Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays
Chapter 1 : Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays.by Various.INTRODUCTION Tradition in the sphere of book

Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays.

by Various.

INTRODUCTION

Tradition in the sphere of books is relentlessly imperious and will not be denied. The present anthology of one-act plays, in defiance of a keen reluctance on the part of the editors, is condemned at birth to the heritage of a t.i.tle; for this practice, as is well known, has been the unchallenged punctilio of book-making and book-editing from time immemorial. And yet if the truth be told, the editors have found precisely this to be by far the most embarra.s.sing of the various tasks that have arisen in connection with the project. In the selection of a t.i.tle, the immediate problem was of course to avoid, so far as possible, the slightest pretense or a.s.sumption of categorical standards of choice or even the merest intimation that there existed somewhere, attainable or unattainable, an ideal norm according to which one-act plays could be faultlessly a.s.sessed and pigeon-holed.

In point of fact, so many tolerably good one-act plays are being written and acted nowadays, that the editors early concluded that the business of editing a volume of fifty one-act pieces implies, so to speak, inviting the devil or the spirit that denies to the feast. Thus all manner of obstinate ribaldries and mischief began to infest our path of progress.

If it were only a nave question of adjudging a golden apple to one of three lovely women, earthly or divine, the matter would have proved comparatively simple; but the question was more complex: it offered the public a meager book which could never hope to compress within itself the core and quiddity of about a thousand plays, or more, which the editors were privileged to examine from the first moment when they launched upon their task eight months ago, to this. Moreover it frequently happened that when the editors had flattered themselves on having picked a sure winner, the sure winner forthwith got out of hand and no persuasive cajolings availed to allure it back. In other words, not a few plays which the editors sought to include in the book were found unavailable by reason of previous copyrights. In several cases the copyright had pa.s.sed entirely out of the control of the author or his accredited representative.

On the whole, however, both authors and those commissioned to act for them have responded most sympathetically to the project and have rendered valuable a.s.sistance and support, without which, let me hasten to add, the present collection would not have been possible.

The reader will observe that plays by American authors predominate over those of any other single country, and the reason for this is fairly obvious. American plays, besides being most readily available to the anthologist, are beginning to reflect the renascence that is gradually taking place in the American theater. There is growing up in this country a younger generation of dramatists, which is achieving its most notable work outside the beaten path of popular recognition, in small dramatic juntos and in the little theaters. In the main, the form they employ as being most suitable to their needs, is that offered by the concise scaffold of the one-act play. These efforts, we hold, deserve a wider audience.

On the other hand, a mere scrutiny of the table of contents will reveal that the editors have included a number of foreign plays heretofore not accessible to English-speaking readers. This aspect of the task, the effort of pioneer exploration, has indeed been by far the most pleasant, and most pleasant, too, has proved the discovery of several new American writers who have produced original work. Of the foreign writers, such men as Wied and Speenhof, for example, are practically if not totally unknown to American readers, and they, as well as a handful of others, are in the opinion of the editors worthy of an American following.

As concerns the procedure or technic of choice, it goes without saying, surely, that if a congruous method exists at all, it merely embodies a certain permissible viewpoint. This viewpoint will probably find unqualified favor with but a handful of readers; others it will frankly outrage to the extent of their casting it out, lock, stock and barrel.

But this is to be looked for in an undertaking of this caliber in which individual bias, after all, plays so leading a part. And t.i.tling the volume came to be an arduous process only in virtue of the afore-mentioned viewpoint, cherished but shadowily defined, or to be exact, in virtue of the despair which succeeded upon each persistent attempt to capture what remained perennially elusive. Unfortunately it still remains elusive. If then a rationalization is demanded by the reader--a privilege none will question his right to exercise--he will, I am afraid, have to content himself with something as vague and fantastic as the following:

Imagine a playhouse, perfectly equipped, plastic and infinitely adaptable. Invite Arthur Hopkins, John Williams, Winthrop Ames, Sam Hume and George Cram Cook to manage it; let them run riot on the stage. Clear the wings and the front of the house of all routineers. Fill the seats at each performance with the usual gallery-haunters of the New York theaters. Do not overlook the hosts of experimental playhouse directors--unleash them in the backyard area with a _kammerspielhaus_ to toy with at pleasure. Let the personnel of the play-reading committee consist of such men as Ludwig Lewisohn, Barrett H. Clark, George Jean Nathan and Francis Hackett. The result will take care of itself. This, in brief, is the theatrical menage for which, in the main, the plays included in this volume were written.

Is this a hair-brained or a frivolous notion? It may be. But, please note, it expresses, no matter how limpingly, some approach to a viewpoint. At all events it is the only touchstone applied by the editors in their choice of fifty contemporary one-act plays.

PIERRE LOVING.

New York City, Sept., 1920.

MADONNA DIANORA

A PLAY IN VERSE BY HUGO VON HOFMANNSTHAL

LA DEMENTE: _"Conosci la storia di Madonna Dianor?"_

IL MEDICO: _"Vagamente. Non ricordo piu."...

Sogno d'un mattino di primavera._

[SCENE: _The garden of a somber Lombardian Palace. To the right the wall of a house, which is at an angle with the moderately high garden wall that encloses it. The lower portion of the house is built of rough granite, above which rests a strip of plain marble forming a sill, which, under each window, is adorned with a lion's head in repose. Two windows are visible, each one having a small angular balcony with a stone railing, s.p.a.ced sufficiently to show the feet of those standing there. Both windows are curtained to the floor. The garden is a mere lawn with a few scattered fruit trees. The corner of the garden between the wall and the house is crowded with high box wood bushes. A leafy grapevine, trained over stunted chestnut trees, forms an arbor which completely fills the left side of the stage; only this entrance is visible. The arbor slants irregularly to the left rear. Behind the rear wall there may be seen (by the gallery spectator) a narrow path beyond which is the neighbor's garden wall--no house is visible. In the neighbor's garden and as far as the eye can reach, the tops of the trees are illuminated by the evening glow of a brilliant sunset._]

DIANORA [_at the window_].

A harvester I see, and not the last, No, not the last, descending from the hill.

There are three more, and there, and there!

Have you no end, you never-ending day?

How have I dragged the hours away from you, Torn them to shreds and cast them in the flood, As I do now with these poor tattered blooms!

How have I coaxed each minute of this day.

Each bracelet, and each earring was clasped on, Ta'en off again, then once more tried, until 'Twas thrown aside, exchanged, and others brought-- I slowly dripped the fountain, drop on drop All through my tresses, dried them languidly; With quiet, measured step, out in the sun I walked me to and fro--oh! to and fro!

But 'twas still damp--the path is narrow there.

I looked among the bushes, for the birds,-- Less than a zephyr's breath I bent them back, Those swaying branches, sat 'neath rustling trees, And felt on cheeks and hands in waiting woe The little flickerings of warm suns.h.i.+ne.

I closed my eyes, and almost thought soft lips Gently caressing, strayed my clammy brow.

Sometimes hours come when this duplicity, All this concealment, seems so fruitless, and I cannot bear it. I can only gaze With eyes of steel far up into the sky Where flocks of wild geese float, or bend me low O'er some mad, rus.h.i.+ng plunging waterfall That tears my weakling shadow with its flow,-- I will be patient--why, I must, I am!-- Madonna--I will climb the steepest mount And on my knees will count me every stone With this, my rosary, if only now, Oh, soon,--this day will sink into the night.

It is so long! I have its measured tread With these same beads been scanning o'er and o'er.

And now I talk so fev'rishly, instead Of counting all the leaves upon that tree.

Oh! I have finished much too soon again.

See! See the yeoman, calling to his dog.

The shadows do upon his garden fall, For him the night has come, but brings no joy; He fears it, locks his door and is alone.-- See where the maidens wander to the well.

I know the manner in which each of them Will fill her bucket--that one's prettiest.

Why does the stranger at the cross roads stay?

Distant's his goal, I warrant. He unwinds And folds again the cloth about his feet.

What an existence! Draw the thorns, yes, draw Them quickly out. You must speed. We all Must hurry on, the restless day must down And with it take this bright and scarlet glow That's lingering in radiance on my cheeks.

All that is troubling us cast far away, Fling wide the thorn into the field Where waters flow and sheaves of brilliant flow'rs Are bending, glowing, yearning towards the night.-- I draw my rings from off my fingers, and They're happy as the naked children are Who scamper quickly to the brook to bathe.-- Now all the girls have gone-- Only one maiden's left. Oh, what lovely hair!

I wonder if she knows its beauty's power?

Perhaps she's vain--but vanity, thou art A plaything only for the empty years.

When once she has arrived where I am now, She'll love her hair, she'll let it clasp her close, Enwrap her round and whisper to her low, Like echoing harpstrings throbbing with the touch Of fev'rish fingers straying in the dark.

[_She loosens her hair and lets it fall to the left and to the right in front of her._]

What, would you close to me? Down, down with you.-- I bid you greet him. When the dusk has come, And when his hands hold fast the ladder there A-sudden he will feel, instead the leaves, The cool, firm leaves, a gently spraying rain, A rain that falls at eve from golden clouds.

[_She lets her hair fall over the bal.u.s.trade._]

You are so long, and yet you barely reach A third the distance; hardly are your ends Touching the cold, white marble lion's nose.

[_She laughs and rises._]

Ah! there's a spider! No, I will not fling You off; I lay my hand once more Upon this spot, so you may find again The road you wish to speed so quickly on.

How I have changed! I am bewitched indeed!

In former days, I could not touch the fruit Within a basket, if upon its edge A spider had been seen. Now in my hand It runs.--Intoxication makes me glad!

Why, I could walk along the very edge Of narrow walls, and would not totter--no!-- Could I but fall into the waters deep!

In their cool velvet arms I would be well, Sliding in grottoes of bright sapphire hues Playing with wondrous beings of the deep All golden finned, with eyes benignly sad.

Yes, if I were immured in the chestnut woods Within some ruined walls, my soul were free.

For there the forest's animals would come And tiny birds. The little weasels would Brush up against and touch my naked toes With their soft snouts and lashes of bright eyes While in the moss I lay and ate wild fruit.-- What's rustling? 'Tis the little porcupine Of that first night. What, are you there again, Stepped from the dark? Art going on the hunt?

Oh! If my hunter would but come to me!

[_Looking up._]

Now have the shadows vanished! Gone are all Those of the pines and those of the dolls, The ones that played about the little huts, The large ones from the vineyards and the one Upon the figtree at the crossroads--gone As though the quiet earth had sucked them in!

The night has really come! The lamp Is placed upon the table, closely press The sheep together--close within the fold.

Within the darkest corners of the eaves Where the dustvine-leaves meet, goblins do crouch, And on the heights from out the clearing step The blessed saints to gaze where churches stand Well pleased at seeing chapels manifold.

Now, sweetest plaything, you may also come, Finer than spider's web, stronger than steel.