Read Aloud Plays by Horace Holley
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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!