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But General Grant did not hear her; he was looking at Ella
Flowers. And as he gazed at the sweet beauty of her countenance
he seemed to feel rising within him something which he had never
felt before-- something which made everything else seem petty and
trivial. And as he looked into her eyes and she looked into his,
he read her answer-- the only answer true womanhood can make to
clean, worthy manhood.
"Shall we go a la salle-a-manger?" sounded a voice in his ears,
and Geraldine's sinuous arm was thrust through his.
General Grant took the proffered talon and gently removed it from
him.
"Miss Rhinelander," he said firmly, "I am taking this young lady
as my partner," and suiting the action to the word, he graciously
extended his arm to Ella who took it with a pretty blush.
It was General Grant's turn to blush when the other guests, with
a few exceptions, applauded his choice loudly, and made way
enthusiastically as the handsome couple advanced to the
brilliantly lighted dining room.
But although the hostess had provided the most costly of viands,
I am afraid that the brave general did not fully appreciate them,
for in his soul was the joy of a strong man who has found his
mate and in his heart was the singing of the eternal song, "I
love her-- I love her--I love her!"
It was only too apparent to the other guests what had happened
and to their credit be it said that they heartily approved his
choice, for Mrs. Rhinelander and her scheming daughter Geraldine
had made countless enemies with their haughty manners, whereas
the sweet simplicity of Ella Flowers had won her numerous
friends. And all laughed merrily when General Grant, in his after
dinner speech, said "flowers" instead of "flour" when speaking of
provisioning the army--a slip which caused both the general and
Miss Flowers to blush furiously, greatly to the delight of the
good-natured guests. "All the world loves a lover"--truer words
were never penned.
After dinner, while the other men, according to the usages of
best society, were filling the air of the dining room with the
fumes of nicotine, the general, who did not use tobacco, excused
himself--amid many sly winks from the other men-- and wandered
out into the conservatory.
There he found Ella.
"General," she began.
"Miss Flowers," said the strong man simply, "Call me Ulysses."
And there let us leave them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CUSTER'S LAST STAND
In the Manner of Edith Wharton
It was already late afternoon and the gas street lamps of the
Boul' Mich' were being lighted for Paris, or at least for Paris
in summer, by a somewhat frigid looking allumeur, when Philip
Custer came to the end of his letter. He hesitated for an
instant, wrote "Your----," then crossed that out and substituted
"Sincerely." No, decidedly the first ending, with its, as is,
or, rather, as ordinarily is, the case in hymeneal epistles,
somewhat possessive sense, would no longer suffice. "Yours
truly"-- perhaps; "sincerely"--better; but certainly not "Your
husband." He was done, thank God, with presences.
Philip sipped his absinthe and gazed for an instant through the
Cafe window; a solitary fiacre rattled by; he picked up the
result of his afternoon's labor, wearily.
"Dear Mary," he read, "When I told you that my employers were
sending me to Paris, I lied to you. It was, perhaps, the first
direct lie that I ever told you; it was, I know now, the last.
But a falsehood by word of mouth mattered really very little in
comparison with the enormous lie that my life with you had
become."
Philip paused and smiled, somewhat bitterly, at that point in the
letter. Mary, with her American woman's intuition, would
undoubtedly surmise that he had run off with Mrs. Everett; there
was a certain ironical humor in the fact that Mary's mistaken
guess would be sadly indicative of her whole failure to
understand what her husband was, to use a slang expression,
"driving at."
"I hope that you will believe me when I say that I came to Paris
to paint. In the past four years the desire to do that has grown
steadily until it has mastered me. You do not understand. I
found no one in America who did. I think my mother might have,
had she lived; certainly it is utterly incomprehensible to
father."
Philip stopped. Ay, there was the rub--General Custer, and all
that he stood for. Philip glimpsed momentarily those early
boyhood days with his father, spent mainly in army posts; the
boy's cavalry uniform, in which he had ridden old Bess about the
camp, waving his miniature sabre; the day he had been thrown to
the ground by a strange horse which he had disobediently mounted,
just as his father arrived on the scene. Philip had never
forgotten his father's words that day. "Don't crawl, son,--don't
whine. It was your fault this time and you deserved what you
got. Lots of times it won't be your fault, but you'll have to
take your licking anyway. But remember this, son--take your
medicine like a man--always."
Philip groaned; he knew what the general would say when the news
of his son's desertion of his wife and four year old boy reached
him. He knew that he never could explain to his father the
absolute torture of the last four years of enervating domesticity
and business mediocrity-- the torture of the Beauty within him
crying for expression, half satisfied by the stolen evenings at
the art school but constantly growing stronger in its
all-consuming appeal. No, life to his father was a simple
problem in army ethics--a problem in which duty was "a", one of
the known factors; "x," the unknown, was either "bravery" or
"cowardice" when brought in contact with "a". Having solved this
problem, his father had closed the book; of the higher
mathematics, and especially of those complex problems to which no
living man knew the final answer, he had no conception. And
yet----
Philip resumed his reading to avoid the old endless maze of
subtleties.
"It is not that I did not--or do not--love you. It is, rather,
that something within me is crying out-- something which is
stronger than I, and which I cannot resist. I have waited two
years to be sure. Yesterday, as soon as I reached here, I took
my work to the man who is considered the finest art critic in
Paris. He told me that there was a quality to my painting which
he had seen in that of no living artist; he told me that in five
years of hard work I should be able to produce work which
Botticelli would be proud to have done. Do you understand that,
Mary--Botticelli!
"But no, forgive me. My paean of joy comes strangely in a letter
which should be of abject humility for what must seem to you, to
father, and to all, a cowardly, selfish act of desertion-- a
whining failure to face life. Oh dear, dear Mary if you could
but understand what a hell I have been through--"
Philip took his pen and crossed out the last line so that no one
could read what had been there.
"Materially, of course, you and little George will be better off;
the foolish pride with which I refused to let your parents help
us now no longer stands in their way. You should have no
difficulty about a divorce.
"You can dispose of my things as you see fit; there is nothing I
care about keeping which I did not bring.
"Again, Mary, I cannot ask you to forgive, or even to understand,
but I do hope that you will believe me when I say that this act
of mine is the most honest thing I have ever done, and that to
have acted out the tragi-comedy in the part of a happy contented
husband would have made of both of our lives a bitter useless
farce. Sincerely,
Philip."
He folded the pages and addressed the envelope.
"Pardon, Monsieur"--a whiff of sulphur came to his nose as the
waiter bent over the table to light the gas above him. "Would
Monsieur like to see the journal? There is a most amusing story
about---- The bill, Monsieur? Yes--in a moment."
Philip glanced nervously through the pages of the Temps. He was
anxious to get the letter to the post--to have done with
indecision and worry. It would be a blessed relief when the thing
was finally done beyond chance of recall; why couldn't that
stupid waiter hurry?
On the last page of the newspaper was an item headlined "Recent
News from America." Below was a sub-heading "Horrible Massacre
of Soldiers by Indians--Brave Stand of American Troopers." He
caught the name "Custer" and read:
"And by his brave death at the hands of the Indians, this gallant
American general has made the name of Custer one which will
forever be associated with courage of the highest type."
He read it all through again and sat quietly as the hand of
Polyphemus closed over him. He even smiled a little-- a weary,
ironic smile.
"Monsieur desires something more, perhaps"--the waiter held out
the bill.
Philip smiled. "No--Monsieur has finished--there is nothing
more."
Then he repeated slowly, "There is nothing more."
* * * *
Philip watched his son George blow out the twelve candles on his
birthday cake.
"Mother," said George, "when I get to be eighteen, can I be a
soldier just like grandfather up there?" He pointed to the
portrait of Philip's father in uniform which hung in the dining
room.
"Of course you can, dear," said his mother. "But you must be a
brave boy".
"Grandfather was awful brave, wasn't he father?" This from little
Mary between mouthfuls of cake.
"Yes, Mary," Philip answered. "He was very, very brave."
"Of course he was," said George. "He was an American."
"Yes," answered Philip, "That explains it.--he was an
American."
Mrs. Custer looked up at the portrait of her distinguished
father-in-law.
"You know Philip, I think it must be quite nice to be able to
paint a picture like that. I've often wondered why you never
kept up your art,"
CHAPTER NINE
"FOR THE FREEDOM OF THE WORLD"
A DRAMA OF THE GREAT WAR
Act I: In the Manner of Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
Act 2: In the Manner of Eugene O'Neill
ACT ONE
(Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews)
SCENE I
A principal street of an American city in the spring of 1918.
At the rear of the stage, representing the opposite sidewalk of
the street, are gathered many people come to bid farewell to the
boys of the Blankth regiment who are soon to march past on their
way to France.
Extending across the "street", from footlights to "sidewalk", is
a large white plaster arch, gayly decorated with the Allied
colors.
On this arch is the inscription "For the Freedom of the World."
At the rising of the curtain, distant march music is heard (off
stage, right); this constantly grows louder during the ensuing
dialogue which takes place between three elderly women crowded
together at the edge of the sidewalk. These women, although,
before the war, of different stations in social rank, are now
united, as are all mothers in the Allied countries, by the
glorious badge which each proudly wears pinned over her
heart--the service star.
The Professor's Wife--I hear them coming.
The Street-cleaner's Wife--So do I. I hope my boy Pat sees me.
The Pawnbroker's Wife--I told my Jean where to look.
The approaching music and the cheering of the spectators drowns
out further conversation.
Enter (right) the regimental band playing the "Stars and Stripes
Forever." They march through the arch and exit left. Following
them comes the flag, at the sight of which all the male
spectators (young boys and men too old to fight) remove their
hats. After the colors come the troops, splendid clean faced
fellows, in whose eyes shines the light of civilization's ideals,
in whose ears rings the never forgettable cry of heroic France
and brave little Belgium. The boys are marching four abreast,
with a firm determined step; it is as though each man were saying
to himself "They shall not pass."
After the first few squads have marched through the arch and off
left, the command is issued off-stage "Company--HALT." A young
lieutenant repeats this order to his men, and the column comes to
a stop. The men stand at attention until given the command
"Rest", when they relax and a murmur of conversation arises from
the ranks, in which characteristic sentences "German ideals are
not our ideals" and "Suppose it was your own sister" show only
too well what the boys are thinking of day and night.
As the column halts, the three service star mothers rush out from
the curb and embrace their sons who happen to be in this company.
At the same time a very attractive girl runs up to the young
lieutenant.
The Lieutenant--Ellen!
His Fiancee--John!
The Professor's Son}
The Streetcleaner's Son } Mother!
The Pawnbroker's Son }
The Professor's Wife }
The Streetcleaner's Wife } My Boy!
The Pawnbroker's Wife }
Voice off stage--Company--Atten SHUN!
The farewells are said, the men come to attention.
Voice off stage--Forward--MARCH
The Lieutenant--(Pointing with his sword to the inscription on
the arch)--Forward for the Freedom of the World--MARCH.
The men's teeth click together, their heads are thrown back, and
with a light in their eyes that somehow suggests Joan of Arc the
Crusaders move on.
SCENE 2
Three months later.
A section of an American front line trench now occupied by the
Blankth regiment.
It is early morning and the three soldiers mentioned in Scene 1
are conversing together for perhaps the last time, for soon they
are to be given the chance which every American man desires more
than anything in the world-- the opportunity to go "over the
top".
The Professor's Son--Well fellows, in a few minutes we shall be
able to show the people at home that their boys are not cowards
when the fate of civilization is at stake.
The Pawnbroker's Son--Here's a newspaper clipping mother sent me.
It's from a speech made the other day in Congress. (He reads)
"And we and our children--and our children's children will never
forget the debt we owe those brave boys who are now in France."
The Streetcleaner's Son--That makes a fellow feel pretty good
inside, doesn't it? It makes me glad I'm doing my bit-- and
after the war I hope the ideals which have inspired us all will
make us better citizens in a better world.
The Professor's Son--Not only will we be better citizens-- not
only will the torch of liberty shine more brightly--but also each
one of us will go back to his job with a deeper vision.
The Pawnbroker's Son--That's right I am a musician--a pianist,
you know--and I hope that after the war I shall be able to tell
America, through my music, of the glory of this holy cause.
The Professor's Son--I didn't know you were a pianist.
The Pawnbroker's Son--Yes--ever since I was a boy--I have had no
other interest. My father tried to make me go into his shop but
I couldn't stand it. He got angry and refused to support me; I
had a hard time until I won a scholarship at a New York musical
college. Just before the war I had a chance to play the Schumann
concerto with the Philharmonic; the critics all said that in
another year I would be-- but fellows--you must think me
frightfully conceited to talk so, and besides what matters my
musical career in comparison with the sacrifice which everyone is
making?
The Streetcleaner's Son--And gladly making, too, for it is easy
to give up all, as did Joan of Arc, for France. Attention, men!
here comes one of our officers.
The three stand at attention.
Enter the Lieutenant.
The Lieutenant--Well, men, do you feel ready?
The Three--More than ready, sir--eager.
The Lieutenant--Brave men! (To the Professor's Son) Come here a
minute, Keating. I have something to ask you before we go over
the top.
The Professor's Son and the Lieutenant go to one side.
The Lieutenant--(To the other two in a kindly manner)--At ease!
The Streetcleaner's Son--Thank you, sir.
They relax from their rigid posture of "attention".
The Lieutenant--(To the Professor's Son)--Keating, when we "go
over", we--may--never come back, you know. And I want to ask a
favor of you. I am engaged--to a girl back home--here is her
picture (he draws a photograph from his inner breast pocket and
shows it to the Professor's Son.)
The Professor's Son--She is beautiful, Sir.
The Lieutenant--(Putting the photograph back in his pocket)-- Yes
very beautiful. And (dropping his eyes)--I love her. If--if I
should "go west" I want you to write her and tell her that my
last thoughts were of my country and--her. We are to be
married-- after the war--if (suddenly clearing his throat). Her
name is Ellen Radcliff--here, I'll write the address down for
you.
He does so, and hands the slip of paper to the Professor's Son,
who discreetly turns away.
The Lieutenant--(Brusquely)--That's all, Keating.
A bugle sounds.
The Lieutenant--Attention men! At the next bugle call you go
over the top-- remember that you are Americans and that Americans
know how to fight and die in the cause of liberty and for the
freedom of the world. The Three Soldiers--We are ready to make
the supreme sacrifice if need be.
The bugle sounds.
The Lieutenant--(Climbing up the ladder to the top of the
trench)-- Follow me, men--
The Three Soldiers--(Climbing up after him)--Lafayette--we come,
though poppies bloom in Flanders field.
They go "over the top".
SCENE 3
A section of a Hun trench a minute later. Two Hun soldiers are
conversing together; another Hun is reading a copy of Nietzsche.
First Hun Soldier--And then we cut the hands off all the little
children-- oh it was wonderful.
Second Hun Soldier--I wish I had been there.
A Hun Lieutenant rushes in.
The Hun Lieutenant--(Kicking the three men and brandishing his
revolver)--Swine--wake up--here come the Americans.
The three spring to their feet and seize their guns. At the top
of the trench appears the American lieutenant, closely followed
by the three soldiers.
The American Lieutenant--(Coolly)--We come to avenge the sinking
of the Lusitania.
The Hun Lieutenant--Hoch der Kaiser! Might is stronger than
right!
He treacherously tries to shoot the American but the Professor's
Son disarms him with his bayonet. The three Hun soldiers offer a
show of resistance.
The Streetcleaner's Son--(To first Hun soldier)--Your hands are
unclean with the murder of innocent women and children.
First Hun Soldier--(Dropping his gun)--Kamerad!
The Pawnbroker's Son--(To the other Hun soldiers)-- Prussianism
has destroyed the Germany of Bach and Beethoven and you fellows
know it, too.
Second and third Hun Soldiers--(Dropping their guns)--Kamerad!
The American Lieutenant--Men--you have kept the faith. I am proud
of you. Forward!
An explosion (not too loud to annoy the audience) is heard off
stage right.
The Professor's Son--(Sinking to the ground) Fellows, I'm afraid
they've got me.
The Streetcleaner's Son--What a shame!
The Lieutenant--Is there anything we can do to ease the pain?
The Professor's Son--(Weakening rapidly) No--go on, boys, carry
the--banner of--civilization's ideals--forward--without me-- Tell
mother I'm glad--I did--my bit--for the freedom-- of the
world--fellows, the only--thing--I regret--is that I won't-- be
able to be with you--when you--go back--to enjoy the gratitude--
of America--good-bye, fellows, may you drink--to the full-- the
rewards of a grateful nation.
He dies. The others regretfully leave him behind as they push on
after the fleeing Huns.
The stage is slowly darkened--the noise of battle dies away.
Enter an Angel in the uniform of the Y.M.C.A. She goes up to the
fallen hero and taking him in her arms tenderly carries him off
the stage.
CURTAIN
TWO YEARS PASS
ACT TWO
(Eugene O'Neill)
SCENE I
The bedroom of a bachelor apartment in New York City in the Fall
of 1920.
There is about the room an air of neglect, as though the occupant
did not particularly give a damn whether he slept in this room or
in hell. This is evidenced in a general way by the absence of any
attempts at decoration and by the presence of dirty laundry and
unopened letters scattered about the room.
The furniture consists of a bed and a bureau; at the foot of the
former is a trunk such as was used by American army officers in
the recent war.
Although it is three in the morning, the bed is unoccupied. The
electric light over the bureau has been left lighted.
The lamp flickers and goes out for a minute; when it again
flashes on, the Angel and the Professor's Son are seen standing
in the room, as though they had come there directly from the
close of the preceding act; the Angel, however, has completely
removed all Y.M.C.A. insignia and now has a beard and chews
tobacco; from time to time he spits out of the window.
The angel--Why the hell weren't you satisfied to stay in heaven?
The Professor's Son--Well, I just wanted to see my old buddies
once more-- I want to see them enjoying the gratitude of the
world.
The Angel--Hmmmm--well, this is where your Lieutenant now lives--
and I think I hear him coming.
They step behind a curtain. The noise of a key rattling in a
lock is heard, then a light flashes on in the next room. The
sound of unsteady footsteps--a vase is knocked over--a curse--
then enter the Lieutenant.
He wears a dinner-coat, one sleeve of which hangs empty. His face
is white, his eyes set, his mouth hard and hopeless. He is
drunk--not hilariously--but with the drunkenness of despair.
He sits down on the bed and remains for several minutes, his head
in his hands.
The Lieutenant--God, I'm drunk--(after a pause)-- drunk
again--well, what of it--what the hell difference does it
make--get drunk if I want to--sure I will--get drunk-- that's the
dope DRUNK--oh Christ!--
He throws himself on the bed and after lying there a few minutes
sits up.
The Lieutenant--Gotta have another drink--can't go sleep, God
damn it--brain too clear--gotta kill brain--that's the dope--
kill brain--forget--wipe out past--
He opens the trunk in his search for liquor. He suddenly pulls
out his lieutenant's coat and holds it up,
The Lieutenant--There's that God damn thing--never wanted to see
it again-- wound stripes on right sleeve, too--hurrah for brave
soldier--arm shot off to--to make world safe for
democracy--blaa--the god damn hypocrites-- democracy hell--arm
shot off because I wasn't clever enough to stay out of it--ought
to have had sense enough to join the--the ordinance department
or--or the Y.M.C.A.
He feels aimlessly through the pockets of the coat. Suddenly,
from the inside breast pocket he draws out something--a
photograph--
The Lieutenant--Ellen! Oh God!
He gazes at the picture for a long time.
The Lieutenant--Yes, Ellen, I should have joined the Y.M.C.A.
shouldn't I?--where they don't get their arms shot off-- couldn't
marry a man with one arm, could you?--of course not-- think of
looking at an empty sleeve year after year-- children might be
born with only one arm, too--children--oh God damn you, Ellen,
you and your Y.M.C.A. husband!
He tears the picture in two and hurls it into the trunk. Then he
sinks onto the bed, sobbing drunkenly. After a few minutes, he
walks over to the trunk and picks up one half of the torn
picture. He turns it over in his hand and reads the writing on
the back.
The Lieutenant (Reading)--"I'm waiting for you, dear--when you
have done your bit 'for the freedom of the world'."
He smiles, wearily, and reaches down to pick up the other half of
the picture. His eye is caught by something shiny; it is his
army revolver. He slowly picks it up and looks at it for a long
time.
The Lieutenant--For the freedom of the world--
He quickly opens his top bureau drawer and takes out a box of
cartridges. One of these he inserts in a chamber of his revolver.
The Lieutenant--For the FREEDOM--
He laughs.
As the curtain falls he presses the revolver against his temple
and fires.
SCENE 2
A bare room in a boarding house. To the left is a bed, to the
right a grand piano--the latter curiously out of keeping with the
other cheap furnishings. The room is in partial darkness.
The door slowly swings open; the Angel and the Professor's Son
enter.
The Angel--And here you have the room of your friend the
Pawnbroker's Son-- the musical genius--with a brilliant future.
They hide in a closet, leaving the door partly open.
Enter Jean, the Pawnbroker's Son. He has on a cutaway suit-- a
relic of his first and last public concert before the war. His
shoulders sag dejectedly and his face is drawn and white. He
comes in and sits on the bed. A knock--a determined knock-- is
heard at the door but Jean does not move. The door opens and his
landlady--a shrewish, sharp faced woman of 40--appears. He gets
up off the bed when he sees her and bows.
The Landlady--I forgot you was deef or I wouldn't have wasted my
time hitting my knuckles against your door.
Jean gazes at her.
The Landlady--Well Mr. Rosen I guess you know why I'm here-- it's
pay up today or get out.
Jean--Please write it down--you know I cannot hear a word you
say. I suppose it's about the rent.
The landlady takes paper and pencil and writes.
The Landlady--(Reading over the result of her labor)--
"To-day--is--the--last day. If you can't pay, you must get out "
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