true? Would it matter now?
EX-PRES. Yes. It was a horrible thing in any case--disproportionate, like
most other acts of war--and it did immeasurable harm to those who thought
to benefit. But this--I still only guess--might do too much good--bring
things a little nearer to proportion again, which the Treaty did not try
to do.... What I've been realising these last two years is a terrible
thing. You go to war, you get up to it from your knees--God driving you to
it--unable, yes, unable to do else. Your will is to do right, your cause
is just, you are a united nation, a people convinced, glad, selfless, with
hearts heroic and clean. And then war takes hold of it, and it all changes
under your eyes; you see the heart of your people becoming fouled, getting
hard, self-righteous, revengeful. Your cause remains, in theory, what it
was at the beginning; but it all goes to the Devil. And the Devil makes on
it a pile that he can make no otherwise--because of the virtue that is in
it, the love, the beauty, the heroism, the giving-up of so much that man's
heart desires. That's where he scores! Look at all that valiance, that
beauty of life gone out to perish for a cause it knows to be right; think
of the generosity of that giving by the young men; think of the faithful
courage of the women who steel themselves to let them go; think of the
increase of spirit and selflessness which everywhere rises to meet the
claim. All over the land which goes to war that is happening (and in the
enemy's land it is the same), making war a sacred and a holy thing. And
having got it so sanctified, then the Devil can do with it almost what he
likes. That's what he has done, Tumulty. If angels led horses by the
bridle at the Marne (as a pious legend tells), at Versailles the Devil had
his muzzled oxen treading out the corn. And of those--I was one! Yes; war
muzzles you. You cannot tell the truth; if you did, it wouldn't be
believed. And so, finally, comes peace; and over that, too, the Devil runs
up his flag--cross-bones and a skull.
TUMULTY (_struggling in the narrow path between wrong and right_).
But what else, Governor, is your remedy? We had to go to war; we were left
with no choice in the matter.
EX-PRES. No, we _had_ no choice. And what others had any choice?--
what people, I mean? But that is what everyone--once we were at war--
refused to remember. And so we cried "_Lusitania!_" against thousands
of men who had no choice in the matter at all. Remedy? There's only one.
Somehow we must get men to believe that Christ wasn't a mad idealist when
He preached His Sermon on the Mount; that what He showed for the world's
salvation then was not a sign only, but the very Instrument itself. We've
got to make men see that there's something in human nature waiting to
respond to a new law. There are two things breeding in the world--love and
hatred; breeding the one against the other. And there's fear making hatred
breed fast, and there's fear making love breed slow. Even as things now
are, it has managed--it has just managed to keep pace; but only just. If
men were not afraid--Love would win.
That, I've come to see, is the simple remedy; but it's going to be the
hardest thing to teach--because all the world is so much afraid.
(_And then, the worn, haggard man, having thus talked himself out, there
enters by the benign intervention of Providence a Gracious Presence, more
confident than he in her own ruling power. She moves quietly toward them,
and her voice, when she speaks, is corrective of a situation she does not
approve_!)
THE PRESENCE. Mr. Tumulty ... my dear.
(_Resting her hands on the back of the Ex-President's chair, she surveys
them benevolently but critically. Then her attention is directed to the
covered cup standing on its tray_!)
Have you taken your----
EX-PRES. My medicine? Yes. Your orders came through, and have been obeyed.
THE PRESENCE. It wasn't medicine. I made it myself.
EX-PRES. Then I beg its pardon--and yours.
THE PRESENCE. Will you please to remember that your holiday began at
twelve o'clock to-day? I'm not going to allow any overtime now.
EX-PRES. That settles it, then, Tumulty. And that means you are to go. I
had just been saying, my dear, how much simpler it was to obey orders than
to give and to get them obeyed.
THE PRESENCE. Getting them obeyed is quite simple. It is merely a matter
of how you give them.
EX-PRES. You see, Tumulty--it's all a matter of "how."
THE PRESENCE. There's someone waiting to speak to you on the 'phone: wants
to know how you are. I thought I would come and see first.
EX-PRES. Who is it?
THE PRESENCE (_indicating the receiver_). He's there.
(_The Ex-President reaches out his hand, and Tumulty from an adjoining
table gives him the instrument. As he listens, they stand watching
him._)
EX-PRES. Oh, yes.... That's very kind of him.... Please will you tell the
President, with my best thanks, that I am greatly enjoying my holiday....
Thank you.... Good-bye.
(_He gives the instrument back to the waiting Tumulty._)
TUMULTY (_with swelling-bosom_). Governor, that was a great answer!
EX-PRES. Easily said, Tumulty. But is it true?
(_But Tumulty's breast is such a platform for the generous emotions that
he does not really care whether it is true or not. And therein, between
himself and his hero, lies the difference. Grasping his fallen leader
forcefully by the hand and murmuring his adieux in a voice of nobly
controlled emotion, he obeys the waiting eye of the Gracious Presence, and
goes. And as she sees him serenely to the door, the Ex-President looks
ruefully at his painfully oversqueezed hand, and begins rubbing it softly.
Even the touch of a friend sometimes hurts._)
(_The door closes: the two are alone. She who-must-be-obeyed stands
looking at him with a benevolent eye_.)