Chapter XXV: Part 25

THE OLD WOMAN. David an' Michael might be kapin' the Christmas wid
us to-morrow night if we hadn't left the ould counthry. They'd
never be crossin' the sea--all the many weary miles o' wetness an'
fog an' cold to be kapin' it wid us here in this great house o'
brick walls in a place full o' strange souls. They would never be
for crossin' all that weary, cold, green wather, groanin' an'
tossin' like it was the grave o' sivin thousan' divils. Ah, but it
would be a black night at sea! [_She remains silent for a few
minutes, staring at the stove and rocking slowly._] If they hadn't
to cross that wet, cold sea they'd maybe come. But wouldn't they
be afeard o' this great city, an' would they iver find us here?
Six floors up, an' they niver off the ground in their lives. What
would ye be thinkin'? [_The other woman does not answer her. She
then speaks petulantly._] What would ye be thinkin'? Mary, have ye
gone clane to slape? [_Turns her chair and peers around the back
of it at the pallid woman on the bed, who sighs and answers._]

THE WOMAN. No, I on'y wisht I could. Maybe they'll come--I don't
know, but father an' Michael wasn't much for thravel. [_After a
pause and very wearily._] Maybe they'll not come, yet [_slowly_],
maybe I'll be kapin' the Christmas wid them there. [_The Old Woman
seems not to notice this, wandering from her question back to her
memories._]

THE OLD WOMAN. No, they'll niver be lavin' the ould land, the green land, the home land. I'm wishing I was there wid thim. [_Another pause, while she stares at the stove._] Maybe we'd have a duck an' potatoes, an' maybe something to drink to kape us warm against the cold. An' the boys would all be dancin' an' the girls have rosy cheeks. [_There is another pause, and then a knock at the door. "Come in," the two women call, in reedy, weak voices, and a thin, slatternly Irish woman enters._]

THE NEIGHBOR. God avnin' to ye; I came in to ask if I might borrow the loan o' a bit o' tay, not havin' a leaf of it left.

THE WOMAN. We have a little left, just enough we was savin' for ourselves to-night, but you're welcome to it--maybe the girls will bring some. Will ye get it for her, mother? Or she can help herself--it's in the safe. It's on the lower shelf among the cups an' saucers an' plates. [_The Old Woman and Neighbor go to the safe and hunt for the tea, and do not find it readily. The safe has little in it but a few cracked and broken dishes._]

THE NEIGHBOR [_holding up a tiny paper bag with an ounce perhaps of tea in it._] It's just a scrap!

THE OLD WOMAN. To be sure! We use so much tay! We're that exthravagant!

THE NEIGHBOR. It hurts me to take it from ye--maybe I'd better not.

THE OLD WOMAN. The girls will bring more. We always have a cupboard full o' things. We're always able to lend to our neighbors.

THE NEIGHBOR. It's in great luck, ye are. For some of us be so poor we don't know where the next bite's comin' from. An' this winter whin iverything's so high an' wages not raised, a woman can't find enough to cook for her man's dinner. It isn't that ye don't see things--oh, they're in the markets an' the shops, an' it makes yer mouth wather as ye walk along the sthrates this day before the Christmas to see the turkeys an' the ducks ye'll niver ate, an' the little pigs an' the or'nges an' bananies an' cranberries an' the cakes an' nuts an'--it's worse, I'm thinkin', to see thim whin there's no money to buy than it was in the ould counthry, where there was nothing to buy wid the money ye didn't have.

THE WOMAN. It's all one to us poor folk whether there be things to buy or not. [_She speaks gaspingly, as one who is short of breath._] I'm on'y thinkin' o' the clane air at home--if I could have a mornin' o' fresh sunshine--these fogs an' smoke choke me so. The girls would take me out to the counthry if they had time an' I'd get well. But they haven't time. [_She falls into a fit of coughing._]

THE OLD WOMAN. But it's like to be bright on Christmas Day. It wouldn't iver be cloudy on Christmas Day, an' maybe even now the stars would be crapin' out an' the air all clear an' cold an' the moon a-shinin' an' iverything so sthill an' quiet an' bleamin' an' breathless [_her voice falls almost to a whisper_], awaitin' on the Blessed Virgin. [_She goes to the window, lifts the blind, and peers out, then throws up the sash and leans far out. After a moment she pulls the sash down again and the blind and turns to those in the room with the look of pathetic disappointment in little things, of the aged._] No, there's not a sthar, not one little twinklin' sthar, an' how'll the shepherds find their way? Iverything's dull an' black an' the clouds are hangin' down heavy an' sthill. How'll the shepherds find their way without the sthar to guide thim? [_Then almost whimpering._] An' David an' Michael will niver be crossin' that wet, black sea! An' the girls--how'll they find their way home? They'll be lost somewhere along by the hedges. Ohone, ohone!

THE NEIGHBOR. Now, grannie, what would ye be sayin'? There's niver a hedge anywhere but granite blocks an' electric light poles an' plenty o' light in the city for thim to see all their way home. [_Then to the woman._] Ain't they late?

THE WOMAN. They're always late, an' they kape gettin' lather an' lather.

THE NEIGHBOR. Yis, av coorse, the sthores is all open in the avnin's before Christmas.

THE WOMAN. They go so early in the mornin' an' get home so late at night, an' they're so tired.

THE NEIGHBOR [_whiningly_]. They're lucky to be young enough to work an' not be married. I've got to go home to the childer an' give thim their tay. Pat's gone to the saloon again, an' to-morrow bein' Christmas I misdoubt he'll be terrible dhrunk again, an' me on'y jist well from the blow in the shoulder the last time. [_She wipes her eyes and moves towards the door._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay an' kape Christmas wid us. We're goin' to have our celebratin' to-night on Christmas Eve, the way folks do here. I like it best on Christmas Day, the way 'tis in the ould counthry, but here 'tis Christmas Eve they kape. We're waitin' for the girls to come home to start things--they knowin' how--Mary an' me on'y know how to kape Christmas Day as 'tis at home. But the girls'll soon be here, an' they'll have the three an' do the cookin' an' all, an' we'll kape up the jollity way into the night.

THE NEIGHBOR [_looks questioningly and surprised at the Woman, whose eyes are on the mother._] Nay, if Pat came home dhrunk an' didn't find me, he'd kill me. We have all to be movin' on to our own throubles. [_She goes out, and the old woman leaves the Christmas-tree which she has been fingering and admiring, and sits down in the rocking-chair again. After a while she croons to herself in a high, broken voice. This lasts some time, when there is the noise of a slamming door and then of footsteps approaching._]

THE WOMAN. If I could on'y be in the counthry!

THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe that would be the girls! [_She starts tremblingly to her feet, but the steps come up to the door and go by._] If David and Michael was to come now an' go by--there bein' no sthar to guide thim!

THE WOMAN. Nay, mother, 'twas the shepherds that was guided by the sthar an' to the bed o' the Blessed Babe.

THE OLD WOMAN. Aye, so 'twas. What be I thinkin' of? The little Blessed Babe! [_She smiles and sits staring at the stove again for a little._] But they could not find Him to-night. 'Tis so dark an' no sthars shinin.' [_After another pause._] An' what would shepherds do in a ghreat city? 'Twould be lost they'd be, quicker than in any bog. Think ye, Mary, that the boys would be hootin' thim an' the p'lice, maybe, would want to be aristin' thim for loitherin'. They'd niver find the Blessed Babe, an' they'd have to be movin' on. [_Another pause, and then there is the sound of approaching footsteps again. The Old Woman grasps the arms of her chair and leans forward, intently listening._]--That would sure be the girls this time! [_But again the footsteps go by. The Old Woman sighs._] Ah, but 'tis weary waitin'! [_There is another long pause._] 'Twas on that day that David an' me was plighted--a brave Christmas Day wid a shinin' sun an' a sky o' blue wid fair, white clouds. An' David an' me met at the early mass in the dark o' the frosty mornin' afore the sun rose--an' there was all day good times an' a duck for dinner and puddin's an' a party at the O'Brady's in the evenin', whin David an' me danced. Ah, but he was a beautiful dancer, an' me, too--I was as light on my feet as a fairy. [_She begins to croon an old dance tune and hobbles to her feet, and, keeping time with her head, tries a grotesque and feeble sort of dancing. Her eyes brighten and she smiles proudly._] Aye, but I danced like a fairy, an' there was not another couple so sprightly an' handsome in all the country. [_She tires, and, looking pitiful and disappointed, hobbles back to her chair, and drops into it again._] Ah, but I be old now, and the strength fails me. [_She falls into silence for a few minutes._] 'Twas the day before the little man, the little white dove, my next Christmas that Michael was born--little son! [_There is a moment's pause, and then the pallid woman on the bed has a violent fit of coughing._]

THE WOMAN. Mother, could ye get me a cup o' wather? If the girls was here to get me a bite to ate, maybe it would kape the breath in me the night.

THE OLD WOMAN [_starts and stares at her daughter, as if she hardly comprehended the present reality. She gets up and goes over to the window under which there is a pail full of water. She dips some out in a tin cup and carries it to her bed._] Ye should thry to get up an' move about some, so ye can enjoy the Christmas threat. 'Tis bad bein' sick on Christmas. Thry, now, Mary, to sit up a bit. The girls'll be wantin' ye to be merry wid the rest av us.

THE WOMAN [_looking at her mother with a sad wistfulness_]. I wouldn't spoil things for the girls if I could help. Maybe, mother, if ye'd lift me a little I could sit up. [_The Old Woman tugs at her, and she herself tries hard to get into a sitting posture, but after some effort and panting for breath, she falls back again. After a pause for rest, she speaks gaspingly._] Maybe I'll feel sthronger lather whin the girls come home--they could help me--[_with the plaint of longing in her voice_] they be so late! [_After another pause._] Maybe I'll be sthrong again in the mornin'--if I'd had a cup of coffee.--Maybe I could get up--an' walk about--an' do the cookin'. [_There is a knock at the door, and again they call, "Come in," in reedy, weak voices. There enters a little messenger boy in a ragged overcoat that reaches almost to his heels. His eyes are large and bright, his face pale and dirty, and he is fearfully tired and worn._]

THE WOMAN. Why, Tim, boy, come in. Sit ye down an' rest, ye're lookin' weary.

THE OLD WOMAN. Come to the stove, Timmie, man, an' warm yourself. We always kape a warm room an' a bright fire for visitors.

THE BOY. I was awful cold an' hungry an' I come home to get somethin' to eat before. I started out on another trip, but my sisters ain't home from the store yit, an' the fire's gone out in the stove, an' the room's cold as outside. I thought maybe ye'd let me come in here an' git warm.

THE OLD WOMAN. Poor orphan! Poor lamb! To be shure ye shall get warm by our sthove.

THE BOY. The cars are so beastly col' an' so crowded a feller mostly has to stand on the back platform. [_The Old Woman takes him by the shoulder and pushes him toward the stove, but he resists._]

THE BOY. No, thank ye--I don't want to go so near yet; my feet's all numb an' they allays hurt so when they warms up fast.

THE OLD WOMAN. Thin sit ye down off from the sthove. [_Moves the rocking-chair farther away from the stove for him._]

THE BOY. If ye don't mind I'd rather stand on 'em 'til they gets a little used to it. They been numb off an' on mos' all day.

THE WOMAN. Soon as yer sisters come, Timmie, ye'd betther go to bed--'tis the best place to get warm.

THE BOY. I can't--I got most a three-hour trip yet. I won't get home any 'fore midnight if I don't get lost, and maybe I'll get lost--I did once out there. I've got to take a box o' 'Merican Beauty roses to a place eight mile out, an' the house ain't on the car track, but nearly a mile off, the boss said. I wisht they could wait till mornin', but the orders was they just got to get the roses to-night. You see, out there they don' have no gas goin' nights when there's a moon, an' there'd ought to be a moon to-night, on'y the clouds is so thick there ain't no light gets through.

THE OLD WOMAN. There's no sthar shinin' to-night, Tim. [_She shakes her head ominously. She goes to the window for the second time, opens it as before, and looks out. Shutting the window, she comes back and speaks slowly and sadly._] Niver a sthar. An' the shepherds will be havin' a hard time, Tim, like you, findin' their way.

THE BOY. Shepherds? In town? What shepherds?

THE WOMAN. She means the shepherds on Christmas Eve that wint to find the Blessed Babe, Jesus.

THE OLD WOMAN. 'Tis Christmas Eve, Timmie; ye haven't forgot that, have ye?

THE BOY. You bet I ain't. I know pretty well when Christmas is comin', by the way I got to hustle, an' the size of the boxes I got to carry. Seems as if my legs an' me would like to break up pardnership. I got to work till midnight every night, an' I'm so sleepy I drop off in the cars whenever I get a seat. An' the girls is at the store so early an' late they don't get time to cook me nothin' to eat.

THE WOMAN. Be ye hungry, Timmie?

THE BOY [_diffidently and looking at the floor_]. No, I ain't hungry now.

THE WOMAN. Be ye shure, Timmie?

THE BOY. Oh, I kin go till I git home.

THE WOMAN. Mother, can't you find something for him to eat?

THE OLD WOMAN. To be shure, to be shure. [_Bustling about._] We always kapes a full cupboard to thrate our neighbors wid whin they comes in. [_She goes to the empty safe and fusses in it to find something. She pretends to be very busy, and then glances around at the boy with a sly look and a smile._] Ah, Timmie, lad, what would ye like to be havin', now? If you had the wish o' yer heart for yer Christmas dinner an' a good fairy to set it all afore ye? Ye'd be wishin' maybe, for a fine roast duck, to begin wid, in its own gravies an' some apple sauce to go wid it; an' ye'd be thinkin' o' a little bit o' pig nicely browned an' a plate of potaties; an' the little fairy woman would be bringin' yer puddin's an' nuts an' apples an' a dish o' the swatest tay. [_The Boy smiles rather ruefully._]

THE WOMAN. But, mother, you're not gettin' Tim something to ate.

THE BOY. She's makin' me mouth water all right. [_The Old Woman goes back to her search, but again turns about with a cunning look, and says to the boy:_]

THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe ye'll meet that little fairy woman out there in the counthry road where ye're takin' the roses! [_Nods her head knowingly, turning to the safe again._] Here's salt an' here's pepper an' here's mustard an' a crock full o' sugar, an', oh! Tim, here's some fine cold bacon--fine, fat, cold bacon--an' here's half a loaf o' white wheat bread! Why, Timmie, lad, that's just the food to make boys fat! Ye'll grow famously on it. 'Tis a supper, whin ye add to it a dhrop o' iligant milk, that's fit for a king. [_She bustles about with great show of being busy and having much to prepare. Puts the plate of cold bacon upon the table where stands the stunted bit of an evergreen-tree, then brings the half-loaf of bread and cuts it into slices, laying pieces of bacon on the slices of bread. Then she pours out a glass of milk from a dilapidated and broken pitcher in the safe and brings it to the table, the Boy all the while watching her hungrily. At last he says rather apologetically to the woman._]

THE BOY. I ain't had nothin' since a wienerwurst at eleven o'clock.

THE OLD WOMAN. Now, dhraw up, Timmie, boy, an' ate yer fill; ye're more thin welcome. [_The boy does not sit down, but stands by the table and eats a slice of bread and bacon, drinking from the glass of milk occasionally._]

THE WOMAN. Don't they niver give ye nothin' to ate at the gran' houses when ye'd be takin' the roses?

THE BOY. Not them. They'd as soon think o' feedin' a telephone or an automobile as me.

THE WOMAN. But don't they ask ye in to get warm whin ye've maybe come so far?

THE BOY. No, they don't seem to look at me 'zacly like a caller. They generally steps out long enough to sign the receipt-book an' shut the front door behin' 'em so as not to let the house get col' the length o' time I'm standin' there. Well, I'm awful much obleeged to ye. Now, I got to be movin' on.

THE OLD WOMAN. Sthop an' cilibrate the Christmas wid us. We ain't started to do nothin' yet because the girls haven't come--they know how [_nodding her head_]--an' they're goin' to bring things--all kinds o' good things to ate an' a branch of rowan berries--ah, boy, a great branch o' rowan wid scarlet berries shinin' [_gesticulating and with gleaming eyes_], an' we'll all be merry an' kape it up late into the night.

THE BOY [_in a little fear of her_]. I guess it's pretty late now. I got to make that trip an' I guess when I get home I'll be so sleepy I'll jus' tumble in. Ye've been awful good to me, an' it's the first time I been warm to-day. Good-by. [_He starts toward the door, but the Old Woman follows him and speaks to him coaxingly._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Ah, don't ye go, Michael, lad! Now, bide wid us a bit. [_The Boy, surprised at the name, looks queerly at the Old Woman, who then stretches out her arms to him, and says beseechingly:_] Ah, boy, ah, Mike, bide wid us, now ye've come! We've been that lonesome widout ye!

THE BOY [_frightened and shaking his head_]. I've got to be movin'.

THE OLD WOMAN. No, Michael, little lamb, no!

THE BOY [_almost terrified, watching her with staring eyes, and backing out_]. I got to go! [_The Boy goes out, and the Old Woman breaks into weeping, totters over to her old rocking-chair and drops into it, rocks to and fro, wailing to herself._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Oh, to have him come an' go again, my little Michael, my own little lad!

THE WOMAN. Don't ye, dearie; now, then, don't ye! 'Twas not Michael, but just our little neighbor boy, Tim. Ye know, poor lamb, now if ye'll thry to remember, that father an' Michael is gone to the betther land an' us is left.

THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, nay, 'tis the fairies that took thim an' have thim now, kapin' thim an' will not ever give thim back.

THE WOMAN. Whisht, mother! Spake not of the little folk on the Holy Night! [_Crosses herself._] Have ye forgot the time o' all the year it is? Now, dhry yer eyes, dearie, an' thry to be cheerful like 'fore the girls be comin' home. [_A noise is heard, the banging of a door and footsteps._] Thim be the girls now, shure they be comin' at last. [_But the sound of footsteps dies away._] But they'll be comin' soon. [_Wearily, but with the inveterate hope._]

[_The two women relapse into silence again, which is undisturbed
for a few minutes. Then there is a knock at the door, and together
in quavering, reedy voices, they call, "Come in," as before. There
enters a tall, big, broad-shouldered woman with a cold,
discontented, hard look upon the face that might have been
handsome some years back; still, in her eyes, as she looks at the
pallid woman on the bed, there is something that denotes a
softness underneath it all._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Good avnin' to ye! We're that pleased to see our neighbors!

THE NEIGHBOR [_without paying any attention to the Old Woman, but entirely addressing the woman on the bed._] How's yer cough?

THE WOMAN. Oh, it's jist the same--maybe a little betther. If I could on'y get to the counthry! But the girls must be workin'--they haven't time to take me. Sit down, won't ye? [_The Neighbor goes to the bed and sits down on the foot of it._]

THE NEIGHBOR. I'm most dead, I'm so tired. I did two washin's to-day--went out and did one this mornin' and then my own after I come home this afternoon. I jus' got through sprinklin' it an' I'll iron to-morrow.

THE WOMAN. Not on Christmas Day!

THE NEIGHBOR [_with a sneer_]. Christmas Day! Did ye hear 'bout the Beckers? Well, they was all put out on the sidewalk this afternoon. Becker's been sick, ye know, an' ain't paid his rent an' his wife's got a two weeks' old baby. It sort o' stunned Mis' Becker, an' she sat on one of the mattresses out there an' wouldn't move, an' nobody couldn't do nothin' with her. But they ain't the only ones has bad luck--Smith, the painter, fell off a ladder an' got killed. They took him to the hospital, but it wasn't no use--his head was all mashed in. His wife's got them five boys an' Smith never saved a cent, though he warn't a drinkin' man. It's a good thing Smith's children is boys--they can make their livin' easier!

THE WOMAN [_smiling faintly_]. Ain't ye got no cheerful news to tell? It's Christmas Eve, ye know.

THE NEIGHBOR. Christmas Eve don't seem to prevent people from dyin' an' bein' turned out o' house an' home. Did ye hear how bad the dipthery is? They say as how if it gits much worse they'll have to close the school in our ward. Two o' the Homan children's dead with it. The first one wasn't sick but two days, an' they say his face all turned black 'fore he died. But it's a good thing they're gone, for the Homans ain't got enough to feed the other six. Did ye hear 'bout Jim Kelly drinkin' again? Swore off for two months, an' then took to it harder'n ever--perty near killed the baby one night.

THE WOMAN [_with a wan, beseeching smile_]. Won't you please not tell me any more? It just breaks me heart.

THE NEIGHBOR [_grimly_]. I ain't got no other kind o' news to tell. I s'pose I might's well go home.

THE WOMAN. No, don't ye go. I like to have ye here when ye're kinder.

THE NEIGHBOR [_fingering the bed clothes and smoothing them over the woman_]. Well, it's gettin' late, an' I guess ye ought to go to sleep.

THE WOMAN. Oh, no, I won't go to slape till the girls come. They'll bring me somethin' to give me strength. If they'd on'y come soon.

THE NEIGHBOR. Ye ain't goin' to set up 'til they git home?

THE OLD WOMAN. That we are. We're kapin' the cilebratin' till they come.

THE NEIGHBOR. What celebratin'?

THE OLD WOMAN. Why, the Christmas, to be shure. We're goin' to have high jinks to-night. In the ould counthry 'tis always Christmas Day, but here 'tis begun on Christmas Eve, an' we're on'y waitin' for the girls, because they know how to fix things betther nor Mary an' me.

THE NEIGHBOR [_staring_]. But ain't they workin' in the store?

THE OLD WOMAN. Yes, but they're comin' home early to-night.

THE NEIGHBOR [_laughing ironically_]. Don't ye fool yerselves. Why, they've got to work harder to-night than any in the whole year.

THE WOMAN [_wistfully_]. But they did say they'd thry to come home early.

THE NEIGHBOR. The store's all crowded to-night. Folks 'at's got money to spend never remembers it till the last minute. If they didn't have none they'd be thinkin' 'bout it long ahead. Well, I got to be movin'. I wouldn't stay awake, if I was you.

THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay and kape the Christmas wid us! We'll be havin' high jinks by an' by. Sthay, now, an' help us wid our jollity!

THE NEIGHBOR. Nay, I left my children in bed, an' I got to go back to 'em. An' I got to get some rest myself--I got that ironin' ahead o' me in the mornin'. You folks better get yer own rest. [_She rises and walks to the door._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_beamingly_]. David an' Michael's comin'. [_The Neighbor stands with her back against the door and her hand on the knob, staring at the Old Woman._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_smiling rapturously_]. Yis, we're goin' to have a gran' time. [_The Neighbor looks puzzled and fearful and troubled, first at the Woman and then at the Old Woman. Finally, without a word, she opens the door and goes out._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_going about in a tottering sort of dance_]. David an' Michael's comin' an' the shepherds for the fairies will show thim the way.

THE WOMAN. If the girls would on'y come! If they'd give me somethin' so as I wouldn't be so tired!

THE OLD WOMAN. There's niver a sthar an' there's nobody to give thim a kind word an' the counthry roads are dark an' foul, but they've got the little folk to guide thim! An' whin they reach the city--the poor, lonesome shepherds from the hills!--they'll find naught but coldness an' hardness an' hurry. [_Questioningly._] Will the fairies show thim the way? Fairies' eyes be used to darkness, but can they see where it is black night in one corner an' a blaze o' light in another? [_She goes to the window for the third time, opens it and leans far out for a long time, then turns about and goes on in her monotone, closing the window.--She seems by this time quite to have forgotten the presence of the pallid woman on the bed, who has closed her eyes, and lies like one dead._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, there's niver a sthar, an' the clouds are hangin' heavier an' lower an' the flakes o' snow are fallin'. Poor little folk guidin' thim poor lost shepherds, leadin' thim by the hand so gently because there's no others to be kind to thim, an' bringin' thim to the manger o' the Blessed Babe. [_She comes over to her rocking-chair and again sits down in it, rocks slowly to and fro, nodding her head in time to the motion._] Poor little mite of a babe, so cold an' unwelcome an' forgotten save by the silly ould shepherds from the hills! The silly ould shepherds from the strength o' the hills, who are comin' through the darkness in the lead o' the little folk! [_She speaks slower and lower, and finally drops into a quiet crooning--it stops and the Old Woman has fallen asleep._]

[_Curtain._]

[_While the curtain is down the pallid, sick woman upon the bed
dies, the Old Woman being asleep does not notice the slight
struggle with death. The fire has gone out in the stove, and the
light in the lamp, and the stage is in complete darkness when the
two girls come stumbling in. They are too tired to speak, too
weary to show surprise that the occupants of the room are not
awake. They fumble about, trying to find matches in the darkness,
and finally discover them and a candle in the safe. They light the
candle and place it upon the table by the scraggy little
evergreen-tree. They turn about and discern their grandmother
asleep in the rocking-chair. Hurriedly they turn to the bed and
discover their mother lying there dead. For a full minute they
stand gazing at her, the surprise, wonder, awe, misery increasing
in their faces; then with screams they run to the bed, throw
themselves on their knees and bury their faces, sobbing, in the
bedclothes at the Woman's feet._]

[_Curtain._]

ILE

A PLAY

BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL

All rights reserved.

CHARACTERS

BEN [_the cabin boy_].
THE STEWARD.
CAPTAIN KEENEY.
SLOCUM [_second mate_].
MRS. KEENEY.
JOE [_a harpooner_].
_Members of the crew of the Atlantic Queen._

ILE was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, on
the night of November 30th, 1917, with the following cast:

BEN [_the cabin boy_] _Harold Conley_.
THE STEWARD _Robert Edwards_.
CAPTAIN KEENEY _H. Collins_.
MR. SLOCUM [_second mate_] _Ira Remsen_.
MRS. KEENEY _Clara Savage_.
JOE [_the harpooner_] _Lewis B. Ell_.

Produced under the direction of MISS NINA MOISE. Scenery by MR. LEWIS
B. ELL.

Reprinted from "The Moon of the Caribbees and Six Other Plays of the
Sea" by special permission of Eugene O'Neill. The professional and
amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author.
Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr.
Eugene G. O'Neill, Provincetown, Mass.

ILE

A PLAY BY EUGENE G. 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 center 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 port-holes._

_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 center 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 sky-light 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 some one 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-cold. [_Trying to control his chattering teeth--derisively._] Who d'ye think it were--the Old Man?

THE STEWARD [_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'tle?

BEN. Yes.

THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkeyshinin' with the hands and 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 jest walks up and down like he didn't notice nobody--and stares at the ice to the no'the'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, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn this rotten 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! 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'tle?

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'ard. 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'the'ard where they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water. All he thinks on is gettin' 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 ever hear 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 rotten whalin' ship to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the 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. 'Twould 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? 'Tis a God's wonder we're not a ship full of crazed people--with the 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 some one coming slowly down the
companion-way 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 weather-beaten 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_]. 'Twould 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 women's talk with that boy. [_To Ben, fiercely._] Get out o' this you! Clean up the chart room. [_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 Behring Sea at the end of a rope.

THE STEWARD [_trembling_]. 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 afeared 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 something new, Mr. Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?

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

KEENEY [_with rough tenderness_]. Well, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_as if awakening from a dream_]. David, I--

[_She is silent. The Mate starts for the doorway._]

KEENEY [_turning to him--sharply_]. Wait!

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_after a pause during which she seems to be endeavoring to collect her thoughts_]. I thought maybe--I'd go up on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air.

[_She stands humbly awaiting his permission. He and The Mate
exchange a significant glance._]

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

MRS. KEENEY [_monotonously_]. I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's nothing to see down here but these walls.

[_She makes a gesture of loathing._]

KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home.

KEENEY [_a touch of resentment in his voice_]. I got it jest for you!

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

KEENEY [_frowning_]. Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when the sun shines.

MRS. KEENEY [_desperately_]. But the sun never shines in this terrible place.

KEENEY [_a tone of command in his voice_]. Best not to-day, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_crumbling before this command--abjectly_]. Very well, David.

[_She stands there, staring straight before her as if in a
daze.--The two men look at her uneasily._]

KEENEY [_sharply_]. Annie!

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. Yes, David.

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

MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David.

[_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three-quarters
shut behind her._]

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

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. And trouble they's going to be. I feel it in my bones. [_Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it._] Got your'n?

MATE. Yes, sir.

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

MATE [_hesitatingly_]. Then you ain't goin'--to turn back?

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

MATE [_hastily_]. But the grub's gittin' low.

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

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

KEENEY. Let them make what law trouble they kin! I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the ile! [_Glancing sharply at the Mate._] You ain't turnin' no sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?

MATE [_flushing_]. Not by a hell of a sight, sir.

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

MATE [_slowly_]. They wants to git back to their old folks an' things, I s'pose.

KEENEY [_looking at him searchingly_]. 'N you want to turn back too. [_The Mate looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze._] Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. [_With grim sarcasm._] I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me.

MATE [_indignantly_]. That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.

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

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

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

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

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

[_There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The
two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then Keeney goes
over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he
were going to enter--then closes the door softly. Joe, the
harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face,
enters from right and stands waiting for the Captain to notice
him._]

KEENEY [_turning and seeing him_]. Don't be standin' there like a hawk, Harpooner. Speak up!

JOE [_confusedly_]. We want--the men, sir--they wants to send a depitation aft to have a word with you.

KEENEY [_furiously_]. Tell 'em to go to--[_Checks himself and continues grimly._] Tell 'em to come. I'll see 'em.

JOE. Aye, aye, sir.

[_He goes out._]

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

MATE [_worriedly_]. Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might need their help.

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

[_There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the
crew crowd into the cabin, led by Joe. All are dressed
alike--sweaters, sea boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the
Captain, twirling their fur caps in their hands._]

KEENEY [_after a pause_]. Well? Who's to speak fur ye?

JOE [_stepping forward with an air of bravado_]. I be.

KEENEY [_eyeing him up and down coldly_]. So you be. Then speak your say and be quick about it.

JOE [_trying not to wilt before the Captain's glance and avoiding his eyes_]. The time we signed up for is done to-day.

KEENEY [_icily_]. You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.

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

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

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

KEENEY. The ice is breaking up.

JOE [_after a slight pause, during which the others mumble angrily to one another_]. The grub we're gittin' now is rotten.

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

[_There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd._]

JOE [_encouraged by this support_]. We ain't agoin' to work no more less you puts back for home.

KEENEY [_fiercely_]. You ain't, ain't you?

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

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

[_There are more angry exclamations from the crew. Mrs. Keeney
appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes.
None of the men notice her._]

JOE [_with bravado_]. Then we're agoin' to mutiny and take the old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?

[_As he turns his head to look at the others, Keeney's fist shoots
out to the side of his jaw. Joe goes down in a heap and lies
there. Mrs. Keeney gives a shriek and hides her face in her hands.
The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop
when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers of Keeney
and the Mate._]

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

MATE. Yes, sir.

[_He goes out, right. Keeney hears his wife's hysterical weeping
and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to her side._]

KEENEY [_putting an arm around her shoulder--with gruff tenderness_]. There, there, Annie. Don't be feared. It's all past and gone.

MRS. KEENEY [_shrinking away from him_]. Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it any longer!

KEENEY [_gently_]. Can't bear what, Annie?

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

[_After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her
handkerchief._]

KEENEY [_after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled frown_]. Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on this voyage, Annie.

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