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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 
 AND OTHER WAR PLAYS 
 
Plays 
 By Percival Wilde 
 
 Dawn and Other One-Act Plays of Life 
 To-day. 
 
 Dawn — The Noble Lord — The Traitor — A 
 House of Cards — Playing With Fire — The 
 Finger of God. 
 
 Confessional and Other American 
 Plays. 
 
 Confessional — The Villain in the Piece — 
 According to Darwin — A Question of Morality 
 
 — The Beautiful Story. 
 
 The Unseen Host and Other War 
 Plays. 
 
 The Unseen Host — Mothers of Men — Pawns 
 
 — In the Ravine — Valkyrie ! 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 AND OTHER WAR PLAYS 
 
 THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 MOTHERS OF MEN 
 
 PAWNS 
 
 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 VALKYRIE! 
 
 BY 
 
 PERCIVAL WILDE 
 
 inon-keferTI 
 
 paWVAD-QHS 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1917 
 

 s 
 
 «p V 
 
 Copyright, 1917, 
 By Percival Wilde. 
 
 All rights reserved, including that of translation 
 into foreign languages 
 
 Published September, 1917 
 
 These plays in their printed form are designed for the reading 
 public only. All dramatic rights in them are fully protected by 
 copyright in the United States and in Great Britain, and no per- 
 formance — professional or amateur — may be given without the 
 written permission of the author, and the payment of royalty. 
 During the progress of the war any organization desiring to present one or 
 more of the plays in this volume, and agreeing to apply the entire proceeds 
 of such performance or performances to War Relief, through the agency of 
 some body organized for that express and sole purpose, will, upon written 
 request in advance, be exempted from the payment of royalty. Communi- 
 cations may be addressed to the author in care of Little, Brown & 
 Company, 34 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass. 
 
 TYPOGRAPHY BY THE PLIMPTON PRESS, NORWOOD, MASS., U.S.A. 
 PEINTED BY S. J. PARKHILI. & CO., BOSTON, MASS., U.S.A. 
 
 / 
 
 OCT -2 1917 
 
 ©CI.D 47971 
 
 "Li yi * * I 
 
To 
 I. W. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 IT is the immemorial privilege of authorship to take 
 every side of an argument; to view a thing as it is 
 to each of many different men. Of a great subject 
 only a few aspects may be discerned from any one 
 coign of vantage. It is the right of an author to look 
 upon it through the eyes of a multitude of characters, 
 to set down how it appears to each one of them, and how 
 they, in turn, react to it. 
 
 This is a book of viewpoints. 
 
 The great facts of life mean different things to the 
 various persons who come into contact with them. 
 War is one of those facts. It cannot signify to the 
 peasant what it does to the educated man; still it has 
 a very definite, very concrete meaning for each of them. 
 Its meaning changes with the intellect, the emotional 
 background, the character of each person who is affected 
 by it. Materialist or idealist, skeptic or believer, hero 
 or craven, each takes from it what he brings to it, each 
 finds in it support for his convictions. 
 
 There are those, who like the Greeks, draw down 
 their gods to champion them in their combats; 
 
 There are those, who in the words of their prophet, 
 believe that "a good fight justifies any cause"; 
 
 There are those who understand, or think they 
 understand, and act accordingly; 
 
viii PREFACE 
 
 There are those who do not understand, and do not 
 wish to understand; 
 
 And there are those, high and low, who may take no 
 active part, but who suffer. 
 
 These disjointed phrases, in a few words, convey the 
 thought behind the plays. 
 
 Art knows no nationality. If in "Valkyrie" the 
 author has looked through German eyes it is because 
 in other of the plays he has looked through Allied eyes. 
 Without such a play the book would not be complete. 
 For this, neither apologies nor regrets. Our enemies 
 are our enemies none the less if we strive to under- 
 stand them precisely as they understand themselves. 
 
 A word upon "The Unseen Host." 
 
 Mr Arthur Machen's ingenious tale of "The Bow- 
 men," despite his repeated denials, is accepted as truth 
 by a startlingly large number of people. 
 
 One refers quite casually to the Angels of Mons; 
 they are as well known as the Battle of Mons itself; 
 they have passed into legend, co-eval, co-eternal with 
 the great conflict which supplies them with a back- 
 ground. One is inclined to forget that Mr. Machen 
 evolved them out of thin air, and that their only 
 authentic appearance is in his pages. 
 
 At the Battle of Mons a mere handful of British 
 troops barred the progress of an entire German army 
 corps. What was the explanation? Determina- 
 tion; downright bravery; superior morale; these were 
 abstractions which signified little to a public which 
 demanded something more tangible. And when Mr. 
 
PREFACE ix 
 
 Machen, in a tale made convincing by its wealth of 
 detail, related that a vegetarian Briton, a member of 
 the heroic little army, had in the moment of supreme 
 trial murmured the magic words " Adsit Anglis Sanctus 
 Georgius," and that thereupon, amidst outlandish 
 shouting, St. George and the bowmen of Agincourt 
 had come to the relief of the hard-pressed English, 
 the public was satisfied. That numbers do not invari- 
 ably connote strength; that a few resolute men might 
 prove a very serious obstacle to a force ten times 
 greater, this the public was not prepared to believe. 
 But a regiment or two, if reinforced by St. George and 
 the bowmen of Agincourt might accomplish almost 
 anything. That was natural and logical. 
 
 It is remarkable that such beliefs should exist. It 
 is remarkable that a myth, which has not the slightest 
 vestige of evidence to support it, should be accepted 
 as Gospel. But where there is the will to believe, beliefs 
 will not be wanting. 
 
 Yet Mr. Machen is a reasonable, level-headed 
 gentleman. He is neither a ready believer nor a 
 scoffer. "They will be mistaken," he says of his 
 readers, "if they suppose that I think miracles in 
 Judsea credible but miracles in France or Flanders 
 incredible." This brilliant line of a brilliant preface 
 furnished the inspiration for "The Unseen Host." 
 It is a pleasure to offer thanks to one of the most inter- 
 esting figures in modern literature. 
 
 Concerning the plays themselves, nothing more need 
 be said. Upon the stage a play is offered to an audi- 
 ence without the aid of long and elaborate explana- 
 
x PREFAC E 
 
 tions. It is in a similar form that the printed play 
 must be offered to its readers. The present preface 
 exists only because the five plays are related to each 
 other; because a word upon that subject may bring the 
 reader to a sympathetic understanding of the author's 
 purpose. 
 
 New York, July, 1917. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface vii 
 
 The Unseen Host 1 
 
 Mothers of Men 17 
 
 Pawns 33 
 
 In the Ravine 63 
 
 Valkyrie! 85 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 Opus £8 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 At an improvised American hospital in Paris. A 
 large room, with the traces of former magnificence, now 
 serving as living room to the surgeon in charge. At the 
 rear, tall Gothic windows of leaded glass — heavily 
 curtained. At the right, two doors, huge, ancient — that 
 nearer the audience leading into an interior room: that 
 farther off opening on the upper landing of a staircase. 
 At the left, an enormous fireplace. What little furniture 
 there is is massive and ornate. The most conspicuous 
 piece is a heavy table near the center of the room. On 
 the table is a bronze desk lamp. 
 
 It is evening. In the room itself no lights are burning, 
 and there is semi-darkness. 
 
 The first door opens, and a uniformed orderly enters 
 quietly. He is a middle-aged man who lacks an arm; 
 the medal on his breast may explain why. He deposits 
 a sheaf of papers on the table; proceeds to the windows 
 and closes the curtains. 
 
 Steps are heard ascending the stairs, the second door 
 opens, and the surgeon, a white-clad, elderly American 
 who holds himself very erect despite his years, stands at 
 the threshold deferentially awaiting a compatriot some 
 ten years his junior, the best type of the successful American 
 man of affairs. 
 the surgeon (holding the door open) 
 
 This way. 
 the visitor (appearing at the head of the flight of stairs) 
 
 Is he in here? 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Who? 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 The boy who saw the angels? 
 
 the surgeon (smiling) 
 
 Oh, you haven't forgotten him, have you? He's 
 in the next room. (The visitor enters, obviously 
 winded by the climb) I'll show him to you after- 
 wards. Get your breath first. You look a little 
 exhausted. 
 
 the visitor (grinning) 
 A little? Quite a little. 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Sit down here. (The orderly proffers a chair. The 
 visitor sits. The surgeon turns . on the desk lamp) 
 This house was built before the Grand Monarque 
 taught them to have an eye to comfort. Magnificent 
 — splendid — all that sort of thing, but mighty 
 unpleasant if you have to live in it. Think of the 
 stretcher bearers carrying men up those stairs ! 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 There ought to be an elevator. 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Yes. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Put one in. Send me the bill. 
 the surgeon (nodding) 
 Thank you. We need it badly. (The orderly leaves 
 the room by the first door) These old houses, very 
 picturesque, very ornamental — 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 But no conveniences? 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 The men who built them didn't know the meaning 
 of the word. We felt that when we turned this into 
 a hospital. Think of it: it used to be a show place! 
 Not much left of it now. There was a bed here — 
 right where you are sitting; one of those great, big, 
 canopied affairs — 
 the visitor 
 Unsanitary. 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Very. That's why I had it taken out. But Henry 
 of Navarre had spent a night in it. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Even Henry of Navarre had to give way to modern 
 efficiency ! 
 
 the surgeon (nodding) 
 
 Yes. (He points to the door through which the orderly 
 has gone) That was his anteroom the next morning. 
 Can you picture it? The courtiers: the crowds of 
 lords and ladies: the nobility of France waiting 
 to greet His Majesty ! 
 
 the visitor (strolling over) 
 
 Nothing like that to-day, is there? 
 
 the surgeon (opening the door) 
 
 I don't know. Look! the rows of beds, and the 
 quiet men who are lying in them. The nobility of 
 France? Those painted and bef rilled lords and 
 ladies were no whit more noble than are these! (He 
 pauses) The King's anteroom! It is more that 
 now than it ever was! 
 
 the visitor (understanding) 
 Waiting to meet His Majesty. 
 
6 THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 the surgeon (closing the door quietly) I didn't know 
 you were a poet. But it doesn't need much of this 
 atmosphere to change a man's view of life. It's 
 intoxicating. (He turns) From these windows you 
 could have watched the Catholics murdering the 
 Huguenots three hundred and fifty years ago. 
 Twenty years later you would have seen a Huguenot 
 king going to sleep in this room. Why, I could talk 
 about the place for hours! What wonderful men 
 and women have sat where we are sitting! What 
 a glorious company has passed through these molder- 
 ing doors! What ghosts hover about us while we 
 speak! 
 {The visitor starts violently. 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 What is it? 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 I thought I heard something. 
 the surgeon (smiling) 
 
 They are friendly ghosts. (Shrewdly) But "you said 
 
 before that you didn't believe in them! 
 the visitor 
 
 Neither I do. 
 the surgeon 
 
 Or angels? 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Call them what you like. 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Well, then? 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 I thought I saw something. (Apologetically) The 
 light is so dim. 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 The men in the next room don't like bright lights. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 But you can keep the door closed. 
 the surgeon (shaking his head) 
 
 It won't stay closed. It's rickety — like everything 
 
 else in the building. (He crosses to the windows) 
 
 I'll open the curtains if you like. 
 the visitor (watching him) 
 
 Aren't you afraid of the Zeppelins? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Too much of a fatalist for that. They were here 
 a week ago. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 And didn't hurt you? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Blew up yards and yards of pavement with the 
 result that we had to lay wooden boards in the street. 
 The hospital wasn't damaged. 
 the visitor (evidently referring to a previous con- 
 versation) 
 Another miracle! 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 What? 
 the visitor (mildly bantering) 
 
 You seem to live in the midst of the supernatural! 
 the surgeon (nodding gravely) 
 
 Yes. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 And you were born in Bangor, Maine, and studied 
 medicine at Johns Hopkins! 
 
8 THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 the surgeon (after a pause) 
 You are a Christian, I take it? 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Why — naturally. 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 You believe that a miracle happened in Palestine. 
 You deny that another might happen in Flanders. 
 the visitor (uneasily) 
 
 Well, if you put it that way — 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Now I'm going to read you the boy's statement. 
 {Tie sits at the table, and goes through the contents of 
 one of the drawers. The first door opens slowly. The 
 visitor watches it, fascinated. He draws his breath 
 sharply. The surgeon looks up; takes in the situa- 
 tion. 
 the visitor 
 The door's opening! 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 I warned you; it has a habit of doing that. 
 \[The orderly enters through the opened door, crosses 
 to the other door, goes. The visitor draws a breath 
 of relief. 
 the surgeon (smiling) 
 
 For a disbeliever you are easily startled. (The 
 visitor does not reply) Now listen. (He reads) 
 "I saw them. I know I saw them. Whether they 
 were angels, whether they were devils, whether they 
 were living or dead, I do not know. But they were 
 shining shapes, and nothing could withstand them. 
 We were pressed — hard pressed. Another ten 
 minutes, and it would have been all over with us. 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 9 
 
 We would have been crushed by the advancing hordes, 
 trodden under into the mire. And then I heard a 
 tramping, a tramping gradually growing louder, a 
 tramping first challenging the roar of the battle, and 
 then overwhelming it, drowning it, so that all sound 
 had become one huge rhythmic tramp, tramp, tramp ! 
 I thought my eardrums would burst. And then I 
 looked up and beheld the light reflected on their 
 armor, and the sky filled with a huge glitter, and the 
 rays of the sun shining through showers of arrows! 
 And the enemy melted away before us : melted by the 
 hundreds; by the thousands; by the tens of thou- 
 sands; and those celestial hosts tramped upwards, 
 tramped up that invisible pathway into the heavens, 
 tramped out of sight!" 
 [He stops. 
 the visitor (after a pause) 
 And then? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Then a bullet struck him, and he was unconscious 
 until they brought him here. 
 the visitor (after another pause; emphasizing the 
 inconsistency) 
 Tramping ghosts! 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Why not? 
 the visitor (positively) 
 
 Ghosts are noiseless. 
 the surgeon (shrewdly) 
 
 If you speak from experience — 
 the visitor (nettled) 
 
 I didn't say I believed in them. 
 
10 THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 the surgeon (innocently) 
 
 No; you said quite the opposite. 
 the visitor (dogmatically) 
 
 Anyhow, ghosts don't tramp! 
 the surgeon (gently bantering) 
 
 Not even a ghostly tramp? They clank chains, I 
 
 am told. Why shouldn't their steps have a sound? 
 
 A sort of a hollow, ghostly sound? 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Bah! Are you sure the bullet struck him after he 
 saw the — the angels? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 So he says. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Hm! And you take his word for it! (He walks over 
 to the door) Dying, you say? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Three quarters dead already. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 And young? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Nineteen — one of thousands. Oh, it's not romantic 
 in the least. He's barely conscious; and he's 
 waiting to go back to the front. He thinks he's 
 going to get well. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 They all think that, don't they? He won't? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Never in this world. Queer, isn't it? Shot clean 
 through the body; suffering like the devil, and all 
 he's thinking of is when he's to go back — when he's 
 to rejoin his regiment! 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 11 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Like an animal trying to return to the slaughter 
 pen. 
 the surgeon {'pointedly) 
 Yes: if animals saw angels. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Hm! {He pauses) Do you really believe he saw 
 them? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 I read you his statement. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Which he wrote himself? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Hardly; he knows no English. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Why didn't you take it down in the original? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 I did. {He produces a second sheet of paper) Here 
 it is. {He pauses; smiles) I translated it, para- 
 phrased it, for my own pleasure, if you like. The 
 original is a mass of ejaculations; short phrases, 
 repeated over and over again. I tried to make it 
 coherent. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 And repeated it back to him? {The surgeon shakes 
 his head) Why not? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 He takes no notice of anything. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Oh! Not quite in his senses? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 No. 
 
12 THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Raving? And you believe his ravings? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 I neither believe nor disbelieve. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 But an insane man? 
 
 the surgeon (with emphasis) 
 
 Who has not had the education to invent what he 
 told me! Imaginative? Not in the least. He was 
 a farm hand before the war. 
 
 the visitor (persistently) 
 Still, in his delirium — 
 
 the surgeon (interrupting) 
 
 He wouldn't rave like a poet. You forget: I have lis- 
 tened to so many others. (He pauses) You think I 
 am credulous. Perhaps. I neither affirm nor deny. 
 They tell me of these things they call miracles — 
 
 the visitor (interrupting) 
 And you ask no explanation? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Why must there be one? 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 There always is. 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Yes; generally more miraculous than the miracle 
 itself. (He pauses; then, with solemnity) When, 
 in the twentieth century, I myself have seen millions 
 of men leaving their peaceful homes, their work, 
 their occupations, to kill one another, I say that is 
 such a dreadful, such an unbelievable miracle that 
 next to it everything else becomes insignificant. If 
 this paperweight were to turn into a roaring lion 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 13 
 
 before my eyes I would say that too was a miracle 
 
 — but that all of humanity had been witness to a 
 
 greater! 
 
 [The first door opens slowly. 
 the visitor (calling attention to it without alarm) 
 
 The door is opening again. 
 
 [The surgeon goes to it without a word; closes it. 
 the visitor (as he does so) 
 
 You would say that the soul of the dying soldier has 
 
 come through that door on its way to rejoin its 
 
 regiment! 
 the surgeon (nodding gravely) 
 
 If I were a poet. 
 
 [As he speaks the second door opens deliberately. He 
 
 watches it with a smile; the visitor with curious fas- 
 cination. 
 the visitor 
 
 Gad! 
 
 [The door closes of its own accord. 
 the visitor (repeating as if hypnotized) 
 
 To rejoin its regiment! 
 the surgeon (after a pause) 
 
 You didn't notice — 
 the visitor (sharply) 
 
 What? 
 the surgeon (mildly) 
 
 To me — the room seemed somewhat lighter for an 
 
 instant. ] 
 the visitor 
 
 Bah! V 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 A poetic conception of yours: the soul joins the 
 
14 THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 regiment of souls ! All around us — above us — 
 within us — the unseen host gathers its forces ! 
 [There is the very, very faint sound of a bugle in the 
 distance. 
 the visitor (under his breath) 
 Did you hear? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 I heard. j 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 A bugle! 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Yes. 
 
 [They listen, and gradually there commences a curious, 
 hollow, rhythmic tramp. Very subdued at first, it 
 increases slowly in volume, without in the least acceler- 
 ating its precise, martial rhythm. It grows louder, 
 and louder, and louder; and nearer. The building 
 seems to vibrate with the rhythmically recurrent footfall. 
 The visitor rushes to the windows. He peers out. 
 Then, in a tone of awe: 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Fog! Nothing but fog! 
 
 [Utterly bewildered, he turns. The tramping swells 
 into a climax. Then, more quickly than it has grown, 
 ebbs into silence. 
 the visitor (breathlessly) 
 What was it? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 A regiment marching by. 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 But the tramp? The hollow tramp? 
 
THE UNSEEN HOST 15 
 
 the surgeon (very matter of fact) 
 
 I told you — there is a board pavement. 
 the visitor (breaking into a high-pitched, hysterical 
 
 laugh) 
 
 So there is! So there is! 
 
 [The second door opens, and the orderly, very much 
 
 excited, stands on the threshold. 
 
 THE ORDERLY 
 
 Doctor! 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Yes? 
 
 THE ORDERLY 
 
 The boy — the boy who saw the angels — where is he? 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 In there. 
 
 THE ORDERLY 
 
 You are sure? 
 
 [The men look at each other silently. 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Why do you ask? 
 
 THE ORDERLY 
 
 I saw him! 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 What? 
 
 THE ORDERLY 
 
 In the front ranks ! With my own eyes ! I saw him ! 
 
 [The surgeon hurries out of the room. 
 the visitor (after a tense pause) 
 
 He was dying. Did you know that? 
 the orderly (gravely) 
 
 I knew. 
 
 [The surgeon reenters. 
 
16 THE UNSEEN HOST 
 
 THE VISITOR 
 
 Well? 
 the surgeon (nodding quietly) 
 Dead. 
 
 THE ORDERLY 
 
 I saw him! With my own eyes I saw him! 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Dead not five minutes. 
 the visitor (staggered) 
 
 But — but such things don't happen! There were 
 thousands of boys like him ! 
 
 THE SURGEON (slowly) 
 
 Yes. 
 
 the visitor (turning fiercely on the orderly) 
 
 You must have been mistaken! 
 the orderly (changing the word pointedly) 
 
 I might have been mistaken. 
 
 THE SURGEON 
 
 Then, again, you might not have been — 
 
 [_The orderly nods quietly, under standingly. The 
 
 visitor gasps. . . . 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS SLOWLY 
 
MOTHERS OF MEN 
 
 Oyus &6 
 
MOTHERS OF MEN 
 
 "A sumptuously furnished drawing-room; magnificent 
 furniture, priceless paintings, rugs more yielding than 
 moss. And everything beautiful, costly, and in the best 
 of good taste." 
 
 Let the reader, if he will, imagine the precise opposite. 
 Not that anything that strikes his eye is distinctly shabby, 
 or that any particle of dust mars the neatness of the 
 room; for Mrs. Chepstowe prides herself on her house- 
 keeping, and would feel justly slighted at any animadver- 
 sions upon it. But the furniture presents that curious 
 conglomerate effect which indicates a compromise between 
 comfort and fashion. The late Mr. Chepstowe cared 
 entirely for the former; his widow struggled as best she 
 could for the latter. The result is distressing: could not 
 have been more distressing even if the family purse had 
 been deeper. For the room is crammed with an abundance 
 of poorly designed and cheaply made movables. In the 
 care of a less conscientious owner they would have fallen 
 to pieces long ago. But by dint of plenty of elbow grease 
 they retain something of their pristine condition, some- 
 thing of the congenital senility, of the old-maidish stiffness 
 and primness of the Victorian period. 
 
 " There is no place like home," sang the poet. He never 
 knew how literally truthful his asseveration might become. 
 For each of the thousand two-room apartments ivhich 
 Maida Vale boasts rejoices in monstrosities peculiar to 
 
 19 
 
20 MOTHERS GE MEN 
 
 itself, sufficient to differentiate it immediately from all 
 the others. 
 
 In the center of her beloved horrors sits Mrs. Chep- 
 stowe herself, a well-preserved widow of some fifty odd 
 years, with "middle-class" almost visibly written over 
 her features. Mr. Chepstowe had considered himself 
 part of the backbone of the British nation, and had an- 
 nounced himself as such times without number over the 
 counter of his ironmonger 's shop on Ludgate Hill. His 
 widow continues to live up to his reputation, and as she 
 sits knitting in her easy-chair this crisp October afternoon, 
 her thoughts wander with a certain pride to the past, 
 which was a tedious but emphatic uphill climb, and with 
 a sudden pang to the present, for, like a million other 
 British women, she has a son "somewhere in France," 
 and would give much to see him face to face. 
 The doorbell rings. 
 
 Mrs. Chepstowe folds her knitting carefully, rises, 
 and leaves the room. She is heard to open the door to the 
 hall. There is a sound of voices. Presently words 
 become distinguishable. 
 mrs. chepstowe (outside) 
 
 If you will step in here . . . (She opens the door to the 
 living room. A woman of the same age, but far better 
 dressed, — presumably a member of fashionable society, 
 precedes her into the room) Yes? What can I do for 
 you? (But the caller is in a fearful state of excitement, 
 trembling, flustered, unable to speak coherently, and 
 Mrs. Chepstowe recognizes it) Won't you sit down? 
 \_She offers a chair. 
 the caller (sitting, with a gasp of relief) 
 Thank you. 
 
MOTHERS OF MEN 21 
 
 ( 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 And a cup of tea? 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 No, no. 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (proceeding towards the tea-table) 
 It will take only a minute. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 No, no. I couldn't drink anything. 
 
 \!There is a pause. Then Mrs. Chepstowe makes an 
 
 effort to relieve the situation. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 Lovely weather we've been having, isn't it? And 
 so unusual at this time of year. I went for a walk 
 yesterday, and I don't know when I enjoyed any- 
 thing so much. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 Yes, yes. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 I started bright and early in the morning. (She 
 checks off on her fingers) Abercorn Place, Abbey 
 Road, Marlborough Road, Queen's Road, all the 
 way to Primrose Park. Then I came back by way 
 of Park Road and St. John's Wood. I felt quite 
 refreshed. 
 [ She pauses. 
 
 the caller (taking up her subject suddenly) 
 You are Mrs. Albert Chepstowe? 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 Yes. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 I am Mrs. Howard Chepstowe. 
 
22 MOTHERS OF MEN 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (interested) 
 
 Oh, we have the same name, haven't we? And it's 
 such an unusual name. Do your husband's people 
 come from Lancashire, by any chance? 
 
 the caller (with a visible effort) 
 No: Devon. 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (disappointed) 
 
 Oh. I didn't know there were any Chepstowes 
 living there. (Confidentially) There was an aunt 
 of my husband's who was so much interested in 
 genealogy, and who traced the Chepstowe family all 
 the way back to the Conquest. She'd have been 
 so glad to know you. 
 
 the caller (interrupting abruptly) 
 
 Mrs. Chepstowe, this came for me yesterday. 
 \She fumbles in her chatelaine, and pulls out an envelope 
 with the royal crest and the H. M. B. frank on it. 
 Mrs. Chepstowe takes it, but recognizes its import even 
 before she has opened the flap. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 You poor thing! 
 the caller {breaking into tears) 
 You know what it is? 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 Every woman in the Kingdom knows. Every woman 
 in the Kingdom is afraid of getting such a letter any 
 day. (She shakes her head in sympathy) Who was 
 it? Your husband? 
 the caller (between her sobs) 
 No — he's been dead many years. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 Then your son? 
 
MOTHERS OF MEN 23 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 My son. My only son. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 I don't know what to say to you. I really don't. 
 [There is a pause. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 For a week, no letter from him. Then this: killed 
 at La Bassee, the twenty-ninth. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 The twenty-ninth? That was Michaelmas. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 As if it made any difference what day it was! All 
 that I know is that from now on it will be the most 
 terrible day in the year to me. The twenty-ninth; 
 I went to theater that evening. Perhaps the letter 
 was even then on its way to me . . . Yesterday 
 it came, with the first mail. What I have gone 
 through since — you can't imagine ! 
 mrs. chepstowe (gently) 
 
 I don't have to imagine. I have a son at the front 
 myself. (She pauses; smiles sadly. The caller makes 
 no remark) He didn't enlist in the early days of the 
 war. An only child, you see, and I wasn't anxious 
 to have him go. Just the two of us there were, and 
 I thought the mothers who had more than one son 
 might give up some of theirs. I had no one but Tom. 
 So we talked it over. He was eager; said that Eng- 
 land needed every man who was strong enough to 
 shoulder a gun, but he looked at me, and around our 
 cosy little home, and he must have seen the expression 
 in my eyes, because he said he'd wait a while. And 
 I said, "Yes, Tom." And then he'd come home 
 
24 MOTHERS OF MEN 
 
 evenings, and tell me how his friends had gone off, 
 and how Dickie Fitzgerald was a corporal now, and 
 how Will Tupper, that great, big, hulking fellow, 
 who they thought would never amount to anything, 
 had gotten the V. C. Will Tupper, whom Tom had 
 given a beating in his school days! Then he'd pick 
 up the paper, and he'd say, "Mother, Kitchener 
 needs more men." I knew what was coming, but I 
 acted as if it was nothing. I said, "Yes, Tom." 
 We come of an old fighting stock, you know. His 
 great-grandfather fought through the Peninsular 
 War. It was his blood in Tom's veins, and it needed 
 more than I could add to cool it down. So I said 
 nothing, but I went over Tom's clothes — saw that 
 he had warm underwear, and heavy socks. And 
 then, then, I had always thought it would be of an 
 evening, but it wasn't — it was after breakfast one 
 Sunday, Tom pushed his plate away, and looked 
 at me — just looked at me. I knew what it meant. 
 Without his saying a word, I knew what it meant. 
 I had seen that look so often in my dreams and I had 
 awakened so often trembling, hoping it was only a 
 nightmare. But I said, "Yes, Tom." (She bows 
 her head and is silent an instant) He took me in 
 his arms, and I put my lips up to his — he 's much 
 taller than I — and he said, "Little mother, I'm 
 going to leave you to-morrow," and I said, "Yes, 
 Tom." He squared his shoulders, did my boy, and 
 he said, "There's a man's work to be done," and — 
 and the next night I ate my supper alone. 
 the caller (after a pause, gently) 
 I know how you felt. 
 
MOTHERS OF MEN 25 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (nodding, and wiping away a tear) 
 I used to say that to myself : that there were so many 
 other mothers whose sons meant just as much to 
 them as mine meant to me. But I can't believe it. 
 I don't suppose any of them believe it. That's 
 what it is to be a mother. 
 
 the caller (half to herself) 
 They're all alike, aren't they? 
 
 Mrs. chepstowe (without answering) 
 
 I know how I used to worry about his scrapes when 
 he was at school. He wasn't a bad boy, but he was 
 a mischievous boy: he was always up to something. 
 (She smiles) One day he came home full of splinters: 
 more splinters than boy, I think. He had climbed 
 the flag-pole, and slid down too fast. Anybody else 
 would have broken a leg, at least. Tom wasn't a 
 bit upset; would have done it again, except that the 
 splinters hurt. Another day he fell out of the 
 window, trying to see who could lean out furthest. 
 He won. (She pauses) Well, after a few of those 
 things had happened it wasn't so bad. I made up 
 my mind he wasn't born to be killed — or he 'd have 
 been killed long ago. That's the one thought that 
 comforts me to-day. (With sudden recollection) 
 Oh, I beg your pardon. I was thoughtless. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 You needn't apologize. I used to think the same 
 thing about my son. The scrapes that he got into at 
 Eton? Why, it makes my hair stand on end even to 
 think of them. And Cambridge was no better; 
 it wasn't six months before he was hit over the head 
 playing polo. 
 
26 MOTHERS OF MEN 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 Oh, your son played polo? {Naively) You must 
 
 be rich. 
 the caller {embarrassed) 
 
 Mr. Chepstowe was well-to-do. 
 mrs. chepstowe {eagerly) 
 
 What was his business? My Mr. Chepstowe was an 
 
 ironmonger. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 He had no business. 
 mrs. chepstowe {surprised) 
 What? 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 He was a gentleman. 
 mrs. chepstowe {vastly impressed) 
 
 A gentleman! Now what do you think of that? 
 {She shakes her head) I always wanted to be rich, 
 if only for what I could have done for my boy. Eton 
 — and Cambridge — and polo — I always wanted 
 him to have such things, but I could never afford 
 them. {Looking at the caller with added respect) 
 Your son must have been an officer? 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 No. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 Not an officer? 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 He enlisted the day war was declared. He had had 
 no experience. I could have gotten him a commis- 
 sion, but he wouldn't take it: said he wasn't fit 
 to command men who knew more than he did. 
 
MOTHERS OF MEN 27 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (appreciatively) 
 
 That was fine, wasn't it? I suppose they sent him 
 off to one of the training camps? 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 Yes. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 That's what they did with my boy. Just to think of 
 it! In a training camp, along with gentlemen! 
 And then — 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 Off to France. 
 mrs. chepstowe (with a sudden change of tone) 
 Yes; off to France. 
 
 [_There is a pause. The caller is evidently ill at ease. 
 Then she continues, rather abruptly. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 Mrs. Chepstowe, I don't know what you'll think of 
 me, but — 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 Yes? 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 You're so wonderful about it that I don't know what 
 to say. And it was the only reason I came here. 
 (She stops uncertainly. Mrs. Chepstowe is silent. 
 The caller takes the plunge) Do you know a man 
 named Safford? 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 Safford? 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 Lieutenant the Honorable Cecil Safford? 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 The Honorable? How should I know an Honorable? 
 
28 MOTHERS OF MEN 
 
 the caller (avoiding Mrs. Chepstowe's eyes) 
 
 He was badly wounded some time ago: so badly 
 they didn't dare move him. He was invalided home 
 this week . . . He was in the same regiment as my 
 son. When — when the letter came, I stopped in 
 to see him. 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (anticipating) 
 
 And he told you that your son died fighting bravely — 
 
 the caller (interrupting with ill-concealed excitement) 
 He hadn't heard. He didn't know until I told him. 
 He wasn't with the regiment then. He had been 
 wounded before that. I told you. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 I'm sorry; I forgot. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 He was shocked to hear about my son. They had 
 been close friends; were in Cambridge together. 
 But it suddenly occurred to him — 
 [She breaks off. 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (encouragingly) 
 Yes? 
 
 the caller (with averted face) 
 
 I don't know what you'll think of me for saying this 
 — it's too terrible. (In desperation) But I 'm a 
 mother, you know, and he's my only son. Lieu- 
 tenant Safford suddenly recalled that there was 
 another man in the regiment with the same name 
 as my son. 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (rising terror-stricken) 
 
 The same name as your son? What do you mean? 
 
 the caller (also rising) 
 
 Your son's name is Tom Chepstowe? 
 
MOTHERS OF MEN 29 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 Well? 
 the caller (facing her with compressed lips) 
 
 That was the name ! 
 mrs. chepstowe (with a wail) 
 
 Oh, how could you ! 
 the caller (with a fierce resolution) 
 
 To a mother anything is permitted. The same 
 
 name, the same regiment; they might have made a 
 
 mistake. 
 MRS. chepstowe! 
 
 How dare you ! 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 It's my son or your son! 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 My son wasn't born to be killed! 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 I thought the same thing. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 But I know! 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 I went to the War Office, and they told me — 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (interrupting) 
 That there was no mistake. 
 
 the caller (with emphasis) 
 
 That they would try and make sure. (Breaking 
 down suddenly) Mrs. Chepstowe, for twenty-four 
 hours they've been trying to make sure! I thought 
 I'd go mad! For twenty-four hours I've been 
 living there, going from one clerk to another, directed, 
 misdirected, and they're all so kind, and they don't 
 
30 MOTHERS OF MEN 
 
 know, (with pathetic sarcasm) and they're trying to 
 make sure. And in the meantime — ! 
 \_She breaks off in agony. 
 mrs. chepstowe (regaining something of her equanimity 
 after a pause) 
 It isn't my son. I had a letter from him yesterday. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 I had a letter from my son to-day \ 
 mrs. chepstowe (horrified) 
 No! 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 Dated the twenty-eighth. (As the other looks her 
 incredulity, she fumbles in her bag and pulls out a 
 crumpled note) Don't you believe me? Listen to 
 this: "Dear Mater — " (She chokes; reaches the 
 note to Mrs. Chepstowe) Read it yourself if you like. 
 mrs. chepstowe (recoiling in horror) 
 No! No! 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 I couldn't stand it alone! It was more than I could 
 bear! I came to you because you must listen! 
 Because you are the one woman in the world who 
 must share my agony with me ! 
 mrs. chepstowe (with unutterable loathing) 
 You beast! 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 That's right ! Call me names ! Call me all the names 
 you like! I know how you feel. And I would feel 
 the same in your place. But I had to do it! At 
 the War Office, a thousand other women, trying to 
 find out, running from clerk to clerk, running from 
 door to door, trying to make sure. They didn't 
 
MOTHERS OF MEN 31 
 
 have time to listen to me. They were too busy tell- 
 ing their own stories. But you — you must listen ! 
 You must hear me ! 
 \There is a pause. 
 
 mrs. chepstowe {with a quivering gesture of the thumb) 
 Mrs. Chepstowe, the door — the door! 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 What? 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (trying to control herself) 
 Will you go? — or shall I throw you out? 
 \_The door-bell rings. The women face each other, 
 motionless, panting. Then Mrs. Chepstowe collects 
 herself, and leaves the room quietly. A pause. Then, 
 from outside, comes a pitiable gasp. The caller raises 
 her head in instant comprehension; rushes to the door; 
 flings it open. Outside stands Mrs. Chepstowe, tot- 
 tering, barely keeping herself erect — and there is an 
 envelope in her hand. 
 
 the caller (in an hysterical outburst) 
 
 I was right! I knew it! Thank God! I was right! 
 I was right! 
 
 [_Mrs. Chepstowe advances slowly into the room: 
 advances with the unsure step of a sick woman. The 
 caller suddenly regains control of herself; is motionless, 
 save for the nervous twitching of her lips, and her 
 rapid breathing. 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (in an absolutely colorless voice) 
 Let me see your letter. 
 
 THE CALLER 
 
 Yes; yes. Of course. 
 ^Bhe hands it over. 
 
32 MOTHERS OF MEN 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 La Bassee — September twenty-ninth — your son. 
 the caller (gently) 
 
 No: yours. 
 mrs. chepstowe (in the same dispassionate tones) 
 
 Mine — at Loos — October second. 
 the caller (in a ghastly whisper) 
 
 What? 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 Loos — October second. 
 
 the caller (terror-stricken) 
 
 Give me the letters. (She snatches them from Mrs. 
 Chepstowe's icy hand; compares them. Then, with 
 a heart-rending cry) Both ! 
 
 mrs. chepstowe (with quiet assent) 
 Both. 
 
 the caller (dropping the letters to the floor) 
 Oh, my God! 
 
 £4 pause. Quivering, the women face each other. 
 Their hands clench nervously; their mouths are half 
 open, as if they were beasts about to spring at each other 9 s 
 throats. And in the half second that has passed, both 
 of them look older — so much older! And Mrs. Chep- 
 stowe* s breath comes more quickly — and still more 
 quickly, and the other woman faces her gaspingly, 
 as a rabbit faces a snake. An instant's pause; then 
 both collapse, fall into each other's arms, weeping. 
 
 MRS. CHEPSTOWE 
 
 You poor woman ! You poor woman ! 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS 
 
PAWNS 
 
 Opus kk 
 
PAWNS 
 
 The lights are extinguished. The 'prologue is spoken 
 by a male voice. 
 
 Frontier! What images the mere word suggests! 
 Barbed wire, and sentries, and eternal vigilance, 
 even in times of peace. To the traveler, a place 
 where certain necessary inconveniences must be 
 encountered. To the native, the end of the world. 
 To the statesman, an irksome demarcation, pain- 
 fully cramping, encroaching, which, some day, for 
 no reason now apparent, must be moved farther off, 
 as a result of which various colored ribbons, jeweled 
 badges, and sonorous titles will accrue to the said 
 statesman, until his alien confreres, in turn, find pre- 
 texts to move the line back to the precise degree of 
 longitude which originally marked it, or perhaps, 
 even beyond that point. Then the whole process 
 will commence again, and statesmen will invent new 
 pretexts, and monarchs new color combinations for 
 their ribbons. And in the cloistered seclusion of 
 the colleges, anaemic professors will compile learned 
 histories, immortalizing the statesmen, and only 
 incidentally celebrating the role that their country- 
 men have played, these same countrymen now sepul- 
 tured in battleground, cemeteries, and so forth, 
 under long-winded inscriptions which nine tenths of 
 them, lately become heroes, would not have been 
 able to decipher in life. 
 
 35 
 
36 PAWNS 
 
 In accordance with treaties of peace, new frontiers 
 will come into existence, with new sentries, new 
 barbed wire, new vigilance. 
 
 But there are frontiers where no human sentries are 
 needed — or possible; where, in the impenetrable 
 depths of the marshes, bullfrogs swim across the 
 invisible line a thousand times in the course of a day, 
 without troubling themselves to decide whether they 
 are German bullfrogs — or French bullfrogs — or 
 Austrian bullfrogs — or Russian bullfrogs. And such 
 places there are in plenty along the southwestern 
 Russian border, where alternating hill and valley, 
 precipice and abyss, virgin forest and unlit swamp- 
 land have seen no sentries, save only those whom 
 Nature placed there, since time began. 
 It is near one of these natural barriers that the scene 
 is laid; a barrier almost impassable to the stranger, 
 but an easy and accustomed path to the native, 
 who threads its tortuous windings without fear. In- 
 deed, he looks upon it as a most useful friend; but 
 for it, townspeople, not so far away, would have 
 reached out cunning hands for the few acres he 
 cultivates with so much labor; because of it they 
 leave him alone, him, and his similarly situated 
 neighbors. 
 
 In the neighborhood of such places men are de- 
 nationalized; are neither Russian nor Austrian, but 
 are Volhynian — or Galician — or Podolian, without 
 having a clear idea, in their isolation, of what the 
 terms mean, until war comes and the Volhynian is 
 told that the Podolian is his ally and the Galician 
 his enemy, is given a gun, and told to glorify God 
 
PAWNS 37 
 
 and his country by shooting straight and wasting 
 
 no ammunition. . . . 
 
 The voice ceases. 
 
 Chimes. 
 
 The curtain rises in darkness. 
 
 Night: near the end of night, before morning. A 
 forest of swampy nature. Here and there, little irregular 
 hummocks of ground. Frogs croaking. Near the center, 
 a small fire, with a thin, straight flame, casting but little 
 light, so that ten feet aioay from it there is darkness. 
 
 Three men are grouped about the fire: Grigor, a Russian 
 peasant in his fifties, bearded, grave, with something of the 
 peculiar dignity which his class acquires as it ages; Stepan, 
 his older son, enormous, powerful, bearded, stretched out 
 full length on the ground, and the younger son, Ilia, 
 hardly more than a boy. 
 
 A pause. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 An hour more, and it will be light. I can tell by the 
 croaking of the frogs. It is as if they were afraid 
 of the light. Their croaking is different. Listen! 
 \_A pause. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Thirty versts more to Zawichost. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Is it so far? That is farther than I have ever been. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 What of that? By nightfall we will be there. 
 stepan {moving his huge frame lazily) 
 
 And then, God willing, one more day, and we return 
 home! 
 
38 PAWNS 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 God willing ! 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Is it a large city? Will there be many people? 
 step an (with an indulgent smile) 
 
 More than you have ever seen before. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 That will be wonderful ! 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 There are streets; more streets than you can count, 
 and shops, where they sell beautiful things, and great 
 houses all built of stone. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 I shall love to see that! 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Not I! (He shakes his head) I am afraid of the 
 cities! Oh, I am afraid of the cities! (He addresses 
 Stepan) Had you not gone to the city, they would 
 have left us alone. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 No. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 They have always left us alone. Here are the 
 marshes, and the quicksands. Who knows his way 
 through them? Not the city people. They are far 
 too comfortable in their stone houses. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 Nevertheless they would have sent for us. So the 
 police said. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 The police? Since when do we talk with the police? 
 Have I not said that when an honest moujik sees 
 
PAWNS 39 
 
 a policeman on one side of the street he crosses to the 
 other? 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 It was no use. There were too many of them. 
 There were police at every corner. There were 
 signs in the street, and crowds reading the signs. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Signs! Ah, yes! Signs telling you what to do! 
 Signs telling you what not to do! But read? How 
 should a moujik read? How to plow a straight 
 furrow in the earth, when to sow, when to reap, how 
 to feed his hen, his cow, that he knows, and that 
 is far better than reading signs! Pah! Because 
 you could not read, they told you what they pleased! 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 So I thought at first. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Well? 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 Then I asked others. They all said the same. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Hm! We must go to Zawichost. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 Yes; to Zawichost. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 And lose three days in harvest time. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 So they said; all of us. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 While Michael and lame Peter work in their field 
 undisturbed, on the other side of the marsh! When 
 we return, when we ask them to help us, they will 
 
40 PAWNS 
 
 refuse; we have not helped them. (He pauses in 
 disgust) If there were only a reason it would be 
 otherwise, but for mobilization? (With crowning 
 contempt) What is mobilization? 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 When I asked they pointed me out to each other; 
 said I was a fine hulk of a man to be asking what was 
 mobilization. They laughed at me. They threw 
 stones at me. (He is getting angry at the recollection) 
 Then I took the biggest of them by the arm — so — 
 and I pressed a little, so that his face went white 
 beneath the dirt, and the sweat stood out in drops 
 on his forehead, and he begged for mercy, and the 
 others, they stopped laughing ! 
 ilia (who is listening with breathless interest) 
 And then? 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 Then I came away. 
 
 J^There is a pause. Then the younger brother, who has 
 
 been much impressed, takes up the conversation. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 You took him by the arm? 
 STEPAN (smiling) 
 Yes, little brother. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 With one hand only? 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 This selfsame hand. (The boy feels the horny palm 
 with interest) Shall I show you? 
 ilia (darting out of his reach) 
 No, no! I do not doubt you! 
 
PAWNS 41 
 
 stepan (laughing) 
 For that, thanks! 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Still, if you must show me — 
 stepan (with the growl of a good-natured bear) 
 What? 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Wait until we come to the city to-day. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 And then? 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Perhaps they will laugh at us — 
 stepan (with understanding) 
 Yes, little brother! 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Oh, I hope I shall see that! 
 £There is a pause. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 For fifty years I have been a good Christian. I know 
 every holiday of the orthodox church. But mobili- 
 zation? That I have never heard of. 
 stepan 
 
 Perhaps the Metropolitan has decreed a new festival. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 In harvest time? Pah! 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 Harvest time is nothing to the people who live in 
 cities. They know nothing of harvests. 
 ilia (suddenly) 
 I hear steps. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 What? 
 
42 PAWNS 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 {JThey listen. There is no sound, 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 I hear nothing. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 The boy has quicker ears than you or I. Listen. 
 J[Sti1l there is no sound. 
 stepan (addressing Ilia) 
 What do you hear? 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Two men. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 Which way? 
 
 ILIA 
 
 From there. 
 
 XJle points towards the right. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 But who should come that way? That is the way 
 we have come. The city is in the other direction. 
 £4 crackling of branches becomes audible. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 Now I hear them! Hullo! Hullo! 
 
 VOICES 
 
 Hullo! Hullo! 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Michael and lame Peter. I know their voices. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 Hullo! This way! 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 They will not know where we are. Guide them, 
 \_Stepan starts off. 
 
PAWNS 43 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Here! A burning faggot! 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 Since when do I need a light, little brother? 
 
 [He disappears. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Michael and lame Peter? Are you sure? 
 ilia {listening) 
 
 I hear them speaking . . . Now he has found them . . . 
 They are coming this way. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Why should they follow us? 
 
 [Stepan reappears, followed by two more peasants who 
 carry packs, Peter, a farmhand of twenty-two, who 
 walks with a pronounced limp, and Michael, his 
 employer, a robust man near Grigor' s age. 
 grigor (rising ceremoniously) 
 Christ be with you! . 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 Grigor Ignatievitch, Christ be with you! 
 grigor (as the others drop their packs and draw near to 
 the fire) 
 What brings you to the swamp at this time of night? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 We asked at the farm. They said you had gone this 
 way. 
 
 PETER 
 
 We too, we go to the mobilization. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 You also? 
 
 ILIA 
 
 You go to Zawichost? 
 
44 PAWNS 
 
 PETER 
 
 No; to Sandomierz. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Oh ! So there is mobilization in more than one place 
 at once? 
 
 ILIA 
 
 It must be a great festival indeed. 
 peter {eagerly) 
 
 A festival, is it then? 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Who knows? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 But that is why we followed you. We do not know 
 what mobilization may be. But Anna Petrovna 
 said you had gone there. We thought you would 
 know. 
 grigor {shrugging his shoulders) 
 Whatever it is, we will know to-day. 
 
 PETER 
 
 But now, you cannot tell us? 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 No. {He pauses) Why do you go to the mobiliza- 
 tion in Sandomierz while we go to that in Zawichost? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 A soldier said we were to go to Sandomierz. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 A soldier here? In these swamps? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 All the way to the farm he came. We must go, he 
 said. We were afraid to disobey. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 He did not tell you why you must go? 
 
PAWNS 45 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 He had no time. He had to tell many others. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 And you asked him nothing? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 We asked. He swore, and said that if we were not 
 gone when he passed again on his way back, we should 
 be beaten. 
 \_There is a pause. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 And lame Peter, must he go too? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 I and all my men, he said. I have only the one. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 But he is lame. 
 peter (good-naturedly) 
 
 Lame Peter will travel as far and as fast as any of 
 them! And if there is to be a festival, why should 
 not lame Peter be there with the others? 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 But the harvest? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 Yes, the harvest! 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 When we return we will reap our fields together, 
 and then lame Peter will have a chance to show 
 what a worker he is ! 
 ilia (abruptly) 
 A sound! 
 {They stop talking, 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 What is it? 
 
46 PAWNS 
 
 ilia (listening) 
 
 A horse. 
 stepan (incredulously) 
 
 Ahorse? This time you are wrong! 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 What fool would try to ride a horse through the 
 swamp? 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Now I hear it more plainly. 
 
 PETER 
 
 Perhaps it is a riderless horse. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 No. A rider is using the whip. 
 [He is looking off left. 
 grigor (following his glance) 
 A rider from the city? 
 
 [ The peasants look at each other. The crackling of 
 branches becomes audible. Stepan rises silently, and 
 goes out at the left. 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 As if there were no better use for a good animal 
 than that! To ride through the swamp, where the 
 ground is hardly firm enough to carry a man! 
 
 PETER 
 
 And quicksands, quicksands to right and left of him! 
 
 The horse knows better than his master. 
 
 [There is the sound of a drunken voice raised in anger. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Listen to him! 
 
 PETER 
 
 Swearing at his horse, as if the poor beast could do 
 any more! 
 
PAWNS 47 
 
 ILIA 
 
 He's afraid! I know he's afraid! He feels the earth 
 crumbling under his hoofs! How he must tremble! 
 \The sound of a whip being used unmercifully. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Now he's beating him! I hope he throws him! 
 Oh, I hope he throws him! 
 \_There is a loud crash. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 He has thrown him! 
 
 ILIA 
 
 I knew he would! 
 
 PETER 
 
 It serves him right ! To treat a good horse like that ! 
 
 ILIA 
 
 And into the mud! The rider from the city in the 
 mud! I should love to see that! 
 \There is the report of a revolver. The peasants rise; 
 look at each other in terrified inquiry. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 What was that? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 A shot! 
 
 ILIA 
 
 And Stepan! 
 
 PETER 
 
 Perhaps Stepan said something! 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Something the rider didn't like ! 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 He was always quick tempered, your Stepan. He 
 
48 PAWNS 
 
 was not the man to stand there and see the horse 
 
 beaten for no fault of its own. 
 grigor (in horror) 
 
 Christ! 
 
 [Stepan reenters. 
 ilia (with a shout of relief) 
 
 Here he comes! 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Stepan! 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 What happened? 
 stepan (briefly) 
 
 His horse fell. It wouldn't rise again. He shot it. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Oh! 
 
 PETER 
 
 Shot his horse! 
 
 [At the left there enters a Russian sergeant, booted, 
 spurred, carrying a whip. He is very muddy and very 
 drunk. 
 peter (repeats in horror) 
 He shot his horse! 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Well, what of it? It was my horse, wasn't it? I 
 could do what I wanted with it. 
 Michael (more mildly) 
 
 It must have been worth many roubles. 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 The rich government will pay for it. (He stumbles 
 nearer the fire) Give me something to drink. 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 What would we be doing with drink? 
 
PAWNS 49 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 We are only honest moujiks. 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 You have nothing? Well, then — 
 
 \JEe pulls a flash from a pockety and applies it to his lips, 
 
 stepan (to Grigor, as the sergeant drinks) 
 He has had too much to drink already. 
 
 grigor (shrugging his shoulders) 
 A Christian is a Christian. 
 
 the sergeant (wiping his lips on his sleeve, and replac- 
 ing his bottle without offering it elsewhere) 
 Ah ! That puts the heart in you ! Make place for me 
 at your fire, you ! (He elbows his way to a seat. The 
 peasants edge away, so that he is alone at one side, and 
 they together at the other) There! That's something 
 like. 
 ^There is a pause. 
 
 grigor (courteously) 
 May I ask your name? 
 
 the sergeant (warming his hands at the fire) 
 What? 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Your name and surnames? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Alexei Ivanovitch Liboff, Sergeant. 
 grigor (inclining his head) 
 
 I am Grigor Ignatievitch Arshin. This is my son 
 Stepan. This is my son Ilia. This is my good 
 neighbor — 
 the sergeant (interrupts rudely with a drinking song) 
 It isn't sleep that bows my head, 
 But the drink, the drink that's in it! 
 
50 PAWNS 
 
 grigor (in amazement) 
 
 What? 
 stepan (starting to rise angrily) 
 
 The boor! 
 grigor (laying a hand on his arm) 
 
 A Christian is a Christian. 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 I'll up and away to a distant glade! 
 Where the wild red raspberries grow, 
 And I'll meet a little Cossack girl, 
 A little Cossack girl from the Don ! 
 
 (He stops suddenly) Well, why don't you say 
 
 something? 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 It is not for us to speak in the presence of your 
 excellency. - 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Then my excellency graciously grants you permission. 
 (He rises, bows grotesquely y stumbles, falls) 
 I'll meet a little Cossack girl, 
 A little Cossack girl from the Don! 
 (He stops; points at Ilia) You, speak! (Ilia 
 remains silent. He points at Stepan) You ! (Stepan 
 folds his arms and glares. He points at Grigor) You, 
 old man! Are you all a pack of fools? 
 
 grigor • 
 
 Your excellency has traveled far? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 My excellency has traveled far. Through these 
 cursed swamps on a stumbling horse all the way 
 from Zawichost. 
 
PAWNS 51 
 
 stepan (involuntarily) 
 From Zawichost? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Have I not said so? All the way from Zawichost, 
 since eleven o'clock this morning. 
 stepan (starting to put the question which is uppermost 
 in all their minds) 
 Perhaps, then — 
 £He breaks off. 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Perhaps what? 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Perhaps your excellency can tell us something of the 
 mobilization? 
 the sergeant (yawning) 
 The mobilization, oh, yes. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 It is a festival, is it not? 
 the sergeant (shutting his mouth with a surprised 
 snap) 
 What? 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 A festival of the holy church? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Who told you that? (He laughs loudly) A festival 
 of the church! 
 Michael (somewhat nettled) 
 
 What, then, is the mobilization? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 You don't know? 
 
 PETER 
 
 How should we? We live far from the cities. 
 
52 PAWNS 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Then why do you go there? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 We do as we are told. 
 the sergeant (very drunkenly) 
 
 Quite right! Do as you are told! Obey orders! 
 That's the way for a moujik! 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 But what is mobilization? 
 the sergeant (turning on him) 
 
 Mobilization is this: they stand you up in rows, the 
 big men in back, and the little men in front. Then 
 they put guns in your hands, and you shoot. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 I should love to shoot. 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 But we don't know how. 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 That doesn't matter. They teach you. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 We shoot. Very well, what then? When we have 
 shot do we go home? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Oh, no! It only begins so. When you have shot, 
 you march. Then they stand you up in rows again, 
 and you shoot some more. 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 What do you shoot at? 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Targets? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Better than that! *..- 
 
PAWNS 53 
 
 PETER 
 
 Animals? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Still better than that! (He pauses for his effect) 
 How would you like to shoot at men? 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Shoot at men? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 What have they done that they should be shot at? 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 What have we done that we should shoot at them? 
 the sergeant (amused) 
 
 You don't believe me? 
 
 \jHe laughs; produces his bottle, drinks again. 
 stepan (to Grigor) 
 
 He is very drunk. He doesn't know what he is 
 
 saying. 
 peter (with a sudden laugh) 
 
 I have found it! 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 What have you found? 
 
 PETER 
 
 I have found the trick! You shoot at men, yes, 
 but not with real bullets ! 
 the sergeant (laughing, as the others laugh, but for 
 a different reason) 
 
 Not with real bullets? Wait a minute. (He fumbles 
 in his bandolier) Here's one of them! 
 £He tosses them a loaded cartridge. 
 
 Michael (while they all examine it with curiosity) 
 What is it? 
 
54 PAWNS 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Give it to me. {He demonstrates) This is full of 
 powder. The hammer strikes here, and the powder 
 explodes. And this — this — {he bites it out) — is 
 the bullet. 
 XJLe passes it to them. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 What a cruel thing ! 
 
 PETER 
 
 How heavy it is ! 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 And is this what we shoot at men? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Bullets like this — and bigger. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 But if we hit them? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 What? 
 grigor {repeating his question) 
 If we hit them? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 You want to hit them. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 And hurt them? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 You want to hurt them. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Or even — kill them? 
 the sergeant {reaching his climax) 
 You want to kill them ! 
 ZThe peasants look at one another blankly. The 
 
PAWNS 55 
 
 sergeant is immensely pleased with the impression he 
 has produced. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 We are peaceable moujiks. 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 We want to kill nobody. 
 
 PETER 
 
 They must have sent for the wrong men. They 
 could not have wanted us. 
 grigor (voicing the general opinion) 
 
 We, we want to kill no man. For fifty years I have 
 been a good Christian. I have killed nothing except 
 that which I was to eat; I and my children. We 
 do not eat men; we do not kill men. 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 All right, then. You will learn how. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 I do not wish to learn how. 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 So they say in the beginning. So was I in the begin- 
 ning. The first time you pull your trigger, the first 
 time you see a strong man fall, you are afraid, oh, 
 you are afraid! But then the lust of killing sweeps 
 over you, and you shoot, and shoot, while the metal 
 of your gun burns the flesh of your hands, and you 
 scream with joy, and are glad, and you kill! You 
 kill! 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Far rather would I be killed myself! 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 That may happen also! 
 [Me drinks. 
 
56 PAWNS 
 
 stepan (to Grigor) 
 He lies. 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 He is a soldier. Soldiers always lie. 
 
 ILIA 
 
 And he is drunk! Pah! 
 grigor (to the sergeant, as he corks his bottle) 
 These men, whom we shoot at — 
 [He stops. 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Yes? 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 They have stolen? They have murdered? 
 [The sergeant laughs. 
 grigor (patiently) 
 They must be great criminals. What crime have 
 they done? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 No crime. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 I Then why do they let us shoot at them? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 They do not let you. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 No? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 You shoot. d " 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 And what do they do? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 They shoot also. 
 
PAWNS 57 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 At US? 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Where else, then? They are the enemy. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 But we, we have no enemy. 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 You will learn otherwise. These men, these men 
 
 whom you shoot at and who shoot at you, they are 
 
 your enemy. 
 
 [There is a pause. The peasants exchange signs of 
 
 incredulity. 
 ilia {reflectively) 
 
 To shoot, that is not so bad. But to be shot at, that 
 
 I should not like at all! 
 grigor {silencing him) 
 
 And who are these men? 
 peter {sarcastically) 
 
 Yes, our enemies, who are they? 
 the sergeant {waving his hand) 
 
 Prussians. Germans. Austrians. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 And what are Prussians? — Germans? — Austrians? 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Men who live on the other side of the border. Men 
 who live on the other side of the swamps. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 On the other side of the swamps? {He glances 
 meaningly at Michael and Peter) What do you 
 mean? 
 the sergeant {growing drunkenly expansive) 
 
 Well, you see, here is Russia, {a gesture to the left) 
 
58 PAWNS 
 
 here are the swamps, (a gesture in front) that is, the 
 border, and there is Austria. (A gesture to the right) 
 Here we are. There is the enemy. 
 [Rather unaccountably the peasants begin to laugh, a 
 hearty laugh of relief, as if the sergeant has finally 
 exposed the falsehood of everything that he has said by 
 venturing upon a glaringly untrue statement. 
 the sergeant (irritated) 
 
 Well, what are you laughing at? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 A good joke! 
 
 PETER 
 
 Yes, a fine joke! 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 A liar! Such a liar as there never was! 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 When a man has had too much to drink he should 
 stay home ! 
 GRIGOR (relaxing his dignity) 
 
 And for a time we believed him! We believed him! 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 What? 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 . Instead of telling lies to honest moujiks — 
 the sergeant (interrupting) 
 What do you mean? 
 
 PETER 
 
 We (indicating Michael), we live on the other side of 
 the swamps! 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Well, what of it? 
 
PAWNS 59 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 We are going to the mobilization also! 
 the sergeant (with superiority) 
 
 Here is the border line. But the line bends. 
 
 PETER 
 
 You said they shot at us! Because we lived on the 
 
 other side of the swamps! Old Grigor, and Stepan, 
 
 and Ilia! They shoot at us! 
 stepan (laughing) 
 
 Rather would we shoot at you, Alexei Ivanovitch ! 
 the sergeant (growing angry) 
 
 Laugh, if you like ! Laugh, but to-morrow, when you 
 
 reach Zawichost, when you find that I am your 
 
 superior officer, then I laugh ! 
 
 PETER 
 
 To Zawichost? But we do not go there! 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 We go to Sandomierz! 
 the sergeant (thunder struck) 
 
 To Sandomierz! 
 peter (snapping his fingers at him) 
 
 Where you are not my superior officer! 
 the sergeant (with sudden awakening) 
 
 No, that I am not ! But you, you are the enemy ! 
 
 PETER 
 
 What? 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Did you hear what he said? 
 stepan (laughing scornfully) 
 The enemy? 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 When we have tilled our fields together? 
 
60 PAWNS 
 
 the sergeant (balancing himself with difficulty) 
 
 Sandomierz, that is in Austria! 
 grigor {disregarding him) 
 
 Enemies! When we live a single verst apart from 
 
 each other! 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 When we have helped each other with the harvest, 
 aye, since we were children! 
 
 THE SERGEANT (shouting) 
 
 We are Russians! You are Austrians! There is 
 war between us! (He draws his revolver) I com- 
 mand you to surrender. 
 peter (mimicking him, dancing up and down in front 
 of him) 
 I command you to surrender! 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Surrender! 
 
 PETER 
 
 Listen to the drunken fool! Surrender! 
 
 [JThe Sergeant shoots. Peter falls. There is a sudden 
 
 and dreadful pause. 
 stepan (laying his hand over Peter's heart) 
 
 Dead! Dead as his horse! 
 grigor (rising to his feet like a prophet of old) 
 
 Are we men or are we beasts of the field? 
 the sergeant (turning triumphantly on Michael) 
 
 Now, you Austrian swine, will you surrender? 
 
 {But Stepan is already advancing upon him, breathing 
 
 deep, slowly, massively, like some awful engine of 
 
 destruction. At first the Sergeant does not see him, 
 
 but something in the expression of the others warns him. 
 
 He wheels. 
 
PAWNS 61 
 
 THE SERGEANT 
 
 Back ! Stop where you are ! 
 
 [Stepan continues grimly, his great hands rising slowly 
 
 from his sides. 
 the sergeant (in an ecstasy of fear) 
 
 Back, I say ! 
 
 [He fires. 
 
 Stepan shakes himself, as if stung by a hornet, and 
 
 throws his towering bulk upon the sergeant. There is 
 
 a sigh of satisfaction from the moujik as his fingers 
 
 lock about his adversary's throat. And there is a scream 
 
 from the Sergeant, a scream ending in a choke .... 
 
 The struggling figures fall outside of the circle of light. 
 
 For a moment there is a threshing, as when some small 
 
 animal is caught in a trap. Then quiet. 
 grigor (almost sobbing) 
 
 And not so long ago I thought it was easier to be 
 killed than to kill! 
 michael (with staring eyes) 
 
 Murder! That I have lived to see a murder! 
 
 ILIA 
 
 Lame Peter ! Poor lame Peter ! 
 
 [There is a pause. Then Stepan rises, holding the 
 
 Sergeant's revolver between two fingers. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 What shall I do with this? 
 grigor (raising his head) 
 What? 
 [Stepan hands him the revolver. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Pah! 
 
 [He flings it away. A pause. 
 
62 PAWNS 
 
 ilia (in a trembling voice) 
 
 I so wanted to see you use your strength, and now 
 that I have seen it — how horrible it is, how horrible ! 
 [Stepan does not reply. Instead, he turns to Grigor. 
 
 STEPAN 
 
 The bodies? 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 The swamp will swallow them up. 
 
 {Stepan beckons to Ilia. Silently they raise Peter's 
 
 body, carry it out at the back. They return. 
 grigor (rises, bows his head, folds his hands. The 
 
 others follow his example) 
 
 May we all be happy. May the dead reach God's 
 
 kingdom. May we all be preserved in good health. 
 
 Amen. 
 
 {The others repeat the Amen. He makes the sign of 
 
 the cross. The others follow his example. A little 
 
 light begins to filter through the trees. 
 grigor (turning to Michael) 
 
 And now, you on your way, we on ours. 
 
 MICHAEL 
 
 Farewell, brother. 
 
 GRIGOR 
 
 Brother, farewell! 
 
 {Michael takes up two packs, his own, and Peter's; 
 
 goes out at the back. 
 
 Grigor, Stepan, Ilia, take up their own packs, go out 
 
 at the left. 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS 
 
IN THE RAVINE 
 
 Opua £7 
 
IN THE RAVINE 
 
 A snowy ravine in the Italian Alps. Everything is 
 white. Even in the background, and at the sides, the 
 shy is shut out by the perpendicular cliff sides. And 
 every few seconds, a gust of wind, scooping through the 
 length of the little hollow, fills the air with whirling clouds 
 of snow. 
 
 From above, sounds of fighting: the discharge of small 
 arms; the rattle of machine guns; and, at intervals, the 
 deeper reports of mountain artillery. Mixed in with it 
 all, shouts, screams, human voices . . . 
 
 The sounds of the invisible combat in the shy grow in 
 volume, and suddenly, from above, a large rectangular 
 object, indistinguishable for the snow which covers it, 
 bounds down the slope facing us, to fall noiselessly into 
 the deeper snow at its base. 
 
 The firing grows louder; then diminishes. It appears 
 that one side has scored a victory; that it is driving its 
 opponent off in confusion. The noise dies out in the 
 distance. 
 
 Presently we observe that the fallen object is alive; 
 it moves, separates into two parts, two soldiers, an Austrian 
 and an Italian, both somewhat stunned by their fall. 
 
 The Austrian is the first to rise to his feet. He loohs 
 at the wall of white which hems him in, then at the prostrate 
 Italian at his feet, takes in the situation, and laughs — 
 laughs Homerically. But in the middle of his laugh he 
 stops suddenly: attempts to move his left arm: utters an 
 
 65 
 
66 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 ejaculation of pain: investigates with the uninjured 
 
 member, cursing softly as he does so. 
 
 the Italian (an urbane little man of obvious refinement, 
 
 sitting up, and watching with more than lay interest) 
 
 Broken? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 I don't know. It hurts like the devil. 
 the Italian (rising) 
 Let me see it. 
 
 [He approaches. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 I can't move it. (With sudden suspicion, as the Italian 
 nears) No, you don't! 
 the Italian (smiling) 
 Oh, I shan't hurt you ! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Your word? (He breaks off, with renewed suspicion) 
 That's what I thought up there. 
 [He attempts to gesticulate with the injured arm — 
 stops with a sharp intake of breath. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 I don't understand. 
 the Austrian (rubbing his shoulder tenderly) 
 When it came to the hand-to-hand struggle — 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Yes? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 I took one look at you. I thought I should break 
 you in two. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Indeed? 
 
IN THE RAVINE 67 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 You're such a little fellow. Why, I could make two 
 of you ! Then you did something to me — Phew ! 
 the Italian (explaining politely) 
 Pressed on the brachial plexus. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 The what? How? 
 the Italian (with professorial pleasure) 
 
 The brachial plexus. Where the brachial nerve 
 
 passes through the axilla, and forms a plexus near 
 
 the neck of the humerus. 
 the Austrian (not understanding in the least) 
 
 Yes, I suppose that was it. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 You don't follow? Let me show you. 
 ^He approaches again. 
 
 the Austrian {baching away hastily) 
 
 No, no! The recollection is sufficiently vivid. 
 (Loolcing at him fearfully) You've done it before? 
 
 the Italian (expansively) 
 
 Oh, often ! On a guinea pig it will produce complete 
 insensibility in a minute. (Parenthetically) That is, 
 with simultaneous compression of the vagus. On a 
 large dog, two minutes and a quarter. On an ox, 
 four minutes. Surprising, isn't it? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Hm! And what did you take me for? A dog or an 
 ox? 
 the Italian (with a simple smile) 
 
 You? Neither. An enemy. (Wistfully) I had 
 always wanted to try it on a man, but I had never 
 done it. It's too painful. 
 
68 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 So I observe. 
 
 \_A 'pause. They smile. Then, realizing the humor 
 
 of the situation, they laugh openly. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Now, will you let me look at your arm? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 If you will be so good. 
 
 [The Italian takes his left hand and rotates the arm. 
 
 The Austrian exclaims. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Hurt? {The Austrian nods) Much? {Another nod) 
 It's not broken. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Not broken? Why, it's broken in a hundred places. 
 the Italian {touching his armpit) 
 The pain is worst here, isn't it? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Ouch ! Yes. 
 the Italian {dropping the arm) 
 You have me to thank for that. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 I don't follow. 
 the Italian {lightly) 
 
 After effect. {He waves his hand) That's all. 
 the Austrian {with vast expressiveness) 
 
 Oh! Only that? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 It'll wear off by and by. Try and be patient. {He 
 
 opens a cigarette case) Smoke? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 No, thanks. {Watching the Italian with undisguised 
 
IN THE RAVINE 69 
 
 interest) Would you mind telling me — where you 
 learned that? 
 the Italian {lighting his cigarette) 
 What? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 That — that — that little accomplishment of yours — 
 \JLe indicates his arm. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 That? Oh, that's part of my business. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Your business? What are you? A wrestler? 
 the Italian (laughing lightly) 
 A wrestler? Hardly that! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 A pugilist? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Ha! Is this the hand of the man who makes his 
 living by his fists? Is this the forehead of the prize 
 fighter? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Then a torturer of the Inquisition? 
 
 the Italian (shaking his head) 
 
 Thanks for the compliment — but I am strictly 
 modern. (Simply) I am a professor in the Uni- 
 versity of Padua. 
 
 the Austrian (incredulously) 
 A professor? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Yes. Of biology. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Then why aren't you in the medical corps? 
 
70 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 I am not a physician — and I wanted to see action. 
 
 It's the truth. (As the Austrian stares at him, he 
 
 announces his name with a little bow) I am Carlo 
 
 Verani. 
 the Austrian (repeating the name as if hypnotized) 
 
 Carlo Verani? 
 the Italian (obviously pleased) I take it you have 
 
 heard of me? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN (flatly) 
 
 No; I can't say I have. 
 the Italian (anxiously) 
 
 My monograph on the phylogenetic development of 
 fresh water crustaceans? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Crustaceans? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 You must have heard of it. And my magnum opus 
 on parthenogenesis in the sea urchin? 
 ^The Austrian shakes his head firmly. 
 the Italian (despairingly) 
 
 You don't know it? Why, every year for the past 
 twenty I have had something new to give the world. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Your work, professor, has nothing to do with my 
 business. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Oh. (Perfunctorily) What is your business? 
 \J!he Austrian bursts into laughter. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Is it as funny as that? 
 
IN THE RAVINE 71 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Permit me to introduce myself. I am Fritz Schon- 
 brunn. 
 the Italian {trying to recall) 
 Fritz Schonbrunn? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 You have heard the name? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 It has a familiar sound. And you say it as if I should 
 have heard it. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 I am a man at the top of my profession ! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Indeed? I congratulate you. And that profession? 
 the Austrian (smiling and pausing) 
 
 A minute ago you asked me to look at your hand. 
 Now look at mine. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Well? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Those finely modeled outlines; those flexible, supple 
 muscles; those long, sensitive fingers; do they say 
 nothing to you? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 An artist, of course. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Of course. But what kind of an artist? 
 the Italian (examining the hand) 
 
 Violinist? (The Austrian shakes his head) Pianist? 
 (Another shake of the head) Not a musician? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Except in so far as every Austrian is a musician. 
 
72 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Sculptor? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 No. I 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Painter? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 That's better! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Not a painter, but allied with painting? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Yes. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Then an etcher! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Nearly right! Very nearly right! 
 the Italian (amused) 
 
 Well, then? 
 the Austrian (with simple pride) 
 
 I am a forger! 
 the Italian (somewhat upset) 
 
 I — I beg your pardon. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 A forger. Not the man who works in the sweat of 
 his brow, if you please, but the man who produces 
 more valuable articles: checks, notes, promises to 
 pay, letters of credit, bills of exchange, all that sort 
 of thing. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 — Oh ! How interesting ! 
 
IN THE RAVINE 73 
 
 the Austrian (with a deliberate copy of the professor's 
 manner) You must have heard of the celebrated 
 million kronen forgery? 
 
 the Italian (unconvincingly) 
 Of course ! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Why, the Baron went on the stand and swore that 
 it was his signature on the note: that he didn't 
 remember signing it, but that there was no doubt 
 about the signature! I did that! And then the 
 check I raised from eight to eighty thousand, and 
 when the cashier was suspicious, forged an indorse- 
 ment, and got the money! And the jewels of the 
 Countess Potocka, which the jeweler delivered to 
 me on her written order — which she has not yet 
 been able to prove was a forgery ! 
 THE Italian (for the sake of saying something) 
 You seem to have had a busy life. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Busy? Overcrowded! Always something new to 
 give to the world — just like yourself. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Yes; I was about to remark it. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Both of us professional men, eh? Both of us followers 
 of the liberal arts? 
 
 the Italian (regaining something of his equilibrium) 
 At different distances ! 
 
 the Austrian (nodding and smiling) , 
 But followers, nevertheless ! 
 {He blows a kiss into the air. 
 
74 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 the Italian (chuckling) 
 Why the kiss? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 That? (Blowing another) For the Muse! 
 £Shots are heard in the distance. 
 the Italian (gesticulating) 
 They're still fighting. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Yes . . . (Coming back to earth suddenly) I regret 
 to change the subject — 
 
 the Italian (nodding shrewdly) 
 You were talking about yourself. 
 
 the Austrian (smiling) 
 
 Even in that case. (He takes a step forward) Pro- 
 fessor, you are my prisoner! 
 
 the Italian (undismayed) 
 Your prisoner? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Just that. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Oh! Then your arm must be all right again! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Quite recovered, thank you. (He points) I cap- 
 tured you up there. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Hm! And brought me down here for safe-keeping? 
 
 Yes? 
 the Austrian (grinning) 
 Well — 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Oh, I recall distinctly that you said something about 
 my surrendering — or words to that effect. 
 
IN THE RAVINE 75 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 You admit it! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Of course ! But I don't remember that I surrendered. 
 Instead, (he indicates his armpit with an eloquent 
 gesture) I made use of my anatomical knowledge, 
 and the next thing I knew — 
 \JIe breaks off. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Yes? 
 
 the Italian (continuing his sentence) 
 
 I was laboring under the delusion that you were my 
 
 prisoner ! 
 
 XJle advances stealthily upon the Austrian. 
 
 the Austrian (observing his approach; suddenly draw- 
 ing a sword bayonet) 
 Stand off ! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Oh! (He follows his example leisurely) You see, 
 I have one also. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Your tricks won't help you now! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 No? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 In bayonet fighting it's a matter of skill with a 
 point ! 
 
 the Italian (smiling sweetly) 
 
 Oh ! You imagine it's a pen ! 
 the Austrian (laughing, despite himself) 
 
 What of that? 
 
76 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Don't forget! I am an expert with the lancet! 
 (He describes geometrical designs with the point of his 
 bayonet) 
 the Austrian (watching him critically) 
 
 Your hand isn't steady. You smoke too many 
 cigarettes. I never smoke. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Hm! You need a steady hand, don't you? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 What? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 In your profession? 
 the Austrian (smiling) 
 
 When a mistake means jail? Emphatically! (He 
 
 swings his arms vigorously to restore the circulation) 
 
 Are you ready? 
 the Italian (without moving) 
 
 When you are. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Well then, on guard! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Wait a minute! Wait a minute! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 What do you want? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Think! Stop and think! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Well? 
 the Italian (in his best professorial manner) 
 Either you will kill me or I will kill you. 
 
IN THE RAVINE 77 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Preferably the former. 
 the Italian (nodding) 
 
 According to the point of view. And then? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 What do you mean? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 The survivor — who will probably be wounded — 
 what will happen to him? 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 The survivor will rejoin his regiment. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Yes? (Waving his arms graphically) By flying 
 
 there, doubtless? 
 the Austrian (thunder struck) 
 
 I never thought of that. 
 the Italian (seating himself comfortably, and lighting 
 
 a cigarette) 
 
 Well, think of it now. 
 the Austrian (examining the walls which hem them in) 
 
 It's only thirty feet to the top. 
 the Italian (blowing smoke rings into the air) 
 
 Thirty feet — more or less. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 And it's easy enough to climb out here. 
 [He indicates a point at the back. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Yes. I noticed that ten minutes ago. 
 the Austrian (continuing his explorations) 
 Or here ! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Or anywhere — if one is unwounded. To the wounded 
 
78 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 man those thirty feet represent the distance between 
 life and death — and so far as concerns him, they 
 might as well be thirty miles. (With a pleasant smile) 
 Either we climb out unwounded — or not at all. 
 
 the Austrian (with a broad grin) 
 Well, after you ! 
 
 the Italian (laughing) 
 
 I couldn't think of taking precedence! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 There is no reason to stand on ceremony. 
 
 the Italian (shaking his head gently) 
 
 Pressed flat against the cliff side, holding on with 
 hands and feet, I am afraid the temptation to pin 
 me fast — like a butterfly on a card — might be too 
 much for you. 
 
 the Austrian (testing the point of his bayonet thought- 
 fully) 
 Would be too much for me. 
 
 the Italian (amicably) 
 
 Just as I thought! Now, if you want to go first — 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 I would not be so disrespectful, professor ! 
 [He returns to a position facing the Italian; seats 
 himself, his bayonet resting across his knees. 
 the Italian (stating the problem smilingly) 
 
 It's the simplest thing under the sun. Neither of us 
 dares climb out. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 No. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 If we fight, the survivor will either freeze — or 
 
IN THE RAVINE 79 
 
 starve — unless he is lucky enough to die of his 
 wounds. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 And if we don't fight — 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Then both of us. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Quite so. 
 the Italian {after a rather serious pause, chuckling 
 at the thought) 
 I warn you — 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Yes? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 I am accustomed to late hours. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 What of that? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 You will probably fall asleep first. 
 the Austrian {laughing) 
 
 How you think of everything! And if I should fall 
 
 asleep — 
 the Italian {rubbing his hands, and gazing innocently 
 
 at a point in the distance) 
 
 If you should fall asleep — 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 You would proceed — 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Immediately — 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Or even sooner — {choosing his words carefully) — 
 to dissect me. 
 
80 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 With the greatest pleasure! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 And the greatest expertness! {The Italian raises 
 his hand in modest protest) The expertness which 
 one might expect of a professor in the University 
 of Bologna! 
 the Italian {correcting him) 
 Padua. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 I beg your pardon? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 The University of Padua. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Ah, yes! Careless of me. {He resumes the subject) 
 That is what would happen if I fell asleep. But you 
 don't imagine that my masterpieces were executed 
 in a few minutes, or even in a few hours? I have 
 worked three days and nights on a difficult signature ! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Oh! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 The work is sufficient inspiration in itself to keep me 
 awake. I always carry paper and a fountain pen 
 with me. I shall practise. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Oh! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 I shall combine business with pleasure. When I 
 leave here it will be with a million kronen worth of 
 new forgeries! 
 
IN THE RAVINE 81 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Hm! Executed in the dark! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 What do you mean? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 I take it that an ability to see in the dark is not one 
 of your unusual accomplishments? 
 the Austrian {biting his lip) 
 No. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 There will be no moon to-night. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Oh! So that's the case! 
 the Italian (with an expressive gesture) 
 There will be a game of blind man's buff. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 And quite probably no winner at all. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Quite probably. {There is a pause; they look at each 
 other seriously) If we fight — if we kill each other, 
 our lives simply cancel. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Yes. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Still it is necessary for us to fight. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 We are enemies. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Our countries — yours and mine — are at war. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 To let each other go is out of the question. 
 
82 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Altogether. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 And for one of us to surrender — 
 
 THE ITALIAN (proudly) 
 
 Not I! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Why not? Isn't your life valuable to your country? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Not as valuable as my death can be. I am an edu- 
 cated man. It is my duty to set an example. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Example? To these four walls? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 To myself, if you please: because my self-respect, 
 because all of the training that has gone to make me 
 what I am, does not permit me to save my skin in 
 any other way ! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Well spoken, professor! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 And you! You are not thinking of example? 
 the Austrian (lightly) 
 
 Why not? A thief once died on a cross. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Is that why? 
 the Austrian (shaking his head) 
 Fashions are not set by criminals. 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Well, then? 
 
IN THE RAVINE 83 
 
 the Austrian {shamefacedly at first; then with growing 
 exaltation) 
 
 Well, then, this country of mine, this country which 
 has hounded me from one city to another, which has 
 released me from one jail but to clap me into the 
 next, which has set a reward upon my head and its 
 police at my heels, damn it all, I love my country! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Well spoken, criminal! (He pauses) Fight it is. 
 We will climb together — you over there, I here. 
 We will reach the top together. Then, when we have 
 reached the top — 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 To the death, professor! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 To the death ! 
 
 [They move toward the indicated places, watching each 
 other furtively. Suddenly the Italian breaks into a 
 peculiar laugh. 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Well? 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 I am thinking: what a fate, if I, professor of biology, 
 am slain by a forger! 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 No worse than mine: the greatest forger of the 
 twentieth century to be slain by a professor — and 
 of biology ! 
 \They laugh. 
 the Italian (sharply) 
 Are you ready? 
 
84 IN THE RAVINE 
 
 THE AUSTRIAN 
 
 Yes! 
 
 THE ITALIAN 
 
 Then — to our next meeting ! 
 
 \_Boih men come to attention; salute. Then, facing 
 
 about, they begin to climb rapidly. 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS 
 
VALKYRIE! 
 
VALKYRIE! 
 
 The lights are extinguished. 
 The prologue is spoken by a male voice. 
 The curtain rises upon the first words. 
 Until the prologue is finished the lighting shows the 
 upper half of the scene only. 
 
 It is night — night between the battles. 
 Before us, a level plain. Dotting it, disfiguring it, 
 most hideously marring it, the wounded, the dying, 
 the dead. Paralleling each other, on either side, 
 running onward as far as the sight of the eye will 
 reach, trenches hastily — but scientifically — dug in 
 the clayey mud. And in them, cursing the freezing 
 water which is up to their knees, cursing the vermin 
 which swarms unmolested about them, but cursing 
 each other most of all, men, many men, ready to die, 
 expecting to die, some of them hoping to die. A little 
 while ago and they were tradesmen, professors, stu- 
 dents of philosophy, thieves. Now pleb and patri- 
 cian, scum and upper crust, mingle quite amiably, 
 considering the circumstances, fight shoulder to 
 shoulder, quarrel as equals, and are buried, when 
 their turn comes, in a company vastly unbefitting 
 their caste, rank, social position. 
 Quiet — but a fearful quiet punctuated by the groans 
 of those whose sufferings have passed the point of 
 endurance. For the narrow rectangle which shifts 
 
 87 
 
88 VALKYRIE 
 
 weekly a few yards in either direction is a vial of 
 agony — and overflows. 
 
 Overhead, an occasional rift in the wind-driven clouds 
 lets through a pale, shuddering beam of moonlight. 
 In the distance, coming into sight, and melting into 
 blackness as the scurrying clouds separate and come 
 together again, looms the tottering spire of a ruined 
 church. Here, not so long past, country people in 
 blouses and sabots prayed that their Maker would 
 guard them from "war, pestilence, and sudden 
 death." Here, a month ago, men wearing flat- 
 topped caps prayed that that same Maker would 
 destroy other men wearing spiked helmets, and here, 
 a week later, the men of the spiked helmets prayed 
 for the destruction of them of the flat-topped caps. 
 And even as in olden times the heathen disfigured 
 the idol who failed to comply with his request, so 
 the men of the caps and the men of the helmets and 
 the men who once wore blouses have alternated 
 between supplication and bombardment, between 
 hymns and high explosives. 
 
 The ear of their common Deity has been assailed 
 indifferently by the voice of the chorister and the 
 voice of the cannon, but remaining apparently deaf, 
 His house bears the marks of savage violence. So 
 that now it has become unsafe to offer prayer in the 
 shattered edifice, and, as in the beginning, the Master 
 is again addressed in the open fields, with sacrifice, 
 with fire, and with burnt offering. In the distance 
 the church, builded by the love of man in times of 
 peace, unbuilded by the hate of man in times of war, 
 silhouettes murkily against the livid background. 
 
VALKYRIE 89 
 
 But here, under the uncertain moonlight, God is near 
 to His children, and beyond the clouds lie the stars. 
 The voice ceases. 
 
 A little light is permitted to reach the lower part of the 
 scene. 
 
 There is a long pause. 
 
 Suddenly, barely a dozen yards away, a dim figure 
 struggles to its feet, and a faltering voice intones the first 
 words of the Lord's Prayer: "Our Father, Which art in 
 Heaven . . . ' A hundred feet to the right a single 
 rifle speaks. A momentary flash, a crackling report, 
 which echoes into instant silence, and the trembling figure 
 collapses limply, sagging oddly in unexpected places — like 
 a torn bag of oats — and the prayer remains unfinished. 
 From the English trenches, a hundred feet to the left, half 
 a dozen rifles yelp in answer, aiming at the flash. And 
 again there is silence. 
 
 In the foreground, quite near to us, so close that his 
 sudden discovery by a wandering moonbeam startles us, 
 a wounded German officer, inconspicuously propping 
 himself up on the knapsack which he has taken from the 
 body of a dead soldier, speaks unemotionally. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Narr! 
 a British officer (also wounded; some five feet away) 
 
 I beg your pardon? 
 the German officer (speaking in perfect English) 
 
 Oh! You're still alive? 
 the British officer (nodding) 
 
 Yes — still alive. 
 
90 VALKYRIE 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 An hour more or less — what does it matter? 
 \_There is a pause. 
 the British officer (shifting an inch painfully) 
 What was it you said before? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 That poor fool down there — you saw him? 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 No. My head was turned the other way. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 He stood up. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Stood up? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 With a hundred men waiting for a target. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 They got him? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 The first shot. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Killed, I suppose. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 For his sake, I hope so. 
 the British officer (after a pause) 
 God rest his soul! 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Hm! (A thoughtful silence) Amen. 
 the British officer (after another pause) 
 Have a cigarette? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 What? 
 
VALKYRIE 91 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Here; in the pocket of my tunic. I can't reach 
 them. 
 
 the German officer (laughing softly) 
 
 A cigarette? With my men watching, you would 
 never finish lighting it. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 I didn't think of that. 
 \He is silent. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 We Germans smoke pipes; German pipes, with metal 
 lids. You can't see the fire in the bowl a foot away. 
 Your men smoke cigarettes. We can see them from 
 our trenches. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Well? 
 
 the German officer (shrugging his shoulders) 
 
 At night — we aim a trifle higher than the glow. 
 (He waves his hand expressively) Then — sometimes 
 — the cigarette goes out. 
 
 the British officer (after a pause) 
 German efficiency. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Thoroughness in all things. 
 [He nods gravely. 
 
 the British officer {with a shudder) 
 
 But horrible to think of! The fighting over. Star- 
 light — and darkness — and thoughts of home. 
 And suddenly a crash — a bullet through bone and 
 tissue — and thought ends ! 
 
92 VALKYRIE 
 
 the German OFFICER (smiling patiently) 
 Horrible, you think? 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 To die in fair fight; to see the face of your enemy — 
 that's another thing! But at night! Perhaps when 
 you're smiling over your last letter from home, your 
 mind full of pictures which have nothing to do with 
 war! Your body in the trenches, but your thoughts 
 a thousand miles away ! And then — then — ! 
 A voice from the ground (a faint voice, with some- 
 thing of a fine poetic fervor in it) 
 Then — the Valkyrie! 
 
 the British officer (starting violently) 
 
 What? 
 the same speaker (a fair-haired lad of twenty-six or 
 
 seven; a German private soldier) 
 
 Then the Valkyrie, who comes to carry the soul of 
 
 the dead hero to Valhalla ! 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER (blankly) 
 
 Valhalla? Valhalla in the twentieth century? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Hist! 
 
 {For the benefit of the British Officer he touches his 
 finger to his forehead in an expressive gesture. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Oh! 
 
 \\The soldier has relapsed into his former stupor. The 
 
 officers look at him curiously. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER (sotto VOCe) 
 
 Last night he was one of a rescue party that tried to 
 bring me back. They failed. 
 
VALKYRIE 93 
 
 the British officer {horrified at the thought) 
 
 And you've been here two nights? 
 the German officer {with the suggestion of a laugh) 
 
 Two? Three. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER {appalled) 
 
 Good Lord! 
 the German officer {with polite interest) 
 
 You're not used to that kind of thing, are you? 
 {The British Officer shakes his head) Thought so. 
 Volunteer? 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Yes. Landed three weeks ago. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Well, men get used to anything — when it's necessary. 
 {He pauses, to continue impersonally) It's not easy 
 to move me, that's the trouble. My thigh is broken 
 — a piece of shrapnel, I think — or they would have 
 brought me back the first night. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 They tried? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Of course. {He pauses) A sound louder than an 
 ordinary speaking voice would have been fatal, and 
 when they try to move you — and your thigh is 
 broken — sometimes it's beyond endurance. {He 
 pauses again) Last night they would have succeeded. 
 They brought along morphine, and they gave me a 
 hypodermic. Only the moon came out at the 
 wrong time. They had to go back — and they left 
 the boy behind. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Badly wounded? 
 
94 VALKYRIE 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 I don't know . . . He's been quiet all day. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 I saw him, but I thought he was dead. (He pauses, 
 to look at the soldier with a new feeling of interest) 
 Young, isn't he? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Yes. 
 
 {There is a pause. 
 
 the British officer (shaking his head) 
 So little gained! 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 What do you mean? 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 If they had succeeded in bringing you back, it might 
 have been worth while. As it is, simply another life 
 thrown away. 
 
 the German officer (patiently) 
 
 The attempt was worth making, wasn't it? 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 To rescue your officer? Yes. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER (simply) 
 
 It is far better to fail than not to try. 
 {There is a pause. 
 
 the soldier (speaking again in his delirium) 
 
 In the old days, sword and buckler. To-day, poison 
 gas and rapid-fire guns. But above it all, far above 
 the battles, the Valkyrie! The Valkyrie! 
 
 the British officer (with a touch of contempt) 
 The credo of the Hun. 
 
VALKYRIE 95 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 It impresses you that way? 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Like the Moslem — looking forward to Paradise — 
 and the Houris. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER (critically) 
 
 Houris and Valkyries? Not much similarity. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Even then? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 What is your faith? 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 The faith of a Christian. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Heaven? A peaceful heaven? 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 So I trust. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 What a lot of fighting you are doing to get there ! 
 the British officer (with the shadow of a smile) 
 But if it is worth the fighting? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Clouds? Fog? Thousands of Englishmen? And 
 
 dullness? Deadly dullness? (He shudders) How like 
 
 London ! 
 
 \_There is a long pause. The British Officer smiles; 
 
 makes up his mind to say something; thinks better of 
 
 it. 
 
 THE SOLDIER 
 
 In Valhalla they fight; and when they are tired of 
 
96 VALKYRIE 
 
 fighting, they sit down together as friends, and tell 
 of their battles. And then they fight again — and 
 the Valkyries hover about them ! . 
 
 the German officer (nodding emphatically) 
 
 A belief in heaven, a heaven of peace, is very beautiful. 
 But for my regiment, for the men I am to command, 
 give me a belief in a fighting heaven. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 The boy is delirious. Nobody takes that sort of 
 thing seriously. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Of course not. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Poetic, and noble: what you will. But it's rot, 
 absolute rot. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 The most beautiful kind of rot. Serious beliefs, 
 well-reasoned theologies, and we Germans are not 
 bad at that sort of thing, may answer for times of 
 peace. But when the bugles are blowing, and the 
 thunder of cannon is in the air, give me a thought 
 to fire my brain as a strong wine fires my body! 
 Give me something to inspire me! Something to 
 set my heart beating and the blood racing through 
 my veins! Away with your beliefs! Give me 
 ideals! (He pauses) Afterwards — long afterwards 
 
 — when we have time to sit down and reason it 
 out together, we may admit that our ideals were 
 
 — well — 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 False? 
 
VALKYRIE 97 
 
 the German officer (shaking his heady and emphasiz- 
 ing the word) 
 
 Poetic, as you said — too beautiful to be true. But 
 when we see the face of the enemy, hear the click 
 of the men behind us fixing their bayonets, sense 
 the short, sharp breathing of our neighbors, and 
 find out that we too are breathing short and sharp, 
 back we go to our ideals! Long live the Valkyrie! 
 
 THE SOLDIER 
 
 Long live the Valkyrie ! 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 The fighter goes to his reward! 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 The fighter — fair or foul. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Fair or foul — does it matter? 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 It matters why he is fighting. It takes a good cause 
 to justify a fight. 
 the German officer (with solemnity) 
 
 A good fight justifies any cause! Right and wrong? 
 (He shakes his head) I don't know. You don't know. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Then why not find out? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 We are giving a million lives to find out. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 And if you are wrong? 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 A world where men are willing to die to find out if 
 they are wrong is a world worth living in — or dying 
 for. 
 
98 VALKYRIE 
 
 the soldier {after a pause) 
 
 A few days — or a month ago — I don't know which 
 — she sang for us, back of the trenches. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 What is he talking about? 
 the soldier (sings a fragment of the melody of Wagner's 
 
 "Ride of the Valkyrie") 
 
 Hoy-oh-to-ho ! 
 the German officer (explaining) 
 
 One of the Red Cross nurses; before the war she was 
 
 a famous opera singer. She sang for the men. 
 
 THE SOLDIER 
 
 The Valkyrie! She sang! God, how she sang! 
 the German officer (to the British Officer) 
 
 It's from Wagner. You know the melody. 
 the British officer (nodding) 
 
 We could hear it in our trenches. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 What you call one of our false ideals. My brain 
 tells me there is no Valkyrie. It's nothing but an 
 old Norse legend, with as much truth to it as Odin 
 and Thor. But when that song rings out, you 
 clench your fists, and see red, and — and everything 
 is unreal but the Valkyrie ! 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Yes, I understand. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 False as hell, if you like, but beautiful! Beautiful! 
 \_It has been growing darker steadily. In the distance 
 the ruined church has long ago vanished from sight. 
 The moon overhead is hidden by clouds. 
 
VALKYRIE 99 
 
 \_A rocket screams into the air from the German lines 
 and explodes, illuminating the ground beneath with 
 ghastly distinctness. There is a burst of firing from 
 either side. The rocket goes out. Silence. 
 the German officer {in almost impenetrable darkness) 
 They will be coming for me any minute now. You 
 will give no alarm, I hope. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Your men must stop here. No surprise attacks, 
 you know. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 I give you my word. No alarm? 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 No alarm. 
 \There is a pause. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 If they bring me back safely I will send them here to 
 get you. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER (lightly) 
 
 Hardly worth while. I 'm done for. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 We'll give you a chance anyhow. 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 And the boy. 
 
 THE GERMAN OFFICER 
 
 Of course the boy. 
 
 \There is another pause. Then, in the utter darkness, 
 the voice of the delirious soldier drills itself into one's 
 consciousness with an uncanny effect. 
 
 THE SOLDIER 
 
 The Valkyrie ! High above the battles, the Valkyrie ! 
 Not where the whirring of looms, not where the buzz 
 
100 VALKYRIE 
 
 of machines fills the air, but where the cannon crash, 
 where the shouts of fighting men rise to the sky, 
 where blows are struck and blood flows, the Valkyrie ! 
 
 THE BRITISH OFFICER 
 
 Not so loud, boy. 
 
 the soldier (disregarding him) 
 
 To die, not in bed, with doctors and nurses around, 
 and the smell of medicines in your nostrils, but to 
 die in fair fight with your enemy, your rifle in your 
 hand, and your head cradled on the breast of the 
 Valkyrie ! 
 
 the British officer (trying to soothe him) 
 Quiet ! Quiet, for God's sake ! 
 
 THE SOLDIER 
 
 In Valhalla the heroes fight, and wounds are given, 
 but the Valkyrie heals them, and they fight again ! 
 \_A s if his voice were that of a soloist leading an invisible 
 orchestra, an uncertain sound of musketry fire in the 
 far distance gradually approaches, and now, like 
 instruments hurling their voices into the unison, explodes 
 into a deafening uproar. Rockets soar into the air 
 from either side, and as if their bursting were another 
 signal, a noisy, whistling wind sweeps the clouds from 
 the face of the moon. The battlefield, gaunt, naked, bare 
 of trees and vegetation, is revealed in a cold, white 
 light — and from right and left, eager, palpitating 
 tongues of red fire leap from the throats of a thousand 
 restless weapons. The German Officer has vanished — 
 whether in safety or otherwise one may not know — but 
 the Soldier's voice, high, triumphant, insistent, struggles 
 with the fearful din. 
 
VALKYRIE 101 
 
 THE SOLDIER 
 
 Valkyrie! Valkyrie! Hear me! Valkyrie! Hear 
 me! 
 
 [His voice is lost in the awful uproar. And then, as a 
 storm lulls in the midst of its fury, the firing ceases. 
 Silence — an all pervading silence, follows with some- 
 thing of a shock upon the deafening waves of sound. 
 A pause. 
 the soldier (faintly, in desperate appeal) 
 Valkyrie! Hear me! 
 
 [On the instant, suddenly, abruptly, from behind the 
 German trenches, rises a woman's voice, a God-given 
 soprano, in the piercing notes of the battle-cry of the 
 Valkyrie. 
 
 THE VOICE IN THE DISTANCE 
 
 Hoy-oh-toho ! Hoy-oh-to-ho ! 
 the soldier (wildly excited) 
 
 The Valkyrie! 
 the British officer (almost sobbing in his anxiety) 
 
 Quiet, you fool! 
 
 THE VOICE IN THE DISTANCE 
 
 Hoy-oh-to-ho ! 
 the soldier (springs to his feet in ecstasy, raising his 
 arms to the skies in frenzied supplication) 
 Valkyrie ! Valkyrie ! 
 
 [The report of a single rifle crashes through the silence. 
 The expression of ecstasy does not leave the face of the 
 Soldier, but over his features steals a surprised smile, 
 as if in that instant some heavenly vista had opened 
 before his eyes. And his knees bend quite slowly, 
 and his body, like some worn-out garment, slips lifeless 
 to the ground. 
 
102 VALKYRIE 
 
 the British officer (sobbing openly) 
 Killed ! The fool ! Oh, the fool ! 
 [Pandemonium breaks out again, but strong, uncon- 
 querable, supreme above the uproar, the song in the 
 distance rises higher — higher — ! 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS GENTLY 
 
H