[_The centre of the stage slowly opens, disclosing a sitting-room. A
writing-table covered with letters. Somewhere in the foreground a sofa
or low couch: An engraved portrait of George III. _Arnold_ is sitting
at the table, but his arm-chair is turned away. He is in a profound
reverie, gazing at the floor. He is dressed in the uniform of a
British officer. His hair is gray and his face worn. At the back of
the stage at one side of the door, sits _Treason_, somewhat in the
attitude of a sheriff's officer keeping guard._]
_Treason_. [_To_ Arnold.]
What are you muttering, comrade? Go to sleep!
And yet sleep not too sound; there's work ahead!
With all the world against us. What of that?
We ne'er were beaten yet. Get money first:
A fortune in your fist. With honest luck,
Your hand against the world! But money first.
[_Aside._] He breaks apace, and I await each day
The knock of Death--
[_Knocking_.] No, no, not yet, Sir Death!
There's life in him and, mayhap, years of grief.
Leave me to tousle him. He's strong as hemp
And bears his ragging well.
[_More knocking._] Not yet, not yet!
[_Enter_ Death.]
_Treason_. You are unjust to come before the time.
_Death_. The moment and myself are on the stroke.
_Treason_. Thou deemest that this man is soon to die?
_Death_. Death is already in him.
_Treason_. Yea, his body.--
His mind is brighter than it was before.
_Death_. My shadow lights his mind; but it is Death.
_Treason_. How hast thou entered him without a struggle?
_Death_. The struggle was thy work.
_Treason_. Give me some moments.
_Death_. [_Pointing to the door with great dignity._]
The man is mine. Hence! Silence! Obey!
[_Exit_ Treason. Death_ takes _Treason's_ place by the door._]
_Arnold_. [_Waking._] They deny me the opportunity of honorable death.
This is the twentieth year of sodden waiting.
Fighting by land and sea and soldier's work,
As hot as heart could wish,--boy generals,--
Wars on all hands, in Holland, France, and Spain,
With military honors falling thick;--
And I, a Tantalus set in a lake of thirst,
Up to my neck in battles all about,
Without the power to reach them!
[_Enter_ Mrs. Arnold. _She has a youthful face, and her hair is
prematurely white. She passes by_ Death _without seeing him. A
gesture of surprise and pity as she sees _Arnold_. She kisses him on
his forehead, and sits down next him on a lower chair._]
_Mrs. Arnold_. Surely, my husband you have not been forth!
After the sullen fever you have had
'Twas most unwise.--
[_Pause._]
You have been grieved, and wear the ashen look.
_Arnold_. Age, and the chafing of a few stern thoughts.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Have I not earned the right to know them?
_Arnold_. Indeed, thou hast! An angel from the sky
Accepting the bad bargain of a man,
Could not have found a worse. You took me up
A battered piece of ordnance, broken in spirit,
Accursed to myself and to my kind;
And underneath me thou hast held an arm
Sustaining as the seraph's upward look
Askance against Apollyon.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Benedict!
You shall not talk so.--
_Arnold_. Next, your mother's heart
Became the mother to my three grown boys,
Giving them such devotion and such love
As rarely flows from out a mother's hope
To her own children.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Benedict, your words
Cut me like knives. Why, why this catalogue?
_Arnold_. Something compels me.--
_Mrs. Arnold_. Where have you been?
Has some insulting taunt
Cast by a coward in a public place
Where you could not resent it, stung your patience?
These are the pebbles small men throw at great.
_Arnold_. No. 'Tis the season for my wounds to ache;
And with them aches the rest.--
_Mrs. Arnold_. Where have you been?
_Arnold_. Three hours in his Lordship's ante-room.
_Mrs. Arnold_. The War Office? And what has been decided?
_Arnold_. I could not see his Lordship. Three hours late.
They sent me word his Lordship was not in.
It is the iteration wears me down.
Year after year,--year after leaden year,--
Kicking my heels in England's ante-rooms,
Where proud men pass me by: and now and then
I catch a glimpse of some American,--
A former pal, a former enemy;--
It is the same, both pal and enemy
Give me a fit of trembling. 'Twas not so;
Yet as the years decline our nerves grow sick:
I dread it more and more.
_Mrs. Arnold_. O Benedict,
This is the mood that kills us. Have we not
A thousand times resolved it, made all plain?
You in your right of conscience chose a course
Beside your King, recanting many errors,
And following the only light you knew.
The king himself accepted your return
And raised you with his hand.
_Arnold_. [_Very quietly._] I was a traitor.
_Mrs. Arnold_. [_With great vehemence._] No, no, no!
You were the noblest hero of them all!
_Arnold_. And now they do not trust me.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Is there a soldier in the British Isles
That has a list of battles like your own?
_Arnold_. It may be not.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Then make allowances for jealousy.
To Englishmen, their battles are a sport,
With every post of danger dearly prized,
Like the crack stations in the shooting field,--
Never enough for all. They bribe and jockey,--
Knife their own brothers to get near the spoil.
And would they not repel a foreigner,--
One they had cause to envy? Englishmen
Are very unforgiving of defeat.
It is your glory, the impediment:
So gluttonous are soldiers of reward--
So sporting-keen are Englishmen for fame.
_Arnold_. It may be so.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Your temperament is of colossal mould,
And sees too simply.
_Arnold_. I was a traitor.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Are you a man to take the common talk,
And be its dupe? How often have we spoke
Of the returning wars that shall restore
The lustred fame and power that is your due?
Belated are they; yet to reason's eye
Certain to come. God keeps such eminence
As in your soul exists, to show mankind
The height of heroes.
_Arnold_. Error: it is gone out.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Never such light goes out! No smoke of the world--
Sin, error, evil, anguish, touch it not.
It burns forever with ethereal force
Beyond pollution. I can see your soul;
And never has its aspect been more bright
Than on this morn.
_Arnold_. You are not used to talk to me like this.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Nor you to tell me that you are a traitor.
_Arnold_. Perhaps some change is coming over us.
_Mrs. Arnold_. It may be freedom from the load of thought.
_Arnold_. It may be death.
[_She kneels by him in silent anguish._]
_Both Choruses_. Surely truth is not born except through pain; and the
long delay increaseth it.
It is a happiness for a young man to see his error. But for an old,
only death remains. He hath no strength for new things. Let him die
in his old ways, yea, though they be evil.
Very sad is repentance when it is too late; when the blight has fallen,
and no fruit cometh thereafter. Very sad is the grief of an old man.
I cannot lay hold of it. There is no comfort to be given him, for he
knoweth the world.
_Father Hudson_. What causes the man to see these things now?
_Leader of Men_. What causes thy waters to pour down in March, or the
leaf upon your banks to sprout in April? It is because the season
fulfils itself; and what is to be, cometh forth, and no one may stop it.
_Both Choruses_. Now may I say that no man is made of iron, or lives
beyond the stroke of reproach.
The arrows strike him when he shows it not. The scornful glance of a
friend reaches his quick. He suffers very much.
In his last days he betrayeth the havoc. In his fall his wounds are
laid bare. The secret of his heart becomes an open book, and a child
may read it.
_Arnold_. I would not speak; but the sea-bottom of me
Is being raked to the surface. Hold you still;
You are the daughter of good Tory folk,
And common talk on King and loyalty
Had in your ears a meaning and a place
Quite strange to mine. For my Rhode Island stock,
Grown far afield, and long acclimated,
Had dropped all meanings for the name of King,
Of Church, of mother country. Such appeals
Were like a tinsel fringe of superstition,
Alien imposture. It was all a fraud.
[_He walks across the room, takes the portrait of George III and throws
it, not savagely, but with deliberate contempt, into the corner, where
it lies shattered._ Mrs. Arnold _remains on her knees and raises her
hands in helpless supplication._]
There lies the dog that bit me. Now desist:
It is not easy; yet it must come out.
A letter that I wrote to this same King,
Or to his secretary, George Germain,--
Imploring favors for my villainy--
If I appear unmanned, it's physical,
And needs no moment's thought--The letter's here,
[_Takes a letter from his pocket._]
And through its hell of shame as through a gate
I see Elysian fields, peopled with comrades.
_Mrs. Arnold_. [_Aside._] God have mercy upon us!
_Arnold_. I'll not read all, but phrases here and there.
[Arnold _reads from the letter with some difficulty and with
pauses--but very distinctly._]
"... conscious of the rectitude of my intentions.... that I may be
restored to the favor of my most Gracious Sovereign--... cheerfully
cast myself at his feet imploring his Royal Grace and Protection....
the unalterable attachment to the Person, Family, and Interests of my
Sovereign, and to the Glory of his reign.--..."
[_He throws the letter quietly on the table. To_ Mrs. Arnold.]
West Point I did deliberately betray:
I begged the post intending to betray it.
All was conceived before I married you.
_Mrs. Arnold_. [_As before._] God have mercy upon us!
_Arnold_. They must pet me then,
To show that loyal treason reaps reward.
'Twas policy, not liking for my face,
That made King George so sweet.
What in this world of savage Englishmen,
Strange monsters that they are, have you and I
Found of a country? Friends, good hearts and true;
But alien as the mountains of the moon,
More unrelated than the Polander,
Are Englishmen to us. They are a race,
A selfish, brawling family of hounds,
Holding a secret contract on each fang,
'For us,' 'for us,' 'for us.' They'll fawn about;
But when the prey's divided;--Keep away!
I have some beef about me and bear up
Against an insolence as basely set
As mine own infamy; yet I have been
Edged to the outer cliff. I have been weak,
And played too much the lackey. What am I
In this waste, empty, cruel, land of England,
Save an old castaway,--a buccaneer,--
The hull of derelict Ambition,--
Without a mast or spar, the rudder gone,
A danger to mankind!
[_He sits down upon the couch._ Mrs. Arnold _throws herself on his
knees and sobs convulsively._]
_Both Choruses_. Who shall praise a woman, save He that made her, save
God that understandeth all things?
I will sing a song of woman, and magnify the wife of a man's soul. His
goodness she has discerned when no man else can find it: his crimes are
known to her, yet is he not in them: she seeketh his soul among many.
She divineth salvation out of hell; and bringeth water from the desert.
Who shall praise a woman save He that made her; save God who
understandeth all things?
_Father Hudson_. Sorrow is erecting a tomb for this man in my heart.
Whence comes the peculiar pang, my children? Whence comes this pity
that will not be denied, but bedews your faces?
_Leader of Men_. From the greatness of the man, comes it Father; and
from his ignorance of himself.
_Father Hudson_. Is it true that he was a hero?
_Leader of Men_. Such a hero as antiquity can show, towering,
magnificent, made of cloud and thunder, made of lightning and glory, a
god among fighting men, a Hector or Mars appearing from the bosom of
the sky on the day of battle, bringing victory.
No one had seen his like before; nor since him has one like him come.
To his country he gave the column of his strength. In her need he
sustained her. He planted her high. His name became bulwark: many
times gave he his strength. Yea, his life also grudged he not.
_Father Hudson_. Would he had died in his glory, would he had been
struck down and died long ago! So had he been spared this humiliation.
On my shores he belongs: the memory of his infamy and of his fame
covers me: Saratoga knew him, and West Point acknowledges him. No tomb
shall he have; yet shall the hills remember him. His glory is eaten up
in shame; and yet shall mercy say her word. See, he begins again.
What new anguish will he reveal?
Arnold. [_He has now recovered his composure._]
Where are the boys? If death be soon to come
I'd gladly see them. Is it not most strange
That one possessing nothing to bequeath
Of all those things men covet for their sons,
Should have so many? For what rank or name,
Honor or fatherland, or worldly goods,
All that men sweat for,--have I here to leave?
Country I've none. My land was over there
Where my first honors sprouted. And my boys
Are foreigners,--young Englishmen--brought up
Upon King George's bounty. When he bought
My loyalty he took my children, too.
Ben, he is dead, my eldest,--he was killed
In the West Indies, fighting for the King.
Sir Grenville Temple brought me back his sword.
(God bless him for it!) Send and fetch down Ben's sword.
[Mrs. Arnold _rings. Enter servant. She speaks to servant in
dumb-show. Exit servant._]
Richard and Henry, your two foster sons,
Settled in Canada on royal grants.
And our four sons,--your Edward, Robert, George
And little William,--are all pensioners,
Assisted servants of the English crown.
Where are they? I must see them. It is strange
That I, remembering them, can yet not think
Quite plainly where they are.
_Mrs. Arnold_. My dearest Lord
There's fever in your cheek. The day's distress
Has worked some downfall to your shattered brain,
You're very sick.--
_Arnold_. The boys, I asked about--
Are they away, or here?
_Mrs. Arnold_. The elder three
At school and college, and our little Will
Just home from school.
_Arnold_. I pray you let him come;
My blessings on them all must fall through him;
Nor will they wait: the passage of an hour
May find me gone.--Stay; there is yet one son.
_Mrs. Arnold_. No, Benedict, you have described them all.
_Arnold_. Ay, but there is one, born in Canada,
My natural son, whose mother is no more;
And yet my son,--and brother to the rest,
And ever at my cost I've brought him up.
I cannot leave him out. He is of age
And elder than your boys.
_Mrs. Arnold_. A son of yours--
_Arnold_. A natural son of mine, whose bringing up
Is at my charge. I cannot cut him off.
Though of my name I scanted him the curse,
I ever sent him help.
[_Gives her a paper._]
_Mrs. Arnold_. You have done right
To count him in; and I accept him,
And will provide a portion like the rest
Though at my children's cost.
_Arnold_. Send William here:
The time grows short.
[_Enter servant bringing the sword which_ Mrs. Arnold _takes and gives
to_ Arnold.]
_Mrs. Arnold_. [_To servant._] Send Master William here.
[_Exit servant. Enter_ William Arnold, _a boy of eight._]
_Arnold_. William, you are a soldier:--
This old sword
Was once your brother Ben's,--my eldest boy.
He served his God, his Country, and his King,
And found a soldier's death. It is a record
We may be proud of in the family.
You and your brothers, Edward, George, and Robert,
Are dedicated soldiers to the King.
England, to all of you, is generous
To overflowing: See ye pay her back
In overflowing measure with your lives.
You are a soldier, Sir, and understand
The duties of a soldier; when you grow
A little older you will read, perhaps,
Something about your father; for his name
Is written on a page of history;
You cannot miss it. When you find it there,
Remember only all the soldier part;
The soldier part he leaves you: all the rest
Was something suffered, that was meant for him
But not for you. There, go my boy; good-bye.
You must to all your brothers tell this news,
And say I blessed them. They will understand,
Each in his measure, on the appointed day,
My message to them. See you bear it safe.
It is a charge of honor and becomes you.
[Arnold _kisses the little boy, and gives him the sword with which he
walks toward the door. The child feels that something very serious is
happening, although he does not entirely understand it. When near the
door he turns, runs back and embraces the old man again; and then
exit._]
_Both Choruses_. Now will I say that children add to life a glory not
belonging to it; and a pang beyond the pain of this world.
In them is pain; in their birth, danger; and in their tender years, a
care; thereafter, sorrow or joy, too keen, too keen, too poignant, too
sharp,--cutting the heart in twain.
Happy are they who know it not. Happy are the childless; for the great
sufferings are kept from them. Blessed are they: I will praise and
envy them always.
_Arnold_. Now is my burden lightened.
One adieu,--
The worst, remains; and then,--I know not what,--some relaxation
Or sweetness of the grave.
[_To_ Mrs. Arnold.] Good-bye, great soul;
I leave thee sorrows, many-pointed cares,
The stress of growing sons and straightening means;
Yet one great blackness passes from your life,
Unshadowing you all. I see ye stand
Safe in the port,--as on a margent shore
Clustered in sunlight,--while my bark moves on.
I am not of ye; I am far away
And long ago; one of those Argonauts
That in the western seas, with sturdy oar,
Urging their venturesome and sacred bark,
Steered a new course,--a band, a brotherhood,--
And, though a Judas, I was one of them.
Get me my uniform. I wore it last
On that last day on which my sun went down.
And I, descending now to seek the sun,
Must put it on.
_Mrs. Arnold_. Dear Benedict, your uniform?
You have it on.
_Arnold_. No, no! not this, not this!
Ring; call a servant!
_Mrs. Arnold_. [_Rings. To servant._]
Whate'er he asks for, get it quickly for him,
But make no questions.
[Arnold _speaks to servant in dumb-show. Exit servant._]
_Arnold_. The very coat I did the treason in,
By accident preserved, and then,--and then--
I could not cast it off: it clung to me--
Waiting this day. It lay there like a dog,
Patient against a master's drunkenness,
Watching his face.
[_Enter servant with the coat of the American uniform, and the
sword-knots._]
Thou one unbroken link with all the men
I walked with on the mountain heights of youth,
When glory shone, and trumpets heralded,
And drums were rolling! We were patriots then,
Warren, and Putnam, Lincoln, Knox, and Schuyler,
Morgan, and Stark, Montgomery, Sullivan--
And scores of faces burnished by the winds,
That shone with glory--
[_He takes off the coat of his British uniform, the servant assisting,
and puts on the coat of his old American uniform._]
Never weep, dear wife.
I seek the truth you teach me. It is thus
Your thoughts do guide me;--and I must go back
To where I lost the way.
[_Showing sword-knots._] That ornament
Washington gave me,--with such words of praise
As must preserve it till the judgment day
Against corruption. Should I meet that man,
Will his reluctant and offended shade
Pass sadly on? Or will he greet me there,--
There, but not here. There, there, but never here!
On toward that shadowy spot I blindly go,
Claiming the past.
[_He lies down on the couch, and_ Mrs. Arnold _kneels by his side.
Exit_ Death.]
_Both Choruses_. Surely the past must be allowed to all men; and not
to him alone. What good there was in us cannot be lost.
God forgets not the virtue of those who have failed; and why should man
seek to judge them? Verily all courage is immortal: the man himself
cannot kill it.
Lo, what great things are done through even bad men; and this man had
in him much goodness.
[_A pause. Distant military music. Four young boys dressed in white,
and bearing tall spears with little banners attached to the tips, enter
and stand each at one corner of the couch. The arrangement suggests a
medieval church tomb, of which_ Mrs. Arnold's _kneeling figure forms a
part._]
_Both Choruses_. Not on the shores of America--
Not on our shuddering strand,
Can Arnold's tomb be laid.
Nor in his land of illusions--
Britain's contemptuous Isle,
Can stone be added to stone.
Yet in a corner of Memory,
Hallowed by terrible pain,
Stand the stones of his grave.
There, his trophies of victory,
Piled in marshal array,
Gorgeous, perennial--
Spoils, heroic, tumultuous,
Emblems, worthy remembrance--
Marking a hero's grave.
[_While this is being sung there enters a procession of youths dressed
in white, each carrying a gigantic wreath, inscribed with one of_
Arnold's _victories:--The Maine Wilderness, Quebec, Valcour's Island,
St. John's, Ridgefield, Bemis Heights, Saratoga, etc. They circle the
group, and pile the wreaths about the couch, then stand about in
symmetry._]
_Father Hudson_. Enough, my children, I understand. Leave me awhile.
Let there be no loud praises. Go silently.
[_A dead march is played._ Father Hudson _resumes the plastic,
immobile, and almost invisible attitude which he occupied at the
opening of the play. The_ Choruses _file silently out, one on each
side of the orchestra._]
THE END
Books by John Jay Chapman
EMERSON AND OTHER ESSAYS
CAUSES AND CONSEQUENCES
PRACTICAL AGITATION
FOUR PLAYS FOR CHILDREN
THE MAID'S FORGIVENESS, a play
A SAUSAGE FROM BOLOGNA, a play
LEARNING AND OTHER ESSAYS
THE TREASON AND DEATH OF BENEDICT ARNOLD, a play for a Greek theatre
Moffat, Yard & Co.,
NEW YORK