The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays by Gordon Bottomley et al. (i read a book TXT) 📗

try none of their skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now on. I know 'em.

MATE. Yes, sir.

(He goes out, right. KEENEY hears his wife's hysterical weeping and turns around in surprise—then walks slowly to her side.)

KEENEY (putting an arm around her shoulder—with gruff tenderness). There, there, Annie. Don't be afeard. It's all past and gone.

MRS. KEENEY (shrinking away from, him). Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it any longer!

KEENEY (gently). Can't bear what, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (hysterically). All this horrible brutality, and these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence.

(After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her handkerchief.)

KEENEY (after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled frown). Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on this voyage, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I didn't want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've been doing these last six years since we were married—waiting, and watching, and fearing—with nothing to keep my mind occupied—not able to go back teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the danger and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they make you out to be in Homeport. And instead—(her voice grows tremulous) all I find is ice—and cold—and brutality!

(Her voice breaks.)

KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home where you've got all your woman's comforts." (Shaking his head) But you was so set on it.

MRS. KEENEY (wearily). Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in the story-books and I thought you were one of them.

KEENEY (protestingly). I done my best to make it as cozy and comfortable as could be. (MRS. KEENEY looks around her in wild scorn.) I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was calms and things was dull like.

MRS. KEENEY (wearily). Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that. (She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks out—then suddenly bursts forth.) I won't stand it—I can't stand it—pent up by these walls like a prisoner. (She runs over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his arm protectingly over her shoulders.) Take me away from here, David! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. I'm afraid. Take me home!

KEENEY (holds her at arm's length and looks at her face anxiously). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you look this way before.

MRS. KEENEY (laughing hysterically). It's the ice and the cold and the silence—they'd make anyone look strange.

KEENEY (soothingly). In a month or two, with good luck, three at the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her everything she'll stand and p'int for home.

MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that—I can't wait. I want to get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all, you've got to turn back.

KEENEY (harshly). I can't, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you?

KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason.

MRS. KEENEY (wildly). Because it's a stupid, stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to live up to our silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it.

KEENEY (his jaw set stubbornly). It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what anyone'd say—but—(He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning.) You see—I've always done it—since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back—with a full ship—and—it don't seem right not to—somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, and—Don't you see my meanin', Annie? (He glances at her. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying.) Annie! (She comes to herself with a start.) Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY (resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear). David! Won't you please turn back?

KEENEY (gently). I can't, Annie—not yet awhile. You don't see my meanin'. I got to git the ile.

MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't. You've got more than plenty.

KEENEY (impatiently). It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think I'm as mean as that?

MRS. KEENEY (dully). No—I don't know—I can't understand—(Intensely) Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago—as if I'd been dead and could never go back.

KEENEY (worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her eyes). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY (not appearing to hear him). I used to be lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the fine free life you must be leading. (She gives a laugh which is half a sob.) I used to love the sea then. (She pauses; then continues with slow intensity.) But now—I don't ever want to see the sea again.

KEENEY (thinking to humor her). 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye.

MRS. KEENEY (after a pause—passing her hand over her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness). How long would it take us to reach home—if we started now?

KEENEY (frowning). 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck.

MRS. KEENEY (counts on her fingers—then murmurs with a rapt smile). That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it?

KEENEY (trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved him—gruffly). Don't you remember?

MRS. KEENEY (vaguely—again passes her hand over her eyes). My memory is leaving me—up here in the ice. It was so long ago. (A pause—then she smiles dreamily.) It's June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in the front yard—and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the house—they're budding.

(She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to sob.)

KEENEY (disturbed). Go in and rest, Annie. You're all wore out cryin' over what can't be helped.

MRS. KEENEY (suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him). You love me, don't you, David?

KEENEY (in amazed embarrassment at this outburst) Love you? Why d'you ask me such a question, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (shaking him—fiercely). But you do, don't you,
David? Tell me!

KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there be aught but love between us after all these years?

MRS. KEENEY (shaking him again—still more fiercely). Then you do love me. Say it!

KEENEY (simply). I do, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. (Gives a sigh of relief—her hands drop to her sides. KEENEY regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and murmurs half to herself.) I sometimes think if we could only have had a child. (KEENEY turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face her—intensely.) And I've always been a good wife to you, haven't I, David?

KEENEY (his voice betraying his emotion). No man ever had a better, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I,
David? Have I?

KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye,
Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (wildly). Then do this, this once, for my sake, for God's sake—take me home! It's killing me, this life—the brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I can hear the silence threatening me—day after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. (Sobbing.) I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me home!

(She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens as he looks at her tear-stained face.)

KEENEY (dragging out the words with an effort). I'll do it,
Annie—for your sake—if you say it's needful for ye.

MRS. KEENEY (with wild joy—kissing him). God bless you for that,
David!

(He turns away from her silently and walks toward the companionway. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and the SECOND MATE enters the cabin.)

MATE (excitedly). The ice is breakin' up to no'th'rd, sir. There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout says.

(KEENEY straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance.
MRS. KEENEY looks at the MATE with terrified eyes.)

KEENEY (dazedly—trying to collect his thoughts). A clear passage? To no'th'rd?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY (his voice suddenly grim with determination). Then get her ready and we'll drive her through.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

MRS. KEENEY (appealingly). David!

KEENEY (not heeding her). Will the men turn to willin' or must we drag 'em out?

MATE. They 'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs.

KEENEY. Then drive 'em—both watches. (With grim determination) They's whale t' other side o' this floe and we're going to git 'em.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

(He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of scuffing feet from the deck outside and the MATE'S voice shouting orders.)

KEENEY (speaking aloud to himself—derisively). And I was a-goin' home like a yaller dog!

MRS. KEENEY (imploringly). David!

KEENEY (sternly). Woman, you ain't a-doin' right when you meddle in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git the ile, I tell ye.

MRS. KEENEY (supplicatingly). David! Aren't you going home?

KEENEY (ignoring this question—commandingly). You ain't well. Go and lay down a mite. (He starts for the door.) I got to git on deck.

(He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. She passes her hand across her eyes—then commences to laugh hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to play wildly an old hymn. KEENEY reënters from the doorway to the deck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabs her roughly by the shoulder.)

KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? (She laughs wildly, and he starts back from her in alarm.) Annie! What is it? (She doesn't answer him. KEENEY'S voice trembles.) Don't you know me, Annie?

(He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, and she commences softly to play the organ again.)

KEENEY (swallowing hard—in a hoarse whisper, as if he had difficulty in speaking). You said—you was agoin' mad—God!

(A long wail is heard from the deck above: "Ah bl-o-o-o-ow!" A moment later the MATE'S face appears through the skylight. He cannot see MRS. KEENEY.)

MATE (in great excitement). Whales, sir—a whole