|
CHARACTERS— |
BEN, the cabin boy
THE STEWARD
CAPTAIN KEENEY
SLOCUM, second mate
MRS. KEENEY
JOE, a harpooner
Members of the crew of the steam whaler Atlantic Queen |
SCENE—Captain
Keeney's cabin on board the steam whaling ship Atlantic Queen—a small, square
compartment about eight feet high with a skylight in the center looking
out on the poop deck. On the left (the stern of the
ship) a long bench with rough cushions is built in against the wall. In
front of the bench, a table.
Over the bench, several curtained portholes.
In the rear, left, a door leading to the Captain's sleeping
quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, looking as if
it were brand new, is placed against the wall.
On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped sideboard. On the
sideboard, a woman's sewing basket. Farther forward, a doorway leading to
the companion way, and past the officer's quarters to the main deck.
In the center of the room, a stove. From the middle of the ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are painted white.
There
is no rolling of the ship, and
the light which comes through the skylight is sickly and faint, indicating
one of those gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence is unbroken except
for the measured tread of some
one walking up and down on the poop deck overhead.
It is nearing two bells—one o'clock—in the afternoon of a day in the year
1895.
At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence. Then the Steward
enters and commences to clear the table of the few dishes which still remain on it
after the Captain's dinner. He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants,
a sweater, and a woolen cap with ear flaps. His manner is sullen and
angry. He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward at
the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and listens
with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes his face darken and
he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise from the doorway on the right
and he darts back to the table.
Ben enters. He is an overgrown, gawky boy with a long, pinched
face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are chattering
with the cold and he hurries to the stove, where he stands for a moment
shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping them against his sides, on the
verge of crying.
THE STEWARD—(in relieved
tones—seeing who it is) Oh, 'tis you, is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where
ye belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'.
BEN—It's
c—c—cold. (trying to control his chattering
teeth—derisively) Who d'ye think it
were—the Old Man?
THE STEWARD—(makes
a threatening
move—Ben shrinks away.) None o' your
lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. (more kindly) Where was it ye've been
all o' the time—the fo'c's'tle?
BEN—Yes.
THE STEWARD—Let
the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkeyshinin' with the hands and ye'll get
a hidin' ye'll not forget in a hurry.
BEN—Aw,
he don't see nothin'. (A trace of awe in his tones—he glances upward.) He
just walks up and down like he didn't notice nobody—and stares at the ice
to the no'the'ard.
THE STEWARD—(the
same tone of awe creeping into his voice) He's always starin' at the ice. (in a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the
skylight) Ice,
ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' us in for nigh on a year—nothin'
to see but ice—stuck in it like a fly in molasses!
BEN—(apprehensively) Ssshh! He'll
hear ye.
THE STEWARD—(raging)
Aye, damn him, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn this stinkin' whalin'
ship of his, and damn me for a fool to ever ship on it! (subsiding as if realizing the uselessness of this
outburst—shaking his head—slowly, with deep conviction) He's a hard man—as hard a man as ever sailed the seas.
BEN—(solemnly)
Aye.
THE STEWARD—The
two years we all signed up for are done this day. Blessed Christ! Two
years o' this dog's life, and no luck in the fishin', and the hands half
starved with the food runnin' low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him
turnin' back for home! (bitterly) Home!
I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on land again. (excitedly) What is it he thinks
he's goin' to do? Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till
the last man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly
to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men goin' to
do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'tle?
BEN—(going over to him—in a half whisper)
They said if he don't put back south for home to-day they're goin' to
mutiny.
THE STEWARD—(with
grim satisfaction) Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only thing they can do; and serve
him right after the manner he's treated them—'s if they wern't no better
nor dogs.
BEN—The
ice is all broke up to s'uth'ard. They's clear water 's far 's you can
see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back for home, the men says.
THE STEWARD—(bitterly)
He won't look nowheres but no'the'ard where they's only the ice to see. He
don't want to see no clear water. All he thinks on is gittin' the ile—'s
if it was our fault he ain't had good luck with the whales. (shaking his head) I think the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses.
BEN—(awed)
D'you really think he's crazy?
THE STEWARD—Aye,
it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye ever hear of a man who wasn't
crazy do the things he does? (pointing to the door in rear) Who but a man that's mad would take his
woman—and as sweet a woman as ever was—on a stinkin' whalin' ship to the
Arctic seas to be locked in by the rotten ice for nigh on a year, and
maybe lose her senses forever—for it's sure she'll never be the same
again.
BEN—(sadly)
She useter be awful nice to me before—(his eyes grow wide and frightened)
she got—like she is.
THE STEWARD—Aye,
she was good to all of us. 'Twould have been hell on board without her;
for he's a hard man—a hard, hard man—a driver if there ever was one. (with a grim laugh) I
hope he's satisfied now—drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. And who
could blame her? 'Tis a God's wonder we're not a ship full of crazed
people—with the damned ice all the time, and the quiet so thick you're
afraid to hear your own voice.
BEN—(with
a frightened
glance toward
the door on right) She don't never speak to me no more—jest looks at me 's
if she didn't know me.
THE STEWARD—She
don't know no one—but him. She talks to him—when she does talk—right
enough.
BEN—She
does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew—and then she cries to
herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her.
THE STEWARD—Aye,
I could hear her through the door a while back.
BEN—(tiptoes
over to the door and
listens) She's cryin' now.
THE STEWARD—(furiously—shaking
his fist) God send his soul to hell for the devil he is! (There is the noise of some one coming slowly down the companionway stairs. The Steward hurries to his stacked up dishes. He
is so nervous
from fright
that he knocks
off the top
one, which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast,
trembling with dread. Ben is violently rubbing off the organ
with a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket. Captain
Keeney appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin, removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a
man of about
forty, around
five-ten in height but looking much shorter on account of the
enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is massive and
deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak hardness, and a tightly
clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick hair is long and gray. He is
dressed in a heavy blue jacket and blue pants stuffed into his seaboots.
(He is followed into the cabin by the Second Mate, a rangy
sixfooter with a lean weather-beaten face. The Mate is dressed about the
same as the Captain. He is a man of thirty or so.)
KEENEY—(comes toward the
Steward—with a stern look on his face. The Steward is visibly frightened
and the stack of dishes rattles in his trembling hands. Keeney draws back
his fist and the Steward shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and
Keeney speaks slowly.) 'Twould be like hitting
a worm. It is nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet.
THE STEWARD—(stammering)
Y—y—yes, sir.
KEENEY—Instead
of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here gossipin' old woman's
talk with that boy. (to Ben, fiercely) Get out o' this,
you! Clean up the chart room. (Ben darts past the Mate to the open doorway.) Pick up that
dish, Mr. Steward!
THE STEWARD—(doing
so with difficulty) Yes, sir.
KEENEY—The
next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in the Bering Sea at the
end of a rope.
THE STEWARD—(tremblingly)
Yes, sir. (He hurries out.
The Second Mate walks slowly over to the Captain.)
MATE—I
warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel
should catch
what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to come below.
KEENEY—(impatiently)
Speak your say, Mr. Slocum.
MATE—(unconsciously lowering his voice) I'm afeard there'll be trouble with the hands by the
look o' things. They'll likely turn ugly, every blessed one o' them, if
you don't put back. The two years they signed up for is up to-day.
KEENEY—And
d'you think you're tellin' me somethin' new, Mr. Slocum? I've felt it in
the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen their ugly looks
and the grudgin' way they worked? (The door in rear is opened and Mrs. Keeney stands in the
doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman
primly dressed in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and pale. She takes in the cabin with
a frightened glance and stands as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and unclasping her
hands nervously. The two men turn and look at her.)
KEENEY—(with rough tenderness)
Well, Annie?
MRS. KEENEY—(as if awakening
from a dream)
David, I—(She
is silent. The Mate starts for the doorway.)
KEENEY—(turning
to him—sharply) Wait!
MATE—Yes,
sir.
KEENEY—D'you
want anything, Annie?
MRS. KEENEY—(after a pause, during which she seems to be endeavoring
to collect her thoughts) I
thought maybe—I'd go up on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air. (She stands
humbly awaiting his permission.
He and the Mate exchange a significant glance.)
KEENEY—It's
too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below to-day. There's nothing to look at
on deck—but ice.
MRS. KEENEY—(monotonously)
I know—ice, ice, ice! But there's nothing to see down here but these
walls. (She
makes a gesture of loathing.)
KEENEY—You
can play the organ, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY—(dully)
I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home.
KEENEY—(a
touch of
resentment in his voice) I got it jest for you.
MRS. KEENEY—(dully)
I know. (She
turns away from them and
walks slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy.) Ah, water! Clear water!
As far as I can see! How good it looks after all these months of ice! (She turns round to them, her face transfigured with joy.)
Ah, now I must go upon deck and look at it, David.
KEENEY—(frowning)
Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when the sun shines.
MRS. KEENEY—(desperately)
But the sun never shines in this terrible place.
KEENEY—(a tone of command in his voice) Best not to-day, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY—(crumbling before this command—abjectly)
Very well, David. (She stands there staring straight before her as if in a daze. The two men look at her uneasily.)
KEENEY—(sharply)
Annie!
MRS. KEENEY—(dully)
Yes, David.
KEENEY—Me
and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about—ship's business.
MRS. KEENEY—Very
well, David. (She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three-quarters shut behind her.)
KEENEY—Best
not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any trouble.
MATE—Yes,
sir.
KEENEY—And
trouble they's goin' to be. I feel it in my bones. (takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it) Got your'n?
MATE—Yes,
sir.
KEENEY—Not
that we'll have to use 'em—not if I know their breed of dog—jest to
frighten 'em up a bit. (grimly) I ain't never been forced to use one yit;
and trouble I've had by land and by sea 's long as I kin remember, and
will have till my dyin' day, I reckon.
MATE—(hesitatingly)
Then you ain't goin'—to turn back?
KEENEY—Turn
back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear 'o me pointin' s'uth for home with
only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in the hold?
MATE—(hastily)
No, sir—but the grub's gittin' low.
KEENEY—They's
enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful with it; and they's
plenty o' water.
MATE—They
say it's not fit to eat—what's left; and the
two years they
signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble for you in the courts
when we git home.
KEENEY—To
hell with 'em! Let them make what law trouble they kin. I don't give a
damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the ile! (glancing sharply at the Mate) You ain't turnin' no damned
sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?
MATE—(flushing)
Not by a hell of a sight, sir.
KEENEY—What
do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' the four hundred
barrel wouldn't keep 'em in chewin' terbacco.
MATE—(slowly)
They wants to git back to their folks an' things, I s'pose.
KEENEY—(looking
at him searchingly) 'N
you want to turn back, too. (The Mate looks down
confusedly before his sharp gaze.) Don't lie,
Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. (with grim sarcasm) I hope,
Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me.
MATE—(indignantly) That ain't fair,
sir, to say sich things.
KEENEY—(with
satisfaction) I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You been with me nigh on
ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No man kin say I ain't a good
master, if I be a hard one.
MATE—I
warn't thinkin' of myself, sir—'bout turnin' home, I mean. (desperately) But Mrs. Keeney,
sir—seems like she ain't jest satisfied up here, ailin' like—what with the
cold an' bad luck an' the ice an' all.
KEENEY—(his
face
clouding—rebukingly but not
severely) That's my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear
course o' that. (a pause) The ice'll break up soon to no'th'ard. I could
see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun Annie'll perk
up. (another
pause—then he bursts forth) It ain't the damned money what's keepin' me up in the
Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four
hundred barrel of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all
my days without a full ship. Ain't that truth?
MATE—Yes,
sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'—
KEENEY—(scornfully)
And d'you s'pose any of 'em would believe that—any o' them skippers I've
beaten voyage after voyage? Can't you hear 'em laughin' and
sneerin'—Tibbots 'n' Harris 'n' Simms and the rest—and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave
Keeney what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport comin'
back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile?" (The thought of this drives him into a frenzy, and he smashes his fist down on the marble top of the sideboard.) Hell! I got to git the ile, I tell you.
How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad before in the
thirty year I been acomin' here. And now it's breakin' up. In a couple o'
days it'll be all gone. And they's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they
is and I ain't never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it
in spite of all hell, and by God, I ain't agoin' home till I do git it! (There is the sound of subdued
sobbing from the door in rear. The two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then Keeney goes over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he were going to enter—then closes the door softly. Joe, the harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, enters from right
and stands waiting for the Captain to notice him.)
KEENEY—(turning and seeing him) Don't be standin'
there like a gawk, Harpooner. Speak up!
JOE—(confusedly) We want—the men,
sir—they wants to send a depitation aft to have a word with you.
KEENEY—(furiously)
Tell 'em to go to—(checks himself and continues grimly) Tell 'em to
come. I'll see 'em.
JOE—Aye,
aye, sir. (He
goes out.)
KEENEY—(with
a grim smile) Here it comes, the trouble you spoke of, Mr. Slocum, and
we'll make short shift of it. It's better to crush such things at the
start than let them make headway.
MATE—(worriedly)
Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might need their help.
KEENEY—No,
let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, Mr. Slocum. (There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the crew crowd into the cabin, led by Joe. All are
dressed alike—sweaters, seaboots, etc. They glance uneasily at the
Captain,
twirling their fur caps in their hands.)
KEENEY—(after
a pause) Well? Who's to speak fur ye?
JOE—(stepping forward with an air of bravado) I be.
KEENEY—(eyeing
him up and down coldly) So you be. Then speak your say and be
quick about it.
JOE—(trying
not to wilt before the Captain's glance and avoiding his eyes) The time we signed up
for is done to-day.
KEENEY—(icily)
You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.
JOE—You ain't pintin'
fur home yit, far 's we kin see.
KEENEY—No,
and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile.
JOE—You can't go no further
no'the with the ice afore ye.
KEENEY—The
ice is breaking up.
JOE—(after
a slight pause during which the others mumble angrily to one another) The grub we're gittin' now is rotten.
KEENEY—It's
good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have eaten worse. (There is a chorus of
angry exclamations from the crowd.)
JOE—(encouraged
by this support) We ain't agoin' to
work no more less you puts back for home.
KEENEY—(fiercely)
You ain't,
ain't you?
JOE—No; and the law
courts'll say we was right.
KEENEY—To
hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm the law on this ship. (edging up
toward the harpooner) And every mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons. (There are more
angry exclamations from the crew. Mrs. Keeney appears in the doorway in
rear and looks on with startled eyes. None of the men notice her.)
JOE—(with bravado) Then
we're agoin' to mutiny and take the old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we,
boys? (As he
turns his head to look at the others, Keeney's fist shoots out to the side
of his jaw. Joe goes down in a heap and lies there. Mrs. Keeney gives a
shriek and hides her face in her hands. The men pull out their sheath
knives and start a rush, but stop when they find themselves confronted by
the revolvers of Keeney and the Mate.)
KEENEY—(his
eyes and voice snapping) Hold still!
(The men stand huddled together in a sullen silence. Keeney's voice is
full of mockery.) You've found out it ain't safe to mutiny on this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye
belong, and—(He gives Joe's body a contemptuous kick.) Drag him with you. And remember the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can
tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick! (The men leave in cowed silence, carrying Joe with them.
Keeney turns to the Mate with a short laugh and puts his revolver back in
his pocket.)
Best get up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and
see to it they don't 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 any one 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 pint 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 your 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 any one'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 has 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'the'ard, 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'the'ard?
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
scuffling feet from the deck outside and the Mate's voice shouting
orders.)
KEENEY—(speaking
aloud to
himself—derisively) And I was agoin' home
like a yaller dog!
MRS. KEENEY—(imploringly)
David!
KEENEY—(sternly)
Woman, you ain't adoin' 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 reenters 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 a-goin' 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 school of 'em—off the star'b'd quarter 'bout five mile
away—big ones!
KEENEY—(galvanized
into action) Are you lowerin' the boats?
MATE—Yes,
sir.
KEENEY—(with
grim decision) I'm a-comin'
with ye.
MATE—Aye,
aye, sir. (jubilantly)
You'll git the ile now right enough, sir. (His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders.)
KEENEY—(turning
to his wife) Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git the lie.
(She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He gives a hard laugh,
which is almost a groan.) I know
you're foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind—(anxiously) be you? I'll git the lie now right enough—jest a little
while longer, Annie—then we'll turn hom'ard. I can't turn back now,
you see that, don't ye?
I've got to git the ile. (in sudden
terror) Answer me! You ain't mad, be you? (She keeps on playing the
organ, but makes no reply. The Mate's face appears again through the
skylight.)
MATE—All
ready, sir. (Keeney turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway,
where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish, fighting to
control his feelings.)
MATE—Comin', sir?
KEENEY—(his
face suddenly grown hard with determination) Aye. (He turns abruptly and
goes out. Mrs. Keeney does not appear to notice his departure. Her whole
attention seems centered in the organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her
body swaying a little from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her
fingers move faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly
as
The Curtain Falls) |
