know about you. This,[Pg 120] lady and gentleman, is Mlle. Marthe Perrault of Paris, France. Mlle. Perrault, may I present my friend Susan and my nephew Jonathan?

I am very, very pleased to see you again, Miss Sample. It is a great pleasure to have the honor of meeting you, Mr. Alexander Jefferson, Sr. I am looking forward to the première of your great tragedy, Zenobia, of which Miss Sample has been telling me.

SUSAN (Puts her arms about Mlle. Perrault and Jonathan is uncertain whether to be happy or afraid)

I think I'll tell you two a secret. (Susan pricks up her ears) Do you like secrets?

Very soon. She is here on some war work and[Pg 121] when she and her father go back to France I shall follow and we shall be married.

Susan sits at the piano and plays a chord. Then Jonathan begins to sing with much fear in his voice.

Oh, that is just like a little French peasant song! How does it go? La—la—la—la—la—la.[Pg 122]

Slowly Mlle. Perrault falls into the rhythm and very simply dances a little peasant dance to Jonathan's and Susan's song. The two youngsters are in the seventh heaven of delight.

So—when one is very happy or very sad, he makes a song and when he's very, very happy, he dances. And when he is very, very, very unhappy he dies. You see, I am very, very happy. When do you play Zenobia, Mr. Jefferson, Sr.?

We shall have a season ticket. But now, I want you to meet my blessed Aunt Letitia. She hasn't changed one bit in all these years.

To Aunt Letitia then. Good-bye, Jonathan. Tomorrow is the day of the great première.

Jonathan is left alone in his joy. As he stands,[Pg 123] a strange, aimless, vacuous whistling is heard outside the window an though from one ambling by. Jonathan hears it unconsciously, moves to put his plays away, alternately whistling and singing "All on a summer's day."

Presently the whistling of the strange air is heard as though coming from downstairs. It stops and a voice calls out "Hi!"

[By this time the Voice has become a person in the shape of Hank, one of the scum of creation who asks nothing of life and gives nothing. He was born of woman and he grew into man's form, but one looking at him wonders how he survived dirt and the mere effort of breathing. He is stoutish with no marked coloring unless it be a cross between khaki and field-gray. Weather and time have conspired to render him inconspicuous. When he speaks his voice is produced with a careful effort to conserve energy. When he walks it seems to be a movement in answer to prayer rather than a physical fact.

Well, it's this way, you see. The gate was open[Pg 124] out there and this looked pretty fine to me so I come in.

I jus' come in to ask if I could sleep somewhere around here if I worked for my sleep and grub.

JONATHAN (Is about to become impatient, but an innate tolerance causes him to answer)

Couldn't find nothing suitable. 'T first I felt sort o' worried an' then I kep' walkin' on and I seen so much trouble where I went I says to myself, "Hank, you're lucky," I says. "You ain't got no fam'ly to bother you an' you ain't got nothing to worry you an' you don't have to get no place in partic'lar and you don't have to stay no place." A man wot's got a wife's all the time worrying about her health or her money spendin' or her gaddin' or her naggin'. An' a man w'ots got a fam'ly's always wondering where they'll end. An' a man's wot's got a home's all time worrying about keepin' it locked up. I bet the poor nut wot owns this place can't breathe easy for bein' scared things'll be took or burnt up. W'y you—look at you—(Whistles) You're wishin' I'd go 'cause you're 'fraid I'll take somethin'. I won't take nothin', young feller, 'cause I don't need nothin' now and I won't need nothin' till it's cold again—and then I'll git an overcoat maybe. It's too much trouble takin' things—'cause you have to carry 'em. (Whistles) You goin' to let me sleep here some place?

That's it. Say, what you got these bars for? It's like jail. Are they afraid you'll jump out on them rocks?

All right. I'll show you a scene from the play I'm going to play for my Uncle Nathaniel tomorrow.

[Jonathan lights the lamps that are back of the screen and pulls the blinds or some cover over the barred windows.

I wouldn't have all this junk if you'd give it to me. No, sir, when I move I carry my house with me and there ain't much o' that now. (Indicates his clothes)

Jonathan, I won't have you waste your time on this stuff. I've been pretty lenient with you and I've allowed you to keep your toys because[Pg 133] Emily spoiled you; but you're too big for such things and I'm going to put my foot down right now. I'm not going to have this silly stuff around.

That will do, Jonathan. Your mother was my sister and I am not saying anything against her. But I do say that stuff must go.

[John walks over to the theatre and sweeps the whole structure onto the floor.[Pg 134]

In mingled rage and humiliation Jonathan sobs wildly once or twice, then controls himself and glares violently at his uncle.

I'll let you think about it. I'll leave you here with your toys like a girl-baby.

He paces the floor a moment, not knowing what to do. Suddenly Hank's whistle is heard. The boy listens as though fascinated and goes to the window and watches Hank. Jonathan goes to his wrecked theatre and, taking it up, piles his manuscripts, the pink and the blue, on it. He hesitates to include one in the pile, offering once or twice to put it in his pocket, but he finally places it in grim determination with the others. Then he takes it off and stuffs it in his pocket. He stuffs the pile in the stove and sets a match to it, watches it a moment, then writes on a piece of paper, fastens it to the door. Then he finds a piece of rope on a packing case,[Pg 135] moves the ladder under the gable window, fastens the rope to a peg in the wall, climbs the ladder, considers a moment, returns to the stove with the beloved manuscript, stuffs it in the fire, remounts the ladder and lets his weight onto the rope. As he disappears from view, the rope breaks and a cry and sound of falling are heard.

The flames from the burning theatre and manuscripts flicker against the wall for a silent moment.

I told Jonathan nothing about myself. You are the head of the Clay family and out of custom I respected your position; but, by God, John, you're a failure with this boy.[Pg 136]

[Hank enters carrying Jonathan in his arms. Jonathan is limp and pitiful. His clothes are torn. He is moaning pitifully.

[Hank places Jonathan on the bench near the piano. Nathaniel places the costume, which Susan left there, under his head for a pillow.

Curtain.

ACT II

Jonathan Builds a Fear

[Before the curtain rises the voices of Jonathan, Hank, Nathaniel and John are heard, muffled and far away.

A faint light that grows steadily brighter as light does when one comes out of a swoon discloses Jonathan and Hank seated on a log at the left of the stage, where the bench had been. Jonathan seems much older, and he is crooked and dirty and unkempt, and Hank is somewhat brutalised, less negative.

Sure, I'd leave you.... What do you think I am—a wishing stone?... I want peace, I[Pg 142] do.... An' your wishing's disturbing my peace.... Every day fer six years you squeal about what you done.... Your Uncle John swatted you and you burned your theatre things and jumped out o' the window and broke your back and I saved you....

Sure, all kids want to be actors or go in a circus or do something where a lot o' people are lookin' on.

You act like that hump's ruined your life, when all you got to do's crouch over a little more and look sad and you can get anything you want. Why, it's money in your pocket, that's what that hump is; it's money in your pocket.

As Jonathan crosses, lights disclose a hill with pleasant green slopes. At its foot stands a little cottage, all cool and pleasant with great glass doors. There are no locks and bolts to keep one out or to keep one in. A high plaster and brick wall flanks the cottage.

As Jonathan nears the cottage he meets Uncle John, whose austerity is more apparent than ever.

Don't you remember I didn't want to study engineering—I didn't want to go to Somerset School?[Pg 144]

I'm Jonathan, sir. You remember I jumped out of the window and I tried to run away.

I tell you I am Jonathan.... Don't you remember you struck me—You struck me across the face—that's what made me run away.

Couldn't you forgive him if he was very, very[Pg 145] sorry for what he had done?... Couldn't you forgive me, sir?... I am Jonathan. Honest I am Jonathan.

Don't try to deceive me. Jonathan was impudent as you are; but he was a Clay: he was straight and fine.

You ought to be whipped, but I suppose you don't know any better. I should have you arrested for vagrancy.

Mary is ten—a big girl—and John third is eight—a strapping boy who will be a great help to me.

Jonathan looks at the coin, then after John, and seems to close his heart. He crosses to the sleeping Hank.[Pg 147]

Jonathan crosses to the cottage and finally summons the courage to knock on the door. As he does so the lights within grow bright and disclose a lovely little room with a beautiful piano in the centre. In a moment a young woman appears and opens the doors. It is Susan Sample. She is charmingly older; but she is dressed almost as she was in the old lumber room.

[He goes to a bird-bath and washes his hands, wipes them and returns to the piano.

[She plays the tune in a sophisticated musical way, but Jonathan is disappointed.

[Susan plays softly. She is lovely in the sunlight which is lengthening across the lawn.

[Jonathan watches her quietly. The love of the boy fans into flame and he reaches out to[Pg 151] her, then in the consciousness of his deformity he turns away.

I don't know—The last time I saw Jonathan—he was tall and straight—and making his way.

[Albert Peet enters. He is a little man of immaculate appearance and great preciseness.

[At the "Susan, dear" Jonathan turns quickly and sees the two holding hands. Susan holds up her left hand and shows an engagement ring on it. Jonathan is utterly crushed.

Good-bye. If you see Jonathan, tell him I'm going to marry Albert Peet. He'll know.

Mlle. Perrault enters followed by Mary and John 3rd. Mlle. Perrault's dress is almost like the one she had worn when she first met Jonathan in the lumber-room, except that the colors are reversed and more brilliant. Mary is a lovely little yellow-haired child of ten and John 3rd is a stoical matter-of-fact boy of eight.[Pg 153] The two children are evidently very fond of Mlle. Perrault, as fond as Jonathan and Susan had seemed. If the children seem thoughtless and cruel, it is because they are children and life has not yet laid a hard hand upon them. The sun rays are very low against the wall now so that anyone walking near it will cast a very heavy shadow.

It isn't. Goldilocks and the Babes in the Wood and the Marquis of Carabas were all good, and they ran away from home.

Aw, I'm not going to make a wish. Grandfather'll get it for me anyway if I want it.

[Hums a little—tries several folk tunes. The children edge up to Jonathan during this and manage to touch his back several times, each keeping count. Jonathan smiles at them, thinking it's attention.

[He sings a little of the song and Mlle. Perrault joins him. As he stops singing she switches the time to waltz time and begins to sway to it. The music is taken up as by a dream-orchestra and Mlle. Perrault dances a very lovely little waltz.

[Jonathan joins them standing so that his deformity doesn't show in the shadow.

[The four dance, while Mlle. Perrault hums "All on a Summer's Day." They are having a very good time when Susan and Albert enter.

Jonathan is a little conscious of Susan and Albert, and he manages to make several awkward moves.

[Jonathan, still conscious of Susan, but more in the spirit of the game nevertheless, laughs almost gleefully.

[He stands in front of the wall and does some comical movements with his feet and legs, then he turns in such a way that for the first time the shadow of his hump is thrown into a pitiful distortion on the wall. He doesn't see it at first, for he is lost in the game with the children.

[The children laugh immoderately, and Jonathan turns his head quickly, but in so doing alters the shadow. He smiles joyfully and then once more falls into the distorted picture.

[Jonathan looks toward Susan and Albert.[Pg 160] There is pity in Susan's eyes and a smile in Albert's.

Little man, I'm very sorry. You mustn't let them hurt you. They are only children.

[Mlle. Perrault goes out silently, and in a moment she is heard to call "Marie"—"John," and a distant answer is heard.

Susan comes to the door and sees Jonathan. She crosses to him. He looks at her almost with madness in his eyes.

[There is a moment of the tenderest, most understanding silence. He turns away.

Susan starts to reach in her bag, she even takes her purse out; but she replaces it unopened, and instead of bestowing alms, she takes a flower from her hair and presses it in Jonathan's hands.

Silently, she turns away and goes into the house. Jonathan, left alone, turns so that his hump once more shows in the most distorted shadow. He lifts the flower and for a single moment, its shadow rises above the shadow of the hump, a tiny cross on his little Calvary. Then he lays the flower against his cheek and sits upon the log near Hank.

Great God! (Throwing the crushed petals on the ground) Say, what's the matter with you?[Pg 163]

I tell you, I'm going back.... I'm going back to my home.... I'm going to find my Uncle Nathaniel. I know he'll take me in. He won't blame me because I'm a cripple.... I know.... I know.... Didn't he say, "Poor Jonathan"?...

[At this moment Nathaniel enters, and the two stand face to face as they had stood in the lumber-room at their first meeting.

Nathaniel is untouched by the years. Jonathan looks at him hopefully, but there is no glint of recognition In Nathaniel's eye.

You must forgive me, little man—but I do not remember you. Boys grow so quickly.

Oh, yes, my nephew Jonathan had a little toy theatre, and he wrote a play called Zenobia.... He burnt them.

Well, I can't say. When a fine boy like Jonathan runs away from home, he may have what he considers a good reason.

That wouldn't do any good, my boy.... If you had an uncle who liked you very much, would you run away?

Supposing you had your heart set on something and couldn't do it, what would you do?[Pg 167]

But he is tall and splendid. I know Jonathan! And he's doing what he set out to do.

I'm not a beggar at heart.... I don't want to be what I am. But I don't know which way to turn. I'm all mixed up.

Boy, there is a green hill far away. Climb to the top of it, look about and you will see—

Go to the hilltop alone—and cry out to your heart's content.—There's nothing like a hilltop to make a man feel worth while!

Uncle Nathaniel.... He just passed by.... But, Hank, he believed in me! He believed I'd make good.

Soft music is heard through the darkness and slowly the outline of the green hill appears close at hand. Jonathan outlined against the sky appears at the edge of the hill, climbing with difficulty.

Listen.... I ran away. I ran away. I was fourteen. I saw visions of great things. I heard voices of the past and the future. I wanted to tell what I saw and heard.... Oh, you who made sport of my dreams, I am here at the top of the world! Uncle John, I have heard things you will never hear, and I have seen things you will never see.

Oh, Susan—Susan Sample—see—see. I told you I wasn't a beggar. See—see—Jonathan stands at the top of the world!

Oh, people of all the world, I am a boy who asks you to hear me and to understand. I only wanted to work out my way.... I planned my way because I couldn't help it—I wanted to build my own world—alone.... I climbed clear to the top—Jonathan stands before you—

Oh, people of all the world, my Uncle Nathaniel understands.—I speak for all the boys of all times. Have patience—patience and understanding. Don't you remember when you were young? We come to you with hopes and dreams and wishes and fears,—and these are the things that life is made of[Pg 172]—

Curtain.

ACT III

Jonathan Makes a Wish

[The scene is a summer house on the estate of John Clay. It is charmingly furnished with wicker chairs and a table. The building is hexagon shape and we look into half the hexagon. The doors at the left open on to the path that leads from the house. The doors at the back open onto a garden path that leads to a gate. Eight weeks have elapsed since the first act.

The curtain rises disclosing an empty stage. It is early evening and sunset is leaving only the faintest tinge above the hills. After a moment Jonathan enters. He is unchanged except that he still carries in his eyes some of the horror of his delirium. He opens the back windows and then sits above the table and begins to look at an illustrated paper.

Nathaniel enters carrying a manuscript. He seems a bit less carefree than at his homecoming, and he also seems closer to Jonathan.

Did I?... You said you'd tell me what I said—when I was strong enough.... I'm pretty strong now.

When you were delirious I listened to what you said and then I made a story out of it.

I know. I was always trying to make somebody know me, and finally I thought I jumped from the top of a hill and I seemed to be falling for years and years....

Those were terrible days, my boy, and do you know, we were afraid you wouldn't live.

I know, but all that's over now; and there's the whole story about the little hunchback you never were.

[Hank's whistle is heard. Jonathan rises very quickly and looks at Nathaniel.[Pg 176]

I'm beginning to get cold, so I think I'll go south tomorrow and I thought I'd drop in to say good-bye.

No, thanks. It's too hot to carry it. I'll get one when I really need it, maybe.

Five dollars! No, thanks. If I had that much money I'd lose it maybe. Give me two bits and call it square.

Good-bye, Mister.... I'll see you next year maybe, when it's warm.—Say, kid, I'd like to see that Zenobia show again:—"Hail, noble duke," "All's well, Irene." "Not very well, noble duke."

Aunt Letitia enters. As usual she has something to keep her hands busy. She seats herself comfortably in a chair that custom has evidently made her very own. In her work she shows the effect of time upon her eyes and she may feel a tiny draught that causes her to close the doors behind her and draw her scarf a bit more closely about her. Never has Aunt Letitia seemed more successfully the poor relation.

It's the story of his delirium. I thought it would interest him—and relieve him.[Pg 178]

John's chair! The throne of the head of the family! (He sits in John's chair) Well?

The feeling at the dinner table was almost unbearable tonight. There we sat strained and silent.

You've been here eight weeks and John and I know nothing of you. For me it is enough that you are here; but John is the head of the family[Pg 179] and he feels that you ought to treat him with greater deference.

Your father and your father's father and grandfather were rulers of the Clay family.

It is none of John's affairs how or why I live. It is none of his affair how or why or when I shall marry Mlle. Perrault.

When I tell him anything, Aunt Letty, it will be one thing—I have stayed here because I love Jonathan, because he needs me. And I have listened to the boy's fears and to his hopes as they came out of his poor tortured little soul in his delirium. I have watched him during his convalescence, and I see in him a growing man in prison. John sees in him only the potential head of the family; but he is my flesh and blood as much as he is John's and I intend to set him free.[Pg 180]

I don't want Jonathan unless he wants to come to me, but I do want Jonathan's freedom.

Aunt Letitia, I don't mean a silly license.—I mean freedom. If you are cultivating a peach-tree you don't expect oranges on it even if it could wish to be an orange tree, but you can help to make it bear better peaches. Jonathan isn't a mechanical business person. His bent is in another direction.

[John enters. He is rather pale, seems pre-occupied and even more unapproachable than ever.

[Nathaniel is an interested spectator. He cannot understand why Jonathan should be present for what will probably be an eventful family scene.

[Jonathan sits. John also sits. Aunt Letitia knows what to expect. Nathaniel is more curious[Pg 182] than angry. Jonathan is attending his first family conference.

The doctor told me today that he would be quite equal to it.... Eight weeks ago, Jonathan, you made an effort to run away from your home, because I punished you. In your foolish defiance of all family authority you suffered a fall that might have resulted in a lasting and serious injury. Fortunately you have recovered fully from the result of your fall.

One moment, please, Nathaniel.... I have now arranged that you begin your preparation for your life work immediately. You will leave for Somerset School the day after tomorrow.

Nathaniel, you forfeited your rights in the family councils when you ran away from home seventeen years ago.

This boy will run away again and again and I mean to save him from what I have suffered, if I can.

Blood and understanding? Where were you when Emily had to leave her husband and brought her boy into my home? Where were you when Emily died? I took Emily in and I took her boy in. As head of the family it was my duty to do so and as head of the family it is my duty to see that the boy is brought up in the best traditions of the family.

A boy of fourteen doesn't know his mind.... Do you know what Jonathan wants to be?[Pg 184]

No, but I didn't discourage him. The selection was wide enough for him to find some lasting life work.

Oh, my brother, every growing boy has a deep secret wish that he cannot bring himself to disclose! As you know, I always wanted to be a writer, but most of all I wanted to be a left-handed base ball pitcher. And although I'm irretrievably right handed I used to practice—religiously—pitching with my left hand.

What am I now? I am going to tell you, John—by and by. First, we must dispose of the boy.

What is useful work? An actor serves his purpose just as a plumber or lawyer serves his.... The only difference is that all of us are not plumbers or lawyers while all of us are actors. Yes, John, we're all playing something—you are playing at head of the family, I'm—

You never know, John.... Five generations ago the Clays were respectable carpenters. They weren't wealthy and they gave no promise of becoming wealthy. Then suddenly our revered ancestor became a successful maker of cypress drain pipes—sewer pipes, I think we used to call them! The family fortunes were founded!! Our ancestor bought a high hat and the esteem of his neighbors. Cypress was in time replaced by pottery. Conduits for wires and terra cotta building materials were added to our achievements and then in your régime superfine sewers became a specialty.

I beg your pardon! Concrete sewers and other concrete things.—Such is the foundation of the family.[Pg 186]

Not at all, but I cannot consider the manufacturing of sewers a greater achievement than acting.

Nathaniel, I shall not tolerate your interference. Now I must ask you to leave this house.

John... Nathaniel... my boys, it isn't my way to interfere; but please for my sake, for your mother's sake—think what you're doing.

I have thought, Aunt Letitia. I can not allow this boy's life to be ruined as Emily's and Henry's and Nathaniel's were.

Ruined? John, I'll tell you how ruined my[Pg 187] life has been and I'll tell you in terms you'll understand. My income last year was over $350,000!

Yes, I'm acting—I'm acting in terms that you will understand.... You know that I'm your brother Nathaniel. Do you know who else I am? I am a writer and a playwright and a director in the United Baking Company and a stockholder in the National Munitions Company—munitions, John; think of it, millions, millions in them—and I'm willing and eager to take Emily's boy and educate him in the way he wants to live his life.

I mean what I say. If need be I shall use brute force, financial force or any kind of force to free Jonathan from the misery that I endured in this house.

Everything except freedom to think my own thoughts. John, some people are like reinforced concrete. Someone builds the iron frame and the wooden molds, then pours the cement and when it has hardened, the molds are removed and lo, you have a monolith—a solid unchangeable stone.[Pg 188]

You talk very well, Nathaniel, but I shall insist upon bringing up my sister's child in my way.

Nobody.... I've been thinking since a little while ago and at first I thought I'd run away again; but that wouldn't be quite fair—so I came to tell you.

Well, I'll tell you one thing—if you leave this house without my permission I'll cut you off without a penny and you'll never be allowed to come back again.[Pg 189]

Very well. You've made your choice—and I never want to see you again as long as you live. Good-bye, Jonathan. Good-bye, Nathaniel.

You dear, you have always been content to compromise while we two must go our own ways or not at all. You go to John. Help him as you can. He's not a bad man—he's just a structure of reinforced concrete. You love John and he in his way loves you. Go to John and comfort his outraged authority.

I'm sorry things have turned out this way. (She kisses them) Good night, my dears. Wait until morning if you can, my darling Nathaniel.

I can earn some more money and save. Other boys have worked their way through school and college. I can do that.

[Nathaniel opens the back doors and sees the thinnest crescent moon hanging in the sky.

No, sir. I don't think I'd better. Uncle John doesn't care and Aunt Letitia will understand.

Jonathan, suppose we go away together. I'm not wanted and you're not wanted.[Pg 192]

You shall go to the schools where you will find the work you want.... Will you be my son?

I like you more than that much. You'll get some long trousers and we'll plan and plan. Suppose we run away together.

I had a very hard time, my boy—at first. I worked at anything I could get, then I got into a newspaper office, then I wrote "autobiographies" of famous men.

Not nowadays. Then I wrote some successful short stories, then some very successful long ones—and now I am independent; but it took me ten bitter years to make my first success.... What shall I write here?

"Jonathan."... Maybe we ought to put a line under it so Aunt Letitia won't feel so bad.

Dear Aunt Letitia will understand. She is the blessed kind who always does. Now, where[Pg 195] shall we put it?... On John's chair, and maybe he'll understand too.

I'm going with Uncle Nathaniel. I'm going to be his son. And I'm going to a fine prep. school and learn to write and do what I like.

The Curtain Falls.

APPENDIX

A. M. PALMER—AUTHOR'S MATINEES

THE THEATER OF ARTS AND LETTERS

THE CRITERION INDEPENDENT THEATER

THE INDEPENDENT THEATER

THE NEW THEATER

1909—1911
First Season
Antony and Cleopatra	Shakespeare
The Cottage in the Air	Knoblauch
Strife	Galsworthy
The Nigger	Sheldon
The School for Scandal	Sheridan
{Liz the Mother	Fenn and Bryce
{Don	Besier
Twelfth Night	Shakespeare
The Witch (adapted from Scandinavian by	Hagadorn Wiers-Jenssen)
{Brand (act IV condensed)	Ibsen
{Sister Beatrice	Maeterlinck
The Winter's Tale	Shakespeare
Beethoven	Fauchois
Second Season
The Blue Bird	Maeterlinck
[Pg 203]
The Merry Wives of Windsor	Shakespeare
The Thunderbolt	Pinero
{Don	Besier
{Sister Beatrice	Maeterlinck
Mary Magdalene	Maeterlinck
Old Heidelberg	Meyer-Foerster
Vanity Fair	R. Hichens and C. Gordan Lennox
The Piper	Marks
Nobody's Daughter	Paston
The Arrow Maker	Austin
In addition there was a borrowed production of
A Song of the People	Michaelis

MISS GRACE GEORGE—THE PLAYHOUSE

WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS [7]

Bandbox and Comedy Theaters 1915-1917
[Pg 204]
Interior	Maeterlinck
Eugenically Speaking	Goodman
Licensed	Lawrence
Another Interior
Love of One's Neighbor	Andreyev
Moondown	Reed
My Lady's Honor	Pemberton
Two Blind Beggars and One Less Blind	Moeller
The Shepherd in the Distance (pantomime)	Hudson
The Miracle of St. Antony	Maeterlinck
In April	Stokes
Forbidden Fruit	Feuillet
Saviours	Goodman
The Bear	Tchekhov
Helena's Husband	Moeller
Fire and Water	White
The Antick	Mackaye
A Night of Snows	Bracco
Literature	Schnitzler
The Honourable Lover	Bracco
Whims	Musset
Overtones	Gerstenberg
The Clod	Beach
The Road-House in Arden	Moeller
The Tenor	Wedekind
The Red Cloak (pantomime)	Meyer
Children	Bolton and Carlton
The Age of Reason	Dorrian
The Magical City	Akins Monsieur Pierre Patelin
[Pg 205]
Aglavaine and Selysette	Maeterlinck
The Sea Gull	Tchekhov
A Merry Death	Evréinev
Lover's Luck	Porto-Riche
The Sugar House	Brown
Sisters of Susanna	Moeller
Bushido	Izumo
Trifles	Glaspell
Another Way Out	Langner
Altruism	Ettlinger
The Death of Tintagiles	Maeterlinck
The Last Straw	Crocker
The Hero of Santa Maria	Goodman and Hecht
Impudence	Auernheimer
Plots and Playwrights	Massey
The Life of Man	Andreyev
Sganarelle	Molière
The Poor Fool	Bahr
Ghosts	Ibsen
Pariah	Strindberg

REPERTORY OF THE STUART WALKER COMPANY

The Trimplet	Walker
A Fan and Two Candlesticks	Macmillan
Six Who Pass While the Lentils Boil	Walker
The Seven Gifts (a pantomime)	Walker
The Moon Lady (a pantomime)	Walker	[Pg 206]
Nevertheless	Walker
Gammer Gurton's Needle (adapted by Mr. Walker)	Stevenson
The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree	Walker
The Golden Doom	Dunsany
Voices	Flexner
The Crier by Night	Bottomley
The Gods of the Mountain	Dunsany
The Medicine Show	Walker
The Very Naked Boy	Walker
The Birthday of the Infanta (from Oscar Wilde's Story)	Walker
King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior	Dunsany
It Pays to Advertise	Megrue
The Dummy	O'Higgins and Ford
The Concert	Bahr
Kick In	Mack
Seventeen	Walker
Seven Keys to Baldpate	Cohan
The Country Boy	Selwyn
You Never Can Tell	Shaw
Officer 666	McHugh
Broadway Jones	Cohan
The Woman	DeMille
The Show Shop	Forbes
A Night in Avignon	Rice
The Son of Isis	Kelly
Stingy	Parry
The Book of Job
[Pg 207]
Romance	Sheldon
Stop Thief	Moore
The Hero	Brown
The Misleading Lady	Goddard and Dickey
Alias Jimmy Valentine (from O. Henry's story)	Armstrong
Passers By	Chambers
Seven Up	Coleman
The Three of Us	Crothers
The Fortune Hunter	Smith
Alice Sit by the Fire	Barrie
The Workhouse Ward	Gregory
The Wolf	Walter
The Truth	Fitch
Jonathan Makes a Wish	Walker
The Laughter of the Gods	Dunsany
The Tents of the Arabs	Dunsany
The Cinderella Man	Carpenter
Good Gracious Annabelle	Kummer
Leah Kleschna	MacClellan
Over Night	Bartholomae
The Passing of the Third Floor Back	Jerome
Milestones	Bennett and Knoblock
Kismet	Knoblock
Don	Besier
The Gibson Upright	Tarkington and Ailson
The Murderers	Dunsany
Too Many Cooks	Craven

CASTS

The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree

CAST FOR OPENING

The Very Naked Boy

CAST FOR OPENING

Jonathan Makes a Wish

NEW YORK CAST

At the Princess Theatre, New York première, September 11, 1918, Elizabeth Patterson played Aunt Letitia, which was played in Indianapolis by Judith Lowry.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Taken from Prof. Dickenson's book, "The Insurgent Theater," in which a number of interesting and more recent repertories of "independent" theaters are given.

A SELECTED LIST

DRAMATIC LITERATURE

A book of paramount importance. This monumental anthology brings together for the first time the epoch-making theories and criticisms of the drama which have affected our civilization from the beginnings in Greece down to the present day. Beginning with Aristotle, each utterance on the subject has been chosen with reference to its importance, and its effect on subsequent dramatic writing. The texts alone would be of great interest and value, but the author, Barrett H. Clark, has so connected each period by means of inter-chapters that his comments taken as a whole constitute a veritable history of dramatic criticism, in which each text bears out his statements.

Nowhere else is so important a body of doctrine on the subject of the drama to be obtained. It cannot fail to appeal to any one who is interested in the theater, and will be indispensable to students.

The introduction to each section of the book is followed by an exhaustive bibliography; each writer whose work is represented is made the subject of a brief biography, and the entire volume is rendered doubly valuable by the index, which is worked out in great detail.

Prof. Brander Matthews of Columbia University says: "Mr. Clark deserves high praise for the careful thoroughness with which he has performed the task he set for himself. He has done well what was well worth doing. In these five hundred pages he has extracted the essence of several five-foot shelves. His anthology will be invaluable to all students of the principles of playmaking; and it ought to be welcomed by all those whose curiosity has been aroused by the frequent references of our latter day theorists of the theater to their predecessors."

Wm. Lyon Phelps of Yale University writes: "Mr. Clark's book, 'European Theories of the Drama,' is an exceedingly valuable work and ought to be widely useful."

A new volume of criticisms of plays and papers on acting, playmaking, and other dramatic problems, by Walter Prichard Eaton, dramatic critic, and author of "The American Stage of Today," "At the New Theater and Others," "Idyl of the Twin Fires," etc. The new volume begins with plays produced as far back as 1910, and brings the record down to the current year. One section is devoted to American plays, one to foreign plays acted on our stage, one to various revivals of Shakespeare. These sections form a record of the important activities of the American theater for the past six years, and constitute about half of the volume. The remainder of the book is given over to various discussions of the actor's art, of play construction, of the new stage craft, of new movements in our theater, such as the Washington Square Players, and several lighter essays in the satiric vein which characterized the author's work when he was the dramatic critic of the New York Sun. Unlike most volumes of criticisms, this one is illustrated, the pictures of the productions described in the text furnishing an additional historical record. At a time when the drama is regaining its lost position of literary dignity it is particularly fitting that dignified and intelligent criticism and discussion should also find accompanying publication.

Large 12mo. About 420 pages, 10 full-page illustrations on Cameo Paper and End Papers Net $2.00

Translated with an introduction on Antoine and Theatre Libre by BARRETT H. CLARK. Preface by BRIEUX, of the French Academy, and a Sonnet by EDMOND ROSTAND.

In "Contemporary French Dramatists" Mr. Barrett H. Clark, author of "The Continental Drama of Today," "The British and American Drama of Today," translator of "Four Plays of the Free Theater," and of various plays of Donnay, Hervieu, Lemaître, Sardou, Lavedan, etc., has contributed the first collection of studies on the modern French theater. Mr. Clark takes up the chief dramatists of France beginning with the Théâtre-Libre: Curel, Brieux, Hervieu, Lemaître, Lavedan, Donnay, Porto-Riche, Rostand, Bataille, Bernstein, Capus, Flers, and Caillavet. The book contains numerous quotations from the chief representative plays of each dramatist, a separate chapter on "Characteristics" and the most complete bibliography to be found anywhere.

This book gives a study of contemporary drama in France which has been more neglected than any other European country.

An acting version of this most perfect of all dramas. A scholarly work in readable English. Especially adaptable for Colleges, Dramatic Societies, etc.

In the present work the famous dramatic critic and biographer of Shaw has considered six representative dramatists outside of the United States, some living, some dead—Strindberg, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Wilde, Shaw, Barker, and Schnitzler.

Photogravure frontispiece, handsomely printed and bound, large 12mo Net, $2.00

Perhaps once in a generation a figure of commanding greatness appears, one through whose life the history of his time may be read. There is but one such man today.

Is virtually the story of the social, economic and æsthetic life of the last twenty-five years. It is a sympathetic, yet independent interpretation of the most potent individual force in society. Cultivated America will find here the key to all that is baffling and elusive in Shaw; it is a cinematographic picture of his mind with a background disclosing all the formative influences that combined to produce this universal genius.

The press of the world has united in its praise; let us send you some of the comments. It is a large demy 8vo volume cloth, gilt top, 628 pages, with 35 full page illustrations in color, photogravure and halftone and numerous pictures in the text.

Author of "European Dramatists," "George Bernard Shaw—His Life and Work." Etc.

A vital book, popular in style, cosmopolitan in tone, appraising the drama of the past sixty years, its changes, contributions and tendencies. Has an expression of the larger realities of the art and life of our time.

E. E. Hale in The Dial: "One of the most widely read dramatic critics of our day; few know as well as he what is 'up' in the dramatic world, what are the currents of present-day thought, what people are thinking, dreaming, doing, or trying to do."

New York Times: "Apt, happily allusive, finely informed essays on the dramatists of our own time—his essay style is vigorous and pleasing."

Book News Monthly: "Shows clear understanding of the evolution of form and spirit, and the differentiation of the forces—spiritual, intellectual and social—which are making the theatre what it is today... we can recollect no book of recent times which has such contemporaneousness, yet which regards the subject with such excellent perspective... almost indispensable to the general student of drama... a book of rich perspective and sound analysis. The style is simple and direct."

Geo. Middleton in La Follette's: "The best attempt to formulate the tendencies which the drama is now taking in its evolutionary course."

To fill a long-felt want. All have been successfully presented. Suitable for Women's Clubs, Girls' Schools, etc. While elaborate enough for big presentation, they may be given very simply.

"Mary MacMillan offers 'Short Plays,' a collection of pleasant one to three-act plays for women's clubs, girls' schools, and home parlor production. Some are pure comedies, others gentle satires on women's faults and foibles. 'The Futurists,' a skit on a woman's club in the year 1882, is highly amusing. 'Entr' Act' is a charming trifle that brings two quarreling lovers together through a ridiculous private theatrical. 'The Ring' carries us gracefully back to the days of Shakespeare; and 'The Shadowed Star,' the best of the collection, is a Christmas Eve tragedy. The Star is shadowed by our thoughtless inhumanity to those who serve us and our forgetfulness of the needy. The Old Woman, gone daft, who babbles in a kind of mongrel Kiltartan, of the Shepherds, the Blessed Babe, of the Fairies, rowan berries, roses and dancing, while her daughter dies on Christmas Eve, is a splendid characterization."

Plays that act well may read well. Miss MacMillan's plays are good reading. Nor is literary excellence a detriment to dramatic performance. They were put on the stage before they were put into print. They differ slightly from those in the former volume. Two of them, "The Pioneers," a story of the settlement of the Ohio Valley, and "Honey," a little mountain girl cotton-mill worker, are longer. The other six, "In Mendelesia," Parts I and II, "The Dryad," "The Dress Rehearsal of Hamlet," "At the Church," and "His Second Girl," contain the spirit of humor, something of subtlety, and something of fantasy.

Brooklyn Daily Eagle: "Mary MacMillan, whose first volume of short plays proved that she possessed unusual gifts as a dramatist, has justified the hopes of her friends in a second volume, 'More Short Plays,' which reveal the author as the possessor of a charming literary style coupled with a sure dramatic sense that never leads her idea astray.... In them all the reader will find a rich and delicate charm, a bountiful endowment of humor and wit, a penetrating knowledge of human nature, and a deft touch in the drawing of character. They are delicately and sympathetically done and their literary charm is undeniable."

A dramatic poem in two acts, treating in altogether new fashion the world old story of Pandora, the first woman.

In his "Comedies of Words," Arthur Schnitzler, the great Austrian Dramatist, has penetrated to newer and profounder regions of human psychology. According to Schnitzler, the keenly compelling problems of earth are: the adjustment of a man to one woman, a woman to one man, the children to their parents, the artist to life, the individual to his most cherished beliefs, and how can we accomplish this adjustment when, try as we please, there is a destiny which sweeps our little plans away like helpless chessmen from the board? Since the creation of Anatol, that delightful toy philosopher, so popular in almost every theater of the world, the great Physician-Dramatist has pushed on both as World-Dramatist and reconnoiterer beyond the misty frontiers of man's conscious existence. He has attempted in an artistic way to get beneath what Freud calls the "Psychic Censor" which edits all our suppressed desires. Reading Schnitzler is like going to school to Life itself!

Authorized Translation by Velma Swanston Howard. An allegorical drama in five acts. Compared favorably to Barrie's "Peter Pan" and Maeterlinck's "The Blue Bird."

From a city of Ohio comes this product of Swedish fancy in most attractive attire, attesting that the possibilities of dramatic art have not entirely ceased in this age of vaudeville and moving pictures. A great sermon in altruism is preached in these pages, which we would that millions might see and hear. To those who think or would like to think, "Lucky Pehr" will prove a most readable book. * * * An allegory, it is true, but so are Æsop's Fables, the Parables of the Scriptures and many others of the most effective lessons ever given.

Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Swanston Howard's authorization.

Authorized translation by Velma Swanston Howard. In this work the author reveals a broad tolerance, a rare poetic tenderness augmented by an almost divine understanding of human frailties as marking certain natural stages in evolution of the soul.

Here is a major key of cheerfulness and idealism—a relief to a reader who has passed through some of the author's morbid pages. * * * Some critics find in this play (Easter) less of the thrust of a distinctive art than is found in the author's more lugubrious dramas. There is indeed less sting in it. Nevertheless it has a nobler tone. It more ably fulfills the purpose of good drama—the chastening of the spectators' hearts through their participation in the suffering of the dramatic personages. There is in the play a mystical exaltation, a belief and trust in good and its power to embrace all in its beneficence, to bring all confusion to harmony.

Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Swanston Howard's authorization.

The tragedy of Hamlet has never been adequately interpreted. Two hundred years of critical discussion has not sufficed to reconcile conflicting impressions regarding the scope of Shakespeare's design in this, the first of his great philosophic tragedies. We believe that all those students who are interested in the study of Shakespeare will find this volume of great value.

"Mr. Venable is the latest critic to apply himself to the 'Hamlet' problem, and he offers a solution in an admirably written little book which is sure to attract readers. Undeterred by the formidable names of Goethe and Coleridge, Mr. Venable pronounces untenable the theories which those great authors propounded to account for the extraordinary figure of the Prince of Denmark. * * * Mr. Venable looks in another direction for the solution of the problem. * * * The solution offered by the author is just the reverse of that proposed by Goethe. * * * From Mr. Venable's viewpoint the key to 'Hamlet' is found in the famous soliloquies, and his book is based upon a close study of those utterances which bring us within the portals of the soul of the real Hamlet. The reader with an open mind will find in Mr. Venable a writer whose breadth of view and searching thought gives weight to this competent study of the most interesting of Shakespearean problems."

This volume contains four One Act Plays by the inventor and director of the Portmanteau Theater. They are all included in the regular repertory of the Theater and the four contained in this volume comprise in themselves an evening's bill.

There is also an Introduction by Edward Hale Bierstadt on the Portmanteau Theater in theory and practice.

The book is illustrated by pictures taken from actual presentations of the plays.

The first play, the "Trimplet," deals with the search for a certain magic thing called a trimplet which can cure all the ills of whoever finds it. The search and the finding constitute the action of the piece.

Second play, "Six who Pass While the Lentils Boil" is perhaps the most popular in Mr. Walker's repertory. The story is of a Queen who, having stepped on the ring-toe of the King's great-aunt, is condemned to die before the clock strikes twelve. The Six who pass the pot in which boil the lentils are on their way to the execution.

Next comes "Nevertheless," which tells of a burglar who oddly enough reaches regeneration through two children and a dictionary.

And last of all is the "Medicine-Show," which is a character study situated on the banks of the Mississippi. One does not see either the Show or the Mississippi, but the characters are so all sufficient that one does not miss the others.

All of these plays are fanciful—symbolic if you like—but all of them have a very distinct raison d'être in themselves, quite apart from any ulterior meaning.

With Mr. Walker it is always "the story first," and herein he is at one with Lord Dunsany and others of his ilk. The plays have body, force, and beauty always; and if the reader desires to read in anything else surely that is his privilege.

Each play, and even the Theater itself has a prologue, and with the help of these one is enabled to pass from one charming tale to the next without a break in the continuity.

Precisely what the title indicates—facts as they are, plain and unmistakable without veneer of any sort. It goes directly to the heart of the whole matter. Behind the writer of it—who is one of the best known theatrical men in New York—are long years of experience. He recites what he knows, what he has seen, and his quiet, calm, authoritative account of conditions as they are is without adornment, excuse or exaggeration. It is intended to be helpful to those who want the facts, and for them it will prove of immeasurable value.

"The Truth About the Theater," in brief, lifts the curtain on the American stage. It leaves no phase of the subject untouched. To those who are ambitious to serve the theater, either as players or as playwrights, or, again, in some managerial capacity, the book is invaluable. To those, too, who would know more about the theater that they may come to some fair estimate of the worth of the innumerable theories nowadays advanced, the book will again prove its value.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS ***

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Madison Square Theater 1887
Marjorie's Lovers	Brander Matthews
Elaine (from Tennyson)	G. P. Lathrop
A Foregone Conclusion	W. D. Howells

23rd Street Theater 1891
Giles Corey	Mary E. Wilkins
Squirrel Inn (from Frank Stockton)	Frank Presbrey
The Other Woman	Richard Harding Davis
Harvest	Clyde Fitch
The Decision of the Court	Brander Matthews Frederick J. Stimson

Madison Square Theater 1897
Berkeley Lyceum
John Gabriel Bjorkman	Ibsen
{The Rights of the Soul	Giacosa
{That Overcoat	Augustus Thomas
{From a Clear Sky	Henri Dumay
El Gran Galeoto	Echegaray

Carnegie Lyceum 1899
El Gran Galeoto	Echegaray
Ties	Hervieu
The Master Builder	Ibsen
The Storm	Ostrovsky
The Heather Field	Martyn
A Troubadour	Coppé

The Playhouse 1915-1917
1st Season
The New York Idea	Mitchell
The Liars	Jones
Earth	Fagan
Major Barbara	Shaw
Captain Brassbound's Conversion	Shaw
2nd Season
Eve's Daughter	Ramsey
Elevation	Bernstein

O-Sode	Harrie Fumade
O-Katsu	Annie Lowry
Obaa-San	Florence Wollersen
The Gaki of Kokoru	McKay Morris
Aoyagi	Nancy Winston
Riki	Wilmot Heitland

He	Willard Webster
She	Dorothea Carothers
Boy	Gregory Kelly

Aunt Letitia	Elizabeth Patterson
Susan Sample	Beatrice Maude
Uncle Nathaniel	George Gaul
Uncle John	Ainsworth Arnold
Jonathan	Gregory Kelly
Mlle. Perrault	Margaret Mower
Hank	Edgar Stehli
Albert Peet	Joseph Graham
Mary	Elizabeth Black
John III	John Talbott