He throws himself on the bed and after lying there a few minutes sits up.
The Lieutenant—Gotta have another drink—can't go sleep, God damn it—brain too clear—gotta kill brain—that's the dope—kill brain—forget—wipe out past—
He opens the trunk in his search for liquor. He suddenly pulls out his lieutenant's coat and holds it up.
The Lieutenant—There's that God damn thing—never wanted to see it again—wound stripes on right sleeve, too—hurrah for brave soldier—arm shot off to—to make world safe for democracy—blaa—the god damn hypocrites—democracy hell—arm shot off because I wasn't clever enough to stay out of it—ought to have had sense enough to join the—the ordinance department or—or the Y.M.C.A.
He feels aimlessly through the pockets of the coat. Suddenly, from the inside breast pocket he draws out something—a photograph—
The Lieutenant—Ellen! Oh God!
He gazes at the picture for a long time.
The Lieutenant—Yes, Ellen, I should have joined the Y.M.C.A. shouldn't I?—where they don't get their arms shot off—couldn't marry a man with one arm, could you?—of course not—think of looking at an empty sleeve year after year—children might be born with only one arm, too—children—oh God damn you, Ellen, you and your Y.M.C.A. husband!
He tears the picture in two and hurls it into the trunk. Then he sinks onto the bed, sobbing drunkenly. After a few minutes, he walks over to the trunk and picks up one half of the torn picture. He turns it over in his hand and reads the writing on the back.
The Lieutenant (Reading)—“I'm waiting for you, dear—when you have done your bit 'for the freedom of the world'.”
“FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE WORLD”
“The Lieutenant—No, Ellen, you couldn't have married a man with one arm shot off, could you—arm shot off—for the freedom—of the world [He laughs, terribly]. For the freedom—oh, Christ!
”(He pulls the trigger as the curtain falls.)“
He smiles, wearily, and reaches down to pick up the other half of the picture. His eye is caught by something shiny; it is his army revolver. He slowly picks it up and looks at it for a long time.
The Lieutenant—For the freedom of the world—
He quickly opens his top bureau drawer and takes out a box of cartridges. One of these he inserts in a chamber of his revolver.
The Lieutenant—For the freedom—
He laughs.
As the curtain falls he presses the revolver against his temple and fires.
SCENE 2
A bare room in a boarding house. To the left is a bed, to the right a grand piano——the latter curiously out of keeping with the other cheap furnishings. The room is in partial darkness.
The door slowly swings open; the Angel and the Professor's Son enter.
The Angel—And here you have the room of your friend the Pawnbroker's Son—the musical genius—with a brilliant future.
They hide in a closet, leaving the door partly open.
Enter Jean, the Pawnbroker's Son. He has on a cutaway suit—a relic of his first and last public concert before the war. His shoulders sag dejectedly and his face is drawn and white. He comes in and sits on the bed. A knock—a determined knock—is heard at the door but Jean does not move. The door opens and his landlady—a shrewish, sharp faced woman of 40—appears. He gets up off the bed when he sees her and bows.
The Landlady—I forgot you was deef or I wouldn't have wasted my time hitting my knuckles against your door.
Jean gazes at her.
The Landlady—Well Mr. Rosen I guess you know why I'm here—it's pay up today or get out.
Jean—Please write it down—you know I cannot hear a word you say. I suppose it's about the rent.
The landlady takes paper and pencil and writes.
The Landlady—(Reading over the result of her labor)—“To-day—is—the—last—day. If you can't pay, you must get out.”
She hands it to Jean and he reads.
Jean—But I cannot pay. Next week perhaps I shall get work—
The Landlady—(Scornfully)—Yes—Next week maybe I have to sell another liberty bond for seventy dollars what I paid a hundred dollars for, too. No sir I need the money now. Here—
She writes and hands it to him.
Jean (Reading)—Sell my piano? But please I cannot do that—yet.
The Landlady—A lot of good a piano does a deef person like you. That's a good one—(She laughs harshly). The deef musician—ho ho—with a piano.
Jean—Madam, I shall pay you surely next week. There has been some delay in my war risk insurance payment. I should think that you would trust a soldier who lost his hearing in the trenches—
The Landlady—That's old stuff. You soldiers think just because you were unlucky enough to get drafted you can spend the rest of your life patting yourselves on the back. Besides—what good did the war do anyway—except make a lot of rich people richer?
She scribbles emphatically “Either you pay up tonight or out you go.”
Handing this to Jean with a flourish, she exits.
He sits on the bed for a long time.
Finally he glances up at the wall over his bed where hangs a cheap photo frame. In the center is a picture of President Wilson; on one side of this is a crude print of a soldier, on the other side a sailor; above is the inscription “For the Freedom of the World.”
Jean takes down the picture and looks at it. As he replaces it on the wall he sees hanging above it the bayonet which he had carried through the war. He slowly takes the weapon down, runs his fingers along the edge and smiles—a quiet tired smile which does not leave his face during the rest of the scene.
He walks over to the piano and plays the opening chords of the Schumann concerto. Then shaking his head sadly, he tenderly closes down the lid and locks it.
He next writes a note which he folds and places, with the key to the piano, in an envelope. Sealing and addressing the envelope, he places it on the piano. Then, walking over to the bed, he picks up the bayonet, and shutting his eyes for an instant, he steps forward and cuts his throat as the curtain falls.
SCENE 3
Same as Act 1 Scene 1 except for the changes made in the city street by a year or more of peace.
The arch across the thoroughfare still stands, although it has become badly discolored and dirty; the inscription “For the Freedom of the World” is but faintly visible. As the curtain rises workmen are busy at work tearing the arch down.
Enter the Angel and the Professor's Son.
The Angel—Stand over here, out of the way, and you'll see the last of your cronies—Pat, the Street-cleaner's Son—enjoying the gratitude of the world.
The Professor's Son does not answer.
Enter Pat. He has on an old pair of corduroy trousers, with his brown army shirt, and shoes out at the heel.
He looks as if he had not slept for days—certainly he has not shaved for a week. He approaches one of the workmen.
Pat—Say buddy any chance for a job here?
The Workman—Hell no. They was fifty applicants yesterday. (Looking at his army shirt) Most of them ex-soldiers like you. Jobs is mighty scarce.
Pat—I'll tell the world they are. I'd almost join the army again, except for my wife and kid.
The Workman—God—don't do it.
Pat—Why—was you across?
The Workman—Yes, God damn it—eight months. Next war I'll let somebody else do the fighting.
Pat—Same here. The wise guys were them that stayed at home and kept their jobs.
The Workman—I'll say they were.
Pat—(Growing more excited)—And while we was over there fighting, nothing was too good for us—“brave boys,” they said, “we shall never forget what you have done for us.” Never forget—hell! In about a year everybody forgot there ever was a war and a fellow has a hell of a time getting a job—and when you mention the war they just laugh—why God damn it, I've been out of work for six months and I ain't
no loafer either and my wife has had to go back to her folks and I'm just about all in—
During this speech the work on dismantling the arch has steadily progressed. Suddenly there comes a warning cry—“Look out”—as the supports unexpectedly give way. Pat is too engrossed in his tirade to take heed, and as the center portion of the arch falls it crushes him beneath its weight. After the cloud of dust clears, he is seen lying under the mass. By a curious twist of fate he has been crushed by the portion of the arch bearing the inscription “For the Freedom of the World.” His eyes open for an instant—he reads, through the mist of approaching death, the words, and he laughs—
Pat—For the Freedom of the World—Oh Christ!
His mocking laughter is interrupted by a severe fit of coughing and he sinks back dead.
The Professor's Son—Oh God—take me somewhere where I can't ever see the world.
The Angel—Come to heaven.
CURTAIN
The End
A Parody Outline of History Page 8
