More Portmanteau Plays
Date: 2011-11-10T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: American drama -- 20th century

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Title: More Portmanteau Plays

Author: Stuart Walker

Editor: Edward Hale Bierstadt

Release date: November 10, 2011 [eBook #37967]
Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Garcia and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. (This file was
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS ***

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

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 130

Jonathan Makes a Wish, Act II 149

INTRODUCTION

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

During the actual period of the war many of the creative and interpretative artists of the theater were engaged either directly in army work or in one of its auxiliary branches. It is amusing to recall that the present writer met Schuyler Ladd serving as Mess Sergeant for a Base Hospital in France, Alexander Wollcott, late dramatic critic of the New York Times, attached to the Stars and Stripes in Paris, and Douglas Stuart, the London producer, in an English hospital at Etretat, the while he himself was serving as an enlisted man on the staff of the same hospital. These are minor instances, but when they have been multiplied several hundred times one begins to see how closely the actor, the critic, and the producer were involved in the struggle. Again the problem of providing proper entertainment for the troops was, and still is, a serious one. In the great number of cases it seems highly probable 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!

The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree
Act III.

[She nestles close to him.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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 MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS ***

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Table of Contents

- MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS

- STUART WALKER

- Author of Portmanteau Plays Edited, and with an Introduction by

- EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT

- STEWART &. KIDD DRAMATIC SERIES

- The Portmanteau Plays

- STEWART & KIDD CO., PUBLISHERS

- ILLUSTRATIONS

- INTRODUCTION

- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

- FOOTNOTES:

- THE PROLOGUE TO THE PORTMANTEAU THEATER

- THE PROLOGUE

- THE LADY OF THE WEEPING WILLOW TREE

- A Play in Three Acts Characters

- WEEPING WILLOW TREE

- ACT I

- ACT II

- The Curtains Close.

- ACT III

- Before the House of Obaa-San

- The Curtains Close.

- THE VERY NAKED BOY

- An Interlude Before the Curtain CHARACTERS

- The End

- JONATHAN MAKES A WISH

- A Play in Three Acts

- CHARACTERS

- ACT I

- Jonathan Makes a Friend

- Curtain.

- ACT II

- Jonathan Builds a Fear

- Curtain.

- ACT III

- Jonathan Makes a Wish

- The Curtain Falls.

- APPENDIX

- A. M. PALMER—AUTHOR'S MATINEES
- THE THEATER OF ARTS AND LETTERS
- THE CRITERION INDEPENDENT THEATER
- THE INDEPENDENT THEATER
- THE NEW THEATER
- MISS GRACE GEORGE—THE PLAYHOUSE
- WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS[7]
- REPERTORY OF THE STUART WALKER COMPANY

- CASTS

- The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree CAST FOR OPENING

- The Very Naked Boy CAST FOR OPENING

- Jonathan Makes a Wish NEW YORK CAST

- FOOTNOTES:

- A SELECTED LIST OF

- DRAMATIC LITERATURE

- DRAMATIC LITERATURE

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE