The Spring Recital
Theodore Dreiser
A prosperous First Church in the heart of a great city. Outside the city’s principle avenue, along which busses and vehicles of all descriptions are rolling. Surrounding the church a graveyard, heavily shaded with trees, the branches of which reach to the open windows bearing soft odours. Over the graves many full blown blossoms, and in the sky a full May moon. An idling sense of spring in the gait and gestures of the pedestrians. In front of the church hangs a small lighted cross, and under it swings the sign “Organ Recital, 8:30, Wilmuth Tabor, Organist.” The doors giving into the church are open. The interior, save for the presence of a caretaker in a chair, is empty. On either side of the pulpit, below a great dark rose window, burns a partially lighted electrolier. In the organ loft, over the street doors, a single light.
First Street Boy(to his companion, ambling to discover what the world contains, and glancing in as they pass). Gee! Who’d wanta go to church on a night like this?
Second Street Boy.I should say! Didjah see the old guy with the whiskers sitten’ inside?
First Street Boy.Sure. A swell job, eh? (Their attention is attracted by an automobile spinning in the opposite direction, and they pass on).
An Old Lady(to her middle-aged daughter, on whose arm she is leaning ... sympathetically and reminiscently). The dear old First Church! What a pity its parishioners have all moved away. I don’t suppose the younger generation cares much for church going anymore. People are so irreligious these days.
The Daughter.Poor Mr. Tabor. I went to one of his concerts in the winter and there were scarcely forty people there. And he plays so heavenly, too. I don’t suppose the average person cares much for organ music.
(They pass with but a glance at the interior.)
A Belated Shoe Clerk(hurrying to reach Hagan’s Olio Moving Picture and Vaudeville Theatre before the curtain rises, but conscious that he ought to pay some attention to the higher phases of culture, turning to the old door-keeper). When does this concert begin?
The Old Door-keeper(heavily). Half past eight. (He glances at the sign hanging over the youth’s head.)
The Belated Shoe Clerk.Do they have them every Wednesday night?
The Old Door-keeper.Every Wednesday. (The Clerk departs, and the old man scratches his head.) They often ask, but they don’t come in. (He shifts to a more comfortable position in his chair.) I see no use to playin’ to five or six people week in and week out all summer long. Still, if they want to do it they have the money. It looks like a good waste of light to me.
(Mrs. Pence and Mrs. Stillwater, two neighbors of the immediate vicinity, enter the church door.)
Mrs. Pence(a heavy pasty faced woman in white lawn, lowering her voice to a religious whisper as they enter). Yes, I like to come here now and then. I don’t know much about music but the organ is so soothing. We had a parlor organ when I was a little girl and I learned to play on that.
Mrs. Stillwater(short, blonde, and of a romantic turn, but with three grown sons). I just think the organ is the loveliest of all instruments. It’s so rich and deep. Isn’t it dim here? So romantic! I love an old church. (They seat themselves in a pew.) I don’t suppose people want much light when they hear music. See the moonlight in that window over there, isn’t it lovely?
(A pair of lovers enter.)
The Boy.I’ve heard of him. He’s a well-known organist. I love Grieg. I wish he would play the Nocturne in G Minor.
The Girl.Oh yes, orSolveig’s Lied. Isn’t it dim here.
(They enter a pew in the most remote corner. She squeezes his hand and he returns the pressure.)
The Organist(a pessimistic musician of fifty, entering and climbing slowly to the organ loft. As he does so he surveys the empty auditorium gloomily.) Only four people! (He turns on the bracket lights, uncovers the keys, and adjusts the sheets of his programme before him. Surveying himself in the mirror, and then examining the opening bars of The Toccata and Fugue in D by Bach, he pulls out various stops and looks into the dim, empty auditorium once more.) What a night! And me playing in this dim, empty church. It’s bad enough to be getting along in years and have no particular following, but this church! All society and wealth away to the sea shore and the mountains and me here. Ah, well (he sighs). Worse and worse times still succeed the former. (He sounds a faint tremolo to test the air pressure. Finding all satisfactory, and noting the hour by his watch, which stands at eight-thirty, he begins the Overture to “The Magic Flute,” this being a purely secular programme).
(Enter through a north window, open even with the floor of the organ loft, a horned fawn, with gay white teeth grimacing as he comes, beginspirouetting. He carries a kex on which he attempts to imitate the lovely piping of the overture).
The Fawn(prancing lightly here and there). Tra aa ala-lala! Ah, tra-la-la, Ah, tra-la-la! Tra-la-leee! Tra-la-leee! Very excellent! Very nice! (He grins from ear to ear and espying the church cat, a huge yellow tom who is mousing about, gives a spirited kick in its direction). Dancing’s the thing! Life is better than death, thin shade that I am!
The Cat(arching his back and raising his fur). Pfhs-s-st! Pfhs-s-st!
(The fawn pirouettes nearer, indicating a desire to dance with it, whereupon the cat retreats into a corner under the organ).
The Fawn.Ky-ey-ey! You silly dolt! (Kicks and spins away).
The Organist(noticing the spit-fire attitude of the cat). He seems to see something. What the deuce has got into him, now? I wonder whether cats do see anything when they act like that. (He drifts into a frail dance harmony, yielding to the seduction of it and closing his eyes).
The Boy Lover.Wonderful! So delicately gay and sad! It’s just like flowers blooming in the night, isn’t it? (His sweetheart squeezes his hand and moves closer).
Six Hama-dryads(sweeping in from the trees and circling about, wreath-wise under the groined arches of the ceiling. They are a pale, ethereal company, suiting their movements to the melody and its variations).
Arch of church or arch of trees,Built of stone or built of air,Spirits floating on a breeze,Dancing gayly anywhere.Out of lilac, out of oak,Hard by asphodel and rose,Never time when music spokeBut a dryad fled repose.Weaving, turning, high and lowWhere the purpled rhythms fall,Where the plangent pipings call,Round and round and round we go.
Arch of church or arch of trees,Built of stone or built of air,Spirits floating on a breeze,Dancing gayly anywhere.Out of lilac, out of oak,Hard by asphodel and rose,Never time when music spokeBut a dryad fled repose.Weaving, turning, high and lowWhere the purpled rhythms fall,Where the plangent pipings call,Round and round and round we go.
Arch of church or arch of trees,Built of stone or built of air,Spirits floating on a breeze,Dancing gayly anywhere.
Arch of church or arch of trees,
Built of stone or built of air,
Spirits floating on a breeze,
Dancing gayly anywhere.
Out of lilac, out of oak,Hard by asphodel and rose,Never time when music spokeBut a dryad fled repose.
Out of lilac, out of oak,
Hard by asphodel and rose,
Never time when music spoke
But a dryad fled repose.
Weaving, turning, high and lowWhere the purpled rhythms fall,Where the plangent pipings call,Round and round and round we go.
Weaving, turning, high and low
Where the purpled rhythms fall,
Where the plangent pipings call,
Round and round and round we go.
The Fawn(dancing forward and about them). I can dance! Let me dance! (He grins in the face of one).
The Hama-dryads.Go away! Don’t bother!
The Cat(prowling under the organ). I saw a mouse peeping out of that hole just now. Wait! (He crouches very low, ready to spring).
The Organist(dreamily). This passage always makes me think of moonlight on open fields and the spicy damp breath of a dark dewy wood,and of lilacs blowing over a wall, too. So suitable, but I would rather live than play. (He sighs. A gloomy ghost with sharp green eyes enters from the sacristy, and pauses in the dark angle of the wall).
The Ghost(a barrel house bum a dozen years dead, and still enamored of the earth). What’s doing here, I wonder? (He stares). A lot of fools dancing. (Turns and departs).
The Girl.Oh Sweetheart, isn’t it perfect. (She lays her head on his shoulder).
The Boy.Darling!
The Cat(springing). There! I almost caught him. (Peers into the hole). Just the same, I know where he is now. (He strolls off with an air of undefeated indifference).
The Organist(missing a note). This finale isn’t so easy. And I don’t like it as well, either. I always stumble in the allegro. (He wipes his brow, improvises a few bars,interpolating also a small portion of the triumphal march from “Aida”). This is different. I can do it better. (He begins upon the Grail motif from “Parsifal”).
Mrs. Stillwater(shifting her arm and moving her knee). I never like loud music as well as the softer kind. That middle part was beautiful.
Mrs. Pence.Well, I can’t say I like loud music, either, but now this—
(The Hama-dryads cease dancing and drift out of the window, followed by the fawn. An English minister, once of St. Giles, Circenster, who died in 1631, a monk of the Thebaid, A. D. 300, and three priests of Isis, B. C. 2840, enter, each independently of the others. On detecting the odour of reverence they visualize themselves to themselves as servitors of their respective earthly religions—the Egyptians in their winged hoods, the monk of the Thebaid in his high pointed cowl, the Rector of St. Giles in his broad-brimmed hat with the high conical crown, knee-length coat, and heavy, silver-buttoned shoes.)
The Minister(to himself). An unhappy costume, yet it is all that identifies me with my former earthly self, or with life. (He notes the Egyptians and the monk, but pays no attention to them for the moment).
First Priest of Isis(to his brothers). A house of worship. How the awe of man persists. I thought I detected the rhythm of melody here.
Second Priest(tall and severely garbed, yet in the rich colors of his order). And I. It is melody. I feel the waves.
Third Priest(signing in the direction of the organist). There is the musician. He is arranging something. And here is a very present reminder of one of our earthly stupidities. We worshiped the forerunner of that in our day. (He motions to the church cat who strolls by with great dignity. They smile).
The Cat(surveying them with indifferent eyes). At least I am alive.
First Priest(a master of astrology). Small comfort. You will be dead within the year. I see the rock that ends you. Then no more airs for you.
The Monk of the Thebaid(to himself). This is a religious edifice—heavily material and of small pomp—christian, possibly. That spirit yonder (he surveys the minister of St. Giles) was also a priest of sorts, I take it, and these three Egyptians—how they strut! They give themselvesairs because of the thin memory of them and of their rites that endures in the world.
The Minister of St. Giles(surveying the monk). A sombre flagellant. I wonder has he outgrown his earthly illusion. (He approaches). Brother, do I not meet an emancipated spirit?
The Monk.You do. Centuries of observation have taught me what earthly search could not. I smile at the folly of this. (He waves an inclusive hand about him).
The Minister.And I, I also—though I was of stern faith in my day, and of this very creed—even now I suspect some discoverable power worthy of worship. My mere persistence causes me to wonder though it does not explain itself.
The Monk.Nor does mine to me, nor the persistence of their seeming reality to them. (He points through the transparent walls of the church to where outside moving streams of shadows—automobiles, belated wagons, and pedestrians are to be seen—and to the lovers). Yet there is no answer. They have their faith, futile as it is. A greater darkness has fallen on you and me. Endless persistence for us if we must, let us say, but merging at last into what?
The Minister.And when I died I imagined I should meet my maker face to face.
The Monk(smiling). And I the same. And they,—(he nods toward the Egyptians),—their gods were as real to them,—shadows all, of the unknowable.
The Organist(plunging into the sub-theme which speedily dies off into unfathomable mysteries of dark notes and tones). I wonder if I’m boring them by this heavy stuff. Still what do I care. There are only four. (Nevertheless he fuses the Grail motif to the dance of the flower maidens).
The Boy.Isn’t it lovely!
The Girl.Perfect!
The Organist.Lovely and very difficult. These pedals are working rather stiffly,—and that automobile has to honk just now. (He fingers lightly three notes of a major key indicative of woodland echoes and faint bird notes. Re-enter the barrel house bum who is seeking anything that will amuse him).
The Bum.Still playing! And there are those two old stuffs of women. Not an idea between ’em. (He turns to go but catches sight ofthe monk and the Egyptians. Pauses, and then turns back).
The Monk.Soothing harmonies these! More strange combinations, the reason for which we cannot guess, the joy and beauty of which we know. I find earthly harmonies very grateful. But then, why?
(He and the priest forget theirquondam materiality for a moment and disappear from sight; recovering themselves as shadows only by thinking).
The Bum(staring interrogatively and irritatingly at the monk and the Egyptians, who, however, pay not the slightest attention to him). You thought you knew somepin’ when you were alive, didn’jah? You thought you were smart, huh? You thought you’d find out somepin’ when yuh died, huh? Well, yuh got fooled didn’jah? You’re like all the other stuffs that walk about and think they know a lot. Yuh got left. Har! Har! Har! (He chortles vibrantly). I know as much as you fellers, and I’ve only been dead a dozen years. There aint no answer! Har! Har! Har! There aint no answer! An’ here you are floatin’ aroun’ in them things! (He indicates their dress). Oh, ho, ho ho! (He grins maliciously and executes a crude clog step).
The Monk(repugnantly and pulling his cowl aside). Away, vile creature—unregenerate soul! Has even the nothingness of materiality taught you nothing?
The Bum(straightening up and leering). Who’s vile? What’s vile? (He thinks to become obstreperous but recalling his nothingness grins contemptuously). You think you’re still a monk, don’cha? You think you’re good—better’n anybody else. Whatcha got to be good about? Oh ho, ho, ho, ho! Ah har, har, har, har! He thinks he’s still a monk—
First Egyptian(to the monk sympathetically). Come away, friend. Leave him to his illusions.
Second Egyptian.Time alone can point out the folly of his mood.
The Minister of St. Giles(drawing near and scowling at the Bum). Out, sot.
The Bum(defiantly and yet indifferently). Who’s a sot? An’ where’s out? Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho!
The Organist(passing into the finale). And this is even more beautiful. It suggests graves and shrines—and fawns dancing. But I don’t propose to play long for four people.
(A troup of fawns and nymphs dance in, pursuing and eluding each other. The six Hama-dryads return, weaving and turning in diaphanous line. A passing cloud of hags and wastrels, the worst of the earth lovers, enticed by the gaiety of sound, enter and fill the arches and the vacant spaces for the moment, skipping about in wild hilarity. The Bum joins them, dancing deliriously. Persistances of fish and birds and animals, attracted by the rhythm which is both colour and harmony to them, turn and weave among the others. Ancient and new dead of every clime, enamored of the earth life and wandering idly, enter. A tired pedestrian offorty, an architect, strolling for the air and hearing the melody, enters. After him come spirits of the streets—a doctor and two artisans, newly dead, wondering at the sound).
The Minister of St. Giles(noting the flood of hags and wastrels). And these are horrible presences! Succubi! Will they never get enough of materiality?
The Monk.In my day the Thebaid was alive with them—the scum of Rome and Alexandria, annoying us holy men at our devotions.
The Minister.Do you still identify yourself with earthly beliefs?
The Monk.A phase! A phase! In the presence and thought of materiality I seem to partake of it.
The First Egyptian.And I! A sound observation!
The Third Egyptian.The lure of life! It has never lost its charm for me.
The Minister(to himself). Nor for me.
The Fawn(cavorting near, hiskex to his lips, piping vigorously). Heavy dolts! Little they know of joy except to stare at it.
The Minister(indicating the fawn). And this animal—to profane a temple!
The Monk(mischievously). And do you still cling to earthly notions of sanctity?
The Minister.I hold as I have said, that there must be some power that explains us.
The Twelve Hama-dryads(dancing and singing):
Round and round a dozen times,Three times up and three times down,Catch a shadow circlewise,Fill it full of thistledown.Fill it up and then away—How can stupid mortals knowAll the gladness of our play—Where the dew wet odours blow,Round and round and round we go!
Round and round a dozen times,Three times up and three times down,Catch a shadow circlewise,Fill it full of thistledown.Fill it up and then away—How can stupid mortals knowAll the gladness of our play—Where the dew wet odours blow,Round and round and round we go!
Round and round a dozen times,Three times up and three times down,Catch a shadow circlewise,Fill it full of thistledown.
Round and round a dozen times,
Three times up and three times down,
Catch a shadow circlewise,
Fill it full of thistledown.
Fill it up and then away—How can stupid mortals knowAll the gladness of our play—Where the dew wet odours blow,Round and round and round we go!
Fill it up and then away—
How can stupid mortals know
All the gladness of our play—
Where the dew wet odours blow,
Round and round and round we go!
The Bum(spinning near). This is glorious! Gee!
First Egyptian(unconscious of anything save the charm of the rhythm). Sweet vibrations these. But not our ancient harmonies. In our time they were different.
Second Egyptian.Our day! Our day! Endless memories of days. Oh, for an hour of sealed illusion!
The Boy Lover.Isn’t it perfect!
The Girl.Divine! It’s like a dream and I want to cry.
The Third Egyptian.The harmony! The harmony! (He pointsto the boy and girl. The three approach and stand before the lovers, viewing them with envious eyes). In ancient Egypt—on the banks of the Nile—how keen was this thrill of existence. How much greater is their reality than ours. And all because of their faith in it.
(The minister and the monk approach).
The Organist(finishing with a flourish). Well, there’s the end of my work tonight. (He closes various stops, begins to gather up his music and turn out the lights. The dryads and nymphs flood out of the windows, followed by the fawns, the hags, and the wastrels. The green-eyed bum starts to go, but pauses, looking back wistfully. The Egyptians, fading from their presence as such, appear only as pale flames of blue).
Mrs. Stillwater.Now that was lovely, wasn’t it?
Mrs. Pence.Charming, very charming!
The Boy.Don’t you love Wagner?
The Girl.I do! I do! (In the shadows they embrace and kiss).
The Organist(wearily as he bustles down the stairs). Why should I play any more for four people? It is nine o’clock. A half hour is enough. At least I can find a little comfort at the Crystal Garden. (He thinks of an immense beer place, and shrugs his shoulders the while. The old doorman, hearing him go out, prepares to put out the lights).
Mrs. Stillwater(rising). I do believe it’s over.
Mrs. Pence.Well, there are so few you can scarcely blame him.
The Bum(gloomily). Now I gotta find somepin’ else.
The Church Cat(prowling toward the organ loft in the dark of the closed church). Now for one more try at that mouse.
Finis.