in the Portmanteau presentations, leads one to feel, knowing the record of the company, that these improvements will be made.
To return for a moment to an earlier phase of our discussion, it may be both interesting and profitable to note the fact that while the Abbey, the Manchester, and the New Theaters were all aided by material subsidies, the Portmanteau has stood on its own legs, albeit they wabbled a trifle on occasion, from the very start. A little, but only a little, money has been borrowed, and there has been just one gift, that of $5000. This last was accepted for the reason that it would enable the Theater to mount sets and costume plays in a rather better fashion than heretofore. While it was not absolutely essential to the continued existence of the Portmanteau it made presently possible productions which otherwise would have been postponed indefinitely; in British army slang it would be called "bukshee," meaning extra, like the thirteenth cake in the dozen. The record of the Portmanteau is its own, and that of its many friends who have been generous in contributing that rarest of all gifts, sympathetic understanding.
Before withdrawing my intrusive finger from the Portmanteau pie I should like to pay a small tribute to Stuart Walker himself. I do not think I have ever known a man who gave more unsparingly of himself in all his work. That dragon of the theater, the expense account, has often necessitated someone shouldering the work of half a dozen who were not there. Always it is Mr. Walker who has taken the task upon his back, cheerfully and willingly, and despite physical ills, under which a less determined man would have succumbed. His never wavering belief in his work and his ability to do that work have brought him through many a pitfall. It is not a petty vanity, but the strong conceit of the artist; that which most of us call by the vague term ideals. The spirit of the Portmanteau is to be found alike in its offices and on its stage; a spirit of unselfish belief that somehow, somewhere, we all shall "live happily ever after" if only we do the work we are set to do faithfully here and now. The theater, the organization which has that behind it, in conjunction with a keenly intelligent co-operation or team-play, will take a great deal of punishment before it goes down. Mistakes have been made, of course; otherwise neither producer nor company were human; but it is in the acknowledgment and rectification of errors that men become great.
The repertory theater, the new drama, and stage craft, have an able ally in the Portmanteau. We may look far afield for that elixir which will transmute the base metal of the commercial theater to the bright gold of art, but unless we remember that the pot of treasure is to be found at this end of the rainbow, and not the other, our search will be in vain.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish to acknowledge with gratitude the assistance given me by Mr. Brander Matthews, Mr. Montrose Moses, and by Mr. Charles Henry Meltzer in obtaining data, verifying dates and names, and by their kindly advice.
THE PROLOGUE TO THE PORTMANTEAU THEATER
THE PROLOGUE
As the lights in the theater are lowered the voice of Memory is heard as she passes through the audience to the stage.
MEMORY
Once upon a time, but not so very long ago, you very grownups believed in all true things. You believed until you met the Fourteen Doubters who were so positive in their unbelief that you weakly cast aside the things that made you happy for the hapless things that they were calling life. You were afraid or ashamed to persist in your old thoughts, and strong in your folly you discouraged your little boy, and other people's little boys from the pastimes they had loved. Yet all through the early days you had been surely building magnificent cities, and all about you laying out magnificent gardens, and, with an April pool you had made infinite seas where pirates fought or mermaids played in coral caves. Then came the Doubters, laughing and jeering at you, and you let your cities, and gardens, and seas go floating in the air—unseen, unsung—wonderful cities, and gardens, and seas, peopled with the realest of people.... So now you, and he, and I are met at the portals. Pass through them with me. I have something there that you think is lost. The key is the tiny regret for the real things, the little regret that sometimes seems to weight your spirit at twilight, and compress all life into a moment's longing. Come, pass through. You cannot lose your way. Here are your cities, your gardens, and your April pools. Come through the portals of once upon a time, but not so very long ago—today—now!
She passes through the soft blue curtains, but unless you are willing to follow her, turn back now. There are only play-things here.
THE LADY OF THE WEEPING WILLOW TREE
O-Sode-San, an old woman
O-Katsu-San
Obaa-San
The Gaki of Kokoru, an eater of unrest
Riki, a poet
Aoyagi
WEEPING WILLOW TREE
ACT I
[Before the House of Obaa-San. At the right back is a weeping willow tree, at the left the simple little house of Obaa-San.
[O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San enter.
Oi!… Oi!… Obaa-San!
Obaa-San!… Grandmother!
She is not there.
Poor Obaa-San.
Why do you always pity Obaa-San? Are her clothes not whole? Has she not her full store of rice?
Ay!
Then what more can one want—a full hand, a full belly, and a warm body!
A full heart, perhaps.
What does Obaa-San know of a heart, silly O-Katsu? She has had no husband to die and leave her alone. She has had no child to die and leave her arms empty.
Hai! Hai! She does not know.
She has had no lover to smile upon her and then—pass on.
But Obaa-San is not happy.
Pss-s!
She may be lonely because she has never had any one to love or to love her.
How could one love Obaa-San? She is too hideous for love. She would frighten the children away—and even a drunken lover would laugh in her ugly face. Obaa-San! The grandmother!
O-Sode, might we not be too cruel to her?
If we could not laugh at Obaa-San, how then could we laugh? She has been sent from the dome of the sky for our mirth.
I do not know! I do not know! Sometimes I think I hear tears in her laugh!
