Nazareth: a Morality in One Act: by Laurence Housman

Samuel French: Publisher

28-30 West Thirty-eighth Street: New York

LONDON

Samuel French, Ltd.

26 Southampton Street, Strand

CAUTION.—Amateurs and Professionals are hereby warned that “NAZARETH,” being fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States, is subject to royalty, and any one presenting the play without the consent of the author or his authorized agent, will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for the right to produce “NAZARETH” must be made to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City.

NAZARETH.

PROLOGUE.

Since Love first looked on life with human eyes,

Twixt him and us time like a curtain lies.

Of all the years while He made life His own

With dear familiar touch—how little’s known!

The gospels of His Birth, the tale make plain

Then two years till He died and rose again,

Naught else remains to us of all, save when

He, at Jerusalem, with learned men

Was by His parents found, and taken thence

Back to far Nazareth. And by no sense

Of mortal mind from where they now lie hid

Can we recover the fair things He did,

Growing to man’s estate, that He might die

For man’s salvation; hidden there they lie,

The days which mounted up to Calvary.

Yet here on earth that lovely deed was done;

Love in man’s form took life from wind and sun,

Waked, slept, ate bread, and toiled, and without speed,

Patient, made test of each frail weak human need;

Found means on small frail feet men’s ways to go;

From mother tongue was taught man’s speech to know;

So, for man’s making, childhood, boyhood, youth,

Each he endowed in turn with deathless truth,

Himself the type and pattern for each stage

Of human growth. Oh! in what future age

Shall we who, seeking that lost Pattern, roam,

Find it again, and to that form come home?

Ah, friends! this simple showing that ye see

Of Love at Nazareth, this is not He!

’Tis but a thought, a fathering wish, a prayer

That with hearts knit we may come closelier there,

Where He lived lowly. Lo, He by your side

Lies hidden, a waiting guest, still multiplied

By man’s still growing needs,—with such intent

He made humanity His Sacrament;

The flesh and blood, which here we beat and bruise,

Is Christ’s. Ah, put it to some better use!

Be members all with all! Hear what Love saith,

And make your home with Him at Nazareth!

NAZARETH

Scene:—The Carpenter’s shop is a low, broad chamber built of wood. At the back to the left-center a wide open doorway reveals a level stretch of landscape. It is late afternoon, but the air is still pale with the heat of day. To the right of the door is a small square window with wooden shutters thrown wide; before it stands a carpenter’s bench upon which lies a wooden door frame nearly finished. The carpenter and his assistant are quietly at work planing, and boring holes for the fitting in of the rivets; beneath them the floor is strewn with shavings, saw-dust, and odds and ends of wood. Away to the left, near a spinning wheel, sits an aged woman combing flax. Against the wall to the same side of the doorway sits Mary, the carpenter’s wife, with a book upon her knees; on the other side her son stands against the door-post, with his back to the interior, looking out into the sunshine.

After the scene has opened the carpenter raises himself from a stooping position, and hands over to Reuben, his assistant, a beam of wood, which the latter lays aside.

Carpenter. ’Twill soon be done. Nay, we’ll not need that now. Yes, speak on. If you read slowly enough, I can give heed.

Mary. (Reading). “Because his visage was so marred, many did marvel at him then, for more than most his form was scarred, yea, more than all the sons of men. Yet him shall all the nations hear, and kings shall shut their mouths for fear.”

Carpenter. (To Reuben) Be careful, now the cross-beam’s laid.

Old Anna. What cause have kings to be afraid?

Mary. (Reading) “Who hath believed our report? To whom is the Lord’s arm revealed? He shall grow up in tender sort, and as a root from a dry field, having no form nor comeliness, that men who see should scorn him less.”

Carpenter. Hold it fast, now! Nay, don’t let go.

Mary.—

“He is rejected and despised,

A man of sorrows, grief his lot,

He came to us unrecognized,

Despising, we esteemed him not.

Surely our sorrows he hath borne,

And for our sins hath felt the rod,

Wherefore he seemed a shape for scorn——

One smitten by the hand of God.

But he was wounded for our sins,

For our iniquities was scourged,

By chastisement our peace he wins,

And with his stripes mankind is purged.

All we like sheep have gone astray,

Turned everyone to his own way.

And upon him the Lord doth lay

The iniquity of all.”

(Old Anna touches her daughter, and points toward the child.)

Mary. (After a pause, watching him)

My son, what yonder dost thou see,

That holds thy gaze so steadfastly?

Come hither, child, and tell it me.

Child.—

I see the land all parched and dry,

And sheep, without a shepherd nigh,

And surely some look like to die.

Anna. I see no sheep.

Mary.—

Nay, dearest one.

Thine eyes are dazzled by the sun;

See, in the field thy playmates run,

Wilt thou not join them?

Child.—

Mother, nay!

I will not go with them to-day.

Anna. He never was a child for play.

Child. Mother, what were you reading then?

Mary.—

Isaiah’s prophecy how men

Shall still be blind when God again

Comes to save Zion and redeem

His chosen ones.

Child. Was it a dream?

Or did he see? How did he know?

Mary. He heard God’s word, and told men so.

Child. And was that many years ago?

Mary. Seven hundred years.

Child.—

But having here

His word to guide them, do men fear

They will not see Salvation near?

Anna. Aye! many fear it. I for one.

Carpenter. There, that’s right! Now, ’tis almost done.

(The child turns towards the carpenter’s bench.)

Mary. Thou will not miss that sight, my son.

Carpenter.—

Come, little son, and hold the wood!

Brace hard the end, while I make good

The upright. See how crooked it stood!

Child. What art thou making, father?

Carpenter.—

Nay,

See for thyself, my child, what way

One grows to wisdom day by day.

It is a door.

(Reuben goes and takes a cup, dips it in a bowl of water near the door and drinks.)

Child. Whose door?

Carpenter.

Why, mine,

Till I’m paid for it!

Child. How came it thine?

Carpenter. I made it.

Child. How?

Carpenter.—

Well, first I bought

The timber; after that I wrought,

Rough hewed and shaped it, leaving nought

To chance—so that all parts agree

When joined together. Dost thou see?

Art satisfied?

Child. (After a pause) Who made the tree?

Carpenter. (After a pause) God made the tree, my son.

Child.—

And through

Long years it put forth leaf, and grew

In beauty till man came and slew.

(He caresses the wood, laying his face upon it)

Carpenter. Strange fancies still!

Child.—

And so the tree

Died, and gave up its life to be

A door through which man passes free,

To work God’s will.

Carpenter.—

Come, come, you waste

Your father’s time, my son! Make haste,

Reuben—we’ve got the lintel placed;

Bring me the nails.

Reuben. (As he brings the nails and drives them in. Sings)

Oh, what is yon tree that stands so high

And stretches its arms in sorrow?

“Oh, that is the gallows where I must die,

Where I must die to-morrow.”

Oh, what hast thou done, my only son,

That thou shouldst die to-morrow?

“My life I lend to a well-loved friend

Who health of me would borrow.”

If so thou lend to a well-loved friend,

How heavy must be his sorrow!

“Ah, say not so, for well I know

I hang by his hand to-morrow.”

(The child has taken the bag of nails from Reuben, and hands them to him, one by one, as he drives them in. One of the nails pierces the child’s palm. He bows his head over it.)

Carpenter.—

Why, there, there, there! You’ve done it now!

Reuben, ’twas your fault to allow

A little child like him to play

With anything so sharp as they!

(Mary comes forward and kneels by the child’s side. She takes his hand and tries to staunch the blood)

Has it gone far?

Mary.—

The wound is deep.

Stay, I will bind it! See you keep

Your hand up, child. Quick, mother, bring

Yon water fresh-drawn from the spring

To wash it clean, for there was rust.

(Anna brings the water bowl, while Reuben draws forward a low bench at one end of which she sets it down)

Maybe, upon the iron, or dust

To cause a festering in the wound.

(Mary bathes his hand and binds it. The child closes his eyes and sinks against her breast.)

Anna.—

Oh! See, he has already swooned

For loss of blood.

Mary.—

Nay, nay, ’tis sleep!

Aye! saw you not how at the leap

Of first sharp pain his face lit up,

And how he bowed as to a cup

His lips, and drained it to the lees?

So to this spirit now comes ease

And rest; for surely here he tastes

Of that dark vintage of the wastes

Whereto, for mortal need, he hastes.

Carpenter. Strange words!

Mary.—

But stranger than all words

The peace which holds him now and herds

My lamb’s life with the blessed dead.

(She moves to lay him along the bench. Anna spreads a cloak across it)

Lift off the bowl, and let his head

Rest so, even so.

Carpenter.—

There! Let him lie

Quiet awhile. Ah! he won’t die

Of that!

(He lays his hand kindly upon his wife, then turns away. Evening has begun to close in)

Now, Reuben, you and I

Must stir while daylight yet allows!

This door is for the High-Priest’s house,

And should already be in its place

For now Passover comes apace;

And last night they sent word to say

’Twas to be up before the day,

So that the lintel beam might bear

The blood-marks for the coming year.

Mary. Look! There are stains already there!

Carpenter. I’ll wash them off!

Mary.—

Nay, let them stay!

This blood, I trow, was shed to-day

To take some mortal’s guilt away.

(The two men have lifted the door and set it to stand against the middle post of the doorway where it makes the form of three crosses standing together.)

Carpenter.—

Soon through this door the holy feet

Of Caiaphas in service met

Shall pass each day to do God’s will.

Mary.—

And, what he hath ordained, fulfill.

And some day they shall bring a Lamb

And slay, and lo, upon the jamb

And lintel of this self-same door,

Where blessed blood has been before,

More blessed blood shall then be spilt

To take from Caiaphas his guilt.

(The men having put away their tools lift the door and carry it away.)

Anna. (Reading) “He was taken from prison and from judgment, and who shall declare his generation? For he was cut off out of the land of the living, for the transgression of my people was he smitten. And he made his grave with the wicked, and with the rich in his death; because he had done no violence, neither was any deceit in his mouth.”

(Voices of water-carriers heard without.)

1st Antiphon. The bows of the mighty men are broken.

2nd Antiphon. And they that stumbled are girded with strength.

1st Antiphon. They that were full have hired themselves for bread.

2nd Antiphon. And they that were hungry have ceased.

(The women pass by.)

1st Antiphon. So that the barren hath born seven.

2nd Antiphon. And she that hath many children is waxed feeble.

1st Antiphon.—

The Lord killeth, and maketh alive.

He bringeth down to the grave and bringeth up.

2nd Antiphon. The Lord maketh poor and maketh rich. He bringeth low and lifteth up.

Mary. It is the women going to the well.

Anna. What are they singing?

Mary.—

Of the joy that fell,

To Anna for her first-born, Samuel.

Anna. And thy joy also!

Mary. And the pain as well!

1st Antiphon. He raiseth the poor out of the dust.

2nd Antiphon. And lifteth up the beggar from the dunghill.

1st Antiphon. To set them among the princes.

2nd Antiphon. And to make them inherit the throne of glory.

1st Antiphon. He will keep the feet of his saints.

2nd Antiphon. And the wicked shall be silent in darkness.

1st Antiphon. For by strength shall no man prevail.

2nd Antiphon. The adversaries of the Lord shall be broken in pieces.

(The voices pass away. It begins to grow dark.)

Anna. (Sings as she winds her flax)

Little child, lo, I spin

Flax to clothe thy body in;

Little child, do not grieve

Out of this a cloth I’ll weave,

Make of it a little shirt,——

What man shall do thee hurt?

So while it lasts, wear it still,

What man shall wish thee ill?

Do not from thy body strip

This; ’tis human fellowship.

(She lays the cloth over the child)

Mary.—

When thou to death art bowed

This web shall be thy shroud.

So in fellowship with all

Thy soul shall meet God’s call,

Oh, then, may my soul, too,

Wake and see the darkness through

And my ears, no longer bound,

List, to the heavenly sound!

(A pause. Anna lights a small lamp. As she goes to place it in the window she stops. Its light falls on the sleeping child)

Mary.—

See, from his face has passed the pain.

And every sense of heart and brain

Is gathered unto rest again.

O son, O child, while round thy sleep

The peace of God lies folded deep,