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This last play is more realistic—stupid term!—than anything of a serious nature that the author has so far attempted. It is, however, the realism of Barrie rather than that of Brieux, and this at any rate is consoling. The first act is extraordinary, splendid in thought, in technique, and in execution. Therein lies the trouble, if trouble there be. Neither of the two acts following can reach the level of the first, and with the opening of the second act the play gradually, though hardly perceptibly, declines, not in interest, but in strength. The transposition of the character of the Tramp from an easy going good nature in the first act to that of a Dickens villain in the second may require explanation. The last sensation the boy has is that of the blow on his head, and his last visualization is that of the Tramp's face bending over him. Thus, in his delirium, the two would inevitably be associated. The story of the delirium, the second act, is peculiarly well done. One feels the slight haziness of outline, the great consequence of actually inconsequential events, the morbid terror lurking always in the near background, which are a very part and parcel of that strange psychological condition which is here made to play a spiritual part. The last act suffers for want of material. In reality, all that is necessary is to wind up the play speedily and happily. It seems probable that the introduction of the deliciously charming Frenchwoman, played so delightfully by Margaret Mower, would give the needed color and substance to this portion. As it is, one feels a little something lacking—but only a little. That the play is, as one pseudo-critic remarked, an argument in favor of infant playwrights, is too absurd to discuss. If it argues at all, it is that the relationship between the child world and the adult must be democratic, not tyrannic, and that flowers grow, like weeds, only when they are encouraged, not trod upon. The play is interesting, true, and imaginative to a degree; if it is not wholly satisfactory, it but partakes of the faults of virtue. Audiences, young, old, metropolitan and urban, have responded to the work in a manner which left no doubt of their approval. In New York it was slow in taking hold, and unfortunately the company was obliged to leave to fill other engagements just at the time when a more definite success was at hand. In the west the spirit of the thing caught at once; there was no hesitation there.
From the beginning there has been a very definite plan in Mr. Walker's mind as to what his objective point was to be, and especially in view of what I have said of his company in connection with repertory it may be interesting to suggest the outline of that plan here. This is no less than to establish in some city a permanent repertory theater and company, and to use the Portmanteau Theater and company for touring purposes. It is an amusing thought; the little theater would shoot out from under the wing of its parent as a raiding party detaches itself from its company, but the consequences would be, one hopes, less destructive on both sides. The thought, however, is really much more than amusing; it is of very real consequence and importance. It will readily be seen that in this we have a combination of the advantages of both the stationary and the touring repertory company, and hence, double the chances of success. And Mr. Walker would by no means be restricted to one Portmanteau Theater. If conditions warranted it he could as easily construct and send out a dozen on the road, taking his work into every nook and corner of the theater-loving country. In fact the ramifications of the idea are so vast that it is useless to endeavor to do more than suggest them here. The reader will see for himself what great possibilities are involved, and what an effect this might have on all repertory work in America.
During the last two years the work of Mr. Walker's company has improved in every way. The addition of new members, such as Margaret Mower, and particularly George Gaul, whose performance In The Book of Job was, in my opinion, one of the finest ever seen on the American stage, has naturally served to strengthen the fabric greatly. The older members of the company, Gregory Kelly, McKay Morris, Edgar Stehli and many others, have all improved in their work, increasing in assurance and finish. The success that has attended the fortunes of the theater has made possible finer stage effects (the Dunsany productions have been immensely improved) and the repertory has been greatly enriched by some really fine plays, and has been enhanced by others of a more popular character. One thing must be said, however, in all fairness. It has seemed to the[Pg xxviii] writer that of late there has been an increasing tendency on the part of Mr. Walker's scenic artists and costume designers to fall away from the plain surfaces and unbroken lines of the new stagecraft, and to achieve an effect which one can only characterize as "spotty." This can best be appreciated by those who know the two American productions of Dunsany's one-act play, The Tents of the Arabs. I am rather regretfully of the opinion that, aside from the actual playing and reading of the parts, Sam Hume's production was superior to that of Mr. Walker. An opulence of variegated colors does not always suggest as much as flat masses. The set used by Mrs. Hapgood in her production of Torrence's Simon the Cyrenian illustrates excellently the desired result. It is, however, Stuart Walker's privilege to adapt the new ideas, and to make such use of the old, as seems best to him. One is sometimes inclined to miss, nevertheless, the simplicity of his earlier work, especially when it is compared with the splendor, not always well used or well advised, of his later productions. His company has always read beautifully, and its reading is now better than ever. The only adverse criticism, if adverse criticism there be at all, lies against the Stage Director himself. I am especially glad to be able to say this, for the producer whose work is too good, too smooth, is surely stumbling to a fall. The very fact that there is definite room for improvement 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.
Edward Hale Bierstadt.
New York City,April, 1919.
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.
E. H. B.
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
A Play in Three Acts
Characters
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.
O-SODE-SAN
Oi!… Oi!… Obaa-San!
O-KATSU-SAN
Obaa-San!… Grandmother!
O-SODE-SAN
She is not there.
O-KATSU-SAN
Poor Obaa-San.
O-SODE-SAN
Why do you always pity Obaa-San? Are her clothes not whole? Has she not her full store of rice?
O-KATSU-SAN
Ay!
O-SODE-SAN
Then what more can one want—a full hand, a full belly, and a warm body!
O-KATSU-SAN
A full heart, perhaps.
O-SODE-SAN
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.
O-KATSU-SAN
Hai! Hai! She does not know.
O-SODE-SAN
She has had no lover to smile upon her and then—pass on.
O-KATSU-SAN
But Obaa-San is not happy.
O-SODE-SAN
Pss-s!
O-KATSU-SAN
She may be lonely because she has never had any one to love or to love her.
O-SODE-SAN
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-KATSU-SAN
O-Sode, might we not be too cruel to her?
O-SODE-SAN
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.
O-KATSU-SAN
I do not know! I do not know! Sometimes I think I hear tears in her laugh!
O-SODE-SAN
Pss-s! That is no laugh. Obaa-San cackles like an old hen.
O-KATSU-SAN
I think she is unhappy now and then—always, perhaps.
O-SODE-SAN
Has she not her weeping willow tree—the grandmother?
O-KATSU-SAN
Ay. She loves the tree.
O-SODE-SAN
The grandmother of the weeping willow tree! It's well for the misshapen, and the childless, and the loveless to have a tree to love.
O-KATSU-SAN
But, O-Sode, the weeping willow tree can not love her. Perhaps even old Obaa-San longs for love.
O-SODE-SAN
Do we not come daily to her to talk to her? And to ask her all about her weeping willow tree?
O-KATSU-SAN
Oi! Obaa-San.
[A sigh is heard.
O-SODE-SAN
What was that, O-Katsu?
O-KATSU-SAN
Someone sighed—a deep, hard sigh.
O-SODE-SAN
Oi! Obaa-San! Grandmother!
[The sigh is almost a moan.
O-KATSU-SAN
It seemed to come from the weeping willow tree.
O-SODE-SAN
O-Katsu! Perhaps some evil spirit haunts the tree.
O-KATSU-SAN
Some hideous Gaki! Like the Gaki of Kokoru—the evil ghost that can feed only on the unrest of humans. Their unhappiness is his food. He has to find misery in order to live, and win his way back once more to humanity. To different men he changes his shape at will, and sometimes is invisible.
O-SODE-SAN
Quick, Katsu, let us go to the shrine—and pray—and pray.
O-KATSU-SAN
Ay. There!
[They go out. The Gaki appears.
THE GAKI
Why did you sigh?
THE VOICE OF THE TREE
O Gaki of Kokoru! My heart hangs within me like the weight of years on Obaa-San.
THE GAKI
Why did you moan?
THE TREE
The tree is growing—and it tears my heart.
THE GAKI
I live upon your unrest. Feed me! Feed me!
[The tree sighs and moans and The Gaki seems transported with joy.
THE TREE
Please! Please! Give me my freedom.
THE GAKI
Where then should I feed? Unless I feed on your unhappiness I should cease to live—and I must live.
THE TREE
Someone else, perchance, may suffer in my stead.
THE GAKI
I care not where or how I feed. I am in the sixth hell, and if I die in this shape I must remain in this hell through all the eternities. One like me must feed his misery by making others miserable. I can not rise through the other five hells to human life unless I have human misery for my food.
THE TREE
Oh, can't you feed on joy—on happiness, on faith?
THE GAKI
Faith? Yes, perhaps—but only on perfect faith. If I found perfect faith—ah, then—I dare not dream.—There is no faith.
THE TREE
Do not make me suffer more. Let me enjoy the loveliness of things.
THE GAKI
Would you have someone else suffer in your stead?
THE TREE
Someone else—someone else—
THE GAKI
Ay—old Obaa-San—she whom they call the grandmother.
[The Tree moans.
THE GAKI
She will suffer in your stead.
THE TREE
No! No! She loves me! She of all the world loves me! No—not she!
THE GAKI
It shall be she!
THE TREE
I shall not leave!
THE GAKI
You give me better food than I have ever known. You wait! You wait!
THE TREE
Here comes Obaa-San! Do not let her suffer for me!
THE GAKI
You shall be free—as free as anyone can be—when I have made the misery of Obaa-San complete.
THE TREE
She has never fully known her misery. Her heart is like an iron-bound chest long-locked, with the key lost.
THE GAKI
We shall find the key! We shall find the key!
THE TREE
I shall warn her.
THE GAKI
Try!
THE TREE
Alas! I can not make her hear! I can not tell her anything.
THE GAKI
She can not understand you! She can not see me unless I wish! Earth people never see or hear!
THE TREE
Hai! Hai! Hai!
[Obaa-San enters. She is old, very, very old, and withered and misshapen. There is only laughter in your heart when you look at Obaa-San unless you see her eyes. Then—
OBAA-SAN
My tree! My little tree! Why do you sigh?
THE TREE
Hai! Hai! Hai!
OBAA-SAN
Sometimes I think I pity you. Yes, dear tree!
THE TREE
Hai! Hai! Hai!
THE GAKI
Now I am a traveller. She sees me pleasantly.—Grandmother!
OBAA-SAN
Ay, sir!
THE GAKI
Which way to Kyushu?
OBAA-SAN
You have lost your way. Far, far back beyond the ferry landing at Ishiyama to your right. That is the way to Kyushu.
THE GAKI
Ah, me!
OBAA-SAN
You are tired. Will you not sit and rest?—Will you not have some rice?
THE GAKI
Oh, no.—Where is your brood, grandmother?
OBAA-SAN
I have no brood. I am no grandmother. I am no mother.
THE GAKI
What! Are there tears in your voice?
OBAA-SAN
Tears! Why should I weep?
THE GAKI
I do not know, grandmother!
OBAA-SAN
I am no grandmother!—Who sent you here to laugh at me?—O-Sode-San? 'Tis she who laughs at me, because—
THE GAKI
No one, old woman—
OBAA-SAN
Yes, yes, old woman. That is it. Old woman!—Who are you? I am not wont to cry my griefs to any one.
THE GAKI
Griefs? You have griefs?
OBAA-SAN
Ay! Even I—she whom they call Obaa-San—have griefs.—Even I! But they are locked deep within me. No one knows!
THE GAKI
Someone must know.
OBAA-SAN
I shall tell no one.
THE GAKI
Someone must know!
OBAA-SAN
You speak like some spirit—and I feel that I must obey.
THE GAKI
Someone must know!
OBAA-SAN
I shall not speak. Who cares?—What is it I shall do? Tell my story—unlock my heart—so that O-Sode-San may laugh and laugh and laugh. Is it not enough that some evil spirit feeds upon my deep unrest?
THE GAKI
How can one feed upon your unrest when you lock it in your heart? (The voices of O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San are heard calling to Obaa-San) Here come some friends of yours. Tell them your tale.
[He goes out.
OBAA-SAN
Strange. I feel that I must speak out my heart.
[O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San come in.
O-SODE-SAN
Good morning, grandmother!
OBAA-SAN (with a strange wistfulness in her tone)
Good morning, O-Sode-San. Good morning, O-Katsu-San. May the bright day bring you a bright heart.
O-KATSU-SAN
And you, Obaa-San.
O-SODE-SAN
How is the weeping willow tree, grandmother?
OBAA-SAN
It is there—close to me.
O-SODE-SAN
And does it speak to you, grandmother—
OBAA-SAN
I am no grandmother! I am no grandmother! I am no mother! O-Sode, can you not understand? I am no mother.—I am no wife.—There is no one.—I am only an old woman.—In the spring I see the world turn green and I hear the song of happy birds and feel the perfumed balmy air upon my cheek—and every spring that cheek is older and more wrinkled and I have always been alone. I see the stars on a summer night and listen for the dawn—and there never has been a strong hand to touch me nor tiny fingers to reach out for me. I have heard the crisp autumn winds fight the falling leaves and I have known that long winter days and nights were coming—and I have always been alone—alone. I have pretended to you—what else could I do? Grandmother! Grandmother! Every time you speak the name, the emptiness of my life stands before me like a royal Kakemono all covered with unliving people.
O-SODE-SAN
You never seemed to care.
OBAA-SAN
Did I not care! Grandmother! Grandmother! Why? Because I loved a weeping willow tree. Because to me it was real. It was my baby. But no lover ever came to woo. No words ever came to me.—Think you, O-Sode-San, that the song of birds in the branches is ease to an empty heart. Think you that the wind amongst the leaves soothes the mad unrest in here. (She beats her breast) I have no one—no one. I talk to my weeping willow tree—but there is no answer—no answer, O-Sode-San—only stillness—and yet—sometimes I think I hear a sigh.—Grandmother! Grandmother! There! Is that enough? I've bared my heart to you. Go spread the news—I am lonely and old—old.—I have always been lonely. Go spread the news.
O-KATSU-SAN
No, Obaa-San. We shall not spread the news. No one shall know.
O-SODE-SAN
But—we pity you.
OBAA-SAN
I need no pity.—Now my heart is unlocked. The dread Gaki of Kokoru who feeds upon unrest can come to me and feed upon my pain. I care not.
THE TREE
Hai! Hai! Hai!
O-KATSU-SAN
Someone sighs.
OBAA-SAN
Yes. It is my tree. Perhaps there, too, someone in deep distress is imprisoned—as I am imprisoned in this body.—Hai! You do not know. You do not know!
O-SODE-SAN
Obaa-San—we have been hurting. I never knew—I am sorry, Obaa-San.
O-KATSU-SAN
You have been lonely, Obaa-San, but you have always been lonely. I know the having and I know the losing.
O-SODE-SAN
Ay. 'Tis better to long for love than to have it—and then lose. Look at me, whom the villagers call the bitter one. He came to me so long ago.—It was spring, Obaa-San, and perfume filled the air and birds were singing and his voice was like the voice from the sky-dome—all clear and wonderful. Together we saw the cherry trees bloom—once: and on a summer night we saw the wonder of the firefly fête. My heart was young and life was beautiful. We watched the summer moon—and when the autumn came—Ai! Ai! Ai! Obaa-San.—I knew a time of love—and oh, the time of hopelessness! And I shut my heart. I did not see, Obaa-San.
OBAA-SAN
You knew his love, O-Sode-San. You touched his hand.
O-KATSU-SAN
But what is that? To her—my little girl—I gave all my dreams. I felt her baby hands in mine and in the night I could reach out to her. I lived for her. And then, one day—Obaa-San, I had known the joy of motherhood and I had known the ecstasy of—child—and now—Her little life with me was only a dream of spring, but still my back is warm with the touch of her babyhood. The little toys still dance before my eyes. Oh, that was long ago.—Now all is black.
OBAA-SAN
All blackness can never fill a mother's heart.—O-Katsu-San, you have known the baby's hand in yours. But I am old—and I have never known, can never know.—I'd go to the lowest hells if once I might but know the touch of my own child's hand.
THE TREE
Hai! Hai! Hai
OBAA-SAN
Just once—for one short day—to fill the empty place in my heart that has always been empty—and a pain—
O-SODE-SAN
Who is that man, Obaa-San?
OBAA-SAN
There? That is a stranger seeking for Kyushu.
O-KATSU-SAN
He seems to wish to speak to you.
OBAA-SAN
A strange man. 'Twas he who seemed to make me unlock my heart to you.
O-SODE-SAN
Then shall we go.—And we'll return, Obaa-San.
OBAA-SAN
Grandmother!
O-KATSU-SAN
We'll laugh no more.
[They leave. Obaa-San turns to the tree. The Gaki enters, strangely agitated.
THE GAKI
Obaa-San, for so they called you, tell me—did you say you'd go to the lowest hells if you might know the touch of your own child?
OBAA-SAN
Forever—could I but fill this emptiness in my mother-heart.
THE GAKI
Would you really pay?
OBAA-SAN
Yes, yes. But why do you ask?—Who are you?
THE GAKI
I am a stranger bound for Kyushu.
OBAA-SAN
Why do you, too, make sport of me?
THE GAKI
Go you into your house and come not till I call.
[Obaa-San obeys under a strange compulsion.
THE TREE
Hai! Hai! Hai
THE GAKI
You can not feed me now. That cry was the wind amongst your branches. Come. I bid you come to life, to human form.
THE TREE
I do not wish to come.
THE GAKI
I bid you come!
[When he touches the trunk of the tree, Aoyagi steps forth. She is small. Her little body is swathed in brown and from her arms hang long sleeves like the branches of the weeping willow. At first she shrinks. Then freedom takes hold on her and she opens her arms wide.
THE GAKI
You are free.
AOYAGI
Free!
THE GAKI
As free as one in life. You are bound to the tree as one might be bound to his body in a dream—but you may wander as one wanders in a dream—free until the waking—then when the tree suffers, you shall suffer. Though you be leagues away, you shall suffer.—But first you shall dream.—Now you are to be the daughter of Obaa-San.
AOYAGI
Oi!
THE GAKI
Do not call yet.—You are to wed the first young man who passes here and you are to follow him.
AOYAGI
But—Obaa-San?
THE GAKI
She shall feed me with her new-made misery.
AOYAGI
No—no—she loved me so!
THE GAKI
She shall feed me. You will be happy.
[He disappears.
AOYAGI
Free! And happy!
[The Gaki's voice is heard calling Obaa-San. She comes in and looks about. At last her old tired eyes see Aoyagi. For a moment they face each other.
AOYAGI
Hai.
OBAA-SAN
A dream!
AOYAGI
Mother—
[Obaa-San stands mute. She listens—yearning for the word again.
OBAA-SAN
Have you lost your way?
AOYAGI
No, mother—
[Obaa-San does not know what to think or do. A strange giddiness seizes on her and a great light fills her eyes.
OBAA-SAN
How beautiful the name! But I am only Obaa-San. Your mother—
[She shakes her old head sadly.
AOYAGI
Obaa-San, my mother.
[Obaa-San lays her hand upon her heart. Then she stretches out her arms.
OBAA-SAN
Obaa-San—your mother—where is my pain? And you—who are you?
AOYAGI
I am Aoyagi, mother.
OBAA-SAN
You have not lost your way?
AOYAGI
I have but just found my way.
OBAA-SAN
My pain is stilled. There is no emptiness. It is a dream—a dream of spring and butterflies—Aoyagi!
[She stretches out her arms and silently Aoyagi glides into them—as though they had always been waiting for her.
OBAA-SAN
I seem never to have known a time when you were not here.
AOYAGI
Oh, mother dear, it is now—and now is always, if we will.
OBAA-SAN
It seems as though the weeping willow tree had warmed and shown its heart to me.
AOYAGI
I am the Lady of the Weeping Willow tree!
OBAA-SAN
I care not who or what you are. You are here—close to my heart and I have waited always. I know I dream—I know.
AOYAGI
How long I've tried to speak to you!
OBAA-SAN
How long my heart has yearned for you!
AOYAGI
Mother!
[The Gaki appears.
THE GAKI
Such happiness. Already she has forgotten the coming of the man.
OBAA-SAN
Oh, how I've dreamed of you! When I was very, very young and had my little doll, I dreamed of you. I used to sing a lullaby and still I sing it in my heart:
See, baby, see
The ears of the wolf are long;
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Your father is brave and strong.
I grew into womanhood and still I dreamed of you. And, dreaming still, I grew old. And all the world it seemed to me, made sport of my longing and my loneliness. The people of the village called me grandmother. The children echoed the grownups' cry and ran from me. Now—Aoyagi—you are here. Oh, the warmth—the peace. Come let me gather flowers for the house. Let me—
AOYAGI
Oh, mother, dear. I am so happy here.
OBAA-SAN (suddenly becoming the solicitous mother, she handles Aoyagi as one might handle a doll)
Are you—truly?—Are you warm?—You are hungry!
AOYAGI
No—I am just happy.
[She nestles close to Obaa-San. There is complete contentment.
OBAA-SAN
I shall bring you—a surprise.
[She darts into the house. Immediately The Gaki comes in.
THE GAKI
You seem very happy, Aoyagi. And your mother is very happy, too.—And I am hungry now.
AOYAGI
You will not hurt her! Let me go back to the Weeping Willow Tree—
THE GAKI
That would kill her—perhaps.
AOYAGI
No—no—I should be near her then—always.
THE GAKI
But where would I have my food? Not in your heart, not in hers—I should starve and I must live.
AOYAGI
What then?
THE GAKI
See!
[He points to the road. Aoyagi looks in that direction as The Gaki disappears. Riki comes in. Occasionally one may hear a bit of a lullaby sung in the old cracked voice of Obaa-San:
See, baby, see
The ears of the wolf are long;
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Your father is brave and strong.
Riki is a poet, young, free, romantic. He faces Aoyagi a little moment as though a wonderful dragonfly had poised above his reflection in a pool.
RIKI
You are she!
AOYAGI
My—who—are—you?
RIKI
I am a poet—I have sought everywhere for you.
AOYAGI
I am the Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree!
RIKI
You are my love.
AOYAGI
I am the daughter of Obaa-San.
RIKI
I love you so!
AOYAGI
Yes—I love you so!—But I love Obaa-San, my mother—
RIKI
Come with me.
AOYAGI
But Obaa-San—
RIKI
Come with me. Butterfly, butterfly, alight upon the Willow Tree And if you rest not well, then fly home to me. See! I make a little verse for you.
AOYAGI
But—Obaa-San—is very old and very lonely.
RIKI
She is your mother.—She must be glad to let you go.
AOYAGI
She does not know you.
RIKI
I know you.
AOYAGI
Yes—but I can not leave Obaa-San.
RIKI
We can not stay with Obaa-San.
AOYAGI
Can we not take her with us?
RIKI
No—like the Oshidori—we can go only by two and two along the silent stream—and as Oshidori in silence and in happiness float on and on and seem to cleave the mirrored sky that lies deep within the dark waters, so we must go, we two, just you and I, to some silent place where only you and I may be—and look and look until we see the thousand years of love in each other's hearts.
AOYAGI
Something speaks to me above the pity for poor Obaa-San.
RIKI
It is love.
AOYAGI
I love Obaa-San.
RIKI
This is love beyond love. This is earth and air—sea and sky.
AOYAGI
I do not even know your name.
RIKI
What does my name matter? I am I—you are you.
AOYAGI
I love Obaa-San, my mother.—I feel happy in her arms;—I felt at peace;—but now I feel that I must go to you.—I am fearful—yet I must go.—You are—
RIKI
I am Riki. But what can Riki mean that already my eyes have not said?
AOYAGI
I feel a strange unrest—that is happiness.
RIKI
Come!
AOYAGI
First let me speak to Obaa-San.
RIKI
Look—out there—a mountain gleaming in the fresh spring air.—Amongst the trees I know a glade that waits for you and me.—A little stream comes plashing by and silver fishes leap from pool to pool—dazzling jewels in the leaf-broken sunlight. Tall bamboo trees planted deep in the father earth reach up to the sky.—And there the hand of some great god can reach down to us and feed our happiness—
AOYAGI
Riki—I must go—I feel the strong hand leading me—I feel the happy pain—I long—I would stay with Obaa-San; but, Riki, I must go.—Yon mountain gleaming in the sun—the bamboo trees—the silver fishes—you—
[Obaa-San enters carrying an armful of wistaria blossoms. She is radiant. Then—she sees the lovers—and she understands. The blossoms slip from her arms.
