The Washington herald., 1921-11-20
O'Neill Almost a Hermit
On His Lonely Sand Dune
Peaked Hill Bar Is a Dreary Spot for Play
wright Who Loves His Broadway
But Eugene Likes it.

II any one thought that public
curiosity had been satisfied by the
flood of articles in the magazines
about Eugene O'Neill which follow
ed on the heels of his success with
Beyond the Horizon" The En-
peror Jones" and Different" they
were seriously mistaken. The fig
ure of this retiring and reticent
dramatic biographer of [seafaring
men and home-staying women will
not down. And with the production
Of two new plays from his pen in
successive weeks-"Anna Christie"
and The Straw"-the desire to
know more about him returns as in
sistently as ever, says the New York
Tribune.
The :O'Neill of the forecastle and
OF the New York waterfront has
been rather thoroughly revealed by
those who were intimately associ-
ated with him during those stages
OF his career. His life in Green
witch Village and his connection
with the Provincetown Players at
their little theater in Macdougal
street have likewise been recount
ed. But the Eugene O'Neill of to-
day, of 1921, his home and his
habits and the conditions under
which he is writing yet other plays
to carry on the reputation for lit
erary fecundity which he has won
these are details which are known
only to a few friends who have
penetrated to his secluded retreat
on the open ocean across the sand
dunes from the village of Province
town, Mass.
Peaked Hill Bar is the name Of
the playwright's home beside the
sea, whose sound he loves as IL
washes up on the beach. It isn't so
long ago since II was the home of
life savers, In the coast guard sta
ton, set to watch for stranded ships
that run aground on the treacher-
Gus shoals that parallel the curve
of Cape Cod as it narrows toward
its tip.
Peaked Hill Bar-the name itself
somehow sounds aloof and lonely.
And II lives up to these suspicious.
Provincetown itself is difficult
enough to get at, except in mid
summer, when the Dorothy Brad
ford plies daily across Massachu-
sets Bay from Boston. The long
and dusty rail trip around the Cape
Is tedious enough to make the
traveller feel as IL the village of
Provincetown ought to be the end
of his journey whether it is or not.
But II isn't-if you are determined
TO seek out the playwright in his
sand-locked exile. After you have
taken breath-the invigorating salt
breath of the sea-you have to
scour the town for a horse and
light wagon. No automobile will
get you further than the ditch off
the main road. Better yet, Won
will decide to hoof II through the
sand. which even after rain comes
up TO your ankles. An hour of this
more or less, according to your
kfnship with nature-finally brings
you to the rambling frame building
nesting under a sand dune that
seems about to topple over and
bury it, And this is Peaked Hill
Bar.
No one except the life-savers
would ever think of living in this
secluded spot the year round. In
dead of winter, when the storms
rage, the sand is whirled by the
wind at such a singing pace that
In less than a season II etches
new pane of window glass until you
cannot see through II. But with the
nrst sign Of spring. even before the
last snowsJRve ceased to fall, the
playwright Settles down to his
drawing board. spreads out his VA