The Drama - Forgotten Books

THE DRAMA

A Qu arterly Review Devoted to the Play and

the Theatre

Febru ary , 19 19

DRAMATERLY REV I EW

Editor , E BALLOU H INCKLEY

Advisory and Contributing Editors

THOMAS H . DICKINSON , Universi ty o f Wisc onsin .

NATHAN IEL W. STEPHENSON , Col lege of Charleston .

R ICHARD BURTON , Universi ty of M innesota.

STARK YOUNG , Amherst College .

S. H . CLARK , Universi ty of Chicago .

BENEDICT PAPOT , Chautauq ua Insti tution .

Publ ished at Mount Morris , I l l inois

THE DRAMA LEAGUE OF AMERICA

Riggs BuildingWashington , D . C .

750 A Number A Year

Copyright , 1919By THE DRAMA LEAGUE OF AMERICA

Applica tion made for transfer of entry from the pos t 0600 at Chi cago. I llinois , tothe post offi ce at Mount Morris , I llinois .

THE DRAMANumber 33 FEBRUARY

CONTENTS

PAGE

MOTHER-LOVE , a play in one act , byGertrude Buck

THE RUSSIAN DRAMATIC STAGE , byA lexander Bakshy

THE BEGGAR AND THE KING,a play ,

by Winthrop Parkhurst

THE IDEA OF MODERN TRAGEDY , byE . Clarendon Ross

WALTER HAMPDEN A NEW HAMLET ,

by Clarence Stratton

DAWN , a one-act play, by Rita Wellman

AMERICA’S FIRST PERMANENT PLAYHOUSE , by Charles Nevers Holmes

CHICAGO ’S YEAR OF DRAMA ,a Drama

League Report

UNDER CONVICTION , a play in one act ,

PRESCRIBING FOR THE DRAMA,by

Clarence Stratton

THE DRAMA LEAGUE OF TODAY,by

Mrs . A . Starr Best

PIERROT BY THE LIGHT OF THE

MOON , a fantasy, by Virginia Church .

THE DRAMAAQuarterlyRev iewDev otedtotheDrama

No. 33 FEBRUARY

MOTHER-LOVE

By GERTRUDE BUCK

Characters

MAGGIE Ross , a dressmakerMRS . Ross , her motherJIM Ross , her brotherLURA Ross , her s ister

[I t is an evening inmid-December . M aggie’s sewing

room' is a low-cei led, shabbi ly furnished room,

with an ou tside door in the back. Another door atthe right opens into the ki tchen . A third door atthe left leads upstairs . There is a window in theback wall. A small door-bell

,connected by a vi s

ible wire with the ou tside door,hangs from the

cei ling in the corner of the room. An old-fashioned hair-cloth-covered sofa stands against thewall, with a small table at i ts head . A high chestof drawers is at the back of the room and a largeround table with a lamp on it is in the center . A

small, br ightly-glowing coal-stove i s at rightfront,a folding screen covered with gay cretonne back ofit, opened against the right wall. A figu re forfitting dresses , standing at one side, has on it anugly, unfinished dress of wide-striped black and

2 MOTHER-LOVE

red si lk . The bright-colored, well-worn ingraincarpet is strewn with snippets of cloth and bitsof basting cotton . Paper patterns and fashionplates from magazines are pinned to the coarselace window curtains and theflower-papered walls .

MAGGIE is standing over the sofa on whichMOTHER is lying, propped up high on a pi le ofcretonne-covered pi llows , with a knitted afghanspread over her. MAGGIE is a middle-agedwoman with a delicate-featu red face which, thoughworn and sometimes anxiou s in expression , seemsto be lighted from within by an absorbi ng happiness . She wears a shabby serge dress and a whiteapron, with a red pin-cu shion fu ll of pi ns hangingfrom her belt. MOTHER is attired in a tumbledlavender kimono trimmed lavi shly wi th cheapmachine-made lace . Her white hair falls un

tidily abou t her sleek , self- indu lgent, self-satisfiedface.MAGGIE [cheerfu lly]: It

’s a little better , isn

’tit , Mother? Just a little?MOTHER [in a feeble bu t i rritable voice]: Maggie ,

how often have I told you not to ask me questionswhen I have a headache? You always mak e itworse .

MAGGIE [arrested by contrition in the act ofdroppi ng the cloth into the basin]: Oh

,I hope I

haven ’t thi s time , Mumsie dear ! I thought itmust be nearly well .MOTHER [petu lantly]: No

,it isn ’t . And it

won ’t be, if you act like thi s . [She sighs deeplyand closes her eyes . MAGGIE dips the cloth in thewater , wrings it ou t, and lays it on MOTHER

’S head .

MOTHER snatches it 017]MOTHER [in a voi ce of intense exasperation]:

Don’

t put that thing on me again !

MOTHER-LOVE 3

MAGGIE [su rprised]: Oh , I thoughtMOTHER [plaintively, recovering her feeble tone]:It doesn ’t do me a speck of good . Nothing does .

[With a yawn,followed by a heavy sigh .] I might

as well go to bed, I s’pose . But of course I can ’t

sleep .

MAGGIE [She takes the cloth fromMOTHER , dropsit into the basin, and wipes her hands on the towellying beside it]: Yes, do go, Mumsie . Lura has

got you r bed open for you and she’s going to bathe

you r head with cologne , till you drop oh’

.

MOTHER [pettishly, with half closed eyes]: I’d

rather have you .

MAGGIE [imploringly]: Oh , Mumsie,do let

her do it . She loves to tak e care of people . And

I could ju st about finish her doll, while she’s up

stairs . [She takes half-dressed doll ou tof the chest ofdrawers and displays it admiringly .] Isn ’t herli ttle hat sweet? Lu ra will be tick led to pieceswhen she sees that blue-j ay feather on it .MOTHER [opening her eyes wide, and sitting up]:

Maggie Ross , are you going to give her that dollafter all I ’ve said?MAGGIE [She takes her work-basket, and sits down

to sew on the doll’s dress]: Why ,Mother dear,

that ’s what she wants . I can ’t give her grownup things , you know . She ’d be so di sappointed .

MOTHER [fiercely]: Well , if you like to see agray-headed woman messing

’round with dollsand pictu re-books

,other people don ’t ! It makes

me so sick I can hardly live. You might thinkonce in a while of my feelings .MAGGIE [Laying aside the doll, she jumps upfrom

her chair and sits beside MOTHER on the sofa]: Oh ,Mother dear , I do . But Lura isn ’t a gray-headedwoman to me

, you know . I guess I see her the

4 MOTHER-LOVE

way she sees herself—just a li ttle girl eight years

old. [Tenderly] And we must make her happy ,

mustn ’t we? It’s all we can do for her .

MOTHER [acidly]: Oh,of course, if she

’s onlyhappy . Nobody cares about me . It ’s all Lurawi th you . [With ri sing anger] I guess I knowwhat is best for my own child, Maggie Ross , but

you never listen to me . Anybody ’d think she

was your child , instead of mine .

MAGGIE : Why , no , Mother . But it’s for her

Christmas .

MOTHER : Christmas ! Don ’t talk abou t Christmas to me . What kind of a Christmas will it befor me

,I ’d like to know,

with my boy at the endsof the earth , or maybe lying in his grave?MAGGIE [trying to pu ther arms around MOTHER]:

Oh,Mumsie, dear , I know . But cou ldn ’t you

ju st for Lu ra and meMOTHER [putting her away]: NO, I couldn

’t .And I don ’t want any presents from either of you .

Just remember that .MAGGIE : Oh , Mother , not anything at all?

MOTHER : No . You can give me the moneyyou were going to spend for me , if you want to .

But I won ’t have anything else .

MAGGIE : But, Mother, we ’re only maki ng

some little things for you . They don ’t cost anything mu ch . But they give us the Chri stmasfeeling.

MOTHER : Well, if they don’t cost but a nickel ,

I’

d rather have that than anything you’d buy

with it and fu ss up . There ’s no Chri stmas feelingfor me till my boy comes home , and I ain

’t goingto pretend there is .

[LURA’

S voi ce is heard from above ]LURA : Maggie .

.AflOTUJEUbJXDVd? 5

MAGGIE [goi ng to stair door and Opening it]:Yes , dear .LURA [accu singly]: I

’m waiting an’

waiting.

MAGGIE : Mother’s coming—j ust a minute .

MOTHER [fretfu lly]: Where’s my handkerchief,

Maggie?MAGGIE : It mu st be on the sofa . [She looks

for it behind MOTHER , finds and shakes it ou t. I t

is seen to be fu ll of holes ]MAGGIE [giving it to her]: Oh , Mother, dear ,

haven ’t you any better handerchiefs than thi s?MOTHER [with consciou s heroi sm]: It doesn

’tmatter .MAGGIE : D idn’t you buy some new ones with

the money I gave you? ! [MOTHER purses her lipsand looks complacently mysteriou s , but does not

answer .] I guess she embezzled it again , thebad Mumsie, and put it in her secret drawer .Well, I might have known she would . [She sighsinvoluntari ly]MOTHER [rising indignantly and looking down on

MAGGIE with an outraged expression]: Embezzle,

Miss Maggie? That is a strange word for a daughter to use abou t her mother .MAGGIE [rising and attempting to take MOTHER

’

Shands , which MOTHER impatiently wi thdraws]:Oh

,Mumsie

,dear

,I ’m only j ok ing, of cou rse . But

I can ’t bear to have you go without things so.

MOTHER [wi th sad dignity]: It is for my boy ,

Maggie . I want nothing for myself .MAGGIE [with a sigh]: Take some of my

handkerchiefs,dear

,till I can buy a few new ones .

We ’re nearly out of coal,and Lura’s shoes

MOTHER : I am used to doing withou t things .It is a mother ’s lot to sacrifice for her children .

LURA [from above]: Maggie , hurry up !

6 MOTHER-LOVE

MAGGIE : Yes , dearie , coming right away .

Want yournovel , Mother? [She picks up a volumefrom the sofa .]MOTHER [langu idly]: I

’ve finished that . Luramust go to the library for me , tomorrow .

MAGGIE : All right . Good-night , Mumsie.

Pleasant dreams!MOTHER [ascending the stairs]: I don

’t expectto sleep at all . Good-night .

[MAGGIE folds the afghan and lays it smoothly overthe foot of the sofa , sets the pi llouw in order , andtakes the bas in from the table into the kitchen .

The door-bell rings softly and she re-enters hasti ly,smoothing her apron with her hands as she goesto the outs ide door and opens i twide ]MAGGIE : Good evening.

JIM [ou ts ide]: Good evening. I s this MissRoss?MAGGIE : Yes . I s there somethingJIM : Can I see you a few minu tes? A littlematter of business .

‘lVIAGGIE : Why certainly . Won ’t you come

In .

[JIM enters with a jaunty yet somewhat uncertainair . Removing his hat, he shows a bald head witha fringe of gray hair about it, a gray VanDykebeard and pointed moustache

,

‘

perched incongruously on a fat redface. Heavy glasses almost conceal his eyes , but he looks easy—going, impressionable, sympathetic. H is overcoat is worn bu tof a stylish cu t. Atfirst glance one might placehim in a higher social class than MAGGIE ’S .

MAGGIE ofiers him a chair by the table ] Pleasesit down .

[JIM pu lls ofi'

his overcoat and lays it with his haton the chair MAGGIE indicates

,turns another with

MOTHER-LOVE

its back to the lamp and si ts down. MAGGIE si tsnear him,

facing the light. JIM devours with hiseyes her face and every detai l of the room, bu t she

seems wholly unconscious of his scrutiny, ab

sorbed in the business in hand ]JIM : I ’m looking for a room , and a lady upthe street told me maybe I cou ld rent one here .

MAGGIE [su rprised]: Oh , no , I’m afraid not . ‘

We haven ’t any room . That is [She stopsabruptly , as if stru ck by a new idea , and clasps andunclasps her hands , looking from JIM to the stairway door with alternate eager desi re and despondency .

With an almost imperceptible shake of the head,

she drops her hands qu ietly into her lapJIM [regretfu lly]: I wish you had . I ’d like tostay here first-rate .

MAGGIE [glancing again toward the sta irs]: Thereis a room that we don ’t use now for anyone , butMother wou ldn ’t hear of it

,I ’m sure .

JIM [in a hu shed, sympathetic tone]: B elongedto some one who ’s dead?MAGGIE : It

’s my brother ’s room . He

’

s beenaway twenty-eight years now , and it

’s sixteen

years this Christmas since we heard from him.

JIM : Well , that don’t look as if he ’d be wanting

to u se his room right away, does it?MAGGIE : No . And I wish we cou ld let you

have it . [Again clasp ing and unclasping her handsand leaning forward eagerly] I wonder—do youbelieve in prayer?JIM [kindly, bu t wi th an embarrassed chuckle]

°

Well , I don’t know as I do

,much . There might

be something in it .MAGGIE : I do wish I knew . I ’ve been ask ing

God to show me some way to earn a li ttle money ,and it seems as if He mu st have sent you .

8 AMOTTHERJXTVE

JIM [with another chuckle, half-tender , halfamu sed]: Well,

’sposin

’He did?

MAGGIE [with conviction]: He must have doneit . I never even thought of that room . But Idon ’t know what Mother will say .

JIM : Will she mind awfully?MAGGIE [in an awed tone]: You don ’t know

what it means to her . [With intensity ] But we’ve

got to have a new roof. The old one can ’t bemended any more . And it costs almost a hundreddollars ! [She looks at JIM for sympathy]JIM [feelingly]: That ’s a terrible price !MAGGIE [with a stifled sigh, looking toward the

figu re]: And I can ’t do very mu ch dressmaking,what wi th the hou sework and all

, though Lu ra’s

a wonderfu l help , for a child , soJIM [startled]: A child?MAGGIE [with a low,

tender laugh]: She isn ’treally a chi ld

,she ’s my Older sister , but she had

an awfu l sickness when she was eight years Oldand her brain never grew after that , so she

’s always stayed ju st the way she was then .

JIM [thoughtfu lly]: I see. Well, I shou ld thinkyou ’d have to rent a room

,if you ’ve got one to

rent .MAGGIE [desperately]: Yes , I must. But I

don ’t believe Mother wi ll . If you take it, you

won ’t mind , will you ,if she tells you to go?

JIM [chuckling]: No,I won ’t mind . Shall I

stay right on till she begins throwing the flatirons?MAGGIE [reproachfu lly]: Oh you mustn ’t laugh.

That room—well , it’s really sacred to her, becau se

it was Jim ’s . She ’s never let anybody sleep in itnot even Lura or me . Lu ra sleeps with me andshe

’

d like a room all her own. But Mother cou ldn ’tdo it . Oh , I

’m sure she won ’t let you stay in it !

MOTHER-LOVE 9

JIM : But if you need money so mu chMAGGIE : Mother doesn ’t think mu ch abou tmoney

,only for Jim .

JIM : For Jim? Why , she doesn’t know where

he is .MAGGIE : No

,but she thinks Jim will ask her

to come and live with him some day,and she

wants to have money to go wi th . Or she thinksmaybe he will fall sick and she mu st go where heis and have something to help him with . Shethinks everything of Jim .

JIM [with half-smothered irritation]: Well, whyshould she? What ’s he ever done for her? Did

he u se to send her money before he quit writing?MAGGIE [reluctantly]: Well, no . But he cou ldn ’t

really . He didn ’t get on very well, I guess . Andit

’s hard for a man to economize, don

’t you thinkso? They don ’t know how

, the way a womandoes . That ’s what Mother always says .JIM [with a snort of contempt]: I know his sort ,

all right .MAGGIE [really hurt]: You don

’t know Jim .

You cou ldn’t help lik ing him,if you did.

JIM [with an obstinate wag of the head]: Youbet I could ! But I ’ll tell you what I

’ll do,if you

want me to. I ’m going west myself, in a monthor so, and , if you

’ll tell me where your brother waswhen he wrote you the last letter, I

’

ll look himup .

MAGGIE [in a flutter of delight]: Oh , wou ld you ,

really? He was in Phoenix , Arizona . It seemstoo mu ch for you to do, for strangers , so. But ifyou cou ld find him

,it wou ld be more to Mother

than anything else in the world .

JIM’Twouldn

’t be much to you , I

s ’pose , and I don’t blame you .

10 MOTHER-LOVE

MAGGIE : Oh,yes

,it wou ld . But he

’s all

Mother has you know . And I ’ve got Lura . [Her

face lights at LURA’

S name]JIM [exasperated]: Say , you r Mother

’s got you ,hasn ’t she

,and Lura, too?

MAGGIE : Oh, but daughters can

’t be lik e ason, you know—an only son. She thinks abou thim all the time

,I guess , but Christmas and her

birthday are the worst of all . She always u sedto get a letter on those days , and when she doesn

’t ,we can ’t do anything to mak e her happy . She

just sits and grieves over Jim . It’s awfu l to see

her.

JIM : Mu st be pretty tough .

MAGGIE : Yes,sometimes we can ’t get her

to speak to either of us for days and days . I feelso bad for Lura , you know . She ought to have ahappy childhood

,don ’t you think so? even if it

is an extra long one. Seem ’s if that ’s all we cando for her, just to make her happy .

JIM [in a choked voice]: Say , I gu ess you’re

Lura’s mother,all right .

MAGGIE [shocked at the ide a]: Oh,no. I

cou ldn ’t be that . Mother says if you ’re not reallya mother, you can

’t know how a mother feels ;and I ’m not , you know . I ’m not married .

JIM [indignantly]: What’s that got to do with

it? I ’ve seen women runnin’ over with k ids that

was no more mothers than I am . An’ some Ole

maids—why , Good Lord ! They mothered everything in sight .MAGGIE [softly, her face k indling]: I wish I was

her mother .JIM [looking at her specu latively]: I don

’t see

why you didn’t get married .

MOTHER-LOVE 1 1

MAGGIE [surpri sed]: Why , I couldn’t . What

wou ld Mother and Lu ra do?JIM : Su re enough . What wou ld they? Well

,

if I get hold of that brother Of yours , I’ll make him

come home and look after his family if I have tokick him all the way from Arizona .

MAGGIE [sternly]: If you’re going to talk like

that to him, you needn

’t look him up at all . Noneof u s feels that way abou t Jim .

JIM : Well, you have a good right to .

MAGGIE : Say , I wish you’d put you rself in

Jim ’s place , once . Things were hard for him here .

I see j ust how it was, now .

JIM : The deu ce you do !MAGGIE : I couldn ’t help seeing. It isn ’t

natural for a boy to be loving hi s mother all thetime

,I ’spose ; and Mother is a great one for

petting and love-talk . Jim couldn ’t bear todisappoint her—he has the kindest heart—so hehad to go off some place where he wou ldn ’t feellik e a brute .

JIM [with great satisfaction]: That’s it . He had

to . [I n sudden revu lsion] But he was a di rtyqu itter, j ust the same . [MAGGIE does not noticehis words . Steps are heard on the stair . MAGGIE ’Seyes turn toward the door ; her face lights with gentlehappiness . She rises hastily, pu ts the doll into adrawer

,and tu rns for an instant toward JIM]

MAGGIE : Here ’s my little girl .

[The stair-door is pushed softly open and LURAenters . Her figure is that of a small, slight,elderly woman . She wears steel-bowed spectacles ,but her face is unlined, and her expression iswistfu lly appealing, like that of a child . Her

iron-

gray hair is held back by a child’s circle

comb and tied with a red-ribbon top-knot. Her

12 MOTHER-LOVE

short, red and blue pla id, woolen dress is made

in a child’s fashion. Her movements are timid,yet without the self

-consciou sness of an adu lt.MAGGIE goes tomeet LURA , who hesitates at sight

of JIM ,puts her arm arou nd her and leads her

forward]0

MAGGIE : Come in,dear . Thi s Is my Sister

Lura . Thi s gentleman has come to see abou trenting a room,

but I’m afraid we haven’t got any

for him . [JIM rises and ofi'

ers his hand . H i s ex

pression is wholly kind and pitifu l]JIM : How do you do . Lura?LURA [She shakes hands , looking solemnly into

JIM’s face, and turning to MAGGIE]: I s it brother

Jim?MAGGIE : Oh

,no

,dear . [To J im] She ask s

God every night to send brother Jim home to us ,

so whenever any man comes to the hou se on anerrand she think s it mu st be Jim . I don ’t wonder ;it

’s been a long time . [to LURA] But God hasn ’tsent him yet

,dear .

LURA [deci sively]: I think it’

s time He did,don’t you , Maggie? [She fondles MAGGI E

’

s hand,

swinging her arm by it and looking shyly at JIM]JIM [He stepsforward with an air of sudden de

cision and takes LuRA ’s other hand]: Lu ra

, you

tell sister Maggie you guessed it , first time . Itis brother Jim !LURA [She jumps up and down, chanting ecstat

ically] : He’

s come home for Christmas ! ’

n

brought me some presents !MAGGIE [incredu lou sly, putting ou t a hand to

sti ll LURA]: Jim? No,

’

tisn’

t.

JIM [gently]: Yes , it is . I thought you wou ldn’t

know me . I ’ve got so fat and bald . And theseglasses . [He takes them ofi . MAGGIE moves toward

https://www.forgottenbooks.com/join

14 MOTHER-LOVE

home ; but all I cou ld scrape up seemed to go,somehow

,

“ ’

n Mother kep’

teasin’ me to send for

her till I ju st dreaded to get a letter . I cou ldn’

tcook up anything more to put her off with- so

then I had to stop writin’

MAGGIE : Why—Mother doesn’t know yet ! I

mu st tell her , thi s minu te . Oh,Jim , I

’m so glad !

[She flings her arms around his neck and kisseshim rapturou sly, then goes upsta irs . I/ura makesanother charge upon JIM

’s pockets and in spi te

of his efiorts to defend them pu lls ou tfirst a muchsoi led handkerchief, then a very flat leather pu rse,and a cigar case]LURA [with disappointment as each article is dis

closed]: Oh,a handkerchief ! A pu rse ! What ’s

that? [JIM opens it for her]JIM : It

’

s a case for cigars , Sis , but not a blameone left in it . Want to smell? [He holds it to hernose. She wrinkles it in disgust]LURA : Ugh ! I t

’

s a nasty smell . I can feelwhat ’s in this pocket . [She traces the ou tline ofsome object with her hands , while JIM holds the opening so that she cannot get into it] Ju st a bottle . A

medicine bottle . Do you have to take medi cine?JIM [with a grimace]: Sometimes. But lookhere , little one . Christmas is qu ite a ways downthe road , yet . And children that pry don ’t getany presents at all

, you know .

LURA : Well , I won’t then . [JIM sits down and

she perches on the arm of his cha ir , rubbing herhead against his sleeve as she talks . JIM takes herhand s in his and fond les them] Do you eat an eggfor your breakfast?JIM : Yes , if I can get it .LURA [warningly]: It makes you fat . Motherdoes , but Maggie and I don

’t . We don ’t want to

MOTHER-LOVE 15

be fat . I want to fly ,’n you can

’t fly if you ’refat . Maybe you

’re too fat . I shouldn ’t wonder .I don ’t want to fly like an angel , you know . Theycan ’t fly till they’re dead . I want to fly like a bird .

They fly all around while they’re alive . I ’mostflew once , but then I fell down .

JIM [with a laugh]: Where d’yon learn so much

abou t angels . In Sunday School?LURA : Yes , but I don

’t go any more . Maggiewon ’t let me . I think it’s mean . But there aresome boys that aren ’t very nice . Maggie doesn

’twant me to play with them . We have a SundaySchool at home Sunday afternoons , but it isn

’tas nice as the real one . We can ’t sing,

’causeMother is taking a nap . Shall I sing you a song Ilearned in the real Sunday School?JIM : Yes .

[LURA snuggles up closer to him and sings in abreathy, somewhat uncertain old voice

, which sti llhas something in it of the child-like quality]LURA : “I think when I re-ad that sweet sto-ory

of O-old ,When Je s u s was he-ere a-mong men ,How He

flit-alled little chil-drun lik e la-ambs to hi s

fo

I would like to uv be-en with him then .

—Don’t you think that’s a nice song?

JIM [swallowing]: Yes , very nice , dear . Youcan sing it again for me , sometime .

LURA : Yes, and I know another—But I guessI ’d ru ther play face-tag. [She darts her facetoward his , shou ting,

“Face-tag!

” then averts it andruns across the room,

keeping her face to the wall]JIM [He strides across the room to her, takes her

by the shou lder and turns her face around to him]:Face-tag. I see your face .

16 MOTHER-LOVE

LURA [beating him with her fists]: No fair , nofair

. Face-tag, I see yours . [She darts to the oth

er side of‘

the room,with her face averted . The

stair-door opens and MOTHER p lunges into the room.

Her hair has been roughly combed back into an ap

proximation of tidiness . She rushes upon JIM witharms ou tstretched]Jm : Hullo , Mother .MOTHER : My son ! My son ! [She folds himin her arms and lays her head on his shou lder .JIM kisses her and puts his arms around her]JIM [in a cooing, caressing voi ce]: Guess the little

Mumsie is pretty glad to see her big boy, isn’t

she?

MOTHER [in a choked, hysterical voice]: Glad !Oh

,Jim

, you don’t know what I ’ve suffered .

JIM [patting her arm soothingly]: Been lonesomefor her big boy , has she? Well , it

’s all over now .

Come and tell him all abou t it . [He leads her to aneasy cha ir and sits on the floor beside her, his headleaning against her knee. She strokes his hair andfrequendy bends down to kiss his forehead or his ear.

LURA brings a little hassock and a battered, old

picture-book and seats herself near the stove wherethe light from it falls on her book . She looks upfrom time to time, listening to what is said]MOTHER : Oh , Jim, my darling, why didn

’tyou write to your Mother?JIM : Why , Mumsie dear

,I couldn ’t write any

more till I had some good news for you . I thoughtevery year I was going to make a hau l, but Ididn

’

t—and—well , what was the use, sayingthe same Old things and never making good?

. MOTHER : I could have sent you some money ,Jim, to make a start with , if I

’d only known where

MOTHER-LOVE 17

to send it . Not mu ch , of course , but I’ve been

saving it for you all these years .

JIM : Dear li ttle Mumsie ! But I gu ess you andMaggie need it worse than I do .

MOTHER : I don ’t need anything but you , Jim .

Oh,yon wi ll stay with me , won

’t you—as long as

I can be with you? It won ’t be many years now

[She breaks into a sob and weeps into her handkerchief for a moment, then heroically smiles throughher tears . JIM rises and puts his arms around her,laying his cheek against hers] You will, won

’tyou

,my boy?

JIM [fervently]: I wi ll , Mumsie,darling. I ’ll

never leave you again .

MOTHER [solemnly]: This is the happiest moment of my li fe . If you only knew what I have

gone through in these thirty years , shut up day after day with a human sewing-machine and an everlasting baby !

[LURA looks up from her book]JIM [qu ickly]: Lu ra , dear , don

’t you want to goupstairs and help Maggie? I gu ess she

’s gettingmy room ready for me .

LURA [pou ting]: It’s cold upstairs ,

’xcept in

Mother ’s room .

MOTHER : Don ’t bother about her . She doesn ’tunderstand .

LURA [indignantly]: I do , too . I understandevery word you say , so there now .

MOTHER [shrugging her shou lders and tu rningweari ly to JIM]: There , you see what I ’ve had toendure . I wonder I have kept my own senses .JIM : If it’s cold upstairs , Lura, please tellsister Maggie to come down. We don’t want herto catch cold

,do we?

18 MOTHER-LOVE

LURA :Well . [She drops her book on the hassock andgoes upstairs . JIM sits on the armofMoTHER

’

s chair]MOTHER : She ought to be put in an InstItution.

There are places enough for su ch people . I thinkit ’s a crime to let them live with us

, don’t you ?

You ’ll find my ideas very modern on all su chquestions . But I can ’t do a thing with

.Maggie .

I ’m positively afraid to speak to her agam abou tit . You don’t know how fierce she can be if anyone says a word about Lura . And I felt so helplesshere all alone with her . [Her voi ce hints at tears]JIM : Why ,

Mother, you wou ldn ’t separateLura from Maggie , wou ld you ? She ’d be miscrable , and I guess Maggie wou ld too.

MOTHER [acridly]: I don’t know why I should

be the only one to bear things .JIM : But there ’s nothing repulsive abou t

Lura . She just hasn ’t grown up . I don ’t see

anything so dreadfu l in that .MOTHER : Of cou rse you can take it lightly, Jim .

It ’s nothing to you . But ju st suppose you wereOh

,I can hardly say it—her mother? Oh , it

’s too

horrible ! I think I should have gone mad prettysoon , if you hadn

’t come . You have no idea whatI’

ve been through ! Many a day I’ve had to sit

from early morning till far into the night readingsome exciting book that would keep these dreadfu lthoughts away . I didn ’t know what I might do .

And I wanted my boy to find his mother, when he

came home . [She lowers her voi ce on the last sentence and buries her face on JIM ’

s shou lder]JIM [caressing her hair]: I wi sh you wou ldn’tfeel that way about it , Mother . Poor littleLura ! It ’s worse for her than it is for any of us .

MOTHER firmly , raising her head in protest]:I don ’t think so at all. She is happy enough . And

MOTHER-LOVE 19

Maggie doesn’t mind . I have all the suffering.

But that seems to be a mother ’s lot .JIM : Ssh.

[MAGGIE enters ,followed by LURA]MAGGIE : Your room ’s all ready

,Jim . It ’s not

very warm , I’m afraid

, but you must pop intobed as quick as you can .

JIM [r ising and stretching himself]: Well , that:sounds good .

,But I ’m going to talk to you a while ,

Sis , before I turn in .

MOTHER [jealously]: Why you’ve been visiting

with Maggie all the evening ! I must have my boynow . Come up to my room , dearest, and we

’llhave one of our old bedtime talks . [Sentimentally] I wonder if you remember them as I do .

JIM [grimly]: Yes, I remember them . But I

guess I’ll mak e a bee line for my room tonight .

I ’m fair dopey for sleep . Haven ’t had muchlately .

MOTHER : Come right up with me , then , andafter we ’ve had our little talk I ’ll tuck you in , ju stas I always used to. [JIM makes an involuntarygrimace, which MOTHER catches] What is it ,Jim , dear? Are you in pain anywhere?JIM : A grumble in

'

a tooth once in a while ,that ’s all.MOTHER : You poor, dear boy ! And you never

sai d a word about it . I shall give you a toothplaster to put on it .JIM : No , thanks, Mother . The toothache formine . Well goodnight , Maggie-girl . [Aside, ashe ki sses her] See you later—ii I can work it .[He takes LURA ’

s face between his hands and kissesher on both cheeks] Good-night . Sleep tight .LURA [giggling delightedly]: Good-night . Sleep

tight . [MOTHER advances to LURA wi th an air of

O MOTHER-LOVE

nerving herself to do a beautifu l act, and kisses her

kindly on theforehead]MOTHER : Good-night , Lura .

LURA [a little mystified]: Goo’-night .

[MOTHER goes to MAGGIE and prints a kiss on hercheek.

MAGGIE returns the kiss warmly , herarms abou tMOTHER]

MAGGIE : Good-night , Mother . I ’m so glad .

You mu st sleep well tonight .

[JIM opens the stair-door for MOTHER . MOTHERdraws JIM to her, and stands with an efiect oftableau ,

at the door , as she speaks with sad sweetness .]MOTHER : I am far too happy to sleep , but Ihope my children will .

[MOTHER and JIM go upstairs]MAGGIE : Come here , dear , and let me unfasten

your dress . [She sits down and LURA backs up toher, while MAGGIE unbuttons her dress, u nties herhair ri bbon , takes ou t her comb, and braids her hairloosely for the night]LURA : I don ’t have to ask God any more to

send brother Jim home , do I?’

Cause he’s here .

[She laughs]MAGGIE : No , dear, but you might thank Godfor sending him.

LURA : Aw ri ’ . Will he play with me in themorning after I

’ve taken Mother’s breakfast up?

MAGGIE : Maybe for a little while , dear . But

he ’ll probably have to go to hi s work pretty soon .

LURA [disappointedly]: Oh , is he going to workevery day

,too?

MAGGIE : I hope so , dear . [Giving her a littlepu sh as she finishes braiding her ha ir] There , goand get on your nightie . Hang you r clothesneatly over the chair, so you can dress fast in the

22 MOTHER-LOVE

whether I ’m square an’ decent , or anything lik e

that,just

'

so as the pettin’ and play-actm

’

goesright along? That ’s all she wants . But I

’

mdamned if I ’ll play up to it any more . It makesme too sick .

[MAGGIE sits looking at him, wide-eyed, claspingand unclasping her hands , then rising, she throwsher arms abou t him in an angu ish of entreaty]MAGGIE : Oh

,Jim

,dear , I know she didn’t

bring you up ri ght . But can ’t you bring yourselfup , now? Oh , do stay and help mak e things comfyfor Lura . Can’t you , Jim?

[As she speaks LURA emerges from behind the screenwith a red woolen wrapper over her nightgown ,and red knitted slippers on her feet. NeitherMAGGIE nor JIM notices her . She hes itates amoment, looking at them,

then goes over to a chairnear MAGGIE , draws it to the stove and puts herfeet on the fender]JIM [gently detaching her arms and holding both

her hands in his]: Magsie, dear , I wish I cou ld .

You don’t know how I hate to sneak 03 lik e thisand leave you to carry everything. But you see

yourself I couldn ’t stand it—not if I was paid to !A

l

nd I bet you cou ldn’t yourself

,if you was in my

p ace .

MAGGIE : But JimJIM [warmly]: I tell you , I want to , bad enough.

And I need to , if it comes to that . I haven’t got

a nickel . But I ’d get pinched and sent up beforeI ’d stay in this house . I feel ju st like I ’m in j ailevery minu te .

MAGGIE : I know , Jim , dear, but cou ldn’t you

make yourself stay—ju st till after Christmas?Oh , if you only cou ld![A sound on the stair brings JIM to his feet, hemakes

MOTHER-LOVE 23

for the outer door , but MOTHER bu rsts into theroom

, flings her arms abou t him, and breaks intohysteri cal sobs]MOTHER : Oh , my son ! My son ! Are you going

to leave me? Are you going to leave your Mother?

JIM [soothingly]: No , no , Mother , of course not .Can’t I go out and buy a cigar withou tMOTHER [shrieking]: No ! No ! Don

’t deceiveme

,Jim . You were going to leave me . You

might as well kill me now . It would be kinder .

JIM [impatiently]: Mother , won’t you listen to

me? I tell you I’m only going out to buy a cigar .

MOTHER : Maggie , tell me the tru th . Is he

going to leave me?

[MAGGIE is si lent. MOTHER looks from her downcastface to JIM andfalls into a chair , moaning

piteously]MOTHER : My son,

my only son ! I might haveknown this cup of joy would be dashed from mylips . Oh , God, let me die !

[LURA retreats to the open door of the stairway,watching her mother , with fascinated , terror-filledeyes . She makes several futi le moves towardMAGGIE

,bu t MOTHER and JIM are between and

she does not ventu re . After a moment MAGGIEsees her

, goes over to her and puts her arm aroundher]MAGGIE : Go right up to bed now,

Lura , dear .LURA [shaking her off]: I don

’t want to . I s

brother Jim going away? [A mufl‘led shriek from

MOTHER]JIM [under his breath]: Damnation ! [Louder]Mother

,I do have to go away for a few days , and

you see why I was afraid to tell you—you cut upso rough . It isn ’t exactly pleasant for me . And

24 MOTHER-LOVE

there ’s no need of making su ch a fu ss . I’ ll come

back to spend Christmas with you

[MOTHER rises and with a heart-broken wai l again

flings herself upon him]MOTHER : Oh

,my son, tak e me with you .

No matter where you are going ! I’ll live in a cellar

with you—or anywhere—o r tramp the streets .

Other people are nothing to me . I only want you .

Think how—all these years [Her voice trai ls ofi‘

and is choked in sobs]JIM [moved in spite of himself]: There

,there

,

Mother,don’t cry so. You can ’t go with me till

I get a place to take you to , of course, but ju st assoon as I find one , I

’ll send for you .

MOTHER [breaking from him and taking a standagainst the door]: You must trample over yourmother ’s dead body, if you leave this house wi thout her !MAGGIE [springing to her in terror and trying

to drag her from the door]: Oh , Mother, don’t say

that . Don ’t stand there !

[MOTHER pu shes her aside. LURA runs to MAGGIEand clings toher speechlessly]

JIM : Don ’t be afraid , Maggie . I won’t hurther . [He turns to MOTHER with an air of decision]Well , Mother, all right . If you

’ve got to go, getyour togs together . But remember I ’ve warnedyou . Don ’t blame me for what you get into .

MOTHER [kissing him raptu rous ly]: Oh,my

darling boy ! I don’t care what I get into . I can

endure anything if I’m only with you . [I n lowered

voice] And you know I have some money—a

littb —for us both .

JIM [flinchingfromher]: Aw , cut that out.

MOTHER [bravely wipi ng her eyes]: Well, I’ll

be ready in five minu tes .

MOTHER-LOVE 25

JIM : All right. [MOTHER starts toward the stairway, bu t stops , casts a suspiciou s glance on JIM and

MAGGIE, goes back to the door , locks it, and takes

the key with a defiant air]JIM [disgustedly]: Oh , I say , Mother !MOTHER [with dignity]: My life

’s happiness is atstake

,Jim . I cannot afford to risk it . [She goes

JIM : Well , isn’t that the limit? Good-bye

,

Maggie . I’ll send you the first money I can lay

hands on . Sure, I will . Good-bye, Lu ra . Be a

good girl .

[He runs up the shade, opens the window,and vau lts

out of it. A shriek is heard from above , andMOTHER rushing down the stairs precipitatesherself toward the window. MAGGIE intervenes ,and prevents her jumping ou t of it. LURA looksat them in wide-eyed terror and screams shri llyas MAGGIE

’

s words give her the clue to what ishappening]MAGGIE : Mother , you

’ll kill yourself !MOTHER : Kill myself ! Yes, I will . And you

shan ’t stop me—you double-faced hypocrite, you !

You drove him away , I know you did ! My onlyson ! [She pushes MAGGIE from her in a fury.

MAGGIE totters against the chest of drawers . LURAshrinking against the wall, begins to cry]MAGGIE : Oh , Lura , dear, don

’t. Please go upstairs .

‘

It’s so cold here, too . [She closes the win

dow, takes LURA in her arms and tries to hush hercrying]MOTHER [spitefu lly]: Yes , it wou ld be too

bad if that fifty-year old cry-baby should tak ecold . But you can drive my only son out of thehouse , the only comfort of my last years , and killme wi th loneliness and grief—[sobbing]—and

26 MOTHER-LOVE’

that’s all“right . You don’t care anything abou t

that.Oh

,my son, my son ! The only creature I

ever loved has been driven from me . And I amalone .

MAGGIE [sharply]: Why do you say I havedriven him away? I did everything I could to keep

MOTHER [sneeringly]: Yes , you did ! I knowwell enough what you did. You tried to pull meaway from the door, so he could go and leaveme . And why did he want to leave me? I neverspoke a word of blame to him. I was all love andtenderness . But you made him feel he wasn

’twelcome here . I know all abou t you ,

Miss Maggie .

MAGGIE : But I didn’t—I didn ’t at all .MOTHER : You needn’t tell me . That ’s why he

went away the first time . I saw it all then,but I

was powerless . All my life long you have separatedme from my son, my only son. Perhaps God willforgive you , but I never shall . Never . [LURAsobs louder]MAGGIE : Mother , please don

’t talk so beforeLura . She ’ll go upstairs in a minu te

,but it

frightens her so .

MOTHER [with shrill hysterica l laughter]: Lura !There’s another attraction for our happy home !An idiot as well as a Pharisee ! No wonder hedidn ’t care to stay .

MAGGIE [putting LURA aside and advancing uponMOTHER with a threatening aspect]: Never letme hear that word from you again ! Never as

long as you live !MOTHER [cowering against the wall , bu t essaying

a weak defense]: I shall say just what I please ,Miss MaggieMAGGIE [seizing her by the shou lders and shaking

MOTHER-LOVE 27

her slightly to emphas ize her words]: You wi ll not.Do you hear me? Never as long as you live .

MOTHER [in a quavering voice of abject terror]:No—No—I won ’t . Let me go , Maggie . [Shetries to twi st herself out of MAGGIE

’S grasp]MAGGIE [sternly with a parting shake]: See

that you don’t , then .

MOTHER [throwing herself upon MAGGIE with abu rst of tears]: Oh , Maggie , don

’t you turn againstme

,too ! I ’m' a poor

,broken old woman , and my

only son has cast me off .

MAGGIE [taking MOTHER in her arms]: I ’llnever tu rn against you ,

Mother , dear . You cando anything to me, but you mustn

’t hurt Lura .

[With a sudden fierceness , holding MOTHER ofir by

the shou lders and looking her squarely in the eyes]I ’ll—I ’ll ki ll you , if you do .

MOTHER [sobbing wi ldly]: Oh , I won’t , I won

’t .But you love her best and nobody cares abou t me .

MAGGIE [patting her shou lder tenderly]: I loveyou too, dear . But I

’ve got to mak e Lura happy .

I u sed to think that maybe things wou ld be different when Jim came home , but she has no one butme to look to now .

MOTHER [with muffled sobs]: But I have no onebut you either . I want you to take care of me.

MAGGIE : I will , dear . I ’ll take care of youboth—my two chi ldren . [She smi les half-whimsically at MOTHER , and keeping one arm abou t her,ho

llds ou t the other to LURA

, who timidly slips intoit.LURA [in a quavering voi ce

,clinging to MAGGIE]

°

Doesn ’t brother Jim like me,Maggie?

MAGGIE : Of course he does , darling. Motherdidn ’t understand . And Maggie loves you , hard .

28 MOTHER-LOVE

LURA snuggles closer and heaves a long, flutteringsigh of relief]

LURA [almost inaudibly]: I’m not an idi ot , am

I,Maggie?MAGGIE : Indeed you’re not . And I ’m not a

Pharisee either . Mother didn ’t know what shewas saying—she was so di sappointed . D id you,Mother?MOTHER [dramatically]: I was crazed wi th grief .My only son had forsaken me , had trampled underfoot the love of the mother who had watched andwept for him thirty years . No wonder I was

[Her voice trails ofi in sobs . LURA shrinks fromher, sti ll holding to MAGGIE]MAGGIE : I guess Jim cou ldn

’t help it , Mother .He

’

s never learned to do hard things . Butmaybehe will

,sometime , and then

MOTHER : He will never come back to me .

[Thrusting her hand into her bosom and bringingou t a packet] Here , Maggie , this is the moneyI had saved for him by the self-denial of years .

I can never help him with it, now . Tak e it and

spend it for yourself and Lura—[She breaks intouncontrollable weepi ng]MAGGIE [taking the packet and glanc ing at it

with some su rprise]: Oh , thank you , Mumsie, dear .

Why , what a lot of bills . I beli eve there’s enough

to pay for the roof ! [Embracing MOTHER costatically] Ju st think how snug and tight we

’ll be all

next winter !MOTHER [striking a tragic attitude]: The lid of

my coffin will cover me then . I shall not bu rdenyou long. Some morning you will find me cold andstiff in my bed

[LURA shudders and shrinks from her]MAGGIE [putting her hand over MOTHER

’S mou th]

30 MOTHER-LOVE

it comes summer , I’ll bring her every k ind of flower

to smell Of, and the smell of one of them will tak eofl the spell !MAGGIE [hearti ly]: Sure enough ! That ’s a

game we can play all by ourselves , i sn’t it? No

body else will know . [She kisses LURA with lingering tenderne ss] Now you

’re good and warm,

aren ’t you ,sweetheart? Jump into bed fast , and

Maggie wi ll come , right away .

LURA : All right . [She kisses MAGGIE and givesher two

“bear hugs . Standing by the stair-door , she

swings it thoughtfu lly to and fro]LURA : I ’m not going to ask God to send brother

Jim home again .

MAGGIE : He won ’t , dear . Now scamper upstairs .[LURA goes upsta irs . MAGGIE locks the window and

puts coal on the fire. She p icks up LURA ’Spicture-book from the hassock

,clasps it pas

sionately to her breast, and lays her check againstit for a moment before replacing it on the table .

The tender brooding smi le of a mother lights herface. She extingu ishes the lamp and

, in thedarkness , is heard wearily ascending the sta irs]

THE RUSSIAN DRAMATICSTAGE

HERE are many ways of dealing withthe subj ect of the theatre . The mostpopu lar is that of analysing the dramatic literature of a nation

,and

showing the main lines of its development . In su ch a treatment the chiefinterest would lie in the subj ect of

the play,and we shou ld be condu cted through

a painstak ing review of each au thor’s work

,the

characters he depicted,and the problems of life

raised in his plays . And only cu rsorily shou ld webe informed of the relation in which the form ofhis plays stood to the conditions of theatricalpresentation .

I do not propose to give su ch an account of theRu ssian drama here . As far as the life describedin Russian plays is concerned , it does not materially differ from that which can be found inRussian fiction ; while in the penetration of humancharacter and mastery of treatment , it equalsthat fiction only in a few isolated cases . Mu chmore interesting is that aspect of the Russiandrama whi ch shows its connection with the stageand reveals the methods whi ch the playw rightsused in expressing themselves through the mediumof the theatre . After all , it only stands to reasonthat in studying the theatre we should be primarily interested not in the featu res uniting itwith other branches of art su ch , for example , asfiction or poetry—but rather in those features

3 1

32 THE RUSSIAN DRAMATIC STAGE

whi ch make it unlike the others , which endow itwith its individuali ty as a vehi cle of art . It followsthat to understand the contemporary Ru ssiantheatre we must not be content with an analysis ,however sk ilful, of the plays themselves , but mu sttake the theatre as a whole and try to find how ithas been u sed in variou s produ ctions and whateffects it has been able to yield .

This defines the scope of the present article .

But before the modern developments of the Russian stage can be dealt with the reader mu st beinformed of the main facts of its past .Knowing as we do how late Ru ssia was in j oin

ing other Eu ropean nations in the benefits of culture

,we shall hardly be su rprised to find that she

had no proper theatre until the middle of the17th century . Strolling comedi ans there had beenin abundance , liturgical plays had now and againbeen performed in churches

,and the ecclesiastical

schools in Sou thern Ru ssia , as , for example , inKief , had , following in the wake of Poli sh influence ,tried to cu ltivate the ancient Roman comedy .

But before Tsar Alexis , father of Peter theGreat , was tempted to introdu ce thi s foreignnovelty to relieve the monotony of his cou rt life

,

there was no proper stage in Ru ssia . It is a curiou s fact that the first man to whom the Tsarturned for assistance was an Englishman , one

John Hebdon , whowas commi ssioned to go abroadand find , to use the words of the Tsar’s order

,“carvers in wood and stone

, glass makers , andmasters of acting comedy .

” Nothing came ofthis attempt , however , as the famou s foreignactors , one and all , declined when approached , thehonor of going to Ru ssia , for the country evenat that time enjoyed the reputation of being a

THE R USSIAN DRAMATIC STAGE 33

place where no one was safe from the knou t andSiberia . But the Tsar did not abandon his plan

,

and a few years later actually brought it to realization

, with the help of a German pastor , residentin Moscow ,

who trained a company of Russianactors . Thus was the first stone laid in the foundaftion of the theatre in Ru ssia . But it took over acentu ry for the primitive cou rt stage , with itsforeign plays and amateu r actors , to develop intoa numerou s body of theatres scattered over thebreadth and length of the country and forminga part of national life . And even then what wasdone in this initial period was mostly achi eved inthe second half of the 18th century , thank s to theuntiring energy of Feodor Volkov, whom posterityhas gratefu lly christened

“the father of the Russian theatre .

The infantile struggles being over , we enter onthat period whi ch actually set the form of theRu ssian theatre , gave it a national drama, andcreated its tradi tions in acting. Except for VonVisin—a contemporary of Catherine II—all theRu ssian dramatists of importance lived andworked in the 19th century . Only a passing reference can be made here to su ch great writersas Gryboyedov with his brilliantly biting Sorrowfrom Wisdom”

; Gogol with hi s“GettingMarried”

and hi s immortal “Inspector General” ; Ostrovskyand his immense repertoire of genre-plays ; Sukhovo-Kobylin , author of a remarkable comedy ,“Krechinsky

’s Marriage , whi ch it is to be hoped

will one day see the light of the English stage ; LeoTolstoy and his few plays , among which the“Fruits of Cultu re” and “

The Powers of Darkness” are the most convincing ; Alexis Tolstoy andhis historic trilogy in verse :

“Tsar Ivan ,

” “Tsar

34 THE R USSIAN DRAMATIC STAGE

Feodor , a nd Tsar Boris and lastly Turgenev ,

whose few gentle and lyrical plays were neglectedby the public in the au thor

’s life-time , but havebeen rescued from oblivion by the efforts of theMoscow Art Theatre .

These plays that have been mentioned , withperhaps a few others , form the classic repertoireof the Russian theatre . But it wou ld be wrongto infer that they dominated the stage . Apartfrom the fact that foreign plays , particularlyduring the first half of the last century , enjoyed extreme popularity in the country

,one mu st always

bear in mind that the appeal of the theatre is far :

from being restricted to su ch quali ties as can befound in the masterpieces of the drama . We areall familiar with the practice of star-actors andactresses who earn laurels in plays that showneither depth of conception nor mastery or or

iginality of treatment . The reason for thi s isObvious of cou rse . Since su ch pieces give the actora wider scope for revealing hi s creative powers ,hi s personality , they emancipate him , as it were ,from the au thor . But not less fami liar is theopposite caseh the play emancipated from theactor . We then see the stage tu rned into a pu lpit ,and behind the characters we discern the au thor’sshadow pointing us Victoriou sly the moral of theplay . The Ru ssian stage passed through boththese extremes . At first , until the middle of lastcentury, the predominant part belonged to theactor, and this , probably, was reflected in theabundance of talent on the stage .

The names of Mochalov and Karatygin whoflou ri shed du ring this period have been handeddown to us by their contemporaries as those ofactors of geniu s who particularly distingu ished


themselves in impersonation of Shakespeare’

s

characters . Then followed a period of realism onthe stage , with the plays of Gogol and Ostrovskyheading the popu lar repertoire , and finding theirconsummate realization in the work of Schepkin,

a great actor who may be said to have symbolizedthe unique balance between au thor and actorwhich is so characteristic of the two Russiandramatists just mentioned . But towards the endof the lgth centu ry the genre play, establishedby Ostrovsky

,descended , in the hands of his

assiduous imi tators,to a depth of triteness whi ch

no amount of good acting could possibly redeem .

Plots woven round trivial lives of common-placepeople purported not only to state facts , superficial though these might be , but also to providea moral

,a cheap platitude su fficient to satisfy a

not very exacting audience .

The atmosphere of the stage became contaminated. Good acting was to be seen chiefly inplays by old writers , in the Ru ssian andforeign classic repertoire , whi ch at least helpedto preserve the traditions formed in the Russiantheatre throughout the century . As to the playsdealing with contemporary life , there was littlein them to arou se enthu siasm In the actors ; andso rou tine in acting and mounting gradually set

in , and higher aspects of art came to be di sregarded . This process of deterioration had gonevery far , when a new force in Ru ssian lif e madeitself felt in the domain of the theatre .

The end of the last century witnessed the rise ofthe edu cated classes of Russia , the so-calledIntelligentsia . After an era of intense politicalstrife terminating in the assassination Of Alexander II , there followed a period of government


reaction whi ch for a time su cceeded in stiflingthe poli tical propensities of the Intelligentsi a ,but nevertheless helped to make their vows

.

heardmore vigorously in other spheres of pubhc hfs .

Literature in particular , whi ch formerly was

mostly concerned with the life of the peasantsand lower orders of society, now turned its lightupon the class from which it drew its own ex

ponents . The Ru ssian Intelligent , shu t awayin the world of his personal experience , was naturally absorbed in the observation of his own

life and the problems and confli cts he himselfhad to face . And this shi fting of interest fromthe peasant , the tradesman , and the petty officialto the Intelligent himself , had a far-reachingeffect on the theatre .

To begin with , the man who was accu stomedthrough the realistic literatu re of the period tolook for psychological tru th in characters and

their actions , could not fail to see the glaringcontradictions between the au thor ’s desire to givea faithfu l picture of the lif e portrayed , and theconventional scenery employed ; that is , the fewstock settings of interiors , gardens , and the like ,which were u sed on each and every occasion

,

irrespective of the epoch or character of the play .

Again, the Intelligent , as hi s very name implies ,was a man of highly developed intellectul

interests . Since he was compelled to tu rn inupon himself , he found hi s own life filled to thebrim with problems Of spirit , compared withwhich the colli sions of passions and ideas commonamong other classes of people seemed externaland trivial . The theatre at the end of the 19thcentu ry had nothing to Offer him capable of satisfying his spiritual cravings . To do so it had to


on the new company ; but the year did not passwithou t some painfu l di sappointments , and onlyafter two or three seasons did the Art Theatrebegin to feel its feet . Du ring the last ten yearsit has acquired the position of a natronal mstrtu

tion,and there is hardly another theatre in the

world which can rival it in popu larity .

But what were the ideals gu iding NemirovichDanchenko and Stanislavsky in their Oppositionto the traditional school? They can be formulated in one Ru ssian word : pravda , whichmeans tru th or faithfulness . It was held thatlife should be represented before the audi ence withas little sacrifice of tru th in favor of theatricalconventions as was possible on the stage . And

it was also believed that only by pu rsu ing thisideal could art be brought back to the theatre .

Hence the cu riou s combination of words in thetitle Art Theatre , which seemed to suggest thatwhat was done in other theatres was not art . But

what is tru th on the stage? Where are we to lookfor it? The Art Theatre ’s answer to thi s in thefirst stages of its development was : tru th is faithfu lness in reprodu cing all the details of life ; inother words , truth is naturalism . The meaningof this motto was di sclosed in their very firstprodu ction—the “Tsar Feodor .” Alexis Tolstoy’shistorical tragedy portrays the life of the nu

fortunate son of Ivan the Terri ble , and shows thedrama of an intelligent , good-natured , and extremely piou s man compelled by vi rtu e of hisposition to rule a country in the throes of anarchy

,

and naturally failing in a task for which he hadnot the strength of character , or , for that matter,su fficient interest in the affai rs of the state . Inthi s tragic figure one may see certain characteris


tics whi ch bring it within the type so perfectlydrawn in Shakespeare ’s “R ichard II .

”

But, though the Art Theatre di d not ignore theimportance of the protagonist , it was not in himthat they centered the idea of their produ ction .

Costume , environment , archi tectu ral detailsthese loomed mu ch larger in their conception ofthe play

,and so they studi ed archeology : they

made a jou rney to an Old provincial town to studythe lingering remains of the l6th centu ry ; theycopied old laces , measu red the length of thesleeves worn by Tsar Feodor ’s boyards , gatheredinformation as to the way hay-rick s were piledat that time , and faithfu lly reprodu ced all thi s onthe stage . On other occasions , as for example inprodu cing

“Ju liu s Caesar” and Hauptmann ’sThe Carrier Henschel ,

” special expedi tions weresent abroad to collect the necessary archeologicaland ethnographical material .But hi storical tru th was only one part of the

natu ralistic creed . Formed as a protest againstslovenliness and convention in the produ ction of

plays,naturalism also demanded a complete

change in the manner of acting . The u sualaffectation of speak ing on the stage destroyedthe impression of real life , and thi s was fu rtherweakened by the happy-go-lu cky manner of theacting of the stage crowds . It was plain that ifthe life portrayed in the text was to be reallyrepresented on the stage , this cou ld be done onlyby treating it as one whole in which all the partsbalanced each other . In other words it meant anensemble of acting. It is tru e , as a matter of fact ,that in its first period the Art Theatre appliedthis idea of unity in a way that tended to reversethe relative position of the principal and secondary


characters. Realistic crowds , in particu lar , were

given a prominence whi ch at times seemed oh

tru sive . But as the Art Theatre gained moreexperience

,the balance was restored and the

principle of ensemble proved to be an asset whi chwithstood the test of all the methods tried on theirsta e .

Herhaps it will be opportune to mention herethat accuracy of detail and ensemble of actingwere not originally discovered by the Art Theatre .

The idea was brought to Ru ssia by the Meiningencompany of actors

,who, under the leadership of

Cronegk , v isited Moscow a few years beforethe Art Theatre was opened . In fact , it was thethoroughness of this company

’s produ ctions thatled the questing mind of Stanislavsky into thepath of naturalism . Had it been otherwise it isprobable that the influence of his collaborator ,Nemi rovich-Danchenko, wou ld have shown itselfmore decisively from the very beginning, sincethe motive that brought Nemirovich-Danchenko

into alli ance with Stanislavsky was mainly hi sdi ssatisfaction with the contemporary repertoireand his eager wish to see plays presented to thepublic by su ch au thors as Chekhov and Ibsen

,

who depicted a world entirely fami liar to everyintellectual , full of gentle emotions and elevatingproblems . By including these and other au thorsin the repertoire of the Art Theatre

,Nemirovich

Danchenko not only helped to satisfy the demandsof intellectual audi ences

,but also introdu ced into

the life of hi s theatre a powerful force whichplayed a dominant part in its subsequ ent development . Stanislavsky

’s resourcefu l genius as a play

produ cer had to adapt itself to the conditions imposed by hi s partner

’s leadership in the choice of

THE RUSSIAN DRAMA TIC STAGE 41

plays,and it will be always to his credit that in

the majority of cases he proved himself more thanequal to the task .

For the first time thi s influence of the play on themethod of produ ction asserted itself in the ArtTheatre ’s performance of Chekhov ’s “

Sea-Gu ll .

Here was a play which had , a season or twobefore , been staged at the Alexandrinsky Theatrein Petrograd , and failed most di sastrou sly in Spiteof the fact that the leading part was acted by the

great Vera Kommi ssarzhevsky , at that timea young but already mu ch admired actress . As

a reading play , it was indispu tably interesting,but against thi s there stood the fact of completefailure on the stage . How did it happen , theleaders of the Art Theatre asked themselves ; andfound thi s answer : becau se the play was not likeother plays and shou ld have been acted in a wayentirely its own. The Art Theatre , therefore ,having decided to produ ce The Sea-Gu ll

,

”set

itself to discover thi s peculiar yet elu sive natureof the play .

The resu lt of their e xamination brought to lightsome important facts whi ch proved later to applyequally to all plays by Chekhov . His plays wereall found to possess a uni ty of tone and clearlyto reveal a method in the au thor ’s treatment ofhi s subj ect—a method expressed in subordi natingall the parti-colored garishness of lif e to thedominance of one particular color . This impliedselection

,but selection carried out not by means of

eliminating details—whi ch wou ld simpli fy thedesign and emphasize the essentials—but byeliminating all aspects of the life and charactersportrayed clashing with the main sentiment intended to be conveyed to the spectator . It is


one thing to see the ou tline of an obj ect withpatches of light here and there, and another thingto see the same obj ect from some pecu liar v iewpoint whi ch , while revealing it in a strange andunfamiliar light , takes nothing from the completeness of its reality . The latter method of seeingthings creates style , and to have discovereda style in Chekhov ’s plays is the principal meritof the Art Theatre .

With the exception of his few comi c pieces , thatis to say in all his seri ou s plays—and there areonly five of them—Chekhov depicts the vicariou sexistence Of the average Ru ssian Intelligent ,compelled to face overwhelming Odds in the shapeof political and other disabilities

,and the poison

ing atmosphere of inanity and moral decay whichpermeated Russian life in Chekhov ’s day . Whatsatisfaction cou ld be found in every—day workwhen all seemed useless and void of interest?What chance was there of realizing the higher longings of the sou l when the inevitable fate impendedover one of being su cked down into the stagnantquagmi re of petty and trivial surroundings? Fromthis there was no real escape

,and unless one was

prepared to surrender oneself unconditionallyto the gradual process of spiritual paralysis , theonly alternative was to seek refuge in the worldof dreams . Thu s despair and dreamy idealism

,

the one conditioning the other , formed the at

mosphere in whi ch Chekhov’s characters passed

away their lives . It surrounded them like a cloud,

which at first was light and almost transparentwhi le the sou l was still young and hope for betterdays not yet abandoned

, but whi ch , as time rolledon , grew darker and darker , until the inevitablecame upon them with thunders and lightnings that

THE RUSSIAN DRAMATIC STAGE 43

stru ck the unfortunate dwellers of that gloomyworld and wrought ru in and destruction .

It will be easily seen that violent contrasts oflight and shade could have no place in thatworld . All was softened there to subtle and delicate half-tones so that the lights looked lessbright and the black s less dark , while each tonemerged into the other withou t perceptible breaksor sudden changes . If we add to this the factthat the drama of Chekhov ’s heroes was of innerspiritual experience , and natu rally reflected itselfin the lyric intimacy of the di alogue , we shallrealize still more clearly the character of Chekhov

’s style and see its importance in a faithfu l

representation of his plays .The Art Theatre ’s motto : Tru th and Nothing

but the Tru th” found here a most fruitfu l field forapplication . The complete absence of affectationin the di alogue and actions of Chekhov

’s characters seemed to have been specially designed tomeet Stanislavsky

’s belief that actors should

live and not act on the stage . Thu s it was thatsincerity of feeling and of its expression becamethe law in the Art Theatre ’s produ ctions of Chekhov

’8 plays . But mere sincerity was not enough .

Even in reading Chekhov one feels that all thespeeches form a single whole , flowing in one incessant stream , sounding one dominant note .

On the stage of the ArtTheatre this mu sical natureof Chekhov ’s dialogu e was brought out with a perfection that wou ld have done credit to the bestsymphoni c orchestra . The tunefu lness thu sachieved implied

,however

,another element of

the naturalistic technique—the ensemble actingalready mentioned . Indeed withou t subordinatingevery individual part to the plan and tone of the


whole play, Chekhov wou ld be unthink able on thestage—a fact which no amount of arguing as tothe supposedly di sastrou s effect of the playproducer ’s dictatorshi p over the actor , can everdisprove . Lastly , the natu ralistic method of

mounting involved no contradi ction when appliedto Chekhov .

It has sometimes been argued that the ArtTheatre sinned gravely against the principles of

art and of Chekhov himself when it resorted in itsprodu ctions to su ch devices as curtains blown bythe wind , papier-mache replicas of mud, real rainthat made the actors wet, croaking frogs , chi rpingcrickets

,et cetera .

The obviou s presumption of su ch criticismsis that it is impossible to Obtain artistic formexcept by means of suggestion , that is , by indicating only the essential things and leaving it to theimagination of the spectators to complete theimage . Thi s theory

,however

,is manifestly wrong,

as the sense of infini ty produ ced by a work of arthas little to do with its being more or less completein detail . It is doubly wrong in its applicationto Chekhov , as it confu ses the delicately elaborategradation of half-tones in his plays with hints andaccents in an impressionist pictu re . The ArtTheatre , therefore , was gu ilty of no crime when itattempted to reprodu ce the surroundings in whi chthe drama was being unfolded

,but it did occas

ionally err when its natu rali stic details lacked thatsubtlety of nuance which characterized the actingand the general atmosphere in Chekhov

’s plays .There is li ttle need to dwell on the Art Theatre ’sprodu ctions of plays by Hauptmann and Tur

geney . Allowing for the differences of sentimentand expressron due to the personal ou tlook of


to cope with them on the stage . Plays by Maeterlinck

,Knu t Hamsun (a Norwegian au thor enjoy

ing great popularity in Ru ssia) and Leoni dasAndreyev provided the field for su ch experiments .Great diffidence was still to be noticed in theprodu ction of Maeterlinck

’s “B lue B ird ,” in whi ch

the symboli c fairyland of Tyltyl and Mytyl was

given an elaborate but rather heavy and solidnaturali stic garb . But in “

The Drama of Lifeby Hamsun , and the Life of Man” and “

Ana

thema” by Andreyev the expedient resorted towas that of redu cing the scenery to an absolu teminimum . But li ttle more attention need be givento thi s epoch in the life of the Moscow Art Theatre ,as it occupied only a short time and lay ou tsidethe main lines of the theatre ’s development . Itshould however be stated that tru th in representation was still the gu iding principle in these productions, modified though it was by the pecu liarcharacter of the new plays . Thu s

,whenever pos

sible , psychological ju stification was sought foreach symbolic action , and the whole atmosphere ofthe play was consistently humanized .

The Art Theatre found itself mu ch more in itstru e medium when , after these unconv incing at

tempts at symbolism , it tu rned its attention tothe plays of classi c writers su ch as Griboyedov ,Gogol, and Ostrovsky . In the produ ctions of

these au thors one can divine the elements of a newstyle gradually assuming a crystallized form .

There is little lik eness between the soft andfluid half-tones of Chekhov ’s dramas and theclear-cut planes and solid volumes of the creations of Gogol and Ostrovsky . The latter alsohave their atmosphere ; not dim and vaporou s aswith Chekhov, however , but lucid and trans


parent,with plenty of sunshine , plenty of light

and shade . As is often the case with classicworks , a form of rendering devised by some gif tedand popu lar actor gradually acquires the au thori tyof time and becomes a tradition , to break awayfrom which is considered a blasphemy .

The Art Theatre , however , did not hesitate toattack the problems involved in the produ ctionof these plays as if they were being staged for thefirst time . It gave a new interpretation to thecharacters portrayed , took care to link them to

gether as aspects of one pictu re so that all shouldfall within the strict boundaries of their particularworld and form a balanced whole ; and , lastly ,it provided in each case an elaborate backgroundwhich , while remaining realistic in detail , was keptin harmony with the artist ’s rather than thearcheologist

’s conception Of the style of the play .

The total effect of su ch acting and setting produ cedthe impression of a sculpturesqu e world , bu iltsolidly and firmly and proclaiming its unity notthrough the vagueness of its contou rs and thedelicacy of its merging tones , but through thelogic of its design and the di stribu tion of itsclearly marked lines and su rfaces . This last stagein the development of the Moscow Art Theatre

,

whi ch may be given the name of synthetic realism ,

completes the present analysis of the forms fostered by that theatre . Later a reference will bemade to the general meaning and significance ofits work . In the meantime the work of anothergroup of Ru ssian actors who took up arms againstthe ideas and methods of the Moscow Art Theatre

,

claims attention .

It will be remembered that in the earliest periodof its existence the Moscow Art Theatre sought


tru th tO ' life in a faithfu l natu rali stic representation of men and their su rroundings , as thesewou ld be Observed if the spectator were invisiblypresent in the centre of the events portrayed .

The stage was regarded as a circumscribed world ,complete in itself and giving a perfect illu sion ofreal and independent existence . But

, as we havenoticed before , these ideas of produ ction proveda di stinct failure when applied to plays of a symbolio character . Spiritual reali ties , revealedthrough symbols , were found too elu sive to befixed in the forms provided by the natu ralisticmethod . And this can hardly be wondered at ,seeing that life discloses its symbolism to us

only in so mu ch as we come into a personal andintimate contact with it . And consequ ently asymbol , clear and almost tangible to the actor onthe stage , is not necessarily as clear and tangibleto the spectator

,who remains an ou tsider

,a

passive observer of the unfolded drama . Henceit follows that for the message of a symbolic playto come home to the spectator , he mu st be broughtinto a more intimate contact with the world of theplay

,and cease to be a mere onlooker . The hi story

of the theatre knows of more than one methodof realizing this effect , but here we must di scu ssthese methods in the order in whi ch they suggestedthemselves to the Ru ssian produ cers .The first solution of the problem appeared to beto stimu late the imagination of the spectator sothat the scene on the stage wou ld attain its complete effect , in part by what it actually represented ,and in part by the supplement it had in the mindof the audience . As symbolist literatu re and arthad already formu lated this method as a methodof simplification , it was natu ral that simplification

THE R USSIAN DRAMATIC STAGE

was the first thing to be put forward as a demandin the reform of the stage . There were numerous

groups in the dramatic and artistic world whichshowed sympathy with su ch a change . But theidea remained in an embryonic state until VeraKommissarzhevsky and Meyerhold, a young actorand produ cer , j oined hands to carry it into effect .The scope of thi s article allow s but a short

reference to the remarkable personali ty of VeraKommissarzhevsky . She made her name , whilestill a young actress , on the stage of the ImperialAlexandrinsky Theatre in Petrograd , and at oncebecame the favorite of the public . She belongedto that class of actors whose hold over the audienceis explained more by the magic of their personalitythan by their mastery of technique . And Kommissarzhevsky

’s irresistible charm lay in her

mystic femininity,her uni qu e timbre of voice

,her

power of transcending the realistic image and ofcarrying one

’s imagination into some unknownworld . The genre plays of her repertoire at theAlexandrinsky Theatre gave no scope for herspecial gifts , provided no ou tlet for her mysticleanings . So

,forsaking the Imperial stage , she

was bold enough to launch a theatre of her ownan enterprise which brought her no material gain ,and after a few years had to be abandoned . It isnow difficult to say whether this failure was dueto her association with Meyerhold, who startledthe public with his bold experiments , or to othercauses . But, whatever the cau se , it is a fact thatafter closing her theatre , she was so greatly disappointed and obviously so much worried thatshe publicly renounced her stage career and wentto the provinces on a farewell tour .It was this step that brought abou t her tragic


end. While staying at Tashk end , in the faraway capital of Russian Central As ia , she con

tracted smallpox through a carpet Wt h.

she

bought at the market , and soon di ed while sti ll inthe prime of you th and in the fu ll bloom of herdramatic genius .

Returning to the work done in her theatre itmust be recalled that the new movement startedas a reaction against the naturalism of the MoscowArt Theatre . In fact , it was actually begun bythe Art Theatre itself , which in its experimentalbranch , called the Studio Theatre , brought to

gether a small company of actors , painters , andauthors bent on di scovering new ways of p rodu cing plays . One of the leading members of thatcompany was Meyerhold, a young actor whoj oined the Art Theatre at its inception . He itwas who, thanks to the experience gained in thi slaboratory of the theatre , turned his back on thefetish of naturali sm , worshipped by Stanislavsky,and boldly proclaimed the gospel of what hasreceived the name of the “conventional theatre .

”

Simplification has already been mentioned as

the idea advanced against the craze for realisticdetails . But the symbolical effect of simplifiedforms is only one of the ways in whi ch they actupon the audi ence , while simplification itself isnot restricted to symbolism . By simplifying certain images we can sometimes bring people intothe presence of spiritual realities . But this willleave the images essentially the same as they areexperienced in ordinary life . What seemed important to the new reformers was not only to showthe audience the inner sou l of familiar things , butalso , even more , to find external garments for


spiritual entities which belong to quite a differentorder of things than those met with in our mundane experience . In other words , side by side withthe world as we ordinarily observe it and see itpresented on the stage , the fosterers of the conventional theatre strove to represent other worlds ,imaginary or real according to our personal outlook on such things . Thi s was the actual meaningof the term “conventional

,

” or as it is u sed inRussian ,

“uslovny ,

”—condi tional , something thatexists so long as its fundamental condition , itspremi ses, remain intact . It will be readily seenfrom this that the conventional theatre openedthe way to all k inds of fantastic images and forms ,which if not subjected to a certain order , werebound to produce an indescribable confu sion . So

a new principle had to be called in to maintainthe threatened order

,and thi s principle was

christened styli zation . The term itself,it must

be admitted , is rather cumbrou s , while it embodiespractically the same idea as style , that is , themethod of link ing together variou s items of thepictu red world by subordinating them all to one

dominant featu re . What stylization came tomean , however, was the combination of stylewith conventional forms , achieved by applicationof the selective and unifying principle of style toconventional images of life .

Such were the main principles,implied if not

always clearly conceived , of the conventionaltheatre originated by Meyerhold, in his capacityOf produ cer for Vera Kommi ssarzhevsky . Theywere the ou tcome of a desire to broaden thelimits of stage representation so as to include thehidden mysteries of spiri tual life

,and they owed

their origin chiefly to the influ ence of that author


whose name at the time stood for the most advanced and original forms in art .

It would be difficu lt to conceive Meyerhold’

s

theatre withou t Maeterlinck , and it was certainlyMaeterlinck who exercised the dominant influ encein the initial stages of Meyerhold

’s development

as a produ cer . The mystic , devotional atmosphereof Maeterlinck ’s plays demanded new methodsof staging. His characters resembled mu ch lessreal human beings than our own visions proj ectedout into space and fixed in some strange and al

most intangible form . We seemed to feel as ifwe were standing before a stained glass windowin aGothi c church , and while abandoning ourselvesto the swaying music of the organ ,

“

now soft andmellow , now thundering and maj estic , we saw thepainted figures in their lattices of lead

,slowly

awake to life and with gestures that betrayed noeffort

,and words that rang clearly in the stillness

of flowing sounds , proceed to enact their peculiardestini es .If su ch was the vision that the au thor wished toarou se in the mind of the audience

,the only

way of calling it up before them was to transformthe stage itself into a kind of stained glass window .

And this was the plan adopted by Meyerhold .

He redu ced the depth of the stage to a narrowband close to the footlights , he placed a flat screenof glowing colors in the background , he made theactors move slowly in a rhythmic manner

,and

speak their words in a clear and ringing voie%and , 10 ! there stood before the audience a worldof imponderou s beings , at once a spiritual visionand a strain of heavenly mu sic . There it stoodbefore the audience , I said . Almost stood

, wouldhave been nearer the tru th, since there were de


kept in the dark . Incidentally , the statuesqu emethod

,by u sing the prosceniumm that is, in the

modern theatre,the part from the cu rtain to the

orchestra— for intensifying its effect , tou ched uponan element of the theatre whi ch involved issu esof signal importance , and concealed possibili tiesof striking development .Since from the earliest days of the theatre the

position and use of the prosceni um formed thefulcrum of a lever balancing the relative weightof the actor and the spectator, the stage and theauditorium . Let the proscenium be di sguised byhaving a pictu re-frame arch bu ilt across the stage ,as was for the first time done by the baroqu eItalian theatre

,or let it be destroyed entirely by

keeping the actors behind its boundary-line , as

has been the wont of the Moscow Art Theatre ;and a barrier is introduced between the stage andthe audience , whi ch tu rns the play into a completeand independent picture , and leaves to the spectator only the role of a detached onlooker . On theother hand , let the proscenium be proj ected rightinto the auditorium, as was done in the days ofShakespeare in the so-called apron-stage , or letit be linked with the auditorium as the Greeksdid by bu ilding the stage as part of the archi tectu ral whole of the auditorium and connecting itwith the orchestra , the place where the chorusacted , and the gu lf between the stage and theaudi ence is bridged , the atmosphere of the theatrebecomes pregnant with intimacy , and the

‘playis transformed into a show which makes no attemptto be anything but a show performed by actorsin the presence of spectators .Su ch are the teeming possibili ties concealed inthat magi c spot , the proscenium. The method


of statu esqu e staging u sed by Meyerhold, broughthim face to face with some of these possibilities ,and made him realize their significance . Whenthe actor in his statuesqu e guise began to moveabou t on the proscenium ,

he suddenly discoveredthat he was actually operating in a land belongingto the sphere of influence of that neighboringpower

,the audience . The novelty of his position

was startling, to him and , to make confu sion worseconfounded , he could hear voices coming from theboxes occupied by grave and solemn au thors , urging him on to step down into the auditorium ,

tomount a chair , as the leader of the Greek choru soriginally did , and to deliver his passionate ad

dresses in the midst of the audience . Urging him,

in fact , to establish a complete unity between theactor and the spectator . “

The theatre is a temple !” he cou ld hear the mystic voices saying,

“so

the play mu st be a mystery-play . It mu st swayour feelings and rou se u s to a state of ecstacy .

Come with you r friends into our midst and we willbow before you as we bow before our priests . And

when you r magic words and actions li ft us out ofand above our mundane sleep we shall all j oinhands , and in rhythmi c movements , to the strainsof you r enskying songs , breathing the invigoratingspirit of Dionysus , we shall leave ourselves in theabysmal mysteries of existence and rise againwith our sou ls purged and rejuvenated .

”

This bu rning call and the au thority of thosewho made it—men of such standing as the poetsFeodor Sologub and Viacheslav Ivanov kept fora time Meyerhold, the actors

’ master , in indecisionas to the cou rse he shou ld adopt . For a momentit looked as if he were going to yield to the newappeal and send the actor into the auditorium .


But here life itself intervened . Meyerhold, aftera lapse of a few years , found himself installedon the stage of the Alexandrinsky Theatre . Meanwhile he had had time to consider the problemadvanced by the advocates of a litu rgi cal theatre .

“The mission of the theatre ,

” these argu ed ,“ is

to reveal the mysteries of life , to ennoble andpurify the sou l . It mu st , therefore , ally itselfwith religion . It must come back to the sourcefrom whi ch it sprung, even as the Greek theatrewas born in the cult of Dionysu s .”

Thi s sounded plau sible enough ; but the flaw inits argument was not difficu lt to find . Religionand the theatre may have similar obj ects

,in fact

,

they share these with all forms of art ; but theirmeans of reali zing these obj ects are far frombeing identical . Religion itself is not all ecstacyand self-abandonment , nor can the scope of thetheatre be redu ced to thi s exceptional sphere ofexperience . Nobody will obj ect to religion making u se of the drama , as it has repeatedly done inthe course of its hi story . But for the theatreto tu rn into a church wou ld be simply su icidal

,

since thi s would destroy all the other means whi chit possesses of presenting its art , and wou ld moreover be oi little assistance in carrying a religiousmessage to the masses . The last considerationby itself confutes all the claims put forward bythe mystics . If there actually exis ts such a thingas a store of religiou s tru th shared in commonby the majority of mank ind , then nothing wouldbe easier than to form religiou s communities and

amongst them cultivate mystic dramas embodying their ideas . But so long as such communitiesare still the preserves of a few enthu siasts

,and

each mystic dramatist,posing as a prophet , pro


claims hi s own gospel of life and salvation , it isludicrou s to expect sophi sticated modern men tocome in crowds to the tabernacles , and submitto the ministrations , of these self-consecratedhigh-priests . After all , those who have anyreligiou s feeling respect and revere it too muchto allow every wanderer on this earth of ours totry to fan the fire at his own sweet will . To sumup this point in the words of the poet AndreyB iely : Let the mystery-play be a mysteryplay

,and the theatre be a theatre .

Such was the conclusion at which Meyerhold

arrived after he had duly considered the problem .

It was all the easier for him to do so , since hisexperience fortified his instinct in the matter .It will be r emembered that hi s evolu tion fromthe flat and decorative method of his earlierprodu ctions to that of statu esqu e staging was dueto the fact that the theatre was found to possesscertain properties which admitted of no v iolation .

Thu s it was found that it was impossible to di sguise the fact that the actor was a real humanbeing and not a flat pictorial image . Next it became clear that neither could the stage be transformed into anything that pretended not to be astage ; while acting, however sincere and true tolife

,could never rid itself of its fundamental

condition and become life instead of acting. A

spectator never think s that shots fired on thestage result in anybody

’s death .

But if these conventions lie at the root of thetheatre , why not go a step fu rther and openlyadmit their existence? Why try to sham a realitywhi ch can never be transferred to the stage ,when it is possible to exhibit a reality that actuallyexists on the stage , with the additional gain in


artistic effect which is conf erred on all forms ofart by honesty in the use of a medium and theavoidance of all mystifying tricks? Just as mu sicis before everything else mu sic , and painting ispainting, so the theatre must be the theatre .

That is to say , it mu st aim to produ ce its effects ,not by disguising its natural pecu liarities andlimi tations , but on the contrary, by work ingconsciou sly within the boundaries they prescri beand by teaching the spectator to delight in themanner in whi ch the medium of the stage is u sed .

“Theatri cali ty” therefore shou ld be the mottoof the theatre

,and having thu s formulated the

new principle , Meyerhold proceeded to discoverthe forms of its practical application . It wasclear in the first place that dramas dependingmainly on illusionistic effects

,were fundamentally

opposed to the idea of “theatricality” ; so theywere banned from Meyerhold

’s program of pro

ductions . But these were mostly modern plays,

while a cursory review of the history of the dramarevealed the welcome fact that the old and mostrenowned dramatists were as frank ly theatrical asone could possibly wish . Lope de Vega , Shakespeare , Moliere , not to mention the Greek dramatists, not only disregarded the claims of illu sion ,but never failed to adapt their plays to the condi tions of stage presentation . One of these condi tions

, that the play on the stage is merely aperformance rendered by actors , is clearly evidentin all their works . Thi s of course depended on theconstru ction of the theatre u sed in their time

,

but even in our modern theatre this featu re canbe brought home to the spectator .Meyerhold, to give but one instance , in stagingDon Juan” by Moliea e of his first ventures


on these new lines— attempted to achieve thiseffect by introdu cing little Arabs waiting on theactors

, as was the custom in the time of Lou is X IV .

But there was another element , that of acting,which had to be brought into harmony with theidea of the theatrical . Realistic impersonationof characters involves no great difficulty , sincelife itself serves as a model to be copied . But thecase is di fferent when acting has to present character or situation and yet indicate unmi stakablythat it is the actor through whom the imageor sentiment is conveyed .

Withou t going into a consideration of thewhole problem,whi ch is too large to be dealt withhere

,I shall only note the methods employed and

advocated by Meyerhold . They were not his owndi scovery , but were u sed by the Greek s , and particularly by the

“Commedia dell’ arte

,

” the formof the theatre that flou rished in Italy in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries .To begin with the first method

,the mask

the answer it gives to the problem of acting isthis : once you lay down the rule that the actor

’spersonality mu st loom behind what he presentsto the audience

, you are logically bound to granthim the power and the freedom of action thatwould enable him to show that that is so . He,

therefore , becomes a master-showman , whosebusiness is to di splay before the audi ence thetreasures of the play he is enacting. As he obj ectsto identifying himself with the characters he presents , he will twist and turn them in every wayso as to show now one of their facets , now another .But to be understood and appreciated these facetsmu st not be mere accidental traits . They mu stform fixed images , originating in the tradi tions


of the theatre in each particu lar country . Inthi s way the actor appears to the spectator as ifhe had been pu tting on a new mask every time .

It may be advanced against thi s conception of theactor

,that su ch a freedom of treatment would

utterly destroy the effect of most plays . But thisobj ection wou ld have left Meyerhold undismayed .

With perfect equanimi ty he wou ld retort : “Leave

the plays alone which cannot be so treated andlet the actor write his own plays ; let him improvise , as he did in the

‘Commedia dell’

Thu s the mask and improvisation bring us to thefinal stage in Meyerhold

’

s j ou rney whi ch startedfrom attempts to do away with a stage fencedin by its naturalistic world and ignoring its immediate neighbor—the spectator .This review of the Russ ian dramatic stageis incomplete

,leaving without mention a number

of interesting but somewhat isolated experimentsby such produ cers as Evreinov ,

Benois,and

others . It shows,however

, two main paths in theevolu tion of dramatic form in Ru ssia . Onepath , along whi ch the Moscow Art Theatre hasbeen traveling, keeps clear of the spectator andconfines itself to a faithfu l representation of theworld portrayed in each play— a world hedgedwithin the boundaries of the stage and existingentirely by its ownmeans and according to its ownrules , so that the audience is recognized no morethan is made necessary by having the huge opening of the pictu re-frame arch . The other path

,

followed by Meyerhold, starts by invok ing theco-operation of the spectator

, who is compelledto contribu te his imaginative faculties to completethe effect of the play , and ends by rej ecting theprrnciple of representation in favor of that of

THE BEGGAR AND THE KING‘

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

By WINTHROP PARKHURST

Persons

THE KING OF A GREAT Hrs SERVANTCOUNTRY A BEGGAR

[A chamber in the palace overlooks a cou rtyard . The

season is midsummer . The windows of the palaceare Open , and from a distance there comes thesound of a man

’s voi ce crying for bread . THE

KING sits in a golden cha ir . A golden crown ison his head and he holds in his hand a sceptrewhich is also of gold . A SERVANT stands by hissidefanning himwith an enormou s fan of peacockfeathers]THE BEGGAR [outside]: B read . B read . B read .

Give me some bread .

THE KING [langu idly]: Who is that cryrng In

the street for bread?

THE SERVANT [fanning]: 0 king, it is a beggar .

THE KING : Why does he cry for bread?THE SERVANT : 0 king, he cries for bread inorder that he may fill his belly .

THE KING : I do not like the sound of his voice .

It annoys me very mu ch . Send him away .

THE SERVANT [bowing]: 0 king, he has beensent away .

‘Copyright, April , 1918 , as a drama ti c composi tion by W inthrop Parkhurst.

THE BEGGAR AND THE KING 63

THE KING : If that is so , then why do I hearhis voice?THE SERVANT : O k ing, he has been sent awaymany times , yet each time that he is sent awayhe returns again , crying louder than he did before .

THE KING : He is very unwise to annoy meon su ch a warm day . He mu st be punished forhis impudence . Use the lash on him.

TH E SERVANT : 0 king, it has been done .

THE KING : Then bring out the spears .THE SERVANT : 0 king, the guards have al

ready bloodied their swords many times drivinghim

O

l

away from the palace gates . But it is of noavarTHE KING : Then bind him and gag him ifnecessary. If need be cut out his tongue . I donot like the sound of the fellow ’s voice . It annoysme very mu ch .

THE SERVANT : 0 king, thy orders were obeyedeven yesterday.

THE KING [frowning]: No. That cannot be .

A beggar cannot cry for bread who has no tongu e .

THE SERVANT : Behold he can—ii he has grownanother .THE KING : What ! Why men are not given

more than one tongue in a lifetime . To have morethan one tongue is treason .

THE SERVANT : If it is treason to have morethan one tongue , O king, then is this beggar surelyguilty of treason .

THE KING [pompou sly]: The punishment fortreason is death . See to it that the fellow is slain .

And do not fan me so languidly . I am very warm .

THE SERVANT [fanningmore rapidly]: Behold ,O great and illu strious king, all thy commands wereobeyed even yesterday .

64 THE BEGGAR AND THE KING

THE KING : How ! Do not j est with thy king.

THE SERVANT : If I j est then there is truth ina jest . Even yesterday, 0 king, as I have toldthee

,the beggar which thou now hearest crying

aloud in the street was slain by thy soldi ers witha sword .

THE KING : Do ghosts eat bread? Forsooth ,men who have been slain with a sword do not goabou t in the streets crying for a piece of bread .

THE SERVANT : Forsooth they do if they arefashioned as thi s beggar .THE KING : Why , he is but a man . Surely hecannot have more than one life in a lifetime .

THE SERVANT : Listen to a tale , O king, whichhappened yesterday .

THE KING : I am listening.

THE SERVANT : Thy soldiers smote this beggarfor crying aloud in the streets for bread , but hi swounds are already healed . They cut out his

tongu e , but he immedi ately grew another . Theyslew him , yet he is now alive .

THE KING : Ah ! that is a tale whi ch I cannotunderstand at all .THE SERVANT : O king, it may be well .THE KING : I cannot understand what thousayest , either .THE SERVANT : O k ing, that may be well also .

THE KING : Thou art speaking now in riddles .

I do not lik e riddles . They confu se my brain .

THE SERVANT : Behold , 0 k ing, if I speak inriddles it is becau se a riddle has come to pass .[THE BEGGAR

’

s voice suddenly cries ou t loudly]THE BEGGAR [ou tsi de]: B read . Bread . Giveme some bread .

THE KING : Ah ! He is crying out again . Hi svoice seems to me louder than it was before .


THE SERVANT : Hunger is as food to the lungs ,0 k ing.

THE KING : His lungs I will wager are wellfed . Ha, ha !THE SERVANT : But alas ! his stomach is quiteempty .

THE KING : That is not my bu siness .THE SERVANT : Shou ld I not perhaps fling hima cru st from thy window?THE KING : No ! To feed a beggar is always

foolish . Every crumb that is given to a beggaris an evil seed from which springs another fellowlike him.

TH E BEGGAR [outside]: B read . B read . Giveme some bread .

THE SERVANT : He seems very hungry , 0 king.

THE KING : Yes . So I should judge .

TH E SERVANT : If thou wilt not let me flinghim a piece of bread thine ears must pay the debtsof thy hand .

THE KING : A king can have no debts .THE SERVANT : That is tru e , O king. Even

so, the noise of thi s fellow’s begging mu st annoy

thee greatly .

THE KING : It does .THE SERVANT : Doubtless he craves only asmall crust from thy table and hewou ld be content .THE KING : Yea

, doubtless he craves only tobe a king and he would be very happy indeed .

THE SERVANT : Do not be hard, 0 king. Thouart ever wise and ju st . Thi s fellow is exceedinglyhungry . Dost thou not command me to fling himju st one small cru st from thy window?THE KING : My commands I have already

given thee . See that the beggar is driven away .

THE SERVANT : But alas ! 0 king, if he is


driven away he will return again even as he didbefore .

THE KING : Then see to it that he is slain . Icannot be annoyed with the sound of hi s voice .

THE SERVANT : But alas ! 0 great and il

lustrions k ing, if he is slain he will come to lifeagain even as he did before .

THE KING : Ah! that is true . But his voicetroubles me . I do not like to hear it .THE SERVANT : His lungs are fattened withhunger . Of a tru th they are qu ite strong.

THE KING : Well , propose a remedy to weakenthem .

THE SERVANT : A remedy , O k ing? [He stopsfanning]THE KING : That is what I said . A remedyand do not stop fanning me . I am exceedinglywarm .

THE SERVANT [fanning vigorou sly]: A cru stof bread, 0 k ing, dropped from yonder windowforsooth that might prove a remedy .

THE KING [angri ly]: I have said I will not givehim a cru st of bread . If I gave him a cru st todayhe wou ld be just as hungry again tomorrow ,

andmy troubles wou ld be as great as before .

THE SERVANT : That]

is tru e , O k ing. Thymind is surely filled with great learning.

THE KING : Therefore,some other remedy

mu st be found .

THE SERVANT : O king, the words of thy illu strions mou th are as very meat-balls of wisdom .

THE KING [musing]: Now let me consider .Thou sayest he dost not suffer painTHE SERVANT : Therefore he cannot be tor

tared .

THE KING : And he will not die


THE SERVANT : Therefore it is u seless to k ill

THE KING : Now let me consider . I mu stthink of some other way .

THE SERVANT : Perhaps a small crust of breadO k ing,TH E KING : Ha ! I have it . I have it . I myself will order him to stop .

THE SERVANT [horrified]: 0 k ing !THE KING : Send the beggar here .

THE SERVANT : 0 k ing !THE KING : Ha ! I rather fancy the fellow

will stop his noise when the king commands himto . Ha, ha , ha !THE SERVANT : 0 king, thou wilt not have a

beggar brought into thy royal chamber !THE KING [pleased wi th his idea]: Yea . Gooutside and tell this fellow that the king desireshis presence .

THE SERVANT : 0 great and illu striou s king,thou wilt surely not do thi s thing. Thou wiltsurely not soil thy royal eyes by look ing on sucha filthy creature . Thou wilt surely not contaminate thy lips by speaking to a common beggarwho cries aloud in the streets for bread .

THE KING : My ears have been soiled too

mu ch already . Therefore go now and do as Ihave commanded thee .

THE SERVANT : 0 great and illustriou s king,thou wilt surely not

THE KING [roaring at him]: I said , Go ! [THESERVANT , abashed, goes out] Forsooth

,I fancy

the fellow will stop hi s bawling when I order himto . Forsooth I fancy he will be pretty wellfrightened when he hears that the k ing desireshis presence . Ha

,ha

,ha , ha !


THE SERVANT [returning]: 0 king, here is thebeggar .

‘

[A shambling creature hung in filthy ragsfollows THE SERVANT slowly into the royal chamber]THE KING : Ha ! A magnificent sight , to besure . Art thou the beggar who hast been cryingaloud in the streets for bread?

THE BEGGAR [in a faint voi ce, after a slight

pause]: Art thou the king?

THE KING : I am the k ing.

THE SERVANT [aside to THE BEGGAR]: It isnot proper for a beggar to ask a question of a k ing.

Speak only as thou art spoken to.

THE KING [to THE SERVANT]: Do thou lik ewise . [To THE BEGGAR] I have ordered theehere to speak to thee concerning a very gravematter . Thou art the beggar , I understand , whooften cries aloud in the streets for bread . Now

the complaint of thy voice annoys me greatly .

Therefore do not beg any more .

THE BEGGAR [faintly]: I— I do not understand .

THE KING : I said , do not beg any more .

TH E BEGGAR : I —I do not understand .

THE SERVANT [aside to THE BEGGAR]: Thek ing has commanded thee not to beg for breadany more . The noise of thy voice is as garbagein hi s ears .

THE KING [to THE SERVANT]: Ha ! An excellent flower of speech . Pin it in thy bu ttonhole . [To THE BEGGAR] Thine ears

,I see

,are

in need of a bath even more than thy body . Isaid , do not beg any more .

THE BEGGAR : I—I do not understand .

THE KING [making a trumpet of his hands andshouting]: Do notbeg any more .TH E BEGGAR : I—I do not understand .


THE BEGGAR : Wherefore should I tou ch myforehead to the floor?THE KING : In order to seal thy promise tothy k ing.

THE BEGGAR : But I have made no promise .

Neither have I any k ing.

THE KING : Ho ! He has made no promise .

Neither has he any k ing. Ha, ha, ha . I havecommanded thee not to beg anymore,for the soundof thy voice is grievou s unto my ears . Tou ch thyforehead now to the floor, as I have commandedthee

,and thou shalt go from this palace a free

man . Refu se , and thou wilt be sorry before anhour that thy father ever came within twentypaces of thy mother .THE BEGGAR : I have ever lamented that he

did. For to be born into thi s world a beggar is amore unhappy thing than any that I know—umless it is to be born a k ing.

THE KING : Fft ! Thy tongue of a tru th istoo lively for thy health . Come, now ,

tou ch thyforehead thrice to the floor and promise solemnlythat thou wilt never beg in the streets again . Andhu rry !TH E SERVANT [aside]: It is wise to do as thy

kir

c

r

lg commands thee . His patience is near an

enTHE KING : Do not be afraid to soil the floor

with thy forehead . I will graciou sly forgive theefor that . [THE BEGGAR stands motionless]THE SERVANT : I said , it is not wise to keepthe king waiting. [THE BEGGAR does not move]THE KING : Well? [A pau se] Well? [In arage ] Well?THE BEGGAR : 0 k ing, thou hast commandedme not to beg in the streets for bread for the noise


of myvoice offends thee . Now therefore do I likewisecommand thee to remove thy crown from thyforehead and throw it from yonder window intothe street . For when thou hast thrown thy crowninto the street then will I no longer be obliged tobeg.

THE KING : Fit ! Thou commandestme! Thou ,

a beggar from the streets , commandest me, a king,to remove my crown from my forehead and throwit from yonder window into the street !THE BEGGAR : That is what I said .

THE KING : Why , dost thou not know I canhave thee slain for such words?THE BEGGAR : No . Thou canst not have me

slain . The spears of thy soldiers are as strawsagainst my body .

THE KING : Ha ! We shall see if they are . We

shall see !THE SERVANT : 0 king, it is indeed true . It

is even as he has told thee .

THE BEGGAR : I have requ ired thee to removethy crown from thy forehead . If so be thou wiltthrow it from yonder window into the street , myvoice wi ll cease to annoy thee any more . But ifthou refuse then thou wilt wish thou hadst neverhad any crown at all . For thy days will be filledwith a terrible boding and thy nights will be fu llof horrors even as a ship is full of rats .THE KING : Why , thi s is insolence . This istreason !THE BEGGAR : Wilt thou throw thy crown

from yonder window?THE KING : Why ,

this is high treason !THE BEGGAR : I ask thee , wilt thou throwthy crown from yonder window?THE SERVANT [aside to THE KING]: Perhaps


it were .wiser to humor him, 0 king. Af ter thouhast thrown thy crown away I can go outside andbring it to thee again .

THE BEGGAR : Well? [There is a pause] Well?[He points to thewindow] Well?THE KING : No ! I will not throw my crown

from that window—no , nor from any other window . What ! Shall I obey the orders of a beggar? Never !THE BEGGAR [preparing to leave]: Truly, that

is spoken like a k ing. Thou art a k ing, so thouwou ldst prefer to lose thy head than that sillycircle of gold that so fooli shly sits upon it . But

it is well . Thou art a k ing. Thou cou ldst notprefer otherwise . [He walks calmly towards thedoor]THE KING [to THE SERVANT]: Stop him ! Seize

him! Does he think to get off so easily with hi simpudence !THE BEGGAR [coolly]: One of thy servantscannot stop me . Neither can ten thousand ofthem do me any harm . I am stronger than amountain . I am stronger than the sea !THE KING : Ha ! We w ill see abou t that , we

will see about that . [To TH E SERVANT] Holdhim , I say . Call the guards . He shall be put inchains .THE BEGGAR : My strength is greater than amountain and my words are more fearful than ahurricane . Thi s servant of thine cannot eventouch me . With one breath of my mouth I canblow over thi s whole palace .

THE KING : Dost thou hear the impudencehe is offering me? Why dost thou not seize him?What is the matter with thee? Why dost thounot call the guards?


THE BEGGAR : I will not harm thee now . I Iwill only cry aloud in the streets for bread wherewith to fill my belly . But one day I will not beso k ind to thee . On that day my mouth will befilled with a ru shing wind and my arms will become as strong as steel rods , and I will blow overthis palace and all the bones in thy foolish bodyI will snap between my fingers . I will beat upon alarge drum and thy head will be my drumstick .

I will not do these things now . But one day I willdo them . Therefore , when my voice sounds againin thine ears

,begging for bread , remember what

I have told thee . Remember , 0 king, and beafraid ! [He walks ou t. THE SERVANT, struckdumb, stares after him. THE KING sits in his cha ir

,

dazed]THE KING [suddenly collecting his wits]: After

him! After him ! He mu st not be allowed toescape ! After him!THE SERVANT [faltering]: O king—I cannotseem to move .

THE KING : Quick , then . Call the guards .He must be caught and put in chains . Quick , Isay . Call the guards !THE SERVANT : O king—I cannot seem to callthem .

THE KING : How ! Art thou dumb? Ah!

[THE BEGGAR’s voice is heard outside]

THE BEGGAR : B read . Bread . Give me somebread .

THE KING : Ah. [He turns toward the window,

half-frightened, and then , almost instinctively, raiseshis hands toward his crown , and seems on the pointof tossing it ou t the wi ndow . But with an oath hereplaces it and presses itfirmly on his head] How !Am I afraid of a beggar !


THE BEGGAR [continu ing outs ide]: B read .

B read . Give me some bread .

THE KING [with terrible anger]: Close thatwindow !

THE IDEA OF MODERN

TRAGEDY

RAGEDY is the k ind of drama thatembodies the sufferings of man : thetragic drama of all ages has thi sone theme . But different ages 'maydi ffer radically as to the cause ofsuffering, and as to its justifiableness .

Thus we can sense the sufferings ofman in ancient Greek tragedy, but, having aconception of the universe different from thatof the Greeks , we may have a different explanationof the cau se of suffering and a different notion ofits justifiableness . Now it is this attitude towardthe cause and the justifiableness of sufferingthat constitutes the idea of tragedy as di stinctfrom tragedy or suffering. Tragedy i s a “constant —a quantity that does not vary ; the ideaof tragedy is a

“variable —it may assume different values .The idea of tragedy ls determined by the k ind

of universe perceived by the age inwhi ch the tragedy 18 produ ced , and by the way in whi ch the ageunderstands the nature of man—these two factorsstand sponsor for the explanation of the cau seof the suffering and for the notion of its justifiableness . Thus in an agewhich assumes an unalterablemoral order of the universe , and which endowsman with the freedom of choice to align himselfwith that moral order

,the tragedy of man would

consist in his willful disobedi ence to the moralorder ; and the cause of man

’s suffering would lie

76 THE IDEA OF MODERN TRAGEDY

Within himself, and his suffering would be justifiable in the name of the moral order . Conversely ,in an age whi ch perceives an unstable moral order ,and whi ch finds man to be the essentially willless product of forces beyond hi s management , thetragedy of man wou ld occur wherever these unmanageable forces brought suffering to him ;and the cau se of man ’s suffering wou ld lie withouthimself

,and his suffering would not be justifiable .

B riefly, then , the idea of tragedy depends upon thephilosophy of the age in which the tragedy isproduced .

Now there are two conceptions of the universeand of man : a pre—modern conception and a modern conception ; and these two conceptions arediametrically opposed to each other . The dividingline is the scientific research of the later nineteenth century . On one side of that line lies theinterminable stretch of pre-modern philosophy ;on the other , the first flight of modern philosophy,begun within the memory of men now living, and ,within three generations , ou treaching the graspof preceding ages . The starting-point of modernscience is the theory of evolution , and the theoryof evolution is the lever of modern philosophy .

The theory of evolution appeared at the mi ddleof the century, but its large conclu sions werenot fully apprehended until a generation later .With this apprehension man ’s conception of theuniverse and of himself was completely reformed .

There are two conceptions of the universe andof man, and the pre-modern conception is this :there is an unalterable moral order of the universe ;be it propounded by Hebrew , Greek ,

or Christian ,it is unalterable , and to this order should manchoose to conform . There is

,to be sure

,in the


Now upon the pre-modern conception dependsthe pre-modern idea of tragedy—the explanationof the cause of suffering and the attitude towardits justifiableness . The tragedy of the ancientGreeks , of Shakespeare , of Calderon , of classicFrance is suffering consequ ent upon the Vi olationof the unalterable moral order by the will of theindividual, the vi olation meriting the punishmentof the individual . There are , to be su re , passagesin the Greek tragedians , or in Shakespeare , whi chrecognize the compulsory forces of heredity andcircumstance , but these forces are not recogni zedto su ch an extent that they put aside the individualwill or to su ch an extent that the punishment ofthe individual is qu estioned or his guilt shi fted toother shou lders . In other words , pre-moderntragedy, dependent upon pre-modern philosophy ,does not fu lly recogni ze the tru e source of evil .Pre-modern tragedy pities human nature , but itdoes not champion the individual ; it championsthe unalterable moral order assumed by the age

in whi ch the tragedy is produ ced . To thi s moralorder must the indi vidual inevitably su ccumb .

The pre-modern tragedian assumes an unalterablemoral order assailed by the will of the individual ,and the puni shment of the indivi dual restores theau tocracy of the moral universe .

And upon the modern conception depends themodern idea of tragedy . The tragedy of Ibsenand Strindberg, of Hauptmann and Halbe , ofB rieux , of Andreyev, of Benavente , of Galsworthyis the suffering of man entailed by his social inheritance—inborn tendencies

,malicious environment

,

obsolete or obsolescent moral criterions . By his

social inheritance is the individual v ictimized .

Srnce it is no longer possible to deny that an

THE IDEA OF MODERN TRAGEDY 79

imperfect individual is the offspring of an imperfectsocial body

,modern tragedy affirms that the tru e

source of evil lies withou t the individual and within the social body . Thus modern tragedy doesnot exhibit the conflict of individual will with anunalterable moral order , but the perversion ofcharacter by an imperfect social order . Thus theidea of tragedy in Galsworthy

’s Ju stice is not thatthe cau se of sufi

'

ering is coextensive with the gu iltof the individual , and that the suffering of theindividual is justifiable ; it is , on the contrary

,

that the cau se of suffering is coextensive with the

guilt of society , and that the suffering of theindividual is not ju stifiable . It is just becau semodern tragedy does not end with twenty-fivelines of blank verse proclaiming an unalterablemoral order of the universe that many peoplestill regard modern tragedy as impious . To su chpeople modern tragedy has simply to continuerepeating that it is no longer possible to identifyan imperfect social order with a perfect moralorder . Modern tragedy is tru e to the modernconception . In pre-modern tragedy, man makesa settlement with the world by tak ing his puni shment at the hands of the unalterable moral order ;in modern tragedy, man suffers at the handsof social inheritance and he does not make peacewith a world that endows him with a painful socialinheritance .

The difference in idea between pre-moderntragedy and modern tragedy may be set forthin connection with a statement from Strindberg

’spreface to M iss Ju lia . Accounting for the character of Ju lia , Strindberg says :

“She rs a Victim

of the discord which a mother’s ‘crime ’ produ cesin a family, and also a victim of the day ’s delusions ,


of the circumstances , of her defective constitu

tion—all of which may be held equivalent to theold-fashioned fate or universal law .

” Oedi pu sRex ,

too,is caught in a net of circumstance and

heredi ty , but nevertheless he as an individual isheld to a final accounting before the unalterablemoral order . But Ju lia is held to no accounting ;she is accou ntedfor; and what accounts for her, andwhat mu st be held u ltimately responsible for her, isher social source . The pro

-modern tragedian doesnot fu lly recognize the tru e sou rce of ev il ; themodern tragedian does .The idea of modern tragedy is the castigation

of the imperfections of society . Modern tragedydoes not sit in judgment upon the individual :it does not hold the suffering of the individual tobe tru ly of hi s own mak ing ; and it does not affirmthe justifiableness of the suffering of the individual .The imperfect individual is an index to the socialstate . Pieced together imperfectly by heredityand environment

,he is the door that opens out

upon society . Modern tragedy embodies the revolt oi man against the things that make him whathe is . Pre-modern tragedy put the blame uponthe individual ; modern tragedy pu ts the blamewhere it belongs . Many people are still di spleasedwith modern tragedy . The reason they are pleasedwith a tragedy of old times is that such tragedynever stabs anybody but the particu lar poorVictim of the play . They can say ,

“Well , here isno fau lt of mine . Thank goodness , I am not PrinceSo-and-So. He got j ust what he deserved , andthat’s the end of it . Now modern tragedy hasthe pecu liar facu lty of stabbing everybody inthe audience . It says to everybody

,

“You did

thi s . You are responsible . What are you going

THE IDEA OF MODERN TRAGEDY 81

to do abou t it?” For, shi fting the guilt from theisolated individual , modern tragedy has laid itdown at the door of every man. Individual gui lthas become social guilt , and to social guilt everyman is party . As Ibsen says in one of hi s letters

,“A man shares the responsibility and the guilt ofthe society to whi ch he belongs . In modern tragedy

,the guilty person i s not the sufferer but the

things that cause the suffering. The emphasisis placed not upon what man does but upon whatis done to him.

“The naturalist , says Strind

berg,“has wiped out the idea of guilt .

” That is,

the guilt which pre-modern tragedy attaches to theindividual Victim . But the guilt , to the eternalhope of the betterment of mankind

,has been

transferred to all. Thus , as Shaw says , speakingof the tragedies of B rieux ,

“You come away witha very disquieting sense that you are involved inthe affair

,and must find the way out of it for

yourself and everybody else if civ ilization is to betolerable to you r sense of honor .It may not be amiss to say that the frame

work of pre-modern tragedy—an ascending action

in which the Victim finally commits his crime , anda descending action in which “poetic justice(equivalent to the unalterable moral order) playsthe part of executioner—is as out—of-date as itsidea . A modern tragedy purposes to show forthli fe as it is by portraying character in a certainsituation or series of situations without prearranging, rear

‘ranging, or disarranging life to fit theproclamation of unalterable moral order at theend . The quieting effect of

‘‘poetic justice” hasbee

l

r

i

l

fe.

’

replaced by the disquieting effect of“tru th

toE . CLARENDON Ross .

WALTER HAMPDEN A NEWHAMLET“

HE theatrical calendar of New Yorkis watched with interested eyes byenthu siasts who wonder how long asuccess will run. Figu res at presentshow that one play has ju st passedits 300th performance . Yet , encour

aging as that may appear , there is afact abou t another drama recently produ ced inNew York which has a deeper significance . Itis that a certain play has been continuou sly uponthe boards for upwards of 3 15 years , yet at itspresent performances thou sands of people laughat its low comedy jokes , follow every speech closely ,thrill at a son ’s consecration to avenge hi s fou llymurdered father , hold their breath as he upbraidshi s weak mother , feel their eyes moisten as his

sweetheart chants her mad songs of love , and sighas he goes down to hi s untimely death .

Shakespeare—all theatrical produ cers and popular critics to the contrary notwithstanding—isas mu ch alive as any contemporary . New Yorkrecently saw three different Hamlets within afortnight . The Saturday morning I went to see

the best performance,the theatre was besieged as

though by a storming army . The company whi ch

‘M r. Hampden has . since the writing of this article taken his H amlet produ cti on on the road.

WALTER HAMPDEN A NEW HAlllLET 83

began with a few performances of The Merchantof Venice” and “Macbeth” has announced thatits “

Hamlet” will be continued indefini tely and

!hat “

As You li ke It” will be added to the billater .There were times in America when an audience

expressed its feelings over a certain Shakespeareanactor from England by inciting to a riot with lossof several lives . Nowadays we do not allow our

feelings over Shakespearean matters to carry usso far

,but there is a merry war among the metro

politian critics as to ju st how great the delineationof Hamlet by Walter Hampden really is . Onehas asserted and repeated that his interpretationis greater than

'

that of Sir Johnstone ForbesRobertson ; that it can be compared only with theeffect produ ced by Edwin Booth . Others findminor faults , or indi cate sides of the great Daneunrevealed by the new tragedi an , yet even thecaptious critics are forced to admit that they areseeing a novel phenomenon in theatrical history .

In the first place the personnel of thi s “Hamlet”

company is the strangest that ever read a line ofblank verse . Albert B runing, who makes Poloniusa delight of characterization , is loaned by MadameB ertha Kalich from her play “The RiddleWoman .

”

Vici Ioucelli , the Osric , comes over from“The

Better ’Ole .

”Allen Thomas is permitted to act

in Shakespeare by Winthrop Ames , who controlshis time as a member of the cast of “The B etrothal .” The remainder of the performers are variou sly recru ited from companies assured of all

season runs , and other activities .But strangest of all is the dual role of the starhimself . At two or three afternoon and Satu rdaymorning performances , Hampden enacts the great

84 WALTER HAMPDEN A NEW HAMLET

est tragic role in all dramatic literature . E ighttimes a week he plays the leading role in a lightcomedy by Miss Clare Kummer, Be calm , Ca

After all the produ ctions of Hamlet in recentyears a new interpretation mu st be both good andnovel . The excellence must be in the acting ;traits of novelty may be added to other phases ofthe produ ction . To illustrate this second I recalla wonderful performance at the Comedie Francaise by Mounet—Sully in which the platformscenes

,instead of being shallow sections of the

forestage, were set at an angle to the footlightsextending far back and around the Castle of Elsinore

,so that when Hamlet followed the retreating

Ghost of hi s murdered father , we saw him drawnon and on

,a great distance from Horatio and his

companions . The present produ ction providesseveral novelties of staging.

'

In the first placethere is no division into acts and scenes so thatalthough no definite statement is made to arou sethe di sagreeing antiquarians , the performanceapproaches an Elizabetan one . There are twobrief intermissions in the continuou s action , oneafter the second ghost scene , the other after thedeath of Ophelia . Thi s scheme gives a decidedimpression of tragic unity to the story of the youngprince’s revenge .

For setting, the sides of the stage are furnishedwith angled burlap screens—they were used inTolstoi’s “Redemption” at the same playhou sewhile draped up black cu rtains disclose an architectural platform at the rear approached by foursteps and marked by round stone columns . At

the back is a dark blue stippled curtain . To sug

gest the castle platform the stone columns are

86 WALTER HAMPDEN A NEWHAMLET

the battlements . Any performance whi ch re

linquishes that opportunity mu st fail of a strongeffect at its conclu sion .

Other unu sual details do not redu ce the greatimpression of the acting. One notes the absenceof the prayi ng scene when Hamlet might havekilled hi s stepfather uncle and sent his sou l to hell .Some of the changes are for the better . WhenHamlet pleads with his mother most tragedi anspoint to portraits of her two hu sbands upon thewall , or mak e her gaze upon the contrasted miniatures they both wear . Hampden u ses neither

,

but sketches the two faces upon the mind’s eye .

This gives Vividness to hi s description of the ghostwhen his mother asks abou t his distracted brain .

As Hamlet declared it was hi s “father” the Queenshrieked so amazedly that a tremor of cold fearswept over the entire audi ence .

The scenes with the Players are delivered inan extremely light key . The advice upon actingis the amiable conversation of a courtier upon afascinating art . In the play scene,

“The Mou se

Trap,

”is performed upon the platform at the

rear . Hamlet in most produ ctions lies at Ophelia’s feet near the front

,and frequently drags him

self snake-like across the scene towards the k inguntil he starts up like an avenging fury at his side .

Hampden during the acting goes to the rear andstands beside the steps leading to the improvisedstage . Thu s erect , he is qu ite naturally facingthe king and the audi ence so that very simply andquietly he dominates the scene until he madlyru shes forward as the gu ilty monarch starts tohis feet .As ide from Hampden , the best acting is done

by Charles A . Stevenson as Claudiu s , Albert

WALTER HAMPDEN A NEW HAMLET 87

B runing as Polonius , Harry Irvine as Horatio ,and Miss Mary Hall as Gertrude . The Ophelialeft a great deal to be imagined as to beauty ,charm and ability .

Hampden is a handsome man , whose actions ,physiqu e , face and voice fit him admirably to theyoung Dane

’s part . His training has been thebest . That means that he has acted Shakespeareanroles in England under the direction of Sir FrankR . Benson

,the center of the Stratford-ou -Avon

Company . Though still a young man , he has theactor’s ability to assume a depth of convincingfeeling and passion . By nature and experience a romantic—or more exactly— a poetic actor, he iseminently su ited to certain Shakespearean roles .

H is essential conception of Hamlet is a humanone. The young prince was a lovable , genial ,companionable man . Every remark about himin the tragedy supports that belief . Sweetnessand charm won men and women alike and heldthem , Horatio safest of all in his heart of hearts .Hamlet can tease the tediou s old fool Poloniu s ,but he warns the Visiting actors to mock him not .They can have no reason su ch as hi s

,and no man

must be held up to idle or cruel scorn . Noticehow cordially he welcomes Rosencrantz andGu ildenstern ; then how his betrayed tru st in themturns to ironic bitterness .

In the romantic charm and gentleness of Hamlet , Hampden at times misses Opportuni ties tolighten the character . There are playfu l lightsupon some of the speeches whi ch if deli cately illuminated would add still more to his humanness .Yet these are small matters in a performance souniformly satisfying.

88 WALTER HAMPDEN NEW HAMLET

This Hamlet merits the descriptionto hi s Own father ,

“Take him for all in all

,he was

a man .

”

CLARENCE STRATTON .

DAWN

The Dawn is wiser than the eve.

—SlaV Proverb .

BY R ITAWELLMAN

CharactersSISTER ELENA THE CAPTAIN

THE DOCTORA Russian mi litary hospital—1917 .

[A small room in the hospital. There is a very long,narrow French window at the back . On each sideof the window is a bed. There is a door at theright. A night light is bu rning on a table by thebed at the left of the window. The first light ofdawn is coming through the window . The lightmakes the scene unearthly, and casts a pecu liarhush over the voices of the peop le . THE CAPTAINoccupies the bed on the left. The bed on the rightis unoccupi ed . THE CAPTAIN is a well bu i ltmanwi th an intelligent, fine face which is now coveredwith a beard. H is hair is dark . He looks likea Bohemian or a Hungarian . SISTER ELENAis tall and slender . Her voice and eyes are fu llof mystery , a woman who has always known suffering—and beautifu l hope]ELENA [entering]: Yes?

CAPTAIN : Come here to me . [His voi ce isirritable, and his way [of speaking childish . She

obeys and goes over to his bed, standing over himlike Fate]

89

90 DAWN

ELENA : You are awake now . It is only fouro ’clock .

CAPTAIN : I have been on the sea— rolling fromside to side . I have a feeling that all my nervesare being pu lled out of me , and stretched slowly ,longer and longer, and then suddenly they arelet go, and they snap back again

—lik e elasticbands . And then I seem to be sink ing into theocean .

ELENA : Have you any pain?

CAPTAIN : All my wounds ache . They arecalling out together like children at recess . Thereis not a part of my body that is not awake . But

my brain is the worst of all . What have you beengiving me out of that ugly look ing bottle?

ELENA : You excited you rself too much talking to the doctor .CAPTAIN : No one will listen to me . No one

cares about me . And I am going to die .

ELENA [wi th strange sudden eagerness]: Youfeel that !CAPTAIN : I know I am going to die . I did not

want to die like thi s . In thi s narrow bed,in thi s

deadly place , with you and the doctor aroundspeculating about me , and that sickly light comingin the window . I pictu red a di fferent death formyself, something more heroic .

ELENA [feeling his pu lse]: Do not talk .

CAPTAIN [after a moment—peevishly]: Send thedoctor here .

ELENA [with her steely calm]: I will see if hecan come to you . A convoy of wounded has ju stcome In.

CAPTAIN [showing spi rit]: We have had a newVictory then? Germans? Hungarians?

DAWN 91

ELENA : A few . They are mostly Russians .Our losses have been terrible .

CAPTAIN : Why can’t I be moved back to the

ward? I want to be where the others are and hearthe news .

ELENA : We had to make room for the others .

This rs inconvenient to reach up here . It IS a nicequ iet room . You should be pleased to have itto yourself lik e this .CAPTAIN : To put me off by myself ! That is

ju st one of you r ways of makingme uncomfortable .

I am sick and tired of my own company . I wantto see the doctor . Can ’t I see the doctor?ELENA : I wi ll try to get him for you , Captain .

Do you need anything?

[She goes toward the door]CAPTAIN : Sister Elena .

ELENA [pau sing]: Yes,Captain?

CAPTAIN : Promise me that you will not lookupon my face when I am dead .

ELENA : I promi se , Captain.

CAPTAIN : It is fear of that whi ch has keptme alive .

ELENA [with a strange smi le]: You are afraid ofme , Captain .

CAPTAIN : Yes . Your strange eyes theypierce my soul like bu rning steel . Your eyes arefu ll of hate , Sister Elena .

ELENA [coldly]: It is you who have taughtus Ru ssians to hate .

CAPTAIN [childishly]: I want to see the doctor .ELENA : I will see if I can get him for you .

[She tu rns to go]CAPTAIN [calling]: Sister ELENA !ELENA [patiently]: Yes , Captain?CAPTAIN : When will the sun rise?

92 DAWN

ELENA : Not for hours yet . You must sleepif you can.

CAPTAIN : Don ’t stand there at the door likethat . You look unearthly . You frighten .

me .

Go away . I don ’t want to see you any more .

[He hides his head like a frightened chi ld . She goes

ou t. There is a pause. THE DOCTOR enters]DOCTOR : Captain?CAPTAIN : I am worse—the end is coming.

DOCTOR : Nonsense . You are getting well .CAPTAIN : No . I know . It ’s my mind . Myspirit doesn’t fight to live any more . It has givenIn.

DOCTOR : Nonsense !

CAPTAIN : Come here and sit beside me , doctor .I lik e the smell of tobacco on your clothes .

DOCTOR [sitting]: Thi s is the worst time inthe twenty-fou r hours for sick people . Whatawakened you?CAPTAIN : Sister E lena .

DOCTOR : That is impossible . She has beenin the operating room with me thi s past two hours

until your ring came .

CAPTAIN : I tell you she has been standingthere at the door the whole night through withher white dress , and her whi te face , and her greatgrey eyes whi ch never leave me for an instant .She is like a wolf which is ready to spring upon astarving man .

DOCTOR [I n a matter of fact tone]: Woundcomfortable?CAPTAIN : It aches . It drags lik e a claw .

DOCTOR [ri sing] What you need is sleep .

CAPTAIN : Then keep her away .

DOCTOR : Sister Elena !

94 DAWN

ELENA [in her even , i cy , avenging voi ce]: Youdid not leave them alone to die In peace .

CAPTAIN : You hate me . Why mu st I have youhere?ELENA : You did not leave those three womenalone to die in peace !CAPTAIN : Have I talked in my deli rium?

Have I been revealing things?ELENA [in a very low tone]: Yes .

[She comes and stands over him like an inexorable

goddess , and every word she speaks is poi ntedathim like a dagger]

CAPTAIN : There were not three women . Therewere only two—and a child .

ELENA : A young girl !CAPTAIN : Sixteen perhaps .ELENA : Seventeen . She was as beau tiful as

a saint . Her mind was all upon God. She hadju st taken the vows .CAPTAIN : Well , what cou ld I do? He was

young. He was as mad as an animal in spring.

He sprang upon her deaf and blind .

ELENA : Her mind which was all upon Godis now festering with obscene images .CAPTAIN : An officer can ’t prevent everything.

I tried . We all tried to be civilized . The worldwas upside down that night .

ELENA : Have you forgotten the other? [Her

voice trembles,bu t it is sti ll cold]

CAPTAIN : Yes . To think of it ! To think thatI did su ch a thing ! I was never like that . I hadno intention even when they ordered us to—evenwhen they told us to go ahead and commi t everycrime No , I was never going to do that—Iwas cold with command And then the strangeness of everything My mind was half dazed

,

DAWN 95

I was so tired . Then I happened upon her ,shou lder to shou lder—out there in the dark . Her

fragrance—her wild fear—she clawed me Ihave the scar here on my wrist . I have said itwas a charm . It mu st have been . Every partof my body has been touched but that . It is theonly part of my body that does not ache . It stilltrembles from her tou ch .

ELENA : She has a scar—where you struckher with your revolver .

CAPTAIN : She was a fu ry , that woman . She

had a passion for hate . She wou ld have had thewhole town on our backs .

ELENA [for the first time showing emotion]: She

did , she did ! In spite of you she stirred the peopleagainst you and your beasts . She put new heartinto the men

,half old women

,half poets that they

were . She showed to their dull , inward-lookinghearts the real nature of Ru ssia ’s friend .

CAPTAIN : It is strange .

ELENA : What do you find strange , Captain?CAPTAIN : That now when you talk so.

it is my fancy .

ELENA : I am like her—the other? Do you

think that?CAPTAIN : Yes . She had your strength .

ELENA : And my memory .

CAPTAIN : She had you r voice .

ELENA : And my hate !CAPTAIN : Even the eyes !ELENA [lifting her cap]: And the scar .CAPTAIN : It is you !ELENA : Here is where “you struck me with

you r revolver .CAPTAIN : You have followed me here ! What

do you want of me?

96 DAWN

ELENA : What I have had—your soul to tormentCAPTAIN : Thi s is why . day by day you

have never let me sleep—never let me rest .ELENA : Day by day I have been k illing you

with hate . You have taken it into you r body as

sick men take in the sunshine , and its poison hasspread through all you r veins until there is notone cell in you r Vile body which has not absorbedits deadliness .CAPTAIN : I have been in you r power . Whydid you not k ill me ou tright?ELENA : Becau se I wanted you to suffer as I

have done,slowly

,tortuou sly , with infinite variety .

I gave you relief, only that you might know painmore excru ciating.

CAPTAIN : You she-wolf !ELENA [with even , cold passion]: Boche ! Murderer ! Robber of God

’s children !CAPTAIN [petu lantly]: Stop talk ing. I am

tired . I am growing sleepy .

ELENA [with her steely , avenging wi ll]: Takethis . [She gi ves him a glass of medicine which hedrinks obediently from habit] I have kept youmore than alive with a powerful stimu lant . Ihave made your nerves jangling wires , and eachone I have picked out and twinged separately,so that you may never grow numb—even from

CAPTAIN : Whatever it is, it always makes mefeel better at first

,anyway . [He

rambles on in a certa in weak exci tement,cau sed by

the stimu lant, and his highly nervou s state] Letme talk now . You know I was a writer when Iwas a free man . I u sed to write book s . I stroveto be a free-thinker—nu -Ge rman . You know

,

93 DAWN

you understand it? If anyone had told me thatin two years I wou ld go back there

—lik e thatthat I wou ld come all noisy and rough and breakin upon three women—three nuns who had runaway from the convent three nu ns .

ELENA : She was a child, a mere child .

CAPTAIN : Yes,like my own little wounded

Violet who died . And we came lik e beasts , lik ejungle beasts crashing down to the water to drink !

CAPTAIN [suddenly vehement]: And that wasat Razof ! Do you understand? [Weakly again]But we weren ’t needlessly cruel , were we? We

weren ’t needlessly cru el ! Oh,no

,I am sure of

it . I am su re we weren ’t . [Still weaker] How

my head aches ! My mind aches . Why do youmake me talk ?ELENA : Go on. I want to hear everything.

[She gives hima sipfrom the glass]CAPTAIN [re-acting at once]: I wanted to be a

great philosopher . All Germans want to be philosophers . It is becau se we think that life can bemade to order by machine . I suppose we lackfai th in God. We have only practical imagination . Fact for fact and don ’t flinch ! That ’s aGerman mind for you ! [Weari ly] Oh

,I am get

ting tired again . I feel so weak . [After a moment,in which he has rolled his head wearily away and

then rolled it back again] Sister , do you thinkthere is a God?ELENA : Not for you !CAPTAIN [childishly]: Come nearer me . I am

not afraid of you any more . Come give me yourhand .

ELENA : I would kill you first !CAPTAIN : Give me your hand . I see you now

DAWN 99

as you are . You are a nun and a saint . Give meyou r kind hand .

ELENA : Do you think that I could forgive

you ?

CAPTAIN : Yes . Men and women are but menand women and sublimities have to find their wayin somehow—and they do . Our flesh has beenone

,Sister Elena . Have you forgotten? One

moment and we flamed into each other and facedeterni ty as one body and one sou l .ELENA : [trembling] Boche !CAPTAIN : I was not myself that night . I was

an harassed thing torn from my books , from myli ttle world of dreams , painted over to look lik ethou sands of others , sent out blindly to cru shand k ill and destroy . I had no skill in all that .I had no heart In all that . I stru ck out blindlyin a foreign world , doing things alien to myself ,all the time growing stranger and more loathsometo myself . Can

’t you understand any of that?I s there nothing in thi s world that everyone canunderstand?ELENA : I hate you !CAPTAIN : Yes , hate! That is it . We di scovered

that in our laboratories,Sister . Oh , a blind world ,

Sister,which takes its pattern from us !

ELENA : You di scovered hate for us . Now

we know what it is .

CAPTAIN : The German Victory will beh

Alli ed—hate, Elena .

ELENA : We fought you as Christians untilwe discovered that you were not fit to be treatedeven as dogs .

%APTAIN : Are you going to let us kill Christ ,

too

ELENA : No ! God forbid !

100 DAWN

CAPTAIN : Elena, take my hand . It is nolonger the hand of a Hungarian . It is no longerthe hand of a soldi er . It will soon belong to onewho understands everything—but hate .

ELENA [in a hushed voi ce]: Do you think thatHe will forgive you ?CAPTAIN : I feel that He has forgiven me .

ELENA [She starts to take his hand]: No . Ican never tou ch you .

CAPTAIN : Your hate is weakening, Elena . Iknow it is weakening. It is breaking through ,here and there

,as the dawn breaks through the

night sky .

ELENA : The dawn is wiser than the eve .

It is an old Slavic saying.

CAPTAIN : You are forgiving. I can feel it .ELENA : I can never forgive !CAPTAIN : As I felt your hate , now I feel your

love . It is entering every cell—lik e the sunshine .

It is singing into me lik e a blessing. Sister Elena ,you; lhate that has k illed me is mak ing me glad

to'

e .

ELENA [in a low , strained voice]: My hate thathas k illed you ! Have I done that?CAPTAI N : ‘ And now you care that I am dying.

You care?

ELENA [after a pause she gives him her hand]:Yes , I care .

CAPTAIN [tremu lou sly]: Elena !ELENA : What is thi s? I do not understand .

CAPTAIN : I am so weary . Read me a story .

ELENA : There is no book here . The B ible;

[She tou ches the book on the table]CAPTAIN : Well , read from it—I don’t mind .

[She takes the B ible from the table and sits besidehim. As she reads , the dawn grows brighter and

102 DAWN

Lie back . This is fatal to you . Why mu st youdo such a thing?CAPTAIN : Let me tell them— let me go andtell them They mu st see it They mu st understand The Slave mu st j oin as one . They mu stunderstand understand . Hold me ! I amslipping.

ELENA : I have you .

’

Lie back .

CAPTAIN [as she helps him down to the bed again]:Say something—tell me—what you were readingELENA [softly]:

“If I take my wings early inthe morning and dwell in the u ttermost parts ofthe sea ; even there also Shall thy hand lead me .

”

CAPTAIN : No,not that now— nearer

ELENA [foldinghim in her arms , sobbing]: Chi ld !My child !CAPTAIN : Sister ! Sister ! I S it light yet?ELENA : Yes

,it is light now . Day has come .

CAPTAIN : Day ! That is good . [S lowly slipping away] Day

—day has come—day[He dies . ELENA bends over him

,anxiou sly watch

ing. A t last she breaks forth in a sobbing cry]ELENA : No

, not yet . Not yet ![She ri ses and staggers to the center of the room,

where she stands,a dark cross against the white

ofdbh

fwindow,

her arms stretched ou t on eithersi

ELENA : Oh , God, give me back my hate !

AMERICA’

S FIRST PERMANENTPLAYHOUSE

HE pioneer actors and actresses inAmerica had indeed very meagresettings amid whi ch to exhibit whatever histrionic ability they possessed .

At first they were obliged to performin any room they could obtain , andalthough there were play-houses in

New York and Charleston as early as 1733 and1735 , all of those erected before the year 1766were merely temporary devices . In 1751 therewas a “theatre” in New York which had “tenboxes , the price per box being 5 shillings , with atotal seating capacity for abou t 300 persons . Aft

erwards, other temporary play-hou ses were bu ilt inNew York , su ch as Cruger

’s Wharf Theatre , 1758 ,and Chapel Street Theatre , 1761 . In Philadelphi a

,despite the intense Opposition of the Quakers ,

several temporary play-houses were erected , andPlumstead’s Warehou se—s till standing in 1849was also u sed as a theatre . Indeed it was inPhiladelphia that America ’s first permanent playhou se , the Sou thwark Theatre , was completed in1766.

This first permanent play-house in America wasknown as the Old Sou thwark Theatre

,being

situated on Sou th Street , above Fou rth Street ,and it was u sed for dramatic performances from1766 till 1821 . Its upper walls were of wood ,those of the first story of brick , both woodenand brick walls being rudely constru cted . In

103

104 AMERICA ’S FIRST PERMANENT PLA YHOUSE

fact, thewhole building was exceedingly plain and

poorly arranged , and, what made its appearancestill more unattractive , it was painted a glaringred . None of the seats in the hou se —boxes , pitor gallery—was particu larly cosy, and the Viewfrom the boxes was hidden by large wooden postswhich supported the roof . Needless to state , thistheatre was lighted by neither electricity nor gas ,its stage being illuminated by oil-lamps unprotected by glass . In 1821 it was partially destroyedby fire

,but soon afterwards the damage was re

paired, its walls being raised . The theatrical careerof the building was now at an end and henceforthit was known as Young

’s D istillery . This stru cture whi ch had been America’s first permanentplay-house died finally of old age and of improvements in bu ildings . Its walls did not wholly disappear until after a hundred and twenty years .Unsatisfactory as was this play-house frommodern standards , it was indeed an improvementon the temporary stru ctures which preceded it .There had been great Opposition to its erection ,not only by the Quakers but also by other sects ,and a majority of the members in the Pennsylvania Assembly di d not approve of theatricalexhibitions . Nevertheless , the play-house was

completed , whereupon , as soon as the Assemblywas convened

,February 16

,1767

,a Remon

strance whi ch was presented to Governor JohnPenn was prepared by enemi es of the histrioni cart. The Governor , however , was not favorablyimpressed by this Remonstrance, and the new

theatre was permi tted to continu e withou t anyopposition from him .

But already the Sou thwark Theatre had openedits doors . This occurred on November 21 , 1766

106AMERICA ’S FIRST PERMANENT PLA YHOUSE

Love Makes a Man , as well as some of the playsof Shakespeare . The most interesting occurrencewas the produ ction of the first American playever seen upon a stage . It was named “

The

Prince of Parthi a .

”

The comic opera , The D isappointment , hadbeen the first American play annou nced for produ ction , but the first American play really produced was

“The Prince of Parthia .

”Thi s was a

tragedy by Thomas Godfrey, the younger , whowas born in Philadelphi a in 1736. As an actingplay

,

“The Prince of Parthi a” was worthless ; it

had little plot and no action . It was , as it deserved to be , a flat failure . Respecting it , thefollowing advertisement appeared in the Pennsylvania Gazette

'

By Au thority .

By the American Company .

At the new Theatre in Sou thwark ,

tomorrow , being the 24th of April,will

be presented a Tragedy , written in America by the late ingeniou s Mr . GODFREY,

of this city,called The Prince of Parthia ;

Towhi ch will be added The Contrivances .To begin precisely at seven o

’clock .

Vivant Rex et Regina .

”

The probable cast for this short-lived firstAmerican play was as follows :Artabanes King of Parthia Mr . DouglassArsaces Mr . HallamVardanes Mr . TomlinsonGotarzes !hrs sons e . WallBarzaphernes , lieu tenant-general under

Arsaces Mr . AllynLysias officers Mr .B roadbeltPhrastes at cou rt Mr . Greville

AMERICA ’S FIRST PERMANENT PLA YHOUSE 107

Bethas , a noble captive Mr . MorrisThermusa ,

the queen Mrs . DouglassEvanthe , beloved by Arsaces Miss CheerCleone , her confidante MissWainwrightEdessa , attendant on the queen -Mrs . MorrisThe attendance at the Sou thwark Theatre dur

ing its first season was not large . Both the playersand their plays (excepting

“The Prince of Parth

ia”) were of good quality , but there was greatopposition to them . Several benefits were given ,but one of these—Miss Hallam ’s was postponed ,owing to the intense heat . Indeed , the heat inPhiladelphia during the second week of June became so intense that the management announcedthat “There are some alterations made in the housein order to render it cool .”

The first season ended on July 6, but duringthe following au tumn the Sou thwark Theatrewas re-opened . This second season lasted onlya short period , from September 24 till November23 , but the American Company gave a still betterexhibition of acting than it did in the precedingseason . A third season followed in 1768-69, anda fou rth one in 1769-70. This fou rth season , whichbegan November 8 and ended May 24, was verybrilliant , the plays presented being particu larlyattractive . A fifth season , which was also a verysu ccessful one , lasted from October 28 , 1772 , tillMarch 22 , 1773 . The period of the AmericanRevolu tion was now approaching, and the sixthseason of the Company was announced for a fortnight only . The sixth season commenced November 1 , 1773 , and closed with plays named

“TheWest

Indi an , by Cumberland , and“Cross Purposes ,

”

by O’

Brien,November 15 .

While the B ritish army occupied Philadelphia

108 AMERICA ’S FIRST PERMANENT PLA YHOUSE

duri ng ,the Revolutionary War, some of the of

ficers under General Howe gave dramatic performances whi ch proved very su ccessfu l at theSouthwark Theatre . Af ter the retu rn of the Continental Congress to that city, an attempt wasmade to begin a seventh regular season at the playhou se , but the members of the Congress weredecidedly Opposed to thi s . When the War was

over,the Southwark Theatre again became the

center of dramatic life in Philadelphi a, and afterthe National Capital was changed from New Yorkto Philadelphia, President Washington often at

tended performances at that play-hou se . Indeed,its management provided for him and hi s gueststhe east stage-box , pu tting in cu shioned seatsand otherwise adorning the interior of the presidential box .

The American debut of John Hodgk inson , anEnglish actor of considerable ability, was madeat the Southwark Theatre , September 26, 1792 .

However,with the increasing popu larity of the

drama , whi ch commenced at the close of theRevolutionary War

, other and much better playhouses were constru cted

,and the old Sou thwark

Theatre was finally surpassed by the new Chestnut Street Theatre . Nevertheless

,the Old South

Street Theatre , as it was also known , continu edas a play-house for abou t twenty years after thebeginning of the 19th century . One of the lastactors who appeared on its stage,— according tohis own story—was no less a personage than EdwinForrest . Mr . Forrest ’s parents resided at onetime in Sou thwark , Philadelphia , and the theatrewas not far from his home . He was abou t fourteen years old at the time

,and he was given a

lady’

s part , the lady being a captive in a Turk ish

CHICAGO’

S YEAR OF DRAMA

A Drama League Report

HE Playgoing Committee of theDrama Leagu e of Chicago found during the year that its labors were greatlydecreased . The plays Visited numbered twenty-fou r , those bu lletinednine . These numbers are at least athird smaller than is u sual du ring the

theatrical season,and of the plays bulletined at

the beginning of the year two probably wou ld nothave received commendation had it not been thatfor several week s no more sui table plays werepresented .

The plays bu lletined are the following :HappinessThe Crowded Hou rThe CopperheadOld Lady 3 1The Masquerader

ScandalPenrodThe Saving GraceThe plays vi sited but not bulletined are :The RotterThe Little BrotherThe Long DashThe I deal HusbandShe Walked in Her S leepBu siness Before P leasu reThe Off Chance

CHICAGO ’S YEAR OF DRAMA 1 1 1

Keep Her Smi lingTiger RoseThe Little TeacherNever Too LateThe Mollusc

The Better ’

Ole

S leepingP artnersThirty !DaysThere are several possible explanations of the

unusual condi tion in Chi cago theatres this year .

The financial situation in the au tumn was madetense by the war and expensive new ventures werehazarded with reserve . Too, the managers wereunable to analyse the p ublic mind and tasteas they still are . Has the war made us desire moreor less emotion on the stage? Do we wish playsof spiritual guidance? It was commonly said thatafter the war we shou ld—but we do not seem to .

Do we wish , now that the relaxation has come ,only to be amu sed? Apparently the managersthink so and apparently we agree .

One of the most displeasing features of the yearhas been the in-no-measure decreased tendencyof the managers to send inferior casts and productions to Chicago . The glaring example wasto be seen in Oscar Wilde’s brilliant high comedyThe I deal Hu sband , a play whi ch the League waswholly ready to support . On the opening nightthe cast was so new that even the words of theparts had not been mastered by the actors . Onlya few who had appeared in the play in New York ,

a few days before , reached Chicago , and theyplayed minor roles .Another matter of regret is that most of theproductions have been made in entire ignoranceof the fact that there is such a movement as the

1 12 CHICAGO ’S YEAR OF DRAMA

new art of the theatre . Thi s is the more surprising when one realizes that the new art is nomore expensive than the old lack of art and thatthe achi evements of the art theatres are studiedand immediately made u se of by the produ cersof su ch financial su ccesses as the Follies . Evenafter being shown the way by Stuart Walker inSeventeen , the produ cer of Penrod reverted to thetawdriest , most untru e settings , withou t a glimmerof tone . I s there not a prevailing impression thatthe better the drama the less it needs carefulprodu ction?Two types of plays commonly seen thi s year

give one reason for thought . The bedroom playas we have it deserv es little of the credi t whi ch wehesitatingly give the French triangle play, for thelatter by the deft delineation of character oftenreveals

,through the triangle , serious interpreta

tions of life while our variety reveals only thebed, and a Vogu ish

”bed at that . The other

type is the melodrama . We have constantly beentold that the moving pictures have driven out thegallery god and his j oy the melodrama . Neitherseems this year to be wholly tru e . The galleriesare coming back and the melodrama is back . Theold material of Tiger Rose, refu rbished with theclever clap trap of Belasco proves the point ; theLittle Teacher , a better play badly produ ced , emphasizes it .The warmotif has had little to do with Chi cago

’sprodu ctions this year for where it has been usedseriou sly it has failed except in the case of TheCrowded Hou r which came a year too late and,though su ccessfu l in the au tumn, wou ld have lessappeal now . The Better ’

Ole is the lonely exampleof a war play which still engages public attention

CHICAGO’S YEAR OF DRAMA

Many minor parts have been played with an ex

cellence defining a new day for the Ameri can actor—and for the American theatre goer .

UNDER CONV ICTION

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

By J . MILNOR DOREY

Cast

JOHN DELKER,theFather SAM DELKER , their Son

ANN DELKER ,theMother M A G M E T Z G E R

,a

Town’s Gi rlSCENE : The kitchen of a mi ller

’s house in a smalltown in central Pennsylvania , on an early morning in M arch. At the back there is a door leadingto the rear yard . A t the left is a window

,with

the shade partly drawn,showing the same view .

When the shade is raised the mi ll is seen . The

mufited noise of the mi ll race is heard all throughthe play, sounding momentari ly louder when the

door is opened . There is a door at the right whichleads to the second floor . A table set with dishesstands against the wall . The stove is againstthe wall opposite. Between the stair door and thetable is a door to the cellar . The floor is coveredwith rag carpet. The wall is wainscoted withwood . The wall above and cei ling is painted aflat, du ll color. A chair stands by the wi ndow.

Three chairs are at the table . Over the table is amantel on which is an old-fashioned clock whoseticking is heard . On the cellar door is a towel rack .

Between the door and the stove is a sink . A woodbox

, empty, is by the stove . The faint light of1 15

1 16 UNDER CONVICTION

dawn, which gradually increases to daylight, isseen through the window below the shade . The

clock strikesfive as JOHN DELKER , ami ller , comesdownstairs in his shirt sleeves and stocking feet,with a lighted lamp . He is a ruddy-complexioned,stocki ly-bu i lt man,

with bu shy ha ir , uncombed .

He places the lamp on the mantel, yawns , raisesthe window shade, then goes to the stove. He

sees that the fire has not been bu i lt, glances at thewood box, and goes to the stair door and calls]

ANN [from upstairs]: What you want?JOHN : Call Sam. The fire ain ’t built , an

’the

wood box is empty .

ANN [calling]: Sam ! Git up ! What you doin ’

in bed,yet? [There is no response] Sam! Ain ’t

you fed the horses? [There is still no response]Git right up , I say . It

’s late . [She comes down

stairs][ANN DELKER is a thin, raw-boned woman withsharp eyes and a flat bosom. Her sparse, grayedhair is parted in the middle and fastened in theback in a hard knot. She finishes bu ttoning aone-p iece dress as she enters the room, and tieson an apron which she takes from the sta ir door]JOHN [yawning again as he starts to bu i ld thefire]:

Let him Sleep . I’ll feed the horses .

ANN : You ! What for?JOHN : Well , the meetin

’ last night lasted long,you know .

ANN [She opens the cellar sta irs door and bri ngsoutfood]: It lasted j ust as long for us, John .

JOHN : But you noticed Sam,didn ’t you? He

went out . Mebby’s he

’

s

ANN : Yes, I noticed . An’it

’s high time .

1 18 UNDER CONVICTION

last . He hain ’t said nothin ’ for a week . Somespell ’s Come over him . An

’ he left the meetin’

last night as soon as the preacher give the call forSinners .

[By this time JOHN has thefire bu i lt and is washinghis face and hands at the sink . ANN is boiling

cofiee and frying ham on the stove]JOHN : Yes , I noticed he was worked up . Poor

boy ! He went out ju st after Mag Metzger did .

ANN : There ’s another—the worst girl in town .

She wou ldn ’t go forward—not her. I ’ll warrantit wasn ’t conviction 0

’sin that made her leave .

Who shall escape if he neglects so great salvation .

JOHN : But she ’s been there every night , an’

of late she hain ’t talked or laughed in church once .

ANN : Cou ldn ’t be . There ’s no savin ’ her.

She ’s thoroughly bad . She ’s ru ined more boys !Why did Sam leave when she did?JOHN [He turns while brushing his hair]: Now ,

Ann, there you go agin , suspicionin’ folks . You

don ’t know a thing about her . No one does . It ’sa

il?

talk . As for Sam, what can you be thinkin’

oANN : What I hear’s enough. If I thought

she was after our Sam I ’d rather see her drowndedin the mill race . Well, how long are we goin

’to

wait on Sam even if he is under conviction? He

must eat , an the work must be done . Call him .

JOHN [He goes to the sta irs]: Sam ! Sam! [Thereis no response]ANN [setting the food on the table]: Go on up an

’

see what ’s the matter .[Whi le JOHN goes upstairs ANN cu ts the bread,humming a few bars of the old revival hymn,“Throw Out the Life I/ine.

” JOHN retu rns ]

UNDER CONVICTION 1 19

JOHN : He ain ’t there ! His bed hain’t been

slept in !ANN : It ain ’t? Now what ’s be up to?JOHN Don ’t be hasty . Remember how workedup he was last night .ANN : Well , if he

’s been walkin ’ round all nightwrestlin

’with Satan

,it ’s a good thing. Mebby

tonight he’ll have it out with the Lord . Set down

an ’ eat .JOHN : How can you talk so hard like ! [Theysit down to breakfast]ANN : Hard like ! John Delker

,sometimes I

think you ’re not saved yourself .JOHN : God moves in divers ways . I don ’tclaim to be no saint

,but I try to do right an

’ followScri pture, an

’ I ’ll take my chance .

ANN : I ’m goin’ to git the preacher to preach

ri ght at you tonight . Awake thou that sleepest !But this don ’t explain where Sam is .

JOHN : If he’s been wanderin ’ round the roadall night , it

’s a positive shame . He

’s a good boy ,

an ’ there ’s no need of thi s convictin’business .

You , with you r naggin’ an ’ quotin

’ scripture,an ’

the preacher with his rantin’

ANN : That ’s enough ! I won’t listen to you

no more . He’

s nota good boy . No man is . D idn ’the stay away from Sunday School one Sundaylast summer an ’ go buggy ridin

’?

JOHN : I didn ’t blame him .

ANN : An’ didn ’t he ast the preacher oncet if

people had free wills,why they was punished for

exercisin’ ’em?

hiJOHN : I didn ’t notice as the preacher answeredm .

ANN : But it shows how his mind runs—suchblasphemy ! He made the preacher real mad .

120 UNDER CONVICTION

JOHN : Naturally .

ANN : An’ I tell you I don ’t like his goin

’ out0’ church when Mag Metzger did. He

’s been

seen whisperin’with her on the street .

JOHN : There you go agin ! Whisperin’! It

ain ’t so. He may have talked with her once ortwice . I have myself . She kin talk . [He chuckles]ANN : John Delker ! If I thought for one

minute any of my kin stooped so low as to holdintercourse with one o ’ them Metzgers , I

’d

[The door opens and SAM enters with his arm aboutMAG . Her clothes and hair are disheveled

,and

she looks forlorn . Withal , she looks like a girl ofintelligence and spi rit. SAM is a replica of hisfather]Sm : Mother , this is Mag.

ANN : I can see that .SAM : She’s—she’s not feeling well . Won ’t

youWhy don

’t she go home, then?SAM : She won ’t .ANN Well , what

’s that [Suddenly] Whatyou dOin’

with her?Sm : Mother, I want you to let her stay here .

ANN : What ! Have you taken leave of yoursenses?JOHN : Now , Ann,

do be carefu l .SAM [AsMAGmakes as if to go]: Don ’t go, Mag.

ANN : I want to know what you ’re doin ’ herewith MagMetzger at this time 0

’ day? An’where

you bin all night?SAM : Don’t bother about that—j ust now ,

mother . Mag ain’t well . She don ’t want to go

homH he don’t want to go back at all, and Iwant you to take her in for a while . Just say yes .

I ’ll explain . You see, we’ve been con


an’ done right by , an

’ had the preacher talk withhim too, an

’ tried to point out to him the error ofhis ways , an

’ repent an’be converted that his

SAM [making a desperate efi’

ort to convince hismother before she says what she shou ld not]: That ’sju st it , mother . I have been—both of us, Mag andI . We ’ve been Shown . We ’ve seen the light .We’re convicted , and , mother , we

’ve found theLord, and we

’re saved ! We ’re saved , mother !

ANN : Oh,Sam

,Sam! To think that you’d

even hide you r shame under su ch a story ! Totry to deceive your mother under the cloak ofreligion .

SAM . Mother , you don’t understand . Don

’ttalk that way . It ’s the tru th . Both Mag and Ihave found the Lord . Don ’t make me tell whatwe ’ve gone through with thi s night , the struggle ,the agony . Do believe me . Can ’t you see?

ANN : Yes, I can see . You can ’t make me

believe that it took you all night out in the open ,Lord knows where . You can ’t mak e me beli evethat you can get religion ou tside the church . Youcan ’t be saved unless you go to the altar in thesight 0

’

God an ’ man , an’under the exhortin’ o ’

the preacher . You don ’t need tell me no more.

I know what you ’ve been doin ’ all night . An’

to think that my own son,the only son I ’ve got,

shou ld do that evil thing—an’

with the likes o ’

Mag Metzger . Oh,what have I done

,what have

I done , Lord , that this should be Visited on me !Sm : Mother ! You su rely can ’t meanMAG [She has been all this time striving to conceal her feelings]. Yes , Sam,

she does mean .

Can’t you see she won ’t believe us? Mrs . Delker

,

UNDER CONVICTION 123

if I was as bad as you thought me , if I had onetenth the evi l mind you haveANN : You -you talk that way to me—you ,the town’s bad woman that ’s corrupted moreboys an ’ men , an

’now wheedles my boy into your

life 0 ’ shame—Get out o ’ my hou se ! Do you hear?Get out o ’ my hou se , an

’ leave me wi th my boywhat you ’ve soiled .

JOHN . Ann Delker ! If all your boastin’ o ’

bein ’ saved has made you say what you’ve sai d an’

made you think the black thoughts In your mindI don ’t want to enter you r church agin , an

’ I don ’twant Sam either . Haven ’t you one spark 0

’ faithin what you r boy is an

’

what he’s said? Cou ld hecome home here an’

bring her right here with thatlie on his lips? Sam,

I believe you , if you r motherdon ’t . I don ’t care where you bin , or why she

won ’t go home . She can stay here as long as shewants .ANN : John Delker , this house is as mu ch mine

as you rs , an’ I say after what she ’s done to my

boy she’ll not stain our floor one minute longer .

You ’re no better than him if you talk like you ’redoin ’ . As a man thinkethMAG : Mrs . Delker , you

’re right . I’m not fit

to stay with you . You can ’t see good when it’s

shoved under your nose . For allyour church goin’

an ’ preachin’salvation—for others—you can ’t

tell the tru th from a lie . Well, your son lied toyou . That ’s the truth . I enticed him out ofchurch .

SAM : Mag, what are you saying !MAG : Never mind

, Sam. I made him dowhat you said . He lied to conceal it . An

’ it ’snot been the first time . Can

’t you see—my condition—an

’why I won

’t go home? You know my


pap . For all he cares what I do he ’d horsewhi pme within an inch 0

’ my life if I came homethis way . An

’ don ’t think for one minute I ’d soilyour floor . I wouldn’t have come now if Samhadn ’t made me . I was scared . I ’m going. Don ’tworry about your fine boy—you raised so properwhen—something—happens .

SAM [in horror]: Mag !

MAG [she stops him]: I’ll take care 0

’ myself—I won’t come back on him . Go back to yourchurch

, Mrs . Delker . Go back and pray for me—and your boy . An

’

you might put in one foryourself , while you

’re about it . Ha ! Ha ! [Shelaughs horri bly and goes out slamming the door]SAM [after a bewi ldered pause, ru shing to the door]:

Come back , Mag ! Come back !JOHN [stopping him]: Thi s is not true

,my son?

SAM [ha lf crazed]: True ! Of course not . Can ’t

you see mother drove her to it? What I said isGod’s truth . She ’s lied to you . She’s lied because my own mother wou ldn’t believe the wordof her son . She wanted to think evil of him.

She wanted to make him out a liar even when hetold her the tru th in the holy name of religion andthe church . My own mother who ’s been at meyear in and year out to go to the altar and getconverted , and made me believe I was a sinner .And when I did get convi cted she won ’t believeit and makes me out a liar because she believesthe worst of people and listens to bad stories abou ta girl in town who hain

’t half what ’s been saidabout her . That ’s my mother who bore me , whogoes to chu rch and preaches good to other people .

ANN : Sam ! Sam! [Half in remonstrance, halfin awe of him]Sm : I tell you I told the tru th . I

’ve been


I thought—What was that ! [There is a murmurof voices ou tside, and knocking at the door . JOHNopens it

,and somemen bring in the wetbody of MAG ,

and lay it on the floor] Mag ! Mag ! You’ve done

it ! Why didn’t I think ! Why did I stay here

talking ! I might have known . Why didn’t I

stop you ? [He turns to his mother] Now , see whatyou ’ve done—you with your salvation and preaching and evil thoughts ! [He gradually works himself into a frenzy] See what you have done ! Andthis is what you r church and altar and convictionof sin means ! If thi s is all it

’

s done for you,I

want none of it . I ’ve tried to live straight , but

you with your nagging, and the preacher with hi sexhorting got me so worked up that I believed Iwas bad, and needed salvation . I ’m done withit all . I ’m done with you all . I don’t care whatbecomes of me . Go out and feed the horses

,pap .

I’

ll never feed another round here .

JOHN : Sam, Sam,don ’t say it !

SAM : I ’m through , I tell you . I ’m going tothe Devil . He

’

s all there is . There ain ’t no God .

You preach God, and all the time make me believe I ’m possessed of the Devil . Here goes . Giveher to me . [He picks up the body of MAG and

starts for the door] Get out of the way ,all of you .

She ’s better than all of you . She is saved now .

[He pau ses at the door , then turns and places thebody at the feet of his mother] No, you

’ve got‘ to

take her now . You ’ve made her what she is , andyou ’ve got to take her so

’

s people can know whatyou ’ve done . [He ru shes ou t the door, shovi ng theothers aside . JOHN tries to stop him

,then stands

at the door . Presently the people go qu ietly ou t andclose the door . ANN stands like one in a trance .

UNDER CONVICTION 127

Then she drops to her knees with a long wail ofangu ish]ANN : My boy , my boy ! Come back ! I didn

’tmean it . I didn ’t mean it . I believe you . [Hervoice trails of as JOHN stands with his back to her,looking at the door] Oh

, God, be mercifu l to mea sinner . Be mercifu l to me a sinner ! Hear me ,oh Lord , when I cry ! I

’m a sinner in the sight0’

God an ’ man . How shall I escape if I neglectOh

,God, be mercifu l to me a sinner . God, be

mercifu l to me—be mercifu l—to me . [She mumbles and buries her face in her hands and kneelsover the body of MAG . JOHN

,tu rning in amaze

ment,stares at her a moment

,then gropes his way

to her,and bends over her

,extending his hands . He

speaks in a hoarse whisper]JOHN : Ann —Ann— are you— are you—you ’re

under conviction!

PRESCRIB ING FOR THE DRAMA

MERICAN drama ! At the wordsthemselves can you not hear the weeping, the wailing, yes and even the

gnashing of teeth , the despairi ng laments over the hopelessly weak anddying thing? American drama? Its

glory is gone, let us hang our harpsupon the wi llows and wring our hands and lamentfor the dead ! There are the remarks of thereminiscent elders who bemoan the old stock or

ganizations and the stars of the palmy days , yetwho fail to realize that the old actor of the palmydays would be as anachroni stic on the stage today as was Garrick playing Romeo in shortbreeches and a wig.

Others not entirely forespent with watchingrush with first aid to the needy . They apply thepulmotor of technic to resu scitate the dying ; theyforce between the pallid lips small doses of nourishment from little playhou ses

,intimate theatres

,

Elizabethan stage societies . Then as the life pu lseebbs

, all these devotees throw up their hands atlast and chant in solemn epode after the latestno-rules of the Spectrist School .Lo ! He is dying !I s gone .

But becau se he cameOf a youthfu l and Virile race

,

Cast no deepest sables over him .

Let us bury him in half mourning.

128

130 PRESCRIBING FOR THE DRAMA

William Archer ’s Playmaking, and yet produ cemerely a study in still li fe . The precepts of Aristotle, Lessing, Freytag, Bruezntiere sound quitefinal until Ibsen Violates them all in two su chsu ccessful dramas as Little Eyolf and Ghosts , forthe first of these has an opening act of a deal ofaction then two acts of retrospective dialogue ,and the latter seemingly no action or confli ct atall . Students of technic often refer to the “

wellmade play” sneeringly as though it were a reproachto an artist to do his work well

,yet the great

French plays are all well made ; so are the seemingly sprawling conversations of Mr . Ge roge B .

Shaw . Techni c alone wi ll not produ ce greatplays .Probably the most influential change in Amer

ican dramatic conditions recently is the li ttletheatre movement . Out of it will doubtless come

great things . It is not a di stinctively Americanidea ; for years the little Grand Gu ignol of Parishas thrilled u s and tick led u s with its bill of fiveor six short tragedi es and other shockers . The

little theatre can exert a revolutionary influenceupon dramatics generally, but mainly only byceasing to be a li ttle theatre . Thi s sacrifice it isqu ite willing, even anxiou s , to make . You neverknew of a little theatre that wasn ’t willing andanxiou s to increase its proportions . The Washington Square Players of New York began withtwo performances a week in the east side B andbox .

Later they played twice a day to crowded hou sesin the Comedy Theatre . One half the companywent on the road

,playing seven week s in Chicago .

The Portmanteau Theatre , which advertised howit cou ld be set up in a dance hall or a hotel parlor ,has grown until it threatens to become an innova

PRESCRIBING FOR THE DRAMA 13 1

tion trunk . It also has drawn large audiences attwo dollars a seat to the Princess Theatre in NewYork and on the road .

Whether the printed play helps or harms theacted drama is as little settled now as it was whenpublishers pirated Shakespeare ’s creations andhe tried to prevent them .

But to the physicians who prescribe the printedplay the answer has been very bluntly given byMr . William Gillette , the actor dramatist , whodeclares that no one can judge from reading whatan acted play is like . The many failures and withdrawals every season prove that men who for yearshave trained themselves to judge plays from thescript are not infallible . A reader may assert thathe can getmore from a reading than a performance ,but really doesn ’t the claim seem a little preposterous? If there are eight characters upon thestage while one is speaking, can a reader hold inhis mind’s eye the changing expressions , the

gestures , the actions and reactions of the otherseven as vividly as the spectator seizes them withhis Visual eye? Does he imagine the tones , theinflections of the actor ’s voice? Mr . Gillettepertinently declares that the printed version isno more the play than is the sheet of paper withlines and dots on it the song . He calls the second

,

the directions of the song, no more the real thingthan a rubberoid disk with rough scratches is thesong ; it becomes the song only when the soundof the accompaniment and the human voice havebrought it into being. The play is the play onlywhen men and women with life-like gestu res andactions , and expressive and , if possible , beau tifu lvoices , enact it before an audience with eye andear and mind alert . The book contains merely

132 PRESCRIBING FOR THE DRAMA

directions for scenery bu ilder, producer , performer .The printed play may of course send peopleinto the theatre ; it is j ust as likely to keep themaway. The li ttle theatres when they are successful (and by successful I mean when they earnenough money to assure them permanance, regularaudiences, sk illed performers) must affect dramafor good, and affect it most when they themselvespass into the class of the big theatre ; a skill intechnic will not drag the drama up very high noringratiate it in the hearts of the great American

pubhc .

American drama needs today only what dramaneeds in all lands and at all times for its v igoroussustenance , large doses of appreciative audi ences .

CLARENCE STRATTON

134 THE DRAMA LEAGUE OF TODA Y

And out of this experience the Drama Leaguehas emerged with a Single-minded purpose , tocarry on in civilian life some part of what theboys have received in camp ; to continu e and maintain the democratizing of the arts begun in camp .

Hundreds of thou sands of these boys have beenable to enjoy in camp a grade of entertainmentu tterly unknown to them before . They havelearned self-expression

,the joy of creating, they

have had a new Vision of art ideals and standardsand they have learned to like them . Mu st they

go back to old standards? Mu st they go out fromthe clean

, wholesome , happy, rollick ing enj oyment of the Liberty Theatre and the Y hut, backto the cheap dance halls

,the burlesqu e show and

the “movie”? Must they go back to the u tterdearth of recreation in the small isolated towns?They are already ask ing thi s qu estion . It is timewe ask it too. We have lif ted them out of this oldpast , have shown them the new ideal ; unless weare willing to Shirk opportunities and deny re

sponsibilities we mu st follow them back to theircommunities and continue to surround them withthe opportunities for self expression and recreation that they have had in camp .

So,as usually happens

,from one du ty well done

arises another yet to do . The service renderedto the men in camp is but a mite compared withthe great opportuni ty for service in this new period .

Withou t having to look afield for it , withoutsearch or query

,the Drama Leagu e finds its new

task s lying at its very door . As one looks at it ali ttle more closely he finds thi s new task not so

new after all , but ra ther a Vivifying and magnifying of the original purpose , re-enforced by the

greater need of the reconstru ction period .

THE DRAMA LEAGUE OF TODA Y 5

At the bottom of all Drama League effort hasalways been the declared purpose of awakeningthe people to a realization of the importance ofrecreation . Democratizing the arts is only anotherway of expressing the early slogan of restoringDrama to her former place among the arts , thatplace so well maintained by the early Greeks .The great di fference now is that the work hasbeen half done by others . In this period of a yearand a half our public has been arou sed , the peoplehave received awakened ideals and the community is ready for a work which they did not nuderstand before .

The great experiences of camp life , the new

Visions of life and living, whi ch have been madepossible by the gathering together of huge massesof people under government direction , have prepared the way for community recreation . Sensingthe tremendous opportunity

,look ing out into the

field in response to the call of the boys whom ithas been serv ing in camp , the Drama Leaguereali zes that it must help to meet this need of thecommunity . The battle is half fought when youhave arou sed a desire for better things , whenyou have opened eyes before blind to the differcnces in standards ; all that remains is to carry theopportunity into every community where theseboys will go and prepare for them some formof continuation of their camp recreation . The

plain task is to continu e the work for an appreciation of recreation as a world force by seizing thi s

Opportunity and bringing into the home-townthe lesson of the camps . This may be done inmany ways . Wholly worthy is the erection of aHero Memorial that shall express in warm

,living

serv ice to the community the ideals for which


the heroes fought , a community centre expressionof brotherhood , of tru e democracy, built by thepeople and belonging to the people, where the cityshall Operate its own plays for its people where

groups of amateu rs may freely work out theirown salvation , where the children may have theirli ttle plays or edu cational films , where the workingman may feel at home and where he may findresort after we close up his club

,

”where com

munity sings” and pageants and festivals shall

be a common part of the city’s life . What moreperfect symbol of the brave consecration to anideal than thi s house of serv ice !But it is not necessary to wait for a Hero Me

morial before meeting the needs of this reconstruction period . Right now the soldier needs it ,now as he returns home , and finds readjustmentso hard and often so unsatisfactory . Crystallizehis nascent longings for self

-expression by a littlecommunity group in library, town-hall or school .To thi s end the Drama Leagu e has appointedcommi ttees to map out plans of activity , bearingin mind that the main pu rpose of the Leagu e isto implant broadcast the germ of community re

creation whether it be housed in a magnificentcommunity center bu ilt as a Hero Memorial orwhether it be a tiny group meeting in the townhall , but carrying on the spirit of the camps .Right in line with this tendency to serve theneeds of the reconstru ction period , the DramaLeagu e finds its another task mapped out for it .This is a period of great spiritual awakening, aday for the re-vivifying of the church , when allbodies are seeking to grasp every means to enrichlife . Now is the time to restore drama to her earlierposition as the child of the church

, to place within


nation’s . past . We are eager now to respect ournewly acquired dignity of a nation acqurrrnghistory . Therefore the League suggests thusearly a recognition by a nation-wide celebration ofthe three hundredth anniversary of the landing of

the Pilgrims . What the Pilgrim has meant to usas the background for our national life is hard toestimate and yet we can all be su re that withou tthe splendid integri ty and high-minded consecra

tion of our Pilgrim ancestors our history wou ldhave been very different .In the hope of fostering such a nation-widecelebration of the Pilgrim Tercentenary in 1920,the League is preparing data and bibliography inorder to render the greatest amount of serv ice atthat time . MRS . A . STARR BEST .

PIERROT BY THE LIGHT OF

THE MOON

A FANTASY

BY VIRGINIA CHURCH

CharactersTHE MAN THE AUNTTHE GIRL PIERROTCOLUMB INE

A moonlit garden with flowery hedges at eitherside and back has ta ll, slim pines silhouettedagainst a large moon . There is a stone benchat the side of the garden and facing it is an old

hou se with a sun dial just outside the door .THE MAN in a top hat and a long coat comes in .

He looks about,lays his hat and coat on the bench,

and lights a cigarette . THE GIRL comes ou t ofthe house. She is in a shimmery gown , a lightscarf over her shou lders . She wa lks fearfu lly as

on the brink of a precipi ce . THE MAN , on the

contrary , is fu ll of self—assu rance .

THE MAN [advancing tomeet her]: I knew you’d

come .

THE GIRL [giving him her hands]: I was notsure . I was afraid .

THE MAN : Afraid of what , Little B ird, of me?

[PIERROT appears in the moon. Atfirst he payslittle attention to the lovers , but as the conversation progresses he becomes i nterested]

140 PIERROT B Y THE LIGHT OF THE MOON

THE GIRL : Oh , no , not of you . Of—of lifeof making decisions .THE MAN [With his arm about her THE MAN

leads her to the bench]: But henceforth you areto let me mak e them for you .

THE GIRL : It is all right when I am with you .

I see things as you do , as you tell me to. But

when I am away from you , alone[They si t on the bench]

THE MAN : And my first decision is that youshall never be away from me again . I have a snuglittle nest prepared for my song bird where she

may Sing and twitter to her heart’s content . I s

my bird coming?THE GIRL : I suppose I am . But why is itthat you always make me see things so di fferentlyfrom the way my aunt and the others have done?THE MAN : That is because I am a man of the

world and see farther than they . I have had experience . Your aunt ’s Vision is narrow , cramped .

She knows no more of lif e than a garden flowerthat has not even climbed to the top of the hedge .

What could she know of a grand passion lik e ou rs?THE GIRL [very earne stly]: You do love me ,

Carlo?THE MAN : Love you? Better than that , Ineed you . When I came into the garden tonight ,I said to myself, here I have everything that evenmy poetic nature could ask ; the moon , the floweryhedge , the perfume of flowers ,

—yet there is alack . It was you , Little B ird ; I needed you then ,I need you now , to make my life complete . Andwhat is more , I mean to have you . What I wantI always get.

THE GIRL : And shall I be happy?THE MAN : You shall be happy in my happi


THE A UNT : Are you warmly wrapped , dearheart?THE GIRL : Very . I—I wish you wouldn’talways be worrying about me , Auntie .

THE AUNT : I ’m sorry, dear , if an old auntseems over-anxious , but you are su ch a sacredtrust . When you r own mother died and placedyou ,

a wee baby , in my arms , I promised to guardyou against every ev il that might come your way .

THE GIRL [impatiently]: What ev il cou ld getinto this old shut-in garden?THE AUNT : There are serpents that creep infrom the world withou t .THE GIRL : And what do you know of the

world , you who never go out into it? There arethose wi thout—men of the world—who are notserpents .THE AUNT : Many of them, dear one , and someday the right Mr . Man is coming straight intothis garden and pluck my heart

’s treasure . I see

you are getting restless , but he will come . I know

THE GIRL : Yes , he will come .

THE AUNT : And you will know him.

THE GIRL : I shall know him.

THE AUNT : At one time I was afraid that youmight have mistaken Carlo for the man , but Ihave been reli eved that he has not come aboutlately . He had not the right look .

THE GIRL : So handsome .

THE AUNT : He could not meet your eye .

THE GIRL : He looked at me.

THE AUNT : Any one wou ld look at you , myflower . Once I saw a lad look at you with hiswhole soul in his eyes .THE GIRL : I suppose you mean Robin. Robin

PIERROT B Y THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 143

knew no other way to look . Robin has neverknown li fe . Robin is not a man of the world .

THE AUNT : No , thank God, if being a man ofthe world means losing the frank look , the gladsmile , the clean heart . [THE GIRL starts] Child ,you are nervou s . You start at every noise andyour hands are cold . Let us go in .

THE GIRL [nervou sly]: Yes , yes , let’s go in .

[Hesi tating at the doorstep and looking back] I’m

sorry , Auntie , that I spoke so of your dear garden ;I do love it .THE AUNT : I know you do , little girl ; I under

stand .

[They go into the house . PIERROT slides down to

the wall, takes up his lyre, and croons a littlesong.

PIERROT :Come , Columbine, and mount wi th meThis shining ladder to the moon ,

And from the sky we’ll View the world ,

The wrangling world , all out of tune .

John loves his Joan , but Joan loves Gene ,And Gene loves Phylli s ’cross the way ,

A dreadful tangle in their paths ,Now , can you call this love , I pray?

Why will these silly mortals quarrel,While birds and flowers and love are free?

Come, let us mount our silver boat ,And sail together on love

’s sea .

[At the conclusion of the song, PIERROT wags hishead, rogu ishly leaps into the garden , slips on thehat and coat belonging to THE MAN and wa lksover to the house . He whistles softly . A slim


figure, enveloped in a gray cape, steals ou t of thedoor]THE GIRL : Is it you , Carlo?PIERROT [sternly]: You have kept me waiting.

THE GIRL : I ’m sorry . AuntiePIERROT : Deuce take Auntie .

THE GIRL : Don ’t talk so, Carlo . You hu rtme . Auntie has always been so dear to me . She

has devoted the best of her years to guarding me—from—from serpents .PIERROT : Serpents , bah! Who has put thatsentimental rot into your head? Now , look here ,girl , my people are aristocrats , and aristocratsare never sentimental . It isn ’t considered goodform , you know . When you come to live withmy sisterTHE GIRL [drawi ng back]: Your sister ! Oh ,

Carlo , are we not to live alone?PIERROT : Alone on what , Silly? I have no

money to support you . What would we eat?THE GIRL : I don ’t know .

PIERROT : Of course you don’t . And mymother especially is very particu lar abou t form .

I hope you will take the pains to please her .THE GIRL : Oh

,I shall , but—I didn’t know

there was a mother,too.

PIERROT : And why Should I be an orphan ,pray?THE GIRL : Oh , you shouldn

’t . Of course Iam glad abou t the mother, Carlo . I hope shewill like me .

PIERROT : You can ’t expect that at first , forshe wou ld naturally question my taste in tak ingan unsophi sticated country girl to a home of su chwealth . As a matter of fact she has never beenreconciled to my wife .


PIERROT : Indeed , may I ask the paragon’s

name?THE GIRL : It —it’s Robin . You don ’t knowhim .

PIERROT : A country lummox,I ’ll warrant .

Not a man of the world .

THE GIRL : No , thank God, if being a man ofthe world means losing the frank look , the gladsmile

,the clean heart .

PIERROT [Leaning on the sun dial, he suddenlydiscovers the lateness of the hou r and forgets his role]Why it

’s ten o ’clock ! I have a date for ten o ’ .clock

[Remembering] I mean—you will not comethen? Remember , I shall not ask you again .

THE GIRL : Did you beg me on your knees ,di d you take back you r old soft manner , I shou ldnot believe you ,

and I shou ld not come . I nowhave a mi ssion in life .

PIERROT : Yes?

THE GIRL : I shall tell every girl I meet whatwretches men are .

PIERROT [gaily]: Good ! [In sudden fright]Oh , that is, don

’t tell Columbine .

THE GIRL : Columbine? Another of yourloves?PIERROT [hastily]: No , no ! I mean yes—youmay as well know all now . Columbine is the ladyI really love

,a zephyr in the wind

,the breath of

flowers,the song of nightingales .

THE GIRL : Wretch ! [Running to the doorstepwhere she turns] I shall search for this Columbineand tell her what you are, so there .

[She goes into the house and closes the door]PIERROT : An

’she wou ld not beli eve you an

’

you did . Su ch is woman, bless her ![He kisses his finger tips towards the hou se, then

PIERROT B Y THE LIGHT OF THE MOON 147

replacing the coat and hat on the bench, he climbsback to his moon just as THE MAN appears .THE MAN is su rpri sed to find the garden emptyand is distinc tly irritated . He goes to the houseand whistles softly . There is no response . He

looks at his watch, angri ly tosses his coat acrosshis arm, and takes up his hat]THE MAN : Drat the girl , I shall not fool withher moods any longer . Such a bread-and-bu ttermiss was beginning to bore me . It shall be Kate

,

after all .

[THE MAN leaves the garden. COLUMBINE comesin . PIERROT sees her and tumbles from his seat]PIERROT : Zephyr of the wind !COLUMBINE [Her hands go to hi s]: PIERROT !

Hast thou missed me?PIERROT : I am barely alive .

COLUMBINE : What hast thou been doing inthis garden whilst thou didst wait for me?PIERROT : I twanged a bit on my lyre , a mel

iinc

iiroly ditty about the fairest Columbine in the

anCOLUMBINE : And there has been no ladyabou t?PIERROT : Not a lady in miles . My oath as

aman—andmen always tell the truth . Dost doubtme , breath of roses?COLUMBINE : Ah, no , Pierrot , thou art very

wonderfu l . Let us sit in the moon , whilst thousingst to me of thy love .

[They climb to the ridge of the moon,where they

sit. COLUMBINE cuddles contentedly in the curveof PIERROT

’S armwhile he touches his lyre gently]PIERROT : Columbine , when thou speakest, thysweet voice sweeps through me like the windthrough the forest . It sets every fiber of my body


Vibrating like the strings of this lyre when tou chedby magic fingers .

COLUMBINE [innocently]: Oh , Pierrot , thou artsuch a sweet lyre .

STATEMENT OF THE OWNERSHIP. MANAGEMENT. CIRCULATION ,

ETC REQUmED BY THE ACT OF AUGUST 24. 1912 . OF THE DRAMA,PUBLISHED QUARTERLY AT CH ICAGO, ILLINOIS, FOR OCTOBER 1 ,

1918 .

Editor—Theodore B . Hinckley, 5809 Harper Avenue, Chi cago.

B usiness Manager—C . H. Gifl'

ord , 306Riggs Building, Washington, D . C .

Publisher—Drama League of America. 306Riggs Bui lding , Washington, D . C .

Owners—Drama League of America .

Percival Chubb, President. 4533 Westminster Place, St. Louis , Mo.

Leila Mechlin. Treasurer, Washington, D . 0 .

Known Bondholders . Mortgages , and other Secu rity Holders , holding one per centormore of the total 0 mount of bonds , mortgagee or other oecurities—There are none .

C . H . GIFFORD , Business Manager.Sworn to and subscribed before me the loth day of October, 1918 .

( Seal) W ILL IAM TINDALL, Notary Publi c .(My commission expires August 20.

THE DRAMAA QUARTERLY REVIEW

Editor , THEODORE BALLOU H INKLEY

Advisory and Contributing Editors

THOMAS H . D ICKINSON , Univers i ty o f Wiscons in .

NATHAN IEL W . STEPHENSON , Co llege of Charleston .

RICHARD BURTON , Univers ity o f M innesota .

STARK YOUNG , Amherst Co llege .

S . H . CLARK , University o f Ch icago .

BENEDICT PAPOT , Chautauq ua Institution .

Publ ished at Mount Morris , I l l inois

THE DRAMA LEAGUE OF AMERICA

R iggs BuildingWashington , D . C .

75C A Number A YearCopyr ight , 1919

By THE DRAMA LEAGUE OF AMERICA

Entered as second-class matter June 26, 1919, at the post omoe at M ount Morris ,Ill Inors , under the A ct of M arch 3 , 18 79.

THE DRAMANumber 34 MAY

CONTENTS

PAGE

LIFE IS ALWAYS THE SAME , a play,by Lou ise Gebhard Cann

RECENT AMERICAN PANTOMIME , byWi lliamLee Sowers

MONOLOGUE IN THE FRENCHDRAMA

,by Wi lliam H . Scheifley

DEAD ACTORS FOR LIVE , by WinthropParkhu rst

SNARING THE LION , a play, by E . C.

INCEPTIONS , a footnote to the psychologyof playwriting, by Max Ehrmann

MODERN DRAMATISTS OF BELGIUM ,

by Geraldine P . D i lla

TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDEN , a play,by Constance Wi lcox .

2 LIFE IS ALWA YS THE SAME

she is making lace almost as fine as ifmade on apillow . From time to time she sighs heavi ly ,looks arou nd the room in uneasiness , and with her

yellow-grey eyes , large, gleaming and shadowy ,

watches the door with the intentness of a cat. She

speaks the dialect of the Northwest modified by aslight foreign accent]SHE [Whispering to herself]: I don

’t know .

[Audibly] I t’s terrible thi s lonesomeness

Oh,have mercy ! [She stares down the canyon]

That fog from the channel—it reaches up like abandwith long white fingers—a wet, drowned handreaching up out of the water , ugh ! [She crochets amoment without looking at her work , then beginsstaring ou t the windows again intently . She forgetsthe movement of the hook and squeezes her handstogether over the ball of thread and lace] Them firsare black—black as night . This black country[A knock rattles the door . The woman jumps involuntari ly . A shriek stifles in her throat. The

knock is repeated sharp ly . I t is imperative, aknock of authority . The woman crosses the roomon tip

-toe and stands looking at the door , bu t shedoes not reach for the knob. The door opensabruptly with the same efiect of authority as theknock . A man wearing a navy-blue coat and agrey felt hat steps in , his head and shou lders muchin advance of hi s legs , as if he were hu rrying tocross the room. Confronted by the woman , hestops and draws himself up against thedoor , whichhe closes by moving his hand behind hi s back . An

unreal instant passes in which the two stare ateach other with strange, dilated eyes . Then thewoman gives a thin embarrassed laugh, in the

middle of which she catches herself. The manmoves past her, whips ofi his hatand reverses it on

LIFE IS ALWAYS THE SAME 3

the board table in the center of the room. The

water pours from it along the table and tricklesdown onto the floor . He is a short man withlong, apelike arms and broad, sinewy shou lders .H is reddish grey hair stands up in straightbristlesfrom his forehead . I t is energetic, determinedhair that seems to shoot ou twith a final emphasisof his entire person to assert itself. He is smoothshaven . With eyes that seem to have emergedfrom a cave he observes the woman who has goneto the other side of the table]HE : Can I stop for the night here? [He takes

01? his coat, crosses the room and hangs the coat on a

peg under the stairway. The woman watches himfu rtively; a shudder passes through her frame . The

man tu rns back into the room as if on a spring,swings outwith a characteristic inclusive gesture hisapelike arms , which show fantastically in hisstarched shirt-sleeves against his dark vest andtrousers . He gives a queer , ironical chuckle]SHE [The woman

’s eyes narrow with specu lation,intensified into inqu iry and modified by apprehen

sion . She speaks slowly]: I don’t know that we

can keep you . I wasn ’t expecting nobody thisseason . [Suddenly] How did you know therewas a nail there? [She points to the boards of thestair

ivay behind which the man has just hung his

coat.HE : There almost always is . [He snifi

'

s the

chicken ] I tramped all the way from Waupatill

since morning withou t a bite to eat . [He glancesaround at the stove . The woman slowly lowers hereyes and begins mechanically to crochet. He drawsa chair up beside the end of the range, fills and lightshis pipe, leans back comfortably , stretching his legs ,whi le his eyes in appraisal rove back and forth along

4 LIFE IS ALWAYS THE SAME

the walls , the ceiling, thefloor , with, frommoment tomoment, a swift under-glance at his hostess . F inallyhe leans forward and spits into the woodbox . The

woman’s shou lders qu iver . Her eyes flash withanger , bu t immediately they eclipse into du ll fishywhiteness] You act like you was expecting somebody .

SHE : He’

s just gone to the barn . He ’ll beback in , in a minu te .

HE : I come along by the barn . There wasn ’tnobody there . It was all dark . It made me thinkof a gloomy hanging I saw , with the pu lley swinging out on the loft beam .

SHE [I nterrupting with a voi ce that tremblesshri lly]: You come by the barn? [She steadiesherself] Oh , well , he

’

s gone up the gulch , then , tosee after the cow we keep there . [Hurriedly , as ifsomething hadjust occurred to her] He might have

gone to old Tom’s .

HE [Significantly]: I walked all the way fromWaupatill withou t a bite .

SHE [With determination]: We can ’t keep youtonight .HE :

’Spose we wait and ask your hu sband .

[There is a pause] You ’re lonely here . Neighborsabou t two mile off

,ain ’t they?

SHE : Are you tramping to Squakabush?

[He bends over and sp its into the wood-box] Spitin the fire , will you ![Hg2n

her sharp ly , coldly . She gr ips the crochetaHE : You act as if you was scared of some

body . Not me,I hope !

[She pu lls ou t a chair from the table and sits downlimply . She holds the ball tight in her lap to

conceal her trembling]


HE : I t’s getting dark .

SHE [Desperately]: He ’ll be mad when he comesin

, so you’d better

HE : Mad , is it? Hmmm !

SHE [Wheedling]: I’ll give you supper first .

[She rises with resolution]HE [With a leer that changes whi le he speaks intoa pleased radiation he tu rns towards the pot in whichthe chicken is steaming]: He won ’t be back tillafter supper , then? [She moves around and getsthe lamp from the shelf by the windows . A s she

carries it,the porcelain shade rattles against the

chimney . She sets the lamp in the middle of thetable not far from the man ’s hat. She strikes successively two or three matches that go ou t before shecan ignite the wi ck . He comes over to her and holdsout a lighted match . She lets the chimney she isholding slip . I t rolls on the table towards the man.

He catches it and hands it to her] You ’d beenminu s a chimney withou t me ! [His big apelikehand touches hers . She shrinks and stares at him.

Then mastering herself and trying to appear indifferent, she puts on the chimney, wi th difiicu lty , afterhe has lighted the wick . She trembles . The manwatches her with a grin . She goes to the rangeimpu ls ively and begins moving the kettles about andpreparing dinner]SHE [Suddenly]: Was it a half-breed? What ’s

he done to get hanged for?HE : It was a queer thing. Yes ! A queerthing ! [He stretches ou t his right arm and feels ofthe bi ceps with his left hand] I seed a good manyhangings and lynchings

h this was all in due

process of the law . This was the cleanest one Iever seed .


SHE [Breathlessly]: I didn’t know there was

going to be a hanging.

HE : No more did I . He was so heavy hisneck broke first thing . Well, there be things inthis world that pass understanding. [He looks ather impressively] There ’s a God that rightswrong.

SHE [A lmost hyster ical]: Have you ever beenhere before? To this house

,I mean?

HE : Why do you ask that?SHE : How did you know there was a nail back

of the stairs?HE [Carelessly]: Well , I told you . There almost always is . Besides

,I put—[He breaks ofi]

SHE [She glances arou nd furtively . To herself]He put that nail in when we first come . [Thestranger watches her, his eyes keen . A si lence thatseems fu ll of speech vibrates in the hou se]HE [As if to himself]: He saw a man in the

Vigor of life that looked like the one he murdered .

SHE [Wi ldly]: Who? [There is a pause] Who?The man they hanged?HE : That ’s why he give himself up . He

thought the man had come back to hant him.

[After another pau se] Well , he’d been repenting

for two weeks .SHE : He

’

d seen a man that made him think ofthe one he ’d drownded? [He laughs . Du ring the

preceding, she goes to the window. She stands sidewise

, gazing ou t, then looking back at her guest.Then she grasps the window ledge, shrinks close tothe wall

,her eyes straining at the man. She tries

to cover her sensation . She speaks in a high voice]Oh , this darkness ! I t

’

s like a wall rising up out

of the gu lch and falling on us . Who are you ,

anyhow? Where di d you get that watch?


HE [Slowly]: That was a present—a littleremembrance—from the man that was hanged .

SHE [Shrilly, ignoring his words and seeking concealment of her emotions]: This rain ! I t

’s rained

solid a week . It seems as if ’twou ld never stop .

HE [Chatti ly]: The rain in this country ’s di smal . I t

’s a dismal country with this fir timber and

the mountains . They need a shed there at thecounty seat . It

’

s too di smal seeing the rain dripdown .

SHE [Facing him suddenly]: Who hung today atWaupatill?

HE [His eyes glitter ing]: Let ’s have supper .My belly ’s empty .

SHE [Throwing her arm before her face]: Oh ,God, Lord God, have mercy !HE [Coming clo se .

to her]: What’s the matter?

What ’s the hanging of a stranger to you? A

good-for-nothing drunk—a mu rderer?SHE : Was that hi s watch?HE : The same .

[She looks at the chain reaching from the

button of theman’s vest to thevestpocket. Her eyes

fasten on the pocketwhere thewatch is . She startsto speak, then stops . Her face shows a terror shetries to conceal. There is a pau se duringwhich sheis in an attitude of intent listening]HE : The feller said it belonged to the manhe ’d mu rdered .

SHE [She puts her hand on her mou th, then invt

f

lu‘ii tari ly feels her throat]: Did he tell anything

e se .

HE [Eying her qu izzically]: He told a fishystory . I t

’s past belief what people in thi s channel

country can do and escape the law .

SHE [She starts , then summons her resolution .


his hair with his hand andwith a satisfied expansionof his chest crosses over to the table] : You

’re a tidylittle woman .

SHE [I gnor ing his compliment]: Sit down !

[They sit downfacing each other . She dishes ou tthefood . He eats with appetite. Shemakes a pretenseof eating. Her face is fu ll of doubt and anx iety .

She watches the manfu rtively and as iffascinatedand afraid]SHE [After another pau se]: Was you never inthis country before?HE : I spent most of my li fe in the mines .SHE : D id you have a brother?HE [Laughs shortly]: Yes . He was my twin .

He wore hair all over hi s face so’

s people could tellhim from me .

SHE [To herself]: He never told me that . [Tohim]: Where did he live?HE [Evasively]: It was a funny thing. I losttrack of him some time back . I thought he wasout in this country . That ’s why I come .

SHE [Leaning forward]: What’s your name?

HE : Joshua B arnes .SHE [S inking back as if about to faint]: Oh !HE [With a twinkle in his eye]: We had differentfathers .SHE [B reathlessly]: Oh

,you r mother married

twice? And what was his name?

HE [He shou ts with sardonic laughter]: Ha ! Ha !We was a prodigy of natu re— twins with di fferentfathers . If our mother had known it she cou ldhave earned a fortune off us . Ha ! Ha ! I

’ve heard

tell of women who didn ’t know who their hu sbandswas . [He looks at her evi lly]SHE [Confu sed and su llen , she eyes him in si lence]:I don ’t know what you mean , mak ing sport of me

LIFE IS ALWAYS THE SAME 1 1

lik e that . I ’ve been alone here in this di smalhou se in the timber till I ’m out of my mind .

[She stares at the windows that look down the gorge .

She is possessed by her own thoughts]HE [Coaxingly]: Now ,

now ,I ju st wanted to

cheer you up a bit. I ain ’t got no brother .That ’s the tru th . I ’m all alone

, unless you let mestay here . [After a pause ] I remind you ofsomebody, don

’t I?SHE [Clearing her throat, and in a hu sky voice

hardly above a whisper]: I cou ld swear it was thesame , only he bad hair all over his face . The

eye— there was that in the eye I ’ll remember tilldoomsday . [With superstition] Oh

,the wind , do

you hear it? Those branches creaking againstthe shed? I ’ve got to have them cut off . Theygive me the creeps . [She shivers and turns herhead toward the door behind her]HE : I ’ll cut them off for you .

SHE [She does not heed what he says . She is inan attitude of listening. Suddenly]: I thought Iheard steps .HE : It was only the wind .

SHE : It’s the tree—so near the shed . A dozen

times a night I go to the door . I think it’s some

one coming. [To herself] It’

s not .HE : Not what?SHE : He

’

s dead .

HE : Who?SHE : When you first come in I thought you

was hi s ghost . But you eat lik e aHE : Pretty live cu stomer, you bet ! That ’s

good chicken . That can ’t be beat anywhere .

You—well , who’s he? You remind me of the

man who was hung.

SHE [She draws away as if stru ck, stares into


space a -moment, then le oks at her guest with con

fu sion and fear . Her questioning of possibi lities isso strong that i ts vibrations fill the scene] : D id

many people see the hanging? Was it at dawn?HE [Coolly]: A little sprink ling. The roosters

was ju st tuning up .

SHE : And he give you that watch? [He nods .

She rises and paces back and forth, clenching andunclenching her hands . She begins in a low voice toherself]: This is the hou r . I knew it wou ldstrike . They say it always does . I was happy

[She looks at him]well , five years . Five years ! Itseems ju st last night . [Louder] There’s something in it.HE [He has been watching her keenly] : What?SHE : You look like him . I never saw his

mou th and chin or the side of hi s cheeks , onaccount of his beard , that he was proud of . He

had bad teeth—no gold like yours . You cou ldn ’thave hired him to have those gold teeth you

’vegot on the side there put in . He

’

d have sworelik e a drunken Injun . I wanted to have one put inonce here [She points to the back of her lower jaw].He—[She pauses , her eyesfeverishly on theman,

thenforces a commonplace] You look as if you ’d seenthe world . You ’ve had money . [Suddenly withan attempt at a laugh and in a relieved tone] No

,

you ’re di fferent—altogether . There ’s ju st theslightest something, I can

’t tell what,that reminds

me of him .

HE [Hi s voice ending in falsetto]: Well , who ishe , anyhow?

fSHE [Falling back into her old mood]: Fate ’sate .

HE [Boastingly]: I’ve seen the world

, you canbank on it ! Yokohama to New York , three times

14 LIFE IS ALWA YS THE SAME

a woman who had been In service had no chancewith them over there . They cut him off fromhis money

,and then we come to this country .

We thought we’

d get a new start and get rich likethe other old-country folk s we heard abou t ; butthe hardships was too mu ch for him , and hedeserted me and went back to his family in theold country . Finally , I heard he

’d arrangedthings and had married somebody of his own

station . That set me against life . I worked inpeople ’s hou ses— and the men [She stares intospace]HE : Because that black head of yours set

them crazy , and becau se you didn’t mind .

SHE : Well ! [B rutally] I made one of thempay . I came out west here with the money . Ithought I

’d begin a new life . [She crochets , hereyes on her work]HE [Eagerly]: Did you ?

SHE [Looking up]: I don’t know abou t that .

Your life ’s always the same . No matter what

you do or say or how things look to others , you rlife is ju st what it always was . I ’ve studied thatout, here in the timber by myself .HE : Then you come up here .

SHE : Yes . I met a logger in Seattle—JimKelley .

HE : Jim Kelley !SHE : He was a good sort of man . [There is a

pause] Yes , Jim Kelley was a good enough man .

We married and come up here to live , to this veryspot , where Jim bu ilt this hou se . [She looksaround] I helped him. We di d everything withour own hands . There wasn’t a neighbor withinthree mi le . [She hesitates] That very nail youhung you r coat on , Jim drove . I remember when

LIFE IS ALWA YS THE SAME 15

he put it in,for he said , This is where I ’ll always

hang my coat .”

[As she talks she slips back intothe past. The moment with its trouble falls fromher. She talks eagerly, as one who has been muchalone and craves company wi ll talk to a stranger]We was getting along all right . Jim worked inthe camps during the season . People goingthrough the country stopped at our place , and wefarmed enough to keep comfortable . At first

,the

lonesomeness scared me . I was afraid to movewhen I heard the Wildcats scream at night . Evenin the daytime

,I was scared of the timber . But

finally I got u sed to it , so now I’m more at home

here than among people . I ’m as afraid when I

go to town as I u sed to be here in the wilds . But

Jim got to drink ing . He drank and come homeand u sed his fists on me . Then he took to drinking at home . He got past beating me and ju stlaid around like a dead fish.

HE : What tu rned him to drink ?SHE : I don ’t know .

HE [Angri ly]: You .

SHE [Not perceiving his tone]: Then one nightwhen he was drunk he started across in the skiff .

He was set on going.

HE : Set on it , was he?SHE : We found the sk iff bottom-side up threemile below .

HE : Bottom-side up !SHE : Carried down by the cu rrent . [He

frowns , pufis his pipe vigorou sly, keeps his eyesfixed straight ahead] We never found him. That ’sthe way with the Channel .HE : Ha !

SHE [Trying to convince]: Bodies are foundmiles away

,down in the Sound , months after


wards . No one knows whose they are or wherethey ’re from . We found his coat drifting on a

snag ju st below here . That ’s all .HE : That ’s usually all when a man ’s beendrownded .

SHE : That was five years ago.

HE : And you ’ve lived here alone all theseyears? Poor little woman ! [His eyes gleam. He

leans towards her]SHE [Momentari ly magnetized . Her bosom lifts .

Her features expand into a smi le half-voluptuou s .This changes to embarrassment] Oh , I

’ve a husband

,Nels Knudson . [Her face swiftly darkens

again with anx iety]HE [Suddenly]: That ’s so ! We ’re waiting for

him, aren

’t we? [He laughs unnaturally][She starts as if she ha d forgotten . She moves herlips as if to speak , and stares as in a trance at thewall beyond her guest

’s shou lder]HE : I had an experience

,too . My wife , one

of the sleekest beau ties you ever saw . But [He

looks across at the woman with a hard eye whichbrings back her attention] she was a slu t . Yes !

She was that ! She took another man into thehou se when I was away . [The woman

’s eyes areon his . Two deep lines dig their way down her

face across the corners of her mou th and into herchin] That wasn ’t all ! [Harshly] He and she

connived to k ill me .

SHE [B reathlessly]: Did they su cceed?[H is gesture and mocking cackle bring her to herself]SHE [Shamefacedly and broken]: I mean , I

mean Did they hurt you ?HE [I ronically]: Do you think I

’m a spook?[Each leans toward the other] Do you think it ’snot my body you ’re a-look ing at?


HE [Breaking in]: Yes , and when Jim Kelley

got into the cold water of the Channel that nighthe sobered up , you bet. He sobered up when hebethought him his wife and hi s friend , her paramou r, was pu tting him out a business , so theycou ld enjoy their selves in the hou se he ’d slavedto bui ld—eating up the substance he

’d toiled for.

He sobered up [She springs to her feet and liftsclasped hands] and he untied that crowbarSHE : Have mercy !HE : —and he swam out ; and he

’s been sober

ever since,let me tell you ! He

’

s been sobera-waiting for his chance , which the Lord GodAlmighty ju st give him .

SHE [She falls on her knees in the middle of thefloor and continues to appeal, staring at the ceiling]:Forgive me , God, for complaining of hi s drink !Save him

,God ! Knudson—Knudson , hanging in

the rain . I knows the rain meant somethingthe water pouring down . Water ’s a bad sign[He laughs jeeringly . She tu rns and looks at him.

Her figure shrinks]HE : I ’ve come back , Sadi e Kelley .

SHE [S lowly , not convinced he is in the flesh]: Iknowed he ’d hant us to our deaths . [She clenchesher hands to her sides and moves on her knees to thetable] Save him ! If you ’re a spirit or a devil

,

you can do anything ! Save him ! I ’ll sell mysou l to you if you

’ll save him . [Watching his face]That ’s all I ask ! [Hurriedly] You can have my

sou

HE [Cutting her short]: You’re my slave now ,

Sadie Kelley . You ’ll find out now what it meansto have a master you ’ve killed but who ’s come toli fe . You ’ll find out what real mastery is

,now .

SHE [With a gleam of hope]: You’ll save him?


HE [He laughs , spits on the floor , takes his footand rubs it in]: Get up . I ’ll tie a crowbar toyou in broad day and sink you in the Channel , ifyou breathe Nels Knudson ’s name again . Get

up . Take off my boots and get me some slippers .You ’ll know how it feels to have a dead man for amaster

,and a hangman at that .

SHE [She gets up and eyes him attentively withdawning comprehension]: That ’s not new . I ’vehad a dead man for a master five years .

[Suddenly , with her native energy, making a gestureof defiance] You

,Jim Kelley !

HE : You didn ’t know me , did you? You rlawfu l hu sband ! [Derisively] You thought I wasa dirty ghost !SHE : You think I didn ’t? I knew you the

minu te you set foot in the door .HE : I been in this country eighteen months .

You and Knudson was the only ones that reconized me . Two years ago I met a feller from theChannel down in Seattle—he u sed to know me upin the camps

,but with my face clean shaved and

my teeth fixed up—I paid a Portland dentist

seventy-five dollars to fill up my teeth and put inthem crowns —he had no idee who I was . You

thought I was a ghost ! Well, I’ll ghost you , see

if I don ’t .SHE [Ou t of countenance]: I didn

’t know whatto thinkHE [He breaks in fiercely]: You was so sure I

was a dead one !SHE : I was scairt. I cou ldn ’t be sure . Living

alone so mu ch I get fancies . You ’re awfu lchanged withou t the hair on your face . If I ’dmet you in Seattle , I

’d never have thought of you .

HE [Exu ltantly]: Knudson thought I was a


ghost first . Then he thought I looked like theman he m .urderedSHE : Your voice doesn ’t sound the same . If

it wasn ’t for something in you r eye and yourbuild —[Suddenly] And you hanged Knudsonknowing you was alive ! You mu rdered him !You !

HE [Significantly, parrying her threat]: Whohelped Knudson throw me in the Channel?SHE [Succumbing to the fact that his hand is on

her]: You want to be my master? [Shrilly]Well , be it ! But since , after all, you

’re alive,I ’ ll

give you something to do. Yes! [She nods herhead fiercely] I

’ll give you something to do ,

hangman . [She stands looking at him with malignstubbornness]HE [With satire]: Life is always the same , eh?

22 RECENT AMERICAN PANTOMIME

theatre,and mu ch unu su al experiment with it and

with pantomimic ballet . The influence of thisrevival reached America in many ways , amongthem by the actual produ ction in this country of

several famou s foreign pantomimes . Their suc

cess did mu ch to strengthen the interest of theexperimental theatres in pantomime , and to Showthat the general publi c was far from blind to itscharm

,provided it was well done .

Among the most interesting of these produ ctionswere the pantomimic ballets of the Ru ssians . AS

early as 191 1 , Gertrude Hoffman presented thefirst of the Ru ssian mimodramas to reach our

stage , and year by year companies of Ru ssiandancers su cceeded her . M . Diaghileff

’s B allet

Ru sse, especially, with its wide repertory and

great company of trained dancers , presentedRu ssian ballet at its best . Many of the mostpopu lar ballets were in factmimodramas . ThamarCleopatre, and Scheherazade , for instance , hadlittle in common with old-fashioned , conventionalbal

l

et . Their passionate and complicated Easternstories were mimed rather than danced . In aword , ballet had become mimodrama or pantomime .

Mu ch that a country groping toward a nativepantomime needed to know , the Ru ssians cou ldteach us . They emphasized the importance ofhaving all the elements of a pantomimic produ ction— story, mu sic , setting and acting— in perfectharmony . They set high standards for the storiesand the mu sic of theirmimodramas . They showednew possibilities of vivid beau ty in costume anddecoration . And their novel system of pantomimic acting, which combined the spontaneou sand the conventional

,was full of suggestion .

RECENT AMERICAN PANTOMIME 23

But the Russian influence was by no means theonly one that helped to arouse an interest in pantomime in America . In 1912 , the wordless play ,Sumuran , by Max Reinhardt , whose experimentswith pantomime had been mu ch discu ssed in Europe , was su ccessfu lly presented in New York .

Sumurun was a mimodrama on a large scale ; itsexciting Arabian Night story of love and deathand vengeance was told in many scenes and playedan entire evening. So fine , however , was the pantomimic acting of the company that interest neverfailed . The spontaneou s miming of LeopoldineKonstantin , in particu lar , was a revelation of theeffectiveness of silent expression . The remarkabledecorative backgrounds , moreover , threw into relief the ever changing pattern of the grouping,which always formed a beautifu l pictu re . Everydetail , down to the smallest dramatic phrase of themu sic , showed the influence of the great director .Sumurun, like the best Russian ballets , provedthat , under the complete control of an artist producer

,pantomime cou ld attain the unity and

rhythm necessary to a work of art .In strong contrast to the passion and strange

ness of Sumurun and the Ru ssian mimodramaswere the Simplicity and conventionality of Pierrot

,

the Prodigal, which was produ ced in New .York in1916. It was a revival of the modern Frenchclassic of pantomime

,L

’Enfant Prodigue . The

story was merely a simple retelling of the parableof the Prodigal Son in terms of French bou rgeoislife . Pierrot

, son of a Village shopkeeper, robbedhis parents to run away with a pretty laundress ,found disillusionment in Paris , returned home forforgiveness , and went off to the wars to win backhis honor . Simple as it was , however , it inter


ested many American theatregoers , and its climax ,the scene of Pierrot ’s return , moved them as few

modern plays have done . Very clearly it showedthat the gentler emotions have a place in pantomime .

During the time that foreign pantomime wasbeing di scussed or produ ced in thi s country ,Little Theatres were springing up everywhere .

Between the years 1911 and 1916were foundedthe Toy Theatre of Boston , the Little Theatres ofChicago and Philadelphia , the 47 Work shop ofHarvard , the Arts and Crafts Theatre of Detroit ,the Portmanteau Theatre , the NeighborhoodTheatre

,and the Washi ngton Square Players of

New York ,as well as many other amateu r and

semi -professional theatres all over the country .

Not only were they founded with the experimentalideal

, but the very nature of their programsmade variety and novelty highly desirable . Itwas only natu ral , then , that along wi th theirexperiments in foreign and native drama , the newstagecraft , and unconventional acting, they shouldgive at least some attention to pantomime .

Fortunately , although they did produ ce a fewforeign pantomimes , they placed the emphasisupon original work .

As an example of the pantomimes that beganto appear may be taken SamHume ’s The Romanceof the Rose, whi ch was given by the 47 Work shopof Harvard in the season of 1913-1914 . The 47

Workshop is the laboratory in whi ch the Harvardstudents of playwriting test their work before aselected audi ence that assists them by franklywritten criticism . It is an experimental theatrein the best sense of the word

,interested partien

larly in original work and in the newest methods


chiefly for the benefit of the actor , they make no

great artistic pretentions , but they at least showhow wide is the range of subj ects that can beinterestingly treated in pantomime .

In addition to u sing pantomime in the teachingof acting, Mr . Gilbert has written a considerablenumber of artistic pantomimes for the publicprograms of his department . He has u sed su chsubj ects as an Indian tragedy , a Du tch comedy ,a toy shOp incident , and the story of Cinderella .

Last season ’s pantomime , The Wi llow Wife, wasbased on a Japanese legend , and the more recentGrimaldi , on the life of the famou s clown . AS anexample of hi s work

,however

,the charming

Wi llow Pattern Plate , whi ch was given in 1914,

may serve . It was a fancifu l pantomime in theChinese manner, whi ch made use of the con

ventional properties of the Chinese stage and theamu sing property man . B eautifu lly decorativewere the blue and whi te costumes and the du ll

gold background . Hung up in the middle of thisbackground was a huge willow-pattern plate

,

pictu ring in its blue and white design the story ofthe cruel mandarins and unfortunate lovers thatcame to life beneath it . As in the familiar legend ,the girl , promised by her father to the haughtyViceroy

,fled away with her lover , su ffered with

him danger , pu rsu it , and death , and finally wonwith him the reward of the gods . The beau ty,pathos , and gentle humor of the produ ction wonsu ccess for the Wi llow Pattern Plate not only atthe New England Conservatory of Mu sic but alsoat the Toy Theatre of Boston , where it reachedand charmed a larger publi c .

But it was the Washington Square Players ofNew York that did most to advertise native


pantomime by placing it on their programs . Oneof their earliest su ccesses was made in HollandHudson ’s delightfu l pantomime , The Shepherd inthe D istance ,

“a romance in black and white .

”

The quaint artificiality of its story can best besuggested by quoting the au thor

’s argument .“The Princess perceiveth a Shepherd in the

distance and departeth in quest of him . The

beggar , Ghuri-Wu ri , importuneth the Princess for

gold and receiveth but a niggardly response . Indreadfu l revenge , Ghu ri-Wu ri beareth the tale ofthe flight of the Princess to her uncle , the Wasir .Therewith followeth the heated pursu it . The

Shepherd enthralleth the Princess but is capturedafter a mighty struggle with his pu rsuers . The

gentle goat beareth the Princess away to freedom .

The Princess , instructed by the goat , rescueth theShepherd by subtle enchantments . The Princessfleeth with the Shepherd to the distance .

Every su ccessfu l pantomime , no matter howquaintly fantastic the story

,mu st have behind it

some controlling idea that will bring all theelements of the production into unity . The ideain The Shepherd in the D istance was to present aprofile pantomime somewhat in the manner ofthe Aubrey Beardsley drawings . The actorsmimed always in profile and grouped themselvesso sk illfu lly that the stage at any moment was abold poster in black and whi te . Moreover , thepantomime was presented in a spirit of whimsicalburlesque . The characteristic movements of theactors were delightfu lly humorou s , and the strangeness of the startling costumes stood out againstthe black velvet hangings . Throughou t the performance the “Maker of Sounds” sat at the frontof the stage playing an accompaniment to the


action upon ou tlandish instruments . Everything,in fact

,

’

contribu ted to the development of theoriginal central idea , with the resu lt that theprodu ction was very su ccessfu l .Early in 1916 the Washington Square Players

presented their second pantomime , The Red Cloak,by Josephine Meyer and Lawrence Langner . Itwas a marionette pantomime ; that is, the actorsassumed the j erky motions of puppets . As ifthey were marionettes on strings , irate father ,fond lovers

,and wicked Camorristi acted out

their parts in an Itali an melodrama of the past .

Thi s amu sing method of presentation gave excellent opportunities for broad bu rlesqu e . The

decorations by Lee Simonson were especiallyhappy in bringing out the humor of the piece .

Upon the stage was set up an inner prosceniumdecorated with pictu res illu strating the story : on

either Side,fantastic portraits of the Simpering

lovers , and above , a grotesque drawing of theassassination that formed a climax of the story .

The settings for the several scenes were as amu singas the bu ffoonery that went on before them .

Seldom has an American decorator been so

successfu l with characterizing scenery .

Another Washington Square pantomime , YumChapab, was based on a legend of Yu catan . Thi s“Maya grotesqu e , as it was called , related in thespirit of broadest bu rlesqu e how the dwarf

,Yum

Chapab,prospered in seek ing the princess and

the throne . The central idea , that of caricatu ringthe primitive

,was carried out in decoration , cos

tumss , and acting. All the pantomimes of theWashingtonSquare Players , it will be noticed , werehumorou s , although they gained their humor bymethods that varied from amu sing artificiality to


from the heart . Su ch a use of pantomime in theopen suggests its su itability to certain occasionswhen spoken drama wou ld be out of place .

The Neighborhood Theatre of New York is

another art theatre that has shown mu ch interestin pantomime . It is a settlement hou se theatrewhich provides entertainment for the benefit ofthe neighboring communi ty . The communitysupplies not only the audience bu t the actors aswell

,and assists in the mak ing of the costumes

and properties . This community impu lse is ,however

,so carefu lly gu ided by the di rectors of

the theatre that the artistic resu lts are of thehighest order . From the beginning, the Neighborhood Theatre has placed mu ch emphasis uponpantomime . It has produ ced several famou sforeign pantomimes and , what is more important ,a greater number of original ones . The D iscontented Dajfodi ls and The Shadow Garden of Shu tEye Town , whose content is suggested by theirtitles , were given by the children groups . The

KairnofKoridwen, founded on a D ru id legend , wasperhaps the most interesting pantomime presentedby the older players . In the numerou s festivals

,

also , that have been given by the festival groupsof the Neighborhood Theatre , there has alwaysbeen mu ch pantomime

,although many of them

contained choru ses and the Spoken word as well .The Festival of Pentecost, which was presented inthe season of 1917- 1918 , was almost entirely adance-drama , or pantomime

, of great beau ty ,illu strating the different conceptions of Pentecost .

The charm of the conventionalized stage settingsand of the lighting, whi ch threw the actors almostinto relief, helped to make the produ ction notable .

These significant experiments at the Neighbor

RECENT AMERICAN PANTOMIME 3 1

hood Theatre seem to indi cate that pantomimehas great possibili ties as the artistic expression ofcommunity spirit .

A somewhat special type of pantomime , shadow ,

or silhouette pantomime , was attempted by theLittle Theatre of Chicago , one of the most artisticof all the American art theatres . Its Passion Playof the season 1913-1914 showed by its wonderful

grouping and lighting new possibili ties in this typeof pantomime . Mu ch of the beau ty of the production sprang from the skillfu l use of light , whichwas thrown from behind the back drop

,showing

the actors in silhouette . This method emphasizedbeau ty in the grouping, and permitted fine contrast of light and shadow . Moreover , it gave tothe actors an impersonality well su ited to thepresentation of religiou s and mysteriou s themes .The experiment

,whi ch was in line with the

development of the relief stage abroad , disclosedthe pictorial and rhythmic beau ty of this specialtype of pantomime .

Among the many other Little Theatres that haveprodu ced original pantomimes are the StageSociety of Philadelphia and theWorkshop Theatreof Chicago . In Philadelphia , Yoku -ti

,by Florence

B ernstein,and The K ing of the B lack I sles

,by

Sara Yarrow,were su ccessfu lly given . For the

Chicago Work shop , Gretchen R iggs wrote theMyth of the M irror and P ierrot in the Clear of theMoon . In both places the stage decorations wereunusual . The sorceress ’s garden in The K ing ofthe B lack I sles was particu larly attractive , and thesettings for the Chicago pantomimes won considerable repu tation for their designer , J . B landingSloan . So great are the opportunities that originalpantomimes offer in the way of variety and beau ty


of material , and of inspiration for decorator andactor

,that it is small wonder the Little Theatres

have attempted them .

Although Henry F . Gilbert ’s The Dance inPlace Congo, which was given at the MetropolitanOpera Hou se in the spring of 1918 , was rather a“ballet pantomime” than a pantomime proper , itdeserves some attention here , for it indicates anew direction in whi ch one type of native pantomime may develop . The scene was the old slavedancing ground of New Orleans , where the slaves ,in their brief hou r of leisu re , gathered to dancetheir native dances . Against this picturesquebackground was told a little tragic incident ; howthe love of two slaves for the lovely quadroon girl ,Au rore

,led to the death of one of them at her

hand . The mu sic,whi ch was based upon themes

from old negro airs , brought out more than theaction itself the savagery, passion , and despair ofa slave race . The Dance in Place Congo was

significant not only on account of its u se of

native material , but becau se it showed that theAmerican opera hou se was not closed to originalpantomimi c ballet .But it will not be necessary to describe all theoriginal pantomimes that have been given inAmerica in the last few years . Enough exampleshave been discu ssed to indicate the natu re of theexperiment . Simi lar pantomimes were presentedby the Little Theatres of Indianapolis , St . Lou is ,San Francisco , Pasadena , and Washington . Additional types of subj ect matter might be illu stratedby the Robin Hood pantomime of the CarnegieInstitu te ’s laboratory theatre

,the Ru ssian panto

mime Of the New York MacDowell Club,and the

realistic modern pantomime of the New York


Cloak and The Shepherd in the D istance weredelightfully humorou s and whimsical . In general ,the pantomimes dealt with the past

,or the far

distant,or the imaginary . They sprang from

legend , folk lore , and picturesque history— vast

fields that are scarcely tou ched yet . There shouldbe room in the theatre for su ch material, and theexperiments of the Little Theatres seem to showthat pantomime is admi rably sui ted for presentingit .

Another advantage of the establishment of anative pantomime wou ld be the opportunityoffered to the designer of scenery and costumes .

The varied and imaginative material of pantomimewou ld permit and inspire many beau tifu l decorations . The high standard of decoration of theoriginal pantomimes already given in this countryis decidedly significant . Practically every pantomime that I have mentioned had attractive andunu sual scenery , and many of them had decorations that were notable in recent Americandecorative work . The mediaeval balcony of The

Romance of the Rose, the gold and whi te decorationof The Wi llow Pattern t te

,the quaint poplar

wood of The Moon Lady , the lovely architectural settings of The Festival of Pentecost, thesorceress ’s strange garden in TheK ing of the B lackI sles , the humorou s decorations of The Red Cloak ,the bizarre costumes and black velvet hangings ofThe Shepherd in the D istance, and the impressionistic settings of Pierrot in the Clear of the Moonand The Myth of the M irror

,all showed what

designers would do when their material gave theman opportunity and a challenge .

Su ch an opportunity is especially needed ju stnow by American decorators in general . The new


stagecraft , one of the most significant developments in our theatre in the last ten years , is atpresent handicapped by its very success . The

leading decorators , called in now to work for theprofessional theatre , can express only one side oftheir talents in designing settings for the modernrealistic plays that are in fashion . Unless theyare offered greater opportunities for designingimaginative settings , su ch as a native pantomimewou ld encou rage , the new stagecraft is not likelyto fulfill its promise .

To the mu sician, as well as to the decorator , a

native pantomime wou ld be a benefit , for it wou ldencourage him to experiment with dramatic mu sic .

Although mu sic already wri tten for another purpose can be arranged to fit a pantomime

,it is

never so satisfactory as original music . Goodpantomimic music is something more than a mereaccompaniment ; it interprets minu tely the actionand the emotion of the story . In su ch pantomimes as Sumurun and Pierrot the Prodigal, mu sicand action are almost inseparably bound together .In order to bring abou t thi s close relation , thecomposer often plans mu ch of the mu sic at theactual rehearsals of the action . He cou ld scarcelyhave a better training for writing dramatic music ,a province in which the American mu sician hasnever excelled . The original mu sic written forThe Romance of the Rose, The Wi llow PatternPlate

,and The Kairn of Koridwen,

for in

stance,suggests interesting possibilities for the

fu tu re .

To American acting, also the establishment ofnative pantomime might mean mu ch . If a tradition of pantomimic acting were established on ourstage and young actors were requ ired to be


trained in it before they attempted the spokendrama

,the level of action wou ld be very con

siderably raised . With an improved knowledge ofgestu re , facial expression , and miming with thewhole body , actors wou ld make fewer demandsupon the voice alone . There wou ld be morerhythm of movement and more beau ty of pu redesign in pose and grouping . Af ter all , there issome tru th in the dictum that the theatre is “theplace for seeing .

”Expressive movement , which

a fresh pantomimic tradi tion wou ld teach,is

certainly of first importance .

Native pantomime might be of particu lar importance in helping to create the artistic theatredirector

,a type that our theatre probably needs

more than anything else . Given ten artistictheatre directors su ch as Gordon Craig describes ,the American stage wou ld be revolu tionized . As

more than one Eu ropean theorist has hinted,

pantomime wou ld be the ideal training field forthe artistic director . Nowhere else cou ld heexperiment so easily with all the artistic elementsof produ ction . It wou ld not be extremely difficu ltfor one man to devise the story of a pantomime

,

design and make setting and costumes , train theactors , di rect the lighting, and at least see thatthe mu sic was consistently appropriate . By doingall this a director cou ld gain the unity a work of

art mu st have . B itby bit, in the actual rehearsals ,perhaps , he cou ld make every detail of the produ ction express his central artistic idea . Byrepeated experiments

,he could discover the prin

ciples of rhythm ,movement

,and dramatic pattern

that mu st be part of every great produ ction of

any type of drama . Only when a considerablenumber of directors have been trained in thi s

MONOLOGUE IN THE FRENCHDRAMA

HE great French literary critics of theseventeenth centu ry

, so far as I know ,

are silent on the monologue in thedrama . The engrossing question of

the unities left them scant time forother questions . Neither Boileau nor

Corneille di scu sses it ; but Voltaire , inthe next century , is more explicit . In addition toremark s in his Commentary on Corneille

,he writes

a letter to the actress Clairon , asserting that themonologue ,unless it represent a struggle of passions ,cannot move the sou l, and that any other use of

it is only a “piece necessaire d l’édifice.

”D iderot

tou ches on the monologu e incidentally, but Chamfort

,who is inclined to find it artificial

,di scu sses

it at greater length , although not very happily,

owing to his undue stress on vraisemblance .

Indeed,in the seventeenth and eighteenth cen

turice the monologue seemed hardly a question fordiscu ssion . The li terary conventions in Francewere accepted without comment . But with therise of realism ,

in the nineteenth century, the

subj ect assumed greater importance . A recentcritic , Elizabeth R . Hunt , declares that it is oneof the most interesting in the study of dramaticart . Catulle Mendes , in particular , has pointedout that , frowned upon as it is today , the monologu eheld an honorable place in both the classical andthe romantic drama

,and that certain examples of

it are masterpieces . Why shou ld it not be u sed?I s there anything improbable or ridi cu lou s in thefact that one, torn by doubt or tortured by grief,shou ld discu ss the matter with himself

,and deter

MONOLOGUE IN THE FRENCH DRAMA 39

mine on action after hearing the case before acou rt of his own conscience?

Practical dramatists are far from agreeingunanimously with these Views . While some instance the classic masters of the seventeenthcentury , who freely availed themselves of themonologue , others ask why ,because of tradition , weshou ld perpetuate a dramatic defect . In any case

,

that the monologue has survived throughou t fivecenturi es of French literatu re creates a presumption in its favor . It was an established form longbefore the great dramatists of the seventeenthcentury made use of it . In the fifteenth and Sixteenth centu ries , there was cultivated in Franceunder this name a native genre— a satirical poemcomplete in itself, which for a time existed side byside with the monologu e imbedded in drama , andwhich found its best expression in the work s ofGu illaume Coqu illart , the bourgeois poet ofRheims , and in certain poems attribu ted to Villon .

According to Charles d’

Héricau lt, the Frenchmonologu e of the seventeenth century , simi lar tothe soliloquies spoken by Hamlet , Figaro , and Don

Carlos , developed from this older form .

“At the

end of the sixteenth centu ry ,” he says

,in speaking

of the Coqu illart type ,“the monologue was forgot

ten ; but the classicists adopted it . They introdu cedit into tragedy , where it was not long Inbecomingacclimated .

’

Coqu illart ’s theory is not now

generally accepted , however . Most critics believethat the vogue of the monologu e during the Renaissance and the following century was due to itsLatin ori gin , or at least to classicist imitation of

Latin or Italian models .

On the French stage , the monologu e appears firstin early farces

,moralities

,and soties ; and an

40 MONOLOGUE IN THE FRENCH DRAMA

inspection of these three genres , as represented inthe collection compiled by Viollet-le-Du c

,in his

Anc ien TheatreFrangais (volumes I , II , III), showsthat nearly always it opens the piece , serving as acu rtain-raiser . The tragedies and comedies of theP le

’

iade exhibit a more general and sk illfu l use of

the genre . Jodelle commences Eugene and Cléo

pdtrewith prologues but the imbedded monologu esof these dramas suggest classical and specificallySenecan influence , rather than a development ofthe native produ ct .

The monologu e enjoyed the same general favorwith Jodelle’s contemporaries and followers , Robert Garnier , Jacques Grévin, Remy B elleau ,

Larivey ,and Francois d

’

Amboise . Approximatelyone-fifth of Garnier ’s work s is made up of monolognes . While these sometimes give the expositionand portray character

,for the most part their in

terpolation seems forced . Similarly strained arethose of Grévin. The six in Les Esbahi s

,for ex

ample,merely inform the audience oi matters

which ought to have been explained in colloquy .

Remy Belleau shows more sk ill . Thanks to thename grace of hi s style , the half dozen monologuesin La Reconnue are not tiresome, despite theirlength . Nor are those in Larivey

’

s comedies ,which are all free adaptations from the Italian .

It is in Les Ne’

apoli taines , a comedy by Francoisd’

Amboise, that the monologue attains its greatestimportance . Here the piece opens with one

,the

first of a score distribu ted through su ccessivescenes . Some are u sed to advantage , as servingto unfold the plot and develop the action (I ,or as an enabling a character to disclose hi s secretintentions (V , or as voicing the distraction ofa woman beside herself with emotion (IV ,

It


Corneille avoids this mi stake , though hi s monolognes are

’

longer here than elsewhere . The openingscene

,in which the heroine explains the conflict ,

and reveals her resolve , awakens dramatic interest ,despite its expositional purpose .

Voltaire , after remark ing with approval thatnone of Racine ’s heroines communicates her secretthoughts or reveals her passion in an ini tial monologu e , excu ses Corneille for su ch a fau lt on the

ground that he was a pioneer, and that he compensates for these rhetorical amplifications with poetryof rare beau ty . Of another scene in Cinna (IV ,

he says : “This

,again,

is a place where the monologue is in order . Moreover , the verses are beautiful, and the reflections to the point . This scene isworthy of the great Corneille .

” Indeed,the first

nine lines are the finest in the play . Voltairepraises still another instance of monologue (III ,becau se it “enables a man in a stormy crisis toexamine with himself the danger of hi s undertak ing, the horror of the crime he is abou t to commit, and to heed or combat his remorse .

”

It is evident , then , in the plays of Corneille thatthe use of monologue does not necessarily detractfrom the value of a drama . Cinna wou ld gainnothing by a substitution of dialogue . The sameholds true of Polyeucte

— if Pauline soliloquizessomewhat ineffectively (III , the hero is sublime in the prison scene (IV , Though Corneille u ses monologue less in his later works , theygain nothing by this omi ssion .

One might dismiss as a you thfu l error the frequency of the monologu e in Moliere

’s early comedi es ,

were the tendency not prominent in L ’

Ecole desFemmes and other later pieces . Arnolphe solilo

qui zes too mu ch . Not content with a long speech


alone (III , he immediately reappears on thestage to u tter another ; and later , too , he has mu chto say to himself . Though there is humor in thesituations of L ’

Ecole des Femmes , it is written ina semi—seriou s tone ill-adapted to soliloquy . Onthe other hand

, Georges Dandin’s naive way of

accu sing and admoni shing himself possesses acomic savor rarely paralleled . In vain wou ld anybut a Shakespeare try to imitate the tragic-comictone of Harpagon (IV ,

or the humor of themonologues u ttered by Scapin whi le belaboringGéronte in the sack .

In the plays of Moliére , therefore , as in thoseof Corneille , we see that there are frequent monologues , but in general they are less appropriatein Moliere ’s comedy than in Corneille ’s tragedy .

A comic writer mu st exercise especial care in orderto keep su ch a scene in harmony with the tone ofhis play . Moliere ’s failure to do thi s in certaininstances explains why some of his monologues aredefective .

If one condition of the monologue is a tragic crisis ,another is intense passion . Indeed

,these two

conditions are u sually correlated . Racine , as thepoet of passion , accordingly , achieves su ccess inthis department . In Andromaque, Pyrrhu s , betrothed to Hermione , though more and more inlove with Andromache

,promises to keep his word

for political reasons . But, finding love strongerthan the compu lsions of politics and du ty, he iscompelled to abandon his bethrothed, and , in thelast scene of act four , apprises her of his decision .

Now given Hermi one’s impu lsive disposition (she

has already urged a repining su itor to assassinatePyrrhu s), her rage may be imagined . These factsconstitute an admirable basis for the heroine ’s


monologue in the opening scene of the followingact . She can vent her fury far better alone . A

second character is , therefore , superfluou s . Ofequal excellence are Phaedra

’s twomonologu es (III ,2 ; IV ,

D ialogu e wou ld be less su itable here ,since the heroine cou ld not so freely confess toanother her illicit passion .

To these finer examples from Corneille , Moliere ,and Racine , one may apply Catulle Mendes

’s

laudatory epithet ,“incomparable masterpieces .

”

If there be many poor examples of monologue , andif the majority , even , be flimsy makeshifts

,yet

the fact remains that the monologue well handledis capable of adding variety, force , and beau tyto a drama . Why , then , shou ld we obj ect to itsrational use? Surely notbecau se it is conventional

,

since withou t conventions th‘e drama— and artitself— could not exist.

The eighteenth century offers few instru ctiveexamples of monologue , owing to the relatively unimportant character of French dramatic literatu reduring the period . Voltaire , who, as already noted ,conceded a certain dramatic value to the kind

,

avails himself of it moderately in all hi s tragedi es ,and seems to have attained the best resu lts froma form of supplication , entreaty, or invocation

,

as in Zai re (III , 3 , 5 ; V ,

Lesage’s Thédtre de la Foi re is of interest

,owing

to the edict of 1707 forbidding di alogu e in theperformances at the fairs” of Saint-Germain andSaint-Lau rent . One wou ld expect such a decreeto have developed the monologue immensely , yetthe Leblanc edition (18 10) of these comic operettas does not indicate this form of recitation .

Lesage inserted several in Turcaret, but none thatis essential to the dramatic action or that adds


notwithstanding a certain Shakespearean glamor,there is so little action that we cannot take thepoet seriou sly . Of the three monologues InHernanithe most appropriate is the first (I , where thehero makes a vow and unbu rdens his heart . Muchweaker is the far-fetched reflection of Don Carlos

(IV ,whi ch sets a new record for length ( 160

lines) and reminds one of the Waterloo digressionin Les M iserables . Withou t its sonorou s , undulating verse and its pompou s stage setting, it wou ldbe unbearable .

The development of the monologue by the ro

manticists called forth many flights of rhetoricalbombast , but strong scenes are not wanting.

Sometimes the fau lt lay only in the execu tion .

The romanticists ’ most seriou s failing, in thi sconnection

,was their incorrigible verbosity, whi ch ,

with their lyricism ,rendered dramatic su ccess

difficu lt . It may be said , however , that the mon.ologue su ffered from the Sins of romanticism ratherthan marred the romantic drama .

What was destined to become of this soli lo

qu izing furor wi th the advent of realism? Cou lda literature that professed to represent life withphotographi c fidelity tolerate su ch a convention?One wou ld expect it to be banished forthwith ,but su ch did not prove to be the case . Af ter all

,

li terary conventions persist,Since they are either

indispensable or convenient . Then,too, su ch

hybrid realists as Dumas, fits , and B ecqu e never

completely renounced their romantic allegiance .

Augier , also , was less ardent than might have beensupposed as an adversary of the School of 1830,so far as li terary form is concerned . And su chavowed disciples of romanticism as Catulle Mendés

, Jean Richepin,and Edmond Rostand could


notbe expected to rej ect the monologue . But withthe younger realists—Lemaitre , Cure], Lavedan ,Herv ieu , Donnay , B rieux , and Capus

— it was

different . Having emancipated themselves fromromanticism and renounced dramatic conventions ,they were free to develop their ideas as they mightsee fit . But two

“irregulars” may first claim our

attention .

Dumas,fills , is so fond of monologues that they

would seem overdone , were it not for hi s eloquence .

Even the long and sentimental soliloquy in LaFemme de Claude does not offend , since it is u tteredin the form of a divine invocation .

Certain scenes from Renan , another irregu lar ,deserve mention

,for the monologues in hi s Drames

Philosophiques cover twenty pages of prose . Thosein L ’

Abbesse de Jouarre alone run to half thi snumber

,with one (II , 1) of six pages . These

philosophical dramas are a genre in whi ch themonologue is not inappropriate , Since they mak eno pretence to dramatic action . In Caliban(III , where the hero clothes his sound philosOphy of government in ironical humor worthy ofhigh comedy, the effect is excellent , as it is in thePope ’s speech in L ’

Eau de Jouvence (II , Thismanner of reasoning with one ’s self recalls theDandinesque art of Moliere .

In the realistic drama proper , we find that thebest plays of Augier are rather marred by theirmonologues—eleven inLesEfirontes , seven inMai tre

Guerin , and five in the third act of Le Fi ls deGi boyer , for Augier lack s the skill and the eloquenceof Dumas , fils . Becque , when he wrote L

’Enfant

Prodigue and M iche l Pauper , was still under thespell of romanticism . But the numerou s monolognes in his realistic comedy , La Parisienne, are


less easily accounted for. They are all mediocre.

That Becque was not incapable of produ cing aworthy monologu e , however , we know from a scenein Les Corbeaux (II , where Teissier has no

other means of explaining hi s secret intentions .'

Of the younger realists , Ju les Lemaitre employs the monologue most frequently , especiallyin his non-realistic plays , Les Rois and La BonneHelene . Thanks to hi s bonhomie, these scenesamu se the spectator . Different , yet appropriatein tone

,is his monologue in Bertrade (IV , where

the marqu is prepares for su icide . Lavedan offersan excellent specimen of monologue in S ire (IV ,

the countess , beside herself with emotion , speaking in broken phrases , becau se she think s of manythings at the same time . D ialogu e wou ld be incapable of producingt hi s effect . The monologueis not found , to my knowledge , in the comedi esof Mau rice Donnay . It is u sed moderately byHervieu in his early dramas , but less and less inhis later work s . Su ch is the case , also , with B rieux ,

whose first seriou s play, M énages d’

Artistes , con

tains almost as many lines of monologue as do allhis others combined , with the exception of La

Foi, which departs from realism . A like tendency

is noticeable in the comedies of Alfred Gapu s , whohas been whittling down hi s monologu es since LaVeine (IV , 1) and Les Deux Vies (IV, Apartfrom La Come

’

dic du Génie, Cu rel has contentedhimself with dialogue in hi s last plays .

That the realists endeavor to weed out themonologue is mani fest . In many instances

,they

limit themselves to a scene muette, whi ch contrastsvividly with the long rhetorical flights of theromanticists . Again , they go to extremes in avoiding what they regard as an evil . In his recent


prove superior to colloquy . To the u ses of realismthe monologu e is less appropriate ; but reali sm is

one tendency only, and its vogu e for the momentseems to have passed . We may assume

,there

fore,that the discredit into which the monologu e

has fallen with the realists is temporary . Sooneror later it will again come into its own.

WILLIAM H . SCHEI FLEY .

DEAD ACTORS FOR LIVE

FFHAND, it sounds like a grewsome

proposal . In reality,it is one of the

few means left to us of pu tting backvitality on a moribund stage . EleanoraDuse , in a moment of dramatic despair,once plead for the murder of everyactress and actor in the land . She

was an impetuous lady, and , had her lethal pro

gram been carried out, she wou ld doubtless havebeen qu ick to wave a tear-soaked handkerchief asa flag of tru ce . But the exaggerated grimaces of

geniu s are often the sober gestures of posterity .

What fifty years ago was the flighty challenge ofa hysterical actress is , fifty years later

,the

tempered admonition of a far-seeing woman to astage which very grudgingly is acknowledging theeternal dramatic tru th that it is only he wholoses his life for the sake of the theatre that finds it .

Signora Duse did not explain how the stage wasto survive withou t actors . Very likely she did

not know or care . What she did know,with her

vehement intuition , was that drama was inseriou s danger of being slobbered into bed by a

troupe of sentimental , egoistic players ; and she

cared enough for the theatre to pray for its qu ickdeath and clean bu rial rather than watch it nursedinto a state of chronic invalidism by the sensuou shands of a horde of pseudo-lovers . Stabbed bythis fear

,she u ttered her challenge and her warn

ing. Gordon Craig, wounded by the same fear ,took up her cry . Less impetuou s and less headstrong than Signora Du se be dilu ted his demands ,

52 DEAD ACTORS FOR LIVE

asking merely that actors hide their faces undermasks . But hi s convictions in regard to thematter were headed In the same direction as hers ,though they did not travel quite so far . He knewthat art , phi lologicallyandactually , is thebeginningof artifice . And he knew that acting, through thevery intimacy of its nature , is , of all the inter

pretative arts , most prone to ignore this issu e .

Hence he, on the one hand , called for mask s , andEleanora Duse , on the other , called for daggers .

It clearly seems time , therefore , when two of themost individual singers of the stage strain theirvoices in remonstrance , for the theatre to take itsfingers from its ears and leaning forward , placeboth hands carefu lly behi nd them .

Acting is the art of being unnatu ral . An actoris commonly supposed to sink hi s personality intothe role whi ch he is playing. This is a grossunderstatement of an actor ’s whole du ty to thestage . He shou ld not sink his personality : heshou ld drown it . That there is comparativelylittle fini shed acting in our theatres today is dueto one of two fau lts : either the actor is too

egoistic to drown himself ; or he has so li ttleegoi sm that its asphyxiation under the waves ofan imaginary character

’s emotion fails to create aripple . For it mu st not be supposed that themere death of an actor behind the footlightsguarantees the immediate resurrection of a dramatic character . The actor mu st di e . Moreimportant than that

,he mu st di e continually . To

die so often requ ires unu sual Vitality . From themoment when he steps from the wings , indeed ,till the moment when he steps behind them again ,an actor ’s one thought Shou ld be of incessantsu icide . Every gesture he makes shou ld be a


time,are themselves instead of somebody else ,

Our playwrights , a large number of them,are

nearly anybody at all who happens at the momentto have a fountain pen up his sleeve and a checkbook in his pocket . This , let it be repeated , isunfortunate . It is lamentable . If you please , itis monstrou s . But it is not entirely beyond thereach of human relief . One remedy for thedifficu lty is to sprink le powdered arsenic on thestage and wait patiently for a new race of actorsto be born . Another is to clamp mask s over thefaces of the actors and actresses we have and makethe best of their bad physical appearance andj argon . Another— I progress slowly but steadilytoward my point— is to take our actors andactresses entirely off the stage and put on marionettes in their stead . Thi s last remedy ,as a correctiveif not a complete cu re , commends itself boldly tothe attention of the modern theatrical world .

Moreover,if you wish to lean on au thority

,its

recommendation is countersigned by a no lesspractical and theoretical man of the stage thanEdward Gordon Craig.

The marionette theatre is not a new form ofdramatic entertainment . I ts active career datesback ,

officially at leas t, to the seventeenth centu ry .

Unofficially ,of cou rse

,its history extends mu ch

fu rther into the past . Upon the arrival of theeighteenth centu ry , marionettes were getting wellon their feet . By the middle of that era they wererunning abou t , brisk ly and effectively . In brief

,

over two hundred years ago, mechanical substitutes for living actors had been put on the stage ,had been tested and awarded the order of merit .Bearing in mi nd the shaky state of eighteenthcentu ry physics

,their mechanical su ccess was

DEAD ACTORS FOR LIVE 5

remarkable . And they were ambitious as well asclever : they tackled large , hi storical events suchas the Flood , and the Fall of Man . If you aresceptical

,an au thentic précis of some of their

elaborate exploits , embalmed in Copies of antiqu emarionette hand-bills , will soon convince you .

One hundred and fifty years ago the story of

the Ark was enacted on the puppet stage with apanoramic splendor of detail that wou ld makeR . H . Burnside of the New York Hippodromeweep with envy . It is down on the programs tobe read by any who cares to do so. And not onlyNoah and his numerou s family marched trium

phantly out of the ark ,after the miraculou s

recession of the waters : the whole animal democracy j oined proudly in the parade—birds

,bears

,

lions , cats , dogs , crocodiles , monkeys , goats ,toads a pai r of every living, flying, creepingthing, marching two by two.

That was a long time ago . Darwin has sincerevised our conception of the ancient world

,and

our growing sense of the ludi crou s has sharpenedour sense of what is dramatically preposterous .At the Dei P iccoli in Rome , at the marionettetheatre in Nohant

,at various puppet playhou ses

in America,England , Italy , Ru ssia and Germany,

thi s increased acu ity of dramatic Vision is staringthe ridicu lou s off the stage . Melodrama is flying ;drama is coming to roost . The proof is under ournoses . Thackeray ’s The Rose and the R ing, con

verted into a marionette play , with Tony Sarg as

impresario and Ellen Van Volkenberg as produ cer,

alighted last April at the Punch and Judy Theatre ,New York , and stayed there for a month . A licein Wonderland performed a similar feat at theLittle Theatre in Chicago . In Germany

,they are


going in for marionettes with a vengeance . InFlorence, Italy , Gordon Craig not only condu cts amagazine devoted solely to the interests of pap iermaché performers , but— I hope I am not wrong on

this point,as the news is too good to be false

he has persuaded his puppets to go in for Shakespeare and play Hamlet.These are all straws bending in a steady dramatic

wind ; it is a wind from a healthy point of thecompass ; and lately it seems to be freshemng.

But too few theatres are filling their sails with it .

Or,if they are

,they trim their Sheets and beat

stubbornly against it . Taken by-and-large , aplay performed by marionettes— at least in thiscountry - seems to be understood by the public tobe something between a punch-and-judy Showand a parlor circu s . And this misapprehensionis not due entirely to the public ’s proverbial boneheadedness . When Tony Sarg was experimentingwith puppets in London , several years ago (hetells the story blithely on himself , which onlyincreases its sad humor), Gordon Craig wrote aletter reproaching him with not tak ing his dollactors seriou sly enough .

“Marionettes are not aj oke ,

” he said,indignantly,

“they deserve to betreated with respect .

” Mr . Sarg tells the story ,and then laughs . It is laughter of thi s kind , coming from variou s sources , whi ch eddies lik e a ficklebreeze through the hard-written manu scripts of

men lik e Gordon Craig, and scatters them ontothe floor .For marionettes are not a j oke . They deserveall the seriou s respect whi ch is in the heads of

intelligent men . They never will u su rp the throneof the flesh-and-blood actor

,for the su fficient

reason that their own demesne is too large on


bu siness , whi ch by thi s time mu st be my extremelyobviou s belief, cannot be accomplished moreeffectively than by marionettes .Marionettes have their own part to play in the

world . They are not merely mi ssionaries drumming for a cau se . In the fairy-tale , in thedramatization of impossible dreams and faun-lik efantasies of the grotesqu e there is very little thatthey cannot do, and mu ch that human actorscan not even attempt . Not being made of fleshand blood , they are superhuman . They can ridethe winds and play among the stars . They canbe beau tiful , and , at the wave of a wand , hideou s .They can be Pan blowing soft mu sic on his ancientsyrinx

,to the listening ears of the trees , and , at

the next moment , the Pied Piper of Hamelinplaying ten thou sand children into the sea . Theycan be elves sporting in the forgotten country ofAlfheim , and , Upon the tou ch of an ogre

’

s magicrod

,a race of one-eyed Arimaspians among whom

the fabu lou s griffins dwell . Their deeds are,in

fact,limited only by the imagination of the man

who tells their tale . Some of their possibilitieshave already been spelled upon the stage . The

majority are as unknown words in an unopeneddictionary .

It is that new language of fantasy whi ch willundoubtedly be the most natural speech of themodern

,perfected puppet ; and to the learning of

it he will wisely devote most of his attention .

But in the meantime he has other things to do .

Not the least of those things will be to teach thewhole stage of human actors and actresses , perhaps unconsciou sly

,that to be dead as a man is to

be alive as an actor,and that drama— all drama

is a ghost-land of the brain whi ch flesh and bones

DEAD ACTORS LI VE 59

may not enter until they have been cru cified andrise from the tomb. If a marionette does nothingmore than that in this world of reality he deservesto go to heaven .

WINTHROP PARKHURST .

SNARING THE LION

A One-act Play Based upon an Incident in Judges .

By E . C . EHRLICHI t is sunset. Delilahhas sought the roof of her house

for the sake of coolness . She lies langu idly uponheaped cushions on a long couch . At the backis a low wall; and at the left a stair descends intothe street. A slave girl bearing her p itcher uponher shou lder enters .

SLAVE [Prostrating herself]: Mistress .DELILAH [Without stirring]: Yes?

SLAVE : I listened at the well . I gossiped withthe Slaves and water carriers and those who carryfire-wood upon their Shou lders . I spoke also tothe merchants in their booths .

DELILAH : Yes?

SLAVE : No one knows of Samson . Since heleft thee a month ago

DELILAH [Angri ly]: A month ! ‘Tis scarcely

eighteen days Since he departed . Have I not

counted each hour of these long days and emptynights?SLAVE : No one knows of Samson . He is Slain

or

DELILAH [Half rising]: Or hath forgotten me !He hath tired of me ; even now he is with some newwoman—may the gods cau se her breasts to witherand her eyes to darken ! [Fu riou sly] And I havedeni ed myself to the princes and the Shining merchants ; I have hoarded for him the beau ty whichhe mocks at and scorns

62 SNARING THE LION

SLAVE : I know not. [She fastens a jeweledband on DELILAH ’S arm] This , too, he sends .

DELILAH [Wavering]: He may bring news of

Samson . [She fingers the chain] Let him come .

[The SLAVE goes ou t] Too long have I tu rned thebuyers from my door . Salu , the generou s , comesagain , and why shou ld I not bid him welcome?But I am wearying of selling and buying—wearyof these little men who come to purchase . Samsoncame with empty hands , and the look of a kingon his forehead .

[She sits dreaming. SALU enters softly and attemptsto draw her to him. She twists from his embrace]DELILAH [Cooly]: Thou art ever too eager ,

Salu . Thou hast come— and why ? [She stretchesherself upon the cou ch . He attempts to sit besideher, bu t she motions him to the low stool] Nay ,further off . What doth Salu seek of Delilah?SALU : An idle question ! They do rightly who

call the place where thou dwellest the Valley of

the Choice Vine,for where thou art

,Delilah , will

be found many men athirst for the wine of thylove .

DELILAH [Yawning]: This hath been Spokenoft by many men . Why doth Salu seek me?SALU : Let me k iss thy throat

,Delilah

,and

thou wilt question me no longer .

DELILAH : Kisses? It was long ago we k issed .

And tonight thy words are the words of a shamefaced boy who gazes upon a woman ’s unveiledface for the first time and is afraid . I crave clearerspeech , my lord .

SALU : For love have I come ; for love of thee .

Dost thou laugh? What Philistine , hav ing claspedthee , can be cold when he knows that thou hastyielded thyself to this robber dog, thi s Samson?

SNARING THE LION 63

DELILAH [Laughing lazi ly at his wrath]: Did

love for me or hate for Samson bring thee heretonight? Give me true speech , my lord .

SALU [Kneeling beside the couch]: Thou dostknow me for the last of thy many lovers . But amonth ago and I was master here .

DELILAH [Dreami ly]: And then he came !Think

’st thou that having loved the sun I could

stoop to gather pebbles?SALU : Love? Doth Delilah love? Yea , thou

dost love the burning in the eyes of strong menwho watch thee dance ; Shining stones and gli ttering waist-cloths thou dost love ; thou lovest gold .

DELILAH [Unheeding]: He is above all othermen. His eyes laugh at death ; his arms mu st beas strong as the brazen arms of Moloch , when theVirgins lie within them and taste the ecstacy andthe joy of the fire .

SALU : And Delilah loves?DELILAH [With sudden bi tterness]: Thou hast

spoken tru th . I—upon whom all men feastI am not made for love

,nor dare I to desire it .

Yet I cannot forget him . When he is absent theday is very bitter to me . When he is here—[Sheclenches her hands and stops angri ly]SALU : Then?DELILAH : Then I hate him. He, the foe of

my tribe—the insolent stranger—dares hope thatDelilah , who might have been the beloved of ak ing, pines for his caresses and the kisses of hismou th .

SALu z But thou thyself didst sayDELILAH [Shrugging]: A woman ’s words are

as pebbles cast without thought into a little pool .Why should I love him? Nay , it were more fittingto hate this Samson , this conqueror of women .

64 SNARING THE LION

See, he comes to me like a shameless beggar , confident, with ou tstretched hands . Scarce hathhe tou ched my robe or girdle . Yet he knows thatmy flesh is athi rst for him ; that my heart stranglesme

,seeking to cry ou t,

“Take me and ru le over

me,for my neck is beneath thy sandal .”

SALU : Thi s be strange hate .

DELILAH : Yet I have cau se to hate him . Ihave laughed at all love moanings . He laughsat me . He conqu ers men and cities—me he conquers also—me , Delilah , whose lashes are moredeadly than spears . Yea , I hate him becau se ofthe slavish love for himwhi ch hath filled my heart .SALU : Now need there be no li es between us .

Thou didst read my coming with keen eyes . Lessdid I think of love for thee than hate for him , themocker of our gods . If thou wou ldst see him conqueredDELILAH [Lazi ly]: An idle j est ! Why shou ld

I wish him harm?SALU : Delilah groweth humble . The flower

of dancing girls pines alone in her hou se— she

denies herself to the princes— she hoards herbeau ties for one who hath spu rned her with hi sfoot before the eyes of all her lovers .

DELILAH [Hotly]: Thou liest, Salu . When

hath he scorned me? When hath he put me toopen shame? I will not believe thee ! [He shrugshis shou lders] What hast thou heard?SALU : Perhaps his words when he left our

city were Spoken in j est . Thu s did he laugh withthe princes at the gates :

“The fru its of you r

valley are very sweet, 0 princes ; the v ines are

heavy with fru it . And most graciou s of womenis you r Deli lahDELILAH : Graciou s— to him? He hath never

tou ched me .

66 SNARING THE LION

Salu ,and they come from a wicked heart . Thou

wou ldst not see Samson humbled but to bring anew lover to my arms .SALU : I speak not formyself . I am the tongu e

of all the Phili stine lords . They bade me comeand ask thee thy price for Samson .

DELILAH : My price?SALU : Thy price ! Honor shalt thou have

among Phili stine women for overcoming this manof Israel . Then shalt thou have payment for hismock ing of theeDELILAH [Impatiently]: Thi s I know ! But

the price?SALU : Though it scarce be worth the mention ,

we Shall fill thy lap with gold . When Samson isin our hands , I Shall give thee of gold pieces a bagfu ll to overflowing. [He takes a bag from beneathhis cloak and jingles it] The mu sic of thy ringedfeet is very beautifu l to the ears of thy lovers , butthi s musicDELILAH [Stretching forth her hands]: The gold—let me feel it !SALU [H iding the bag]: When thou hast earned

it , I will give it thee— and more .

DELILAH [Panting]: What mu st I do? —onlyhe shall not come to harm .

SALU : Know then , Delilah , that the keeperof the Gate of the Scorpion hath seen him but anhour ago and hath sent a swift runner to me totell me of his coming.

DELILAH : He is coming—he is coming backto me !SALU [Qu ietly bu t with emphasis]: Tonight

shalt thou learn the secret of his strength . At

dawn we come to hear it .DELILAH : But if he refuse to Show me his heart?

SNARING THE LION 67

SALU : Madden him with wine .

DELILAH : He will not taste of it .SALU : But he wi ll taste thy kisses and they

will madden him into folly .

DELILAH [I n shame]: He is cold to me .

SALU : Then was Delilah , the Delicate One ,ill named . If thou dost doubt thy power— [He

jingles the gold beneath his cloak] perhaps someother Philistine damselDELILAH : Nay

,no other woman shall have

him or the gold . Perhaps he is so cold becau sehe knows himself abou t to yield . And I , hatinghim for this very coldness

,did not stoop to woo.

Tonight I will draw hi s secret from him ; my lipsShall be as the hooks of the torturer . Come thouat d awn—with the gold .

SLAVE [Entering hurriedly]: Lady , Samsonlingers in the street before thine hou se .

DELILAH : Bring him hi ther . [To SALU] Hidethou in the shadows till he comes . Then leavewithou t noise . And yet— thine oath he will cometo no harm !SALU [Crouchingintheshadows] Hu sh—he comes .

[SAMSON enters . DELILAH comes to him qu icklywhile SALU unperceived hastens down the stairs]DELILAH : Samson !

[With a great joy that is not entirely feigned she i s

about to throw herself into his arms . He repu lsesher with a swift gestu re]SAMSON : Nay

,for at last I know the meaning

of my dream .

DELILAH [Puzzled]: Thy dream?SAMSON : Hast thou not wondered , 0 Wine

that I mu st not taste , hast thou not wonderedwhy I have sat in thy presence like one abashedand afraid?

68 SNARING THE LION

DELILAH [Curling herself among her cushions]:Yea

,I have wondered at thy coldness .

SAMSON : Tonight have I come to tell theethat this is the last time thou shalt look upon myface . For at last I know the meaning of my dream .

DELILAH [M aking a p lace for him among the

cushions]: What is the dream whi ch troublesthee?SAMSON [S itting upon the grou nd a little apart

from her]: Thou art the dream,and thou dost

trouble me sorely , O Phi listine woman ! Againand again through the past Six moons have Idreamed of a serpent with sleepy eyes and thebreasts of a woman . And that serpent seemed towind abou t my body until my heart grew Sickwith cold and horror . But I cou ld not Shake itfrom me and I was sore afraid . Then I sought awise woman among my people and She told methat a hidden enemy lay in wait for me and longedto slay

.

me,even as the serpent Slays the man who

lies within her coils . But when I saw thee in thybeau ty I forgot my dream ,

for I became drimkenwith a wine more terrible than that I mu st nottaste and I thirsted for thee .

DELILAH [Swaying toward him]: I am blessedabove all women in that I have pleased my lord .

SAMSON [Drawing back]: Bu t hear me . Whenever I stretched out my hands to thee , I felt thesame cold horror twining abou t my heart . I soughtto take thee bu t I cou ld not for the terror of theserpent made me afraid .

DELILAH : Thy dreams are dreams of emptiness . Look into my eyes

,and

SAMSON [Springing up and crying ou t in horror]:Not thine eyes ! Not thine eyes ! [She rises andstands leaning indolently against a ta ll brazen jar]

70 SNARING THE LION

thee,O Slayer of thou sands , then boast of thy

strength . [He does not move] Tou ch me ! DothSamson fear a weak dancing girl? [She pu ts herarms abou t his neck] Dost thou draw back ? Dostthou shrink from my tiny fingers? Thy lips

,

Samson ! [He makes a half-hearted effort to shakeher ofi

’

] Thou art afraid to tou ch -my lips ; theywill not bu rn thee ; they are as cool as dew . Princeshave given j ewels for them . Kiss me , Samson .

SAMSON [I n a hoarse voice]: I— I am afraid of

thee,little Delilah ! [He loosens her arms gently

and draws back]DELILAH [S itting among her cushions]: Per

haps,then , 0 strong one, it is best for thee to leave

me lest thou Shou ldst come to harm . I wou ld notfrighten thee overmu ch . And I am scarce ac

cu stomed to play the wooer . Since mine embracesfill thy valiant heart with terror, Shall my Slavelead thee to the street?SAMSON [Angri ly]: Wilt thou drive me forth

like a naked beggar? [He sits on the couch] I willremain until moonrise ; thou shalt dance for meagain and thy Slave shall Sing. [More gently , asDELILAH does not heed him

,bu t sits lanqu idly bind

ing her ha ir , and singing a love song, beneath herbreath] Let her sing, I pray thee , one of the songsof thy people .

DELILAH [Indifierently]: She w ill sing the songa poet made forme . Men called him happy thoughhe died for love of me , for I k issed his lips beforehe died . [She goes to the steps] Girl , come withthine harp . [She stands before SAMSON] Tell me ,lord , is there a woman of thy people as fair as Iam fair?SAMSON [Looking away]: I do not remember

the faces of other women .

SNARING THE LION 71

[The SLAVE enters , bearing a harp . DELILAHwhispers to her and loosening her ha ir crouchesupon her cu shions waiting to dance ]SLAVE [S inging]:Delilah ’s eyes are black and deepAS mountain pools where Shadows sleep ;Their waters conquer me ;

Delilah ’s hair drips lotus sweet ,It flows from circlet to her feet ,Whi ch tink le dreamily .

[DELILAH springs up and whirls into a mad dance .

SAMSON watches her with restraint ]SLAVE [Singing]:Her mou th for k issing is right good ,AS fragrant as cru shed sandalwood :B ehind her veil it glows ;

Her breasts beneath the jealou s veilShine through its waves like lilies paleWithin a brook that flows .

[The dance grows more furiou s as the song continuesto the ins inuating tinkle of the harp]SLAVE [S inging]:Delilah ’s fame from west to eastI S known from high k ings to the leastOf slaves that grind the corn ;

The merchants bring her girdles meet ,And ank lets for her dancing feet ,That seem the earth to scorn .

SAMSON : No more ; do not dance more , Delilah !SLAVE [S inging]:My heart She crushes with weak hands ;My body bu rns as thirsty sandsBeneath a brazen Sky ;

Cou ld I but grasp thi s j eweled cup,

And drink its flaming sweetness

72 SNARING THE LION

SAMSON . [Tearing harp from SLAVE]: Go ! Itell thee go !

[The SLAVE hurries ou t. DELILAH falls back uponher cu shions as though exhau sted . B u t her eyesare crafty . SAMSON , breathing heavi ly, standslooking down upon her]DELILAH [Playfu lly]: Thou dost not praise

my dance . Princes have praised it . And the song—was it not worth a night of k isses?

SAMSON [Speaking with an efi’ort]: I prate no

love rhymes . I only know that I desire t hee ,Delilah , and that thou hast made me mad . [He

tu rns reluctantly]DELILAH [Catching his robe]: Nay , do not

leave me, Samson . Dost thou fear thi s little hand

which thou cou ldst cru sh so easily?

SAMSON : I have strangled the lion’s whelp ,

bu t my hands are weak beneath thy fingers .

DELILAH [Drawi ng herself up to his knees]: WhyShou ldst thou fear me? It is I who fear . For

never until thy coming did mine eyes behold aman like thee . [She draws his hand to her throat]Feel my throat throb with terror , Samson . Thoudost not fear a simple woman like me . [She laysher check against his arm] See , I kneel at thyfeet and plead for love words . Am I not grownhumble?SAMSON [Drawingher to him]: It is I who Shou ld

be humble , Delilah , little Delilah . Oh,I am mad

to linger here wi th thee .

DELILAH [As simp ly as a chiht]: I know thatthou wilt leave me at dawn

,but until then— I

have been so lonely —Wilt thou not stay withme? Seat thyself

,my lord

,and bear me company

until the morning. [She leads him to the couch .

74 SNARING THE LION

that I was .too lavish of my love ; other men payme richly for their nights of joy ; thou payest

naught , though the treasure house lies open tothine hands .

SAMSON [Coldly]: Thi s talk of the market placeI understand not. Wou ldst thou then be paidfor what I have not taken? Shall I Slay the Phili stine lords who lied of me and give thee of theirchains and rings? I will cover thy Sleekness withjewels . But Samson is not wont to pay . He

plunders . [He sits upon the cu shions and Deli lahcreeps to him] So thy love is a thing of purchaseeven with me !DELILAH [Qu ickly]: Nay, Samson ; others may

give me j ewels but not thou . From thee do I askfor a li ttle thing, a small love gift . Give it me ,Samson .

SAMSON : What may Delilah crave?DELILAH [Her head on his shou lder]: Tell me

what is in thine heart . I have stripped myselfbare to thee . There is no secret my heart holdsfrom thine . Samson , tell me— tell me why thouart stronger than all other men .

SAMSON [Slowly]: Why wouldst thou know thisthing?DELILAH [Fondling him]

: ’Tis but a woman ’s

graving to know that thing whi ch is hidden fromer .SAMSON [Herface between his hands]: It is thou

who keepest secret things from me . Thine eyesare veiled . I feel thee tremble . [He springs up ,crying sharp ly] Have the lords of the Phili stinesasked thee for this

,my secret?

DELILAH : Nay,I but asked it as a love gift

a gift of tru st . How canst thou say ,

“I love thee,

when thy heart is not with me?

SNARING THE LION 75

SAMSON : My God hath kept me strong-l—andI love thee not . [His words ring hollow; she smi lesmockingly up into ,

his face] My heart shall notbe with thee , for I shall go out under the starsa free man . But first—one kiss to glow a torch inthe darkness when I shall no longer see thy face .

DELILAH : Thou shalt not have my lips untilthou givest what I ask . [She covers her face wi thher hand]SAMSON [Dragging her to him]: I need not

bribe— I plunder . Thou art my woman—myhands are in thy hair . Tonight Shall I enter intothe treasu re hou se . [He pu lls her hands from her

face] My mou th is close to thine . Call me“Master” before I seal thee my Slave

,O Delilah !

DELILAH [Lying qu ietly in his arms]: I do notfear thee . It is thou who art still afraid . Thoughthou art bru ising my flesh I do not cry out.

Cru sh me in thy fingers , O slayer of men , butthou wilt remain hungry , for my love cannot beplundered . Yea , I wou ld be less cold to theVilest slave in the streets below than to thee .

Thou mightst have felt my breast heaving beneaththy heart or heard my sobbing laughter

’twixtthy k isses , but now—now thou holdest but mybody which all the Philistine princes have fondledin their tu rn . But thou cou ldst have had morethe woman in me crying that her master had come .

Now fondle thou the sheath and use it for thypleasu re— I shall not give thee the sword .

SAMSON [He has bent to kiss her, bu t draws backafraid]: Thou wou ldst be as a sword to Slay myvery sou l ! I wou ld not rob the princes of theirpleasu re . [He throws herfromhimviolently . Deli lahstretches herself lazily upon the ground where she has

6 SNARING THE LION

fallen . The rising moon falls on her bosomfromwhich he has torn the vei ls]DELILAH : Thy caresses are ungentle , Samson .

[Mockingly] Dost thou still desire my k iss tocarry into the night?SAMSON [Gazing at her in fear]: I did not know

thou wast so beau tifu l . [He tu rns slowly like aman who dreams and is abou t to depart]DELILAH [Half rais ing herself and catching his

hand]: Stay , Samson !

[He turns , wavers , then throws himself beside her.

She draws his head to her breast]DELILAH [With a waver ing laugh]: Ah—how

cou ld I refu se thee anything, my lord? I— I amconquered . What care I for thy secret? I havethee— thine head between my hands , thy bodyclose to mine . [I/ying closer in his arms] The

stars are whirling in heaven ; the women who Sitbefore their hou ses sing of love . I am thineu tterly, my beloved . I pou r my beau ties—a

stream of water— to lave thine hands and feet .

SAMSON : I am mad with the colors of thyrobe , with the warmth of thy body , with thefolds of thine hair . Thy beau ty cru shes mystrength as a Slave cru shes corn between two

stones .DELILAH : Rest thine head upon my heaped

up hair . I was never glad of its Splendor untiltonight . Say now that thou art wholly minethat little Delilah holds in her hands the strongman of Israel .SAMSON [Unheeding]: I have never trembled in

battle yet am I faint before thy body ’s whi temagnificence . Were I to plunder cities , were I toheap their treasu res at thy feet

,never cou ld I pay

thee for this night of joy and madness .

78 SNARING THE LION

suddenly] How can I speak of other things whenI lie upon thy breast ! O my woman—minemine—thou art very beau tifu l !DELILAH : And thou wast dedicated to the god?SAMSON : I cannot speak . The whiteness of

thy body dazzles me as a cru el light after a prisondarkness .DELILAH : I will blind thine eyes with a k iss .

[She kisses his eyes]SAMSON : Thy ki sses are as dewy flowers upon

my lids , O beloved !DELILAH [Gently enticing him]: But tell me

more . Wast thou as a holy man?SAMSON : I was to be as a Nazarite and drink

no wine . [Suddenly] This is the Valley of Sorek—the Valley of the Vine . Thou hast been moredreadfu l than wine to me !DELILAH [Soothing him]: And did thy god

make thee SO strong?SAMSON : For my faithfu lness hath He

rewarded me . There hath not come a razor onmy head for I have been a Nazarite unto God,from my mother ’s womb . If I be shaven , thenmy strength will go from me . I shall becomeweak , and be like any other man . [He laughs ]And my secret? Now have I told it thee— thoughthou wou ldst not hear it ! Why do thine eyesshine in the moonlight , my wife?DELILAH : Now do I know indeed that thou

hast told me all that is in thy heart . Thou artk ind to me , my beloved . Kiss me again , Samson .

Let thy lips cling to mine . The stars are whirlingin the heavens and in the streets the women Singof love .

[The curta in descends slowly . I t rises to show the

skies growing light with the dawn . SAMSON lies

SNARING THE LION 79

upon the cushions asleep and shorn . DELILAHbends over him ]DELILAH : Thou wilt never leave me more .

Thou wilt be hot with rage at first to lose thy

glory , but after that when thou art humbled thouwilt be as one of my own people . No otherwoman will have thee . Thou wilt cherish me andnever leave my Side . [Brokenly] But it wascruel to rob thee of thy strength , my lion . Thouwast above all men

,and now—but thou wilt

su rely forgive me when lying upon my breast .

[She looks at her arm] Mine arm is bru ised fromthy fingers . Thou wast cruel to me , strong one .

Thou wou ldst fain have conquered me . [Savagely]But it was I who conquered . I , a weak woman ,was stronger than thou . I have conquered theconqueror . I have overcome Samson ! [Shemovestowards the sta irs] Salu and the lords await me .

[B itterly] When he wakes they will not tremblebefore him. [She creeps back and k isses his forehead] Forgive me , Samson , forgive me . Fearnot - they will not harm thee—and yet— I wouldhave thee lion-strong again . [As she raises herhead SALU ’S chain drops from her neck and she

snatches it from the ground with greedy fingers]Salu will bring me gold—mu ch gold . The princeswill pay their price . My fingers are hungry tostray in my bag of gold pieces .

[She steals down the stairs . I n a moment she

returns , followed by SALU , the SLAVE and the

Philistine princes]DELILAH [Scornfu lly]: Thou hast brought

‘

agoodly number of men with thee

, Salu . Dostthou still fear him?SALU : Who wou ld fear a broken man?DELILAH [Hotly]: Dost thou already mock

80 SNARING THE LION

him? Mayhap even with hi s brok en strength hewill prove more than a match for thee . [Wi ldly]I wou ld not see him conquered . [She calls shrilly]The Philistines be upon thee , Samson .

[SAMSON awakens and springs to his feet. SeveralPhilistines seize him and hold himfast]SAMSON [Dazed]: Do I still dream? [He strug

gles ] Why am I weak—weak as a common man?Hath God departed from me? [He wrenches onehand free , tossing back hi s head as a caged lionmight, his fingers straying over hi s shorn head]B etrayed—betrayed by thee , the serpent of mydream . Were I but free that I might manglethat smooth body that hath given me over tomine enemies . [He continues to struggle]DELILAH [Shrinking in fear]: Do not k ill me

,

Samson ! They will not hu rt thee— they havepromised me . Salu ,

save me from hi s wrath .

SALU : He cannot hu rt thee now ,Delilah .

SAMSON : Yea,I am as beggared as a sacked

city . The strength of my manhood have I flungto be a carpet for a wanton ’s feet . God give meback my strength but for a moment that I mayhave my revenge . Let me Slay her, then cru shme and my shame together !DELILAH [Approaching fearfu lly]: Samson

listen—do not hate me . I did this thing becau seI loved thee

,wanted thee always with me

becau seSAMSON [Qu ietly to Salu]: I am at thy mercy .

Why dost thou expose a prisoner to the mockeryof a harlot?[Obeying a sign from SALU , the Philistines fetterSAMSON ]SALU : Take him to his prison .

DELILAH : Thine oath !

82 SNARING THE LION

SALU [Softly]: Ay , the promise ! [He dropsthe bag of gold beside her and steals down the sta irs]SLAVE [Approaching timidly]: Lady

,do not lie

on the cold pavement— it is wet with dew . Let

me bind thine hair and rub thy body with oils .

Come , thou mu st not lie here .

DELILAH : He hates me—he will always hate .

meSLAVE [Looking over the wall into the street]:

They are tak ing Samson to his prison . I can see

his great Shou lders as the princes drag him in theirmidst . Come and see him, lady .

[DELILAH drags herself toward the wall . Her bodyencounters the bag of gold . She stops and astrange light fills her face . She throws herselfdown beside the bag, tears it open and presses herlips to the coi ns]DELILAH : Gold ! I have done well ! I havedone well , indeed ! Let me count : I shall countall of it ; it will take me many hou rs . One

, two,three pieces— run , girl , and see where they havetaken Samson— fou r, five. [She continues to count.The SLAVE leaves] Nine , ten , elev—was thereever a woman earned so mu ch in a Single night?[She continues to mumble as she cou nts] Twentytwo—twenty-five—[An agonized shriek cu ts the

darkness] What was that? Perhaps some beatenSlave . I shall buy many Slaves . Who shall belike Delilah with the followers of a princess—andSilk s and veils of the merchants who come fromfar-off lands—thi rty-two—and spangled wai stcloths[The SLAVE enters]SLAVE [Timidly]: Mistress !DELILAH : I wou ld count my gold ! Forty-one

SNARING THE LION 83

—speak , girl , I listen , but—forty-threecontinues to count ]SLAVE : They took him to the prison hou se .

There was a great crowd before the gates . Menfought wildly for a glimpse of Samson in chains .

DELILAH [Half listening as she counts]: Chains !I Shall buy many chains heavy with j ewels . Fiftyfive I bade thee speak !SLAVE [Trembling]: Then Salu came to the

door and cried in a loud voice : Ye need fearSamson no longer . Tomorrow will he grind cornin hi s prison hou se . And tonight ye may sleepwithou t fear , for we have burned out hi s eyes , andye are stronger than he .

DELILAH [Sti ll counting]: What said Salu?SLAVE : The lords have burned out both his

eyes .yDELI LAH [She has stopped counting and gives a

cry of horror]: Thou art mad to say so. Noharm hath come to

,

him—Salu hath promised .

Go again , and bring me true tidings—go—go[The SLAVE leaves] —and I—was counting—fifty—fifty—his two good eyes—fifty—the girl lied tome—yet that cry— I mu st count—fifty—Traitorand he slept in my arms —fifty—blind [Her

voice rises to a shriek] Samson , my lion—blindand helpless—Samson—blind—blind—blind ![She starts up and then falls heavi ly to the groundsobbing madly, her long hair streaming over thescattered gold which gleams evi lly under the

brightening dawn]

INCEPTIONS

A FOOTNOTE TO THE PSYCHOLOGY OF PLAY

WRITING

N EACH of us there is a mu ltitude ofattitudes , points of View , poses , personalities . Every debate in the con

gress of the sou l reveals how manifoldwe are . Voices that frighten us breakinto the debate , voices we never knewhad a seat in our governing hou se ,

voices from the cellars of consciou sness , and voicescoming suddenly from behind the doors ofmysterious commi ttee rooms , voices of crime , and voicesof love . Sooner or later , in the midst of the debate ,one voice receives the support of the will . Thatdomineering personality shu ts off debate with aru thless hand . Thi s is not a congress in whichthe majority ru les . The will may becomeenamored of the most timid of all the voices

,one

scarcely heard amid the combat of words ; andback ing its cau se , will carry it triumphantlythrough , often in the face of prudence

,honor

,

su ccess,wealth

,and every other member of the

congress of the sou l . How di d the timid voicecharm him? By what mysteriou s art of lobbyingdid it win , the Wi ll ’s support? What went on

behind closed doors,that is

,behind consciou sness?

We are a machine that is free , whi ch is , of cou rse ,a contradiction .

There come times when an au thor mu st try tofly again , to take a long j ou rney in the imagination , that is , to begin another book . He may bemoved by the needs of hi s family , or by a hungerless material in himself . In this new flight , hemay hope to catch the Vision of some new form

86 INCEPTIONS

ARTIST S R ipping?BouRGEOI s : A cross between The Importance

of Being Earnest and Hedda Gabler .ARTIST : It wou ld be a monstrosity .

BOURGEOI s : For a play to su cceed it must bealmost farce

,as well as near tragedy , and it mu st

have phi losophy of the forward-looking brand ,and it mu st be modern . It has got to give all thethrills for one price of admi ssion .

ARTIST : No thing of beau ty can be all these inone. No play can be great art and be modern .

Modern life is ugly and lack s unity . Ancient lifewas, in reality, ju st the same . But we imagine itwas different . We conceive of ancient li fe as

having been beau tifu l and harmoniou s , like Greekthings in stone . We see ancient life through acharmed veil , through an idealized dream ; and thatis the setting necessary for great art . A k itchenscene with the odor of cook ing vegetables , or awholesale grocer asleep at the opera , are notsubj ects for art . What is the u se of writing abou tlife as it is? We have it all around u s as it is,more minu tely done than any artist can do it , inall its ugliness and lack of form and unity . Isuggest we do one of the old things , the story of

Amnon and Tamar . It is beau tifu l , and it mightbe made a vehicle for the love rights of women .

BouRGEOI s : We are not think ing of pleasingthe critics . We want to please the people . I t

’s

the people that pay . Think ! Can ’t some one

think of something?PHILOSOPHER : Here is a plot : A socialist be

comes rich by gambling at the stock exchange andby semi -criminal

“ j obs . He soothes hi s conscienceby the thought that his method is the same as

that of all capitalists . In proportion as his

INCEPTIONS 87

su ccess grows , he abandons socialism and becomescapitalistic in his convictions . He has a beau tifuldaughter who is a tru e socialist , and ignorant ofthe source of her father ’s wealth . The father’sprincipal Victim is a capitalist

,who has a fine son.

The girl’s father , now tu rned capitalist , ru ins the

capitalist,who tu rns socialist . The beau tifu l

daughter of the former sociali st taught socialismto the fine son of the former capitalist . Finallythe crooked father of the girl is discovered , and the“stolen” wealth is retu rned to the father of theson, who again becomes a capitalist , and thefather of the girl is wrecked . He again becomes asocialist . At the very last he says ,

“Becau se a

socialist has stolen is no argument against socialism.

”But he doesn ’t have to go to prison . The

fine son of the former Victim , the capitali st , saveshim. The whole thing mu st be sprinkled with funand sound sense . Of cou rse the young peoplemarry

,the fine son of the capitalist and the

beautifu l daughter of the socialist .BOURGEOI s : Great !ARTIST : I do not see anything for me in thi s .

BOURGEOI s : You can color the sunsets , tou chup with Silver a moonlight or two, or gild a grief .After it’s done the whole thi ng will need to bevarnished a little

,but not too mu ch ! We don ’t

want this to be literatu re .

ARTIST : You talk flippantly about art .PHILOSOPHER : I shall have to carry the prin

cipal bu rden . And we have very little humor .LITTLE HUMOR : Gentlemen , I know I am weak .

But by the Ade of the study of Wilde things Imight become strong.

PHILOSOPHER : It is pitiful .BOURGEOI s : It is pitifu l .

88 INCEPTIONS

SOCIALIST : Yes , it is pitifu l .ARTIST: Yes , it is very pitifu l .BOURGEOI s : I ’ll market the play when it

’

s

done .

ARTIST : I don ’t think mu ch of your marketingof the other plays .BOURGEOI s : I did the best I cou ld . You rpainting is well done , but it wants perspective .

It wants toning, and only time can do it .AR TIST : You talk as if I were only a painter .I make mu sic , as well . And I give form tothings , including you r chaotic twaddle .

PHILOSOPHER GentlemenSOCIALIST : Confine you rself to the point under

di scu ssion . Going back to the fundamentalproblem of the economic conception of hi story

And so on and on,for hours , for weeks and

months , it may be . In these days Bou rgeois ,Socialist and Artist are likely to be prominentmembers of every au thor ’s private congress . Onegrows very tired merely sitting listening in the

gallery of one ’s self . Suddenly will ru shes in andtakes a hand .

Philostratu s relates in his L ife of Apolloniu s ofTyana ,

“On one occasion Euxenu s asked Apollonius why SO noble a thinker as he and one who

was master of a di ction so fine and nervou s didnot write a book . Apolloniu s repli ed ,

‘I have notyet kept Silent . Not long thereafter he beganhis period of Silent meditation

,which lasted five

years . Five years speaking not a word , butlistening every waking hour to the debate withinthe parliament hou se of his own consciou sness ,before he felt he might tru st himself to be worthy

MODERN DRAMATISTS OFBELGIUM

ROPERLY speaking, while there hasexisted a B elgian theatre for manyyears , there are few Signs of a tru lynative Belgian drama . The B elgiantheatre has to a great extent dependedupon traveling companies from Paris ,or else produ ced Parisian plays with

its own native troupes . In the provinces I haveseen folk plays creditably performed

,bu t they

were limited in their appeal .“To su ch dramatists as sought a livelihood

through their art , Belgium had little to offer .Gu stave Van Zype, one of the few native dramatists who have remained tru e to their countryand their art

,says that ‘

he who writes in B elgium,

especially for the theatre (where he can hope fornothing except the satisfaction of having createdand of having at great cost deserved the esteemof the very small public interested in su ch things)is inspired by the ambition to be an artist himself .

’

“In the sense that we speak of a French drama,

there is no B elgian drama at all . Playwrightsthere are

,bu t the indigenou s dramatist is a

sporadic creature . He is known u sually by one

play, two or three at the most ; often he is a poetor novelist

,like Henri Maubel or Edmond Picard

,

who turns to the theatre as a field of experimentat least

, withou t a sense of the limitations andpossibilities attendant upon playwriting.

”1

BelgianD rama B arrett H . Clark , Evening Post (New York),December 7 , 1918 .

MODERN DRAMATISTS OF BELGIUM 91

Before we discu ss the individual dramatists , wemust consider the pecu liar problem that Belgianliterature presents— the union of two languagesand two nationalities . “We must class Belgianwriters : first

,as Flemings or Walloons ; secondly,

as adherents of French cu lture or of Germanic(Du tch-Flemish) culture That part ofBelgian literature which is French in expressionis mostly the work of the Walloons , a race of

Celtic extraction— the descendants of the oldBelgae—who were Romanized at an early date .

We may say roughly that the provincesof Hainaut , Namur, and Liege are Walloon—withthe town of Liege as the literary capital—while ofthe other provinces of Belgium ,

Antwerp, West

Flanders , East Flanders , and.

Limbu rg are almostwholly Flemish . Brabant i s mainly Flemish .

Luxemburg i s Walloon and German .

The Walloon writers are practically withou texception purists

,who write the French of Paris

the official language of Belgium . That part ofBelgian literature which is Du tch in expression isthe work of the Flemings . All educated Flemings know French

,and some of them never

mastered Flemish . (Verhaeren,for instance .)

“There is the greatest difference between the

spirit of the literature written by the two races .The Walloons are logicians , masters of correctou tline ; they think ; the Flemings are dreamersand colorists ; they paint . The Walloons arephilosophical ; the Flemings are mystics orrealists .

” 2

Belgian literature was unknown ou tside ofB elgium and little read in Belgium itself until

2 Contemporary Belgian Literatu re. Jethro B ithell. Stokes , 1916,pp . 14-17 .

92 MODERN DRAMA TISTS OF BELGIUM

1880, when we note the literary renascence . At

the University of Louvain groups of students,

most of whom became famou s , published startlingnew magazines , su ch as La Semaine des Etudiantsand Le Type, until the rivalry grew so great thatthe university au thorities suppressed them all .Then Max Waller launched La Jeune Belgique atB ru ssels and preached the doctrine of art for art ’ssake . This was opposed by Edmond Picard

,

already a lawyer of great repu tation , by his ideasof a social or revolutionary art , of a u sefu l art .

Picard ’s organ was L’ArtModerne, whi ch decreed

that art Shou ld be national , that a B elgian writerShou ld think as a B elgian and write as a Belgian .

Then,in 1887, was published an anthology which

is one of the landmark s of modern literature , forit proved the actual existence of a new schoolof poetry in Belgium .

With thi s short glance at the rise of modernB elgian literatu re , we Shall turn now to thedramatists ; first the Walloon ; then the Flemish .

We Shall omi t su ch men as Francis de Croissetand Henry Kistemaeckers , two B elgian-born playwrights long resident in France and naturali zedon the Paris stage . We Shall mention only thosewho are recogni zed as Belgians .A symbolist poet of Liege , I si-Collin (born , 1878)

is known in London by his dramatic di alogueSisyphe ci te Ju if Errant, published in 1914, andprodu ced by the Pioneer Players , March 7 , 1915 ,in London . Another writer of Liege , who workedwith Albert Mockel for La Wallonie, was Cé lestinDemblon

,who later in life devoted himself to

Shakespearean criticism,and

,lik e Maeterlinck ,

translated M acbeth.

Among the dramatists practically unknown to

94 MODERN DRAMATISTS OF BELGIUM

this play enjoyed a run of more than a season inParis

,and has proved a popu lar su ccess in the

cities of B elgium . The au thors have caught thespirit of their people and embodied it in a playof character and si tuation , which proves that thereare both material and original talent In their country for the creation of tru e comedy . Thi s littleplay savors of B ru ssels , but not the B ru ssels thathad striven to be an Imitation of Paris . The

B ru ssels here depicted I S that of the bou rgeoisie .

The tradesman is set forth in all hi s good natu rehis weaknesses ridi cu led , it is tru e , but in an indulgent and kindly manner .The prodigy of B elgian literatu re is Sylvain

Bonmariage , born in 1887 , of an Engli sh mother .Though attacked as an impudent young coxcomb ,

he was defended by Albert Giraud , who describedhim as pre

’

coce a épou vanter lo diable et candide c‘

i

ravir les saintes .

” 5 He wrote twelve book s by thetime he was twenty-fou r years old. H is plays

,

Le Pe’

lican, Tant va la Cru che d l

’

Eau,L

’

Au tomne,

have been acted at Paris .A Belgian

“who owes mu ch of his su ccess to

political influences is Henri Davignon , whose fatheris Minister for Foreign Affairs . His drama , LaQuerelle, was p layed in 1914 in the presence of theKing and Queen and Six cabinet ministers (arecord for the B elgian theatre). The play isalso remarkable lingu istically , for (although in thematter of localcolor it is specifically a B elgian play)it is written in three languages—French , Wal

loon,and Beulemans . Henri Davignon is nothing

if not patriotic . He wou ld reconcile the two war

ring races oi his country , he wou ld fu se Fleming5 Contemporary Belgian Poetry, translated by J . B ithell, Walter

Scott Pub . Co. , p . xxxv .

MODERN DRAMATI STS OF BELGIUM 95

and Walloon . How it can be done he shows inhis mu ch discussed novel

, Un B elge letorthodox Flanders save the sou l of free-thinkingWalloni a , and all will be well . The two racesmu st intermarry , but there mu st be an end of allthi s Walloon cynicism .

”6

The most eminent of B elgian essayists , afterMaeterlinck , is Edmond Picard , who has writtenplays . These are : Jeri cho , P suké , Le Ju ré , Fatigue de Vivre, Ambidextre Jou rnali ste, La JoyeuseEntrée de Charles-le-Téméraire . “

They have someclaim to originality ; they aim at creating a

‘theatre of ideas .

’But their discussions are only

another manifestation of the unresting activitypolitical , social , philosophic , and critical—of a manwho mu st have his finger in every pie .

Picard i s an apostle of B elgian nationalism ,he

wishes the Belgians to be conscious and proud oftheir national characteristics . His adversariestwit him with having invented

“L

’ame Belge,”

the B elgian sou l ; but the war Should have provedthat hewas a far-Sighted patriot .

” 7

If now we tu rn from the Walloons to the Flemings , we find that one of the earliest of modernFlemi sh—writing poets Was the young student atLouvain

,Albrecht Rodenbach (1856 He

su ffered the fate of Keats , an early death fromconsumption . Although remembered chiefly as aprophet of the Flemish revival , he Showed a Virilenote in his ambitiou s verse play , Gudrun , whichappeared two years after his death .

With very few exceptions , the Flemi sh dramatists write in French , for example , the novelist

Contemporary Belgi an Literatu re: Jethro B ithell. S tokes , 1916,p . 0

7 Ibi d . , pp . 354-6.


Georges Eekhoud . He has written considerablyon the E lizabethans ; hi s Au S iecle de Shakespearehas done something to popu larize Shak espeareanstudi es in B elgium . Although not an exact scholar ,he has translated B eaumont and Fletcher ’s Philaster and Marlowe ’s Edward I I ; and he has writtena tragedy of Perkin Warbeck , a fellow Flemingin whom he celebrates the qualities of the race .

Another distinguished Flemish novelist is Eugene Demolder, who has a brilli ant style and is avery luminou s colorist . His playlet , La Morteaux Berceaux

,which places the massacre of the

innocents in a medi eval castle , is at least cu riou s ;and its subj ect is similar to the early narrativeSketch of Maeterlinck ’s .

The older generation of Flemings produ ced veryfew effective plays ; now in King Albert

’s reign wefind several dramatists . Crommelynck ,

Delterne,Van Offel and Spaak strive to found a school oforiginal and personal drama .

“Horace Van Oi

fel is one of the most promising of the young dramatists . His plays

,Les I ntellectuels , L

’

Oi seau

M écanique, La Victoire, Le Loup , Une Nu i t de

Shakespeare, are far better plays than the dramatic efforts of most of the veterans . The lastnamed is one of the most interesting and originalof the plays which have Shak espeare for a hero .

” 8

“Of another Albertian writer , Fernand Crommelynck , I do not know whether he is a Flemingor a Walloon , but the su rname appears Flemish .

H is father was a famou s actor . He has

done his best work in the drama . Besides oneairy trifle , Nou s n

’irons p lu s au Bois , he has wri tten

three remarkable plays , Le Scu lpteu r de M asques ,

3 I bi d . , pp . 282—3 .


happiness , persuades Grandal that he is not thefather of her son. This is more than hi s reasoncan bear . Thi s drama is not unfit to be rankedwith Strindberg

’s The Father .

La Souveraine, translated as Mother Nature, andprodu ced last season at the Lyceum Theater

,

New York , by the American Academy of DramaticArt, is a play of great sincerity and noble purpose .

The techni qu e seems rather old-fashi oned , for itwas written more than twenty years ago, but thecharacters

,with the exception of Oliv ier , are so

well drawn , and the basic idea underlying theaction so true and well-developed , that one for

gets the occasional long didacti c speeches and theobvious sermoni zing.

”1 °

It is the tragedy of a young married woman whowants children , but whose husband , Olivier, is tooselfish to assume the responsibility . After a plainwarning that the hu sband does not notice, afterdiscu ssions with the parents , after a Sight of herhusband k issing another woman, the young wife ,Renée , declares her intention to leave her hu sbandand to go OHwith a plain , warm-hearted lover .More interesting and techni cally superior is

Les Etapes , transla ted as Progress . Three generations Show their devotion to science , but, as in

many modern English plays , the younger generation is at variance with the older , and neithercan understand the other . The old doctor , Thérat,describes this noble ideal of the physician : “

The

scientist does not labor for himself , his repu tation ,or his fortune . He work s for the best that is inhim

, to add his mite to the store of human knowl

9 I bi d . , p . 285-8 .

1 ° “M o ern B elgian Drama Barrett H . Clark , Evening Post,N ew York .

MODERN DRAMATI STS OF BELGI UM 99

edge that has been handed down to him by thosewho have gone before . He gives himself to the

great masses of mank ind , whom he does notknow .

”11 Thérat’s son-in-law , Leglay , sees hi s

master ’s mistak e in one k ind of treatment , and cannot blind himself to reason but mu st treat hispatients differently , though this disagreementalienates his wife . Leglay ask s : Whoever discovered a tru th that did not contain in it somewhere an error? Was there ever a genius so perfeet that he could escape correction at the handsof posterity?”1 2

After many years , the grandson , Edmond , becomes a student of medicine and reports that his

great professor said that the new science wou ldtake something from both Thérat and Leglayas a starting point in search for a new method anddefinite conclu sions . The play ends with the beautiful reconciliation of the aged Thérat to the clearVision of their work : “One after another we workat the same task ; even when we seem to contradicteach other

,we are leading men to the

same goal . Each of u s mark s a stage in progress .The fu ture is never mistaken .

” l a

These plays of Van Zype suggest the Frenchdramatist Eugene B rieux . Like him,

the intentions and theories are very good , better than theart shown in his dramatic technique . Mr . BarrettClark says of these plays : “

There is a grandeurof conception , a sweep , an undercurrent of passionand throbbing lif e which are truly representative

Mother Natu re ; Progress : by Gustave Van Zype ; translatedby Barrett H . Clark . Li ttle , B rown, 1917 , p . 87 .

1 2 I bi d . , p . 89.

1 3 I bi d . , p . 155 .


of the rather sombre but Vital character of theB elgians .

’ ’1 4

These powerful studi es of society were inspired in great part by the plays of the Frenchdramatist , Francois de Cu rel , but hi s charactersand ideals are his own,

for he voiced the aspirations

,the struggles , the failures , and the triumphs

of the cultured class .“The popular su ccess whi ch as been persistently

denied to Van Zype’s earnest dramas was achi eved

by Paul Spaak’

s Kaatje. On its first produ ctionit ran for fifty nights— a stupendou s run in B elgium

(Van Zype’S Les I/iens lasted fifteen nights and that

was considered a gratifying su ccess).

1 5 Thispowerful peasant drama (B elgian through andthrough) is a story of compelling interest , withcharacters drawn from first-hand observation . Itis one of the very few characteristic produ cts ofB elgium that have found their way into otherlands . It was su ccessfully made into a Frenchopera and has been seen in Spain in a Catalanversion . He has proved that to remain di s

tinctively B elgian does not mean failure .

”16

Spaak’

s other dramas are : A Damme en F landre,

Baldu s et Josina , Cami lle .

I hesitate to di scu ss the dramas of Emi le Verhaeren : he is su ch a great man , and his dramas arethe smaller and less popu lar part of his achievement . For there are few men who have loved andserved their country as nobly as Verhaeren has

loved and honored B elgium. He has made Flanders famou s wherever the French language is read

14 I bi d . , p . xi i .“5 Contemporar Belgi an L iteratu re: Jethro B ithell, p . 288 .

1 ° “M odern B e gian Drama”: Barrett H . C lark . E vening Post,

N ew York.


before the assembled monk s , and even then onlywhen he has repeated the confession

,against

the will of the monastery , to the people, and sur

rendered himself to the secular judges .Verhaeren

’s second drama , the social tragedy ,

Les Aubes , has been translated as The Dawn byArthu r Symons . “

At the present moment thisplay has points of interest in its prophecy of theending of the war by the triumph of socialism .

Only when war disappears , says the great tribune,who is the hero (apparently modeled on Verhaer

en’s friend and fellow-worker Emi leVandervelde),

will all other inju stices disappear, too : the hateof the country for the city , of poverty for gold ,of distress for power . Only when races learn toembrace each other will the world cease to bristlewith nations armed and tragic and deadly on the

frontiers .” 1 8

The third tragedy , Philip I I , contrasts theblack asceticism of Spain wi th the rubicund joyof life in Flanders . Verhaeren

’s last drama

,

He’

léne de Sparte, Shows u s Helen after She has returned home , a woman tired of all unrest , of all hertriumphs , tired of love ; a woman hating her ownbeau ty becau se it creates unrest , longing for nothing but old age , when none Shall desire her more ,and her days shall be calm .

But Verhaeren’s dramas have not conqu ered

the stage and they never will , although several ofthem have been performed with a fair degree ofsuccess . It was not becau se of hi s plays thatMaeterlinck said Verhaeren was a worthier candidate than he for election to the French Academy .

Before we consider Maeterlinck,I wish to name

one other B elgian writer— a poet ’s poet—the

“3 Jethro B ithell : Contemporary Belgian Literatu re, pp . 144-5 .

MODERN DRAMA TISTS OF BELGIUM 103

symbolist, Charles Van Lerberghe ( 1861

He became known in Paris when in 1892 his littleplay “

for marionettes ,”Les F laireu rs , was acted

at the The’

atre d’Art. It had appeared in LaWallonie ju st a year before Maeterlinck ’s L ’

I n

truse appeared in the same review . The two

dramas have mu ch in common ; Maeterlinck particularly has been charged with plagarism. Perhaps the truth is that the two friends discussed thesame idea and treated it each in his own way .

Van Lerberghe’s comedy , Pan , was acted at the

Theatre de l’Oeuvre and published by the Mercure

in 1906, and it attracted mu ch attention at homeand abroad . By this comedy , which Mr . B ithellcalls the best in B elgian literatu re , Van Lerberghemade himself impossible in official B elgium and inorthodox society . And yet the play is no morethan a rollicking presentation of Pan-theism . Perhaps Van Lerberghe was the only B elgian poetof hi s generation whomight have developed into a

great dramatist ; the characters of Pan,at all

events,have the red life-blood of the stage . But

owing to its risky character, Pan can never be arepertory play .

In a chapter of Belgium’s Agony, entitled De

P rofundis Clamavi , Emile Verhaeren said : The

spirit of the whole world was influenced and madenobler by Maeterlinck . He

,lik e Carlyle and

Emerson , has molded the thought of his age , andtrained its understanding and feeling after hisown manner .” Verhaeren thu s speak s of Maeterlinck as a philosopher and essayist , but he can beconsidered as a mystic , fu tu rist , symbolist , poet ,dramatist , and patriot . For the Great War

whi le it has brought other Belgian writers to our

attention—has added still more to Maeterlinck ’s


fame ; and we now name together King Albert ,Cardinal Mercier , Emile Verhaeren,

and Mau riceMaeterlinck as the representatives of the mostheroic race of all history .

Maeterlinck was born in Ghent , Aug. 29,1862

the same year as GerhardtHauptmann,the modern

German dramatist of greatest note . Maeterlinck ’sfather was a retired notary who lived in a comfortable Villa at Oostacher, near Ghent , on thebank s of the broad canal that j oins Ghent to theR iver Scheldt at the Du tch town of Terneu zen .

Here through his father ’s garden the seagoingShi ps seemed to glide, spreading their maj esticShadows over the avenu es filled with roses andbees . It was thi s canal that inspired the impressive scenery of The Seven Princesses

, one of

hi s strange early plays . The city of Ghentoppressed the young man by some of its moodsof melancholy and legendary gloom ; and the oldcitadel of Ghent with its dungeons may be theprototype of the castles of his dreams .

One part of his life is still a bitter memory tohim. For

,

“Maeterlinck will never forgive theJesu it fathers of the College de Saint B arbe theirnarrow tyranny . There is

,he is accu stomed to

say , only one crime whi ch is beyond pardon,the

crime that poisons the pleasures and k ills thesmile of a child .

”1 9

Al though the majority of these students wereintended to be priests

,yet this very school has

tu rned ou t five poets of international repu tation :Emi le Verhaeren, Georges Rodenbach , Gregoire le

l

l

icy , Charles Van Lerberghe, and Mau rice Maeterck .

1 9 Mme . Georgette Leb lanc : M orceaux Choi si s , Introdu ction.

106 MODERN DRAMA TISTS OF BELGI UM

becau se it appears to have the same atmosphereas hi s early dramas .

In 1889 came out the first of Maeterlinck ’splays

,La Princesse M aleine

, a tragedy in fiveacts . The next year M . Octave M irabeau ’

s

famou s article in Le F igaro hailed Maeterlinck as

the B elgianShakespeare . The play has a somewhatpre-Raphaelite atmosphere , it i s obviou sly reminiscent of Shakespeare in many places , but thedialogu e and the aesthetic intention are originalwith Maeterlinck .

The sentences in La Princesse M alcine are Short,

often unfinished , leaving mu ch to be gu essed at ;and they are the common speech of everyday life

,

containing no poetic or archaic diction— ju st thelanguage of the taciturn Flemi sh peasants .Maeterlinck has himself criticized “the astonishedrepeating of words which gives the personages theappearance of rather deaf somnambu lists forever being Shocked out of a painful dream .

” 2 °

But it is already that interior dialogue of whi chMaeterlinck Showed su ch a mastery in hi s nextplays . The characters grope for words and stammer fragments , but we know by what they do notsay what is happening in their sou ls . As thedramatist explains in his early essay on Silence

,

It is idle to think that , by means of words , anyreal communi cation can ever pass from one manto another . Indeed

,the only words that

count in a play are those that at first seemed useless

,for it is therein that the essence lies .

”

In fact,this problem of dialogu e in a drama has

been attacked in many ways by many dramatists .

I have come to the conclusion that a natu ral con

Maeterlinck : Preface to Theatre, p . 2 .

MODERN DRAMATI STS OF BELGIUM 107

versation is impossible in a play ; it is contradi ctedby the very fundamental laws of dramatic representation,

which demand compression and intensification of ordinary speech . We have manysolu tions to choose from—many kinds of dramaticdi alogue ; the symbolic representation of silence orsou l-speech— as in Maeterlinck ; the rich poetry ofRostand ; the sublime language of Shelley or

Sophocles ; the brilliant wit of Shaw ; the didacticsermonizing of B rieux ; the bombastic rhetoric ofPinero ; or the nonsensical chatter of Clyde Fitch .

But Strindberg and Tchekov and Ibsen,the

dramatists who have come nearest achieving aperfect dialogue for the drama , have unconsciou slyapplied—it seems to me— some of Maeterlinck ’stheory .

We retu rn from this digression to the secondrespect in which Maeterlinck differs from Shakespeare—the aesthetic intention . Shakepeare

’s in

tention in his tragedies was to move his audienceby the spectacle of human beings acting under themastery of variou s passions ; Maeterlinck

’s imtention is to suggest the helplessness of human beingsand the impossibility of their resistance in thehands of Fate . Hence there is no characteriza

tion in the accepted meaning of that term .

Maeterlinck calls his early dramas “plays formarionettes . The real actors are the forces thatmove these shadowy puppets , su ch as Death ,Love , Fate . These marionettes shadow forthstates of mind— feelings of helplessness , terror ,uneasiness , blank misgivings , sadness , weakness ,but they do almost nothing at all .

And with this question of action , we come tothe crux of Maeterlinck ’s early theory of thedrama , when he says , in the essay, The Tragi c in


Daily Life (The Treasu re of the Humble): I s itreally dangerou s to assert that the veritabletragedy of life only begins the moment whenwhat are called adventu res , griefs , and dangersare passed? Our whole theatre is ananachroni sm . I have come to thi nk thatan old man Sitting in his armchair , Simply waitingin the lamplight , listening withou t knowing it toall the eternal laws that reign around hi s hou se ,interpreting withou t understandi ng it all thatthere is in the Silence of the doors and the windowsand in the low voice of the light , undergoing thepresence of hi s sou l and of his destiny

,inclining

his head a little , withou t su specting that all thepowers of this world intervene and hold watch inthe room like attentive servants

,not knowing

that the sun itself su stains the little table onwhi chhe leans hi s elbows over the abyss

,and that there

is not one star of the Sky nor one power of the sou lwhi ch is indi fferent to the movement of an eyelidthat falls down or of a thought that rises— I havecome to think that thi s motionless old man isliving, in reality, with a deeper, more human , andmore general life than the lover who strangles hismi stress , the captain who wins a Victory, or

‘thehu sband avenging his honor .

’

It is su ch an old man whom we have in Maeterlinck ’s next play

,The I ntruder

,a masterpiece of

thi s static drama— the drama where there isapparently no action . In the second play of the1890 volume , The S ightless , or The B lind—LesAveugles—we have again the mystery of death .

The next play,written in 1891 , was in one act

—The Seven Princesses . Some critics like thisplay very mu ch

,although it has been called an

indecipherable enigma , a girl’s unpleasant dream ,

1 10 MODERN DRAMA TISTS OF BELGIUM

a distinctively unique drama , for we have two setsof actors—the ones ou tside the hou se , who speak ,and the ones inside the hou se , who do not speak .

The audience is a sort of passive providence , forit knows the destiny of the Silent personagesin the interior .

I cannot pass over the play,The Death of

Tintagi les , withou t quoting one sentence fromact three whi ch expresses the mood of Maeterlinck ’s early plays and whi ch haunts one lik e aminor melody of ChOpin :

“There are those heavy

evenings when the u selessness of life rises in thethroat

,and we would lik e to close our eyes .”

The drama Aglavaine and Selysette is fu ll of thatinner beau ty abou t whi ch Maeterlinck is SO

eloquent in The Treasu re of the Humble . It is acompetition between two women for the greaterbeau ty of the sou l

,a competition in whi ch sim

pli city gains over wisdom . Some of the memorable passages , examples of Maeterlinck ’s dramatic points are :

“We are waiting for the silence to speak .

What does it say to you ?”

It wou ld not be the real Silence , M éléandre,were we able to repeat all that it tells u s . We

have exchanged a few ,almost meaningless words

—words that anyone cou ld have spoken— and forall that do we not feel at rest ; do we not knowthat we have said things to each other that farou tvalue our words?”

“By dint of hiding from others the self that is

in us , we may end by being unable to find itourselves .

”

“It is only when two people are alone togetherthat tru th descends from its very fairest heaven .

”

“Everything that we do for the last time of all

MODERN DRAMA TISTS OF BELGIUM 1 1 1

seems so grave and solemn to these poor hearts ofou rs .”

This play Aglavaine and Selysette is remarkablebecau se it contains Selysette , a beau tifu l creature ,about the only one of Maeterlinck ’s women whois absolu tely natural . This play, moreover, mark sthe tu rning point in the dramatist

’s development ,for there is as mu ch individualism as fatalism init . This change in Maeterlinck

’s attitude towardlife was perhaps cau sed primarily by Mme .

Georgette Leblanc , the brilliant Parisian operasinger whom he married . In the book entitled

,

Wisdom and Destiny ( 1898) Maeterlinck teachesthat “Happiness IS what humanity was made for ;misery is an illness of humanity .

With the suppression of punishment and rewardis b

gri’r the necessity of doing good for the sake of

goo

After the famou s Life of the B ee in 1901 therewere published two more plays , Ardiane et B arbeB leue and Soeur Beatrice . But the great changebetween the earlier and the later Maeterlinck isShown in Monna Vanna , the play published in1902 . In thi s

, Georgette Leblanc made her debu tas an actress . Long has been the discussion ofthi s SO-called real play .

” It is surely theatrical ;it might be called a-sort of historical drama ; it issurely rhetorical and pictorial in style ; it has beendenied performance in England becau se of itscentral Situation . Joyzelle, was written the nextyear in the same variety of unrhymed verse andperformed with the same brilliant actress in thetitle role .

Though only recently translated into English ,Maeterlinck ’s comedy , The M iracle of SaintAnthony, was performed in the same year . This

1 12 MODERN DRAMA TISTS OF BELGIUM

is a most,

delightfu l play, with a delicately artisticbut keen irony . Saint Anthony is a real saint

,

with bare feet and a real halo , who restores to lifethe corpse of a rich old B elgian lady, only to bepu shed out by her heirs and taken by the policeas a public nu isance .

To learn Maeterlinck ’s new theory of thedrama

,we mu st tu rn to the volume entitled The

Double Garden, where he says :“The task of the

modern dramatist is to go deeper into consciou sness than was the cu stom of old : the drama of

today cannot deck itself out in gaudy trappings ,the ermines and sables of regal pomp , the Show of

circumstance ; it cannot appeal to any fixedfatality ; it mu st try to discover, in the regions ofpsychology and in those of moral life

,the equ iva

lent of what it has lost in the exterior life of epictimes . And the sovereign law of the theatre willalways be action . No matter how beau tifu l

,no

matter how deep the language is, it is bound toweary us if it changes nothing in the situation , ifit does not lead to a decisive conflict

,if it does not

hurry on to a final solu tion .

”This theory su rely is

a long distance from the static drama . We cannotaccept it altogether when we know the su ccess ofhis own early plays and su ch “dramatic conversations” as B ernard Shaw offers year after year tocrowded theatres . Does it not seem that Maeterlinck ’s development has been away from his

original geniu s to a more conventional maker ofplatitudes?

The most su ccessfu l of hi s plays in stage u se hasbeen The B lue B ird

,first performed in 1908 . For

this play Maeterlinck was awarded for the thirdtime in succession the B elgian Triennial Prize fordramatic literature . One can easily pick flaws in

1 14 MODERN DRAMATISTS OF BELGIUM

enlarged to Our Eternity) appeared when Maeterlinck was

‘

awarded the Nobel prize for literatu re .

Strange to say , it was thi s book ,“the most

religiou s of them all , breathing a spirit of uncon

querable faith in immortali ty and future happiness

,that brought down upon Maeterlinck the

condemnation of Rome , and in 1914 all his book sand plays were put upon the Index by the SacredCongregation .

” 21

Of the other books of essays , we shall mentiononly two : The Unknown Guest, with a remarkablechapter on the very greatest wonder of

whi ch Germany cou ld boast before the war— theedu cated horses of Eberfeld ; and The Wrack of theStorm

,whi ch gives a glimpse of Maeterlinck ’s

activities du ring the war. It is interesting hereto notice that one of the least unsatisfying of thewar plays of all nations has for its hero a very faircharacterization of Maeterlinck himself . Thi s isEmi l Grelieu in the play entitled , The Sorrows ofBelgium,

by Leonid Andreyev, the Ru ssian dramatist.

Maeterlinck,in a play not yet widely known ,

The B urgomaster of Sti lemonde, has followedalmost realistically the trail of Germany acrossB elgium ; but from the point of View of art , weprefer The B etrothal, the Splendid sequel to TheB lue B ird . It has been produ ced by WinthropAmes in New York this last season and all magazines have reviewed it . It is less dazzling andnovel than The B lue B ird

,becau se it follows the

earlier play ; and it is shorter . It seems that theScene in the mi ser ’s cave mars the uni ty of theplay ; it is Very interesting and diverting to see

2 1 E . E . Slosson : M ajor Prophets of Today . Li ttle , B rown,1914 , p . 36-7 .

MODERN DRAMA TISTS OF BELGI UM 1 15

the real soul of the mi ser,but we are di sappointed

by the apparent lack of connection of this scenewith the remainder of the play .

Maeterlinck has come near promising anotherplay to complete a B lue B ird trilogy , when in theend of The Betrothal

,he has Light tell Tyltyl that

there is still another j ou rney to take . If Maeterlinck makes a play abou t a search for Immortali tyor Death

,he will then compete with the old

morality plays,especially Everyman , and he wi ll

have an excellent chance to dramatize his mysticessays .

Maeterlinck is not only a thinker and a dramatist, but a creator of new things, a master ofatmosphere and suggestion— in short , when alldeductions are made

,a great writer . His philos

Ophy will be absorbed by everyday lif e and

become commonplace,although I nterior and The

Sightless will always be deathless works of art andthe first fru its of a new poetry . But, as Mr .Clark says

,he is not in any strict sense indige

nously Belgian . His plays are no more typicalproducts of his race and country than are PercyMackaye

’s poetic dramas of our own.

GERALDINE P . DILLA .

1 16 TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDEN

TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDENA STORY IN ONE ACT

By CONSTANCE WILCOXSCENE : A garden .

TIME : A summer afternoon .

Characters .

TA I -Lo,a gardener on the estate of WANG-CHU

o

POA-TING-FANG, guest of WANG-CHU-Mo

WANG-CHU -Mo

LI-TI,daughter of WANG-CHU-MO

LING-TAI-TAI, governess to LI -Ti

LANG-TAI-TAI , governess to LI-TITwo GUARDSSCR I RE

fi a g PAGE S , COOLIE RUNNERS , and OTHERSThe scene is a garden . TAI-LO i s working withclippers at a flower bed around a goldfish pool inthe center of the garden . He wears a peaked strawhat and faded blue jacket and trou sers . He singsat his work .

TAI -Lo :“The flower fairies bringTheir playmate spring;But the spring goesAnd leaves the rose.

She fills all heartsWith incense and departs .NOTE : I n these days of benefits it is sometimesdifficu lt to find a short pla y that can be acted ou t

of doors—in any garden . This play is somethingof a pageant—as elaborate or simp le as desired—and owing to the number of parts , no one is verydifiicu lt. The songs are all old Chinese—andalso the quotations .

1 18 TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDEN

my back than your words in my ears . My latebrother ‘

(may the Gods grant him peace inheaven) took delight in his garden , and Since Ihave come into his hou se and possessions , I havebeen pleased to add new blooms , one from eachcountry, and cunningly intermingled like theenamel on a Ming vase . It is on View Thursdaysand Saturdays for a mean consideration .

[They come upon the gardener . He'

bows so lowthat his sun hat completely hides his face ; and,p ickingup his basket,hegoes to a distantflowerbed]

And gardeners— I have thou sands— like brownlegged storks— and their wages— they will pickthe pennies from my eyelids .WANG : My daughter will have mu ch to learn

in you r great hou sehold , and I have taught herto imbibe Silently, and speak not until there arewise words in her mou th . As the Sage says ,

“A

woman with a long tongu e is a flight of stepsleading to calami ty .

POA [Picking aflower with a great air]: I myselfam a man of few words and many affairs .

WANG : Yes, again to quote :“Love of knowl

edge without the will to learn , casts the Shadowcalled Instabili ty . Love of goodness without thewill to learn casts the Shadow called Fooli shness .LovePOA : Exactly, exactly . Now abou t the great

scarlet bed that is part of your daughter’s dowry

may I say that it is of an admirable richness andif there were silken qu iltsWANG : There—there are . They are to becarried tonight in the wedding procession on bluelacquered tables of great value—ten coolies itwill take to carry them— and the hou seholdu tensils and camphorwood chests

TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDEN 1 19

POA [Jotting down the items in a notebook]: Ex

collent, 0 excellent and generou s , O my father

in-law—to-be . It is indeed fortunate that a propitiou s omen is about to bring our two greathou ses together . I would welcome your daughterwere she as sharp as the Viciou s Aunt East Windwhich I am su re she is not .

WANG : My daughter is far from ill- favored .

But as one has said ,“Beau ty withou t the will

to!

n

POA : It does not matter . It is of an insignificance . I remember too

,Admirable is the

wise woman , but she is an owl. AS befitting aman of affairs my wife and I will meet but seldom

,

and as you say She has the gif t of silence . How

does the verse go?

The wise man ’s wisdom is our strength ,The woman ’s wi sdom is our bane .

The men build up the city wallsFor women to tear down again .

”

WANG : It rests my ears to hear that youfond of poetry . Do you knowPOA ‘ Ah

,I remember the sequence

,

No man from any woman ’s witHath yet learned aught of any worth ,For wise is she , but unto ill,To bring disorder on the earth .

What does She in affai rs of state?Her place is in the inner room .

Her wisdom doth least hurt in this ,To mind the Silkworm and the loom .

But enough of the arts . Were there not perhapsscreens?WANG : Of purple colored teakwood

,set with

120 TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDEN

Silver and ivory , and hangings of orange brocadehand painted wi th dragons .POA : A good omen—a good omen .

[They go 017 slowly talking][A little boy in livery enters running. He peersabout the garden and runs back to hold aside theshrubbery for a gi lded, canop ied chair carried bycoolies . I n the chair is LI-TI

, her scarlet and

gold gown stifi with embroidery, and her ha irelaborately dressed and twisted with strings ofjade and pearl . Long earrings frame a lovely ,expressionless face, white with powder and vividlycarmine on cheeks and lips . Her eyes are heavi lyblack and droop weari ly . She carries a peacockfeather fan with a mirror in the handle. B ehindthe chair walk the two elderly governesses in drabcolored gowns as unprepossessing as their sharpyellowed faces . They carry rolls of manu scriptand a servant behind holds a bright umbrella overthem]THE BOY : The garden is empty, Celestialness ;only an undergardener is here .

LI-TI [Peering ou t]: My father and Poa-TingFang were ju st walk ing through the paths . I wishI might catch a glimpse of them .

LANG-TAI—TAI : It is not seemly .

LING-TAr-TA I : It is not in comportment. It iscu riosity !

[The little procession advances slowly arou nd the

pool]LANG : The five worst infirmi ties that affli ct

the female are indocili ty,di scontent , Slander ,

j ealou sy and Silliness . The worst of all and theparent of the other five is Silliness . You r desireto see your honorable hu sband-to-be is Silliness .LING : Leave on the knees

‘

of the Gods the j oy


LANG : It ill fits you r mou th to speak thu s . Ifthe Shiftless Fang-Tai were to retu rn and claim hi slands before the allotted time when they legallybelong to his uncle , you wou ld not have a roundpenny as a wife .

LI -TI : Then my father wou ld not have me bea wife at all . That would be pleasing.

LING : Undu tifu l girl ! Let u s go to our lessons .

[They unroll the long strips of parchment]LANG : Your parent has instructed us to impart

one more lesson in the histories of the flowers before you go to your hu sband to delight him withyour knowledge . Recite , I pray you , the completeancestry of the marigold .

LI-TI [In a singsong]: Fathered first by our lordthe Sun, whose sevenfold beams falling on theplant wove into curling petals , and then the sweetWestWind in passing from the bazaars of the greatspice grove scattered in a pinch of—o f— cinnamonLING : Fie, fie—a pinch of mu sk .

LI -TI : A pinch of musk ,and Ku -Wu the bee

with the golden stri pes fashioned for it in the heartof the flower a pou ch of tiny petals —so now— SO

now—Will Poa-Ting-Fang, my futu re husband, beangry with me? I have forgotten what comes next .LING : He will rap the tips of your fingers and

leave you alone in the pavilion .

“So now the

muskLI -TI : I do not know . Let us go to the gilly

flower. That is not so hard .

LING : Fie ! What is it the great Sage saysabout those who take the easy path?LI -TI :

“The stones will be Slippery and they

will twist their feet .”

LANG : So now the musk

TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDEN 123

[A runner enters who goes to the governesses]RUNNER : The Lord Wang-Chu wou ld confer

with you in the inner cou rtyard on a matter ofimmedi ate importance .

G : We come at once .

LING [Thru sting a parchment into LI-TI’S hands]

We retu rn anon . Waste not the moments we are

gone .

LANG : Listen not idly to the drone of the beesor the dragonflies will sew up you r ears .LING : The list of the flowers is there . Read it

well, and remember each in its place .

LANG : And there is the song of the willowflowers for the lute . Last time the notes soundedlike a mouse on the strings .

[L ing and Lang go ou t with the runner and theirumbrella man. The gardener crosses and begins

work on the beds abou t the pool]LI-TI [I n a very small voi ce as she strums a lute]:

O willow flowers like flakes of snow ,

Where do you r wandering legions go?Little we care and less we know !Our ways are the ways of the windOur li fe in the whirl , and death in the drifts below .

[She tu rns to her little umbrella boy, who stands patiently first on one leg and then on the other]You twist so that your Shadow flickers like amoth in the grass and drives the cadence out ofmy head . Go over there and rest—I do not mindthe sun on my head . [He marches over to a farcorner , and curling up on the grou nd under hisumbrella promptly falls asleep]LI-TI [Running a finger throughhereyelashes]: It

is not seemly that he Should see tears . [She takesup the parchment] The green verbena is the herb


that the willow nymph tried to crush into tea forher lover

,

‘

and the fragrance of her hands—thefragrance of her hands [She bu ries her face inher hands]TA I : [Humming at his clipping]:Prone beside the Western stream

,

In the lilied du sk I dream .

And mocking me the wind of springSuch medley of perfume doth bring,I cannot tell what fragrance blows ,Nor gu ess the lotus from the rose .

LI-TI [Standing up and looking across the flowerbeds]: Who is it Sings when I wish to be sad?

TA I : It is I—Tai -Lo, the gardener .LI-TI : You are the gardener? Approach .

[TA I -Lo comes before her, basket on arm and bows

LI -TI : Why do you have so many differentk inds of flowers in the garden?TA I : So they will bloom as varied and

bright as the hem of your celestial skirt thatbrushes them as you pass .

LI -TI : I wou ld have them all one k ind—all

gillyflowers .

TAI : The garden would be a desert—brown andyellow—deadening to the eye .

LI-TI : I wou ld like it . There wou ld be less tolearn .

TAI : You know the flower lore and yet wou ldhave the heart to turn them out of their homes?LI -TI : Horrid

,stiff , prick ly things ! Take them

up and put in gillyflowers ![TAI-LO kneels with his trowel and puts one or two

p lants in his basket]LI-TI [As she watches him

,she strums carelessly

on her lute]:


The little ghosts of Maytime ,Waving farewell to me .

”

LI-TI : Do flowers have ghosts?TA I [Retu rning to his work]: Yes , they are people .

Poor little marigold lady ! [He holds up an uprooted

p lant] She holds the lanterns of the garden .

When the nights are dark She lights up the thickgreen jungle so the k atydids can dance .

LI-TI [She consu lts her paper]: That is not whatI learned abou t the marigold . It is mu ch prettier .

4 TAI : Ah, what you know , my lady , is the alle

gorical ancestry , very befitting one of you r quality .

B ut thi s is the tru e story of the flowers that thefairies prick on the leaves . And the golden cupthat the dew k ing fills for the moon fairies . Theywill go thi rsty after their dance tonight .

LI-TI : You need not pull up so many . What isthe little white flower by you r foot?TAI : They are the Slippers of the firefly elves

left out to dry in the sun,but you mu stn

’t tellanyone .

Li -TI : And those tall green ones over there?TAI : Hu sh ! Mandarins—see their green caps?LI-TI : Andhow solemnly they nod their heads !TAI : And how the bees fly in and out tellingthem state secrets .

LI-TI : O how dear and funny ! [She peers overtowards the high flowers] I wonder if the beeS’

wings tickle their ears— they bu zz so— I wonderhow it feels to have a bee tell you secrets .

TA I [Gravely]: I can Show you . This is the way .

[He kisses her behind her fan] Are you angry,celestial lady?LI-TI : No—o . It must be rather ni ce to be a

flower .


TA I : You are one .

LI -TI : I consider you onlyas abee—inthe garden .

TAI : A poor sort of vagabond , accountable tono one—flying in and out—not ever staying longenough to care—or have anyone careLI -TI : You Shall stay and tell me funny stories .

1 éI‘

AI : All my poor little bee secrets are you rs ,a y .

LI-TI : And sing songs about—Yung-Yang. O ,I

wish I had known there was a bee in the gardenbefore !TAI : The bee saw the flower over the wall .LI-TI : Oh I should not have been chattering

and behaving in this unseemly fashion . Here comemy honorable governesses . They will be so dis

pleased if I am not occupied in a fitting manner .Go and send over the umbrella boy . I hope I havenot faded in the sun . [She takes up her lute . The

umbrella boy retu rns to stand over her. TAI-LO goesback to his work]“O willow flowers like flakes of snow ,

Where do you r wanderi ng legions go?Little we care and leSS we know

[She breaks off in a suppressed giggle that turnsinto a grave cou rtesy as the governesses hu rry up .

They are ou t of breath and excited]LING : The unheard of has occurred !LANG : 0 most unfortunate of girls !LING : The house of Mo can never smile again !LI-TI : What is the matter? In what have I

offended?

LING : Not you . It is that the great PoaTing-Fang, you r future husband to-be, while walking in this very garden—O wretched landscapehas lost hi s emerald ring !LANG : It is of the honorable size of a pigeon

’s


egg, andworth the price of a thou sand silvermines .LING : More valuable than all you r dowry .

LANG : It holds in its secret chamber the sealof his hou se cut from the tomb of his first an

cestor

LING : Never has one of hi s hou se been without

LANG : And it Slipped from his august fingerwhile he picked those mi serable flowers !LING : But that is not the most calamitous !

He vows he will depart in anger—that he willnever look upon you r face —ii his ring is not returned . It is an ill omen and the two houses cannot come together under it .LANG : The gardenmust be searched to the very

seeds,or you will be scorned as a bride and the

world will laugh at our rej ected hou se !LI -TI : It does not appal me—that he will notmarry me .

LANG : In this garden it vanished— the ringworth Sixty diamond mines ! It was to be a Signetof your marriage . How can he overlook the omenof its loss?LING : Who has seen it? Who? Who?LI -TI : There has been no one here but ourselvesand the gardener .LANG : That is it . O merciful heaven that has

delivered him into our hands . [They approachTAI -Lo who bows . LI-TI wanders abou t lookingin the beds]LING : Your name?TA I : Tai-Lo .

LANG : How long have you been here , and whydid you come?TA I : I have been gardener among you r honorable flowers for twi ce seven days .


LING : Honeyed words confound goodness .

LANG : “The vulgar always gloss their fau lts .

LING : Forward ! [The bearers carry of the cha ir ,followed by the governesses under their umbrella . A

man stays to guard TA I -Lo]MAN : Where did you hide it?TAI : What?MAN : The ring.

TAI : I have not seen it .

MAN : I will take it safely out of the garden andwe will go Shares .

TAI : I tell you I have not seen it . It is fortunate for you r master that I am gardener hereinstead of you .

MAN : Do you think I can believe you su ch afool that you were working here on the verybed under his foot when the ring slipped from hisfinger and di d not put you r hand over it? Bah !

Tcll me where it is or I ’ll swear I saw you swallow

it .

TAI : The only kind of fool I am not,is to tell

anything to su ch a dirty knave as you .

MAN [Imperturbably]: Everything you say willbe u sed against you .

TAI : I have no doubt . Trees are more upright than men .

”

MAN : “Money makes a blind man see .

[WANG-CHU—Mo and POA -TING-FANG , u nder theirumbrellas

,come into the garden . They are

followed by servants with rakes]WANG [D irecting the men]: Barely tou ch thesurface of the earth— the slightest scratch maybury the ring beneath it as you work . And

remember : you are held responsible if we fail .Oh , my honorable gu est—and son-in—law that Ihope you Shall still be—would I could heap the


unworthy dust of this garden on my head inapology .

FANG : It is indeed a calamity of unmi tigatedenormi ty . My ancestral j ewel i s of the size of apigeon

’S egg and of the value of a thousand Silver

mines . [He consu lts notebook] Whereas yourdaughter

’s dowry, I regret to say , does not possessits equivalent .WANG : Its equivalent Shall be found . Where is

the gardener Lang-Tai -Tai told me of?TA I -Lo : Here .

[TAI -Lo and POA-TING-FANG stare at each other]WANG : O wretched stork ,

what have you filchedwith you r beak !POA : I would question thi s man— alone .

[WANG goes ofi , fussily directing the men who

scratch the flower beds with their rakes]POA : Fang-Tai !TAI : My estimable uncle !POA : What are you doing here?TAI : I might better ask the same—what are

you doing here— in my father’s coat , and wearing—or, rather , being very careless with my father ’s

Signet ring—while I , my father ’s heir , am still in aposition to claim them . But I fear the qu estionmight inconvenience youPOA : Very unsui table .

TA I : Wewill let it pass since it is of my own freew ill that I wander . . Be benign enough to assu rethese people that I am no thief and I say nothing.

POA : And how long do you continu e sayingnothing?TAI : As long as my good pleasure and your

good behavior .

POA : Am I to be at the beck and call and inconstant fear of a paltry vagabond? Oh

,my


high-bred sensibilities ! I Shudder to my fingertips !TAI : Most unsu itable of you , dear uncle . Whenmy father died I chose some years of freedom to

wander through the by-roads unhampered—andleft you the freedom and the care of the estate .

It was my favor that gave you these honors . It isnot my fau lt if you assume too mu ch— take toomu ch—and force me to retu rn .

POA : That was why you stole the ri ng—s o that

you cou ld prove your estate instantly !TAI : You r morals

,my uncle

,are odd . I

take no su ch method .

POA : Bah ! Hypocrisy !TAI : I have seen that which makes me thinkI Shall retu rn in any case .

POA : Am I to give Up my position—my hardfought gains—my improvements won by thesweat of my toil and the clink of my goldTAI : My gold .

POA : To give place to you—you— a vagabondsquanderer— a Shiftless pleasure lover—who wouldwaste and change and turn me into the laughingstock of the country?TAI : No doubt .POA : It is unthinkable—that I — I Shou ldhave to give way to a beardless ne

’er-do-well . Itis a thou sand deaths ! And I would give a thousandrings to have you dead , scourge of the worthy !TA I : No doubt .POA : You mock me—will you— monkey-eared

frog—youTAI : Tell these people that I am no thi ef, andhave done.

POA : They wou ld‘

not believe it .TAI : I have around my neck the amulet , the


POA : To having di sposed of the ring. Myastu te qu estioningTAI : I do not.

WANG : Peace ! Lest you r tongue burn inyou r mou th .

POA : My intricate insinuations and subtleprobes have brought the taste of guilt to hi s

trembling mou th .

TAI : You lie ! My Lord Wang, if you knowWANG [Angri ly]: I am about to know .

POA : He admits to having tak en the j ewelbut as to where he has hid it , he has the cunningand secrecy of the weasel .WANG : We w ill discover at once . O that I

Shou ld have nou rished su ch a viper in my garden !POA : Eating you r bread and lining hi s un

worthy pockets with you r Silver . My unhappyfriend

,I indeed grieve for you .

WANG : It can be cru shed out. Tread on thesnake ’s head

,and he will not bite .

POA : I tru ly believe that nothing wou ld giveme greater happiness than to see you r gardenspot cleared of all evil .

WANG : O most felicitou s and generou s gu est !Tru ly “

to rank the effort above the prize may becalled Love . It Shall be cleared of EvilTAI : One moment .WANG : You r time to speak Shall come .

POA : He shou ld have only one moment . Iam sincerely convinced that su ch is my friendshipfor you that immediate removal of this rascalSince he has in part conf essed— wou ld greatlytend to smooth my pride in the matter of the ring—and my feeling towards you r daughterWANG : We will hold a cou rt at once .


POA : I S that necessary , in a -case of su ch confessed guilt?WANG [Pompou sly]: When not in office Idiscu ss not policy .

” I perform no deed that isnot strictly in accordance with the mandates ofthe law— “

Gentlemen cherish worth ; the vulgarcherish dirt . Gentlemen tru st in ju stice ; thevulgar trust in favor ,

” says Confu ciu s . But thiswill be very summary— ju st a few ceremonies inthi s garden

—we will not disturb the festivitiesoutside .

POA : Most laudable intention . But no strangers I pray—no fu ss—no scandal ; of all things Ideplore scandal— and were there ou tsiders I wou ldfeel1

it my painfu l duty to explain—my emeraldsea

WANG : No one but ourselves—and the menin thi s garden— to act also as executioners in casePOA : Exactly and excellently planned . Worthy

father-in-law,you r scheme is as neat as a snail

in its Shell .TAI : I claim the right to defendants .WANG [Poi nting to the two gu ards]: These can

be your defendants . They are your fellow servantsand know the most about you here .

‘ POA : Precise as a crab in its Sk in .

TAI : Someone from my own provincePOA : Qu estion not you r master ’s generos ity,

wretched fellow . Your past is best bu ried inobscu rity .

WANG : Unhappy man , the crime was committed here . Who more fitting than these witnesses?POA : My father-in-law ,

the tea-leaf eyelidsof the Sages would qu iver at you r perfect comprehension and ju stice .


TAI : You will regret this .

POA : Very like . I am tender-hearted andever hate to witness su ffering.

WANG : I depart to seek the law book s . To

foster right among the people—to honor theghosts of the dead while keeping aloof from themmay be called Wisdom .

”

POA : For a theft of over a thousand goldpieces it is hanging, is it not? My ring was worthtwenty thou sand .

WANG : That is the penalty .

POA : And that thi s Shou ld defile you r garden !In my grief for you I feel the sorrow and desirefor my ring passing away . I S it not dangerousto leave these men with the prisoner? He mightconf er falsely or even divu lge the hiding placeof the ring, and they escape .

WANG : True . I s he well tied?GUARD : Perfectly . [TA I -Lo is roped hand

and foot]WANG . He IS as safe there as a clipd sparrow ,

and we will guard the gates . Come men , you willbe allowed to confer with the prisoner for hi s defense under our eyes . Ah

,if all wou ld hark to

the words of the Sage—“Living on coarse rice

and water with a bent arm for pillow ,mirth may

be ou rs,but ill-begotten wealth and honors are

to me a wandering cloud .

”

POA : We are not all born with the righteou sness of Confu ciu s in our breath as you are , myesteemed father-in-law-to-be.

[They walk ou t slowly]GUAR D [I n TAI-LO

’S ear]: Tell me where it isthat ringTAI : You knave !GUARD : Remember then—by Kong-Fu -Tse,


LI-TI : It wou ld not matter?TAI : You are pleased?LI-TI : Oh

,it is only a little matter— some

thing to do with myself , and not at all importantas your troubles are . It is only that if the ringwere not found , I heard it said that Poa-TingFang—my hu sband-to-be—wou ld look upon mewith frowning, and not tak e me to hi s hou se but

go away .

TAI : You do not want to marry him?LI -TI : I have heard that he is old and ugly

and stupid, and likes dry things to learn by roteinstead oi—of knowing nice pretty flower storiessu ch as you know .

TAI : As I know ?LI-TI : Yes . But I must not take up all the time

with thi s idle chatter of my affairs . There mu stbe found a way to free you and then the ring willnever be found . Oh , I wou ld stamp it to piecesmyself rather than that , and I wou ld never haveto learn any more stupid lists for Ting-Fangonly funny flower stories here in the garden with

you ,and we would be SO happy and care-free

,

wou ldn ’t we?TA I : It would be as a thou sand springtimes .

I wish it were possible .

LI-TI : Why not?TAI : You you rself have pou red water on the

last Spark of hOpe .

11ii i -TI : You think the ring cou ld free you after

aTAI : If anything. But speak not of that .LI-TI : I mu st [In a very faint voice]; and the

ring Shall be found .

TAI : I hope not , for your honorable sake .

You will stay here in the garden and talk to the


bright lilies , and all the wicked lacquered goblinson the cornice of the house of Ting-Fang Shallwriggle their fire-colored tongu es in vain , for theyShall not have you to eat .

hLI -TI : But I wou ld not like it if you were notere .

TAI : You think so? Tonight even in thegreat citron light of sunset when the Three Councillors open their cold bright eyes in the Northernsky , you will have forgotten .

LI-TI : No ! Your ghost wou ld come to me .

TA I : Do not fear for me .

“Those who have

not tasted the bitterest of Life ’s bitters can neverappreciate the sweetest of Life ’s sweets .” And

even if the emerald Shou ld be found growmg likea celestial magic leaf upon these flower stems ,there are those to say I hid it , and that is theftconfessed .

LI-TI : But if someone else were to say he took it?TA I : O j ewel in the lotu s

,do you think others

wait to hang in my stead?LI-TI : [S lowly]: I cou ld not live, and think that

I had harmed you .

TA I : That is very k ind .

LI -TI : You do not believe me? It is tru e !TAI : Did you not ju st say ,

Almond Flower ,that it was your happiness for the ring not to befound? That is proof .LI -TI : When I think of goingwith that dreadfu l

old man , it is like holding my hand in a crab’s

tooth . But a way will be found to free you . Itmu st .TAI : To argu e with you ,

little one,is lik e

throwingwater in a frog’s face .

LI -T I : Oh, you are so funny ! Have I a face lik e

a frog?


TAI : More li ke a lotu s petal .LI-TI : Ah

,I cannot bear it ! I must tell you

it is a secretTAI : Tell me . The dead have no tonguesto wag.

LI-TI : Don ’t say it ! Tai-Lo, you are not goingto die !TAI : That is nonsense . What is your secret?LI-TI : It is that I—Oh , I dare not I cannot

[She hides herface behind herfan]TAI : Your esteemed father and hi s honorable

gu est your hu sband-to-be are approaching. Itwou ld not be seemly that they find you in converse with a prisoner .LI-TI [Looking up steadi ly over herfan] Good

bye, Tai-Lo .

TA I : Good-bye .

[LI-TI vanishes in the bushes][WANG-CHU-Mo and POA-TING-FANG enter , followed by servants bearing two high gi lded chairs .

Two others carry parasols , and another , books ,papers , and a long qu i ll pen. One man has aheavy rope slung over his arm. A t a reasonabledistance the two governesses follow ,

whisperingimportantly under their umbrella . The bearers

put down the chairs and WANG and POA ascendthem, the umbrellas being held over their heads .

A scribe si ts cross-legged at their feet, with hismateri als spread before him. The governessesstand behind WANG ’S chair

,and the servants in

a row behind POA ’S . WANG motions for TAI-LOto be unbound . He comes to stand in front of thechairs]

7 WANG [reading from a book]: To leave un

taught and then k ill is cruelty ; to ask fu ll tak ewithou t warning is tyranny . To give careless


POA : Scandalou s !WANG [S inking back in his cha ir , the guardshaving pu lkd TAI-LO back]: An execrable be

ginning.

POA : Contemptible . To mau l his very fellowdefendant !TA I : It is not as you think ,

LordWang ; if youwill hear me , this manPOA : Out of order . [Fanning] Tales , tales .WANG : Out of order ! Certainly, and there

is nothing to excu se you r incredible actions .

“The people are the root of a country, if the rootis firm

,the country will be tranqu il ; if the root

is rotten , the country break s like a house with acracked floor .”

GUARD : I refu se to answer for this man . Iwant to accu se himPOA : Very proper spirit , very proper .GUARD : I can tell youWANG : All in appropriate time . Put hi s namedown there . [He raps sharp ly on the arm of hischair with his fan] Proceed ! We w ill omit theformalities and come to the accusations .SCRIBE [Reading from his papers in a high sing

song]: The gardener Tai-Lo is accu sed of theftin the third degree ofPOA : Time presses .WANG : Come to the list of evidence .

SCRIBE : First : He was known to be alonein the garden when the great and honorable LordPoa-Ting-Fang lost his most preciou s emeraldring—clear as the sunset after rain —of the Sizeof a pigeon

’s egg— and the valu e of ten thou sandSilver mines . He was seen to work under the veryfeet of the great Poa-Ting-Fang as the ring Slippedfrom his finger


TAI : If he knew when it fell, why did he not

pick it up?WANG : Again Silence .

Poa : Note that down—if he knew—if heknew . [Maki ng a note in his book]SCRIBE : Second : He confessed openly to have

been a wandering beggar and questionable character before his entering as a gardener only a fewdays before the notable Poa-Ting-Fang was duefor a Visit , and .he admitted in the access of hisunworthy triumph that he had found the gleaningsof the garden even more than he had expected .

LING : That we found out

LANG : He admitted it to us .POA : Most admirable example of female in

telligence !

LING [To LANG , as they settle back]: A manthink s he knows , but a woman knows better .

”

SCRIBE : Thi rd : The guilty one is known tohave confessed to tak ing the ring— into the augustear of Poa-Ting-Fang himself .POA : I S that not sufficient?SCRIBE : Though , being as a weasel in his ways ,

he will not confess where he has hid away thej ewel . [He rolls up his paper , and sits down]TAI : Poa-Ting-Fang has made my con

fession incomplete becau se he does not know anymore than I do where the ring is .

POA : Does the cou rt permit thi s Slander onmy person?WANG : We will hear the man though hi s

ridicu lou s insinuations are hardly worth the at

tentions of our augu st ear . But he who containshimself goes seldom wrong says the wise man .

We will listen though it be w ind in our ears .

POA :“Politeness before force .

”


TA I : ‘ I have not seen the ring.

POA : That is an— ah—inaccu racy . The person has seen the j ewel on this very hand , flashingin the sun before his greedy eyes—as I walkedin the garden . Cou ld anyone have overlookedthe sacred emerald of the house of Fang? Of thevalu e of five hundred Ming vases all fragile asthe wings of a moth? His statement is worthless .TAI : Yes , my uncle , my esteemed and proudrelative

,I have seen the ring7 on my father ’s

finger it was —my father—whose estates you willsteal to you r own ends —seen it with my eyesthe eyes of Fang-Fai—my father

’s son.

POA : His gu ilt has gone to his head . Too

bad,too bad .

“Memory makes di zzy his thoughtlike the perfume of some venomou s flower .”

WANG : What proof have you for this monstrous impertinence?TAI :

“When a bird is to die his note is sad,when a man is to di e

,his words are tru e .

”Do

you deny that I am you r nephew ,Lord Ting

Fang?POA : Most certainly . My Lord Wang-Mo ,

do you permit this man to question whetherI know my own nephew? Indeed “if the tongu ehave no fear words are hard to make good .

”

WANG : Consider which way your tongu e goes .How can you u tter su ch an assertion?POA :

“The charioteer of Resolve has lost

control of the wild team of Fancy .

”

GOVERNESSES [B ehind their fans]: Very pretty—very pretty .

[POA smi les indu lgently]TA I [Holding ou t an amu let that is on a stringabou t his neck]: I have here the perfect

'

dupli

cate of the sacred amu let of the hou se of Fang,


POA : And the ring is lost ! Very neat,very

neat .WANG : You testify to you r own gu ilt .TAI : I dare you to find the ring, Poa-Ting

Fang.

GUARD : He can ’t do it ! He can ’t do it !WANG : Why not?GUARD [Poi nting to TAI -Lo]: Because he’s

swallowed it !ALL : Swallowed it !TAI : That— that is too absurd !GUARD [Vindictively]: When he knew he wascaught—he di d i t—to hide his guiltTA I : And how do you prove that?GUARD [Signifiw ntly]: There is one way to

prove it—qui ck and sure .

WANG : This is most distressing !POA : Most Shock ing to my delicate sensi

bilities

GUARD : Will you hang him first? My Lord,

does su ch a liar deserve it?POA : Perhaps the guard is right— and Sincethe man claims to exalted ancestry

,however

knavish hi s assertions , that is a more—aharistocratic way of— ah—commi tting suicide .

But, oh, my tender perceptions .

lWANG : I mu st complete my du ty and the

aw .

GUARD [Delightedly producing a knife in'

one

hand and a rope in the other]: Have I you r augustpermission to[The bu shes part suddenly and LI-TI appears]LI-TI [Shri lly]: No !

WANG : My daughter !POA : My fu tu re bride ! [He modestly hides

his face behind his fan]


WANG : Thi s is the culmination of unseemliness ! Unhappy girl !LI-TI [Prostrating herself]: I will walk in obedi

ence all my life . I will be faithful and light lanternsbefore all the hou sehold gods , and obey yourslightest eyelid qu iver as your most subservientand unworthy wife , my Lord Ting-Fang, but Icannot live and know that such a crime was donein my name .

WANG : In you r name?

LI-TI : Oh , a thou sand pardons , most augu stand best of fathers—ten thousand , 0 most exalted hu sband-to-be —but I with my miserableeyes had never beheld the countenance of myLord Ting-Fang—and knew that he could carenaught for one so lowly as I— and I found—O,

a milli on apologies , most celestial ones— thatmy unworthy heart was not with him— that itlay in the hand of another and when I heardfrom all months that my Lord Ting-Fang wouldnot have me if his ring were not found—I thoughtonly of myself in my unhappiness— and I saw

the ring where it lay fallen in our most unworthy

garden , slipped from hi s august finger— and Istole it .WANG : You !

LI-TI : Yes . Cover me with a thou sand confu sions Bury me forever in the cold cells of thesacred Pagoda . But do not harm Tai-Lo . [Sheholds ou t her hand] Here it is .

POA [Coming suddenly down from his chair]:Let me see.

TAI [Forstalling him,and covering the ring

with his hand]: No .

LING [Catching a sleeve of LI-TI and pu lling her


back]: Little Spider— is thi s how you rewardour teaching !LANG [Pu lling her by the other sleeve]: The

five worst infirmities that affli ct women are

WANG : Peace .

TAI : B ehold ; my Lord Wang. [He holds thering and his amu let together in hi s hand]WANG : Complete . How strange indeed arethe Gods !TAI : There wi ll now be time to prove morePOA [With a majestic wave of his hand]: My

worthy and honorable Lord Wang-Chu-Mu ,and

others that are here , I admi t that thi s person isunfortunately my nephew . I admit that I deniedhimbefore you . I admi t that I would rather havemy tender

,high-strung sensibilities racked to

their core as they wou ld have been by the Shedding oi my own flesh and blood and the thriceregrettable demise of my unfortunate nephewthan to have the lands of my ancestors ravagedand the gods of my hou sehold profaned by fallinginto the hands of a profligate and a waster . But

through the interruption of, I may say with a

blu sh,you r unmaidenly daughter , all this cannot

be . But the hem of my Sk irt will be clear of itfrom now on. I resign my lands into the handsof this rascal

,preferring that they perish qu ick ly

and withou t the open scandal of a lawsu it withsu ch as he . And you , Wang-Mu ,

I congratu late

you that you have not had the inconvenience ofhaving you r daughter retu rned to you ,

as Shesurely mu st have been had I seen her in my hou se .

I leave her to my nephew . I fear they are onlytoo well sui ted to each other . I have the pleasureof bidding you an honorable farewell . And try

,

I beg you , though I fear it will be difli cult, to


each su cceeding day will be the unfolding of anew petal.LI-TI : Oh , most honorable one ! I will have

no more secrets from you— I will tell you all.

TAI : In a garden—where there are plentyof bees? [He bows . The bearers carry ofi

‘her

chair . LING and LANG follow][As the chair reaches the opposi te side of the poolLI-TI leans ou t and throws him a kiss . TAI-LOfollows them ou t slowly, humming the same tuneas when hefirst came into the garden]

The Drama - Forgotten Books

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