THE KING. Ah. (_He turns toward the window, half-frightened, and then, almost instinctively, raises his hands toward his crown, and seems on the point of tossing it out the window. But with an oath he replaces it and presses it firmly on his head._) How! Am I afraid of a beggar!

THE BEGGAR (_continuing outside_). Bread. Bread. Give me some bread.

THE KING (_with terrible anger_). Close that window!

(THE SERVANT _stands stupent, and the voice of THE BEGGAR grows louder as the curtain falls._)

TIDES[1]

George Middleton

[Footnote 1: Reprinted by permission of the author and of Messrs.

Henry Holt and Company, the publishers, from the volume, _Masks and Other One-Act Plays_ (1920).]

CHARACTERS

WILLIAM WHITE, a famous Internationalist HILDA, his wife WALLACE, their son

SCENE: _At the Whites'; spring, 1917. A simply furnished study.

The walls are lined with bookshelves, indicating, by their improvised quality, that they have been increased as occasion demanded. On these are stacked, in addition to the books themselves, many files of papers, magazines, and "reports." The large work-table, upon which rests a double student lamp and a telephone, is conspicuous. A leather couch with pillows is opposite, pointing toward a doorway which leads into the living-room. There is also a doorway in back, which apparently opens on the hallway beyond. The room is comfortable in spite of its general disorder: it is essentially the workshop of a busy man of public affairs. The strong sunlight of a spring day comes in through the window, flooding the table._

WILLIAM WHITE _is standing by the window, smoking a pipe. He is about fifty, of striking appearance: the visual incarnation of the popular conception of a leader of men. There is authority and strength in the lines of his face; his whole personality is commanding; his voice has all the modulations of a well-trained orator; his gestures are sweeping--for, even in private conversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience.

Otherwise, he is simple and engaging, with some indication of his humble origin._

_On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand,_ HILDA WHITE, _his wife, is seated. She is somewhat younger in fact, though in appearance she is as one who has been worn a bit by the struggle of many years. Her manner contrasts with her husband's: her inheritance of delicate refinement is ever present in her soft voice and gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength--the sort which will endure all for a fixed intention._

_It is obvious throughout that she and her husband have been happy comrades in their life together, and that a deep fundamental bond has united them in spite of the different social spheres from which each has sprung._

WHITE (_seeing she has paused_). Go on, dear; go on. Let's hear all of it.

HILDA. Oh, what's the use, Will? You know how differently he feels about the war.

WHITE (_with quiet sarcasm_). But it's been so many years since your respectable brother has honored me even with the slightest allusion--

HILDA. If you care for what he says--(_continuing to read the letter_)--"Remember, Hilda, you are an American. I don't suppose your husband considers that an honor; but I do."

WHITE (_interrupting_). And what kind of an American has he been in times of peace? He's wrung forty per cent profit out of his factory and fought every effort of the workers to organize. Ah, these smug hypocrites!

HILDA (_reading_). "His violent opposition to America going in has been disgrace enough--"

WHITE. But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes.

HILDA. Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (_Reading_) "--been disgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm writing in the faint hope, if you are not too much under his influence, that you will persuade him to keep his mouth shut. This country will tolerate no difference of opinion now. You radicals had better get on board the band wagon. It's prison or acceptance." (_She stops reading._) He's right, dear. There will be nothing more intolerant than a so-called democracy at war.

WHITE. By G.o.d! It's superb! Silence for twenty years and now he writes his poor misguided sister for fear she will be further disgraced by her radical husband.

HILDA. We mustn't descend to his bitterness.

WHITE. No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten doctrine of forgiving my enemies.

HILDA. He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it all differently.

WHITE. I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these twenty years--ever since you married me--"out of your cla.s.s," as he called it.

HILDA. Oh, hush, Will. I've been so happy with you I can bear him no ill will. Besides, doesn't his att.i.tude seem natural? You mustn't forget that no man in this country has fought his cla.s.s more than you. That hurts--especially coming from an _acquired_ relative.

WHITE. Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I'll tell you something you may not know. (_Bitterly_) Whenever I've spoken against privilege and wealth it's been his pudgy, comfortable face I've shaken my fist at. He's been so d.a.m.ned comfortable all his life.

HILDA. (_She looks at him in surprise._) Why, Will, you surely don't envy him his comfort, do you? I can't make you out. What's come over you these last weeks? You've always been above such personal bitterness; even when you were most condemned and ridiculed. If it were anybody but you I'd think you had done something you were ashamed of.

WHITE. What do you mean?

HILDA. Haven't you sometimes noticed that is what bitterness to another means: a failure within oneself? (_He goes over to chair and sits without answering._) I can think of you beaten by outside things--that sort of failure we all meet; but somehow I can never think of you failing yourself. You've been so brave and self-reliant: you've fought so hard for the truth.

WHITE (_tapping letter_). But he thinks he knows the truth, too.

HILDA. He's also an intense nature.

WHITE (_thoughtfully after a pause_). Yet there is _some_ truth in what he says.

HILDA (_smiling_). But you didn't like it--coming from him?

WHITE. It will be different with you and me now that America's gone in.

HILDA. Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is always farthest from the trenches. But you and I are not the sort who would compromise to escape the persecution which is the resource of the non-combatant.

(_The phone rings: he looks at his watch._)

WHITE. That's for me.

HILDA. Let me. (_She goes._) It may be Wallace. (_At phone_) Yes: this is 116 Chelsea. Long Distance? (_He starts as she says to him_) It must be our boy. (_At phone_) Who? Oh--Mr. William White?

Yes: he'll be here. (_She hangs up receiver._) She'll ring when she gets the connection through.

WHITE (_turning away_). It takes so long these days.

HILDA. Funny he didn't ask for me.

WHITE. What made you think it was Wallace?

HILDA. I took it for granted. He must be having a hard time at college with all the boys full of war fever.

WHITE. And a father with my record.

HILDA. He should be proud of the example. He has more than other boys to cling to these days when everybody is losing his head as the band plays and the flag is waved. He won't be carried away by it. He'll remember all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think we now have conscription--as they have in Germany--I thank G.o.d every night our boy is too young for the draft.