The Books: “Ile” (Eugene O’Neill)

Next script on my script shelf:

And another one of Eugene O’Neill’s Seven Plays of the Sea.

This one is called Ile.

I saw this play once, when I was in college. The actors weren’t very good, as I recall, but the play itself haunts me, and haunts me to this day. It’s the story of a ship that is caught in the ice, and has been so for … a year? Can’t remember. But a long long time. It takes place in 1895. The captain of the ship has his wife with him on this journey … and the ice really starts to go to her head. Actually, it goes to everybody’s head. The crew is nearing mutiny. They refer to the captain as “a hard man …” A very bad feeling starts to escalate on the boat. It’s a simple play, made up really of one argument: her saying: David, please get me out of here … when the ice breaks … you must take me home. And David saying, “Of course, dear, I will take you home … you have been very patient …” This being an O’Neill play – the whole thing ends very badly. The captain, after making all these promises to his wife (“once the ice breaks, we will turn around and go home”), bails out on her when he hears that the ice actually is breaking up. He is a man driven forward, he must go on, he cannot turn around. And when the wife realizes this – her mind snaps. Completely.

It’s probably 10 pages long this play but damn, there is so much in it. It’s a great part for a female – I’d love to play that part. Oh, and here’s one thing:

“Emotional” stage directions are sometimes helpful, sometimes hurtful. Like, if a playwright (or the director, or whoever) adds to the script that a character says the line “angrily” – sometimes that’s a good clue – but other times, it can just lead the actor into cliched responses. I usually ignore “emotional” stage directions. There are a couple of exceptions. I always read them in Tennessee Williams’ plays – and I always read them in O’Neill’s plays. They’re not just commands, they are revelations about the character’s inner life. If you read this excerpt, and read the stuff in italics, you’ll see what I mean.

EXCERPT FROM Ile by Eugene O’Neill.

[Keeney hears his wife’s hysterical weeping and turns around in surprise — then walks slowly to her side.]

KEENEY. [putting an arm around her shoulder — with gruff tenderness] There, there, Annie. Don’t be afeard. It’s all past and gone.

MRS. KEENEY. [shrinking away from him] Oh, I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it any longer!

KEENEY. [gently] Can’t bear what, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY. [hysterically] All this horrible brutality, and these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence. [After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her handkerchief.]

KEENEY. [after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled frown] Remember, I warn’t hankerin’ to have you come on this voyage, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don’t you see? I didn’t want to wait back there in the house all alone as I’ve been doing these last six years since we were married — waiting, and watching, and fearing — with nothing to keep my mind occupied — not able to go back teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney’s wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean, I wanted to be by your side in the danger and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they make you out to be in Homeport. And instead — [her voice grows tremulous] All I find is ice and cold — and brutality! [Her voice breaks]

KEENEY. I warned you what it’d be, Annie. “Whalin’ ain’t no ladies’ tea party,” I says to you, and “You better stay to home where you’ve got all your woman’s comforts.” [shaking his head] But you was so set on it.

MRS. KEENEY. [wearily] Oh, I know it isn’t your fault, David. You see, I didn’t believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in the story books and I thought you were one of them.

KEENEY. [protectingly] I done my best to make it as cozy and comfortable as could be. [Mrs. Keeney looks around her in wild scorn] I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin’ it might be soothin’ to ye to be playin’ it times when they was calms and things was dull like.

MRS. KEENEY. [wearily] Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that. [She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks out — then suddenly bursts forth] I won’t stand it — I can’t stand it — pent up by these walls like a prisoner. [She runs over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his arm protectingly over her shoulders] Take me away from here, David! If I don’t get away from here, out of this terrible ship, I’ll go mad! Take me home, David! I can’t think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. I’m afraid. Take me home!

KEENEY. [holds her at arm’s length and looks at her face anxiously] Best go to bed, Annie. You ain’t yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain’t never seen you look this way before.

MRS. KEENEY. [laughing hysterically] It’s the ice and the cold and the silence — they’d make any one look strange.

KEENEY. [soothingly] In a month or two, with good luck, three at the most, I’ll have her filled with ile and then we’ll give her everything she’ll stand and pint for home.

MRS. KEENEY. But we can’t wait for that — I can’t wait. I want to get home. And the men won’t wait. They want to get home. It’s cruel, it’s brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You’ve got no excuse. There’s clear water to the south now. If you’ve a heart at all you’ve got to turn back.

KEENEY. [harshly] I can’t, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. Why can’t you?

KEENEY. A woman couldn’t rightly understand my reason.

MRS. KEENEY. [wildly] Because it’s a stupid, stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate. You’re afraid the other captains will sneer at you because you didn’t come back with a full ship. You want to live up to your silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it.

KEENEY. [his jaw set stubbornly] It ain’t that, Annie. Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain’t so much what any one’d say — but — [he hesitates, struggling to express his meaning] You see — I’ve always done it — since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back — with a full ship — and — it don’t seem right not to — somehow. I been always first whalin’ skipper out o’ Homeport, and — Don’t you see my meanin’, Annie? [He glances at her. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying.] Annie! [She comes to herself with a start] Best turn in, Annie, there’s a good woman. You ain’t well.

MRS. KEENEY. [resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear] David! Won’t you please turn back?

KEENEY. [gently] I can’t, Annie — not yet awhile. You don’t see my meanin’. I got to git the ile.

MRS. KEENEY. It’d be different if you needed the money, but you don’t. You’ve got more than plenty.

KEENEY. It ain’t the money I’m thinkin’ of. D’you think I’m as mean as that?

MRS. KEENEY. [dully] No — I don’t know — I can’t understand — [Intensely] Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman’s voice talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago — as if I’d been dead and could never go back.

KEENEY. [worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her eyes] Best go to bed, Annie. You ain’t well.

MRS. KEENEY. [not appearing to hear him] I used to be lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I’d dream of the fine free life you must be leading. [She gives a laugh which is half a sob] I used to love the sea then. [She pauses, then continues with slow intensity] But now — I don’t ever want to see the sea again.

KEENEY. [thinking to humor her] Tis no fit place for a woman, that’s sure. I was a fool to bring you.

MRS. KEENEY. [after a pause — passing her hand over her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness] How long would it take us to reach home — if we started now?

KEENEY. [frowning] ‘Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck.

MRS. KEENEY. [counts on her fingers — then murmurs with a rapt smile] That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn’t it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn’t it?

KEENEY. [trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved him — gruffly] Don’t you remember?

MRS. KEENEY. [vaguely — again passes her hand over her eyes] My memory is leaving me — up here, in the ice. It was so long ago. [A pause. Then she smiles dreamily] It’s June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in the front yard — and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the house — they’re budding. [She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to sob]

KEENEY. [disturbed] Go in and rest, Annie. You’re all wore out cryin’ over what can’t be helped.

MRS. KEENEY. [suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him] You love me, don’t you, David?

KEENEY. [in amazed embarrassment at this outburst] Love you? Why d’you ask me such a question, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY. [shaking him fiercely] But you do, don’t you, David? Tell me!

KEENEY. I’m your husband, Annie, and you’re my wife. Could there be aught but love between us after all these years?

MRS. KEENEY. [shaking him again — still more fiercely] Then you do love me. Say it!

KEENEY. [simply] I do, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. [gives a sigh of relief — her hands drop to her sides. Keeney regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and murmurs half to herself] I sometimes think if we could only have had a child. [Keeney turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to her — intensely] And I’ve always been a good wife to you, haven’t I, David?

KEENEY. [his voice betraying his emotion] No man has ever had a better, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. And I’ve never asked for much from you, have I, David, have I?

KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. [wildly] Then do this this once for my sake, for God’s sake — take me home! It’s killing me, this life — the brutality and cold and horror of it. I’m going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I can hear the silence threatening me — day after gray day and every day the same. I can’t bear it. [sobbing] I’ll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if you love me as you say. I’m afraid. For the love of God, take me home! [She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He holds her out at arm’s length, his expression softening. For a moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens as he looks at her tear-stained face.]

KEENEY. [dragging out the words with an effort] I’ll do it, Annie — for your sake — if you say it’s needful for ye.

MRS. KEENEY. [with wild joy — kissing him] God bless you for that!

Look Back in Anger (Plays, Penguin)