ACT IV

by Susan Glaspell

　　SCENE: At the MORTON place, the sameroom in which SILAS MORTON told his friend FELIXFEJEVARY of his plan for the hill. The room has not altogetherchanged since that day in 1879. The table around which they dreamedfor 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 inwhich GRANDMOTHER MORTON sat. This is early afternoon, aweek after the events of Act II.

　　MADELINE is sitting at the table, in her hand atorn, wrinkled piece of brown paper-peering at writing almost toofine to read. After a moment her hand goes out to a beautiful dishon the table—an old dish of coloured Hungarian glass. She isabout to take something from this, but instead lets her hand restan instant on the dish itself Then turns and through the open doorlooks out at the hill, sitting where her GRANDFATHER MORTONsat 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 takinga chair near the door, turned from her, opens the sack and takesout a couple of ears of corn. As he is bent over them, examining ina shrewd, greedy way, MADELINE looks at that lean,tormented, rather desperate profile, the look of one confirming athing she fears. Then takes up her piece of paper.

　　MADELINE: Do you remember Fred Jordan, father? Friend of ourFred—and of mine?

　　IRA: (not wanting to take his mind from the corn) No. Idon't remember him. (his voice has that timbre of one notrelated to others)

　　MADELINE: He's in prison now.

　　IRA: Well I can't help that. (after taking out anotherear) This is the best corn I ever had. (he says itgloatingly to himself)

　　MADELINE: He got this letter out to me—written on thisscrap of paper. They don't give him paper. (peering) Writtenso 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, andsix feet long. He'd been there ten days when he wrote this. He getstwo slices of bread a day; he gets water; that's all he gets. Thisbecause he balled the deputy warden out for chaining anotherprisoner up by the wrists.

　　IRA: Well, he'd better a-minded his own business. And you bettermind yours. I've got no money to spend in the courts. (withexcitement) I'll not mortgage this farm! It's been clear sincethe day my father's father got it from the government—and itstays clear—till I'm gone. It grows the best corn in thestate—best corn in the Mississippi Valley. Not foranything—you hear me?—would I mortgage this farmmy 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 youthen? (again he waits) You come before this United StatesCommissioner with no one behind you, he'll hold you for the grandjury. Judge Watkins told Felix there's not a doubt of it. You knowwhat that means? It means you're on your way to a cell. Nice thingfor a Morton, people who've had their own land since we got it fromthe Indians. What's the matter with your uncle? Ain't he alwaysbeen good to you? I'd like to know what things would 'a' been foryou without Felix and Isabel and all their friends. You want tothink a little. You like good times too well to throw all thataway.

　　MADELINE: I do like good times. So does Fred Jordan like goodtimes. (smooths the wrinkled paper) I don't knowanybody—unless it is myself—loves to be out, as hedoes. (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 thehill. She gets a yard stick, looks in a box and finds a piece ofchalk. On the floor she marks off FRED JORDAN'S cell.Slowly, at the end left unchalked, as for a door, she goes in. Herhand goes up as against a wall; looks at her other hand, sees it isout too far, brings it in, giving herself the width of the cell.Walks its length, halts, looks up.) And one window—toohigh up to see out.

　　(In the moment she stands there, she is in thatcell; she is all the people who are in those cells. EMILJOHNSON appears from outside; he is the young man brought up ona 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 barelynods and does not turn. In an excited manner he begins gathering upthe corn he has taken from the sack. EMIL turns back toMADELINE) Well, I'm just from the courthouse. Looks like you and Imight take a ride together, Madeline. You come before theCommissioner at four.

　　IRA: What have you got to do with it?

　　MADELINE: Oh, Emil has a courthouse job now, father. He's partof the law.

　　IRA: Well, he's not going to take you to the law! Anybodyelse—not Emil Johnson!

　　MADELINE: (astonished—and gently, to make up for hisrudeness) Why—father, why not Emil? Since I'm going, Ithink it's nice to go in with someone I know—with a neighbourlike Emil.

　　IRA: If this is what he lived for! If this iswhy—

　　(He twists the ear of corn until some of thekernels drip off. MADELINE and EMIL look at oneanother in bewilderment.)

　　EMIL: It's too bad anybody has to take Madeline in. I shouldthink your uncle could fix it up. (low) And with your fathertaking it like this—(to help IRA) That's fine corn, MrMorton. My corn's getting better all the time, but I'd like to getsome of this for seed.

　　IRA: (rising and turning on him) You get my corn? I raisethis corn for you? (not to them—his mind now going whereit is shut off from any other mind) If I could make thewind stand still! I want to turn the wind around.

　　MADELINE: (going to him) Why—father. I don'tunderstand at all.

　　IRA: Don't understand. Nobody understands. (a curse with asob in it) God damn the wind!

　　(Sits down, his back to them.)

　　EMIL: (after a silence) Well, I'll go. (but hecontinues to look at IRA, who is holding the sack of comshut, as if someone may take it) Too bad—(stopped by asign from MADELINE, not to speak of it) Well, I wassaying, I have go on to Beard's Crossing. I'll stop for you on myway back. (confidentially) Couldn't you telephone youruncle? He could do something. You don't know what you're going upagainst. 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. Nobail for them. I've got the inside dope about them. They're goingto get what this country can hand 'em; then after we've given thema nice little taste of prison life in America, they're going to besent 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 andmake a little friendly call on your uncle. When your case comes totrial—and Judge Lenon may be on thebench—(whistles) He's one fiend for Americanism. Butif your uncle was to tell the right parties that you're just agirl, and didn't realize what you were saying—

　　MADELINE: I did realize what I was saying, and every word you'vejust said makes me know I meant what I said. I said if this waswhat our country has come to, then I'm not for our country. I saidthat—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 acoward.

　　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 youthink—or hate yourself.

　　EMIL: (with a grin) Then hate yourself.

　　MADELINE: (smiling too) No thank you; it spoils myfun.

　　EMIL: Well, look-a-here, Madeline, aren't you spoiling your funnow? You're a girl who liked to be out. Ain't I seen you from ourplace, with this one and that one, sometimes all by yourself,strikin' out over the country as if you was crazy about it? How'dyou like to be where you couldn't even see out?

　　MADELINE: (a step nearer the cell) There oughtn't to besuch places.

　　EMIL: Oh, well—Jesus, if you're going to talk aboutthat—! 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 Ihave 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 alocked-up American than a free American.

　　EMIL: I don't think you'd like the place, Madeline. There's notmuch 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 youruncle.

　　(He goes.)

　　IRA: (not looking at her) There might be a fine, andthey'd come down on me and take my land.

　　MADELINE: Oh, no, father, I think not. Anyway, I have a littlemoney of my own. Grandfather Morton left me something. Have youforgotten that?

　　IRA: No. No, I know he left you something. (the words seem tobother him) I know he left you something.

　　MADELINE: I get it to-day. (wistfully) This is mybirthday, father. I'm twenty-one.

　　IRA: Your birthday? Twenty-one? (in pain) Was thattwenty-one years ago? (it is not to his daughter this has turnedhim)

　　MADELINE: It's the first birthday I can remember that I haven'thad 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'mgrown up now.

　　(She reaches out for the old Hungarian dish onthe table; holding it, she looks to her father, whose back is stillturned. Her face tender, she is about to speak when hespeaks.)

　　IRA: Grown up now—and going off and leaving me alone. Youtoo—the last one. And—what for? (turning, lookingaround the room as for those long gone) There used to be somany in this house. My grandmother. She sat there. (pointing tothe place near the open door) Fine days like this—in thatchair (points to the rocker) she'd sit there—tell mestories of the Indians. Father. It wasn't ever lonely where fatherwas. Then Madeline Fejevary—my Madeline came to this house.Lived with me in this house. Then one day she—walked out ofthis house. Through that door—through the field—out ofthis house. (bitter silence) Then Fred—out of thishouse. Now you. With Emil Johnson! (insanely, and almost withrelief at leaving things more sane) Don't let him touch mycorn. If he touches one kernel of this corn! (with the suspicionof the tormented mind) I wonder where he went? How do I know hewent where he said he was going? (getting up) I dunnoas 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 goesto the window and looks after him. A moment later, hearing someoneat the door, she turns and finds her AUNT ISABEL, who hasappeared from right. Goes swiftly to her, hands out.)

　　MADELINE: Oh, auntie—I'm glad you came! It's mybirthday, and I'm—lonely.

　　AUNT ISABEL: You dear little girl! (again giving her a hug,which MADELINE returns, lovingly) Don't I know it's yourbirthday? Don't think that day will ever get by while your AuntIsabel's around. Just see what's here for your birthday. (handsher the package she is carrying)

　　MADELINE: (with a gasp—suspecting from its shape)Oh! (her face aglow) Why—is it?

　　AUNT ISABEL: (laughing affectionately) Foolish child,open it and see.

　　(MADELINE loosens the paper and pulls out atennis racket.)

　　MADELINE: (excited, and moved) Oh, aunt Isabel! that wasdear of you. I shouldn't have thought you'd—quite dothat.

　　AUNT ISABEL: I couldn't imagine Madeline without a racket.(gathering up the paper, lightly reproachful) But be alittle careful of it, Madeline. It's meant for tennis balls.(they laugh together)

　　MADELINE: (making a return with it) It's a peach.(changing) Wonder where I'll play now.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Why, you'll play on the courts at Morton College.Who has a better right?

　　MADELINE: Oh, I don't know. It's pretty much balled up, isn'tit?

　　AUNT ISABEL: Yes; we'll have to get it straightened out.(gently) It was really dreadful of you, Madeline, to rushout a second time. It isn't as if they were people who wereanything to you.

　　MADELINE: But, auntie, they are something to me.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Oh, dear, that's what Horace said.

　　MADELINE: What's what Horace said?

　　AUNT ISABEL: That you must have a case on one of them.

　　MADELINE: That's what Horace would say. That makes me sore!

　　AUNT ISABEL: I'm sorry I spoke of it. Horace is absurd in someways.

　　MADELINE: He's a—

　　AUNT ISABEL: (stopping it with her hand) No, he isn't.He's a headstrong boy, but a very loving one. He's dear with me,Madeline.

　　MADELINE: Yes. You are good to each other. (her eyes aredrawn to the cell)

　　AUNT ISABEL: Of course we are. We'd be a pretty poor sort if weweren't. And these are days when we have to standtogether—all of us who are the same kind of people must standtogether because the thing that makes us the same kind of people isthreatened.

　　MADELINE: Don't you think we're rather threatening it ourselves,auntie?

　　AUNT ISABEL: Why, no, we're fighting for it.

　　MADELINE: Fighting for what?

　　AUNT ISABEL: For Americanism; for—democracy.

　　MADELINE: Horace is fighting for it?

　　AUNT ISABEL: Well, Horace does go at it as if it were a footballgame, but his heart's in the right place.

　　MADELINE: Somehow, I don't seem to see my heart in thatplace.

　　AUNT ISABEL: In what place?

　　MADELINE: Where Horace's heart is.

　　AUNT ISABEL: It's too bad you and Horace quarrel. But you and Idon't quarrel, Madeline.

　　MADELINE: (again drawn to the cell) No. You and I don'tquarrel. (she is troubled)

　　AUNT ISABEL: Funny child! Do you want us to?

　　(MADELINE turns, laughing a little, takes thedish from the table, holds it out to her aunt.)

　　MADELINE: Have some fudge, auntie.

　　AUNT ISABEL: (taking the dish) Do you usethem?—the old Hungarian dishes? (laughingly) I'm notallowed to—your uncle is so choice of the few pieces we have.And here are you with fudge in one of them.

　　MADELINE: I made the fudge because—oh, I don't know, I hadto do something to celebrate my birthday.

　　AUNT ISABEL: (under her breath) Dearie!

　　MADELINE: And then that didn't seem to—make a birthday, soI happened to see this, way up on a top shelf, and I rememberedthat it was my mother's. It was nice to get it down and useit—almost as if mother was giving me a birthday present.

　　AUNT ISABEL: And how she would love to give you a birthdaypresent.

　　MADELINE: It was her mother's, I suppose, and they brought itfrom Hungary.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Yes. They brought only a very few things with them,and left—oh, so many beautiful ones behind.

　　MADELINE: (quietly) Rather nice of them, wasn't it?(her aunt waits inquiringly) To leave their own beautifulthings—their own beautiful life behind—simply becausethey believed life should be more beautiful for more people.

　　AUNT ISABEL: (with constraint) Yes. (gayly turningit) Well, now, as to the birthday. What do you suppose Sarah isdoing this instant? Putting red frosting on white frosting,(writing it with her finger) Madeline. And what do yousuppose Horace is doing? (this a little reproachfully)Running around buying twenty-one red candles. Twenty-two—oneto grow on. Big birthday cake. Party to-night.

　　MADELINE: But, auntie, I don't see how I can be there.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Listen, dear. Now, we've got to use our wits andall pull together. Of course we'd do anything in the world ratherthan see you—left to outsiders. I've never seen your uncle asworried, and—truly, Madeline, as sad. Oh, my dear, it's thesehuman things that count! What would life be without the love wehave for each other?

　　MADELINE: The love we have for each other?

　　AUNT ISABEL: Why, yes, dearest. Don't turn away from meMadeline. Don't—don't be strange. I wonder if you realize howyour uncle has worked to have life a happy thing for all of us? Bea little generous to him. He's had this great burden of bringingsomething from another day on into this day. It is not as simple asit may seem. He's done it as best he could. It will hurt him asnothing has ever hurt him if you now undo that work of his life.Truly, dear, do you feel you know enough about it to do that?Another thing: people are a little absurd out of their own places.We need to be held in our relationships—against ourbackground—or we are—I don't know—grotesque. Comenow, Madeline, where's your sense of humour? Isn't it a littleabsurd for you to leave home over India's form of government?

　　MADELINE: It's not India. It's America. A sense of humour isnothing to hide behind!

　　AUNT ISABEL: (with a laugh) I knew I wouldn't be asuccess at world affairs—better leave that to ProfessorHolden. (a quick keen look from MADELINE) They've driven onto the river—they'll be back for me, and then he wants tostop in for a visit with you while I take Mrs Holden for a furtherride. I'm worried about her. She doesn't gain strength at all sinceher operation. I'm going to try keeping her out in the air all Ican.

　　MADELINE: It's dreadful about families!

　　AUNT ISABEL: Dreadful? Professor Holden's devotion to his wifeis one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

　　MADELINE: And is that all you see it in?

　　AUNT ISABEL: You mean the—responsibility it brings? Oh,well—that's what life is. Doing for one another. Sacrificingfor one another.

　　MADELINE: I hope I never have a family.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Well, I hope you do. You'll miss the best of lifeif you don't. Anyway, you have a family. Where is your father?

　　MADELINE: I don't know.

　　AUNT ISABEL: I'd like to see him.

　　MADELINE: There's no use seeing him today.

　　AUNT ISABEL: He's—?

　　MADELINE: Strange—shut in—afraid something's goingto be taken from him.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Poor Ira. So much has been taken from him. And nowyou. Don't hurt him again, Madeline. He can't bear it. You see whatit does to him.

　　MADELINE: He has—the wrong idea about things.

　　AUNT ISABEL: 'The wrong idea!' Oh, my child—that's awfullyyoung and hard. It's so much deeper than that. Life has made himinto something—something he can't escape.

　　MADELINE: (with what seems sullenness) Well, I don't wantto be made into that thing.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Of course not. But you want to help him, don't you?Now, dear—about your birthday party—

　　MADELINE: The United States Commissioner is giving me mybirthday party.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Well, he'll have to put his party off. Your unclehas been thinking it all out. We're to go to his office and you'llhave a talk with him and with Judge Watkins. He's off the statesupreme bench now—practising again, and as a favour to youruncle he will be your lawyer. You don't know how relieved we are atthis, for Judge Watkins can do—anything he wants to do,practically. Then you and I will go on home and call up some of thecrowd to come in and dance to-night. We have some beautiful newrecords. There's a Hungarian waltz—

　　MADELINE: And what's the price of all this, auntie?

　　AUNT ISABEL: The—Oh, you mean—Why, simply say youfelt sorry for the Hindu students because they seemed rather alone;that you hadn't realized—what they were, hadn't thought outwhat you were saying—

　　MADELINE: And that I'm sorry and will never do it again.

　　AUNT ISABEL: I don't know that you need say that. It would begracious, I think, to indicate it.

　　MADELINE: I'm sorry you—had the cake made. I suppose youcan eat it, anyway. I (turning away)—can't eat it.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Why—Madeline.

　　(Seeing how she has hurt her, MADELINEgoes out to her aunt.)

　　MADELINE: Auntie, dear! I'm sorry—if I hurt yourfeelings.

　　AUNT ISABEL: (quick to hold out a loving hand, laughing alittle) They've been good birthday cakes, haven't they,Madeline?

　　MADELINE: (she now trying not to cry) I don'tknow—what I'd have done without them. Don't know—what Iwill do without them. I don't—see it.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Don't try to. Please don't see it! Just let me goon helping you. That's all I ask. (she draws MADELINE toher) Ah, dearie, I held you when you were a little baby withoutyour mother. All those years count for something, Madeline. There'sjust nothing to life if years of love don't count for something.(listening) I think I hear them. And here are we, weepinglike two idiots. (MADELINE brushes away tears, AUNT ISABELarranges her veil, regaining her usual poise) ProfessorHolden was hoping you'd take a tramp with him. Wouldn't that do yougood? Anyway, a talk with him will be nice. I know he admires youimmensely, and really—perhaps I shouldn't let you knowthis—sympathizes with your feeling. So I think his maturerway of looking at things will show you just the adjustment you needto become a really big and useful person. There's so much to bedone in the world, Madeline. Of course we ought to make it a betterworld. (in a manner of agreement with MADELINE) I feel verystrongly about all that. Perhaps we can do some things together.I'd love that. Don't think I'm hopeless! Way down deep we have thesame feeling. Yes, here's Professor Holden.

　　(HOLDEN comes in. He seems older.)

　　HOLDEN: And how are you, Madeline? (holding out hishand)

　　MADELINE: I'm—all right.

　　HOLDEN: Many happy returns of the day. (embarrassed by herhalf laugh) The birthday.

　　AUNT ISABEL: And did you have a nice look up the river?

　　HOLDEN: I never saw this country as lovely as it is to-day. Maryis just drinking it in.

　　AUNT ISABEL: You don't think the further ride will be toomuch?

　　HOLDEN: Oh, no—not in that car.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Then we'll go on—perhaps as far as LaughingCreek. If you two decide on a tramp—take that road and we'llpick you up. (smiling warmly, she goes out)

　　HOLDEN: How good she is.

　　MADELINE: Yes. That's just the trouble.

　　HOLDEN: (with difficulty getting past this) How about alittle tramp? There'll never be another such day.

　　MADELINE: I used to tramp with Fred Jordan. This is where he isnow. (stepping inside the cell) He doesn't even see out.

　　HOLDEN: It's all wrong that he should be where he is. But foryou to stay indoors won't help him, Madeline.

　　MADELINE: It won't help him, but—today—I can't goout.

　　HOLDEN: I'm sorry, my child. When this sense of wrongs donefirst comes down upon one, it does crush.

　　MADELINE: And later you get used to it and don't care.

　　HOLDEN: You care. You try not to destroy yourself needlessly.(he turns from her look)

　　MADELINE: Play safe.

　　HOLDEN: If it's playing safe it's that one you love more thanyourself be safe. It would be a luxury to—destroy one'sself.

　　MADELINE: That sounds like Uncle Felix. (seeing she has hurthim, she goes over and sits across from him at the table) I'msorry. I say the wrong things today.

　　HOLDEN: I don't know that you do.

　　MADELINE: But isn't uncle funny? His left mind doesn't know whathis right mind is doing. He has to think of himself as a person ofsentiment—idealism, and—quite a job, at times.Clever—how he gets away with it. The war must have been agodsend to people who were in danger of getting on to themselves.But I should think you could fool all of yourself all the time.

　　HOLDEN: You don't. (he is rubbing his hand on thetable)

　　MADELINE: Grandfather Morton made this table. I suppose he andGrandfather Fejevary used to sit here and talk—they weregreat old pals. (slowly HOLDEN turns and looks out at thehill) Yes. How beautiful the hill must have been—beforethere was a college there. (he looks away from the hill) Didyou know Grandfather Morton?

　　HOLDEN: Yes, I knew him. (speaking of it against hiswill) I had a wonderful talk with him once; aboutGreece—and the cornfields, and life.

　　MADELINE: I'd like to have been a pioneer! Some ways they had itfierce, but think of the fun they had! A whole big land to open up!A big new life to begin! (her hands closing in from wideness toa smaller thing) Why did so much get shut out? Just a littleway back—anything might have been. What happened?

　　HOLDEN: (speaking with difficulty) It got—set toosoon.

　　MADELINE: (all of her mind open, trying to know) And whydid it? Prosperous, I suppose. That seems to set things—setthem in fear. Silas Morton wasn't afraid of Felix Fejevary, theHungarian revolutionist. He laid this country at that refugee'sfeet! That's what Uncle Felix says himself—with the left halfof his mind. Now—the Hindu revolutionists—!(pause) I took a walk late yesterday afternoon. Night came,and for some reason I thought of how many nights havecome—nights the earth has known long before we knew theearth. The moon came up and I thought of how moonlight made thiscountry beautiful before any man knew that moonlight was beautiful.It gave me a feeling of coming from something a long way back.Moving toward—what will be here when I'm not here. Moving. Weseem here, now, in America, to have forgotten we're moving. Thinkit's just us—just now. Of course, that would make usafraid, and—ridiculous.

　　(Her father comes in.)

　　IRA: Your Aunt Isabel—did she go away—and leaveyou?

　　MADELINE: She's coming back.

　　IRA: For you?

　　MADELINE: She—wants me to go with her. This is ProfessorHolden, father.

　　HOLDEN: How do you do, Mr Morton?

　　IRA: (nods, not noticing HOLDEN's offered hand)How'do. When is she coming back?

　　MADELINE: Soon.

　　IRA: And then you're going with her?

　　MADELINE: I—don't know.

　　IRA: I say you go with her. You want them all to come down onus? (to HOLDEN) What are you here for?

　　MADELINE: Aunt Isabel brought Professor Holden, father.

　　IRA: Oh. Then you—you tell her what to do. You make her doit. (he goes into the room at left)

　　MADELINE: (sadly, after a silence) Father's likesomething touched by an early frost.

　　HOLDEN: Yes. (seeing his opening and forcing himself to takeit) But do you know, Madeline, there are other ways of thathappening—'touched by an early frost'. I've seen it happen topeople I know—people of fine and daring mind. They do a thingthat puts them apart—it may be the big, brave thing—butthe apartness does something to them. I've seen it manytimes—so many times—so many times, I fear for you. Youdo this thing and you'll find yourself with people who in many waysyou don't care for at all; find yourself apart from people who inmost ways are your own people. You're many-sided, Madeline.(moves her tennis racket) I don't know about it's all goingto one side. I hate to see you, so young, close a door on so muchlife. I'm being just as honest with you as I know how. I myself ammaking compromises to stay within. I don't like it, but thereare—reasons for doing it. I can't see you leave that mainbody without telling you all it is you are leaving. It's not aclean-cut case—the side of the world or the side of theangels. I hate to see you lose the—fullness of life.

　　MADELINE: (a slight start, as she realizes the pause. As onerecalled from far) I'm sorry. I was listening to what you weresaying—but all the time—something else was happening.Grandfather Morton, big and—oh, terrible. He was here. And wewent to that walled-up hole in the ground—(rising andpointing down at the chalked cell)—where they keep FredJordan on bread and water because he couldn't be a part of nationsof men killing each other—and Silas Morton—only he wasall that is back of us, tore open that cell—it was his voicetore it open—his voice as he cried, 'God damn you, this isAmerica!' (sitting down, as if rallying from a tremendousexperience) I'm sorry—it should have happened, while youwere speaking. Won't you—go on?

　　HOLDEN: That's a pretty hard thing to go on against. (after amoment) I can't go on.

　　MADELINE: You were thinking of leaving the college, andthen—decided to stay? (he nods) And you feel there'smore—fullness of life for you inside the college thanoutside?

　　HOLDEN: No—not exactly. (again a pause) It's veryhard for me to talk to you.

　　MADELINE: (gently) Perhaps we needn't do it.

　　HOLDEN: (something in him forcing him to say it) I'mstaying for financial reasons.

　　MADELINE: (kind, but not going to let the truth get away)You don't think that—having to stay within—or decidingto, rather, makes you think these things of the—blight ofbeing without?

　　HOLDEN: I think there is danger to you in—so young,becoming alien to society.

　　MADELINE: As great as the danger of staying within—andbecoming like the thing I'm within?

　　HOLDEN: You wouldn't become like it.

　　MADELINE: Why wouldn't I? That's what it does to the rest ofyou. I don't see it—this fullness of life business. I don'tsee that Uncle Felix has got it—or even Aunt Isabel, andyou—I think that in buying it you're losing it.

　　HOLDEN: I don't think you know what a cruel thing you aresaying.

　　MADELINE: There must be something pretty rotten about MortonCollege if you have to sell your soul to stay in it!

　　HOLDEN: You don't 'sell your soul'. You persuade yourself towait.

　　MADELINE: (unable to look at him, as if feeling shame)You have had a talk with Uncle Felix since that day in the libraryyou stepped aside for me to pass.

　　HOLDEN: Yes; and with my wife's physician. If you sell yoursoul—it's to love you sell it.

　　MADELINE: (low) That's strange. It's lovethat—brings life along, and then it's love—holds lifeback.

　　HOLDEN: (and all the time with this effort againsthopelessness) Leaving me out of it, I'd like to see you giveyourself a little more chance for detachment. You need a betterintellectual equipment if you're going to fight the world you findyourself in. I think you will count for more if you wait, and whenyou strike, strike more maturely.

　　MADELINE: Detachment. (pause) This is one thing they doat this place. (she moves to the open door) Chain them up tothe bars—just like this. (in the doorway where her twograndfathers once pledged faith with the dreams of a million years,she raises clasped hands as high as they will go) Eight hours aday—day after day. Just hold your arms up like this one hourthen sit down and think about—(as if tortured by all whohave been so tortured, her body begins to give with sobs, armsdrop, the last word is a sob) detachment.

　　HOLDEN is standing helplessly by when her father comesin.

　　IRA: (wildly) Don't cry. No! Not in this house! Ican't—Your aunt and uncle will fix it up. The law won't takeyou this time—and you won't do it again.

　　MADELINE: Oh, what does that matter—what they do tome?

　　IRA: What are you crying about then?

　　MADELINE: It's—the world. It's—

　　IRA: The world? If that's all you've got to cry about!(to HOLDEN) Tell her that's nothing to cry about. What's thematter with you. Mad'line? That's crazy—cryin' about theworld! What good has ever come to this house through carin' aboutthe world? What good's that college? Better we had that hill. Whyis there no one in this house to-day but me and you? Where's yourmother? Where's your brother? The world.

　　HOLDEN: I think your father would like to talk to you. I'll gooutside—walk a little, and come back for you with your aunt.You must let us see you through this, Madeline. You couldn't bearthe things it would bring you to. I see that now. (as he passesher in the doorway his hand rests an instant on her bent head)You're worth too much to break.

　　IRA: (turning away) I don't want to talk to you. Whatgood comes of talking? (In moving, he has stepped near the sackof corn. Takes hold of it.) But not with Emil Johnson! That'snot—what your mother died for.

　　MADELINE: Father, you must talk to me. What did my mother diefor? No one has ever told me about her—except that she wasbeautiful—not like other people here. I got a feelingof—something from far away. Something from long ago. Rare.Why can't Uncle Felix talk about her? Why can't you? Wouldn't shewant me to know her? Tell me about her. It's my birthday and I needmy mother.

　　IRA: (as if afraid he is going to do it) How can youtouch—what you've not touched in nineteen years? Justonce—in nineteen years—and that did no good.

　　MADELINE: Try. Even though it hurts. Didn't you use to talk toher? Well, I'm her daughter. Talk to me. What has she to do withEmil Johnson?

　　IRA: (the pent-up thing loosed) What has she to do withhim? She died so he could live. He lives because she's dead, (inanguish) And what is he alongside her? Yes. Somethingfrom far away. Something from long ago. Rare. How'd you know that?Finding in me—what I didn't know was there. Then shecame—that ignorant Swede—Emil Johnson'smother—running through the cornfield like a crazywoman—'Miss Morton! Miss Morton! Come help me! My childrenare choking!' Diphtheria they had—the whole of 'em—butout of this house she ran—my Madeline, leaving you—herown baby—running as fast as she could through the cornfieldafter that immigrant woman. She stumbled in the roughfield—fell to her knees. That was the last I saw of her. Shechoked to death in that Swede's house. They lived.

　　MADELINE: (going to him) Oh—father, (voicerich) But how lovely of her.

　　IRA: Lovely? Lovely to leave you without a mother—leave mewithout her after I'd had her? Wasn't she worth more than them.

　　MADELINE: (proudly) Yes. She was worth so much that shenever stopped to think how much she was worth.

　　IRA: Ah, if you'd known her you couldn't take it like that. Andnow you cry about the world! That's what the world is—allcoming to nothing. My father used to sit there at the table andtalk about the world—my father and her father. They thought'twas all for something—that what you were went on intosomething more than you. That's the talk I always heard in thishouse. But it's just talk. The rare thing that came here was killedby the common thing that came here. Just happens—and happenscruel. Look at your brother! Gone—(snaps his fingers)like that. I told him not to go to war. He didn't have togo—they'd been glad enough to have him stay here on the farm.But no,—he must—make the world safe for democracy!Well, you see how safe he made it, don't you? Now I'm alone on thefarm and he—buried on some Frenchman's farm. That is, I hopethey buried him—I hope they didn'tjust—(tormented)

　　MADELINE: Oh, father—of course not. I know they did.

　　IRA: How do you know? What do you care—once they got him?He talked about the world—better world—end war.Now he's in his grave—I hope he is—and look at thefront page of the paper! No such thing—war to end war!

　　MADELINE: But he thought there was, father. Fred believedthat—so what else could he do?

　　IRA: He could 'a' minded his own business.

　　MADELINE: No—oh, no. It was fine of him to give his lifeto what he believed should be.

　　IRA: The light in his eyes as he talked of it, now—eyesgone—and the world he died for all hate and war. Waste.Waste. Nothin' but waste—the life of this house. Why, folksto-day'd laugh to hear my father talk. He gave his best land forideas to live. Thought was going to make us a better people. Whatwas his word? (waits) Aspiration. (says it as if it is afar-off thing) Well, look at your friend, young Jordan. Kickedfrom the college to prison for ideas of a better world.(laughs) His 'aspiration' puts him in a hole on bread andwater! So—mind your own business, that's all that's so inthis country. (constantly tormented anew) Oh, I told yourbrother all that—the night I tried to keep him. Told himabout his mother—to show what come of running to other folks.And he said—standing right there—(pointing) eyesall bright, he said, 'Golly, I think that's great!' And thenhe—walked out of this house. (fear takes him)Madeline! (she stoops over him, her arm around him) Don'tyou leave me—all alone in this house—where so many wasonce. What's Hindus—alongside your own father—and himneeding you? It won't be long. After a little I'll be dead—orcrazy—or something. But not here alone where so many wasonce.

　　MADELINE: Oh—father. I don't know what to do.

　　IRA: Nothing stays at home. Not even the corn stays at home. Ifonly the wind wouldn't blow! Why can't I have my field to myself?Why can't I keep what's mine? All these years I've worked to makeit better. I wanted it to be—the most that it could be. Myfather used to talk about the Indians—how our land was theirland, and how we must be more than them. He had his own ideas ofbein' more—well, what's that come to? The Indians livedhappier than we—wars, strikes, prisons. But I've made thecorn more! This land that was once Indian maize now growscorn—I'd like to have the Indians see my corn! I'd like tosee them side by side!—their Indian maize, my corn. And how'dI get it? Ah, by thinkin'—always tryin', changin', carin'.Plant this corn by that corn, and the pollen blows from corn tocorn—the golden dust it blows, in the sunshine and ofnights—blows from corn to corn like a—(the wordhurts) gift. No, you don't understand it, but (proudly)corn don't stay what it is! You can make itanything—according to what you do, 'cording to the corn it'salongside. (changing) But that's it. I want it to stay in myfield. It goes away. The prevailin' wind takes it on to theJohnsons—them Swedes that took my Madeline! I hear it! Oh,nights when I can't help myself—and in the sunshine I can seeit—pollen—soft golden dust to make new life—goin'on to them,—and them too ignorant to know what'smakin' their corn better! I want my field to myself. What'd I workall my life for? Work that's had to take the place o' what Ilost—is that to go to Emil Johnson? No! The wind shall standstill! I'll make it. I'll find a way. Let me alone and I—I'llthink it out. Let me alone, I say.

　　(A mind burned to one idea, with greedy haste heshuts himself in the room at left. MADELINE has beenstanding there as if mist is parting and letting her see. And asthe vision grows power grows in her. She is thus flooded withricher life when her AUNT and Professor HOLDEN comeback. Feeling something new, for a moment they do notspeak.)

　　AUNT ISABEL: Ready, dear? It's time for us to go now.

　　MADELINE: (with the quiet of plentitude) I'm going inwith Emil Johnson.

　　AUNT ISABEL: Why—Madeline. (falteringly) We thoughtyou'd go with us.

　　MADELINE: No. I have to be—the most I can be. I want thewind to have something to carry.

　　AUNT ISABEL: (after a look at Professor HOLDEN, who islooking intensely at MADELINE) I don't understand.

　　MADELINE: The world is all a—moving field. (her handsmove, voice too is of a moving field) Nothing is to itself. IfAmerica thinks so—America is like father. I don't feel aloneany more. The wind has come through—wind rich from lives nowgone. Grandfather Fejevary, gift from a field far off. SilasMorton. No, not alone any more. And afraid? I'm not even afraid ofbeing absurd!

　　AUNT ISABEL: But Madeline—you're leaving your father?

　　MADELINE: (after thinking it out) I'm notleaving—what's greater in him than he knows.

　　AUNT ISABEL: You're leaving Morton College?

　　MADELINE: That runt on a high hill? Yes, I'm leavinggrandfather's college—then maybe I can one day lie under thesame sod with him, and not be ashamed. Though I must tell you (alittle laugh) under the sod is my idea of no place to be. Iwant to be a long time—where the wind blows.

　　AUNT ISABEL: (who is trying not to cry) I'm afraid itwon't blow in prison, dear.

　　MADELINE: I don't know. Might be the only place it would blow.(EMIL passes the window, hesitates at the door) I'll beready in just a moment, Emil.

　　(He waits outside.)

　　AUNT ISABEL: Madeline, I didn't tell you—I hoped itwouldn't be necessary, but your uncle said—if you refused todo it his way, he could do absolutely nothing for you, noteven—bail.

　　MADELINE: Of course not. I wouldn't expect him to.

　　AUNT ISABEL: He feels so deeply about thesethings—America—loyalty, he said if you didn't come withus it would be final, Madeline. Even—(breaks) betweenyou and me.

　　MADELINE: I'm sorry, auntie. You know how I love you. (andher voice tells it) But father has been telling me about thecorn. It gives itself away all the time—the best corn a giftto other corn. What you are—that doesn't stay with you.Then—(not with assurance, but feeling her way) be themost you can be, so life will be more because you were. (freedby the truth she has found) Oh—do that! Why do we threego apart? Professor Holden, his beautiful trained mind; AuntIsabel—her beautiful love, love that could save the world ifonly you'd—throw it to the winds. (moving nearerHOLDEN, hands out to him) Why do—(seeing it is notto be, she turns away. Low, with sorrow for that great beautylost) Oh, have we brought mind, have we brought heart, up tothis place—only to turn them against mind and heart?

　　HOLDEN: (unable to bear more) I think we—must go.(going to MADELINE, holding out his hand and speakingfrom his sterile life to her fullness of life) Good-bye,Madeline. Good luck.

　　MADELINE: Good-bye, Professor Holden. (hesitates) Luck toyou.

　　(Shaking his head, stooped, he hurriesout.)

　　MADELINE: (after a moment when neither can speak)Good-bye—auntie dearest. Thank you—for the birthdaypresent—the cake—everything. Everything—all theyears.

　　(There is something AUNT ISABEL would say,but she can only hold tight to MADELINE's hands. At last,with a smile that speaks for love, a little nod, she goes. EMILcomes in.)

　　EMIL: You better go with them, Madeline. It'd make it better foryou.

　　MADELINE: Oh no, it wouldn't. I'll be with you in an instant,Emil. I want to—say good-bye to my father.

　　(But she waits before that door, a door hard togo through. Alone, EMIL looks around the room. Sees the bagof corn, takes a couple of ears and is looking at them asMADELINE returns. She remains by the door, shaken with sobs,turns, as if pulled back to the pain she has left.)

　　EMIL: Gee. This is great corn.

　　MADELINE: (turning now to him) It is, isn't it, Emil?

　　EMIL: None like it.

　　MADELINE: And you say—your corn is getting better?

　　EMIL: Oh, yes—I raise better corn every year now.

　　MADELINE: (low) That's nice. I'll be right out, Emil.

　　(He puts the corn back, goes out. From thecloset MADELINE takes her hat and wrap. Putting them on, shesees the tennis racket on the table. She goes to it, takes it up,holds it a moment, then takes it to the closet, puts it carefullyaway, closes the door behind it. A moment she stands there in theroom, as if listening to something. Then she leaves thathouse.)

　　(CURTAIN)