Philip stopped. Ay, there was the rub—General Custer, and all that he stood for. Philip glimpsed momentarily those early boyhood days with his father, spent mainly in army posts; the boy's cavalry uniform, in which he had ridden old Bess about the camp, waving his miniature sabre; the day he had been thrown to the ground by a strange horse which he had disobediently mounted, just as his father arrived on the scene. Philip had never forgotten his father's words that day. “Don't crawl, son,—don't whine. It was your fault this time and you deserved what you got. Lots of times it won't be your fault, but you'll have to take your licking anyway. But remember this, son—take your medicine like a man—always.”
Philip groaned; he knew what the general would say when the news of his son's desertion of his wife and four year old boy reached him. He knew that he never could explain to his father the absolute torture of the last four years of enervating domesticity and business mediocrity—the torture of the Beauty within him crying for expression, half satisfied by the stolen evenings at the art school but constantly growing stronger in its all-consuming appeal. No, life to his father was a simple problem in army ethics—a problem in which duty was “a”, one of the known factors; “x,” the unknown, was either “bravery” or “cowardice” when brought in contact with “a”. Having solved this problem, his father had closed the book; of the higher mathematics, and especially of those complex problems to which no living man knew the final answer, he had no conception. And yet——
Philip resumed his reading to avoid the old endless maze of subtleties.
“It is not that I did not—or do not—love you. It is, rather, that something within me is crying out—something which is stronger than I, and which I cannot resist. I have waited two years to be sure. Yesterday, as soon as I reached here, I took my work to the man who is considered the finest art critic in Paris. He told me that there was a quality to my painting which he had seen in that of no living artist; he told me that in five years of hard work I should be able to produce work which Botticelli would be proud to have done. Do you understand that, Mary—Botticelli!
”But no, forgive me. My paean of joy comes strangely in a letter which should be of abject humility for what must seem to you, to father, and to all, a cowardly, selfish act of desertion—a whining failure to face life. Oh dear, dear Mary if you could but understand what a hell I have been through—“
Philip took his pen and crossed out the last line so that no one could read what had been there.
“Materially, of course, you and little George will be better off; the foolish pride with which I refused to let your parents help us now no longer stands in their way. You should have no difficulty about a divorce.
”You can dispose of my things as you see fit; there is nothing I care about keeping which I did not bring.
“Again, Mary, I cannot ask you to forgive, or even to understand, but I do hope that you will believe me when I say that this act of mine is the most honest thing I have ever done, and that to have acted out the tragi-comedy in the part of a happy contented husband would have made of both of our lives a bitter useless farce.
Sincerely,
Philip.
He folded the pages and addressed the envelope.
“Pardon, Monsieur”—a whiff of sulphur came to his nose as the waiter bent over the table to light the gas above him. “Would Monsieur like to see the journal? There is a most amusing story about——The bill, Monsieur? Yes—in a moment.”
Philip glanced nervously through the pages of the Temps. He was anxious to get the letter to the post—to have done with indecision and worry. It would be a blessed relief when the thing was finally done beyond chance of recall; why couldn't that stupid waiter hurry?
On the last page of the newspaper was an item headlined “Recent News from America.” Below was a sub-heading “Horrible Massacre of Soldiers by Indians—Brave Stand of American Troopers.” He caught the name “Custer” and read:
“And by his brave death at the hands of the Indians, this gallant American general has made the name of Custer one which will forever be associated with courage of the highest type.”
He read it all through again and sat quietly as the hand of Polyphemus closed over him. He even smiled a little—a weary, ironic smile.
“Monsieur desires something more, perhaps”—the waiter held out the bill.
Philip smiled. “No—Monsieur has finished—there is nothing more.”
Then he repeated slowly, “There is nothing more.”
* * *
Philip watched his son George blow out the twelve candles on his birthday cake.
“Mother,” said George, “when I get to be eighteen, can I be a soldier just like grandfather up there?” He pointed to the portrait of Philip's father in uniform which hung in the dining room.
“Of course you can, dear,” said his mother. “But you must be a brave boy”.
“Grandfather was awful brave, wasn't he father?” This from little Mary between mouthfuls of cake.
“Yes, Mary,” Philip answered. “He was very, very brave.”
“Of course he was,” said George. “He was an American.”
“Yes,” answered Philip, “That explains it.—he was an American.”
Mrs. Custer looked up at the portrait of her distinguished father-in-law.
“You know Philip, I think it must be quite nice to be able to paint a picture like that. I've often wondered why you never kept up your art.”
CHAPTER NINE
“FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE WORLD”
A DRAMA OF THE GREAT WAR
Act I: In the Manner of Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
Act 2: In the Manner of Eugene O'Neill
ACT ONE(Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews)
SCENE 1
A principal street of an American city in the spring of 1918.
At the rear of the stage, representing the opposite sidewalk of the street, are gathered many people come to bid farewell to the boys of the Blankth regiment who are soon to march past on their way to France.
Extending across the “street”, from footlights to “sidewalk”, is a large white plaster arch, gayly decorated with the Allied colors.
On this arch is the inscription “For the Freedom of the World.”
At the rising of the curtain, distant march music is heard (off stage, right); this constantly grows louder during the ensuing dialogue which takes place between three elderly women crowded together at the edge of the sidewalk. These women, although, before the war, of different stations in social rank, are now united, as are all mothers in the Allied countries, by the glorious badge which each proudly wears pinned over her heart—the service star.
The Professor's Wife—I hear them coming.
The Street-cleaner's Wife—So do I. I hope my boy Pat sees me.
The Pawnbroker's Wife—I told my Jean where to look.
The approaching music and the cheering of the spectators drowns out further conversation.
Enter (right) the regimental band playing the “Stars and Stripes Forever.” They march through the arch and exit left. Following them comes the flag, at the sight of which all the male spectators (young boys and men too old to fight) remove their hats. After the colors come the troops, splendid clean faced fellows, in whose eyes shines the light of civilization's ideals, in whose ears rings the never forgettable cry of heroic France and brave little Belgium. The boys are marching four abreast, with a firm determined step; it is as though each man were saying to himself “They shall not pass.”
After the first few squads have marched through the arch and off left, the command is issued off-stage—“Company—HALT.” A young lieutenant repeats this order to his men, and the column comes to a stop. The men stand at attention until given the command “Rest”, when they relax and a murmur of conversation arises from the ranks, in which characteristic sentences “German ideals are not our ideals” and “Suppose it was your own sister” show only too well what the boys are thinking of day
and night.
As the column halts, the three service star mothers rush out from the curb and embrace their sons who happen to be in this company. At the same time a very attractive girl runs up to the young lieutenant.
The Lieutenant—Ellen!
His Fiancee—John!
The Professor's Son—
The Street-cleaner's Son— Mother!
The Pawnbroker's Son—
The Professor's Wife—
The Street-cleaner's Wife— My Boy!
The Pawnbroker's Wife—
Voice off stage—Company—Atten SHUN!
The farewells are said, the men come to attention.
Voice off stage—Forward—MARCH!
The Lieutenant—(Pointing with his sword to the inscription on the arch)—Forward—for the Freedom of the World—MARCH.
The men's teeth click together, their heads are thrown back, and with a light in their eyes that somehow suggests Joan of Arc the Crusaders move on.
SCENE 2
Three months later.
A section of an American front line trench now occupied by the Blankth regiment.
It is early morning and the three soldiers mentioned in Scene I are conversing together for perhaps the last time, for soon they are to be given the chance which every American man desires more than anything in the world—the opportunity to go “over the top”.
The Professor's Son—Well fellows, in a few minutes we shall be able to show the people at home that their boys are not cowards when the fate of civilization is at stake.
The Pawnbroker's Son—Here's a newspaper clipping mother sent me. It's from a speech made the other day in Congress. (He reads) “And we—and our children—and our children's children will never forget the debt we owe those brave boys who are now in France.”
The Street-cleaner's Son—That makes a fellow feel pretty good inside, doesn't it? It makes me glad I'm doing my bit—and after the war I hope the ideals which have inspired us all will make us better citizens in a better world.
The Professor's Son—Not only will we be better citizens—not only will the torch of liberty shine more brightly—but also each one of us will go back to his job with a deeper vision.
The Pawnbroker's Son—That's right. I am a musician—a pianist, you know—and I hope that after the war I shall be able to tell America, through my music, of the glory of this holy cause.
The Professor's Son—I didn't know you were a pianist.
The Pawnbroker's Son—Yes—ever since I was a boy—I have had no other interest. My father tried to make me go into his shop but I couldn't stand it. He got angry and refused to support me; I had a hard time until I won a scholarship at a New York musical college. Just before the war I had a chance to play the Schumann concerto with the Philharmonic; the critics all said that in another year I would be—but fellows—you must think me frightfully conceited to talk so, and besides what matters my musical career in comparison with the sacrifice which everyone is making?
The Street-cleaner's Son—And gladly making, too, for it is easy to give up all, as did Joan of Arc, for France. Attention, men! here comes one of our officers.
The three stand at attention.
Enter the Lieutenant.
The Lieutenant—Well, men, do you feel ready?
The Three—More than ready, sir—eager.
The Lieutenant—Brave men! (To the Professor's Son) Come here a minute, Keating. I have something to ask you before we go over the top.
The Professor's Son and the Lieutenant go to one side.
The Lieutenant—(To the other two in a kindly manner)—At ease!
The Street-cleaner's Son—Thank you, sir.
They relax from their rigid posture of “attention”.
The Lieutenant—(To the Professor's Son)—Keating, when we “go over”, we—may—never—come—back, you know. And I want to ask a favor of you. I am engaged—to a girl back home—here is her picture (he draws a photograph from his inner breast pocket and shows it to the Professor's Son.)
The Professor's Son—She is beautiful, Sir.
The Lieutenant—(Putting the photograph back in his pocket)—Yes—very beautiful. And (dropping his eyes)—I love her. If—if I should “go west” I want you to write her and tell her that my last thoughts were of my country and—her. We are to be married—after the war—if (suddenly clearing his throat). Her name is Ellen Radcliff—here, I'll write the address down for you.
He does so, and hands the slip of paper to the Professor's Son, who discreetly turns away.
The Lieutenant—(Brusquely)—That's all, Keating.
A bugle sounds.
The Lieutenant—Attention men! At the next bugle call you go over the top—remember that you are Americans and that Americans know how to fight and die in the cause of liberty and for the freedom of the world.
The Three Soldiers—We are ready to make the supreme sacrifice if need be.
The bugle sounds.
The Lieutenant—(Climbing up the ladder to the top of the trench)—Follow me, men—
The Three Soldiers—(Climbing up after him)—Lafayette—we come, though poppies bloom in Flanders field.
They go “over the top”.
SCENE 3
A section of a Hun trench a minute later. Two Hun soldiers are conversing together; another Hun is reading a copy of Nietzsche.
First Hun Soldier—And then we cut the hands off all the little children—oh it was wonderful.
Second Hun Soldier—I wish I had been there.
A Hun Lieutenant rushes in.
The Hun Lieutenant—(Kicking the three men and brandishing his revolver)—Swine—wake up—here come the Americans.
The three spring to their feet and seize their guns. At the top of the trench appears the American lieutenant, closely followed by the three soldiers.
The American Lieutenant—(Coolly)—We come to avenge the sinking of the Lusitania.
The Hun Lieutenant—Hoch der Kaiser! Might is stronger than right!
He treacherously tries to shoot the American but the Professor's Son disarms him with his bayonet. The three Hun soldiers offer a show of resistance.
The Street-cleaner's Son—(To first Hun soldier)—Your hands are unclean with the murder of innocent women and children.
First Hun Soldier—(Dropping his gun)—Kamerad!
The Pawnbroker's Son—(To the other Hun soldiers)—Prussianism has destroyed the Germany of Bach and Beethoven and you fellows know it, too.
Second and third Hun Soldiers—(Dropping their guns)—Kamerad!
The American Lieutenant—Men—you have kept the faith. I am proud of you. Forward!
An explosion (not too loud to annoy the audience) is heard off stage right.
The Professor's Son—(Sinking to the ground) Fellows, I'm afraid they've got me.
The Street-cleaner's Son—What a shame!
The Lieutenant—Is there anything we can do to ease the pain?
The Professor's Son—(Weakening rapidly) No—go on, boys, carry the—banner of—civilization's ideals—forward—without me—Tell mother I'm glad—I did—my bit—for the freedom—of the world—fellows, the only—thing—I regret—is that I won't—be able—to be with you—when you—go back—to enjoy the gratitude—of America—good-bye, fellows, may you drink—to the full—the rewards of a grateful nation.
THE WORLD WILL NEVER FORGET
“The Professor's Son (weakening rapidly)—Go on, boys—carry the banner—of civilization's ideals—forward—without me. I'm glad—I did my bit—for the freedom of the world—I regret only—that I won't be able—to enjoy with you—the gratitude of America—after the war.”
He dies. The others regretfully leave him behind as they push on after the fleeing Huns.
The stage is slowly darkened—the noise of battle dies away.
Enter an Angel in the uniform of the Y.M.C.A. She goes up to the fallen hero and taking him in her arms tenderly carries him off the stage.
CUR
TAIN
TWO YEARS PASS
ACT TWO
(Eugene O'Neill)
SCENE 1
The bedroom of a bachelor apartment in New York City in the Fall of 1920.
There is about the room an air of neglect, as though the occupant did not particularly give a damn whether he slept in this room or in hell. This is evidenced in a general way by the absence of any attempts at decoration and by the presence of dirty laundry and unopened letters scattered about the room.
The furniture consists of a bed and a bureau; at the foot of the former is a trunk such as was used by American army officers in the recent war.
Although it is three in the morning, the bed is unoccupied. The electric light over the bureau has been left lighted.
The lamp flickers and goes out for a minute; when it again flashes on, the Angel and the Professor's Son are seen standing in the room, as though they had come there directly from the close of the preceding act; the Angel, however, has completely removed all Y.M.C.A. insignia and now has a beard and chews tobacco; from time to time he spits out of the window.
The Angel—Why the hell weren't you satisfied to stay in heaven?
The Professor's Son—Well, I just wanted to see my old buddies once more—I want to see them enjoying the gratitude of the world.
The Angel—Hmmmm—well, this is where your Lieutenant now lives—and I think I hear him coming.
They step behind a curtain. The noise of a key rattling in a lock is heard, then a light flashes on in the next room. The sound of unsteady footsteps—a vase is knocked over—a curse—then enter the Lieutenant.
He wears a dinner-coat, one sleeve of which hangs empty. His face is white, his eyes set, his mouth hard and hopeless. He is drunk—not hilariously—but with the drunkenness of despair.
He sits down on the bed and remains for several minutes, his head in his hands.
The Lieutenant—God, I'm drunk—(after a pause)—drunk again—well, what of it—what the hell difference does it make—get drunk if I want to—sure I will—get drunk—that's the dope—DRUNK—oh Christ!—
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