WILLIAM WHITE, a famous Internationalist
HILDA, his wife
WALLACE, their son
SCENE: _At the Whites'; spring, 1917. A simply furnished study.
The walls are lined with bookshelves, indicating, by their
improvised quality, that they have been increased as occasion
demanded. On these are stacked, in addition to the books
themselves, many files of papers, magazines, and "reports." The
large work-table, upon which rests a double student lamp and a
telephone, is conspicuous. A leather couch with pillows is
opposite, pointing toward a doorway which leads into the
living-room. There is also a doorway in back, which apparently
opens on the hallway beyond. The room is comfortable in spite of
its general disorder: it is essentially the workshop of a busy
man of public affairs. The strong sunlight of a spring day comes
in through the window, flooding the table._
WILLIAM WHITE _is standing by the window, smoking a pipe. He is
about fifty, of striking appearance: the visual incarnation of
the popular conception of a leader of men. There is authority and
strength in the lines of his face; his whole personality is
commanding; his voice has all the modulations of a well-trained
orator; his gestures are sweeping--for, even in private
conversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience.
Otherwise, he is simple and engaging, with some indication of his
humble origin._
_On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand,_ HILDA WHITE, _his
wife, is seated. She is somewhat younger in fact, though in
appearance she is as one who has been worn a bit by the struggle
of many years. Her manner contrasts with her husband's: her
inheritance of delicate refinement is ever present in her soft
voice and gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength--the
sort which will endure all for a fixed intention._
_It is obvious throughout that she and her husband have been happy
comrades in their life together, and that a deep fundamental bond
has united them in spite of the different social spheres from
which each has sprung._
WHITE (_seeing she has paused_). Go on, dear; go on. Let's hear all
of it.
HILDA. Oh, what's the use, Will? You know how differently he
feels about the war.
WHITE (_with quiet sarcasm_). But it's been so many years since
your respectable brother has honored me even with the slightest
allusion--
HILDA. If you care for what he says--(_continuing to read the
letter_)--"Remember, Hilda, you are an American. I don't suppose
your husband considers that an honor; but I do."
WHITE (_interrupting_). And what kind of an American has he been in
times of peace? He's wrung forty per cent profit out of his
factory and fought every effort of the workers to organize. Ah,
these smug hypocrites!
HILDA (_reading_). "His violent opposition to America going in has
been disgrace enough--"
WHITE. But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes.
HILDA. Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (_Reading_) "--been
disgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm writing in the faint
hope, if you are not too much under his influence, that you will
persuade him to keep his mouth shut. This country will tolerate
no difference of opinion now. You radicals had better get on
board the band wagon. It's prison or acceptance." (_She stops
reading._) He's right, dear. There will be nothing more
intolerant than a so-called democracy at war.
WHITE. By God! It's superb! Silence for twenty years and now he
writes his poor misguided sister for fear she will be further
disgraced by her radical husband.
HILDA. We mustn't descend to his bitterness.
WHITE. No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten doctrine
of forgiving my enemies.
HILDA. He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it all
differently.
WHITE. I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these twenty
years--ever since you married me--"out of your class," as he
called it.
HILDA. Oh, hush, Will. I've been so happy with you I can bear him
no ill will. Besides, doesn't his attitude seem natural? You
mustn't forget that no man in this country has fought his class
more than you. That hurts--especially coming from an _acquired_
relative.
WHITE. Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I'll tell you
something you may not know. (_Bitterly_) Whenever I've spoken
against privilege and wealth it's been his pudgy, comfortable
face I've shaken my fist at. He's been so damned comfortable all
his life.
HILDA. (_She looks at him in surprise._) Why, Will, you surely
don't envy him his comfort, do you? I can't make you out. What's
come over you these last weeks? You've always been above such
personal bitterness; even when you were most condemned and
ridiculed. If it were anybody but you I'd think you had done
something you were ashamed of.
WHITE. What do you mean?
HILDA. Haven't you sometimes noticed that is what bitterness to
another means: a failure within oneself? (_He goes over to chair
and sits without answering._) I can think of you beaten by outside
things--that sort of failure we all meet; but somehow I can never
think of you failing yourself. You've been so brave and
self-reliant: you've fought so hard for the truth.
WHITE (_tapping letter_). But he thinks he knows the truth, too.
HILDA. He's also an intense nature.
WHITE (_thoughtfully after a pause_). Yet there is _some_
truth in what he says.
HILDA (_smiling_). But you didn't like it--coming from him?
WHITE. It will be different with you and me now that America's
gone in.
HILDA. Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is always
farthest from the trenches. But you and I are not the sort who
would compromise to escape the persecution which is the resource
of the non-combatant.
(_The phone rings: he looks at his watch._)
WHITE. That's for me.
HILDA. Let me. (_She goes._) It may be Wallace. (_At phone_) Yes:
this is 116 Chelsea. Long Distance? (_He starts as she says to
him_) It must be our boy. (_At phone_) Who? Oh--Mr. William White?
Yes: he'll be here. (_She hangs up receiver._) She'll ring when she
gets the connection through.
WHITE (_turning away_). It takes so long these days.
HILDA. Funny he didn't ask for me.
WHITE. What made you think it was Wallace?
HILDA. I took it for granted. He must be having a hard time at
college with all the boys full of war fever.
WHITE. And a father with my record.
HILDA. He should be proud of the example. He has more than other
boys to cling to these days when everybody is losing his head as
the band plays and the flag is waved. He won't be carried away by
it. He'll remember all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think we
now have conscription--as they have in Germany--I thank God every
night our boy is too young for the draft.
WHITE. But when his time comes what will he do?
HILDA (_calmly_). He will do it with courage.
WHITE (_referring to her brother's letter_). Either prison or
acceptance!
HILDA. I would rather have my son in prison than have him do what
he felt was wrong. Wouldn't you?
WHITE (_evasively_). We won't have to face that problem for two
years.
HILDA. And when it comes--if he falters--I'll give him these
notes of that wonderful speech you made at the International
Conference in 1910. (_Picking it up_) I was looking through it only
this morning.
WHITE (_troubled_). Oh, that speech.
HILDA (_glancing through it with enthusiasm_). "All wars are
imperialistic in origin. Do away with overseas investments, trade
routes, private control of ammunition factories, secret
diplomacy--"
WHITE. Don't you see that's all dead wood?
HILDA (_not heeding him_). This part gave me new strength when I
thought of Wallace. (_Reading with eloquence_) "War will stop when
young men put Internationalism above Nationality, the law of God
above the dictates of statesmen, the law of love above the law of
hate, the law of self-sacrifice above the law of profit. There
must be no boundaries in man's thought. Let the young men of the
world once throw down their arms, let them once refuse to point
their guns at human hearts, and all the boundaries of the world
will melt away and peace will find a resting-place in the hearts
of men!"
WHITE (_taking it from her_). And I made you believe it! What silly
prophets we radicals were. (_He tears it up._) Mere scraps of
paper, dear; scraps of paper, now.
HILDA. But it was the truth; it still is the truth.
WHITE. Hilda, there's something I want to talk over very, very
seriously with you. I've been putting it off.
HILDA. Yes, dear? (_The outer door is heard to bang._) Listen:
wasn't that the front door?
WHITE. Perhaps it's the maid?
HILDA (_a bit nervously_). No: she's upstairs. No one rang. Please
see.
WHITE (_smiling_). Now don't worry! It can't possibly be the Secret
Service.
HILDA. One never knows in war times what to expect. I sometimes
feel I am in a foreign country.
(WHITE _goes slowly to the door in back and opens it._ WALLACE,
_their son, with valise in hand, is standing there, as if he had
hesitated to enter._
_He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his father's physical
endowment and his mother's spiritual intensity. The essential
note he strikes is that of honesty. It is apparent he is under
the pressure of a momentous decision which has brought him
unexpectedly home from college._)
WHITE. Wallace!
WALLACE (_shaking hands_). Hello, Dad!
HILDA. Wallace! My boy!
(WALLACE _drops valise and goes to his mother's arms._)
WALLACE (_with deep feeling_). Mother!
WHITE (_after a pause_). Well, boy; this is unexpected. We were
just talking of you.
WALLACE. Were you?
HILDA. I'm so glad to see you, so glad.