Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays Part 257

THE NEIGHBOR [_staring_]. But ain't they workin' in the store?

THE OLD WOMAN. Yes, but they're comin' home early to-night.

THE NEIGHBOR [_laughing ironically_]. Don't ye fool yerselves. Why, they've got to work harder to-night than any in the whole year.

THE WOMAN [_wistfully_]. But they did say they'd thry to come home early.

THE NEIGHBOR. The store's all crowded to-night. Folks 'at's got money to spend never remembers it till the last minute. If they didn't have none they'd be thinkin' 'bout it long ahead. Well, I got to be movin'. I wouldn't stay awake, if I was you.

THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay and kape the Christmas wid us! We'll be havin' high jinks by an' by. Sthay, now, an' help us wid our jollity!

THE NEIGHBOR. Nay, I left my children in bed, an' I got to go back to 'em. An' I got to get some rest myself--I got that ironin' ahead o' me in the mornin'. You folks better get yer own rest. [_She rises and walks to the door._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_beamingly_]. David an' Michael's comin'. [_The Neighbor stands with her back against the door and her hand on the k.n.o.b, staring at the Old Woman._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_smiling rapturously_]. Yis, we're goin' to have a gran'

time. [_The Neighbor looks puzzled and fearful and troubled, first at the Woman and then at the Old Woman. Finally, without a word, she opens the door and goes out._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_going about in a tottering sort of dance_]. David an'

Michael's comin' an' the shepherds for the fairies will show thim the way.

THE WOMAN. If the girls would on'y come! If they'd give me somethin' so as I wouldn't be so tired!

THE OLD WOMAN. There's niver a sthar an' there's n.o.body to give thim a kind word an' the counthry roads are dark an' foul, but they've got the little folk to guide thim! An' whin they reach the city--the poor, lonesome shepherds from the hills!--they'll find naught but coldness an'

hardness an' hurry. [_Questioningly._] Will the fairies show thim the way? Fairies' eyes be used to darkness, but can they see where it is black night in one corner an' a blaze o' light in another? [_She goes to the window for the third time, opens it and leans far out for a long time, then turns about and goes on in her monotone, closing the window.--She seems by this time quite to have forgotten the presence of the pallid woman on the bed, who has closed her eyes, and lies like one dead._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, there's niver a sthar, an' the clouds are hangin'

heavier an' lower an' the flakes o' snow are fallin'. Poor little folk guidin' thim poor lost shepherds, leadin' thim by the hand so gently because there's no others to be kind to thim, an' bringin' thim to the manger o' the Blessed Babe. [_She comes over to her rocking-chair and again sits down in it, rocks slowly to and fro, nodding her head in time to the motion._] Poor little mite of a babe, so cold an' unwelcome an'

forgotten save by the silly ould shepherds from the hills! The silly ould shepherds from the strength o' the hills, who are comin' through the darkness in the lead o' the little folk! [_She speaks slower and lower, and finally drops into a quiet crooning--it stops and the Old Woman has fallen asleep._]

[_Curtain._]

[_While the curtain is down the pallid, sick woman upon the bed dies, the Old Woman being asleep does not notice the slight struggle with death. The fire has gone out in the stove, and the light in the lamp, and the stage is in complete darkness when the two girls come stumbling in. They are too tired to speak, too weary to show surprise that the occupants of the room are not awake. They fumble about, trying to find matches in the darkness, and finally discover them and a candle in the safe. They light the candle and place it upon the table by the scraggy little evergreen-tree. They turn about and discern their grandmother asleep in the rocking-chair. Hurriedly they turn to the bed and discover their mother lying there dead. For a full minute they stand gazing at her, the surprise, wonder, awe, misery increasing in their faces; then with screams they run to the bed, throw themselves on their knees and bury their faces, sobbing, in the bedclothes at the Woman's feet._]

[_Curtain._]

ILE

A PLAY

BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL

All rights reserved.

CHARACTERS

BEN [_the cabin boy_].

THE STEWARD.

CAPTAIN KEENEY.

SLOc.u.m [_second mate_].

MRS. KEENEY.

JOE [_a harpooner_].

_Members of the crew of the Atlantic Queen._

ILE was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, on the night of November 30th, 1917, with the following cast:

BEN [_the cabin boy_] _Harold Conley_.

THE STEWARD _Robert Edwards_.

CAPTAIN KEENEY _H. Collins_.

MR. SLOc.u.m [_second mate_] _Ira Remsen_.

MRS. KEENEY _Clara Savage_.

JOE [_the harpooner_] _Lewis B. Ell_.

Produced under the direction of MISS NINA MOISE. Scenery by MR. LEWIS B. ELL.

Reprinted from "The Moon of the Caribbees and Six Other Plays of the Sea" by special permission of Eugene O'Neill. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author.

Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr.

Eugene G. O'Neill, Provincetown, Ma.s.s.

ILE

A PLAY BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL

[_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 p.o.o.p 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 port-holes._

_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 officers' 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 sky-light 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 p.o.o.p deck overhead._

_It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a day in the year 1895._