THE HOUSE[F]

THE HOUSE[F]

Professor and Mrs. Ray are at the little table finishing their coffee. In the center there is a white-robed birthday cake with three golden candles sending a gentle light on them. A myriad of faint wrinkles on the Professor’s kindly face might betray his age, though his thin body, in spite of its slight stoop, belies his seventy years. As he sits there precisely dressed in his evening clothes, he is the personification of fine breeding, the incarnation of all that blood and culture can produce. And through it all, there glows an alluring whimsy which one has no right to expect in a professor of philosophy.

Mrs. Ray, gowned also for the ceremony they are celebrating, is ten years younger; soft and gentle, too, yet sadder somehow, as though, in spite of her effort to live in his enthusiasms, it has become a bit difficult to sustain his mood of happiness.

But as they sip their coffee alone in the hotel suite with its conventional furnishings of a stereotyped comfort, graced only by a large bunch of white roses, one senses the deep and abiding affection which has warmed their long life together.

Professor

(With a sigh of contentment)

Ah!

(He sees she is thoughtful: he reaches over and takes from behind the table the quart bottle of champagne. He pours a little in her glass.)

Mrs. Ray

Oh, dear; I’m afraid I’ve had enough.

Professor

Nonsense.

Mrs. Ray

But I’m beginning to feel it.

Professor

That’s the intention. (Filling his glass.) There. Now a toast. (Standing with the greatest gallantry.) Here’s to my comrade of forty years: may we have as many more together.

Mrs. Ray

Oh, Charles, I’m afraid that’s asking too much of Providence.

Professor

We should ask much and be satisfied with less.

Mrs. Ray

(Raising her glass)

To my friend and husband.

Professor

You make a distinction?

Mrs. Ray

The world does.

Professor

What is the world doing here on our wedding anniversary? (Seriously) Let’s drink to each other—and the children.

Mrs. Ray

(Wistfully looking at the candles)

And the children.

(They sip: he shows he enjoys it; she sits thoughtfully while he takes out his cigarette case. He starts to take one, and then, with a twinkle in his eyes, offers her the case.)

Professor

Cigarette, dear?

Mrs. Ray

(Smiling)

No: thank you. I shan’t begin at my time of life.

Professor

Cato learned Greek at eighty. The minute people cease to learn—even a vice—they have begun to grow old. So beware.

Mrs. Ray

(Striking a match)

Let me light it for you.

Professor

(Slyly)

Which illustrates a woman’s part in life: encouraging vice in men, eh? (He lights it and puffs in enjoyment.) I must say I like my idea about the cake and the candles.

Mrs. Ray

It’s lovely, dear. Who but you would have thought of having a birthday cake on our wedding anniversary.

Professor

I started to put forty candles: one for each year; but there was no room left for the cake.

Mrs. Ray

I like the idea of three—just three.

Professor

Yes; three birthdays that meant so much in our time together: Teddy, Mary and Paul.

Mrs. Ray

Forty years!

Professor

It’s a long while to be married, dear. Speaks well for our patience, eh?

Mrs. Ray

And not a word to-night from our three children.

Professor

(Waving it aside)

After all, our marriage didn’t concern them—at the time.

Mrs. Ray

And we never forget their anniversaries.

Professor

But think how important those have always been from the beginning: each one the start of a great adventure for us.

Mrs. Ray

And more responsibility.

Professor

Certainly. Isn’t that the way we have broadened our lives? Think, dear, of how many times we have been young—once with our own youth and three times with our candles.

Mrs. Ray

(She rises and goes to the roses which she inhales)

And our hair is white.

Professor

(Gallantly rising also)

That can’t be blamed on the children. White hair doesn’t indicate marriage—always. It’s a matter of pigment, I’m told, and affects bachelors equally.

Mrs. Ray

You’re right, of course, dear. We have kept young through having our children; only——

Professor

(Coming to her)

Only what? Surely there isn’t a regret as you look back?

Mrs. Ray

Oh, no, not regret; only so many of our dreams have never been realized.

Professor

(As he breaks off a rose and gives it to her)

But we have dreamed; that’s the important thing, isn’t it?

Mrs. Ray

(Looking at rose)

I suppose so.

Professor

Of course it is, dear. And we have dreamed more than most because we have been young four times.

Mrs. Ray

(As she crosses to the sofa)

But it’s always been through others—for others.

Professor

But now it is for ourselves.

Mrs. Ray

(Smiling)

You mean our house?

Professor

Yes. Now that they’ve retired me with a pension and our children no longer need our help, we can build our house.

Mrs. Ray

(Wearily, as she sits)

We have built so many houses.

Professor

Yes. Life’s an experiment. Remember the first little cottage where Teddy was born? It didn’t leave us much margin even though it was small. Come to think of it, dear, we’ve built three houses, haven’t we?

Mrs. Ray

It’s the fourth we’ve really thought of most—and that hasn’t been built yet.

Professor

That’s to be ours—all ours; with room for the children if they want to come back.

Mrs. Ray

Oh, that’s it: they won’t come back now. Our house won’t suit them.

Professor

(Taking a chair over near her)

How can we expect them to come into a house that isn’t even built? You know our modern children are very peculiar. They get that from you.

Mrs. Ray

Nonsense. It’s you who are peculiar. Just look at the kind of house you want.

Professor

(Doubtfully)

It is different from yours, I’ll admit.

Mrs. Ray

I don’t object to the architecture. It’s the surroundings you insist on.

Professor

You want the city and I want the forest.

Mrs. Ray

(Shaking her head)

We’ll never agree.

Professor

(As though with an inspiration)

I have a solution. I’ll live in your city house, if you’ll have my forest around it.

Mrs. Ray

I’m afraid, dear, that is a bit impractical at present prices.

Professor

(With a whimsical smile)

But we certainly can’t have the city you love around my house in the woods! I’m afraid of the streets.

Mrs. Ray

Any friendly policeman would help you across them.

Professor

Think of me walking arm in arm with a policeman! I must consider my reputation, even though I am seventy. No. (With a twinkle.) I can’t seem to visualize the house, can you, dear?

Mrs. Ray

It isn’t like your dream or mine.

Professor

No. I’d have a hard time finding my birch trees in the moonlight. Have you ever noticed how lovely they are when the leaves have all gone?

Mrs. Ray

Somehow they are no more lovely than the sense of life in the tall ugly buildings man has built with his own hands.

Professor

But trees are eternal.

Mrs. Ray

That’s where we differ. I live in to-day: you live in all time.

Professor

That’s my profession. You lose count of time when you are a philosopher.

Mrs. Ray

And I am a woman of the world.

Professor

(As he goes to light another cigarette from the candles)

I’d hardly describe you that way, my dear; that sounds so naughty.

Mrs. Ray

I mean I love every minute that passes and everything the moment brings. I love the people who are of that moment.

Professor

You still dream of having a salon of celebrities?

Mrs. Ray

(Smiling)

It’s no worse than the museum of antiquities on your book shelves. But I keep forgetting you want your house in the forest so you can write about the dead.

Professor

And you want your house in the city for the living.

Mrs. Ray

I wish we could compromise somehow.

Professor

If we only had more money I could do away with the wilderness and content myself with a few wooded acres, I suppose. Only it must be roomy where the winds can speak. And I must have some wild things about. Though perhaps I could compromise on a pet squirrel, if necessary. (He smiles.) And if I met you that far do you think you would be willing to live an hour or so from the city?

Mrs. Ray

Why, of course. But haven’t we been looking for that sort of place for years; even when we weren’t free to live where we wished?

Professor

I can’t see why money is always getting in the way of our dreams. I often wonder what scoundrel it was who first invented money.

Mrs. Ray

And yet we might now be able to have what we wished if——

Professor

If? The eternal if?

Mrs. Ray

(She has gone to the table, placing rose there)

I was thinking of all we gave up for our children.

Professor

Wasn’t it jolly?

Mrs. Ray

While we still dreamed of the house we two would build for ourselves.

Professor

With rooms for them, don’t forget that.

Mrs. Ray

And now where are our children?

Professor

Living—maybe dreaming a bit of our dreams and not knowing it is ours. That’s the lovely thing about dreams: I like to think they are never lost.

Mrs. Ray

Yet here we sit alone on our anniversary and they have forgotten.

Professor

The young have so many things to remember.

Mrs. Ray

And we can never build our house now.

Professor

Nonsense. We can go on building it just as though it were really possible. Come, little mother, let’s be young together to the end. I’ll have to throw another log on this make-believe open fire in my house. (He pulls the sofa around so it faces the radiator which he eyes dubiously.) Hm! That won’t stimulate the imagination. Wait! I know.

(He goes over to the table and smiling quaintly he lifts up the cake with its three burning candles and carefully places it on the low radiator. Then he presses a switch on wall nearby and the lights overhead go out, leaving only the candles, a desk lamp and the moonlight through the window to give the shadows life. He laughs and warms his hands before the candles as he would before a fire.)

Come, dear, before my fire! By the way, is there a log fire in your dream-house, dear?

Mrs. Ray

(Smiling and fitting in with his fancy)

If you are to be with me, of course.

Professor

Well then we have a blazing fire in both our houses, eh? (He sits beside her on sofa and they gaze at candles.) And how economical fuel is when you dream about it. I’ve got a whole forest waiting to be cut by me, to-morrow, after I’ve worked all morning on my new book.

Mrs. Ray

And I’ve been to the musicale at the Biltmore.

Professor

What did you do this afternoon, dear?

Mrs. Ray

(Tapping his arm)

Oh, I had a brilliant reception.

Professor

Receptions are always brilliant.

Mrs. Ray

But this one really was. I had André Gidet and Arsène Tailleur there. They are those clever new writers all Paris is talking about.

Professor

You didn’t enjoy their witticisms more than I did a pesky little bluejay that made fun of me as I fished in my emerald lake.

Mrs. Ray

But surely even you would have envied me my dinner when the celebrated Mary Mevin explained her new symphony.

Professor

Nonsense, dear. Think of grilled trout caught by my own hand! And then the long lazy silent hours afterwards with Aristotle. Nice chap, Aristotle: knew a heap about men and things, though he lived in an age when there wasn’t so much to remember as there is now. Then afterwards I confess I yawned with the comfort of it all; good, deep-reaching yawns, as Nature intended. I went out to see my friends the stars. Best friends a man ever had: a bit cold and distant, perhaps; but always there behind the clouds. (She has risen and gone to the candles. There is a pause. Then she snuffs them out.) And I suppose at the same time you were trying in vain to find them out your city window? (Sees she is sobbing very quietly: the candles are out.) Why, dear! What’s the trouble?

Mrs. Ray

Oh, I can’t pretend any more. Our log fire isn’t real. Here we are all alone in a hotel apartment—before an old steam radiator and electric light. (Presses the switch again.)

Professor

(Tenderly and seriously)

I know. You left all that which might have been yours ... if ... if you hadn’t married me.

Mrs. Ray

And you—without me and the children—you might have had your dream now.

Professor

(Very seriously)

No, dear. One never can realize them: that’s why they are called dreams.

Mrs. Ray

(Goes to him looking up into his face)

You know, I wouldn’t have given up one hour of my life with you.

Professor

(Stroking her hair tenderly)

We have been very happy.

Mrs. Ray

Yet why is there something we both feel we have missed?

Professor

Because even the happy must be incomplete or else they would cease to be happy. Isn’t happiness hope as much as realization? We have realized—not ourselves completely—yet through each other. We have been what the other sought. But only the very wise know that there is an inner life no one can be part of: a lonely place where even the dearest can not enter, because it is a lonely place.

Mrs. Ray

Yes. I think that is the way it is with me, dear.

Professor

And the way it is with our house we shall never build. We can’t enter it together.

Mrs. Ray

(Looking before her)

Yet I can still see my house.

Professor

As clearly as I do mine. (Looking whimsically over at the smoking candles.) Even though our own log fire is burned out.

Mrs. Ray

(Smiling)

It’s changed somewhat these forty years.

Professor

Yes. That’s the way dream-houses have. (Taking her hand.) And, dear one, when we each think of our houses we can never build, let’s—let’s always go on holding each other’s hand, eh?

Mrs. Ray

Dearest....

Professor

So many people lose each other when they dream.

(He kisses her tenderly.)

[Curtain]

FOOTNOTES:

ON THE HIRING LINE

Comedy in 3 acts, by Harvey O’Higgins and Harriet Ford. 5 males, 4 females. Interior throughout. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

Sherman Fessenden, unable to induce servants to remain for any reasonable length of time at his home, hits upon the novel expedient of engaging detectives to serve as domestics.

His second wife, an actress, weary of the country and longing for Broadway, has succeeded in discouraging every other cook and butler against remaining long at the house, believing that by so doing she will win her husband to her theory that country life is dead. So she is deeply disappointed when she finds she cannot discourage the new servants.

The sleuths, believing they had been called to report on the actions of those living with the Fessendens, proceeded to warn Mr. Fessenden that his wife has been receiving love-notes from Steve Mark, an actor friend, and that his daughter has been planning to elope with a thief.

One sleuth causes an uproar in the house, making a mess of the situations he has witnessed. Mr. Fessenden, however, has learned a lesson and is quite willing to leave the servant problem to his wife thereafter. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

A FULL HOUSE

A farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 males, 7 females. One interior scene. Modern costumes. Time, 2½ hours.

Imagine a reckless and wealthy youth who writes ardent love letters to a designing chorus girl, an attorney brother-in-law who steals the letters and then gets his hand-bag mixed up with the grip of a burglar who has just stolen a valuable necklace from the mother of the indiscreet youth, and the efforts of the crook to recover his plunder, as incidents in the story of a play in which the swiftness of the action never halts for an instant. Not only are the situations screamingly funny but the lines themselves hold a fund of humor at all times. This newest and cleverest of all farces was written by Fred Jackson, the well-known short-story writer, and if backed up by the prestige of an impressive New York success and the promise of unlimited fun presented in the most attractive form. A cleaner, cleverer farce has not been seen for many a long day. “A Full House” is a house full of laughs. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

NOT SO LONG AGO

Comedy in a Prologue, 3 acts, and Epilogue. By Arthur Richman. 5 males, 7 females. 2 interiors, 1 exterior. Costumes, 1876. Plays a full evening.

Arthur Richman has constructed his play around the Cinderella legend. The playwright has shown great wisdom in his choice of material, for he has cleverly crossed the Cinderella theme with a strain of Romeo and Juliet. Mr. Richman places his young lovers in the picturesque New York of forty years ago. This time Cinderella is a seamstress in the home of a social climber, who may have been the first of her kind, though we doubt it. She is interested sentimentally in the son of this house. Her father, learning of her infatuation for the young man without learning also that it is imaginary on the young girl’s part, starts out to discover his intentions. He is a poor inventor. The mother of the youth, ambitious chiefly for her children, shudders at the thought of marriage for her son with a sewing-girl. But the Prince contrives to put the slipper on the right foot, and the end is happiness. The play is quaint and agreeable and the three acts are rich in the charm of love and youth. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

THE LOTTERY MAN

Comedy in 3 acts, by Rida Johnson Young. 4 males, 5 females. 3 easy interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

In “The Lottery Man” Rida Johnson Young has seized upon a custom of some newspapers to increase their circulation by clever schemes. Mrs. Young has made the central figure in her famous comedy a newspaper reporter, Jack Wright. Wright owes his employer money, and he agrees to turn in one of the most sensational scoops the paper has ever known. His idea is to conduct a lottery, with himself as the prize. The lottery is announced. Thousands of old maids buy coupons. Meantime Wright falls in love with a charming girl. Naturally he fears that he may be won by someone else and starts to get as many tickets as his limited means will permit. Finally the last day is announced. The winning number is 1323, and is held by Lizzie, an old maid, in the household of the newspaper owner. Lizzie refuses to give up. It is discovered, however, that she has stolen the ticket. With this clue, the reporter threatens her with arrest. Of course the coupon is surrendered and Wright gets the girl of his choice. Produced at the Bijou Theater, New York, with great success. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

POLLYANNA

“The glad play,” in 3 acts. By Catherine Chisholm Cushing. Based on the novel by Eleanor H. Porter. 5 males, 6 females. 2 interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

The story has to do with the experiences of an orphan girl who is thrust, unwelcome, into the home of a maiden aunt. In spite of the tribulations that beset her life she manages to find something to be glad about, and brings light into sunless lives. Finally, Pollyanna straightens out the love affairs of her elders, and last, but not least, finds happiness for herself in the heart of Jimmy. “Pollyanna” is a glad play and one which is bound to give one a better appreciation of people and the world. It reflects the humor, tenderness and humanity that gave the story such wonderful popularity among young and old.

Produced at the Hudson Theatre, New York, and for two seasons on tour, by George C. Tyler, with Helen Hayes in the part of “Pollyanna.” (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

THE CHARM SCHOOL

A comedy in 3 acts. By Alice Duer Miller and Robert Milton. 6 males, 10 females (may be played by 5 males and 8 females). Any number of school girls may be used in the ensembles. Scenes, 2 interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours.

The story of “The Charm School” is familiar to Mrs. Miller’s readers. It relates the adventures of a handsome young automobile salesman, scarcely out of his ’teens, who, upon inheriting a girls’ boarding-school from a maiden aunt, insists on running it himself, according to his own ideas, chief of which is, by the way, that the dominant feature in the education of the young girls of to-day should be CHARM. The situations that arise are teeming with humor—clean, wholesome humor. In the end the young man gives up the school, and promises to wait until the most precocious of his pupils reaches a marriageable age. The play has the freshness of youth, the inspiration of an extravagant but novel idea, the charm of originality, and the promise of wholesome, sanely amusing, pleasant entertainment. We strongly recommend it for high school production. It was first produced at the Bijou Theatre, New York, then toured the country. Two companies are now playing it in England. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

KICK IN

Play in 4 acts. By Willard Mack. 7 males, 5 females. 2 interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours.

“Kick In” is the latest of the very few available mystery plays. Like “Within the Law,” “Seven Keys to Baldpate,” “The Thirteenth Chair,” and “In the Next Room,” it is one of those thrillers which are accurately described as “not having a dull moment in it from beginning to end.” It is a play with all the ingredients of popularity, not at all difficult to set or to act; the plot carries it along, and the situations are built with that skill and knowledge of the theatre for which Willard Mack is known. An ideal mystery melodrama, for high schools and colleges. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

TILLY OF BLOOMSBURY

(“Happy-Go-Lucky.”) A comedy in 3 acts. By Ian Hay. 9 males, 7 females. 2 interior scenes. Modern dress. Plays a full evening.

Into an aristocratic family comes Tilly, lovable and youthful, with ideas and manners which greatly upset the circle. Tilly is so frankly honest that she makes no secret of her tremendous affection for the young son of the family; this brings her into many difficulties. But her troubles have a joyous end in charmingly blended scenes of sentiment and humor. This comedy presents an opportunity for fine acting, handsome stage settings, and beautiful costuming. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 cents.

BILLY

Farce-comedy in 3 acts. By George Cameron. 10 males, 5 females. (A few minor male parts can be doubled, making the cast 7 males, 5 females.) 1 exterior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

The action of the play takes place on the S. S. “Florida,” bound for Havana. The story has to do with the disappearance of a set of false teeth, which creates endless complications among passengers and crew, and furnishes two and a quarter hours of the heartiest laughter. One of the funniest comedies produced in the last dozen years on the American stage is “Billy” (sometimes called “Billy’s Tombstones”), in which the late Sidney Drew achieved a hit in New York and later toured the country several times. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

TWEEDLES

Comedy in 3 acts, by Booth Tarkington and Harry Leon Wilson. 5 males, 4 females. 1 interior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

Julian, scion of the blue-blooded Castleburys, falls in love with Winsora Tweedle, daughter of the oldest family in a Maine village. The Tweedles esteem the name because it has been rooted in the community for 200 years, and they look down on “summer people” with the vigor that only “summer boarder” communities know.

The Castleburys are aghast at the possibility of a match, and call on the Tweedles to urge how impossible such an alliance would be. Mr. Castlebury laboriously explains the barrier of social caste, and the elder Tweedle takes it that these unimportant summer folk are terrified at the social eminence of the Tweedles.

Tweedle generously agrees to co-operate with the Castleburys to prevent the match. But Winsora brings her father to realize that in reality the Castleburys look upon them as inferiors. The old man is infuriated, and threatens vengeance, but is checkmated when Julian unearths a number of family skeletons and argues that father isn’t a Tweedle, since the blood has been so diluted that little remains. Also, Winsora takes the matter into her own hands and outfaces the old man. So the youngsters go forth triumphant. “Tweedles” is Booth Tarkington at his best. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

JUST SUPPOSE

A whimsical comedy in 3 acts, by A. E. Thomas, author of “Her Husband’s Wife,” “Come Out of the Kitchen,” etc. 6 males, 2 females. 1 interior, 1 exterior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

It was rumored that during his last visit the Prince of Wales appeared for a brief spell under an assumed name somewhere in Virginia. It is on this story that A. E. Thomas based “Just Suppose.” The theme is handled in an original manner. Linda Lee Stafford meets one George Shipley (in reality is the Prince of Wales). It is a case of love at first sight, but, alas, princes cannot select their mates and thereby hangs a tale which Mr. Thomas has woven with infinite charm. The atmosphere of the South with its chivalry dominates the story, touching in its sentiment and lightened here and there with delightful comedy. “Just Suppose” scored a big hit at the Henry Miller Theatre, New York, with Patricia Collinge. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

ARE YOU A MASON?

Farce in 3 acts. By Leo Ditrichstein. 7 males, 7 females. Modern costumes. Plays 2¼ hours. 1 interior.

“Are You a Mason?” is one of those delightful farces like “Charley’s Aunt” that are always fresh. “A mother and a daughter,” says the critic of the New York Herald, “had husbands who account for absences from the joint household on frequent evenings, falsely pretending to be Masons. The men do not know each other’s duplicity, and each tells his wife of having advanced to leadership in his lodge. The older woman was so well pleased with her husband’s supposed distinction in the order that she made him promise to put up the name of a visiting friend for membership. Further perplexity over the principal liar arose when a suitor for his second daughter’s hand proved to be a real Mason.... To tell the story of the play would require volumes, its complications are so numerous. It is a house of cards. One card wrongly placed and the whole thing would collapse. But it stands, an example of remarkable ingenuity. You wonder at the end of the first act how the fun can be kept up on such a slender foundation. But it continues and grows to the last curtain.” One of the most hilariously amusing farces ever written, especially suited to schools and Masonic Lodges. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

KEMPY

A delightful comedy in 3 acts. By J. C. Nugent and Elliott Nugent. 4 males, 4 females. 1 interior throughout. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

No wonder “Kempy” has been such a tremendous hit in New York, Chicago—wherever it has played. It snaps with wit and humor of the most delightful kind. It’s electric. It’s small-town folk perfectly pictured. Full of types of varied sorts, each one done to a turn and served with zestful sauce. An ideal entertainment for amusement purposes. The story is about a high-falutin’ daughter who in a fit of pique marries the young plumber-architect, who comes to fix the water pipes, just because he “understands” her, having read her book and having sworn to marry the authoress. But in that story lies all the humor that kept the audience laughing every second of every act. Of course there are lots of ramifications, each of which bears its own brand of laughter-making potentials. But the plot and the story are not the main things. There is, for instance, the work of the company. The fun growing out of this family mixup is lively and clean. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request