Chapter I: Part 1

READ-ALOUD PLAYS

_BY HORACE HOLLEY_

_DIVINATIONS AND CREATIONS_ _READ-ALOUD PLAYS_ _THE DYNAMICS OF ART_ _BAHAISM_ _THE SOCIAL PRINCIPLE_ _THE INNER GARDEN_ _THE STRICKEN KING_

READ-ALOUD PLAYS

BY HORACE HOLLEY

NEW YORK MITCHELL KENNERLEY 1916

COPYRIGHT 1916 BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY

DRAMATIC AND LECTURE RIGHTS RESERVED BY HORACE HOLLEY

PRINTED IN AMERICA

CONTENTS

PAGE INTRODUCTION V HER HAPPINESS 1 A MODERN PRODIGAL 7 THE INCOMPATIBLES 29 THE GENIUS 39 SURVIVAL 55 THE TELEGRAM 71 RAIN 79 PICTURES 103 HIS LUCK 121

INTRODUCTION

The first two or three of these "plays" (I retain the word for lack of a better one) began themselves as short stories, but in each case I found that the dramatic element, speech, tended to absorb the impersonal element of comment and description, so that it proved easier to go on by allowing the characters to establish the situation themselves. As I grew conscious of this tendency, I realized that even for the purpose of reading it might be advantageous to render the short story subject dramatically, since this method is, after all, one of extreme realism, which should also result in an increase of interest. As the series developed, however, I perceived that something more than a new short story form was involved; I perceived that the "read-aloud" play has a distinct character and function of its own. In the long run, everything human rises or falls to the level of speech. The culminating point, even of action the most poignant or emotion the most intimate, is where it finds the right word or phrase by which it is translated into the lives of others. Every literary form has always paid, even though usually unconscious, homage to the drama. But the drama as achieved on the stage includes, for various reasons, only a small portion of its own inherent possibility. Exigencies of time and machinery, as well as the strong influence of custom, deny to the stage the value of themes such as the Divine Comedy, on the one hand, and of situations which might be rendered by five or ten minutes' dialogue on the other, each of which extremes may be quite as "dramatic" as the piece ordinarily exploited on the stage. By trying these "read-aloud" plays on different groups, of from two to six persons, I have proved that the homage all literature pays the drama is misplaced if we identify the drama with the stage. A sympathetic voice is all that is required to "get over" any effect possible to speech; and what effect is not? Moreover, by deliberately setting out for a drama independent of the stage, a drama involving only the intimate circle of studio or library, I feel that an entire new range of experiences is opened up to literature itself. Nothing is more thrilling than direct, self-revealing speech; and, once the proper tone has been set, even abstract subjects, as we all know, have the power to absorb. Thus I entertain the hope that others will take up the method of this book, the method of natural, intimate, heart-to-heart dialogue carried on in a suitable setting, and with attendant action as briefly indicated; for the discovery awaits each one that speech, independent of the tradition of the stage, has the power of rendering old themes new and vital, as well as suggesting new themes and situations. Indeed, it is in the confidence that others will follow with "read-aloud" plays far more interesting and valuable than the few offered here that I am writing this introduction, and not merely to call attention to a novelty in my own work.

HORACE HOLLEY. New York City.

HER HAPPINESS

_Darkness. A door opens swiftly. Light from outside shows a woman entering. She is covered by a large cape, but the gleam of hair and brow indicates beauty. She closes the door behind her. Darkness._

THE WOMAN

Paul! Paul! Are you here, Paul?

A VOICE

Yes, Elizabeth, I am here.

THE WOMAN

Oh thank God! You are here! I felt so strange--I thought ... Oh, I cannot tell you what I have been thinking! Turn on the light, Paul.

THE VOICE

You are troubled, dear. Let the darkness stay a moment. It will calm you. Sit down, Elizabeth.

THE WOMAN

Yes.... I am so faint! I _had_ to come, Paul! I had to _see_ you, to know that you were.... I know I promised not to, but I was going mad! Just to touch you, to hold you ... but it's all right _now_.

THE VOICE

It is all right now, Elizabeth.

THE WOMAN

I thought I could stand it, dear, I thought I could stand it. It wasn't myself--I swear to you it wasn't--nor _him_. I, I can stand all _that_, now. It was something else, something that came over me all at once. I saw--Oh Paul! the thing I saw! But it's all right _now_....

THE VOICE

It is all right, Elizabeth, because ours is love, love that is made of light, and not merely blind desire.

THE WOMAN

Ours is love. We _are_ love!

THE VOICE

So that even if we are separated--even if you cannot come to me yet, we shall not lose conviction nor joy.

THE WOMAN

Yes, Paul. I will not make it harder for you. I know it is hard, and that it was for my sake you could bring yourself to bind me not to see you again.

THE VOICE

Love _is_, world without end. That is all we need to know.

THE WOMAN

World without end, amen.

THE VOICE

And because I knew the power and truth of love in you I put this separation upon us.

THE WOMAN

For my sake. I know it now, Paul! And trust me! You _can_ trust me, Paul! Not time, nor distance, nor trouble nor change shall move me from the heights of love where I dwell.

THE VOICE

And because I knew the happiness of love could not endure in deceit, nor the wine give life if we drank it in a cup that was stained, I put you from me--in the world's sight we meet no more.

THE WOMAN

In the world's sight ... and in the sight of God and man shall I be faithful to him from now on, in thought and deed and word, as a heart may be. Yes, Paul ... even that can I endure for your sake. For I know that hereafter--

THE VOICE

For love there is neither here nor hereafter, but the realization of love is ever according to his triumph. This has come to me suddenly, a light in the darkness, and I have won the truth by supreme pain.

THE WOMAN

That, too, Paul. _Pain_.... I have been weak. I gave way to my nerves, but now in your presence I am strong again, and I shall not fail you.

THE VOICE

My presence is where your love is, and as your love so my nearness. Love me as I love you now, and I shall be more real to you than your hands and your eyes.

THE WOMAN

_Bone of one bone, and flesh of one flesh_....

THE VOICE

Spirit of one spirit! The flesh we have put away.

THE WOMAN

That, too, Paul. Oh the glory of it! So be my happiness that I shall not wish it changed, even before the Throne!

THE VOICE

I have given you happiness?

THE WOMAN

Perfect happiness, Paul. I am happy, happier than I ever was before. But before I go home from here for the last time, turn on the light, Paul, that we may be to each other always as the wonder of this moment. For the last time, Paul. Paul?... Paul? Where are you? Why don't you answer?... _Paul!_ (_She turns on the light. It is a studio. At the piano, fallen forward upon the keys, sits the body of a man. There is a revolver on the floor beside him._) Paul!... _As I saw him!_ Is _this_ my happiness. Oh God, _must_ I?

A MODERN PRODIGAL

_The scene shows Uncle Richard's library, a massive and expensive interior suggesting prosperity rather than meditation. It is obviously new, and in the whole room there is only one intimate and human note, a quaint little oil painting of a boy with bright eyes--Uncle Richard at the age of eleven._

_Richard walks about, waiting for his uncle, and examines the appointments with more curiosity than reverence. Stopping by the mantle for a moment he notices, with a start of surprise, his own photograph. He turns away with a shrug just as his uncle hurriedly enters._

UNCLE RICHARD

Dick! Richard! At last! How are you? You received my letter?

RICHARD

I am very well, uncle. Yes, I received your letter. It was forwarded from Florence.

UNCLE RICHARD

Good! Sit down, Richard, sit down.

RICHARD

I did not receive it until a few days ago, in New York. I came on as soon as possible. But I had engagements--business engagements--that delayed me.

UNCLE RICHARD

Business? I am very glad, Richard, that you have given up your art. Not that art isn't entirely commendable, but in times like these, you know....

RICHARD

Don't misunderstand me, uncle. My business was connected with art. I haven't given up painting. I never shall.

UNCLE RICHARD

In my letter--

RICHARD

Yes. Cousin Anne wrote me about Aunt Ethel's death, but I did not realize how changed everything here was until I read that letter from you. And now (_glancing about_) it is even clearer. It must have been a bitter shock to you, Uncle Richard. You had both come to the point where you could have done so much with life. But you are quite well, Uncle Richard?

UNCLE RICHARD

I am never unwell. I don't believe in it. Yes, everything was ready here. In its larger issue, my life has not been unsuccessful.... But your business, Richard, it came out well, I hope?

RICHARD

Quite. You see after graduating I borrowed a certain sum to go abroad with a classmate. We had a plan for doing a book on modern Italy, he writing the text and I making illustrations. We had quite a new idea about it all. It was good fun besides. Well, the work has been placed, and now after repaying the loan I have enough to take a studio and begin painting in earnest.

UNCLE RICHARD

Hum.

RICHARD

I believe I have a copy of one of the sketches with me. (_He tears a sheet from a note book and hands it to Uncle Richard._)

UNCLE RICHARD (_looking at it wrong side up_)

A sketch. I see. Of course it is unfinished?

RICHARD

Yes. But then, no painting should be what you call "finished." A work of art can only be finished by the mental effort of appreciation on the part of the spectator. Photographs and chromos are _finished_--that's why they are dead.

UNCLE RICHARD

I was not aware of the fact. But ... you will remember, Richard, that in my letter I asked you to visit me?

RICHARD

Of course. And I shall be very pleased to stay for a few days. Very kind of you to ask me.

UNCLE RICHARD

Not at all, Richard, not at all! I--

RICHARD

On Monday I must return to New York and look for a studio. With the book coming out I feel I shall have no trouble selling my work.

UNCLE RICHARD

Studio? Isn't that--hem! rather _Bohemian_, Richard?

RICHARD

Good gracious, uncle, you haven't been reading George Moore, have you?

UNCLE RICHARD

But Richard, did you not understand that I wanted you to stay here longer than that?

RICHARD

Why no. How long did you mean?

UNCLE RICHARD

Er--I hadn't thought, exactly. I mean that I wanted you to bring your things here--bring your things here and just live on with me.

RICHARD

I had no idea you meant _that_. Anyhow, as I couldn't paint here, it's impossible. But, of course, if you care to have me stay a few days longer--

UNCLE RICHARD

But I have everything arranged for you here. Your room--everything.

RICHARD

But you see, uncle, my work--

UNCLE RICHARD

I hope you will give up your art, but if you must paint I will provide you a room for it. Do you know how many rooms there are in this house, Richard?

RICHARD

Really, Uncle Richard, I thank you, but--

UNCLE RICHARD

Don't mention it. And of course you can see to its proper arrangement yourself.

RICHARD

I had no idea of this when I came and--but you see, it's not only the studio an artist requires, it's atmosphere, the atmosphere of enthusiasm and feeling. You might as well give a business man a brand new office equipment and turn him loose on the Sahara desert as to shut a painter up in a town like this and expect him to create. Artists need atmosphere just as business men need banks. It's the meeting of like forces that makes anything really go.

UNCLE RICHARD

But we are not wholly barbarous here, Richard. _This_, for example, and no first-class New England city lacks culture.

RICHARD

I suppose there's no use explaining, but what first-class New England cities regard as _culture_ your real artist avoids as he would avoid poison.

UNCLE RICHARD

Well, well. But circumstances--really, Richard, don't you think it your _duty_ to stay?

RICHARD

Why?

UNCLE RICHARD

Must I explain? We are met, after a long separation, in circumstances personally sorrowful to me, and I trust, to some extent, to you as well. We....

RICHARD

Yes, a _long_ separation.

UNCLE RICHARD

I admit, Richard, that from your point of view my attitude has not always been as--as considerate, perhaps, as you might have expected. But I have been a very busy man, and--

RICHARD

As far as I am concerned, uncle, I have nothing to blame you for; but my mother....

UNCLE RICHARD

Your mother? Surely, Richard, your mother never criticised me to you? She was much too fine a woman. Besides, I helped her in many ways you may know nothing about.

RICHARD

No, mother said nothing. She wouldn't have, anyhow--and as far as your helping her is concerned, I can only judge of that by results.

UNCLE RICHARD

Results? What do you mean? I have no desire to catalogue the things I have done for one who was near to me, but--

RICHARD

That's all very well, uncle, and I have no criticism to make. What's over is over. But when you speak of my duty to you, I think of how mother died so young, and how I found out afterward her affairs were so difficult. I had no idea--she sacrificed herself for me so long that I took it for granted. But I think that you, as a business man, must have known.

UNCLE RICHARD

You found that everything was mortgaged? Well, Richard, it pains me to recall these things. Your father, unfortunately, was a poor business man. As for the mortgage, Richard, I held that myself.

RICHARD

You did!

UNCLE RICHARD

Yes. Even your mother did not know. I acted through an agent, and the interest was two per cent.

RICHARD

But--

UNCLE RICHARD

A nominal rate. Your mother was so proud--

RICHARD

Well, but there were other matters, long ago, that I have only lately heard about. You and father once started in business together....

UNCLE RICHARD

We did. And I advised him to sell out when I did, but he thought better to hold on.

RICHARD

Poor father. You made--he lost....

UNCLE RICHARD

But if he had followed my advice--. All this is painful to me, Richard, and leads nowhere. As for yourself, I have always been interested in you, more so than you realize, and now--

RICHARD

Now?

UNCLE RICHARD

I cannot feel at fault for anything that has happened. Your father was unsuited for modern life. By the ordinary standards he was bound to fail. Still, it gives me great satisfaction that at the present time, Richard, I can offer you a home. Yes, Richard, a _home_.

RICHARD

It's difficult to decide.... You see, my studio--

UNCLE RICHARD

Well! I confess I can't understand all this uncertainty!

RICHARD

For three years I have worked as hard as anybody could to make a position allowing me to paint. I have succeeded. I no longer need help!

UNCLE RICHARD

Of course not! I don't question your ability to get along. At the same time, your attitude now is rather quixotic. Besides, as far as your painting is concerned, you can always go about where you require. It isn't slavery I am planning for you here, Richard!

RICHARD

Well ... but then, as I must live by my sales and commissions, I'd cut a poor figure in surroundings like these.

UNCLE RICHARD

Ha! Very quaint that, Richard, very quaint! I suppose artists _are_ like that.... Richard, I see you do not yet understand. I shall be most happy to provide for you in every way. Yes. I have considered the whole matter carefully, and for some time have only waited an opportunity to explain to you in person. Consider, then, that you shall have an income of your own. You see, Richard?

RICHARD

No, I don't.

UNCLE RICHARD

Why, it's simple enough!

RICHARD

Yes, the facts are, but I don't understand--an income, a home. Why, I never dreamed of such a thing!

UNCLE RICHARD

And why not, my boy, why not? We haven't seen enough of each other, Richard. Perhaps I have been at fault there, not to show more clearly the interest I have always taken in you. Yes, indeed, a warm interest, Richard!

RICHARD

Why not, Uncle Richard? Three years ago you might have asked me that question. Now I ask you _why_?

UNCLE RICHARD

Why? How strange! How could that question arise between a man and his own nephew?

RICHARD

Three years ago, before Aunt Ethel died, I spent Thanksgiving with you. It was during the recess, my second year at Harvard. I came here practically from my mother's funeral. I had just learned the truth about our affairs--not a thing of ours really ours, not a penny left. How mother had kept the truth from me, I don't know. But suddenly everything changed. The ground I had been standing on gave way--my hands grasped everywhere for support. I had never lacked, never thought about money either way. I took it for granted that families like ours were provided with a decent living by some law of Providence.... I came here. I thought of course you would help me. I didn't think so consciously--I turned to you and Aunt Ethel from blind instinct.

We spent Thanksgiving together. It was very quiet, very sad. You both talked about mother and the old days. At breakfast the next morning you wished me good luck and went off to your office. Afterward Aunt Ethel and I talked in the living room while I waited for the train. She seemed ill at ease. She alluded to your affairs once or twice, saying that you were quite embarrassed by the state of politics, and how sad it was that people couldn't do all they wanted to in this world for others.

Uncle Richard, when Joseph came with the carriage, Aunt Ethel kissed me, cried, and gave me--a twenty dollar bill. Good God! and I thanked her for it. Twenty dollars--carfare and a week's board! I left the house completely dazed: it seemed like a bad dream....

UNCLE RICHARD

There, there, Richard! We never imagined for a moment. I thought your college course all provided for--and your Aunt Ethel never understood business. She doubtless exaggerated my difficulty. If either of us had dreamed you were so worried! As if I should have grudged you money!

RICHARD

That's what I thought at first, and I hated you for it, but afterward I realized it was not that--it was worse.

UNCLE RICHARD

_Worse!_

RICHARD

Yes. It wasn't that you grudged the money, it was that you simply didn't _think_ of it. You felt that something had to be done, because I made you feel uncomfortable, but you didn't know exactly what, and you were both relieved to see me go. I had spoiled your Thanksgiving dinner--that was the depth of your realization.

UNCLE RICHARD

No, no, Richard! You were so cold, so silent. You made it impossible for us to help you.

RICHARD

I suppose I did seem cold. That's the instinct of inexperienced natures when they are desperate. But it would have been so easy to break through with one kind word or act.

UNCLE RICHARD

There, there! How glad I am that conditions are changed!

RICHARD

Changed, yes, but it was I who changed them! The shock of poverty was terrible at first, not because I set too much value on money, nor because I was unwilling to work, but because I felt I had no power of attack. My nature was introspective, I lived in an epic of my own creation. My strength and my courage were wrapped up in dreams, and seemed to have no relation to the practical world. I could have faced the devil himself for an ideal, but to make my own living--that was the nightmare!...

That was why I was so cold, so silent. If you had said one human thing, straight from your heart to mine, I should have been comforted. In a case like that, as I now know, it is not money a man wants, even if he himself thinks it is. No. It is just sympathy, the right word that renews his courage and arms him against the new circumstances by making him feel he doesn't stand alone. If you had found that word, or even tried to find it, I should have loved you like a son. My heart was ready--you did not want it!

UNCLE RICHARD

But you finished at college, Richard....

RICHARD

Yes, I finished. And do you know how? I spent that first night all alone in my room, thinking. In the morning I called on a classmate, a poor man who was working his way. I said: "Here, I haven't a cent. Advise me."

We talked it all over. He helped me sell my furniture, he sublet my room. And he gave me a job.

UNCLE RICHARD

A--

RICHARD

A job. Collecting and delivering laundry. That's how I finished at college. I'm ashamed to admit it now, but at first that work hurt me like a knife. I couldn't see any relation between that and my ambition for art. But it wore off. I grew tougher, I learned the real meaning of things. And now I am glad it happened.

UNCLE RICHARD

Admirable, admirable! Really, Richard, I am more than ever convinced that I have decided rightly. Richard, you _must_ make this your home!

RICHARD

Are you still talking about my _duty_?

UNCLE RICHARD

Richard, a man begins by working for himself alone, then he works for the woman he marries, but even that is not enough. One by one I have seen every motive that ever impelled or guided me grow insufficient and have to be replaced. Ambition and love, once satisfied, point forward. We must always have a future before us, Richard, unless we are willing to become machines of habit. At one point or another most men do become machines. Thank heaven, I never could. In these last few months I have begun to realize.... It was your Aunt Ethel's tragedy that she had no children. I wonder now whether it is not even more my own.

_Richard, I have made you my heir._

RICHARD

Your heir!

UNCLE RICHARD

My heir. And that is why, Richard--of course you could not realize it at the time--that is why I allowed myself to use the word "duty" as having reference to the future if not to the past.

For the future, Richard, is ours to enjoy, without misunderstanding, without disharmony, I at the end of my labours, you at the beginning of yours. You have revealed qualities I confess I had not suspected, qualities fitting you for responsibility and administration. With the position you will henceforth occupy, Richard, you should enter public life. Nothing more honorable for a responsible citizen.... Nothing more essential to the welfare of our beloved republic at its present critical state. We need the English tradition over here, Richard--solid, responsible men to administer public affairs. I have often felt the need of an efficient aristocracy in our social and industrial life. And nothing would please me more than to see you rise to authority by the leverage of my wealth. Nothing would please me more--why, Richard, I should consider it the prolongation of my own life!

RICHARD

No. No you don't, Uncle Richard. Never!

UNCLE RICHARD

What on earth do you mean?

RICHARD

I won't be your heir!

UNCLE RICHARD

Wh--what? Good heavens! Are you _mad_?

RICHARD

I hope so. Yes, I hope that from your point of view I am quite mad. You won't understand me, because you don't understand what I most love and what I most hate. Oh you self-made Americans! When I really needed your helping hand you didn't think of me. You had the American idea that every tub must stand on its own bottom, that every young fellow must make _good_--that is, make money. You buy "art" at a certain stage in your development just as you buy motor cars, and you think you can buy artists the same way. You don't know that to buy dead art is to starve live artists.

Well, I made good. I can stand alone. Are you offering me money now to help me in my work? Not a bit! Rich men haven't changed since the first tribal chief ordered his bow and arrows, his wives and servants, to be buried with him.

UNCLE RICHARD

You conceited young rascal! I needn't leave you a cent!

RICHARD

I haven't asked you to. I never thought about your money. I can get along very well without it. But can you take it with you?

UNCLE RICHARD

Of course not! But I can leave it to whom I please.

RICHARD

Why don't you leave it to Joseph?

UNCLE RICHARD

To Joseph--my coachman? Are you joking?

RICHARD

Not at all. Didn't he save your life in the Civil War? And what have I ever done for you?

UNCLE RICHARD

I have remembered Joseph very handsomely, but to make him my _heir_--why, that isn't the same thing at all!

RICHARD

Well, to a university then?

UNCLE RICHARD

No.

RICHARD

A church?

UNCLE RICHARD

No!

RICHARD

A cat hospital?

UNCLE RICHARD

Damn cats! There's been enough of them sick in my own house!

RICHARD

Well, I give it up.

UNCLE RICHARD

You young fool! You don't know what you are saying! _Joseph! Church! Cat Hospital!_ What good would I get out of that? Is that what I have been working for all my life? No indeed!

_Richard, you shall be my heir!_

RICHARD

I won't! You are only interested in me because I bear your name. If I were John Smith, though ten times the better man, you would never waste a thought upon me. My name is an accident--I care nothing for that. My real self is my art, for which you care even less. All you want is to establish a dynasty--the last infirmity of successful men.

No, I won't be your heir!

UNCLE RICHARD

Madness, madness! What kind of a world are we coming to?

RICHARD

Listen. One day when I was walking outside Siena I came to a fine old villa with a wonderful garden. A row of cypresses ran along the wall inside, and I wanted to paint it. The gardener let me in for a tip. While I sat there working, he watching me--even the peasants have a feeling for paint over there--we heard a tap on the window. It was the padrona. I saw that she wanted to speak to me, and I went in. She was an old, crippled woman, holding to life by sheer will, sitting all day by the fire in one room. She spoke French, so we could talk. To my surprise she was very much interested in me--asked questions about my work, my family, and so on. I couldn't understand why. But when I left she began crying and told me that I reminded her of her grandson who had been killed in Tripoli, and that there was no one of the family name left, but that she had to leave the property either to a cousin whom she detested, or to the Church. And she said just what you have: that this wasn't the _same thing_. She had nothing to live for, she said, now the heir was dead, except keep the place out of others' hands. There she was, a prisoner in that beautiful villa, enjoying nothing, where an artist would have been in paradise. I see her yet, bent over the fire in a black lace shawl, crying.

On my way back to town I happened to think of my last visit with you, and my state of mind returned, my feeling of dependence and the gloomy Thanksgiving dinner. The shock of contrast between my old and my new self stopped me short in the road. In a flash I saw the lying materialism on which the world is based, the curse of dollar worship that keeps opportunity away from the young, at the same time it keeps the old in a prison of loneliness and suspicion. If we worshipped life instead of metal disks, we would see that the young are not really the heirs of the old, but the old are heirs of the young. Then and there I vowed to keep myself clear of the whole wretched tangle, even if I had to carry laundry all my life, so that if any one ever tried to fetter me I could fling his words back in his face! (_Uncle Richard's nerves are all on edge. A terrific storm of overbearing temper visibly gathers during this speech, and the Colonel's long habit of successful domination seems about to assert itself in an explosion. But at the last moment another power, deeper than habit, older than character, represses his wrath, and when Uncle Richard speaks again it is with an earnest gentleness almost plaintive._)

UNCLE RICHARD

Richard, for heaven's sake let us stop this quarreling! Let us forget what has been said and done on both sides and begin anew. I offer you a home here during my life time, and all that I own after I am dead. I _do_ care for you, my boy, I know it now as I know my own name. Surely, Richard, you need not take this offer amiss?

RICHARD

Well, but you see, Uncle Richard....

UNCLE RICHARD

Do you prefer poverty for its own sake?

RICHARD

Of course not. But I prefer it to hypocrisy and compromise.

UNCLE RICHARD

Well then. You will accept, Richard? For my sake, Richard?

RICHARD

Well....

UNCLE RICHARD

It is the only pleasure left to me, Richard, thinking of the old name going down honourably in you. And as for the past, my mistakes were due to not having a son of my own. You have no idea what a difference it makes. It's my dream, Richard, don't destroy it!

RICHARD

If you really mean it that way--

UNCLE RICHARD

My dear Richard! My dear boy! Why--now I know why we have been quarreling, Richard!

RICHARD

Why?

UNCLE RICHARD

Because we are so much alike. At your age I was the same self-willed beggar you are. Richard, you are more like me than you are like your own father!

RICHARD

Le roi est morte, vive le roi. _But_ (_and he thumps the table with great emphasis_) but there's one thing understood--I'm going to paint _masterpieces_!

UNCLE RICHARD

Of course you are, my boy, of course you are! In fact, I always _knew_ you would, Richard!

THE INCOMPATIBLES

_A corner table in a Broadway restaurant, at evening. Between the man and woman who have just taken seats is a bouquet of red roses._

MARIAN

No, I don't want any oysters or clams. I ate enough sea food in Atlantic City to last a season. I want some--Oh, what gorgeous flowers! Umm! I love the smell of roses! Especially out of season. Why, the other tables haven't any! Fred, did you--?

FRED

Sure I did, Marian. I knew you'd like 'em.

MARIAN

I do. But you mustn't be a silly boy any longer, Fred!

FRED

I will, too. It isn't silly, to give _you_ flowers.

MARIAN

That's all right, Fred. Goodness knows I like the flowers. But I'm not a young idiot who expects her honeymoon to last forever. I've had one experience, you know.

FRED

Yes, but you mustn't judge all men by _him_.

MARIAN

I don't. I knew well enough you're different, or I'd never have married you. But at the same time--

FRED

Well, I'm going to show you that a _real_ man don't get over the fun of being married to a peach like you in just two weeks. You don't want me to, do you?

MARIAN

Course not, Fred! Didn't I say you were different? But I don't want you to set a pace you can't keep up. You'd hate me in no time if I did.

FRED

I couldn't hate _you_, girlie! Besides, isn't this our first night back in the old town? We shan't be having dinner out like this every day.

MARIAN

Well, only I don't want to have you flop all of a sudden, like _he_ did. What'll you have, a cocktail?

FRED

Let's see.... What's the matter, Marian?

MARIAN

Sh! Don't turn round!

FRED

What's up?

MARIAN

_Him!_

FRED

Him who?

MARIAN

_George!_

FRED

Good Lord! Well, don't mind _him_. He hasn't got anything on you now. You're _mine_.

MARIAN

Sure I am. He isn't looking. He's with a woman. By jingo! It's that millinery kid!

FRED

What millinery kid? Besides, what difference does it make? Let him have a hundred, if he wants 'em. _We're_ happy.

MARIAN

The nerve of him! I knew it was her right along. He tried to throw a bluff it was some swell. I'll bet he paid good for those clothes!

FRED

Oh, come on! What'll you have? Besides, she might have made the clothes herself.

MARIAN

Made 'em herself! Say, a fine lot you know about ladies' gowns! That came from the Avenue, straight.

FRED

Well, what if it did? I'll get you a better one, you just wait.

MARIAN

Sh! He's looking over here!

FRED

Hm! Look at me and you won't see him.

MARIAN

The nerve!

FRED

What's he done?

MARIAN

He smiled right over like nothing had ever happened. I'll bet he's going to say something mean about me. Oh!

FRED

Let's change our seats. I'm hungry!

MARIAN

Change nothing! Catch me giving him a laugh like that! I could tell her things, the young--There, now _she's_ looking!

FRED

What if she is? Say, look here--

MARIAN

He's getting up! Well, of all the brass!

FRED

What?

MARIAN

He's coming over here!

FRED

He is! Don't you say a word. I'll take _him_ on!

MARIAN

If he dares--

GEORGE

Hello, Marian!

MARIAN

Hm!

GEORGE

What, got a grouch on your honeymoon? That's a bad sign, Marian!

MARIAN

No, I haven't got any grouch! Don't _you_ worry! You're the only grouch I ever had, thank the Lord!

GEORGE

Well then. It isn't every woman gets rid of an incompatible husband and gets hold of a compatible one, all in same season.

FRED

Look here!

MARIAN

That's just like him! Coming over here with a grin on like a kid with a new toy. Well, we don't want anything to do with _you_. See?

GEORGE

Sure. Excuse me for butting in. I just wanted to make a little announcement.

MARIAN

Oh, you did! Well, I'm surprised! I didn't think _she_ was the kind you had to marry.

GEORGE

Huh! I knew you'd have your little knife out for her. But why you should have to be jealous _now_ I can't see.

MARIAN

I'm not jealous!

GEORGE

What you worrying about, then?

MARIAN

I'm not worrying! I'm only sore because you butted in when we were so happy together here without you.

GEORGE

Oh, _excuse_ me! As a matter of fact, I didn't come over to make any announcement. It's too late for that. I--

MARIAN

Married already! Anybody'd think you might wait a little while for common decency!

GEORGE

I waited a day longer than you did, anyhow.

MARIAN

That's different.

FRED

I _beg_ your pardon! We were just ordering dinner. If you didn't come to make any announcement, why--

MARIAN

Yes, what did you butt in for?

GEORGE

Why, I got a letter from your friend Grace, and--

MARIAN

Grace? What did she have to say to _you_?

GEORGE

She said she was sorry I had to get a divorce, but I told her--

MARIAN

Sorry _you_ had to get a divorce! Well, if I don't fix _her_!

GEORGE

Oh, she's getting married, too.

MARIAN

Who to?

GEORGE

That fellow, what's his name, that's got the garage over on Seventh Avenue.

MARIAN

Snider! So _he's_ the one! Well! And I suppose she'll be all over town in a new car.

GEORGE

Sure. Saw him to-day. A big yellow one. I always told you she was out for money. And you thought she was in love with Jackson!

MARIAN

Hypocrite! She was. Or she told me so. Cried all over me. Have you seen Jackson?

GEORGE

Yes. He's as blue as your old kimono. He said--

FRED

Look here, Marian! I'm not going to wait all night for my dinner!

MARIAN

Order your old dinner! What did Jackson say, George?

THE GENIUS

_The front porch of a small farmhouse in New England. Stone flags lead to the road; the yard is a careless, comfortable lawn with two or three old maples. It is autumn._

_A boy of sixteen or so, carrying a paper parcel, stops hesitatingly, looks in a moment and then walks to the porch. As he stands there a man comes out of the house. The man is in his early forties, he stoops a little, but not from weakness; his expression is one of deep calm._

THE MAN

I wonder if you have seen my dog? I was going for a walk, but Rex seems to have grown tired of waiting.

THE BOY

Your dog? No, sir, I haven't seen him. Shall I go look?

THE MAN

No, never mind. He'll come back. Rex and I understand each other. He has his little moods, like me.

THE BOY

If you were going for a walk--?

THE MAN

It doesn't matter at all. I can go any time. You don't live in this country?

THE BOY

No, sir. I live in New York. I wish I did. It's beautiful here, isn't it?

THE MAN

It's very beautiful to me. I love it. You may have come a long road this morning, let's sit down.

THE BOY

Thank you. I'm not interfering with anything?

THE MAN

Bless your heart! No indeed. What is there to interfere with? All we have is life, and this is part of it.

THE BOY

I like to sit under these trees. It makes me think of the Old Testament.

THE MAN

That's interesting. How?

THE BOY

Well, maybe I'm wrong, but whenever I think of the Old Testament I see an old man under a tree--

THE MAN

Yes?

THE BOY

A man who has lived it all through, you know, and found out something real about it; and he sits there calm and strong, something like a tree himself; and every once in a while somebody comes along--a boy, you know,--and the boy talks to him all about himself, just as we imagine we'd like to with our fathers, if they weren't so busy, or our teachers, if they didn't depend so much upon books, or our ministers, if we thought they would really understand,--and the old man doesn't say much maybe, but the boy goes away much stronger and happier....

THE MAN

Yes, yes, I understand. The Old Testament.... They _did_ get hold of things, didn't they?

THE BOY

What I can't understand is how nowadays people seem more grown up and competent than those men were, in a way, and we do such wonderful things--skyscrapers and aeroplanes--and yet we aren't half so wonderful as they were in the Old Testament with their jugs and their wooden plows. I mean, we aren't near so big as the things we do, while those old fellows were so much bigger. We smile at them, but if some day one of our machines fell over on us what would we do about it?

THE MAN

I wonder.

THE BOY

I went through a big factory just last week. One of my friends' father is the manager, and all I could think of was what could a fellow do who didn't like it, who didn't fit in.... Nowadays most everybody seems competent about factories or business or something like that--you know--and they've got hold of everything, so a fellow's got to do the same thing or where is he?

THE MAN

That's the first question, certainly: where is he? But where is he if he does do the same thing?

THE BOY

Why, he's with the rest. And _they_ don't ask that question....

THE MAN

I'm afraid they don't. It would be interesting to be there if they should begin to ask it, wouldn't it?

THE BOY

Yes.... I'd like to be there when some _I_ know ask themselves! But they never will. Why should they?

THE MAN

Don't you mean how _can_ they?

THE BOY

Yes, of course. They don't ask the question because the big thing they are doing seems to be the answer beforehand. But it isn't! Not compared with the Old Testament. So we have to ask it for ourselves. And that's why I came here....

THE MAN

Oh. You want to know where _they_ are, with their power, or where _you_ will be without it?

THE BOY

Where I'll be. I hate it! But what else is there to-day?

THE MAN

Why, there's you.

THE BOY

But that's just it! What am I for if I can't join in? I came to you.... You don't mind my talking, do you?

THE MAN

On the contrary.

THE BOY

Well, everybody I know is a part of it, so how could they tell me what to do outside of it? I've been wondering about that for a year. Before then, when I was just a boy, the world seemed full of everything, but now it seems to have only one thing. That or nothing. Then one day I saw a photograph somebody had cut out of a Sunday paper, and I thought to myself there's a man who seems outside, entirely outside, and yet he has something. It wasn't all or nothing for him ... and I wondered who it was. Then I found your book, with the same picture in it. You bet I read it right off! It was the first time in my life I had ever felt power as great as skyscrapers and railroads and yet apart from them. Outside of all they mean. Like the Old Testament. Those poems!

THE MAN

You liked them?

THE BOY

It was more than that. How can a fellow _like_ the ocean, or a snow storm?

THE MAN

Is that what you thought they were like?

THE BOY

Why, they went off like a fourteen inch gun! Not a whine about life in them--not a single regret for anything. They were wonderful! They seemed to pick up mountains and cities and toss them all about like toys. They made me feel that what I was looking for was able to conquer what I didn't like.... I said to myself I don't care if he does laugh at me, I'll go and ask him where all that power is! And so I came....

THE MAN

There's Rex now--over across the road. He's wondering who you are. He sees we are friends, and he's pretending to be jealous. Dogs are funny, aren't they? But you were speaking about my poems. It's odd that their first criticism should come from you like this. You must be about the same age I was when I began writing--when I wanted above anything to write a book like that, and when such a book seemed the most impossible thing I could do. Like trying to swim the Atlantic, or live forever.

THE BOY

It seemed impossible? I should think it would be the most natural thing in the world, for _you_--like eating dinner.

THE MAN

That's the wonderful thing--not the book, but that _I_ should have come to write it!

THE BOY

But who else could write it?

THE MAN

At your age I thought anybody could--anybody and everybody except myself.

THE BOY

Really?

THE MAN

Really and truly. You've no idea what a useless misfit I was.

THE BOY

But I read somewhere you had always been brilliant, even as a boy.

THE MAN

Unfortunately ... yes. That was what made it so hard for me. Shall I tell you about it?

THE BOY

I wish you would!

THE MAN

Brilliance--I'll tell you what that was, at least for me. I wrote several things that people called "brilliant." One in particular, a little play of decadent epigram. It was acted by amateurs before an admiring "select" audience. That was when I was twenty-one. From about sixteen on I had been acutely miserable--physically miserable. I never knew when I wouldn't actually cave in. I felt like a bankrupt living on borrowed money. Of course, it's plain enough now--the revolt of starved nerves. I cared only for my mind, grew only in that, and the rest of me withered up like a stalk in dry soil. So the flower drooped too--in decadent epigram. But nobody pointed out the truth of it all to me, and I scorned to give my body a thought. People predicted a brilliant future--for me, crying inside! Then I married. I married the girl who had taken the star part in the play. According to the logic of the situation, it was inevitable. Everybody remarked how inevitable it was. A decorative girl, you know. She wanted to be the wife of a great man.... Well, we didn't get along. There was an honest streak in me somewhere which hated deception. I couldn't play the part of "brilliant" young poet with any success. She was at me all the while to write more of the same thing. And I didn't want to. The difference between the "great" man I was supposed to be and the sick child I really was, began to torture. I knew I oughtn't to go on any further if I wanted to do anything real. Then one night we had an "artistic" dinner. My wife had gotten hold of a famous English poet, and through him a publisher. The publisher was her real game. I drank champagne before dinner so as to be "brilliant." I was. And before I realized it, Norah had secured a promise from the publisher to bring out a book of plays. I remember she said it was practically finished. But it wasn't, only the one, and I hated that. But I sat down conscientiously to write the book that she, and apparently all the world that counted, expected me to write. Well, I couldn't write it. Not a blessed word! Something inside me refused to work. And there I was. In a month or so she began to ask about it. Norah thought I ought to turn them out while she waited. I walked up and down the park one afternoon wondering what to tell her.... And when I realized that either she would never understand or would despise me, I grew desperate. I wrote her a note, full of fine phrases about "incompatibility," her "unapproachable ideals," the "soul's need of freedom"--things she _would_ understand and wear a heroic attitude about--and fled. I came here....

THE BOY

Of course. But didn't she follow you? Didn't they bother you?

THE MAN

Not a bit. Norah preferred her lonely heroism. In a few months I was quite forgotten. That was one of the healthful things I learned. Well, I was a wreck when I came here, I wanted only to lie down under a tree.... And there it was, under that tree yonder, my salvation came.

THE BOY

Your salvation?

THE MAN

Hunger. That was my salvation. Simple, elemental, unescapable appetite. You see I had no servant, no one at all. So I had to get up and work to prepare my food.... It was very strange. Compared with this life, my life before had been like living in a locked box. Some one to do everything for me except think, and consequently I thought too much. But here the very fact of life was brought home to me. I spent weeks working about the house and grounds on the common necessities. By the time winter came on the place was fit to live in--and I was enjoying life. All the "brilliance" had faded away; I was as simple as a blade of grass.

For a year I didn't write a word. I had the courage to wait for the real thing, nobody pestering me to be a "genius"! Some day you may read that first book. People said I had re-discovered the virtue of humility. I had.

THE BOY

I will read it! And how much more it will mean to me now!

THE MAN

I suppose you know the theory about vibrations--how if a little push is given a bridge, and repeated often enough at the right intervals, the bridge will fall?

THE BOY

Yes.

THE MAN

Well, that's the whole secret of what you have been looking for--what you found in my poems.

THE BOY

I don't understand.

THE MAN

A man's life is a rhythm. Eating, sleeping, working, playing, loving, thinking--everything. And when we live so that each activity comes at the right interval, we gain power. When one interrupts another, we lose. Weakness is merely the thrust of one impulse against another, instead of their combined thrust against the world. When I came here, feeling like a criminal, I was obeying the one right instinct in a welter of emotions. It was like the faintest of heart beats in a sick body. I listened to that. Then I learned physical hunger, then sleep, and so on. It's incredible how stupid I was about the elemental art of living! I had to begin all over from the beginning, as if no one had ever lived before.

THE BOY

That's what you meant in your poems about religion.

THE MAN

Exactly! I learned that "good" is the rhythm of the man's personal nature, and that "evil" is merely the confusion of the same impulses. As time went on it became instinctive to live for and by the rhythm. Everything about my life here was caught up and used in the vision of power--drawing water, cutting wood, digging in the garden, dawn. It was all marvelous--I couldn't help writing those poems. They are the natural joys and sorrows of ten years. As a matter of fact, though, I grew to care less and less about writing, as living became fuller and richer. People write too much. They would write less if they had to make the fire in the morning.

THE BOY

The first impulse ... I see. Oh, life might be so simple!

THE MAN

Why not? The animals have it. Men have it at times, but we make each other forget. If we could only be each other's reminders instead of forgetters!

THE BOY

Yes! But I see the only thing to do is to go away, like you.

THE MAN

Not necessarily, I was merely a bad case, and required a desperate remedy, earth and air and freedom from others' will. I need the country, but the next man might require the city as passionately. Don't imagine that only the hermits, like me, live instinctively. It can be done in New York, too, only one mustn't be so sensitive to others.... After all, friend, we were wrong in saying that this power lies outside the world of skyscrapers and business. It doesn't lie outside nor inside. It cuts across everything. Do you see? For it's all a matter of the man's own soul.

THE BOY

Then?

THE MAN

We can't live in a vacuum. The more you feel the force, the more you must act. The more you can act. And in the long run it doesn't matter what you do, if you do what your own instinct bids.

THE BOY

Then I _could_ stay right in the midst of it?

THE MAN

Yes. And if you were thinking of writing poetry, it might even be better to stay in the midst of it. Drama, you know ... and it's time for a new drama.

THE BOY