ABRAHAM LINCOLN
A play by JOHN DRINKWATER
With an introduction by ARNOLD BENNETT
[Illustration: The Riverside Press]
1919
To THE LORD CHARNWOOD
NOTE
In using for purposes of drama a personality of so wide and recent a
fame as that of Abraham Lincoln, I feel that one or two observations
are due to my readers and critics.
First, my purpose is that not of the historian but of the dramatist.
The historical presentation of my hero has been faithfully made in
many volumes; notably, in England, by Lord Charnwood in a monograph
that gives a masterly analysis of Lincoln's career and character and
is, it seems to me, a model of what the historian's work should be. To
this book I am gratefully indebted for the material of my play. But
while I have, I hope, done nothing to traverse history, I have freely
telescoped its events, and imposed invention upon its movement,
in such ways as I needed to shape the dramatic significance of my
subject. I should add that the fictitious Burnet Hook is admitted
to the historical company of Lincoln's Cabinet for the purpose of
embodying certain forces that were antagonistic to the President. This
was a dramatic necessity, and I chose rather to invent a character for
the purpose than to invest any single known personage with sinister
qualities about which there might be dispute.
Secondly, my purpose is, again, that of the dramatist, not that of the
political philosopher. The issue of secession was a very intricate
one, upon which high and generous opinions may be in conflict, but
that I may happen to have or lack personal sympathy with Lincoln's
policy and judgment in this matter is nothing. My concern is with the
profoundly dramatic interest of his character, and with the inspiring
example of a man who handled war nobly and with imagination.
Finally, I am an Englishman, and not a citizen of the great country
that gave Lincoln birth. I have, therefore, written as an Englishman,
making no attempt to achieve a "local colour" of which I have no
experience, or to speak in an idiom to which I have not been bred. To
have done otherwise, as I am sure any American friends that this play
may have the good fortune to make will allow, would have been to treat
a great subject with levity._
J.D. _Far Oakridge, July-August, 1918_
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
This play was originally produced by the Birmingham Repertory Theatre
last year, and it had a great success in Birmingham. But if its
author had not happened to be the artistic director of the Birmingham
Repertory Theatre the play might never have been produced there.
The rumour of the provincial success reached London, with the usual
result--that London managers magnificently ignored it. I have myself
spoken with a very well-known London actor-manager who admitted to me
that he had refused the play.
When Nigel Playfair, in conjunction with myself as a sort of
Chancellor of the Exchequer, started the Hammersmith Playhouse (for
the presentation of the best plays that could be got) we at once
began to inquire into the case of Abraham Lincoln. Nigel Playfair was
absolutely determined to have the play and the Birmingham company to
act it. I read the play and greatly admired it. We secured both
the play and the company. The first Hammersmith performance was a
tremendous success, both for the author of the play and for William J.
Rea, the Irish actor who in the rĂ´le of Lincoln was merely great. The
audience cried.
I should have cried myself, but for my iron resolve not to stain a
well-earned reputation for callousness. As I returned home that night
from what are known as "the wilds of Hammersmith" (Hammersmith is a
suburb of London) I said to myself: "This play is bound to succeed"
The next moment I said to myself: "This play cannot possibly succeed.
It has no love interest. It is a political play. Its theme is the
threatened separation of the Southern States from the Northern States.
Nobody ever heard of a play with such an absurd theme reaching
permanent success. No author before John Drinkwater ever had the
effrontery to impose such a theme on a London public."
My instinct was right and my reason was wrong. The play did succeed.
It is still succeeding, and it will continue to succeed. Nobody can
dine out in London to-day and admit without a blush that he has not
seen ABRAHAM LINCOLN. Monarchs and princes have seen it. Archbishops
have seen it. Statesmen without number have seen it. An ex-Lord
Chancellor told me that he had journeyed out into the said wilds and
was informed at the theatre that there were no seats left. He could
not believe that he would have to return from the wilds unsatisfied.
But so it fell out. West End managers have tried to coax the play from
Hammersmith to the West End. They could not do it. We have contrived
to make all London come to Hammersmith to see a play without a
love-interest or a bedroom scene, and the play will remain at
Hammersmith. Americans will more clearly realize what John Drinkwater
has achieved with the London public if they imagine somebody putting
on a play about the Crimean War at some unknown derelict theatre round
about Two Hundred and Fiftieth Street, and drawing all New York to Two
Hundred and Fiftieth Street.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN has pleased everybody, and its triumph is the best
justification of those few who held that the public was capable of
liking much better plays than were offered to the public. Why has
ABRAHAM LINCOLN succeeded? Here are a few answers to the question:
Because the author had a deep, practical knowledge of the stage.
Because he disdained all stage tricks. Because he had the wit to
select for his hero one of the world's greatest and finest characters.
Because he had the audacity to select a gigantic theme and to handle
it with simplicity. Because he had the courage of all his artistic and
moral convictions. And of course because he has a genuine dramatic
gift. Finally, because William J. Rea plays Lincoln with the utmost
nobility of emotional power.
Every audience has the same experience at ABRAHAM LINCOLN, and I laugh
privately when I think of that experience. The curtain goes up on a
highly commonplace little parlour, and a few ordinary people chatting
in a highly commonplace manner. They keep on chatting. The audience
thinks to itself: "I've been done! What is this interminable small
talk?" And it wants to call out a protest: "Hi! You fellows on the
stage! Have you forgotten that there is an audience on the other
side of the footlights, waiting for something to happen?" (Truly the
ordinary people in the parlour do seem to be unaware of the existence
of any audience.) But wait, audience! Already the author is winding
his chains about you. Though you may not suspect it, you are already
bound.... At the end of the first scene the audience, vaguely feeling
the spell, wonders what on earth the nature of the spell is. At the
end of the play it is perhaps still wondering what precisely the
nature of the spell is.... But it fully and rapturously admits the
reality of the spell. Indeed after the fall of the curtain, and after
many falls of the curtain, the spell persists; the audience somehow
cannot leave its seats, and the thought of the worry of the journey
home and of last 'busses and trains is banished. Strange phenomenon!
It occurs every night.
ARNOLD BENNETT _April 1919_
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
_Two Chroniclers_:
_The two speaking together_: Kinsmen, you shall behold
Our stage, in mimic action, mould
A man's character.
This is the wonder, always, everywhere--
Not that vast mutability which is event,
The pits and pinnacles of change,
But man's desire and valiance that range
All circumstance, and come to port unspent.
Agents are these events, these ecstasies,
And tribulations, to prove the purities
Or poor oblivions that are our being. When
Beauty and peace possess us, they are none
But as they touch the beauty and peace of men,
Nor, when our days are done,
And the last utterance of doom must fall,
Is the doom anything
Memorable for its apparelling;
The bearing of man facing it is all.
So, kinsmen, we present
This for no loud event
That is but fugitive,
But that you may behold
Our mimic action mould
The spirit of man immortally to live.
_First Chronicler_: Once when a peril touched the days
Of freedom in our English ways,
And none renowned in government
Was equal found,
Came to the steadfast heart of one,
Who watched in lonely Huntingdon,
A summons, and he went,
And tyranny was bound,
And Cromwell was the lord of his event.
_Second Chronicler_: And in that land where voyaging
The pilgrim Mayflower came to rest,
Among the chosen, counselling,
Once, when bewilderment possessed
A people, none there was might draw
To fold the wandering thoughts of men,
And make as one the names again
Of liberty and law.
And then, from fifty fameless years
In quiet Illinois was sent
A word that still the Atlantic hears,
And Lincoln was the lord of his event.
_The two speaking together:_ So the uncounted
spirit wakes
To the birth
Of uncounted circumstance.
And time in a generation makes
Portents majestic a little story of earth
To be remembered by chance
At a fireside.
But the ardours that they bear,
The proud and invincible motions of
character--
These--these abide.
SCENE I.
_The parlour of Abraham Lincoln's House at Springfield, Illinois,
early in 1860_. MR. STONE, _a farmer, and_ MR. CUFFNEY, _a
store-keeper, both men of between fifty and sixty, are sitting before
an early spring fire. It is dusk, but the curtains are not drawn. The
men are smoking silently_.
_Mr. Stone (after a pause)_: Abraham. It's a good name for a man to
bear, anyway.
_Mr. Cuffney_: Yes. That's right.
_Mr. Stone (after another pause)_: Abraham Lincoln. I've known him
forty years. Never crooked once. Well.
_He taps his pipe reflectively on the grate. There is another pause_.
SUSAN, _a servant-maid, comes in, and busies herself lighting candles
and drawing the curtains to._
_Susan_: Mrs. Lincoln has just come in. She says she'll be here
directly.
_Mr. Cuffney_: Thank you.
_Mr. Stone_: Mr. Lincoln isn't home yet, I dare say?
_Susan:_ No, Mr. Stone. He won't be long, with all the gentlemen
coming.
_Mr. Stone:_ How would you like your master to be President of the
United States, Susan?
_Susan:_ I'm sure he'd do it very nicely, sir.
_Mr. Cuffney:_ He would have to leave Springfield, Susan, and go to
live in Washington.
_Susan:_ I dare say we should take to Washington very well, sir.
_Mr. Cuffney:_ Ah! I'm glad to hear that.
_Susan:_ Mrs. Lincoln's rather particular about the tobacco smoke.
_Mr. Stone:_ To be sure, yes, thank you, Susan.
_Susan:_ The master doesn't smoke, you know. And Mrs. Lincoln's
specially particular about this room.
_Mr. Cuffney:_ Quite so. That's very considerate of you, Susan.
_They knock out their pipes._
_Susan:_ Though some people might not hold with a gentleman not doing
as he'd a mind in his own house, as you might say.
_She goes out._
_Mr. Cuffney (after a further pause, stroking his pipe)_: I suppose
there's no doubt about the message they'll bring?
_Mr. Stone_: No, that's settled right enough. It'll be an invitation.
That's as sure as John Brown's dead.
_Mr. Cuffney_: I could never make Abraham out rightly about old John.
One couldn't stomach slaving more than the other, yet Abraham didn't
hold with the old chap standing up against it with the sword. Bad
philosophy, or something, he called it. Talked about fanatics who do
nothing but get themselves at a rope's end.
_Mr. Stone_: Abraham's all for the Constitution. He wants the
Constitution to be an honest master. There's nothing he wants like
that, and he'll stand for that, firm as a Samson of the spirit, if he
goes to Washington. He'd give his life to persuade the state against
slaving, but until it is persuaded and makes its laws against it,
he'll have nothing to do with violence in the name of laws that aren't
made. That's why old John's raiding affair stuck in his gullet.
_Mr. Cuffney:_ He was a brave man, going like that, with a few zealous
like himself, and a handful of niggers, to free thousands.
_Mr. Stone:_ He was. And those were brave words when they took him out
to hang him. "I think, my friends, you are guilty of a great wrong
against God and humanity. You may dispose of me very easily. I am
nearly disposed of now. But this question is still to be settled--this
negro question, I mean. The end of that is not yet." I was there that
day. Stonewall Jackson was there. He turned away. There was a colonel
there giving orders. When it was over, "So perish all foes of the
human race," he called out. But only those that were afraid of losing
their slaves believed it.
_Mr. Cuffney (after a pause):_ It was a bad thing to hang a man like
that. ... There's a song that they've made about him.
_He sings quietly._
John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the grave,
But his soul goes marching on...
_Mr. Stone:_ I know.
_The two together (singing quietly):_
The stars of heaven are looking kindly down
On the grave of old John Brown....
_After a moment_ MRS. LINCOLN _comes in. The men rise._
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Good-evening, Mr. Stone. Good-evening, Mr. Cuffney.
_Mr. Stone and Mr. Cuffney:_ Good-evening, ma'am.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Sit down, if you please.
_They all sit._
_Mr. Stone:_ This is a great evening for you, ma'am.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ It is.
_Mr. Cuffney:_ What time do you expect the deputation, ma'am?
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ They should be here at seven o'clock. _(With an
inquisitive nose.)_ Surely, Abraham hasn't been smoking.
_Mr. Stone (rising):_ Shall I open the window, ma'am? It gets close of
an evening.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Naturally, in March. You may leave the window, Samuel
Stone. We do not smoke in the parlour.
_Mr. Stone (resuming his seat):_ By no means, ma'am.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ I shall be obliged to you.
_Mr. Cuffney:_ Has Abraham decided what he will say to the invitation?
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ He will accept it.
_Mr. Stone:_ A very right decision, if I may say so.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ It is.
_Mr. Cuffney:_ And you, ma'am, have advised him that way, I'll be
bound.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ You said this was a great evening for me. It is, and
I'll say more than I mostly do, because it is. I'm likely to go into
history now with a great man. For I know better than any how great he
is. I'm plain looking and I've a sharp tongue, and I've a mind that
doesn't always go in his easy, high way. And that's what history will
see, and it will laugh a little, and say, "Poor Abraham Lincoln."
That's all right, but it's not all. I've always known when he should
go forward, and when he should hold back. I've watched, and watched,
and what I've learnt America will profit by. There are women like
that, lots of them. But I'm lucky. My work's going farther than
Illinois--it's going farther than any of us can tell. I made things
easy for him to think and think when we were poor, and now his
thinking has brought him to this. They wanted to make him Governor
of Oregon, and he would have gone and have come to nothing there. I
stopped him. Now they're coming to ask him to be President, and I've
told him to go.
_Mr. Stone_: If you please, ma'am, I should like to apologise for
smoking in here.
_Mrs. Lincoln_: That's no matter, Samuel Stone. Only, don't do it
again.
_Mr. Cuffney_: It's a great place for a man to fill. Do you know how
Seward takes Abraham's nomination by the Republicans?
_Mrs. Lincoln_: Seward is ambitious. He expected the nomination.
Abraham will know how to use him.
_Mr. Stone_: The split among the Democrats makes the election of the
Republican choice a certainty, I suppose?
_Mrs. Lincoln_: Abraham says so.
_Mr. Cuffney_: You know, it's hard to believe. When I think of the
times I've sat in this room of an evening, and seen your husband come
in, ma'am, with his battered hat nigh falling off the back of his
head, and stuffed with papers that won't go into his pockets, and
god-darning some rascal who'd done him about an assignment or a
trespass, I can't think he's going up there into the eyes of the
world.
_Mrs. Lincoln_: I've tried for years to make him buy a new hat.
_Mr. Cuffney_: I have a very large selection just in from New York.
Perhaps Abraham might allow me to offer him one for his departure.
_Mrs. Lincoln_: He might. But he'll wear the old one.
_Mr. Stone_: Slavery and the South. They're big things he'll have to
deal with. "The end of that is not yet." That's what old John Brown
said, "the end of that is not yet."
ABRAHAM LINCOLN _comes in, a greenish and crumpled top hat leaving
his forehead well uncovered, his wide pockets brimming over with
documents. He is fifty, and he still preserves his clean-shaven state.
He kisses his wife and shakes hands with his friends._
_Lincoln:_ Well, Mary. How d'ye do, Samuel. How d'ye do, Timothy.
_Mr. Stone and Mr. Cuffney:_ Good-evening, Abraham.
_Lincoln (while he takes of his hat and shakes out sundry papers from
the lining into a drawer):_ John Brown, did you say? Aye, John Brown.
But that's not the way it's to be done. And you can't do the right
thing the wrong way. That's as bad as the wrong thing, if you're going
to keep the state together.
_Mr. Cuffney:_ Well, we'll be going. We only came in to give you
good-faring, so to say, in the great word you've got to speak this
evening.
_Mr. Stone:_ It makes a humble body almost afraid of himself, Abraham,
to know his friend is to be one of the great ones of the earth, with
his yes and no law for these many, many thousands of folk.
_Lincoln:_ It makes a man humble to be chosen so, Samuel. So humble
that no man but would say "No" to such bidding if he dare. To be
President of this people, and trouble gathering everywhere in men's
hearts. That's a searching thing. Bitterness, and scorn, and wrestling
often with men I shall despise, and perhaps nothing truly done at the
end. But I must go. Yes. Thank you, Samuel; thank you, Timothy. Just a
glass of that cordial, Mary, before they leave.
_He goes to a cupboard._
May the devil smudge that girl!
_Calling at the door._
Susan! Susan Deddington! Where's that darnation cordial?
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ It's all right, Abraham. I told the girl to keep it
out. The cupboard's choked with papers.
_Susan (coming in with bottle and glasses):_ I'm sure I'm sorry. I was
told--
_Lincoln:_ All right, all right, Susan. Get along with you.
_Susan:_ Thank you, sir. _She goes._
_Lincoln (pouring out drink):_ Poor hospitality for whiskey-drinking
rascals like yourselves. But the thought's good.
_Mr. Stone:_ Don't mention it, Abraham.
_Mr. Cuffney:_ We wish you well, Abraham. Our compliments, ma'am. And
God bless America! Samuel, I give you the United States, and Abraham
Lincoln.
MR. CUFFNEY _and_ MR. STONE _drink._
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Thank you.
_Lincoln:_ Samuel, Timothy--I drink to the hope of honest friends.
Mary, to friendship. I'll need that always, for I've a queer, anxious
heart. And, God bless America!
_He and_ MRS. LINCOLN _drink._
_Mr. Stone:_ Well, good-night, Abraham. Good-night, ma'am.
_Mr. Cuffney:_ Good-night, good-night.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Good-night, Mr. Stone. Good-night, Mr. Cuffney.
_Lincoln:_ Good-night, Samuel. Good-night, Timothy. And thank you for
coming.
MR. STONE _and_ MR. CUFFNEY _go out._
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ You'd better see them in here.
_Lincoln:_ Good. Five minutes to seven. You're sure about it, Mary?
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Yes. Aren't you?
_Lincoln:_ We mean to set bounds to slavery. The South will resist.
They may try to break away from the Union. That cannot be allowed. If
the Union is set aside America will crumble. The saving of it may mean
blood.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Who is to shape it all if you don't?
_Lincoln:_ There's nobody. I know it.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Then go.
_Lincoln:_ Go.
_Mrs. Lincoln (after a moment):_ This hat is a disgrace to you,
Abraham. You pay no heed to what I say, and you think it doesn't
matter. A man like you ought to think a little about gentility.
_Lincoln:_ To be sure. I forget.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ You don't. You just don't heed. Samuel Stone's been
smoking in here.
_Lincoln:_ He's a careless, poor fellow.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ He is, and a fine example you set him. You don't care
whether he makes my parlour smell poison or not.
_Lincoln:_ Of course I do--
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ You don't. Your head is too stuffed with things to
think about my ways. I've got neighbours if you haven't.
_Lincoln:_ Well, now, your neighbours are mine, I suppose.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Then why won't you consider appearances a little?
_Lincoln:_ Certainly. I must.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Will you get a new hat?
_Lincoln:_ Yes, I must see about it.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ When?
_Lincoln:_ In a day or two. Before long.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ Abraham, I've got a better temper than anybody will
ever guess.
_Lincoln:_ You have, my dear. And you need it, I confess.
SUSAN _comes in._
_Susan:_ The gentlemen have come.
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ I'll come to them.
_Susan:_ Does the master want a handkerchief, ma'am? He didn't take
one this morning.
_Lincoln:_ It's no matter now, Susan.
_Susan:_ If you please, I've brought you one, sir.
_She gives it to him, and goes._
_Mrs. Lincoln:_ I'll send them in. Abraham, I believe in you.
_Lincoln:_ I know, I know.
MRS. LINCOLN _goes out._ LINCOLN _moves to a map of the United States
that is hanging on the wall, and stands silently looking at it. After
a few moments_ SUSAN _comes to the door._
_Susan:_ This way, please.
_She shows in_ WILLIAM TUCKER, _a florid, prosperous merchant;_ HENRY
HIND, _an alert little attorney;_ ELIAS PRICE, _a lean lay preacher;
and_ JAMES MACINTOSH, _the editor of a Republican journal._ SUSAN
_goes.
Tucker:_ Mr. Lincoln. Tucker my name is--William Tucker.
_He presents his companions._
Mr. Henry Hind--follows your profession, Mr. Lincoln. Leader of the
bar in Ohio. Mr. Elias Price, of Pennsylvania. You've heard him
preach, maybe. James Macintosh you know. I come from Chicago.
_Lincoln:_ Gentlemen, at your service. How d'ye do, James. Will you be
seated?
_They sit round the table._
_Tucker_: I have the honour to be chairman of this delegation. We are
sent from Chicago by the Republican Convention, to enquire whether you
will accept their invitation to become the Republican candidate for
the office of President of the United States.
_Price_: The Convention is aware, Mr. Lincoln, that under the
circumstances, seeing that the Democrats have split, this is more than
an invitation to candidature. Their nominee is almost certain to be
elected.
_Lincoln_: Gentlemen, I am known to one of you only. Do you know my
many disqualifications for this work?
_Hind_: It's only fair to say that they have been discussed freely.
_Lincoln_: There are some, shall we say graces, that I lack.
Washington does not altogether neglect these.
_Tucker_: They have been spoken of. But these are days, Mr. Lincoln,
if I may say so, too difficult, too dangerous, for these to weigh at
the expense of other qualities that you were considered to possess.
_Lincoln_: Seward and Hook have both had great experience.
_Macintosh_: Hook had no strong support. For Seward, there are doubts
as to his discretion.
_Lincoln_: Do not be under any misunderstanding, I beg you. I aim
at moderation so far as it is honest. But I am a very stubborn man,
gentlemen. If the South insists upon the extension of slavery, and
claims the right to secede, as you know it very well may do, and the
decision lies with me, it will mean resistance, inexorable, with blood
if needs be. I would have everybody's mind clear as to that.
_Price_: It will be for you to decide, and we believe you to be an
upright man, Mr. Lincoln.
_Lincoln_: Seward and Hook would be difficult to carry as
subordinates.
_Tucker_: But they will have to be carried so, and there's none
likelier for the job than you.
_Lincoln_: Will your Republican Press stand by me for a principle,
James, whatever comes?
_Macintosh_: There's no other man we would follow so readily.
_Lincoln_: If you send me, the South will have little but derision for
your choice.
_Hind_: We believe that you'll last out their laughter.
_Lincoln_: I can take any man's ridicule--I'm trained to it by a ...
somewhat odd figure that it pleased God to give me, if I may so far be
pleasant with you. But this slavery business will be long, and deep,
and bitter. I know it. If you do me this honour, gentlemen, you must
look to me for no compromise in this matter. If abolition comes in due
time by constitutional means, good. I want it. But, while we will not
force abolition, we will give slavery no approval, and we will not
allow it to extend its boundaries by one yard. The determination is in
my blood. When I was a boy I made a trip to New Orleans, and there I
saw them, chained, beaten, kicked as a man would be ashamed to kick a
thieving dog. And I saw a young girl driven up and down the room that
the bidders might satisfy themselves. And I said then, "If ever I get
a chance to hit that thing, I'll hit it hard."
_A pause_.
You have no conditions to make?
_Tucker_: None.
_Lincoln (rising):_ Mrs. Lincoln and I would wish you to take supper
with us.
_Tucker_: That's very kind, I'm sure. And your answer, Mr. Lincoln?
_Lincoln_: When you came, you did not know me, Mr. Tucker. You may
have something to say now not for my ears.
_Tucker_: Nothing in the world, I assure--
_Lincoln_: I will prepare Mrs. Lincoln. You will excuse me for no more
than a minute.
_He goes out_.
_Tucker_: Well, we might have chosen a handsomer article, but I doubt
whether we could have chosen a better.
_Hind_: He would make a great judge--if you weren't prosecuting.
_Price_: I'd tell most people, but I'd ask that man.
_Tucker_: He hasn't given us yes or no yet. Why should he leave us
like that, as though plain wasn't plain?
_Hind_: Perhaps he wanted a thought by himself first.
_Macintosh_: It wasn't that. But he was right. Abraham Lincoln sees
deeper into men's hearts than most. He knows this day will be a memory
to us all our lives. Under his eye, which of you could have given play
to any untoward thought that had started in you against him since
you came into this room? But, leaving you, he knew you could test
yourselves to your own ease, and speak the more confident for it, and,
if you found yourselves clean of doubt, carry it all the happier in
your minds after. Is there a doubt among us?
_Tucker_:}
_Hind_: } No, none.
_Price_: }
_Macintosh_: Then, Mr. Tucker, ask him again when he comes back.
_Tucker_: I will.
_They sit in silence for a moment, and_ Lincoln _comes in again, back
to his place at the table_.
_Lincoln_: I wouldn't have you think it graceless of me to be slow in
my answer. But once given, it's for the deep good or the deep ill
of all this country. In the face of that a man may well ask himself
twenty times, when he's twenty times sure. You make no qualification,
any one among you?
_Tucker_: None. The invitation is as I put it when we sat down. And I
would add that we are, all of us, proud to bear it to a man as to whom
we feel there is none so fitted to receive it.
_Lincoln_: I thank you. I accept.
_He rises, the others with him. He goes to the door and calls_.
Susan.
_There is silence_. SUSAN _comes in.
Susan:_ Yes, Mr. Lincoln.
_Lincoln_: Take these gentlemen to Mrs. Lincoln. I will follow at
once.
_The four men go with_ SUSAN. LINCOLN _stands silently for a moment.
He goes again to the map and looks at it. He then turns to the table
again, and kneels beside it, possessed and deliberate, burying his
face in his hands._
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
_The two Chroniclers_: Lonely is the man who understands.
Lonely is vision that leads a man away
From the pasture-lands,
From the furrows of corn and the brown loads of hay,
To the mountain-side,
To the high places where contemplation brings
All his adventurings
Among the sowers and the tillers in the wide
Valleys to one fused experience,
That shall control
The courses of his soul,
And give his hand
Courage and continence.
_The First Chronicler_: Shall a man understand,
He shall know bitterness because his kind,
Being perplexed of mind,
Hold issues even that are nothing mated.
And he shall give
Counsel out of his wisdom that none shall hear;
And steadfast in vain persuasion must he live,
And unabated
Shall his temptation be.
_Second Chronicler_: Coveting the little, the instant gain,
The brief security,
And easy-tongued renown,
Many will mock the vision that his brain
Builds to a far, unmeasured monument,
And many bid his resolutions down
To the wages of content.
_First Chronicler_: A year goes by.
_The two together_: Here contemplate
A heart, undaunted to possess
Itself among the glooms of fate,
In vision and in loneliness.