Chapter 5

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?