MAGISTRATE. What have you to tell?
BARTLEY. It is where he was this morning, standing in this spot, singing his share of songs—no, but lighting his pipe—scraping a match on the sole of his shoe—
MAGISTRATE. I ask you, for the third time, where is he?
BARTLEY. I wouldn't like to say that. It is a great mystery, and it is hard to say of any man, did he earn hatred or love.
MAGISTRATE. Tell me all you know.
BARTLEY. All that I know—Well, there are the three estates; there is Limbo, and there is Purgatory, and there is—
MAGISTRATE. Nonsense! This is trifling! Get to the point.
BARTLEY. Maybe you don't hold with the clergy so? That is the teaching of the clergy. Maybe you hold with the old people. It is what they do be saying, that the shadow goes wandering, and the soul is tired, and the body is taking a rest—The shadow! (Starts up.) I was nearly sure I saw Jack Smith not ten minutes ago at the corner of the forge, and I lost him again—Was it his ghost I saw, do you think?
MAGISTRATE (to POLICEMAN). Conscience-struck! He will confess all now!
BARTLEY. His ghost to come before me! It is likely it was on account of the fork! I to have it and he to have no way to defend himself the time he met with his death!
MAGISTRATE (to POLICEMAN). I must note down his words. (Takes out notebook. To BARTLEY) I warn you that your words are being noted.
BARTLEY. If I had ha' run faster in the beginning, this terror would not be on me at the latter end! Maybe he will cast it up against me at the day of judgment—I wouldn't wonder at all at that.
MAGISTRATE (writing). At the day of judgment—
BARTLEY. It was soon for his ghost to appear to me—is it coming after me always by day it will be, and stripping the clothes off in the nighttime?—I wouldn't wonder at all at that, being as I am an unfortunate man!
MAGISTRATE (sternly). Tell me this truly. What was the motive of this crime?
BARTLEY. The motive, is it?
MAGISTRATE. Yes, the motive; the cause.
BARTLEY. I'd sooner not say that.
MAGISTRATE. You'd better tell me truly. Was it money?
BARTLEY. Not at all! What did poor Jack Smith ever have in his pockets unless it might be his hands that would be in them?
MAGISTRATE. Any dispute about land?
BARTLEY (indignantly). Not at all! He never was a grabber or grabbed from anyone!
MAGISTRATE. You will find it better for you if you tell me at once.
BARTLEY. I tell you I wouldn't for the whole world wish to say what it was—it is a thing I would not like to be talking about.
MAGISTRATE. There is no use in hiding it. It will be discovered in the end.
BARTLEY. Well, I suppose it will, seeing that mostly everybody knows it before. Whisper here now. I will tell no lie; where would be the use? (Puts his hand to his mouth and MAGISTRATE stoops.) Don't be putting the blame on the parish, for such a thing was never done in the parish before—it was done for the sake of Kitty Keary, Jack Smith's wife.
MAGISTRATE (to POLICEMAN). Put on the handcuffs. We have been saved some trouble. I knew he would confess if taken in the right way.
(POLICEMAN puts on handcuffs.)
BARTLEY. Handcuffs now! Glory be! I always said, if there was ever any misfortune coming to this place it was on myself it would fall. I to be in handcuffs! There's no wonder at all in that.
(Enter MRS. FALLON, followed by the rest. She is looking back at them as she speaks.)
MRS. FALLON. Telling lies the whole of the people of this town are; telling lies, telling lies as fast as a dog will trot! Speaking against my poor respectable man! Saying he made an end of Jack Smith! My decent comrade! There is no better man and no kinder man in the whole of the five parishes! It's little annoyance he ever gave to anyone! (Turns and sees him.) What in the earthly world do I see before me? Bartley Fallon in charge of the police! Handcuffs on him! O Bartley, Bartley, what did you do at all at all?
BAHTLEY. O Mary, there has a great misfortune come upon me! It is what I always said, that if there is ever any misfortune—
MRS. FALLON. What did he do at all, or is it bewitched I am?
MAGISTRATE. This man has been arrested on a charge of murder.
MRS. FALLON. Whose charge is that? Don't believe them! They are all liars in this place! Give me back my man!
MAGISTRATE. It is natural you should take his part, but you have no cause of complaint against your neighbors. He has been arrested for the murder of John Smith, on his own confession.
MRS. FALLON. The saints of heaven protect us! And what did he want killing Jack Smith?
MAGISTRATE. It is best you should know all. He did it on account of a love-affair with the murdered man's wife.
MRS. FALLON (sitting down). With Jack Smith's wife! With Kitty
Keary!—Ochone, the traitor!
THE CROWD. A great shame, indeed. He is a traitor, indeed.
MRS. TULLY. To America he was bringing her, Mrs. Fallon.
BAETLEY. What are you saying, Mary? I tell you—
MRS. FALLON. Don't say a word! I won't listen to any word you'll say! (Stops her ears.) Oh, isn't he the treacherous villain? Ohone go deo!
BARTLEY. Be quiet till I speak! Listen to what I say!
MRS. FALLON. Sitting beside me on the ass car coming to the town, so quiet and so respectable, and treachery like that in his heart!
BARTLEY. Is it your wits you have lost, or is it I myself that have lost my wits?
MRS. FALLON. And it's hard I earned you, slaving, slaving—and you grumbling, and sighing, and coughing, and discontented, and the priest wore out anointing you, with all the times you threatened to die!
BARTLEY. Let you be quiet till I tell you!
MRS. FALLON. You to bring such a disgrace into the parish. A thing that was never heard of before!
BARTLEY. Will you shut your mouth and hear me speaking?
MRS. FALLON. And if it was for any sort of a fine handsome woman, but for a little fistful of a woman like Kitty Keary, that's not four feet high hardly, and not three teeth in her head unless she got new ones! May God reward you, Bartley Fallon, for the black treachery in your heart and the wickedness in your mind, and the red blood of poor Jack Smith that is wet upon your hand!
(Voice of JACK SMITH heard singing)
The sea shall be dry,
The earth under mourning and ban!
Then loud shall he cry
For the wife of the red-haired man!
BARTLEY. It's Jack Smith's voice—I never knew a ghost to sing before. It is after myself and the fork he is coming! (Goes back. Enter JACK SMITH.) Let one of you give him the fork and I will be clear of him now and for eternity!
MRS. TARPEY. The Lord have mercy on us! Red Jack Smith! The man that was going to be waked!
JAMES RYAN. Is it back from the grave you are come?
SHAWN EARLY. Is it alive you are, or is it dead you are?
TIM CASEY. Is it yourself at all that's in it?
MRS. TULLY. Is it letting on you were to be dead?
MRS. FALLON. Dead or alive, let you stop Kitty Keary, your wife, from bringing my man away with her to America!
JACK SMITH. It is what I think, the wits are gone astray on the whole of you. What would my wife want bringing Bartley Fallon to America?
MRS. FALLON. To leave yourself, and to get quit of you she wants, Jack Smith, and to bring him away from myself. That's what the two of them had settled together.
JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that says that! Who is it says it? (To TIM CASEY) Was it you said it? (To SHAWN EARLY) Was it you?
ALL TOGETHER (backing and shaking their heads). It wasn't I said it!
JACK SMITH. Tell me the name of any man that said it!
ALL TOGETHEB (pointing to BARTLEY). It was him that said it!
JACK SMITH. Let me at him till I break his head!
(BARTLEY backs in terror. Neighbors hold JACK SMITH back.)
JACK SMITH (trying to free himself). Let me at him! Isn't he the pleasant sort of a scarecrow for any woman to be crossing the ocean with! It's back from the docks of New York he'd be turned (trying to rush at him again), with a lie in his mouth and treachery in his heart, and another man's wife by his side, and he passing her off as his own! Let me at him, can't you?
(Makes another rush, but is held back.)
MAGISTRATE (pointing to JACK SMITH). Policeman, put the handcuffs on this man. I see it all now. A case of false impersonation, a conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. There was a case in the Andaman Islands, a murderer of the Mopsa tribe, a religious enthusiast—
POLICEMAN. So he might be, too.
MAGISTRATE. We must take both these men to the scene of the murder. We must confront them with the body of the real Jack Smith.
JACK SMITH. I'll break the head of any man that will find my dead body!
MAGISTRATE. I'll call more help from the barracks.
(Blows POLICEMAN'S whistle.)
BARTLEY. It is what I am thinking, if myself and Jack Smith are put together in the one cell for the night, the handcuffs will be taken off him, and his hands will be free, and murder will be done that time surely!
MAGISTRATE. Come on!
(They turn to the right.)
Winthrop Parkhurst
[Footnote 1: Reprinted from Drama, No. 33, February, 1919, by
permission of Mr. Parkhurst and the editors of Drama.
Copyrighted, 1918, as a dramatic composition, by Winthrop
Parkhurst. All rights of production reserved by author.]
A chamber in the palace overlooks a courtyard. The season is midsummer. The windows of the palace are open, and from a distance there comes the sound of a man's voice crying for bread. THE KING sits in a golden chair. A golden crown is on his head, and he holds in his hand a sceptre which is also of gold. A SERVANT stands by his side, fanning him with an enormous fan of peacock feathers.
THE BEGGAR (outside). Bread. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.
THE KING (languidly). Who is that crying in the street for bread?
THE SERVANT (fanning). O king, it is a beggar.
THE KING. Why does he cry for bread?
THE SERVANT. O king, he cries for bread in order that he may fill his belly.
THE KING. I do not like the sound of his voice. It annoys me very much. Send him away.
THE SERVANT (bowing). O king, he has been sent away.
THE KING. If that is so, then why do I hear his voice?
THE SERVANT. O king, he has been sent away many times, yet each time that he is sent away he returns again, crying louder than he did before.
THE KING. He is very unwise to annoy me on such a warm day. He must be punished for his impudence. Use the lash on him.
THE SERVANT. O king, it has been done.
THE KING. Then bring out the spears.
THE SEBVANT. O king, the guards have already bloodied their swords many times driving him away from the palace gates. But it is of no avail.
THE KING. Then bind him and gag him if necessary. If need be cut out his tongue. I do not like the sound of the fellow's voice. It annoys me very much.
THE SERVANT. O king, thy orders were obeyed even yesterday.
THE KING (frowning). No. That cannot be. A beggar cannot cry for bread who has no tongue.
THE SERVANT. Behold he can—if he has grown another.
THE KING. What! Why, men are not given more than one tongue in a lifetime. To have more than one tongue is treason.
THE SERVANT. If it is treason to have more than one tongue, O king, then is this beggar surely guilty of treason.
THE KING (pompously). The punishment for treason is death. See to it that the fellow is slain. And do not fan me so languidly. I am very warm.
THE SERVANT (fanning more rapidly). Behold, O great and illustrious king, all thy commands were obeyed even yesterday.
THE KING. How! Do not jest with thy king.
THE SERVANT. If I jest, then there is truth in a jest. Even yesterday, O king, as I have told thee, the beggar which thou now hearest crying aloud in the street was slain by thy soldiers with a sword.
THE KING. Do ghosts eat bread? Forsooth, men who have been slain with a sword do not go about in the streets crying for a piece of bread.
THE SERVANT. Forsooth, they do if they are fashioned as this beggar.
THE KING. Why, he is but a man. Surely he cannot have more than one life in a lifetime.
THE SERVANT. Listen to a tale, O king, which happened yesterday.
THE KING. I am listening.
THE SERVANT. Thy soldiers smote this beggar for crying aloud in the streets for bread, but his wounds are already healed. They cut out his tongue, but he immediately grew another. They slew him, yet he is now alive.
THE KING. Ah! that is a tale which I cannot understand at all.
THE SERVANT. O king, it may be well.
THE KING. I cannot understand what thou sayest, either.
THE SERVANT. O king, that may be well also.
THE KING. Thou art speaking now in riddles. I do not like riddles. They confuse my brain.
THE SERVANT. Behold, O king, if I speak in riddles it is because a riddle has come to pass.
(THE BEGGAR'S voice suddenly cries out loudly.)
THE BEGGAR (outside). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.
THE KING. Ah! He is crying out again. His voice seems to me louder than it was before.
THE SERVANT. Hunger is as food to the lungs, O king.
THE KING. His lungs I will wager are well fed. Ha, ha!
THE SERVANT. But alas! his stomach is quite empty.
THE KING. That is not my business.
THE SERVANT. Should I not perhaps fling him a crust from the window?
THE KING. No! To feed a beggar is always foolish. Every crumb that is given to a beggar is an evil seed from which springs another fellow like him.
THE BEGGAR (outside). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.
THE SERVANT. He seems very hungry, O king.
THE KING. Yes. So I should judge.
THE SERVANT. If thou wilt not let me fling, him a piece of bread thine ears must pay the debts of thy hand.
THE KING. A king can have no debts.
THE SERVANT. That is true, O king. Even so, the noise of this fellow's begging must annoy thee greatly.
THE KING. It does.
THE SERVANT. Doubtless he craves only a small crust from thy table and he would be content.
THE KING. Yea, doubtless he craves only to be a king and he would be very happy indeed.
THE SERVANT. Do not be hard, O king. Thou art ever wise and just. This fellow is exceedingly hungry. Dost thou not command me to fling him just one small crust from the window?
THE KING. My commands I have already given thee. See that the beggar is driven away.
THE SERVANT. But alas! O king, if he is driven away he will return again even as he did before.
THE KING. Then see to it that he is slain. I cannot be annoyed with the sound of his voice.
THE SERVANT. But alas! O great and illustrious king, if he is slain he will come to life again even as he did before.
THE KING. Ah! that is true. But his voice troubles me. I do not like to hear it.
THE SERVANT. His lungs are fattened with hunger. Of a truth they are quite strong.
THE KING. Well, propose a remedy to weaken them.
THE SERVANT. A remedy, O king?
(He stops fanning.)
THE KING. That is what I said. A remedy—and do not stop fanning me. I am exceedingly warm.
THE SERVANT (fanning vigorously). A crust of bread, O king, dropped from yonder window—forsooth that might prove a remedy.
THE KING (angrily). I have said I will not give him a crust of bread. If I gave him a crust to-day he would be just as hungry again to-morrow, and my troubles would be as great as before.
THE SERVANT. That is true, O king. Thy mind is surely filled with great learning.
THE KING. Therefore, some other remedy must be found.
THE SERVANT. O king, the words of thy illustrious mouth are as very meat-balls of wisdom.
THE KING (musing). Now let me consider. Thou sayest he does not suffer pain—
THE SERVANT. Therefore he cannot be tortured.
THE KING. And he will not die—
THE SERVANT. Therefore it is useless to kill him.
THE KING. Now let me consider. I must think of some other way.
THE SERVANT. Perhaps a small crust of bread, O king—
THE KING. Ha! I have it. I have it. I myself will order him to stop.
THE SERVANT (horrified). O king!
THE KING. Send the beggar here.
THE SERVANT. O king!
THE KING. Ha! I rather fancy the fellow will stop his noise when the king commands him to. Ha, ha, ha!
THE SERVANT. O king, thou wilt not have a beggar brought into thy royal chamber!
THE KING (pleased with his idea). Yea. Go outside and tell this fellow that the king desires his presence.
THE SERVANT. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt surely not do this thing. Thou wilt surely not soil thy royal eyes by looking on such a filthy creature. Thou wilt surely not contaminate thy lips by speaking to a common beggar who cries aloud in the streets for bread.
THE KING. My ears have been soiled too much already. Therefore go now and do as I have commanded thee.
THE SERVANT. O great and illustrious king, thou wilt surely not—
THE KING (roaring at him). I said, Go! (THE SERVANT, abashed, goes out.) Forsooth, I fancy the fellow will stop his bawling when I order him to. Forsooth, I fancy he will be pretty well frightened when he hears that the king desires his presence. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
THE SERVANT (returning). O king, here is the beggar.
(A shambling creature hung in filthy rags follows THE SERVANT slowly into the royal chamber.)
THE KING. Ha! A magnificent sight, to be sure. Art thou the beggar who has been crying aloud in the streets for bread?
THE BEGGAR (in a faint voice, after a slight pause). Art thou the king?
THE KING. I am the king.
THE SERVANT (aside to THE BEGGAR). It is not proper for a beggar to ask a question of a king. Speak only as thou art spoken to.
THE KING (to THE SERVANT). Do thou likewise. (To THE BEGGAR) I have ordered thee here to speak to thee concerning a very grave matter. Thou art the beggar, I understand, who often cries aloud in the streets for bread. Now, the complaint of thy voice annoys me greatly. Therefore, do not beg any more.
THE BEGGAR (faintly). I—I do not understand.
THE KING. I said, do not beg any more.
THE BEGGAR. I—I do not understand.
THE SERVANT (aside to THE BEGGAR). The king has commanded thee not to beg for bread any more. The noise of thy voice is as garbage in his ears.
THE KING (to THE SERVANT). Ha! An excellent flower of speech. Pin it in thy buttonhole. (To THE BEGGAR) Thine ears, I see, are in need of a bath even more than thy body. I said, Do not beg any more.
THE BEGGAR. I—I do not understand.
THE KING (making a trumpet of his hands and shouting). DO NOT
BEG ANY MORE.
THE BEGGAR. I—I do not understand.
THE KING. Heavens! He is deafer than a stone wall.
THE SERVANT. O king, he cannot be deaf, for he understood me quite easily when I spoke to him in the street.
THE KING (to THE BEGGAR). Art thou deaf? Canst thou hear what I am saying to thee now?
THE BEGGAR. Alas! I can hear every word perfectly.
THE KING. Fft! The impudence. Thy tongue shall be cut out for this.
THE SERVANT. O king, to cut out his tongue is useless, for he will grow another.
THE KING. No matter. It shall be cut out anyway. (To THE BEGGAR) I have ordered thee not to beg any more in the streets. What meanest thou by saying thou dost not understand?
THE BEGGAR. The words of thy mouth I can hear perfectly. But their noise is only a foolish tinkling in my ears.
THE KING. Fft! Only a—! A lash will tinkle thy hide for thee if thou dost not cure thy tongue of impudence. I, thy king, have ordered thee not to beg any more in the streets for bread. Signify, therefore, that thou wilt obey the orders of thy king by quickly touching thy forehead thrice to the floor.
THE BEGGAR. That is impossible.
THE SERVANT (aside to THE BEGGAR). Come. It is not safe to tempt the patience of the king too long. His patience is truly great, but he loses it most wondrous quickly.
THE KING. Come, now: I have ordered thee to touch thy forehead to the floor.
THE SERVANT (nudging him). And quickly.
THE BEGGAR. Wherefore should I touch my forehead to the floor?
THE KING. In order to seal thy promise to thy king.
THE BEGGAR. But I have made no promise. Neither have I any king.
THE KING. Ho! He has made no promise. Neither has he any king. Ha, ha, ha. I have commanded thee not to beg any more, for the sound of thy voice is grievous unto my ears. Touch thy forehead now to the floor, as I have commanded thee, and thou shall go from this palace a free man. Refuse, and thou wilt be sorry before an hour that thy father ever came within twenty paces of thy mother.
THE BEGGAR. I have ever lamented that he did. For to be born into this world a beggar is a more unhappy thing than any that I know—unless it is to be born a king.
THE KING. Fft! Thy tongue of a truth is too lively for thy health. Come, now, touch thy forehead thrice to the floor and promise solemnly that thou wilt never beg in the streets again. And hurry!
THE SERVANT (aside). It is wise to do as thy king commands thee.
His patience is near an end.
THE KING. Do not be afraid to soil the floor with thy forehead. I will graciously forgive thee for that.
(THE BEGGAR stands motionless.)
THE SERVANT. I said, it is not wise to keep the king waiting.
(THE BEGGAR does not move.)
THE KING. Well? (A pause.) Well? (In a rage) WELL?
THE BEGGAR. O king, thou hast commanded me not to beg in the streets for bread, for the noise of my voice offends thee. Now therefore do I likewise command thee to remove thy crown from thy forehead and throw it from yonder window into the street. For when thou hast thrown thy crown into the street, then will I no longer be obliged to beg.
THE KING. Fft! Thou commandest me! Thou, a beggar from the streets, commandest me, a king, to remove my crown from my forehead and throw it from yonder window into the street!
THE BEGGAR. That is what I said.
THE KING. Why, dost thou not know I can have thee slain for such words?
THE BEGGAR. No. Thou canst not have me slain. The spears of thy soldiers are as straws against my body.
THE KING. Ha! We shall see if they are. We shall see!
THE SERVANT. O king, it is indeed true. It is even as he has told thee.
THE BEGGAR. I have required thee to remove thy crown from thy forehead. If so be thou wilt throw it from yonder window into the street, my voice will cease to annoy thee any more. But if thou refuse, then thou wilt wish thou hadst never had any crown at all. For thy days will be filled with a terrible boding and thy nights will be full of horrors, even as a ship is full of rats.
THE KING. Why, this is insolence. This is treason!
THE BEGGAR. Wilt thou throw thy crown from yonder window?
THE KING. Why, this is high treason!
THE BEGGAR. I ask thee, wilt thou throw thy crown from yonder window?
THE SERVANT (aside to THE KING). Perhaps it were wise to humor him, O king. After thou hast thrown thy crown away I can go outside and bring it to thee again.
THE BEGGAR. Well? Well? (He points to the window.) Well?
THE KING. No! I will not throw my crown from that window—no, nor from any other window. What! Shall I obey the orders of a beggar? Never!
THE BEGGAR (preparing to leave). Truly, that is spoken like a king. Thou art a king, so thou wouldst prefer to lose thy head than that silly circle of gold that so foolishly sits upon it. But it is well. Thou art a king. Thou couldst not prefer otherwise. (He walks calmly toward the door.)
THE KING (to THE SERVANT). Stop him! Seize him! Does he think to get off so easily with his impudence!
THE BEGGAR (coolly). One of thy servants cannot stop me. Neither can ten thousand of them do me any harm. I am stronger than a mountain. I am stronger than the sea!
THE KING. Ha! We will see about that, we will see about that. (To THE SERVANT) Hold him, I say. Call the guards. He shall be put in chains.
THE BEGGAR. My strength is greater than a mountain and my words are more fearful than a hurricane. This servant of thine cannot even touch me. With one breath of my mouth I can blow over this whole palace.
THE KING. Dost thou hear the impudence he is offering me? Why dost thou not seize him? What is the matter with thee? Why dost thou not call the guards?
THE BEGGAR. I will not harm thee now. I will only cry aloud in the streets for bread wherewith to fill my belly. But one day I will not be so kind to thee. On that day my mouth will be filled with a rushing wind and my arms will become as strong as steel rods, and I will blow over this palace, and all the bones in thy foolish body I will snap between my fingers. I will beat upon a large drum and thy head will be my drumstick. I will not do these things now. But one day I will do them. Therefore, when my voice sounds again in thine ears, begging for bread, remember what I have told thee. Remember, O king, and be afraid!
(He walks out. THE SERVANT, struck dumb, stares after him. THE KING sits in his chair, dazed.)
THE KING (suddenly collecting his wits). After him! After him! He must not be allowed to escape! After him!
THE SERVANT (faltering). O king—I cannot seem to move.
THE KING. Quick, then. Call the guards. He must be caught and put in chains. Quick, I say. Call the guards!
THE SERVANT. O king—I cannot seem to call them.
THE KING. How! Art thou dumb? Ah!
(THE BEGGAR'S voice is heard outside.)
THE BEGGAR. Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.
THE KING. Ah. (He turns toward the window, half-frightened, and then, almost instinctively, raises his hands toward his crown, and seems on the point of tossing it out the window. But with an oath he replaces it and presses it firmly on his head.) How! Am I afraid of a beggar!
THE BEGGAR (continuing outside). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.
THE KING (with terrible anger). Close that window!
(THE SERVANT stands stupent, and the voice of THE BEGGAR grows louder as the curtain falls.)
George Middleton
[Footnote 1: Reprinted by permission of the author and of Messrs. Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume, Masks and Other One-Act Plays (1920).]
WILLIAM WHITE, a famous Internationalist
HILDA, his wife
WALLACE, their son
WILLIAM WHITE is standing by the window, smoking a pipe. He is about fifty, of striking appearance: the visual incarnation of the popular conception of a leader of men. There is authority and strength in the lines of his face; his whole personality is commanding; his voice has all the modulations of a well-trained orator; his gestures are sweeping—for, even in private conversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience. Otherwise, he is simple and engaging, with some indication of his humble origin.
On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand, HILDA WHITE, his wife, is seated. She is somewhat younger in fact, though in appearance she is as one who has been worn a bit by the struggle of many years. Her manner contrasts with her husband's: her inheritance of delicate refinement is ever present in her soft voice and gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength—the sort which will endure all for a fixed intention.
It is obvious throughout that she and her husband have been happy comrades in their life together, and that a deep fundamental bond has united them in spite of the different social spheres from which each has sprung.
WHITE (seeing she has paused). Go on, dear; go on. Let's hear all of it.
HILDA. Oh, what's the use, Will? You know how differently he feels about the war.
WHITE (with quiet sarcasm). But it's been so many years since your respectable brother has honored me even with the slightest allusion—
HILDA. If you care for what he says—(continuing to read the letter)—"Remember, Hilda, you are an American. I don't suppose your husband considers that an honor; but I do."
WHITE (interrupting). And what kind of an American has he been in times of peace? He's wrung forty per cent profit out of his factory and fought every effort of the workers to organize. Ah, these smug hypocrites!
HILDA (reading). "His violent opposition to America going in has been disgrace enough—"
WHITE. But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes.
HILDA. Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (Reading) "—been disgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm writing in the faint hope, if you are not too much under his influence, that you will persuade him to keep his mouth shut. This country will tolerate no difference of opinion now. You radicals had better get on board the band wagon. It's prison or acceptance." (She stops reading.) He's right, dear. There will be nothing more intolerant than a so-called democracy at war.
WHITE. By God! It's superb! Silence for twenty years and now he writes his poor misguided sister for fear she will be further disgraced by her radical husband.
HILDA. We mustn't descend to his bitterness.
WHITE. No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten doctrine of forgiving my enemies.
HILDA. He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it all differently.
WHITE. I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these twenty years—ever since you married me—"out of your class," as he called it.
HILDA. Oh, hush, Will. I've been so happy with you I can bear him no ill will. Besides, doesn't his attitude seem natural? You mustn't forget that no man in this country has fought his class more than you. That hurts—especially coming from an acquired relative.
WHITE. Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I'll tell you something you may not know. (Bitterly) Whenever I've spoken against privilege and wealth it's been his pudgy, comfortable face I've shaken my fist at. He's been so damned comfortable all his life.
HILDA. (She looks at him in surprise.) Why, Will, you surely don't envy him his comfort, do you? I can't make you out. What's come over you these last weeks? You've always been above such personal bitterness; even when you were most condemned and ridiculed. If it were anybody but you I'd think you had done something you were ashamed of.
WHITE. What do you mean?
HILDA. Haven't you sometimes noticed that is what bitterness to another means: a failure within oneself? (He goes over to chair and sits without answering.) I can think of you beaten by outside things—that sort of failure we all meet; but somehow I can never think of you failing yourself. You've been so brave and self-reliant: you've fought so hard for the truth.
WHITE (tapping letter). But he thinks he knows the truth, too.
HILDA. He's also an intense nature.
WHITE (thoughtfully after a pause). Yet there is some truth in what he says.
HILDA (smiling). But you didn't like it—coming from him?
WHITE. It will be different with you and me now that America's gone in.
HILDA. Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is always farthest from the trenches. But you and I are not the sort who would compromise to escape the persecution which is the resource of the non-combatant.
(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?