A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS
By TRACY D. MYGATT
ºrweave rºotsawa
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Courtesy ºf The Dawn
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
By DAVID STARR JORDAN
NEW YORK
1917





///TC H F I RES
A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS
i By TRACY D. MYGATT
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
By DAVID STARR JORDAN
NEW YORK
1917
Copyright, 1917, by Tracy D. Mygat
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
For permission
to give this play, apply to the Author,
Jane Street, New Yor
Second Edition
§
*
INTRODUCTION
Miss Mygatt's play, Watchfires, teaches the most needed
lesson of the day, that humanity knows no national lines,
and that all those who suffer the cruelties of war, suffer
alike and together.
One of the noblest scholars the great University of Paris
ever sent to America, Robert Pelissier, Professor of French
at Stanford, was among the thousands of young men de-
stroyed in the attack on the Somme. His last letter to
America said: “The soldiers in the ranks do not hate each
other. They say, ‘Les Boches, ce sont des hommes comme
nous.’” (The Prussians, they are men like us.) It is
not the soldier that keeps alive the fear, the lies, the hate,
that surround every war like an atmosphere of pestilence,
—war which starts with the men who make money by it,
and is joyously pushed on by those who welcome it as a
backfire against democracy. It is a unique form of crime
so adjusted that those only suffer who are innocent.
Meantime, those left behind, since they can do nothing
to check the dreaded foe, wait in fear and hate and ignor-
ance. In Norman Hall's poem, the London soldier “is
glad to get back in the trenches again where there is more
of human feeling.” -
The number slain in the present war, killed, starved,
wounded, mutilated, uncared for, is said to approach forty
million. This is only a guess, but if the number were
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WATCHFIRES
divided in half, it would still represent as many people as
live beyond the Mississippi river. And each one of these
was beloved by someone, cherished in a spirit that knows
no political borderlines, the same spirit that holds together
your family and mine. This means an aggregate of per-
Sonal distress with which no other planet in the stellar
universe, not even fiery Mars, could compete.
“I cannot help thinking of you as ye deserve, oh ye
governments ſ” cries Thoreau. For it is through the
weakness and inhumanity of governments that this cloud
of misery is let loose on the world,—governments that have
no root in the will of the people, which wrangle with one
another over petty private interests and barbaric robberies,
and which in time of stress have no resource but to make
their people fight.
These matters, war's cause, identical in all countries, its
common cost in human happiness, together with the cry
of the peoples that will not be stilled, for peace and liberty
of conscience, Miss Mygatt’s play suggests. It ranks with
the very best of the war-dramas. In this dark hour of
crisis, I wish all Americans might read Watchfires, might
love Sidney and Mary, and courageous Frieda as well,
breathing meanwhile the play's clear air of international
understanding.
DAVID STARR JORDAN.
New York,
March 20th, 1917.
t
TO
FANNIE M. WITHERSPOON
Whose fearless scrutiny and creative faith
have helped me to believe that wars shall cease, this play
is dedicated.
Yç º
■=~~ •
Persons of the Play
(They are named in the order of their appearance)
Mrs. Neville.
Edward Neville, her son, a Volunteer
A Maid.
Mr. Henry Matthewson, Editor of The Patriot
Sidney Stevenson, an Active Pacifist
Frieda, a Social Democrat”
Gretchen, Another
A Little Girl
Herr Knechtbiel, a Social Democrat
The Commander
Frieda’s Mother
Fritz, a Soldier
Karlohen, a Baby
Jim, who has fought in “Kitchener's Mob”
'Liza, his wife
Geoffrey, a Conscientious Objector
Mary Greer, daughter of an English munition maker
First Woman
First Man
Second Woman
Second Man
A Plain–Clothes Man
A Reactionary
*In Germany a Socialist is called a Social Democrat.
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WATCHFIRES
The Chairman, a Passive Pacifist
Mr. Lansdowne
A Member of the Committee
A Clergyman
A Doctor
Also Children, Soldiers, Police, a Crowd, Members of the
Committee
TIME: June 1916—December 1916.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
By a consolidation of characters, the speaking parts can readily be
reduced to 15.
ACT I.-Mrs. Neville's apartment in New York.
Act II—(Six months later) Frieda's home in Berlin.
ACT III—(Seven days later) An East End Tea Shop,
London.
Act IV—(Before Christmas) A house in New York.
ACT I
TIME: June 1916.
PLACE: Mrs. Neville's apartment on the upper West
Side, New York.
A smoky sunset fills the living room, which is full of
flowers and pretty in a quiet, undistinguished way, like
thousands of other middle class homes, except that across
the sofa a guardsman's cloak is thrown, a sabre and other
accoutrements have been flung down on a table, a revolver
across a new copy of “Mr. Britling”; also the piano is
draped in an American flag, and a portrait of Theodore
Roosevelt hangs on the wall draped in the colors.
Mrs. Neville, a tall attractive woman of fifty, comes in,
a little pile of underclothing, held as if for immediate pack-
ing, in her hand.
MRS. NEVILLE: (To herself) It's for his country, or I
couldn't stand the thought of his going. Ned My little
boy! To carry this about with him day and night !
(she fingers the revolver with reverent awe.) And a little
while ago I was worrying about his Fourth of July fire-
crackers! Oh, well! we hadn’t seen a world war then—
And yet it's just as hard for me today as if all those poor
nillions of mothers weren't sending out their sons—(stops
on hearing a step. Ned comes in quickly, a good-looking
boy, fair Angle-Saxon type, vainly trying not to look too
pleased over his uniform.)
WATCHFIRES
NED : Hello, mother dear. It's great to find you here.
(Hugs her boyishly. Suddenly her courage breaks, and
she clings to him sobbing.)
MRS. NEVILLE: Ned, Ned, don't you understand? I may
never see you again! Those Mexicans are so sly—they
will do their best to kill you—don't let them, Ned, they
NED: (Smiling confidently) There, there, mother dear,
don't you worry. We'll get them first—nothing but a lot
of Greasers! Why, just look at that bayonet—(He has
disengaged himself, and picked up the weapon on the table,
stroking its blade lovingly.) This is the thing that comes
in well in the hand to hand fighting; if you just stick that
point through your enemy, bearing on hard, as Jim Brown
says, why, he just has to roll over and on you go. The
English have developed it stunningly. They
MRS. NEVILLE: (Looking at him firedly, a look of vague
horror dawning in her eyes) But, Ned, you talk as if you
liked killing !
NED: (Defiant, but half ashamed) Now, mother, of
course, I don’t like it, I just meant And anyway, I can't
see if I did like it, that it's much worse than what you've
just said about not letting the Greasers get me! One of us
has got to get the other! After all, you know, war is war.
MRs. .NEVILLE: (Doubtfully, her love still clouded by the
idea which is struggling to break through). Yes, dear, I
suppose so. But they say this isn't war—just patroling
the Border. Let's hope (She is interrupted by the ring
of the telephone, takes up the receiver.) Yes, this is Mrs.
Neville. Who did you say? Who? Oh, Sidney, yes!
Well, I’m doing my best, dear. We mothers have to give
them up, you know, when their other mother, their country,
!
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WATCHFIRES
calls them. What? I don’t understand. Not their country?
Why, Sidney, what do you mean? No, I don't understand.
The connection must be very bad You say you can hear
me?' Well, never mind. You're coming over? Well, dear,
Ned will be very glad; we’ve been expecting you all after-
noon. You were too busy with what? With who? Re-
porters? I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood, the con-
nection is atrocious—Wait, I’ll find it. In The Day, third
page, second column. (Ned, meanwhile, hovering over his
mother, has picked up The Day in question; as he finds the
article, he drops his bayonet to the floor.)
NED : (Indignantly) Mother, what are they thinking
about? Just listen to this
MRs. NEVILLE: (To Ned) In a moment, dearest. Yes,
good-bye Sidney. Very glad to see you, I'm sure. (With
a somewhat set expression she hangs up the receiver, and
crosses to sofa where she draws Ned down beside her.)
NED: (Reading sarcastically) “That the Peace Parties
calling themselves The Allied Committees of the American
Peace Movement could find no better time for pressing
their propaganda than the eve of the departure of our
troops for Mexico, is noteworthy. And although the meet-
ing was said to have been organized largely through the
efforts of a Miss Sidney Stevenson”—(Ned pauses, his
mother's fingers nervously locking and interlocking as she
watches the color mount slowly to his face; after a moment
he continues in a dry, hard voice.) “And although the
meeting was said to have been organized by a Miss Sidney
Stevenson for the purpose of creating Peace sentiment
here, with a view to the speedy termination of the Great
War, no small part of the time was consumed by a Mr.
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WATCHFIRES
Charles Barrows in his exposure of the alleged special in-
terests, which, he charged, have precipitated the present
state of friction between ourselves and Mexico. Indeed, at
one point in his address, when he was telling his audience
that “if Mexico were to follow the American example of
bandit-hunting, she would be obliged to send troops into
Wall Street for the true casus belli,' the house became so
noisy that if it had not been for some patriotic young
guardsmen, who drowned out Mr. Barrow's further dis-
closures by singing America, it is hard to predict results.
As it appears, however, the mere singing of the stirring
national anthem was enough to establish the fact that the
heart of the nation is sound, and to gloriously refute the
pacifist contention that the youth of today thinks before it
feels.” (Irritably.) Stupid sort of ending—seems to put
us in the wrong, after all. Sounds as if the reporter were
laughing at us.
MRS. NEVILLE: (Reading the paper over his shoulder)
No, no, dear, don't you see (pointing) “and gloriously re-
futes the pacifist contention”—But Sidney—you don't
think she really P
NED: Oh, hang it, Mater—I beg your pardon. (Strides
wp and down the room; his mother looks at him keenly.)
MRs. NEVILLE: I’ve sometimes thought Sidney wasn't as
—as American as she ought to be; all that Revolutionary
blood in her veins,—they used to put the country first
NED: (Roughly) I can’t talk about her Oh, of course,
she thinks she's doing just that. She said back at the Vera
Cruz stage it was only plain decency for the United States
to let Mexico solve her own problems. Oh, I don’t know
—she said, for instance, that Uncle Henry
i
12
WATCHFIRES
MRS. NEVILLE: (Looks up, startled.) What did she say
about him?
NED: That he was deliberately trying through his news-
paper to make the United States pick a quarrel with Mexico
so there'd be intervention, and then his Mexican oil wells
and stuff would bring in more dividends.
MRs. NEVILLE: (Indignantly) Ned What an abomi-
nable idea. When he prints the most patriotic paper in
America / If one American gets killed down there his red
ink headlines
NED : Oh, I never said she was right! (The bell rings,
and a maid comes in.)
MAID: Mr. Henry Matthewson. (Mother and son ex-
change glances.)
MRS. NEVILLE: (To the maid) Show him in, please. (As
the maid goes out, turns to Ned.) What a coincidence!
He'll be so glad you’re going, dear boy. (Ned tries not
to look self-conscious as Mr. Henry Matthewson, a stout
man of fifty comes into the room.)
MR. MATTHEwson: (Kissing Mrs. Neville) Well, well,
sister, how are you? 'Seems to me you look a bit seedy.
And how’s Ned? Why, why, what's this? Khaki? Going
abroad P
MRS. NEVILLE: Abroad a
NED: No, Mexico.
MR. MATTHEwson : (Blankly) Mexico? What for?
After oil wells? (Chuckles to himself.) Better wait a bit,
wait a bit. Rather warm this time of year. Now, in the
winter, delightful climate, delightful!
MRS. NEVILLE: (Frigidly) Ned isn't going for pleasure,
Henry. He has heard his country call.
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WATCHFIRES
MR. MATTHEWSON: His country? (Stares from one to
the other. It is their turn to look blank.)
NED : Why, surely, you, sir, with your newspaper, telling
us all our duty—(Stops, confused by the older man.)
MR. MATTHEWSON: (In a singular tone) You read my
newspaper?
NED: (Embarrassed in his turn) Well—er—not always;
of course, lately
MR. MATTHEwson : I see. And you? (Turning to Mrs.
Neville.)
MRS. NEVILLE: Well, your stand on this has been per-
fectly noble, Henry, your solicitude for the least of our un-
fortunate citizens—though to tell you the truth I sometimes
do think you—er—overstress the murders and (lowering
her voice) the divorce cases; (desperately) I—I don’t al-
ways read your paper—(Smiling inscrutably Mr. Matthew-
son comes close to Ned.)
MR. MATTHEwson : My dear fellow, cut this out. (He
touches the uniform.) Your mother will miss you—(They
stare at him aghast; the door bell again rings, and without
announcement Sidney Stevenson runs into the room. She
is dressed in white, a bunch of red roses at her belt. Her
clothes are conventional enough, her inherent radicalism
breaking through without their assistance in the fresh ner-
vous energy of voice and gesture; throughout the scene she
is struggling between her love for Ned and her keen sense
of the wrongheadedness of his adventure; vestigially an
affectionate cave woman, she is trying to subordinate her-
self to the impersonal good; this is emotionally hard work,
and her difficulties from time to time vent themselves in
a crossness which is, to the careful observer, a significant
*
14
WATCHFIRES
indication of her fear and her love. At the moment of
entrance she seems to see only Ned.)
MRS, NEVILLE: (Coming over to her, stretching out her
hands, glad of a diversion from an interview so bewilder-
ing to her mind.) Sidney, dear! So soon!—this is my
brother.
SIDNEY: (Scarcely noticing her; she and Ned both be-
have as if no one else were in the room. In a low voice,)
You're really going?
NED: To-night.
SIDNEY: (Tensely) Why are you going? Didn't you go
to that big meeting in Carnegief Don't you know it's all
a trap P
MRs. NEVILLE: (Interrupting more firmly.) Sidney, let
me present my brother, Mr. Henry Matthewson, Miss Sid-
ney Stevenson. (Both start and stare firedly at one an-
other.)
SIDNEY: (Very gravely) I’m glad to meet Mr. Henry
Matthewson. I’ve heard of you before. (Her eyes hold
Mr. Matthewson's until his drop.) But I did not know
you were Ned's uncle. You (she hesitates) must be de-
lighted he is enlisting.
MR. MATTHEwson : On the contrary, my dear Miss Sid-
ney—permit me, I, too, have heard of you before, I was
just advising him to–er—remain at home. There are
plenty of other boys better fitted than he
NED: (Bezwildered.) What do you mean? Why am I
not fitted? The doctor told me that I was the best speci-
men that came up for examination.
MRs. NEVILLE: I always took good care of you, dear.
SIDNEY: I think I understand. Shall I explain to your
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WATCHFIRES
nephew, Mr. Matthewson 2 (A long look passes between
them.)
MR. MATTHEwson : (Hastily) No indeed, don't take the
trouble. I see I was quite wrong. 'Had no idea you were
so strong, my dear fellow, delighted I’m sure, but I must
be going. (Kisses his sister hastily, slaps Ned on the back
and is about to go when Sidney interposes.)
SIDNEY: (Drawing a newspaper from her bag.) That
was a wonderful cartoon you had in to-day’s Patriot, Mr.
Matthewson. This—(holds up an evening paper with
picture of United States map, shaded lines extending south-
ward through Mexico, the whole marked in large caps
“Eventually, why not now?” Mother and son give an ex-
clamation of disgust, Mr. Matthewson grows pale.) It
was awfully good, you know—that big American eagle
flapping his restless wings over Mexico. Puts the issue so
squarely before us, just plain simple annexation. I should
have thought you’d have been so glad to find Ned enlisting.
MR. MATTHEwson : (Icily) That cartoon appeared with-
out my consent. It is against the policy of the paper. The
man who drew it is dismissed. I thank you Miss Steven-
son, (with an elaborate bow) for drawing my attention to
it. (Again turns to go.)
SIDNEY: (With bitter emphasis.) Send your cartoonist
to the Border, Mr. Matthewson, along with your nephew.
Why, (with a sudden quiver in her laugh) he might draw
a good picture of Ned, toes turned up in the desert—dying
for his—(she looks squarely at Mr. Matthewson) his
country.
MR. MATTHEwson: (Uncertainly) You—you'd better
stay home, young man; I imagine (with a pale attempt at
16
WATCHFIRES
jocularity) the young lady is a little down on me, fancying
I have influenced you to go. Now, I really think
SIDNEY: (Passionately) Mr. Matthewson, I'd rather die
to-day than see Ned start for the Border. You are quite
right. I—I love him. Ever since we were children—
(Ned tries to put a quick arm about her; she puts it gently
away.) No, no, wait till I’m through. But he can't stay
home at your bidding ! (She turns to Ned.) Do you think
he's asking you to stay for the same reasons I am? He's
only frightened to think that he may be sending one of his
own blood to death instead of the poor wretches he sells
his miserable paper to Oh, yes, yes, let me say it to your
face, Mr. Matthewson (she turns to him). There's no time
like the present, when your sister's only child (Mrs.
Neville, who has tried to stop her, looks shocked and horri-
fied, from one to the other; Mr. Matthewson, trying with-
out avail to get away, though furiously angry, decides to
discount Sidney's outburst as nerves.)
NED: (Stammering, divided between his love for Sidney
and his dismay at her behavior to so important a relative.)
Won’t you wait a minute?
MR. MATTHEwson: (With one more glance at Sidney's
blazing eyes, backs precipitately out.) Good afternoon,
ladies. Ned, my boy, good luck! (Door slams after him.
Sidney drops wearily into a chair. Mrs. Neville, trying to
control herself, puts her hand on the girl’s shoulder.)
MRS. NEVILLE: Of course, I don’t understand you, my
dear. I know you mean well, but wasn’t it a-little un-
ladylike?
SIDNEY: (Brokenly) Oh, you don't understand l You
don't understand . When the very babies in the streets are
17
WATCHFIRES
playing soldier, when School boys in a dozen states are
drilling with guns, when the man I should have liked to
marry is going to invade a weak sister republic, and ten
million men have been killed in two years, I have to be a
woman before I'm a lady I (She drops her head in her
hands; Mrs. Neville pats it softly, then leaves room un-
obtrusively.)
NED: (Slams door shut, then crosses and sits on the
floor beside Sidney, his head in her lap. Presently he turns
and tries to gather her into his arms.) Sweetheart! Sweet-
heart! Have you got to talk about this? Our last day for
so long? You may be right about Uncle Henry, I loathe
The Patriot myself, but surely war is necessary, the people
want it. Of course, Peace is frightfully idealistic and all
that, but facts are facts
SIDNEY: (Trying hard to get herself in hand.) Yes, and
if America had tried hard enough in the first place she
could have stopped the war. It’s the backwash from
Europe we’re getting now, Mexico and all this “Pre-
paredness.” I tell you if we could see and hear the people
themselves, not as they are represented in The Patriot and
all the other yellow press of the nations, but the people
themselves, it wouldn't seem this way. Now a girl like
Frieda, that I went to college with, I’ve no idea what's
happening to her; it must be terrible.
NED : Yes, I'm sorry for the German women, they’re up
against it with their beastly Kaiser, but it’s a different
matter with the English. My cousin, you know, on father's
side, Mary Greer, g
SIDNEY: (To herself.) Why, she was with Frieda and
me two years ago. How queer it seems now.
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WATCHFIRES
NED: (Continuing) I’m sure she's for the government.
Mary’s awfully clever and no end of a sport
SIDNEY: (Smiling a little through her tears) Ned, dear,
some day I believe you'll see that the good sports are for
peace. That’s what takes the real nerve nowadays. “An
Adventure in Internationalism,” that's what a lot of us are
after to-day.
NED: (Abruptly) Sidney, I’ve got to report. And I
must say good-bye to the Mater. (He gets up, looking at
her wistfully.) You won’t come to the train to-night?
SIDNEY: I'd make a demonstration if I did | Perhaps I
ought to—but I’m due to speak in Boston
NED : (Half alarmed) No, no. And there won't be any
fighting, dearest. (They are both standing, their arms
about each other, Sidney no longer trying to keep back her
tears.) And, anyway, I do promise not to get killed.
SIDNEY: (Looking up through her tears) Nor to kill!
I care more about that
NED: (Wonderingly) But you said you loved me?
SIDNEY: That's why. (After a moment, slowly) Oh,
dearest, women have behaved so blindly about this war
business all along, sacrificing and sacrificing, never ask-
ing, never thinking. It's time somebody thought! And
it's hardest—oh, don't you believe it's not hard—to work
with committees when you're —you're
NED: (Stroking her hair, murmurs) Sidney, Sidney,
anyway we love each other.
SIDNEY: (Pressing his head to her breast passionately)
God keep you, dear! (He breaks from her and runs to-
ward door a little blindly, stops on threshhold as Sidney
speaks.)
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WATCHFIRES
SIDNEY: (Stretching out her arms to him) And all over
Europe girls have been suffering like this for twenty-two
months (He goes up the broad staircase with bent head,
intensely conscious and desirous of her.)
(To herself) This is the backwash; oh, to stop the war
in Europe! To stop it before it is too late | To stop it
before it is too late |
CURTAIN
ACT II
TIME: Five months later. Therefore it is November
1916.
PLACE: Frieda's home in Berlin.
A small bare living room with usual German setting, ex-
cept that where the picture of the Kaiser usually hangs,
there is a large portrait of Karl Marx and a little to the
left of it, a copy of Walter Crane’s “May Day.” A ball of
gray wool, with knitting needles and half of a sock on the
table. It is twilight, snow falling outside.
Frieda, a girl of 25, a cloak over her shoulders, comes in,
stares out of window down dreary street.
FRIEDA: (Softly) Oh, I wish he would come, I wish he
would come! I wonder if he knows I got hold of these all
right! And if they’re what he wants. (She crosses to
empty fire place, kneels before it, and takes out a heavy
bundle she has been guarding beneath her cloak. Listen-
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WATCHFIRES
ing a moment, hearing no one, she unties the string. A
thick pile of closely packed leaflets is revealed. Again
making sure no one is about, she deftly raises two tiles near
the fire place, thrusts her hand in, and secretes the package.
With one page held tightly in her hand, she goes to the
table, and strikes a match. As she does so, her hands touch
the stocking.) Oh, poor mother poor mother | She does
it for the soldiers; she likes to think she can warm them,
and remind them of the dear ones at home loving and
praying for them, (holds up the stocking) hoping
Hans will get it, I suppose. (Suddenly cries out passion-
ately.) Oh, Hans, Hans ! Little dear brother, how will
you ever feel its warmth marching up those terrible icy
passes in Galicia, the snow and the wind about you all the
bitter night? Can you think of us then? Can you care
that she has grown whitehaired and old longing for your
return,-you and Fritz and Heinrich and Karl, that never
will return—that never will return . . . . (Shielding the
match in her hand, she begins to read snatches of her paper
quickly.), “German People, Demand Peace! Demand it
now, now ! It is you who fight the battles, 55
(There is a soft rap on the outer door. Frieda goes out
and opens it. Returns in a moment with Gretchen, who
walks in, limping at every step. She also wears a long
cloak.)
GRETCHEN: Friedal Did you get the leaflets?
FRIEDA: Yes, here. (Holds out the one in her hand.)
I was just beginning to read it when you came in.
GRETCHEN: Good! I'm crazy to hear it, but I think I
ought to put these away first, don't you? Are yours safe?
FRIEDA: Yes, that tile by the fire place. It pulls up, you
21
WATCHFIRES
know, and there's a good bit of space underneath. But sit
down, Gretchen. We’re all right here for a minute any-
way,+and I want to read it to you before mother gets back.
CRETCHEN : All right, I’ll sit here by the window and
watch for her. Tell me, Frieda, is she still loyal to the
government, with three sons dead, and poor Klara
FRIEDA: Sh! Don't speak of that, Gretchen I can't
stand it. Yes, mother just suffers and suffers and knits—
she won't ever try to think it out! That's the whole trouble,
isn't it, in every country, since the war broke out? Most
people would rather suffer any amount than think even a
little. But listen—(She lights a candle, and shading it
with her hand, begins to read again, her voice thrilling
with passion) “German People, Demand Peace! Demand
it now !” You don’t think the light shows through the
window too much, Gretchen? After all, I suppose I want
to distribute these before I’m arrested again?
GRETCHEN : No, I don’t think so.-You mean this house
is really watched already, with four soldiers in the family?
FRIEDA: Oh, they've forgotten that. And remember
three of my brothers are dead. Dead men don’t bother
the government, or the war would have stopped before this
They've a notion I'm dangerous, I guess. Now then,
listen, and tell me if you think it will stir the people. (Reads
again) “It is you who fight the battles, you whose homes
are full of blind and wounded; you whose very graveyards
may not bury their dead, you whose little children are
starving.
“Demand Peace! Let the world hear the voice of the
German people. It has heard your rulers, your war lords,
your munitioners, your imperialists: and the world hates
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WATCHFIRES
them; they have brought it death, and unless the people
save their nation, Death will be king, and he is higher
than Pope or President, Czar or Kaiser. To-day, be-
hind closed doors, the bravest man in Germany ” (her
voice rings out triumphantly) *
CRETCHEN: And you love the bravest man in Germany,
Frieda, you love him
FRIEDA: (With solemn exultation.) Yes, I love him.
(She continues). “To-day behind closed doors the bravest
man in Germany stood up in the Reichstag, and told his
fellow deputies that this was a war of aggression, not of
self-defense; that a handful of men already high in power,
were making vast profits out of it, and that once you, the
German people, could know that it was neither a war of
honor nor self-defense, you would not fight a day longer.
“It is the same in Russia; the same in England. Each
country has a small group who profit, and the people pay.
German People, he tells you the truth. In the name of
your wounded and your dead, and the world itself, that it
may live and not die—come to the Square tomorrow at
twelve o'clock | Demand Peace! Ask and ye shall re-
ceive! Seek and ye shall find I Knock and it shall be
opened unto you!” (The candle goes out as she finishes,
and the room is in darkness, except for the white twilight
that flickers in from the snowy street outside.)
GRETCHEN: (Softly) Splendid, Frieda, splendid! The
people will come! The poor betrayed people! Do
you think the soldiers will ride us down as they did last
Summer ?
FRIEDA: (Going to her and taking her hand.) I don't
know. Does it still hurt you, dear?
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GRETCHEN: My knee P Sometimes; I don't mind the pain
sc much as the lameness; it holds me back when I'm in a
hurry! But I might as well get used to it; the doctor says
it’s for life.
FRIEDA: Was it worth it, Gretchen?
GRETCHEN : Friedal How can you ask me? It’s the
one thing in my life I have to be glad about—that I wasn’t
a coward when that glittering mass of steel charged down
the Square, and the people cried, “Run I Run! or they'll
kill us!” And I shouted back, “Stand firm Remember
our men in the trenches I’’ Oh, if you could have been
there, too !
FRIEDA: Yes, but I wouldn’t have missed that night.
All day the prison had been so desolate. Two months I
had been there, and I felt as if everybody had forgotten
me. And then, that night, as your “rioters” were brought
in, there was a sudden thrill passed over everything; I
don't know how they knew there had been a Peace demon-
stration, but they did know. For suddenly the place was
ringing with the Internationale. One after the other of
us caught it, sweeping down those gray corridors, and our
cells were suddenly transfigured. We were comrades
there together! The war was blotted out! (The sound
of children's voices is heard outside, and Frieda steps to
the door. Presently returns, a dogen little ones with her.)
FRIEDA: They’ve come for the milk tickets, Gretchen.
GRETCHEN : You have milk for them?
FRIEDA: There's still a little left. (Lights up.) You
know, that American woman who came to Germany a
month ago? She was really a pacifist, though she bluffed
through as a war correspondent. She had a good bit of
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WATCHFIRES
pull, of course, and half the officials were wining and
dining with her, in hopes that she'd write Germany was
flourishing when she got back; but she saw how it was.
She met one woman after the other whose babies had died
or were sick, and finally she got hold of some goats, Mrs.
Schreiber is milking them, and I give out the tickets to
the neediest children as long as they last. (Distributes the
tickets among them.)
GRETCHEN: (Bitterly) Well, I’m glad the Americans
are giving us goat’s milk. Small favors, you know—By
the way, Hilda's baby died this morning.
LITTLE GIRL: Our baby died, too. Mother says the milk
came too late, and anyways goats wasn’t the same as cows,
GRETCHEN : No, of course not, and the cows are at the
front, helping your papa defend his home while his baby
dies. (Little Girl begins to cry softly, and the other chil-
dren stand about, sad, shabby little waifs.)
GRETCHEN: (Harshly) Americans all know about what
we did to the Belgian babies; they prefer to forget what
England's food blockade is doing to ours. Yet every time
a Zeppelin kills a child on the English coast (the chil-
dren look at her with wide, frightened eyes.)
FRIEDA: Hush, Gretchen, the children (Goes up and
puts her arms about the two smallest.) Remember, Lieb-
chens, please, please remember, war is bad and cruel to all
the people in it! Your papas in the trenches think they’re
defending you, and you’re starving for milk; and the
French and English and Russian papas who are fighting
your papas think they’re defending their babies; and even
the far away Americans think that if they fight the Mexi-
cans, it will defend their children; and the truth is, the
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WATCHFIRES
children everywhere are dying. That's why we must stop
war. (A step outside. Herr Knechtbiel dashes into the
room, runs forward to Frieda and catches her in his arms
before them all.)
KNECHTBIEL: Stop war! Stop war ! Ah, sweetheart,
you've said it! (Gretchen gives them a long look, an ex-
pression of immeasurable pain in her eyes. Touches
Frieda gently on shoulder.)
GRETCHEN: I’ll take them home, dear, and then I'll come
back. (She moves toward the door, the children follow-
ing her.)
KNECHTBIEL: (Detains her, putting his hand on the head
of the youngest child.) Just leave Karlchen, will you,
Gretelf I like to have a baby about. (Gretchen nods and
goes out, her eyes drinking in his figure thirstily until the
door closes.)
KNECHTBIEL: (One hand on the child's head, his arm
about Frieda.) Listen, dear heart, I shouldn’t have come—
FRIEDA: You don’t mean
KNECHTBIEL: Yes, after my speech this afternoon I shall
be watched until my arrest. It’s only a question of hours,
perhaps minutes, but they don't want to stir up the people.
They've probably got wind of the demonstration to-morrow.
You have the leaflets?
FRIEDA: Yes, here. (She points to the pile on the table
Gretchen has left, takes them up and puts them quickly
with the others under the tile in the floor, the child watch-
ing her with big eyes. Knechtbiel takes one from her, runs
his eye over it.) -
KNECHTBIEL: Yes, yes, that's good. And the comrades
are taking the others, you say, districting the city?
26
WATCH-FIRES
FRIEDA: Yes, yes.
KNECHTBIEL: (Reads) . . . “The bravest man in Ger-
many”—No, no, dearest, you shouldn't have said that;
that isn't true 33
FRIEDA : (Throwing herself passionately into his arms.)
I will say it! I will ! I will ! Our soldiers are brave, yes!
But they go with the drums and the plaudits and the flying
colors, and you—you go alone—(very low) except for
1116.
KNECHTBIEL: Ah, dear, isn’t that enough P And there
are thousands, too, you know it as well as I, they’re only
waiting for the leaders. Help will come soon. There is
America
FRIEDA: (Bitterly) Yes, America, drunk with gold.
RNECHTBIEL: Some day soon, soon, America will help
us. (Impatiently) Oh, not the “pro-Germans.” American
munitioners and imperialists are so afraid will spoil their
profits; they’re only making our work more difficult every
day, but the comrades, the pacifists, the men with the true
vision who love the old Germany but who see the new. Oh,
Frieda, Frieda, let us pledge to this child the new Father-
land, the Fatherland of Peace and Justice and Internation-
alism (With bent head he puts his hand, clasped in hers,
over the child's head.)
FRIEDA AND KNECHTBIEL: (Together) For this child,
for our children—the new Fatherland l (As they stand to-
gether, the house, silently surrounded with soldiers, is
broken into and a dogen men with drawn swords enter the
room.)
THE COMMANDER: Herr Knechtbiel, you are under ar-
rest.
27
WATCHFIRES
KNECHTBIEL: (Tersely) Telling the truth to my fellow
deputies
THE COMMANDER: Silence I Ask your questions of the
court-martial. (To the soldiers.) Search him. (They
search him roughly, finding the leaflet in his pocket, the
Commander glancing at it.) Treason | So there was more
behind your speech You must be proud of yourself.
FRIEDA: Germany will be proud of him some day, when
you who have done your best to ruin her, can injure her
no longer.
KNECHTBIEL: (To Frieda) Hush
THE COMMANDER: (Raising his hands) Another? Last
summer's sentence evidently not enough ' (Turns to sol-
diers, with a gesture towards Frieda) Her, too! (Seizes
Frieda's' wrists) Come, with your—lover !
KNECHTBIEI, : How dare you!
FRIEDA: It doesn't matter, it doesn’t matter! (With irre-
pressible joy) Oh, if our English comrades could see us
now, they would know that the International was not dead.
THE COMMANDER: Socialism again,_God damn it! (To
the soldiers as he catches sight of the Karl Marx portrait)
Here, break that damn thing and the English picture. (The
soldiers roughly drag the prisoners away, and with a blow
of their swords the big portrait crashes down. They tear
and stamp it into pulp; so with the “May Day.” Knecht-
biel and Frieda look on unmoved.)
FRIEDA: (Provocatively) So weak for all your power?
To hate a picture? But you did well; you could break his
picture, you cannot kill his spirit in us! (The child mean-
while has crept to a corner behind a big chair. Looks on
with motionless eyes.)
WATCHFIRES
THE COMMANDER: Here, search the place. (They search
roughly, flinging chairs, books, tables about; they find
nothing) Now then, right about! (He has manacled
Knechtbiel and Frieda. Turns to a soldier.) You, Fritz,
stay here on guard. (Frieda turns and gives the child a
long look, shaping a word unnoticed by soldiers.)
FRIEDA: Three of my brothers have died for Germany;
a fourth is in Galicia; my sister is mad with misery. I am
all my mother has ; and you take me? --
THE COMMANDER: Hurry up, there. (Frieda and
Knechtbiel go out guarded by the soldiers. Fritz is left
alone with the child. A few moments pass, then the mother
comes in.)
THE MOTHER: Lieber Gott! Is it the English?
THE SOLDIER: No, it's us. Your daughter’s a traitor!
THE MOTHER: (Picks up her knitting mechanically. Her
hands tremble and she drops it) Frieda? A traitor?
THE SOLDIER: She wants peace—and Herr Knechtbiel,
too. He wants peace!
THE MOTHER: (Slowly) Peace isn't wrong. The Bible
says, Blessed are the peace makers, for they shall be called
the children of God.
THE SOLDIER: But the Kaiser—(he salutes)—doesn’t
want peace.
THE MOTHER: And who is the Kaiser? Is he higher
than God?
THE SOLDIER: (Without hesitation) Yes, he rules us all
the time—(slowly, as if wondering at himself), and I think
God has forgotten us. (Suddenly loses control) I never
wanted to do these things I’ve killed and killed, and
there was a woman—but I have to obey
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WATCHFIRES
THE MOTHER: And I gave all my sons. And now they’ve
taken my little Frieda. I thought I gave them to God,
but now—perhaps—I think it was only to the Kaiser. (The
soldier turns away) Stop, let me think, the people want
peace
THE CHILD: (Picking his way through the broken glass)
Pretty lady tell me here. (Tries to raise a tile clumsily, old
woman helps him and pulls out a leaflet. She reads it
slowly.)
THE MOTHER: “German People! Demand Peace! It is
you who fight the battles.” ' Yes, yes, it is true. But what
does it mean? What does Frieda want? (Gretchen rushes
in at the open door. Starts violently at sight of the dis-
order. As the soldier makes no effort to stop her, she
crosses the room swiftly and whispers to the mother.)
GRETCHEN: (Whispers) We must take these out with
us, now, now ! (To the soldier, imperiously) We have
had enough war. The people want peace | Let us pass!
THE SOLDIER: (Wonderingly) Yes, I want peace, too.
(Gretchen and the mother start for the door.)
THE MOTHER: (With a sudden quaver) Where is Frieda?
GRETCHEN: (Preoccupied) Frieda P In prison, I think,
—(to herself) but she did not go alone. Ah, if he were
with one, and if he loved l—(Rousing herself, speaks half
to the mother and half as if figuring probabilities to her-
self.) But Frieda will come perhaps—to America—
Americal
(The two women pass out, the mother muttering to her-.
self as she bends over a pile of leaflets. The child and sol-
dier are left together. A moment passes. Then the sol-
dier kneels down, covering his face with his hands.)
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WATCHFIRES
THE SOLDIER: God forgive me! (The child pats him
softly.)
CURTAIN
ACT III
TIME: One week later.
PLACE: Inside an East End Tea Shop, late afternoon.
The room is cold and dreary. Two listless looking couples
sit at tables, the men old and infirm, the women, clothes
and faces alike pinched with misery. A young soldier
with one leg sits at a table with a typical East End girl.
Another girl, Mary Greer, young and erect, sits at a table
alone, her back half-turned to the audience; she is making
notes on a little tablet, her tea cooling unheeded, but as
scraps of conversation drift her way she becomes more and
more keenly alive, though tensely quiet.
JIM : Naw, naw, why should I look for a job? I’m
tired, I tell you, tired I done my bit, now let the country
keep me !
'LIZA: But you got to work, Jim. I done all I could
while you was gone, but I ain’t fit no more. Don't forget
there's a baby
JIM : (His face darkening) Oh, damn the baby, it ain’t
my fault!
'LIZA: (Fiercely) Then why did you marry me? Why
did you marry me?
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WATCHFIRES
JIM : Now, look-a 'ere, don't you get ’uffy P Was it my
fault? Did I want to marry you? Between Lloyd George
tellin' me it was my juty, with so many men goin’ to be
killed, and you 'angin' 'round my neck
'LIZA: I didn't! I didn't!—Oh, well, then, I did. When
I thought o' you marchin' a'wy, ºn never comin' 'ome, ’n
all the boys gone,—'n the 'Uns maybe comin' in the night—
'n they said you was a 'ero (She bursts into tears.)
JIM : (Patting her roughly) Oh, well, there, there, 'Lizal
We're both of us in the same boat—the war done it—on’y
don’t talk to me of work! I want to get rested 1 'N you
ain't so pretty as you used to be, you know, not as I want
to say nothin’ to 'urt your feelin's. But the truth is (he
pauses, crumbling his bread awkwardly) the truth is there
was a little girl over in Belgian—(he stops at sight of her
face dark with rage)
'LIZA : Go on, Jim. Don't stop. Ain't I done two men's
work every d'y since you been gone, and you reckon I
can’t stand to hear about that little girl in Belgian? That
was where England went to defend women's honor against
the Germans, wasn't it? -
JIM : Aw, come now, Lizzie, don't scratch me! Ain't I
risked my life for the country, and won’t I be lame all my
days?
'LIZA : Ves, you're a 'ero, all right! (Breaks into un-
pleasaº laughter) And I suppose you'll love her baby
h_tter'n mine ! (He sits regarding her hopelessly, his eyes
far away.)
JIM : (Clumsily) I reckon I am kind of a blighter, 'Liza,
but it ain't my fault. Honest to God, I couldn't help it!
The war done it.
32
WATCHFIREs .
'LIZA: (Looking up through her tears at a sudden com-
motion outside) What's that? (A young man with torn
coat and bleeding face dashes into the room, while the roar
of jeering men and women comes nearer.)
YoUNG MAN: Can you hide me? It won’t look well for
England if they actually kill me. They've come near
enough ! (They stare at him, open mouthed. Then Liga
spies a white feather on his lapel.)
'LIZA.: He's a coward, he's afraid to enlist! Hi, there,
get ’im. (She tries to hit him, but Jim has placed himself
between them.)
JIM : (To Liggie) Why should he enlist? (Bitterly) It
didn’t do so much for me, did it?
YOUNG MAN: (Noting Jim's khaki) Thanks, my friend.
You know what war is, don't you? The soldiers have had
enough. (By this time everybody in the shop is standing,
staring at the white feather and its soldier protector. Their
mutterings grow louder as the crowd comes closer. Mary
Greer, who has kept her face averted, now turns and holds
out her hand to both Jim and the young man. She is frank
and cool, a throb of eager adventure in her every word.)
MARY: Geof. I’m so terribly glad you’re here ! A little
ahead of time P (She smiles as the crowd begins to
stream through the door.) Now, then, a meeting ! A
straight, heart-to-heart talk, so much the better if im-
promptu. (She shoves him gently behind her, and with
arms outstretched addresses the people.) No, no, you
wouldn't hit a woman, you know ! Not since the Militants,
anyhow, and I’m not that! Not at all, though I do believe
in Votes for Women. (She laughs, but they glower an-
grily before them.)
33
WATCHFIRES
THE CROWD: Aw, shut up. "Tain't no time for a speech.
'E won’t fight for 'is country. Well! We'll teach him
wot's wot I
FIRST woman : I got a blanket! A good little rollin' 'll
do ’im no 'arm.
FIRST MAN: No 'arm, and all the good in the world.
SECOND woMAN: 'N it’s nothin’ to wot them bloody 'Uns
did to my man l (She comes forward menacingly.)
THE CROWD: (Angrily) 'E's a 'Un, 'n so’s the lidyl (The
young man has tried to speak, but Mary keeps him behind
her.)
MARY: (whispering to Geof.) No, no, let me speak just
a minute. (To the crowd) A Hun ? No, I'm not that.
They were very bloodthirsty people, that liked killing, and
mobs, and insulting women; now the Germans
SECOND woman : Shut up, and don’t speak their bally
name or I’ll
JIM : (Attempting a diversion) Who are you, anyw’y,
lidy?
MARY: Do you want to know? (Her face, very serious,
has grown pale) Shall I tell you? Will you keep quiet?
THE CROWD : (Gripped by her manner.) Yes, tell us.
MARY: Well, then, I’m the daughter of Sir Herbert
Greer.
THE CRowd: (Gasps.) Sir Erbert Greer? 'Im?
MARY: Yes, him; the greatest munition maker in Eng-
land! The man that helps most, after Lloyd George and
Asquith and Lord Northcliffe to keep it all going. And if
you want to know what my father has made out of this war
that has killed your husband (she points to the second
woman) and your boy (she points to another in dingy
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black) and your Sons (she points to a man with a black
band across his sleeve) and that has broken your business
to nothing (she points to a fussy little shop-keeper)—he
has made sixty million pounds ! (The crowd gasps) Yes,
sixty million pounds ! You never thought of that before,
did you? You didn’t read about it in the paper? No, it
wouldn’t have looked well there, that a man so high in
English politics, who loved his country so very, very dearly,
should be coining millions at home while your sons do the
fighting.
THE CROWD: (Awestruck but dubious) But the 'Uns!
They'd kill us if we didn't kill them.
MARY: Call them Germans, please. The papers call them
Huns, so that my father and the other munitioners can get
more money.—The Huns never wrote a scrap of music, you
know.
THE CRowd: Well, the Germans, then. Should we let
them kill us first?
MARY: (With wonderful persuasiveness) Look here,
friends, you're all mixed up. The German people don't
want to kill us a bit more than we want to kill them—
maybe less. It’s' their government, just like our govern-
ment, that’s making them kill, for money again, just like
us. Money is the government, right now, in Germany and
England and America, but it won't always be so; when the
people understand, they won’t want to fight ever any more.
A MAN: (Doubtfully) But the Belgians, lidy—we 'ad
to defend Belgian. She was unprepared.
MARY: Let me tell you something. I didn't know it
myself till the other day, but thirty years ago when we had
that same treaty with Belgium that we have now, but were
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WATCHFIRES
friends with Germany for money reasons—mark that—for
money reasons, and there was chance of Germany’s march-
ing through Belgium against France, our government de-
cided that it wouldn't be necessary to interfere; we'd just
let her go ahead; do you understand that? So in 1914,
twenty-seven years later, when we were jealous of Germany,
we just made Belgium the excuse; it wasn’t that we were
so honorable, friends, it was for money reasons. And Bel-
gium wasn’t unprepared. Don’t let yourselves be fooled
by that nonsense ! Belgium was as prepared as arms could
make her. But no little state can stand up to a big one.
THE MAN: Yes, but what would you do then P
MARY: Let the People govern
JIM : (A sudden light breaking) You mean us as does
the fightin', let us do the managin', 'n see as we don’t get
into all this 'ere 'ot water? (The crowd peers at him curi-
ously)
MARY: Exactly. (To Jim, confidently) You don't hate
the Germans, do you?
JIM : The Fritzis? No, I dunno as I do. 'O course I
wants to do my juty. But they’re good enough chaps
MARY: And the atrocities?
JIM : I never seen none. Though (lowering his voice
with a side-long look at his wife) though I done some
things myself, I'm ashimed to remember. War mikes you.
SEcond MAN: But Militaryism. We got to crush mili-
taryism, we 'ave.
MARY: (Passionately) Crush it at home then
THE CRowd: Wot do you mean, lidy?
MARY: I mean that everywhere the people are sick to
death of the war, and every time they try to say so, they're
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imprisoned and persecuted and prevented! Why the only
reason this meeting to-day hasn't been broken up, is because
Sylvia Pankhurst is holding a tremendous Peace demon-
stration a mile away, and it’s taken the entire police force
to manage the crowd. But the Peace meetings go on, just
the same, one hundred a week, all over England, and all
the persecution in the world can’t stop it! Crush Militarism
in Germany? Why you can't send a letter out of England
that tells even a piece of the truth, but that the Censor cuts
it; the Labor Unions can’t keep their hours nor publish
their papers; nor (she turns to the man beside her who has
been standing unobserved by the crowd for the past few
minutes) nor a man obey his conscience' Five thousand
Conscientious Objectors in England—imprisoned, perse-
cuted, mauled about like criminals—Why? Because they
won't kill! (The crowd is silent.) -
SECOND MAN : (Comes up and shakes Geoffrey's hand
roughly) Forgive us, will ye, I reckon we didn't quite
understand. Ye mean ye ain't a traitor to England so much
as just that ye won't kill the Germans, is that it? —es
GEOFFREY: Yes, that's it. And you see when there are
enough of them feeling the same way about not being wil-
ling to kill us, no matter what our governments say, why
the war will stop. It's simple enough, once you begin.
SECOND MAN: (Incredulously) You mean there are Ger-
mans that won’t fight?
MARY: (Draws a letter from her pocket) Look here,
friends, this got past the Censor. It's from a German girl
I went to school with long ago in America, Frieda—her
very name means Peace, you know; lots of German girls
are called that, just as ours are called Mary; and she says
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WATCHFIRES
(she lowers her voice) she says she's been arrested for her
Pacifism—she calls it Socialism;-it's rather the same
thing, but hopes to get away, and if she does is coming
to America.
SEconD MAN : To America? But America hates Ger-
many. She's too proud to fight—because it pays better not
to, the papers say,+but she won't stand for German girls,
—she’s for us.
MARY: For us, yes—us, the People. And the true Amer-
ica, the free America, stands with her hands stretched out
to the people of all nations. And that is the America that
will welcome Frieda.
SEconD MAN: She will betray her own nation?
MARY: She sees a greater Fatherland, as I a greater
England, as Sidney, an American girl I know, a greater
United States. Oh dear friends, it isn’t that we don’t love
our countries, but we love the people more, the people of
the whole wide earth. They all want peace; there isn't
any difference; American and German and French and Rus-
sian and English. And the true America can help us if she
will.
A voice: (Harshly) Yes, and the meeting is adjourned.
It has gone on long enough. We weren't all at the big
meeting as you thought. Now, then, make way. (Amid
a storm of curses, a plain-clothes man begins to push his
way to the rear of the shop. Mary turns quickly to
Geoffrey.)
GEOFFREY: Quick, quick, there’s a back way out, -a chum
took it the other day when they were after him. Hull-o!
(with a glance at Jim who is cleverly barring the progress
of the plain-clothes man; being successful he is presently
38
WATCHFIRES
helped by others of the crowd.) The soldier's held him
up !
THE CROWD: (Angrily, to the plain-clothes man.) Get
cut of 'ere! It's you mikin' the trouble. The lidy an' us
was 'avin' a bit of a chat
GEOFFREY: (Quickly) Now's your chance!
MARY: (To Geoffrey) Thank you, thank you. It was
mad to talk to them here to-day. But it was my last chance
before the boat sails, and I had to when you came, anyway.
It's the last proof I needed that the people want peace.
GEOFFREY: You have his letter safe?
MARY: Yes, yes. I’ll die before they take it from me.
It will mean everything in stirring America to her duty.
(With a brief, warm hand clasp, she slips away, just as
the policeman, blowing his whistle loudly, is reinforced by
a mounted squad.)
JIM : All right, then, arrest me ! I meant to give my
leg to England, but the lidy says it was for the munitioners’
pockets, and I’ve 'ad enough of patriotism, if this is 'ow
I’m treated |
'LIZA: Then tike me along. I can’t work no more,
prison’s better'n starvin'.
THE CROWD : (Uproariously, as the police come in.) Tike
us all. We’ve 'eard the first sensible talk since the war
started
THE OFFICER: (To Geoffrey) This is your doing?
Preaching treason while brave men are laying down their
lives?
GEOFFREY: (As the other policemen make frantic efforts
to discover Mary in the rear of the shop.) Arrest me if you
like! I only wish my American friends that think Eng-
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WATCHFIRES
land's fighting for democracy could see you do it! No, I'm
not willing to commit murder on a lot of poor fellows as
misguided as those here ! (Officer is about to arrest him
when an immense crowd surges past the Tea Shop, singing
and shouting; some khaki-clad figures are in the forefront.)
THE CROWD: (Outside) You arrested some of us, but
you can't arrest all of us. There's lots of us left, lots of
us, and we want peace! We want peace!
CURTAIN
ACT IV
TIME: Before Christmas 1916.
SCENE: A large living room in a private house in New
York. Portraits and books line the walls. A score of men
and women, several of whom look fagged, are seated at a
long table, writing and discussing in low tones. The meet-
ing has been going on for some time.
SIDNEY: I think we should plan our agitation precisely
as if we knew there was a clear demand for peace on the
other side. We do know it, with every scrap of intelli-
gence we possess, and we must voice it.
A REACTIONARY: (Ponderously) My dear young lady,
we must do nothing in haste. We cannot move until we
are sure that our efforts for an early peace—(Sidney moves
restlessly) for an early peace will not be misunderstood
by the Allies. The President has already incurred the dis-
pleasure—(Sidney, longing to interrupt him, is assisted at
40
WATCHFIRES
this point by a young man whose sudden start of irritation
at the older man's words draws the attention of the Chair-
man. The Reactionary stops for a pompous cough.)
CHAIRMAN : (Taking advantage of pause) Yes, yes, Mr.
Lansdowne, pray give us the benefit of your opinion. Mr.
Lansdowne (he turns to the others) enlisted last year; he
saw active service until overcome by chlorine gas six months
ago, and he has been in the hospital most of the time since.
(There is a movement of general interest.)
THE REACTIONARY: Which side? The Central Powers, I
presume?
LANSDOwn E: (Drily) No, sir, the Allies. I was one of
the men fighting “somewhere in France.” I don’t belong
to your committee; if I were able to work at all, I should
go to England to help the U. D. C., for I saw enough to
know (he weighs every word slowly), I saw enough to
know that this room is large enough to hold the soldiers
at the front who want the war continued.
THE REACTIONARY: The Germans?
LANSDown E: Not only the Germans. All of them. I
know what it was in our regiment of volunteers, men, mind
you, who had wanted to go as I did, thinking it was the
way to serve democracy, and I know the hatred of the
whole thing that struck us after the first six weeks; and if
that's the way with the volunteers, think what it means
to the conscripts, men who have to leave wives and little
children, old fathers and mothers, men who have to go and
stick it out until the end I saw plenty of them in the
hospital,—that's where you see war unmasked,—Walt
Whitman was right; in the trenches and on the field, you’re
drugged; it’s in the hospital your eyes open.
41
WATCHFIRES
THE CHAIRMAN: Then why don’t they give us a sign?
This committee knows that I want to do the right thing,
but I cannot help feeling there is something in what Mr.
Johnson (pointing to the reactionary) says. We must
wait for a sign. Now if a great Englishman, or if the
German people
SIDNEY: But how do we know what they’ve tried to get
across to us? It isn't as if their men were back among us,
like our boys from the Border; my friend, for instance
(her color rises slowly) has been writing me from Texas,
each letter showing how his mind is turning our way—Oh,
haven’t we imagination enough to piece together out of
what we already know, the difficulties of getting true re-
ports out of England and Germany?
A MEMBER: Yes, there's something in that. My wife
got a letter yesterday from her sister in England, and
there was a page in it, all jumbled up with talk about the
babies and so on, that seemed to say this was the sixth
appeal she'd sent to America to ask why we didn’t help
the Allies
THE REACTIONARY: Yes, of course, help the Allies fight;
or did she mean with money for the Belgians? Now, I
don’t mind making out a check—(he draws out a check
book ponderously.)
A MEMBER: (Impatiently) No, no, she said for Peace
pretty plainly, though it was written in small and all
blotted up. The sixth appeal, she said And this is the
first word we'd had for eight months l (The Reactionary
seeing no one commending him, surreptitiously returns the
check book to his pocket.)
42
WATCHFIRES
THE CHAIRMAN: (Judicially) Such things must, of
course, be considered.
SIDNEY: Oh, if word could come now, now ! (From a
nearby church, a peal of Christmas chimes rings out into
the night.)
A CLERGYMAN: (Doubtfully) Of course, it is the psy-
chological time for a peace effort
THE REACTIONARY: In the absence of important advices
from England, and in the absence of the people's desire
for a different government in Germany, I say we must be
most careful, most careful, to observe a strict neutrality.
SIDNEY: (Her hands clasped, her eyes filled with un-
utterable longing) America's opportunity | Oh, I’m sure
they’re speaking the word over there, if we would only
hear ! (A sudden step outside, vague and tottering The
handle of the door is turned uncertainly, and Frieda, white
to the lips, stands at the threshold. For an instant no one
moves. The chimes continue.)
SIDNEY: (With sudden realization) Friedal Friedal
(She rushes to her, clasps her in her arms, and with Lans-
downe's help draws her to a sofa where she slowly comes
to herself.)
FRIEDA: (In broken English) You are the brave Amer-
icans who will bring us peace? I thank you! I always
knew America (she shuts her eyes. One of the com-
mittee, a young doctor, pours something from a glass in
his case, and she opens her eyes again.)
SIDNEY: Frieda, darling, no, no; don't try to speak yet.
Here, won’t someone open that window? (With the cold
air blowing full on her face, Frieda raises herself with
great effort.)
43
WATCHFIRES
FRIEDA: I must talk, Sidney. Gentlemen, (she addresses
the meeting, pausing for strength between each word) I
have written a statement for you on the boat, and he has
written you a letter, they will explain the things I can-
not say now. After I am gone, you will understand—(a
general stir, the doctor bends over her anariously.)
SIDNEY: Frieda, Frieda, it's only fatigue. You're not
ill—
FRIEDA : (Raises her hand) After my prison term last
S1111111161.
THE REACTIONARY: (Interrupting) Your prison term,
Fraulein You are not a criminal?
FRIEDA: (Wearily) For Peace agitation. I was one of
a hundred other people—(general stir)
LANSDown E: (Under his breath) Ah, the truth at last!
FRIEDA: Well, I was sick a long time, the prison was
cold; so this last month, when I went in again (another
stir) it was harder. And then the excitement of the es-
cape—it was too much, I suppose—so when they wounded
me getting through the French lines
ALL : Wounded? You are wounded ! (The doctor tries
to make her let him attend her, but gives it up before her
weak, imperious hand.)
FRIEDA: Here (she touches her breast)—he didn’t know
—he thought I was a German spy, and then when I told
him it was for peace, just before I fainted,—he was sorry
and helped me. You—(she raises herself determinedly)
you Americans must make peace. You can do it if you
are fine and brave enough. The German people are de-
manding Peace—(her mind reverts a moment to the day
of her arrest in Germany; suddenly sobs) Ach, Knechtbiel !
44
WATCHFIRES
You and I–(At the sound of the famous name they start,
a look of fuller understanding dawning among them)
THE CHAIRMAN : The bravest man in Germany
SIDNEY: (Whispers) Oh, Frieda, whatever comes, you
were lucky in having your man brave and true. I wish—
(Frieda, seeing the look in her eyes, understands, and
strokes her hand softly.)
FRIEDA: He will come to understand some day. But
(she rouses herself) Herr Knechtbiel is not the bravest
man in Germany. I said so myself—that day—but now
we know there are hundreds of others, perhaps thousands
—Ach, meine Heeren und Damen, bring peace to the people
of Germany, before our government has killed us all!
(Gives Sidney the paper, which Sidney passes to the Chair-
man.)
THE CHAIRMAN : From Herr Knechtbiel ! I think we
should do something
THE REACTIONARY: But England—we must do nothing
in haste—(There is a violent ring at the bell, and a moment
later the door is flung wide. Edward Neville, no longer
in uniform, stands on the threshold with a girl. Sidney
starts forward but controls herself.)
NED: This is my cousin, Mary Greer, whom your secre-
tary (his eyes find Sidney's and a look of immense joy
and comprehension passes from his to hers) always said
would come. Miss Greer sent me a wireless, thinking me
safer (he smiles wistfully) than you pacifists. Her boat
docked two hours ago, and after the most incredible reve-
lation of English Peace sentiment (Suddenly he stops,
for Frieda has raised herself bolt upright from her couch,
staring into Mary's face. At the same moment the latter,
45
WATCHFIRES
with the simplest gesture, flings aside hat and outer gar-
ments, and, unconscious of them all, leaps forward, catch-
ing Frieda in her arms.)
MARY: Frieda, Friedal Little Sister! Little Sister
(For a long minute there is silence, but for the bells; “O,
come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!” they peal into
the night.)
FRIEDA: (Clasping Mary close) Sister! (Very low.)
You forgive us?
MARY: (Kneeling beside her couch) Can you forgive
us? My people, too, have done very wrong. Oh, Frieda,
then you were on the boat with me!
FRIEDA: Yes, I must have been. You see, I was sick—
and I lay in my cabin just praying and praying—“Lieber
Gott, let me get to America! Let me beg them for Peace!
Let me live that long !”
MARY: (Not understanding) And He did, dear. And
all the years beyond, you and I will work together, and
Sidney—(Sidney has come up softly)
SIDNEY: (With tense excitement) Ned says you bring
us a letter, Mary. Will you tell us who your letter is
from ?
MARY: (Rising from the couch, exultant joy in her
manner.) Frieda brought you the message from Ger-
many, and I–I am the messenger of England, the England
of the future, of democracy. My letter (she draws it from
her breast and lays it before the Chairman) my letter con-
tains evidence, collected from every country in England,
that the people there, as in Germany, want Peace, and beg
America to help them get it!
THE REACTIONARY: But is the letter from anybody
46
WATCHFIRES
special? That's the point! (They edge away from him)
MARY : The letter is from—Lester Bertram lº (There
is a long flutter of excitement through the room.)
LANSDown E: (To himself) At last, at last! I wonder
how often he's tried to send before. (They crowd about
the Chairman, who begins to read the letter.)
FRIEDA: So now you have your word ' (Attempting to
smile.) You will not need to wait for a messenger from
every country? (Suddenly she cries out) Oh, Mary.
Maryl You will see your country saved from war! And
Sidney, please God, will keep America unstained—but I
—I shall never see my Fatherland, my young Fatherland.
—The dark—the dark is coming so fast!
MARY: (Whispers to the doctor) Wounded? Dying?
Oh, my little sister |
DocTOR: (Whispers to Mary) No, I can do nothing;
the wound must have opened on the ship; it has been
bleeding. (Mary kneels, holding Frieda's hands clasped
in hers; Sidney and Ned stand near by; the others in low
tones and with frequent pauses read the letters, constantly
glancing towards the couch.)
NED : (Whispers to Sidney) Yes, yes, I must tell you
now. What I wrote you from the Border was true, it was
all a mistake, and Mary's made me understand the rest,
and now Frieda—Darling, darling, will you—(She slips
her hand in his, motioning him to silence.)
MARY: (Very low.) Frieda, you are so near—you will
*The allusion here is to the now famous letter addressed by Mr. Bertrand
Russell of England to President Wilson, which a secret messenger, eluding
the English censor, brought to the Whité House in late December.
. “I am compelled by a profound conviction to speak for all the nations
in the name of Europe,” Mr. Russell concludes. “In the name of Europe,
I appeal to you to bring us peace.”
47
WATCHFIRES
see soon, even in the dark—Frieda, will it be long, will it
be long?
FRIEDA: I can't tell—there are so many souls going past
—I can see them quite plainly—and they all go home to-
gether, to the same home—comrades, comrades—Russian
and French and English and German—and they—they are
all crying something into the night—Listen! (The bells
peal on Adeste Fideles.) “America, bring Peace! Amer-
ica, bring Peace!”
DOCTOR: (Leans over and nods.) Yes. (Mary bends
down and gently closes Frieda's eyes.)
THE CHAIRMAN: I think a motion to adjourn
SIDNEY: (Crossing to the table, with strange calm.) Mr.
Chairman, forgive me, but I think first I should like to
lay before the Committee a plan I proposed to you yester-
day,+the plan for the great symbolic demonstration, which
should at last adequately voice America's desire for Peace.
May I go on?
ALL : Yes, yes, this is the time.
THE REACTIONARY: Wouldn’t it be more respectful to—
to the young lady to defer action? (Waves a hand towards
Frieda's body)
MARY: (Who is standing above it, head bent) I think—
I’m sure—Frieda would be glad to have you go on now.
SIDNEY: One moment, then. I’ve been dreaming big this
time (she smiles). I want our demand voiced in something
more than letters to congressmen and senators, though
letters there must be, and something more than meetings,
though meetings too, in every city of the land,-Watch-
fires, as it were, Watchfires, burning from coast to coast,
that our people may see them far away, and that as, in
48
WATCHFIRES
Europe, the watchfires signalled mobilization for war, so
here they may be Watchfires of Peace. But there's an-
other thing to do here in New York, at the world’s gate-
way. We have a great harbor—the ships of the world ride
up and down it, and in that harbor is the symbol of the pure
and free America, the America that shall be, the figure of
Liberty. I want boats, boats flying the colors of the world,
to gather in the Harbor, in our safe haven, and one by one,
each to bring its nation's offering, there to our Statue,
where a living woman to symbolize America shall receive
them into her safe and loving keeping; and the people of
New York, the men and women of the Melting Pot, shall
see it as America's pledge to the future. And perhaps
(her voice grows lower) perhaps the boats of the warring
nations will come forward in couples, England and—(she
falters for a moment, her eyes resting on Frieda's body)
England and Germany together, the vanguard, the van-
guard of the new day, of the people's will to peace. (All
look at her, fired at last by her vision)
THE CHAIRMAN: Is it the sense of the meeting that we
undertake this?
ALL : Yes, yes.
THE REACTIONARY : That letter from Lester Bertram
was quite conclusive to my mind. I think the Harbor
Demonstration is a good idea. A little novel, perhaps, but,
with time to develop it
MARY: Not too much time, gentlemen The soldiers in
the trenches urge us to speed.
SIDNEY: (As they all rise) To light our Watchfires upon
the waters that sweep around the world ! .
CURTAIN
49
BOYS
HEY laugh at us for thinking wars will cease
When enough lads like us, young, not so Wise,
Stand up, and tell them that we will not go,
Will not enlist for murdering other boys
Betrayed and drafted for the sport of kings.
They laugh; we are so young we cannot know,
Say they, the powers pitted against us,
The mere pawns we are, moved by the red greed
Of a long thousand years.
And yet they say,
—Not they, others, who dash the tears aside
Lest we should see, and wonder why they cry,
That the world’s battles have been fought by boys.
(Boys like us, I suppose, just turned eighteen,
Enjoying ball and swimming, and sometimes,
Liking to see a girl home.) Fought by boys,
Who died, and left a thrilling of romance
For all the writers and the dried-up poets
That went out after them, when the red fields
Were safe and green again, and very quiet.
I guess we’ve thought about those boys too long
To feel like killing any other boys.
Aren’t there enough dead for the poets to sing?
And if they must sing death instead of life,
Why, I could show them things right here at home .
That’s why I shan’t go out to any war,
I don’t care what they call it, with what words
They dress up murder of those other boys;
They are my comrades, and whatever tongue—
German, or French, or Mexican or Jap—
They Speak in, we have pledged them here and now
Never to kill them; so, some day, the wars,
For lack of us young boys, the wars will cease.
Courtesy The Survey)
ſ
//ATCA/FIRES'
Professor &mily Greene Balch, of Wellesley College:
. . . . It is hard for people to see that the real line of struggle is not
between two groups of belligerents, but between progressive and
reactionary forces within each country.
Miss Mygatt's play, WATCHFIRES suggests aſ this. It reads so
well that it ought to act much better. It is full of incident; it is dra-
matic; it is timely. Good luck to it!
Mr. James Waldo Fawcett, Editor THó DAWN, writes:
The play's the thing. Ne other form of art is half, so visual.
WACHFIRES is a vigorous little brief for America as international
peace-maker; a singularly interesting example of what a play about
war should be. Not without a grim humor of its own, flashing through
its keynote of pity. The author is one who knows whereof she writes,
• . . If we remain out of the present conflict; it will be largely because
such things have been written.
Price 35 cents per copy
TRACY D. MYGATT
2 Jane Street, New York City

7
*
THE DAVN
A NATIONAL PEACE MAGAZINE
Edited by James Waldo Fawcett and Leigh Danen
War and Peace as seen by such notable writers
and artists as: Warren Worth Bailey, Meyer
London, Winter Russell, Joseph D. Cannon, Scott
Nearing, Max Eastman, David Starr Jordan,
Amos Pinchot, Owen R. Lovejoy, Egmont Hegel
Arens, Horace Traubel, E. Ralph Cheney, Art
Young, Maurice Becker, Emily Greene, Balch,
Tracy D. Mygatt, Mary Carolyn Davies, Eliza-
beth Freeman, and others.
Published weekly at 63 Fifth Ave., New York City
Ten Cents the Copy
Modern Art Printing Co., 408 West 14th St., N. Y.