READ-ALOUD PLAYS

BY

HORACE HOLLEY

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

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....