Produced by Kentuckiana Digital Library, David Garcia,
Melissa Er-Raqabi and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at https://www.pgdp.net.
READ-ALOUD PLAYS
_BY HORACE HOLLEY_
_DIVINATIONS AND CREATIONS_
_READ-ALOUD PLAYS_
_THE DYNAMICS OF ART_
_BAHAISM_
_THE SOCIAL PRINCIPLE_
_THE INNER GARDEN_
_THE STRICKEN KING_
READ-ALOUD PLAYS
BY
HORACE HOLLEY
NEW YORK
MITCHELL KENNERLEY
1916
COPYRIGHT 1916 BY
MITCHELL KENNERLEY
DRAMATIC AND LECTURE
RIGHTS RESERVED BY
HORACE HOLLEY
PRINTED IN AMERICA
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION V
HER HAPPINESS 1
A MODERN PRODIGAL 7
THE INCOMPATIBLES 29
THE GENIUS 39
SURVIVAL 55
THE TELEGRAM 71
RAIN 79
PICTURES 103
HIS LUCK 121
INTRODUCTION
The first two or three of these "plays" (I retain the word for lack of a
better one) began themselves as short stories, but in each case I found
that the dramatic element, speech, tended to absorb the impersonal element
of comment and description, so that it proved easier to go on by allowing
the characters to establish the situation themselves. As I grew conscious
of this tendency, I realized that even for the purpose of reading it might
be advantageous to render the short story subject dramatically, since this
method is, after all, one of extreme realism, which should also result in
an increase of interest. As the series developed, however, I perceived
that something more than a new short story form was involved; I perceived
that the "read-aloud" play has a distinct character and function of its
own. In the long run, everything human rises or falls to the level of
speech. The culminating point, even of action the most poignant or emotion
the most intimate, is where it finds the right word or phrase by which it
is translated into the lives of others. Every literary form has always
paid, even though usually unconscious, homage to the drama. But the drama
as achieved on the stage includes, for various reasons, only a small
portion of its own inherent possibility. Exigencies of time and machinery,
as well as the strong influence of custom, deny to the stage the value of
themes such as the Divine Comedy, on the one hand, and of situations
which might be rendered by five or ten minutes' dialogue on the other,
each of which extremes may be quite as "dramatic" as the piece ordinarily
exploited on the stage. By trying these "read-aloud" plays on different
groups, of from two to six persons, I have proved that the homage all
literature pays the drama is misplaced if we identify the drama with the
stage. A sympathetic voice is all that is required to "get over" any
effect possible to speech; and what effect is not? Moreover, by
deliberately setting out for a drama independent of the stage, a drama
involving only the intimate circle of studio or library, I feel that an
entire new range of experiences is opened up to literature itself. Nothing
is more thrilling than direct, self-revealing speech; and, once the proper
tone has been set, even abstract subjects, as we all know, have the power
to absorb. Thus I entertain the hope that others will take up the method
of this book, the method of natural, intimate, heart-to-heart dialogue
carried on in a suitable setting, and with attendant action as briefly
indicated; for the discovery awaits each one that speech, independent of
the tradition of the stage, has the power of rendering old themes new and
vital, as well as suggesting new themes and situations. Indeed, it is in
the confidence that others will follow with "read-aloud" plays far more
interesting and valuable than the few offered here that I am writing this
introduction, and not merely to call attention to a novelty in my own
work.
HORACE HOLLEY.
New York City.
HER HAPPINESS
_Darkness. A door opens swiftly. Light from outside shows a woman
entering. She is covered by a large cape, but the gleam of hair and brow
indicates beauty. She closes the door behind her. Darkness._
THE WOMAN
Paul! Paul! Are you here, Paul?
A VOICE
Yes, Elizabeth, I am here.
THE WOMAN
Oh thank God! You are here! I felt so strange--I thought ... Oh, I cannot
tell you what I have been thinking! Turn on the light, Paul.
THE VOICE
You are troubled, dear. Let the darkness stay a moment. It will calm you.
Sit down, Elizabeth.
THE WOMAN
Yes.... I am so faint! I _had_ to come, Paul! I had to _see_ you, to know
that you were.... I know I promised not to, but I was going mad! Just to
touch you, to hold you ... but it's all right _now_.
THE VOICE
It is all right now, Elizabeth.
THE WOMAN
I thought I could stand it, dear, I thought I could stand it. It wasn't
myself--I swear to you it wasn't--nor _him_. I, I can stand all _that_,
now. It was something else, something that came over me all at once. I
saw--Oh Paul! the thing I saw! But it's all right _now_....
THE VOICE
It is all right, Elizabeth, because ours is love, love that is made of
light, and not merely blind desire.
THE WOMAN
Ours is love. We _are_ love!
THE VOICE
So that even if we are separated--even if you cannot come to me yet, we
shall not lose conviction nor joy.
THE WOMAN
Yes, Paul. I will not make it harder for you. I know it is hard, and that
it was for my sake you could bring yourself to bind me not to see you
again.
THE VOICE
Love _is_, world without end. That is all we need to know.
THE WOMAN
World without end, amen.
THE VOICE
And because I knew the power and truth of love in you I put this
separation upon us.
THE WOMAN
For my sake. I know it now, Paul! And trust me! You _can_ trust me, Paul!
Not time, nor distance, nor trouble nor change shall move me from the
heights of love where I dwell.
THE VOICE
And because I knew the happiness of love could not endure in deceit, nor
the wine give life if we drank it in a cup that was stained, I put you
from me--in the world's sight we meet no more.
THE WOMAN
In the world's sight ... and in the sight of God and man shall I be
faithful to him from now on, in thought and deed and word, as a heart may
be. Yes, Paul ... even that can I endure for your sake. For I know that
hereafter--
THE VOICE
For love there is neither here nor hereafter, but the realization of love
is ever according to his triumph. This has come to me suddenly, a light in
the darkness, and I have won the truth by supreme pain.
THE WOMAN
That, too, Paul. _Pain_.... I have been weak. I gave way to my nerves, but
now in your presence I am strong again, and I shall not fail you.
THE VOICE
My presence is where your love is, and as your love so my nearness. Love
me as I love you now, and I shall be more real to you than your hands and
your eyes.
THE WOMAN
_Bone of one bone, and flesh of one flesh_....
THE VOICE
Spirit of one spirit! The flesh we have put away.
THE WOMAN
That, too, Paul. Oh the glory of it! So be my happiness that I shall not
wish it changed, even before the Throne!
THE VOICE
I have given you happiness?
THE WOMAN
Perfect happiness, Paul. I am happy, happier than I ever was before. But
before I go home from here for the last time, turn on the light, Paul,
that we may be to each other always as the wonder of this moment. For the
last time, Paul. Paul?... Paul? Where are you? Why don't you answer?...
_Paul!_ (_She turns on the light. It is a studio. At the piano, fallen
forward upon the keys, sits the body of a man. There is a revolver on the
floor beside him._) Paul!... _As I saw him!_ Is _this_ my happiness. Oh
God, _must_ I?
A MODERN PRODIGAL
_The scene shows Uncle Richard's library, a massive and expensive interior
suggesting prosperity rather than meditation. It is obviously new, and in
the whole room there is only one intimate and human note, a quaint little
oil painting of a boy with bright eyes--Uncle Richard at the age of
eleven._
_Richard walks about, waiting for his uncle, and examines the appointments
with more curiosity than reverence. Stopping by the mantle for a moment he
notices, with a start of surprise, his own photograph. He turns away with
a shrug just as his uncle hurriedly enters._
UNCLE RICHARD
Dick! Richard! At last! How are you? You received my letter?
RICHARD
I am very well, uncle. Yes, I received your letter. It was forwarded from
Florence.
UNCLE RICHARD
Good! Sit down, Richard, sit down.
RICHARD
I did not receive it until a few days ago, in New York. I came on as soon
as possible. But I had engagements--business engagements--that delayed me.
UNCLE RICHARD
Business? I am very glad, Richard, that you have given up your art. Not
that art isn't entirely commendable, but in times like these, you know....
RICHARD
Don't misunderstand me, uncle. My business was connected with art. I
haven't given up painting. I never shall.
UNCLE RICHARD
In my letter--
RICHARD
Yes. Cousin Anne wrote me about Aunt Ethel's death, but I did not realize
how changed everything here was until I read that letter from you. And now
(_glancing about_) it is even clearer. It must have been a bitter shock to
you, Uncle Richard. You had both come to the point where you could have
done so much with life. But you are quite well, Uncle Richard?
UNCLE RICHARD
I am never unwell. I don't believe in it. Yes, everything was ready here.
In its larger issue, my life has not been unsuccessful.... But your
business, Richard, it came out well, I hope?
RICHARD
Quite. You see after graduating I borrowed a certain sum to go abroad with
a classmate. We had a plan for doing a book on modern Italy, he writing
the text and I making illustrations. We had quite a new idea about it all.
It was good fun besides. Well, the work has been placed, and now after
repaying the loan I have enough to take a studio and begin painting in
earnest.
UNCLE RICHARD
Hum.
RICHARD
I believe I have a copy of one of the sketches with me. (_He tears a sheet
from a note book and hands it to Uncle Richard._)
UNCLE RICHARD (_looking at it wrong side up_)
A sketch. I see. Of course it is unfinished?
RICHARD
Yes. But then, no painting should be what you call "finished." A work of
art can only be finished by the mental effort of appreciation on the part
of the spectator. Photographs and chromos are _finished_--that's why they
are dead.
UNCLE RICHARD
I was not aware of the fact. But ... you will remember, Richard, that in
my letter I asked you to visit me?
RICHARD
Of course. And I shall be very pleased to stay for a few days. Very kind
of you to ask me.
UNCLE RICHARD
Not at all, Richard, not at all! I--
RICHARD
On Monday I must return to New York and look for a studio. With the book
coming out I feel I shall have no trouble selling my work.
UNCLE RICHARD
Studio? Isn't that--hem! rather _Bohemian_, Richard?
RICHARD
Good gracious, uncle, you haven't been reading George Moore, have you?
UNCLE RICHARD
But Richard, did you not understand that I wanted you to stay here longer
than that?
RICHARD
Why no. How long did you mean?
UNCLE RICHARD
Er--I hadn't thought, exactly. I mean that I wanted you to bring your
things here--bring your things here and just live on with me.
RICHARD
I had no idea you meant _that_. Anyhow, as I couldn't paint here, it's
impossible. But, of course, if you care to have me stay a few days
longer--
UNCLE RICHARD
But I have everything arranged for you here. Your room--everything.
RICHARD
But you see, uncle, my work--
UNCLE RICHARD
I hope you will give up your art, but if you must paint I will provide you
a room for it. Do you know how many rooms there are in this house,
Richard?
RICHARD
Really, Uncle Richard, I thank you, but--
UNCLE RICHARD
Don't mention it. And of course you can see to its proper arrangement
yourself.
RICHARD
I had no idea of this when I came and--but you see, it's not only the
studio an artist requires, it's atmosphere, the atmosphere of enthusiasm
and feeling. You might as well give a business man a brand new office
equipment and turn him loose on the Sahara desert as to shut a painter up
in a town like this and expect him to create. Artists need atmosphere just
as business men need banks. It's the meeting of like forces that makes
anything really go.
UNCLE RICHARD
But we are not wholly barbarous here, Richard. _This_, for example, and no
first-class New England city lacks culture.
RICHARD
I suppose there's no use explaining, but what first-class New England
cities regard as _culture_ your real artist avoids as he would avoid
poison.
UNCLE RICHARD
Well, well. But circumstances--really, Richard, don't you think it your
_duty_ to stay?
RICHARD
Why?
UNCLE RICHARD
Must I explain? We are met, after a long separation, in circumstances
personally sorrowful to me, and I trust, to some extent, to you as well.
We....
RICHARD
Yes, a _long_ separation.
UNCLE RICHARD
I admit, Richard, that from your point of view my attitude has not always
been as--as considerate, perhaps, as you might have expected. But I have
been a very busy man, and--
RICHARD
As far as I am concerned, uncle, I have nothing to blame you for; but my
mother....
UNCLE RICHARD
Your mother? Surely, Richard, your mother never criticised me to you? She
was much too fine a woman. Besides, I helped her in many ways you may know
nothing about.
RICHARD
No, mother said nothing. She wouldn't have, anyhow--and as far as your
helping her is concerned, I can only judge of that by results.
UNCLE RICHARD
Results? What do you mean? I have no desire to catalogue the things I have
done for one who was near to me, but--
RICHARD
That's all very well, uncle, and I have no criticism to make. What's over
is over. But when you speak of my duty to you, I think of how mother died
so young, and how I found out afterward her affairs were so difficult. I
had no idea--she sacrificed herself for me so long that I took it for
granted. But I think that you, as a business man, must have known.
UNCLE RICHARD
You found that everything was mortgaged? Well, Richard, it pains me to
recall these things. Your father, unfortunately, was a poor business man.
As for the mortgage, Richard, I held that myself.
RICHARD
You did!
UNCLE RICHARD
Yes. Even your mother did not know. I acted through an agent, and the
interest was two per cent.
RICHARD
But--
UNCLE RICHARD
A nominal rate. Your mother was so proud--
RICHARD
Well, but there were other matters, long ago, that I have only lately
heard about. You and father once started in business together....
UNCLE RICHARD
We did. And I advised him to sell out when I did, but he thought better to
hold on.
RICHARD
Poor father. You made--he lost....
UNCLE RICHARD
But if he had followed my advice--. All this is painful to me, Richard,
and leads nowhere. As for yourself, I have always been interested in you,
more so than you realize, and now--
RICHARD
Now?
UNCLE RICHARD
I cannot feel at fault for anything that has happened. Your father was
unsuited for modern life. By the ordinary standards he was bound to fail.
Still, it gives me great satisfaction that at the present time, Richard, I
can offer you a home. Yes, Richard, a _home_.
RICHARD
It's difficult to decide.... You see, my studio--
UNCLE RICHARD
Well! I confess I can't understand all this uncertainty!
RICHARD
For three years I have worked as hard as anybody could to make a position
allowing me to paint. I have succeeded. I no longer need help!
UNCLE RICHARD
Of course not! I don't question your ability to get along. At the same
time, your attitude now is rather quixotic. Besides, as far as your
painting is concerned, you can always go about where you require. It isn't
slavery I am planning for you here, Richard!
RICHARD
Well ... but then, as I must live by my sales and commissions, I'd cut a
poor figure in surroundings like these.
UNCLE RICHARD
Ha! Very quaint that, Richard, very quaint! I suppose artists _are_ like
that.... Richard, I see you do not yet understand. I shall be most happy
to provide for you in every way. Yes. I have considered the whole matter
carefully, and for some time have only waited an opportunity to explain to
you in person. Consider, then, that you shall have an income of your own.
You see, Richard?
RICHARD
No, I don't.
UNCLE RICHARD
Why, it's simple enough!
RICHARD
Yes, the facts are, but I don't understand--an income, a home. Why, I
never dreamed of such a thing!
UNCLE RICHARD
And why not, my boy, why not? We haven't seen enough of each other,
Richard. Perhaps I have been at fault there, not to show more clearly the
interest I have always taken in you. Yes, indeed, a warm interest,
Richard!
RICHARD
Why not, Uncle Richard? Three years ago you might have asked me that
question. Now I ask you _why_?
UNCLE RICHARD
Why? How strange! How could that question arise between a man and his own
nephew?
RICHARD
Three years ago, before Aunt Ethel died, I spent Thanksgiving with you. It
was during the recess, my second year at Harvard. I came here practically
from my mother's funeral. I had just learned the truth about our
affairs--not a thing of ours really ours, not a penny left. How mother had
kept the truth from me, I don't know. But suddenly everything changed. The
ground I had been standing on gave way--my hands grasped everywhere for
support. I had never lacked, never thought about money either way. I took
it for granted that families like ours were provided with a decent living
by some law of Providence.... I came here. I thought of course you would
help me. I didn't think so consciously--I turned to you and Aunt Ethel
from blind instinct.
We spent Thanksgiving together. It was very quiet, very sad. You both
talked about mother and the old days. At breakfast the next morning you
wished me good luck and went off to your office. Afterward Aunt Ethel and
I talked in the living room while I waited for the train. She seemed ill
at ease. She alluded to your affairs once or twice, saying that you were
quite embarrassed by the state of politics, and how sad it was that people
couldn't do all they wanted to in this world for others.
Uncle Richard, when Joseph came with the carriage, Aunt Ethel kissed me,
cried, and gave me--a twenty dollar bill. Good God! and I thanked her for
it. Twenty dollars--carfare and a week's board! I left the house
completely dazed: it seemed like a bad dream....
UNCLE RICHARD
There, there, Richard! We never imagined for a moment. I thought your
college course all provided for--and your Aunt Ethel never understood
business. She doubtless exaggerated my difficulty. If either of us had
dreamed you were so worried! As if I should have grudged you money!
RICHARD
That's what I thought at first, and I hated you for it, but afterward I
realized it was not that--it was worse.
UNCLE RICHARD
_Worse!_
RICHARD
Yes. It wasn't that you grudged the money, it was that you simply didn't
_think_ of it. You felt that something had to be done, because I made you
feel uncomfortable, but you didn't know exactly what, and you were both
relieved to see me go. I had spoiled your Thanksgiving dinner--that was
the depth of your realization.
UNCLE RICHARD
No, no, Richard! You were so cold, so silent. You made it impossible for
us to help you.
RICHARD
I suppose I did seem cold. That's the instinct of inexperienced natures
when they are desperate. But it would have been so easy to break through
with one kind word or act.
UNCLE RICHARD
There, there! How glad I am that conditions are changed!
RICHARD
Changed, yes, but it was I who changed them! The shock of poverty was
terrible at first, not because I set too much value on money, nor because
I was unwilling to work, but because I felt I had no power of attack. My
nature was introspective, I lived in an epic of my own creation. My
strength and my courage were wrapped up in dreams, and seemed to have no
relation to the practical world. I could have faced the devil himself for
an ideal, but to make my own living--that was the nightmare!...
That was why I was so cold, so silent. If you had said one human thing,
straight from your heart to mine, I should have been comforted. In a case
like that, as I now know, it is not money a man wants, even if he himself
thinks it is. No. It is just sympathy, the right word that renews his
courage and arms him against the new circumstances by making him feel he
doesn't stand alone. If you had found that word, or even tried to find it,
I should have loved you like a son. My heart was ready--you did not want
it!
UNCLE RICHARD
But you finished at college, Richard....
RICHARD
Yes, I finished. And do you know how? I spent that first night all alone
in my room, thinking. In the morning I called on a classmate, a poor man
who was working his way. I said: "Here, I haven't a cent. Advise me."
We talked it all over. He helped me sell my furniture, he sublet my room.
And he gave me a job.
UNCLE RICHARD
A--
RICHARD
A job. Collecting and delivering laundry. That's how I finished at
college. I'm ashamed to admit it now, but at first that work hurt me like
a knife. I couldn't see any relation between that and my ambition for art.
But it wore off. I grew tougher, I learned the real meaning of things. And
now I am glad it happened.
UNCLE RICHARD
Admirable, admirable! Really, Richard, I am more than ever convinced that
I have decided rightly. Richard, you _must_ make this your home!
RICHARD
Are you still talking about my _duty_?
UNCLE RICHARD
Richard, a man begins by working for himself alone, then he works for the
woman he marries, but even that is not enough. One by one I have seen
every motive that ever impelled or guided me grow insufficient and have to
be replaced. Ambition and love, once satisfied, point forward. We must
always have a future before us, Richard, unless we are willing to become
machines of habit. At one point or another most men do become machines.
Thank heaven, I never could. In these last few months I have begun to
realize.... It was your Aunt Ethel's tragedy that she had no children. I
wonder now whether it is not even more my own.
_Richard, I have made you my heir._
RICHARD
Your heir!
UNCLE RICHARD
My heir. And that is why, Richard--of course you could not realize it at
the time--that is why I allowed myself to use the word "duty" as having
reference to the future if not to the past.
For the future, Richard, is ours to enjoy, without misunderstanding,
without disharmony, I at the end of my labours, you at the beginning of
yours. You have revealed qualities I confess I had not suspected,
qualities fitting you for responsibility and administration. With the
position you will henceforth occupy, Richard, you should enter public
life. Nothing more honorable for a responsible citizen.... Nothing more
essential to the welfare of our beloved republic at its present critical
state. We need the English tradition over here, Richard--solid,
responsible men to administer public affairs. I have often felt the need
of an efficient aristocracy in our social and industrial life. And nothing
would please me more than to see you rise to authority by the leverage of
my wealth. Nothing would please me more--why, Richard, I should consider
it the prolongation of my own life!
RICHARD
No. No you don't, Uncle Richard. Never!
UNCLE RICHARD
What on earth do you mean?
RICHARD
I won't be your heir!
UNCLE RICHARD
Wh--what? Good heavens! Are you _mad_?
RICHARD
I hope so. Yes, I hope that from your point of view I am quite mad. You
won't understand me, because you don't understand what I most love and
what I most hate. Oh you self-made Americans! When I really needed your
helping hand you didn't think of me. You had the American idea that every
tub must stand on its own bottom, that every young fellow must make
_good_--that is, make money. You buy "art" at a certain stage in your
development just as you buy motor cars, and you think you can buy artists
the same way. You don't know that to buy dead art is to starve live
artists.
Well, I made good. I can stand alone. Are you offering me money now to
help me in my work? Not a bit! Rich men haven't changed since the first
tribal chief ordered his bow and arrows, his wives and servants, to be
buried with him.
UNCLE RICHARD
You conceited young rascal! I needn't leave you a cent!
RICHARD
I haven't asked you to. I never thought about your money. I can get along
very well without it. But can you take it with you?
UNCLE RICHARD
Of course not! But I can leave it to whom I please.
RICHARD
Why don't you leave it to Joseph?
UNCLE RICHARD
To Joseph--my coachman? Are you joking?
RICHARD
Not at all. Didn't he save your life in the Civil War? And what have I
ever done for you?
UNCLE RICHARD
I have remembered Joseph very handsomely, but to make him my _heir_--why,
that isn't the same thing at all!
RICHARD
Well, to a university then?
UNCLE RICHARD
No.
RICHARD
A church?
UNCLE RICHARD
No!
RICHARD
A cat hospital?
UNCLE RICHARD
Damn cats! There's been enough of them sick in my own house!
RICHARD
Well, I give it up.
UNCLE RICHARD
You young fool! You don't know what you are saying! _Joseph! Church! Cat
Hospital!_ What good would I get out of that? Is that what I have been
working for all my life? No indeed!
_Richard, you shall be my heir!_
RICHARD
I won't! You are only interested in me because I bear your name. If I were
John Smith, though ten times the better man, you would never waste a
thought upon me. My name is an accident--I care nothing for that. My real
self is my art, for which you care even less. All you want is to establish
a dynasty--the last infirmity of successful men.
No, I won't be your heir!
UNCLE RICHARD
Madness, madness! What kind of a world are we coming to?
RICHARD
Listen. One day when I was walking outside Siena I came to a fine old
villa with a wonderful garden. A row of cypresses ran along the wall
inside, and I wanted to paint it. The gardener let me in for a tip. While
I sat there working, he watching me--even the peasants have a feeling for
paint over there--we heard a tap on the window. It was the padrona. I saw
that she wanted to speak to me, and I went in. She was an old, crippled
woman, holding to life by sheer will, sitting all day by the fire in one
room. She spoke French, so we could talk. To my surprise she was very much
interested in me--asked questions about my work, my family, and so on. I
couldn't understand why. But when I left she began crying and told me that
I reminded her of her grandson who had been killed in Tripoli, and that
there was no one of the family name left, but that she had to leave the
property either to a cousin whom she detested, or to the Church. And she
said just what you have: that this wasn't the _same thing_. She had
nothing to live for, she said, now the heir was dead, except keep the
place out of others' hands. There she was, a prisoner in that beautiful
villa, enjoying nothing, where an artist would have been in paradise. I
see her yet, bent over the fire in a black lace shawl, crying.
On my way back to town I happened to think of my last visit with you, and
my state of mind returned, my feeling of dependence and the gloomy
Thanksgiving dinner. The shock of contrast between my old and my new self
stopped me short in the road. In a flash I saw the lying materialism on
which the world is based, the curse of dollar worship that keeps
opportunity away from the young, at the same time it keeps the old in a
prison of loneliness and suspicion. If we worshipped life instead of metal
disks, we would see that the young are not really the heirs of the old,
but the old are heirs of the young. Then and there I vowed to keep myself
clear of the whole wretched tangle, even if I had to carry laundry all my
life, so that if any one ever tried to fetter me I could fling his words
back in his face! (_Uncle Richard's nerves are all on edge. A terrific
storm of overbearing temper visibly gathers during this speech, and the
Colonel's long habit of successful domination seems about to assert itself
in an explosion. But at the last moment another power, deeper than habit,
older than character, represses his wrath, and when Uncle Richard speaks
again it is with an earnest gentleness almost plaintive._)
UNCLE RICHARD
Richard, for heaven's sake let us stop this quarreling! Let us forget what
has been said and done on both sides and begin anew. I offer you a home
here during my life time, and all that I own after I am dead. I _do_ care
for you, my boy, I know it now as I know my own name. Surely, Richard, you
need not take this offer amiss?
RICHARD
Well, but you see, Uncle Richard....
UNCLE RICHARD
Do you prefer poverty for its own sake?
RICHARD
Of course not. But I prefer it to hypocrisy and compromise.
UNCLE RICHARD
Well then. You will accept, Richard? For my sake, Richard?
RICHARD
Well....
UNCLE RICHARD
It is the only pleasure left to me, Richard, thinking of the old name
going down honourably in you. And as for the past, my mistakes were due to
not having a son of my own. You have no idea what a difference it makes.
It's my dream, Richard, don't destroy it!
RICHARD
If you really mean it that way--
UNCLE RICHARD
My dear Richard! My dear boy! Why--now I know why we have been quarreling,
Richard!
RICHARD
Why?
UNCLE RICHARD
Because we are so much alike. At your age I was the same self-willed
beggar you are. Richard, you are more like me than you are like your own
father!
RICHARD
Le roi est morte, vive le roi. _But_ (_and he thumps the table with great
emphasis_) but there's one thing understood--I'm going to paint
_masterpieces_!
UNCLE RICHARD
Of course you are, my boy, of course you are! In fact, I always _knew_ you
would, Richard!
THE INCOMPATIBLES
_A corner table in a Broadway restaurant, at evening. Between the man and
woman who have just taken seats is a bouquet of red roses._
MARIAN
No, I don't want any oysters or clams. I ate enough sea food in Atlantic
City to last a season. I want some--Oh, what gorgeous flowers! Umm! I love
the smell of roses! Especially out of season. Why, the other tables
haven't any! Fred, did you--?
FRED
Sure I did, Marian. I knew you'd like 'em.
MARIAN
I do. But you mustn't be a silly boy any longer, Fred!
FRED
I will, too. It isn't silly, to give _you_ flowers.
MARIAN
That's all right, Fred. Goodness knows I like the flowers. But I'm not a
young idiot who expects her honeymoon to last forever. I've had one
experience, you know.
FRED
Yes, but you mustn't judge all men by _him_.
MARIAN
I don't. I knew well enough you're different, or I'd never have married
you. But at the same time--
FRED
Well, I'm going to show you that a _real_ man don't get over the fun of
being married to a peach like you in just two weeks. You don't want me to,
do you?
MARIAN
Course not, Fred! Didn't I say you were different? But I don't want you to
set a pace you can't keep up. You'd hate me in no time if I did.
FRED
I couldn't hate _you_, girlie! Besides, isn't this our first night back in
the old town? We shan't be having dinner out like this every day.
MARIAN
Well, only I don't want to have you flop all of a sudden, like _he_ did.
What'll you have, a cocktail?
FRED
Let's see.... What's the matter, Marian?
MARIAN
Sh! Don't turn round!
FRED
What's up?
MARIAN
_Him!_
FRED
Him who?
MARIAN
_George!_
FRED
Good Lord! Well, don't mind _him_. He hasn't got anything on you now.
You're _mine_.
MARIAN
Sure I am. He isn't looking. He's with a woman. By jingo! It's that
millinery kid!
FRED
What millinery kid? Besides, what difference does it make? Let him have a
hundred, if he wants 'em. _We're_ happy.
MARIAN
The nerve of him! I knew it was her right along. He tried to throw a bluff
it was some swell. I'll bet he paid good for those clothes!
FRED
Oh, come on! What'll you have? Besides, she might have made the clothes
herself.
MARIAN
Made 'em herself! Say, a fine lot you know about ladies' gowns! That came
from the Avenue, straight.
FRED
Well, what if it did? I'll get you a better one, you just wait.
MARIAN
Sh! He's looking over here!
FRED
Hm! Look at me and you won't see him.
MARIAN
The nerve!
FRED
What's he done?
MARIAN
He smiled right over like nothing had ever happened. I'll bet he's going
to say something mean about me. Oh!
FRED
Let's change our seats. I'm hungry!
MARIAN
Change nothing! Catch me giving him a laugh like that! I could tell her
things, the young--There, now _she's_ looking!
FRED
What if she is? Say, look here--
MARIAN
He's getting up! Well, of all the brass!
FRED
What?
MARIAN
He's coming over here!
FRED
He is! Don't you say a word. I'll take _him_ on!
MARIAN
If he dares--
GEORGE
Hello, Marian!
MARIAN
Hm!
GEORGE
What, got a grouch on your honeymoon? That's a bad sign, Marian!
MARIAN
No, I haven't got any grouch! Don't _you_ worry! You're the only grouch I
ever had, thank the Lord!
GEORGE
Well then. It isn't every woman gets rid of an incompatible husband and
gets hold of a compatible one, all in same season.
FRED
Look here!
MARIAN
That's just like him! Coming over here with a grin on like a kid with a
new toy. Well, we don't want anything to do with _you_. See?
GEORGE
Sure. Excuse me for butting in. I just wanted to make a little
announcement.
MARIAN
Oh, you did! Well, I'm surprised! I didn't think _she_ was the kind you
had to marry.
GEORGE
Huh! I knew you'd have your little knife out for her. But why you should
have to be jealous _now_ I can't see.
MARIAN
I'm not jealous!
GEORGE
What you worrying about, then?
MARIAN
I'm not worrying! I'm only sore because you butted in when we were so
happy together here without you.
GEORGE
Oh, _excuse_ me! As a matter of fact, I didn't come over to make any
announcement. It's too late for that. I--
MARIAN
Married already! Anybody'd think you might wait a little while for common
decency!
GEORGE
I waited a day longer than you did, anyhow.
MARIAN
That's different.
FRED
I _beg_ your pardon! We were just ordering dinner. If you didn't come to
make any announcement, why--
MARIAN
Yes, what did you butt in for?
GEORGE
Why, I got a letter from your friend Grace, and--
MARIAN
Grace? What did she have to say to _you_?
GEORGE
She said she was sorry I had to get a divorce, but I told her--
MARIAN
Sorry _you_ had to get a divorce! Well, if I don't fix _her_!
GEORGE
Oh, she's getting married, too.
MARIAN
Who to?
GEORGE
That fellow, what's his name, that's got the garage over on Seventh
Avenue.
MARIAN
Snider! So _he's_ the one! Well! And I suppose she'll be all over town in
a new car.
GEORGE
Sure. Saw him to-day. A big yellow one. I always told you she was out for
money. And you thought she was in love with Jackson!
MARIAN
Hypocrite! She was. Or she told me so. Cried all over me. Have you seen
Jackson?
GEORGE
Yes. He's as blue as your old kimono. He said--
FRED
Look here, Marian! I'm not going to wait all night for my dinner!
MARIAN
Order your old dinner! What did Jackson say, George?
THE GENIUS
_The front porch of a small farmhouse in New England. Stone flags lead to
the road; the yard is a careless, comfortable lawn with two or three old
maples. It is autumn._
_A boy of sixteen or so, carrying a paper parcel, stops hesitatingly,
looks in a moment and then walks to the porch. As he stands there a man
comes out of the house. The man is in his early forties, he stoops a
little, but not from weakness; his expression is one of deep calm._
THE MAN
I wonder if you have seen my dog? I was going for a walk, but Rex seems to
have grown tired of waiting.
THE BOY
Your dog? No, sir, I haven't seen him. Shall I go look?
THE MAN
No, never mind. He'll come back. Rex and I understand each other. He has
his little moods, like me.
THE BOY
If you were going for a walk--?
THE MAN
It doesn't matter at all. I can go any time. You don't live in this
country?
THE BOY
No, sir. I live in New York. I wish I did. It's beautiful here, isn't it?
THE MAN
It's very beautiful to me. I love it. You may have come a long road this
morning, let's sit down.
THE BOY
Thank you. I'm not interfering with anything?
THE MAN
Bless your heart! No indeed. What is there to interfere with? All we have
is life, and this is part of it.
THE BOY
I like to sit under these trees. It makes me think of the Old Testament.
THE MAN
That's interesting. How?
THE BOY
Well, maybe I'm wrong, but whenever I think of the Old Testament I see an
old man under a tree--
THE MAN
Yes?
THE BOY
A man who has lived it all through, you know, and found out something real
about it; and he sits there calm and strong, something like a tree
himself; and every once in a while somebody comes along--a boy, you
know,--and the boy talks to him all about himself, just as we imagine
we'd like to with our fathers, if they weren't so busy, or our teachers,
if they didn't depend so much upon books, or our ministers, if we thought
they would really understand,--and the old man doesn't say much maybe, but
the boy goes away much stronger and happier....
THE MAN
Yes, yes, I understand. The Old Testament.... They _did_ get hold of
things, didn't they?
THE BOY
What I can't understand is how nowadays people seem more grown up and
competent than those men were, in a way, and we do such wonderful
things--skyscrapers and aeroplanes--and yet we aren't half so wonderful as
they were in the Old Testament with their jugs and their wooden plows. I
mean, we aren't near so big as the things we do, while those old fellows
were so much bigger. We smile at them, but if some day one of our machines
fell over on us what would we do about it?
THE MAN
I wonder.
THE BOY
I went through a big factory just last week. One of my friends' father is
the manager, and all I could think of was what could a fellow do who
didn't like it, who didn't fit in.... Nowadays most everybody seems
competent about factories or business or something like that--you
know--and they've got hold of everything, so a fellow's got to do the same
thing or where is he?
THE MAN
That's the first question, certainly: where is he? But where is he if he
does do the same thing?
THE BOY
Why, he's with the rest. And _they_ don't ask that question....
THE MAN
I'm afraid they don't. It would be interesting to be there if they should
begin to ask it, wouldn't it?
THE BOY
Yes.... I'd like to be there when some _I_ know ask themselves! But they
never will. Why should they?
THE MAN
Don't you mean how _can_ they?
THE BOY
Yes, of course. They don't ask the question because the big thing they are
doing seems to be the answer beforehand. But it isn't! Not compared with
the Old Testament. So we have to ask it for ourselves. And that's why I
came here....
THE MAN
Oh. You want to know where _they_ are, with their power, or where _you_
will be without it?
THE BOY
Where I'll be. I hate it! But what else is there to-day?
THE MAN
Why, there's you.
THE BOY
But that's just it! What am I for if I can't join in? I came to you....
You don't mind my talking, do you?
THE MAN
On the contrary.
THE BOY
Well, everybody I know is a part of it, so how could they tell me what to
do outside of it? I've been wondering about that for a year. Before then,
when I was just a boy, the world seemed full of everything, but now it
seems to have only one thing. That or nothing. Then one day I saw a
photograph somebody had cut out of a Sunday paper, and I thought to myself
there's a man who seems outside, entirely outside, and yet he has
something. It wasn't all or nothing for him ... and I wondered who it was.
Then I found your book, with the same picture in it. You bet I read it
right off! It was the first time in my life I had ever felt power as great
as skyscrapers and railroads and yet apart from them. Outside of all they
mean. Like the Old Testament. Those poems!
THE MAN
You liked them?
THE BOY
It was more than that. How can a fellow _like_ the ocean, or a snow storm?
THE MAN
Is that what you thought they were like?
THE BOY
Why, they went off like a fourteen inch gun! Not a whine about life in
them--not a single regret for anything. They were wonderful! They seemed
to pick up mountains and cities and toss them all about like toys. They
made me feel that what I was looking for was able to conquer what I
didn't like.... I said to myself I don't care if he does laugh at me, I'll
go and ask him where all that power is! And so I came....
THE MAN
There's Rex now--over across the road. He's wondering who you are. He sees
we are friends, and he's pretending to be jealous. Dogs are funny, aren't
they? But you were speaking about my poems. It's odd that their first
criticism should come from you like this. You must be about the same age I
was when I began writing--when I wanted above anything to write a book
like that, and when such a book seemed the most impossible thing I could
do. Like trying to swim the Atlantic, or live forever.
THE BOY
It seemed impossible? I should think it would be the most natural thing in
the world, for _you_--like eating dinner.
THE MAN
That's the wonderful thing--not the book, but that _I_ should have come to
write it!
THE BOY
But who else could write it?
THE MAN
At your age I thought anybody could--anybody and everybody except myself.
THE BOY
Really?
THE MAN
Really and truly. You've no idea what a useless misfit I was.
THE BOY
But I read somewhere you had always been brilliant, even as a boy.
THE MAN
Unfortunately ... yes. That was what made it so hard for me. Shall I tell
you about it?
THE BOY
I wish you would!
THE MAN
Brilliance--I'll tell you what that was, at least for me. I wrote several
things that people called "brilliant." One in particular, a little play of
decadent epigram. It was acted by amateurs before an admiring "select"
audience. That was when I was twenty-one. From about sixteen on I had been
acutely miserable--physically miserable. I never knew when I wouldn't
actually cave in. I felt like a bankrupt living on borrowed money. Of
course, it's plain enough now--the revolt of starved nerves. I cared only
for my mind, grew only in that, and the rest of me withered up like a
stalk in dry soil. So the flower drooped too--in decadent epigram. But
nobody pointed out the truth of it all to me, and I scorned to give my
body a thought. People predicted a brilliant future--for me, crying
inside! Then I married. I married the girl who had taken the star part in
the play. According to the logic of the situation, it was inevitable.
Everybody remarked how inevitable it was. A decorative girl, you know. She
wanted to be the wife of a great man.... Well, we didn't get along. There
was an honest streak in me somewhere which hated deception. I couldn't
play the part of "brilliant" young poet with any success. She was at me
all the while to write more of the same thing. And I didn't want to. The
difference between the "great" man I was supposed to be and the sick child
I really was, began to torture. I knew I oughtn't to go on any further if
I wanted to do anything real. Then one night we had an "artistic" dinner.
My wife had gotten hold of a famous English poet, and through him a
publisher. The publisher was her real game. I drank champagne before
dinner so as to be "brilliant." I was. And before I realized it, Norah had
secured a promise from the publisher to bring out a book of plays. I
remember she said it was practically finished. But it wasn't, only the
one, and I hated that. But I sat down conscientiously to write the book
that she, and apparently all the world that counted, expected me to write.
Well, I couldn't write it. Not a blessed word! Something inside me refused
to work. And there I was. In a month or so she began to ask about it.
Norah thought I ought to turn them out while she waited. I walked up and
down the park one afternoon wondering what to tell her.... And when I
realized that either she would never understand or would despise me, I
grew desperate. I wrote her a note, full of fine phrases about
"incompatibility," her "unapproachable ideals," the "soul's need of
freedom"--things she _would_ understand and wear a heroic attitude
about--and fled. I came here....
THE BOY
Of course. But didn't she follow you? Didn't they bother you?
THE MAN
Not a bit. Norah preferred her lonely heroism. In a few months I was quite
forgotten. That was one of the healthful things I learned. Well, I was a
wreck when I came here, I wanted only to lie down under a tree.... And
there it was, under that tree yonder, my salvation came.
THE BOY
Your salvation?
THE MAN
Hunger. That was my salvation. Simple, elemental, unescapable appetite.
You see I had no servant, no one at all. So I had to get up and work to
prepare my food.... It was very strange. Compared with this life, my life
before had been like living in a locked box. Some one to do everything for
me except think, and consequently I thought too much. But here the very
fact of life was brought home to me. I spent weeks working about the house
and grounds on the common necessities. By the time winter came on the
place was fit to live in--and I was enjoying life. All the "brilliance"
had faded away; I was as simple as a blade of grass.
For a year I didn't write a word. I had the courage to wait for the real
thing, nobody pestering me to be a "genius"! Some day you may read that
first book. People said I had re-discovered the virtue of humility. I had.
THE BOY
I will read it! And how much more it will mean to me now!
THE MAN
I suppose you know the theory about vibrations--how if a little push is
given a bridge, and repeated often enough at the right intervals, the
bridge will fall?
THE BOY
Yes.
THE MAN
Well, that's the whole secret of what you have been looking for--what you
found in my poems.
THE BOY
I don't understand.
THE MAN
A man's life is a rhythm. Eating, sleeping, working, playing, loving,
thinking--everything. And when we live so that each activity comes at the
right interval, we gain power. When one interrupts another, we lose.
Weakness is merely the thrust of one impulse against another, instead of
their combined thrust against the world. When I came here, feeling like a
criminal, I was obeying the one right instinct in a welter of emotions. It
was like the faintest of heart beats in a sick body. I listened to that.
Then I learned physical hunger, then sleep, and so on. It's incredible how
stupid I was about the elemental art of living! I had to begin all over
from the beginning, as if no one had ever lived before.
THE BOY
That's what you meant in your poems about religion.
THE MAN
Exactly! I learned that "good" is the rhythm of the man's personal nature,
and that "evil" is merely the confusion of the same impulses. As time
went on it became instinctive to live for and by the rhythm. Everything
about my life here was caught up and used in the vision of power--drawing
water, cutting wood, digging in the garden, dawn. It was all marvelous--I
couldn't help writing those poems. They are the natural joys and sorrows
of ten years. As a matter of fact, though, I grew to care less and less
about writing, as living became fuller and richer. People write too much.
They would write less if they had to make the fire in the morning.
THE BOY
The first impulse ... I see. Oh, life might be so simple!
THE MAN
Why not? The animals have it. Men have it at times, but we make each other
forget. If we could only be each other's reminders instead of forgetters!
THE BOY
Yes! But I see the only thing to do is to go away, like you.
THE MAN
Not necessarily, I was merely a bad case, and required a desperate remedy,
earth and air and freedom from others' will. I need the country, but the
next man might require the city as passionately. Don't imagine that only
the hermits, like me, live instinctively. It can be done in New York, too,
only one mustn't be so sensitive to others.... After all, friend, we were
wrong in saying that this power lies outside the world of skyscrapers and
business. It doesn't lie outside nor inside. It cuts across everything.
Do you see? For it's all a matter of the man's own soul.
THE BOY
Then?
THE MAN
We can't live in a vacuum. The more you feel the force, the more you must
act. The more you can act. And in the long run it doesn't matter what you
do, if you do what your own instinct bids.
THE BOY
Then I _could_ stay right in the midst of it?
THE MAN
Yes. And if you were thinking of writing poetry, it might even be better
to stay in the midst of it. Drama, you know ... and it's time for a new
drama.
THE BOY