The detour; a play

Front matter

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CQEllfRIGHT DEPOSIT.

THE DETOUR

Foreword

" The Detour " needs no justification for its appearance in print. It is one of those studies in realism which — whether seen or read — impresses by reason of its tremendous sincerity. As such, it should be regarded as an encouraging, an all too rare sign of the deepening of native dramaturgic art in the American theatre.

The dramatic critic was right who declared that, had " The Detour " been produced as the work of an unknown author, it would have been hailed as the putting forth, the flowering of a rare native plant, from which much might be expected in the future. I see no reason why this should not apply just as well to a dramatist who, like Mr. Owen Davis, has been brought up, dramatically, in the glare of melodrama, and who has — after learning the tricks of his trade — ' broken from the type of play expected of him, only to give us something bigger, something more profound, more nearly what might be designated as an American genre drama. All the more reason, it seems, for

us to rejoice that gold has turned up as precursor,

we hope, of a rich vein to follow.

Sincerity is at the basis of any worthy play, whether of realism or of the imagination. Otherwise, painting things as they are degenerates into mere photography and usually attracts by reason of two cardinal excel-

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lences or faults, according to your point of view: curiosity and vulgar attractiveness. Naturalism is a can- ># cerous growth on the face of art; realism is the arrangement of life as we know it, rising out of human relationship. The one is bald fact, the other truth artistically clad because of a burning faith in life's continuity.

This burning faith enriches the whole story of " The Detour " ; and continuity marks the merit of its structure. Mr. Davis has seen clearly, has sensed fully — noting the myriad facets shaped from the materials of

the humblest life shades of character and various

motives inherent in locality and tradition. His play has the tang of the soil about it ; it exudes a flavor born of struggle against environment. It does not strain after contrast of fitness with unfitness, with a certain cruel formlessness which marks Eugene O'Neill's " Beyond the Horizon." It does not attempt to compress folk-legend with reality as Alice Brown does in her passionless " Children of Earth." It does not strive for miniature interest, so strikingly concentrated in Susan Glaspell's " Trifles." " The Detour " — if there is anything conscious at all about its structure — systematically discards the machinery of theatricalism and is starkly simple. But, like all simple things in life, it is able to carry with it, rising out of character and situation, real racy humor and problems common to all — not alone to those whose vision is closed in by the boundaries of farm life.

The burning glass of drama has persistently narrowed the canvas of the theatre these many years. Yet dramatists in America have been loath to give up manipulation of action for the sake of genre work and

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genuine creativeness. James A. Heme, our early realist in the modern American theatre, rose far above the rural drama with which he is mistakenly identified ; he possessed a profound sympathy with character and could draw from narrow, yet rich circumstance, homely truth — in its fundamentals not so unlike universal truth. Amidst the melodrama of " Shore Acres " he wrote such palpitant scenes as that of Nathaniel Berry and his brother discussing the sale of the farm. He wrote an entire play, " Margaret Fleming," daring for its day, an intensive domestic tragedy. " The Detour," in its treatment, is of the same caliber — with the technique of life itself.

I recall once — in the olden days when an eighteenhour flier-train service between New York and Chicago was a novelty — riding in the cab of an engine thus destined to eat up space on a cold February afternoon, just as the shadows of twilight were beginning to turn the Hudson River into a sheet of cold white steel. There were streaks of color in the wintry sky and a streak of red glow from the intense furnace of our cab, as the train sped on at sixty miles an hour. At a curve, the fireman crept to the cab door of the engine and swung out on the step, clinging to a side rail. Against the cold swish of wind he let fly a bundle of papers in the direction of a shanty, far down a bankside and into a hollow. I leaned out of the window in time to see a bent old woman open the door of her shack and make for those papers. The fireman yelled to me an explanation — above the roar of the steam, the shrill blast of the whistle, the rumble of wheels over the ribbons of rail — "I bring her the news from New York once a week."

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Here, in this action, was material for melodrama and realism. Mr. Davis, by evidence of " The Detour," could handle both treatments. In art, the difference in the technique would be the difference between a poster that arrests the eye, and Rembrandt's " Old Woman Paring Her Nails " that challenges the creative instinct in us. In one mood, the thrill of the ride, the danger of the fireman's precarious position would have appealed to Mr. Davis, as an unconscious act of daily heroism ; in another mood he would have wondered at the life of the woman in the shack — tried to square with her bowed figure the forces shaping her destiny, as Maeterlinck said of the old man seated silent in his armchair. There is no question as to which is the profounder drama.

One day, at Northport, Long Island, Mr. Davis sat in his car, overlooking a farm, with its lonely house in the distance. There were evidences aound it, even in its typical isolation, of a woman's hand. The creative mind is always eager for such sign posts of life on which to fasten its tentacles. Mayhap a detour made his chauffeur skirt around the farm, thus denying it contact with the life of the open road. From such simple beginnings, " The Detour " was evolved.

Mr. Davis has always claimed and asked that a critic judge each separate work of his on its own merits. He is justified in this request. We do judge the present play as a supreme picture of farm life, of mother love and wifely rebellion, where the tragedy is twofold — in the woman's yearning and stirring for self-expression through her daughter; and in the daughter's inadequacy through the inheritance of her father's stodginess and the confining claim of the soil upon her. In

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most of its dimensions the play holds measure. I do not claim flawlessness for it; I do claim for it bigness of intent.

Mr. Davis's previous inroads into the realm of melodrama do not have to be known for any appreciation of " The Detour." There is no special reason for recalling those days when he wrote from ten to twelve such pieces a year — their names are as bloodcurdling as those which came from the pen of David Belasco when he was writing for mining towns out in California — except to state that he must have perfected his technical expertness in such a hard school. It is a glowing tribute to Mr. Da^as's essential worth that he can now give us " The Detour " — so calm, so progressively fatalistic, so quiet in its outbursts — after association with a method that often deadens sensitiveness to character.

But we are all conscious — we who go continually to the theatre or read many plays — that there is another step to take beyond realism'. I find Mr. Davis ready to take it. In the atmosphere of realism, with which our stage has been drenched, there has been felt the need of a more palpitant spirit, akin to mysticism, yet more attached to earthly attainment. The mother, in " The Detour," shows glints of this spirit — the unquenchable determination to outwit environment, rise higher than circumstance. It is a step thoroughly in consonance with the American character. Given the ability to write such reaHstic scenes as are here depicted, and the desire to infuse into the materials of character an aspiration which overcomes adversity, and a play greater and wider in its stage appeal than " The Detour " could be written. But one must have evidences

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of such a play as the present one before one can hope for the other.

I am confident that " The Detour " represents thus far one of our highest attainments in American reahsm for the stage. It is worthy to be read widely; as a representative of native genre work it is worthy of consideration abroad. It is a play that any repertory theatre should welcome. Such sheer realism requires sheer acting, and invites and challenges the best in players. It is rarely that an American playwright penetrates so deeply into American life. That is why I greet " The Detour " heartily as " the real thing " in the theatre.

Montrose J. Moses.

THE DETOUR

"The Detour'* was originally produced in New York August 23, 1921, with the following cast:

Stephen Hardy Augustin Duncan

Helen, his wife Efpe Shannon

Kate, their daughter Angela McCahill

Tom Lane, Willard Robertson

Dana Lamont Harry Andrews

Dora Lamont Eva Condon

Ben Glenny Claude Cooper

Jake Chester Herman

ACT L Mrs. Hardy's Kitchen.

ACT III. The Kitchen, A little later

Time: The Present.

The Place: Near Northport, L. I.

THE DETOUR