# Read-Aloud Plays

*Exported from [Holy-Writings.com](https://www.holy-writings.com/) on 2026-06-20 — 1 clipping.*

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> Source: Bahá'í Library Online (bahai-library.com), curated by Jonah Winters. Used by permission of the curator. Original citation: Horace Holley, Read-Aloud Plays, bahai-library.com.
> ──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
> 
> Read-Aloud Plays
> 
> Horace Holley
> 
> New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1916
> 
> Contents Page
> 
> Introductionv
> 
> Her Happiness1
> 
> A Modern Prodigal 7
> 
> The Incompatibles29
> 
> The Genius39
> 
> Survival55
> 
> The Telegram71
> 
> Rain79
> 
> Pictures103
> 
> His Luck121
> 
> INTRODUCTION
> 
> The first two or three of these "plays" (I retain
> the word for lack of a better one) began themselves
> as short stories, but in each case I found that the
> dramatic element, speech, tended to absorb the impersonal
> element of comment and description, so that it
> proved easier to go on by allowing the characters to
> establish the situation themselves. As I grew conscious
> of this tendency, I realized that even for the purpose
> of reading it might be advantageous to render the
> short story subject dramatically, since this method is,
> after all, one of extreme realism, which should also
> result in an increase of interest. As the series developed,
> however, I perceived that something more than
> a new short story form was involved; I perceived that
> the "read-aloud" play has a distinct character and
> function of its own. In the long run, everything human
> rises or falls to the level of speech. The culminating
> point, even of action the most poignant or emotion the
> most intimate, is where it finds the right word or phrase
> by which it is translated into the lives of others. Every
> literary form has always paid, even though usually unconscious,
> homage to the drama. But the drama as
> achieved on the stage includes, for various reasons, only
> a small portion of its own inherent possibility. Exigencies
> of time and machinery, as well as the strong influence
> of custom, deny to the stage the value of themes
> such as the Divine Comedy, on the one hand, and of
> situations which might be rendered by five or ten minutes'
> dialogue on the other, each of which extremes may
> be quite as "dramatic" as the piece ordinarily exploited
> on the stage. By trying these "read-aloud" plays on
> different groups, of from two to six persons, I have
> proved that the homage all literature pays the drama
> is misplaced if we identify the drama with the stage.
> A sympathetic voice is all that is required to "get over"
> any effect possible to speech; and what effect is not?
> Moreover, by deliberately setting out for a drama independent
> of the stage, a drama involving only the
> intimate circle of studio or library, I feel that an entire
> new range of experiences is opened up to literature itself.
> Nothing is more thrilling than direct, self-revealing
> speech; and, once the proper tone has been set,
> even abstract subjects, as we all know, have the power
> to absorb. Thus I entertain the hope that others will
> take up the method of this book, the method of natural,
> intimate, heart-to-heart dialogue carried on in a suitable
> setting, and with attendant action as briefly indicated;
> for the discovery awaits each one that speech,
> independent of the tradition of the stage, has the power
> of rendering old themes new and vital, as well as suggesting
> new themes and situations. Indeed, it is in the
> confidence that others will follow with "read-aloud"
> plays far more interesting and valuable than the few
> offered here that I am writing this introduction, and not
> merely to call attention to a novelty in my own work.
> 
> Horace Holley.
> 
> New York City.
> 
> HER HAPPINESS
> 
> Darkness. A door opens swiftly. Light from outside
> shows a woman entering. She is covered by a large
> cape, but the gleam of hair and brow indicates beauty.
> She closes the door behind her. Darkness.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> Paul! Paul! Are you here, Paul?
> 
> A Voice
> 
> Yes, Elizabeth, I am here.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> Oh thank God! You are here! I felt so strange—I
> thought ... Oh, I cannot tell you what I have
> been thinking! Turn on the light, Paul.
> 
> The Voice
> 
> You are troubled, dear. Let the darkness stay a
> moment. It will calm you. Sit down, Elizabeth.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> Yes.... I am so faint! I had to come, Paul! I
> had to see you, to know that you were.... I know
> I promised not to, but I was going mad! Just to
> touch you, to hold you ... but it's all right now.
> 
> The Voice
> 
> It is all right now, Elizabeth.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> I thought I could stand it, dear, I thought I could
> stand it. It wasn't myself—I swear to you it wasn't—nor
> him. I, I can stand all that, now. It was
> something else, something that came over me all at
> once. I saw—Oh Paul! the thing I saw! But it's
> all right now....
> 
> The Voice
> 
> It is all right, Elizabeth, because ours is love, love
> that is made of light, and not merely blind desire.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> Ours is love. We are love!
> 
> The Voice
> 
> So that even if we are separated—even if you cannot
> come to me yet, we shall not lose conviction nor
> joy.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> Yes, Paul. I will not make it harder for you. I
> know it is hard, and that it was for my sake you
> could bring yourself to bind me not to see you again.
> 
> The Voice
> 
> Love is, world without end. That is all we need to
> know.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> World without end, amen.
> 
> The Voice
> 
> And because I knew the power and truth of love in
> you I put this separation upon us.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> For my sake. I know it now, Paul! And trust me!
> You can trust me, Paul! Not time, nor distance,
> nor trouble nor change shall move me from the
> heights of love where I dwell.
> 
> The Voice
> 
> And because I knew the happiness of love could not
> endure in deceit, nor the wine give life if we drank it
> in a cup that was stained, I put you from me—in the
> world's sight we meet no more.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> In the world's sight ... and in the sight of God
> and man shall I be faithful to him from now on, in
> thought and deed and word, as a heart may be. Yes,
> Paul ... even that can I endure for your sake.
> For I know that hereafter—
> 
> The Voice
> 
> For love there is neither here nor hereafter, but the
> realization of love is ever according to his triumph.
> This has come to me suddenly, a light in the darkness,
> and I have won the truth by supreme pain.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> That, too, Paul. Pain.... I have been weak. I
> gave way to my nerves, but now in your presence I
> am strong again, and I shall not fail you.
> 
> The Voice
> 
> My presence is where your love is, and as your love
> so my nearness. Love me as I love you now, and I
> shall be more real to you than your hands and your
> eyes.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> Bone of one bone, and flesh of one flesh....
> 
> The Voice
> 
> Spirit of one spirit! The flesh we have put away.
> 
> The Woman
> 
> That, too, Paul. Oh the glory of it! So be my
> happiness that I shall not wish it changed, even before
> the Throne!
> 
> The Voice
> 
> I have given you happiness?
> 
> The Woman
> 
> Perfect happiness, Paul. I am happy, happier than
> I ever was before. But before I go home from here
> for the last time, turn on the light, Paul, that we
> may be to each other always as the wonder of this
> moment. For the last time, Paul. Paul?... Paul?
> Where are you? Why don't you answer?...
> Paul! (She turns on the light. It is a studio. At
> the piano, fallen forward upon the keys, sits the
> body of a man. There is a revolver on the floor beside
> him.) Paul!... As I saw him! Is this my
> happiness. Oh God, must I?
> 
> A MODERN PRODIGAL
> 
> The scene shows Uncle Richard's library, a massive
> and expensive interior suggesting prosperity rather
> than meditation. It is obviously new, and in the whole
> room there is only one intimate and human note, a
> quaint little oil painting of a boy with bright eyes—Uncle
> Richard at the age of eleven.
> 
> Richard walks about, waiting for his uncle, and examines
> the appointments with more curiosity than reverence.
> Stopping by the mantle for a moment he notices,
> with a start of surprise, his own photograph. He turns
> away with a shrug just as his uncle hurriedly enters.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Dick! Richard! At last! How are you? You received
> my letter?
> 
> Richard
> 
> I am very well, uncle. Yes, I received your letter.
> It was forwarded from Florence.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Good! Sit down, Richard, sit down.
> 
> Richard
> 
> I did not receive it until a few days ago, in New York.
> I came on as soon as possible. But I had engagements—business
> engagements—that delayed me.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Business? I am very glad, Richard, that you have
> given up your art. Not that art isn't entirely commendable,
> but in times like these, you know....
> 
> Richard
> 
> Don't misunderstand me, uncle. My business was
> connected with art. I haven't given up painting. I
> never shall.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> In my letter—
> 
> Richard
> 
> Yes. Cousin Anne wrote me about Aunt Ethel's
> death, but I did not realize how changed everything
> here was until I read that letter from you. And now
> (glancing about) it is even clearer. It must have
> been a bitter shock to you, Uncle Richard. You
> had both come to the point where you could have
> done so much with life. But you are quite well, Uncle
> Richard?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> I am never unwell. I don't believe in it. Yes, everything
> was ready here. In its larger issue, my life
> has not been unsuccessful.... But your business,
> Richard, it came out well, I hope?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Quite. You see after graduating I borrowed a certain
> sum to go abroad with a classmate. We had a
> plan for doing a book on modern Italy, he writing
> the text and I making illustrations. We had quite
> a new idea about it all. It was good fun besides.
> Well, the work has been placed, and now after repaying
> the loan I have enough to take a studio and
> begin painting in earnest.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Hum.
> 
> Richard
> 
> I believe I have a copy of one of the sketches with
> me. (He tears a sheet from a note book and hands
> it to Uncle Richard.)
> 
> Uncle Richard (looking at it wrong side up)
> 
> A sketch. I see. Of course it is unfinished?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Yes. But then, no painting should be what you call
> "finished." A work of art can only be finished by
> the mental effort of appreciation on the part of the
> spectator. Photographs and chromos are finished—that's
> why they are dead.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> I was not aware of the fact. But ... you will remember,
> Richard, that in my letter I asked you to
> visit me?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Of course. And I shall be very pleased to stay for
> a few days. Very kind of you to ask me.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Not at all, Richard, not at all! I—
> 
> Richard
> 
> On Monday I must return to New York and look for
> a studio. With the book coming out I feel I shall
> have no trouble selling my work.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Studio? Isn't that—hem! rather Bohemian, Richard?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Good gracious, uncle, you haven't been reading
> George Moore, have you?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> But Richard, did you not understand that I wanted
> you to stay here longer than that?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Why no. How long did you mean?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Er—I hadn't thought, exactly. I mean that I wanted
> you to bring your things here—bring your things
> here and just live on with me.
> 
> Richard
> 
> I had no idea you meant that. Anyhow, as I couldn't
> paint here, it's impossible. But, of course, if you
> care to have me stay a few days longer—
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> But I have everything arranged for you here. Your
> room—everything.
> 
> Richard
> 
> But you see, uncle, my work—
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> I hope you will give up your art, but if you must
> paint I will provide you a room for it. Do you know
> how many rooms there are in this house, Richard?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Really, Uncle Richard, I thank you, but—
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Don't mention it. And of course you can see to its
> proper arrangement yourself.
> 
> Richard
> 
> I had no idea of this when I came and—but you see,
> it's not only the studio an artist requires, it's atmosphere,
> the atmosphere of enthusiasm and feeling.
> You might as well give a business man a brand new
> office equipment and turn him loose on the Sahara
> desert as to shut a painter up in a town like this and
> expect him to create. Artists need atmosphere just
> as business men need banks. It's the meeting of like
> forces that makes anything really go.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> But we are not wholly barbarous here, Richard. This,
> for example, and no first-class New England city
> lacks culture.
> 
> Richard
> 
> I suppose there's no use explaining, but what first-class
> New England cities regard as culture your real
> artist avoids as he would avoid poison.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Well, well. But circumstances—really, Richard,
> don't you think it your duty to stay?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Why?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Must I explain? We are met, after a long separation,
> in circumstances personally sorrowful to me,
> and I trust, to some extent, to you as well. We....
> 
> Richard
> 
> Yes, a long separation.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> I admit, Richard, that from your point of view my
> attitude has not always been as—as considerate, perhaps,
> as you might have expected. But I have been
> a very busy man, and—
> 
> Richard
> 
> As far as I am concerned, uncle, I have nothing to
> blame you for; but my mother....
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Your mother? Surely, Richard, your mother never
> criticised me to you? She was much too fine a
> woman. Besides, I helped her in many ways you
> may know nothing about.
> 
> Richard
> 
> No, mother said nothing. She wouldn't have, anyhow—and
> as far as your helping her is concerned,
> I can only judge of that by results.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Results? What do you mean? I have no desire to
> catalogue the things I have done for one who was
> near to me, but—
> 
> Richard
> 
> That's all very well, uncle, and I have no criticism
> to make. What's over is over. But when you speak
> of my duty to you, I think of how mother died so
> young, and how I found out afterward her affairs
> were so difficult. I had no idea—she sacrificed herself
> for me so long that I took it for granted. But
> I think that you, as a business man, must have
> known.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> You found that everything was mortgaged? Well,
> Richard, it pains me to recall these things. Your
> father, unfortunately, was a poor business man. As
> for the mortgage, Richard, I held that myself.
> 
> Richard
> 
> You did!
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Yes. Even your mother did not know. I acted
> through an agent, and the interest was two per cent.
> 
> Richard
> 
> But—
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> A nominal rate. Your mother was so proud—
> 
> Richard
> 
> Well, but there were other matters, long ago, that I
> have only lately heard about. You and father once
> started in business together....
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> We did. And I advised him to sell out when I did,
> but he thought better to hold on.
> 
> Richard
> 
> Poor father. You made—he lost....
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> But if he had followed my advice—. All this is painful
> to me, Richard, and leads nowhere. As for yourself,
> I have always been interested in you, more so
> than you realize, and now—
> 
> Richard
> 
> Now?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> I cannot feel at fault for anything that has happened.
> Your father was unsuited for modern life.
> By the ordinary standards he was bound to fail.
> Still, it gives me great satisfaction that at the present
> time, Richard, I can offer you a home. Yes,
> Richard, a home.
> 
> Richard
> 
> It's difficult to decide.... You see, my studio—
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Well! I confess I can't understand all this uncertainty!
> 
> Richard
> 
> For three years I have worked as hard as anybody
> could to make a position allowing me to paint. I
> have succeeded. I no longer need help!
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Of course not! I don't question your ability to get
> along. At the same time, your attitude now is rather
> quixotic. Besides, as far as your painting is concerned,
> you can always go about where you require.
> It isn't slavery I am planning for you here, Richard!
> 
> Richard
> 
> Well ... but then, as I must live by my sales and
> commissions, I'd cut a poor figure in surroundings
> like these.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Ha! Very quaint that, Richard, very quaint! I
> suppose artists are like that.... Richard, I see
> you do not yet understand. I shall be most happy
> to provide for you in every way. Yes. I have considered
> the whole matter carefully, and for some
> time have only waited an opportunity to explain to
> you in person. Consider, then, that you shall have
> an income of your own. You see, Richard?
> 
> Richard
> 
> No, I don't.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Why, it's simple enough!
> 
> Richard
> 
> Yes, the facts are, but I don't understand—an income,
> a home. Why, I never dreamed of such a
> thing!
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> And why not, my boy, why not? We haven't seen
> enough of each other, Richard. Perhaps I have been
> at fault there, not to show more clearly the interest
> I have always taken in you. Yes, indeed, a warm
> interest, Richard!
> 
> Richard
> 
> Why not, Uncle Richard? Three years ago you
> might have asked me that question. Now I ask you
> why?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Why? How strange! How could that question
> arise between a man and his own nephew?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Three years ago, before Aunt Ethel died, I spent
> Thanksgiving with you. It was during the recess,
> my second year at Harvard. I came here practically
> from my mother's funeral. I had just learned
> the truth about our affairs—not a thing of ours
> really ours, not a penny left. How mother had kept
> the truth from me, I don't know. But suddenly
> everything changed. The ground I had been standing
> on gave way—my hands grasped everywhere for
> support. I had never lacked, never thought about
> money either way. I took it for granted that families
> like ours were provided with a decent living by
> some law of Providence.... I came here. I thought
> of course you would help me. I didn't think so consciously—I
> turned to you and Aunt Ethel from blind
> instinct.
> 
> We spent Thanksgiving together. It was very
> quiet, very sad. You both talked about mother and
> the old days. At breakfast the next morning you
> wished me good luck and went off to your office.
> Afterward Aunt Ethel and I talked in the living room
> while I waited for the train. She seemed ill at ease.
> She alluded to your affairs once or twice, saying that
> you were quite embarrassed by the state of politics,
> and how sad it was that people couldn't do all they
> wanted to in this world for others.
> 
> Uncle Richard, when Joseph came with the carriage,
> Aunt Ethel kissed me, cried, and gave me—a twenty
> dollar bill. Good God! and I thanked her for it.
> Twenty dollars—carfare and a week's board! I left
> the house completely dazed: it seemed like a bad
> dream....
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> There, there, Richard! We never imagined for a
> moment. I thought your college course all provided
> for—and your Aunt Ethel never understood business.
> She doubtless exaggerated my difficulty. If
> either of us had dreamed you were so worried! As
> if I should have grudged you money!
> 
> Richard
> 
> That's what I thought at first, and I hated you for
> it, but afterward I realized it was not that—it was
> worse.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Worse!
> 
> Richard
> 
> Yes. It wasn't that you grudged the money, it was
> that you simply didn't think of it. You felt that
> something had to be done, because I made you feel
> uncomfortable, but you didn't know exactly what,
> and you were both relieved to see me go. I had
> spoiled your Thanksgiving dinner—that was the
> depth of your realization.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> No, no, Richard! You were so cold, so silent. You
> made it impossible for us to help you.
> 
> Richard
> 
> I suppose I did seem cold. That's the instinct of
> inexperienced natures when they are desperate. But
> it would have been so easy to break through with
> one kind word or act.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> There, there! How glad I am that conditions are
> changed!
> 
> Richard
> 
> Changed, yes, but it was I who changed them! The
> shock of poverty was terrible at first, not because
> I set too much value on money, nor because I was
> unwilling to work, but because I felt I had no power
> of attack. My nature was introspective, I lived in
> an epic of my own creation. My strength and my
> courage were wrapped up in dreams, and seemed to
> have no relation to the practical world. I could have
> faced the devil himself for an ideal, but to make my
> own living—that was the nightmare!...
> 
> That was why I was so cold, so silent. If you had
> said one human thing, straight from your heart to
> mine, I should have been comforted. In a case like
> that, as I now know, it is not money a man wants,
> even if he himself thinks it is. No. It is just sympathy,
> the right word that renews his courage and
> arms him against the new circumstances by making
> him feel he doesn't stand alone. If you had found
> that word, or even tried to find it, I should have loved
> you like a son. My heart was ready—you did not
> want it!
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> But you finished at college, Richard....
> 
> Richard
> 
> Yes, I finished. And do you know how? I spent that
> first night all alone in my room, thinking. In the
> morning I called on a classmate, a poor man who
> was working his way. I said: "Here, I haven't a
> cent. Advise me."
> 
> We talked it all over. He helped me sell my furniture,
> he sublet my room. And he gave me a job.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> A—
> 
> Richard
> 
> A job. Collecting and delivering laundry. That's
> how I finished at college. I'm ashamed to admit it
> now, but at first that work hurt me like a knife. I
> couldn't see any relation between that and my ambition
> for art. But it wore off. I grew tougher, I
> learned the real meaning of things. And now I am
> glad it happened.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Admirable, admirable! Really, Richard, I am more
> than ever convinced that I have decided rightly.
> Richard, you must make this your home!
> 
> Richard
> 
> Are you still talking about my duty?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Richard, a man begins by working for himself alone,
> then he works for the woman he marries, but even
> that is not enough. One by one I have seen every
> motive that ever impelled or guided me grow insufficient
> and have to be replaced. Ambition and love,
> once satisfied, point forward. We must always have
> a future before us, Richard, unless we are willing to
> become machines of habit. At one point or another
> most men do become machines. Thank heaven, I never
> could. In these last few months I have begun to
> realize.... It was your Aunt Ethel's tragedy that
> she had no children. I wonder now whether it is not
> even more my own.
> 
> Richard, I have made you my heir.
> 
> Richard
> 
> Your heir!
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> My heir. And that is why, Richard—of course you
> could not realize it at the time—that is why I allowed
> myself to use the word "duty" as having reference to
> the future if not to the past.
> 
> For the future, Richard, is ours to enjoy, without
> misunderstanding, without disharmony, I at the end
> of my labours, you at the beginning of yours. You
> have revealed qualities I confess I had not suspected,
> qualities fitting you for responsibility and administration.
> With the position you will henceforth occupy,
> Richard, you should enter public life. Nothing
> more honorable for a responsible citizen.... Nothing
> more essential to the welfare of our beloved republic
> at its present critical state. We need the English
> tradition over here, Richard—solid, responsible
> men to administer public affairs. I have often felt
> the need of an efficient aristocracy in our social and
> industrial life. And nothing would please me more
> than to see you rise to authority by the leverage of
> my wealth. Nothing would please me more—why,
> Richard, I should consider it the prolongation of my
> own life!
> 
> Richard
> 
> No. No you don't, Uncle Richard. Never!
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> What on earth do you mean?
> 
> Richard
> 
> I won't be your heir!
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Wh—what? Good heavens! Are you mad?
> 
> Richard
> 
> I hope so. Yes, I hope that from your point of view
> I am quite mad. You won't understand me, because
> you don't understand what I most love and what I
> most hate. Oh you self-made Americans! When I
> really needed your helping hand you didn't think of
> me. You had the American idea that every tub must
> stand on its own bottom, that every young fellow
> must make good—that is, make money. You buy
> "art" at a certain stage in your development just as
> you buy motor cars, and you think you can buy
> artists the same way. You don't know that to buy
> dead art is to starve live artists.
> 
> Well, I made good. I can stand alone. Are you
> offering me money now to help me in my work? Not
> a bit! Rich men haven't changed since the first
> tribal chief ordered his bow and arrows, his wives
> and servants, to be buried with him.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> You conceited young rascal! I needn't leave you a
> cent!
> 
> Richard
> 
> I haven't asked you to. I never thought about your
> money. I can get along very well without it. But
> can you take it with you?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Of course not! But I can leave it to whom I please.
> 
> Richard
> 
> Why don't you leave it to Joseph?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> To Joseph—my coachman? Are you joking?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Not at all. Didn't he save your life in the Civil War?
> And what have I ever done for you?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> I have remembered Joseph very handsomely, but to
> make him my heir—why, that isn't the same thing at
> all!
> 
> Richard
> 
> Well, to a university then?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> No.
> 
> Richard
> 
> A church?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> No!
> 
> Richard
> 
> A cat hospital?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Damn cats! There's been enough of them sick in my
> own house!
> 
> Richard
> 
> Well, I give it up.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> You young fool! You don't know what you are saying!
> Joseph! Church! Cat Hospital! What good
> would I get out of that? Is that what I have been
> working for all my life? No indeed!
> 
> Richard, you shall be my heir!
> 
> Richard
> 
> I won't! You are only interested in me because I
> bear your name. If I were John Smith, though ten
> times the better man, you would never waste a
> thought upon me. My name is an accident—I care
> nothing for that. My real self is my art, for which
> you care even less. All you want is to establish a
> dynasty—the last infirmity of successful men.
> 
> No, I won't be your heir!
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Madness, madness! What kind of a world are we
> coming to?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Listen. One day when I was walking outside Siena
> I came to a fine old villa with a wonderful garden.
> A row of cypresses ran along the wall inside, and
> I wanted to paint it. The gardener let me in for a
> tip. While I sat there working, he watching me—even
> the peasants have a feeling for paint over there—we
> heard a tap on the window. It was the
> padrona. I saw that she wanted to speak to me, and
> I went in. She was an old, crippled woman, holding
> to life by sheer will, sitting all day by the fire
> in one room. She spoke French, so we could talk.
> To my surprise she was very much interested in me—asked
> questions about my work, my family, and so
> on. I couldn't understand why. But when I left
> she began crying and told me that I reminded her
> of her grandson who had been killed in Tripoli, and
> that there was no one of the family name left, but
> that she had to leave the property either to a cousin
> whom she detested, or to the Church. And she said
> just what you have: that this wasn't the same thing.
> She had nothing to live for, she said, now the heir was
> dead, except keep the place out of others' hands.
> There she was, a prisoner in that beautiful villa, enjoying
> nothing, where an artist would have been in
> paradise. I see her yet, bent over the fire in a black
> lace shawl, crying.
> 
> On my way back to town I happened to think of my
> last visit with you, and my state of mind returned,
> my feeling of dependence and the gloomy Thanksgiving
> dinner. The shock of contrast between my
> old and my new self stopped me short in the road.
> In a flash I saw the lying materialism on which the
> world is based, the curse of dollar worship that keeps
> opportunity away from the young, at the same time
> it keeps the old in a prison of loneliness and suspicion.
> If we worshipped life instead of metal disks,
> we would see that the young are not really the heirs
> of the old, but the old are heirs of the young. Then
> and there I vowed to keep myself clear of the whole
> wretched tangle, even if I had to carry laundry all
> my life, so that if any one ever tried to fetter me
> I could fling his words back in his face! (Uncle
> Richard's nerves are all on edge. A terrific storm
> of overbearing temper visibly gathers during this
> speech, and the Colonel's long habit of successful
> domination seems about to assert itself in an explosion.
> But at the last moment another power, deeper
> than habit, older than character, represses his wrath,
> and when Uncle Richard speaks again it is with an
> earnest gentleness almost plaintive.)
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Richard, for heaven's sake let us stop this quarreling!
> Let us forget what has been said and done on
> both sides and begin anew. I offer you a home here
> during my life time, and all that I own after I am
> dead. I do care for you, my boy, I know it now as
> I know my own name. Surely, Richard, you need
> not take this offer amiss?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Well, but you see, Uncle Richard....
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Do you prefer poverty for its own sake?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Of course not. But I prefer it to hypocrisy and
> compromise.
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Well then. You will accept, Richard? For my sake,
> Richard?
> 
> Richard
> 
> Well....
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> It is the only pleasure left to me, Richard, thinking
> of the old name going down honourably in you. And
> as for the past, my mistakes were due to not having
> a son of my own. You have no idea what a difference
> it makes. It's my dream, Richard, don't destroy
> it!
> 
> Richard
> 
> If you really mean it that way—
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> My dear Richard! My dear boy! Why—now I
> know why we have been quarreling, Richard!
> 
> Richard
> 
> Why?
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Because we are so much alike. At your age I was
> the same self-willed beggar you are. Richard, you are
> more like me than you are like your own father!
> 
> Richard
> 
> Le roi est morte, vive le roi. But (and he thumps
> the table with great emphasis) but there's one thing
> understood—I'm going to paint masterpieces!
> 
> Uncle Richard
> 
> Of course you are, my boy, of course you are! In
> fact, I always knew you would, Richard!
> 
> THE INCOMPATIBLES
> 
> A corner table in a Broadway restaurant, at evening.
> Between the man and woman who have just taken seats
> is a bouquet of red roses.
> 
> Marian
> 
> No, I don't want any oysters or clams. I ate enough
> sea food in Atlantic City to last a season. I want
> some—Oh, what gorgeous flowers! Umm! I love
> the smell of roses! Especially out of season. Why,
> the other tables haven't any! Fred, did you—?
> 
> Fred
> 
> Sure I did, Marian. I knew you'd like 'em.
> 
> Marian
> 
> I do. But you mustn't be a silly boy any longer,
> Fred!
> 
> Fred
> 
> I will, too. It isn't silly, to give you flowers.
> 
> Marian
> 
> That's all right, Fred. Goodness knows I like the
> flowers. But I'm not a young idiot who expects her
> honeymoon to last forever. I've had one experience,
> you know.
> 
> Fred
> 
> Yes, but you mustn't judge all men by him.
> 
> Marian
> 
> I don't. I knew well enough you're different, or I'd
> never have married you. But at the same time—
> 
> Fred
> 
> Well, I'm going to show you that a real man don't
> get over the fun of being married to a peach like you
> in just two weeks. You don't want me to, do you?
> 
> Marian
> 
> Course not, Fred! Didn't I say you were different?
> But I don't want you to set a pace you can't keep
> up. You'd hate me in no time if I did.
> 
> Fred
> 
> I couldn't hate you, girlie! Besides, isn't this our
> first night back in the old town? We shan't be having
> dinner out like this every day.
> 
> Marian
> 
> Well, only I don't want to have you flop all of a sudden,
> like he did. What'll you have, a cocktail?
> 
> Fred
> 
> Let's see.... What's the matter, Marian?
> 
> Marian
> 
> Sh! Don't turn round!
> 
> Fred
> 
> What's up?
> 
> Marian
> 
> Him!
> 
> Fred
> 
> Him who?
> 
> Marian
> 
> George!
> 
> Fred
> 
> Good Lord! Well, don't mind him. He hasn't got
> anything on you now. You're mine.
> 
> Marian
> 
> Sure I am. He isn't looking. He's with a woman.
> By jingo! It's that millinery kid!
> 
> Fred
> 
> What millinery kid? Besides, what difference does
> it make? Let him have a hundred, if he wants 'em.
> We're happy.
> 
> Marian
> 
> The nerve of him! I knew it was her right along.
> He tried to throw a bluff it was some swell. I'll bet
> he paid good for those clothes!
> 
> Fred
> 
> Oh, come on! What'll you have? Besides, she might
> have made the clothes herself.
> 
> Marian
> 
> Made 'em herself! Say, a fine lot you know about
> ladies' gowns! That came from the Avenue, straight.
> 
> Fred
> 
> Well, what if it did? I'll get you a better one, you
> just wait.
> 
> Marian
> 
> Sh! He's looking over here!
> 
> Fred
> 
> Hm! Look at me and you won't see him.
> 
> Marian
> 
> The nerve!
> 
> Fred
> 
> What's he done?
> 
> Marian
> 
> He smiled right over like nothing had ever happened.
> I'll bet he's going to say something mean about me.
> Oh!
> 
> Fred
> 
> Let's change our seats. I'm hungry!
> 
> Marian
> 
> Change nothing! Catch me giving him a laugh like
> that! I could tell her things, the young—There,
> now she's looking!
> 
> Fred
> 
> What if she is? Say, look here—
> 
> Marian
> 
> He's getting up! Well, of all the brass!
> 
> Fred
> 
> What?
> 
> Marian
> 
> He's coming over here!
> 
> Fred
> 
> He is! Don't you say a word. I'll take him on!
> 
> Marian
> 
> If he dares—
> 
> George
> 
> Hello, Marian!
> 
> Marian
> 
> Hm!
> 
> George
> 
> What, got a grouch on your honeymoon? That's a
> bad sign, Marian!
> 
> Marian
> 
> No, I haven't got any grouch! Don't you worry!
> You're the only grouch I ever had, thank the Lord!
> 
> George
> 
> Well then. It isn't every woman gets rid of an incompatible
> husband and gets hold of a compatible
> one, all in same season.
> 
> Fred
> 
> Look here!
> 
> Marian
> 
> That's just like him! Coming over here with a grin
> on like a kid with a new toy. Well, we don't want
> anything to do with you. See?
> 
> George
> 
> Sure. Excuse me for butting in. I just wanted to
> make a little announcement.
> 
> Marian
> 
> Oh, you did! Well, I'm surprised! I didn't think
> she was the kind you had to marry.
> 
> George
> 
> Huh! I knew you'd have your little knife out for
> her. But why you should have to be jealous now I
> can't see.
> 
> Marian
> 
> I'm not jealous!
> 
> George
> 
> What you worrying about, then?
> 
> Marian
> 
> I'm not worrying! I'm only sore because you butted
> in when we were so happy together here without you.
> 
> George
> 
> Oh, excuse me! As a matter of fact, I didn't come
> over to make any announcement. It's too late for
> that. I—
> 
> Marian
> 
> Married already! Anybody'd think you might wait
> a little while for common decency!
> 
> George
> 
> I waited a day longer than you did, anyhow.
> 
> Marian
> 
> That's different.
> 
> Fred
> 
> I beg your pardon! We were just ordering dinner.
> If you didn't come to make any announcement, why—
> 
> Marian
> 
> Yes, what did you butt in for?
> 
> George
> 
> Why, I got a letter from your friend Grace, and—
> 
> Marian
> 
> Grace? What did she have to say to you?
> 
> George
> 
> She said she was sorry I had to get a divorce, but I
> told her—
> 
> Marian
> 
> Sorry you had to get a divorce! Well, if I don't fix
> her!
> 
> George
> 
> Oh, she's getting married, too.
> 
> Marian
> 
> Who to?
> 
> George
> 
> That fellow, what's his name, that's got the garage
> over on Seventh Avenue.
> 
> Marian
> 
> Snider! So he's the one! Well! And I suppose
> she'll be all over town in a new car.
> 
> George
> 
> Sure. Saw him to-day. A big yellow one. I always
> told you she was out for money. And you thought
> she was in love with Jackson!
> 
> Marian
> 
> Hypocrite! She was. Or she told me so. Cried all
> over me. Have you seen Jackson?
> 
> George
> 
> Yes. He's as blue as your old kimono. He said—
> 
> Fred
> 
> Look here, Marian! I'm not going to wait all night
> for my dinner!
> 
> Marian
> 
> Order your old dinner! What did Jackson say,
> George?
> 
> THE GENIUS
> 
> The front porch of a small farmhouse in New England.
> Stone flags lead to the road; the yard is a careless,
> comfortable lawn with two or three old maples.
> It is autumn.
> 
> A boy of sixteen or so, carrying a paper parcel, stops
> hesitatingly, looks in a moment and then walks to the
> porch. As he stands there a man comes out of the
> house. The man is in his early forties, he stoops a little,
> but not from weakness; his expression is one of deep
> calm.
> 
> The Man
> 
> I wonder if you have seen my dog? I was going for
> a walk, but Rex seems to have grown tired of waiting.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Your dog? No, sir, I haven't seen him. Shall I
> go look?
> 
> The Man
> 
> No, never mind. He'll come back. Rex and I understand
> each other. He has his little moods, like
> me.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> If you were going for a walk—?
> 
> The Man
> 
> It doesn't matter at all. I can go any time. You
> don't live in this country?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> No, sir. I live in New York. I wish I did. It's
> beautiful here, isn't it?
> 
> The Man
> 
> It's very beautiful to me. I love it. You may have
> come a long road this morning, let's sit down.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Thank you. I'm not interfering with anything?
> 
> The Man
> 
> Bless your heart! No indeed. What is there to interfere
> with? All we have is life, and this is part of
> it.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> I like to sit under these trees. It makes me think of
> the Old Testament.
> 
> The Man
> 
> That's interesting. How?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Well, maybe I'm wrong, but whenever I think of the
> Old Testament I see an old man under a tree—
> 
> The Man
> 
> Yes?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> A man who has lived it all through, you know, and
> found out something real about it; and he sits there
> calm and strong, something like a tree himself; and
> every once in a while somebody comes along—a boy,
> you know,—and the boy talks to him all about himself,
> just as we imagine we'd like to with our fathers,
> if they weren't so busy, or our teachers, if they
> didn't depend so much upon books, or our ministers,
> if we thought they would really understand,—and
> the old man doesn't say much maybe, but the boy
> goes away much stronger and happier....
> 
> The Man
> 
> Yes, yes, I understand. The Old Testament....
> They did get hold of things, didn't they?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> What I can't understand is how nowadays people
> seem more grown up and competent than those men
> were, in a way, and we do such wonderful things—skyscrapers
> and aeroplanes—and yet we aren't half
> so wonderful as they were in the Old Testament with
> their jugs and their wooden plows. I mean, we aren't
> near so big as the things we do, while those old fellows
> were so much bigger. We smile at them, but
> if some day one of our machines fell over on us what
> would we do about it?
> 
> The Man
> 
> I wonder.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> I went through a big factory just last week. One
> of my friends' father is the manager, and all I could
> think of was what could a fellow do who didn't like
> it, who didn't fit in.... Nowadays most everybody
> seems competent about factories or business or something
> like that—you know—and they've got hold of
> everything, so a fellow's got to do the same thing
> or where is he?
> 
> The Man
> 
> That's the first question, certainly: where is he? But
> where is he if he does do the same thing?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Why, he's with the rest. And they don't ask that
> question....
> 
> The Man
> 
> I'm afraid they don't. It would be interesting to be
> there if they should begin to ask it, wouldn't it?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Yes.... I'd like to be there when some I know ask
> themselves! But they never will. Why should they?
> 
> The Man
> 
> Don't you mean how can they?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Yes, of course. They don't ask the question because
> the big thing they are doing seems to be the answer
> beforehand. But it isn't! Not compared with the
> Old Testament. So we have to ask it for ourselves.
> And that's why I came here....
> 
> The Man
> 
> Oh. You want to know where they are, with their
> power, or where you will be without it?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Where I'll be. I hate it! But what else is there to-day?
> 
> The Man
> 
> Why, there's you.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> But that's just it! What am I for if I can't join
> in? I came to you.... You don't mind my talking,
> do you?
> 
> The Man
> 
> On the contrary.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Well, everybody I know is a part of it, so how could
> they tell me what to do outside of it? I've been
> wondering about that for a year. Before then, when
> I was just a boy, the world seemed full of everything,
> but now it seems to have only one thing. That
> or nothing. Then one day I saw a photograph somebody
> had cut out of a Sunday paper, and I thought
> to myself there's a man who seems outside, entirely
> outside, and yet he has something. It wasn't all or
> nothing for him ... and I wondered who it was.
> Then I found your book, with the same picture in it.
> You bet I read it right off! It was the first time in
> my life I had ever felt power as great as skyscrapers
> and railroads and yet apart from them. Outside of
> all they mean. Like the Old Testament. Those
> poems!
> 
> The Man
> 
> You liked them?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> It was more than that. How can a fellow like the
> ocean, or a snow storm?
> 
> The Man
> 
> Is that what you thought they were like?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Why, they went off like a fourteen inch gun! Not
> a whine about life in them—not a single regret for
> anything. They were wonderful! They seemed to
> pick up mountains and cities and toss them all about
> like toys. They made me feel that what I was looking
> for was able to conquer what I didn't like....
> I said to myself I don't care if he does laugh at me,
> I'll go and ask him where all that power is! And
> so I came....
> 
> The Man
> 
> There's Rex now—over across the road. He's wondering
> who you are. He sees we are friends, and
> he's pretending to be jealous. Dogs are funny,
> aren't they? But you were speaking about my poems.
> It's odd that their first criticism should come from
> you like this. You must be about the same age I
> was when I began writing—when I wanted above
> anything to write a book like that, and when such a
> book seemed the most impossible thing I could do.
> Like trying to swim the Atlantic, or live forever.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> It seemed impossible? I should think it would be the
> most natural thing in the world, for you—like eating
> dinner.
> 
> The Man
> 
> That's the wonderful thing—not the book, but that
> I should have come to write it!
> 
> The Boy
> 
> But who else could write it?
> 
> The Man
> 
> At your age I thought anybody could—anybody and
> everybody except myself.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Really?
> 
> The Man
> 
> Really and truly. You've no idea what a useless
> misfit I was.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> But I read somewhere you had always been brilliant,
> even as a boy.
> 
> The Man
> 
> Unfortunately ... yes. That was what made it so
> hard for me. Shall I tell you about it?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> I wish you would!
> 
> The Man
> 
> Brilliance—I'll tell you what that was, at least for
> me. I wrote several things that people called "brilliant."
> One in particular, a little play of decadent
> epigram. It was acted by amateurs before an admiring
> "select" audience. That was when I was
> twenty-one. From about sixteen on I had been
> acutely miserable—physically miserable. I never
> knew when I wouldn't actually cave in. I felt like a
> bankrupt living on borrowed money. Of course, it's
> plain enough now—the revolt of starved nerves. I
> cared only for my mind, grew only in that, and the
> rest of me withered up like a stalk in dry soil. So
> the flower drooped too—in decadent epigram. But
> nobody pointed out the truth of it all to me, and I
> scorned to give my body a thought. People predicted
> a brilliant future—for me, crying inside! Then
> I married. I married the girl who had taken the
> star part in the play. According to the logic of the
> situation, it was inevitable. Everybody remarked
> how inevitable it was. A decorative girl, you know.
> She wanted to be the wife of a great man.... Well,
> we didn't get along. There was an honest streak in
> me somewhere which hated deception. I couldn't
> play the part of "brilliant" young poet with any
> success. She was at me all the while to write more
> of the same thing. And I didn't want to. The difference
> between the "great" man I was supposed to
> be and the sick child I really was, began to torture.
> I knew I oughtn't to go on any further if I wanted
> to do anything real. Then one night we had an
> "artistic" dinner. My wife had gotten hold of a famous
> English poet, and through him a publisher. The
> publisher was her real game. I drank champagne before
> dinner so as to be "brilliant." I was. And before
> I realized it, Norah had secured a promise from the
> publisher to bring out a book of plays. I remember
> she said it was practically finished. But it wasn't,
> only the one, and I hated that. But I sat down conscientiously
> to write the book that she, and apparently
> all the world that counted, expected me to
> write. Well, I couldn't write it. Not a blessed word!
> Something inside me refused to work. And there I
> was. In a month or so she began to ask about it.
> Norah thought I ought to turn them out while she
> waited. I walked up and down the park one afternoon
> wondering what to tell her.... And when I
> realized that either she would never understand or
> would despise me, I grew desperate. I wrote her a
> note, full of fine phrases about "incompatibility,"
> her "unapproachable ideals," the "soul's need of freedom"—things
> she would understand and wear a
> heroic attitude about—and fled. I came here....
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Of course. But didn't she follow you? Didn't they
> bother you?
> 
> The Man
> 
> Not a bit. Norah preferred her lonely heroism. In
> a few months I was quite forgotten. That was one
> of the healthful things I learned. Well, I was a
> wreck when I came here, I wanted only to lie down
> under a tree.... And there it was, under that tree
> yonder, my salvation came.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Your salvation?
> 
> The Man
> 
> Hunger. That was my salvation. Simple, elemental,
> unescapable appetite. You see I had no servant,
> no one at all. So I had to get up and work
> to prepare my food.... It was very strange.
> Compared with this life, my life before had been like
> living in a locked box. Some one to do everything
> for me except think, and consequently I thought too
> much. But here the very fact of life was brought
> home to me. I spent weeks working about the house
> and grounds on the common necessities. By the time
> winter came on the place was fit to live in—and I
> was enjoying life. All the "brilliance" had faded
> away; I was as simple as a blade of grass.
> 
> For a year I didn't write a word. I had the courage
> to wait for the real thing, nobody pestering me to
> be a "genius"! Some day you may read that first
> book. People said I had re-discovered the virtue of
> humility. I had.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> I will read it! And how much more it will mean to
> me now!
> 
> The Man
> 
> I suppose you know the theory about vibrations—how
> if a little push is given a bridge, and repeated
> often enough at the right intervals, the bridge will
> fall?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Yes.
> 
> The Man
> 
> Well, that's the whole secret of what you have been
> looking for—what you found in my poems.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> I don't understand.
> 
> The Man
> 
> A man's life is a rhythm. Eating, sleeping, working,
> playing, loving, thinking—everything. And
> when we live so that each activity comes at the right
> interval, we gain power. When one interrupts another,
> we lose. Weakness is merely the thrust of one
> impulse against another, instead of their combined
> thrust against the world. When I came here, feeling
> like a criminal, I was obeying the one right instinct
> in a welter of emotions. It was like the faintest of
> heart beats in a sick body. I listened to that. Then
> I learned physical hunger, then sleep, and so on.
> It's incredible how stupid I was about the elemental
> art of living! I had to begin all over from the beginning,
> as if no one had ever lived before.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> That's what you meant in your poems about religion.
> 
> The Man
> 
> Exactly! I learned that "good" is the rhythm of
> the man's personal nature, and that "evil" is merely
> the confusion of the same impulses. As time went
> on it became instinctive to live for and by the rhythm.
> Everything about my life here was caught up and
> used in the vision of power—drawing water, cutting
> wood, digging in the garden, dawn. It was all marvelous—I
> couldn't help writing those poems. They
> are the natural joys and sorrows of ten years. As a
> matter of fact, though, I grew to care less and less
> about writing, as living became fuller and richer.
> People write too much. They would write less if
> they had to make the fire in the morning.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> The first impulse ... I see. Oh, life might be so
> simple!
> 
> The Man
> 
> Why not? The animals have it. Men have it at
> times, but we make each other forget. If we could
> only be each other's reminders instead of forgetters!
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Yes! But I see the only thing to do is to go away,
> like you.
> 
> The Man
> 
> Not necessarily, I was merely a bad case, and required
> a desperate remedy, earth and air and freedom
> from others' will. I need the country, but the
> next man might require the city as passionately.
> Don't imagine that only the hermits, like me, live
> instinctively. It can be done in New York, too, only
> one mustn't be so sensitive to others.... After all,
> friend, we were wrong in saying that this power lies
> outside the world of skyscrapers and business. It
> doesn't lie outside nor inside. It cuts across everything.
> Do you see? For it's all a matter of the
> man's own soul.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Then?
> 
> The Man
> 
> We can't live in a vacuum. The more you feel the
> force, the more you must act. The more you can
> act. And in the long run it doesn't matter what you
> do, if you do what your own instinct bids.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Then I could stay right in the midst of it?
> 
> The Man
> 
> Yes. And if you were thinking of writing poetry,
> it might even be better to stay in the midst of it.
> Drama, you know ... and it's time for a new
> drama.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> It isn't that, with me. I can't write.... I had one
> splendid teacher. He used to talk about things
> right in class. He said that most educated people
> think that intellect is a matter of making fine
> distinctions—of seeing as two separate points what the
> unintelligent would believe was one point; but that
> this idea was finicky. He wanted us to see that intelligence
> might also be a matter of seeing the connection
> between two things so far apart that most
> people would think they were always separate. I
> like that. It made education mean something, because
> it made it depend on imagination instead of
> grubbing. And then he told us about the history of
> our subject—grammar. How it began as poetry, when
> every word was an original creation; and then became
> philosophy, as people had to arrange speech
> with thought; and then science, with more or less
> exact, laws. I could see it—the thing became alive.
> And he said all knowledge passed through the same
> stages, and there isn't anything that can't eventually
> be made scientific. That made me think a good deal.
> I wondered if somebody couldn't work out a way of
> preventing anybody from being poor. It seems so
> unnecessary, with so much work being done. That's
> what I want to do. Thanks to you, I—
> 
> The Man
> 
> Here's Rex! Rex, know my good friend. I know you
> will like him. Rex always cares for the people I do,
> don't you, Rex?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Of course, I see one thing: it's the people nearest
> one that make the most difference. Mother, now, she
> will understand.... You don't believe in marrying,
> though, do you?
> 
> The Man
> 
> I certainly do!
> 
> The Boy
> 
> But I thought—
> 
> The Man
> 
> You thought because I left one woman and hadn't
> found another that I didn't care for women? Others
> believe that, too, but it isn't so. On the contrary.
> You see, I didn't so much leave her as get away from
> my own failure. Of course, there is such a thing as
> the wrong woman. She makes a man a fraction.
> The better she is in herself, the less she leaves him
> to live by. One twentieth is less than one half. But
> the right woman! She multiplies a man....
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Oh!
> 
> The Man
> 
> Why, you might have told from my poems how I
> believe in love.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> I don't remember any love poems.
> 
> The Man
> 
> Bless your heart! Every one of them was a love
> poem. Not the old-fashioned kind, about fading
> roses and tender hearts.... I sent that book out
> as a cry for the mate. It is charged with the fulness
> of love. That's why I could write about trees and
> storms.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> I suppose if I had been older....
> 
> The Man
> 
> It isn't one's age but one's need. She will understand.
> Look, the sun has gone round the corner of
> the house. Is that lunch you have in the parcel?
> 
> The Boy
> 
> Yes.
> 
> The Man
> 
> Would you like to make it a picnic? I'll get something
> from the house, and then we can walk to the
> woods.
> 
> The Boy
> 
> I'd love to!
> 
> The Man
> 
> All right, I'll be ready in no time. Come, Rex!
> 
> SURVIVAL
> 
> The garden of a home in the suburbs. A man is walking
> up and down alone at dusk, occasionally stopping
> to water a plant, but more often falling into deep
> thought, unconscious of his surroundings. About the
> place there is an air of newness and prosperity.
> 
> A young woman enters the garden from the lawn
> next door.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Look here, Roger, you can't keep this up!
> 
> Roger
> 
> No, I can't keep this up. Besides, it's going to rain
> to-morrow.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> What do you mean?
> 
> Roger
> 
> Watering the plants. Isn't that what you meant?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> You aren't watering the plants. I've been watching
> you for half an hour. If you only would! But you
> keep forgetting what you are at.
> 
> Roger
> 
> I wish it were only forgetting—it's remembering.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Oh Roger, don't I know? But you mustn't!
> 
> Roger
> 
> I suppose not. I suppose not.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> I knew all along, and I kept away. How you felt, I
> mean. I ought to have come over a week ago. You
> haven't anybody to talk to—that's the trouble,
> Roger, really. I know. Now let's have the whole
> thing out. Come. And don't be afraid of me. Why,
> I could tie you all up in bandages if you needed it.
> And not flinch.
> 
> Roger
> 
> Yes, I guess you could.... It's, it's absurd how
> well I keep!
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Hm. Isn't it? You ought to be wilting away like a
> rose. But no, you keep your splendid strength and
> go on with two or three men's work! What would
> your mother think if she heard you talking like that?
> Don't you know that you couldn't please her better
> than by going on as you are?
> 
> Roger
> 
> That's so. Of course. But that really isn't what I
> was thinking of. I was thinking how queer this whole
> business is. Take our family. As far back as I
> know we were always struggling along with many
> children and few means. I am the first one who could
> really make money. And just when I could make
> mother comfortable and easy ... besides, I'm all
> alone.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Ah, Roger, of course you feel that way! But you
> don't really appreciate that wonderful mother of
> yours. Do you think her happiness depended on
> having a new house, and a car?
> 
> Roger
> 
> No....
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Didn't she round out her life beautifully? Wasn't
> she repaid for her struggles by seeing you succeed?
> Didn't she pass away as quietly as going to sleep?
> And wasn't her marriage happy? You don't know
> how much a woman will meet with, if she's happy!
> 
> Roger
> 
> That part of it I can face all right, though I suppose
> it's hard for the ordinary selfish man to realize
> that love like mother's is its own reward. But toward
> the end she suffered—she worried....
> 
> Margaret
> 
> I know she did. She told me.
> 
> Roger
> 
> She told you? I didn't know that.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> We were good friends, your mother and I—and
> women. That's why she told me. And I think I
> reassured her.
> 
> Roger
> 
> Oh! She did seem to get mightily comforted, just at
> the last. I never understood why.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> I thank heaven I really did that!—And when I looked
> out the window and saw you standing here, I had
> to come over. I knew it wasn't your mother's death
> that was hurting you, but—but your brother's.
> 
> Roger
> 
> Arthur ... I'm glad the accident happened after
> she died.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Yes. But there's something else. Something that
> hurts. You've got to tell me. Everything. Don't
> be afraid. Face it.
> 
> Roger
> 
> I have faced it. I—I've made up my mind.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> There's still pain somewhere. Is it in the way you
> have made up your mind?
> 
> Roger
> 
> How could that be?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> It depends. But tell me what you thought—I mean
> during this last year or so. It didn't come to you
> all at once.
> 
> Roger
> 
> Well.... Of course, I always took it for granted
> about his music. He seemed to be wonderful at that.
> And mother believed so in him. It really began when
> he left college, I found he had debts.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Debts?
> 
> Roger
> 
> Yes. Not just clothes and living—other things. I
> paid up, but I didn't like it. I didn't like the things.
> But I thought it was just a boy's foolishness. I
> thought he would be all right after that, but—he
> wasn't.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> He wasn't....
> 
> Roger
> 
> No. After a couple of years I had to straighten it
> out again. I came down on him flat. He promised
> to cut it.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> But he was doing such wonderful work!
> 
> Roger
> 
> Yes, everybody began to say so. If he had only been
> that alone, the musician! But—
> 
> Margaret
> 
> But afterward?
> 
> Roger
> 
> Well, a year ago I began to hear things said again.
> And then I found letters and bills. It was the same
> thing all over. He hadn't kept his word.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> But what did he say?
> 
> Roger
> 
> I let it go for weeks, hoping he would say something.
> But never a word.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> He loved you so. How he must have suffered!
> 
> Roger
> 
> Yes, I suppose he did suffer. But if he cared so for
> me why did he try to keep it hidden, the one thing
> I would hate most?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> That was his way. It made him ashamed.
> 
> Roger
> 
> Well, he couldn't keep it dark forever. Mother almost
> found out.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Almost found out?
> 
> Roger
> 
> Yes. So of course I stepped in. We had a frightful
> row.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> When was that?
> 
> Roger
> 
> Six months ago. I got him clear. It was hard—this
> time the woman almost got him.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Oh!
> 
> Roger
> 
> I helped him. But I did it on one condition—that
> he go to work.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Work? What about his music?
> 
> Roger
> 
> That's what he said. But I asked him if he had
> thought about his music when he got into these
> scrapes. He couldn't say a word. So it was all arranged
> for him to go into my office, right under my
> eye, when mother was taken sick. Then she wanted
> him to stay near her, so.... And then she died.
> And the accident. Well I don't see what more I
> could have done.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> No.... Of course, it wasn't as if you turned
> against him. And the office—he was to pay you
> back that way?
> 
> Roger
> 
> Pay me back? Why, if he could, naturally; but that
> wasn't my idea, that was only incidental. My idea
> was to get him into the habit of hard work.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> But he always did work!
> 
> Roger
> 
> Oh, he worked hard enough. At least he turned out
> a good deal. But that was spasmodic—night and
> day for weeks, and then loafing for weeks more.
> That's how he always got into trouble: loafing in
> between.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Don't you remember how splendid he was the day
> he had just finished something? He seemed to have
> passed out of himself into a shining humility. It
> was said of Shelley: "Sun-treader!"... Don't you
> remember?
> 
> Roger
> 
> Yes.... Oh hang it! Why couldn't he have been
> only that! Yes, I remember. I hoped that six
> months or so at the office—but no. Anyhow, it's all
> over now.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> What were you going to say?
> 
> Roger
> 
> I suppose I might as well say it: I don't believe the
> office would have changed him, after all. That is,
> permanently. He'd have done his best for a while,
> and then—. No, nothing could help him.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Is that what you have made up your mind about?
> 
> Roger
> 
> Oh, that. Yes, that's what started me thinking.
> Everybody has difficulties, troubles, and I believe in
> helping a fellow every time. Life piles up too high
> against one sometimes, but a little shove from the
> other side will move it away. I never believed in the
> devil take the hindmost, at all. But this was different.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Different, how? What do you mean?
> 
> Roger
> 
> I mean that as long as a fellow's difficulties are outside
> him you can help him, because as soon as they
> are removed he's himself again; but when they are
> inside, part of the man himself, there's nothing you
> can do. Nothing. You can save a person from the
> world, but not from himself. That's where the devil
> comes in. I see it now. I believe in the devil.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Oh! But Arthur....
> 
> Roger
> 
> I know you think I'm a brute for speaking of Arthur
> in connection with the devil, but it wasn't the old-fashioned
> devil I meant. I meant the devil of unfitness.
> Arthur wasn't fit. He had every chance. We
> can't get away from what life is. Life shoves people
> to the wall every day. I've had to fight hard myself.
> I admit things aren't fair all round, but Arthur
> had his chance, two or three chances, and he just—dropped
> out. He couldn't survive. And it seems
> to me that for those who loved him it may be a good
> thing after all that he didn't have to go on.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Roger! You shan't say that! You shan't!
> 
> Roger
> 
> I don't want to, Margaret, but that's what life itself
> says. We can't get behind life. We can't beat evolution
> and the law of survival.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> But his talent, his fine talent—and his exquisite
> nature!
> 
> Roger
> 
> I know. But there it is. It's kinder in the long run
> to be cruel, if the truth is cruel. We've got to be
> true to things as they are.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> But take things as they are! He wasn't vicious
> about—about women, he was like a child. Of course
> they got his money, but even so, they weren't all mere
> schemers. Some of them were very decent. Why,
> one of them—
> 
> Roger
> 
> What the deuce do you know about them? What
> about one of them?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> She cried. She said she knew it wasn't right, that
> he couldn't marry her, but she did like him, and she
> had children of her own.... I'm sure she was very
> tender to him.
> 
> Roger
> 
> Who told you? Where did you see her?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> There.
> 
> Roger
> 
> There! In my own house?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Roger
> 
> How did she get there?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Your mother sent for her.
> 
> Roger
> 
> My mother sent for her? Then she knew?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Yes. She knew everything.
> 
> Roger
> 
> How?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> He told her—Arthur did.
> 
> Roger
> 
> Good Lord! I never heard a word of it.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> No. They were afraid—afraid you wouldn't understand.
> 
> Roger
> 
> Afraid I wouldn't understand? Why, I understood
> only too well. It was mother that wouldn't have understood.
> I'd have cut my hand off rather than tell
> her.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Well, she did understand. She understood better
> than you did. She understood that part of him
> hadn't grown up. He was like a boy. He just walked
> into things....
> 
> Roger
> 
> How did he ever come to tell her?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Once when he was sick. Your mother was taking
> care of him. He blurted it all out, like a homesick
> boy.
> 
> Roger
> 
> And she understood? Didn't break her heart, and all
> that?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Oh, it was a shock, naturally. But they talked it
> all over, and your mother sent for this woman. I
> knew. Arthur knew I knew....
> 
> Roger
> 
> And mother packed her away without telling me?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Oh, she didn't pack her away. That is, right off.
> 
> Roger
> 
> He kept on seeing her? With mother's knowledge?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Yes. Your mother liked her.
> 
> Roger
> 
> Well, if women aren't the strangest things!
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Yes, they are. Some of them. Fortunately. But
> you see how wrong you were, Roger?
> 
> Roger
> 
> How was I wrong?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> About this unfitness—this survival.
> 
> Roger
> 
> On the contrary. It only proves it.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> No, it doesn't. I've been thinking, too ... about
> saving people from themselves, and all that. You
> say it's the law of life, and we can't go beyond life.
> 
> Roger
> 
> No, we can't. I still say it.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Then what about your mother? What about all
> women who—
> 
> Roger
> 
> About mother?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> Yes. Wasn't her love a part of life? And didn't she
> keep on loving him in spite of everything? Is that
> love blind and foolish—something for your old evolution
> to get rid of?
> 
> Roger
> 
> I never thought of it. No, of course we don't want
> to get rid of that—but even so, she didn't save him.
> 
> Margaret
> 
> She didn't know about it until lately—thanks to you.
> If she had known sooner—and anyhow, you don't
> know—Of course, she couldn't have saved him
> directly. But indirectly ... through another
> woman—
> 
> Roger
> 
> Through another woman?
> 
> Margaret
> 
> I mean, supposing there was another woman who
> loved him—one who could be to him all he needed,
> who would understand, and who was all right. One
> he could marry.
> 
> Roger
> 
> Yes, but—
> 
> Margaret
> 
> And supposing this other woman had heard things
> about Arthur, and was terribly hurt, and Arthur
> knew she was, and that's why he kept away; but your
> mother talked with her for a long while, and made her
> understand. Even sent for that woman—you know.
> And then this woman, the right one, did understand,
> and was ready to marry Arthur....
> 
> Roger
> 
> Margaret, are you crying? Are you crying, Margaret?
> Margaret, was it you?
> 
> THE TELEGRAM
> 
> Perron, a stout, middle-aged figure, is seated in front
> of his watchmaker's establishment near the Place St.
> Sulpice. The awning sags, and the shop wears an air
> of sober discouragement. Whatever expression the
> years have left Perron's round face capable of is concentrated
> upon the changing scenes cinematographed to
> his mind's eye by some strong and unusual emotion.
> Alexandre, a tall, stooped man, with a flowing black tie,
> bows in passing with old-fashioned punctiliousness to
> Perron, who apparently is unaware of his presence.
> Suddenly Perron starts, rubs his eyes, and glares about.
> 
> Perron
> 
> Alexandre! Alexandre!
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> Good day, my friend. You seem distraught.
> 
> Perron
> 
> Distraught! It was the strangest thing! But sit
> here with me. Do. I have something to tell you.
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> I regret exceedingly, but a stupid engagement....
> Later, perhaps—
> 
> Perron
> 
> No! No! I insist! Only a great mind like yours
> can explain the strange thing which has happened.
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> Ah, in that case—what is a mere business affair compared
> with divine philosophy? Far from being
> pressé, friend Perron, I have an eternity at your
> service.
> 
> Perron
> 
> First of all, tell me the exact date!
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> That I can do, and not on my own authority, which
> in such details is often unreliable. This morning my
> concierge announced with great delicacy and feeling
> that to-day is Friday, the fifteenth July, and my rent
> is once more due. My rent, which—
> 
> Perron
> 
> Friday the fifteenth! Impossible!
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> Alas. My concierge is of a precision the most
> meticulous. For all legal, financial and military
> affairs, throughout the French Republic at least, to-day
> is Friday the fifteenth. But why should this
> seem impossible to you, a scientist and a watchmaker?
> 
> Perron
> 
> Only listen, and you will understand why I am
> tempted to doubt the calendar of the Church itself.
> Two weeks ago my wife announced to me that she
> had reason to expect the due arrival of a son. She
> said there could be no question it will be a son because
> in her mother's family for three generations it
> has been the same, three daughters followed by a
> son.
> 
> Eh bien, although I have always desired a son to follow
> me in this honorable and scientific profession,
> nevertheless I received the news with a certain consternation.
> In short, my affairs have not gone too
> well of late, and without my wife's assistance by her
> needle....
> 
> That evening I thought much how I might increase
> my funds, and so for two weeks—two weeks, mon
> ami—I have omitted my customary café after
> dejeuner, which all these years I have not failed to
> take with a serious group of friends at the Trois
> Arts, and even have I smoked no cigarettes. True,
> this has not added much to our wealth, though it
> has been some satisfaction to realize I have done my
> possible. My health has suffered somewhat—I have
> grown absent-minded, and in the morning my head
> feels strange. However, that may not be due entirely
> to my unnatural abstinence.
> 
> However, on Friday the fifteenth July, at three
> o'clock precisely, as I sat here in meditation having
> finished a small work, I saw a telegraph boy hurry
> toward me down the street. Then had I a premonition.
> My heart beat as it has not these twenty years.
> In an instant I was reading the message: my brother,
> who long ago ran away on adventure to Indo-China,
> had just died and left me a fortune in tea.
> 
> That was on Friday the fifteenth. And do you know
> what has happened since? I have lived two separate
> lives. Yes, two existences have unrolled before me.
> In one I saw myself as I would have been without the
> telegram. My business fell away; my son was born
> a daughter, to my wife's indignation and my own
> dismay; and having sold my little shop I sought work
> in a cursed factory. Ah me, it was terrible! But
> the other picture. With my brother's fortune I made
> aggrandisements and eventually moved to the Rue de
> la Paix. My scientific genius was at last appreciated,
> and my watches and clocks became the pride
> of the haute monde. My son grew into a fine man,
> much resembling myself, and after learning the profession
> opened a branch office at Buenos Ayres. I
> won the ribbon. In short, nothing lacked to make
> life agreeable and meritorious.
> 
> But then it was, just at that point, I came to myself
> and looking up recognized my friend the philosopher.
> Years seemed to have passed—two separate life
> times—and startled at finding myself seated in the
> same chair and wearing the same clothes, I demanded
> of you what day it was. And you answered Friday
> the fifteenth. How can such a thing be possible?
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> To think that you, a watchmaker and a petit bourgeois,
> should experience what many a saint has died
> without realizing! I salute you, mystic, descendent
> of prophets and seers!
> 
> Perron
> 
> But what was it then?
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> What was it? A mystical experience, an experience
> of the highest order, like unto Saint Therese, though
> in symbols of mundane things. But that is the fault
> of the age more than yourself. With more practise
> your mind will exhibit even greater power. You
> must continue in the path. Who knows what you
> could do after years of self-denial, when a mere two
> weeks without cigarettes have brought you this
> vision?
> 
> Perron
> 
> And without coffee. Don't forget the café! And
> now that I am rich I shall never go without it again.
> No, on the contrary, I shall have at least two, and
> on a silver tray.
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> Do you mean to say you really believe?—But it
> doesn't matter. Whether or not the telegram came,
> the important fact is that you had the vision. It
> is for this you must be grateful.
> 
> Perron
> 
> Can a philosopher really be such a fool? Of course
> the telegram came! And I am grateful!
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> No. You are the most ungrateful of men. But why
> mention the telegram? What matters is whether your
> vision arose from seeing the telegram or seeing the
> telegraph boy? The philosophic truth is the same.
> 
> Perron
> 
> Mon dieu! What difference does it make? But I
> swear I have the telegram, and it reads just as I
> told you!
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> But no! You are ungrateful, and for that I despise
> you!
> 
> Perron
> 
> But yes! And after reading it four times I locked
> it in my safe. Do I not know I entered my shop and
> locked it up?
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> Yes, and do you not know also that you moved to
> the Rue de la Paix?
> 
> Perron
> 
> Oh! Could it have been—Then I am ruined, and my
> brother is the most selfish of men!
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. In the path
> shall you grow steadfast and contented.
> 
> Perron
> 
> It doesn't matter!
> 
> Alexandre
> 
> Not at all. And when you have become reasonable
> and grateful, I shall return and speak further with
> you. I shall devise for you such sacrifice as shall
> make the saints but as little children. Au revoir.
> 
> (He turns away. The clock of St. Sulpice tones the
> half hour. The watchmaker listens to it with open
> mouth, and trembling violently, darts through the
> door of his shop.)
> 
> RAIN
> 
> PERSONS
> 
> Charles Everitt
> 
> Mary, his wife
> 
> Walter, seventeen
> 
> Alice, fifteen
> 
> Harold, five
> 
> The scene shows a hotel "parlor" in the White Mountains.
> Beneath the flashy ugliness of its modern wall
> paper and upholstery, a certain refinement persists
> from an older generation. The room itself is well proportioned,
> with a very good hearth. The parlor might
> once have been the ball room in a squire's mansion.
> 
> It is about seven o'clock of an August evening, the
> room feebly lighted by a flickering acetylene burner.
> One feels the commencement of rain. A door to the
> rear opens and the Everitts enter, the younger children
> first.
> 
> Harold
> 
> She didn't give me any toast. I want some toast!
> 
> Walter
> 
> A rotten supper!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Never mind, Harold, you had two cups of that beautiful
> milk.
> 
> Alice
> 
> Of course it was rotten. Everything's second rate
> here. Ugh! what a musty smell!
> 
> Walter
> 
> I told father we ought to go ahead. The car could
> have done another six miles easily. And we'd have
> reached the Mountain Inn.
> 
> Alice
> 
> I'm sure there's a dance there to-night!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> The car could not have done the six miles. We were
> lucky to make that last hill. You might have had to
> walk the whole way.
> 
> Alice
> 
> Well, we always start too soon or too late. For
> goodness sake let's at least have some light. There's
> no use having it as dark inside as out. (Everitt goes
> about lighting all the burners)
> 
> Harold
> 
> Hear the rain, rain, rain!
> 
> Walter
> 
> It is coming down. I never heard it make so much
> noise.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> That's because city people never have a roof over
> their heads!
> 
> Alice
> 
> Why, mother, the rain makes your voice vibrate
> like—
> 
> Walter
> 
> Like a fire engine. I stood right by one, once.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Come, Harold, sit on my lap.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Shall I close the blinds?
> 
> Alice
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> No, don't. Nobody's about on a night like this.
> 
> Harold
> 
> Wish I could see rain. What it like?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> What's what like?
> 
> Harold
> 
> Rain—rain.
> 
> Alice
> 
> Like shower baths.
> 
> Harold
> 
> Oh. Mother, tell me story about rain. I like rain!
> (Everitt feels about for his cigar case. A letter falls
> from his pocket which he picks up hurriedly)
> 
> Everitt
> 
> I'm going for a cigar.
> 
> Walter
> 
> It's like being in a submarine!
> 
> Harold
> 
> Mother, tell me story!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Once upon a time—
> 
> Walter
> 
> I'm going out for a minute.
> 
> Alice
> 
> I wish....
> 
> Harold
> 
> Once on a time!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Oh, yes. Once there was a little girl who lived in the
> country.
> 
> Harold
> 
> What country?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> A country something like this. She and her mother
> lived in a little house beside a brook. The little girl
> loved to listen to the brook outside her window at
> night. One day she asked her mother where the
> brook went to. She didn't want her brook to run
> away. And what do you suppose her mother said?
> 
> Harold
> 
> What her mother say?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> She said the brook didn't really run away, when it
> got out of sight across the fields it turned into rain.
> So then the little girl was glad whenever it rained,
> because she knew it was the little brook coming back
> to her.
> 
> Harold
> 
> Oh. And is this rain the brook coming back? The
> little girl's brook?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> The little girl grew up and went away. But it's some
> little girl's brook. (Walter comes in with sticks)
> 
> Walter
> 
> I thought we'd have a fire.
> 
> Alice
> 
> Good! Make a big one.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Now, Harold, mother is going to put you in a nice
> bed, right under the roof where the rain-drops whisper
> and sing. (She takes Harold out)
> 
> Alice
> 
> Where'd father go?
> 
> Walter
> 
> He said he wanted a cigar.
> 
> Alice
> 
> He's been a long time.
> 
> Walter
> 
> Perhaps he's gone to look at the engine.
> 
> Alice
> 
> Walter, what's the matter with them? Last
> night....
> 
> Walter
> 
> I don't know. I heard them, too. It isn't the first
> time they have quarreled.
> 
> Alice
> 
> It's terrible!
> 
> Walter
> 
> Father's got a rotten temper, lately.
> 
> Alice
> 
> I thought she wanted him—
> 
> Walter
> 
> She did, but he had no business to get so angry about
> it.
> 
> Alice
> 
> But why did she want to change our plans at the
> last minute and go into Connecticut? Everything
> was arranged to come here.
> 
> Walter.
> 
> She said he had arranged it without speaking to her.
> She said—there's something about it I don't understand.
> 
> Alice
> 
> I don't either. I—(Mrs. Everitt enters)
> 
> Walter
> 
> Did he go to sleep?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> No. He is talking to the rain. I never heard him
> say such odd things. I hated to leave him. It seemed
> as if he heard voices....
> 
> Walter
> 
> Sit down, mother. It's very jolly here.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Thank you, Walter. How many years since I've enjoyed
> a real fire, like this!
> 
> Walter
> 
> Oh, there isn't enough wood. Just a minute—(He
> goes out)
> 
> Alice
> 
> You look tired.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> I'm all right, dear.
> 
> Alice
> 
> No you're not. Why won't you tell me?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> But Alice, there's nothing to tell. I do feel a little
> tired, but then, I shall be all right in the morning.
> 
> Alice
> 
> I wish—(Walter enters with more wood)
> 
> Walter
> 
> Well, Alice, are you still thinking about that dance?
> 
> Alice
> 
> Why no, I'd forgotten all about it. Who could
> dance in such a rain? It would make the music seem
> artificial. I'm getting tired of boys, too. They
> don't really feel things—like rain, and fire.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> What's that noise,—Harold?
> 
> Walter
> 
> No. It's the men in the bar room.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> I'm sure it's Harold.
> 
> Alice
> 
> I'll go see. (She goes out)
> 
> Walter
> 
> Mother.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> What, Walter?
> 
> Walter
> 
> I must be an awful coward—
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Why, what do you mean?
> 
> Walter
> 
> I mean that when I really want something, and ought
> to say so, I go along without saying it. I don't mean
> that I'm really afraid to say it, but I always feel
> somehow that other people ought to know what I
> want, and save me the trouble of asking it. No, not
> trouble exactly—but you know what I mean.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Yes, Walter, I'm afraid I know exactly what you
> mean. Lots of us are cursed with the same instinct.
> I am, and sometimes I believe your father is, too. It
> ought to be that when one sees a thing clearly in his
> own mind, and knows it is best, others—at least those
> near to him—should somehow be aware of it. But
> they usually are not.
> 
> Walter
> 
> No. And it's those nearest one that it's hardest to
> say things to. But to-night, somehow, I don't feel
> that way.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Tell me.
> 
> Walter
> 
> It's this architecture. You remember when I used
> to play with water colors all the while, and say I
> was going to be an artist?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Yes, but—
> 
> Walter
> 
> Father always said I would get over it. But when
> I didn't, then it occurred to him that if I learned
> architecture I could help him in his building.... I
> thought architecture would be the same. But it isn't.
> I can't see any art in it at all—it's nothing but engineering.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> But Walter, you haven't gone far enough in it. The
> art will come later.
> 
> Walter
> 
> No it won't! At least not with father. He never
> builds anything that lets me imagine. You don't
> know how I hate those blue prints. I've been worrying
> along so far because I didn't want to disappoint
> father, though every day I hoped he would see what
> I really felt. But to-night I know I can't go on any
> longer without having it out. If he will let me follow
> my own idea he will be better pleased in the end
> than if I stick at this business of his. It will require
> one good fight, and then I shall be free to show what
> I can do.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> But Walter, what is it exactly you want to do?
> 
> Walter.
> 
> I suppose I ought to say that I want to be an artist
> rather than a builder's draughtsman, but that isn't
> really it. I mean that behind the brain I think with
> every day there is another brain, bigger and wiser,
> that keeps asking the chance to show the rest of me
> what and how to act. In ordinary things the everyday
> mind gets along by itself all right, but I feel the
> other self there all the while, wanting me to begin
> something different, something to let it escape from
> dreaming to doing. And it keeps threatening that
> some day it will he too late. Only begin, begin!...
> Yes, I have worried along so far, but just to-night,
> for some reason or other, I seem to be standing on
> the brink. I won't go another step. It's in the rain
> now—I hear it. Oh, the pictures I could paint if
> we lived in the country!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> In the country!
> 
> Walter
> 
> Yes. It comes over me here how much these hills
> mean. Oh! and there's another thing, mother....
> I thought I was born in New York, I thought we
> always lived there, but just a while ago I ran onto
> your old family Bible, and it had the records in it.
> I—
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Oh, Walter!
> 
> Walter
> 
> It seems queer that neither of you said anything
> about it, if I was really born in this very town....
> I might never have thought much about it, but to-night
> everything seems to be stirred up. Tell me,
> mother—
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> We lived here only a little while. We didn't like it,
> so your father sold his farm and we went away to
> New York.
> 
> Walter
> 
> Yes, but why wasn't something said about it when
> we came here this afternoon? It seems funny, not to.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Dear, there was a little family trouble, long ago,
> which is best forgotten.
> 
> Walter
> 
> Oh.
> 
> Alice (entering)
> 
> It wasn't Harold, after all, but I just had to stay
> and listen to him. He tried over and over to tell
> me something. I couldn't make out what it was until
> he showed me with his hands—you know that funny
> little way he has—and what do you suppose it was?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> The dear child. What was it?
> 
> Alice
> 
> Why, he remembered the big drum he saw once in a
> parade, and he was trying to explain that he was
> inside a drum. The rain, you know.
> 
> Everitt (entering)
> 
> We had to jack up the car. The barn is flooding
> with water.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Is that where you were?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Yes.... How strange you look in that light, Alice!
> I never saw you look like that before. (He kisses
> her)
> 
> Alice
> 
> Oh!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> What is it, Alice?
> 
> Alice
> 
> Why ... I thought his cigar was going to burn me.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Oh.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Alice, you jumped because you didn't like my breath.
> I'm sorry, I did take a drink, and I shouldn't have
> kissed you, only....
> 
> Walter
> 
> Only what?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> She looked just as Mary did when I first knew her.
> It startled me.
> 
> Alice
> 
> Do I?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Was I like that?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Of course you were.
> 
> Alice
> 
> Oh, I'm glad!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Thank you, dear, but you're not half so glad as I am.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> It's queer, there used to be a fine old stock up in
> this country. It seems to have died out. The people
> here don't half appreciate the place.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> But you haven't seen many of them, have you?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> No, I talked with some in the bar room.
> 
> Alice
> 
> Oh, the bar room?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Yes, I know. One can't judge from that. A filthy
> place—it made me ashamed of drinking. I only went
> in hoping to see some of the people I used to know.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Oh!
> 
> Walter
> 
> Where's my portfolio?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> In the office, with those hand bags we decided not to
> open.
> 
> Walter
> 
> I'm going to get it. I just had an idea.... (He
> goes out)
> 
> Everitt
> 
> It's only ten o'clock, but it seems like midnight.
> 
> Alice
> 
> So it does. Are we going on to-morrow? Will the
> car be all right?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> George says so. To-morrow? I suppose so.
> 
> Alice
> 
> Well, I'm going to bed.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> I hope Harold is asleep. Good night, dear.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Good night, Mary.
> 
> Alice
> 
> You said "Mary."
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Did I? Well, you might be, for all that.
> 
> Alice (leaving)
> 
> Good night.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> If she had on that blue dress you used to wear, your
> own mother couldn't tell you apart.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Charles.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> What?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Walter knows he was born here. He wants to know
> why we didn't mention it to-day.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> So do I! So do I want to know why we didn't mention
> it! It's been between us all these years!
> (Walter enters with his portfolio. He stands unnoticed
> at the door)
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> You want to know? You know very well yourself!
> It's I who ought to ask what the matter is!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> You? Good heavens! Wasn't it you who suddenly
> made up your mind we had to leave this town, and
> insisted and insisted until I sold the house? Didn't
> I do that to please you, because you went into hysterics
> about it, and I had to think of Walter? I
> didn't want to go. It isn't every man who would
> change his whole life for a woman's unreasonable
> whim!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Whim! It isn't every wife who—Oh! Oh!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Yes whim! And haven't I stayed away all these years
> from my people because you wouldn't hear to our
> coming back even for a visit?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> No you didn't stay away! You sneaked up here
> the very next year when you made that trip to Boston.
> And you can't deny it, because Janet Richardson
> wrote me.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Sneaked up here! Deny it! Are you mad? The
> only reason I didn't mention it was because I never
> understood your positive hatred for the place. What
> harm was there in coming back for a day or two?
> On every other subject you are all right, but whenever
> we get within a mile of mentioning this town I
> feel your hysteria, so I have kept still. But if there's
> anything you can say to explain yourself, for goodness
> sake say it! This nightmare has been between
> us long enough.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Yes, it has! Too long! And I like your way of saying
> you had to think of Walter! It was I had to
> think of my baby! If it hadn't been for Walter, I
> wouldn't have lived with you another day! I kept
> on at first so that he might be born with a father to
> look out for him, and then I kept on so that he
> needn't grow up in the shame of a divorce. But oh,
> the pain of it! To keep silent, year after year!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Look here, are we both crazy? Out with it!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Annie Pratt!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> What? Who?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Annie Pratt!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Who the devil's Annie Pratt? What's she got to do
> with it?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Ha! Not faithful even to her! Or are you trying
> to lie out of it? You can't, because I've still got the
> letter.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> What letter? I'm not going to stand these hysterics
> any longer!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> You needn't. But you've got to stand the truth,
> do you hear me? I found the letter in your pocket.
> We hadn't been married a year. I was so happy!
> Oh! Oh!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> So was I happy, Oh! Oh!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Hypocrite! "Dearest Charlie: You said it is I who
> am your wife really, because it's I who make you
> happy." Vile cat!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Annie Pratt, Annie Pratt. I remember her....
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> I should think you would! But any man who will—
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Look here! I've got the whole thing! You found
> that letter in my pocket?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Yes I did.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Well, do you remember my quarrel with Charlie
> Fisher?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Yes. Why?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Because, you poor child, that letter was written to
> him.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> To him!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Yes, Charlie Fisher. I found that he was going with
> Annie Pratt and I had it out with him one day in the
> barn. I told him if he didn't quit his foolishness I'd
> tell his people. We nearly came to blows—he was
> drinking too much, too—and I found that letter on
> the floor afterwards. I meant to burn it up, but I
> forgot it. And you thought I was the Charlie!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> God forgive me!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> But why on earth didn't you come right out with it?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Oh! You can't realize how crushed I felt. I wanted
> only to run away, like a wounded animal.... And
> then I couldn't bear to quarrel, for the sake of Walter.
> So it's been festering in me all this time.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> So that's it. Well, thank heaven! (He starts to
> embrace her)
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> But that letter you picked up so quickly to-night—was
> that from somebody else?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Lord, I'd almost forgotten it.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> There! And I was almost happy!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> For goodness sake, read it!
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> From your bank.... I don't understand it.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> It's simple enough. They won't make me another
> loan.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Well?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Between the unions and the new inspection—well, I
> can't finish the Broadway contract on time, and I'm
> done.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Done?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Done. Smashed. I might save ten thousand dollars,
> that's all. My life's work....
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> You mean money?
> 
> Everitt
> 
> I mean the lack of it.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Is that all? Thank heaven!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> All! But do you realize it means giving up the
> house, and beginning all over again on ten thousand
> dollars?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> I don't care. I was never happy there anyhow. And
> now I could be happy doing my own work in a tenement.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> I think I could be happy as a carpenter again by
> the day. But the children. It's going to be hard for
> them. Walter's architecture.
> 
> Walter
> 
> Father!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Good gracious! Where did you come from?
> 
> Walter
> 
> I came back from the office.... I heard what you
> were saying. So that's all right. But you needn't
> worry about my architecture. I was telling mother
> to-night. I don't like it—it isn't my work. I only
> wanted you to feel as I do about it. Just feel that
> I really want to paint—to be an artist. Even if I
> have to work at something else for a long time, I'll
> feel easier, knowing you realize what I want. I love
> color so. And I want to let my imagination go. I'll
> help in any way I can, naturally. I'm glad too. I
> mean, I had rather live in the country like this than
> in New York.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Good Lord! (Alice appears in the doorway holding
> Harold)
> 
> Walter
> 
> It seems to me that none of us has been really satisfied,
> so it isn't so bad after all. We can begin on
> something real to us all. Mother said she would be
> happy in a tenement. Well, maybe she would, but
> why not come up here?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Oh, Charles!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> Well ... but Alice.
> 
> Alice
> 
> Mother.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> You, too! What is it? What's the matter with
> Harold?
> 
> Alice
> 
> Nothing. He wouldn't go to sleep, and wouldn't.
> He said he wanted to sit in your lap. I never saw
> him so. I had to bring him.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Give him to me, dear.
> 
> Alice
> 
> And I knew something was going on down here...
> I could feel it. I don't know what it was, but there's
> one thing I do know.
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> What?
> 
> Alice
> 
> Why, ever since father said I looked as you used to
> I've been thinking about what you must have been
> like as a girl, and it came over me how useless I am.
> I've never done anything. And you must have done
> a lot.
> 
> Everitt
> 
> I should say she did!
> 
> Walter
> 
> There! Say, Alice, how'd you like to live in that
> white house we passed, the one with the orchard?
> 
> Alice
> 
> Really? And do things?
> 
> Mrs. Everitt
> 
> Charles!
> 
> Everitt
> 
> This is the most extraordinary night I ever heard of.
> Here I was, feeling like a condemned criminal because
> I'd lost my business, afraid to tell Mary and you
> children, and now you all seem positively glad of it.
> I expected all kinds of trouble, and all at once....
> What the deuce is it?
> 
> Harold
> 
> Rain—rain.... Mother, why can't the brook come
> back to the same little girl?
> 
> PICTURES
> 
> A studio on the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. There
> is a small entrance hall, kitchenette, and a balcony before
> which curtains are drawn. It is a winter afternoon,
> and a young man is busy at an easel placed close
> beside the north light. A young woman arranges tea
> things on the table.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Joe.
> 
> Joe
> 
> Um.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Joe!
> 
> Joe
> 
> Um—um! (She walks over, draws his watch from
> his pocket and shows him the time)
> 
> Silvia
> 
> It's nearly four o'clock.
> 
> Joe
> 
> Just a minute—the light's fine, and I want to finish.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Yes, I know, but he may be here any minute.
> 
> Joe
> 
> Tea on?
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Joe
> 
> Well, that'll keep him while I get ready. That's
> mostly what they came for, anyhow.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> But he's different. He isn't a Cook's tourist—
> 
> Joe
> 
> No, he's a relative!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> You wouldn't say that if one of your family dropped
> in. Besides, I've never even seen him. And he's
> something of a collector, Joe. He buys pictures.
> 
> Joe
> 
> So I hear. The last thing he bought was a Bougereau!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Well, he's a relative ... and when he sees your last
> things!
> 
> Joe
> 
> Um.... There, it's all done.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> I'm crazy to see it, Joe, but run up and get ready.
> Sh! (A knock at the door. Joe runs upstairs to
> the balcony. Silvia opens the door and admits Mr.
> Wentworth, rather stout and with gold spectacles)
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Mrs. Carson?
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Yes. This is Mr. Wentworth? Joe and I have been
> expecting you. Let me take your coat. The studio's
> rather upset just now—
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Delightful! How I love the atmosphere of work in a
> studio! I used to paint a bit myself, you know.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Did you? Father never mentioned that.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Oh, I guess everybody has forgotten it by now. An
> early adventure with life! Goodness only knows what
> might have happened, though, if the business hadn't
> fallen on me to look out for. I might have been a
> great artist. Ha!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> I'm sure you would, Mr. Wentworth. You've always
> been interested in art, haven't you?
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Yes indeed. Of course I have been very busy, until
> lately. But I always followed the best English
> magazines.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> My husband's upstairs getting the paint off his
> hands. He will be down in a minute. Then we'll
> have some tea.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> You don't paint, do you, Silvia? I may call you
> Silvia, may I not?
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Of course. No, I don't paint. I just fly around
> amongst the artists and see what's going on. Are
> you staying in Paris very long?
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> A couple of weeks more, at least. I am revelling in
> the galleries and museums here.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Here comes Joe. Joe, I want you to meet my cousin,
> Mr. Wentworth. Mr. Wentworth—Mr. Carson.
> 
> Joe
> 
> Very glad to meet you, Mr. Wentworth.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> It's a great pleasure for me to meet a real artist,
> Mr. Carson.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Excuse me a moment. I'll bring on the tea.
> 
> Joe
> 
> Oh, as for that—I'm working along. Sometimes I
> hit it—
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Ars longa, vita brevis you know! I want to see your
> pictures very much. I was just telling Silvia how I
> delight in the Louvre. I go there with a class for
> lectures every morning. I suppose you often copy
> the old masters?
> 
> Joe
> 
> Copy the old masters? I should say not. I'm not
> out to be a camera. It's all I can do to work out my
> own impressions.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Oh, I see. But—
> 
> Silvia
> 
> The tea's ready. Joe, bring up that chair for Mr.
> Wentworth. Mr. Wentworth, do you take cream
> and sugar?
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> If you please. Yes, two lumps. There's nothing like
> the atmosphere of a studio, is there? I love it. I
> feel I have missed so much. Still, the instinct for
> beauty, fragile as it is, does persist.... I was surprised
> to feel so many of my old emotions awake on
> coming to Paris. So much that hasn't been real to
> me for years! I have gained much inspiration for
> planning my new house.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> You are building a new house? I have heard father
> talk about your collection of Japanese prints.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> A really delightful thing, Japanese prints. Yes, I
> intend building on Long Island. And my new interest
> in pictures ... I shall have a gallery especially
> for them.
> 
> Joe
> 
> Americans haven't done any too much for art so far.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Oh, I assure you! I know many men who are continually
> buying the best on the market.
> 
> Joe
> 
> Oh, that....
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Another cup, Mr. Wentworth? Joe, pass the cake.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> No, thank you, Silvia. Yes, the cake if you please.
> Why, it's real English plumcake!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> English things are getting very popular over here.
> Joe, won't you show us the new picture? He finished
> it just before you came, Mr. Wentworth.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Indeed! I should like to see it very much.
> 
> Joe
> 
> There isn't very much light.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> No, the light is poor. But even so—and your colors
> will stand out, Joe.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Really, Mr. Carson, I counted on seeing some of your
> work. I have heard, nice things about you.
> 
> Joe
> 
> There. If you stand just here....
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Oh, Joe!
> 
> Joe
> 
> What?
> 
> Silvia
> 
> It's our little cottage! I'm so glad! That's where
> we lived last summer, Mr. Wentworth. I always
> wanted Joe to paint it. Joe, it's splendid! Don't
> you think so, Mr. Wentworth?
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Yes.... Yes. Very interesting....
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Don't you love the bright colors and the firm, flowing
> lines?
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Of course, it isn't exactly what I have been accustomed
> to.... I have heard that some of the younger
> Frenchmen and Russians are painting in a new
> way, but—
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Joe, it's so alive! I feel it, every inch of it! You've
> no idea, Mr. Wentworth, how Joe's painting has
> changed me. I used to be such a little New Englander,
> afraid of life, but now—
> 
> Joe
> 
> It isn't only what you call the "younger Frenchmen
> and Russians" who are learning how to paint—the
> modern movement has spread all over.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Of course, I don't pretend to be an artist myself, but
> I have always studied and loved pictures, and when
> you say "learning how to paint"—
> 
> Joe
> 
> That's exactly what it is. Learning how to paint.
> Learning what art is. Getting life into it instead of
> abstract ideas.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Art? But art is beauty! Eternal beauty. You
> can't change art over night, like a fashion!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> But that picture's beautiful!
> 
> Joe
> 
> Art changes as life changes. Art has always
> changed. If it didn't, why isn't your Japanese art
> just like Greek art? And Greek art like the Italian?
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Oh, in that way, of course. But all the great masters
> obey the eternal laws of beauty!
> 
> Joe
> 
> There aren't any eternal laws of beauty! There's
> only the eternal impulse to create. Every artist has
> to express himself in his own way. What you call
> the "eternal laws" are merely the particular expressions
> your own favorite painters happened to work
> out in their time. If they had lived in another time—
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> A master would always be a master. There's no
> change possible in the vision of the soul.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> You see, Mr. Wentworth, what I have learned these
> last two years from living among artists is that the
> painter with an original vision is always opposed by
> the schools. That is, at first. But when he wins
> out, then the schools merely take over his technic
> and use it as a club to put down the next creator.
> And so it goes.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Naturally, the great artist suffers hardship. But if
> we once admit there are no laws, where are we?
> Anarchy!
> 
> Joe
> 
> The laws are contained in the impulses themselves.
> They come with the vision, not before it! If any
> one thinks this modern art is just an easy way of
> painting—
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Indeed it isn't! Joe works much harder than the
> students who go to the schools. Of course, he doesn't
> paint by the clock.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> But the Louvre! All those beautiful pictures, those
> priceless treasures! What about the Louvre?
> 
> Joe
> 
> The Louvre? It's a museum.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> What do you mean by "it's a museum"?
> 
> Joe
> 
> I mean that it's the place to put pictures in when
> they are dead.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Dead? A great masterpiece dead?
> 
> Joe
> 
> Of course. No man lives forever. Nobody that was
> ever born was useful enough to live forever. The
> bigger a man is the longer his influence is creative, in
> art and everything else, but the time always comes
> when his value is spent. When the world needs a
> new influence.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> It's really wonderful, Mr. Wentworth, how knowing
> the truth about art shows one the truth about
> other things. When I remember what I used to believe!
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> But see here, young man, you wouldn't do away with
> the Louvre, would you? Why, what would happen
> if these ideas were carried out....
> 
> Joe
> 
> No, I wouldn't do away with it. Why should I? If
> to burn it down would wake people up to life, I'd do
> it in a minute. But it wouldn't. They would only
> sanctify the superstition and make it immortal. No,
> leave the Louvre as it is. It's really quite useful.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> But good gracious! Useful?
> 
> Joe
> 
> Yes. Like history. To do away with the Louvre
> would be to destroy a part of history. There's no
> good doing that. We need history—it cranks up
> life—but we've got to recognize that after all it is
> only history, not life itself—not art.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> But what is art, if the Louvre isn't?
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Don't you see, Mr. Wentworth? If you could only
> get for a moment into the stream of experience where
> Joe and the others brought me! A picture is art as
> long as it's alive—as long as it can give back the
> fresh, first-hand impulses that were put into it. After
> that—when life has flowed on and set up new impulses
> requiring a different expression—then a picture
> drops back upon a lower level. What Joe calls
> history.
> 
> Joe
> 
> Like everything else.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> But you put art on the same plane as invention. An
> improved motor car scraps the old model. But you
> can't improve art!
> 
> Joe
> 
> No, certainly not. We don't try to. We just do
> our best. We recover art.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Recover it?
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Yes—discover it all over again. It gets lost, lost in
> hard and fast rules or sentimentality, then a genius
> comes along and digs down to the buried city—creation.
> Art isn't like invention. It's more like religion.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> There you are!
> 
> Joe
> 
> There we are! Isn't there a struggle going on all the
> time to free religion, the spirit of religion, from hard
> and fast rules and from false emotions? It's exactly
> the same thing.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Ah, but rules are necessary to maintain order. That's
> what I insist about art. We must have rules!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Wentworth. You
> mean that if fanatics tore down all the churches on
> the street corners, and there weren't any more Sunday
> morning sermons, everybody would run wild.
> But there again it's the same thing as with art: the
> man who has the spirit of the thing in him feels that
> the spirit itself is a far better control than heaps of
> stones and sermons. It's all a matter of living.
> Imagine asking one of the Apostles which church he
> went to!
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Wait! We are getting art mixed up with too much
> else. Didn't you say, Mr. Carson, that pictures died
> when they no longer gave out impulses of beauty?
> 
> Joe
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Well! I admit there are dead pictures, too many
> of them, but they are the canvasses that were still-born.
> The masterpieces in the Louvre still give out
> impulses—beautiful impulses—to many of us, thank
> heaven!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> But that's just it! The impulses you mean aren't
> those of art at all. They—
> 
> Joe
> 
> Those pictures don't give out impulses to the artist.
> The impulses they do give out are only the emotions
> that satisfy the student who has learned some rules
> and then sees the rules worked out. The artist produced
> the rules as a side issue, but you are trying to
> make the rules produce the artist. That's the difficulty
> when people as a whole lose the creative sense.
> They are satisfied with things at second-hand. Second-hand
> expressions of life, and second-hand philosophies
> to justify the expressions. It's a kind of
> conspiracy in which everybody works against everybody
> else. Only the few real artists in any generation
> break through it into the light.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> The light of the sun!
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> I fear we are hopelessly at odds in this question.
> Well, as the Romans said, there's no disputing about
> tastes. Every one to his own taste.
> 
> Joe
> 
> No!
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> What do you mean?
> 
> Joe
> 
> I mean that it's a disgrace that Americans only study
> and only buy old masters. It's a burning shame that
> all they know about art is what they have been taught
> in books. They let their own artists starve—they
> make them come over here—while they bid up a
> Raphael like a block of shares. What good does it
> do Raphael? He had his day. And look how it holds
> back our own possible Raphaels!
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Raphael? Ah, you are still very young. You don't
> understand the attitude of the majority, Mr. Carson.
> Raphael is one of our great inspirers of beauty.
> 
> Joe
> 
> You mean culture!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Oh, it's getting quite dark. Joe, light the light.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Dear me, so it is! What time is it? It must be getting
> late—Good gracious! I have an engagement.
> 
> Silvia
> 
> You can't stay for a little dinner with us in the Quarter,
> Mr. Wentworth? Afterward we could go to one
> of the cafés.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> I'm afraid I can't, Silvia. It's been a great pleasure
> to meet you both, I assure you. These little differences
> of opinion....
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Oh, that's all right. We argue art and religion every
> day, don't we, Joe? Of course, though, we do feel
> strongly about the young artists—the young American
> artists. They come over here, and then they
> have to burn their bridges ... and we see how wonderful
> America could be if they were given things to
> do instead of being neglected....
> 
> Joe
> 
> Here's your coat, Mr. Wentworth.
> 
> Mr. Wentworth
> 
> Thank you. Thank you for the delicious tea, Silvia.
> If I weren't leaving town so soon.... Good night.
> 
> Sylvia
> 
> Good night. The stairs are rather dark.... (He
> goes out)
> 
> Joe
> 
> Damn!
> 
> Sylvia
> 
> Yes, I know, Joe. It's discouraging....
> 
> Joe
> 
> Discouraging? It's immoral! Oh, these smug people
> who have been taught what to admire! These
> unborn souls who want to shut us all up in the dark!
> I suppose he went away thinking I put myself up
> higher than Raphael. Who are we painting for?
> They don't want it—wouldn't take it for a gift. And
> here we are, a poor little group, standing amazed
> before the glory of the sun, and painting it—for the
> blind!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Some day, Joe....
> 
> Joe
> 
> Some day—yes, when the life has oozed out of all our
> bright canvasses, when only the "rules" are left. And
> we won't be able to rise from our graves and curse
> them!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> Now, Joe!
> 
> Joe
> 
> I guess I let you in for a hard time, Silvia. I wish
> sometimes I could really paint the kind of thing that
> goes with stupid people's dining rooms. They with
> their Long Island Louvres!
> 
> Silvia
> 
> If you did, Joe, I'd put it in the stove. Don't think
> you are having all the fun of being a pioneer. It's
> exciting to be within a mile of it!
> 
> Joe
> 
> Good girl. Ugh! Let's go to Boudet's and have
> dinner. I want to get the bad taste out of my
> mouth!
> 
> HIS LUCK
> 
> The living room in a small flat in Beekman Place.
> Two women, one of them in mourning, sit beside the
> remains of tea.
> 
> Vera
> 
> But Jean, where are you going, when you pack up
> here?
> 
> Jean
> 
> I'm not leaving here. I'm staying on.
> 
> Vera
> 
> Oh. But I thought that now ... you were talking
> about being free for your own work at last....
> 
> Jean
> 
> If I have any work to do, I can do it here. You
> don't understand, quite. All these years I have been
> living from whirlpool to whirlpool, never settled,
> always deraciné—the thought of getting accustomed
> to another place makes me shudder.
> 
> Vera
> 
> I can imagine, now, how it has been, Jean. But can
> you find any peace here? With all these things
> about? You are so sensitive—lamps, and pictures,
> and rugs—these aren't just furniture to you, they
> are images of the past. Won't they be, too—real?
> Too personal? Won't you feel more at liberty with
> yourself if you create your own atmosphere?
> 
> Jean
> 
> Ah, they are real enough! That table is a winter in
> Munich; the samovar is Warsaw one night in May;
> the lucerna is Rome ... and all that those places
> mean to me. I never realized how things could be
> alive—be personal—until I was left all alone in the
> midst of these.
> 
> Vera
> 
> There, don't you see? They're so dominating. I
> knew you before all this.... I wish you would get
> away—be yourself.
> 
> Jean
> 
> No. I shall stay here. As close as possible.
> 
> Vera
> 
> But really, Jean! I'm thinking of your work. Perhaps
> you don't appreciate what an insidious drug
> memory can be. Especially the memory of unhappiness.
> Let's be frank, Jean, for the sake of your
> future. You have been unhappy.
> 
> Jean
> 
> Unhappy? Yes, I have been outrageously unhappy!
> Years of it! Sharp arrows and poisoned wine. I
> wanted to die....
> 
> Vera
> 
> Jean!
> 
> Jean
> 
> You read a play by Strindberg, and you say it's
> very strong, very artistic, but all the while you believe
> it is only the nightmare of a diseased mind.
> It's just a play—you shut the book and return to
> "real" life, thankfully. Well, the Strindberg play
> has been my real life, and real life my play, my impossible
> dream. You can't imagine how terrifying
> it is to feel the situation develop around you. Two
> bodies caught naked in an endless wilderness of
> thorns. Every movement one makes to free the other
> only wounds him the more. Two souls, each innocent
> and aspiring, bound together by serpents, like
> the Laocoon.... It is one of those things that are
> absolutely impossible ... and yet true.
> 
> Vera
> 
> I'll help you pack. Now. You must!
> 
> Jean
> 
> We had the deepest respect and admiration for one
> another, but somehow we never walked in step. His
> emotion repressed mine, my emotion repressed his.
> Sometimes one was the slave, sometimes the other.
> We couldn't both be free at the same time. There
> was always something to hide, to be afraid of....
> Not words nor acts, but moods. It passed over from
> one soul to the other like invisible rays. And we
> couldn't separate. That was part of it. We just
> went on and on....
> 
> Vera
> 
> People wondered. The first time I met Paul—
> 
> Jean
> 
> What do you feel?
> 
> Vera
> 
> I wondered, afterward, what it really was. He
> seemed to impress me like a powerful motor car
> stalled in a muddy road.
> 
> Jean
> 
> Ah. I know!
> 
> Vera
> 
> Poor child.
> 
> Jean
> 
> No. You don't understand, I was unhappy, in the
> ordinary sense, unbelievably so. But that wasn't
> all. I was alive! I lived as the man lives who faints
> in the dark mine underground, and I lived as the
> aviator lives, thrilling against the sun, and as the
> believer in a world of infidels. That was what he
> did for me. And slowly, as I learned how deeply
> the very pain was making me live, I put my unhappiness
> by. It was there, but it no longer seemed important.
> It was the lingering complaint of my old
> commonplace soul standing fearfully on the brink of
> greater things and hating the situation that led it
> there.
> 
> Vera
> 
> You are a big woman, Jean.
> 
> Jean
> 
> No, I am a small woman in front of a big thing.
> One of the biggest, genius. And the force of it, relentless
> as nature, made me what I am. Paul. Oh,
> Vera, when I think of his music, tempestuous as the
> sea, healing as spring.... And now where is it?
> He had what all the world wants most, flight, and
> the world stalled him in its own mud. You saw it....
> That's why I shall stay here. It's the only
> place with his atmosphere. All these things are he.
> I face them here in silence, and I bare my breast to
> the arrow. Here I am, the only one who knows Paul's
> music in its possibility. To the rest, it is a heap of
> stones by the roadside. The architect is dead.
> 
> Vera
> 
> But didn't he ever ... why didn't he...?
> 
> Jean
> 
> You ask it, of course. You have the right. Sometimes
> I ask it, too, why Paul never succeeded. While
> we were struggling along, the things that held him
> back seemed only details. Only now do I see them
> as a whole.
> 
> In the first place, Paul never aimed directly at success.
> He was all-round. If it had been merely a
> question of exploiting his talent, sticking to the one
> idea day in, day out, never letting an opportunity
> slip by of meeting the right people and getting to
> the right places ... that would have been easy.
> He had tremendous energy. I used to grudge his
> interest in other things. I hated to see him lose the
> chances and let them be snapped up by littler men.
> He seemed to waste himself, right and left, prodigally.
> But it wasn't that, it wasn't waste. It was
> all as much a part of him as his music. He detested
> the stupidity of wealth and poverty, he rebelled
> against laws that aren't laws, but only interests enforced
> by authority, he fought against the sheer
> deadness of prejudice. How he hated all that! And
> why not? You see, Vera, he was sensitive to it not
> only as a thinker, but as a musician, too. It was all
> a part of the discord, and what I used to think his
> wasting himself was really an effort to create a
> larger harmony. He used to say that the beauty of
> music is only the image of beauty in life, and that
> life must come first. He couldn't endure discords
> anywhere. Paul despised the musicians who scream
> at a flatted f but hunger for the flesh pots after the
> performance. No, he was never that. And people
> resented it. The very people who ought to have
> understood.
> 
> Vera
> 
> But he didn't neglect his music, that is...?
> 
> Jean
> 
> No. He made enormous efforts to get his violin before
> the public. And several times he was "discovered"
> by men who could have made him famous overnight.
> We all believe that genius will out, despite
> anything, but it doesn't always. Musicians respected
> him, but they were afraid of him, too. He
> criticized them for their shortcomings in other
> things, just as he criticized others for their shortcomings
> in art. He wouldn't accept any talent, no
> matter how fine, if it went with anything small or
> destructive. You can imagine the china shops he
> left in fragments! Just think! Once in Berlin it
> was all arranged for him to have a recital—he was
> working furiously on his program and I was dancing
> on air—when just at the last moment he heard the
> director make some light remark or other about
> women. Paul was raging! He threw the words back
> in the fellow's teeth, and made him apologize, but
> there we were. They called off the recital, naturally.
> And I couldn't blame Paul. I was just beginning
> to understand. Another time ... no, he never had
> luck. Paul had bad luck. I often think of the Greek
> tragedies.
> 
> Vera
> 
> Another time?
> 
> Jean
> 
> Another time—it was in Warsaw—we had gone with
> a letter of introduction to Sbarovitch—
> 
> Vera
> The Sbarovitch?
> 
> Jean
> 
> Yes. It was a chance in ten thousand. We pawned
> stuff to get there. Well, Paul played like a god.
> Sbarovitch was quite overcome. He swore he would
> compose something especially for Paul. We had
> visions of playing before the Czar.
> 
> Vera
> 
> But what happened?
> 
> Jean
> 
> What happened? One night a woman called on Paul
> at the hotel. He went down, not knowing who it
> was or anything about her. He said afterward that
> she started in flattering him and asking him to play
> for her some time.... Then Sbarovitch rushed in,
> seizing the woman and cursing Paul with mouthfuls
> of Slavic hate. So that dream ended!
> 
> Vera
> 
> But why? Was it Sbarovitch's wife?
> 
> Jean
> 
> No, worse luck—it was his mistress. Ah, you can't
> imagine the re-action from such disappointments!
> The long, slow warming to the full possibility of the
> occasion, until the artist's mind and body become
> one leaping flame—and then the sudden fall into icy
> water. It takes months to work up to the same pitch
> again.... And then Rome.
> 
> Vera
> 
> What, again?
> 
> Jean
> 
> Oh, yes. Again. This time—for a wonder everything
> went smoothly. I had watched over him like
> a cat, to save him from others' stupidity and his own
> impetuousness. It came the very moment when he
> had to go to the theatre. He asked me if I were
> ready, I wasn't. I didn't want to go.
> 
> Vera
> 
> You didn't want to go?
> 
> Jean
> 
> No. It's difficult to explain, but somehow by then
> I had grown aware that the long series of little obstacles,
> each one accidental and temporary, seemed
> to express something unseen, something impersonal,
> a kind of fate ... as if the verdict had gone forth
> from the lords of things that Paul was not to succeed.
> And everything seemed to hang in the balance
> that night. I thought that the fact I was aware of
> Paul's bad luck made me all the likelier instrument
> for it to work through. So I told him I had a headache....
> He must have felt something in my voice.
> He dropped his violin and demanded I tell him why
> I didn't want to go. His intuition told him it was a
> matter of will with me. I hadn't thought to have a
> story ready. Besides, I was so worn out that I was
> on the verge of hysteria. He stormed, and I sat
> staring at him without a word, wondering only why
> he didn't forget poor insignificant me and go forth
> to his glory. I despised him for considering me at
> such a moment. I didn't understand. My opinion,
> my feeling, was more important to Paul than the
> rest of the world. So, after all, I was the instrument.
> 
> Vera
> 
> But why didn't you just get up and go?
> 
> Jean
> 
> As soon as I saw how much it meant to Paul, I tried
> to. But it was too late.... We sat there arguing
> until three in the morning. An orgy of tears and
> self-immolation for us both.... I suppose he might
> have explained to the director afterward and arranged
> another concert, but those things are never
> the same the second time. Well, I forced myself to
> get rid of that feeling about his bad luck. How I
> ever succeeded I don't know, for Paul caught my
> mood and began to believe it himself. But somehow
> I did. And then I made him give up his violin and
> begin composing. Of course we had to have money
> for that. I wrote a relative and demanded, point
> blank, shamelessly, two thousand dollars. I felt it
> was my restitution to Paul. I received the money.
> What the relative thought, I don't know. I suppose
> he paid it to avoid getting another such letter from
> me. I don't blame him.
> 
> So we came over here and Paul started at work. I
> was fighting for him and with him every moment.
> How he worked! Six months, like a coal heaver.
> Then he finished and played it over. He tore it all
> up. Every note.
> 
> Vera
> 
> Why?
> 
> Jean
> 
> He said it was written in an old-fashioned style. It
> was curious—in his playing he appreciated the most
> advanced technic, but when be came to compose he
> found himself imitating the things he had admired
> when he was eighteen. It had to be worked out of
> his mind. Well, he did it all through again. This
> time he said he was only about two years behind.
> Tore it up again. But now he was convinced he
> could succeed. And he was magnificent! I would
> have shared him with the world gladly, but I knew
> it was best for him to do this work. The hours this
> room has seen! Well, he made a few notes, stopped
> a few days to take breath, and then caught the cold
> that wore him out. Over there, in that drawer, are
> the notes, a few scraps of paper. The rest of it—the
> experience of a strong life, a visioning life, are
> with the mind that is dumb. Sometimes when I sit
> here I hear it all played, an orchestra ... new harmonies,
> pure emotion.... The wonder and then the
> pain of it are almost unbearable.
> 
> Vera
> 
> Ah, Jean, I begin to understand.
> 
> Jean
> 
> Over in London there are half a dozen men and
> women who caught a glimpse of Paul as he really
> was. In Munich there are half a dozen more. He
> was at his best in a studio among friends with a congenial
> atmosphere. They knew... but what is
> that?
> 
> I tell you, Vera, the only way I can explain it all is
> by seeing two forces, two moralities; the morality
> of God and the morality of nature. Perhaps in some
> people they both work together for the same end,
> but they don't always.... In the sight of heaven,
> Paul was an apostle of harmony. In the sight of
> nature, he was the seed too many on the tree, the
> bird wrongly colored in the forest. I sit among
> these things, the fast-ebbing beats of his memory,
> thinking of what he might have been for others as he
> was to me, and my heart breaks. Our unhappiness?
> A cloud passing before the sun—nothing more. And
> during this past year I have come to love him all
> over again, not as mate but as mother.
> 
> Vera
> 
> Ah, Jean, with all his bad luck, he had you! Who
> knows what might have happened if you had not been
> there?
> 
> Jean
> 
> He had me? No, he never had me—he made me....
> And that's why I sit all alone with the things
> that are Paul,—Paul, the flame that was never lit on
> the altar, the sword that was never drawn from the
> scabbard.... We talk together, Vera. Paul and
> I. We talk together, and I wait for him to tell me
> what to do.
> 
> METADATA
> 
> Views11116 views since posted 2012-09-22; last edit 2024-09-25 02:37 UTC;
> 
> previous at archive.org.../holley_read_aloud_plays
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