The Project Gutenberg EBook of More Portmanteau Plays, by Stuart Walker This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: More Portmanteau Plays Author: Stuart Walker Editor: Edward Hale Bierstadt Release Date: November 10, 2011 [EBook #37967] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS *** Produced by David Garcia and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library.) [Illustration: STUART WALKER WITH THE WORKING MODEL OF HIS PORTMANTEAU THEATRE] MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS BY STUART WALKER Author of Portmanteau Plays Edited, and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT [Illustration: ILLUSTRATED] CINCINNATI STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 1919 STEWART &. KIDD DRAMATIC SERIES The Portmanteau Plays By Stuart Walker Edited and with an Introduction by Edward Hale Bierstadt VOL. 1--Portmanteau Plays Introduction The Trimplet Nevertheless Six Who Pass While the Lintels Boil Medicine Show VOL. 2--More Portmanteau Plays Introduction The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree The Very Naked Boy Jonathan Makes a Wish VOL. 3--Portmanteau Adaptations Introduction Gammer Gurton's Needle The Birthday of the Infanta "Seventeen" _Each of the above three volumes handsomely bound and illustrated. Per volume net $1.75_ STEWART & KIDD CO., PUBLISHERS 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 I 130 JONATHAN MAKES A WISH, ACT II 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 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 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 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 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. 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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. "What have the American 'Independents' achieved by their efforts? "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 revived discussion of the general tendencies of modern drama. "They have interested, and occasionally charmed, an intelligent minority of playgoers, 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 discovered at least one new actress of unusual worth. "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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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. EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT. New York City, April, 1919. * * * * * 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. E. H. B. 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_. MEMORY 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 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 CHARACTERS O-SODE-SAN, an old woman O-KATSU-SAN OBAA-SAN THE GAKI OF KOKORU, an eater of unrest RIKI, a poet AOYAGI 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._ [_O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San enter._ O-SODE-SAN Oi!... Oi!... Obaa-San! O-KATSU-SAN Obaa-San!... Grandmother! O-SODE-SAN She is not there. O-KATSU-SAN Poor Obaa-San. O-SODE-SAN Why do you always pity Obaa-San? Are her clothes not whole? Has she not her full store of rice? O-KATSU-SAN Ay! O-SODE-SAN Then what more can one want--a full hand, a full belly, and a warm body! O-KATSU-SAN A full heart, perhaps. O-SODE-SAN 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. O-KATSU-SAN Hai! Hai! She does not know. O-SODE-SAN She has had no lover to smile upon her and then--pass on. O-KATSU-SAN But Obaa-San is not happy. O-SODE-SAN Pss-s! O-KATSU-SAN She may be lonely because she has never had any one to love or to love her. O-SODE-SAN 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! O-KATSU-SAN O-Sode, might we not be too cruel to her? O-SODE-SAN 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. O-KATSU-SAN I do not know! I do not know! Sometimes I think I hear tears in her laugh! O-SODE-SAN Pss-s! That is no laugh. Obaa-San cackles like an old hen. O-KATSU-SAN I think she is unhappy now and then--always, perhaps. O-SODE-SAN Has she not her weeping willow tree--the grandmother? O-KATSU-SAN Ay. She loves the tree. O-SODE-SAN 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. O-KATSU-SAN But, O-Sode, the weeping willow tree can not love her. Perhaps even old Obaa-San longs for love. O-SODE-SAN Do we not come daily to her to talk to her? And to ask her all about her weeping willow tree? O-KATSU-SAN Oi! Obaa-San. [_A sigh is heard._ O-SODE-SAN What was that, O-Katsu? O-KATSU-SAN Someone sighed--a deep, hard sigh. O-SODE-SAN Oi! Obaa-San! Grandmother! [_The sigh is almost a moan._ O-KATSU-SAN It seemed to come from the weeping willow tree. O-SODE-SAN O-Katsu! Perhaps some evil spirit haunts the tree. O-KATSU-SAN 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 his way back once more to humanity. To different men he changes his shape at will, and sometimes is invisible. O-SODE-SAN Quick, Katsu, let us go to the shrine--and pray--and pray. O-KATSU-SAN Ay. There! [_They go out. The Gaki appears._ THE GAKI Why did you sigh? THE VOICE OF THE TREE O Gaki of Kokoru! My heart hangs within me like the weight of years on Obaa-San. THE GAKI Why did you moan? THE TREE The tree is growing--and it tears my heart. THE GAKI I live upon your unrest. Feed me! Feed me! [_The tree sighs and moans and The Gaki seems transported with joy._ THE TREE Please! Please! Give me my freedom. THE GAKI Where then should I feed? Unless I feed on your unhappiness I should cease to live--and I must live. THE TREE Someone else, perchance, may suffer in my stead. THE GAKI I care not where or how I feed. I am in the sixth hell, and if I die in this shape I must remain 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. THE TREE Oh, can't you feed on joy--on happiness, on faith? THE GAKI Faith? Yes, perhaps--but only on perfect faith. If I found perfect faith--ah, then--I dare not dream.--There is no faith. THE TREE Do not make me suffer more. Let me enjoy the loveliness of things. THE GAKI Would you have someone else suffer in your stead? THE TREE Someone else--someone else-- THE GAKI Ay--old Obaa-San--she whom they call the grandmother. [_The Tree moans._ THE GAKI She will suffer in your stead. THE TREE No! No! She loves me! She of all the world loves me! No--not she! THE GAKI It shall be she! THE TREE I shall not leave! THE GAKI You give me better food than I have ever known. You wait! You wait! THE TREE Here comes Obaa-San! Do not let her suffer for me! THE GAKI You shall be free--as free as anyone can be--when I have made the misery of Obaa-San complete. THE TREE She has never fully known her misery. Her heart is like an iron-bound chest long-locked, with the key lost. THE GAKI We shall find the key! We shall find the key! THE TREE I shall warn her. THE GAKI Try! THE TREE Alas! I can not make her hear! I can not tell her anything. THE GAKI She can not understand you! She can not see me unless I wish! Earth people never see or hear! THE TREE Hai! Hai! Hai! [_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_-- OBAA-SAN My tree! My little tree! Why do you sigh? THE TREE Hai! Hai! Hai! OBAA-SAN Sometimes I think I pity you. Yes, dear tree! THE TREE Hai! Hai! Hai! THE GAKI Now I am a traveller. She sees me pleasantly.--Grandmother! OBAA-SAN Ay, sir! THE GAKI Which way to Kyushu? OBAA-SAN You have lost your way. Far, far back beyond the ferry landing at Ishiyama to your right. That is the way to Kyushu. THE GAKI Ah, me! OBAA-SAN You are tired. Will you not sit and rest?--Will you not have some rice? THE GAKI Oh, no.--Where is your brood, grandmother? OBAA-SAN I have no brood. I am no grandmother. I am no mother. THE GAKI What! Are there tears in your voice? OBAA-SAN Tears! Why should I weep? THE GAKI I do not know, grandmother! OBAA-SAN I am no grandmother!--Who sent you here to laugh at me?--O-Sode-San? 'Tis she who laughs at me, because-- THE GAKI No one, old woman-- OBAA-SAN Yes, yes, old woman. That is it. Old woman!--Who are you? I am not wont to cry my griefs to any one. THE GAKI Griefs? You have griefs? OBAA-SAN Ay! Even _I_--she whom they call Obaa-San--have griefs.--Even I! But they are locked deep within me. No one knows! THE GAKI Someone must know. OBAA-SAN I shall tell no one. THE GAKI Someone must know! OBAA-SAN You speak like some spirit--and I feel that I must obey. THE GAKI Someone must know! OBAA-SAN 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 laugh. Is it not enough that some evil spirit feeds upon my deep unrest? THE GAKI 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. [_He goes out._ OBAA-SAN Strange. I feel that I must speak out my heart. [_O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San come in._ O-SODE-SAN Good morning, grandmother! OBAA-SAN (_with a strange wistfulness in her tone_) Good morning, O-Sode-San. Good morning, O-Katsu-San. May the bright day bring you a bright heart. O-KATSU-SAN And you, Obaa-San. O-SODE-SAN How is the weeping willow tree, grandmother? OBAA-SAN It is there--close to me. O-SODE-SAN And does it speak to you, grandmother-- OBAA-SAN 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 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. O-SODE-SAN You never seemed to care. OBAA-SAN 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 have always been lonely. Go spread the news. O-KATSU-SAN No, Obaa-San. We shall not spread the news. No one shall know. O-SODE-SAN But--we pity you. OBAA-SAN 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. THE TREE Hai! Hai! Hai! O-KATSU-SAN Someone sighs. OBAA-SAN 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! O-SODE-SAN Obaa-San--we have been hurting. I never knew--I am sorry, Obaa-San. O-KATSU-SAN You have been lonely, Obaa-San, but you have always been lonely. I know the having and I know the losing. O-SODE-SAN 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 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. OBAA-SAN You knew his love, O-Sode-San. You touched his hand. O-KATSU-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. OBAA-SAN 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. THE TREE Hai! Hai! Hai OBAA-SAN Just once--for one short day--to fill the empty place in my heart that has always been empty--and a pain-- O-SODE-SAN Who is that man, Obaa-San? OBAA-SAN There? That is a stranger seeking for Kyushu. O-KATSU-SAN He seems to wish to speak to you. OBAA-SAN A strange man. 'Twas he who seemed to make me unlock my heart to you. O-SODE-SAN Then shall we go.--And we'll return, Obaa-San. OBAA-SAN Grandmother! O-KATSU-SAN We'll laugh no more. [_They leave. Obaa-San turns to the tree. The Gaki enters, strangely agitated._ THE GAKI 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? OBAA-SAN Forever--could I but fill this emptiness in my mother-heart. THE GAKI Would you really pay? OBAA-SAN Yes, yes. But why do you ask?--Who are you? THE GAKI I am a stranger bound for Kyushu. OBAA-SAN Why do you, too, make sport of me? THE GAKI Go you into your house and come not till I call. [_Obaa-San obeys under a strange compulsion._ THE TREE Hai! Hai! Hai THE GAKI You can not feed me now. That cry was the wind amongst your branches. Come. I bid you come to life, to human form. THE TREE I do not wish to come. THE GAKI I bid you come! [_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._ THE GAKI You are free. AOYAGI Free! THE GAKI 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 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. AOYAGI Oi! THE GAKI Do not call yet.--You are to wed the first young man who passes here and you are to follow him. AOYAGI But--Obaa-San? THE GAKI She shall feed me with her new-made misery. AOYAGI No--no--she loved me so! THE GAKI She shall feed me. You will be happy. [_He disappears._ AOYAGI Free! And happy! [_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._ AOYAGI Hai. OBAA-SAN A dream! AOYAGI Mother-- [_Obaa-San stands mute. She listens--yearning for the word again._ OBAA-SAN Have you lost your way? AOYAGI No, mother-- [_Obaa-San does not know what to think or do. A strange giddiness seizes on her and a great light fills her eyes._ OBAA-SAN How beautiful the name! But I am only Obaa-San. Your mother-- [_She shakes her old head sadly._ AOYAGI Obaa-San, my mother. [_Obaa-San lays her hand upon her heart. Then she stretches out her arms._ OBAA-SAN Obaa-San--your mother--where is my pain? And you--who are you? AOYAGI I am Aoyagi, mother. OBAA-SAN You have not lost your way? AOYAGI I have but just found my way. OBAA-SAN 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._ OBAA-SAN I seem never to have known a time when you were not here. AOYAGI Oh, mother dear, it is now--and now is always, if we will. OBAA-SAN It seems as though the weeping willow tree had warmed and shown its heart to me. AOYAGI I am the Lady of the Weeping Willow tree! OBAA-SAN 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. AOYAGI How long I've tried to speak to you! OBAA-SAN How long my heart has yearned for you! AOYAGI Mother! [_The Gaki appears._ THE GAKI Such happiness. Already she has forgotten the coming of the man. OBAA-SAN 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: See, baby, see The ears of the wolf are long; Sleep, baby, sleep, Your father is brave and strong. 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 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-- AOYAGI Oh, mother, dear. I am so happy here. OBAA-SAN (_suddenly becoming the solicitous mother, she handles Aoyagi as one might handle a doll_) Are you--truly?--Are you warm?--You are hungry! AOYAGI No--I am just happy. [_She nestles close to Obaa-San. There is complete contentment._ OBAA-SAN I shall bring you--a surprise. [_She darts into the house. Immediately The Gaki comes in._ THE GAKI You seem very happy, Aoyagi. And your mother is very happy, too.--And I am hungry now. AOYAGI You will not hurt her! Let me go back to the Weeping Willow Tree-- THE GAKI That would kill her--perhaps. AOYAGI No--no--I should be near her then--always. THE GAKI But where would I have my food? Not in your heart, not in hers--I should starve and I must live. AOYAGI What then? THE GAKI See! [_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_: See, baby, see The ears of the wolf are long; Sleep, baby, sleep, Your father is brave and strong. _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._ RIKI You are she! AOYAGI My--who--are--you? RIKI I am a poet--I have sought everywhere for you. AOYAGI I am the Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree! RIKI You are my love. AOYAGI I am the daughter of Obaa-San. RIKI I love you so! AOYAGI Yes--I love you so!--But I love Obaa-San, my mother-- RIKI Come with me. AOYAGI But Obaa-San-- RIKI 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. AOYAGI But--Obaa-San--is very old and very lonely. RIKI She is your mother.--She must be glad to let you go. AOYAGI She does not know you. RIKI I know you. AOYAGI Yes--but I can not leave Obaa-San. RIKI We can not stay with Obaa-San. AOYAGI Can we not take her with us? RIKI 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 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. AOYAGI Something speaks to me above the pity for poor Obaa-San. RIKI It is love. AOYAGI I love Obaa-San. RIKI This is love beyond love. This is earth and air--sea and sky. AOYAGI I do not even know your name. RIKI What does my name matter? I am I--you are you. AOYAGI 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-- RIKI I am Riki. But what can Riki mean that already my eyes have not said? AOYAGI I feel a strange unrest--that is happiness. RIKI Come! AOYAGI First let me speak to Obaa-San. RIKI 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-- AOYAGI 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._ OBAA-SAN When do you go? AOYAGI Obaa-San, my mother--something outside of me calls and I must obey. OBAA-SAN I understand.--It must be wonderful, my little daughter. AOYAGI Mother!--This is Riki. OBAA-SAN Riki!--See that you bring her happiness. RIKI I could not fail. I have searched for her always. OBAA-SAN We always search for someone--we humans.--Sometimes we find--sometimes we wait always. AOYAGI Riki, I must not go. Obaa-San is my mother--and I am all she has. OBAA-SAN Yes, Aoyagi, you are all I have and that is why I can let you go. Be happy-- AOYAGI But you, my mother. OBAA-SAN 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. RIKI We shall return some day, Obaa-San. AOYAGI Farewell. [_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._ OBAA-SAN Hai!--Hai! [_She lays her hand upon her heart and, looking into space, turns to the house. There is the empty tree--her empty heart! The Gaki comes in._ THE GAKI Oi! Obaa-San! [_Obaa-San turns mechanically._ OBAA-SAN Did you not find your way? THE GAKI I found my way.--But why this unhappiness in your eyes? OBAA-SAN I am very lonely. I have lived my lifelong dream of spring and butterflies a single instant--and it is gone. [_She turns to go._ THE GAKI I feed! I feed! [_The voices of O-Sode and O-Katsu are heard calling Obaa-San._ Here are your friends again. [_O-Sode and O-Katsu come in._ O-SODE-SAN Hai! Obaa-San, a little lady passed and told us you were lonely. OBAA-SAN I am lonely.--But I have always been lonely. O-SODE-SAN What has happened? [_The Gaki, hidden, has been triumphant. Suddenly he seems to shrivel as if drawn with rage._ OBAA-SAN I waited, oh so long--you know.--I opened my arms.--My dream came true.--I sang my lullaby--to my child.--A lover came;--they have gone. O-KATSU-SAN She is a-wander in her mind. OBAA-SAN 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. O-SODE-SAN It was magic! Come, Obaa-San, we'll make some prayers to burn. O-KATSU-SAN Some evil ghost. OBAA-SAN 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. [_The old women go into the house._ THE GAKI 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_: See, baby, see The ears of the wolf are long; Sleep, baby, sleep, Your father is brave and strong. 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! _The Curtains Close._ ACT II _A Bamboo Glade on the Mountain-side._ [_The Gaki comes in._ THE GAKI 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. [_Riki and Aoyagi enter._ RIKI ... 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. AOYAGI And then--? RIKI And then the Princess laid her hand upon her heart. AOYAGI Is that all? RIKI Is that all? What more need there be? AOYAGI Did they not wed and have great happiness? RIKI You can answer that. AOYAGI I? I never heard the story before. RIKI One may always end a story--just right. AOYAGI Not a weeping willow tree? RIKI Even a weeping willow tree! AOYAGI How? RIKI I'll show you.--Stand right here.--So! I stand here.--Now look at me. AOYAGI I am looking. RIKI Place your hand upon your heart. AOYAGI Ay. RIKI 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. AOYAGI Ah! [_With a cry of delight she rushes to his arms._ RIKI And did they wed? AOYAGI Ah, love beyond love. RIKI And did they have great happiness? AOYAGI Ah! [_She nestles close to him._ [Illustration: THE LADY OF THE WEEPING WILLOW TREE ACT III.] RIKI 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!" AOYAGI And what of her--the vision at the ferry of Ishiyama? RIKI For all I know she may still be standing there in the morning sunlight all aglow.--I have found you! AOYAGI And was she--fair? RIKI Ay--how can I say? Now all the world is fair because I see only you in earth and sky and everything. AOYAGI She was aglow in the morning sun. RIKI 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. AOYAGI Riki--Riki-- RIKI A dream that's true. AOYAGI 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. RIKI The dew is tears, perhaps. AOYAGI 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. RIKI Look where her home lies. Far down there beyond that stream, see--there is Kyushu. AOYAGI 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? RIKI I can not say? I only know that we are here--you and I--and we are happy. Two make a world, Aoyagi. Why? How? I do not know. AOYAGI Can we not send a message to Obaa-San? RIKI Yes. I shall go down the mountain to the road and tell some passer-by. AOYAGI And I? RIKI Sit here and rest--and watch the silver stream at Kyushu. AOYAGI I shall wait--I shall wait. RIKI Sayonara. AOYAGI Sayonara.--Sayonara, my august lord. [_Riki goes out. Aoyagi, left alone, feels the air in the old way. She sways slightly in the breeze, then flutters toward the steps._ Oh, Kyushu! The silver stream at Kyushu! [_She evidently sees the place where Obaa-San lives. Her eyes dim a bit and slowly she hums the old lullaby_: See, baby, see, The ears of the wolf are long; Sleep, baby, sleep, Thy father is brave and strong. Poor Obaa-San! [_The Gaki appears._ THE GAKI I have lost my way. [_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._ AOYAGI Whither are you bound? THE GAKI I am a stranger bound for Kyushu. AOYAGI There is Kyushu. (_She indicates the silver stream_) THE GAKI I am told there is a ferry on the way to Kyushu. AOYAGI Yes,--at Ishiyama. THE GAKI At--Ishiyama. AOYAGI Why do you speak so? THE GAKI I merely echoed your own words. AOYAGI I did not say them so terribly. THE GAKI What is in your heart came into your voice, perhaps. AOYAGI There is the way to Kyushu. THE GAKI Down that path? AOYAGI Yes. Did you not meet Riki? THE GAKI Riki? AOYAGI Yes, my august lord. THE GAKI 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. AOYAGI But Riki just left me here. You must have passed him on the way. THE GAKI The by-paths are many and the trysting places are secret--like this. AOYAGI Riki would take no by-path. My august lord needs no trysting place save this. THE GAKI I do not know. I saw no Riki. AOYAGI My lord needs no trysting place. I am here. He knows I am here--waiting. [_The Gaki looks at her._ THE GAKI Riki? AOYAGI He knows I am waiting-- THE GAKI Riki?--Oh, yes the name--I heard it--once--at the ferry at Ishiyama. He has been there. AOYAGI Yes. THE GAKI A poet? AOYAGI Yes. THE GAKI He writes wonderful love-songs--they say. AOYAGI They? THE GAKI Yes,--the people at Ishiyama. I heard one.--It goes--let me see: "Butterfly, butterfly, alight upon the willow tree--" AOYAGI He did not speak that at Ishiyama. He made that for me. THE GAKI I heard it, strange to say, at Ishiyama. Perhaps they brought it from--where did you say? AOYAGI He made that for me only yesterday. THE GAKI And I heard it--yesterday--at Ishiyama. There the wonderful woman was singing. (_She looks at him_) The one I passed just now. AOYAGI 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. THE GAKI I should not have told anything.--Forgive me.--I did not know.--To speak truth is deep in my heart.--I have no gracious subtleties.--I am sorry-- AOYAGI 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-- [_There is no answer._ THE GAKI He does not seem to hear.--I shall go to meet him. He went this way, you say? AOYAGI 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. RIKI (_coming in singing_) Hai! Hai! Hai! RIKI Aoyagi! AOYAGI I must go back to Obaa-San, my mother. RIKI What has happened, Aoyagi? AOYAGI We came up the mountain path side by side, Riki. Without question I gave myself to you. RIKI Aoyagi! AOYAGI I gave my love--my love beyond love. I believed. RIKI Why not believe? AOYAGI Your first words were--"You are she!" I did not question. And now-- RIKI Oh, my little love, was I gone too long? AOYAGI My love knows no time, Riki.--You were gone--how can I say?--ages. RIKI It was ages, too, to me, Aoyagi. AOYAGI (_softening_) I watched the silver stream at Kyushu--and I waited. RIKI What, are those tears? AOYAGI Nothing, Riki--but I feel so far away--from Obaa-San. RIKI She can bridge the distance with her heart. A mother can always bridge all distance with her heart. AOYAGI Hai! RIKI Our happiness is all she wants. AOYAGI Our happiness--(_bitterly_) RIKI (_He goes to her. She moves away_) Why-- AOYAGI The silver fishes-- RIKI What has happened, Aoyagi? AOYAGI Did you send the message to Obaa-San? RIKI Yes. AOYAGI Did you go down the path? RIKI Yes. AOYAGI Did you pass a stranger on the way? RIKI No. AOYAGI A stranger just came by.--He came up the mountain path. RIKI I crossed the stream. AOYAGI (_She takes a deep breath_) You crossed the stream. RIKI Aoyagi--little sweetheart--I cannot understand.--What do you mean? AOYAGI Oh, Riki, Riki, I am so alone. Tell me what--why--why-- RIKI Aoyagi, was I gone too long? Has some demon come to you? AOYAGI No demon came. You were gone too long. RIKI I went down the path and crossed the stream to take a shorter way. I met a stranger-- AOYAGI Singing? RIKI Yes--I think she was singing. AOYAGI _She_ was singing. RIKI What do you mean, Aoyagi? AOYAGI Who was she? RIKI I do not know.--She said she would pass Ishiyama. AOYAGI Where did you see her? RIKI Beyond the stream--in a little glade. AOYAGI Did she sing your song? RIKI My song? No. AOYAGI Did she know your songs? RIKI Aoyagi! What do you want to know? AOYAGI Did she know your song to me--"Butterfly, butterfly, alight upon the willow tree"? RIKI Perhaps.--I made that to you years ago--when you were a dream in my heart. AOYAGI At Ishiyama? RIKI Perhaps. AOYAGI Hai!--Obaa-San, my mother!--Oh, my heart--my heart-- RIKI Aoyagi--what have I done? Let me comfort you! [_He goes to her._ AOYAGI You leave me nothing in all the world. RIKI I give you all my world. AOYAGI Hai! Hai! Hai! RIKI Let me go and call the lady bound for Ishiyama. AOYAGI Riki!--ah! RIKI 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. [_He goes to her, but she draws away. For a moment he is uncertain what to do;--then--he speaks._ I'll bring her back to you. AOYAGI 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-- RIKI What do you mean? AOYAGI Go sing your songs at Ishiyama! Go make your poems to the butterfly.--I-- RIKI I have made songs only for you. AOYAGI But the songs for me are on every tongue. RIKI Ay--I am proud of that. AOYAGI The lady at the ferry at Ishiyama-- RIKI She learned the song to you! AOYAGI Ah! [_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._ RIKI I shall find the stranger-woman and send her to you.--I can no longer help you. AOYAGI You can no longer help.--Oh--life--oh, love--this too short day-- RIKI I shall stay near at hand until you return to Obaa-San. AOYAGI I shall find the path alone. RIKI I'll send the stranger-woman to you. [_Riki goes out._ AOYAGI 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-- [_She starts sadly from the path. The Gaki enters._ THE GAKI 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! AOYAGI I can not go! THE GAKI You seem to suffer. AOYAGI Oh--I have lost my way in life-- THE GAKI Lost your way in life? Let me help you. AOYAGI I have stood on the mountain side and I have seen the green valleys far below. THE GAKI Talk to me--as you would to yourself.--I hear but I shall not speak what I hear. AOYAGI Riki--no, I can not speak even to myself. Deep in me there is a hurt.--I can not tell-- THE GAKI A woman gives all;--the man forgets. AOYAGI But to Riki--he knows--I brought him my full belief--my all-in-all. THE GAKI Your perfect faith. AOYAGI 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. THE GAKI Are you sure he has forgotten? AOYAGI You know--you saw the lady from Ishiyama. THE GAKI True.--I saw her. AOYAGI You did not meet him on the path. THE GAKI True.--I did not meet him on the path. AOYAGI He crossed the stream. THE GAKI Perhaps to shorten the way. AOYAGI He met her in a little glade.--Hai! THE GAKI What shall you do? AOYAGI I'll go my way. I'll return to Obaa-San. THE GAKI 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-- AOYAGI (_She looks about once more at the scene of her happiness_) Hai! THE GAKI Come! AOYAGI No, let us go down the path.--I want to see my footprints--side by side with his. THE GAKI Perhaps they're being crushed under the feet of the lady from Ishiyama! [_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._ 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_ Aoyagi! Aoyagi!... Oi! [_The laugh of The Gaki is heard once more very far away--as he ascends the mountain with his burden._ RIKI Aoyagi!--Aoyagi! [_Riki comes running in. Presently he sees the footprints._ Oi!--Aoyagi! [_He runs down the path._ Aoyagi!--Aoyagi! [_Far, very far away The Gaki's laugh is heard._ RIKI Aoyagi!--Aoyagi! [_Night has fallen slowly._ Aoyagi!--Aoyagi! _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._ RIKI Aoyagi!--Aoyagi!--Aoyagi!--Aoyagi! Oi! [_Obaa-San appears in the doorway._ Aoyagi! OBAA-SAN (_She goes toward the voice_) Oi! [_Riki enters._ RIKI Obaa-San! Where is Aoyagi? OBAA-SAN Where is Aoyagi? RIKI Is she not here? OBAA-SAN She is not here. Where--Riki! RIKI I left her in the bamboo glade--and when I returned she was gone. Her footprints pointed toward the path--and then were lost. OBAA-SAN Why did you leave her? RIKI I left her because she--I left her. OBAA-SAN 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. RIKI I shall search for her.--Obaa-San, she-- OBAA-SAN I care not what she did. I am waiting here for her. [_Riki looks at Obaa-San a moment and then understands._ RIKI Aoyagi! [_He goes out. Obaa-San turns to the empty house--the empty willow tree._ OBAA-SAN She will come back to me. [_She goes into the house. The Gaki enters._ THE GAKI Foolish Riki! He searches in the valley. Mad Aoyagi! Alone with the lonely stars!--Oh, wondrous misery that makes itself. [_He sees Obaa-San. She enters from the house._ Good-morning, Obaa-San, my friend. OBAA-SAN Good-morning, traveller. THE GAKI Why do you rise before the dawn? OBAA-SAN I could not rest.--Why are you not at Kyushu? THE GAKI There is a mist at Kyushu--and I feared to lose my way. OBAA-SAN Did you pass a little lady--Aoyagi, by name--alone-- THE GAKI It seems--I met a little lady.--She was not happy.--That one? OBAA-SAN Where? THE GAKI I am a stranger here--I cannot say. Over there--or over there. OBAA-SAN She will come to me, perhaps. THE GAKI Do you know her? OBAA-SAN She is my daughter,--Aoyagi. THE GAKI Do you not fear for her? OBAA-SAN Perhaps.--She will be here soon.--Riki has gone for her. THE GAKI She must know the way. [_The voices of O-Sode and O-Katsu are heard._ This has been a restless night for age. (_He disappears. O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San enter_) OBAA-SAN Good-morning, O-Sode-San. Good-morning, O-Katsu-San.--The lily hands of sleep have passed you by. O-KATSU-SAN A strange unrest has seized upon me. I think--and 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. O-SODE-SAN I, too, have lived in words. O-KATSU-SAN Obaa-San, is it not wonderful to put a joy or pain in words? OBAA-SAN 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. O-SODE-SAN The moon in calm restlessness Shows the water grasses of the River of Heaven, Swaying in the cool spring air-- I know the time to meet my lover Is not too far away. OBAA-SAN Every one has a poem in his heart, I believe.--What was your poem, O-Katsu? O-KATSU-SAN Oh, messenger of the other world, My little one is young; She can not find her way-- Do you kindly take my little one Upon your warm, broad back Along the twilight path. O-SODE-SAN And you, Obaa-San,--was it words that kept sleep from your eyes? OBAA-SAN Ay, bitter dream-words. And for the bitterness I am paying dearly.--Over and over the words came to me: Here lies my daughter's sleeping body On the mat beside me. But her soul is far away Asleep in her lover's arms-- And I, her white-haired mother, Hold only an empty shell. Oh, I am ashamed--ashamed.--And just now Riki came to me--and told me he could not find Aoyagi. O-KATSU-SAN AND O-SODE-SAN Hai! O-SODE-SAN Can we not search for her? OBAA-SAN 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. [_The old women go into the house. There is just a moment's silence--then_: AOYAGI Hai! Hai! Hai! [_Aoyagi, utterly forlorn, enters. She looks at the house, turns and sees the mountains, covers 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._ THE GAKI So you have found your way--in life. AOYAGI Oh, let me go back to my tree! THE GAKI No, little Aoyagi--you would be happy then. AOYAGI Let me die! THE GAKI One can not die. AOYAGI Hai! THE GAKI Where have you been? AOYAGI So far--so far!--I am weary.--When I awoke, I was on the mountain-top--alone. THE GAKI Were there no stars? AOYAGI 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! THE GAKI And what of Riki? AOYAGI He does not care. THE GAKI And what of Obaa-San? AOYAGI What can I give to Obaa-San now--but misery? Am I never to be free? THE GAKI What would you do if you were free--climb to the mountain top to see the lonely stars? AOYAGI Hai!--Riki!--Obaa-San! [_Obaa-San enters. The Gaki disappears._ OBAA-SAN Was my name spoken in the dawn? AOYAGI Mother! [_With a cry of joy, Obaa-San enfolds Aoyagi in her arms._ OBAA-SAN Nadeshiko! My little girl! AOYAGI Where is Riki? OBAA-SAN He has gone to search for you. AOYAGI Was he alone? OBAA-SAN Alone? AOYAGI Yes. Was there no woman with him--a lady from Ishiyama? OBAA-SAN A lady from-- AOYAGI Yes--tall--fair--singing-- OBAA-SAN He was alone. A lady from Ishiyama--(_Aoyagi shudders with dread_) brought me a message in the early night-- AOYAGI It was she--young? OBAA-SAN No--old. AOYAGI Had she seen Riki? OBAA-SAN Yes. On the mountain-side-- AOYAGI The stranger said she was young and fair. OBAA-SAN Perhaps the stranger did not see with honest eyes. AOYAGI He would not lie. OBAA-SAN Sometimes the eyes and the ears lie. AOYAGI Ah! OBAA-SAN And if she had been young and fair? AOYAGI Riki met her in a glade. OBAA-SAN Did you see them meet? AOYAGI No--she was singing. OBAA-SAN A happy song, perhaps. AOYAGI She sang the song he made to me. OBAA-SAN How do you know? AOYAGI Riki said she knew his song to me. OBAA-SAN Ah, that is beautiful, that she should love his song to you. AOYAGI He-- OBAA-SAN 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. AOYAGI I asked him if he saw her. OBAA-SAN Why? AOYAGI A stranger told me-- OBAA-SAN Was it the stranger you believed before Riki could defend himself? AOYAGI But, mother, I gave my all in all to Riki. He does not care. OBAA-SAN Do you know? AOYAGI I asked Riki if they met? OBAA-SAN Did he tell you? AOYAGI He seemed to be proud to tell. OBAA-SAN Then he was unashamed to tell-- AOYAGI I asked him questions. OBAA-SAN But did you ask him the great question in your heart? AOYAGI Oh-- OBAA-SAN Did you say, "Riki, my love, you are in all my heart. Am I in all yours?" AOYAGI He told me that. OBAA-SAN And did you believe? AOYAGI Above all the world! OBAA-SAN Then why doubt him later? AOYAGI The lady from Ishiyama passed by. OBAA-SAN 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? AOYAGI A stranger-- OBAA-SAN 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. AOYAGI What shall I say? OBAA-SAN I need not tell your heart.--It is only your head that can not learn to speak unprompted.--Do you love Riki? AOYAGI Ay--so dearly! [_The voice of Riki is heard._ RIKI Aoyagi! AOYAGI He is coming! [_Obaa-San, unnoticed, goes into the house. Riki enters._ RIKI Aoyagi! [_When he sees she is safe, he drops suddenly. She goes to him._ AOYAGI Riki, my august lord, listen to my heart.--Forget my anger.--Tell me once again that you love me.--I'll believe. RIKI You know--I have always loved you.--When you were a song in my heart, I loved you so! And now-- AOYAGI Oh, Riki, can we ever forget the blow I struck? RIKI 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? AOYAGI 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. RIKI He has not come upon us yet. We are struggling against tomorrow. This is the dawning of today. AOYAGI Then shall we live--today. [_Obaa-San enters from the house._ OBAA-SAN Come, Aoyagi; come, Riki. We have found happiness at our door. Within there is rice and tea. Come. [_They go into the house. The Gaki enters._ [Illustration: THE LADY OF THE WEEPING WILLOW TREE ACT III.] THE GAKI 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._ RIKI 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. AOYAGI The tree!--The tree! [_The Gaki smites again._ RIKI 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! 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. THE GAKI Let me go! Let me go! RIKI You shall bring misery into no more hearts! THE GAKI Ah, pity me! Let me go! I must feed or I shall die! RIKI You shall feed no more! THE GAKI 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.-- RIKI (_leaping upon him_) You shall make no more misery. THE GAKI Let me feed! Let me live! I can not die thus. RIKI (_throttling him_) Dread demon, the end has come! THE GAKI Please--please--hear me. RIKI Nay, you have made your last horror in our lives. OBAA-SAN Riki! Hear him--hear him.--We know not what we do, perhaps. RIKI Then speak. THE GAKI 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! RIKI What further harm will you do? THE GAKI I cannot help myself. I must live on you.--You are young-- [_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._ RIKI Die! THE GAKI Let me go! Let me live!--I promise anything--I-- RIKI Too late!--You shall harm no more! [_With one supreme effort, The Gaki draws himself 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._ THE GAKI I shall live! I shall live! RIKI Aoyagi! THE GAKI Come not near me, Riki, or I shall crush her at your feet. I _shall_ live! [_He laughs the hideous laugh of triumph which rang out on the mountain side yesterday._ OBAA-SAN Give her back to us! Feed on me! THE GAKI 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. O-KATSU-SAN Take me! THE GAKI Silly old woman, you, too, like Obaa-San, can not feed me. Age learns to grasp at bubbles and pretend that they are stars. O-KATSU-SAN But I shall dream of my little girl. THE GAKI Ay, dream of her and have tender memories that are not pain. O-SODE-SAN I shall think of him and long for him, my lover. THE GAKI 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? RIKI 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._ OBAA-SAN Riki! Would you kill the evil by killing the joy of us all? RIKI But the joy--my little Aoyagi--can not live so. See-- OBAA-SAN 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 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._ THE GAKI 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! RIKI I have my love. THE GAKI 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 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-- [_He rises--sways--and falls. It is full day. The Gaki rises wonderfully._ 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._ OBAA-SAN My little girl!--my little boy!--Today the sun is very bright. _The Curtains Close._ THE VERY NAKED BOY AN INTERLUDE BEFORE THE CURTAIN CHARACTERS SHE HE BROTHER _The scene is half way to a proposal._ _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._ _She enters quickly, crossing to the chairs._ HE (_following breathlessly and almost colliding with her as she stops_) Genevieve! SHE (_with a calmness strangely at variance with her entrance_) Well? HE Why did you-- SHE I didn't. HE I beg your pardon, you may not have known it, but you did. SHE I didn't. HE If you'll only say you didn't mean it. SHE I didn't _do_ it. HE Now, Genevieve, you know-- SHE I didn't. HE Well, why did you--? SHE _I didn't do it!_ HE (_meltingly but without humor or subtlety_) Well, if you didn't do it, _dear_-- [_She is adamant._ Why did you run away the moment I came up to you? SHE I didn't run away-- [_He looks at her quizzically._ I just _came_ out here. HE (_hoping it isn't true_) But you seemed to be trying to avoid me. SHE (_with sphinx-like indifference_) Why should I avoid you? HE Genevieve! You make it impossible for me to talk to you.... I'll apologise if it will help. SHE Why should you apologise? HE Perhaps I've misconstrued your meaning. SHE I didn't mean _anything_-- [_He smiles pleasantly with more hope than discretion._ --because I didn't do it. HE Now, Genevieve, I saw you do it. SHE You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Gordon, from further discussion. [_She seats herself, fully prepared for all the discussion she can force from him._ HE But, Genevieve-- [_He seats himself._ SHE I didn't do it--and besides if I _did_ what difference does it make? I'm free white and twenty-one. HE (_with a frail attempt at humor_) How old did you say? SHE I said I was free white. HE But, Genevieve, you must admit that-- SHE Mr. Gordon! HE _Please_ call me Henry. (_In his emotion he pronounces it Hennery_) SHE I don't see why I should. HE You did last night. SHE That was different. You were Dr. Jekyll last night. HE Oh, Genevieve-- SHE You're showing your true colors tonight. HE (_appealingly_) I'm--sorry-- SHE You're a tyrant. HE I don't mean to be. I think you're wo-- SHE Now don't be personal. I'm not interested in your thoughts. HE But, Genevieve, won't you tell me why you did it? SHE I did it because--I've told you often enough I _didn't_ do it. HE (_bitterly_) Joe-- SHE Joe--what? HE Joe squeezed your hand. SHE Well, it's my hand, and besides I don't see why I should be cross-questioned by you. HE You know I'm-- [_He leans toward her and she moves away._ SHE You're what? HE I'm crazy about you. SHE Please, Mr. Gordon! HE Call me Henry! Just once. SHE I don't see why I should. HE Please, Genevieve. SHE Now don't be silly! HE Oh, Genevieve, if you only knew how it hurt me when you did it! SHE _Did_ it hurt you? HE I could have killed Joe--gladly. SHE Honest! HE You know--you must know! SHE You certainly are calm about it. HE (_in the most absurd position that hopeless love can twist a man into_) What can I do? I can't be ridiculous. SHE Did you really see us? HE Yes, I saw you. SHE You seemed terribly tied up with Ethel. HE I had to sit by her. SHE I don't see why. HE I didn't have any place else to go. SHE I knew you were looking. HE Then why did you do it? SHE Don't ask me why. I loathe why. HE But oh, Genevieve, I love you so! [_He grasps her hand, not too violently. She gasps slightly, smiles pleasantly and becomes stern._ SHE (_encouragingly_) Please, let go of my hand. [_He does so. She looks at him in mingled wonder and chagrin._ HE Genevieve, isn't there any chance for me? SHE I've never thought of such a thing. What do you mean! HE I mean I love you. SHE ... Yes? HE (_taking her scarf in his hand_) Aren't you interested? SHE Why, really, Mr. Gordon, you ask such strange questions. HE Oh, Genevieve--Genevieve-- [_He kisses the scarf gently._ SHE [_looking at him in wonder, disappointment and delight._ Don't be silly. HE When a man's in love he always does silly things. SHE Always? HE Oh, Genevieve-- [_He reaches for her hand reverently and this time she seems content to let matters rest._ SHE (_making conversation_) I have the next dance with-- [_She racks her memory._ HE Joe, I suppose. [_He rises and crosses to the far side of the centre arch._ SHE (_drawing her scarf about her and brushing against him as she passes._) Excuse me, please. HE (_torrentially_) 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. [_She tries to speak, but he presses her head against his shoulder._ 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. [_She tries to speak again; but succeeds only in mussing her hair._ HE 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 have torn your dress. I have mussed your precious hair. But I love you so! I love you so! SHE Oh, Henry--Henry--You are so wonderful! [_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._ BOY (_whispering_) Get her out of here! SHE Oh, Henry, Henry, have I been cruel to you? HE (_constrained_) We'd better go. SHE (_looks questioningly at him_) Please let's stay here. [_He presses her head against his breast and looks surreptitiously at the curtains._ _The Boy makes as though to get out._ _He starts violently--shoves the Boy back._ SHE I saw you first--do you remember--at Poughkeepsie. HE Yes, yes-- SHE I think--I liked you then.... But I never thought you'd be so wonderful. HE Let's go (_whispering_). Darling, let's go. [Illustration: THE VERY NAKED BOY] SHE No, I want to stay here. I love this nook. [_He laughs nervously as she crosses to the curtains._ I should love to fill it full of great tall lilies. [_By this time she has become lyric and swept her arms against the curtains: with a cry, rushing to him for protection._ Henry, there's a man behind those curtains! HE I think we'd better go. SHE Oh, Henry, you're not going to leave him here. HE We'd better. BOY [_poking his head and a naked arm through the curtains._ Yes, you'd better, because I'm going to get out of here. SHE _Bob!_ You get your clothes on! BOY I told Mr. Gordon to get my clothes. SHE Mr. Gordon-- BOY Call him Henry--just once--please, Genevieve. HE (_stiffly_) I'll get your clothes. Where are they? BOY In my room. HE What do you want? BOY Everything. SHE (_straightening up_) Don't be common, Robert. [_He starts for the door._ HE No, I'm not going. SHE Hen--Mr. Gordon!... Very well. I'll go! HE No, you won't go either! SHE Please! BOY Well, I'll go. [_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._ SHE Oh, Bob, if you won't get out I'll do anything for you. BOY Well, I'm cold. SHE Mr. Gordon, please go. HE I won't go! SHE You are very strange, indeed.... I'll go! [_She nears the door--Stops._ SHE Never mind. BOY Oh, Henry, it's Ethel. HE Bob, won't you be a good sport? We'll turn our backs. BOY But will everybody else turn their back? HE 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-- BOY Joe's out there, too. HE Well, yes. SHE Bob, I shall tell Father on you. [_She starts._ BOY All right, go ahead. I'll tell Ethel. SHE Just wait. BOY I'll get out of here! [_Again the two rush precipitately to hold the Boy in place._ HE 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 you're making it very embarrassing for us. SHE Mr. Gordon--there's a cape in that closet. Will you get it for Bob.... He says he's cold. [_He goes to the closet._ SHE Bob, I'll get even with you. You ought to be ashamed. I'm humiliated. BOY Why--Sis? SHE Imagine my being with a gentleman and having a very naked boy pop into the conversation. [_He returns with the cape._ HE Here's the cape. [_He tosses it over the Boy's head and suddenly leans over and kisses her._ BOY Why don't you smother me! [_Boy begins to emerge._ SHE Bob, be careful. [_He and She turn away._ _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._ BOY I can't go through the hall looking like this. SHE You must. HE (_turning_) Go away, Bob. Your sister is very nervous. [_He sees the boy fairly well clothed. He gasps._ HE Why-- SHE Bob-- [_Turning she sees the boy fairly well clothed._ I thought--How did you--Why didn't you--What were you doing in there? BOY 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 (_looking out_) Run on now, Bob, the hall is clear. [_Boy starts._ BOY What was it you did, Sis? SHE I didn't do it. BOY Why didn't you do it? SHE I didn't do anything. BOY He said Joe squeezed your hand. SHE Absurd! BOY Well, I hope not, because he and Ethel got engaged in here too! [_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 CHARACTERS AUNT LETITIA SUSAN SAMPLE UNCLE NATHANIEL UNCLE JOHN JONATHAN MLLE. PERRAULT HANK ALBERT PEET MARY JOHN III 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:_ TODAY ZENOBIA A tragedy in ten acts by Alexander Jefferson, Sr. _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._ LETITIA Here they are, my dear. Help me with the hasps. SUSAN What does E. R. really stand for, Mis' Letitia? LETITIA E. R.... That's a secret, Susan, that little girls aren't supposed to know. SUSAN I won't tell. LETITIA But what good would that do, my sweet? Please open the windows. SUSAN (_opening the window and returning to her question_) No one would know you told me. LETITIA I would know. Yes, I would know that I had told somebody else's secret. SUSAN Whose secret is it? Please. LETITIA 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. SUSAN You know mine, too. LETITIA And I've never told one of them, either. SUSAN Does old Mr. John ever have secrets? LETITIA _Old_ Mr. John! For shame!... Of course he has secrets. SUSAN I wish I knew some of his, Mis' Letitia. LETITIA My dear, you never will know them. John is very quiet. SUSAN Who in the family didn't have any secrets at all? LETITIA Oh, they all had secrets when they were young. Nathaniel had _fewer_ than any of them and... [_Her words are lost tenderly in a memory._ SUSAN Why hasn't he ever come back home? LETITIA (_as she busies herself with the contents of the trunk_) 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. SUSAN How old is he now? LETITIA You little chatterbox! Between you and Jonathan I have to fight to keep anybody's secrets. SUSAN Does Jonathan ask many questions? LETITIA When we're alone he does. He's just like his Uncle Nathaniel. God bless him! SUSAN (_seeing a costume in the trunk_) Oh, isn't that just wonderful! LETITIA (_holding the costume up for Susan to see_) _That_ is what you can wear in the pageant, my dear Susan. SUSAN (_taking the costume_) Oh! Oh! Oh!... I wish I knew whose it was. LETITIA Would that make it any prettier? SUSAN No, but I'd like to know just the same.... Was it E. R.'s? [_A cry is heard outside_, "Aunt Letty! Aunt Letty!" LETITIA Oh, Susan, it's Nathaniel! It's my boy. Here I am, dear. [_She has an armful of costumes which she drops nervously._ SUSAN Mis' Letitia, I believe you love him best of all! LETITIA No, I don't, but I always understood him, I think. [_The voice below calls again_, "Where are you?" Come up here, my boy. Come up to the lumber room. [_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._ Aunt Letty! Not a day older.... But oh, so wise. LETITIA Nathaniel, my boy, my darling, darling boy. NATHANIEL Now, now. Don't cry. LETITIA My boy, my boy. My splendid boy. [_Susan has forgotten her costume in her admiration for Nathaniel. She puts it down on the bench in front of the piano._ NATHANIEL And this is-- LETITIA This is Susan Sample. NATHANIEL Not-- LETITIA Yes, time has been flying, Nathaniel. This young lady is Mary Sample's daughter. NATHANIEL How do you do? I can't believe it. You were only a little pink cherub up there in the sky when I ran-- LETITIA (_hurriedly interrupting him_) Yes, Susan was born three years after you went away. NATHANIEL Oh!... And, Aunt Letitia, you've opened Emily's trunk! LETITIA Yes, Susan is going to be in a pageant. SUSAN Who was Emily? NATHANIEL She was-- LETITIA Nathaniel dear, you must not satisfy her curiosity. (_To Susan_) You go find Jonathan, dear, and tell him that his uncle is here. (_To Nathaniel_) I'll put these things away, and we'll go into the house. SUSAN (_reluctantly_) Good-bye, Mr. Clay. NATHANIEL Good-bye, Susan. You'll come back, won't you? SUSAN Oh, yes. Good-bye. NATHANIEL Good-bye. [_Susan goes out._ LETITIA She hates to go. She's never seen anyone just like you: and I have only seen one. NATHANIEL Who's Jonathan? LETITIA He's the one.... He's Emily's boy. NATHANIEL You mean Emily-- LETITIA No, no, my dear. Emily was married, left the stage. She wasn't happy. The boy was her only comfort. NATHANIEL He's my nephew. Why, I'm Uncle Nathaniel. Oh, Aunt Letty, I'm getting to be an old man! LETITIA 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. NATHANIEL My God, Emily didn't do anything wrong. LETITIA Well, she was an actress. NATHANIEL And a good one, too. LETITIA 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. NATHANIEL So! John is still himself. LETITIA John is austere, Nathaniel. He is a Clay through and through and he holds to the traditions of the family. NATHANIEL I remember the traditions, Aunt Letitia. LETITIA I never oppose John. He feels that he is right. But it _is_ very hard sometimes to live up to his rules. NATHANIEL Has he rules? LETITIA Well, he has ideas, dear--much like your father's. We might call them rules. NATHANIEL Where is Emily? LETITIA Two years ago, Nathaniel. [_There is a moment's silence._ NATHANIEL Did she ever go back to the stage? LETITIA No. John forbade it. NATHANIEL And John is still forbidding. LETITIA John is the head of the family. NATHANIEL So.... The Clay family is still an absolute monarchy. LETITIA Nathaniel, dear, will you promise me-- NATHANIEL (_with a smile_) I'll try. LETITIA Will you promise not to antagonize John? NATHANIEL Will John antagonize _me_? I came back to see my home--to see you, my dear aunt. But I am a grown man now. LETITIA 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. NATHANIEL Well, I'll try for a few days. But I give you warning, my ideas have been settling during the past few years, too. LETITIA Remember, he is used to being obeyed just as your father was. NATHANIEL Yes, I remember that, dear Aunt; but John isn't 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._ NATHANIEL His voice is just the same. (_Calling_) Yes, John, I am up here. [_The antagonism between the two brothers is apparent immediately._ _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._ JOHN How do you do, Nathaniel? NATHANIEL I am very well, I thank you, John. How are you? [_They shake hands perfunctorily._ JOHN You arrived ahead of time. NATHANIEL Yes. JOHN We haven't met for seventeen years. NATHANIEL No. I've been away, John. JOHN Where have you been? NATHANIEL 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. JOHN (_severely_) You haven't changed, Nathaniel. You are still frivolous. NATHANIEL I shall be serious when I am your age, brother. JOHN I came out here to ask you to be very careful of your conversation before the children. NATHANIEL The children? JOHN Yes, my two grandchildren.-- NATHANIEL Grandchildren! My, that makes me a great uncle. I _am_ getting old, Aunt Letitia! JOHN I do not care to have them or Jonathan hear about any revolutionary or other unusual ideas. NATHANIEL I shall try not to contaminate the children and Jonathan. How old are the children? JOHN Mary is four and John 3rd is two. NATHANIEL I shall try to spare their sensibilities. JOHN They may not understand you but they will hear. NATHANIEL (_to Letitia_) How old is Jonathan? LETITIA Fourteen. NATHANIEL The impressionable age. JOHN The silly age. NATHANIEL 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. JOHN Nathaniel, are you a father? NATHANIEL No, John, I am only a bachelor who is very much in love with life in general and one lady in particular. JOHN You can know nothing of children, then. NATHANIEL I remember myself. Most men forget their younger selves and that is fatal. JOHN One would think to hear you talk that the most important things in life were a boy of fourteen and his moorings. NATHANIEL One might know it. JOHN You are still the same impractical theorist. NATHANIEL 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. JOHN Did you come back to your home in order to lecture me? NATHANIEL 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. JOHN 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-- NATHANIEL I gave no address. JOHN But on second thought, I made up my mind to forgive you-- NATHANIEL Thank you. JOHN To let bygones be bygones. NATHANIEL That is the better way, brother: let the dead past bury its dead. JOHN Why did you run away from home? NATHANIEL Because we couldn't agree, John. JOHN I was older than you; my judgment was mature; I was the head of the family, in my father's place. NATHANIEL 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. JOHN Well? NATHANIEL And so, I ran away. JOHN Leaving no trace, no word. NATHANIEL Oh, yes, I left a very important word--"Good-bye." JOHN You were willing to leave all the work of our father's business on my shoulders. NATHANIEL You were willing to take it all. And I wanted my freedom. JOHN You were selfish and heartless. NATHANIEL Selfish? Because I had my life to live and meant to live it? JOHN You should have told us where you were living. NATHANIEL 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. JOHN It was my duty as head of the family to protect you. NATHANIEL I didn't ask for protection. I wanted understanding. JOHN A boy of eighteen must not be allowed freedom. NATHANIEL 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-- JOHN 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! NATHANIEL Well, John, our brother and our sister have 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. JOHN He's a dreamer like all the rest of you. NATHANIEL (_with interest; tenderly_) Yes? JOHN He spends all his leisure time playing with that fool toy there. [_He points to the model theatre._ _Nathaniel smiles and crosses to the piano and lifts the cloth that covers the theatre; then he looks at the placard and laughs joyously._ NATHANIEL "Zenobia." " Alexander Jefferson, Sr." JOHN He pretends that's his name--Alexander Jefferson, Sr! NATHANIEL 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. JOHN 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. NATHANIEL Jonathan is fourteen. When I was fourteen--What are Jonathan's tastes? JOHN He reads all the time and he wants to write plays and poetry; but I am conquering that silliness. NATHANIEL 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. JOHN Now don't put any foolishness into the boy's head. NATHANIEL I promise you I sha'n't try to change the boy's head, brother. JOHN I play golf from five to six. NATHANIEL Oh, you've taken up athletics? JOHN The doctor's advice. Will you join me? NATHANIEL Thank you, no. JOHN Very well. I'll see you at dinner. NATHANIEL 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? LETITIA 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. NATHANIEL No wonder I ran away! LETITIA But you should have written to me. NATHANIEL 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. LETITIA Jonathan doesn't want to study engineering, either. NATHANIEL (_Looks closely at her a moment and then smiles_) As Ibsen would say--Ghosts! (_He walks toward the window_) Poor John! LETITIA Poor Jonathan! [_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._ NATHANIEL Poor Jonathan! [_He turns and sees the boy._ _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._ _Jonathan looks first at Letitia, then at Nathaniel and then at Letitia._ LETITIA Jonathan, this is your Uncle Nathaniel. Nathaniel, this is Emily's boy. NATHANIEL (_Holds out his hand which Jonathan takes very shyly_) Jonathan! JONATHAN How do you do, sir? NATHANIEL How tall you are! JONATHAN (_quite conscious of his short trousers_) Yes, sir. NATHANIEL I didn't take you away from any studies, did I? JONATHAN No, sir.... I was just writing something when Susan called me. NATHANIEL May I ask what you were writing? JONATHAN Yes, sir.... [_He swallows._ ... A play. NATHANIEL A play! _Zenobia_? JONATHAN (_Looks quickly for some indication of laughter in Nathaniel's eyes_) Yes, sir. NATHANIEL It's a tragedy, isn't it? JONATHAN Yes, sir. NATHANIEL In ten acts. JONATHAN There may be only eight. NATHANIEL Then I know who you are! (_Jonathan looks at him in surprise_) You are the celebrated dramatist, Alexander Jefferson, Sr. JONATHAN Did Aunt Letitia tell you? NATHANIEL No, sir. I read it on the billboards. (_Jonathan laughs with a catch in his breath_) And I should like to attend a performance, Mr. Jefferson. JONATHAN It isn't finished yet. NATHANIEL Well, when am I to see this theatre? LETITIA Your Uncle Nathaniel and I shall come together. JONATHAN You've seen all the plays. LETITIA That doesn't make any difference. I'd like to see them again. [_Jonathan looks at her to be sure she is in earnest. Then he smiles._ JONATHAN I'll finish _Zenobia_ for tomorrow. NATHANIEL Agreed! Can you get the scenery ready? JONATHAN I painted it last week. LETITIA You must have the orchestra, too, Jonathan. JONATHAN Yes, ma'am. Susan has some new pieces. NATHANIEL Is Susan the orchestra? JONATHAN Yes, sir. NATHANIEL What else have you written? JONATHAN A lot of plays, sir. Mother and I used to write little plays. I don't write many any more. NATHANIEL Why not? JONATHAN I'm getting too big. NATHANIEL Do you ever write anything beside plays? JONATHAN Yes, sir. NATHANIEL That's splendid. Stories? JONATHAN Yes, sir.... And I've written some po--poetry. NATHANIEL Excellent! JONATHAN 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._ LETITIA I'll go to the house now and you can talk to Jonathan, Nathaniel. [_Jonathan looks appealingly at Letitia, but with a smile she goes downstairs._ _Jonathan and Nathaniel look at each other for an embarrassed minute, then Jonathan takes refuge at his theatre._ NATHANIEL May I see some of your plays? JONATHAN Do you really want to see them? NATHANIEL Yes. [_Jonathan goes to a box on the piano in which there are many manuscripts carefully bound. He hands one to Nathaniel._ JONATHAN Here is one that mother and I wrote. She loved the theatre. NATHANIEL (_taking the strange-looking little manuscript._ _Reading_:) "Robin Hood and His Merry Men." JONATHAN We used to make all those old stories into plays. NATHANIEL Do you like to write? JONATHAN 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. NATHANIEL May I read this some time? JONATHAN Yes, sir.... Would you like to see it played? NATHANIEL I want to see them all. JONATHAN Forty-one of them? NATHANIEL Forty-one of them! Where do you keep them all? JONATHAN Here in this box. [_He shows all the manuscripts._ NATHANIEL What are the pink ones? JONATHAN 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. NATHANIEL What is this one that's different from all the rest? JONATHAN That's one that mother wrote all by herself. It's best of all. NATHANIEL You must save these carefully, Jonathan--all your life. JONATHAN Oh, yes, sir. NATHANIEL Some day you may be proud of them. JONATHAN See--she wrote this, and I wrote this. I was a bad writer, wasn't I? NATHANIEL What do you want to do, Jonathan? JONATHAN You mean what do I want to be? NATHANIEL Yes. JONATHAN I want to write plays. NATHANIEL Is that all? JONATHAN Well, I'd like to run a theatre. NATHANIEL What else? JONATHAN I'd--you won't tell anyone, will you? NATHANIEL Of course not. JONATHAN You see, Uncle John wants me to go to Somerset School to study engineering and learn the business. NATHANIEL And you don't want to--Is that it? JONATHAN I'd rather be a writer. NATHANIEL They say you can't make any money at writing. JONATHAN That's what Uncle John says, but I want to just the same. NATHANIEL If you follow John's advice, you'll be a rich man. JONATHAN I'd rather be poor. What would you do, Uncle Nathaniel? NATHANIEL 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. JONATHAN Wouldn't you want to be what you want to be? NATHANIEL Perhaps I should. JONATHAN I don't see how anyone can decide what you want to be--no matter how old he is. NATHANIEL Have you ever talked to John? JONATHAN Oh, yes, sir. NATHANIEL What did he say? JONATHAN He said I had to study engineering or go to work in the factory next fall for good. NATHANIEL What do you want to do? JONATHAN I want to go to a fine prep school and then to college and then-- NATHANIEL Then what? JONATHAN I want to be an actor!! NATHANIEL I see. JONATHAN Don't tell anybody. NATHANIEL I won't. That's pretty far from engineering, isn't it? JONATHAN Yes, sir. But everybody can't be alike. You and Uncle John aren't anything alike. NATHANIEL And we're brothers, too. JONATHAN Do you ever get all mixed up and don't know what to do? NATHANIEL Oh, yes. I think everybody does. JONATHAN What do you do then? NATHANIEL I do something very silly. JONATHAN Do you do silly things, too? NATHANIEL Yes. I'm afraid I do. JONATHAN What do you do when you get all mixed up? NATHANIEL I'll tell you--it might not work with everybody, you know--but it works with me. JONATHAN Yes, sir! NATHANIEL 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 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-- JONATHAN (_enthralled_) I know--the whole wide world. NATHANIEL 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. JONATHAN I know what you mean.... But I always want to jump when I look down from any place, do you? NATHANIEL I suppose everybody does. JONATHAN Uncle John thinks every boy ought to be alike. NATHANIEL Many schools used to think that way. JONATHAN But boys don't all think the same. They're different just like men, only they don't know so much. NATHANIEL Perhaps not. JONATHAN Uncle John won't let me put on long pants until I'm fifteen. NATHANIEL He let me put them on when I was fifteen, too. JONATHAN Were you as tall as I am? NATHANIEL Just about the same height, but my legs were like pipe stems and I was very much ashamed. JONATHAN So am I. NATHANIEL You'll forget all about it after you're fifteen. JONATHAN I can talk to you like I used to talk to my mother. NATHANIEL Thank you. We're going to be fine friends, aren't we? JONATHAN You bet. Is it silly for me to like to write plays? NATHANIEL Why do you ask that? JONATHAN Because Uncle John says it's silly. NATHANIEL Well, it all depends upon the way you look at it, 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. JONATHAN That's what I think. NATHANIEL You and I probably have many thoughts in common. [_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._ MLLE. PERRAULT 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. NATHANIEL I was hiding from you. MLLE. PERRAULT 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. JONATHAN I can't sing. MLLE. PERRAULT 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. JONATHAN Yes, ma'am. NATHANIEL Having introduced yourself to everybody, will you tell me, Susan, how Mlle. Perrault learned so much in such a little time? SUSAN Well, I was waiting for Jonathan to call me. JONATHAN Oh, I forgot. MLLE. PERRAULT 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. NATHANIEL 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. (_To Mlle. Perrault_) I am going to let them know about you. This, lady and gentleman, is Mlle. Marthe Perrault of Paris, France. Mlle. Perrault, may I present my friend Susan and my nephew Jonathan? MLLE. PERRAULT (_falling into the mood_) 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_) He wrote lots of others, too. JONATHAN Forty-one. NATHANIEL I think I'll tell you two a secret. (_Susan pricks up her ears_) Do you like secrets? SUSAN Yes, sir. NATHANIEL And can you keep them? SUSAN Oh, yes, sir. NATHANIEL Well, some day Mlle. Perrault is going to be my wife. [_He kisses Mlle. Perrault's hand._ _Mlle. Perrault shows her engagement ring._ SUSAN When? NATHANIEL Very soon. She is here on some war work and when she and her father go back to France I shall follow and we shall be married. SUSAN Ooh-- NATHANIEL Now you mustn't tell. SUSAN Honest. JONATHAN No, sir! MLLE. PERRAULT Now, we have a secret. And you are going to sing me a little song. SUSAN Come on, Jonathan. Let's do the new one. JONATHAN Well, I'll try. [_He is quite miserable with stage-fright._ _Susan sits at the piano and plays a chord. Then Jonathan begins to sing with much fear in his voice._ JONATHAN (_singing_) All on a summer's day, With flowers by the way, A fair young prince and his purple knight Found a princess at her play. So by the crescent moon He asked a royal boon And sat him down on a soft green knoll-- And the night-time came too soon. MLLE. PERRAULT Oh, that is just like a little French peasant song! How does it go? La--la--la--la--la--la. [_Susan begins to play it again._ _Jonathan sings more surely than before._ _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.? JONATHAN I'll have it ready tomorrow, maybe tonight. NATHANIEL 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. MLLE. PERRAULT To Aunt Letitia then. Good-bye, Jonathan. Tomorrow is the day of the great première. JONATHAN (_awkwardly_) Thanks. MLLE. PERRAULT And la belle petite Susanne, au revoir. SUSAN I'll walk with you part of the way. MLLE. PERRAULT Very well. Marchons, marchons.... [_They go out._ NATHANIEL (_holding back a little_) Good-bye, Mr. Manager. [_He goes out calling_ "Marthe." _Jonathan is left alone in his joy_. _As he stands, 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!" JONATHAN Who is it? VOICE It's me. JONATHAN What do you want? [_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._ HANK Say-- JONATHAN How'd you get in here? HANK Well, it's this way, you see. The gate was open out there and this looked pretty fine to me so I come in. JONATHAN You'd better go away before my uncle sees you. HANK Look here, young feller, I ain't goin' a-do no harm. JONATHAN Well, he doesn't allow strangers on the place. HANK I jus' come in to ask if I could sleep somewhere around here if I worked for my sleep and grub. JONATHAN No, he won't let you. HANK How do you know he won't? JONATHAN 'Cause it's a rule. [_Hank whistles a snatch of the strange air and sits down._ HANK Where's your pa? JONATHAN He's dead. HANK Long? JONATHAN Ten years ago. HANK How old are you? JONATHAN Fourteen. HANK Your pa died when you were four. So did mine. JONATHAN Did you ever have an uncle? HANK How many you got? JONATHAN I got two living and one dead. HANK All three of mine's dead. [_He whistles a snatch of the strange air and takes a chew of tobacco._ Where's your ma? JONATHAN (_Is about to become impatient, but an innate tolerance causes him to answer_) She died when I was twelve. HANK So did mine. (_Whistles_) We're alike in lots of ways, ain't we? JONATHAN What did you do when your mother died? HANK I felt pretty sorry. JONATHAN Did your brothers and sisters help you any? HANK Have you any brothers and sisters? JONATHAN No-- HANK Me neither. (_Whistles casually_) No one took no notice of me. JONATHAN What'd you do? HANK I went away. JONATHAN Why didn't you try to work? HANK 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? JONATHAN I can't. My uncle would drive you away. Maybe he'd have you arrested. HANK I ain't done nothin'. I ain't hurtin' nobody. JONATHAN Well, he doesn't allow strangers around. HANK (_Whistles. At the window_) That's where I went by jus' now. JONATHAN I heard you whistling. HANK That's a tune I made up once. (_Whistles_) JONATHAN Do you make up tunes? HANK That's the only one I ever done. It comes in handy and it don't hurt no one. [_Jonathan unconsciously tries to whistle a phrase of the tune._ HANK No, that ain't it. It's this way. [_Whistles._ _Jonathan tries it again and fails._ No. Here. _Jonathan makes it this time._ HANK That's it. Say, what you got these bars for? It's like jail. Are they afraid you'll jump out on them rocks? JONATHAN No, I guess not. There isn't much danger of my wanting to jump out. HANK You never can tell for sure, young feller. JONATHAN It's to keep people from climbing in. HANK There ain't no bars over that one. (_Pointing to gable window_) JONATHAN That's too high. HANK It'd be like fallin' off the top of a house, wouldn't it? [_Whistles._ _Jonathan whistles "All on a Summer's Day."_ HANK What you got there? JONATHAN That's my theatre. HANK A show? JONATHAN Yes. HANK How does it work? JONATHAN These are the actors. HANK What's the string fer? JONATHAN You put him in a groove and pull him. HANK Lemme see it. JONATHAN All right. I'll show you a scene from the play I'm going to play for my Uncle Nathaniel tomorrow. HANK Fire away. [_Jonathan lights the lamps that are back of the screen and pulls the blinds or some cover over the barred windows._ HANK 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 All ready. Now you sit there. [_Places Hank on the bench._ _He goes behind the screen and taps some bells._ HANK What's that fer? JONATHAN That's to get ready. HANK Well, I'm ready. [_Jonathan opens the curtain and discloses a scene from Zenobia._ That's beautiful. It's just like real. [_Jonathan pulls a figure across the stage._ Hello, old man. That's the one I jus' seen. Where's the string? [_Jonathan lifts the string._ JONATHAN Here it is. HANK Now where's that feller goin' to? JONATHAN (_coming out from behind the screen_) Well, you see, _Zenobia_-- HANK _Zenob_--God, what a name! JONATHAN They used to have names like that. HANK How d' you do it? JONATHAN Look, I'll show you a little. [_He goes behind the screen and closes the curtain._ HANK What you doin' that for? I like to see that picture. JONATHAN I'm going to show you how I do it. [_Jonathan rings the bells._ HANK All right. I'm ready. Let her go. [_Jonathan opens the curtain and pulls a character on, then another._ JONATHAN (_in assumed voice_) "Hail, noble duke." "All is well, I ween." HANK Say, are they talkin' to each other? JONATHAN Yes. HANK Which is the noble duke? JONATHAN (_pulling a string_) This one. HANK. And the other one's name is Iween, ain't it? JONATHAN No, his name is Rollo. [Illustration: JONATHAN MAKES A WISH ACT I.] HANK All right, fire ahead. I guess you know what you're doing. JONATHAN (_in assumed voice_) "Hail, noble duke." "All is well, I ween." "Not very well, noble duke." "What is wrong?" "Queen Zenobia is very mad, noble duke." "What is she mad about, Rollo?" [_Uncle John enters suddenly._ JOHN Jonathan-- [_He sees Hank._ What does this mean? HANK I'm seein' a show. JOHN You get out of here this instant. HANK I ain't hurtin' nothin', mister, but I'll git out if you say so. JOHN What do you mean by this, Jonathan? HANK I'll git out. Thank you fer the show, boy. [_He goes out whistling._ _John crosses to the door._ JOHN (_calling after Hank_) Come on, get out of here quickly. HANK (_off_) I'm out, mister. JOHN Now, Jonathan, what do you mean by bringing such people into this place? JONATHAN I didn't bring him in. He came up while I was working. JOHN Do you call that silly stuff _working_? JONATHAN I was getting it ready for Uncle Nathaniel. JOHN He's been putting that nonsense in your head, has he? JONATHAN He asked me to let him see all my plays. JOHN I suppose he told you to ask that dirty tramp in here. JONATHAN No, sir. He didn't see the tramp. [_Hank is heard whistling._ _John crosses to one of the windows and opens it._ JOHN (_calling_) You get away from there. Move on. HANK'S VOICE I guess the roadside's free, mister. JOHN We'll see about that. [_Hank whistles._ JOHN 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 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. JONATHAN Uncle Nathaniel doesn't think it's silly. JOHN I'll decide what is and is not good for you. JONATHAN The same thing isn't good for everybody. JOHN Don't talk back to me, young man. JONATHAN I've got a right to think. JOHN Jonathan! JONATHAN If my mother was living, she wouldn't call everything I like to do silly. JOHN Your mother didn't know what was good for you. JONATHAN My mother was the best woman in the world. JOHN 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. [_He starts for the door._ JONATHAN If this theatre goes, I go, too. I'm not-- [_John walks over to the theatre and sweeps the whole structure onto the floor._ JOHN Now. JONATHAN You dirty coward, you-- [_John turns upon the boy and strikes him across the face._ _In mingled rage and humiliation Jonathan sobs wildly once or twice, then controls himself and glares violently at his uncle._ JOHN I'll let you think about it. I'll leave you here with your toys like a girl-baby. [_He goes out the door, closing it and turning the key in the lock._ _Jonathan runs to the door._ JONATHAN You let me out of here! You let me out of here! [_He pounds the door with his fists._ _Then he turns in despair and humiliation._ _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, 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._ _The key is heard to turn in the lock and John and Nathaniel enter._ JOHN Jonathan! NATHANIEL He's hiding. JOHN Jonathan! NATHANIEL (_Sees paper on door_) What's this? JOHN What does it say? NATHANIEL "Good-bye!... Jonathan." JOHN (_Looks suspiciously at Nathaniel_) Did you tell the silly boy about your running away? NATHANIEL 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. JOHN He-- [_Hank enters carrying Jonathan in his arms. Jonathan is limp and pitiful. His clothes are torn. He is moaning pitifully._ HANK He fell on the rocks out there. NATHANIEL Put him over here. [_Hank places Jonathan on the bench near the piano. Nathaniel places the costume, which Susan left there, under his head for a pillow._ JOHN What was he doing? HANK He was-- NATHANIEL This is no time for questions, John. Call a doctor. [_Jonathan moans and rolls his head, looking vacantly at Hank now and then._ JONATHAN (_moaning_) Good-bye.... Jonathan. JOHN We'd better take him in the house. JONATHAN My mother was the best woman-- NATHANIEL He'd better stay here until the doctor comes. [_John exits._ JONATHAN All on a summer's day-- [_All the time Nathaniel has been passing his hands over Jonathan._ HANK He's out of his head, ain't he? NATHANIEL Perhaps, but sometimes one's heart speaks in a delirium. HANK He acts like his back's broke. NATHANIEL My God--his back! [_Touches the boy's back._ _Jonathan winces with pain._ JONATHAN My back's broken, Hank. HANK Listen, he's saying my name. We wuz pals, sure nuff. JONATHAN My back's broken, Hank. _Curtain._ ACT II Six years have elapsed since Act I as years elapse in a boy's imaginings. Throughout this act the characters are disclosed without reason as in a dream; and the movement of the act represents four terrors of a delirium--anxious effort to make oneself known, a feeling of fetters, climbing and a sudden fall. JONATHAN BUILDS A FEAR [_Before the curtain rises the voices of Jonathan, Hank, Nathaniel and John are heard, muffled and far away._ HANK He fell on the rocks out there. NATHANIEL Put him over here. JOHN What was he doing? HANK He was-- NATHANIEL This is no time for questions, John. Call a doctor. JONATHAN Good-bye.... Jonathan. JOHN We'd better take him in the house. JONATHAN My mother was the best woman-- NATHANIEL He'd better stay here until the doctor comes. JONATHAN All on a summer's day-- HANK He's out of his head, ain't he? NATHANIEL Perhaps, but sometimes one's heart speaks in a delirium. HANK He acts like his back's broke. NATHANIEL My God--his back! JONATHAN My back's broken, Hank. HANK Listen, he's saying my name. We wuz pals, sure nuff. JONATHAN My back's broken, Hank. [_The curtain has risen unnoticed._ _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._ JONATHAN My back's broken, Hank. [_Hank looks at him._ Tired? HANK Sure.... JONATHAN I think Uncle Nathaniel would help me if he saw me. HANK He couldn't do nothin' for you. You can't straighten a crooked back.... JONATHAN Hank, I'm tired of this and I'm going back. HANK Going back where? JONATHAN I'm going back home. HANK Your Uncle John won't let you in. JONATHAN Uncle Nathaniel will take me in. HANK He ain't there no more and besides he won't know you. JONATHAN Honest--don't you think he would? HANK Sure, he wouldn't. JONATHAN I wish I hadn't run away. HANK If you don't quit wishing I'll run away from you. JONATHAN You wouldn't leave me, would you, Hank? HANK Sure, I'd leave you.... What do you think I am--a wishing stone?... I want peace, I 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.... JONATHAN I can't do anything with a broken back! HANK What do you want to do anything for? JONATHAN Sometimes I'd like to write a little. HANK Go ahead.... I'll wait for you. JONATHAN And I'd like to give a show. You know, Hank, I used to want to be an actor.... HANK Sure, all kids want to be actors or go in a circus or do something where a lot o' people are lookin' on. JONATHAN But I can't be an actor now, because nobody'd want to look at me. HANK 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. [_He closes the conversation by whistling._ Say, go on over to that house and get us something to eat. [_Jonathan prepares for the quest and Hank rolls over to go to sleep._ _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._ _Jonathan cowers a moment, then attempts to smile._ JONATHAN Hank said you'd turn me away if I came back. JOHN Were you talking to me, boy? JONATHAN I'm so sorry I ran away, Uncle John. JOHN Uncle John? JONATHAN Don't you know me, Sir? JOHN Indeed I do not. JONATHAN I'm Jonathan-- JOHN Jonathan! My nephew Jonathan?--Ha! Ha! JONATHAN Don't you remember I didn't want to study engineering--I didn't want to go to Somerset School? JOHN Where is Jonathan? JONATHAN I'm Jonathan, sir. You remember I jumped out of the window and I tried to run away. JOHN You seem to know a lot about it. Where is Jonathan? JONATHAN 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. JOHN I should have whipped him and put him to bed. JONATHAN I would have run away just the same, Uncle John. JOHN Don't call me Uncle John! JONATHAN But you are my Uncle John. JOHN I ask you where _is_ Jonathan. JONATHAN Would you like to see him? JOHN I should like to know what has become of him. JONATHAN Would you let him come back home? JOHN No. When he ran away, I cast him out forever. JONATHAN Couldn't you forgive him if he was very, very sorry for what he had done?... Couldn't you forgive me, sir?... I am Jonathan. Honest I am Jonathan. JOHN Don't try to deceive me. Jonathan was impudent as you are; but he was a Clay: he was straight and fine. JONATHAN But I broke my back. JOHN Tell me where Jonathan is, you imposter. [_He takes Jonathan by the arm and twists it brutally._ Tell me.... Tell me. JONATHAN I don't know.... Let me go.... I'm _not_ Jonathan. JOHN Tell me.... JONATHAN (_in desperation_) He's dead. JOHN What! JONATHAN He's dead. He died somewhere. JOHN And so you tried to palm yourself off as Jonathan. JONATHAN I'm sorry. JOHN Don't you know you can't make your way with lies? JONATHAN Yes, sir. JOHN You ought to be whipped, but I suppose you don't know any better. I should have you arrested for vagrancy. [_Jonathan winces._ But I won't. I pity you, you dirty little beggar. [_He starts to walk._ You ought to wash your hands and face at least. JONATHAN Please, sir--one minute.... How are Mary and John third? JOHN Mary is ten--a big girl--and John third is eight--a strapping boy who will be a great help to me. JONATHAN And--how is Aunt Letitia? JOHN My aunt died of a broken heart. JONATHAN A broken heart? JOHN Because Jonathan ran away. [_Jonathan buries his face in his arms._ There! Don't cry for someone you've never seen.... Here, here, take this-- [_He presses a coin into Jonathan's hand and goes out._ _Jonathan looks at the coin, then after John, and seems to close his heart. He crosses to the sleeping Hank._ JONATHAN Here, Hank. HANK (_taking the coin_) What'd he say? JONATHAN He didn't know me. HANK I guess you're not going back home now! JONATHAN No, I haven't any home. HANK Then quit your snifflin' an' go on over to that house. JONATHAN All right, Hank. [_Hank curls up and goes to sleep again._ _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._ JONATHAN Please, Miss--why-- SUSAN What do you want? JONATHAN I--don't you know me? SUSAN No, I don't know you, little boy. What do you want? JONATHAN I--don't you really know me? SUSAN I've never seen you before. JONATHAN I know you.... You're Susan Sample. SUSAN Who told you? JONATHAN I'm-- (_He becomes conscious of his back_) Why Jonathan told me. SUSAN Have you seen Jonathan? JONATHAN Yes. SUSAN Where is he? JONATHAN I don't know. SUSAN He ran away. Why doesn't he come home? JONATHAN Because--oh, I don't know. SUSAN Who are you? JONATHAN I'm a vagrant. SUSAN Are you hungry? JONATHAN (_looking toward Hank_) No. I'm not.... I'm not begging.... But will you do something for me? SUSAN Yes, if I can. [Illustration: JONATHAN MAKES A WISH ACT II.] JONATHAN Will you play for me? SUSAN Oh, yes.... What shall I play? JONATHAN Anything. [_Jonathan notices his dirty hands._ Excuse me a moment. [_He goes to a bird-bath and washes his hands, wipes them and returns to the piano._ _Susan plays a bit of a nocturne with ease and grace._ JONATHAN Do you remember this? [_He hums "All on a Summer Day."_ SUSAN Oh, yes. [_She plays the tune in a sophisticated musical way, but Jonathan is disappointed._ SUSAN You don't like it? JONATHAN That isn't exactly the way it goes. SUSAN Oh, yes, it is. [_She plays it once more and sings it._ JONATHAN No--no--no. It ought to go this way. [_He sings it as he had sung it years before._ SUSAN You sing that just as Jonathan used to sing it. JONATHAN I like it that way. SUSAN Did Jonathan teach it to you? JONATHAN Yes.... A long time ago. SUSAN Did he tell you-- JONATHAN About the lovely lady who danced to the tune? Oh, she was wonderful! SUSAN Jonathan ran away--and he never wrote to me or thought of me. JONATHAN He thought of you and he talked of you and he sang of you. SUSAN No.... I can't believe that. JONATHAN Jonathan loves you very much. SUSAN If a man loves a woman very much he can't go away from her for years and years. JONATHAN Suppose Jonathan had pride and was ashamed to let you know that he had failed. SUSAN Jonathan wouldn't fail. I know Jonathan. JONATHAN He--Susan Sample! [_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 her, then in the consciousness of his deformity he turns away._ SUSAN Will you tell me where Jonathan was when you last saw him? JONATHAN I don't know--The last time I saw Jonathan--he was tall and straight--and making his way. SUSAN Oh, well. [_Albert Peet enters. He is a little man of immaculate appearance and great preciseness._ ALBERT Ah, Susan. SUSAN Albert, you are late. ALBERT Who is this? SUSAN This is a friend of Jonathan's. ALBERT Jonathan who? SUSAN Don't you remember Jonathan who had the toy theatre? He ran away from home. ALBERT Oh... and this is his friend? How do you do? SUSAN Do you remember this? I used to play it for you. [_She begins "All on a Summer's Day."_ Jonathan and I made it up. ALBERT (_laughing_) Oh, yes. SUSAN (_to Jonathan_) Come on and sing it. [_Jonathan is not sure of the status of Albert Peet._ [_Susan plays and she and Jonathan sing with great feeling._ ALBERT [_looking at his watch_ Well, all this is very pleasant indeed, but we'll have to go, Susan dear. [_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._ JONATHAN I think I'd better say good-bye. [_He takes up his cap._ SUSAN Good-bye. If you see Jonathan, tell him I'm going to marry Albert Peet. He'll know. ALBERT Good-bye. [_Albert and Susan walk off happily in the sunshine._ _Jonathan looks after them._ _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. 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._ MARY John, look--he's a hunchback. MLLE. PERRAULT 'Sh! Children. [_The children whisper._ _Jonathan turns and seeing Mlle. Perrault smiles._ How do you do, little man. JONATHAN I am well, I thank you. MLLE. PERRAULT What are you doing here? JONATHAN I am with Hank. MLLE. PERRAULT Hank? JONATHAN Yes, Hank's my pal. There he is--asleep. MLLE. PERRAULT Oh, what a dreadful person.... Children, don't go near him. JONATHAN He's not so bad. MLLE. PERRAULT But he is a vagrant--a tramp. Why does he do nothing? JONATHAN He's happier that way. MLLE. PERRAULT Are you his son? JONATHAN Oh, no. MLLE. PERRAULT Where is your mother? JONATHAN My mother's dead. MLLE. PERRAULT Where did she live? JONATHAN (_Looks for a trace of recognition_) I'd better not tell you. MARY Oh, please tell us. JONATHAN I'd better not. MARY You ask him, John. JOHN III Uh-uh! MARY Why not? JOHN III I don't want to know. MLLE. PERRAULT Why don't you want to tell _us_? We won't tell anybody. JONATHAN Nobody'll believe me. MARY Why? JONATHAN You see, I ran away from home-- JOHN III When you run away from home, you're no good. MARY Now, John, that isn't always so. JOHN III It is. MARY It isn't. Goldilocks and the Babes in the Wood and the Marquis of Carabas were all good, and they ran away from home. JOHN III But they had bad homes. MARY Was your home bad? JONATHAN I thought it was. JOHN III You thought it was. But was it? JONATHAN No. JOHN III Then you're no good. MLLE. PERRAULT Oh, John. JOHN III No, he isn't. Grandfather said nobody who ran away from home was any good! MARY Why did you run away from home? JONATHAN I mustn't tell. MARY Oh, you won't tell anything! JOHN III (_pointing to Hank_) What did you say _he_ was, Ma'mselle? MLLE. PERRAULT He is a vagrant-- MARY AND JOHN III What's a vagrant? MARY Ooh-- [_Puts up her hand to make a wish._ JOHN III Aw, I'm not going to make a wish. Grandfather'll get it for me anyway if I want it. MARY Now, John Clay III-- [_Jonathan looks up quickly._ You always spoil things. JONATHAN Is that Mary Clay and John Clay? MLLE. PERRAULT Yes. JONATHAN They don't remember Jonathan, do they? MLLE. PERRAULT You mean Jonathan who ran away? JONATHAN Yes, ma'am. MARY Who's Jonathan? JOHN III He's David's friend. I know that. And he was very good. MLLE. PERRAULT What do you know about Jonathan? JONATHAN I knew him once-- MLLE. PERRAULT He was a splendid little man! He could make such lovely songs. JONATHAN Do you remember the one he and Susan Sample made up? MLLE. PERRAULT Let's see--how did it go? [_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._ JONATHAN No, it went this way. [_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._ JOHN III Oh, look at your shadow! [_Mlle. Perrault turns and sees her shadow on the wall._ I can make a bigger one than that. MARY Oh, come on, ma'mselle, let's all make shadows. [_The three of them stand in front of the wall._ JOHN III Boy, you come, too. MLLE. PERRAULT Come, boy. [_Jonathan joins them standing so that his deformity doesn't show in the shadow._ Now, let's dance--Give me your hand--so. [_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._ MLLE. PERRAULT Now, let's make everybody's shadow dance by itself. MARY Oh, come on. JOHN III You first, Mlle. MARY It's your turn, Mlle. [_Mlle. Perrault stands before the wall and makes a very lovely shadow._ John, you do it now. JOHN III I won't. I'm going to be next to last.... He's going to be last. [_Mary makes a pretty "statue."_ MARY Now, John-- [_John III, holding a staff, stands bow-legged and pigeon-toed._ _All of them laugh._ MLLE. PERRAULT (_to John III_) You little Jackanapes! You! JOHN III (_to Jonathan_) You can't do that. [_Jonathan, still conscious of Susan, but more in the spirit of the game nevertheless, laughs almost gleefully._ JONATHAN You just wait. [_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._ JOHN III (_yelling suddenly_) Oh, look! [_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._ MARY Ooh-- JOHN III That's funnier than mine. [_Jonathan turns his head this time and sees the full horror of the thing._ _Mlle. Perrault and Susan have realized too late to protect Jonathan._ MLLE. PERRAULT John! Mary! Tell the little boy good-bye. We must go. [_Jonathan looks toward Susan and Albert. There is pity in Susan's eyes and a smile in Albert's._ SUSAN Albert, come--let's go! [_They pass into the house._ JOHN III [_Almost as Susan speaks._ Wasn't he funniest of all! MLLE. PERRAULT Now, run along, children. Run along. MARY Look, I can make a hump-back. JOHN III So can I. MARY Not a good one! JOHN III You can't touch mine. [_He smacks Mary on the back and runs off, Mary following him._ MLLE. PERRAULT Little man, I'm very sorry. You mustn't let them hurt you. They are only children. JONATHAN Yes, ma'am.... Thank you. MLLE. PERRAULT May I do something for you? JONATHAN No, ma'am... if you please... I must go to Hank. MLLE. PERRAULT Here, take this-- [_She offers a coin._ JONATHAN Oh, no, ma'am.... [_He puts his hand behind him._ MLLE. PERRAULT I am sorry.... Very, very sorry. JONATHAN Yes, ma'am. [_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._ SUSAN They didn't mean to hurt you. [_She lays her hand on his arm._ JONATHAN Yes, I know. [_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._ _He looks at her with years of pent-up gratitude loosed from his heart._ _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._ _Hank awakens._ HANK (_looking up stupidly_) What you got? JONATHAN (_hiding the flower_) Nothing. HANK Come across, Humpy. JONATHAN Don't you call me that! HANK So--ho! What you yelling at me for? [_He sits up._ JONATHAN Nothing.... I didn't mean to yell. HANK What you got there? JONATHAN I tell you I haven't got anything, Hank. HANK Come on. Come across. JONATHAN It's not for you. HANK Come on. JONATHAN (_Rises and moves away_) No. HANK. Gimme it here.... [_He grabs Jonathan and tears the flower from his hand._ JONATHAN Stop that! HANK Great God! (_Throwing the crushed petals on the ground_) Say, what's the matter with you? JONATHAN 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._ _Hank slinks away._ _Nathaniel is untouched by the years. Jonathan looks at him hopefully, but there is no glint of recognition In Nathaniel's eye._ JONATHAN (_timidly_) Uncle Nathaniel. NATHANIEL What did you say, my boy? JONATHAN (_Less and less audible, as his disappointment increases_) Uncle Nathaniel. NATHANIEL I can't hear you. JONATHAN You--are--my--Uncle Nathaniel. NATHANIEL Come, come, my boy. I can't hear you. JONATHAN Aren't you--Mr.--Nathaniel--Clay? NATHANIEL (_kindly, but as to a stranger_) Yes, I am Mr. Nathaniel Clay. [_Jonathan smiles one of his old half smiles._ JONATHAN My name's--Jonathan. NATHANIEL Jonathan!... I had a nephew whose name was Jonathan. JONATHAN Don't you know me? NATHANIEL You must forgive me, little man--but I do not remember you. Boys grow so quickly. JONATHAN Don't you remember _Zenobia_? NATHANIEL _Zenobia?_ Who was she? JONATHAN Don't you remember the little theatre? NATHANIEL Oh, yes, my nephew Jonathan had a little toy theatre, and he wrote a play called _Zenobia_.... He burnt them. JONATHAN Was it wrong to burn them? NATHANIEL I don't know. You see Jonathan ran away, and I have never seen him since. JONATHAN Do you blame him? NATHANIEL Well, I can't say. When a fine boy like Jonathan runs away from home, he may have what he considers a good reason. JONATHAN Don't you know why he ran away? NATHANIEL I think I know. JONATHAN Would you tell me why? NATHANIEL That wouldn't do any good, my boy.... If you had an uncle who liked you very much, would you run away? JONATHAN No, sir--not if I had another chance.... NATHANIEL What do you mean? JONATHAN Don't you really know me? NATHANIEL I'm sorry--no! JONATHAN (_pointing to Hank_) Do you know him? NATHANIEL That tramp? JONATHAN Yes, sir.... That's Hank. NATHANIEL Hank? JONATHAN Yes, the one I ran away with. NATHANIEL Did you run away, too? JONATHAN Yes, sir; I jumped out the window, and I fell and broke my back. Hank said-- NATHANIEL What a dirty man! JONATHAN He's my pal. NATHANIEL You're evidently a fine young man inside. JONATHAN Oh, I'm sorry, sir, that I ran away. NATHANIEL You can't undo the past, my boy, but you can make the future. JONATHAN I can't straighten my back. NATHANIEL Perhaps not, but you can straighten your life. JONATHAN I'm only a beggar, sir. NATHANIEL There is something everybody can do. JONATHAN There isn't any place for me.... NATHANIEL My boy, there is a place for everybody who wants a place. JONATHAN Do you remember what your nephew wanted to do? NATHANIEL Yes, he wanted to write plays and run a theatre and be an actor. JONATHAN I couldn't ever be an actor, could I? NATHANIEL No, my boy. JONATHAN Supposing you had your heart set on something and couldn't do it, what would you do? NATHANIEL I'd not give up.... I'd try something else. JONATHAN Supposing I were your nephew, what would you do? NATHANIEL I'd find out what you wanted to be. JONATHAN Don't I look like Jonathan? NATHANIEL Jonathan must be very tall now. JONATHAN If Jonathan weren't tall? NATHANIEL But he _is_ tall and splendid. I know Jonathan! And he's doing what he set out to do. JONATHAN I hope you'll find him, sir, and I hope he'll make you proud. NATHANIEL (_very earnestly_) My boy, how old are you? JONATHAN I'm twenty. NATHANIEL Twenty.... Will you try to pull yourself out of the rut? JONATHAN What do you mean, sir? NATHANIEL Look at that man. What is he to you? JONATHAN He's my pal. NATHANIEL You mustn't waste your life on such emptiness as his. JONATHAN I'm going to try, sir.... And if I make good, will you believe I'm Jonathan? NATHANIEL I'll believe you are you.... Here.... [_He offers Jonathan a coin._ JONATHAN Oh, no, sir.... I can't--from you-- NATHANIEL Well, you are a strange beggar-- JONATHAN 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. NATHANIEL All mixed up? [_Nathaniel turns and looks toward the hill._ Boy, there is a green hill far away. Climb to the top of it, look about and you will see-- JONATHAN I know: the whole wide world! NATHANIEL Exactly. JONATHAN Yes, sir. NATHANIEL 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! JONATHAN I knew that, sir; but I forgot it. I'm going-- NATHANIEL Good-bye, boy; God bless you. [_The two clasp hands and Nathaniel goes._ JONATHAN He believes in me.... [_He watches Nathaniel with wide eyes, then calls to Hank._ Hank! Hank! HANK What you want? JONATHAN _He_ didn't know me! HANK Who didn't know you? [_Hank lies down._ JONATHAN Uncle Nathaniel.... He just passed by.... But, Hank, he believed in me! He believed I'd make good. HANK Say, what's the matter with you today? JONATHAN I'm goin' to leave you, Hank. HANK Huh? JONATHAN Old pal, I'm going to leave you forever. You've stuck by me-- HANK Sure, I've stuck by you. [_Makes himself comfortable._ Ain't you saved me a heap o' trouble? JONATHAN But I'm going now, Hank. Good-bye. I'm going to the green hill far away. [_He starts away leaving Hank alone and asleep. The lights fade out._ _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._ NATHANIEL (_The voice is heard with the music_) Nine ninety-nine--one thousand. You're nearly there, Boy. JONATHAN Nine hundred and ninety-nine--one thousand--I'm almost there. NATHANIEL (_far away_) A thousand and one--a thousand and two-- JONATHAN A thousand and one, a thousand and two--I am here! NATHANIEL (_far away_) The world is here. JONATHAN (_as though addressing the world_) 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. JOHN (_far away_) But your back's broken. JONATHAN Oh, Susan--Susan Sample--see--see. I told you I wasn't a beggar. See--see--Jonathan stands at the top of the world! SUSAN (_faintly_) But your back's broken. JONATHAN 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-- VOICES Jonathan's dead. JONATHAN Dead?... Oh, see the wreck of everything.... Jonathan _is_ dead! [_He falls._ NATHANIEL Boy--boy--Jonathan!--I believe you are you. JONATHAN Uncle Nathaniel! [_He rises slowly._ 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-- NATHANIEL I am here, Jonathan. JONATHAN I'm coming to you. I'm coming back to you with all my hopes and dreams. NATHANIEL We're waiting for you, Jonathan. JONATHAN I've made my wish that's coming true!! [_He jumps into space._ _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._ NATHANIEL Well, my boy-- JONATHAN Uncle Nathaniel, did you know that Caproni was an artist? NATHANIEL You mean the Caproni who makes the wonderful aeroplanes? JONATHAN Yes, sir. NATHANIEL No, I didn't know it; but I'm not surprised. JONATHAN Aren't these pictures fine? NATHANIEL Excellent. JONATHAN He made them.... They're like great dragon-flies, aren't they? NATHANIEL A whole swarm of them. JONATHAN It must feel funny to fly through air. NATHANIEL Would you like to try it some time? JONATHAN Yes... but I'd have to get used to it.... It must be like diving. NATHANIEL When you were very ill you seemed to imagine you were falling. JONATHAN Did I talk much when I was unconscious? NATHANIEL You talked almost continuously. JONATHAN Did I?... You said you'd tell me what I said--when I was strong enough.... I'm pretty strong now. NATHANIEL Do you know what I did? JONATHAN I don't know. NATHANIEL (_showing manuscript_) Can you guess? JONATHAN (_Looks at manuscript_) "Jonathan Builds a Fear." What does that mean? NATHANIEL When you were delirious I listened to what you said and then I made a story out of it. JONATHAN You mean this is all about me? NATHANIEL It's about a little hunchback who thought he was you. JONATHAN 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.... NATHANIEL Those were terrible days, my boy, and do you know, we were afraid you wouldn't live. JONATHAN It was a terrible feeling. NATHANIEL I know, but all that's over now; and there's the whole story about the little hunchback you never were. JONATHAN [_Hank's whistle is heard. Jonathan rises very quickly and looks at Nathaniel._ NATHANIEL He comes every now and then to ask about you and to get something to eat. [_Hank whistles again._ HANK'S VOICE (_at back_) Hi! NATHANIEL Come in, Hank.-- HANK Is the old man here? NATHANIEL No. HANK (_Enters through the gateway whistling_) Hello, boy. JONATHAN I'm well now. How are you? HANK 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. NATHANIEL I'll give you an overcoat, Hank. HANK No, thanks. It's too hot to carry it. I'll get one when I really need it, maybe. NATHANIEL Well, here's something for you. [_He offers him a five dollar bill._ Five dollars! No, thanks. If I had that much money I'd lose it maybe. Give me two bits and call it square. [_Nathaniel hands him a quarter._ Thanks.... Well... good-bye.... I'm glad your back wasn't broke. JONATHAN Good-bye, Hank. HANK 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." [_He goes out, chuckling to himself._ _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._ LETITIA I thought you were out with John. NATHANIEL No. [_Jonathan is looking at the manuscript._ LETITIA (_to Jonathan_) How do you feel, dear? JONATHAN Fine;... I think I'll go in the house and read this. (_To Nathaniel_) I'm glad it isn't true. [_He goes out._ NATHANIEL It's the story of his delirium. I thought it would interest him--and relieve him. LETITIA Has John gone? NATHANIEL Only for a stroll--the doctor's orders. LETITIA Well? NATHANIEL Well? LETITIA Sit down. NATHANIEL In John's chair? LETITIA If you wish. NATHANIEL John's chair! The throne of the head of the family! (_He sits in John's chair_) Well? LETITIA Nathaniel dear, you are making John very unhappy. NATHANIEL And John has made me very unhappy, dearest Aunt Letty. LETITIA The feeling at the dinner table was almost unbearable tonight. There we sat strained and silent. NATHANIEL I am sorry. I try to avoid meals with John as much as possible. LETITIA 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 and he feels that you ought to treat him with greater deference. NATHANIEL It is revolting to me to have a tsar in the family. LETITIA Your father and your father's father and grandfather were rulers of the Clay family. NATHANIEL I don't question that. LETITIA You can't change John. NATHANIEL I don't want to change John. LETITIA Then why not tell him something about yourself? NATHANIEL 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. LETITIA Perhaps not. NATHANIEL 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. LETITIA My beloved Nathaniel, John will not give Jonathan up to you. NATHANIEL I don't want Jonathan unless he wants to come to me, but I do want Jonathan's freedom. LETITIA Isn't he a bit young to have _freedom_. NATHANIEL 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. LETITIA What are you going to do? NATHANIEL Frankly, I do not know. [_Up to window._ All I know now is that I shall stay here until I find a plan. [_Jonathan enters._ JONATHAN Where is Uncle John? NATHANIEL He has gone for a stroll. LETITIA What do you want, my dear? JONATHAN Uncle John sent word that he wanted to see me here at 7:30. [_Letitia and Nathaniel look at each other._ _Jonathan takes out a large silver watch._ It's 7:29 now. NATHANIEL John will be on time--count sixty slowly-- [_John enters. He is rather pale, seems pre-occupied and even more unapproachable than ever._ LETITIA Did you have a pleasant stroll? JOHN I wasn't walking. LETITIA I shall go into the house, I think. JOHN No, Aunt Letitia, I would rather you'd wait, if you please. [_Nathaniel is an interested spectator. He cannot understand why Jonathan should be present for what will probably be an eventful family scene._ Nathaniel, will you sit down? NATHANIEL Certainly.--Where? JOHN (_tartly_) Would you like my chair? NATHANIEL Thank you. [_He sits in John's chair, much to John's annoyance._ JOHN Jonathan, sit down. [_Jonathan sits. John also sits. Aunt Letitia knows what to expect. Nathaniel is more curious than angry. Jonathan is attending his first family conference._ Jonathan, I've sent for you because I want to talk to you seriously. JONATHAN Yes, sir. NATHANIEL Do you think the boy is strong enough? JOHN 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. NATHANIEL Excuse me, John, but all of us know this. JOHN 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. JONATHAN (_desperately_) Uncle John, I don't want to go to Somerset School. JOHN You will leave for Somerset day after tomorrow. Good night, Jonathan. NATHANIEL Why Somerset? JOHN Good night, Jonathan. [_Jonathan, dazed, goes out._ NATHANIEL Jonathan will never go to Somerset School. JOHN Nathaniel, you forfeited your rights in the family councils when you ran away from home seventeen years ago. NATHANIEL This boy will run away again and again and I mean to save him from what I have suffered, if I can. JOHN Nathaniel, by what right do you attempt to interfere with my decisions? NATHANIEL By the right of blood and understanding. JOHN 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. NATHANIEL John, you can't force this boy into a mold. JOHN A boy of fourteen doesn't know his mind.... Do _you_ know what Jonathan wants to be? NATHANIEL Yes, a writer of plays, a theatre director, and an actor. JOHN Imagine!... And I suppose you encouraged him. NATHANIEL No, but I didn't discourage him. The selection was wide enough for him to find some lasting life work. JOHN He never told me he wanted to be an actor. NATHANIEL 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. JOHN That was juvenile foolishness. NATHANIEL Yes, but it was genuine. [_John starts to speak._ What am I now? I am going to tell you, John--by and by. First, we must dispose of the boy. JOHN I shall decide about the boy. NATHANIEL No, John; the boy must decide for himself. JOHN He'd decide to be an actor. NATHANIEL If he did, what of it? JOHN I want members of my family to do useful work. NATHANIEL 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-- JOHN Still I do not regard acting as a worth-while or lucrative profession. NATHANIEL 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. JOHN Every kind of concrete work! NATHANIEL I beg your pardon! Concrete sewers and other concrete things.--Such is the foundation of the family. JOHN You are evidently ashamed of our business. NATHANIEL Not at all, but I cannot consider the manufacturing of sewers a greater achievement than acting. JOHN Nathaniel, are you an actor? NATHANIEL No. JOHN What are you? NATHANIEL For the present I am Jonathan's uncle. JOHN You have nothing to do with Jonathan. NATHANIEL The boy is not going to Somerset School. JOHN Nathaniel, I shall not tolerate your interference. Now I must ask you to leave this house. NATHANIEL What? LETITIA 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. JOHN (_With some tenderness he lays his hand on Letitia's_) 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. NATHANIEL Ruined? John, I'll tell you how ruined my life has been and I'll tell you in terms you'll understand. My income last year was over $350,000! JOHN Are you acting now? NATHANIEL 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. JOHN What are these heroics? NATHANIEL 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. JOHN You had everything you wanted. NATHANIEL 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. JOHN You talk very well, Nathaniel, but I shall insist upon bringing up my sister's child in my way. NATHANIEL Would you have him run away as I did? JOHN He will never run away again. He has had his lesson. [_Jonathan enters carrying a suit case._ JONATHAN May I speak to you, Uncle John? JOHN What are you doing with that suit case? JONATHAN I'm going away. JOHN Who gave you permission? JONATHAN 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. JOHN Take that suit case back into the house. JONATHAN No, sir! I'm going and nobody can keep me here unless they tie me. JOHN 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. JONATHAN Yes, sir. I know that; but I'm going and I came to tell you good-bye. JOHN 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. LETITIA John, don't say things you'll regret. Jonathan doesn't mean what he's saying. JONATHAN Yes'm, I do mean what I say. JOHN Good night. [_He goes out._ LETITIA Boys, you are so hot-headed--so much alike.... 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. LETITIA 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. [_She goes out._ NATHANIEL Now you've done it! JONATHAN I couldn't help it. NATHANIEL What are you going to do? JONATHAN I don't know.... They say there's plenty of work on farms. NATHANIEL You can't write if you work on a farm. JONATHAN I can earn some more money and save. Other boys have worked their way through school and college. I can do that. NATHANIEL Of course--that is a way out of it. Yes... of course.... [_Nathaniel opens the back doors and sees the thinnest crescent moon hanging in the sky._ The new moon.... They say if you make a wish on the new moon it will come true. JONATHAN You have to see it over your right shoulder. NATHANIEL You saw it over your right shoulder. JONATHAN I don't believe that, do you? NATHANIEL Well, suppose it were true, what would you wish? JONATHAN You mean for right away? NATHANIEL Yes. JONATHAN [_carefully looking over his right shoulder._ I'd wish to be with you. NATHANIEL More than anything? JONATHAN Yes, sir. NATHANIEL More than being a writer or a theatre director or an actor? JONATHAN Oh, yes, I'm too young to start right away. I have to have an education first. NATHANIEL Suppose that wish couldn't be, then what would you wish? JONATHAN That you'd write me long letters and let me write you long letters. [_Takes up his suit case._ I'd better be going now. NATHANIEL Aren't you going to tell John and Aunt Letitia good-bye? JONATHAN No, sir. I don't think I'd better. Uncle John doesn't care and Aunt Letitia will understand. NATHANIEL Yes, she always understands somehow. JONATHAN Good-bye, sir. NATHANIEL Jonathan, suppose we go away together. I'm not wanted and you're not wanted. JONATHAN You're going to Paris to marry Mlle. Perrault! NATHANIEL Would you let me be your father, Jonathan? JONATHAN Sir? NATHANIEL You shall go to the schools where you will find the work you want.... Will you be my son? JONATHAN Do you like me that much? NATHANIEL I like you more than that much. You'll get some long trousers and we'll plan and plan. Suppose we run away together. JONATHAN Do you think we ought to leave some word, Uncle Nathaniel? NATHANIEL Of course. How stupid of me. JONATHAN You write it. NATHANIEL No, we'll both write it. JONATHAN I don't know what to say. I've only run away once. NATHANIEL So have I. JONATHAN Did you ever run away? NATHANIEL Yes--when I was eighteen. JONATHAN Oh! NATHANIEL (_taking up paper_) The message ought to be short. JONATHAN Why did you run away? NATHANIEL I wanted to write. JONATHAN You did! NATHANIEL Didn't you know I ran away? JONATHAN No, sir; they never would tell me what became of you. NATHANIEL They didn't know. JONATHAN How could you keep it from them? NATHANIEL I changed my name--Mr. Alexander Jefferson, Sr! What shall I say? JONATHAN I can't think.... Did Uncle John lock you in? NATHANIEL No, I just ran away. JONATHAN How long did it take you to make up your mind to go? NATHANIEL I thought about it first when I was twelve. My father was still living then. JONATHAN Did you go to Somerset School? NATHANIEL Yes--for three years. JONATHAN What did you do after you ran away? NATHANIEL 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. JONATHAN I thought you had to write your own autobiography-- NATHANIEL 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 I never could think of things to say when I was going away. NATHANIEL Neither could I. JONATHAN Don't you think "good-bye" would be enough? NATHANIEL (_writing_) Capital.... "Good-Bye--Nathaniel." Now you sign it. JONATHAN (_Signs_) "Jonathan."... Maybe we ought to put a line under it so Aunt Letitia won't feel so bad. NATHANIEL (_makes a line_) Dear Aunt Letitia will understand. She is the blessed kind who always does. Now, where shall we put it?... On John's chair, and maybe he'll understand too. [_He pins the note to John's chair._ JONATHAN Don't you want to pack your things? NATHANIEL I'll wire for them. [_Susan enters._ On second thought, I'll ask Aunt Letitia to send them. [_He goes out._ JONATHAN Hello, Susan. SUSAN Jonathan, I just saw Miss Letitia and she was crying.... What's the matter? JONATHAN I'm going away, Susan. SUSAN Where are you going? JONATHAN 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. SUSAN When are you coming back? JONATHAN I don't know. When I'm older maybe. SUSAN Can't we write any more songs? JONATHAN I'll send some words to you in letters. SUSAN Will you write every week? JONATHAN Yes.... Will you? SUSAN Yes. I wish I was going, too. JONATHAN So do I. SUSAN Maybe I'll come to see you graduate. JONATHAN That will be fine! SUSAN (_She kisses him very simply_) Good-bye, Jonathan. JONATHAN Good-bye, Susan. SUSAN I can hardly wait until you graduate. JONATHAN Neither can I.... Good-bye. [_Nathaniel enters._ NATHANIEL On third thought, I decided to wire for my things. SUSAN Good-bye, Mr. Nathaniel. I hope you'll have a nice time. NATHANIEL Good-bye, Susan. [_He kisses her. She goes out._ JONATHAN Good-bye, Susan. SUSAN (_calling_) Send me some picture postcards, Jonathan. JONATHAN I will. [_He watches her._ NATHANIEL (_Goes to window_) Don't you want to make your wish on the new moon, Jonathan? JONATHAN I don't know what to wish now. The only one I could think of has come true. NATHANIEL Good... come, my boy. JONATHAN I'll write a long letter to Susan Sample every week. NATHANIEL You can write her a long letter from New York. JONATHAN And I can send her picture postcards from every place we go to. [_Arm in arm they go out talking._ _The Curtain Falls._ APPENDIX A. M. PALMER--AUTHOR'S MATINEES _Madison Square Theater_ 1887 MARJORIE'S LOVERS _Brander Matthews_ ELAINE (from Tennyson) _G. P. Lathrop_ A FOREGONE CONCLUSION _W. D. Howells_ THE THEATER OF ARTS AND LETTERS _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_ THE CRITERION INDEPENDENT THEATER _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_ THE INDEPENDENT THEATER _Carnegie Lyceum_ 1899 EL GRAN GALEOTO _Echegaray_ TIES _Hervieu_ THE MASTER BUILDER _Ibsen_ THE STORM _Ostrovsky_ THE HEATHER FIELD _Martyn_ A TROUBADOUR _Coppé_ 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_ 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 _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_ WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS[7] _Bandbox and Comedy Theaters_ 1915-1917 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_ 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_ 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 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 O-SODE _Harrie Fumade_ O-KATSU _Annie Lowry_ OBAA-SAN _Florence Wollersen_ THE GAKI OF KOKORU _McKay Morris_ AOYAGI _Nancy Winston_ RIKI _Wilmot Heitland_ THE VERY NAKED BOY CAST FOR OPENING HE _Willard Webster_ SHE _Dorothea Carothers_ BOY _Gregory Kelly_ JONATHAN MAKES A WISH NEW YORK CAST 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_ First produced at the _Murat Theatre_, Indianapolis, August 12, 1918. 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 OF DRAMATIC LITERATURE [Illustration] PUBLISHED BY STEWART & KIDD COMPANY CINCINNATI * * * * * DRAMATIC LITERATURE _European Theories of the Drama_ _An Anthology of Dramatic Theory and Criticism from Aristotle to the Present Day, in a Series of Selected Texts, with Commentaries, Biographies and Bibliographies_ By BARRETT H. CLARK _Author of_ "Contemporary French Dramatists," "The Continental Drama of Today," "British and American Drama of Today," etc., etc. 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." _Large 8vo, 500 pages Net, $3.50_ * * * * * _Plays and Players_ LEAVES FROM A CRITIC'S SCRAPBOOK BY WALTER PRICHARD EATON PREFACE BY BARRETT H. CLARK 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. _Toronto Saturday Night_: Mr. Eaton writes well and with dignity and independence. His book should find favor with the more serious students of the Drama of the Day. _Detroit Free Press_: This is one of the most interesting and also valuable books on the modern drama that we have encountered in that period popularly referred to as "a dog's age." Mr. Eaton is a competent and well-esteemed critic. The book is a record of the activities of the American stage since 1910, down to the present. Mr. Eaton succinctly restores the play to the memory, revisualizes the actors, and puts the kernel of it into a nutshell for us to ponder over and by which to correct our impressions. _Large 12mo. About 420 pages, 10 full-page illustrations on Cameo Paper and End Papers Net $2.00_ _Gilt top. 3/4 Maroon Turkey Morocco Net 6.50_ * * * * * _Four Plays of the Free Theater_ Francois de Curel's _The Fossils_ Jean Jullien's _The Serenade_ Georges de Porto-Riche's _Francoise' Luck_ Georges Ancey's _The Dupe_ _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._ _The Review of Reviews says_: "A lengthy introduction, which is a gem of condensed information." _H. L. Mencken (in the Smart Set) says_: "Here we have, not only skilful playwriting, but also sound literature." _Brander Matthews says_: "The book is welcome to all students of the modern stage. It contains the fullest account of the activities of Antoine's Free Theater to be found anywhere--even in French." _The Chicago Tribune says_: "Mr. Clark's translations, with their accurate and comprehensive prefaces, are necessary to anyone interested in modern drama.... If the American reader will forget Yankee notions of morality... if the reader will assume the French point of view, this book will prove a rarely valuable experience. Mr. Clark has done this important task excellently." _Handsomely Bound. 12mo. Cloth Net, $1.75_ * * * * * DRAMATIC LITERATURE _Contemporary French Dramatists_ By BARRETT H. CLARK _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._ _Independent, New York_: "Almost indispensable to the student of the theater." _Boston Transcript_: "Mr. Clark's method of analyzing the works of the Playwrights selected is simple and helpful. * * * As a manual for reference or story, 'Contemporary French Dramatists,' with its added bibliographical material, will serve well its purpose." _Uniform with FOUR PLAYS. Handsomely bound._ _Cloth_ _Net, $1.75_ _3/4 Maroon Turkey Morocco_ _Net, $5.00_ _The Antigone of Sophocles_ By PROF. JOSEPH EDWARD HARRY _An acting version of this most perfect of all dramas. A scholarly work in readable English. Especially adaptable for Colleges, Dramatic Societies, etc._ _Post Express_, Rochester: "He has done his work well." "Professor Harry has translated with a virile force that is almost Shakespearean." "The difficult task of rendering the choruses into English lyrical verse has been very creditably accomplished." _Argonaut_, San Francisco: "Professor Harry is a competent translator not only because of his classical knowledge, but also because of a certain enthusiastic sympathy that shows itself in an unfailing choice of words and expression." _North American_, Philadelphia: "Professor Harry, teacher of Greek in the Cincinnati University, has written a new metrical translation of the Antigone of Sophocles. The translation is of fine dramatic quality." _Oregonian_, Portland: "A splendidly executed translation of the celebrated Greek tragedy." _Herald_, Boston: "Scholars will not need to be urged to read this noteworthy piece of literary work, and we hope that many others who have no special scholarly interest will be led to its perusal." _8vo. cloth. Dignified binding Net, $1.00_ * * * * * "_European Dramatists_" By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON _Author of_ "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works." _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._ Velma Swanston Howard says: "Prof. Henderson's appraisal of Strindberg is certainly the fairest, kindest and most impersonal that I have yet seen. The author has that rare combination of intellectual power and spiritual insight which casts a clear, strong light upon all subjects under his treatment." _Baltimore Evening Sun_: "Prof. Henderson's criticism is not only notable for its understanding and good sense, but also for the extraordinary range and accuracy of its information." Jeanette L. Gilder, in the _Chicago Tribune_: "Henderson is a writer who throws new light on old subjects." _Chicago Record Herald_: "His essays in interpretation are welcome. Mr. Henderson has a catholic spirit and writes without parochial prejudice--a thing deplorably rare among American critics of the present day. * * * One finds that one agrees with Mr. Henderson's main contentions and is eager to break a lance with him about minor points, which is only a way of saying that he is stimulating, that he strikes sparks. He knows his age thoroughly and lives in it with eager sympathy and understanding." _Providence Journal_: "Henderson has done his work, within its obvious limitations, in an exceedingly competent manner. He has the happy faculty of making his biographical treatment interesting, combining the personal facts and a fairly clear and entertaining portrait of the individual with intelligent critical comment on his artistic work." _Photogravure frontispiece, handsomely printed and bound, large 12mo Net, $2.00_ * * * * * _At Last You May Understand G. B. S._ 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. _George Bernard Shaw_ HIS LIFE AND WORKS A CRITICAL BIOGRAPHY (Authorized) By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A. Ph.D. 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._ _$5.00 Net_ * * * * * _The Changing Drama_ By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A. Ph.D. _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." _Argonaut_: "Marked by insight, discernment and enthusiasm." _Large 12mo. Dignified binding Net, $1.75_ * * * * * _Short Plays_ By MARY MACMILLAN _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._ _Review of Reviews_: "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." _Boston Transcript_: "Those who consigned the writer of these plays to solitude and prison fare evidently knew that 'needs must' is a sharp stimulus to high powers. If we find humor, gay or rich, if we find brilliant wit; if we find constructive ability joined with dialogue which moves like an arrow; if we find delicate and keen characterization, with a touch of genius in the choice of names; if we find poetic power which moves on easy wing--the gentle jailers of the writer are justified, and the gentle reader thanks their severity." _Salt Lake Tribune_: "The Plays are ten in number, all of goodly length. We prophesy great things for this gifted dramatist." _Bookseller, News Dealer & Stationer_: "The dialogue is permeated with graceful satire, snatches of wit, picturesque phraseology, and tender, often exquisite, expressions of sentiment." _Handsomely Bound. 12mo. Cloth Net, $1.75_ * * * * * _More Short Plays_ BY MARY MacMILLAN 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." _Uniform with "Short Plays" Net, $1.75_ * * * * * _The Gift_ A POETIC DRAMA By MARGARET DOUGLAS ROGERS _A dramatic poem in two acts, treating in altogether new fashion the world old story of Pandora, the first woman._ _New Haven Times Leader_: "Well written and attractive." _Evangelical Messenger_: "A very beautifully written portrayal of the old story of Pandora." _Rochester Post Dispatch_: "There is much poetic feeling in the treatment of the subject." _Grand Rapids Herald_: "THE GIFT, dealing with this ever interesting mythological story, is a valuable addition to the dramas of the day." _St. Xavier Calendar_: "The story of Pandora is so set down as to bring out its stage possibilities. Told by Mrs. Rogers in exquisite language." _Salt Lake Tribune_: "The tale is charmingly wrought and has possibilities as a simple dramatic production, as well as being a delightful morsel of light reading." _Cincinnati Enquirer_: "The love story is delightfully told and the dramatic action of the play is swift and strong." _Buffalo Express_: "It is a delightful bit of fancy with a dramatic and poetic setting." _Boston Woman's Journal_: "Epimetheus and Pandora and her box are charmingly presented." _Worcester Gazette_: "It is absolutely refreshing to find a writer willing to risk a venture harking back to the times of the Muses and the other worthies of mythological fame. * * * The story of Pandora's box told in verse by a woman. It may be said it could not have been better written had a representative of the one who only assisted at the opening been responsible for the play." _Handsomely bound silk cloth Net, $1.00_ * * * * * _Comedies of Words and Other Plays_ BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER TRANSLATED BY PIERRE LOVING {"_The Hour of Recognition_" {"_Great Scenes_" The contents are {"_The Festival of Bacchus_" {"_His Helpmate_" {"_Literature._" 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! _Bound uniform with the S & K Dramatic Series, Net $1.75_ * * * * * _Lucky Pehr_ By AUGUST STRINDBERG _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."_ _Rochester Post Express_: Strindberg has written many plays which might be described as realistic nightmares. But this remark does not apply to "Lucky Pehr." * * * This drama is one of the most favorable specimens of Strindberg's genius. _New York World_: "Pehr" is lucky because, having tested all things, he finds that only love and duty are true. _New York Times_: "Lucky Pehr" clothes cynicism in real entertainment instead of in gloom. And it has its surprises. Can this be August Strindberg, who ends his drama so sweetly on the note of the woman-soul, leading upward and on? _Worcester Gazette_: 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. _Boston Globe_: A popular drama. * * * There is no doubt about the book being a delightful companion in the library. In charm of fancy and grace of imagery the story may not be unfairly classed with "The Blue Bird" and "Peter Pan." _Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Swanston Howard's authorization._ _Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $1.75_ * * * * * _Easter_ (A PLAY IN THREE ACTS) AND STORIES BY AUGUST STRINDBERG _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._ _Louisville Courier-Journal_: 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. _The Nation_: Those who like the variety of symbolism which Maeterlinck has often employed--most notably in the "Bluebird"--will turn with pleasure to the short stories of Strindberg which Mrs. Howard has included in her volume. * * * They are one and all diverting on account of the author's facility in dealing with fanciful details. _Bookseller_: "Easter" is a play of six characters illustrative of human frailties and the effect of the divine power of tolerance and charity. * * * There is a symbolism, a poetic quality, a spiritual insight in the author's work that make a direct appeal to the cultured. * * * _The Dial_: One play from his (Strindberg's) third, or symbolistic period stands almost alone. This is "Easter." There is a sweet, sane, life-giving spirit about it. _Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Swanston Howard's authorization._ _Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $1.75_ * * * * * _The Hamlet Problem and Its Solution_ By EMERSON VENABLE _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._ _The Louisville Courier-Journal_: "Mr. Venable's Hamlet is a 'protagonist of a drama of triumphant moral achievement.' He rises through the play from an elected agent of vengeance to a man gravely impressed with 'an imperative sense of moral obligation, tragic in its depth, felt toward the world.'" E. H. Sothern: "Your ideas of Hamlet so entirely agree with my own that the book has been a real delight to me. I have always had exactly this feeling about the character of Hamlet. I think you have wiped away a great many cobwebs, and I believe your book will prove to be most convincing to many people who may yet be a trifle in the dark." _The Book News Monthly_: "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." _16mo. Silk cloth Net, $1.00_ * * * * * _Portmanteau Plays_ BY STUART WALKER Edited and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT 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. _With five full-page illustrations on cameo paper._ _12mo. Silk cloth $1.75_ * * * * * _The Truth About The Theater_ _Anonymous_ 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. _Net $1.00_ End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of More Portmanteau Plays, by Stuart Walker *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS *** ***** This file should be named 37967-8.txt or 37967-8.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/9/6/37967/ Produced by David Garcia and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library.) Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. 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