Plays
men's eyes meet. A door slams_.)
CURTAIN
ACT IV
SCENE: _At the_ MORTON _place, the same room in which_ SILAS MORTON
_told his friend_ FELIX FEJEVARY _of his plan for the hill. The room has
not altogether changed since that day in 1879. The table around which
they dreamed for the race is in its old place. One of the old chairs is
there, the other two are modern chairs. In a corner is the rocker in
which_ GRANDMOTHER MORTON _sat. This is early afternoon, a week after
the events of Act II_.
MADELINE _is sitting at the table, in her hand a torn, wrinkled piece of
brown paper-peering at writing almost too fine to read. After a moment
her hand goes out to a beautiful dish on the table--an old dish of
coloured Hungarian glass. She is about to take something from this, but
instead lets her hand rest an instant on the dish itself Then turns and
through the open door looks out at the hill, sitting where her_
GRANDFATHER MORTON _sat when he looked out at the hill._
_Her father_, IRA MORTON, _appears outside, walking past the window,
left. He enters, carrying a grain sack, partly filled. He seems hardly
aware of_ MADELINE, _but taking a chair near the door, turned from her,
opens the sack and takes out a couple of ears of corn. As he is bent
over them, examining in a shrewd, greedy way_, MADELINE _looks at that
lean, tormented, rather desperate profile, the look of one confirming a
thing she fears. Then takes up her piece of paper_.
MADELINE: Do you remember Fred Jordan, father? Friend of our Fred--and
of mine?
IRA: (_not wanting to take his mind from the corn_) No. I don't remember
him. (_his voice has that timbre of one not related to others_)
MADELINE: He's in prison now.
IRA: Well I can't help that. (_after taking out another ear_) This is
the best corn I ever had. (_he says it gloatingly to himself_)
MADELINE: He got this letter out to me--written on this scrap of paper.
They don't give him paper. (_peering_) Written so fine I can hardly read
it. He's in what they call 'the hold', father--a punishment cell. (_with
difficulty reading it_) It's two and a half feet at one end, three feet
at the other, and six feet long. He'd been there ten days when he wrote
this. He gets two slices of bread a day; he gets water; that's all he
gets. This because he balled the deputy warden out for chaining another
prisoner up by the wrists.
IRA: Well, he'd better a-minded his own business. And you better mind
yours. I've got no money to spend in the courts. (_with excitement_)
I'll not mortgage this farm! It's been clear since the day my father's
father got it from the government--and it stays clear--till I'm gone. It
grows the best corn in the state--best corn in the Mississippi Valley.
Not for _anything_--you hear me?--would I mortgage this farm my father
handed down to me.
MADELINE: (_hurt_) Well, father, I'm not asking you to.
IRA: Then go and see your Uncle Felix. Make it up with him. He'll help
you--if you say you're sorry.
MADELINE: I'll not go to Uncle Felix.
IRA: Who will you go to then? (_pause_) Who will help you then? (_again
he waits_) You come before this United States Commissioner with no one
behind you, he'll hold you for the grand jury. Judge Watkins told Felix
there's not a doubt of it. You know what that means? It means you're on
your way to a cell. Nice thing for a Morton, people who've had their own
land since we got it from the Indians. What's the matter with your
uncle? Ain't he always been good to you? I'd like to know what things
would 'a' been for you without Felix and Isabel and all their friends.
You want to think a little. You like good times too well to throw all
that away.
MADELINE: I do like good times. So does Fred Jordan like good times.
(_smooths the wrinkled paper_) I don't know anybody--unless it is
myself--loves to be out, as he does. (_she tries to look out, but
cannot; sits very still, seeing what it is pain to see. Rises, goes to
that corner closet, the same one from which_ SILAS MORTON _took the deed
to the hill. She gets a yard stick, looks in a box and finds a piece of
chalk. On the floor she marks off_ FRED JORDAN'S _cell. Slowly, at the
end left unchalked, as for a door, she goes in. Her hand goes up as
against a wall; looks at her other hand, sees it is out too far, brings
it in, giving herself the width of the cell. Walks its length, halts,
looks up_.) And one window--too high up to see out.
(_In the moment she stands there, she is in that cell; she is all the
people who are in those cells_. EMIL JOHNSON _appears from outside; he
is the young man brought up on a farm, a crudely Americanized Swede_.)
MADELINE: (_stepping out of the cell door, and around it_) Hello, Emil.
EMIL: How are you, Madeline? How do, Mr Morton. (IRA _barely nods and
does not turn. In an excited manner he begins gathering up the corn he
has taken from the sack_. EMIL _turns back to_ MADELINE) Well, I'm just
from the courthouse. Looks like you and I might take a ride together,
Madeline. You come before the Commissioner at four.
IRA: What have you got to do with it?
MADELINE: Oh, Emil has a courthouse job now, father. He's part of the
law.
IRA: Well, he's not going to take you to the law! Anybody else--not Emil
Johnson!
MADELINE: (_astonished--and gently, to make up for his rudeness_)
Why--father, why not Emil? Since I'm going, I think it's nice to go in
with someone I know--with a neighbour like Emil.
IRA: If _this_ is what he lived for! If this is why--
(_He twists the ear of corn until some of the kernels drip off_.
MADELINE _and_ EMIL _look at one another in bewilderment_.)
EMIL: It's too bad anybody has to take Madeline in. I should think your
uncle could fix it up. (_low_) And with your father taking it like
this--(_to help_ IRA) That's fine corn, Mr Morton. My corn's getting
better all the time, but I'd like to get some of this for seed.
IRA: (_rising and turning on him_) You get my corn? I raise this corn
for you? (_not to them--his mind now going where it is shut off from any
other mind_) If I could make the _wind_ stand still! I want to _turn the
wind around_.
MADELINE: (_going to him_) Why--father. I don't understand at all.
IRA: Don't understand. Nobody understands. (_a curse with a sob in it_)
God damn the wind!
(_Sits down, his back to them_.)
EMIL: (_after a silence_) Well, I'll go. (_but he continues to look at_
IRA, _who is holding the sack of com shut, as if someone may take it_)
Too bad--(_stopped by a sign from_ MADELINE, _not to speak of it_) Well,
I was saying, I have go on to Beard's Crossing. I'll stop for you on my
way back. (_confidentially_) Couldn't you telephone your uncle? He could
do something. You don't know what you're going up against. You heard
what the Hindus got, I suppose.
MADELINE: No. I haven't seen anyone to-day.
EMIL: They're held for the grand jury. They're locked up now. No bail
for them. I've got the inside dope about them. They're going to get what
this country can hand 'em; then after we've given them a nice little
taste of prison life in America, they're going to be sent back home--to
see what India can treat them to.
MADELINE: Why are you so pleased about this, Emil?
EMIL: Pleased? It's nothin' to me--I'm just telling you. Guess you don't
know much about the Espionage Act or you'd go and make a little friendly
call on your uncle. When your case comes to trial--and Judge Lenon may
be on the bench--(_whistles_) He's one fiend for Americanism. But if
your uncle was to tell the right parties that you're just a girl, and
didn't realize what you were saying--
MADELINE: I did realize what I was saying, and every word you've just
said makes me know I meant what I said. I said if this was what our
country has come to, then I'm not for our country. I said that--and
a-plenty more--and I'll say it again!
EMIL: Well--gee, you don't know what it means.
MADELINE: I do know what it means, but it means not being a coward.
EMIL: Oh, well--Lord, you can't say everything you think. If everybody
did that, things'd be worse off than they are now.
MADELINE: Once in a while you have to say what you think--or hate
yourself.
EMIL: (_with a grin_) Then hate yourself.
MADELINE: (_smiling too_) No thank you; it spoils my fun.
EMIL: Well, look-a-here, Madeline, aren't you spoiling your fun now?
You're a girl who liked to be out. Ain't I seen you from our place, with
this one and that one, sometimes all by yourself, strikin' out over the
country as if you was crazy about it? How'd you like to be where you
couldn't even see out?
MADELINE: (_a step nearer the cell_) There oughtn't to be such places.
EMIL: Oh, well--Jesus, if you're going to talk about that--! You can't
change the way things are.
MADELINE: (_quietly_) Why can't I?
EMIL: Well, say, who do you think you are?
MADELINE: I think I'm an American. And for that reason I think I have
something to say about America.
EMIL: Huh! America'll lock you up for your pains.
MADELINE: All right. If it's come to that, maybe I'd rather be a
locked-up American than a free American.
EMIL: I don't think you'd like the place, Madeline. There's not much
tennis played there. Jesus--what's Hindus?
MADELINE: You aren't really asking Jesus, are you, Emil? (_smiles_) You
mightn't like his answer.
EMIL: (_from the door_) Take a tip. Telephone your uncle.
(_He goes_.)
IRA: (_not looking at her_) There might be a fine, and they'd come down
on me and take my land.
MADELINE: Oh, no, father, I think not. Anyway, I have a little money of
my own. Grandfather Morton left me something. Have you forgotten that?
IRA: No. No, I know he left you something. (_the words seem to bother
him_) I know he left you something.
MADELINE: I get it to-day. (_wistfully_) This is my birthday, father.
I'm twenty-one.
IRA: Your birthday? Twenty-one? (_in pain_) Was that twenty-one years
ago? (_it is not to his daughter this has turned him_)
MADELINE: It's the first birthday I can remember that I haven't had a
party.
IRA: It was your Aunt Isabel gave you your parties.
MADELINE: Yes.
IRA: Well, you see now.
MADELINE: (_stoutly_) Oh, well, I don't need a party. I'm grown up now.
(_She reaches out for the old Hungarian dish on the table; holding it,
she looks to her father, whose back is still turned. Her face tender,
she is about to speak when he speaks_.)
IRA: Grown up now--and going off and leaving me alone. You too--the last
one. And--_what for? (turning, looking around the room as for those long
gone_) There used to be so many in this house. My grandmother. She sat
there. (_pointing to the place near the open door_) Fine days like
this--in that chair (_points to the rocker_) she'd sit there--tell me
stories of the Indians. Father. It wasn't ever lonely where father was.
Then Madeline Fejevary--my Madeline came to this house. Lived with me in
this house. Then one day she--walked out of this house. Through that
door--through the field--out of this house. (_bitter silence_) Then
Fred--out of this house. Now you. With Emil Johnson! (_insanely, and
almost with relief at leaving things more sane_) Don't let him touch my
corn. If he touches one kernel of this corn! (_with the suspicion of the
tormented mind_) I wonder where he went? How do I know he went where he
_said_ he was going? (_getting up_) I dunno as that south bin's locked.
MADELINE: Oh--father!
IRA: I'll find out. How do I know what he's doing?
(_He goes out, turning left_. MADELINE _goes to the window and looks
after him. A moment later, hearing someone at the door, she turns and
finds her_ AUNT ISABEL, _who has appeared from right. Goes swiftly to
her, hands out_.)
MADELINE: Oh, _auntie_--I'm glad you came! It's my birthday, and
I'm--lonely.