TlliflVl»»<€^ft\CvW'^V$ *>iOX \ IPS 3529 PS N5 191S fCopy 2 leHONT ^«iN$,i^|«i*^ 1^ THE FLYING STAG PLAYS For The Little Theatre No. 2 NIGHT COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY EGMONT ARENS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Ap- plications for permission to produce the play should be made to the Provincetown Players, 139 MacDougal Street, New York. While it is hoped that the publication of the plays in this series w^ill encourage their produc- tion in all parts of the country, it is held that the interests of the Nev^ Theater movement can best be served by vigorous protection of the play- wrights, without whom the movement cannot go forward. Therefore any infringement of the author's rights will be punished by the penalties imposed under the United States Revised Statutes, Title 60, Chapter 3. The Publisher. APR 12 ISiS N I G H T V V ^ Poetic Drama in One Act by James Oppenheim as played by the Provincetown Players. Published by EGMONT ARENS at the Washington Square Bookshop V New York 1918 /^/^\^' Night was first produced by the Provincetown Players on November 2nd, 1917, with the follow- ing cast : The Scientist - - - - Justus Sheffield The Poet _ _ - - George Cram Cook The Priest - - - - Hutchinson Collins The Man _ _ . _ _ Rollo Peters The Woman _ _ . . _ Ida Rauh The scene and method of playing, suggested by Rollo Peters. The actors appear in silhouette before a lighted blue screen upon a simple mound that suggests a hill-top. NIGHT A Priest, A Poet, A Scientist. Hilltop, in October; the stars shining. [The Priest kneels; the Scientist looks at the heavens through a telescope; the Poet writes in a little note-book.] THE PRIEST When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained; What is man, that Thou art mindful of him. And the son of man, that Thou visitest him? THE SCIENTIST Algol which is dim, becomes again a star of the second magnitude. THE POET My beloved is far from this hilltop, where the firs breathe heavily, and the needles fall; But from the middle of the sea She, too, gazes on the lustrous stars of calm October, and in her heart She stands with me beneath these heavens — daintily blows Breath of the sighing pines, and from the loaded and bowed-down orchards and from the fields With smokes of the valley, peace steps up on this hill. THE PRIEST Thou art the Shepherd that strides down the Milky Way; Thou art the Lord, our God: glorified be Thy name and Thy works. I see Thee with Thy staff driving the star- sheep to the fold of dawn. 6 . NIGHT THE SCIENTIST The Spiral Nebula in Ursa Major, that forever turns Slowly like a flaming pin-wheel. . .thus are worlds born; Thus was the sun and all the planets a hand- ful of million years ago. THE POET She is far from me. . .but in the cradle of the sea Sleepless she rocks, calling her beloved: he heeds her call: On this hilltop he picks the North Star for his beacon. . . For by that star the sailors steer, and beneath that star She and I are one in the gaze of the heavens. THE PRIEST [Slowly rising and turning to the others.] Let us glorify the Creator of this magnificence of infinite Night, His footstool is the Earth, and we are but the sheep of this Shepherd. THE SCIENTIST Thus shall we only glorify ourselves, That of this energy that rolls and drives in suns and planets Are but the split-off forces with cunning brains, And questioning consciousness. . .Pray if you must — ^ Only your own ears hear you, and only the heart in your breast Responds to the grandiose emotion ... See yonder star? That is the great Aldebaron, great in the night, JAMES OPPENHEIM 7 Needing a whole sky, as a vat and a reservoir, which he fills with his flame . . . But no astronomer with his eye to his lenses Has seen ears on the monster. THE PRIEST Thou that hast never seen an atom, nor the ether thou pratest of, Thou that hast never seen the consciousness of man, What knowest thou of the invisible arms about this sky, And the Father that leans above us? THE POET We need know nothing of any Father When the grasses themselves, withering in October, stand up and sing their own dirges in the great west wind. And every pine is like a winter lodging house where the needles may r member the greenness of the world. And the great shadow is jagged at its top with stars. And the heart of man is as a wanderer look- ing for the light in a window. And the kiss and warm joy of his beloved. THE PRIEST Man of Song and Man of Science, Truly you are as people on the outside of a house, And one of you only sees that it is made of stone, and its windows of glass, and that fire burns in the hearth. And the other of you sees that the house is beautiful and very human. But I have gone inside the house, And I live with the host in that house And have broken bread with him, and drunk his wine, 8 ' NIGHT And seen the transfiguration that love and awe make in the brain. . . For that house is the world, and the Lord is my host and my father: It is my father's house. THE SCIENTIST He that has gone mad and insane may call himself a king, And behold himself in a king's palace, with feasting, and dancing women, and with captains. And none can convince him that he is mad, Slave of hallucination. . . We that weigh the atom and weigh a world in the night, and we Who probe down into the brain, and see how desire discolors reality. And we that see how chemical energy changes and transforms the molecule. So that one thing and another changes and so man arises — With neither microscope, nor telescope, nor spectroscope, nor finest violet ray Have we found any Father lurking in the in- tricate unreasonable drive of things And the strange chances of nature. THE POET O Priest, is it not enough that the world and a Woman are very beautiful. And that the works and tragic lives of men are terribly glorious? There is a dance of miracles, of miracles hold- ing hands in a chain around the Earth and out through space to the moon, and to the stars, and beyond the stars. And to behold this dance is enough; So much laughter, and secret looking, and glimpses of wonder, and dreams of ter- ror. . . It is enough! it is enough! JAMES OPPENHEIM 9 THE PRIEST Enough? I see what is enough! Machinery is enough for a Scientist, And Beauty is enough for a Poet; But in the hearts of men and women, and in the thirsty hearts of little children There is a hunger, and there is an unappeas- able longing. For a Father and for the love of a Father. . . For the root of a soul is mystery. And the Night is mystery, And in that mystery men would open inward into Eternity, And know love, the Lord. Blessed be his works, and his angels, and his sons crowned with his glory! [A pause. The Woman with a burden in her arms comes in slowly.] THE WOMAN Who has the secret of life among you? THE PRIEST I, woman, have that secret: I have learned it from the book of the revela- tions of God, And I have learned it from life, bitterly, And from my heart, holily. THE SCIENTIST Be not deceived, woman: There is only one book of reality — the book of Nature. THE WOMAN Who has read in that book? THE SCIENTIST I have read a little: No man has read much. 10 NIGHT THE POET They lead you nowhere, woman; You are the secret of life, and your glory is in seeking the secret, But finding it never. THE WOMAN I have climbed this hill and found three watchers of the night — Three star-gazers perched above the placid October harvests Where they lie golden and crimson along the valley, and high on the slopes The scarlet maples flame — You are a priest: and you speak of God. I am nothing but need: for I carry a burden that is heavier than the Earth, and is heavier Than the flesh of woman can bear: I break Down under it: and a hard hate Against my birth is steel in my heart — I curse God, if there be a God — Love, if there ever was love — Life, that is empty ravings, And the hour when I was born. THE PRIEST Peace! Peace! Thou standest in the presence of the Night Shadowy with grace and benediction — the mercy Of the Lord falls like the dew on the soft brow of thy affliction! THE POET ^ [Softly.] She is very beautiful and dark with her stern cursing. Standing there like an enemy of great Je- hovah, JAMES OPPENHEIM 11 A demon-woman satanic — she is very beau- tiful, With her arms full of her burden, and the stars Seeming to retreat before her. THE SCIENTIST What burden is that you carry? THE WOMAN That which is worth nothing. And worth more than these stars you gaze at. THE PRIEST Put thy burden upon the Lord, and thy truSt in His loving kindness. THE WOMAN I will not part with my burden, though it is worth nothing. . . For what are a few pounds of dead flesh worth when the life has left it? THE PRIEST Then you carry the dead at your breast? THE WOMAN I carry the dead . . . THE PRIEST Flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone. . . THE WOMAN My breasts are still heavy with unsucked milk. . . THE PRIEST Your child has died. . . THE WOMAN My baby is dead. . . 12 . NIGHT THE PRIEST The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away; Blessed be the name of the Lord. THE WOMAN Nine long months I ripened with the human seed, and like a goodly tree that is green Stooped with sheltering boughs above the swelling fruit. . . Song rang sweetly in my blood. . . I tasted the silent life as a spring hillside where the furrows are run So holds its bated breath against the pressing of the grass-blades That birds coming that way catch the held- down glory under the furrows And scatter ecstatic golden notes in the morn- ing light. . . Until the trumpets blasted, as if the opening heavens of a sunrise Were battalions of bright trumpeters blowing news of dawn . . . Sank I then into darkness, Sank I then into terror, Till I was healed of pain by the new-born, my child. . . And now, behold in my arms The life of my life: All that I was went out in him: my life was now outside me. THE PRIEST Unto thee a son was born! ^-—^ THE WOMAN I ran to tend him with glad feet, and with laughter. . . For my life was now outside of me. And I was seeking my life. JAMES OPPENHBIM 13 THE PRIEST You praised the Lord? THE WOMAN I loved my child. . . THE PRIEST And God forgotten? THE WOMAN That child was holy. . . THE PRIEST He was but flesh . . . THE WOMAN Just so was Christ . . . THE PRIEST A Son of God. . . THE WOMAN My child was such. . . THE PRIEST So in the corrupt new generations of men They forget God, and love but the flesh, And the corruptible flesh decays after its kind And in their bereavement they have nothing . . .then in their sorrow They curse the true and the good. THE WOMAN The flesh, you say? Here is the flesh: But was it the flesh when his blue eyes opened and gazed with great hunger, Was it the flesh that wailed, the flesh that warmed against my naked breasts, the flesh That went a secret way, and I after, I after, seeking through embraces To catch my son back, hold him; . . .but, oh, he was gone. He was gone, leaving this. Priest, is this all you have for the bereaved? 14 ' NIGHT THE PRIEST That which, is gone is now with God. THE WOMAN / was his God, for to me the beautiful bright life raised its hands, Suppliant, full of faith. . . He wailed for enfolding love: I gave it For daily bread: I gave it For healing and shelter: I gave it. Out of me he came, but away from me he has gone, And if he has found out some other mother, I curse her in my jealousy! THE PRIEST So you blaspheme the holiness of the Omnipo- tent! THE WOMAN So I curse the thief who stole my treasure away. THE PRIEST Alas! Who may speak to a sacrilegious gen- eration? THE WOMAN Speak if you can, and tell me in a few words What is the secret of life? THE PRIEST Life is a mysterious preparation for immor- tality. . . We are sons and daughters of God, who shall later be angels, and in heaven^^^ Know bliss beyond all dream. ^ THE WOMAN [Uncovering her child's face.] My son. . . You and I lately pulsed with one pulse, and sang together one song: JAMES OPPENHBIM 15 For you the flaming pain, for you the terror of birth. . . And this priest's God let you suffer, in a glorious preparation, And let you die . . . [Kisses him.] Cold! Cold! My heart tightens hard, my blood is chilled. . . [In a loud cry.] Hellish heaven! Devilish God! [Silence. The Poet advances and covers the face.] THE POET You are very wonderful and very noble in your Satanic anger. Your curses are cleansing, for it is a mighty thing for man to confront creation Greater even than this vast Night, to stand in his transiency And his pitiful helplessness, and in the grasp of his doom, and against death, Darkness, and mysterious powers, alone of all life Godlike, downing the universe with defiance! O godlike Are you; and you are God! THE WOMAN [Casing at him.] Who are you, with these words? THE POET Seer and singer, one who glories in life, and through vision Creates his own worlds. THE WOMAN Has your mother ever wept for you? THE POET All mothers weep ... 16 ' NIGHT THE WOMAN Have you ever had a child? THE POET No child of my own: hut I know the love of children. THE WOMAN Can I trust you with a great trust? THE POET I think of you as a holy thing. THE WOMAN Then — take this a moment, And feel how light a heavy burden may be. [She carefully places the child in his arms.] THE POET How strangely light! THE WOMAN You tremble. Why? THE POET There is something so real in the stiff posture of these tiny legs, These crooked arms, this little body, This hanging head. . . THE WOMAN Can you see him? THE POET [Looking close.] ^""""^ O tiniest budding mouth, O dark deep fringes of eyelids, O pallid cheeks. . . THE WOMAN And the little tuft of hair — you see it? JAMES OPPENHEIM 17 THE POET Take him! My heart is in despair! THE WOMAN No one will have my burden; for my burden is heavier Than any save a mother can bear . . . O Earth, hard Earth, I shall not go mad: I hold back: I shut the doors on the Furies: I stand straight and stiff! I hold against my heart with words! [Silence.] So, poet, you are hushed! Life is too much for you! Go — live in your dreams and let the reality of experience Flow over you, untasted. . .You are wise: it is better! [Silence.] What? All silent? My star-gazers brought to a pause? You, too? THE SCIENTIST [Grimly.] Who would listen to me must be hard and strong. THE WOMAN Am I soft and weak? THE SCIENTIST You have the strength of revolt, but not the greater strength of acceptance. THE WOMAN What shall I accept? THE SCIENTIST The inexorable facts of life. 18 NIGHT THE WOMAN And what are those facts? THE SCIENTIST That man is no more than the grasses, and that man is no more, Though his dreams are grandiose, than the pine on this hill, or the bright star Burning blue out yonder — strangely the chemicals mix, and the forces interplay, And out of it consciousness rises, an energy harnessed by energies, And a little while it burns, then flickers, then vanishes out, And is no more than the October wind and the smell of dried hay. THE WOMAN These are the facts? THE SCIENTIST These are the facts. THE WOMAN And my child was nothing but energy, gath- ered and scattered? THE SCIENTIST These are the facts. . . THE WOMAN He was only a cunning engine and a curious machine? THE SCIENTIST ^_^ Thus are we all. . . THE WOMAN Not all . . . thus are you . . . But this child was mine, he was my baby and he was my son. JAMES OPPENHEIM 19 And I was his life-giver, and his lover, and his mother. . . And I knew the glory of this child, for I lived with it. And I know the marvel and mystery of moth- erhood, for I lived it. . . I lived it, who now live the death of a treas- ured being, And who know now that the light of the world is out, and only death May heal me of anguish, and only death's long sleep S'xall bury my bereavement in peace. . .O mouthers of words, Dreamers who do not live, I go back to the valley, And there I shall put this babe in the Earth where the seeds of Autumn are sinking, And there I shall slay myself, knowing that no one knov/s, And no one helps, and life is a madness and a horror. And to be dead is better than to suffer. [They say nothing. The Priest silently prays. The Woman turns, and starts slowly out. But as she goes a Man enters, search- ingly.] THE MAN Beloved! O where have you fled from me? THE WOMAN Go back — I hate you for bringing this being into life, Whose loss has ruined life, life itself: and I had better never loved you. For love brings children to the mother. THE MAN It is my child, too. . .1 too have lost him. 20 , NIGHT THE WOMAN You have lost a plaything and the promise of a man, And you have lost a trouble and a burden: But I have lost my love, and I have lost the life of my life. THE MAN You are cruel in your sorrow beyond all women. . . THE WOMAN Then leave me, and seek comfort elsewhere. There are many women. THE MAN You are desperate, and there is a hardness in you that makes me afraid. Where are you going? THE WOMAN I follow this child. THE MAN Then I lose my child . . . even as you lost yours. THE WOMAN Your child? Ha! I am gone! [Tries to pass him; he seizes her.] THE MAN You shall not go, for you are mine. O be- loved, hear me! THE WOMAN Take away your hands, for every moment that you make me stay Deepens my hate of you. THE MAN You would break my life in bits? JAMES OPPENHEIM 21 THE WOMAN Your life is not so easily broken. . . You are a man. . .Come! I shall do some ter- rible thing — THE MAN Then I too shall follow. . . THE WOMAN Follow? Where? THE MAN Wherever you go. THE WOMAN Down into death? THE MAN Even into death. [A pause; she draws back a little.] THE WOMAN Are you crying? Are there tears on your cheeks? Why do you heave so? THE MAN Your love has died. . . THE WOMAN Are you so weak? THE MAN But I need you so. . . THE WOMAN [In a changed voice.] You need me! THE MAN Look! I do not need you, who am alone, uncomforted, With no place on Earth, no life, no light, if you are gone. . . 22 NIGHT THE WOMAN You need me? THE MAN I need you . . . [Silence.] THE WOMAN This man is my child . . . [Silence.] THE MAN [Drawing her tenderly close.] Our dead child between us, O my beloved, is there not a future? May no more children issue from us, no more children Lovely, golden, waking with laughter, and clothed as with dawn With the memory of the dead? Come, my beloved, Down to the Valley, down to the living, down to the toilers. Come, my beloved! I am your child and your father. Your husband and your lover! Come, let us go! THE WOMAN [Weeping.] my heart! Something has broken in me, and the flood flows through my being! ^_^ 1 come! I come! [They go out together, the Man with his arm around the Woman.] THE PRIEST Forgive these children. Lord God! JAMBS OPPENHEIM 23 THE SCIENTIST Ignorance is indeed bliss! THE POET The secret of life? He gives it to her, she gives it to him . . . But who shall tell of it? Who shall know it? CURTAIN re FLYING STAG PLAYS FOR THE LITTLE THEATRE TO BE PUBLISHED MONTHLY Thirty Five Cents Each Three Dollars a Year The Best One Act Plays Produced by the Washington Square Players, the Provincetown Players, The Greenwich Village Players, and others, will be in- cluded in this series. A A A A A A THE CHESTER MYSTERIES, a Passion Play, as played on Christmas eve by the Greenwich Village Players. No. 1. THE SANDBAR QUEEN, by George Cronyn, as played by the Washington Square Players. No. 2. NIGHT, by James Oppenheim, as played by the Provincetown Players. No. 3. THE ANGEL INTRUDES, by Floyd Dell, (Provincetown Players). Others to follow at intervals of one month. SUBSCRIBE NOW Published by EGMONT ARENS, at the Washington Square Book Shop. New York 17 West 8th Street LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 018 378 039 6