a "pacifist." It is willing and able, though not always at the
moment ready, to take up arms in self-defense. In its broadening
vision of a fraternity of mankind, which shall be in the good future
not only intranational but also international, it is willing also
to FIGHT for the safety of its principles everywhere, and for the
security of all the peoples in a true and orderly liberty. That
is the position of the democracy of the United States of America
to-day.
As in peace, so in war, the success of the democratic effort
depends upon the fullness of the cooperation between all classes
and conditions of men and women. Those men who are fit for military
service on land or sea must render it willingly and to the utmost
of their strength. Those who by reason of age or weakness cannot
undertake that service without danger of becoming a burden to the
fighting forces, must work to sustain the army and the fleet of
freedom. "If any man will not work neither let him eat."
The women also must do their part, since they are citizens just as
much as the men. They must undertake those tasks of industry of
which they are capable and thus relieve the need of labor in all
fields. Above all they must give themselves to those tasks of mercy
for which they have a natural aptitude. And through all they must
give sympathy, inspiration, and courage to the men who fight for
Liberty and Democracy.
[signed] Henry van Dyke
Sunrise over the Peristyle
"Ye shall know the truth, and
the truth shall make you free."
Look! we shall know the truth--it is thy word;
The truth, O Lord--shining, invincible,
Unawed. And shall we love it, Lord, like this,
This half-dark flushing with the wondrous hope?
How can we love it more?
Sweet is the hush
Brimming the dim void world, soothing the beat
Of the great-hearted lake that lies unlit
Beyond that silver portal. Peace is here
In moony palaces that rose for her
Pale, lustrous--it is well with her to dwell.
The truth--will not these phantom fabrics fail
Under the fierce white fire--yes, float away
Like mists that wanly rise and choke the wind?
So merciless is truth--how shall we live
And bear the glare? Now rosily smiles the earth,
And bold young couriers climb the slope of heaven,
With gaudy flags aflare. The towered clouds,
Lofty, impregnable, are captured now--
Their turrets flame with banners. Who abides
Under the smooth wide rim of the worn world
That the high heavens should hail him like a king--
Even like a lover? If it be the Truth,
Ah, shall our souls wake with the triumph, Lord?
Shall we be free according to thy word,
Brave to yield all?
Look! will it come like this--
A vivid glory burning at the gate
Over the sudden verge of golden waves?
The tall white columns stand like seraphim
With high arms locked for song. The city lies
Pearled like the courts of heaven, waiting the tread
Of souls made wise with joy. Why should we fear?
The Truth--ah, let it come to test the dream;
Give us the Truth, O Lord, that in its light
The world may know thy will, and dare be free.
[signed]Harriet Monroe
Reminiscences of Booth
Few of the younger people of the present generation know, by personal
experience, how nobly and incomparably Edwin Booth enriched the
modern stage with his vivid portraitures of Shakespearean characters.
The tragic fervor, the startling passion, and the impressive dignity
with which he invested his various roles, have not been equaled, I
daresay, by any actor on the English speaking stage since the days
of Garrick and Kean. He had a voice that vibrated with every mood,
and a mien, despite his short stature, that gave a lofty dignity
to every part that he played. But Booth as himself was a simple,
modest, amiable human being. Many of us younger men came to know
him in a personal way, when he established in New York City the
Players' Club, which he dedicated to the dramatic profession, and
which is now a splendid and permanent monument to his fame and
generosity.
I saw him frequently and had many chats with him. When I undertook
the management of E. H. Southern, he was very much interested
because he knew young Sothern's father, the original Lord Dundrery;
so, when Mr. Sothern appeared in the first play under my management,
"The Highest Bidder," I invited Mr. Booth to witness the performance.
He expressed his delight at seeing his old friend's son doing such
delightful work, and the three of us afterwards met at a little
supper at the Players'. He told us that he came nearly being the
Godfather of young Sothern, and that he was to have been called
"Edwin" after himself; but the reason why his name was changed to
"Edward," he explained, was as follows: When young Sothern was
born in New Orleans, the elder Sothern telegraphed Booth, asking
him to stand as Godfather to his boy, but Booth did not wish to
take the responsibility, doubtless for reasons of his own, and so
his name was changed to "Edward"; but he confessed that it was a
matter he greatly regretted. He told us many stories of his early
career as an actor, one of which I remember as a very amusing experience
on the part of the elder actor when on his way to Australia. Mr.
Booth had an engagement to play in that distant section, and with
five members, the nucleus of a company, started from San Francisco.
They had occasion to stop at Honolulu en route. The stop there
being longer than originally anticipated, and the news of his
arrival having spread, King Kamehameha sent a request that he give
a performance of "Richard III" in the local theater. In spite of
managerial difficulties, Booth (being then a young man, ardent and
ambitious) sought to give a semblance with the scanty material at
hand, of a fair performance. He had to secure the cooperation of
members of the local amateur company. The best he was enabled to
do for the part of Queen Elizabeth was an actor, short in stature,
defective in speech and accent, but earnest in temperament, whom
he cast for this eminent role. The other parts were filled as
best he could, and the principals with him enabled Mr. Booth to
give some semblance of a decent performance. In order to properly
advertise the event, he secured the assistance of several Hawaiians,
and furnished them with a paste made out of their native product
called "poi." He discovered later, to his amazement, that not
a bill had been posted, and that the "poi," being a valuable food
article, had been appropriated by the two individuals, who decamped.
Mr. Booth, with his colleagues, then personally posted the town
with the bills of the impending performance. On the evening the
house was crowded. The King occupied a seat in the wings, there
being no place for him in the hall. When the throne scene was to
be set for the play, word was sent to His Majesty humbly asking
the loan of the throne chair, which he then occupied, for use in
the scene--a favor which His Royal Highness readily granted. At
the end of the performance, word was brought to Booth that the King
wished to see him. Booth, shy and modest as he was, and feeling
that he could not speak the language, or that His Royal Highness
could not speak his, approached His Majesty timidly. The latter
stepped forward, slapped the actor heartily on the back and said:
"Booth, this is as fine a performance as I saw your father give
twenty years ago."
The question as to whether an actor should feel his part or control
his emotions, has been an argument which has interested the dramatic
profession for many years, since it was first promulgated by the
French writer Diderot, and afterwards ably discussed by Henry Irving
and Coquelin. Of course, we all feel that no matter how violent
the actor's stress of emotion is, he must control his resources
with absolute restraint and poise. Sometimes, however, an actor
feels he is under the sway of his part in an unusual degree and
comes to the conviction, through his excitement, that he has given
a greater performance than usual. So Booth, one night at his own
theater, seeing his beloved daughter in a box, and desiring to
impress her with his work, played with, as he felt, a degree of
emotion that made him realize that he had given an unusually powerful
interpretation. At the end of the play, his daughter ran back to
him and said: "Why, dad, what is the matter with you?" And Booth,
awaiting her approval, said: "Matter?" "Why you gave the worst
performance I ever witnessed," she said. This control of one's
resources and the check upon one's feelings was indicated at another
time during a performance of Booth, of "Richelieu," as told to me
by the actor's friend, the late Laurence Hutton, the writer. Mr.
Hutton and Mr. Booth were sitting in the latter's dressing room at
Booth's Theater. Booth was, as usual, smoking his beloved pipe.
When he heard his cue, he arose, and walked with Hutton to the
prompter's entrance, where, giving his pipe to his friend, said:
"Larry, will you keep the pipe going until I come off?" Booth
entered on the scene; then came the big moment in the play when the
nobles and the weak King had assembled to defy the power of the
Cardinal; and Richelieu launches (as Booth always did with thrilling
effect) the terrifying curse of Rome--a superb bit of oratorical
eloquence. At the conclusion, the house shouted its wild and
demonstrative approval, and when the curtain dropped on this uproar
for the last time, Booth approached Hutton at the prompter's entrance
saying, in his usual quiet voice: "Is the pipe still going, Larry?"
No actor we have ever known has inspired so much genuine affection--I
may say almost idolatry--as the simple Edwin Booth aroused in the
hearts of his friends and his fellow-workers. In the beautiful
Players' Club House, which he bequeathed to the dramatic profession,
he presented also his own valuable theatrical library, numbering
several thousand memorable works on the stage; and no one event
greater than this gift to his fellow-players has ever occurred in
the dramatic profession.
[signed]Daniel Frohman
God of My Faith
A Play for Pacifists in One Act
"If the God of my faith be a liar
Who is it that I shall trust?"
The People in the Play
Nelson Dartrey
Dermod Gilruth
The action passes in Dartrey's Chambers in the late Spring of
Nineteen Hundred and Fifteen.
(The lowering of the Curtain momentarily will denote the passing
of several days.)
God of My Faith
The curtain discloses a dark oak room
NELSON DARTREY is seated at a writing table studying maps. He is
a man in the early thirties, prematurely worn and old. His face
is burned a deep brick color and is sharpened by fatigue and loss
of blood. His hair is sparse, dry and turning gray. Around the
upper part of his head is a bandage covered largely by a black
skull-cap. Of over average height the man is spare and muscular.
The eye is keen and penetrating: his voice abrupt and authoritative.
An occasional flash of humor brings an old-time twinkle to the one
and heartiness to the other. He is wearing the undress uniform of
a major in the British army.
The door bell rings.
With an impatient ejaculation he goes into the passage and opens
the outer door. Standing outside cheerfully humming a tune is a
large, forceful, breezy young man of twenty-eight. He is DERMOD
GILRUTH. Splendid in physique, charming of manner, his slightly-marked
Dublin accent lends a piquancy to his conversation. He has all
the ease and poise of a traveled, polished young man of breeding.
Dartrey's face brightens as he holds out a welcoming hand.
DARTREY
Hello, Gil.
GILRUTH
(Saluting him as he laughs genially) May I come into officers'
quarters?
DARTREY
I'm glad to have you. I'm quite alone with yours on my hands. (He
brings Gilruth into the room and wheels a comfortable leather arm
chair in front of him) Sit down.
GILRUTH
Indeed I will not. Look at your desk there. I'll not interrupt
your geography for more than a minute.
DARTREY
(Forces him into the chair) I'm glad to get away from it. Why,
you look positively boyish.
GILRUTH
And why not? I am a boy. (Chuckles)
DARTREY
What are you so pleased with yourself about?
GILRUTH
The greatest thing in the world for youth and high-spirits. I'm
going to be married next week.
DARTREY
(Incredulously) You're not?
GILRUTH
I tell you I am.
DARTREY
Don't be silly.
GILRUTH
What's silly about it?
DARTREY
Oh, I don't know.
GILRUTH
Of course you don't know. You've never tried it.
DARTREY
I should think not.
GILRUTH
Well, I'm going to and I want you to father me. Stand up beside
me and see me through. Will you?
DARTREY
If you want me to.
GILRUTH
Well, I do want you to.
DARTREY
All right.
GILRUTH
You don't mind now?
DARTREY
My dear chap. It's charming of you to think of me.
GILRUTH
I've known you longer than any one over here. And I like you
better. So there you are.
DARTREY
(Laughing) Poor old Dermod! Well, well!
GILRUTH
There's nothing to laugh at, or "well, well" about.
DARTREY
Do I know the---?
GILRUTH
(Shakes his head) She's never been over before. Everything will
be new to her. I tell you it's going to be wonderful. I've planned
out the most delightful trip through Ireland--she's Irish, too.
DARTREY
Is she?
GILRUTH
But, like me, born in America. She's crazy to see the old country.
DARTREY
She couldn't have a better guide.
GILRUTH
(Enthusiastically) She's beautiful, she's brilliant: she's
good--she's everything a man could wish.
DARTREY
That's the spirit. Will you make your home over here?
GILRUTH
No. We'll stay till the autumn. Then I must go back to America.
But some day when all this fighting is over and people talk
of something besides killing each other I want to have a home in
Ireland.
DARTREY
I suppose most of you Irishmen in America want to do that?
GILRUTH
Indeed they do not. Once they get out to America and do well they
stay there and become citizens. My father did. Do you think he'd
live in Ireland now? Not he. He talks all the time about Ireland
and the hated Sassenachs--that's what he calls you English--and
he urges the fellows at home in the old country to fight for their
rights. But since he made his fortune and became an American
citizen the devil a foot has he ever put on Irish soil. He's always
going, but he hasn't go there yet. And as for living there? Oh,
no, America is good enough for him, because his interests are
there. I want to live in Ireland because my heart is there. So
was my poor mother's.
(Springing up) Now I'm off. You don't know how happy you make me
by promising to be my best man.
DARTREY
My dear fellow--
GILRUTH
And just wait until you see her. Eyes you lose yourself in. A
voice soft as velvet. A brain so nimble that wit flows like music
from her tongue. Poetry too. She dances like thistledown and
sings like a thrush. And with all that she's in love with me.
DARTREY
I'm delighted.
GILRUTH
I want her to meet you first. A snug little dinner before the
wedding. She's heard so much against the English I want her to
see the best specimen they've got.
(Dartrey laughs heartily) I tell you if you pass muster with her
you have the passport to Kingdom come. (Laughing as well as he
grips Dartrey's hand) Good-by.
DARTREY
(As they walk to the door) When will it be?
GILRUTH
Next Tuesday. I'll ring you up and give you the full particulars.
DARTREY
In church?
GILRUTH
Church! Cathedral! His Eminence will officiate.
DARTREY
Topping.
GILRUTH
Well, you see, we Irish only marry once. So we make an occasion
of it.
DARTREY
Splendid. I'll look forward to it.
GILRUTH
(Looking at the bandage) Is your head getting all right?
DARTREY
Oh, dear, yes. It's quite healed up. I'll have this thing off
in a day or two. (Touching the bandage) I expect to be back in
a few weeks.
GILRUTH
(Anxiously) Again?
DARTREY
Yes.
GILRUTH
If ever a man had done his share, you have.
DARTREY
They need me. They need us all.
GILRUTH
The third time.
DARTREY
There are many who have done the same.
GILRUTH
(Shudders) How long will it last?
DARTREY
Until the Hun is beaten.
GILRUTH
Years, eh?
DARTREY
It looks like it. We've hardly begun yet. It will take a year to
really get the ball rolling. Then things will happen. Tell me.
How do they feel in America? Frankly.
GILRUTH
All the people who matter are pro-Ally.
DARTREY
Are you sure?
GILRUTH
I'm positive.
DARTREY
Are you? Come, now.
GILRUTH
Why, of course I am.
DARTREY
They may be pro-Ally, but they're not pro-English.
GILRUTH
That's true. Many of them are not. But if ever the test comes,
they will be.
DARTREY
(Shakes his head doubtfully) I wonder. It seems a pity not to
bury all the Bunker-Hill and Boston-tea-chest prejudices.
GILRUTH
You're right there.
DARTREY
Why your boys and girls are taught in their school-books to hate
us.
GILRUTH
In places they are. Now that I know the English a little I have
been agitating to revisit them. It all seems so damned cheap and
petty for a big country to belittle a great nation through the
mouth of children.
DARTREY
There's no hatred like family hatred. After all we're cousins,
speaking the same tongue and with pretty much the same outlook.
GILRUTH
There's one race in America that holds back as strongly as it can
any better understanding between the two countries, and that's
my race--the Irish. And well I know it. I was brought up on it.
There are men to-day, men of position too, in our big cities who
have openly said they want to see England crushed in this war.
DARTREY
So I've heard. It would be a sorry day for the rest of civilization,
and particularly America, if we were.
GILRUTH
You can't convince them of that. They carry on the prejudices
and hatred of generations. I have accused some of them of being
actively pro-German; of tinkering with German money to foster
revolution in Ireland.
DARTREY
Do you believe that?
GILRUTH
I do. Thank God there are not many of them. I have accused them
of taking German money and then urging the poor unfortunate poets and
dreamers to do the revolting while they are safely three thousand
miles away. I don't know of many who are willing to cross the water
and do it themselves. Talking and writing seditious articles is
safe. Take my own father. He says frankly that he doesn't want
Germany to win because he hates Germans. Most Irishmen do. Besides
they've done my father some very dirty tricks. But all the same
he wants to see England lose. All the doubtful ones I know, who
don't dare come out in the open, speak highly of the French and are
silent when English is mentioned. I blame a great deal of that on
your Government. You take no pains to let the rest of the world
know what England is doing. You and I know that without the
British fleet America wouldn't rest as easy as she does to-day, and
without the little British army the Huns would have been in Paris
and Calais months ago. We know that, and so do many others. But
the great mass of people, particularly the Irish, cry all the time,
"What is England doing?" Your government should see to it that
they know what she's doing.
DARTREY
It's not headquarters' way.
GILRUTH
I know it isn't. And the more's the pity. Another thing where
you went all wrong. Why not have let Asquith clear up the Irish
muddle? Why truckle to a handful of disloyal North of Ireland
traitors? If the Government had court martialed the ring-leaders,
tried the rest for treason and put the Irish Government in Dublin,
why, man, three-quarters of the male population of the South of
Ireland would be in the trenches now.
DARTREY
Don't let us get into that. I was one of the officers who mutinied.
I would rather resign my commission than shoot down loyal subjects.
GILRUTH
(Hotly) Loyal? Loyal! When they refused to carry out their
Government's orders? When they deny justice to a long suffering
people? Loyal! Don't prostitute the word.
DARTREY
(Angrily) I don't want to---
GILRUTH
(Going on vehemently) It's just that kind of pig-headed ignorance
that has kept the two countries from understanding each other. Why
shouldn't Ireland govern herself. South Africa does. Australia
does. And when you're in trouble they leap to your flag. Yet
there is a country a few miles from you that sends the best of her
people to your professions and they invariably get to the top of
them. Irishmen have commanded your armies and Ireland has given
you admirals for your fleet and at least one of us has been your
Lord Chief Justice. Yet, by God, they can't be trusted to govern
themselves. I tell you the English treatment of Ireland makes her
a laughing-stock of the world.
DARTREY
(Opens the door, then turns and looks straight at Gilruth) My head
bothers me. Will you kindly---
GILRUTH
(All contrition) I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to blaze out. Do
forgive me like a good fellow. It's an old sore of mine and
sometimes it makes me wince. It did just now. Don't be mad with
me.
(The sound of a boy's voice calling newspapers is heard faintly in
the distance; then the hoarse tones of a man shouting indistinctly;
then a chorus of men and boys comes nearer and nearer calling
of some calamity. Dartrey hurries out through the outer door.
Gilruth stands ashamed. He does not want to leave his friend in
bad blood. He would like to put things right before going. He
waits for Dartrey to come back.
In a few minutes Dartrey walks through the outer doorway and into
the room. He is very white, very agitated and his face is set and
determined. He is reading a special edition of an evening paper
with great "scare" head lines.
The sound of the voices crying the news in the street grows fainter
and fainter.
Dartrey stops in front of Gilruth and tries to speak; nothing
coherent comes from his lips. He thrusts the paper into Gilruth's
hands and watches his face as he reads.
Gilruth reads it once slowly, then rapidly. He stands immovable
staring at the news-sheet. It slips from his fingers and he cowers
down, stooping at the shoulders, glaring at the floor.)
DARTRY
(Almost frenzied) Now will your country come in? Now will they
fight for civilization? A hundred of her men, women and children
done to death. Is that war? Or is it murder? Already men are
reading in New York and Washington of the sinking of that ship and
the murder of their people. What are they going to do? What are
YOU going to do?
GILRUTH
(Creeps unsteadily to the door; standing himself with a hand on the
lock; his back is to the room. He speaks in a strange, far-off,
quavering voice)
She was on the LUSITANIA! Mona. She was on it. Mona was on it.
(Creeps out through the street door and disappears)
(Dartrey looks after him)
(The curtain falls and rises again in a few moments. Several days
have elapsed. Dartrey, in full uniform, is busily packing his
regimental kit. The bandage has been removed from his head. The
telephone bell rings. Dartrey answers it)
DARTREY
Yes. Yes. Who is it? Oh! Do. Yes. No. Not at all. Come up.
All right.
(Replaces the receiver and continues packing)
(In a few moments the door-bell rings. Dartrey opens the outer
door and brings Gilruth into the room. He is in deep mourning; is
very white and broken. He seems grievously ill. Dartrey looks at
him commiseratingly. He is sensitive about speaking)
GILRUTH
(Faintly) Put up with me for a bit? Will you?
(Dartrey just puts his hand on the man's shoulder)
(Gilruth sinks wearily and lifelessly into a chair)
She is buried.
DARTREY
What?
GILRUTH
(Nods) She is buried. In Kensal Green. Half an hour ago.
DARTREY
(In a whisper) They found her?
GILRUTH
(Nods again) Picked up by some fishermen.
DARTREY
Queenstown?
GILRUTH
A few miles outside. I went there that night and stayed there
until--until she--they found her.
(Covers his face. Dartrey puts his arm around him and presses his
shoulder)
I wandered round there for days. Wasn't so bad while it was light.
People to talk to. All of us on the same errand. Searching.
Searching. Hoping--some of them. I didn't. I knew from the first.
I KNEW. It was horrible at night alone. I had to try and sleep
sometimes. They'd wake me when the bodies were brought in. Hers
came toward dawn one morning. Three little babies, all twined in
each others arms, lying next to her. Three little babies. Cruel
that. Wasn't it?
(Waits as he thinks; then he goes on dully; evenly, with no emotion)
Fancy! She'd been out in the water for days and nights. All alone.
Tossed about. Days and nights. She! who'd never hurt a soul.
Couldn't. She was always laughing and happy. Drifting about. All
alone. Quite peaceful she looked. Except--except--
(Covers his eyes and groans. In a little while he looks up at
Dartrey and touches his left eye)
This. Gone. Gulls.