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Prepared for the Brittle Books Project, Preservation Department, Main Library, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign by Northern Micrographics Brookhaven Bindery La Crosse, Wisconsin 2017THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARYEUGENE O'NEILL BEYOND THE HORIZON THE STRAW BEFORE BREAKFAST,PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL -1_i_ Uniform with this edition THE EMPEROR JONES GOLD THE FIRST MAN, and THE DREAMY KID In one volume ANNA CHRISTIE ALL GOD'S CHILLUN GOT WINGS and DIFF'RENT In one volume DESIRE UNDER THE ELMS THE HAIRY ApE, and WELDED In one volumeJPJPJP^PJPJPJPJP, EUGENE O'NEILL Plays BEYOND THE HORIZON THE STRAW BEFORE BREAKFAST v NEW YORK BON I & LIVE RIGHT 1 ^ \.S J? J? J?PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL Copyright, 1925, by Boni & Liveright, Inc. Printed in the Vnited States of America Beyond the Horizon, copyright, 1920, by Boni & Liveright, Inc. The Straw, copyright, 1921, by Boni & Liveright, Inc. Before Breakfast, copyright, 1916, by Eugene O'Neill NOTE All rights reserved including that of translation into foreign languages. AU acting rights, both professional and nmateur, including motion picture rights, are re- served in the United States, Great Britain and aU countries of the Copyright Union by the author. In their present form these plays are dedicated to the reading public only and no performance may be given without special arrangement with the author's agent.CONTENTS PAG* Beyond the Horizon........... 7 The Straw.............*29 Before Breakfast...........243BEYOND THE .HORIZON A Play in Three Acts (1918)TO AGNESCHARACTERS James Mayo, a farmer Kate Mayo, his wife Captain Dick Scott, of the bark Sunda, her brother Buth Atkins Mrs. Atkins, her widowed mother Mary Ben, a farm hand Doctor Fawcett Andrew Mayo Robert Mayo sons of James MayoACT I Scene I: The Road. Sunset of a day in Spring. Scene II: The Farm House. The same night. ACT II (Three years later) Scene I: The Farm House. Noon of a Summer day. Scene II: The top of a hill on the farm overlooking the sea. The following day. ACT III (Five years later) Scene I: The Farm House. Dawn of a day in late Fall. Scene II: The Road. Sunrise.BEYOND THE HORIZON ACT ONEBEYOND THE HORIZON ACT ONE Scene One A section of country highway. The road runs diagonally from the left, forward, to the right, rear, and can be seen in the distance winding toward the horizon like a pale ribbon between the low, rolling hills with their freshly plowed fields clearly divided from each other, checkerboard fashion, by the lines of stone walls and rough snake fences. The forward triangle cut off by the road is a section of a field from the dark earth of which myriad bright-green blades of fall-sown rye are sprouting. A straggling line of piled rocks, too low to be called a wall, separates this field from the road. To the rear of the road is a ditch with a sloping, grassy bank on the far side. From the center of this an old, gnarled apple tree, just budding into leaf, strains its twisted branches heavenwards, black against the pallor of distance. A snake- fence sidles from left to right along the top of the bank, pass- ing beneath the apple tree. The hushed twilight of a day in May is just beginning. The horizon hills are still rimmed by a faint line of flame, and the sky above them glows with the crimson flus\ of the sunset. This fades gradually as the action of the scene progresses. At the rise of the curtain, robert mayo is discovered sitting 1516 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL on the fence. He is a tall, slender young man of twenty-three. There is a touch of the poet about him expressed in his high forehead and wide, dark eyes. His features are delicate and refined, leaning to weakness in the mouth and chin. He is dressed in gray corduroy trousers pushed into high laced boots, and a blue flannel shirt 0fth a bright colored tie. He is read- ing a book by the fading sunset light. He shuts this, keeping a finger in to mark the place, and turns his head toward the horizon, gazing out over the fields and hills. His lips move as if he were reciting something to himself. His brother Andrew comes along the road from the right, returning from his work in the fields. He is twenty-seven years old, an opposite type to robert—husky, sun-bronzed, hand- some m a large-featured, manly fashion—a son of the soil, intelligent in a shrewd way, but with nothing of the intellectual about him. He wears overalls, leather boots, a gray, flannel shirt open at the neck, and a soft, mud-stained hat pushed back on his head. He stops to talk to robert, leaning on the hoe he carries• Andrew, (seeing robert has not noticed his presence-*-in a loud shout) Hey there! (robert turns with a start. Seeing who it is, he smiles) Gosh, you do take the prize for day- dreaming ! And* I see you've toted one of the old books along with you. (He crosses the ditch and sits on the fence near his brother) What is it tfcis time—poetry, I'll bet. (He reaches for the book) Let me see. robert. (handing it to him rather reluctantly) Look out you don't get ic full of dirt. Andrew, (glancing at his hands) That isn't dirt—it'sBEYOND THE HORIZON 17 good clean earth. (He turns over the pages. His eyes read something and he gives an exclamation of disgust) Hump! (With a provoking grin at his brother he reads aloud in a dole- ful, sing-song voice) "I have loved wind and light and the bright sea. But holy and most sacred night, not as I love and have loved thee." (He hands the nlc bach) Here! Take it and bury it. I suppose it's that year in college gave you a liking for that kind of stuff. I'm darn glad I stopped at High School, or maybe I'd been crazy too. (He grins and slaps ROBERT on the back affectionately) Imagine me reading poetry and plowing at the same time! The team'd run away, I'll bet. robert. (laughing) Or picture me plowing. Andrew. You should have gone back to college last fall, like I know you wanted to. You're fitted for that sort of thing— just as I ain't. robert. You know why I didn't go back, Andy. Pa didn't like the idea, even if he didn't say so; and I know he wanted the money to use improving the farm. And besides, I'm not keen on being a student, just because you see me reading books all the time. What I want to do now is keep on moving so. that I won't take root in any one place. Andrew. Well, the trip you're leaving on tomorrow will keep you moving all right. (At this mention of the trip they both fall silent. There is a pause. Finally Andrew goes on, awkwardly, attempting to speak easually) Uncle says you'll be gone three years. robert. About that, he figures. Andrew. (moodily) That's a long time. robert. Not so long when you come to consider it. You18 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL know the Sunda sails around the Horn for Yokohama first, and that's a long voyage on a sailing ship; and if we go to any of the other places Uncle Dick mentions—India, or Aus- tralia, or South Africa, or South America—they'll be long voyages, too. Andrew. You can have all those foreign parts for all of me. (After a pause) Ma's going to miss you a lot, Rob. robert. Yes—and I'll miss her. Andrew. And Pa ain't feeling none too happy to have you go—though he's been trying not to show it. robert. I can see how he feels. Andrew. And you can bet that I'm not giving any cheers about it. (He puts one hand on the fence near robert). robert. (putting one hand on top of Andrew's with a gesture almost of shyness) I know that, too, Andy. Andrew. I'll miss you sis much as anybody, I guess. You see, you and I ain't like most brothers—always fighting and separated a lot of the time, while we've always been together —just the two of us. It's different with us. That's why it hits so hard, I guess. robert. (with feeling) It's just as hard for me, Andy— believe that! I hate to leave you and the old folks—but— I feel I've got to. There's something calling me- (He points to the horizon) Oh, I can't just explain it to you, Andy. Andrew. No need to, Rob. (Angry at himself) Hell! You want to go—that's a5.1 there is to it; and I wouldn't have you miss this chance for the world. robert. It's fine of you to feel that way, Andy. ANDREW, iluh! I'd be a nice son-of-a-gun if I didn't, wouldn't I? When I know how you need this sea trip toBEYOND THE HORIZON 19 make a new man of you—in the body, I mean—and give you your full health back. robert. (a trifle impatiently) All of you seem to keep harping on my health. You were so used to seeing me lying around the house in the old days that you never will get over the notion that I'm a chronic invalid. You don't realize how I've bucked up in the past few years. If I had no other excuse for going on Uncle Dick's ship but just my health, I'd stay right here and start in plowing. andrew. Can't be done. Farming ain't your nature. There's all the difference shown in just the way us two feel about the farm. You—well, you like the home part of it, I expect; but as a place to work and grow things, you hate it. Ain't that right? robert. Yes, I suppose it is. For you it's different. You're a Mayo through and through. You're wedded to the soil. You're as much a product of it as an ear of corn is, or a tree. Father is the same. This farm is his life-work, and he's happy in knowing that another Mayo, inspired by the same love, will take up the work where he leaves off. I can understand your attitude, and Pa's; and I think it's wonderful and sincere. But I—well, I'm not made that way. Andrew. No, you ain't; but when it comes to understand- I guess I realize that you've got your own fcngle of look- ing at things. Robert. (musingly) I wonder if you do, really. Andrew, {confidently) Sure I do. You've seen a bit of the world, enough to make the farm seem small, and you've got the itch to see it all. robert. It's more than that, Andy.20 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL Andrew. Oh, of course. I know you're going to learn navi- gation, and all about a ship, so's you can be an officer. That's natural, too. There's fair pay in it, I expect, when you con- sider that you've always got a home and grub thrown in; and if you're set on traveling, you can go anywhere you're a mind to without paying fare. robeet. (with a smile that is half sg,d) It's more than that, Andy. Andrew. Sure it is. There's always a chance of a good thing coming your way in some of those foreign ports or other. I've heard there are great opportunities for a young fellow with his eyes open in some of those new countries that are just being opened up. (Jovially) I'll bet that's what you've been turning over in your mind under all your quietness! (He slaps his brother on the bach with a laugh) Well, if you get to be a millionaire all of a sudden, call 'round once in a while and I'll pass the plate to -you. We could use a lot of money right here on the farm without hurting it any. robert. (forced to laugh) I've never considered that prac- tical side of it for a minute, Andy. Andrew. Well, you ought to. robert. No, I oughtn't. (Pointing to the horizon—dreamily') Supposing I was to tell you that it's just Beauty that's call- ing me, the beauty of the far off and unknown, the mystery and spell of the East which lures me in the books I've read, the need of the freedom of great wide spaces^the joy of wan- dering on and on—in quest of the secret which is hidden over there, beyond the horizonJ Suppose I told you that was the one and only reason for my going? Andrew. I should say you were nutty.BJSYOND THE HORIZON 21 robert. (frcmning) Don't, Andy. I'm serious. andrew. Then you might as well stay here, because we've got all you're looking for right on this farm. There's wide space enough, Lord knows; and you can have all the sea you want by walking a mile down to the beach; and there's plenty of horizon to look at, and beauty enough for anyone, except in the winter. (He grins) As for the mystery and spell, I haven't met 'em yet, but they're probably lying around some- wheres. I'll have you understand this is a first class farm with all the fixings. (He laughs). -— robert. (joining In the laughter in spite of himself) It's no use talking to you, you chump! Andrew. You'd better not say anything to Uncle Dick about spells and things when you're on the ship. He'll likely chuck you overboard for a Jonah. (He jumps down from fence) I'd better run along. I've got to wash up some as long as Ruth's Ma is coming over for supper. robert. (pointedly—almost bitterly) And Ruth. Andrew, (confused—looking everywhere except at robert— trying to appear unconcerned) Yes, Ruth'll be staying too. Well, I better hustle, I guess, and- (He steps over the ditch to the road while he is talking). robert. (who appears to be fighting some strong inward emotion—impulsively) Wait a minute, Andy! (He jumps down from the fence) There is something I want to- (He stops abruptly, biting his lips, his face coloring). Andrew, (facing him; half-defiantly) Yes? robert. (confusedly) No- never mind- it doesn't matter, it was nothing. andrew. (after a pause, during which he stares fixedly at22 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL robert's averted face) Maybe I can guess-what you were going to say- but I guess you're right not to talk about it. (He pulls robert's hand from his side and grips it tenselyj the two brothers stand looking into each other's eyes for a minute) We can't help those things, Rob. (He turns away, suddenly releasing robert's hand) You'll be coming along shortly, won't you? robert. (dully) Yes. Andrew. See you later, then. (He walhs off down the road to the left, robert stares after him for a moment; then climbs to the fence rail again, and looks out over the hills, an expression of deep grief on his face. After a moment or so, ruth enters hurriedly from the left. She is a healthy, blonde, out-of-door girl of twenty, with a graceful, slender figure. Her face, though inclined to roundness, is undeniably pretty, its large eyes of a deep blue set off strikingly by the sun-bronzed complexion. Her small, regular features are marked by a certain strength—an underlying, stubborn fixity of purpose hid- den in the frankly-appealing charm of her fresh youthfulness. She wears a simple white dress but no hat), ruth, (seeing him) Hello, Rob! robert. (startled) Hello, Ruth! ruth, (jumps the ditch and perches on the fence beside him) I was looking for you. robert. (pointedly) Andy just left here. ruth. I know. I met him on the road a second aga. He told me you were here. (Tenderly playful) I wasn't look- ing for Andy, Smarty, if that's what you mean. I was looking for you. robert. Because I'm going away tomorrow?BEYOND THE HORIZON 23 ruth. Because your mother was anxious to have you come home and asked me to look for you. I just wheeled Ma over to your house. robert. (perfunctorily) How is your mother? ruth, (a shadow coming over her face) She's about the same. She never seems to get any better or any worse. Oh, Rob, I do wish she'd try to make the best of things that can't be helped. robert. Has she been nagging at you again? ruth. (nods her head, and then breaks forth rebelliously) She never stops nagging. No matter what I do for her she finds fault. If only Pa was still living- (She stops as if ashamed of her outburst) I suppose I shouldn't complain this way. (She sighs) Poor Ma, Lord knows it's hard enough for her. I suppose it's natural to be cross when you're not able ever to walk a step. Oh, I'd like to be going away some place—like you! robert. It's hard to stay—and equally hard to go, some- times. ruth. There! If I'm not the stupid body! I swore I wasn't going to speak about your trip—until after you'd gone; and there I go, first thing! robert. Why didn't you want to speak of ^ it ? ruth. Because I didn't want to spoil this last night you're here. Oh, Rob, I'm going to—we're all going to miss you so awfully. Your mother is going around looking as if she'd burst out crying any minute. You ought to know how I feel. Andv and you and I—why it seems as if we'd always'been together. robert. (with a wry attempt at a smile) You and Andy24 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL will still have each othei^ It'll be harder for me without anyone. ruth. But jEpu'll have new sights and new people to take your mind off ;f while well be here with the old, familiar place to remind us every minute of the dayj It's a shame you're going*—just at this time, in spring, when everything is get- ting so nice. (With a sigh) I oughtn't to talk that way when I know going's the best thing for you. You're bound to find all sorts of opportunities to get on, your father says. robert. (heatedly) I don't give a damn about that! I wouldn't take a voyage across the road for the best opportu- nity in the world of the kind Pa thinks of. (He smiles at his own irritation) Excuse mey Ruth, for getting worked up over it; but Andy gave me an overdose of the practical considera- tions. ruth. (slowly, puzzled) Well, then, if it isn't- (With sudden intensity) Oh, Rob, why do you want to go? robert. (turning to her quickly, in surprise—slowly) Why do you ask that, Ruth? ruth. (dropping her eyes before his searching glance) Be- cause- (Lamely) It seems such a shame. robert. (insistently) Why? ru*h. Oh, because—everything. robert. I eoYild hardly back out now, even if I wanted to. And I'll be forgotten before you know it. ruth. (indignantly) Yoh won't! I'll never forget- (She stops and turns away to hide her confusion). robert. (softly) Will you promise me that? ruth, (evasively) Of course. It's mean of you to think that any of us would forget so easily.BEYOND THE HORIZON 25 ! robert. (disappointedly) Oh! ruth, (with an attempt at lightness') But you haven't told me your reason for leaving yet? robert. (moodily) I doubt if you'll understand. It's dif- ficult to explain, even to myself. Either you feel it, or you don't. I can remember being conscious of it first when I was only a kid—you haven't forgotten what a sickly specimen I was then, in those days, have you? ruth. (with a shudder) Let's not think about them. robert. You'll have to, to understand. Well, in those days, when Ma was fixing meals, she used to get me out of the way by pushing my chair to the west window and telling me to look out and be quiet. That wasn't hafd. I guess I was always quiet. ruth. (compassionately) Yes, you always were—and you suffering so much, too! robert. (musingly) So I used to stare out over the fields to the hills, out there—(He points to the horizon) and some- how after a time I'd forget any pain I was in, and start dreaming. I knew the sea was over beyond those hills,—the folks had told me—and I used to wonder what the sea was like, and try to form a picture of it in my mind, a smile) There was all the mystery in the world to me then about that—far-off sea—and there still is! It called to me then just as it does now. (After* a slight pause) And other times my eyes would follow this road, winding off into the distance, toward the hills, as if it, too, was searching for the sea. And I'd promise myself that when I greW up and was strong, I'd follow that road, and it and I would find the sea26 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL together. (With a smile) You see, my making this trip is only keeping that promise of long ago. ruth (charmed by his low, musical voice telling the dreams of his childhood) Yes, I see. robert. Those were the only happy moments of my life then, dreaming there at the window. I liked to be all alone —those times. I got to know all the different kinds of sun- sets by heart. And all those sunsets took place over there— (He points) beyond the horizon. |J$o gradually I came to be- lieve that all the wonders of the world happened on the other side of those hills. J There was the home of the good fairies who performed beautiful miracles. I believed in fairies then. (With a smile) Perhaps 14 still do believe in them. Anyway, in those days they were real enough, and sometimes I could actually hear them calling to me to come out and play with them, dance with them down the road in the dusk in a game of hide-and-seek to find out where the sun was hiding himself. They sang their little songs to me, songs that told of all the wonderful things they had in their home on the other side of the hills; and they promised to show me all of them, if I'd only come, come! But I couldn't come then, and I used to cry sometimes and Ma would think I was in pain. (He breaks off suddenly with a laugh) That's why I'm going now, I suppose. For I can still hear them calling. But the horizon is as far away and as luring as ever. (He turns to her— ♦ softly) Do you understand now, Ruth? ruth, (spellbound, in a whisper) Yes. robert. You feel it then? ruth. Yes, yes, I do! (Unconsciously she snuggles close against his side. His arm steals about her as if he were notBEYOND THE HORIZON 27 aware of the action) Oh, Rob, how could I help feeling it? You tell things so beautifully! robert. (suddenly realizing that his arm is around her, and that her head is resting on his shoulder, gently takes his arm away. ruth, brought back to herself, is overcome with confusion) So now you know why I'm going. It's for that reason—that and one other. ruth. You've another? Then you must tell me that, too. robert. (looking at her searchingly, She drops her eyes before his gaze) I wonder if I ought to! You'll promise not to be angry—whatever it is? ruth. (softly, her face still averted) Yes, I promise. robert. (simply) I love you.' That's the other reason. ruth. (hiding her face in her hands) Oh, Rob! robert. I wasn't going to tell you, but I feel I have to. It can't matter now that I'm going so far away, and for so long—perhaps forever. I've loved you all these years, but the realization never came 'til I agreed to go away with Uncle Dick. Then I thought of leaving you, and the pain of that thought revealed to me in a flash*—that I loved you, had loved you as long as I could remember. (He gently pulls one of ruth's hands away from her face) You mustn't mind my telling you this, Ruth. I realize how impossible it all is— and I understand; for the revelation of my own love seemed to open my eyes to the love of others. I saw Andy's love for you—and I knew that you must love him. ruth. (breaking out stormily) I don't! I don't love Andy! I don't! (robert stares at her in stupid astonishment. ruth weeps hysterically) Whatever—put such a fool notion into— into your head? (She suddenly throws her arms about his neck28 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL and hides her head on his shoulder) Oh, Rob! Don't go away! Please! You mustn't, now! You can't! I won't let you! It'd break my—my heart! robert. (The expression of stupid bewilderment giving way to one of overwhelming joy. He presses her close to him— slowly and tenderly) Do you mean that—that you love me? ruth. (sobbing) Yes, yes—of course I do—what d'you s'pose? (She lifts up her head and loohs into Ms eyes with a tremulous smile) You stupid thing! (He hisses her) I've loved you right along. robert. (mystified) But you and Andy were always to- gether ! ruth. Because you never ^ seemed to want to go any place with me. You were always reading an old book, and not pay- ing any attention to me. I was too proud to let you see I cared because I thought the year you had away to college had made you stuck-up, and you thought yourself too educated to waste any time on me. * robert. (hissing her) And I was thinking- (With a laugh) What fools we've both been! ruth. (overcome by a sudden fear) You won't go away on the trip, will you, Rob? You'll tell them you can't go on account of me, won't you? You can't go now! You can't! robert. (bewildered) Perhaps—you can come too. ruth. Oh, Rob, don't be so foolish. You know I can't. Who'd take care of ma? Don't you see I couldn't go—on her account? (She clings to him imploringly) Please don't go— not now. Tell them you've decided not to. They won't mind. I know your mother and father'll be glad. They'll all be. They don't want you to go so far away from them. Please, Rob!BEYOND THE HORIZON 29 We'll be so happy here together where it's natural and we know thingsli Please tell me you won't go! robert. (face to face tenth a definite, final decision, betrays the conflict going on within him) But—Ruth—I—Uncle Dick—— ruth. He won't mind when he knows it's for your happiness to stay. How could he? (As robert remains silent she bursts into sobs again) Oh, Rob! And you said—you loved me! robert. (conquered by this appeal—an irrevocable decision in his voice) I won't go, Ruth. I promise you. There! Don't cry! (He presses her to him, stroking her hair tenderly. After a pause he speaks with happy hopefulness) Perhaps after all Andy was right—righter than he-knew—when he said I could find all the things I was seeking for here, at home on the farm, , I think love must have been the secret—the secret that called to me from over the world's rim—the secret beyond every horizon; and when I did not come, it came to me. (He claspr ruth to him fiercely) Oh, Ruth, our love is sweeter than any distant dream! (He hisses her passionately and steps to the ground, lifting ruth in his arms and carrying her to the road where he puts her down). ruth. (with a happy laugh) My, but you're strong! robert. Come! We'll go and tell them at once. ruth. (dismayed) Oh, no, don't, Rob, not 'til after I've gone. There'd be bound to b$ such a scene with them all together. robert. (hissing her—gayly) As you like—little Miss Com- mon Sense! ruth. Let's go, then. (She takts his hand, and they start80 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL to go off left, robert suddenly stops and turns as though for a last look at the hills and the dying sunset flush). robert. (looking upward and pointing) See! The first star. (He bends down and hisses her tenderly) Our star! ruth, (in a soft murmur) Yes. Our very own star. (They stand for a moment looking up at it, their arms around each other. Then ruth takes his hand again and starts to lead him away) Come, Bob, let's go. (His eyes are fixed again on the horizon as he half turns to follow her. ruth urges) We'll be late for supper, Rob. robert. (shakes his head impatiently, as though he were throwing off some disturbing thought—with a laugh) All right. We'll run then. Come on! (They run off laughing as (The Curtain Falls)ACT ONE Scene Two The sitting room of the Mayo farm house about nine o'clock the same night. On the left, two windows looking out on the fields. Against the wall between the windows, an old- fashioned walnut desk. In the left corner, rear, a sideboard with a mirror. In the rear wall to the right of the sideboard, a window looking out on the road. Next to the window a door leading out into the yard. Farther right, a black horse-hair sofa, and another door opening on a bedroom. In the corner, a straight-backed chair. In the right wall, near the middle, an open doorway leading to the kitchen. Farther forward a double- heater stove with coal scuttle, etc. In the center of the newly carpeted floor, an oak dining-room table with a red cover. In the center of the table, a large oil reading lamp. Four chairs, three rockers with crocheted tidies on their backs, and one straight-backed, are placed about the table. The walls are papered a dark red with a scrolly-figured pattern. Everything in the room is clean, well-kept, and in its exact place, yet there is no suggestion of primness about the whole. Rather the atmosphere is one of the orderly comfort of a simple, hard-earned prosperity, enjoyed and maintained by the family as a unit. james mayo, his wife, her brother, captain dick scott, and andrew are discovered. mayo is his son Andrew over again in body and face—an Andrew sixty-five years old with a short, 3182 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL square, white heard. mrs. mayo is a slight, round-faced, rather prim-looking woman of fifty-five who had once been a school teacher. ^ The labors of a farmer's wife have bent but not broken her, and she retains a certain refinement of movement and ex- pression foreign to the mayo part of the family^ Whatever of resemblance robert has to his parents may Ve traced to her. Her brother, the captain, is short and stocky, with a weather- beaten, jovial face and a white mustache—a typical old salt, loud of voice and given to gesture. He is fifty-eight years old. james mayo sits in front of the table. He wears spectacles, and a farm journal which he has been reading lies in his lap. the captain leans forward from a chair in the rear, his hands on the table in front of him. Andrew is tilted back on the straight-backed chair to the left, his chin sunk forward on his chest, staring at the carpet, preoccupied and frowning. As the Curtain rises the captain is just finishing the relation of some sea episode. The others are pretending an interest which is belied by the absent-minded expressions on their faces. the captain. (chuckling) And that mission woman, she hails me on the dock as I was acomin' ashore, and she says— with her silly face all screwed up serious as judgment—"Cap- tain/' she says, "would you be so kind as to tell me where the sea-gulls sleeps.at nights?" Blow me if them warn't her exact words! (He slaps the table with the palm of his hands and laughs loudly. The others fqrce smiles) Ain't that just like a fool woman's question? And I looks at her serious as I could, "Ma'm," says I, "I couldn't rightly answer that question. I ain't never seed a se^-gull in his bunk yet. The next time I hears one snorin'," I says, "I'll make a note of where he's turned in, andBEYOND THE HORIZON 33 write you a letter 'bout it." And then she calls me a fool real spiteful and tacks away from me quick. (He laughs again up- roariously) So I got rid of her that way. (The others smile but immediately relapse into expressions of gloom again). mrs. mayo. (absent-mindedly—feeling that she has to say something) But when it comes to that, where do sea-gulls sleep, Dick? scott. (slapping the table) Ho! Ho! Listen to her, James. 'Nother one! Well, if that don't beat all hell—'scuse me for cussin', Kate. mayo. (with a twinkle in his eyes) They unhitch their wings, Katey, and spreads 'em out on a wave for a bed. scott. And then they tells the fish to whistle to 'em when it's time to turn out. Ho! Ho! mrs. mayo, (with a forced smile) You men folks are too smart to live, aren't you? (She resumes her knitting, mayo pretends to read his paper; Andrew stares at the floor). scott. (looks from one to the other of them with a puzzled air. Finally he is unable to bear the thick silence a minute longer, and blurts out): You folks look as if you was settin' up with a corpse. (With exaggerated concern) God A'mighty, there ain't anyone dead, be there? mayo, (sharply) Don't play the dunce, D\ck! You know as well as we do there ain't no great cause to be feelin' chipper. scott. (argumentatively) And there ain't no cause to be wearin' mourning, either, I can make out. mrs. mayo. (indignantly) How can you talk that way, Dick Spott, when you're taking our Robbie away from us, in the middle of the night, you might say, just to get on that old34 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL boat of yours on time! I think you might wait until morning when he's had his breakfast. scott. (appealing to the others hopelessly) Ain't that a woman's way o' seem* things for you? God A'mighty, Kate, I can't give orders to the tide that it's got to be high just when it suits me to have it. I ain't gettin' no fun out o' missin' sleep and leavin' here at six bells myself. (Protestingly) And the Sunda ain't an old ship—leastways, not very old—and she's good's she ever was. mrs. mayo, (ker{tips trembling) I wish Robbie weren't going. mayo. (looking at her over his glasses—consolingly) There, Katey! mrs. mayo. (rebelliously) Well, I do wish he wasn't! scott. You shouldn't be taking it so hard, 's far as I kin see. This vige'll make a man of him. I'll see to it he learns how to navigate, 'n' study for a mate's c'tificate right off—and it'll give him a trade for the rest of his life, if he wants to travel. mrs. mayo. But I don't want him to travel all his life. You've got to see he comes home when this trip is ovey. Then he'll be all well, and he'll want to—to marry—(and^ew sits forward in his chair with an abrupt movement)—and settle down right here. (She stares down at the knitting in her lap—after a pause) I never realized how hard it was going to bp for me to have Robbie go—or I wouldn't have considered it a minute. scott. It ain't no good goin' on that way,* Kate, now it's all settled. mrs. mayo, (on the verge of tears) It's all right for you to talk. You've never had any children. You don't knowBEYOND THE HORIZON 3f? what it means to be parted from them—and Robbie my youngest, too. (andrew frowns and fidgets in his chair), Andrew. (suddenly turning to them) There's one thing none of you seem to take into consideration—that Rob wants to go. He's dead set on it. He's been dreaming over this trip ever since it was first talked about. It wouldn't be fair to him not to have him go. (A sudden uneasiness seems to strike him) At least, not if he still feels the same way about it he did when he was talking to me this evening. mayo. (with an air of decision) Andy's right, Katey. That ends all argyment, you can see that. (Looking at Ms big silver watch) Wonder what's happened to Robert? He's been gone long enough to wheel the widder to* home, certain. He can't be out dreamin' at the stars his last night. mrs. mayo, (a bit reproachfully) Why didn't you wheel Mrs. Atkins back tonight, Andy? You usually do when she and Ruth come over. Andrew. (avoiding her eyes) I thought maybe Robert wanted to tonight. He offered to go right away when they were leaving. mrs. mayo. He only wanted to be polite. andrew. (gets to his feet) Well, he'll be right' back, I guess. (He turns to his father) Guess I'll go take a look at the black cow, Pa—see if she's ailing any. mayo. Yes—better had, son. (andrew goes into the kitchen on the right). scott. (a# he goes out—in a low tone) There's the boy that would make a good, strong sea-farin' man—if h$'d a mind to. mayo, (sharply) Don't you put no such fool notions in Andy's head, Dick—or you 'n' me's goin' to fall out. (Then he36 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL smiles) You couldn't tempt him, no ways. Andy's a Mayo bred in the bone, and he's a born farmer, and a damn good one, too. He'll live and die right here on this farm, like I expect to. (With proud confidence) And he'll make this one of the slick- est, best-payin' farms in the state, too, afore he gits through! scott. Seems to me it's a pretty slick place right now. mayo. (shaking his head) It's too small. We need more land to make it amount to much, and we ain't got the capital to buy it. (andrew enters from the Icitchen. His hat is on, and he carries a lighted lantern in his hand. He goes to the door in the rear leading out). Andrew. (opens the door and pauses) Anything else you can think of to be done, Pa? mayo. No, nothin' I know of. (andrew goes out, shutting the door). mrs. mayo. (after a pause) What's come over Andy tonight, I wonder? He acts so strange. mayo. He does seem sort o' glum and out of sorts. It's 'count o* Robert leaving I s'pose. (To scott) Dick, you f wouldn't believe how them boys o' mine sticks together. They ain't like most brothers. They've been thick as thieves all their lives, with nary a quarrel I kin remember. scott. No need to tell me that. I can see how they take to each other. mrs. mayo. (pursuing her train of thought) Did you notice, James, how queer everyone was at supper? Robert seemed stirred up about something; and Ruth was so flustered and giggly; and Andy sat there dumb, looking as if he'd lost his- best friend; and all of them only nibbled at their food.BEYOND THE HORIZON 87 mayo. Guess they was all thinkin' about tomorrow, same as us. mrs. mayo, (shaking her head) No. I'm afraid somethin's happened—something else. mayo. You mean—'bout Ruth? mrs. mayo. Yes. mayo. (after a pause—frowning) I hope her and Andy ain't had a serious fallin'-out. I always sorter hoped they'd hitch up together sooner or later. What d'you say, Dick ? Don't you think them two'd pair up well? scott. (nodding his head approvingly) A sweet, whole- some couple they'd make. mayo. It'd be a good thing for ,Andy in more ways than one. I ain't what you'd call calculatin' generally, and I b'lieve in lettin' young folks run their affairs to suit themselves; but there's advantages for both o* them in this match you can't overlook in reason. The Atkins farm is right next to ourn. Jined together they'd make a jim-dandy of a place, with plenty o* room to work in. And bein' a widder with only a daughter, and laid up all the time to boot, Mrs. Atkins can't do nothin' with the place as it ought tb be done. She needs a man, a first-class farmer, to take hold o' things; and Andy's just the one. mrs. mayo. (abruptly) I don't think Ruth loves Andy. mayo. You don't? Well, maybe a woman's eyes is sharper in such things, but—they're always together. And if she don't love him now, she'll likely come around to it in time. (As mrs. mayo shakes her head) You seem mighty fixed in your opinion, Katey. How d'you know? mrs. mayo. It's just—what I feel. mayo, (a light breaking over him) You don't mean to Say38 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL —(mrs. mayo nods. mayo chuckles scornfully) Shucks! I'm losin* my respect for your eyesight, Katey. Why, Eobert ain't got no time for Ruth, 'cept as a friend! mrs. mayo. (warningly) Sss-h-h! (The door from the yard opens, and robert enters. He is smiling happily, and humming u song to himself, but as he comes into the room an undercurrent of nervous uneasiness manifests itself in his bearing). mayo. So here you be at last! (robert comes forward and sits on andy's chair. mayo smiles slyly at his wife) What have you been doin' all this time—countin' the stars to see if they all come out right and proper? robert. There's only one I'll ever look for any more, Pa. mayo. (reproachfully) * You might've even not wasted time lookin' for that one—your last night. mrs. mayo. (as if she were speaking to a child) You ought to have worn your coat a sharp night like this, Robbie. scott. (disgustedly) God A'mighty, Kate, you treat Rob- ert as if he was one year old! mrs. mayo. (notices robert's nervous uneasiness) You look all worked up over something, Robbie. What is it? robert. (swallowing hard, idbks quickly from one to the other of them—then begins determinedly) Yes, there is some- thing—something I must tell you—all of you. (As he begins to talk Andrew enters quietly from the rear, closing the door behind him, and setting the lighted lantern on the floor. He remains standing by the door, his arms folded, listening to robert with a repressed expression of pain on his face. kobert is so much taken up with what he is going to say that he does not notice Andrew's presence.) Something I discovered only this evening—very beautiful and wonderful—something I did notBEYOND THE HORIZON 39 take into consideration previously because I hadn't dared to hope that such happiness could ever come to me. (Appealingly) You must all remember that fact, won't you? mayo. (frowning) Let's get to the point, son. robert. (with a trace of defiance) Well, the point is this, Pa: I'm not going—I mean—I can't go tomorrow with Uncle Dick—or at any future time, either. mrs. mayo. (with a sharp sigh of joyful relief) Oh, Robbie, I'm so glad! mayo. (astounded) You ain't serious, be you, Robert? (Se- verely) Seems to me it's a pretty late hour in the day for you to be upscttin' all your plans so sudden! robert. I asked you to remember that until this evening I didn't know myself. I had never dared to dream- mayo. (irritably) What is this foolishness you're talkin' of? robert. {flushing) Ruth told me this evening that—she loved me. It was after I'd confessed I loved her. I told her I hadn't been conscious of my love until after the trip had been arranged, and I realized it would mean—leaving her. That was the truth. I didn't know until then. (As if justifying himself to the others) I hadn't intended telling her anything but—suddenly—I felt I must. I didn't think it would matter, because I was going away. And I thought she loved—someone else. (Slowly—his eyes shining) And then she cried and said it was I she'd loved all the time, but I hadn't seen it. mrs. mayo. (rushes over and throws her arms about him) I knew it! I was just telling your father when you came in— and, Oh, Robbie, I'm so happy you're not going! robert. (hissing her) I knew you'd be glad, Ma. mayo. (bewilderedly) Well, I'll be damned! You do beat40 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL all for gettin' folks' minds all tangled up, Robert., And Ruth too! Whatever got into her of a sudden ? Why, I was thinkin'- mrs. mayo, (hurriedly—in a tone of warning) Never mind what you were thinking, James. It wouldn't be any use telling us that now. (.Meaningly) And what you were hoping for turns out just the same almost, doesn't it? mayo. (thoughtfully—beginning to see this side of the argu- ment) Yes; I suppose you're right, Katey. (Scratching his head in puzzlement) But how it ever come about! It do heat anything ever I heard. (Finally he gets up with a sheepish grin and walks over to robert) We're glad you ain't goin', your Ma and I, for we'd have missed you terrible, that's certain and sure; and we're glad you've found happiness. Ruth's a fine girl and'll make a good wife to you. robert. (much moved) Thank you, Pa. (He grips his father's hand in his). Andrew, (his face tense and drawn comes forward and holds out his hand, forcing a smile) I guess it's my turn to offer congratulations, isn't it? robert. (with a startled cry when his brother appears before him so suddenly) Andy! (Confused) Why—I—I didn't see you. Were you here when- Andrew. I hsard everything you said; and here's wishing you every happiness, you and Ruth. You both deserve the best there is. robert. (taking his hand) Thanks, Andy, it's fine of you to- (His voice dies away as he sees the pain in Andrew's eyes). Andrew, (giving his brother's hand a final grip) Good luckBEYOND THE HORIZON 41 to you both! '(He turns away and goes bach to the rear where he bends over the lantern, fumbling with it to hide his emotion from the others). mrs. mayo, (to the captain, who has been too flabbergasted by robert's decision to say a word) What's the matter, Dick? Aren't you going to congratulate Robbie ? scott. (embarrassed) Of course I be! (He gets to his feet and shakes robert's hand, muttering a vague) Luck to you, boy. (He stands beside robert as if he wanted to say something more but doesn't know how to go about it). robert. Thanks, Uncle Dick. scott. So you're not acomin* on the Sunda with me? (His voice indicates disbelief). robert. I can't, Uncle—not now. I wouldn't miss it for anything else in the world under any other circumstances. (He sighs unconsciously) But you see I've found—a bigger dream. (Then with joyous high spirits) I want you all to understand one thing—I'm not going to be a loafer on your hands any longer. This means the beginning of a new life for me in every way. I'm going to settle right down and take a real interest in the farm, and do my share. I'll prove to you, Pa, that I'm as good a Mayo as you are—or Andy, when I want to be. mavo. (kindly but skeptically) That's the right spirit, Rob- ert. Ain't none of us doubts your willin'ness, but you ain't never learned- robert. Then I'm going to start learning right away, and you'll teach me, won't you? mayo, (mollifyingly) Of course I will, boy, and be glad to, only you'd best go easy at first. scott. (who has listened to this conversation in mingled42 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL consternation and amazement) You don't mean to tell me you're goin' to let him stay, do you, James? mayo. Why, things bein' as they be, Robert's free to do as he's a mind to. mrs. mayo. Let him! The very idea! scott. (more and more ruffled) Then all I got to say is, you're a soft, weak-willed critter to be permittin' a boy—and women, too—to be layin' your course for you wherever they damn pleases. mayo. (slyly amused) It's just the same with me as 'twas with you, Dick. You can't order the tides on the seas to suit you, and I ain't pretendin' I can reg'late love for young folks. " scott. (scornfully) Love! They ain't old enough to know love when they sight it! Love! I'm ashamed of you, Robert, to go lettin' a little huggin' and kissin* in the dark spile your chances to make a man out o' yourself. It ain't common sense— no siree, it ain't—not by a hell of a sight! (He pounds the table with his fists in exasperation). mrs. mayo. (laughing provokingly at her brother) A fine one you are to be talking about love, Dick—an old cranky bachelor like you. Goodness sakes! scott. (exasperated by their joking) I've never been a damn fool like most, if that's what you're steerin' at. » mrs. mayo. (tauntingly) Sour grapes, aren't they, Dick? (jShe laughs. robert and his father chuckle. scott sputters with annoyance) Good gracious, Dick, you do act silly, flying into a temper over nothing. scott. (indignantly) Nothin'! You talk as if I wasn't con- cerned nohow in this here business. Seems to me I've got a right to have my say. Ain't I made all arrangements with theBEYOND THE HORIZON 43 owners and stocked up with some special grub all on Robert's account ? robert. You've been fine, Uncle Dick; and I appreciate it. Truly. mayo. 'Course; we all does, Dick. Scott. (unplacated) I've been countin' sure on havin' Robert for company on this vige—to sorta talk to and show things to, and teach, kinda, and I got my mind so set on havin' him I'm goin' to be double lonesome this vige. (He pounds on the table, attempting to cover up this confession of weakness) Darn all this silly lovin' business, anyway. (Irritably) But all this talk ain't tellin' me what I'm to do with that sta'b'd cabin I fixed up. It's all painted white, an' a bran new mattress on the bunk, 'n' new sheets V blankets 'n' things. And Chips built in a book-case so's Robert could take his books along— with a slidin' bar fixed across't it, mind, so's they couldn't fall out no matter how she rolled. (With excited consternation) What d'you suppose my officers is goin' to think when there's no one comes aboard to occupy that sta'b'd cabin? And the men what did the work on it—what'U they think? (He shakes his finger indignantly) They're liable as not to suspicion it was a woman I'd planned to ship along, and that she gave me the go-by at the last moment! (He wipes his perspiring brow in anguish at this thought). Gawd A'mighty! They're only lookin' to have the laugh on me for something like that. They're liable to b'lieve anything, those fellers is! mayo, (with a mink) Then there's nothing to it but for you to get right out and hunt up a wife somewheres for that spick 'n' span cabin. She'll have to be a pretty one, too, to match it. (He looks at his watch with exaggerated concern) You ain't got much time to find her, Dick.44 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL scott. (as the others smile—sulkily) You kin go to thunder, Jim M&yo! Andrew. (comes forward from where he has been standing by the door, rear} brooding. His face is set in a look of grim determination) You needn't worry about that spare cabin, Uncle Dick, if you've a mind to take me in Robert's place. robert. (turning to him quickly) Andy! (He sees at once the fixed resolve in his brother's eyes, and realizes immediately the reason for it—in consternation) Andy, you mustn't! Andrew. You've made your decision, Rob, and now I've made mine. You're out of this, remember. * robert. (hurt by his brother's tone) But Andy- Andrew. Don't interfere, Rob—that's all I ask. (Turning to his uncle) You haven't answered my question, Uncle Dick. scott. (clearing his throat, with an uneasy side glance at james mayo who is staring at his elder son as if he thought he had suddenly gone mad) O* course, I'd be glad to have you, Andy. Andrew. It's settled then. I can pack the little I want to take in a few minutes. mrs. mayo. Don't be a fool, Dick. Andy's only joking you. scott. (disgruntedly) It's hard to tell who's jokin' and who's not in this house. Andrew, (firmly) I'm not joking, Uncle Dick (As scott looles at him uncertainly) You needn't be afraid I'll go back on my word. robert. (hurt by the insinuation he feels in Andrew's tone) Andy! That isn't fair! mayo, (frowning) Seems to me this ain't no subject to joke over—not for Andy. Andrew, (facing his father) I agree with you, Pa,BEYOND TH& HORIZON 45 tell you again, once and for all, that I've made up my mind to go. mayo. (dumbfounded—unable to doubt the determination in andrew's voice—helplessly) But why, son? Why? Andrew. (evasively) I've always wanted to go. robert. Andy! Andrew, (half angrily) You shut up, Rob! (Turning to his father again) I didn't ever mention it because as long as Rob was going I knew it was ho use; but now Rob's staying on here, there isn't any reason for me not to go. mayo. (breathing hard) No reason? Can you stand there and say that to me, Andrew? mrs. mayo, (hastily—seeing the gathering storm) He doesn't mean a word of it, James. mayo, (making a gesture to her to keep silence) Let me talk, Katey. (In a more kindly tone) What's come over you so sudden, Andy? You know's well as I do that it wouldn't be fair o' you to run off at a moment's notice right now when we're up to our necks in hard work. Andrew, (avoiding his eyes) Rob'11 hold his end up as soon as he learns. mayo. Robert was never cut out for a farmer, and you was. Andrew. You can easily get a man to do my work. mayo, (restraining his anger with an effort) It sounds strange to hear you, Andy, that I always thought had good sense, talkin* crazy like that (Scornfully) Get a man to take your place! You ain't been workin' here for no hire, Andy, that you kin give me your notice to quit like you've done. The farm is your'n as well as mine. You've always worked on it with that understanding; and what you're sayin' you intend doin' is just skulkin' out o' your rightful responsibility. Andrew. (looking at the floor—simply) I'm sorry, Pa.PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL (After a slight \pause) It's no use talking any more about it. mrs. mayo, (in relief) There! I knew Andy'd come to his senses! Andrew. Don't get the wrong idea, Ma. I'm not backing out. mayo. You mean you're goin' in spite of—everything ^axdrew. Yes. I'm going. I've got to. (He looks at his father defiantly) I feel I oughn't to miss this chance to go out into the world and see things, and—I want to go. mayo, (with bitter scorn) So—you want to go out into the world and see thin's! (His voice raised and quivering with anger) I never thought I'd live to see the day when a son o' mine'd look me in the face and tell a bare-faced lie! (Bursting out) You're a liar, Andy Mayo, and a mean one to boot! mrs. mayo. James! robert. Pa! scott. Steady there, Jim! v mayo, (waving their protests aside) He is and he knows it. andrew. (his face flushed) I won't argue with you, Pa. You can think as badly of me as you like. mayo, (shaking his finger at andy, in a cold rage) You know I'm speakin' truth—that's why you're afraid to argy! You lie when you say you want to go 'way—and see thin's! You ain't got no likin' in the world to go. I've watched you grow up, and I know your ways, and they're my ways. You're runnin' against your own nature, and you're goin' to be a'mighty sorry for it if you do. 'S if I didn't know your real reason for runnin' away! And runnin' away's the only words to fit it. You're runnin' away 'cause you're put out and riled 'cause your own brother's got Ruth 'stead o' you, and- andrew. (his face crimson—tensely) Stop, Pa! I won't stand hearing that—not even from you!BEYOND THE HORIZON mrs. mayo. (rushing to andy and putting her arms about htm protectingly) Don't mind him, Andy dear. He don't mean a word he's saying! (robert stands rigidly, his hands clenched, his face contracted by pain. scott sits dumbfounded and open- mouthedf. andrew soothes his mother who is on the verge of. tears). mayo, (in angry triumph) It's the truth, Andy Mayo! And you ought to be bowed in shame to think of it! robert. (protestingly) Pa! mrs. mayo. (coming from andrew to his father; puts her hands on his shoulders as though to try and push him bach in the chair from which he has risen) Won't you be still, James? Please won't you? mayo. (looking at Andrew over his wife's shoulder—stub- bornly) The truth—God's truth! mrs. mayo. Sh-h-h! ([She tries to put a finger across his lips, but he twists his head away)* andrew. (who has regained control over himself) You're wrong, Pa, it isn't truth. (With defiant assertiveness) I don't love Ruth. I never loved her, and the thought of such a thing never entered my head. mayo, (with an angry snort of disbelief) Hump! You're pilin' lie on lie! andrew. (losing his temper—bitterly) I suppose it'd be hard for you to explain anyone's wanting to leave this blessed farm except for some outside reason like that. But I'm sick and lired of it—whether you want to believe me or not—and that's why I'm glad to get a chance to move on. robert. Andy! Don't! You're only making it worse. andrew. (sulkily) I don't care. I've done my share of work here. I've earned my right to quit when I want to.*8 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL (,Suddenly overcome with anger and grief; with rising intensity) I'm sick and tired of the whole damn business. I hate the farm and every inch of ground in it. I'm sick of digging in the dirt and sweating in the sun like a slave without getting a word of thanks for it. (Tears of rage starting to his eyes—hoarsely) I'm through, through for good and all; and if Uncle Dick won't take me on his ship, I'll find another. I'll get away somewhere, somehow. mrs. mayo, (in a frightened voice) Don't you answer him, James. He doesn't know what he's saying. Don't say a word to him 'til he's in his right senses again. Please James, don't- mayo. (pushes her away from him; his face is drawn and pale with the violence of his passion. He glares at Andrew as if he hated him) You dare to—you dare to speak like that to me? You talk like that 'bout this farm—the Mayo farm— where you was born-—you—you- (He clenches his fist above his head and advances threateningly on Andrew) You damned whelp! mrs. mayo, (with a shriek) James! (She covers her face with her hands and sinks weakly into mayo's chair. Andrew remains standing motionless, his face pale and set). scott. (starting to his feet and stretching his arms across the table toward mayo) Easy there, Jim! robert. (throwing himself between father and brother) Stop! Are you mad? mayo, (grabs robert's arm and pushes him aside—then stands for a moment gasping for breath before Andrew. He points to the door with a shaking finger) Yes—go!—go!— [You're no son o* mine—no son o' mine! You can go to hell ifBEYOND THE HORIZON 49 you want to! Don't let me find you here—in the mornin'— or—or—I'll throw you out! robert. Pa! For God's sake! (mrs. mayo bursts into noisy sobbing). mayo. ([he gulps convulsively and glares at Andrew) You go—tomorrow mornin'—and by God—don't come back—don > dare come back—by God, not while I'm livin'—or I'll—I'll-f (He shakes «?sn't seem to have impressed you very favorably. Andrew. I should say it didn't! I'll never set foot on a ship again if I can help it—except to carry me some place I can't get to by train. robert. But you studied to become an officer! Andrew. Had to do something or I'd gone mad. The days were like years. (He laughs) And as for the East you used to rave about—well, you ought to see it, and smell it! One walk down one of their filthy narrow streets with the tropic sun beating on it would sicken you for life with the "wonder and mystery" you used to dream of. robert. (shrinking from his brother with a glance of aver- sion) So all you found in the East was a stench? Andrew. A stench! Ten thousand of them! robert. But you did like some of the places, judging from your letters—Sydney, Buenos Aires- Andrew. Yes, Sydney's a good town. (Enthusiastically) But Buenos Aires—there's the place for you. Argentine's a country where a fellow has a chance to make good. You're right I like it. And I'll tell you, Rob, that's right where I'm going just as soon as I've seen you folks a while and can get a ship. I can get a berth as second officer, and I'll jump the ship when I get there. I'll need every cent of the wages Uncle's paid me to get a start at something in B. A. robert. (staring at his brother—slowly) So you're not going to stay on the farm? Andrew. Why sure not! Did you think I was? There wouldn't be any sense. One of us is enough to run this little place.BEYOND THE HORIZON 81 hobert. I suppose it does seem small to you now. Andrew. (not noticing the sarcasm in robert's tone) You've no idea, Rob, what a splendid place Argentine is. I had a letter from a marine insurance chap that I'd made friends with in Hong-Kong to his brother, who's in the grain business in Buenos Aires. He took quite a fancy to me, and what's more important, he offered me a job if I'd come back there. I'd have taken it on the spot, only I couldn't leave Uncle Dick in the lurch, and I'd promised you folks to come home. But I'm going back there, you bet, and then you watch me get on! (He slaps robert on the back) But don't you think it's a big chance, Rob? robert. It's fine—for you, Andy. andrew. We call this a farm—but you ought to hear about the farms down there—ten square miles where we've got an acre. It's a new country where big things are opening up —and I want to get in on something big before I die. I'm no fool when it comes to farming, and I know something about grain. I've been reading up a lot on it, too, lately. (He notices robert's absent-minded expression and laughs) Wake up, you old poetry book worm, you! I know my talking about business makes you want to choke me, doesn't it? robert. (with an embarrassed smile) No, Andy, I—I just happened to think of something else. (Frowning) There've been lots of times lately that I've wished I had some of your faculty for business. andrew. (soberly) There's something I want to talk abouty Rob,—the farm. You don't mind, do you? robert. No. andrew. I walked over it this morning with Ruth—and82 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL she told me about things- (Evasively) I could see the place had run down; but you mustn't blame yourself. When luck's against anyone- robeet. Don't, Andy! It is my fault. You know it as well as I do. The best I've ever done was to make ends meet. Andrew. (after a pause) I've got over a thousand saved, and you can have that. robert. (firmly) No. You need that for your start in Buenos Aires. Andrew. I don't. I can- robert. (determinedly) No, Andy! Once and for all, no! I won't hear of it! Andrew. (protestingly) You obstinate old son of a gun! robert. Oh, everything'll be on a sound footing after harvest. Don't worry about it. Andrew. (doubtfully) Maybe. (After a pause) It's too bad Pa couldn't have lived to see things through. (With feel- ing) It cut me up a lot—hearing he was dead. He never —softened up, did he—about me, I mean? robert. He never understood, that's a kinder way of put- ting it. He does now. Andrew. (after a pause) You've forgotten all about what —caused me to go, haven't you, Rob? (robert nods but keeps his face averted) I was a slushier damn fool in those days than you were. But it was an act of Providence I did go. It opened my eyes to how I'd been fooling myself. Why, I'd forgotten all about—that—before I'd been at sea six months.BEYOND THE HORIZON 83 robert. (turns and looks Into Andrew's eyes searchingly) You're speaking of—Ruth? andrew. (confused) Yes. I didn't want you to get false notions in your head, or I wouldn't say anything. (Looking robert squarely in the eyes) I'm telling you the truth when I say I'd forgotten long ago. It don't sound well for me, getting over things so easy, but I guess it never really amounted to more than a kid idea I was letting rule me. I'm certain now I never was in love—I was getting fun out of thinking I was —and being a hero to myself. (He heaves a great sigh of relief) There! Gosh, I'm glad that's off my chest. I've been feeling sort of awkward ever since I've been home, think- ing of what you two might think. (A trace of appeal in his voice) You've got it all straight now, haven't you, Rob? robert. (in a low voice) Yes, Andy. Andrew. And I'll tell Ruth, too, if I can get up the nerve. She must feel kind of funny having me round—after what used to be—and not knowing how I feel about it. robert. (slowly) Perhaps—for her sake—you'd better not tell her. Andrew. For her sake? Oh, you mean she wouldn't want to be reminded of my foolishness? Still, I think it'd be worse if- robert. (breaking out—in an agonized voice) Do as you please, Andy; but for God's sake, let's not talk about it! (There is a pause. Andrew stares at robert in hurt stupefaction. robert continues after a moment in a voice which he vainly attempts to keep calm) Excuse me, Andy. This rotten head- ache has my nerves shot to pieces.84 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL Andrew. (mumbling) It's all right, Rob—long as you're not sore at me. robert. Where did Uncle Dick disappear to this morning? andrew. He went down to the port to see to things on the Sunda. He said he didn't know exactly when he'd he back. I'll have to go down and tend to the ship when he comes. That's why I dressed up in these togs. mary. (pointing down the hill to the left) See! Mama! Mama! {She struggles to her feet, ruth appears at left. She is dressed in white, shows she has been fixing up. She looks pretty, flushed and full of life). mary. (running to her mother) Mama! ruth. (hissing her) Hello, dear! (She walks toward the rock and addresses robert coldly) Jake wants to see you about something. He finished working where he was. He's waiting for you at the road. robert. (getting up—wearily) I'll go down right away. (As he looks at ruth, noting her changed appearance, his face darkens with pain). ruth. And take Mary with you, please.. (To mary) Go with Dada, that's a good girl. Grandma has your dinner most ready for you. robert. (shortly) Come, Mary! mary. (taking his hand and dancing happily beside him) Dada! Dada! (They go down the hill to the left, ruth looks after them for a moment, frowning—then turns to andy with a smile) I'm going to sit down. Come on, Andy. It'll be like old times. (She jumps lightly to the top of the rock end sits down) It's so fine and cool up here after the house.BEYOND THE HORIZON 85 Andrew. (half-sitting on the side of the boulder) Yes. It's great. ruth. I've taken a holiday in honor of your arrival. (Laugh- ing excitedly) I feel so free I'd like to have wings and fly over the sea. You're a man. You can't know how awful and stupid it is—cooking and washing dishes all the time. Andrew. (making a wry face) I can guess. ruth. Besides, your mother just insisted on getting your first dinner to home, she's that happy at having you back. You'd think I was planning to poison you the flurried way she shooed me out of the kitchen. Andrew. That's just like Ma, bless her! ruth. She's missed you terrible. We all have. And you can't deny the farm has, after what I showed you and told you when we was looking over the place tnis corning. Andrew. (with a frown) Things are run do^n, that's a fact! It's too darn hard on poor old Rob. ruth. (scornfully) It's his own fault. He never takes any interest in things. Andrew. (reprovingly) You can't blame him. He wasn't born for it; but I know he's done his best for your sake and the old folks and the little girl. ruth. (indifferently) Yes, I suppose he has. (Gayly) But thank the Lord, all those days are over now. The "hard luck" Rob's always blaming won't last long when you take hold, Andy. All the farm's ever needed was someone with the knack of looking ahead and preparing for what's going to happen. Andrew. Yes, Rob hasn't got that. He's frank to own up to that himself. I'm going to try and hire a good man for86 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL him—an experienced farmer—to work the place on a salary and percentage. That'll take it off of Rob's hands, and he needn't be worrying himself to death any more. He looks all worn out, Ruth. He ought to be careful. ruth. (absent-mindedly) Yes, I s'pose. (Her mind is filled with premonitions by the first part of his statement) Why do you want to hire a man to oversee things ? Seems as if now that you're back it wouldn't be needful. Andrew. Oh, of course I'll attend to everything while I'm here. I mean after I'm gone. ruth. (as if she couldn't believe her ears) Gone! Andrew. Yes. When I leave for the Argentine again. ruth. (aghast) You're going away to sea! andrew. Not to sea, no; I'm through with the sea for good as a job. I'm down to Buenos Aires to get ;n the grain business. ruth. But—that's far off—isn't it? andrew. (easily) Six thousand miles more or less. It's quite a trip. (With enthusiasm) I've got a peach of a chance down there, Ruth. Ask Rob if I haven't. I've just been telling him all about it. ruth, {a flush of anger coming over her face) And didn't he try to stop you from going? andrew. (in surprise) No, of course not. Why? ruth. (slowly and vindictively) That's just like him— not to. andrew. (resentfully) Rob's too good a chum to try and stop me when he knows I'm set on a thing. And he could see just as soon's I told him what a good chance it was. ruth. (dazedly) And you're bound on going?BEYOND THE HORIZON 87 Andrew. Sure thing. Oh, I don't mean right off. I'll have to wait for a ship sailing there for quite a while, likely. Any- way, I want to stay to home and visit with you folks a spell before I go. ruth. (dumbly) I s'pose. (With sudden anguish) Oh, Andy, you can't go! You can't. Why we've all thought— we've all been hoping and praying you was coming home to stay, to settle down on the farm and see to things. You mustn't go! Think of how your Ma'll take on if you go— and how the farm'll be ruined if you leave it to Rob to look after. You can see that. Andrew. (frowning) Rob hasn't done so bad. When I? get a man to direct things the farm'll be safe enough. ruth. (insistently) But your Ma—think of her. Andrew. She's used to me bemr away. She won't object when she knows it's best for her and all of us f"r me to go. You ask Rob. In a couple of years down there I'll make luy pile, see if I don't; and then I'll come back and settle down and turn this farm into the crackiest place in the whole state. In the meantime, I can help you both from down thexe. (Earnestly) I tell you, Ruth, I'm going to make good right from the minute I land, if working hard and a determination to get on can do it; and I know they can! (Excitedly—in a rather boastful tone) £l^tell you, I feel ripe for bigger things than settling down here. The trip did that for me, anyway. It showed me the world is a larger proposition than ever I thought it was in the old days. I couldn't be content any more stuck here like a fly in molasses. It all seems trifling, some- how. You ought to be able to understand what I feel. ruth. (dully) Yes—I s'pose I ought. (After a pause—a88 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL sudden suspicion forming in her mind) What did Rob tell you —about me ? Andrew. Tell? About you? Why, nothing. ruth. (staring at him intensely) Are you telling me the truth, Andy Mayo? Didn't he say—I- (She stops con- fusedly) . Andrew, (surprised) No, he didn't mention you, I can remember. Why? What made you think he did? ruth. (wringing her hands) Oh, I wish I could tell if you're lying or not! andrew. (indignantly) What're you talking about? I didn't used to lie to you, did I? And what in the name of God is there to lie for? ruth, (still unconvinced) Are you sure—will you swear— it isn't the reason- (She layers her eyes and half turns away from him) The same reason that made you go last time that's driving you away again ? 'Cause if it is—I was going to say—you mustn't go-—on that account. (Her voice sinks to a tremulous, tender whisper as she finishes). Andrew, (confused—forces a laugh) Oh, is that what you're driving at? Well, you needn't worry about that no more- (Soberly) I don't blame you, Ruth, feeling em- barrassed having me around again, after the way I played the dumb fool about going away last time. ruth, (her hope crushed—with a gasp of pain) Oh, Andy! Andrew, (misunderstanding) I know I oughtn't to talk about such foolishness to you. Still I figure it's better to get it out of my system so's we three can be together same's years ago, and not be worried thinking one of us might have the wrong notionBEYOND THE HORIZON 89 ruth. Andy! Please! Don't! Andrew. Let me finish now that I've started. It'll help clear things up. I don't want you to think once a fool always a fool, and be upset all the time I'm here on my fool account. I want you to believe I put all that silly nonsense back of me a long time ago—and now—it seems—well—as if you'd always been my sister, that's what, Ruth. ruth. (at the end of her endurance—laughing hysterically) For God's sake, Andy—won't you please stop talking! (She again hides her face in her hands, her bowed shoulders trem- bling) . Andrew. (ruefully) Seem's if I put my foot m it whenever I open my mouth today. Rob shut me up with almost the same words when I tried speaking to him about it. ruth. (fiercely) You told him—what you've told, me? Andrew. (astounded) Why sure! Why not ? ruth. (shuddering) Oh, my God! Andrew, (alarmed) Why? Shouldn't I have? ruth, (hysterically) Oh, I don't care what you do! I don't care! Leave me alone! (andrew gets up and walks down the hill to the lefts embarrassed, hurt, and greatly puzzled by her behavior). Andrew, (after a pause—pointing down the hill) Hello! Here they come back—and the Captain's with them. How'd he come to get back so soon, I wonder? That means I've got to hustle down to the port and get on board. Rob's got the baby with him. (He comes bach to the boulder. ruth keeps her face averted from Mm) Gosh, I never saw a father so tied up in a kid as Rob is! He just watches every move she makes. And I don't blame him. You both got a right to feel90 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL proud of her. She's surely a little winner. (He glances at ruth to see if this very obvious attempt to get bach in her good graces is having any effect) I can see the likeness to Rob standing out all over her^ can't you? But there's no denying she's your young one, either. There's something about her eyes- ruth. (piteously) Oh, Andy, I've a headache! I don't want to talk! Leave me alone, won't you please? Andrew. (stands staring at her for a moment—then walks away saying in a hurt tone): Everybody hereabouts seems to be on edge today. I begin to feel as if I'm not wanted around, (He stands near the path, left, kicking at the grass with the toe of his shoe. A moment later captain dick scott enters, fol- lowed by robert carrying mary. The captain seems scarcely to have changed at all from the jovial, booming person he was three years before. He wears a uniform similar to Andrew's. He is puffing and breathless from his climb and mops wildly at his perspiring countenance. robert casts a quick glance at Andrew, noticing the latter*s discomfited look, and then turns his eyes on ruth who, at their approach, has moved so her back is toward them, her chin resting on her hands as she stares out seaward). mary. Mama! Mama! (robert puts her down and she runs to her mother. ruth turns and grabs her up in her arms with a sudden fierce tenderness, quickly turning away again from the others. During the following scene she keeps mary in her arms), scott. (wheezily) Phew! I got great news for you, Andy. Let me get my wind first. Phew! God A'mighty, mountin' this damned hill is worser'n goin* aloft to the skys'l yard in aBEYOND THE HORIZON 91 blow. I got to lay to a while. (He sits down on the grass, mopping his face). Andrew. I didn't look for you this soon, Uncle. scott. I didn't figger it, neither; but I run across a bit o' news down to the Seamen's Home made me 'bout ship and set all sail back here to find you. Andrew. (eagerly) What is it, Uncle? scott. Passin' by the Home I thought I'd drop in an' let 'em know I'd be lackin* a mate next trip count o' your leavin'. Their man in charge o* the shippin' asked after you 'special curious. "Do you think he'd consider a berth as Second on a steamer, Captain?" he asks. I was goin' to say no when I thinks o' you wantin' to get back down south to the Plate agen; so I asks him: "What is she and where's she bound?" "She's the El Paso, a brand new tramp," he says, "and she's bound for Buenos Aires." andrew. (his eyes lighting up—excitedly) Gosh, that is luck! When does she sail ? scott. Tomorrow mornin'. I didn't know if you'd want to ship away agen so quick an' I told him so. "Tell him I'll hold the berth open for him until late this afternoon," he says. So there you be, an* you can make your own choice. Andrew. I'd like to take it. There may not be another ship for Buenos Aires with a vacancy in months. (His eyes roving from robert to ruth and bach again—uncertainly) Still— damn it all—tomorrow morning is soon. I wish she wasn't leaving for a week or so. That'd give me a chance—it seems hard to go right away again when I've just got home. And yet it's a chance in a thousand- (Appealing to robert) What do you think, Rob? What would, you do?92 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL robert. (forcing a smile) He who hesitates, you know. (Frowning) It's a piece of good luck thrown in your way— and—I think you owe it to yourself to jump at it. But don't ask me to decide for you. ruth. (turning to look at Andrew—in a tone of fierce re- sentment]) Yes, go, Andy! (She turns quickly away again. There is a moment of embarrassed silence). Andrew. (thoughtfully) Yes, I guess I will. It'll be the best thing for all of us in the end, don't you think*so, Rob? (robert nods but remains silent)• scott. (getting to his feet) Then, that's settled. Andrew. (now that he has definitely made a decision his voice rings with hopeful strength and energy) Yes, I'll take the berth. The sooner I go the sooner I'll be back, that's a certainty; and I won't come back with empty hands next time. You bet I won't! scott. You ain't got so much time, Andy. To make sure you'd best leave here soon's you kin. I got to get right back aboard. You'd best come with me. andrew. I'll go to the house and repack my bag right away. robert. (quietly) You'll both be here for dinner, won't you? andrew. (worriedly) I don't know. Will there be time? What time is it now, I wonder? robert. (reproachfully) Ma's been getting dinner espe- cially for you, Andy. Andrew. (flushing—shamefacedly) Hell! And I was for- getting ! Of course I'll stay for dinner if I missed every damned ship in the world. (He turns to the captain—briskly) Come on, Uncle. Walk down with me to the house and you can tellBEYOND THE HORIZON 93 me more about this berth on the way. I've got to pack before dinner. (He and the captain start down to the left. Andrew calls bach over his shoulder) You're coming soon, aren't you, Rob? robert. Yes. Ill be right down, (andrew and the cap- tain leave. ruth puts mary on the ground and hides her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake as if she were sobbing. robert stares at her with a grim, somber expression. mary walks backward toward robert, her wondering eyes fixed on her mother). mary. (her voice vaguely frightened, taking her father's hand) Dada, Mama's crying Dada. robert. (bending down and stroking her hair—in a voice he endeavors to keep from being harsh) No, she isn't, little girl. The sun hurts her eyes, that's all. Aren't you beginning to feel hungry, Mary? mary. (decidedly) Yes, Dada. ^ robert. (meaningly) It must be your dinner time now. ruth, (in a muffled voice) I'm coming, Mary. (She wipes her eyes quickly and, without looking at robert, comes and takes mary's hand—in a dead voice) Come on and I'll get your dinner for you. (She walks out left, her eyes fixed on the ground, the skipping mary tugging at her hand. robert waits a moment far them to get ahead and then slowly follows as (The Curtain Falls)BEYOND THE HORIZON ACT THREEACT THREE Scene One Same as Act Two, Scene One—The sitting room of the farm house about six o'clock in the morning of a day toward the end of October five years later. It is not yet dawn, but as the action progresses the darkness outside the windows gradually fades to gray. The room, seen by the light of the shadeless oil lamp with a smoky chimney which stands on the table, presents an appear- ance of decay, of dissolution. The curtains at the windows are torn and dirty and one of them is missing. The closed desk is gray with accumulated dust as if it had not been used in years. Blotches of dampness disfigure the wall paper. Threadbare trails, leading to the kitchen and outer doors, show in the faded carpet. The top of the coverless table is stained with the im- prints of hot dishes and spilt food. The rung of one rocker has been clumsily mended with a piece of plain board. A brown coating of rust covers the unblacked stove. A pile of wood is stacked up carelessly against the wall by the stove. The whole atmosphere of the room, contrasted with that of former years, is one of an habitual poverty too hopelessly re- signed to be any longer ashamed or even conscious of itself. At the rise of the curtain ruth is discovered sitting by the stove, with hands outstretched to the warmth as if the air in the room were damp and cold. A heavy shawl is wrapped about her shoulders, half-concealing her dress of deep mourning. She 9798 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL has aged horribly. Her pale, deeply lined face has the stony lack of expression of one to whom nothing more can ever happen, whose capacity for emotion has been exhausted. When she spealcs her voice is without timbre, low and monotonous. The negligent disorder of her dress, the slovenly arrangement of her hair, now streaked with gray, her muddied shoes run down at the heel, give full evidence of the apathy in which she lives. Her mother is asleep in her wheel chair beside the stove to- ward the rear, wrapped up in a blanket. There is a sound from the open bedroom door in the rear as if someone were getting out of bed. ruth turns in that direction with a look of dull annoyance. A moment later robert appears in the doorway, leaning weakly against it for support. His hair is long and unkempt, his face and body emaciated. There are bright patches of crimson over his cheek bones and his eyes are burning with fever. He is dressed in corduroy pants, a flannel shirt, and wears worn carpet slippers on his bare feet. ruth. (dully) S-s-s-h-! Ma's asleep. robert. (speaking with an effort) I won't wake her. (He walks weakly to a rocker by the side of the table and sinks down in it exhausted). ruth. (staring at the stove) You better come near the fire where it's warm. robert. No. I'm burning up now. ruth. That's the fever. You know the doctor told you not to get up and move round. robert. (irritably) That old fossil! He doesn't know any- thing. Go to bed and stay there—that's his only prescription. ruth. (indifferently) How are you feeling now?BEYOND THE HORIZON 99 robert. (buoyantly) Better! Much better than I've felt in ages. Really I'm fine now—only very weak. It's the turn- ing point, I guess. From now on I'll pick up so quick I'll surprise you—and no thanks to that old fool of a country quack, either. ruth. He's always tended to us. robert. Always helped us to die, you mean! He "tended" to Pa and Ma and—(his voice breaks)—and to—Mary. ruth, {dully) He did the best he knew, I s'pose. (After a pause) Well, Andy's bringing a specialist with him when he comes. That ought to suit you. robert. (bitterly) Is that why you're waiting up all night? ruth. Yes. robert. For Andy? ruth. (without a trace of feeling) Somebody had got to. It's only right for someone to meet him after he's been gone five years. robert. (with bitter mockery) Five years! It's a long time. ruth. Yes. robert. (meaningly) To wait! ruth. (indifferently) It's past now. robert. Yes, it's past. (After a pause) Have you got his twp telegrams with you? (ruth nods) Let me see them, will you? My head was so full of fever when they came I couldn't make head or tail to them. (Hastily) But I'm feeling fine now. Let me read them again, (ruth takes them from the bosom of her dress and hands them to him). ruth. Here. The first one's on top. robert. (opening it) New York. "Just landed from100 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL steamer. Have important business to wind up here. Will be home as soon as deal is completed." (He smiles bitterly) Busi- ness first was always Andy's motto (He reads) "Hope you are all well. Andy." (He repeats ironically) "Hope you are all well!" ruth, (dully) He couldn't know you'd been took sick till I answered that and told him. robert. (contritely) Of course he couldn't. I'm a fool. I'm touchy about nothing lately. Just what did you say in your reply? ruth. (inconsequentially) I had to send it collect. robert. (irritably) What did you say was the matter with me? ruth. I wrote you had lung trouble. robert. (flying into a petty temper) You are a fool! How often have I explained to you that it's pleurisy is the matter with me. You can't seem to get it in your head that the pleura is outside the lungs, not in them! ruth. (callously) I only wrote what Doctor Smith told me. robert. (angrily) He's a damned ignoramus! ruth. ( if it wasn't for me helpin' you on the sly out of my savin's, you'd both been in the poor house—andBEYOND THE HORIZON 107 all 'count of his pigheaded pride in not lettin' Andy know the state thin's were in. A nice thin* for me to have to support him out of what I'd saved for my last days—and me an invalid with no one to look to! ruth. Andy'Il pay you back, Ma. I can tell him so's Rob'll never know. mrs. atkins. (with a snort) What'd Rob think you and him was livin' on, I'd like to know? ruth. (dully) He didn't think about it, I s'pose. (After a slight pause) He said he'd made up his mind to ask Andy for help when he comes. (As a clock in the kitchen strikes six) Six o'clock. Andy ought to get here directly. mrs. atkins. D'you think this special doctor'll do Rob any good? ruth. (hopelessly) I don't know. (The two women re- main silent for a time staring dejectedly at the stove). mrs. atkins. (shivering irritably) For goodness' sake put some wood on that fire. I'm most freezin'! ruth. (pointing to the door in the rear) Don't talk so loud. Let him sleep if he can. (She gets wearily from the chair and puts a few pieces of wood in the stove) This is the last of the wood. I don't know who'll cut more now that Jake's left. (She sighs and walks to the window in the rear, left, pulls the curtains aside, and looks out) It's getting gray out. (She comes back to the stave) Looks like it'd be a nice day. (She stretches out her hands to warm them) Must've been a heavy frost last night. We're paying for the spell of warm weather we've been having. (The throbbing whine of a motor sounds from the distance outside).108 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL mrs. atkins. (sharply) S-h-h! Listen! Ain't that an auto I hear? ruth, (without interest) Yes. It's Andy, I s'pose. mrs. atkins. (with nervous irritation) Don't sit there like a silly goose. Look at the state of this room! What'll this strange doctor think of us? Look at that lamp chimney all smoke! Gracious sakes, Ruth- ruth. ([indifferently) I've got a lamp all cleaned up in the kitchen. mrs. atkins. (peremptorily) Wheel me in there this min- ute. I don't want him to see me looking a sight. I'll lay down in the room the other side. You don't need me now and I'm dead for sleep, (ruth wheels her mother off right. The noise of the motor grows louder and finally ceases as the car stops on the road before the farmhouse. ruth returns from the kitchen with a lighted lamp in her hand which she sets on the table beside the other. The sound of footsteps on the path is heard—then a sharp rap on the door. ruth goes and opens it, andrew enters, followed by doctor pawcett carrying a small black bag. andrew has changed greatly. His face seems to have grown highstrung, hardened by the look of decisiveness which comes from being constantly under a strain where judge- ments on the spur of the moment are compelled to be accurate. His eyes are keener and more alert. There is even a suggestion of ruthless cunning about them. At present, however, his ex- pression is one of tense anxiety, doctor pawcett t* a short, dark, middle-aged man with a Vandyke beard. He wears glasses). ruth. Hello, Andy! I've been waiting—•— andrew. (kissing her hastily) I got here as soon as I could.BEYOND THE HORIZON 109 (He throws off his cap and heavy overcoat on the table, Intro- ducing ruth and the doctor as he does so. He is dressed in an expensive business suit and appears stouter) My sister-in-law, Mrs. Mayo—Doctor Fawcett. (They bow to each other silently. andrew casts a quick glance about the room) Where's Rob? ruth, {pointing) In there. andrew. I'll take your coat and hat, Doctor. (As he helps the doctor with his things) Is he very bad, Ruth? ruth. (dully) He's been getting weaker. andrew. Damn! This way, Doctor. Bring the lamp, Ruth. (.He goes into the bedroom, followed by the doctor and ruth carrying the clean lamp. ruth reappears almost immediately closing the door behind her, and goes slowly to the outside door, which she opens, and stands in the doorway looking out. The sound of Andrew's and robert's voices comes from the bedroom. A moment later Andrew re-enters, closing the door softly. He comes forward and sinks down in the rocker on the right of table, leaning his head on his hand. His face is drawn in a shocked expression of great grief. He sighs heavily, staring mournfully in front of him. ruth turns and stands watching him. Then she shuts the door and returns to her chair by the stove, turning it so she can face him). andrew. (jglancing up quickly—in a harsh voice) How long has this been going on ? ruth. You mean—how long has he been sick? andrew. (shortly) Of course! What else ? ruth. It was last summer he had a bad spell first, but he's been ailin' ever since Mary died—eight months ago. andrew. (harshly) Why didn't you let me know—cable me? Do you want him to die, all of you? I'm damned if it110 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL doesn't look that way! (His voice breaking) Poor old chap! To be sick in this out-of-the-way hole without anyone to attend to him but a country quack! It's a damned shame! ruth. (dully) I wanted to send you word once, but he only got mad when I told him. He was too proud to ask any- thing, he said. Andrew. Proud? To ask me? {He jumps to his feet and paces nervously back and forth) I can't understand the way you've acted. Didn't you see how sick he was getting? Couldn't you realize—why, I nearly dropped in my tracks when I saw him! He looks—{He shudders)—terrible! (With fierce scorn) I suppose you're so used to the idea of his being delicate that you took his sickness as a matter of course. God, if I'd only known! ruth. (without emotion) A letter takes so long to get where you were—and we couldn't afford to telegraph. We owed everyone already, and I couldn't ask Ma. She'd been giving me money out of her savings till she hadn't much left. Don't say anything to Rob about it. I never told him. He'd only be mad at me if he knew. But I had to, because—God knows how we'd have got on if I hadn't. Andrew. You mean to say- {His eyes seem to take in the poverty-stricken appearance of the room for the first time) You sent that telegram to me collect. Was it because- (ruth nods silently. Andrew pounds on the table with his fist) Good God! And all this time I've been—why I've had everything! {He sits down in his chair and pulls it close to ruth's—impulsively) But—I can't get it through my head. Why? Why? What has happened? How did it ever come about? Tell me!BEYOND THE HORIZON ruth. (dully) There's nothing much to tell. Things kept getting worse, that's all—and Rob didn't seem to care. He never took any interest since way back when your Ma died. After that he got men to take charge, and they nearly all cheated him—he couldn't tell—and left one after another. Then after Mary died he didn't pay no heed to anything any more— just stayed indoors and took to reading books again. So I had to ask Ma if she wouldn't help us some. Andrew, (surprised and horrified) Why, damn it, this is frightful! Rob must be mad not to have let me know. Too proud to ask help of me! What's the matter with him in God's name ? (A sudden, horrible suspicion entering his mind) Ruth! Tell me the truth. His mind hasn't gone back on him, has it? ruth. (dully) I don't know. Mary's dying broke him up terrible—but he's used to her being gone by this, I s'pose. Andrew. (looking at her queerly) Do you mean to say you're used to it? ruth, (in a dead tone) There's a time comes—when you don't mind any more—anything. Andrew. (looks at her fixedly for a moment—with great pity) I'm sorry, Ruth—if I seemed to blame you. I didn't realize- The sight of Rob lying in bed there, so gone to pieces—it made me furious at everyone. Forgive me, Ruth. ruth. There's nothing to forgive. It doesn't matter. Andrew. (springing to his feet again and pacing up and down) Thank God I came back before it was too late. This doctor will know exactly what to do. That's the first thing to think of. When Rob's on his feet again we can get the farm working on a sound basis once more. I'll see to that— before I leave.PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL ruth. You're going away again? ANDREW. I've got to. ruth. You wrote Rob you was coming back to stay this time. andrew. I expected to—until I got to New York. Then I learned certain facts that make it necessary. (With a short laugh) To be candid, Ruth, I'm not the rich man you've prob- ably been led to believe by my letters—not now. I was when I wrote them. I made money hand over fist as long as I stuck to legitimate trading; but I wasn't content with that. I wanted it to come easier, so like all the rest of the idiots, I tried speculation. Oh, I won all right! Several times I've been almost a millionaire—on paper—and then come down to earth again with a bump. Finally the strain was too much. I got disgusted with myself and made up my mind to get out and come home and forget it and really live again. (He gives a harsh laugh) And now comes the funny part. The day before the steamer sailed I saw what I thought was a chance to become a millionaire again. (He snaps his fingers) That easy! I plunged. Then, before things broke, I left—I was so confident I couldn't be wrong. But when I landed in New York—I wired you I had business to wind up, didn't I? Well, it was the business that wound me up! (He smiles grimly, pac- ing up and down, his hands in his pockets). ruth, (dully) You found—you'd lost everything? andrew. (sitting down again) Practically. (He takes a cigar from his pocket, bites the end off, and lights if) Oh, I don't mean I'm dead broke. I've saved ten thousand from the wreckage, maybe twenty. But that's a poor showing for five years' hard work. That's why I'll have to go back. (ConfirBEYOND THE HORIZON 113 dently) I can make it up in a year or so down there—and I don't need but a shoestring to start with. (A weary expression comes over his face and he sighs heavily') I wish I didn't have to. I'm sick of it all. ruth. It's too bad—things seem to go wrong so. Andrew. (shaking off Ms depression—briskly) They might he much worse. There's enough left to fix the farm O. K. before I go. I won't leave 'til Rob's on his feet again. In the meantime I'll make things fly around here. (With satis- faction) I need a rest, and the kind of rest I need is hard work in the open—just like I used to do in the old days. (Stop- ping abruptly and lowering his voice cautiously) Not a word to Rob about my losing money! Remember that, Ruth! You can see why. If he's grown so touchy he'd never accept a cent if he thought I was hard up; see? ruth. Yes, Andy. {After a pause, during which Andrew puffs at his cigar abstractedly, his mind evidently busy with plans for the future, the bedroom door is opened and doctor fawcett enters, carrying a bag. He closes the door quietly behind him and comes forward, a grave expression on his face. Andrew springs out of his chair). Andrew. Ah, Doctor! (He pushes a chair between his own and ruth's) Won't you have a chair? fawcett. (glancing at his watch) I must catch the nine o'clock back to the city. It's imperative. I have only a mo- ment. (Sitting dawn and clearing his throat—in a perfunctory, impersonal voice) The case of your brother, Mr. Mayo, is- (He stops and glances at ruth and says meaningly to Andrew) Perhaps it would be better if you and I- ruth. (with dogged resentment) I know what you mean,PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL Doctor. (Dully) Don't be afraid I can't stand it. I'm used to bearing trouble by this; and I can guess what you've found out. (She hesitates for a moment—then continues in a monot- onous voice) Rob's going to die. Andrew, (angrily) Ruth! fawcett. (raising his hand as if to command silence) I am afraid my diagnosis of your brother's condition forces me to the same conclusion as Mrs. Mayo's. Andrew, (groaning) But, Doctor, surely—— fawcett. (calmly) Your brother hasn't long to live— perhaps a few days, perhaps only a few hours. It's a marvel that he's alive at this moment. My examination revealed that both of his lungs are terribly affected. andrew. (brokenly) Good God! (ruth keeps her eyes fixed on her lap in a trance-like stare). fawcett. I am sorry I have to tell you this. If there was anything that could be done- andrew. There isn't anything? fawcett. (shaking his head) It's too late. Six months ago there might have- andrew. (in anguish) But if we were to take him to the mountains—or to Arizona—or- fawcett. That might have prolonged his life six months ago. (andrew groans) But now- (He shrugs his shoul- ders significantly). andrew. (appalled by a sudden thought) Good heavens, you haven't told him this, have you, Doctor? fawcett. No. I lied to him. I said a change of cli- mate- (He looks at his watch again nervously) I must leave you. (He gets up).BEYOND THE HORIZON 115 andrew. (getting to his feet—insistently') But there must still be some chance- fawcett. (as if he were reassuring a child) There is al- ways that last chance—the miracle. (He puts on his hat and coat—bowing to ruth) Good-by, Mrs. Mayo. ruth. (without raising her eyes—dully) Good-by. andrew. (mechanically) I'll walk to the car with you, Doctor. (They go out of the door. ruth sits motionlessly. The motor is heard starting and the noise gradually recedes into the distance. andrew re-enters and sits down in his chair, holding his head in his hands) Ruth! (She lifts her eyes to his) Hadn't we better go in and see him? God! I'm afraid to! I know he'll read it in my face. (The bedroom door is noiselessly opened and robert appears in the doorway. His cheeks are flushed with fever, and his eyes appear unusually large and brilliant. andrew continues with a groan) It can't be, Ruth. It can't be as hopeless as he said. There's always a fighting chance. We'll take Rob to Arizona. He's got to get well. There must be a cfiance! robert. (in a gentle tone) Why must there, Andy ? (ruth turns and stares at him with terrified eyes). andrew. (whirling around) Rob! (Scoldingly) What are you doing out of bed? (He gets up and goes to him) Get right back now and obey the Doc, or you're going to get a licking from me! robert. (ignoring these remarks) Help me over to the chair, please, Andy. andrew! Like hell I will! You're going right back to bed, that's where you're going, and stay there! (He takes hold of robert's arm)*116 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL robert. (mockingly) Stay there 'til I die, eh, Andy? {Coldly) Don't behave like a child. I'm sick of lying down. I'll be more rested sitting up. (As Andrew hesitates—vio- lently) I swear I'll get out of bed every time you put me there. You'll have to sit on my chest, and that wouldn't help my health any. Come on, Andy. Don't play the fool. I want to talk to you, and I'm going to. (With a grim smile) A dying man has some rights, hasn't he? Andrew, (with a shudder) Don't talk that way, for God's sake! I'll only let you sit down if you'll promise that. Re- member. (He helps robert to the chair between his own and ruth's) Easy now! There you are! Wait, and I'll get a pillow for you. (He goes into the bedroom. robert looks at ruth who shrinks away from him in terror. robert smiles bitterly. Andrew comes back with the pillow which he places behind robert's back) How's that? robert. (with an affectionate smile) Fine! Thank you! (As andrew sits down) Listen, Andy. You've asked me not to talk—and I won't after I've made my position clear. (Slowly) In the first place I know I'm dying, (ruth bows her head and covers her face with her hands. She remains like this all during the scene between the two brothers). andrew. Rob! That isn't so! robert. (wearily) It is so! Don't lie to me. After Ruth put me to bed before you came, I saw it clearly for the first time. (Bitterly) I'd been making plans for our future— Ruth's and mine—so it came hard at first—the realization. Then when the doctor examined me, I knew—although he tried to lie about it. And then to make sure I listened at the door to what he told you. So don't mock me with fairy tales aboutBEYOND THE HORIZON 117 Arizona, or any such rot as that. Because Fm dying is no reason you should treat me as an imbecile or a coward. Now that I'm sure what's happening I can say Kismet to it with all my heart. It was only the silly uncertainty that hurt. {There is a pause. Andrew looks around in impotent anguish, not knowing what to say, robert regards him with an af- fectionate smile). Andrew, (finally blurts out) It isn't foolish. You have got a chance. If you heard all the Doctor said that ought to prove it to you. robert. Oh, you mean when he spoke of the miracle? (Dryly) I don't believe in miracles—in my case. Besides, I know more than any doctor on earth could know—because I feel what's coming. (Dismissing the subject) But we've agreed not to talk of it. Tell me about yourself, Andy. That's what I'm interested in. Your letters were too brief and far apart to be illuminating. Andrew. I meant to write oftener. robert. (with a faint trace of irony) I judge from them you've accomplished all you set out to do five years ago ? andrew. That isn't much to boast of. robert. (surprised) Have you really, honestly reached that conclusion? Andrew. Well, it doesn't seem to amount to much now. robert. But you're rich, aren't you? andrew. (with a quick glance at ruth) Yes, I s'pose so. robert. I'm glad. You can do to the farm all I've undone. But what did you do down there? Tell me. You went in the grain business with that friend of yours? andrew. Yes. After two years I had a share in it. I sold118 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL out last year. (He is answering robert's questions with great reluctance). robert. And then? Andrew. I went in on my own. robert. Still in grain? andrew. Yes. robert. What's the matter? You look as if I were accusing you of something. Andrew. I'm proud enough of the first four years. It's after that I'm not boasting of. I took to speculating. robert. In wheat? andrew. Yes. robert. And you made money—gambling? andrew. Yes. — robert. (thoughtfully) I've been wondering what the great change was in you. (After a pause) You—a farmer—to gamble in a wheat pit with scraps of paper. There's a spiritual significance in that picture, Andy. (He smiles bitterly) I'm a failure, and Ruth's another—but we can both justly lay some of the blame for our stumbling on God. But" you're the deepesPdycd^Tailure of the three, Andy. YouVe spent eight years running away from yourself. Do you see what I mean? You used to be a creator when you loved the farm. You and life were in harmonious partnership. And now- (He stops as if seelcing vainly for words) My brain is muddled. But part of what I mean is that your gambling with the thing you used to love to create proves how far astray- So you'll be punished. You'll have to suffer to win back- (His voice grows weaker and he sighs wearily) It's no use. I can't say it. (He lies back and closes his eyes, breathing pantingly).BEYOND THE HORIZON 1-19 Andrew. (slowly) I think I know what you're driving at/ Rob—and it's true, I guess, (robert smiles gratefully and stretches out his hand, which andrew takes in his). robert. I want you to promise me to do one thing, Andy, after- Andrew. Ill promise anything, as God is my Judge! robert. Remember, Andy, Ruth has suffered double her share. (His voice faltering with weakness) Only through contact with suffering, Andy, will you—awaken. His ten. You miiStr marry Ruth—afterwards. ruth. (with a cry) Rob! (robert lies back, his eyes closed, gasping heavily for breath). Andrew. (making signs to her to humor him—gently) You're tired out, Rob. You better lie down and rest a while, don't you think? We can talk later on. robert. (with a mocking smile) Later on! You always were an optimist, Andy! (He sighs with exhaustion) Yes, 111 go and rest a while. (As andrew comes to help him) It must be near sunrise, isn't it? Andrew. It's after six. robert. (As Andrew helps him into the bedroom) Shut the door, Andy. I want to be alone, (andrew reappears and shuts the door softly. He comes and sits down on his chair again, supporting his head on his hands. His face is drawn with the intensity of his dry-eyed anguish). ruth, (glancing at him—fearfully) He's out of his mind now, isn't he? andrew. He may be a little delirious. The fever would do that. (With impotent rage) God, what a shame! And120 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL there's nothing we can da but sit and—wait! {He springs from his chair and walks to the stove)* ruth, {dully) He was talking—wild—like he used to— only this time it sounded—unnatural, don't you think? andrew. I don't know. The things he said to me had truth in them—even if he did talk them way up in the air, like he always sees things. Still- {He glances down at ruth keenly) Why do you suppose he wanted us to promise we'd- (Confusedly) You know what he said. ruth, {dtdly) His mind was wandering, I s'pose. Andrew, {with conviction) No—there was something back of it. ruth. He wanted to make sure I'd be all right—after he'd gone, I expect. Andrew. No, it wasn't that. He knows very well I'd nat- urally look after you without—anything like that. ruth. He might be thinking of—something happened five years back, the time you came home from the trip. andrew. What happened? What do you mean? ruth, {dully) We had a fight. andrew. A fight? What has that to do with me? ruth. It was about you—in a way. andrew. {amazed) About me? ruth. Yes, mostly. You see I'd found out I'd made a mis- take about Rob soon after we were married—when it was too late. andrew. Mistake? {Slowly) You mean—you found out you didn't love Rob? ruth. Yes. andrew. Good God!BEYOND THE HORIZON 121 ruth. And then I thought that when Mary came it'd be different, and I'd love him; but it didn't happen that way. And I couldn't bear with his blundering and book-reading— and I grew to hate him, almost. andrew. Ruth! ruth. I couldn't help it. No woman could. It had to be because I loved someone else, I'd found out. (She sighs wearily) It can't do no harm to tell you now—when it's all past and gone—and dead. You were the one I really loved— only I didn't come to the knowledge of it 'til too late. Andrew. (stunned) Ruth! Do you know what you're say- ing? ruth. It was true—then. (With sudden fierceness) How could I help it? No woman could. Andrew. Then—you loved me—that time I came home? ruth. (doggedly) I'd known your real reason for leaving home the first time—everybody knew it—and for three years I'd been thinking- Andrew. That I loved you? ruth. Yes. Then that day on the hill you laughed about what a fool you'd been for loving me once—and I knew it was all over. Andrew. Good God, but I never thought- (He stops, shuddering at his remembrance) And did Rob- ruth. That was what I'd started to tell. We'd had a fight just before you came and I got crazy mad—and I told him all I've told you. Andrew, (gaping at her speechlessly for a moment) You told Rob—you loved me? ruth. Yes.122 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL andrew. (shrinking away from her in horror) You—you —you mad fool, you! How could you do such a thing? ruth. I couldn't help it. I'd got to the end of bearing things—without talking. andrew. Then Rob must have known every moment I stayed here! And yet he never said or showed—God, how he must have suffered! Didn't you know how much he loved you? ruth. (dully) Yes. I knew he liked me. andrew. Liked you! What kind of a woman are you? Couldn't you have kept silent? Did you have to torture him? No wonder he's dying! And you've lived together for five years with this between you? ruth. We've lived in the same house. andrew. Does he still think—— ruth. I don't know. We've never spoke a word about it since that day. Maybe, from the way he went on, he s'poses I care for you yet. andrew. But you don't. It's outrageous. It's stupid! You don't love me! ruth, (slowly) I wouldn't know how to feel love, even if I tried, any more. andrew. (brutally) And I don't love you, that's sure! (He sinks into his chair, his head between his hands) It's damnable such a thing should be between Rob and me. Why, I love Rob better'n anybody in the world and always did. There isn't a thing on God's green earth I wouldn't have done to keep trouble away from him. And I have to be the very one—it's damnable! How am I going to face him again? What can I say to him now? (He groans with anguishedBEYOND THE HORIZON 123 rage. After a pause) He asked me to promise—what am I going to do? ruth. You can promise—so's it'll ease his mind—and not mean anything. andrew. What? Lie to him now—when he's dying? (De- terminedly) No! It's you who'll have to do the lying, since it must be done. You've got a chance now to undo some of all the suffering you've brought on Rob. Go in to him! Tell him you never loved me—it was all a mistake. Tell him you only said so because you were mad and didn't know what you were saying! Tell him something, anything, that'll bring him peace! ruth. (dully) He wouldn't believe me. Andrew. (furiously) You've got to make him believe you, do you hear? You've got to—now—hurry—you never know when it may be too late. (As she hesitates—imploringly) For God's sake, Ruth! Don't you see you owe it to him? You'll never forgive yourself if you don't. ruth. (dully) I'll go. (She gets wearily to her feet and walks slowly toward the bedroom) But it won't do any good. (andrew's eyes are fixed on her anxiously. She opens the door and steps inside the room. She remains standing there for a minute. Then she calls in a frightened voice) Rob! Where are you? (Then she hurries bach, trembling with fright) Andy! Andy! He's gone! andrew. (misunderstanding her—his face pale with dread) He's not- ruth. (interrupting him—hysterically) He's gone! The bed's empty. The window's wide open. He must have crawled out into the yard!124 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL andbew. (springing to his feet. He rushes into the bed- room and returns immediately with an expression of alarmed amazement on his face) Come! He can't have gone far! (Grabbing his hat he takes ruth's arm and shoves her toward the door) Come on! (Opening the door) Let's hope to God- (The door closes behind them, cutting off his words as {The Curtain Falls)ACT THREE Scene Two Same as Act One, Scene One—A section of country high- way* The sky to the east is already alight with bright color and a thin, quivering line of flame is spreading slowly along the horizon rim of the dark hills. The roadside, how- ever, is stUl steeped in the grayness of the dawn, shadowy and vague. The field in the foreground has a wild uncultivated appearance as if it had been allowed to remain fallow the preceding summer. Parts of the snake-fence in the rear have been brolcen down. The apple tree is leafless and seems dead. robert staggers weakly in from the left. He stumbles into the ditch and lies there for a moment; then crawls with a great effort to the top of the bank where he can see the sun rise, and collapses weakly. ruth and Andrew come hurriedly along the road from the left. Andrew. (stopping and looking about him) There he is! I knew it! I knew we'd find him here. robert. (trying to raise himself to a sitting position as they hasten to his side—with a wan smile) I thought I'd given you the slip. Andrew, (with kindly bullying) Well you didn't, you old scoundrel, and we're going to take you right back where you belong—in bed. (He makes a motion to lift robert). 125126 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL robert. Don't, Andy, Don't, I tell you! Andrew. You're in pain? robert. (simply) No. I'm dying. (He falls back weakly. ruth sinks down beside him with a sob and pillows his head on her lap. Andrew stands looking down at him helplessly. robert moves his head restlessly on ruth's lap) I couldn't stand it back there in the room. -It seemed as if all my life —I'd been cooped in a room. So I thought I'd try to end as I might have—if I'd had the courage—alone—in a ditch by the open road—watching the sun rise, Andrew. Rob! Don't talk. You're wasting your strength. Rest a while and then we'll carry you- robert. Still hoping, Andy? Don't. I know. (There is a pause during which he breathes heavily, straining his eyes toward the horizon) The sun comes so slowly. (With an ironical smile) The doctor told me to go to the far-off places —and I'd be cured. He was right. That was always the cure for me. It's too late—for this life—but- (He has a fit of coughing which rachs his body). Andrew. (with a hoarse sob) Rob! (He clenches his fists in an impotent rage against Fate) God! God! (ruth sobs brokenly and wipes robert's lips with her handkerchief). robert. (in a voice which is suddenly ringing with the happiness of hope) You mustn't feel sorry for me. Don't you see I'm happy at last—free—free!—freed from the farm —free to wander on and on—eternally! (He raises himself on his elbow, his face radiant, and points to the horizon) Look! Isn't it beautiful beyond the hills? I can hear the old voices calling me to come- (Exultantly) And this time I'm go- ing! It isn't the end. It's a free beginning—the st^rt of myBEYOND THE HORIZON 127 voyage! I've won to my trip—the right of release—beyond the horizon! Oh, you ought to be glad—glad—for my sake! (He collapses weakly) Andy! (andrew bends down to him) Remember Ruth- andrew. I'll take care of her, I swear to you, Rob! robert. Ruth has suffered—remember, Andy—only through sacrifice—the secret beyond there- (He suddenly raises himself with his last remaining strength and points to the horizon where the edge of the sun's disc is rising from the rim of the hills) The sun! (He remains with his eyes fixed on it for a moment. A rattling noise throbs from his throat. He mumbles) Remember! (And falls bach and is still. ruth gives a cry of horror and springs to her feet, shuddering, her hands over her eyes. Andrew bends on one knee beside the body, placing a hand over robert's heart, then he hisses his brother rev- erentially on the forehead and stands up). andrew. (facing ruth, the body between them—in a dead voice) He's dead. (With a sudden burst of fury) God damn you, you never told him! ruth. (piteously) He was so happy without my lying to him. andrew. (pointing to the body—trembling with the violence of his rage) This is your doing, you damn woman, you coward, you murderess! ruth, (sobbing) Don't, Andy! I couldn't help it—and he knew how I'd suffered, too. He told you—to remember. andrew. (stares at her for a moment, his rage ebbing away, an expression of deep pity gradually coming over his face. Then he glances down at his brother and speaks brokenly in a compassionate voice) Forgive me, Ruth—for his sake—and128 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL I'll remember- (rtjth lets her hands fall from her face and looks at him uncomprehendmgly. He lifts his eyes to hers and forces out falteringly) I—you—we've both made a mess of things I We must try to help each other—and—in time— we'll come to know what's right- (Desperately) And per- haps we- (But ruth, if she is aware of his words, gives no sign. She remains silent, gazing at him dully with the sad humility of exhaustion, her mind already stnhing bach into that spent calm beyond the further troubling of any hope). (The Curtain Falls)THE STRAW A Play in Three Acta (1919)CHARACTERS his children Bill Carmody Mary Nora Tom Billy Doctor Gaynor Fred Nicholls Eileen Carmody, Bill's eldest child Stephen Murray Miss Howard, a nurse in training Miss Gilpin, superintendent of the Infirmary Doctor Stanton, of the Hill Farm Sanatorium Doctor Simms, his assistant Mr. Sloan Peters, a patient Mrs. Turner, matron of the Sanatorium Miss Bailey Mrs. Abner i Patients Flynn J Other Patients of the Sanatorium Mrs. Brennan.SCENES ACT I Scene I: The Kitchen of the Carmody Home—Evening. Scene II: The Reception Room of the Infirmary, Hill Farm Sanatorium—An Evening a Week Later. ACT II Scene I: Assembly Room of the Main Building at the Sana- torium—A Morning Four Months Later. Scene II: A Crossroads Near the Sanatorium—Midnight of the Same Day. ACT III An Isolation Room and Porch at the Sanatorium—An Afternoon four Months Later.THE STRAW ACT ONETHE STRAW ACT ONE Scene One The kitchen of the Carmody home on the outskirts of a manufacturing town in Connecticut. On the left, forward, the sink. Farther back, two windows looking out on the yard. In the left corner, rear, the icebox. Immediately to the right of it, in the rear wall, a window opening on the side porch. To the right of this, a dish closet, and a door leading into the hall where the main front entrance to the house and the stairs to the floor above are situated. On the right, to the rear, a door opening on the dining room. Farther forward, the kitchen range with scuttle, wood box, etc. In the center of the room, a table with a red and white cover. Four cane-bottomed chairs are pushed under the table. In front of the stove, two battered, wicker rocking chairs. The floor is partly covered by linoleum strips. The walls are papered a light cheerful color. Several old framed picture-supplement prints hang from nails. Every- thing has a clean, neatly-kept appearance. The supper dishes are piled in the sink ready for washing. A dish pan of water simmers on the stove. It is about eight o'clock in the evening of a bitter cold day in late February. As the curtain rises, bill carmody is discovered sitting in a rocker by the stove, reading a newspaper and smoking a black- 135136 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL ened clay pipe. He is a man of fifty, heavy-set and round- shouldered, with long muscular arms and swollen-veined, hairy hands. His face is bony and ponderous; his nose, short and squat; his mouth large, thick-lipped and harsh; his complexion mottled—red, purple-streaked, and freckled; his hair, short and stubby with a bald spot on the crown. The expression of his smedl, blue eyes is one of selfish cunning. His voice is loud and hoarse. He wears a flannel shirt, open at the neck, criss-crossed by red suspenders; black, baggy trousers gray with dust; muddy brogans. His youngest daughter, mary, is sitting on a chair by the table, front, turning over the pages of a picture book. She is a delicate, dark-haired, blue-eyed, quiet little girl about eight years old. carmody. (after watching the child's preoccupation for a moment, in a tone of half-exasperated amusement) Well, but you're the quiet one, surely! It's the dead spit and image of your sister, Eileen, you are, with your nose always in a book; and you're like your mother, too, God rest her soul. (He crosses himself with pious unction and mary also does so) It's Nora and Tom has the high spirits in them like their father; and Billy, too,—if he is a lazy shiftless divil—has the fightin' Car- mody blood like me. You're a Cullen like your mother's people. They always was dreamin* their lives out. (He lights his pipe and shakes his head with ponderous gravity) It's out rompin* and playin' you ought to be at your age, not carin' a fig for books. (With a glance at the clock) Is that auld fool of a doctor stayin* the night? Run out in the hall, Mary, and see if you hear him.THE STRAW 137 mary. (goes out into the hall, rear, and comes bach) He's upstairs. I heard him talking to Eileen. carmody. Close the door, ye little divil! There's a freezin' draught comin' in. (She does so and comes back to her chair. carmody continues with a sneer) I've no use for their drugs at all. They only keep you sick to pay more visits. I'd not have sent for this bucko if Eileen didn't scare me by faintin'. mary. (anxiously) Is Eileen very sick, Papa? carmody. (spitting—roughly) If she is, it's her own fault entirely—weakenin' her health by readin' here in the house. (Irritably) Put down that book on the table and leave it be. I'll have no more readin' or I'll take the strap to you! mary. (laying the booh on the table) It's only pictures. carmody. No back talk! Pictures or not, it's all the same mop in' and lazin' in it. (After a pause—morosely) Who's to do the work and look after Nora and Tom and yourself, if Eileen is bad took and has to stay in her bed? All that I've saved from slavin' and sweatin' in the sun with a gang of lazy Dagoes'll be up the spout in no time. (Bitterly) What a fool a man is to be raisin* a raft of children and him not a million- aire! (With lugubrious self-pity) Mary, dear, it's a black curse God put on me when he took your mother just when I needed her most, (mary commences to sob. carmody starts and looks at her angrily) What are you snifflin' at? mary. (tearfully) I was thinking—of Mama. carmody. (scornfully) It's late you are with your tears, and her cold in her grave for a year. Stop it, I'm tellin' you! (mary gulps bach her sobs). (There is a noise of childish laughter and screams from the street in front. The outside door is opened and slammed, foot-138 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL steps pound along the hall. The door in the rear is shoved open, and nora and tom rush in breathlessly. nor a is a bright, vivacious, red-haired girl of eleven—pretty after an elfish, mis- chievous fashion—light-hearted and robust). (tom resembles nora in disposition and appearance. A healthy, good-humored youngster with a shock of sandy hair. He is a year younger than nora. They are followed into the room, a moment later, by their brother, billy, who is evidently loftily disgusted with their antics, billy is a fourteen-year-old replica of his father, whom he imitates even to the hoarse, domi- neering tone of voice). carmody. (grumpily) Ah, here you are, the lot of you. Shut that door after you! What's the use in me spendin' money for coal if all you do is to let the cold night in the room itself? nora. (hopping over to him—teasingly) Me and Tom had a race, Papa. I beat him. (She sticks her tongue out at her younger brother) Slow poke! tom. You didn't beat me, neither! nora. I did, too! tom. You tripped me comin' up the steps. Brick-top! Cheater! nora. {flaring up) You're a liar! I beat you fair. Didn't I, Papa ? carmody. (with a grin) You did, darlin\ (tom slinks back to the chair in the rear of the table, sulking. carmody pats nora's red hair with delighted pride) Sure it's you can beat the divil himself! nora. (sticks out her tongue again at tom) See? Liar! (She goes and perches on the table near mary who is staring sadly 4n front of her).THE STRAW 139 carmody. (to billy—irritably) Did you get the plug I told you? bili/y. Sure. (He takes a plug of tobacco from his pocket and hands it to his father, nora slides down off her perch and disappears, unnoticed, under the table). carmody. It's a great wonder you didn't forget it—and me without a chew. (JHe bites off a piece and tucks it into his cheek). tom. (suddenly clutching at his leg with a yell) Ouch! Darn you! (He kicks frantically at something under the table, but nora scrambles out at the other end, grinning). carmody. (angrily) Shut your big mouth! tom. (indignantly) She pinched me—hard as she could, too—and look at her laughin'! nora. (hopping on the table again) Cry-baby! tom. I'll tell Eileen, wait 'n' see! nora. Tattle-tale! Eileen's sick. tom. That's why you dast do it. You dasn't if she was up. carmody. (exasperated) Go up to bed, the two of you, and no more talk, and you go with them, Mary. nora. (giving a quick tug at mary's hair) Come on, Mary. mary. Ow! (She begins to cry). carmody. (raising his voice furiously) Hush your noise! It's nothin' but blubberin' you do be doin' all the time. (He stands up threateningly) I'll have a moment's peace, I will! Go on, now! (They scurry out of the rear door). nora. (sticks her head back in the door) Can I say good- night to Eileen, papa? carmody. No. The doctor's with her yet. (Then he adds hastily) Yes, go in to her, Nora. It'll drive himself out of the140 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL house maybe, bad cess to him, and him stayin' half the night. (nora waits to hear no mare but darts bach, shutting the door behind her. billy takes the chair in front of the table. car- mod y sits down again with a groan) The rheumatics are in my leg again. (Shakes his head) If Eileen's in bed long those brats'll have the house down. Ara, well, it's God's will, I sup- pose, but where the money'll come from, I dunno. (With a disparaging glance at his son) They'll not be raisin' your wages soon, I'll be bound. billy. (surlily) Naw. carmody. (still scanning him with contempt) A divil of a lot of good it was for me to go against Eileen's wish and let you leave off your schoolin' this year thinkin' the money you'd earn would help with the house. billy. Aw, goin' to school didn't do me no good. The teach- ers was all down on me. I couldn't learn nothin' there. carmody. (disgustedly) Nor any other place, I'm thinkin', you're that thick. (There is a noise from the stairs in the hall) Wisht! It's the doctor comin' down from Eileen. (The door in the rear is opened and Doctor Gaynor enters. He is a stout, bald, middle-aged man, forceful of speech, who in the case of patients of the carmodys* class dictates rather than advises. carmody adopts a whining tone') Aw, Doctor, and how's Eileen now? gaynor. (does not answer this but comes forward into the room holding out two slips of paper—dictatorially) Here are two prescriptions that'll have to be filled immediately. carmody. (frowning) You take them, Billy, and run round to the drug store, (gaynor hands them to billy). billy. Give me the money, then.THE STRAW 14>1 carmody. (reaches down into his pants pocket with a sigh) How much will they come to, Doctor? gaynor. About a dollar, I guess. carmody. (protestingly) A dollar! Sure it's expensive medicines you're givin' her for a bit of a cold. (He meets the doctor's cold glance of contempt and he wilts—grumblingly, as he peels a dollar bill off a small roll and gives it to billy) Bring back the change—if there is any. And none of your tricks! billy. Aw, what do you think I am? (He takes the money and goes out). carmody. (grudgingly) Take a chair, Doctor, and tell me what's wrong with Eileen. gaynor. (seating himself by the table—gravely) ' Your daughter is very seriously ill. carmody. (irritably) Aw, Doctor, didn't I know you'd be sayin' that, anyway! gaynor. (ignoring this remark—coldly) She has tubercu- losis of the lungs. carmody. (with puzzled awe) Too-ber-c'losis ? gaynor. Consumption, if that makes it plainer to you. carmody. (with dazed terror—after a pause) Consumption? Eileen? , (With sudden anger) What, lie is it you're tellin' me? gaynor. (icily) Look here, Carmody! carmody. (bewildersdly) Don't be angry, now. Sure I'm out of my wits entirely. Ah, Doctor, sure you must be mistaken! gaynor. There's no chance for a mistake, I'm sorry to say. Her right lung is badly affected. carmody. (desperately) It's a cold only, maybe.142 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL gaynor. (curtly) Don't talk nonsense, (carmody groans. gaynor continues authoritatively) She'll have to go to a sana- torium at once. She ought to have been sent to one months ago. (Casts a look of indignant scorn at carmody who is sitting staring at the floor with an expression of angry stupor on his face) It's a wonder to me you didn't see the condition she was in and force her to take care of herself. carmody. (with vague fury) God blast it! gaynor. She kept on doing her work, I suppose—taking care of her brothers and sisters, washing, cooking, sweeping, looking after your comfort—worn out—when she should have been in bed—and— (He gets to his feet with a harsh laugh) But what's the use of talking? The damage is done. We've got to set to work to repair it at once. I'll write tonight to Dr. Stanton of the Hill Farm Sanatorium and find out if he has a vacancy. carmody. (his face growing red with rage) Is it sendin' Eileen away to a hospital you'd be? (Exploding) Then you'll not! You'll get that notion out of your head damn quick. It's all nonsense you're stuffin' me with, and lies, makin' things out to be the worst in the world. She'll not move a step out of here, and I say so, and I'm her father! gaynor. (who has been staring at him with contempt— coldly angry) You refuse to let her go to a sanatorium? carmody. I do. gaynor. (threateningly) Then I'll have to report her case to the Society for the Prevention of Tuberculosis of this county and tell them of your refusal to help her. carmody. (wavering a bit) Report all you like, and be damned to you!THE STRAW 143 gaynor. (ignoring the interruption—impressively) A ma- jority of the most influential men of this city are back of the Society. (Grimly) We'll find a way to move you, Carmody, if you try to be stubborn. carmody. (thoroughly frightened but still protesting) Ara, Doctor, you don't see the way of it at all. If Eileen goes to the hospital, who's to be takin' care of the others, and mindin' the house when I'm off to work? gaynor. You can easily hire some woman. carmody. (at once furious again) Hire? D'you think I'm a millionaire itself? gaynor. (contemptuously) That's where the shoe pinches, eh? (Jn a rage) I'm not going to waste any more words on you, Carmody, but I'm damn well going to see this thing through! You might as well give in first as last. carmody. (wailing) But where's the money comin' from? gaynor. The weekly fee at the Hill Farm is only seven dol- lars. You can easily afford that—the price of a few rounds of drinks. carmody. Seven dollars! And I'll have to pay a woman to come in—and the four of the children eatin' their heads off! Glory be to God, I'll not have a penny saved for me old age— and then it's the poor house! Gaynor. Well, perhaps I can get the Society to pay half for your daughter—if you're really as hard up as you pretend. carmody. (brightening) Ah, Doctor, thank you. gaynor. (abruptly) Then it's all settled? carmody. (grudgingly—trying to make the best of it) I'll do my best for Eileen, if it's needful—and you'll not be tellin' them people about it at all, Doctor?144 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL gaynor. Not unless you force me to. carmody. And they'll pay the half, surely? gaynor. I'll see what I can do. carmody. God bless you, Doctor! (Grumblingly) It's the whole of it they ought to be paying I'm thinking and them with sloos of money. 'Tis them builds the hospitals and why should they be wantin' the poor like me to support them? Gaynor. (disgustedly) Bah! (Abruptly) I'll telephone to Doctor Stanton tomorrow morning. Then I'll know some- thing definite when I come to see your daughter in the afternoon. carmody. (darkly) You'll be comin' again tomorrow? (Half to himself) Leave it to the likes of you to be drainin* a man dry. (gaynor has gone out to the hall in rear and does not hear this last remark. There is a loud knock from the out- side door. The Doctor comes back into the room carrying his hat and overcoat). gaynor. There's someone knocking. carmody. Who'll it be? Ah, it's Fred Nicholls, maybe. (In a low voice to gaynor who has started to put on his over- coat) Eileen's young man, Doctor, that she's engaged to marry, as you might say. gaynor. (thoughtfully) Hmm—yes—she spoke of him. (As another knock sounds carmody hurries to the rear. gay- nor, after a moment's indecision, takes off his overcoat again and sits down. A moment later carmody reenters followed by fred nicholls, who has left his overcoat and hat in the hall- way. nicholls is a young fellow of twenty-three, stockily built, fair-haired, handsome in a commonplace, conventional mold. His manner is obviously an attempt at suave gentility; he has an easy, taking smile and a ready laugh, but there is aTHE STRAW 145 petty, calculating expression in his small, observing, blue eyes. His well-fitting, ready made clothes are carefully pressed. His whole get-up suggests an attitude of man-about-small-town com- placency). carmody. (as they enter) I had a mind to phone to your house but I wasn't wishful to disturb you, knowin' you'd be comin' to call tonight. nicholls. (with disappointed concern) It's nothing seri- ous, I hope. carmody. (grumblingly) Ah, who knows? Here's the doc- tor. You've not met him? nicholls. (politely, looking at gaynor who inclines his head stiffly) I haven't had the pleasure. Of course I've heard- carmody. It's Doctor Gaynor. This is Fred Nicholls, Doc- tor. (The two men shake hands with conventional pleased-to- meet yous) Sit down, Fred, that's a good lad, and be talkin' to the Doctor a moment while I go upstairs and see how is Eileen. nicholls. Certainly, Mr. Carmody—and tell her how sorry I am to learn she's under the weather. carmody. I will so. (He goes out). gaynor. (after a pause in which he is studying nicholls) Do you happen to be any relative to Albert Nicholls over at the Downs Manufacturing Company? nicholls. (smiling) He's sort of a near relative—my father. gaynor. Ah, yes? nicholls. (with satisfaction) I work for the Downs Com- pany myself—bookkeeper, gaynor. Miss Carmody had a position there also, didn't she, before her mother died?146 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL nicholls. Yes. She had a job as stenographer for a time. When she graduated from the business college—I was already working at the Downs—and through my father's influence— you understand, (gaynor nods curtly) She was getting on finely, too, and liked the work. It's too bad—her mother's death, I mean—forcing her to give it up and come home to take care of those kids. gaynor. It's a damn shame. That's the main cause of her breakdown. nicholls. (frowning) I've noticed she's been looking badly lately. Well, it's all her father's fault—and her own, too, be- cause whenever I raised a kick about his making a slave of her, she always defended him. (With a quick glance at the Doctor —in a confidential tone) Between us, Carmody's as selfish as they make 'em, if you want my opinion. gaynor. (with a growl) He's a hog on two legs. nicholls. (with a gratified smile) You bet! (With a pat- ronizing air) I hope to get Eileen away from all this as soon as—things pick up a little. (Making haste to explain his con- nection with the dubious household) Eileen and I have gone around together for years—went to Grammar and High School together—in different classes, of course. She's really a corker —very different from the rest of the family you've seen—like her mother. My folks like her awfully well. Of course, they'd never stand for him. gaynor. You'll excuse my curiosity, but you and Miss Car- mody are engaged, aren't you? Carmody said you were. nicholls. (embarrassed) Why, yes, in a way—but noth- ing definite—no official announcement or anything of that kind.THE STRAW 147 (With a sentimental smile) It's always been sort of under- stood between us. (He laughs awkwardly). gaynor. {gravely) Then I can be frank with you. I'd like to be because I may need your help. Besides, you're bound to know anyway. She'd tell you. nicholls. (a look of apprehension coming over his face) Is it—about her sickness? gaynor. Yes. nicholls. Then—it's serious? gaynor. It's pulmonary tuberculosis—consumption. nicholls. (stunned) Consumption ? Good heavens! (After a dazed pause—lamely) Are you sure, Doctor? gaynor. Positive. (nicholls stares at him with vaguely frightened eyes) It's had a good start—thanks to her father's blind selfishness—but let's hope that can be overcome. The important thing is to ship her off to a sanatorium immediately. That's where you can be of help. It's up to you to help me convince Carmody that it's imperative she be sent away at once —for the safety of those around her as well as her own. nicholls. (confusedly) I'll do my best, Doctor. (As if he couldn't yet believe his ears—shuddering) Good heavens! She never said a word about—being so ill. She's had a cold. But Doctor,—do you think this sanatorium will-? gaynor. (with hearty hopefulness) She has every chance. The Hill Farm has a really surprising record of arrested cases. Of course, she'll never be able to live as carelessly as before, even after the most favorable results. (Apologetically) I'm telling you all this as being the one most intimately concerned. You're the one who'll have to assume responsibility when she returns to everyday life.148 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL nicholls. (answering as if he were merely talking to screen the thoughts in his mind) Yes—certainly—. Where is this sanatorium, Doctor? gaynor. Half an hour by train to the town. The sanato- rium is two miles out on the hills. You'll be able to see her whenever you've a day off. nicholls. (a look of horrified realization has been creeping into his eyes) You said—Eileen ought to be sent away—for the sake of those around her-? gaynor. T. B. is extremely contagious, you must know that. Yet 111 bet she's been fondling and kissing those brothers and sisters of hers regardless, (nicholls fidgets uneasily on his chair). nicholls. ([his eyes shiftily avoiding the doctor's face) Then the kids might have gotten it—by kissing Eileen? gaynor. It stands to reason that's a common means of com- munication. nicholls. (very much shaken) Yes. I suppose it must be. But that's terrible, isn't it? (With sudden volubility, evidently extremely anxious to wind up this conversation and conceal his thoughts from gaynor) I'll promise you, Doctor, I'll tell Car- mody straight what's what. He'll pay attention to me or I'll know the reason why. gaynor. (getting to his feet and picking up his overcoat) Good boy! Tell him I'll be back tomorrow with definite in- formation about the sanatorium. nicholls. (helping him on with his overcoat, anxious to have him go) All right, Doctor. gaynor. (puts on his hat) And do your best to cheer theTHE STRAW 149 patient up. Give her confidence in her ability to get well. That's half the battle. nicholls. (hastily) I'll do all I can. gaynor. (turns to the door and shakes nicholls' hand sym- pathetically) And don't take it to heart too much yourself. In six months she'll come back to yiu her old self again. nicholls. (nervously) It's hard on a fellow—so suddenly but I'll remember—and—(abruptly) Good-night, Doctor. gaynor. Good-night. (He goes out. The outer door is heard shutting behind him. nicholls closes the door, rear, and comes bach and sits in the chair in front of table. He rests his chin on his hands and stares before him, a look of desperate, fright- ened calculation coming into his eyes, carmody tj heard clump- ing heavily down the stairs. A moment later he enters. His expression is glum and irritated). carmody. (coming forward to his chair by the stove) Has he gone away? nicholls. (turning on him with a look of repulsion) Yes. He said to tell you he'd be back tomorrow with definite informa- tion—about the sanatorium business. carmody. (darkly) Oho, he did, did he? Maybe I'll sur- prise him. I'm thinkin' it's lyin' he is about Eileen's sickness, and her lookin' as fresh as a daisy with the high color in her cheeks when I saw her now. nicholls. (impatiently) Gaynor knows his business. (Af- ter a moment's hesitation) He told me all about Eileen's sick- ness. carmody. (resentfully) Small thanks to him to be tellin' our secrets to the town. nicholls. (exasperated) He only told me because you'd150 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL said I and Eileen were engaged. You're the one who was telling —secrets, carmody. (irritated) Ara, don't be talkin'! That's no secret at all with the whole town watchin' Eileen and you spoonin* together from the time yon was kids. nicholls. (vindictively) Well, the whole town is liable to find out- (He checks himself). carmody. (too absorbed in his own troubles to notice this threat) So he told you he'd send Eileen away to the hospital? I've half a mind not to let him—and let him try to make me! (With a frown) But Eileen herself says she's wantin' to go, now. (Angrily) It's all that divil's notion he put in her head that the children'd be catchin' her sickness that makes her willin' to go. nicholls. (with a superior air) From what he told me, I should say it's the only thing for Eileen to do if she wants to get well quickly. (Spitefully) And I'd certainly not go against Gaynor, if I was you. carmody. (worriedly) But what can he do—him and his Sasiety? I'm her father. nicholls. (seeing carmody's uneasiness with revengeful satisfaction) You'll make a mistake if you think he's bluffing. It'd probably get in all the papers about you refusing. Every- one would be down on you. (As a last jab—spitefully) You might even lose your job over it, people would be so sore. carmody. (jumping to his feet) Ah, divil take him! Let him send her where he wants, then. nicholls. (as an afterthought) And, honestly, Mr. Car- mody, I don't see how you can object for a second. (SeeingTHE STRAW 151 carmody* s shaken condition, he finishes boldly) You've some feeling for your own daughter, haven't you? carmody. (apprehensively) Whisht! She might hear you. Let her do what she's wishful. nicholls. (complacently—feeling his duty in the matter well done) That's the right spirit. And you and I'll do all we can to help her. (He gets to his feet) Well, I guess I'll have to go. Tell Eileen- carmody. You're not goin'? Sure, Eileen is puttin' on her clothes to come down and have a look at you. nicholls. (suddenly panic-strichen by the prospect of fac- ing her) No—no—I can't stay—I only came for a moment— I've got an appointment—honestly. Besides, it isn't right for her to be up. You should have told her. (The door in the rear is opened and eileen enters. She is just over eighteen. Her wavy mass of dark hair is parted in the middle and combed low on her forehead, covering her ears, to a knot at the back of her head. The oval of her face is spoiled by a long, rather heavy, Irish jaw contrasting with the delicacy of her other features. Her eyes are large and blue, confident in their compelling candor and sweetness; her lips, full and red, half-open, over strong even teeth, droop at the corners into an expression of wistful sadness; her clear complexion is unnaturally striking in its con- trasting colors, rose and white; her figure is slight and unde- veloped. She wears a plain black dress with a bit of white at the neck and wrists. She stands looking appealingly at nicholls who avoids her glance. Her eyes have a startled, stunned expression as if the doctor's verdict were still in her ears).152 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL eileen. (faintly—forcing a smile) Good-evening, Fred. (Her eyes search his face anxiously). nicholls. (confusedly) Hello, Eileen. I'm so sorry to-. (Clumsily trying to cover up his confusion, he goes over and leads her to a chair) You sit down. You've got to take care of yourself. You never ought to have gotten up tonight. eileen. (sits down) I wanted to talk to you. (She raises her face with a pitiful smile. nicholls hurriedly moves bach to his own chair). nicholls. (almost brusquely) I could have talked to you from the hall. You're silly to take chances just now. (eileen's eyes show her hurt at his tone). carmody. (seeing his chance—hastily) You'll be stayin' a while now, Fred? I'll take a walk down the road. I'm needin' a drink to clear my wits. (He goes to the door in rear). eileen. (reproachfully) You won't be long, Father? And please don't—you know. carmody. (exasperated) Sure who wouldn't get drunk with all the sorrows of the world piled on him? (He stamps out. A moment later the outside door bangs behind him. eileen sighs, nicholls walks up and down with his eyes on the floor). nicholls. (furious at carmody for having left him in this situation) Honestly, Eileen, your father is the limit. I don't see how you stand for him. He's the most selfish- eileen. (gently) Sssh! You mustn't, Fred. He just doesn't understand, (nicholls snorts disdainfully) Don't! Let's not talk about him now. We won't have many more eve-THE STRAW 153 nings together for a long, long time. Did Father or the doc- tor tell you- (She falters). nicholls. (not looking at her—glumly) Everything there was to tell, I guess. eileen. (hastening to comfort him) You mustn't worry, Fred. Please don't! It'd make it so much worse for me if I thought you did. I'll be all right. I'll do exactly what they tell me, and in a few months I'll be back so fat and healthy you won't know me. nicholls. (lamely) Oh, there's no doubt of that. No one's worrying about your not getting well quick. eileen. It won't be long. We can write often, and it isn't far away. You can come out and see me every Sunday—if you want to. nicholls. (hastily) Of course I will! eileen. (looking at his face searchingly) Why do you act so funny? Why don't you sit down—here, by me? Don't you want to? nicholls. (drawing up a chair by hers—flushing guiltily) I—I'm all bawled up, Eileen. I don't know what I'm doing. eileen. ('putting her hand on his knee) Poor Fred! I'm so sorry I have to go. I didn't want to at first. I knew how hard it would be on Father and the kids—especially little Mary. (Her voice trembles a bit) And then the doctor said if I stayed I'd be putting them all in danger. He even ordered me not to kiss them any more. (She bites her lips to restrain a sob—then coughs, a soft, husky cough. nicholls shrinks away from her to the edge of his chair, his eyes shifting nervously with fright, eileen continues gently) So I've got to go and get well, don't you see?154 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL nicholls. (wetting his dry lips) Yes—it's better. eileen. (sadly) I'll miss the kids so much. Taking care of them has meant so much to me since Mother died. (With a half-sob she suddenly throws her arms about his neck and hides her face on his shoulder. He shudders and fights against an impulse to push her away) But I'll miss you most of all, Fred. (She lifts her lips towards his, expecting a hiss. He seems about to hiss her—-then averts his face with a shrinking movement, pretending he hasn't seen. eileen's eyes grow wide with horror. She throws herself bach into her own chair, star- ing accusingly at nicholls. She speaks chokingly) Fred! Why—why didn't you kiss—what is it? Are you—afraid? (With a moaning sound) Oooh! nicholls. (|goaded by this accusation into a display of man- hood, seises her fiercely by the arms) No! What—what d'you mean? (He tries to hiss her but she hides her face), eileen. (in a muffled voice of hysterical self-accusation, pushing his head away) No, no, you mustn't! The doctor told you not to, didn't he ? Please don't, Fred! It would be awful if anything happened to you—through me. (nicholls gives up his attempts, recalled to caution by her words. She raises her face and tries to force a smile through her tears) But you can kiss me on the forehead, Fred. That can't do any harm. (His face crimson, he does so. She laughs hysterically) It seems so silly—being kissed that way—by you. (She gulps bach a sob and continues to attempt to joke) I'll have to get used to it, won't I? (The Curtain Falls)ACT ONE Scene Two The reception room of the Infirmary, a large, high-ceilinged room painted white, with oiled, hardwood floor. In the left wall, forward, a row of four windows. Farther bach, the main entrance from the driveway, and another window. In the rear wall left, a glass partition looking out on the sleeping porch, A row of white beds, with the faces of patients barely peeping out front under piles of heavy bedclothes, can be seen. To the right of this partition, a bookcase, and a door leading to the hall past the patients' rooms. Farther right, another door opening on the examining room. In the right wall, rear, a door to the office. Farther forward, a row of windows. In front of the windows, a long dining table with chairs. On the left of the table, toward the center of the room, a chimney with two open fireplaces, facing left and right. Several wicker armchairs are placed around the fireplace on the left in which a cheerful wood fire is crackling. To the left of center, a round reading and writing table with a green-shaded electric lamp. Other electric lights are in brackets around the walls. Easy chairs stand near the table which is stacked with magazines. Rocking chairs are placed here and there about the room, near the windows, etc. A Victrola stands near the left wall, forward. It is nearing eight o'clock of a cold evening about a week later. ( At the rise of the curtain Stephen Murray is discovered sit- 155156 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL ting in a chair in front of the fireplace, left. Murray is thirty years old—a tall, slender, rather unusual looking fellow with a pale face, sunken under high cheek bones, lined about the eyes and mouth, jaded and worn for one still so young, His intelli- gent, large hazel eyes have a tired, dispirited expression in re- pose, but can quicken instantly with a concealment mechanism of mocking, careless humor whenever his inner privacy is threat- ened. His large mouth aids this process of protection by a quick change from its set apathy to a cheerful grin of cynical good nature. He gives off the impression of being somehow dissat- isfied with himself but not yet embittered enough by it to take it out on others. His manner, as revealed by his speech— nervous, inquisitive, alert—seems more an acquired quality than any part of his real nature. He stoops a trifle, giving him a slightly round-shouldered appearance. He is dressed in a shabby dark suit, baggy at the knees. He is staring info the fire, dream- ing, an open book lying unheeded on the arm of his chair. The Victrola is whining out the last strains of Dvorak's Humoresque. In the doorway to the office, miss gilpin stands talking to miss Howard. The former is a slight, middle-aged woman with black hair, and a strong, intelligent face, its expression of reso- lute efficiency softened and made kindly by her warm, sym- pathetic gray eyes, miss Howard is tall, slender and blond— decidedly pretty and provokingly conscious of it, yet with a cer- tain air of seriousness underlying her apparent frivolity. She is twenty years old. The elder woman is dressed in the all white of a full-fledged nurse. miss Howard wears the gray-blue uni- form of one still in training. The record peters out. Murray sighs with relief but makes no move to get up and stop theTHE STRAW 157 grinding needle. miss Howard hurries across to the machine. miss gilpin goes bach into the office. miss Howard. (takes off the record, glancing at Murray with amused vexation) It's a wonder you wouldn't stop this machine grinding itself to bits, Mr. Murray. Murray. (with a smile) I was hoping the darn thing would bust, (miss Howard sniffs. Murray grins at her teasingly) It keeps you from talking to me. That's the real music. miss iIoward. (comes over to his chair laughing) I think you're a natural born kidder. All newspaper reporters are like that, I've heard. Murray. You wrong me terribly. (Then frowning) And it isn't charitable to remind me of my job. miss Howard. (surprised) I think it's great to be able to write. You ought to be proud of it. Murray. (glumly) I'm not. You can't call it writing—not what I did—small town stuff. (Changing the subject) Do you know when I'm to be moved to the shacks? miss Howard. In a few days, I guess. Murray grunts and moves nervously on his chair) What's the matter? Don't you like us here at the Infirmary? murray. (smiling) Oh—you—yes! (Then seriously) I don't care for the atmosphere, though. (He waves his hand toward the partition looking out on the porch) All those people in bed out there on the porch seem so sick. It's depressing. miss Howard. All the patients have to come here first until Doctor Stanton finds out whether they're well enough to be sent out to the shacks and cottages. And remember you're a patient.158 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL murray. I know it. But I don't feel as if I were—really sick like them. miss Howard. (wisely) None of them do, either. murray. (after a moment's reflection—cynically) Yes, I suppose it's that pipe dream keeps us all going, eh? miss Howard. Well, you ought to be thankful. (Lowering her voice) Shall I tell you a secret? I've seen your chart and you've no cause to worry. Doctor Stanton joked about it. He said you were too uninteresting—there was so little the matter with you. murray. (pleased but pretending indifference) Humph! He's original in that opinion. miss Howard. I know it's hard you're being the only one up the week you've been here; but there's another patient due today. Maybe she'll be well enough to be around with you. (With a quick glance at her wrist watch) She can't be coming unless she got in on the last train. murray. (interestedly) It's a she, eh? MISS HOWARD. Yes murray. (igrinning provokingly) Young? miss Howard. Eighteen, I believe. (Seeing his grin—with feigned pique) I suppose you'll be asking if she's pretty next! Her name is Carmody, that's the only other thing I know. So there! miss gilpin. (appearing in the office doorway) Miss Howard. miss Howard. Yes, Miss Gilpin. (In an aside to Murray as she leaves him) It's time for those horrid diets. (She hur- ries back into the office. murray stares into the fire. miss Howard reappears from the office and goes out by the door to the hall, rear. Carriage wheels are heard from the drivewayTHE STRAW 159 in front of the house on the left. They stop. After a pause there is a sharp rap on the door and a bell rings insistently. Men's muffled voices are heard in argument. Murray turns curiously in his chair. miss gilpin comes from the office and walks quickly to the door, unlocking and opening it. eileen enters, followed by nicholls, who is carrying her suit-case, and by her father). eileen. I'm Miss Carmody. I believe Doctor Gaynor wrote- miss gilpin. (taking her hand—with kind affability) We've been expecting you all day. How do you do? I'm Miss Gilpin. You came on the last train, didn't you? eileen. (heartened by the other woman's kindness) Yes. This is my father, Miss Gilpin—and Mr. Nicholls. (miss gilpin shakes hands cordially with the two men who are star- ing about the room in embarrassment. carmody has very evi- dently been drinking. His voice is thick and his face puffed and stupid, nicholls9 manner is that of one who is accom- plishing a necessary but disagreeable duty with the best grace possible, but is frightfully eager to get it over and done with. carmody's condition embarrasses him acutely and when he glances at him it is with hatred and angry disgust). miss gilpin. (indicating the chairs in front of the windows on the left, forward) Won't you gentlemen sit down? (car- mody grunts sullenly and plumps himself into the one nearest the door. nicholls hesitates, glancing down at the suit-case he carries, miss gilpin turns to eileen) And now we'll get you settled immediately. Your room is all ready for you. If you'll follow me- (She turns toward the door in rear, center). eileen. Let me take the suit-case now, Fred.160 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL miss gilpin. (as he is about to hand it to her—decisively) No, my dear, you mustn't. Put the case right down there, Mr. Nicholls. I'll have it taken to Miss Carmody's room in a mo- ment. (She shalces her finger at eileen with kindly admoni- tion) That's the first rule you'll have to learn. 'Never exert yourself or tax your strength. You'll find laziness is a virtue instead of a vice with us. eileen. (confused) I- I didn't know- miss gilpin. (smiling) Of course you didn't. And now if you'll come with me I'll show you your room. We'll have a little chat there and I can explain all the other important rules in a second. The gentlemen can make themselves com- fortable in the meantime. We won't be gone more than a moment. nicholls. (feeling called upon to say something) Yes— we'll wait—certainly, we're all right, (carmody remains silent, gl&wering at the fire. nicholls sits down beside him. miss gilpin and eileen go out. Murray switches his chair so he can observe the two men out of the corner of his eye while pretending to be absorbed in his booh). carmody. (looking about shiftily and reaching for the in- side pocket of his overcoat) I'll be havin' a nip now we're alone, and that cacklin' hen gone. (He pulls out a pint flask, half full). nicholls. (excitedly) Put that bottle away! (In a whisper) Don't you see that fellow in the chair there? carmody. (taking a big drink) Ah, I'm not mindin' a man at all. Sure I'll bet it's himself would be likin' a taste of the same. (He appears about to get up and invite murray to join him but nicholls grabs his arm).THE STRAW y _ 161 nicholls. (with a frightened look at Murray who appears buried in his book) Stop it, you—— Don't yon know lie's probably a patient and they don't allow them- carmody. (scornfully) It's queer they'd be allowin' the sick ones to read books when I'll bet it's the same lazy readin* in the house brought the half of them down with the con- sumption itself. (Raising his voice) I'm thinkin' this whole shebang is a big, thievin* fake—and I've always thought so. nicholls. (furiously) Put that bottle away, damn it! And don't shout. You're not in a barrel-house. carmody. (with provoking calm) I'll put it back when I'm Teady, not before, and no lip from you! nicholls. (with fierce disgust) You're drunk now. carmody. (raging) Drunk, am I? Is it the like of a young jackass like you that's still wet behind the ears to be tellin' me I'm drunk? nicholls. (half-rising from his chair—pleadingly) For heaven's sake, Mr. Carmody, remember where we are and don't raise any rumpus. What'll Eileen say? carmody. (puts the bottle away hastily, mumbling to him- self—then glowers about the room scornfully with blinking eyes) It's a grand hotel this is, I'm thinkin/ for the rich to be takin' their ease, and not a hospital for the poor, but the poor has to pay for it. nicholls. (fearful of another outbreak) Sshh! carmody. Don't be shshin' at me? I'd make Eileen come back out of this tonight if that divil of a doctor didn't have me by the throat. nicholls. (glancing at him nervously) I wonder how soon she'll be back? We'll have to hurry to make that last train.162 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL carmody. {angrily) Is it anxious to get out of her sight you are, and you engaged to marry her? (nicholls flushes guiltily. Murray pricks up his ears and stares over at nicholls. The latter meets his glance, scowls, and hurriedly averts his eyes. carmody goes on accusingly) Sure, it's no heart at all you have—and her your sweetheart for years—and her sick with the consumption—and you wild to run away and leave her alone. nicholls. ^springing to his feet—furiously) That's a-! (He controls himself with an effort. His voice trembles) You're not responsible for the idiotic things you're saying or I'll- (jje turns away, seeking some escape from the old man's tongue) I'll see if the man is still there with the rig. (He goes to the door on left and goes out). carmody. (following him with his eyes) Go to hell, far all I'm preventin'. You've got no guts of a man in you. (He addresses Murray with the good nature inspired by the flight of nicholls) Is it true you're one of the consumptives, young fellow? murray. (delighted by this speech—with a grin) Yes, I'm one of them. » carmody. My name's Carmody. What's yours, then? murray. Murray. carmody. (slapping his thigh) Irish as Paddy's pig! (mur- ray nods. carmody brightens and grows confidential) I'm glad to be knowin' you're one of us. You can keep an eye on Eileen. murray. I'll be glad to do all I can. carmody. Thanks to you—though it's a grand life she'll be havm* here from the fine look of the place. (With whiningTHE STRAW 163 self-pity) It's me it's hard on, God help me, with four small children and me widowed, and havin' to hire a woman to come in and look after them and the house now that Eileen's sick; and pay in' for her curin' in this place, and me with only a bit of money in the bank for my old age. That's hard, now, on a man, and who'll say it isn't? Murray. (made uncomfortable by this confidence) Hard luck always comes in bunches. (To head qff carmody who is about to give vent to more woe—quickly, with a glance toward the door from the hall) If I'm not mistaken, here comes your daughter now. carmody. (a* eileen comes into the room) I'll make you acquainted. Eileen! (She comes over to them, embarrassed to find her father in his condition so chummy with a stranger. murray risen to his feet) This is Mr. Murray, Eileen. He's Irish and he'll put you on to the ropes of the place. He's got the consumption, too, God pity him. eileen. (distressed) Oh, Father, how can you—— (With a look at Murray which pleads for her father) I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Murray. Murray. (with a straight glance at her which is so frankly admiring that she flushes and drops her eyes') I'm glad to meet you. (The front door is opened and nicholls re-appears, shivering with the cold. He stares over at the others with ill- concealed irritation). carmody. (noticing him—with malicious satisfaction) Oho, here you are again, (nicholls scowls and turns away. car- mody addresses his daughter with a sly wink at Murray) I thought Fred was slidin' down hill to the train, and him so desperate hurried to get away from here. Look at the knees164 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL on him clappin' together with the great fear he'll be catchin' a sickness in this place! (nicholls, his guilty conscience stabbed to the quick, turns pale with impotent rage). eileen. (remonstrating pitifully) Father! Please! (She hurries over to nicholls. Oh, please don't mind him, Fred! You know what he is when he's drinking. nicholls. (thickly) That's all right—for you to say. But I won't forget—I'm sick and tired standing for—I'm not used to—such people. eileen. (shrinking from him) Fred! nicholls. (with a furious glance at Murray) Before that cheap slob, too. eileen. (faintly) He seems—very nice. nicholls. You've got your eyes set on him already, hate you? eileen. Fred! nicholls. Well, go ahead if you want to. I don't care. I'll- (Startled by the look of anguish which comes over her face, he hastily swallows his words. He takes out watch —fiercely) We'll miss that train, damn it! eileen, (in a stricken tone) Oh, Fred! (Then forcing back her tears she calls to carmody in a strained voice) Father! You'll have to go now. carmody. (shaking hands with Murray) Keep your eye on her. I'll be out soon to see her and you and me'll have another chin. Murray. Glad to. Good-by for the present. (He walks to windows on the far right, turning his hack considerately on their leave-taking). eileen. (comes to carmody and hangs on his arm as theyTHE STRAW 165 proceed to the door) Be sure and kiss them all for me—and bring them out to see me as soon as you can, Father, please! And don't forget to tell Mrs. Brennan all the directions I gave you coming out on the train. I told her but she mightn't remember—about Mary's bath—and to give Tom his- carmody. (impatiently) Hasn't she brought up brats of her own, and doesn't she know the way of it? eileen. (helplessly) Never mind telling her, then. I'll write to her. carmody. You'd better not. She'll not wish you mixin' in with her work and tellin* her how to do it. eileen. (aghast) Her work! (She seems at the end of her tether—wrung too dry for any further emotion. She hisses her father at the door with indifference and speaks calmly) Good-by, Father. carmody. (in a whining tone of injury) A cold kiss! Is your heart a stone? (Drunken tears tvell from his eyes and he blubbers) And your own father going back to a lone house with a stranger in it! eileen. (wearily in a dead voice) You'll miss your train, Father. carmody. (raging in a second) I'm off, then! Come on, Fred. It's no welcome we have with her here in this place— and a great curse on this day I brought her to it! (He stamps out). eileen. (in the same dead tone) Good-by, Fred. nicholls. (repenting his words of a moment ago—con- fusedly) I'm sorry, Eileen—for what I said. I didn't mean —you know what your father is—excuse me, won't you ? eileen. (without feeling) Yes.166 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL nicholls. And I'll be out soon—in a week if I can make it. Well then,—good-by for the present. (He bends down as if to hiss her but she shrinks bach out of his reach). eileen. (a faint trace of mockery in her weary voice) No, Fred. Remember you mustn't now. nicholls. (in an instant huff) Oh, if that's the way you feel about- {He strides out and slams the door viciously behind him. eileen walks slowly back toward the fireplace, her face fixed in the dead calm of despair. As she sinks into one of the armchairs, the strain becomes too much. She breaks down, hiding her face in her hands, her frail shoulders heav- ing with the violence of her sobs. At this sound, Murray turns from the windows and comes over near her chair). Murray. (after watching her for a moment—in an em- barrassed tone of sympathy) Come on, Miss Carmody, that'll never do. I know it's hard at first—but- It isn't so bad up here—really—once you get used to it! (The shame she feels at giving way in the presence of a stranger only adds to her loss of control and she sobs heartbrokenly. Murray walks up and down nervously, visibly nonplussed and upset. Finally he hits upon something) One of the nurses will be in any minute. You don't want them to see you like this. eileen. (chokes back her sobs and finally raises her face and attempts a smile) I'm sorry—to make such a sight of myself. Murray. (jocularly) Well, they say a cry does you a lot of good. eileen. (forcing a smile) I do feel—better. Murray. (staring at her with a quizzical smile—cynically) You shouldn't take those lovers' squabbles so seriously. To-THE STRAW 167 morrow hell be sorry. Hell write begging forgiveness. Re- sult—all serene again. eileen. (a shadow of pain on her face—with dignity) Don't—please. Murray. (angry at himself—hanging his head contritely) Pardon me. I'm rude sometimes—before I know it. (He shakes off his confusion with a renewed attempt at a joking tone) You can blame your father for any breaks I make. He told me to see that you behaved. eileen. (with a genuine smile) Oh, Father! (Flushing) You mustn't mind anything he said tonight. Murray, (thoughtlessly) Yes, he was well lit up. I en- vied him. (eileen looks very shame-faced. Murray sees it and exclaims in exasperation at himself) Darn! There I go again putting my foot in it! (With an irrepressible grin) I ought to have my tongue operated on—that's what's the matter with me. (He laughs and throws himself in a chair). eileen. (forced in spite of herself to smile with him) You're candid, at any rate, Mr. Murray. murray. I said I envied him his jag and that's the truth. The same candor compels me to confess that I was pickled to the gills myself when I arrived here. Fact! I made love to all the nurses and generally disgraced myself—and had a wonderful time. eileen. I suppose it does make you forget your troubles. Murray, (waving this aside) I didn't want to forget—not for a second. I wasn't drowning my sorrow. I was hilariously celebrating. eileen. (astonished—by this time quite interested in this168 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILU queer fellow to the momentary forgetfulness of her own grief) Celebrating—coming here? But—aren't you sick? Murray. Yes, of course. (Confidentially) But it's only a matter of time when I'll be all right again. I hope it won't be too soon. eileen. (with wide eyes) I wonder if you really mean- Murray. I sure do—every word of it! eileen. (puzzled) I can't understand how anyone could-- (With a worried glance over her shoulder) I think I'd better look for Miss Gilpin, hadn't I? She may wonder- (She hcdf rises from her chair). murray. (quickly) No. Please don't go yet. (She glances at him irresolutely, then resumes her chair) I'll see to it that you don't fracture any rules. (Hitching his chair nearer hers,— impulsively) In all charity to me you've got to stick awhile. I haven't had a chance to really talk to a soul for a week. You found what I said a while ago hard to believe, didn't you? eileen. (with a smile) You said you hoped you wouldn't get well too soon! murray. And I meant it! This place is honestly like heaven to me—a lonely heaven till your arrival, (eileen looks embarrassed) And why wouldn't it be? Just let me tell you what I was getting away from- (With a sudden laugh full of a weary bitterness) Do you know what it means to work from seven at night till three in the morning on a morning newspaper in a town of twenty thousand people—for ten years? No. You. don't. You can't. But what it did to me—it made me happy—yes, happy!—to get out here!THE STRAW 169 eileen. (looking at him curiously) But I always thought being a reporter was so interesting. murrey. (with a cynical laugh) On a small town rag? A month of it, perhaps, when you're new to the game. But ten years! With only a raise of a couple of dollars every blue moon or so, and a weekly spree on Saturday night to vary the monotony. (He laughs again) Interesting, eh? Getting the dope on the Social of the Queen Esther Circle in the base- ment of the Methodist Episcopal Church, unable to sleejtf through a meeting of the Common Council on account of the noisy oratory caused by John Smith's application for a permit to build a house; making a note that a tug boat towed two barges loaded with coal up the river, that Mrs. Perkins spent a week-end with relatives in Hickville, that John Jones- Oh help! Why go on ? I'm a broken man. God, how I used to pray that our Congressman would commit suicide, or the Mayor murder his wife—just to be able to write a real story! eileen. (with a smile) Is it as bad as that? But weren't there other things that were interesting? murray. (decidedly) Nope. Never anything new—and I knew everyone and everything in town by heart years ago. (With sudden bitterness) Oh, it was my own fault. Why didn't I get out of it? Well, I was always going to—to- morrow—and tomorrow never came. I got in a rut—and stayed put. People seem to get that way, somehow—in that town. It took T. B. to blast me loose. eileen. (wonderingly) But—your family- murray. I haven't much of a family left. My mother died when I was a kid. My father—he was a lawyer—died when I was nineteen, just about to go to college. He left nothing,170 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL so I went to work instead. I've two sisters, respectably mar- ried and living in another part of the state. We don't get along —but they're paying for me here, so I suppose I've no kick, (iCynically) A family wouldn't have changed things. From what I've seen that blood-thicker-than-water dope is all wrong. It's thinner than table-d'hote soup. You may have seen a bit of that truth in your own case already. eileen. (shocked) How can you say that? You don't know- murrav. Don't I, though? Wait till you've been here three months or four. You'll see then! eileen. (angrily, her lips trembling) You must be crazy to say such things! (Fighting bach her tears) Oh, I think it's hateful—when you see how badly I feel! Murray. (in acute confusion. Stammering) Look here, Miss Carmody, I didn't mean to- Listen—don't feel mad at me, please. I was only talking. I'm like that. You mustn't take it seriously. eileen. (still resentful) I don't see how you can talk— when you've just said you had no family of your own, really. Murray. (eager to return to her good graces) Of course I don't know. I was just talking regardless for the fun of it. eileen. (after a pause) Hasn't either of your sisters any children? murray. One of them has—two squally little brats. eileen. (disapprovingly) You don't like babies? murray. (bluntly) No. (Then with a grin at her shocked face) I don't get them. They're something I can't seem to get acquainted with. eileen. (with a smile, indulgently) You're a funny per-THE STRAW 171 son. (Then with a superior motherly air) No wonder you couldn't understand how badly I feel. (With a tender smile) I've four of them—my brothers and sisters—though they're not what you'd call babies, except to me. I've been a mother to them now for a whole year—ever since our mother died. (Sadly) And I don't know how they'll ever get along while I'm away. murray. (cynically) Oh, they'll- (He checks what he was going to say and adds lamely) --get along somehow. Eileen, (with the same superior tone) It's easy for you tp say that. You don't know how children grow to depend on you for everything. You're not a woman. Murray, (with a grin) Are you? (Then with a chuckle) You're as old as the pyramids, aren't you? I feel like a little boy. Won't you adopt me, too? eileen. (flushing, with a shy smile). Someone ought to. (Quickly changing the subject) Do you know, I can't get over what you said about hating your work so. I should think it would be wonderful—to be able to write things. murray. My job had nothing to do with writing. To write —really write—yes, that's something worth trying for. That's what I've always meant to have a stab at. I've run across ideas enough for stories—that sounded good to me, anyway. (With a forced laugh) But—like everything else—I never got down to it. I started one or two—but—either I thought I didn't have the time or- (He shrugs his shoulders). eileen. Well, you've plenty of time now, haven't you? murray. (instantly struck by this suggestion) You mean- I could write up here? (She nods. His face lights up with enthusiasm) Say! That is an idea! Thank you! I'd never172 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL have had sense enough to have thought of that myself, eileen flushes with pleasure) Sure there's time—nothing but time up here- eileen. Then you seriously think you'll try it? murrav. (determinedly) Yes. Why not? I've got to try and do something real sometime, haven't I? I've no excuse not to, now. My mind isn't sick. eileen. (excitedly) That'll be wonderful! Murray. (confidently) Listen. I've had ideas for a series of short stories for the last couple of years—small town ex- periences, some of them actual. I know that life too darn well. I ought to be able to write about it. And if I can sell one—to the Post, say—I'm sure they'd take the others, too. And then- I should worry! It'd be easy sailing. But you must promise to help—play critic for me—read them and tell me where they're rotten. eileen. (pleased but protesting) Oh, no, I'd never dare. I don't know anything- Murray. Yes, you do. And you started me off on this thing, so you've got to back me up now. {Suddenly) Say, I wonder if they'd let me have a typewriter up here? eileen. It'd be fine if they would. I'd like to have one, too—to practice. murray. I don't see why they wouldn't allow it. You're not sick enough to be kept in bed, I'm sure of that. eileen. I- I don't know- murray. Here! None of that! You just think you're not and you won't be. Say, I'm keen on that typewriter idea. eileen. (eagerly) And I could type your stories after you've written them! I could help that way.THE STRAW 173 murray. {smiling) But I'm quite able- (Then seeing how interested she ts he adds hurriedly) That'd be great! I've always been a bum at a machine. And I'd be willing to pay whatever- (miss gilpin enters from the rear and walks toward them). eileen. (quickly) Oh, no! I'd be glad to get the practice. I wouldn't accept- (She coughs slightly). Murray. (with a laugh) Maybe, after you've read my stuff, you won't type it at any price. miss gilpin. Miss Carmody, may I speak to you for a mo- ment, please. (She takes eileen aside and talks to her in low tones of admonition. eileen's face falls. She nods a horrified acquiescence. miss gilpin leaves her and goes into the office, rear). murray. (£ being too familiar again, the old wench! eileen. Ssshh. You're wrong. She's looking at me, not at us. Murray. At you? Why? eileen. I ran a temperature yesterday. It must have oeen over a hundred last night. Murray, (with consoling scepticism) You're always suf- fering for trouble, Eileen. How do you know you ran a temp? You didn't see the stick, I suppose? eileen. No—but—I could tell. I felt feverish and chilly. It must have been way up. murray. Bosh! If it was you'd have been sent to bed. bileen. That's why she's looking at me. ([Piteously) Oh, I do hope I won't be sent back to bed! I don't know what I'd do. If I could only gain this morning. If my temp has only gone down! (Hopelessly) But I feel- I didn't sleep a wink—thinking- murray. (roughly) You'll persuade yourself you've got leprosy in a second. Don't be a nut! It's all imagination, I tell you. You'll gain. Wait and see if you don't, (eileen shakes her head. A metallic rumble and jangle comes from the hallway. Everyone turns in that direction with nervous ex- pectancy). mrs. turner, (admonishingly) Mr. Peters! peters. Yes, ma'am. (He stops playing and rejoins the group of men on the right. In the midst of a silence broken only by hushed murmurs of conversation, doctor stanton ap- pears in the hall doorway. He turns to help his assistant wheel in a Fairbanks scale on castors. They place the scale against190 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL the wall immediately to the rear of the doorway. doctor simms adjusts it to a perfect balance). doctor stanton. (takes a pencil from his pocJcet and opens the record booh he has in his hand) All ready, Doctor? doctor simms. Just a second, sir. Murray, (with a nervous smile) Well, we're all set. Here's hoping! eileen. You'll gain, I'm sure you will. You look so well. Murray. Oh—I—I wasn't thinking of myself, I'm a sure thing. I was betting on you. I've simply got to gain today, when so much depends on it. eileen. Yes, I hope you- (She falters brokenly and turns away from him). doctor simms. (straightening up) All ready, Doctor. stanton. (nods and glances at his book—without raising his voice—distinctly) Mrs. Abner. (A middle-aged woman comes and gets on the scales. simms adjusts it to her weight of the previous week which stanton reads to him from the book in a low voice, and weighs her). Murray. (with a relieved sigh) They're off. (Noticing eileen's downcast head and air of dejection) Here! Buck up, Eileen! Old Lady Grundy's watching you—and it's your turn in a second, (eileen raises her head and forces a frightened smile. mrs. abner gets down off the scales with a pleased grin. She has evidently gained. She rejoins the group of women, chattering volubly in low tones. Her exultant "gained half a pound" can be heard. The other women smile their perfunctory congratulations, their eyes absent-minded, intent on their own worries, stanton writes down the weight in the book), stanton. Miss Bailey. (A young' girl goes to the scales).THE STRAW 191 Murray. Bailey looks badly, doesn't she? eileen. (her lips trembling) She's been losing, too. Murray. Well, you're going to gain today. Remember, now! eileen. (with a feeble smile) I'll try to obey your orders. (miss bailey gets down off the scales. Her eyes are full of despondency although she tries to make a brave face of it, forc- ing a laugh as she joins the women. They stare at her with pitying looks and murmur consoling phrases). eileen. She's lost again. Oh, I wish I didn't have to get weighed-- 8tanton her forehead) And Tom and Nora was comin' out too, but Father Fitz had some doin's or other up to the school, and he told them to be there, so they wouldn't come with us, but they sent their love to you too. They're growin' so big you'd not know them. Tom's no good at the school. He's like Billy was. I've had to take the strap to him often. He's always playin' hooky and roamin' the streets. And Nora —(with pride) There's the divil for you! Up to everything she is and no holdin' her high spirits. As pretty as a picture, and the smartest girl in her school, Father Fitz says. Am I lyin', Maggie? mrs. brennan". (grudgingly) She's smart enough—and too free with her smartness. carmody. (pleased) Ah, don't be talkin! She'll know more than the lot of us before she's grown even. (He pauses in his walk and stares down at eileen, frowning) Are you sick, Eileen, that you're keepin' your eyes shut without a word out of you ? eileen. (wearily) No. I'm tired, that's all. carmody. (resuming his walk) And who else is there, let222 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL me think? Oh, Mary—she's the same as ever, you can see for yourself. EILEEN-. (bitterly) The same? Oh, no! carmody. She's grown, you mean ? I suppose. You'd notice, not seeing her so long? (He can think of nothing else to say but walks up and down with a restless, uneasy expression). mrs. brennan. (sharply) What time is it gettin'? carmody. (fumbles for his watch) Half past four, a bit^ after. mrs. brennan. Well have to leave soon. It's a long jaunt down the hill in that buggy. (She catches his eye and makes violent signs to him to tell eileen what he has come to tell). carmody. (after an uncertain pause—clenching his fists and clearing his throat) Eileen. eileen. Yes. carmody. (irritably) Can't you open your eyes on me? It's like talkin' to myself I am. eileen. (looking at him—dully) What is it? carmody. (stammering—avoiding her glance) It's this, Eileen—me and Maggie—Mrs. Brennan/ that is—we- eileen. (without surprise) You're going to marry her? carmody. (with an effort) Not goin' to. It's done. eileen. (without a trace of feeling) Oh, so you've been married already? (Without further comment, she closes her eyes). carmody. Two weeks back we were, by Father Fitz. (He stands staring down at his daughter, irritated, perplexed and confounded by her silence, looking as if he longed to shake her). mrs. brennan. (angry at the lack of enthusiasm shown byTHE STRAW 223 eileen) Let us get out of this, Bill. It's little she's caring about you, and little thanks she has for all you've done for her and the money you've spent. carmody. (with a note of pleading) Is that a proper way to be treatin' your father, Eileen, after what I've told you? Is it nothin* to you you've a good, kind woman now for mother? eileen. (fiercely, her eyes flashing open on him) No, No! Never! mrs. brennan. (plucking at carmody's elbow. He stands looking at eileen helplessly, his mouth open, a guilty flush spreading over his face) Come out of here, you big fool, you! Is it to listen to insults to your livin' wife you're waiting? carmody. (turning on her threateningly) Will you shut your gab? eileen. (with a moan) Oh, go away. Father! Please! Take her away! mrs. brennan. (pulling at his arm) Take me away this second or I'll never speak again to you till the day I die! carmody. (pushes her violently away from him—raging, his fist uplifted) Shut your gab, I'm saying! mrs. brennan. The devil mend you and yours then! I'm leavin' you. (She starts for the door). carmody. (hastily) Wait a bit, Maggie. I'm coming. (She goes into the room, slamming the door, but once inside she stands still, trying to listen. carmody glares down at his daugh- ter's pale twitching face with closed eyes. Finally he croaks in a whining tone of fear) Is your last word a cruel one to me this day, Eileen? (She remains silent. His face darkens. He turns and strides out of the door. mary darts after him with a224j PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL frightened cry of "Papa," eileen covers her face with her hands and a shudder of relief runs over her body). mrs. brennan. (as carmody enters the room—in a mollified tone) So you've come, have you? Let's go, then! (carmody stands looking at her in silence, his expression full of gloomy rage. She bursts out impatiently) Are you comin' or are you goin' back to her? (She grabs mary's arm and pushes her to- ward the door to the hall) Are you comin' or not, I'm asking? carmody. * (somberly—as if to himself) There's something wrong in the whole of this—that I can't make out. (With sud- den fury he brandishes his fists as though defying someone and growls threateningly) And I'll get drunk this night—dead, rotten drunk! (He seems to detect disapproval in mrs. bren- nan's face for she shakes his fist at her and repeats like a solemn oath) I'll get drunk if my soul roasts for it—and no one in the whole world is strong enough to stop me! (mrs. brennan turns from him with a disgusted shrug of her shoulders and hustles mary out of the door. carmody, after a second's pause, fol- lows them. eileen lies still, looking out into the woods with empty, desolate eyes. miss Howard comes into the room from the hall and goes to the porch, carrying a glass of milk in her hand). miss Howard. Here's your diet, Eileen. I forgot it until just now. Did you have a nice visit with your folks? eileen. (forcing a smile) Yes. 'Miss Howard. I hope they didn't worry you over home affairs ? eileen*. No. (She sips her milk and sets it back on the table with a shudder of disgust).THE STRAW 225 miss Howard. (with a smile) What a face! You'd think you were taking poison. eileen. (with deep passion) I wish it was poison! miss Howard, (jokingly) Oh, come now! That isn't a nice way to feel on the Sabbath. (With a meaning smile) I've some news that'll cheer you up, I bet. (archly) Guess who's here on a visit? eileen. (startled—in a frightened whisper) Who? miss Howard. Mr. Murray, (eileen closes her eyes wine- ingly for a moment and a shadow of pain comes over her face) He came just about the time your folks did. I saw him for a moment, not to speak to. (Beaming—with a certain curiosity) What do you think of that for news? eileen. (trying to conceal her agitation and assume a casual tone) He must have come to be examined. miss Howard, (with a meaning laugh) Oh, I'd hardly say that was his main reason. (In business-like tones) Well, I've got to get back on the job. (She turns to the door calling bach jokingly) He'll be in to see you of course, so look your pret- tiest. (jShe goes out and shuts the door to the porch. eileen gives a frightened gasp and struggles up in bed as if she wanted to call the nurse to return. Then she lies back in a state of great nervous excitement, twisting her head with eager, fearful glances toward the door, listening, clasping and unclasping her thin fingers on the white spread. As miss Howard walks across the room to the hall door, it is opened and Stephen murray enters. A great change is visible in his face. It is much thinner and the former healthy tan has faded to a sallow pallor. Puffy shadows of sleeplessness and dissipation are marked under his heavy-lidded eyes. He is dressed in a welt-fitting, expensive,226 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL dark suit, a white shirt with a soft collar and bright-colored tie). miss Howard. (with pleased surprise, holding out her hand) Hello, Mr. Murray. Murray. (shaking her hand—with a forced pleasantness) How are you. Miss Howard? miss Howard. Fine as ever. It certainly looks natural to see you around here again—not that I hope you're here to stay, though. (With a smile) I suppose you're on your way to Eileen now. Well, I won't keep you. I've oodles of work to do. (She opens the hall door. He starts for the porch) Oh, I was forgetting—Congratulations! I've read those stories—all of us have. They're great. We're all so proud of you. You're one of our graduates, you know. murray. (indifferently) Oh,—that stuff. miss Howard. (gayly) Don't be so modest. Well, see you later, I hope. murray. Yes. Doctor Stanton invited me to stay for supper and I may-- miss Howard. Fine! Be sure to! (She goes out. murray walks to porch door and steps out. He finds eileen's eyes wait- ing for him. As their eyes meet she gasps involuntarily and he stops short in his tracks. For a moment they remain looking at each other in silence). eileen. (dropping her eyes—faintly) Stephen. murray. (much moved, strides to her bedside and takes her hands awkwardly) Eileen. (Then after a second's pause in which he searches her face and is shocked by the change illness has made—anxiously) How are you feeling, Eileen? (He grows confused by her gaze and his eyes shift from hers, which search his face with wild yearning).THE STRAW 227 EILEEN. (farcing a smile) Oh, I'm all right. (Eagerly) But you, Stephen? How are you? (Excitedly) Oh, it's good to see you again! (Her eyes continue fixed on his face plead' ingly, questioningly). Murray. (haltingly) And it's sure great to see you again, Eileen. (He releases her hand and turns away) And I'm fine and dandy. I look a little done up, I guess, but that's only the result of too much New York. eileek. (sensing from his manner that whatever she has. hoped for from his visit is not to be, sinks bach on the pillows, shutting her eyes hopelessly, and cannot control a sigh of pain). Murray. (turning to her anxiously) What's the matter, Eileen? You're not in pain, are you? eileen. (wearily) No. Murray. You haven't been feeling badly lately, have you? Your letters suddenly stopped—not a line for the past three weeks—and I- eileen. (bitterly) I got tired of writing and never getting any answer, Stephen. Murray, (shame-faced) Come, Eileen, it wasn't as bad as that. You'd think I never—and I did write, didn't I? eileen. Right after you left here, you did, Stephen. Lately-- Murray. I'm sorry, Eileen. It wasn't that I didn't mean to —but—in New York it's so hard. You start to do one thing and something else interrupts you. You never seem to get any one thing done when it ought to be. You can understand that, can't you, Eileen? eileen. (sadly) Yes. I understand everything now. Murray. (offended) What do you mean by everything?228 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL Yon said that so strangely. You mean you don't believe— (But she remains silent with her eyes shut. He frowns and takes to pacing up and down beside the bed) Why have they got you stuck out here on this isolation porch, Eileen? eilekn. {dully) There was no room on the main porch, I suppose. Murray. You never mentioned in any of your letters- eileen". It's not very cheerful to get letters full of sickness. I wouldn't like to, I know. Murray, (hurt) That isn't fair, Eileen. You know I——■ How long have you been back in the Infirmary? eileen. About a month. Murray. (shocked) A month! But you were up and about —on exercise, weren't you—before that ? eileen. No. I had to stay in bed while I was at the cot- tage. Murray. You mean—ever since that time they sent you back —the day before I left? eileen. Yes. Murray. But I thought from the cheery tone of your letters that you were- eileen. (uneasily) Getting better? I am, Stephen. I'm strong enough to be up now but Doctor Stanton wants me to take a good long rest this time so that when I get up again I'll be sure- (She breaks off impatiently) But don't let's talk about it. I'm all right, (murray glances down at her face worriedly. She changes the subject) You've been over to see Doctor Stanton, haven't you? murray. Yes. eileen. Did he examine you?THE STRAW 229 murray. Yes. (Carelessly) Oh, he found me 0. K. eileen. I'm glad, Stephen. {After a pause} Tell about yourself—what you've been doing. You've written a lot lately, haven't you? murray. (frowning) No. I haven't been able to get down to it—somehow. There's so little time to yourself once you get to know people in New York. The sale of the stories you typed put me on easy street as far as money goes, so I've felt no need- (He laughs weakly) I guess I'm one of those who have to get down to hard pan before they get the kick to drive them to hard work. eileen'. (surprised) Was it hard work writing them up here? You used to seem so happy just in doing them. murray. I was—happier than I've been before or afterward. (Cynically) But—I don't know—it was a new game to me then and I was chuck full of illusions about the glory of it. (He laughs half-heartedly) Now I'm hardly a bit more enthusiastic over it than I used to be over newspaper work. It's like every- thing else, I guess. When you've got it, you find you don't want it. Eileen. (looking at him wonderingly—disturbed) But isn't just the writing itself worth while? murray. (as if suddenly ashamed of himself—quickly) Yes. Of course it is. I'm talking like a fool. I'm sore at everything because I'm dissatisfied with my own cussedness and laziness —and I want to pass the buck. (With a smile of cheerful confi- dence) It's only a fit. I'll come out of it all right and get down to brass tacks again. eileen. (with an encouraging smile) That's the way you ought to feel. It'd be wrong—I've read the two stories that have come out so far over and over. They're fine, I think. Every line in them sounds like you, and at the same time sounds230 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL natural and like people and things you see every day. Every- body thinks they're fine, Stephen. Murray. (pleased but pretending cynicism) Then they must be rotten. (Then with self-assurance) Well, I've plenty more of those stories in my head. (Spiritedly) And I'll make them so much better than what I've done so far, you won't recognize them. (Smiling) Darn it, do you know just talking about it makes me feel as if I could sit right down now and start in on one. Is it the fact I've worked here before—or is it seeing you, Eileen? (Gratefully) I really believe it's you. I haven't for- gotten how you helped me before. eileen. (in a tone of pain) Don't, Stephen. I didn't do anything. Murray. (eagerly) Yes, you did. You made it possible. And since I've left the San, I've looked forward to your letters to boost up my spirits. When I felt down in the mouth over my own idiocy, I used to reread them, and they always were good medicine. I can't tell you how grateful I've felt, honestly! eileen. (faintly) You're kind to say so, Stephen—but it was nothing, really. Murray. And I can't tell you how I've missed those letters for the past three weeks. They left a big hole in things. I was worried about you—not having heard a word. (With a smile) So I came to look you up. eileen. (faintly. Forcing an answering smile) Well, you see now I'm all right. Murray, (concealing his doubt) Yes, of course you are. Only I'd a darn sight rather see you up and about. We could take a walk, then—through the woods. (A wince of pain shadows eileen's face. She closes her eyes. Murray continues softly, after a pause) You haven't forgotten that last night— out there—Eileen?THE STRAW 231 eileen. (her lips trembling—trying to force a laugh) Please Please don't remind me of that, Stephen. I was so silly and so sick, too. My temp was so high it must have made me—com- pletely crazy—or I'd never dreamed of doing such a stupid thing. My head must have been full of wheels because I don't remember anything I did or said, hardly. Murray, (his pride taken down a peg by this—in a hurt tone) Oh! Well—I haven't forgotten and I never will, Eileen. (Then his face clears up as if a weight had been taken off his conscience) Well—I rather thought you wouldn't take it se- riously—afterward. You were all up in the air that night. And you never mentioned it in your letters- eileen. (pleadingly) Don't talk about it! Forget it ever happened. It makes me feel—(with a half-hysterical laugh)— like a fool! Murray. (worried) All right, Eileen. I won't. Don't get worked up over nothing. That isn't resting, you know. (Look- ing down at her closed eyes—solicitously) Perhaps all my talk- ing has tired you out? Do you feel done up? Why don't you try and take a nap now? eileen. (dully) Yes, I'd like to sleep. Murray. (clasps her hands gently) I'll leave you then. I'll drop back to say good^by and stay awhile before I go. I won't leave until the lpst train. (As she doesn't answer) Do you hear, Eileen? eileen. (weakly) Yes. You'll come back—to say good-by. Murray. Yes. I'll be back sure. (He presses her hand and after a kindly glance of sympathy down at her face, tiptoes to the door and goes into the room, shutting the door behind him. When she hears the door shut eileen struggles up in bed and stretches her arms after him with an agonized sob "Stephen!" She hides her face in her hands and sobs brokenly. Murray232 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL Walks across to the hall door and is about to go out when the door is opened and miss gilpin enters). miss gilpin. (hurriedly) How do you do, Mr. Murray, Doctor Stanton just told me you were here. Murray. (as* they shake hands—smiling) How are you, Miss Gilpin? miss gilpin. He said he'd examined you, and that you were O.K. I'm glad. (Glancing at him keenly) You've been talking to Eileen? Murray. Just left her this second. She wanted to sleep for a while. miss gilpin. (wonderingly) Sleep? (Then hurriedly) It's too bad. I wish I'd known you were here sooner. I wanted very much to talk to you before you saw Eileen. (With a wor- ried smile) I still think I ought to have a talk with you. Murray. Certainly, Miss Gilpin. miss gilpin. (takes a chair and places it near the hall door) Sit down. She can't hear us here. Goodness knows this is hardly the place for confidences, but there are visitors all over and it'll have to do. Did you close the door tightly? She mustn't hear me above all. (jShe goes to the porch door and peeps out for a moment; then comes back to him with flashing eyes) She's crying! What have you been saying to her? Oh, it's too late, I know! What has happened out there ? Tell me! Murray. (stammering) Nothing. She's crying? Why Miss Gilpin—you know I wouldn't hurt her for worlds. miss gilpin. (more calmly) Intentionally, I know you wouldn't. But something has happened. (Then briskly) Since you don't seem inclined to confide in me, I'll have to in you. You noticed how badly she looks, didn't you? Murray. Yes, I did. miss gilpin. (|gravely) She's been going down hill steadilyTHE STRAW 233 —([meaningly)—ever since you left. She's in a very serious state, let me impress you with that. Doctor Stanton has given up hope of her improving here, and her father is unwilling to pay for her elsewhere now he knows there's a cheaper place— the State Farm. So she's to be sent there in a day or so. Murray. (springing to his feet—horrified) To the State Farm! miss Gilpin*. Her time here is long past. You know the rule —and she isn't getting better. Murray. (appalled) That means-! miss gilpin. (forcibly) Death! That's what it means for her! Murray. (stunned) Good God, I never dreamed- miss gilpin. In her case, it's certain. She'll die. And it wouldn't do any good to keep her here, either. She'd die here. She'll die anywhere because lately she's given up hope, she hasn't wanted to live any more. She's let herself go—and now it's too late. murray. Too late? You mean there's no chance—now? (miss gilpin nods. murray is overwhelmed—after a pause— stammering) Isn't there—anything—we can do? miss gilpin—(sadly) I don't know. I should have talked to you before. You see, she's seen you now. She knows. (As he looks mystified she continues slowly) I suppose you know that Eileen loves you, don't you? murray. (ay if defending himself against an accusation— with confused alarm) No—Miss Gilpin. She may have felt something like that—once—but that was long ago before I left the San. She's forgotten all about it since, I know she has. (miss gilpin smiles bitterly) Why—just now—she said that part of it had all been so silly she felt she'd acted like a fool and didn't ever want to be reminded of it. miss gilpin. She saw; that you didn't love her—any more than234 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL you did in the days before you left. Oh, I used to watch you then. I sensed what was going on between you. I would have stopped it then out of pity for her, if I could have, if I didn't know that any interference would only make matters worse. (jShe sighs—then after a pause) You'll have to forgive me for speaking to you so boldly on a delicate subject. But, don't you see, it's for her sake. I love Eileen. We all do. (Averting her eyes from his—in a low voice) I know how Eileen feels, Mr. Murray. Once—a long time ago—I suffered as she is suffering —from the same mistake. But I had resources to fall back upon that Eileen hasn't got—a family who loved me and understood— friends—so I pulled through. But it spoiled my life for a long time. (Looking at him again and forcing a smile) So I feel that perhaps I have a right to speak for Eileen who has no one else. murray. (huskily—much moved) Say anything you like, Miss Gilpin. miss gilpin. (after a pause—sadly) You don't love her— do you? Murray. No—I- I don't believe I've ever thought much of loving anyone—that way. miss gilpin. (sadly) Oh, it's too late, I'm afraid. If we had only had this talk before you had seen her! I meant to talk to you frankly and if I found out you didn't love Eileen—there was always the forlorn hope that you might—I was going to tell you not to see her, for her sake—not to let her face the truth. For I'm sure she continued to hope in spite of everything, and always would—to the end—if she didn't see you. I was going to implore you to stay away, to write her letters that would encourage her hope, and in that way she'd never learn the truth. I thought of writing you all this—but—it's so delicate a matter—I didn't have the courage. (With intense grief) And now Doctor Stanton's decision to send her away makes everything doubly hard. WhenTHE STRAW 235 she knows that—she'll throw everything that holds her to life— out of the window! And think of it—her dying there alone! Murray, (very pale) Don't! That shan't happen. I have money enough—I'll make more—to send her any place you think- miss gilpin. That's something—but it doesn't touch the source of her unhappiness. If there were only some way to make her happy in the little time that's left to her! She has suffered so much through you. Oh, Mr. Murray, can't you tell her you love her ? Murray. (after a pause—slowly) But she'll never believe me, I'm afraid, now. miss gilpin. (eagerly) But you must make her believe! And you must ask her to marry you. If you're engaged it will give you the right in her eyes to take her away. You can take her to some private San. There's a small place but a very good one at White Lake. It's not too expensive, and it's a beautiful spot, out of the world, and you can live and work nearby. And she'll be happy to the very last. Don't you think that's some- thing you can give in return for her love for you ? murray. (slowly—deeply moved) Yes. (Then determin- edly) But I won't go into this thing by halves. It isn't fair to her. I'm going to marry her—yes, I mean it. I owe her that if it will make her happy. miss gilpin. (with a sad smile) She'll never consent—for your sake—until she's well again. And stop and think, Mr. Murray. Even if she did consent to marry you right now the shock—it'd be suicide for her. I'd have to warn her against it myself. I've talked with Dr. Stanton. God knows I'd be the first one to hold out hope if there was any. There isn't. It's merely a case of prolonging the short time left to her and making it happy. You must bear that in mind—as a fact!.236 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL Murray. (dully) All right. I'll remember. But it's hell to realize- (He turns suddenly toward the porch door) I'll go out to her now while I feel—that—yes, I know I can make her believe me now. miss gilpin. You'll tell me—later on? Murray. Yes. (He opens the door to the porch and goes out. miss gilpin stands for a moment looking after him worriedly. Then she sighs helplessly and goes out to the hall. Murray steps noiselessly out on the porch. eileen is lying motionless with her eyes closed. Murray stands looking at her, his face showing the emotional stress he is under, a great pitying tenderness in his eyes. Then he seems to come to a revealing decision on what is best to do for he tiptoes to the bedside and bending down with a quick movement, takes her in his arms, and kisses her) Eileen! eileen. (startled at first, resists automatically for a moment) Stephen! (Then she succumbs and lies back in his arms with a happy sigh, putting both hands to the sides of his face and staring up at him adoringly) Stephen, dear! Murray. (quickly questioning her before she can question him) Yon were fibbing—about that night—weren't you? You do love me, don't you, Eileen ? eileen. (breathlessly) Yes—I—but you, Stephen—you don't love me. (She makes a movement as if to escape from his embrace). Murray. (genuinely moved—with tender reassurance) Why do you suppose I came away up here if not to tell you I did? But they warned me—Miss Gilpin—that you were still weak and that I mustn't excite you in any way. And I—I didn't want—but I had to come back and tell you. eileen. (convinced—with a happy laugh) And is that why yon acted so strange—and cold? Aren't they silly to tell youTHE STRAW 237 that! As if being happy could hurt me! Why, it's just that, just you I've needed! Murray. (his voice trembling) And you'll marry me, Eileen? eileen. (a shadow of doubt crossing her face momentarily) Are you sure—you want me, Stephen ? Murray, (a lump in his throat—huskily) Yes. I do want you, Eileen. eileen. (happily) Then I will—after I'm well again, of course. (She kisses him). Murray. (chokingly) That won't be long now, Eileen. eileen. (joyously) No—not long—now that I'm happy for once in my life. I'll surprise you, Stephen, the way I'll pick up and grow fat and healthy. You won't know me in a month. How can you ever love such a skinny homely thing as I am now! (With a laugh) I couldn't if I was a man—love such a fright. Murray. Ssshh! eileen. (confidently) But you'll see now. Ill make myself get well. We won't have to wait long, dear. And can't you move up to the town near here where you can see me every day, and you can work and I can help you with your stories just as I used to—and I'll soon be strong enough to do your typing again. (She laughs) Listen to me—talking about helping you —as if they weren't all your own work, those blessed stories! —as if I had anything to do with it! Murray. (hoarsely) You had! You did! They're yours. (Trying to calm himself) But you mustn't stay here, Eileen. You'll let me take you away, won't you?—to a better place—not far away—White Lake, it's called. There's a small private sana- torium there. Doctor Stanton says it's one of the best. And I'll live nearby—it's a beautiful spot—and see you every day. eileen. (in the seventh heaven) And did you plan out all this for me beforehand, Stephen? (He nods with averted eyes.238 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL She kisses his hair) You wonderful, kind dear! And it's a small place—this White Lake? Then we won't have so many people around to disturb us, will we? We'll be all to ourselves. And you ought to work so well up there. I know New York wasn't good for you—alone—without me. And I'll get well and strong so quick! And you say it's a beautiful place? (In- tensely) Oh, Stephen, any place in the world would be beau- tiful to me—if you were with me! (His face is hidden in the pillow beside her. She is suddenly startled by a muffled sob— anxiously) Why—Stephen—you're—you're crying! (The tears start to her own eyes). Murray. (Raising his face which is this time alight with a passionate awakening—a revelation) Oh, I do love you, Eileen! I do! I love you, love you! eileen. (thrilled by the depths of his present sincerity— but with a teasing laugh) Why, you say that as if you'd just made the discovery, Stephen! Murray. Oh, what does it matter, Eileen! Oh, what a blind selfish ass I've been! You are my life—everything! I love you, Eileen! I do! I do! And we'll be married—(Suddenly his face grows frozen with horror as he remembers the doom. For the first time Death confronts him face to face as a menacing reality). eileen. (terrified by the look in his eyes) What is it, Stephen? What-? ' Murray. (with a groan—protesting half-aloud in a strangled voice) No! No! It can't be-! My God! (He clutches her hands and hides his face in them), eileen. (with a cry) Stephen! What is the matter? (Her face suddenly betrays an awareness, an intuitive sense of the truth) Oh—Stephen- (Then with a childish whimper of terror) Oh, Stephen, I'm going to die! I'm going to die!THE STRAW 239 murray. (lifting his tortured face—wildly') No! eileen. (her voice sinking to a dead whisper) I'm going to die. Murray. (seizing her in his arms in a passionate frenzy and pressing his lips to hers) No, Eileen, no, my love, no! What are you saying? What could have made you think it? You— die ? Why, of course, we're all going to die—but— Good God! What damned nonsense! You're getting well—every day. Everyone—Miss Gilpin—Stanton—everyone told me that. I swear before God, Eileen, they did! You're still weak, that's all. They said—it won't be long. You mustn't think that—not now. eileen. (miserably—unconvinced) But why did you look at me—that way—with that awful look in your eyes-? (While she is speaking miss gilpin enters the room from the hallway. She appears worried, agitated. She hurries toward the porch but stops inside the doorway, arrested by Murray's voice). Murray, (takes eileen by the shoulders and forces her to look into his eyes) I wasn't thinking about you then- No, Eileen—not you. I didn't mean you—but me—yes, me! I couldn't tell you before. They'd warned me—not to excite you —and I knew that would—if you loved me. eileen. (staring at him with frightened amazement) You mean you-you're sick again? Murray. (desperately striving to convince her) Yes. I saw Stanton. I lied to you before—about that. It's come back on me, Eileen—you see how I look—I've let myself go. I don't know how to live without you, don't you see ? And you'll— marry me now—without waiting—and help me to get well—: you and I together—and not mind their lies—what they say to prevent you? You'll do that, Eileen?240 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL eileen. Ill do anything for you- And I'd be so happy—— (She breaks down) But, Stephen, I'm so afraid. I'm all mixed up. Oh, Stephen, I don't know what to believe! miss gilpin. (who has been listening thunderstruck to Murray's wild pleading, at last summons up the determination to interfere—steps out on the porch—in a tone of severe remon- strance) Mr. Murray! Murray. (starts to his feet with wild, bewildered eyes—con- fusedly) Oh—you- (miss gilpin cannot restrain an ex- clamation of dismay as she sees his face wrung by despair. eileen turns her head away with a little cry as if she would hide her face in the bedclothes. A sudden fierce resolution lights up Murray's countenance—hoarsely) You're just in time, Miss Gilpin! Eileen! Listen! You'll believe Miss Gilpin, won't you? She knows all about it. (eileen turns her eyes question- ingly on the bewildered nurse). miss gilpin. What-? Murray. (determinedly) Doctor Stanton—he must have told you about me. Eileen doesn't believe me—when I tell her I got T. B. again. She thinks—I don't know what. I know you're not supposed to, but—can't you tell her-? miss gilpin. (stunned by being thus defiantly confronted— stammeringly) Mr. Murray! I—I—how can you ask- Murray. (qmckly) She loves me—and I—I—love her! (He holds her eyes and speaks with a passion of sincerity that compels belief) I love her, do you hear? miss gilpin. ([falteringly) You—love—Eileen? Murray. Yes! I do! (Entreatingly) So—tell her—won't you? miss gilpin. (swallowing hard, her eyes full of pity and sorrow fixed on eileen) Yes—Eileen- (She turns away slowly toward the door).THE STRAW 241 eileen. ([with a little cry of alarmed concern, stretches out her hands to Murray protectingly) Poor Stephen—dear! (He grasps her hands and hisses them). miss gilpin. (in a low 'voice) Mr. Murray. May I speak to you? Murray. ' (with a look of questioning defiance at her) Cer- tainly. miss gilpin. (turns to eileen with a forced smile) I won't steal him away for more than a moment, Eileen, (eileen smiles happily) Murray. (follows miss gilpin into the room. She leads him to the far end of the room near the door to the hall, after shut- ting the porch door carefully behind him. He looks at her de- fiantly) Well? miss gilpin. (in low, agitated tones) What has happened? I feel as if I may have done a great wrong to myself—to you— to her—by that lie. And yet—something forced me. Murray, (moved) It has saved her—us. Oh, how can I explain what happened? I suddenly saw—how beautiful and sweet and good she is—how I couldn't bear the thought of life without her- That's all. (Determinedly) She must marry me at once and I'll take her away—the far West—any place Stanton thinks can help. And she can take care of me—as she thinks—and I know she'll grow well as I seem to grow well. Oh Miss Gilpin, don't you see? No half and half measures can help us—help her. (Fiercely as if defying her) But we'll win together. We can! We must! There are things doctors can't value—can't know the strength of! (Exultantly) You'll see! I'll make Eileen get well, I tell you! Happiness will cure! Love is stronger than- (He suddenly breaks down before the pitying negation she cannot keep from her eyes. He sinks on a chair, shoulders bowed, face hidden in his hands, with242 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL a groan of despair) Oh, why did you give me a hopeless hope? miss gilpin. (putting her hand on his shoulder—with tender compassion—sadly) Isn't all life just that—when you think of it? (Her face lighting up with a consoling revelation) But there must be something back of it—some promise of fulfillment, —somehow—somewhere—in the spirit of hope itself. Murray, (dully) What do words mean to me now? (Then suddenly starting to his feet and flinging off her hand with dis- dainful strength—violently and almost insultingly) What damned rot! I tell you we'll win! We must! All the verdicts of all the doctors—what do they matter ? This is—beyond you! And we'll win in spite of you! (Scornfully) How dare you use the word hopeless—as if it were the last! Come now, confess, damn it! There's always hope, isn't there ? What do you know? Can you say you know anything? miss gilpin. (taken aback by his violence for a moment, finally bursts into a laugh of helplessness which is close to tears) I? I know nothing—absolutely nothing! God bless you both! (She raises her handkerchief to her eyes and hurries out to the hallway without turning her head. Murray stands looking after her for a moment; then strides out to the porch), eileen. (turning and greeting him with a shy smile of happi- ness as he comes and kneels by her bedside) Stephen! (He kisses her. She strokes his hair and continues in a tone of motherly, self-forgetting solicitude) I'll have to look out for you, Stephen, won't I? From now on? And see that you rest so many hours a day—and drink your milk when I drink mine —and go to bed at nine sharp when I do—and obey everything I tell you—and- (The Curtain Falls)BEFORE BREAKFAST A Play in One Act (1916)BEFORE BREAKFAST Scene, A small room serving both as kitchen and dining room in a flat on Christopher Street, New York City. Jn the rear, to the right, a door leading to the outer hallway. On the left of the doorway, a sink, and a two-burner gas stove. Over the stove, and extending to the left wall, a wooden closet for dishes, etc. On the left, two windows looking out on a fire escape where several potted plants are dying of neglect. Before the windows, a table covered with oilcloth. Two cane-bottomed chairs are placed by the table. Another stands against the wall to the right of door in rear. In the right wall, rear, a door- way leading into a bedroom. Farther forward, different articles of a man's and a woman's clothing are hung on pegs. A clothes line is strung from the left corner, rear, to the right wall, forward. It is about eight-thirty in the morning of a fine, sunshiny day in the early fall. Mrs. Rowland enters from the bedroom, yawning, her hands still busy putting the finishing touches on a slovenly toilet by sticking hairpins into her hair which is bunched up in a drab- colored mass on top of her round head. She is of medium height and inclined to a shapeless stoutness, accentuated by her formless blue dress, shabby and worn. Her face is character- less, with small regular features and eyes of a nondescript blue. There is a pinched expression about her eyes and nose and her weak, spiteful mouth. She is in her early twenties but looks much older. She comes to the middle of the room and yawns, stretching her arms to their full length. Her drowsy eyes stare about the 245246 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL room with the irritated look of one to whom a long sleep has not been a long rest. She goes wearily to the clothes hanging on the righi and takes an apron from a hook. She ties it about her waist, giving vent to an exasperated "damn" when the knot fails to obey her clumsy fingers. Finally gets it tied and goes slowly to the gas stove and lights one burner. She fills the coffee pot at the sink and sets it over the flame. Then slumps down into a chair by the table and puts a hand over her forehead as if she were suffering from headache. Suddenly her face brightens as though she had remembered something, and she casts a quick glance at the dish closet; then looks sharply at the bedroom door and listens intently for a moment or so. t mrs. Rowland, (in a low voice) Alfred! Alfred! (There is no answer from the next room and she continues suspiciously in a louder tone) You needn't pretend you're asleep. (There is no reply to this from the bedroom, and, reassured, she gets up from her chair and tiptoes cautiously to the dish closet. She slowly opens one door, taking great care to make no noise, and slides out, from tkeir hiding place behind the dishes, a bottle of Gordon gin and a glass. In doing so she disturbs the top dish, which rattles a little. At this sound she starts guiltily and looks with sulky defiance at the doorway to the next room). (Her voice trembling) Alfred! (After a pause, during which she listens for any sound, she takes the glass and pours out a large drink and gulps it downj then hastily returns the bottle and glass to their hiding place. She closes the closet door with the same care as she had opened \it, and, heaving a great sigh of relief, sinks down into her chair again. The large dose of alcohol she has taken has an almost irrbmediate effect. Her features become more animated, she seems to gather energy, and she looks at the bedroom door withBEFORE BREAKFAST 247 a hard, vindictive smile on her lips. Her eyes glance quickly about the room and are fixed on a man9s coat and vest which hang from a hook at right. She moves stealthily over to the open doorway and stands there, out of sight of anyone inside, listening for any movement. {Calling in a half-whisper} Alfred! (Again there is no reply. With a swift movement she takes the coat and vest from the hook and returns with them to her chair. She sits down and takes the various articles out of each pocket but quickly puts them back again. At last, in the inside pocket of the vest, she finds a letter). {Looking at the handwriting—slowly to herself) Hmm! I knew it. (She opens the letter and reads it. At first her expression is one of hatred and rage, but as she goes on to the end it changes to one of triumphant malignity. She remains in deep thought for a moment, staring before her, the letter in her hands, a cruel smile on her lips. Then she puts the letter back in the pocket of the vest, and still careful not to awaken the sleeper, hangs the clothes up again on the same hook, and goes to the bedroom door and looks in). (In a loud, shrill voice) Alfred! (Still louder) Alfred! (There is a muffled, yawning groan from the next room) Don't you think it's about time you got up? Do you want to stay in bed all day? (Turning around and coming bach to her chair) Not that I've got any doubts about your being lazy enough to stay in bed forever. (She sits down and looks out of the window, irritably) Goodness knows what time it is. We haven't even got any way of telling the time since you pawned your watch like a fool. The last valuable thing we had, and you knew it. It's been nothing but pawn, pawn, pawn, with you—anything to put off getting a job, anything to get out248 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL of going to work like a man. (She taps the floor with her foot nervously, biting her lips). - (After a short pause) Alfred! Get up, do you hear me? I want to make that bed before I go out. I'm sick of having this place in a continual muss on your account. (With a certain vindictive satisfaction) Not that we'll be here long unless you manage to get some money some place. Heaven knows I do my part—and more—going out to sew every day while you play the gentleman and loaf around bar rooms with that good-for-nothing lot of artists from the Square. (A short pause during which she plays nervously with a cup and saucer on the table). And where are you going to get money, I'd like to know? The rent's due this week and you know what the landlord is. He won't let us stay a minute over our time. You say you can't get a job. That's a lie and you know it. You never even look for one. All you do is moon around all day writing silly poetry and stories that no one will buy—and no wonder they won't. I notice I can always get a position, such as it is; and it's only that which keeps us from starving to death. (Gets up and goes over to the stove—looks into the coffee pot to see if the water is boiling; then comes bach and sits down again). You'll have to get money to-day some place. I can't do it all, and I^r^a't do it all. You've got to come to your senses. You've got; ta' l^g, borrow, or steal it somewheres. (With a contemptuokiWb^gh) But where, I'd like to know? You're too proud to beg, and you've borrowed the limit, and you haven't the nerve to steal. (After a pause—getting up angrily) Aren't you up yet, for heaven's sake? It's just like you to go to sleep again, or pretend to. (She goes to the bedroom door and looks in) Oh,BEFORE BREAKFAST 249 you are up. Well, it's about time. You needn't look at me like that. Your airs don't fool me a bit any more. I know you too well—better than you think I do—you and your goings- on. (Turning away from the door—meaningly) I know a lot of things, my dear. Never mind what I know, now. I'll tell you before I go, you needn't worry. (She comes to the middle of the room and stands there, frowning). (Irritably) Hmm! I suppose I might as well get breakfast ready—not that there's anything much to get. (Questioningly) Unless you have some money ? (She pauses for an answer from the next room which does not come) Foolish question! (She gives a short, hard laugh) I ought to know you better than that by this time. When you left here in such a huff last night I knew what would happen. You can't be trusted for a second. A nice condition you came home in! The fight we had was only an excuse for you to make a beast of yourself. What was the use pawning your watch if all you wanted with the money was to waste it in buying drink? (Goes over to the dish closet and takes out plates, cups, etc., while she is talking). Hurry up! It don't take long to get breakfast these days, thanks to you. All we got this morning is bread and butter and coffee; and you wouldn't even have that if it wasn't for me sewing my fingers off. (She slams the loaf of bread on the table with a bang). The bread's stale. I hope you'll like it. You don't deserve any better, 4>ut I don't see why I should suffer. ' (Going over to the stove) The coffee'll be ready in a minute, and you needn't expect me to wait for you. (jSuddenly with great anger) What on earth are you doing all this time? (She goes over to the door and looks in) Well, you're almost dressed at any rate. I expected to find you250 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL back in bed. That'd be just like you. How awful you look this morning! For heaven's sake, shave! You're disgusting! You look like a tramp. No wonder no one will give you a job. I don't blame them—when you don't even look half-way decent. (She goes to the stove) There's plenty of hot water right here. You've got no excuse. (Gets a bowl and pours some of the water from the coffee pot into it) Here. (He reaches his hand into the room for it. It is a sensitive hand with slender fingers. It trembles and some of the water spills on the floor). (Tauntingly) Look at your hand tremble! You'd better give up drinking. You can't stand it. It's just your kind that get the D. T's. That would be the last straw! (Looking down at the floor) Look at the mess you've made of this floor— cigarette butts and ashes all over the place. Why can't you put them on a plate? No, you wouldn't be considerate enough to do that. You never think of me. You don't have to sweep the room and that's all you care about. (Takes the broom and commences to sweep viciously, raising a cloud of dust. From the inner room comes the sound of a razor being stropped). (Sweeping) Hurry up! It must be nearly time for me to go. If I'm late I'm liable to lose my position, and then I couldn't support you any longer. (As an afterthought she adds sarcastically) And then you'd have to go to work or something dreadful like that. (Sweeping under the table) What I want to know is whether you're going to look for a job to-day or not. You know your family won't help us any more. They've had enough of you, too. (After a moment's silent sweeping) I'm about sick of all this life. I've a good notion to go home, if I wasn't too proud to let them know what a failure you've been—you, the millionaire Rowland's only son, the HarvardBEFORE BREAKFAST 251 graduate, the poet, the catch of the town—Huh! (With bit- terness) There wouldn't be many of them now envy my catch if they knew the truth. What has our marriage been, I'd like to know? Even before your millionaire father died owing every one in the world money, you certainly never wasted any of your time on your wife. I suppose you thought I'd ought to be glad you were honorable enough to marry me—after getting me into trouble. You were ashamed of me with your fine friends because my father's only a grocer, that's what you were. At least he's honest, which is more than any one could say about yours. (She is sweeping steadily toward the door. Leans on her broom for a moment). You hoped every one'd think you'd been forced to marry me, and pity you, didn't you? You didn't hesitate much about telling me you loved me, and making me believe your lies, before it happened, did you? You made me think you didn't want your father to buy me off as he tried to do. I know better now. I haven't lived with you all this time for nothing. (Som- berly) It's lucky the poor thing was born dead, after all. What a father you'd have been! (Is silent, brooding moodily for a moment—then sh& continues with a sort of savage joy). But I'm not the only one who's got you to thank for being unhappy. There's one other, at least, and she can't hope to marry you now. (She puts her head into the next room) How about Helen? (She starts back from the doorway, half frightened). Don't look at me that way! Yes, I read her letter. What about it? I got a right to. I'm your wife. And I know all there is to know, so don't lie. You needn't stare at me so. You can't bully me with your superior airs an^ longer. Only for me you'd be going without breakfast this very morning. (She252 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL sets the broom bach in the corner—whiningly) You never did have any gratitude for what I've done. (She comes to the stove and puts the coffee into the pot) The coffee's ready, I'm not going to wait for you. {She sits down in her chair again). (After a pause—puts her hand to her head—fretfully) My head aches so this morning. It's a shame I've got to go to work in a stuffy room all day in my condition. And I wouldn't if you were half a man. By rights I ought to be lying on my back instead of you. You know how sick I've been this last year; and yet you object when I take a little something to keep up my spirits. You even didn't want me to take that tonic I got at the drug store. (With a hard laugh) I know you'd be glad to have me dead and out of your way; then you'd be free to run after all these silly girls that think you're such a wonderful, misunderstood person—this Helen and the others. (There is a sharp exclamation of pain from the next room). (With satisfaction) There! I knew you'd cut yourself. It'll be a lesson to you. You know you oughtn't to be running around nights drinking with your nerves in such an awful shape. (She goes to the door and loohs in). What makes you so pale? What are you staring at yourself in the mirror that way for? For goodness sake, wipe that blood off your face! (With a shudder) It's horrible. (In relieved tones) There, that's better. I never could stand the sight of blood. (She shrinks bach from the door a little) You better give up trying and go to a barber shop. Your hand shakes dreadfully. Why do you stare at me like that? (She turns away from the door) Are you still mad at me about that letter? (Defiantly) Well, I had a right to read it. I'm your wife. (She comes to the chair and sits down again. After a pause). I knew all the time you were running around with some one. Your lame excuses about spending the time at the libraryBEFORE BREAKFAST 258 didn't fool me. Who is this Helen, anyway? One of those artists ? Or does she write poetry, too ? Her letter sounds that way. I'll bet she told you your things were the best ever, and you believed her, like a fool. Is she young and pretty? I was young and pretty, too, when you fooled me with your fine, poetic talk; but life with you would soon wear anyone down. What I've been through! (Goes over and takes the coffee off the stove) Breakfast is ready. (With a contemptuous glance) Breakfast! (Pours out a cup of coffee for herself and puts the pot on the table). Your coffee'll be cold. What are you doing—still shaving, for heaven's sake? You'd better give it up. One of these mornings you'll give yourself a serious cut. (She cuts off bread and butters it. Dur- ing the following speeches she eats and sips her coffee). I'll have to run as soon as I've finished eating. One of us has got to work. (Angrily) Are you going to look for a job to-day or aren't you? I should think some of your fine friends would help you, if they really think you're so much. But I guess they just like to hear you talk. (Sits in silence for a moment). I'm sorry for this Helen, whoever she is. Haven't you got any feelings for other people? What will her family say? I see she mentions them in her letter. What is she going to do—have the child—or go to one of those doctors? That's a nice thing, I must say. Where can she get the money? Is she rich? (She waits for some answer to this volley of questions). Hmm! You won't tell me anything about her, will you? Much I care. Come to think of it, I'm not so sorry for her after all. She knew what she was doing. She isn't any school- girl, like I was, from the looks of her letter. Does she know you're* married? Of course, she must. All your friends know about your unhappy marriage. I know they pity you, but they don't know my side of it. They'd talk different if they did.254 PLAYS OF EUGENE O'NEILL {Too busy eating to go on for a second or so). This Helen must be a fine one, if she knew you were married. What does she expect, then? That I'll divorce you and let her marry you? Does she think I'm crazy enough for that— after all you've made me go through? I guess not! And you can't get a divorce from me and you know it. No one can say I've ever done anything wrong. (Drinks the last of her cup of coffee). She deserves to suffer, that's all I can say. I'll tell you what I think; I think your Helen is no better than a common street-walker, that's what I think. (There is a stifled groan of pain from the next room). Did you cut yourself again? Serves you right. (Gets up and takes off her apron) Well, I've got to run along. (Peevishly) This is a fine life for me to be leading! I won't stand for your loafing any longer. (Something catches her ear and she pauses and listens intently) There! You've over- turned the water all over everything. Don't say you haven't. I can hear it dripping on the floor. (A vague expression of fear comes over her face) Alfred! Why don't you answer-me? (She moves slowly toward the room. There is the noise of a chair being overturned and something crashes heavily to the floor. She stands, trembling with fright). Alfred! Alfred! Answer me! What is it you knocked over? Are you still drunk? (Unable to stand the tension a second longer she rushes to the door of the bedroom). Alfred! (She stands in the doorway looking down at the floor of the inner room, transfixed with horror. Then she shrieks wildly and runs to the other door, unlocks it and frenziedly pulls it open, and runs shrieking madly into the outer hallway). (The Curtain Falls)This book is a preservation facsimile produced for the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. It is made in compliance with copyright law and produced on acid-free archival 60# book weight paper which meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (permanence of paper). Preservation facsimile printing and binding by Northern Micrographics Brookhaven Bindery La Crosse, Wisconsin 2017