WALLACE (_with fervor_). And I tell you, mother, I do feel it was
right for America to go in. I see now we ought to have declared
war when they crushed Belgium. Yes; we ought to have gone in when
the Lusitania was sunk. But we've been patient. The President
tried to keep us out of it until we _had_ to go in to save
our self-respect. We had to go in to show we were men of honor,
not pussy-cats. We had to go in to show the world the Stars and
Stripes wasn't a dish-rag on which the Germans could dry their
bloody hands!
HILDA (_gazing at him incredulously_). You hate them as much as
that?
WALLACE. Hate? No, mother, no. (_As if questioning himself_) I
really haven't any hate for the German _people_. People are
just people everywhere, I suppose, and they're tricked and fooled
by their rotten government, as the President says.
HILDA. Then why fight them?
WALLACE. Because they're standing back of their government, doing
what it says. And they've got to be licked to show them what kind
of a government they have.
HILDA. At least you have no hate in your heart--that's something.
WALLACE. Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it isn't for the poor
devils I've got to shoot. It's for the stay-at-home fellow here
in America who sits in a comfortable armchair, who applauds
patriotic sentiment, cheers the flag, and does nothing for his
country but hate and hate--while we fight for him. That's the
fellow I'll hate all right when I sit in the trenches. And that's
why I couldn't look myself in the face if I stayed out a day
longer; why I've got to go in; why I'm going to die if I must,
because _everybody_ ought to be willing to die for what he
believes.
HILDA. You are my son, _too_! For I would willingly have
died if it could have kept us out of this war.
WALLACE. Yes. I am your son, too. And that's why you wouldn't
respect me if I didn't go through.
HILDA. No. I wouldn't have respected you. But--but--(_She breaks
a bit, then controls herself._) You are quite sure you're doing
what's right?
WALLACE (_tenderly_). Would I have been willing to hurt you like
this?
HILDA (_holding him close to her_). My boy; my boy!
WALLACE. It'll be all right, mother.
HILDA. Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in time:
it's only the moments that hurt.
WALLACE (_after a pause_). Then you won't tell my real age, or
interfere?
HILDA. I respect your right to decide your own life.
WALLACE (_joyed_). Mother!
HILDA. I respect your dedication; your willingness to sacrifice
for your beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a crime for me to
stand in your way--even with my mother's love. (_He kisses her._)
Do it all as cleanly as you can. I'll hope and pray that you'll
come back to me. (_Half breaking down and taking him in her arms_).
Oh, my boy; my boy. Let me hold you. You'll never know how hard
it is for a mother.
WALLACE (_gently_). But other mothers send their boys.
HILDA. Most of them believe in what their sons are fighting for.
Mothers have got to believe in it; or else how could they stand
the thought of bayonets stuck into the bodies they brought forth
in their own blood? (_There is a pause till she controls herself._)
I'll help you get your things together.
WALLACE. And father?
HILDA. He will be angry.
WALLACE. But you will make him understand?
HILDA. I'll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he doesn't
understand. Don't ever forget his long fight against all kinds of
Prussianism when you hear him reviled by those who have always
hated his radicalism and who, now, under the guise of patriotism,
are trying to render him useless for further attacks on them
after the war. He's been persecuted so by them--even back in the
days when our press was praising Germany and our distinguished
citizens were dining at the Emperor's table. Don't forget all
this, my boy. These days are hard for him--and me--harder perhaps
than for you who go out to die in glory and praise. There are no
flags for us, no music that stirs, no applause; but we too suffer
in silence for what we believe. And it is only the strongest who
can survive.--Now call your father.
WALLACE (_goes to door_). Dad! (_He leaves door open and turns to
his mother._) I'll be getting my things together. (_There is a
pause._ WHITE _enters._) Dad, mother has something to ask you. (_He
looks from father to mother._) Thanks, little mother.
(_He kisses her and goes out, taking the valise. His father and
mother stand facing each other._)
HILDA. Wallace has volunteered. (_He looks at her keenly._) He has
lied about his age. He wants us to let him go.
WHITE. Volunteered?
HILDA. Yes; he leaves to-night.
WHITE (_after a pause_). And what have you told him?
HILDA. That he must go.
WHITE. You can say that?
HILDA. It is the way he sees it.
WHITE (_going to her sympathetically_). Hilda.
HILDA (_looking up at him tenderly_). O Will, do you remember when
he was born? (_He soothes her._) And all we nursed him through
afterwards; and all we taught him; all we tried to show him about
war. (_With a shrug of her shoulders_) None of it has mattered.
WHITE. War is stronger than all that.
HILDA. So we mustn't blame him. You won't blame him?
WHITE. He fears I will?
HILDA. He has always feared you a little, though he loves you
deeply. You mustn't oppose him, dear. You won't?
WHITE (_wearily_). Is there any use opposing anybody or anything
these days?
HILDA. We must wait till the storm passes.
WHITE. That's never been my way.
HILDA. No. You've fought all your life. But now we must sit
silent together and wait; wait for our boy to come back. Will,
think of it; we are going to have a boy "over there," too.
WHITE. Hilda, hasn't it ever struck you that we may have been all
wrong? (_She looks at him, as she holds his hand._) What could
these frail hands do? How could we poor little King Canutes halt
this tide that has swept over the world? Isn't it better, after
all, that men should fight themselves out; bring such desolation
upon themselves that they will be forced to see the futility of
war? May it not become so terrible that men--the workers, I
mean--will throw down their worn-out weapons of their own accord?
Won't permanent peace come through bitter experience rather than
talk--talk--talk?
HILDA (_touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling_). Here
is your answer to your own question.
WHITE. Oh, that was all theory. We're in now. You say yourself we
can't oppose it. Isn't it better if we try to direct the current
to our own ends rather than sink by trying to swim against it?
HILDA. Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who _could_
compromise.
WHITE. But haven't we radicals been too intolerant of compromise?
HILDA. That has been _your_ strength. And it is your
strength I'm relying on now that Wallace--Shall I call him?
WHITE (_significantly_). No; wait.
HILDA (_apprehensive at his turn_). Oh, yes. Before he came you
said there was something--(_The phone rings. They both look at
it._) That's for you.
WHITE (_not moving_). Yes.
HILDA _hardly believing his attititde_). Is--is it private?
WHITE. No. Perhaps it will be easier this way. (_He hesitates,
then goes to phone as she stands expectant._) Yes. Yes. Long
Distance? Washington? (_Her lips repeat the word._) Yes. This is
William White. Hello. Yes. Is this the Secretary speaking? Oh, I
appreciate the honor of having you confirm it personally. Senator
Bough is chairman? At his request? Ah, yes; war makes strange
bedfellows. Yes. The passport and credentials? Oh, I'll be ready.
Yes. Good-bye.
(_He hangs up the receiver and looks at her._)
HILDA. You, too!
WHITE. I've been trying to tell you these last weeks; but I
couldn't somehow.
HILDA. You were ashamed?
WHITE. No, dear; only I knew it would hurt you.
HILDA. I'm not thinking of myself but of you. You are going to be
part of this war?
WHITE. I'm going to do what I can to help finish it.
HILDA. By compromising with the beliefs of a lifetime?
WHITE. No, dear; not that. I've accepted the appointment on this
commission because I'm going to accept facts.
HILDA. Have the facts of war changed, or is it you?
WHITE. Neither has changed; but I'm going to act differently. I'm
going to be part of it. Yes. I'm going to help direct the
current.
HILDA. I can't believe what I am hearing. Is it you, William
White, speaking? You who, for twenty years, have stood against
all war!
WHITE. Yes.
HILDA. And now, when the test comes, you are going to lend
yourself to it! You of all men!
WHITE. Hilda, dear; I didn't expect you to accept it easily; but
I think I can make you see if you will let me.
HILDA (_poignantly_). If I will let you! Why, Will, I must
understand; I must.
WHITE. Perhaps it will be difficult at first--with your
standards.
HILDA. But my standards were yours, Will. You gave them to me.
You taught me. You took a young girl who loved you. You showed
her the truth, and she followed you and has followed you gladly
through hard years of struggle and poverty because of those
ideals. And now you talk of my standards! Will, don't you see, I
must understand?
WHITE. Dear, standards are relative things; they differ with
circumstance.
HILDA. Have your ideals only been old clothes you change to suit
the weather?
WHITE. It's the end we must keep in mind. I haven't changed or
compromised one bit in that. I'm working in changed conditions,
that's all; working with all my heart to do away with all war.
HILDA. By fighting one?
WHITE (_with eloquence_). Yes. Because it is necessary. I've come
to see we can't argue war out of the world with words. We've got
to beat it out of the world. It can't be done with our hands
lifted up in prayer; it can only be done with iron hands crushing
it down. War is the mood of the world. Well, I'm going to fight
in my fashion. And when it is over, I'm going to keep on
fighting; for the next war will be greater than this. It will be
economic revolution. It will be the war of capital and labor. And
I mean to be ready.
HILDA (_listening incredulously_). And to get ready you are willing
to link arms now with Senator Bough--a man you once called the
lackey of Wall Street--a man who has always opposed every
democratic principle.
WHITE. Yes. Don't you see the Government is beginning to realize
it can't do without us? Don't you see my appointment is an
acknowledgment of the rising tide of radicalism in the world?
Don't you see, with the prestige that will come to me from this
appointment, I will have greater power after the war; power to
bring about the realization of all our dreams; power to
demand--even at the Peace table itself, perhaps--that all wars
must end?
HILDA. Do you actually believe you will have any power with your
_own_ people when you have compromised them for a temporary
expediency?
WHITE (_with a gesture_). The leader must be wiser than the people
who follow.
HILDA. So, contempt for your people is the first thing your new
power has brought you! (_He makes a gesture of denial._) You feel
you are above them--not of them. Do you believe for a moment that
Senator Bough has anything but contempt for you, too?
WHITE (_confidently_). He needs me.
HILDA. Needs you? Don't you understand why he had you appointed
on that committee? He wanted to get you out of the way.
WHITE. Isn't that an acknowledgment of my power?
HILDA. Yes. You're a great asset now. You're a "reformed"
radical. Why, Will, he'll use you in the capitals of Europe to
advertise his liberalism; just as the prohibitionist exhibits a
reformed drunkard.
WHITE. And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be stronger
than he is, stronger than any of them.
HILDA. No man is strong unless he does what he feels is right.
No, no, Will; you've convicted yourself with your own eloquence.
You've wanted to do this for some reason. But it isn't the one
you've told me. No; no.
WHITE (_angrily_). You doubt my sincerity?
HILDA. No; only the way you have read yourself.
WHITE. Well, if you think I've tried to make it easy for myself
you are mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the rut and habit of
years? Easy to know my friends will jeer and say I've sold out?
Easy to have you misunderstand? (_Goes to her._) Hilda, I'm doing
this for their good. I'm doing it--just as Wallace is--because I
feel it's right.
HILDA. No; you shouldn't say that. You are not doing this for the
same reason Wallace is. He believes in this war. He has accepted
it all simply without a question. If you had seen the look in his
eyes, you would have known he was a dedicated spirit; there was
no shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You believe
differently! You can't hush the mind that for twenty years has
thought no war ever could henceforth be justified. You can't give
yourself to this war without tricking yourself with phrases. You
see power in it and profit for yourself. (_He protests._) That's
your own confession. You are only doing what is expedient--not
what is right. Oh, Will, don't compare your motives with those of
our son. I sent him forth, without a word of protest, because he
wishes to die for his own ideals: you are killing your own ideals
for the ideals of others! (_She turns away._) Oh, Will, that's what
hurts. If you were only like him, I--I could stand it.
WHITE (_quietly, after a pause_). I can't be angry at you--even
when you say such things. You've been too much a part of my life,
and work, and I love you, Hilda. You know that, don't you, dear?
(_He sits beside her and takes her hand._) I knew it would be
difficult to make you understand. Only once have I lacked
courage, and that was when I felt myself being drawn into this
and they offered me the appointment. For then I saw I must tell
you. You know I never have wanted to cause you pain. But when you
asked me to let Wallace go, I thought you would understand my
going, too.--Oh, perhaps our motives are different; he is young;
war has caught his imagination; but, I, too, see a duty, a way to
accomplish my ideals.
HILDA. Let's leave ideals out of this now. It's like bitter
enemies praying to the same God as they kill each other.
WHITE. Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that: Wallace can't.
It's so full of mixed motives, good and bad. Yes. I'll grant all
that. Only, America has gone in. The whole tide was against us,
dear. It is sweeping over the world: a brown tide of khaki
sweeping everything before it. All my life I've fought against
the current. (_Wearily_) And now that I've gone in, too, my arms
seem less tired. Yes; and except for the pain I've caused you,
I've never in all my life felt so--so happy.
(_Then she understands. She slowly turns to him, with tenderness
in her eyes._)
HILDA. Oh, now, Will, I do understand. Now I see the real reason
for what you've done.
WHITE (_defensively_). I've given the real reason.
HILDA (_her heart going out to him_). You poor tired man. My dear
one. Forgive me if I made it difficult for you, if I said cruel
words. I ought to have guessed; ought to have seen what life has
done to you. (_He looks up, not understanding her words_). Those
hands of yours first dug a living out of the ground. Then they
built houses and grew strong because you were a workman--a man of
the people. You saw injustice, and all your life you fought
against those who had the power to inflict it: the press; the
comfortable respectables, like my brother; and even those of your
own group who opposed you--you fought them all. And they look at
you as an outsider, an alien in your own country. O Will, I know
how hard it has been for you to be always on the defensive,
against the majority. It is hard to live alone, away from the
herd. It does tire one to the bone and make one envious of the
comfort and security they find by being together.