Collection 1: "Ile" by Eugene O'Neill

On the left (the stern of the ship) a long bench with rough cushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench, a table. Over the bench, several curtained portholes.

He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, and a woolen cap with ear flaps.

He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, and a woolen cap with ear flaps.

BEN. It’s c-c-cold. (Trying to control his chattering teeth—derisively.) Who d’ye think it were—the Old Man?

BEN (Apprehensively). Ssshh! He’ll hear ye.

They said if he don’t put back south for home today they’re goin’ to mutiny.

He is followed into the cabin by the SECOND MATE, a rangy six-footer with a lean weather-beaten face.

She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman primly dressed in black.

She turns round to them, her face transfigured with joy.

MRS. KEENEY (Crumbling before this command—abjectly). Very well, David.

MATE (Indignantly). That ain’t fair, sir, to say sich things.

JOE (Stepping forward with an air of bravado). I be.

And now git for’ard where ye belong, and—(He gives JOE’s body a contemptuous kick.) Drag him with you.

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?

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.

MATE (Excitedly). The ice is breakin’ up to no’the’ard, sir. There’s a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout says.

MRS. KEENEY (Imploringly). David!

KEENEY (Galvanized into action). Are you lowerin’ the boats?

MATE. Aye, aye, sir. (Jubilantly.) You’ll git the ile now right enough, sir.

Her fingers move faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as
(The Curtain Falls)