(The phone rings: he looks at his watch.)

WHITE. That's for me.

HILDA. Let me. (She goes.) It may be Wallace. (At phone) Yes: this is 116 Chelsea. Long Distance? (He starts as she says to him) It must be our boy. (At phone) Who? Oh—Mr. William White? Yes: he'll be here. (She hangs up receiver.) She'll ring when she gets the connection through.

WHITE (turning away). It takes so long these days.

HILDA. Funny he didn't ask for me.

WHITE. What made you think it was Wallace?

HILDA. I took it for granted. He must be having a hard time at college with all the boys full of war fever.

WHITE. And a father with my record.

HILDA. He should be proud of the example. He has more than other boys to cling to these days when everybody is losing his head as the band plays and the flag is waved. He won't be carried away by it. He'll remember all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think we now have conscription—as they have in Germany—I thank God every night our boy is too young for the draft.

WHITE. But when his time comes what will he do?

HILDA (calmly). He will do it with courage.

WHITE (referring to her brother's letter). Either prison or acceptance!

HILDA. I would rather have my son in prison than have him do what he felt was wrong. Wouldn't you?

WHITE (evasively). We won't have to face that problem for two years.

HILDA. And when it comes—if he falters—I'll give him these notes of that wonderful speech you made at the International Conference in 1910. (Picking it up) I was looking through it only this morning.

WHITE (troubled). Oh, that speech.

HILDA (glancing through it with enthusiasm). "All wars are imperialistic in origin. Do away with overseas investments, trade routes, private control of ammunition factories, secret diplomacy—"

WHITE. Don't you see that's all dead wood?

HILDA (not heeding him). This part gave me new strength when I thought of Wallace. (Reading with eloquence) "War will stop when young men put Internationalism above Nationality, the law of God above the dictates of statesmen, the law of love above the law of hate, the law of self-sacrifice above the law of profit. There must be no boundaries in man's thought. Let the young men of the world once throw down their arms, let them once refuse to point their guns at human hearts, and all the boundaries of the world will melt away and peace will find a resting-place in the hearts of men!"

WHITE (taking it from her). And I made you believe it! What silly prophets we radicals were. (He tears it up.) Mere scraps of paper, dear; scraps of paper, now.

HILDA. But it was the truth; it still is the truth.

WHITE. Hilda, there's something I want to talk over very, very seriously with you. I've been putting it off.

HILDA. Yes, dear? (The outer door is heard to bang.) Listen: wasn't that the front door?

WHITE. Perhaps it's the maid?

HILDA (a bit nervously). No: she's upstairs. No one rang. Please see.

WHITE (smiling). Now don't worry! It can't possibly be the Secret Service.

HILDA. One never knows in war times what to expect. I sometimes feel I am in a foreign country.

(WHITE goes slowly to the door in back and opens it. WALLACE, their son, with valise in hand, is standing there, as if he had hesitated to enter.

He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his father's physical endowment and his mother's spiritual intensity. The essential note he strikes is that of honesty. It is apparent he is under the pressure of a momentous decision which has brought him unexpectedly home from college.)

WHITE. Wallace!

WALLACE (shaking hands). Hello, Dad!

HILDA. Wallace! My boy!

(WALLACE drops valise and goes to his mother's arms.)

WALLACE (with deep feeling). Mother!

WHITE (after a pause). Well, boy; this is unexpected. We were just talking of you.

WALLACE. Were you?

HILDA. I'm so glad to see you, so glad.

WALLACE. Yes—yes—but—

WHITE. There's nothing the matter?

HILDA. You've had trouble at college?

WALLACE. Not exactly. But I couldn't stand it there. I've left—for good.

WHITE. I was sure that would happen.

HILDA. Tell us. You know we'll understand.

WALLACE. Dad, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk it over with mother first.

WHITE. Of course, old fellow, that's right. She'll stand by you just as she's always stood by me—all these years. (He kisses her.) I—I—

(He smooths her hair gently, looking into her eyes as she smiles up at him.)

We mustn't let this war hurt all we've had together—you and I—

HILDA (smiling and turning towards her son). And Wallace.

WHITE. And Wallace. Yes. (WALLACE looks away guiltily.) Let me know when the phone comes.

(He goes out hastily. She closes the door after him and then comes to WALLACE, who has sat down, indicating he is troubled.)

HILDA. They made it hard for you at college?

WALLACE. I don't know how to tell you.

HILDA. I understand. The flag waving, the patriotic speeches, the billboards advertising the glory of war, the call of adventure offered to youth, the pressure of your friends—all made it hard for you to be called a slacker.

WALLACE, No, mother. I wasn't afraid of what they could call me. That was easy.

HILDA (proudly). You are your father's son!

WALLACE. Mother, I can't stand the thought of killing, you know that. And I couldn't forget all you've told me. That's why I've had to think this out all these months alone; why I've hesitated longer than most fellows. The only thing I was really afraid of was being wrong. But now I know I'm right and I'm going clean through to the limit.

HILDA. As your father said, I 'll stand by you—whatever it is—if only you feel it's right.

WALLACE. Will you? Will you, mother? No matter what happens? (She nods.) I knew you would. (Taking her hand) Then, mother, listen. I've volunteered.

HILDA (shocked). Volunteered!

WALLACE. Yes. I leave for training-camp to-night.

HILDA. To-night?

WALLACE. Yes, mother. Once I made up my mind, I couldn't wait to be drafted. I wanted to offer myself. I didn't want to be made to go.

HILDA (hardly grasping it). But you are too young.

WALLACE. I lied about my age. You and father can stop me if you tell the truth. That's why I've come back. I want you to promise you won't tell.

HILDA. You ask me to aid you in what I don't believe? WALLACE. But you said you'd stick by me if I thought it was right.

HILDA. But—

WALLACE (with fervor). And I tell you, mother, I do feel it was right for America to go in. I see now we ought to have declared war when they crushed Belgium. Yes; we ought to have gone in when the Lusitania was sunk. But we've been patient. The President tried to keep us out of it until we had to go in to save our self-respect. We had to go in to show we were men of honor, not pussy-cats. We had to go in to show the world the Stars and Stripes wasn't a dish-rag on which the Germans could dry their bloody hands!

HILDA (gazing at him incredulously). You hate them as much as that?

WALLACE. Hate? No, mother, no. (As if questioning himself) I really haven't any hate for the German people. People are just people everywhere, I suppose, and they're tricked and fooled by their rotten government, as the President says.

HILDA. Then why fight them?

WALLACE. Because they're standing back of their government, doing what it says. And they've got to be licked to show them what kind of a government they have.

HILDA. At least you have no hate in your heart—that's something.

WALLACE. Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it isn't for the poor devils I've got to shoot. It's for the stay-at-home fellow here in America who sits in a comfortable armchair, who applauds patriotic sentiment, cheers the flag, and does nothing for his country but hate and hate—while we fight for him. That's the fellow I'll hate all right when I sit in the trenches. And that's why I couldn't look myself in the face if I stayed out a day longer; why I've got to go in; why I'm going to die if I must, because everybody ought to be willing to die for what he believes.

HILDA. You are my son, too! For I would willingly have died if it could have kept us out of this war.

WALLACE. Yes. I am your son, too. And that's why you wouldn't respect me if I didn't go through.

HILDA. No. I wouldn't have respected you. But—but—(She breaks a bit, then controls herself.) You are quite sure you're doing what's right?

WALLACE (tenderly). Would I have been willing to hurt you like this?

HILDA (holding him close to her). My boy; my boy!

WALLACE. It'll be all right, mother.

HILDA. Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in time: it's only the moments that hurt.

WALLACE (after a pause). Then you won't tell my real age, or interfere?

HILDA. I respect your right to decide your own life.

WALLACE (joyed). Mother!

HILDA. I respect your dedication; your willingness to sacrifice for your beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a crime for me to stand in your way—even with my mother's love. (He kisses her.) Do it all as cleanly as you can. I'll hope and pray that you'll come back to me. (Half breaking down and taking him in her arms). Oh, my boy; my boy. Let me hold you. You'll never know how hard it is for a mother.

WALLACE (gently). But other mothers send their boys.

HILDA. Most of them believe in what their sons are fighting for. Mothers have got to believe in it; or else how could they stand the thought of bayonets stuck into the bodies they brought forth in their own blood? (There is a pause till she controls herself.) I'll help you get your things together.

WALLACE. And father?

HILDA. He will be angry.

WALLACE. But you will make him understand?

HILDA. I'll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he doesn't understand. Don't ever forget his long fight against all kinds of Prussianism when you hear him reviled by those who have always hated his radicalism and who, now, under the guise of patriotism, are trying to render him useless for further attacks on them after the war. He's been persecuted so by them—even back in the days when our press was praising Germany and our distinguished citizens were dining at the Emperor's table. Don't forget all this, my boy. These days are hard for him—and me—harder perhaps than for you who go out to die in glory and praise. There are no flags for us, no music that stirs, no applause; but we too suffer in silence for what we believe. And it is only the strongest who can survive.—Now call your father.

WALLACE (goes to door). Dad! (He leaves door open and turns to his mother.) I'll be getting my things together. (There is a pause. WHITE enters.) Dad, mother has something to ask you. (He looks from father to mother.) Thanks, little mother.

(He kisses her and goes out, taking the valise. His father and mother stand facing each other.)

HILDA. Wallace has volunteered. (He looks at her keenly.) He has lied about his age. He wants us to let him go.

WHITE. Volunteered?

HILDA. Yes; he leaves to-night.

WHITE (after a pause). And what have you told him?

HILDA. That he must go.

WHITE. You can say that?

HILDA. It is the way he sees it.

WHITE (going to her sympathetically). Hilda.

HILDA (looking up at him tenderly). O Will, do you remember when he was born? (He soothes her.) And all we nursed him through afterwards; and all we taught him; all we tried to show him about war. (With a shrug of her shoulders) None of it has mattered.

WHITE. War is stronger than all that.

HILDA. So we mustn't blame him. You won't blame him?

WHITE. He fears I will?

HILDA. He has always feared you a little, though he loves you deeply. You mustn't oppose him, dear. You won't?

WHITE (wearily). Is there any use opposing anybody or anything these days?

HILDA. We must wait till the storm passes.

WHITE. That's never been my way.

HILDA. No. You've fought all your life. But now we must sit silent together and wait; wait for our boy to come back. Will, think of it; we are going to have a boy "over there," too.

WHITE. Hilda, hasn't it ever struck you that we may have been all wrong? (She looks at him, as she holds his hand.) What could these frail hands do? How could we poor little King Canutes halt this tide that has swept over the world? Isn't it better, after all, that men should fight themselves out; bring such desolation upon themselves that they will be forced to see the futility of war? May it not become so terrible that men—the workers, I mean—will throw down their worn-out weapons of their own accord? Won't permanent peace come through bitter experience rather than talk—talk—talk?

HILDA (touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling). Here is your answer to your own question.

WHITE. Oh, that was all theory. We're in now. You say yourself we can't oppose it. Isn't it better if we try to direct the current to our own ends rather than sink by trying to swim against it?

HILDA. Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who could compromise.

WHITE. But haven't we radicals been too intolerant of compromise?

HILDA. That has been your strength. And it is your strength I'm relying on now that Wallace—Shall I call him?

WHITE (significantly). No; wait.

HILDA (apprehensive at his turn). Oh, yes. Before he came you said there was something—(The phone rings. They both look at it.) That's for you.

WHITE (not moving). Yes.

HILDA hardly believing his attititde). Is—is it private?

WHITE. No. Perhaps it will be easier this way. (He hesitates, then goes to phone as she stands expectant.) Yes. Yes. Long Distance? Washington? (Her lips repeat the word.) Yes. This is William White. Hello. Yes. Is this the Secretary speaking? Oh, I appreciate the honor of having you confirm it personally. Senator Bough is chairman? At his request? Ah, yes; war makes strange bedfellows. Yes. The passport and credentials? Oh, I'll be ready. Yes. Good-bye.

(He hangs up the receiver and looks at her.)

HILDA. You, too!

WHITE. I've been trying to tell you these last weeks; but I couldn't somehow.

HILDA. You were ashamed?

WHITE. No, dear; only I knew it would hurt you.

HILDA. I'm not thinking of myself but of you. You are going to be part of this war?

WHITE. I'm going to do what I can to help finish it.

HILDA. By compromising with the beliefs of a lifetime?

WHITE. No, dear; not that. I've accepted the appointment on this commission because I'm going to accept facts.

HILDA. Have the facts of war changed, or is it you?

WHITE. Neither has changed; but I'm going to act differently. I'm going to be part of it. Yes. I'm going to help direct the current.

HILDA. I can't believe what I am hearing. Is it you, William White, speaking? You who, for twenty years, have stood against all war!

WHITE. Yes.

HILDA. And now, when the test comes, you are going to lend yourself to it! You of all men!

WHITE. Hilda, dear; I didn't expect you to accept it easily; but I think I can make you see if you will let me.

HILDA (poignantly). If I will let you! Why, Will, I must understand; I must.

WHITE. Perhaps it will be difficult at first—with your standards.

HILDA. But my standards were yours, Will. You gave them to me. You taught me. You took a young girl who loved you. You showed her the truth, and she followed you and has followed you gladly through hard years of struggle and poverty because of those ideals. And now you talk of my standards! Will, don't you see, I must understand?

WHITE. Dear, standards are relative things; they differ with circumstance.

HILDA. Have your ideals only been old clothes you change to suit the weather?

WHITE. It's the end we must keep in mind. I haven't changed or compromised one bit in that. I'm working in changed conditions, that's all; working with all my heart to do away with all war.

HILDA. By fighting one?

WHITE (with eloquence). Yes. Because it is necessary. I've come to see we can't argue war out of the world with words. We've got to beat it out of the world. It can't be done with our hands lifted up in prayer; it can only be done with iron hands crushing it down. War is the mood of the world. Well, I'm going to fight in my fashion. And when it is over, I'm going to keep on fighting; for the next war will be greater than this. It will be economic revolution. It will be the war of capital and labor. And I mean to be ready.

HILDA (listening incredulously). And to get ready you are willing to link arms now with Senator Bough—a man you once called the lackey of Wall Street—a man who has always opposed every democratic principle.

WHITE. Yes. Don't you see the Government is beginning to realize it can't do without us? Don't you see my appointment is an acknowledgment of the rising tide of radicalism in the world? Don't you see, with the prestige that will come to me from this appointment, I will have greater power after the war; power to bring about the realization of all our dreams; power to demand—even at the Peace table itself, perhaps—that all wars must end?

HILDA. Do you actually believe you will have any power with your own people when you have compromised them for a temporary expediency?

WHITE (with a gesture). The leader must be wiser than the people who follow.

HILDA. So, contempt for your people is the first thing your new power has brought you! (He makes a gesture of denial.) You feel you are above them—not of them. Do you believe for a moment that Senator Bough has anything but contempt for you, too?

WHITE (confidently). He needs me.

HILDA. Needs you? Don't you understand why he had you appointed on that committee? He wanted to get you out of the way.

WHITE. Isn't that an acknowledgment of my power?

HILDA. Yes. You're a great asset now. You're a "reformed" radical. Why, Will, he'll use you in the capitals of Europe to advertise his liberalism; just as the prohibitionist exhibits a reformed drunkard.

WHITE. And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be stronger than he is, stronger than any of them.

HILDA. No man is strong unless he does what he feels is right. No, no, Will; you've convicted yourself with your own eloquence. You've wanted to do this for some reason. But it isn't the one you've told me. No; no.

WHITE (angrily). You doubt my sincerity?

HILDA. No; only the way you have read yourself.

WHITE. Well, if you think I've tried to make it easy for myself you are mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the rut and habit of years? Easy to know my friends will jeer and say I've sold out? Easy to have you misunderstand? (Goes to her.) Hilda, I'm doing this for their good. I'm doing it—just as Wallace is—because I feel it's right.

HILDA. No; you shouldn't say that. You are not doing this for the same reason Wallace is. He believes in this war. He has accepted it all simply without a question. If you had seen the look in his eyes, you would have known he was a dedicated spirit; there was no shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You believe differently! You can't hush the mind that for twenty years has thought no war ever could henceforth be justified. You can't give yourself to this war without tricking yourself with phrases. You see power in it and profit for yourself. (He protests.) That's your own confession. You are only doing what is expedient—not what is right. Oh, Will, don't compare your motives with those of our son. I sent him forth, without a word of protest, because he wishes to die for his own ideals: you are killing your own ideals for the ideals of others! (She turns away.) Oh, Will, that's what hurts. If you were only like him, I—I could stand it.

WHITE (quietly, after a pause). I can't be angry at you—even when you say such things. You've been too much a part of my life, and work, and I love you, Hilda. You know that, don't you, dear? (He sits beside her and takes her hand.) I knew it would be difficult to make you understand. Only once have I lacked courage, and that was when I felt myself being drawn into this and they offered me the appointment. For then I saw I must tell you. You know I never have wanted to cause you pain. But when you asked me to let Wallace go, I thought you would understand my going, too.—Oh, perhaps our motives are different; he is young; war has caught his imagination; but, I, too, see a duty, a way to accomplish my ideals.

HILDA. Let's leave ideals out of this now. It's like bitter enemies praying to the same God as they kill each other.

WHITE. Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that: Wallace can't. It's so full of mixed motives, good and bad. Yes. I'll grant all that. Only, America has gone in. The whole tide was against us, dear. It is sweeping over the world: a brown tide of khaki sweeping everything before it. All my life I've fought against the current. (Wearily) And now that I've gone in, too, my arms seem less tired. Yes; and except for the pain I've caused you, I've never in all my life felt so—so happy.

(Then she understands. She slowly turns to him, with tenderness in her eyes.)

HILDA. Oh, now, Will, I do understand. Now I see the real reason for what you've done.

WHITE (defensively). I've given the real reason.

HILDA (her heart going out to him). You poor tired man. My dear one. Forgive me if I made it difficult for you, if I said cruel words. I ought to have guessed; ought to have seen what life has done to you. (He looks up, not understanding her words). Those hands of yours first dug a living out of the ground. Then they built houses and grew strong because you were a workman—a man of the people. You saw injustice, and all your life you fought against those who had the power to inflict it: the press; the comfortable respectables, like my brother; and even those of your own group who opposed you—you fought them all. And they look at you as an outsider, an alien in your own country. O Will, I know how hard it has been for you to be always on the defensive, against the majority. It is hard to live alone, away from the herd. It does tire one to the bone and make one envious of the comfort and security they find by being together.

WHITE. Yes—but—

HILDA. Now the war comes and with it a chance to get back; to be part of the majority; to be welcomed with open arms by those who have fought you; to go back with honor and praise. And, yes, to have the warmth and comfort of the crowd. That's the real reason you're going in. You're tired and worn out with the fight. I know. I understand now.

WHITE (earnestly). If I thought it was that, I'd kill myself.

HILDA. There's been enough killing already. I have to understand it somehow to accept it at all.

(He stares at her, wondering at her words. She smiles. He goes to a chair and sits down, gazing before him. The music of Over There is now heard outside in the street, approaching nearer and nearer. It is a military band. WALLACE excitedly rushes in dressed in khaki.)

WALLACE. Mother, mother. The boys are coming down the street. (Sees father.) Dad! Mother has told you?

HILDA (calmly). Yes; I've told him.

WALLACE. And you're going to let me go, Dad?

HILDA. Yes.

WALLACE. Oh, thanks, Dad (grasping his hand).

I knew mother would make you see. (Music nearer.) Listen! Isn't that a great tune? Lifts you up on your feet and carries you over there. Gee, it just gets into a fellow and makes him want to run for his gun and charge over the top. (He goes to balcony.) Look! They're nearing here; all ready to sail with the morning tide. They've got their helmets on. You can't see the end of them coming down the avenue. Oh, thank God, I'm going to be one of them soon. Thank God! I'm going to fight for Uncle Sam and the Stars and Stripes. (Calls off) Hurrah! (To them) Oh, I wish I had a flag. Why haven't we got a flag here?—Hurrah!!

(As he goes out on the balcony the music plays louder. HILDA has gone to WHITE during this, and stands behind him, with her arms down his arms, as he sits there, gazing before him.)

HILDA (fervently). Oh, Will, if I could only feel it as he does!!

(The music begins to trail off as WHITE tenderly takes hold of her hands.)

[CURTAIN]



ILE

Eugene O'Neill

SCENE: CAPTAIN KEENEY'S cabin on board the steam whaling ship Atlantic Queen—a small, square compartment, about eight feet high, with a skylight in the centre looking out on the poop deck. On the left (the stern of the ship) a long bench with rough cushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench, a table. Over the bench, several curtained portholes.

In the rear, left, a door leading to the captain's sleeping-quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, looking as if it were brand-new, is placed against the wall.

On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped, sideboard. On the sideboard, a woman's sewing-basket. Farther forward, a doorway leading to the companion way, and past the officers' quarters to the main deck.

In the centre of the room, a stove. From the middle of the ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are painted white.

There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes through the skylight is sickly and faint, indicating one of those gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence is unbroken except for the measured tread of someone walking up and down on the poop deck overhead.

It is nearing two bells—one o'clock—in the afternoon of a day in the year 1895.

At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence. Then the STEWARD enters and commences to clear the table of the few dishes which still remain on it after the CAPTAIN'S dinner. He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, and a woolen cap with ear-flaps. His manner is sullen and angry. He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes his face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise from the doorway on the right, and he darts back to the table.

BEN enters. He is an over-grown, gawky boy with a long, pinched face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove, where he stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping them against his sides, on the verge of crying.

THE STEWARD (in relieved tones—seeing who it is). Oh, 'tis you, is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'.

BEN. It's c-c-old. (Trying to control his chattering teeth—derisively) Who d' ye think it were—the Old Man?

THE STEWARD. (He makes a threatening move—BEN shrinks away.) None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. (More kindly) Where was it ye've been all o' the time—the fo'c's'le?

BEN. Yes.

THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkey-shinin' with the handstand ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a hurry.

BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. (A trace of awe in his tones—he glances upward.) He just walks up and down like he didn't notice nobody—and stares at the ice to the no'th'ard.

THE STEWARD (the same tone of awe creeping into his voice). He's always starin' at the ice. (In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the skylight) Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' us in for nigh on a year—nothin' to see but ice—stuck in it like a fly in molasses!

BEN (apprehensively). Ssshh! He'll hear ye.

THE STEWARD (raging). Aye, damn him, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn this stinkin' whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a fool to ever ship on it! (Subsiding, as if realizing the uselessness of this outburst—shaking his head—slowly, with deep conviction) He's a hard man—as hard a man as ever sailed the seas.

BEN (solemnly). Aye.

THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this day. Blessed Christ! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck in the fishin', and the hands half starved with the food runnin' low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back for home! (Bitterly) Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on land again. (Excitedly) What is it he thinks he's goin' to do? Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the last man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men goin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'le?

BEN (going over to him—in a half-whisper). They said if he don't put back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny.

THE STEWARD (with grim satisfaction). Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only thing they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's treated them—'s if they weren't no better nor dogs.

BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'rd. They's clear water's far's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back for home, the men says.

THE STEWARD (bitterly). He won't look nowheres but no'th'rd where they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water. All he thinks on is gittin' the ile—'s if it was our fault he ain't had good luck with the whales. (Shaking his head) I think the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses.

BEN (awed). D' you really think he's crazy?

THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye hear ever of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? (Pointing to the door in rear) Who but a man that's mad would take his woman—and as sweet a woman as ever was—on a stinkin' whalin' ship to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the rotten ice for nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever—for it's sure she'll never be the same again.

BEN (sadly). She useter be awful nice to me before—(his eyes grow wide and frightened) she got—like she is.

THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'T would have been hell on board without her; for he's a hard man—a hard, hard man—a driver if there ever was one. (With a grim laugh) I hope he's satisfied now—drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. And who could blame her? 'T is a God's wonder we're not a ship full of crazed people—with the damned ice all the time, and the quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice.

BEN (with a frightened glance toward the door on right). She don't never speak to me no more—jest looks at me's if she didn't know me.

THE STEWARD. She don't know no one—but him. She talks to him—when she does talk—right enough.

BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew—and then she cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her.

THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back.

BEN (tiptoes over to the door and listens). She's cryin' now.

THE STEWARD (furiously—shaking his fist). God send his soul to hell for the devil he is!

(There is the noise of someone coming slowly down the companionway stairs. THE STEWARD hurries to his stacked-up dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top one, which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast, trembling with dread. BEN is violently rubbing off the organ with a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket, CAPTAIN KEENEY appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin, removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty, around five-ten in height, but looking much shorter on account of the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak hardness, and a tightly clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick hair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and blue pants stuffed into his sea-boots.

He is followed into the cabin by the SECOND MATE, a rangy six-footer with a lean, weatherbeaten face. The MATE is dressed about the same as the captain. He is a man of thirty or so.)

KEENEY. (Comes toward the STEWARD—with a stern look on his face. The STEWARD is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes rattles in his trembling hands. KEENEY draws back his fist and the STEWARD shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and KEENEY speaks slowly.) 'T would be like hitting a worm. It Is nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet.

THE STEWARD (stammering). Y-y-yes, sir.

KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here gossipin' old woman's talk with that boy. (To BEN fiercely) Get out o' this, you! Clean up the chartroom. (BEN darts past the MATE to the open doorway.) Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward!

THE STEWARD (doing so with difficulty). Yes, sir.

KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in the Bering Sea at the end of a rope.

THE STEWARD (tremblingly). Yes, sir.

(He hurries out. The SECOND MATE walks slowly over to the CAPTAIN.)

MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to come below.

KEENEY (impatiently). Speak your say, Mr. Slocum.

MATE (unconsciously lowering his voice). I'm afeard there'll be trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two years they signed up for is up to-day.

KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me somethin' new, Mr. Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?

(The door in rear is opened and MRS. KEENEY stands in the doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman primly dressed in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at her.)

KEENEY (with rough tenderness). Well, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (as if awakening from a dream). David, I—(She is silent. The MATE starts for the doorway.)

KEENEY (turning to him—sharply). Wait!

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (after a pause, during which she seems to be endeavoring to collect her thoughts). I thought maybe—I'd go up on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air.

(She stand's humbly awaiting his permission. He and the MATE exchange a significant glance.)

KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below to-day. There's nothing to look at on deck—but ice.

MRS. KEENEY (monotonously). I know—ice, ice, ice! But there's nothing to see down here but these walls.

(She makes a gesture of loathing.)

KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (dully). I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home.

KEENEY (a touch of resentment in his voice). I got it jest for you.

MRS. KEENEY (dully). I know. (She turns away from them and walks slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy.) Ah, water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after all these months of ice! (She turns round to them, her face transfigured with joy.) Ah, now I must go upon deck and look at it, David.

KEENEY (frowning). Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when the sun shines.

MRS. KEENEY (desperately). But the sun never shines in this terrible place.

KEENEY (a tone of command in his voice). Best not to-day, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (crumbling before this command—abjectly). Very well, David.

(She stands there staring straight before her as if in a daze. The two men look at her uneasily.)

KEENEY (sharply). Annie!

MRS. KEENEY (dully). Yes, David.

KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about—ship's business.

MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David.

(She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three quarters shut behind her.)

KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any trouble.

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. And trouble they's goin' to be. I feel it in my bones.

(Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it.)

Got yourn?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em—not if I know their breed of dog—jest to frighten 'em up a bit. (Grimly) I ain't never been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by sea's long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I reckon.

MATE (hesitatingly). Then you ain't goin'—to turn back?

KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in the hold?

MATE (hastily). No, sir—but the grub's gittin' low.

KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful with it; and they's plenty o' water.

MATE. They say it's not fit to eat—what's left; and the two years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble for you in the courts when we git home.

KEENEY. To hell with 'em! Let them make what law trouble they kin. I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the ile! (Glancing sharply at the MATE) You ain't turnin' no damned sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?

MATE (flushing). Not by a hell of a sight, sir.

KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep 'em in chewin' terbacco.

MATE (slowly). They wants to git back to their folks an' things, I s'pose.

KEENEY (looking at him searchingly). 'N' you want to turn back, too. (THE MATE looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze.) Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. (With grim sarcasm) I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me.

MATE (indignantly). That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.

KEENEY (with satisfaction). I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one.

MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir—'bout turnin' home, I mean. (Desperately) But Mrs. Keeney, sir—seems like she ain't jest satisfied up here, ailin' like—what with the cold an' bad luck an' the ice an' all.

KEENEY (his face clouding—rebukingly but not severely). That's my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' that. (A pause.) The ice'll break up soon to no'th'rd. I could see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun, Annie'll perk up. (Another pause—then he bursts forth) It ain't the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days without a full ship. Ain't that truth?

MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'—

KEENEY (scornfully). And d' you s'pose any of 'em would believe that—any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'—Tibbots 'n' Harris 'n' Simms and the rest—and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport comin' back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile?" (The thought of this drives him into a frenzy, and he smashes his fist down on the marble top of the sideboard.) Hell! I got to git the ile, I tell you. How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad before in the thirty year I been a-comin' here. And now it's breakin'up. In a couple o'days it'll be all gone. And they's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of all hell, and by God, I ain't a-goin' home till I do git it!

(There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then KEENEY goes over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he were going to enter—then closes the door softly. JOE, the harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, enters from right and stands waiting for the captain to notice him.)

KEENEY (turning and seeing him). Don't be standin' there like a gawk, Harpooner. Speak up!

JOE (confusedly). We want—the men, sir—they want send a depitation aft to have a word with you.

KEENEY (furiously). Tell 'em to go to—(checks himself and continues grimly) Tell'em to come. I'll see'em.

JOE. Aye, aye, sir.

(He goes out.)

KEENEY (with a grim smile). Here it comes, the trouble you spoke of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to crush such things at the start than let them make headway.

MATE (worriedly). Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might need their help.

KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, Mr. Slocum.

(There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the crew crowd into the cabin, led by JOE. All are dressed alike—sweaters, sea-boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the CAPTAIN, twirling their fur caps in their hands.)

KEENEY (after a pause). Well? Who's to speak fur ye?

JOE (stepping forward with an air of bravado). I be.

KEENEY (eyeing him up and down coldly). So you be. Then speak your say and be quick about it.

JOE (trying not to wilt before the CAPTAIN'S glance and avoiding his eyes). The time we signed up for is done to-day.

KEENEY (icily). You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.

JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far's we kin see.

KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile.

JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice afore ye.

KEENEY. The ice is breaking up.

JOB (after a slight pause during which the others mumble angrily to one another). The grub we're gittin' now is rotten.

KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have eaten worse.

(There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd.)

JOE (encouraged by this support). We ain'ta-goin' to work no more 'less you puts back fur home.

KEENEY (fiercely). You ain't, ain't you?

JOE. No; and the law courts 'll say we was right.

KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm the law on this ship. (Edging up toward the harpooner.) And every mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons.

(There are more angry exclamations from the crew. MRS. KEENEY appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes. None of the men notices her.)

JOE (with bravado). Then we're a-goin' to mutiny and take the old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?

(As he turns his head to look at the others, KEENEY'S fist shoots out to the side of his jaw. JOE goes down in a heap and lies there. MRS. KEENEY gives a shriek and hides her face in her hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers of KEENEY and the MATE.)

KEENEY (his eyes and voice snapping). Hold still! (The men stand huddled together in a sullen silence. KEENEY'S voice is full of mockery.) You've found out it ain't safe to mutiny on this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and (he gives JOE'S body a contemptuous kick) drag him with you. And remember, the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick! (The men leave in cowed silence, carrying JOE with them. KEENEY turns to the MATE with a short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket.) Best get up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of their skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now on. I know 'em.

MATE. Yes, sir.

(He goes out, right. KEENEY hears his wife's hysterical weeping and turns around in surprise—then walks slowly to her side.)

KEENEY (putting an arm around her shoulder—with gruff tenderness). There, there, Annie. Don't be afeard. It's all past and gone.

MRS. KEENEY (shrinking away from, him). Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it any longer!

KEENEY (gently). Can't bear what, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (hysterically). All this horrible brutality, and these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence.

(After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her handkerchief.)

KEENEY (after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled frown). Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on this voyage, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I didn't want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've been doing these last six years since we were married—waiting, and watching, and fearing—with nothing to keep my mind occupied—not able to go back teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the danger and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they make you out to be in Homeport. And instead—(her voice grows tremulous) all I find is ice—and cold—and brutality!

(Her voice breaks.)

KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home where you've got all your woman's comforts." (Shaking his head) But you was so set on it.

MRS. KEENEY (wearily). Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in the story-books and I thought you were one of them.

KEENEY (protestingly). I done my best to make it as cozy and comfortable as could be. (MRS. KEENEY looks around her in wild scorn.) I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was calms and things was dull like.

MRS. KEENEY (wearily). Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that. (She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks out—then suddenly bursts forth.) I won't stand it—I can't stand it—pent up by these walls like a prisoner. (She runs over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his arm protectingly over her shoulders.) Take me away from here, David! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. I'm afraid. Take me home!

KEENEY (holds her at arm's length and looks at her face anxiously). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you look this way before.

MRS. KEENEY (laughing hysterically). It's the ice and the cold and the silence—they'd make anyone look strange.

KEENEY (soothingly). In a month or two, with good luck, three at the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her everything she'll stand and p'int for home.

MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that—I can't wait. I want to get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all, you've got to turn back.

KEENEY (harshly). I can't, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you?

KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason.

MRS. KEENEY (wildly). Because it's a stupid, stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to live up to our silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it.

KEENEY (his jaw set stubbornly). It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what anyone'd say—but—(He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning.) You see—I've always done it—since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back—with a full ship—and—it don't seem right not to—somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, and—Don't you see my meanin', Annie? (He glances at her. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying.) Annie! (She comes to herself with a start.) Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY (resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear). David! Won't you please turn back?

KEENEY (gently). I can't, Annie—not yet awhile. You don't see my meanin'. I got to git the ile.

MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't. You've got more than plenty.

KEENEY (impatiently). It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think I'm as mean as that?

MRS. KEENEY (dully). No—I don't know—I can't understand—(Intensely) Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago—as if I'd been dead and could never go back.

KEENEY (worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her eyes). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY (not appearing to hear him). I used to be lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the fine free life you must be leading. (She gives a laugh which is half a sob.) I used to love the sea then. (She pauses; then continues with slow intensity.) But now—I don't ever want to see the sea again.

KEENEY (thinking to humor her). 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye.

MRS. KEENEY (after a pause—passing her hand over her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness). How long would it take us to reach home—if we started now?

KEENEY (frowning). 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck.

MRS. KEENEY (counts on her fingers—then murmurs with a rapt smile). That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it?

KEENEY (trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved him—gruffly). Don't you remember?

MRS. KEENEY (vaguely—again passes her hand over her eyes). My memory is leaving me—up here in the ice. It was so long ago. (A pause—then she smiles dreamily.) It's June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in the front yard—and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the house—they're budding.

(She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to sob.)

KEENEY (disturbed). Go in and rest, Annie. You're all wore out cryin' over what can't be helped.

MRS. KEENEY (suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him). You love me, don't you, David?

KEENEY (in amazed embarrassment at this outburst) Love you? Why d'you ask me such a question, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (shaking him—fiercely). But you do, don't you, David? Tell me!

KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there be aught but love between us after all these years?

MRS. KEENEY (shaking him again—still more fiercely). Then you do love me. Say it!

KEENEY (simply). I do, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. (Gives a sigh of relief—her hands drop to her sides. KEENEY regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and murmurs half to herself.) I sometimes think if we could only have had a child. (KEENEY turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face her—intensely.) And I've always been a good wife to you, haven't I, David?

KEENEY (his voice betraying his emotion). No man ever had a better, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, David? Have I?

KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (wildly). Then do this, this once, for my sake, for God's sake—take me home! It's killing me, this life—the brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I can hear the silence threatening me—day after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. (Sobbing.) I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me home!

(She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens as he looks at her tear-stained face.)

KEENEY (dragging out the words with an effort). I'll do it, Annie—for your sake—if you say it's needful for ye.

MRS. KEENEY (with wild joy—kissing him). God bless you for that, David!

(He turns away from her silently and walks toward the companionway. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and the SECOND MATE enters the cabin.)

MATE (excitedly). The ice is breakin' up to no'th'rd, sir. There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout says.

(KEENEY straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance. MRS. KEENEY looks at the MATE with terrified eyes.)

KEENEY (dazedly—trying to collect his thoughts). A clear passage? To no'th'rd?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY (his voice suddenly grim with determination). Then get her ready and we'll drive her through.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

MRS. KEENEY (appealingly). David!

KEENEY (not heeding her). Will the men turn to willin' or must we drag 'em out?

MATE. They 'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs.

KEENEY. Then drive 'em—both watches. (With grim determination) They's whale t' other side o' this floe and we're going to git 'em.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

(He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of scuffing feet from the deck outside and the MATE'S voice shouting orders.)

KEENEY (speaking aloud to himself—derisively). And I was a-goin' home like a yaller dog!

MRS. KEENEY (imploringly). David!

KEENEY (sternly). Woman, you ain't a-doin' right when you meddle in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git the ile, I tell ye.

MRS. KEENEY (supplicatingly). David! Aren't you going home?

KEENEY (ignoring this question—commandingly). You ain't well. Go and lay down a mite. (He starts for the door.) I got to git on deck.

(He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. She passes her hand across her eyes—then commences to laugh hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to play wildly an old hymn. KEENEY reenters from the doorway to the deck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabs her roughly by the shoulder.)

KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? (She laughs wildly, and he starts back from her in alarm.) Annie! What is it? (She doesn't answer him. KEENEY'S voice trembles.) Don't you know me, Annie?

(He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, and she commences softly to play the organ again.)

KEENEY (swallowing hard—in a hoarse whisper, as if he had difficulty in speaking). You said—you was agoin' mad—God!

(A long wail is heard from the deck above: "Ah bl-o-o-o-ow!" A moment later the MATE'S face appears through the skylight. He cannot see MRS. KEENEY.)

MATE (in great excitement). Whales, sir—a whole school of 'em—off the starb'd quarter 'bout five mile away—big ones!

KEENEY (galvanized into action). Are you lowerin' the boats?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY (with grim decision). I'm a-comin' with ye.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir. (Jubilantly) You'll git the ile now right enough, sir.

(His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders.)

KEENEY (turning to his wife). Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git the ile. (She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He gives a hard laugh, which is almost a groan.) I know you're foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind—(anxiously) be you? I'll git the ile now right enough—jest a little while longer, Annie—then we'll turn hom'ard. I can't turn back now, you see that, don't ye? I've got to git the ile. (In sudden terror) Answer me! You ain't mad, be you?

(She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The MATE'S face appears again through the skylight.)

MATE. All ready, sir.

(KEENEY turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway, where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish, fighting to control his feelings.)

MATE. Comin', sir?

KEENEY (his face suddenly grown hard with determination). Aye.

(He turns abruptly and goes out. MRS. KEENEY does not appear to notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centred in the organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as the Curtain falls.)



CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR[1]

J.A. Ferguson

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, Glasgow.]

CHARACTERS

MARY STEWART MORAG CAMERON DUGALD STEWART CAPTAIN SANDEMAN ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL JAMES MACKENZIE

SCENE: Interior of a lonely cottage on the road from Struan to Rannoch in North Perthshire.

TIME: After the Rising of 1745.

MORAG is restlessly moving backwards and forwards. The old woman is seated on a low stool beside the peat fire in the centre of the floor.

The room is scantily furnished and the women are poorly clad. MORAG is barefooted. At the back is the door that leads to the outside. On the left of the door is a small window. On the right side of the room there is a door that opens into a barn. MORAG stands for a moment at the window, looking out.

MORAG. It is the wild night outside.

MARY STEWART. Is the snow still coming down?

MORAG. It is that, then—dancing and swirling with the wind too, and never stopping at all. Aye, and so black I cannot see the other side of the road.

MARY STEWART. That is good.

(MORAG moves across the floor and stops irresolutely. She is restless, expectant.)

MORAG. Will I be putting the light in the window?

MARY STEWART. Why should you be doing that? You have not heard his call (turns eagerly), have you?

MORAG (with sign of head). No, but the light in the window would show him all is well.

MARY STEWART. It would not, then! The light was to be put there after we had heard the signal.

MORAG. But on a night like this he may have been calling for long and we never hear him.

MARY STEWART. Do not be so anxious, Morag. Keep to what he says. Put more peat on the fire now and sit down.

MORAG (with increasing excitement). I canna, I canna! There is that in me that tells me something is going to befall us this night. Oh, that wind! Hear to it, sobbing round the house as if it brought some poor lost soul up to the door, and we refusing it shelter.

MARY STEWART. Do not be fretting yourself like that. Do as I bid you. Put more peats to the fire.

MORAG (at the wicker peat-basket). Never since I.... What was that?

(Both listen for a moment.)

MARY STEWART. It was just the wind; it is rising more. A sore night for them that are out in the heather.

(MORAG puts peat on the fire without speaking.)

MARY STEWART. Did you notice were there many people going by to-day?

MORAG. No. After daybreak the redcoats came by from Struan; and there was no more till nine, when an old man like the Catechist from Killichonan passed. At four o'clock, just when the dark was falling, a horseman with a lad holding to the stirrup, and running fast, went by towards Rannoch.

MARY STEWART. But no more redcoats?

MORAG (shaking her head). The road has been as quiet as the hills, and they as quiet as the grave. Do you think will he come?

MARY STEWART. Is it you think I have the gift, girl, that you ask me that? All I know is that it is five days since he was here for meat and drink for himself and for the others—five days and five nights, mind you; and little enough he took away; and those in hiding no' used to such sore lying, I'll be thinking. He must try to get through to-night. But that quietness, with no one to be seen from daylight till dark, I do not like it, Morag. They must know something. They must be watching.

(A sound is heard by both women. They stand listening.)

MARY STEWART. Haste you with the light, Morag.

MORAG. But it came from the back of the house—from the hillside.

MARY STEWART. Do as I tell you. The other side may be watched.

(A candle is lit and placed in the window. Girl goes hurrying to the door.)

MARY STEWART. Stop, stop! Would you be opening the door with a light like that shining from the house? A man would be seen against it in the doorway for a mile. And who knows what eyes may be watching? Put out the light now and cover the fire.

(Room is reduced to semi-darkness, and the door unbarred. Someone enters.)

MORAG. You are cold, Dugald!

(STEWART, very exhausted, signs assent.)

MORAG. And wet, oh, wet through and through!

STEWART. Erricht Brig was guarded, well guarded. I had to win across the water.

(The old woman has now relit candle and taken away plaid from fire.)

MARY STEWART. Erricht Brig—then—

STEWART (nods). Yes—in a corrie, on the far side of Dearig, half-way up.

MARY STEWART. Himself is there then?

STEWART. Aye, and Keppoch as well, and another and a greater is with them.

MARY STEWART. Wheest! (Glances at MORAG.)

STEWART. Mother, is it that you can—

MARY STEWART. Yes, yes, Morag will bring out the food for ye to carry back. It is under the hay in the barn, well hid. Morag will bring it.—Go, Morag, and bring it.

(MORAG enters other room or barn which opens on right.)

STEWART. Mother, I wonder at ye; Morag would never tell—never.

MARY STEWART. Morag is only a lass yet. She has never been tried. And who knows what she might be made to tell.

STEWART. Well, well, it is no matter, for I was telling you where I left them, but not where I am to find them.

MARY STEWART. They are not where you said now?

STEWART. No; they left the corrie last night, and I am to find them (whispers) in a quiet part on Rannoch moor.

MARY STEWART. It is as well for a young lass not to be knowing. Do not tell her.

(He sits down at table; the old woman ministers to his wants.)

STEWART. A fire is a merry thing on a night like this; and a roof over the head is a great comfort.

MARY STEWART. Ye'll no' can stop the night?

STEWART. No. I must be many a mile from here before the day breaks on Ben Dearig.

(MORAG reenters.)

MORAG. It was hard to get through, Dugald?

STEWART. You may say that. I came down Erricht for three miles, and then when I reached low country I had to take to walking in the burns because of the snow that shows a man's steps and tells who he is to them that can read; and there's plenty can do that abroad, God knows.

MORAG. But none spied ye?

STEWART. Who can tell? Before dark came, from far up on the slopes of Dearig I saw soldiers about; and away towards the Rannoch Moor they were scattered all over the country like black flies on a white sheet. A wild cat or anything that couldna fly could never have got through. And men at every brig and ford and pass! I had to strike away up across the slopes again; and even so as I turned round the bend beyond Kilrain I ran straight into a sentry sheltering behind a great rock. But after that it was easy going.

MORAG. How could that be?

STEWART. Well, you see I took the boots off him, and then I had no need to mind who might see my steps in the snow.

MORAG. You took the boots off him!

STEWART (laughing). I did that same. Does that puzzle your bonny head? How does a lad take the boots off a redcoat? Find out the answer, my lass, while I will be finishing my meat.

MORAG. Maybe he was asleep?

STEWART. Asleep! Asleep! Well, well, he sleeps sound enough now, with the ten toes of him pointed to the sky.

(The old woman has taken up dirk from table. She puts it down again. MORAG sees the action and pushes dirk away so that it rolls off the table and drops to the floor. She hides her face in her hands.)

MARY STEWART. Morag, bring in the kebbuck o' cheese. Now that all is well and safe it is we that will look after his comfort to-night. (MORAG goes into barn.)—I mind well her mother saying to me—it was one day in the black winter that she died, when the frost took the land in its grip and the birds fell stiff from the trees, and the deer came down and put their noses to the door—I mind well her saying just before she died—

(Loud knocking at the door.)

A VOICE. In the King's name!

(Both rise.)

MARY STEWART. The hay in the barn, quick, my son.

(Knocking continues.)

A VOICE. Open in the King's name!

(STEWART snatches up such articles as would reveal his presence and hurries into barn. He overlooks dirk on floor. The old woman goes towards door.)

MARY STEWART. Who is there? What do you want?

A VOICE. Open, open.

(MARY STEWART opens door and CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR follows CAPTAIN SANDEMAN into the house. Behind KILMHOR comes a man carrying a leather wallet, JAMES MACKENZIE, his clerk. The rear is brought up by soldiers carrying arms.)

SANDEMAN. Ha, the bird has flown.

CAMPBELL (who has struck dirk with his foot and picked it up). But the nest is warm; look at this.

SANDEMAN. It seems as if we had disturbed him at supper. Search the house, men.

MARY STEWART. I'm just a lonely old woman. You have been misguided. I was getting through my supper.

CAMPBELL (holding up dirk). And this was your toothpick, eh? Na! Na! We ken whaur we are, and wha we want, and by Cruachan, I think we've got him.

(Sounds are heard from barn, and soldiers return with MORAG. She has stayed in hiding from fear, and she still holds the cheese in her hands.)

SANDEMAN. What have we here?

CAMPBELL. A lass!

MARY STEWART. It's just my dead brother's daughter. She was getting me the cheese, as you can see.

CAMPBELL. On, men, again: the other turtle doo will no' be far away. (Banteringly to the old woman) Tut, tut, Mistress Stewart, and do ye have her wait upon ye while your leddyship dines alane! A grand way to treat your dead brother's daughter; fie, fie, upon ye!

(Soldiers reappear with STEWART, whose arms are pinioned.)

CAMPBELL. Did I no' tell ye! And this, Mrs. Stewart, will be your dead sister's son, I'm thinking; or aiblins your leddyship's butler! Weel, woman, I'll tell ye this: Pharaoh spared ae butler, but Erchie Campbell will no' spare anither. Na! na! Pharaoh's case is no' to be taken as forming ony preceedent. And so if he doesna answer certain questions we have to speir at him, before morning he'll hang as high as Haman.

(STEWART is placed before the table at which CAMPBELL has seated himself. Two soldiers guard STEWART. Another is behind CAMPBELL'S chair and another is by the door. The clerk, MACKENZIE, is seated at up corner of table. SANDEMAN stands by the fire.)

CAMPBELL (to STEWART). Weel, sir, it is within the cognizance of the law that you have knowledge and information of the place of harbor and concealment used by certain persons who are in a state of proscription. Furthermore, it is known that four days ago certain other proscribed persons did join with these, and that they are banded together in an endeavor to secure the escape from these dominions of His Majesty, King George, of certain persons who by their crimes and treasons lie open to the capital charge. What say ye?

(STEWART makes no reply.)

CAMPBELL. Ye admit this then?

(STEWART as before.)

CAMPBELL. Come, come, my lad. Ye stand in great jeopardy. Great affairs of state lie behind this which are beyond your simple understanding. Speak up and it will be the better for ye.

(STEWART silent as before.)

CAMPBELL. Look you. I'll be frank with you. No harm will befall you this night—and I wish all in this house to note my words—no harm will befall you this night if you supply the information required.

(STEWART as before.)

CAMPBELL (with sudden passion). Sandeman, put your sword to the carcass o' this muckle ass and see will it louse his tongue.

STEWART. It may be as well then, Mr. Campbell, that I should say a word to save your breath. It is this: Till you talk Rannoch Loch to the top of Schiehallion, ye'll no' talk me into a yea or nay.

CAMPBELL (quietly). Say ye so? Noo, I widna be so very sure if I were you. I've had a lairge experience o' life, and speaking out of it I would say that only fools and the dead never change their minds.

STEWART (quietly too). Then you'll be adding to your experience to-night, Mr. Campbell, and you'll have something to put on to the other side of it.

CAMPBELL (tapping his snuff-box). Very possibly, young sir, but what I would present for your consideration is this: While ye may be prepared to keep your mouth shut under the condition of a fool, are ye equally prepared to do so in the condition of a dead man?

(CAMPBELL waits expectantly. STEWART silent as before.)

CAMPBELL. Tut, tut, now, if it's afraid ye are, my lad, with my hand on my heart and on my word as a gentleman—

STEWART. Afraid!

(He spits in contempt towards CAMPBELL.)

CAMPBELL (enraged). Ye damned stubborn Hieland stot. (To SANDEMAN) Have him taken out. We'll get it another way.

(CAMPBELL rises. STEWART is moved into barn by soldiers.)

CAMPBELL (walking). Some puling eediots, Sandeman, would applaud this contumacy and call it constancy. Constancy! Now, I've had a lairge experience o' life, and I never saw yet a sensible man insensible to the touch of yellow metal. If there may be such a man, it is demonstrable that he is no sensible man. Fideelity! quotha, it's sheer obstinacy. They just see that ye want something oot o' them, and they're so damned selfish and thrawn they winna pairt. And with the natural inabeelity o' their brains to hold mair than one idea at a time they canna see that in return you could put something into their palms far more profitable. (Sits again at table.) Aweel, bring Mistress Stewart up.

(Old woman is placed before him where son had been.)

CAMPBELL (more ingratiatingly). Weel noo, Mistress Stewart, good woman, this is a sair predeecament for ye to be in. I would jist counsel ye to be candid. Doubtless yer mind is a' in a swirl. Ye kenna what way to turn. Maybe ye are like the Psalmist and say: "I lookit this way and that, and there was no man to peety me, or to have compassion upon my fatherless children." But, see now, ye would be wrong; and, if ye tell me a' ye ken, I'll stand freends wi' ye. Put your trust in Erchie Campbell.

MARY STEWART. I trust no Campbell.

CAMPBELL. Weel, weel noo, I'm no' jist that set up wi' them myself. There's but ae Campbell that I care muckle aboot, after a'. But, good wife, it's no' the Campbells we're trying the noo; so as time presses we'll jist "birze yont," as they say themselves. Noo then, speak up.

(MARY STEWART is silent.)

CAMPBELL (beginning grimly and passing through astonishment, expostulation, and a feigned contempt for mother and pity for son, to a pretence of sadness which, except at the end, makes his words come haltingly). Ah! ye also. I suppose ye understand, woman, how it will go wi' your son? (To his clerk) Here's a fine mother for ye, James! Would you believe it? She kens what would save her son—the very babe she nursed at her breast; but will she save him? Na! na! Sir, he may look after himself! A mother, a mother! Ha! ha!

(CAMPBELL laughs. MACKENZIE titters foolishly. CAMPBELL pauses to watch effect of his words.)

Aye, you would think, James, that she would remember the time when he was but little and afraid of all the terrors that walk in darkness, and how he looked up to her as to a tower of safety, and would run to her with outstretched hands, hiding his face from his fear, in her gown. The darkness! It is the dark night and a long journey before him now.

(He pauses again.)

You would think, James, that she would mind how she happit him from the cold of winter and sheltered him from the summer heats, and, when he began to find his footing, how she had an eye on a' the beasts of the field and on the water and the fire that were become her enemies—And to what purpose all this care?—tell me that, my man, to what good, if she is to leave him at the last to dangle from a tree at the end of a hempen rope—to see his flesh given to be meat for the fowls of the air—her son, her little son!

MARY STEWAET. My son is guilty of no crime!

CAMPBELL. Is he no'! Weel, mistress, as ye'll no' take my word for it, maybe ye'll list to Mr. Mackenzie here. What say ye, James?

MACKENZIE. He is guilty of aiding and abetting in the concealment of proscribed persons; likewise with being found in the possession of arms, contrary to statute, both very heinous crimes.

CAMPBELL. Very well said, James! Forby, between ourselves, Mrs. Stewart, the young man in my opeenion is guilty of another crime (snuffs)—he is guilty of the heinous crime of not knowing on which side his bread is buttered.—Come now—

MARY STEWART. Ye durst not lay a finger on the lad, ye durst not hang him.

MACKENZIE. And why should the gentleman not hang him if it pleesure him?

(CAMPBELL taps snuff-box and takes pinch.)

MARY STEWART (with intensity). Campbell of Kilmhor, lay but one finger on Dugald Stewart and the weight of Ben Cruachan will be light to the weight that will be laid on your soul. I will lay the curse of the seven rings upon your life: I will call up the fires of Ephron, the blue and the green and the gray fires, for the destruction of your soul: I will curse you in your homestead and in the wife it shelters and in the children that will never bear your name. Yea, and ye shall be cursed.

CAMPBELL. (Startled—betrays agitation—the snuff is spilled from his trembling hand.) Hoot toot, woman! ye're, ye're—(Angrily) Ye auld beldame, to say such things to me! I'll have ye first whippet and syne droont for a witch. Damn thae stubborn and supersteetious cattle! (To SANDEMAN) We should have come in here before him and listened in the barn, Sandeman!

SANDEMAN. Ah, listen behind the door you mean! Now I never thought of that!

CAMPBELL. Did ye not! Humph! Well, no doubt there are a good many things in the universe that yet wait for your thought upon them. What would be your objections, now?

SANDEMAN. There are two objections, Kilmhor, that you would understand.

CAMPBELL. Name them.

SANDEMAN. Well, in the first place, we have not wings like crows to fly—and the footsteps on the snow—Second point—the woman would have told him we were there.

CAMPBELL. Not if I told her I had power to clap her in Inverness jail.

MARY STEWART (in contempt). Yes, even if ye had told me ye had power to clap me in hell, Mr. Campbell.

CAMPBELL. Lift me that screeching Jezebel oot o' here; Sandeman, we'll mak' a quick finish o' this. (Soldiers take her towards barn.) No, not there; pitch the old girzie into the snow.

MARY STEWART. Ye'll never find him, Campbell, never, never!

CAMPBELL (enraged). Find him! Aye, by God I'll find him, if I have to keek under every stone on the mountains from the Boar of Badenoch to the Sow of Athole. (Old woman and soldiers go outside.) And now, Captain Sandeman, you an' me must have a word or two. I noted your objection to listening ahint doors and so on. Now, I make a' necessary allowances for youth and the grand and magneeficent ideas commonly held, for a little while, in that period. I had them myself. But, man, gin ye had trod the floor of the Parliament Hoose in Edinburry as long as I did, wi' a pair o' thin hands at the bottom o' toom pockets, ye'd ha'e shed your fine notions, as I did. Noo, fine pernickety noansense will no' do in this business—

SANDEMAN. Sir!

CAMPBELL. Softly, softly, Captain Sandeman, and hear till what I have to say. I have noticed with regret several things in your remarks and bearing which are displeasing to me. I would say just one word in your ear; it is this. These things, Sandeman, are not conducive to advancement in His Majesty's service.

SANDEMAN. Kilmhor, I am a soldier, and if I speak out my mind, you must pardon me if my words are blunt. I do not like this work, but I loathe your methods.

CAMPBELL. Mislike the methods you may, but the work ye must do! Methods are my business. Let me tell you the true position. In ae word it is no more and no less than this. You and me are baith here to carry out the proveesions of the Act for the Pacification of the Highlands. That means the cleaning up of a very big mess, Sandeman, a very big mess. Now, what is your special office in this work? I'll tell ye, man; you and your men are just beesoms in the hands of the law-officers of the Crown. In this district, I order and ye soop! (He indicates door of barn.) Now soop, Captain Sandeman.

SANDEMAN (in some agitation). What is your purpose? What are you after? I would give something to see into your mind.

CAMPBELL. Ne'er fash aboot my mind: what has a soldier to do with ony mental operations? It's His Grace's orders that concern you. Oot wi' your man and set him up against the wa'.

SANDEMAN. Kilmhor, it is murder—murder, Kilmhor!

CAMPBELL. Hoots, awa', man, it's a thing o' nae special significance.

SANDEMAN. I must ask you for a warrant.

CAMPBELL. Quick then: Mackenzie will bring it out to you.

(CLERK begins writing. SANDEMAN and soldiers lead STEWART outside, CAMPBELL sits till they are out. CLERK finishes, CAMPBELL signs warrant—and former goes. CAMPBELL is alone, save for MORAG CAMERON, who is sitting huddled up on stool by fire, and is unnoticed by CAMPBELL.)

CAMPBELL (as one speaking his thoughts aloud). I've been beaten for a' that. A strange thing, noo. Beforehand I would ha'e said naething could be easier. And yet—and yet—there it is!... It would have been a grand stroke for me.... Cluny—Keppoch—Lochiel, and maybe ... maybe—Hell! when I think of it! Just a whispered word—a mere pointed finger would ha'e telled a'. But no! their visions, their dreams beat me. "You'll be adding to your experience to-night, Mr. Campbell, and have something to put to the other side of it," says he; aye, and by God I have added something to it, and it is a thing I like but little—that a dream can be stronger than a strong man armed.—Here come I, Archibald Campbell of Kilmhor, invested with authority as law-officer of the Crown, bearing in my hand the power of life and death, fire and the sword, backed up by the visible authority of armed men, and yet I am powerless before the dreams of an old woman and a half-grown lad—soldiers and horses and the gallows and yellow gold are less than the wind blowing in their faces.—It is a strange thing that: it is a thing I do not understand.—It is a thing fit to sicken a man against the notion that there are probabeelities on this earth.—have been beaten for a' that. Aye, the pair o' them have beat me—though it's a matter of seconds till one of them be dead.

MORAG (starting into upright position and staring at him; her voice is like an echo to his). Dead!

CAMPBELL (turning hastily). What is that!

MORAG. Is he dead?

CAMPBELL (grimly). Not yet, but if ye'll look through this window (he indicates window) presently, ye'll see him gotten ready for death.

(He begins to collect articles of personal property, hat, etc.)

MORAG. I will tell you.

CAMPBELL (astounded). What!

MORAG. I will tell you all you are seeking to know.

CAMPBELL (quietly). Good God, and to think, to think I was on the very act—in the very act of—tell me—tell me at once.

MORAG. You will promise that he will not be hanged?

CAMPBELL. He will not. I swear it.

MORAG. You will give him back to me?

CAMPBELL. I will give him back unhung.

MORAG. Then (CAMPBELL comes near), in a corrie half-way up the far side of Dearig—God save me!

CAMPBELL. Dished after a'. I've clean dished them! Loard, Loard! once more I can believe in the rationality of Thy world. (Gathers up again his cloak, hat, etc.) And to think—to think—I was on the very act of going away like a beaten dog!

MORAG. He is safe from hanging now?

CAMPBELL (chuckles and looks out at window before replying, and is at door when he speaks). Very near it, very near it. Listen!

(He holds up his hand—a volley of musketry is heard. KILMHOR goes out, closing the door behind him. After a short interval of silence the old woman enters and advances a few steps.)

MARY STEWART. Did you hear, Morag Cameron, did you hear?

(The girl is sobbing, her head on her arms.)

MARY STEWART. Och! be quiet now; I would be listening till the last sound of it passes into the great hills and over all the wide world.—It is fitting for you to be crying, a child that cannot understand; but water shall never wet eye of mine for Dugald Stewart. Last night I was but the mother of a lad that herded sheep on the Athole hills: this morn it is I that am the mother of a man who is among the great ones of the earth. All over the land they will be telling of Dugald Stewart. Mothers will teach their children to be men by him. High will his name be with the teller of fine tales.—The great men came, they came in their pride, terrible like the storm they were, and cunning with words of guile were they. Death was with them.... He was but a lad, a young lad, with great length of days before him, and the grandeur of the world. But he put it all from him. "Speak," said they, "speak, and life and great riches will be for yourself." But he said no word at all! Loud was the swelling of their wrath! Let the heart of you rejoice, Morag Cameron, for the snow is red with his blood. There are things greater than death. Let them that are children shed the tears.

(She comes forward and lays her hand on the girl's shoulder.)

MARY STEWART. Let us go and lift him into the house, and not be leaving him lie out there alone.

[CURTAIN]



THE SUN[1]

John Glasworthy

SCENE: A GIRL sits crouched over her knees on a stile close to a river. A MAN with a silver badge stands beside her clutching the worn top plank. THE GIRL'S level brows are drawn together; her eyes see her memories. THE MAN'S eyes see THE GIRL; he has a dark, twisted face. The bright sun shines; the quiet river flows; the cuckoo is calling; the mayflower is in bloom along the hedge that ends in the stile on the towing-path.

[Footnote 1: From Scribner's Magazine, May, 1919. Copyright by Charles Scribner's Sons; included by special permission of the writer and publishers.]

THE GIRL. God knows what 'e'll say, Jim.

THE MAN. Let 'im. 'E's come too late, that's all.

THE GIRL. He couldn't come before. I'm frightened. 'E was fond o' me.

THE MAN. And aren't I fond of you? My Gawd!

THE GIRL. I ought to 'a' waited, Jim; with 'im in the fightin'.

THE MAN (passionately). And what about me? Aren't I been in the fightin'—earned all I could get?

THE GIRL (touching him). Ah!

THE MAN. Did you—

(He cannot speak the words.)

THE GIRL. Not like you, Jim—not like you.

THE MAN. 'Ave a spirit, then.

THE GIRL. I promised 'im.

THE MAN. One man's luck'a another's poison. I've seen it.

THE GIRL. I ought to 'a' waited. I never thought 'e'd come back from the fightin'.

THE MAN (grimly). Maybe 'e'd better not 'ave.

THE GIRL (looking back along the tow-path). What'll 'e be like, I wonder?

THE MAN (gripping her shoulder). Daise, don't you never go back on me, or I should kill you, and 'im too.

(THE GIRL looks at him, shivers, and puts her lips to his.)

THE GIRL. I never could.

THE MAN. Will you run for it? 'E'd never find us.

(THE GIRL shakes her head.)

THE MAN (dully). What's the good o' stayin'? The world's wide.

THE GIRL. I'd rather have it off me mind, with him 'ome.

THE MAN (clenching his hands). It's temptin' Providence.

THE GIRL. What's the time, Jim?

THE MAN (glancing at the sun). 'Alf past four.

THE GIRL (looking along the towing-path). 'E said four o'clock. Jim, you better go.

THE MAN. Not I. I've not got the wind up. I've seen as much of hell as he has, any day. What like is he?

THE GIRL (dully). I dunno, just. I've not seen 'im these three years. I dunno no more, since I've known you.

THE MAN. Big, or little chap?

THE GIRL. 'Bout your size. Oh! Jim, go along!

THE MAN. No fear! What's a blighter like that to old Fritz's shells? We didn't shift when they was comin'. If you'll go, I'll go; not else.

(Again she shakes her head.)

THE GIRL. Jim, do you love me true? (For answer, THE MAN takes her avidly in his arms.) I ain't ashamed—I ain't ashamed. If 'e could see me 'eart.

THE MAN. Daise! If I'd known you out there I never could 'a' stuck it. They'd 'a' got me for a deserter. That's 'ow I love you!

THE GIRL. Jim, don't lift your 'and to 'im. Promise!

THE MAN. That's according.

THE GIRL. Promise!

THE MAN. If 'e keeps quiet, I won't. But I'm not accountable—not always, I tell you straight—not since I've been through that.

THE GIRL (with a shiver). Nor p'r'aps 'e isn't.

THE MAN. Like as not. It takes the lynchpins out, I tell you.

THE GIRL. God 'elp us!

THE MAN (grimly). Ah! We said that a bit too often. What we want, we take, now; there's no one to give it us, and there's no fear'll stop us; we seen the bottom o' things.

THE GIRL. P'r'aps 'e'll say that too.

THE MAN. Then it'll be 'im or me.

THE GIRL. I'm frightened.

THE MAN (tenderly). No, Daise, no! (He takes out a knife.) The river's 'andy. One more or less. 'E shan't 'arm you; nor me neither.

THE GIRL (seizing his hand). Oh! no! Give it to me, Jim!

THE MAN (smiling). No fear! (He puts it away.) Shan't 'ave no need for it, like as not. All right, little Daise; you can't be expected to see things like what we do. What's a life, anyway? I've seen a thousand taken in five minutes. I've seen dead men on the wires like flies on a fly-paper; I've been as good as dead meself an 'undred times. I've killed a dozen men. It's nothin'. 'E's safe, if 'e don't get my blood up. If 'e does, nobody's safe; not 'im, nor anybody else; not even you. I'm speakin' sober.

THE GIRL (softly). Jim, you won't go fightin', wi' the sun out and the birds all callin'?

THE MAN. That depends on 'im. I'm not lookin' for it. Daise, I love you. I love your eyes. I love your hair. I love you.

THE GIRL. And I love you, Jim. I don't want nothin' more than you in the whole world.

THE MAN. Amen to that, my dear. Kiss me close!

(The sound of a voice singing breaks in on their embrace. THE GIRL starts from his arms and looks behind her along the towing-path. THE MAN draws back against the hedge, fingering his side, where the knife is hidden. The song comes nearer.)

I'll be right there to-night Where the fields are snowy white; Banjos ringin', darkies singin'— All the world seems bright.

THE GIRL. It's 'im!

THE MAN. Don't get the wind up, Daise. I'm here!

(The singing stops. A man's voice says: Christ! It's Daise; it's little Daise 'erself! THE GIRL stands rigid. The figure of a soldier appears on the other side of the stile. His cap is tucked into his belt, his hair is bright in the sunshine; he is lean, wasted, brown, and laughing.)

SOLDIER. Daise! Daise! Hallo, old pretty girl!

(THE GIRL does not move, barring the way, as it were.)

THE GIRL. Hallo, Jack! (Softly) I got things to tell you.

SOLDIER. What sort o' things, this lovely day? Why, I got things that'd take me years to tell. 'Ave you missed me, Daise?

THE GIRL. You been so long.

SOLDIER. So I 'ave. My Gawd! It's a way they 'ave in the Army. I said when I got out of it I'd laugh. Like as the sun itself I used to think of you, Daise, when the crumps was comin' over, and the wind was up. D' you remember that last night in the wood? "Come back, and marry me quick, Jack!" Well, 'ere I am—got me pass to 'eaven. No more fightin', an' trampin,' no more sleepin" rough. We can get married now, Daise. We can live soft an' 'appy. Give us a kiss, old pretty.

THE GIRL (drawing back). No.

SOLDIER (blankly). Why not?

(THE MAN, with a swift movement, steps along the hedge to THE GIRL'S side.)

THE MAN. That's why, soldier.

SOLDIER (leaping over the stile). 'Oo are you, Pompey? The sun don't shine in your inside, do it? 'Oo is 'e, Daise?

THE GIRL. My man.

SOLDIER. Your—man! Lummy! "Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief"! Well, soldier? So you've been through it, too. I'm laughin' this mornin', as luck will 'ave it. Ah! I can see your knife.

THE MAN (who has half drawn his knife). Don't laugh at me, I tell you.

SOLDIER. Not at you, soldier, not at you. (He looks from one to the other.) I'm laughin' at things in general. Where did you get it, soldier?

THE MAN (watchfully). Through the lung.

SOLDIER. Think o' that! An' I never was touched. Four years an' never was touched. An' so you've come an' took my girl. Nothin' doin'! Ha! (Again he looks from one to the other—then away.) Well! The world's before me. (He laughs.) I'll give you Daise for a lung protector.

THE MAN (fiercely). You won't. I've took her.

SOLDIER. That's all right, then. You keep 'er. I've got a laugh in me you can't put out, black as you are! Good-bye, little Daise!

(THE GIRL makes a movement toward him.)

THE MAN. Don't touch 'im!

(THE GIRL stands hesitating, and suddenly bursts into tears.)

SOLDIER. Look 'ere, soldier; shake 'ands! I don't want to see a girl cry, this day of all, with the sun shinin'. I seen too much o' sorrer. You an' me've been at the back of it. We've 'ad our whack. Shake!

THE MAN. Who are you kiddin'? You never loved 'er!

SOLDIER. Oh! I thought I did.

THE MAN (fiercely). I'll fight you for her.

(He drops his knife.)

SOLDIER (slowly). Soldier, you done your bit, an' I done mine. It's took us two ways, seemin'ly.

THE GIRL (pleading). Jim!

THE MAN (with clenched fists). I don't want 'is charity. I only want what I can take.

SOLDIER. Daise, which of us will you 'ave?

THE GIRL (covering her face). Oh! Him.

SOLDIER. You see, soldier! Drop your 'ands, now. There's nothin' for it but a laugh. You an' me know that. Laugh, soldier!

THE MAN. You blarsted—

(THE GIRL springs to him and stops his mouth.)

SOLDIER. It's no use, soldier. I can't do it. I said I'd laugh to-day, and laugh I will. I've come through that, an' all the stink of it; I've come through sorrer. Never again! Cheer-o, mate! The sun's shinin'!

(He turns away.)

THE GIRL. Jack, don't think too 'ard of me!

SOLDIER (looking back). No fear, old pretty girl! Enjoy your fancy! So long! Gawd bless you both!

(He sings and goes along the path, and the song—

I'll be right there to-night Where the fields are snowy white; Banjos ringin', darkies singin'— All the world seems bright!—

fades away.)

THE MAN. 'E's mad.

THE GIRL (looking down the path, with her hands clasped). The sun 'as touched 'im, Jim!

[CURTAIN]



THE KNAVE OF HEARTS[1]

Louise Saunders

[Footnote 1: This play is fully protected by copyright and may be used only with the written permission of, and the payment of royalty to, Norman Lee Swartout, Summit, New Jersey. Included by permission of the author and Mr. Swartout.]

CHARACTERS

THE MANAGER BLUE HOSE YELLOW HOSE 1ST HERALD 2D HERALD POMPDEBILE THE EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS (pronounced Pomp-dibiley) THE CHANCELLOR THE KNAVE OF HEARTS URSULA THE LADY VIOLETTA SIX LITTLE PAGES

(THE MANAGER appears before the curtain in doublet and hose. He carries a cap with a long, red feather.)

THE MANAGER (bowing deeply). Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to hear the truth of an old legend that has persisted wrongly through the ages, the truth that, until now, has been hid behind the embroidered curtain of a rhyme, about the Knave of Hearts, who was no knave but a very hero indeed. The truth, you will agree with me, gentlemen and most honored ladies, is rare! It is only the quiet, unimpassioned things of nature that seem what they are. Clouds rolled in massy radiance against the blue, pines shadowed deep and darkly green, mirrored in still waters, the contemplative mystery of the hills—these things which exist, absorbed but in their own existence—these are the perfect chalices of truth.

But we, gentlemen and thrice-honored ladies, flounder about in a tangled net of prejudice, of intrigue. We are blinded by conventions, we are crushed by misunderstanding, we are distracted by violence, we are deceived by hypocrisy, until only too often villains receive the rewards of nobility and the truly great-hearted are suspected, distrusted, and maligned.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, for the sake of justice and also, I dare to hope, for your approval, I have taken my puppets down from their dusty shelves. I have polished their faces, brushed their clothes, and strung them on wires, so that they may enact for you this history.

(He parts the curtains, revealing two PASTRY COOKS in flaring white caps and spotless aprons leaning over in stiff profile, their wooden spoons, three feet long, pointing rigidly to the ceiling. They are in one of the kitchens of POMPDEBILE THE EIGHTH, KING OF HEARTS. It is a pleasant kitchen, with a row of little dormer windows and a huge stove, adorned with the crest of POMPDEBILE—a heart rampant, on a gold shield.)

THE MANAGER. You see here, ladies and gentlemen, two pastry cooks belonging to the royal household of Pompdebile the Eighth—Blue Hose and Yellow Hose, by name. At a signal from me they will spring to action, and as they have been made with astonishing cleverness, they will bear every semblance of life. Happily, however, you need have no fear that, should they please you, the exulting wine of your appreciation may go to their heads—their heads being but things of wire and wood; and happily, too, as they are but wood and wire, they will be spared the shame and humiliation that would otherwise be theirs should they fail to meet with your approval.

The play, most honored ladies and gentlemen, will now begin.

(He claps his hands. Instantly the two PASTRY COOKS come to life. THE MANAGER bows himself off the stage.)

BLUE HOSE. Is everything ready for this great event?

YELLOW HOSE. Everything. The fire blazing in the stove, the Pages, dressed in their best, waiting in the pantry with their various jars full of the finest butter, the sweetest sugar, the hottest pepper, the richest milk, the—

BLUE HOSE. Yes, yes, no doubt. (Thoughtfully) It is a great responsibility, this that they have put on our shoulders.

YELLOW HOSE. Ah, yes. I have never felt more important.

BLUE HOSE. Nor I more uncomfortable.

YELLOW HOSE. Even on the day, or rather the night, when I awoke and found myself famous—I refer to the time when I laid before an astonished world my creation, "Humming birds' hearts souffle, au vin blanc"—I did not feel more important. It is a pleasing sensation!

BLUE HOSE. I like it not at all. It makes me dizzy, this eminence on which they have placed us. The Lady Violetta is slim and fair. She does not, in my opinion, look like the kind of person who is capable of making good pastry. I have discovered through long experience that it is the heaviest women who make the lightest pastry, and vice versa. Well, then, suppose that she does not pass this examination—suppose that her pastry is lumpy, white like the skin of a boiled fowl.

YELLOW HOSE. Then, according to the law of the Kingdom of Hearts, we must condemn it, and the Lady Violetta cannot become the bride of Pompdebile. Back to her native land she will be sent, riding a mule.

BLUE HOSE. And she is so pretty, so exquisite! What a law! What an outrageous law!

YELLOW HOSE. Outrageous law! How dare you! There is nothing so necessary to the welfare of the nation as our art. Good cooks make good tempers, don't they? Must not the queen set an example for the other women to follow? Did not our fathers and our grandfathers before us judge the dishes of the previous queens of hearts?

BLUE HOSE. I wish I were mixing the rolls for to-morrow's breakfast.

YELLOW HOSE. Bah! You are fit for nothing else. The affairs of state are beyond you.

(Distant sound of trumpets.)

BLUE HOSE (nervously). What's that?

YELLOW HOSE. The King is approaching! The ceremonies are about to commence!

BLUE HOSE. Is everything ready?

YELLOW HOSE. I told you that everything was ready. Stand still; you are as white as a stalk of celery.

BLUE HOSE (counting on his fingers). Apples, lemons, peaches, jam—Jam! Did you forget jam?

YELLOW HOSE. Zounds, I did!

BLUE HOSE (wailing). We are lost!

YELLOW HOSE. She may not call for it.

(Both stand very erect and make a desperate effort to appear calm.)

BLUE HOSE (very nervous). Which door? Which door?

YELLOW HOSE. The big one, idiot. Be still!

(The sound of trumpets increases, and cries of "Make way for the King." Two HERALDS come in and stand on either side of the door. The KING OF HEARTS enters, followed by ladies and gentlemen of the court. POMPDEBILE is in full regalia, and very imposing indeed with his red robe bordered with ermine, his crown and sceptre. After him comes the CHANCELLOR, an old man with a short, white beard. The KING strides in a particularly kingly fashion, pointing his toes in the air at every step, toward his throne, and sits down. The KNAVE walks behind him slowly. He has a sharp, pale face.)

POMPDEBILE (impressively). Lords and ladies of the court, this is an important moment in the history of our reign. The Lady Violetta, whom you love and respect—that is, I mean to say, whom the ladies love and the lords—er—respect, is about to prove whether or not she be fitted to hold the exalted position of Queen of Hearts, according to the law, made a thousand years ago by Pompdebile the Great, and steadily followed ever since. She will prepare with her own delicate, white hands a dish of pastry. This will be judged by the two finest pastry cooks in the land.