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THE ATLANTIC BOOK

OF MODERN PLAYS

Edited with Introduction, Comment
and Annotated Bibliography

by
Sterling Andrus Leonard

_Department of English
The University of Wisconsin and
The Wisconsin High School_

The Atlantic Monthly Press
Boston

_The rights of production of these plays are in every case
reserved by the authors or their representatives. No play can be
given publicly without an individual arrangement. The law does
not, of course, prevent their reading in classrooms or their
production before an audience of a school or invited guests where
no fee is charged; but it is, naturally, more courteous to ask
permission._

1921

The Atlantic Monthly Press

First impression, December, 1921
Second impression, April, 1922
Third impression, October, 1922

_Printed in the United States of America_

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION: ON THE READING OF PLAYS

THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS _Harold Chapin_

SPREADING THE NEWS _Lady Gregory_

THE BEGGAR AND THE KING _Winthrop Parkhurst_

TIDES _George Middleton_

ILE _Eugene O'Neill_

CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR _J.A. Ferguson_

THE SUN _John Galsworthy_

THE KNAVE OF HEARTS _Louise Saunders_

FAME AND THE POET _Lord Dunsany_

THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE _Beulah Marie Dix_

GETTYSBURG _Percy Mackaye_

LONESOME-LIKE _Harold Brighouse_

RIDERS TO THE SEA _John Millington Synge_

THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE _William Butler Yeats_

RIDING TO LITHEND _Gordon Bottomley_

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION IN READING THE PLAYS

NOTES ON THE DRAMAS AND THE DRAMATISTS

ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY OF PLAYS AND RELATED BOOKS

FOREWORD

We are at present in the midst of a bewildering quantity of
play-publication and production. The one-act play in particular,
chiefly represented in this volume, appears to be taking the
place of that rather squeezed sponge, the short story, in the
favor of the reading public. Of course, this tendency has its
reaction in schoolrooms. One even hears of high-school classes
which attempt to keep up with the entire output of such dramas in
English readings. If this is not merely an apologue, it is
certainly a horrible example. The bulk of current drama, as of
published matter generally, is not worthy the time of the English
class. Only what is measurably of rank, in truth and fineness,
with the literature which has endured from past times can be
defended for use there. And we have too much that is both well
fitted to young people's keen interest and enjoyment, and
beautifully worthy as well, for time to be wasted upon the third-
and fourth-rate.

Obviously, much of the best in modern play-writing has not been
included in this volume. Because of copyright complications the
works of Mr. Masefield, Mr. Shaw, Mr. Drinkwater, and Sir James
Barrie are not here represented. The plays by these writers that
seem best fitted to use by teachers and pupils in high schools,
together with a large number of other dramas for this purpose,
are listed and annotated at the back of the book. Suggestions as
to desirable inclusions and omissions will be welcomed by the
editor and the publishers.

Following in their own way the lead of the Theatre Libre in Paris
and the Freie Buehne in Germany, and of the Independent and the
Repertory theatres in Great Britain, numerous "little theatres"
and drama associations in this country are giving impulsion and
direction to the movement for finer drama and more excellent
presentation. The Harvard dramatic societies, the Morningside
Players at Columbia, Mr. Alex Drummond's Community Theatre at the
State Fair in Ithaca, the Little Country Theatre at Fargo, South
Dakota, and similar groups at the University of California and
elsewhere, illustrate the leadership of the colleges. In many
high schools, as at South Bend, Indiana, more or less complete
Little Theatres are active. The Chicago Little Theatre, the
Wisconsin Dramatic Society, the Provincetown Players, the
Neighborhood Playhouse, in New York, and others of that ilk, are
well known and influential. They are extending the tradition of
the best European theatres in their attempts to cultivate
excellent and individual expression in drama. They realize that
plays must be tested by actual performance,--though not
necessarily by the unnatural demands of success in competition
with Broadway revues and farce-melodramas,--and thus developed
toward a genuine artistic embodiment of the vast and varied life,
the manifold and deep idealism of this country.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For their courteous and generous cooperation the editor is
greatly indebted to the authors and publishers of all the plays
included. He is equally grateful to other dramatists who were
personally as cordial in intention but quite impotent to grant
copyright privileges. In addition, he has received most friendly
and cordial criticism from friends and friendly strangers to whom
he appealed--among others, from Mr. Harold Brighouse; Mr.
Theodore Hinckley, editor of "Drama"; Mr. Clarence Stratton, now
Director of English at Cleveland, and author of a forthcoming
book on the Little Theatre in this country; Mr. Allan Monkhouse,
author of "Mary Broome" and "War Plays"; Professor Allan Abbot,
of Teachers College, Columbia University; Mr. Frank G. Thompkins,
of Central High School, Detroit; Mrs. Mary Austin; Professor Earl
B. Pence, of De Pauw University; Professor Brander Matthews; and
Mrs. Alice Chapin. Indebtedness to many lists is obvious,
particularly to that of the Drama League and the National Council
of Teachers of English, and that of Professor Pence in the
"Illinois Bulletin."

"Ile" is reprinted by special arrangement with the author and
with Boni and Liveright, publishers, New York. "Ile" is reprinted
from the volume "The Moon of The Caribbees" and six other plays
of the sea, which volume is one of the series of plays by Mr.
O'Neill, the series including "Beyond the Horizon," a drama in
four acts, "The Straw," a play in three acts and five scenes,
"Gold," a play in four acts and "Chris" a play in four acts.

INTRODUCTION: ON THE READING OF PLAYS

The elder Dumas, who wrote many successful plays, as well as the
famous romances, said that all he needed for constructing a drama
was "four boards, two actors, and a passion." What he meant by
passion has been defined by a later French writer, Ferdinand
Brunetiere, as a conflict of wills. The Philosopher of Butterbiggens,
whom you will meet early in this book, points out that "what you
are all the time wanting" is "your own way." When two strong
desires conflict and we wonder which is coming out ahead, we say
that the situation is dramatic. This clash is clearly defined in
any effective play, from the crude melodrama in which the forces
are hero and villain with pistols, to such subtle conflicts,
based on a man's misunderstanding of even his own motives and
purposes, as in Mr. Middleton's "Tides."

In comedy, and even in farce, struggle is clearly present. Here
our sympathy is with people who engage in a not impossible
combat--against rather obvious villains who can be unmasked, or
against such public opinion or popular conventions as can be
overset. The hold of an absurd bit of gossip upon stupid people
is firm enough in "Spreading the News"; but fortunately it must
yield to facts at last. The Queen and the Knave of Hearts are
sufficiently clever, with the aid of the superb cookery of the
Knave's wife, to do away with an ancient and solemnly reverenced
law of Pompdebile's court. So, too, the force of ancient loyalty
and enthusiasm almost works a miracle in the invalid veteran of
"Gettysburg." And we feel sure that the uncanny powers of the
Beggar will be no less successful in overturning the power of the
King in Mr. Parkhurst's play.

Again, in comedies as in mathematics, the problem is often solved
by substitution. The soldier in Mr. Galsworthy's "The Sun" is
able to find a satisfactory and apparently happy ending without
achieving what he originally set out to gain. And the same is
true of Jock in Mr. Brighouse's "Lonesome-Like." Or the play
which does not end as the chief character wishes may still prove
not too serious because, as in "Fame and the Poet," the situation
is merely inconvenient and absurd rather than tragic. Now and
then it is next to impossible to tell whether the ending is
tragic or not; in the "Land of Heart's Desire" we must first
decide whether our sympathies are more with Shawn Bruin and with
Maire's love for him, or with her keen desire to go

To where the woods, the stars, and the white streams
Are holding a continual festival.

It is natural for us to desire a happy ending in stories, as we
desire satisfying solutions of the problems in our own lives. And
whenever the forces at work are such as make it true and possible,
naturally this is the best ending for a story or a play. But where
powerful and terrible influences have to be combated, only a poor
dramatist will make use of mere chance, or compel his characters
to do what such people really would not do, to bring about a
factitious "happy ending." With the relentless, mighty arms of
England engaged in hunting the defeated Highlanders after the
Battle of Culloden, a play like "Campbell of Kilmhor," in which we
sympathize with the ill-fated Stewarts, cannot end happily. If
they had yielded under pressure and betrayed their comrades, we
might have pitied them, but we could not admire their action, and
there would have been no strong conclusion. In "Riders to the
Sea," where the characters are compelled by bitter poverty to face
the relentless forces of storm and sea, and in "The Biding to
Lithend," we expect a tragic end almost from the first lines of
the play. We recognize this same dramatic tensity of hopeless
conflict in many stories as well as plays; it is most powerful in
three or four novels by George Eliot, George Meredith, and Thomas
Hardy.

One of the best ways to understand these as real stage plays is
through some sort of dramatization. This does not mean, however,
that they need be produced with elaborate scenery and costumes,
memorizing, and rehearsal; often the best understanding may be
secured by quite informal reading in the class, with perhaps a hat
and cloak and a lath sword or two for properties. With simply a
clear space in the classroom for a stage, you and your
imaginations can give all the performance necessary for realizing
these plays very well indeed. But, of course, you must clearly
understand the lines and the play as a whole before you try to
take a part, so that you can read simply and naturally, as you
think the people in the story probably spoke. Some questions for
discussion in the appendix may help you in talking the plays over
in class or in reading them for yourself before you try to take a
part. You will find it sometimes helps, also, to make a diagram or
a colored sketch of the scene as the author describes it, or even
a small model of the stage for a "dramatic museum" for your
school. If you have not tried this, you do not know how much it
helps in seeing plays of other times, like Shakespeare's or
Moliere's; and it is useful also for modern dramas. Such small
stages can be used for puppet theatres as well. "The Knave of
Hearts" is intended as a marionette play, and other
dramas--Maeterlinck's and even Shakespeare's--have been given in
this way with very interesting effects.

If you bring these plays to a performance for others outside your
own class, you will find that the simplest and least pretentious
settings are generally most effective. The Irish players, as Mr.
Yeats tells us, "have made scenery, indeed, but scenery that is
little more than a suggestion--a pattern with recurring boughs and
leaves of gold for a wood, a great green curtain, with a red
stencil upon it to carry the eye upward, for a palace." Mr. John
Merrill of the Francis Parker School describes the quite excellent
results secured with a dark curtain in a semicircle--a
cyclorama--for background, and with colored lights.[1] Such a
staging leaves the attention free to follow the lines, and the
imagination to picture whatever the play suggests as the place of
the action.

[Footnote 1: John Merrill: "Drama and the School," in _Drama_,
November, 1919.]

THE PHILOSOPHER OF BUTTERBIGGENS[1]

Harold Chapin

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of Mrs. Alice Chapin.
Permission to present this play must be secured from Samuel
French, 28 West 38th Street, New York City, who controls all
acting rights, etc., in this country.]

CHARACTERS

DAVID PIRNIE LIZZIE, his daughter
JOHN BELL, his son-in-law
ALEXANDER, John's little son

SCENE: JOHN BELL'S _tenement at Butterbiggens. It consists of the
very usual "two rooms, kitchen, and bath," a concealed bed in the
parlor and another in the kitchen enabling him to house his
family--consisting of himself, his wife, his little son, and his
aged father-in-law--therein. The kitchen-and-living-room is a
good-sized square room. The right wall (our right as we look at
it) is occupied by a huge built-in dresser, sink, and coal bunker,
the left wall by a high-manteled, ovened, and boilered fireplace,
the recess on either side of which contains a low painted
cupboard. Over the far cupboard hangs a picture of a ship, but
over the near one is a small square window. The far wall has two
large doors in it, that on the right leading to the lobby, and
that on the left appertaining to the old father-in-law's concealed
bed. The walls are distempered a brickish red. The ceiling once
was white. The floor is covered with bright linoleum and a couple
of rag rugs--one before the fire--a large one--and a smaller one
before the door of the concealed bed._

_A deal table is just to right of centre. A long flexible
gas-bracket depends from the ceiling above it. Another
many-jointed gas-bracket projects from the middle of the high
mantelpiece, its flame turned down towards the stove. There are
wooden chairs at the table, above, below, and to left of it. A
high-backed easy chair is above the fire, a kitchen elbow-chair
below it._

_The kitchen is very tidy. A newspaper newly fallen to the rug
before the fire and another--an evening one--spread flat on the
table are (besides a child's mug and plate, also on the table)
the only things not stowed in their prescribed places. It is
evening--the light beyond the little square window being the gray
dimness of a long Northern twilight which slowly deepens during
the play. When the curtain rises it is still light enough in the
room for a man to read if the print be not too faint and his eyes
be good. The warm light of the fire leaps and flickers through
the gray, showing up with exceptional clearness the deep-lined
face of old DAVID PIRNIE, who is discovered half-risen from his
armchair above the fire, standing on the hearth-rug, his body
bent and his hand on the chair arm. He is a little, feeble old
man with a well-shaped head and weather-beaten face, set off by a
grizzled beard and whiskers, wiry and vigorous, in curious
contrast to the wreath of snowy hair that encircles his head. His
upper lip is shaven. He wears an old suit--the unbuttoned
waistcoat of which shows an old flannel shirt. His slippers are
low at the heel and his socks loose at the ankles._

_The old man's eyes are fixed appealingly on those of his
daughter, who stands in the half-open door, her grasp on the
handle, meeting his look squarely--a straight-browed,
black-haired, determined young woman of six or seven and twenty.
Her husband_, JOHN, _seated at the table in his shirt-sleeves with
his head in his hands, reads hard at the paper and tries to look
unconcerned._

DAVID. Aw--but, Lizzie--

LIZZIE (_with splendid firmness_). It's nae use, feyther. I'm no'
gaein' to gie in to the wean. Ye've been tellin' yer stories to
him nicht after nicht for dear knows how long, and he's gettin'
to expect them.

DAVID. Why should he no' expect them?

LIZZIE. It disna do for weans to count on things so. He's layin'
up a sad disappointment for himself yin o' these days.

DAVID. He's gettin' a sad disappointment the noo. Och, come on,
Lizzie. I'm no' gaein' to dee just yet, an' ye can break him off
gradually when I begin to look like to.

LIZZIE. Who's talkin' o' yer deein', feyther?

DAVID. Ye were speakin' o' the disappointment he was layin' up
for himself if he got to count on me--

LIZZIE. I wasna thinkin' o' yer deein', feyther--only--it's no
guid for a bairn--

DAVID. Where's the harm in my giein' him a bit story before he
gangs tae his bed?

LIZZIE. I'm no sayin' there's ony harm in it this yinst, feyther;
but it's no richt to gae on nicht after nicht wi' never a break--

DAVID. Whit wey is it no richt if there's nae harm in it?

LIZZIE. It's giein' in to the wean.

DAVID. Whit wey should ye no' gie in to him if there's nae harm
in it?

LIZZIE (_keeping her patience with difficulty_). Because it gets
him into the habit.

DAVID. But why should he no' get into the habit if there's nae
harm in it?

(_John at the table chuckles. Lizzie gives him a look, but he
meets it not._)

LIZZIE. Really, feyther, ye micht be a wean yerself, ye're that
persistent.

DAVID. No, Lizzie, I'm no' persistent, I'm reasoning wi' ye. Ye
said there was nae harm in my tellin' him a bit story, an' now ye
say I'm not to because it'll get him into the habit; an' what I'm
askin' ye is, where's the harm o' his gettin' into the habit if
there's nae harm in it?

LIZZIE. Oh, aye; ye can be gey clever, twistin' the words in my
mouth, feyther; but richt is richt, an' wrang's wrang, for all
yer cleverness.

DAVID (_earnestly_). I'm no bein' clever ava, Lizzie,--no' the
noo,--I'm just tryin' to make ye see that, if ye admit there's
nae harm in a thing, ye canna say there's ony harm in it, an'
(_pathetically_) I'm wantin' to tell wee Alexander a bit story
before he gangs to his bed.

JOHN (_aside to her_). Och, wumman--

LIZZIE. T'ts, John; ye'd gie in tae onybody if they were just
persistent enough.

JOHN. He's an auld man.

LIZZIE (_really exasperated_). I ken fine he's an auld man, John,
and ye're a young yin, an' Alexander's gaein' to be anither, an'
I'm a lone wumman among the lot o' ye, but I'm no' gaein' to gie
in to--

JOHN (_bringing a fresh mind to bear upon the argument_). Efter a',
Lizzie, there's nae harm--

LIZZIE (_almost with a scream of anger_). Och, now you've stairted,
have you? Harm. Harm. Harm. You're talkin' about harm, and I'm
talking about richt an' wrang. You'd see your son grow up a
drunken keelie, an' mebbe a thief an' a murderer, so long as you
could say there was nae harm in it.

DAVID (_expostulating with some cause_). But I cudna say there was
nae harm in that, Lizzie, an' I wudna. Only when there's nae
harm--

LIZZIE. Och. (_Exits, calling off to the cause of the trouble._)
Are ye in yer bed yet, Alexander?

(_Shuts door with a click._)

DAVID (_standing on hearth-rug and shaking his head more in sorrow
than in anger_). She's no reasonable, ye ken, John; she disna
argue fair. I'm no complaining o' her mither, but it's a wee
thing hard that the only twa women I've known to be really chatty
an' argumentative with should ha' been just like that. An' me
that fond o' women's society.

(_He lowers himself into his chair._)

JOHN. They're all like it.

DAVID (_judiciously_). I wudna go sae far as to say that, John. Ye
see, I've only kent they twa to study carefully--an' it's no fair
to judge the whole sex by just the twa examples, an' it
were--(_Running on_) But it's gey hard, an' I was wantin' to tell
wee Alexander a special fine story the nicht. (_Removes glasses
and blinks his eyes._) Aweel.

JOHN (_comforting_). Mebbe the morn--

DAVID. If it's no richt the nicht, it'll no be richt the morn's
nicht.

JOHN. Ye canna say that, feyther. It wasna wrang last nicht.

DAVID (_bitterly_). Mebbe it was, an' Lizzie had no' foun' it out.

JOHN. Aw, noo, feyther, dinna get saurcastic.

DAVID (_between anger and tears, weakly_). I canna help it. I'm
black affrontit. I was wantin' to tell wee Alexander a special
fine story the nicht, an' now here's Lizzie wi' her richt's richt
an' wrang's wrang--Och, there's nae reason in the women.

JOHN. We has to gie in to them though.

DAVID. Aye. That's why.

(_There is a pause. The old man picks up his paper again and
settles his glasses on his nose. JOHN rises, and with a spill
from the mantelpiece lights the gas there, which he then bends to
throw the light to the old man's advantage._)

DAVID. Thank ye, John. Do ye hear him?

JOHN (_erect on hearth-rug_). Who?

DAVID. Wee Alexander.

JOHN. No.

DAVID. Greetin' his heart out.

JOHN. Och, he's no greetin'. Lizzie's wi' him.

DAVID. I ken fine Lizzie's wi' him, but he's greetin' for a' her.
He was wantin' to hear yon story o' the kelpies up to Cross Hill
wi' the tram--(_Breaking his mood impatiently_) Och.

JOHN (_crossing to table and lighting up there_). It's gettin' dark
gey early. We'll shin be haein' tea by the gas.

DAVID (_rustling his paper_). Aye--(_Suddenly_) There never was a
female philosopher, ye ken, John.

JOHN. Was there no'?

DAVID. No. (_Angrily, in a gust_) An'there never will be! (_Then
more calmly_) An' yet there's an' awful lot o' philosophy about
women, John.

JOHN. Aye?

DAVID. Och, aye. They're that unreasonable, an' yet ye canna
reason them down; an' they're that weak, an' yet ye canna make
them gie in tae ye. Of course, ye'll say ye canna reason doon a
stane, or make a clod o' earth gie in tae ye.

JOHN. Will I?

DAVID. Aye. An' ye'll be richt. But then I'll tell ye a stane
will na answer ye back, an' a clod of earth will na try to
withstand ye, so how can ye argue them down?

JOHN (_convinced_). Ye canna.

DAVID. Richt! Ye canna! But a wumman _will_ answer ye back, an'
she _will_ stand against ye, an' _yet_ ye canna argue her down
though ye have strength an' reason on your side an' she's talkin'
naething but blether about richt's richt an' wrang's wrang, an'
sendin' a poor bairn off t' his bed i' the yin room an' leavin'
her auld feyther all alone by the fire in anither an'--ye
ken--Philosophy--

(_He ceases to speak and wipes his glasses again. JOHN, intensely
troubled, tiptoes up to the door and opens it a foot. The wails
of ALEXANDER can be heard muffled by a farther door. JOHN calls
off._)

JOHN. Lizzie.

(_Lizzie immediately comes into sight outside the door with a
"Shsh."_)

JOHN. Yer feyther's greetin'.

LIZZIE (_with a touch of exasperation_). Och, I'm no heedin'!
There's another wean in there greetin' too, an' I'm no heedin'
him neither, an' he's greetin' twicet as loud as the auld yin.

JOHN (_shocked_). Ye're heartless, wumman.

LIZZIE (_with patience_). No, I'm no' heartless, John; but there's
too much heart in this family, an' someone's got to use their
heid.

(DAVID _cranes round the side of his chair to catch what they
are saying. She stops and comes to him kindly but with womanly
firmness._)

LIZZIE. I'm vexed ye should be disappointed, feyther, but ye see,
don't ye--

(_A singularly piercing wail from ALEXANDER goes up. LIZZIE rushes
to silence him._)

LIZZIE. Mercy! The neighbors will think we're murderin' him.

(_The door closes behind her._)

DAVID (_nodding for a space as he revolves the woman's attitude_).
Ye hear that, John?

JOHN. Whit?

DAVID (_with quiet irony_). She's vexed I should be disappointed.
The wumman thinks she's richt! Women always think they're
richt--mebbe it's that that makes them that obstinate. (_With the
ghost of a twinkle_) She's feart o' the neighbors, though.

JOHN (_stolidly_). A' women are feart o' the neighbors.

DAVID (_reverting_). Puir wee man. I telt ye he was greetin', John.
He's disappointed fine. (_Pondering_) D' ye ken whit I'm thinkin',
John?

JOHN. Whit?

DAVID. I'm thinkin' he's too young to get his ain way, an' I'm
too auld, an' it's a fine thocht!

JOHN. Aye?

DAVID. Aye. I never thocht of it before, but that's what it is.
He's no' come to it yet, an' I'm past it. (_Suddenly_) What's the
most important thing in life, John?

(JOHN _opens his mouth--and shuts it again unused._)

DAVID. Ye ken perfectly well. What is it ye're wantin' a' the
time?

JOHN. Different things.

DAVID (_satisfied_). Aye--different things! But ye want them a', do
ye no'?

JOHN. Aye.

DAVID. If ye had yer ain way ye'd hae them a', eh?

JOHN. I wud that.

DAVID (_triumphant_). Then is that no' what ye want: yer ain way?

JOHN (_enlightened_). Losh!

DAVID (_warming to it_). That's what life is, John--gettin' yer ain
way. First ye're born, an' ye canna dae anything but cry; but
God's given yer mither ears an' ye get yer way by just cryin' for
it. (_Hastily, anticipating criticism_) I ken that's no exactly in
keeping with what I've been saying aboot Alexander--but a
new-born bairnie's an awfu' delicate thing, an' the Lord gets it
past its infancy by a dispensation of Providence very unsettling
to oor poor human understandings. Ye'll notice the weans cease
gettin' their wey by juist greetin' for it as shin as they're old
enough to seek it otherwise.

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