To Read Literature: Fiction, Poetry, Drama 0030555426, 9780030555428

Citation preview

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E. ALAN NORDSTROM JR. 141 FAW8ETT ROAD 5. WINTER PARK, FL. ID":":

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2018 with funding from Kahle/Austin Foundation

https://archive.org/details/toreadliteratureOOOOunse

lb Read Literature Fiction Poetry Drama IK male I Hall

Also by Donald Hall

Poetry Exiles and Marriages The Dark Houses A Roof of Tiger Lilies The Alligator Bride: Poems New and Selected The Yellow Room The Town of Hill Kicking the Leaves

Prose String Too Short to Be Saved Henry Moore Writing Well Playing Around (with G. McCauley et al.) Dock Ellis in the Country of Baseball Goatfoot Milktongue Twinbird Remembering Poets Ox Cart Man

Editions New Poets of England and America (with R. Pack and L. Simpson) The Poetry Sampler New Poets of England and America (Second Selection) (with R. Pack) Contemporary American Poets A Concise Encyclopedia of English and American Poetry and. Poets (with Stephen Spender) Poetry in English (with Warren Taylor) The Modern Stylists A Choice of Whitman s Verse Man and Boy American Poetry A Writer’s Reader (with D. L. Emblen)

To Read Literature Fiction Poetry Drama Donakl Hal 1

Holt, Rinehart and Winston New York Chicago San Francisco Atlanta Dallas Montreal Toronto London Sydney

To Ralph and Mary Lou

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Hall, Donald, 1928— To read literature: fiction, poetry, drama. Includes index. 1. Literature—History and criticism. —Collections. I. Title. PN524.H25

808.8

2. Literature

80-19971

ISBN 0-03-021006-2 Copyright © 1981 by Holt, Rinehart and Winston All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 123456789

032

987654321

Acknowledgments of copyright ownership and permission to reproduce works included in this volume begin on page 1477.

Special projects editor: Pamela Forcey Project editor and copy editor: H. L. Kirk Editorial assistant: Anita Baskin Production manager: Nancy J. Myers Art director: Louis Scardino Typography and cover design: Ben Kann Cover photo: J. D. Brown/Taurus Photos

To the Student

To read literature This book introduces the three principal types or genres of literature: fiction, poetry, and drama. When we learn to read literature, we acquire a pleasure and a resource we never lose. Although literary study is impractical in one sense— few people make their living reading books—in another sense it is almost as practical as breathing. Literature records and embodies centuries of human thought and feeling, preserving for us the minds of people who lived before us, who were like us and unlike us, against whom we can measure our common humanity and our historical difference. And when we read the stories, poems, and plays of our contemporaries they illuminate the world all of us share. When we read great literature, something changes in us that stays changed. Literature remembered becomes material to think with. No one who has read Hamlet well is quite the same again. Reading adds tools by which we observe, measure, and judge the people and the properties of our universe; we under¬ stand the actions and motives of others and of ourselves. In the fable of the ant and the grasshopper, the wise ant builds his storehouse against winter and prospers; the foolish grasshopper saves nothing and per¬ ishes. Amyone who dismisses the study of literature on the ground that it will not be useful—to a chemist or an engineer, to a foreman or an X-ray techni¬ cian_imitates the grasshopper. When we shut from our lives everything except food and shelter, part of us starves to death. Food for this hunger is music, painting, film, plays, poems, stories, and novels. Much writing in newspapers, magazines, and popular novels is not literature, if we reserve that word for work of high quality. This reading gives us as little nourishment as most television

vi

To the Student

and most fast food. For the long winters and energetic summers of our lives, we require the sustenance of literature. Reading literature old and new—taking into ourselves the work of nineteenth centuiy Russian storytellers, sixteenth-century English dramatists, and con¬ temporary American poets—we build a storehouse of knowledge and we enter¬ tain ourselves as well. But to take pleasure and understanding from literature we have to learn how to read it. No one expects to walk up to a computer and be able to program it without first learning something,about computers. For some reason—perhaps because we are familiar with words from childhood and take them for granted—we tend to think that a quick glance at the written word should reward us, and that if we do not take instant satisfaction the work is beyond us, or not worth it, or irrelevant or boring. But all our lives, in other skills, we have needed instruction and practice—to be able to ride a bicycle, drive a car, play guitar, shoot baskets, typewrite, dance. The knowledge we derive from literature can seem confusing. Equally great works may contradict each other in the generalizations we derive from them. One work may recommend solitude, another society. One may advise us to seize the moment, another to live a life of contemplation. Or, two good readers may disagree about the implication of a work and each argue convincingly, with detailed references to the writing, in support of contrary interpretations. A com¬ plex work of literature cannot be reduced to a simple, correct meaning. In an elementary arithmetic text, the answers may be printed in the back of the book. There are no answers to be printed in the back of this book or any collection of literature. Such nebulousness, or ambiguity, disturbs some students. After an hour’s class discussion of a short story, with varying interpretations offered, they want to know “But what does it mean?” We must admit that literature is inexact, and its truth is not easily verifiable. Probably the story means several things at once, and not one thing at all. This is not to say, however, that it means anything that anybody finds in it. Although differing, equally defensible opinions are common, error is even more common. When we speak of truth in the modem world, we usually mean something scientific or tautological. Arithmetic contains the truth of tautology; two and two make four because our definitions of two and four say so. In laboratories we encounter the truth of statistics and the truth of observation. If we smoke cigarettes heavily, it is true that we have one chance in four to develop lung cancer. When we heat copper wire over a Bunsen burner, the flame turns blue. But there is an older sense of truth, in which statements apparendv opposite can both be valid. In this older tradition, truth is dependent on context and circumstance, on the agreement of sensible men and women—-like the “Guilty” or Not guilty” verdict of a jury. Because this literary (or philosophical, or legal, or historical) truth is inexact, changeable, and subject to argument, literature can seem nebulous to minds accustomed to arithmetical certainty. Let me argue this: If literature is nebulous or inexact; if it is impossible to determine, with scientific precision, the value or the meaning of a work of art, this inexactness is the price literature pays for representing whole human beings. Human beings themselves, in their feelings and thoughts, in the wan-

To the Student

vii

derings of their short lives, are ambiguous and ambivalent, shifting mixtures of permanence and change, direction and disorder. Because literature is true to life, true to the complexities of human feeling, different people will read the same work with different responses. And literary art will sometimes affirm that opposite things are both true because they are. Such a condition is not tidy; it is perhaps regrettable—but it is human nature.

The words themselves I have talked as if literature were the feelings and thoughts we derive from reading. Whatever literature accomplishes in us, it accomplishes by words. As paint and canvas form the medium of painting, as sequences and combinations of sound different in pitch, duration, and quality form the medium of music, so the right words in the right order make literature. A Japanese named Basho wrote this haiku about three hundred years ago: The morning glow— another thing that will never be my friend.

Basho reminds us that the natural world is separate from us, that we may not shoulder our way into it, like invading troops of the imagination, and assume that we are intimate with everything. The American poet Robert Blv translated these lines. Here are three other versions: A. The morning glory is a separate being and I can never know it intimately. B. The morning glow is yet another object with which I will never become closely acquainted. C. The morning glow— something else that won’t call me companion.

To understand and appreciate how these four versions differ from one another is to become sensitive to the words that make literature. In a geneial way, the\ all mean the same thing. After the identical first lines, the translations differ in diction, which is the kinds of words chosen, and in rhythm, which is the pace and tempo of the words. Versions A and B are dry, stiff, and unnatural. Separate being sounds pretentious compared to anothei thing, i et another object is finicky wTith its yet another, and object is more scientific-sounding than the casual thing. “With which I will never become closely acquainted” is formal and distant, rhythmically slow. “And I can never know it intimately” lacks interest or surprise in its wrords. Hie simplicity of that will tie's et be m\ friend, coming to rest on the surprise of the last wrord, makes Bl\ s translation blossom in its final wrord. In version C, on the other hand, we liu\e a tianslation neaih

viii

To the Student

as pleasing as the original one. Something else has its own casual simplicity, and the little action of call me companion—where the morning glory is imagined capable of speech—has some of the surprise that the original translation found in friend. The difference is the words and their order.

What’s good, what’s bad The claims I make for literature are large: that it alters and enlarges our minds, our connections with each other past and present, our understanding of our own feelings. These claims apply to excellent literature only. This introduction to literature suggests that some literature is better than other literature, and that some writing is not literature at all. Even if judgments are always subject to reversal, even if there is no way we can be certain of being correct, evaluation lives at the center of literary study. When I was nineteen, I liked to read everything: science fiction, Russian novels, mystery stories, great poems, adventure magazines. Then for six months after an accident, sentenced to a hospital bed and a body cast, I set myself a reading list, all serious books I had been thinking about getting to. Of course there was a background to this choice: I had been taught by a good teacher who had directed and encouraged and stimulated my reading. I read through Shakespeare, the Bible in the King James version, novels by Henry James and Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner. Toward the end of six months, taking physical therapy, I hurried to finish the books I had assigned myself; I looked forward to taking a vacation among private detectives and ad¬ venturers of the twenty-fourth century. I thought I would take a holiday of light reading. When I tried to read the light things, I experienced one of those “turning points in life” we are asked to describe in freshman composition. I remember the dismay, the abject melancholy that crept over me as I realized—restless, turning from book to book in search of entertainment—that these books bored me; that I was ruined for life, that I would never again lose myself to stickfigure characters and artificial suspense. Literature ruined me for light reading. To you who begin this book, I give fan warning. If you read these stories and poems and plays with attention, you may lose any taste you have for television sit-coms, for Gothic novels, for Rod McKuen. Something happens. I don’t mean to say that I was able to give reasons why Fyodor Dostoyevskv’s novel about a murder was better than Agatha Christie’s or why Aldous Huxley’s view of the future, though less exciting, was more satisfying than Astounding Science Fictions. But I began a lifetime of trying to figure out why. What is it that makes Shakespeare so valuable to us? The struggle to name reasons for value—to evaluate works of art—is lifelong, and although we may never arrive at satisfactory explanations, the struggle makes the mind more sensitive, more receptive to the next work of literature it encounters. And as the mind becomes more sensitive and receptive to literature, it may become more sensitive and receptive to all sorts of things.

and to the Instructor

In making selections and in writing the text for this collection, I have tried to serve one purpose: to help students read literature with intelligence, gusto, and discrimination. This book begins the study of fiction and poetry by examining whole exam¬ ples, emphasizing that the goal of reading is not the analysis of parts, but the understanding of wholes. For fuller definition of literature’s components, later chapters concentrate on parts: on characterization in fiction, for example, and on images in poetry. Selections are frequently modem or contemporary; students best begin lit¬ erary study without the distraction of an unfamiliar vocabulary. Of course it would be silly to let this principle cheat us of Shakespeare; Othello and Hamlet are both included, Hamlet paired with Tom Stoppard’s absurdist comedy Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. File drama section begins with a new translation of Sophocles’ Oedipus the King, and ends with a section on film that includes the script of a classic American movie, Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane. I intend the text to be readable and entertaining while it remains serious. Because evervone is curious about the lives of authors we read (whethei we ought to be or not), there are biographical notes on all the writers. My emphasis is nevertheless neither biographical nor historical but aesthetic. 1 mean to lx amine the way literature works. Discussing chaiacterization, I wish to find the writer’s practical means toward characterization—in his choice of words, in his dialogue and description. Footnotes and glosses translate foreign-language material, provide essential

x

... and to the Instructor

identifications, and define words not available in many dictionaries, or words used in archaic sense. The Appendix, “Writing on Writing,” should provide guidance for students preparing papers on literature. IVe taken advice from several hundred American teachers of literature. When this book was only a notion, several years back, many people answered a ques¬ tionnaire about what it should include. I am grateful; I have followed many suggestions. Other professors read portions of the manuscript and commented in detail. I should like especially to thank Sylvan Barnet, R. S. Beal, Gary Blake, John Boni, Tarry Champion, Barbara J. Cicardo, Paul Davis, R. H. Deutsch, Richard Dietrich, Donald Drury, John L. Fell, Art Goldsher, Randolph Goodman, Wil¬ liam J. Grade, Jr., Barnett Guttenberg, Nancy J. Hazelton, Michael Hogan, Woodrow L. Holbein, John Huxhold, Henry E. Jacobs, Robert C. Johnson, John J. Keenan, Mike Keene, X. J. Kennedy, Flannah Laipson, Bette B. Lansdown, James MacKillop, James Moody, William W. Nolte II, Anne Pidgeon, Doris Powers, Jules Ryckebusch, H. Miller Solomon, Joe Sperry, William Stull, Cathy Turner, Martha Weathers, and James D. Welch. Collaboration and help at Holt, Rinehart and Winston began with Harriett Prentiss and continued with Kenney Withers and Susan Katz, editors to whom I am especially grateful. Pamela Forcey was masterful at production and If. L. Kirk a superb copy editor. Anita Baskin handled permissions and many other matters. Finally, let me thank my own helpers in New Hampshire, in Ann Arbor, and in Santa Monica: Lois Fierro, Sharon Giannotta, Dorothy Foster, Pat Wykes, and Frank Barham—not to mention Jane Kenyon. D. H.

K

Contents

To the Student

v

. . . and to the Instructor

ix

TO READ A STORY 1 One Modem Short Story

3

William Faulkner A Rose for Emily Plot

12

Theme

/

Character

15

/

14

Symbolism

2 From Parable to Sketch

/

4

Point of View

16 1/

17

The Parable

from The Gospel According to Mark The Fable

18

Rumpelstiltskin Folk Tales

/

The Fairy Tale

The Sketch

18

19

19

21

Paul Bunyan’s Big Griddle

22

23

Ernest Hemingway sketch

1

23

3 Telling Good Fiction from Bad

24

14

Setting

xil

Contents

4 Plot

27

James Thurber The Catbird Seat

29

Flannery O’Connor A Good Man Is Hard to Find 5 Character

47

Characterization

47

/

Characters Round and Flat, Dynamic and Static

James Joyce Counterparts

49

Eudora Welty A Worn Path 6 Setting

' 35

57

64

Mary Lavin The Green Grave and the Black Grave Peter Taylor A Spinster’s Tale 7 Point of View and Irony

75 90

Irony and the Unreliable Narrator

93

John Cheever The Chaste Clarissa

95

Tillie Olsen I Stand Here Ironing

102

Anton Chekhov Gooseberries 8 Style and Tone

108

116

John Updike Ace in the Hole

118

Ernest Hemingway In Another Country 9 Theme

65

125

130

Looking for Themes

131

Katherine Anne Porter Rope

132

Richard Wilbur A Game of Catch 10 Symbolism

137

140

Nathaniel Hawthorne Young Goodman Brown Franz Kafka A Hunger Artist

150

11 Three Modes of Contemporary Fiction Fantasy and Absurdity

Max Apple The Oranging of America j

157

157

Donald Barthelme The Indian Uprising

The Comic Storv

141

158 163

173

Woody Allen The Whore of Mensa

173

Spencer Holst The Case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra Science Fiction

177

180

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Harrison Bergeron

182 r

Stanislaw Lem How Erg the Self-Inducting Slew a Paleface 12 Longer Fiction: The Short Novel

195

Herman Melville Bartleby the Scrivener Leo Tolstoy The Death of Ivan Ilych

196" 221

186

48

Contents

Stories for Further Reading

258

Edgar Allan Poe The Murders in the Rue Morgue Joseph Conrad Youth

258

280

Virginia Woolf A Haunted House

299

D. H. Lawrence The Rocking-Horse Winner Jorge Luis Borges The Secret Miracle Langston Hughes On the Road

311

315

John Steinbeck The Chrysanthemums

318

Isaac Bashevis Singer Gimpel the Fool Ralph Ellison Battle Royal

301

326

335

Bernard Malamud The Magic Barrel

345

Sylvia Plath Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams

356

Joyce Carol Oates How I Contemplated the World . . . Raymond Carver The Father Gayl Jones White Rat

376

377

TO READ A POEM 1 Good Poems and Bad

383

385

Robert Frost Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening William Carlos Williams so much depends

396

398

Edgar Guest The Rough Little Rascal

398

Rod McKuen This is the way it was 2 Poems Are Made ol Words Robert Francis Hogwasli

399

401

404

Thomas Hardy During Wind and Rain Marianne Moore Silence

405

406

Robert Frost The Gift Outright Ben Jonson On My First Son 3 Images

385

393

Wallace Stevens Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock Some Bad Poems

366

40/ 408

409

H.D. Heat

409

Robert Herrick Upon Julia’s Clothes

410

Allen Ginsberg First Party at Ken Kesey’s with Hell’s Angels William Carlos Williams Nantucket Gary Soto Sun

411

412

Denise Levertov The World Outside Gregory Orr Washing My face

413

414

James Wright Lying in a Hammock ...

414

410

xiii

xiv

Contents

James Wright A Blessing

416

Pablo Neruda Ode to My Socks

417

4 Figures of Speech, Especially Metaphors Gregory Orr All Morning

420

420

William, Shakespeare Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Charles Reznikoff Holding the stem

424

William Shakespeare That time of year thou mavst in me^behold Theodore Roethke Orchids

425

Robert Creeley The Hill

426

5 Tone, with a Note on Intentions

427

E. E. Cummings from Poem, or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal A Note on Intentions

430

Richard Wilbur Museum Piece

433

Gary Snyder Hay for the Horses Robert Frost Ends

428

429

Thomas Hardy Transformations

434

435

6 Symbols and Allusions

436

William Blake The Sick Rose

437

The Problem of Allusion 439 Louise Bogan To an Artist, to Take Heart Kenneth Rexroth Proust’s Madeleine

439

440

Robert Bly Taking the hands of someone you love Robert Frost The Draft Horse

442

William Butler Yeats The Apparitions Ezra Pound The Return

445

7 The Sound of Poems

446

John Milton from Paradise Lost Rhythm and Linebreak

441

441

Elizabeth Bishop The Monument

444

446

447

John Haines from And When the Green Man Comes Walt Whitman from Song of Myself

William Carlos Williams As the cat climbed John Keats from Ode to a Nightingale

448

449

William Shakespeare from Antony and Cleopatra

Robert Lowell New Year’s Day

450 451

452

453

Gerard Manley Hopkins I Wrake and Feel the Fell of Dark Walt Whitman The Dalliance of the Eagles John Keats To Autumn 8 Meter and Rhyme Meter

457

455 457

422

455

,v

454

425

Contents

464

William Shakespeare from Richard II Louis Simpson To the Western World Rhyme

465

466 467

Louis Simpson Early in the Morning Thomas Hardy The Oxen

468

Richard Wilbur Tywater

469

Anthony Hecht Samuel Sewall

470

9 Forms and Types of Poetry

471

• Poetic Forms

471

Edward Gorey limerick Moritaki haiku

471

472

William Shakespeare Let me not to the marriage of true minds John Milton On the Late Massacre in Piedmont Poetic Types

473

474

474

Anonymous Edward

475

John Keats La Belle Dame sans Merci Robert Frost “Out, Out—■”

476

478

William Shakespeare Winter (from Love’s Labour’s Lost) Thomas Hardy Epitaph on a Pessimist Walter Savage Landor epigram

480

480

J. V. Cunningham two epigrams Ezra Pound The Bath Tub

480

480

George Herbert Easter Wings

481

E. E. Cummings concrete poem

481

Ian Hamilton Finlay Homage to Malevich

482

Robert Bly The Dead Seal near McClure’s Beach Russell Edson Bringing a Dead Man Back into Life 10 Versions of the Same Poets’ Revisions

479

483 484

485

485

William Butler Yeats four versions from Cradle Song

486

William Butler Yeats two versions of The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner

487

William Blake two versions from London

488

John Keats two versions from La Belle Dame sans Merci Robert Frost In White Robert Frost Design

489

489 490

Different Translations

491

four translations of The Twenty-third Psalm Pablo Neruda four translations Shakespeare in Paraphrase

0/Burial

491

in the East

493

496

William Shakespeare two versions of Soliloquy (from Hamlet) William Shakespeare two versions of Tomorrow (from Macbeth)

496 498

xv

xvi

Contents

Three Poets

500

Emily Dickinson

500

He put the Belt around my life—

500

/

He fumbles at your Soul—

After great pain, a formal feeling comes— come—

501

/

502

/

/

507

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—

/

Pacific

510

513

/

/

Mowing

/

I heard a Fly 503

/

The Soul has Bandaged

506

/

My Life

Severer Service of myself

508

508

/

A narrow Fellow in the Grass

510

/

Home Burial

The Road Not Faken

514

/

510

Birches

The Need of Being Versed in Country Things 517

/

Acquainted with the Night

Neither Out Far Nor In Deep The Most of It 519 Theodore Roethke Cuttings

/

/ 508

509

The Pasture 515

/

Because I could not stop for Death—

had stood—A Loaded Gun—

Picking

502

504 / The Province of the Saved 504 ( A still—Volcano/ I cannot five with You— 505 / Me from Myself to

506

Robert Frost

503

/

The first day’s Night had

I would not paint—a picture—

I’m ceded—I’ve stopped being Theirs—

banish—

7

Much Madness is divinest Sense—

buzz—when I died— moments— Life— 504

501

501

520

The Lost Son

518

/

517

/

/

After Apple-

514

516

/

/

To Earthward

Once by the

Desert Places

The Silken Tent

518

/

518

/

Come In

519

520 /

Big Wind

522

/

521

/

Dolor

Elegy for Jane

521

526

/

/

My Papa’s Waltz

The Sloth

527

Woman 527 / The Visitant 528 / Journey to the Interior The Rose 530 / The Meadow Mouse 533 A Gathering of Poems

/

522

I Knew a

528

/

535

(Jeffrey Chaucer from The Prologue to The Canterbury Tales Anonymous Lord Randal

535

536

Anonymous Adam Lay I-Bowndyn

536

Thomas Wyatt They Flee from Me

537

Sir Walter Ralegh Verses Written the Night Before His Execution Sir Philip Sidney from Astrophel and Stella Robert Southwell The Burning Babe

538

538

539

Christopher Marlowe The Passionate Shepherd to His Love Sir Walter Ralegh The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd

539 540

William Shakespeare When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes

541

William Shakespeare They that have power to hurt and will do none

541

William Shakespeare Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul William Shakespeare from Twelfth Night Thomas Campion Rose-Cheeked Laura

542 542

Thomas Nashe Adieu! Farewell Earth’s Bliss! John Donne The Canonization

544

John Donne Death, Be Not Proud John Donne Batter My Heart Ben Jonson To Heaven

543

545

546

A

546

Robert Herrick Delight in Disorder

547

541

/

/

Contents

George Herbert The Pulley

547

George Herbert Church Monuments John Milton On His Blindness

548

549

Andrew Marvell The Garden

549

Andrew Marvell To His Coy Mistress Henry Vaughan The World

551

552

John Dryden To the Memory of Mr. Oldham

553

Alexander Pope Part II of An Essay on Criticism Christopher Smart from Jubilate Agno William Cowper The Castaway

554

562

563

William Blake The Lamb

565

William Blake The Tyger

565

William Blake The Garden of Love William Blake London

566

566

William Blake Mock On, Mock On, Voltaire, Rousseau William Blake from Milton

567

567

Robert Burns Green Grow the Rashes, O Robert Burns John Anderson My Jo

568

568

William Wordsworth Ode: Intimations of Immortality . . . William Wordsworth The World Is Too Much with Us William Wordsworth It Is a Beauteous Evening Samuel Taylor Coleridge Kubla Khan

569 5/4

574

575

Walter Savage Landor I Strove with None

576

George Gordon, Lord Byron So We’ll Go No More A-Roving

5/6

George Gordon, Lord Byron Stanzas (When a man hath no freedom . . . Percy Bysshe Shelley Ode to the West Wind John Clare I Am

xvii

5/ /

579

John Keats Ode to a Nightingale

580

John Keats Ode on a Grecian Urn John Keats This Living Hand

582

583

Edward Fitzgerald from Hie Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam Edgar Allan Poe The City in the Sea Alfred, Lord Tennyson Ulysses

585

587

Alfred, Lord Tennyson Tears, Idle Tears Alfred, Lord Tennyson The Eagle

588

589

Robert Browning My Last Duchess

589

Emily Bronte No Coward Soul Is Mine

590

Walt Whitman Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking Walt Whitman A Farm Picture

596

Walt Whitman Cavalry Crossing a Ford Matthew Arnold Dover Beach Lewis Carroll Jabberwocky

596

596 59/

Thomas Hardy The Man He Killed

598

591

584

577

xviii

Contents

Thomas Hardy The Ruined Maid

599

Gerard Manley Hopkins Spring and Fall

600

Gerard Manley Hopkins The Windhover

600

Gerard Manley Hopkins Carrion Comfort A. E. Housman Eight O’Clock

601

601

A. E. Housman To an Athlete Dying Young

601

William Butler Yeats Who Goes with Fergus? William Butler Yeats The Magi

602

603

William Butler Yeats The Second Coming

603

William Butler Yeats Sailing to Byzantium

603

William Butler Yeats Leda and the Swan

604

William Butler Yeats Among School Children

605

William Butler Yeats Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop Edwin Arlington Robinson Eros Turannos

607

Edwin Arlington Robinson Mr. Flood’s Party Edwin Arlington Robinson Hill crest Carl Sandburg Chicago

606

608

609

611

Edward Thomas Die Owl

612

Vachel Lindsay Die Flower-Fed Buffaloes

612

Wallace Stevens The Emperor of Ice-Cream Wallace Stevens The Snow Man

613

613

Wallace Stevens Sunday Morning

614

William Carlos Williams Diis Is Just to Say William Carlos Williams Spring and All

617

617

D. H. Lawrence Die Song of a Man Wlio Has Come Through D. H. Lawrence Bavarian Gentians

618

Ezra Pound The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter Ezra Pound from Hugh Selwyn Mauberley H.D. Sea Rose

619

620

621

Robinson Jeffers Hurt Hawks Marianne Moore A Grave Edwin Muir The Horses

622

623 623

T. S. Eliot Die Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock T. S. Eliot Journey of the Magi

625

628

John Crowe Ransom Captain Carpenter

629

Archibald MacLeish You, Andrew Marvell Wilfred Owen Dulce et Decorum Est

631

632

E. E. Cummings Poem, or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal E. E. Cummings next to of course god america i Charles Reznikoff A Deserter Jean Toomer Reapers

633 634

634

635

Robert Graves In Broken Images

635

Robert Graves To Juan at the Winter Solstice

636

618

Louise Bogan Cartography

637

Hart Crane from The Bridge

637

Hart Crane from Voyages

638

Robert Francis Three Woodchoppers Langston Hughes Hope

639

640

Langston Hughes Bad Luck Card

640

Langston Hughes Homecoming

640

Richard E her hart The Groundhog Louis Zukovsky “In Arizona”

641

642

Kenneth Rexroth The Signature of All Things William Empson Villanelle

642

644

W. H. A uden Musee des Beaux Arts

645

W. H. Auden In Memory of W. B. Yeats

646

Louis MacNeice The Sunlight on the Garden Stephen Spender What I Expected, Was

648

648

Charles Olson Maximus, to Gloucester, Sunday, July 19 Elizabeth Bishop The Fish

649

651

Robert Hayden Middle Passage

653

Delmore Schwartz In the Naked Bed, in Plato’s Cave John Berryman from The Dream Songs

658

David Ignatow Rescue the Dead

660

Randall Jarrell Eighth Air Force

660

William Stafford Travelling Through the Dark William Stafford Returned to Say

657

661

662

Dylan Thomas This Bread I Break

662

Dylan Thomas A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child London

663

Dylan Thomas Fern Hill

663

Gwendolyn Brooks The Bean Eaters Gwendolyn Brooks We Real Cool

664 665

Robert Lowell After the Surprising Conversions Robert Lowell Skunk Hour

666

Robert Lowell For the Union Dead

668

Robert Duncan Poetry, a Natural Tiling Howard Nemerov Brainstorm

671

672

Philip Larkin Mr. Bleaney Philip Larkin Aubade

669

670

Richard Wilbur Still, Citizen Sparrow Richard Wilbur Mind

672

673

James Dickey The Heaven of Animals

6/4

Anthony Hecht The Dover Bitch: A Criticism of Life Denise Levertov October John Logan The Picnic

665

6/6 67 /

675

xx

Contents

Louis Simpson Walt Whitman at Bear Mountain Louis Simpson In the Suburbs John Haines To Turn Back

678

679 680

Donald Justice Counting the Mad

680

A. R. Ammons Working with Tools

681

Robert Ely Hunting Pheasants in a Cornfield

681

Robert Ely A Man Writes to a Part of Himself Robert Creeley The Rain

682

682

Robert Creeley For My Mother: Genevieve Jules Creeley Allen Ginsberg America

683

686

James Merrill After Greece

688

Frank O’Hara The Day Lady Died

689

Frank O’Hara Why I Am Not a Painter W. D. Snodgrass April Inventory

690

691

W. D. Snodgrass Lobsters in the Window John Ashbery Rivers and Mountains Galway Kinnell The Bear

693

695

W. S. Merwin Something I’ve Not Done Charles Tomlinson Paring the Apple James Wright The First Days Philip Levine Salami

692

697 698

699

699

Anne Sexton Wanting to Die

701

Edward Dorn On the Debt My Mother Owed to Sears Roebuck Thom Gunn On the Move

703

X. J. Kennedy In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One Day Adrienne Rich From an Old House in America Gregory Corso Marriage

704

705

713

Ted Hughes Thrushes

715

Gary Snyder Above Pate Valley Geoffrey Hill Merlin

702

716

717

Geoffrey Hill Orpheus and Eurydice Sylvia Plath Poppies in October Sylvia Plath Lady Lazarus Sylvia Plath Death & Co.

717 718

718 720

Etheridge Knight Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane 721 Etheridge Knight 2 Poems for Black Relocation Centers Imamu Amiri Baraka Watergate Imamu Amiri Baraka Careers Wendell Berry The Wild Geese Mark Strand Pot Roast

723 723 724

725

Charles Wright Virgo Descending

v\ 726

722

Contents

Charles Simic Fork Tom Clark Poem

727 727

Louise Gluck Gratitude

728

Gregory Orr The Sweater

728

Joyce Peseroff The Hardness Scale

729

TO READ A PLAY 1 The Mental Theater

733

2 Elements of Drama

735

731

Plot 735 / Character 738 / Language 741 / 'thought 741 / Spectacle 743 / Music and Sound 746 / Assembling the Elements 746 / Some Suggestions for Studying Drama 747 3 Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles History 748 / Sophocles 753

Aristotle’s Poetics

Sophocles Oedipus the King

748

750

/

754

4 Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare William Shakespeare

More Terms of Tragedy

800

804

William Shakespeare Hamlet, Prince of Denmark 5 Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere Tragicomedy and Mixed Forms Moliere 903 Moliere Tartuffe

902

805

900 /

Neoclassic Drama

902

/

905

6 Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov The Idea of Realism

955

/

955

Chekhov and The Cherry Orchard

Anton Chekhov The Cherry Orchard

958

7 Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard 997 Tom Stoppard and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead 998 Tom Stoppard Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead Plays for Further Reading

1069

William Shakespeare Othello, The Moor of Venice Henrik Ibsen Hedda Gabler

1151

George Bernard Shaw Saint Joan

1208

William Butler Yeats The Cat and the Moon Arthur Miller Death of a Salesman Edward A Ibee The Zoo Story

1348

1281

12/5

1071

999

956

752

/

xxi

xxii

Contents

Film

1364

Film and the Stage 1364 / A Note on Television 1365 Film 1366 / Orson Welles and Citizen Kane 1368 Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles Citizen Kane

Appendix: Writing on Writing

Acknowledgments

Index

1489

1477

1451

/

1371

The Language of

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At the birth of her first little child the queen rejoiced very much, and forgot the little man and her promise; but one day he came into her chamber and reminded her of it. Then she grieved sorely at her misfortune, and offered him all the treas¬ ures of the kingdom in exchange; but in vain, till at last her tears softened him, and he said "I will give you three days’ grace, and if during that time you tell me mv name, you shall keep your child. ” Now the queen lay awake all night, thinking of all the odd names that she had ever heard, and dispatched messengers all over the land to inquire after new ones. le next day the little man came, and she began with Timothy, Benjamin, Jere¬ miah, and all the names she could remember; but to all of them he said, “That’s not my name. ” Ihe second day she began with all the comical names she could hear of, Bandylegs, Hunch-back, Crook-shanks, and so on, but the little gentleman still said to eveiy one of them, “That’s not my name. ” Hie third day came back one of the messengers, and said “I can hear of no one other name; but yesterday, as I was climbing a high hill among the trees of the orest where the fox and the hare bid each other good night, I saw a little hut, and le oie the hut burnt a fire, and round the fire danced a funny little man upon one leg, and sung ‘Merrily the feast HI make, To-day I’ll brew, to-morrow bake; Merrily I’ll dance and sing, For next day will a stranger bring: Little does my lady dream Rumpelstiltskin is my name!’ ”

When the queen heard this, she jumped for joy, and as soon as her little visitor came, and said “Now, lady, what is my name?” “It is John?” asked she “No'” “Is it Tom?” “No!” ' " ' Can your name be Rumpelstiltskin?” “Some witch told you that! Some witch told you that!” cried the little man and dashed his right foot in a rage so deep into the floor, that he was forced to lay hold of it with both hands to pull it out. Then he made the best of his wav off while everybody laughed at him for having had all his trouble for nothing.

,This text comes from The Classic Fairy Tales, edited by Iona and Peter Opie do say: ^ ’ It is a moral tale in that it shows the perils qf boasting, though this aspect is not s ressed. It is a fairy tale in that the heroine receives supernatural assistance. It

From Parable to Sketch

21

is a properly constructed dramatic tale in that to obtain such assistance the heroine has to make the most terrible of pledges, the life of her first-bom child. And it is a primitive tale in that it hinges on the belief of die interdependence of name and identity: die dwarfs power is only to be broken if his name can be discovered. It is also a tale possessing genuine folk appeal in that a supernatural creature is outwitted by human cleverness.

“Rumpelstiltskin” is not, then, like Aesop’s story about the boy who cried wolf; “Rumpelstiltskin” rouses first our delight in the gnome’s outrage and then our fear for the daughter with her two enemies: child-stealing gnome and greedy king. (Note that the greedy king becomes her husband, and consider for a moment woman’s relationship to man in this story.) Notice the economy of the fairv tale, how much information is given in the first two sentences. Notice also how qualities of character are fixed, constant, and openly stated. The miller was vain, his daughter was shrewd and clever. We learn the latter two qualities in the story’s course, but the miller’s vanity is a given fact; told, not shown. Accident, magic, coincidence mark the fairy story (and the folk tale, the fable, the epic) and separate it from much modem fiction. And although this tale has its moral (don’t brag about your daughter), as a whole it is curiously amoral. We hear that the Icing is greedy, but he is not judged wrong or wicked or evil. He is as greedy as the miller is vain—as a given fact of character—and because he is king he has the power to kill the miller’s daughter if she does not do what he wishes. In this primitive form, narrative takes precedence over other elements of fiction—narrative without development of character, without complexity of mo¬ tive, without specified place or setting, without intricacies of time sequence or point of view. Story is everything.

Folk tales Another ancient form of story is the joke. My grandfather used to tell the tragic tale of the death of his horse Nellie. One summer, the hottest August in history, he put ears of popcorn on the bam roof for drying, right along the window of Nellie’s stall. The day the thermometer hit 112 degrees the com got so hot it popped right off the cob, slid down the roof, and fell to the ground past Nellie’s window. Poor Nellie thought it was a blizzard and froze to death. Even this joke tells a story, with characters, props, setting, and action. A joke is a very short narration, usually anonymous in its authorship and oral in its transmission. Most cultures have folk stories, longer than jokes but often humorous, also anonymous and oral. The tall story is a common type of folk tale. In the northern Midwest, and in the Pacific Northwest, Paul Bunyan and his big blue ox Babe were heroes. Bigness was the real hero, as in this story Constance Rourke heard and wrote down (if you have trouble reading it, try saying it aloud).

Paul Bunyan’s Big Griddle Once the king of Sweden drove all the good farmers out of the countiy and a senator from North Dakota he wanted all the fine upstanding timber cleared off the whole state so as to make room for them, so he asked Paul Bunyan for to do the job, and Paul he took the contract. Paul cut lumber out in North Dakota at die rate of a million foot a hour, and he didn’t hardly know how to feed his men, he had so many in the camp. The worst trouble was with his hot-cake griddle. It weren’t near big enough though it were a pretty good size. The cookees used to giease it with telephone poles with bunches of gunny sacks on the end, but it weren’t near big enough. Paul knew where he could get a bigger griddle but he didn t haidly know how to get it to the camp. When it was got up on one aidge it made a track as wide as a wagon road and it were pretty hard to lift. So Paul he thought, and finally he hitched up his mule team. That mule team could travel so last when they had theft regular feed of seven bushels of wheat apiece that nobody couldn’t hold them, and Paul had to drive them to a flat-bottomed wagon without no wheels. This time Paul hitched a couple of these here electromagnets on the back, and he drove off to where the griddle was, and he swung them magnets round till he got the griddle on its aidge, and then he drove off lippity-cut to the camp, and he got the griddle a-goin’ round so fast he didn’t hardly know how to stop it, but he got her near the place where he wanted it, and then he let her go by herself, and she went round and round and round and round, gittin’ nearer and nearer the center, and finally she gouged out a hole big enough for a furnace and settled down on top. Then Paul he built a corral around the griddle and put a diamond-shaped roof over it, and built some grain elevators alongside, and put in eight of the biggest concrete mixers he could find. Long in the afternoon every day they’d begin to fill the elevators and start the mixers, and then the cookees would grease the griddle. They all had slabs of bacon on their feet, and they each had their routes. Paul he fixed up a fence of chicken wire round the aidge, in case some cookees didn’t get off quick enough when the batter began to roll down, so’s they’d have some place to climb to. When the batter was all ready somebody on tire aidge used to blow a whistle, and it took four minutes for the sound to get across. Then they’d trip the chute, and out would roll a wave of hot-cake batter four feet high, and any poor cookee that was overtook was kinda out of luck. Paul’s cook shanty was so big that he had to have lunch counters all along the wall so’s the hands could stop and get something to eat before they found their places or else they’d get faint a-lookin’ for them. Paul he had the tables arranged m three decks, with the oldest hands on the top; and the men on the second deck wore tin hats like a fireman’s, with little spouts up the back, and away from the thud deck Paul ran a V-flume to the pigpen, for Paul he did hate waste. The problem was how to get the grub to the crew fast enough, because the cookees had so far to go from the cook shanty that it all got cold before they could get it onto the table. So Paul he put up a stop-clock ten foot across the face so as he could see it any place in the earin’ shanty, and he got in one of these here efficiency experts, and they got it all timed down to the plumb limit how long it ought to take to get that food hot to the table. Then Paul he decided to put in some Shetland ponies on roller skates for to draw the food around, and everything seemed fine But them ponies was trotters, and they coultjn’t take the comers with anv speed and Paul he had to leam ’em how to pace, and a whole lot of victuals was wasted while he was a-leamin’ of them, and Paul was losin’ time and he knowed it. So

22

From Parable to Sketch

23

finally he done away with the ponies and put in a train of grub cars with switches and double track and a loop at the end back to the main line, so drat when the cars got started proper they came back by themselves. And Paul put in a steel tank especial for the soup, with an air-compressor cupola, six hundred pounds to the square inch, and they used to run the soup down to die men through a four-inch fire hose which the feller on top used to open up as he came through.

Here is the sort of story people tell and retell, embellishing it so that author¬ ship becomes collaborative. Notice how much background information turns up in the first sentence or two, as in “Rumpelstiltskin. ” This exaggeration, a million foot an hour, announces the genre of the tall tale as if it were a signpost. When we learn that Paul’s old skillet was greased by telephone poles with gunny sacks tied on the end, we could continue the tale ourselves: we get the idea. The basis of this genre is outrageous exaggeration. Applying 1980 notions to 1890 scenes, we could drop two-ton butter pats from 747s equipped with bomb bays onto a griddle laid across the Grand Canyon with all of Texas’s natural gas piped into it for flame.

The sketch Parable, fable, fairy story, and folk tale are the ancestors of modem fiction. The sketch is modem and resembles the short story. It is a short prose work that may include narrative, description, dialogue, or characterization but lacks the conflict of a short story. Some sketches, like Ivan Turgenev’s great A Sports¬ man’s Sketches, may be long and richly textured. Others are more modest, merely capturing the precise tone and atmosphere of a setting; others use psy¬ chological observation to form the character sketch. Ernest Hemingway printed brief sketches between the short stories of his first collection, In Our Time. Here is one: They shot the six cabinet ministers at half-past six in the morning against the wall of a hospital. There were pools of water in die courtyard. There were wet dead leaves on the paving of the courtyard. It rained hard. All the shutters of the hospital were nailed shut. One of the ministers was sick with typhoid. Two soldiers carried him downstairs and out into the rain. They tried to hold him up against the wall but he sat down in a puddle of water. Hie other five stood very quiefiy against the wall. Finally the officer told the soldiers it was no good trying to make him stand up. When they fired the first volley he was sitting down in the water with his head on his knees.

Hemingway offers no conflict here, only an unblinking and exact rendering of the scene. Although brief, a sketch can be powerful. Before we pay closer attention to the elements of fiction like plot and conflict, let us look briefly at some of the criteria for excellence in fiction, the ways we discriminate between good fiction and bad, between good and better.

Chapter 3 Telling Good Fiction fro a Bad -

Like most television, most film, most poetry, and most drama, most fiction is not great literature. Much popular fiction is good entertainment without ar¬ tistic goals or pretensions. There is nothing evil about entertainment, but our education should reveal the values of literature—which include entertainment and much more. Some people ascribe literary value to a piece of writing in inverse proportion to its popularity; this is snobbery. Anyone who equates popularity with failure will be hard put to explain Dickens and Shakespeare who were massively popular during their lifetime. Dm popularity does not make a writer good, either. Here are the first para¬ graphs of Dare to Love by Jennifer Wilde:

They still stared and whispered to themselves as I walked down the street. Jlrree years had passed since I was home last, but the village hadn’t changed at all, nor had the people. At eighteen, I was no longer a child, but to tire villagers I was still the Lawrence girl, tire subject of scandal. It pleased me to find that I was not affected by the stares, the whispers. What these people thought simply didn’t matter any more. They would never again be able to cause the anger, tire pain, the resentment that had marred my childhood. My blue-black hair fell to nrv shoulders in waves, and I wore a dusty rose cotton frock trimmed with lace. My manner of dress shocked the villagers, as did my cool, self-possessed attitude.

Telling Good Fiction from Bad

25

And here is the end of the same novel: “Fve never stopped loving you,” I whispered. Pulling me into his arms, he held me loosely for a moment and looked into my eyes. Then he smiled and kissed me with incredible tenderness, murmuring my name as his lips touched mine. This was the way it was meant to be. This was the destiny Inez had foretold for me so many years ago in the gypsy camp. As I put my arms around him, I knew at last that dreams can come true.

If you almost feel that you could write the 548 intervening pages, you are calling this writing predictable. Such excess predictability gives us a place to start. Inferior art pleases, in a mild way, by fulfilling expectations; there are no sur¬ prises: the bad will be punished, the detective will get his man. If details are not wholly predictable in Dare to Love (we don’t know whether there will be a shipwreck in Corsica or a mysterious letter from the Azores), we can be sure that nothing will happen to tax our understanding. Literature, on the other hand, entertains us while it enlarges our awareness of unpredictable human experience. Popular conventions reveal the state of society and the popular mind. But while literary study does not neglect history, society, or the human psyche, it looks also at form and theme in a work of art. The literary form in most best sellers is simple, repetitive, and secondhand. Original form takes original read¬ ing, which most readers are unprepared to offer. And theme in most best sellers is conventional daydream, to beguile our time away and to provide a setting for reverie, which is sometimes about our blue-black hair and sometimes about violence. For example, Mickey Spillane’s Kiss Me, Deadly begins with this little daydream: All I saw was the dame standing there in the glare of the headlights waving her amis like a huge puppet and the curse I spit out filled the car and my own ears. I wrenched the wheel over, felt the rear end start to slide, brought it out with a splash of power and almost ran up the side of the cliff as the car fishtailed, fire brakes bit in, gouging a furrow in the shoulder, then jumped to the pavement and held.

Spillane’s universe is sexual exploitation and masculine violence. (In Jennifer Wilde everything in the world is implicitly sexual, but nothing is explicit; in Mickey Spillane sex is a form of violence.) I Iere is the ending of the same book: She laughed and I heard the insanity in it. The gun pressed into my belt as she kneeled forward, bringing die revulsion with her. “You’re going to die now . . . but first you can do it. Deadly . . . deadly . . . kiss me. ” The smile never left her mouth and before it was on me I thumbed the lighter and in the moment of time before the scream blossoms into die wild cry of terror she was a mass of flame tumbling on the floor with the blue flames of alcohol turning the white of her hair into black char and her body convulsing under the

26

Telling Good Fiction from Bad

ag°ny °f it- The flames were teeth that ate, ripping and tearing, into scars of other flames and her voice the shrill sound of death on the loose. I looked, looked away. The door was closed and maybe I had enough left to make it.

Sadism and sentimentality are equally predictable. Like Kiss Me, Deadly, “A Rose for Emily” ends with horror. Then why is “A Rose for Emily good and Kiss Me, Deadly bad? There are many partial answers, beginning with originality, but in the end we must look to theme or content Kiss Me, Deadly has nothing to say beyond affirming its sadism; it is solemn but it is not serious. On the other hand, “A Rose for Emily” says something_ about the South, about people who cling to the dead past—that is not com¬ monplace. It records observations that are not trite, in language fresh enough to awaken the reader’s mind and emotions. We are not speaking of Spillane’s intention or purpose, nor of Faulkner s. After all, if Mickey Spillane asserted on a stack of Bibles that his intention was high art, it would not change the value of one word he has written. And if the ghost of William Faulkner rose before us to protest that he wrote “A Rose for Emily” in haste, for money, to meet a mortgage payment, it would not change the value of that story either. We call some fiction bad when it fails through want of skill; badness like Spillane’s or Wilde’s derives from the nature of the product. To be good, a thing has to worth making. One argument for reading good literature is that it edu¬ cates us to our sensibilities, makes us more sensitive, wiser, broader in un¬ derstanding and empathy, and more sophisticated. Reading Flanneiy O’Connor or James Joyce, we see how literature can refine our perceptions. Reading Mickey Spillane, we see something contrary: how writing can equally serve to brutalize and desensitize, to exercise our latent sadism rather than to awakerj sensitivity to the suffering of other§. If good literature aims to enlarge and enhance our sensibilities, Spillane is bad; bad becomes a moral term and not merely a technical one.

Chapter 4 Plot

Plot is what happens in a story, the story s organized development, usually a chain linking cause and effect. Plot is the first and most obvious quality of a story. When we agree on what happened in a story, we can go on to discuss its significance. To introduce plot, then, let us rehearse some common terms. Plot first requires conflict. Conflict may arise between characters; if Sam and Bill are in love with the same woman, their conflict can engender a thousand plots. Conflict may arise between a person and an idea, or a person and an event. A dying protagonist may conflict with antagonist death. Or an old-fash¬ ioned Southern spinster may conflict with the modern world. Such conflict often continues throughout a story, frequently to be resolved at the story’s end. Second, the reader needs to know where and when the story happens, and other information germane to plot. Exposition is the presentation of needed facts; it can occur at any point in the story, but it is usually most necessary at the beginning. An old storyteller might begin: On the morning of Februaiy 10, 18—, a stranger alighted from the coach in the square of the town of M-. It was a frosty morning, and the stranger appeared ill-dressed for the climate where she chose to take herself, for . . .

To the modern reader, such overt exposition seems too slow, not subtle enough. In “A Rose for Emily,” early description of Miss Emily’s house and surroundings gives us social and historical background we need to have while it pretends only to paint a picture.

28

Plot

After exposition, the conflict between protagonist and antagonist unfolds and grows more intense, in a rising action of increasing intensity, until the climax ry tAtli 0 n we reach the conflict’s outcome. Then we have the de¬ nouement (French for untying a knot) that elucidates and concludes the story. At the climax, one of the conflicting forces usually wins out over the other. The denouement is almost the counterpart of exposition—-bookends of the story— as it accounts for loose ends, backing us out of the story as the exposition edged us in. With denouement as with exposition, it is elegant to avoid the obvious. In “A Rose for Emily” the climax occurs when the townspeople break into the locked room; the grisly discovery provides the denouement. Some stories lack an obvious climax. It is a writer’s joke that to turn an ordinaiy short story into a story for The New Yorker, all you need to do is throw away the last two pages. Sketches lack conflict and climax. Other stories (thrill¬ ers, adventure stories) may provide climax after climax, a rising action of peaks with brief valleys. A story s plot stimulates our wish to know what happens next; suspense keeps us turning the page to find out who killed whom, or who marries whom, 01 why a cliaractei behaves in a bizarre fashion. On the other hand, manv writers find it useful to foreshadow, hinting what will happen next. Foreshad¬ owing creates the sense of necessity, inevitability, fate. Many plots use flash¬ back, an ancient and honorable device. In films and novels, in stories and in modem plays, we many times enter-someone’s mind and watch how a present event recalls a past one, which often serves to reveal the character’s motives. A similar device is the frame: a story begins and ends in the same moment, while the story’s middle recalls a past that explains the present. Obviously a frame can accommodate foreshadowing; it can present us with a character in a situation—say, on Death Row waiting for execution—and then flash back to childhood to show us the character’s progress to condemnation. A frame mav create suspense as well as a sense of doom. “A Rose for Emily” begins and ends just after Miss Family s death, and it is her death that raises the question of her life. Using terms like plot, we isolate a story’s parts. It is worth keeping in mind, however, that a good story is an organic whole: one sentence, or one phrase w ithin a sentence, may advance the plot, indicate character, represent point of view, describe setting, and promote theme or meaning. In literature, everything happens at once.

James Tliurber

The Catbird Seat James Tliurber (1894—1961) is associated for most of us with The New Yorker, which he helped edit, for which he wrote stories and drew cartoons. Tliurber was a comic writer. But, as with many humorists (like Woody Allen, pages 178—177), Thurber’s mind has a dark and obsessive side. (Readers interested in pursuing the difficult man behind the stories and cartoons may appreciate Burton Bernstein’s biography, Thurber.) James Tliurber grew up in Columbus, Ohio, and worked for newspapers in Ohio, France, and New York. But not until he joined The New Yorker's staff, when he observ ed the stylistic devices of E. B. White—with whom he collaborated on Is Sex Necessary ? (1929)—did he discover and develop the wry manner we cherish.

Mr. Martin bought the pack of Camels on Monday night in the most crowded cigar store on Broadway. It was theater time and seven or eight men were buying cig¬ arettes. The clerk didn’t even glance at Mr. Martin, who put the pack in his over¬ coat pocket and went out. If any of the staff at F & S had seen him buy the cigarettes, they would have been astonished, for it was generally known that Mr. Martin did not smoke, and never had. No one saw him. It was just a week to the day since Mr. Martin had decided to rub out Mrs. Ulgine Barrows. The term “rub out” pleased him because it suggested nothing more than the correction of an error—in this case an error of Mr. Fitweiler. Mr. Martin had spent each night of the past week working out his plan and examining it. As he walked home now he went over it again. For the hundredth time he resented the element of imprecision, the margin of guesswork that entered into the business. The project as he had worked it out was casual and bold, the risks were considerable. Something might go wrong anywhere along the line. And dierein lay the cunning of his scheme. No one would ever see in it the cautious, painstaking hand of Erwin Martin, head of the filing department at F & S, of whom Mr. Fitweiler had once said, “Man is fallible but Martin isn’t.” No one would see his hand, that is, unless it were caught in the act. Sitting in his apartment, drinking a glass of milk, Mr. Martin reviewed his case against Mrs. Ulgine Barrows, as he had every night for seven nights. He began at the beginning. Her quacking voice and braying laugh had first profaned the halls of F & S on March 7, 1941 (Mr. Martin had a head for dates). Old Roberts, the personnel chief, had introduced her as the newly appointed special adviser to the president of die firm, Mr. Fitweiler. Tire woman had appalled Mr. Martin instantly, but he hadn’t shown it. He had given her his dry hand, a look of studious con¬ centration, and a faint smile. “Well,” she had said, looking at the papers on his desk, “are you lifting the oxcart out of the ditch?” As Mr. Martin recalled that moment, over his milk, he squirmed slightly. He must keep his mind on her crimes as a special adviser, not on her peccadillos as a personality7. This he found difficult to do, in spite of entering an objection and sustaining it. The faidts of the woman as a woman kept chattering on in his mind like an unruly witness. She had, for almost two years now, baited him. In the halls, in the elevator, even in his own office, into which she romped now and dien like a circus horse, she was constantly shouting these silly questions at him. “Are you lifting the oxcart out of die ditch? Are you tearing up the pea patch? .Are you hollering down the rain barrel? .Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel? .Are you sitting in the catbird seat?”

29

30

Plot

It was Joey Hart, one of Mr. Martin’s two assistants, who had explained what the gibberish meant. “She must be a Dodger fan,” he had said. “Red Barber an¬ nounces the Dodger games over the radio and he uses those expressions—picked ’em up down South.” Joey had gone on to explain one or two. “Tearing up the pea patch” meant going on a rampage; “sitting in the catbird seat” meant sitting pretty, like a batter with three balls and no strikes on him. Mr. Martin dismissed all this with an effort. It had been annoying, it had driven him near to distraction, but he was too solid a man to be moved to murder by anything so childish. It was fortunate, he reflected as he passed on to the important charges against Mrs. Barrows, that he had stood up under it so well. He had maintained always an outward appearance of polite tolerance. “Why, I even believe you like the woman,” Miss Paird, his other assistant, had once said to him. He had simply smiled. A gavel rapped in Mr. Martin’s mind and the case proper was resumed. Mrs. Ulgine Barrows stood charged with willful, blatant, and persistent attempts to destroy the efficiency and system of F & S. It was competent, material, and rel¬ evant to review her advent and rise to power. Mr. Martin had got the story from Miss Paird, who seemed always able to find things out. According to her, Mrs. Barrows had met Mr. Fitweiler at a party, where she had rescued him from the embraces of a powerfully built drunken man who had mistaken the president of F & S for a famous retired Middle Western football coach. She had led him to a sofa and somehow worked upon him a monstrous magic. The aging gentleman had jumped to the conclusion there and then that this was a woman of singular attainments, equipped to bring out the best in him and in the firm. A week later he had introduced her into F & S as his special adviser. On that day confusion got its foot in the door. After Miss Tyson, Mr. Brundage, and Mr. Bartlett had been fired and Mr. Munson had taken his hat and stalked out, mailing in his resignation later, old Roberts had been emboldened to speak to Mr. Fitweiler. He mentioned that Mr. Munson’s department had been “a litfie disrupted” and hadn’t they per¬ haps better resume the old system there? Mr. Fitweiler had said certainlv not. He had the greatest faith in Mrs. Barrows’ ideas. “They require a little seasoning, a little seasoning, is all,” he had added. Mr. Roberts had given it up. Mr. Martin reviewed in detail all die changes wrought by Mrs. Barrows. She had begun chip¬ ping at the cornices of the firm’s edifice and now she was swinging at the foun¬ dation stones with a pickaxe. Mr. Martin came now, in his summing up, to the afternoon of Monday, Novem¬ ber 2, 1942—just one week ago. On that day, at 3 P.M., Mrs. Barrows had bounced into his office. “Boo!” she had yelled. “Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel: Mr. Martin had looked at her from under his green eyeshade, saving nothing. She had begun to wander about the office, talcing it in with her great, popping eyes. “Do you really need all diese fifing cabinets?” she had demanded suddenly. Mr. Martin’s heart had jumped. “Each of these files,” he had said, keeping his voice even, “plays an indispensable part in the system of F & S. ” She had brayed at him, “Well, don’t tear up the pea patch!” and gone to the door. From there she had bawled, “But you sure have got a lot of fine scrap in here!” Mr. Martin could no longer doubt that the finger was on his beloved department. Her pickaxe was on the upswing, poised for the first blow. It had not come yet; he had received no blue memo from the enchanted Mr. Fitweiler bearing nonsensical instructions deriving from the obscene woqian. But diere was no doubt in Mr. Martin’s mind that one would be forthcoming. He must act quickly. Already a precious week had gone by. Mr. Martin stood up in his living room, still holding

James Thurber

31

his milk glass. “Gentlemen of the jury,” he said to himself, “I demand die death penalty for this horrible person.” The next day Mr. Martin followed his routine, as usual. He polished his glasses more often and once sharpened an already sharp pencil, but not even Miss Paird noticed. Only once did he catch sight of his victim; she swept past him in die hall with a patronizing “Hi!” At five-thirty he walked home, as usual, and had a glass of milk, as usual. He had never drunk anything stronger in his life—unless you could count ginger ale. The late Sam Schlosser, the S of F & S, had praised Mr. Martin at a staff meeting several years before for his temperate habits. “Our most ■efficient worker neither drinks nor smokes,” he had said. “The results speak for themselves. ” Mr. Fitweiler had sat by, nodding approval. Mr. Martin was still thinking about that red-letter day as he walked over to the Schrafft’s on Fifth Avenue near Forty-sixth Street. He got there, as he always did, at eight o’clock. He finished his dinner and the financial page of the Sun at a quarter to nine, as he always did. It was his custom after dinner to take a walk. This time he walked down Fifth Avenue at a casual pace. His gloved hands felt moist and warm, his forehead cold. He transferred the Camels from his overcoat to a jacket pocket. He wondered, as he did so, if they did not represent an un¬ necessary note of strain. Mrs. Barrows smoked only Luckies. It was his idea to puff a few puffs on a Camel (after the rubbing-out), stub it out in the ashtray holding her lipstick-stained Luckies, and thus drag a small red herring across the trail. Perhaps it was not a good idea. It would take time. He might even choke, too loudly. Mr. Martin had never seen the house on West Twelfth Street where Mrs. Barrows lived, but he had a clear enough picture of it. Fortunately, she had bragged to everybody about her ducky first-floor apartment in the perfectly darling threestory7 redbrick. There would be no doorman or other attendants; just the tenants on the second and third floors. As he walked along, Mr. Martin realized that he would get there before nine-thirty7. He had considered walking north on Fifth Av¬ enue from Schrafft’s to a point from which it would take him until ten o’clock to reach the house. At that hour people were less likely to be coming in or going out. But the procedure would have made an awkward loop in the straight thread of his casualness, and he had abandoned it. It was impossible to figure when people would be entering or leaving the house, anyway. There was a great risk at any hour. If he ran into anybody, he would simply have to place the rubbing-out of Ulgine Barrows in the inactive file forever. Hie same thing would hold true if there were someone in her apartment. In that case he would just say that he had been passing by, recognized her charming house and thought to drop in. It was eighteen minutes after nine when Mr. Martin turned into Twelfth Street. A man passed him, and a man and a woman talking. There was no one within fifty paces when he came to the house, halfway down the block. He was up the steps and in the small vestibule in no time, pressing the bell under the card that said “Mrs. Ulgine Barrows.” When the clicking in the lock started, he jumped forward against the door. He got inside fast, closing the door behind him. A bulb in a lantern hung from the hall ceiling on a chain seemed to give a monstrously bright light. 'Hiere was nobody7 on the stair, which went up ahead of him along the left wall. A door opened down the hall in the wall on the right. He went toward it swiftly, on tiptoe. “Well, for Cod’s sake, look who’s here!” bawled Mrs. Barrows, and her braying

32

Plot

laugh rang out like the report of a shotgun. He rushed past her like a football tackle, bumping her. "Hey, quit shoving!” she said, closing the door behind them. They were in her living room, which seemed to Mr. Martin to be lighted by a hundred lamps, “mat’s after you?” she said. “You’re as jumpy as a goat. ” He found he was unable to speak. His heart was wheezing in his throat. “I—yes,” he finally brought out. She was jabbering and laughing as she started to help him off with his coat. “No, no,” he said. “I’ll put it here.” He took it off and put it on a chair near the door. “Your hat and gloves, too,” she said. “You’re in a lady’s house.” He put his hat on top of the coat. Mrs. Barrows seemed larger than he had thought. He kept his gloves on. “I was passing by,” he said. “I recognized— is there anyone here?” She laughed louder than ever. “No,” she said, “we’re all alone. \ ou re as white as a sheet, you funny man. Whatever has come over you? Til mix you a toddy. ” She started towards a door across the room. “Scotch-andsoda be all right? But say, you don’t drink, do you?” She turned and gave him her amused look. Mr. Martin pulled himself together. “Scotch-and-soda will be all right,” he heard himself say. He could hear her laughing in the kitchen. Mr. Martin looked quickly around the living room for the weapon. He had counted on finding one there. There were andirons and a poker and something in a comer that looked like an Indian club. None of them would do. It couldn’t be dicit way. He began to pace around, fie came to a desk. On it lay a metal paper knife with an ornate handle. Would it be sharp enough? He reached for it and knocked over a small brass jar. Stamps spilled out of it and it fell to the floor with a clatter. Hey, Mrs. Barrows yelled from die kitchen, “are you tearing up the pea patch?” Mr. Martin gave a strange laugh. Picking up the knife, he tried its point against his left wrist. It was blunt. It wouldn’t do. When Mrs. Barrows reappeared, carrying two highballs, Mr. Martin, standing there with his gloves on, became acutely conscious of the fantasy he had wrought, v igaiettes in his pocket, a dnnk prepared for him—it was all too grossly improb¬ able. It was more than that; it was impossible. Somewhere in the back of his mind a vague idea stirred, sprouted. “For heaven’s sake, take off those gloves,” said Mrs. Barrows. “I always wear them in the house,” said Mr. Martin. Hie idea began to bloom, strange and wonderful. She put die glasses on a coffee table in front of a sofa and sat on the sofa. “Come over here, you odd little man,” she said. Mr. Martin went over and sat beside her. It was difficult getting a cigarette out of die pack of Camels, but lie managed it. She held a match for him, laughing. “Well,” she said, handing him his drink, “this is perfectly marvelous. You with a drink and a cigarette. ” Mr. Martin puffed, not too awkwardly, and took a gulp of the highball. “I drink and smoke all the time,” he said. He clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s nuts to that old windbag, Fitweiler,” he said, and gulped again. Hie stuff tasted awful, but lie made no grimace. Really, Mr. Martin,” she said, her voice and posture changing, you are insulting our employer.” Mrs. Barrows was now all special adviser to the president. “I am preparing a bomb,” said Mr. Martin, “which will blow die old goat higher than hell.” He had only had a little of the drink, which was not stiong. It couldn t be that. “Do you take dope or something?” Mrs. Barrows asked coldly. “Heroin;” said Mr. Martin. “I’ll be coked to the gills when I bump that old buzzard off.” “Mr. Martin!” she shouted,' getting to her feet. ‘Hiat wiH be all of that. You must go at once.” Mp. Martin took another swallow of his drink. I le tapped his cigarette out in the ashtray and put the pack of Camels on the coffee table. Mien he got up. She stood glaring at him. Fie walked over and

James Thurber

33

put on his hat and coat. “Not a word about this,” he said, and laid an index finger against his lips. All Mrs. Barrows could bring out was “Really!” Mr. Martin put his hand on the doorknob. “I’m sitting in the catbird seat,” he said. lie stuck his tongue out at her and left. Nobody saw him .go. Mr. Martin got to his apartment, walking, well before eleven. No one saw him go in. He had two glasses of milk after brushing his teeth, and lie felt elated. It wasn’t tipsiness, because he hadn’t been tipsy. Anyway, the walk had worn off all effects of the whisky. He got in bed and read a magazine for a while. I le was asleep before midnight. Air. Martin got to the office at eight-thirty die next morning, as usual. At a quarter to nine, Ulgine Barrows, who had never before arrived at work before ten, swept into his office. “I’m reporting to Mr. Fitweiler now!” she shouted. “If he turns you over to die police, it’s no more than you deserve!” Mr. Martin gave her a look of shocked surprise. “I beg your pardon?” he said. Airs. Barrows snorted and bounced out of the room, leaving Miss Baird and Joey Flart staring after her. “What’s the matter with that old devil now?” asked Aliss Baird. “I have no idea,” said Air. Martin, resuming his work. The other two looked at him and then at each other. Miss Baird got up and went out. She walked slowly past the closed door of Air. Fitweiler’s office. Mrs. Barrows was yelling inside, but she was not braying. Miss Baird could not hear what the woman was saying. She went back to her desk. Forty-five minutes later, Mrs. Barrows left die president’s office and went into her own, shutting the door. It wasn’t until half an hour later that Mr. Fitweiler sent for Air. Martin. The head of the filing department, neat, quiet, attentive, stood in front of the old man’s desk. Mr. Fitweiler was pale and nervous. I le took his glasses off and twiddled them. He made a small, bruffing sound in his throat. “Martin,” he said, “you have been with us more than twenty years.” “Twenty-two, sir,” said Air. Martin. “In that time,” pursued the president, “your work and your— uh—manner have been exemplary.” “I trust so, sir,” said Mr. Martin. “I have understood, Alartin,” said Air. Fitweiler, “that you have never taken a drink or smoked.” “That is correct, sir,” said Mr. Martin. “Ah, yes.” Mr. Fitweiler polished his glasses. “You may describe what you did after leaving the office yesterday, Martin,” he said. Mr. Martin allowed less than a second for his bewildered pause. “Certainly, sir,” he said. “I walked home. Then I went to Schrafft’s for dinner. Afterward I walked home again. I went to bed early, sir, and read a magazine for a while. I was asleep before eleven.” “Ah, yes,” said Mr. Fitweiler again. He was silent for a moment, searching for the proper words to say to the head of the filing department “Mrs. Barrows,” he said finally, “Mrs. Barrows has worked hard, Martin, very hard. It grieves me to report that she has suffered a severe breakdown. It has taken the form of a persecution complex accompanied by distressing hal¬ lucinations.” “I am very sorry, sir,” said Mr. Martin. “Mrs. Barrows is under the delusion,” continued Mr. Fitweiler, “that you visited her last evening and behaved yourself in an—ah—unseemly manner.” I le raised his hand to silence Mr. Martin’s little pained outcry. “It is the nature of these psychological diseases,” Mr. Fitweiler said, “to fix upon the least likely and most innocent party as the—uh—source of persecution. These matters are not for the lay mind to grasp, Martin. I’ve just had my psychiatrist, Dr. Fitch, on the phone. He would not, of course, commit him¬ self, but he made enough generalizations to substantiate my suspicions. I sug¬ gested to Mrs. Barrows when she had completed her—uh—story to me this morn-

34

Plot

ing, that she visit Dr. Fitch, for I suspected a condition at once. She flew, I regret to say, into a rage, and demanded—uh—requested that I call you on the carpet. You may not know, Martin, but Mrs. Barrows had planned a reorganization of your department—subject to my approval, of course, subject to my approval. This brought you, rather than anyone else, to her mind—but again that is a phenom¬ enon for Dr. Fitch and not for us. So, Martin, I am afraid Mrs. Barrows’ usefulness here is at an end. ” “I am dreadfully sony, sir, ” said Mr. Martin. It was at this point that the door to the office blew open with the suddenness of a gas-main explosion and Mrs. Barrows catapulted through it. “Is the little rat denying it?” she screamed. “Fie can’t get away with that!” Mr. Martin got up and moved discreetly to a point beside Mr. Fitweiler’s chair. “You drank and smoked at my apartment,” she bawled at Mr. Martin, “and you know it! You called Mr. Fitweiler an old windbag and said you were going to blow him up when you got coked to the gills on your heroin!” She stopped yelhng to catch her breath and a new glint came into her popping eyes. “If you weren’t such a drab, ordinary little man,” she said, “I’d think you’d planned it all. Sticking your tongue out, saying you were sitting in the catbird seat, because you thought no one would believe me when I told it! My God, its really perfect!” She brayed loudly and hysterically, and the fury was on her again. She glared at Mr. Fitweiler. “Can’t you see how he has tricked us, you old fool? Gant you see his little game?” But Mr. Fitweiler had been surreptitiously pressing all the buttons under die top of his desk and em¬ ployees of F & S began pouring into the room. “Stockton,” said Mr. Fitweiler, “you and Fishbein will take Mrs. Barrows to her home. Mrs. Powell, you will go with them.” Stockton, who had played-a little football in high school, blocked Mrs. Barrows as she made for Mr. Martin. It took him and Fishbein together to force her out of the door into the hall, crowded with stenographers and office boys. She was still screaming imprecations at Mr. Martin, tangled and contradictory impre¬ cations. The hubbub finally died out down the corridor. I regret that this has happened, said Mr. Fitweiler. ”1 shall ask you to dismiss it from your mind, Martin.” ‘Yes, sir,” said Mr. Martin, anticipating his chiefs “That will be all” by moving to the door. “I will dismiss it.” He went out and shut the door, and his step was light and quick in the hall. When he entered his de¬ partment lie had slowed down to his customary gait, and he walked quietly across the room to the W 20 hie, wearing a look of studious concentration.

Questions on plot 1. In the opening paragraph there are details that may seem pointless when you first read them. In retrospect, do these details serve the plot? At what point does Thurber allow you to see their purpose? 2. The last sentence of the first paragraph is brief. What do these four words do for die plot of die story? d. We learn at the start that Mr. Martin has a plan of action. Later we learn his motives. What does Thurber gain by organizing his plot backward? Why didn’t he stai t at the beginning and let us see Mr. Martin being provoked into re¬ venge, dien developing a plan of action? 4. Where does Thurber’s exposition begin? Is it subtle? Is it obvious? Is it nec¬ essary? 5. Describe the rising action in Thurber’s summary of past events. What is the final straw?

Flannerv O’Connor

35

6. Describe Thurber’s use of a glass of milk early in the story. Is this detail useful for creating character? Plot? 7. When do we return to the time of the opening paragraph? 8. What is the story’s climax? If the story’s denouement is long, is there a rea¬ son? 9. Describe the various means Thurber uses in the first three paragraphs to establish Mr. Martin’s character. 10. Is this story implicitly sexist?

Flannery O’Connor

A Good Man Is Hard to Find Flannery O’Connor (1925—1964) is another great storyteller from the American South. In her brief life she completed two novels (Wise Blood, 1952; The Violent Bear It Away, 1960) and two books of stories, collected with odiers in The Complete Stories (1971). Bom in Georgia, she attended the Writers Workshop at the University of Iowa and returned to Georgia to write. She was affected early by the rare disease of lupus and was dying during the years of her mature writing. Flannery O’Connor’s stories are often called Gothic—in the old sense of exotic and horrifying. She was a Roman Catholic with strong convictions diat often inform or direct the themes other stories. A collection of her letters, The Habit of Being, appeared in 1979.

The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida. She wanted to visit some of her connections in east Tennessee and she was seizing at every chance to change Bailey’s mind. Bailey was the son she lived with, her only boy. l ie was sitting on the edge of his chair at the table, bent over the orange sports section of the Journal. “Now look here, Bailey,” she said, “see here, read this,” and she stood with one hand on her thin hip and the other rattling the newspaper at his bald head. “Here this fellow that calls himselfHie Misfit is aloose from the Federal Pen and headed toward Florida and you read here what it says he did to these people. Just you read it. I wouldn’t take my children in any direction with a criminal like that aloose in it. I couldn’t answer to my conscience if I did. ” Bailey didn’t look up from his reading so she wheeled around then and faced the children’s mother, a young woman in slacks, whose face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage and was tied round with a green head-kerchief that had two points on the top like rabbit’s ears. She was sitting on the sofa, feeding the baby his apricots out of ajar. “The children have been to Florida before,” the old lady

36

Plot

said. “You all ought to take them somewhere else for a change so they would see different parts of the world and be broad. They never have been to east Tennessee. ” The children’s mother didn’t seem to hear her but the eight-year-old boy, John Wesley, a stocky child with glasses, said, “If you don’t want to go to Florida, why dontcha stay at home?” He and the little girl, June Star, were reading the funny papers on the floor. She wouldn t stay at home to be queen for a day,” June Star said without raising her yellow head. “Yes, and what would you do if this fellow, The Misfit, caught you?” the grand¬ mother asked. “I’d smack his face,” John Wesley said. She wouldn’t stay at home for a million bucks,” June Star said. “Afraid she’d miss something. She has to go everywhere we go. ” “All right, Miss,” the grandmother said. “Just remember that the next time you want me to curl your hair. ” June Star said her hair was naturally curly. The next morning the grandmother was the first one in the car, ready to go. She had her big black valise that looked like the head of a hippopotamus in one comer, and underneath it she was hiding a basket with Pitty Sing, the cat, in it. She didn’t intend for the cat to be left alone in the house for three days because he would miss her too much and she was afraid he might bmsh against one of the gas burners and accidentally asphyxiate himself. Her son Bailey, didn’t like to arrive at a motel with a cat. She sat in the middle of the back seat with John Wesley and June Star on either side of her. Bailey and the children s mother and the baby sat in front and thev left Atlanta at eight forty-five with the mileage on the car at 55890. The grand¬ mother wrote this down because she thought it would be interesting to say how many miles they had been when they got back. It took them twenty minutes to reach the outskirts of the city. The old lady settled herself comfortably, removing her white cotton gloves and putting them up with her purse on the shelf in front of the back window. The children’s mother still had on slacks and still had her head tied up in a green kerchief, but the grandmother had on a navy blue straw sailor hat with a bunch of \\ hite violets on the brim and a navy blue dress with a small white dot in the print. Her collars and cuffs were white organdy trimmed with lace and at her neckline she had pinned a purple spray of cloth violets containing a sachet. In case of an accident, anyone seeing her dead on the highway would know at once that she was a lady. She said she thought it was going to be a good day for driving, neither too hot noi too cold, and she cautioned Bailey that the speed limit was fifty-five miles an hour and that the patrolmen hid themselves behind billboards and small clumps of trees and sped out after you before you had a chance to slow down. She pointed out interesting details of the scenery: Stone Mountain; the blue granite that in some places came up to both sides of the highway; the brilliant red clav banks slightly streaked with purple; and die various crops that made rows of green lacework on the ground. The trees were full of silver-white sunlight and the meanest of them sparkled. The children were reading comic magazines and their mother had gone back to sleep. “Let’s go through Georgia fast so we won’t have to look at it much,” John Wesley said.

Flannery O’Connor

37

“If I were a little boy, ” said the grandmother, “I wouldn’t talk about my native state that way. Tennessee has the mountains and Georgia has the hills.” “Tennessee is just a hillbilly dumping ground,” John Wesley said, “and Georgia is a lousy state too.” “You said it,” June Star said. “In my time,” said the grandmodier, folding her thin veined fingers, “children were more respectful of their native states and then parents and everything else. People did right then. Oh look at the cute little pickaninny!” she said and pointed to a Negro child standing in the door of a shack. “Wouldn’t that make a picture, now?” she asked and they all turned and looked at the little Negro out of the back window. lie waved. “He didn’t have any britches on, ” June Star said. “He probably didn’t have any,” the grandmother explained. “Lithe niggers in the country don’t have things like we do. If I could paint, I’d paint that picture, ” she said. The children exchanged comic books. The grandmother offered to hold the baby and the children’s mother passed him over the front seat to her. She set him on her knee and bounced him and told him about the things they were passing. She rolled her eyes and screwed up her mouth and stuck her leathery thin face into his smooth bland one. Occasionally he gave her a faraway smile. They passed a large cotton held with five or six graves fenced in the middle of it, like a small island. “Look at die graveyard!” the grandmother said, pointing it out. “That was the old family burying ground. That belonged to the plantation. ” “Where’s the plantation?” John Wesley asked. “Gone With the Wind,” said the grandmother. “Ha. Fla.” When the children finished all the comic books they had brought, they opened the lunch and ate it The grandmother ate a peanut butter sandwich and an olive and would not let the children throw die box and the paper napkins out the win¬ dow. When there was nothing else to do they played a game by choosing a cloud and making the other two guess what shape it suggested. John Wesley took one the shape of a cow and June Star guessed a cow and John Wesley said, no, an automobile, and June Star said he didn’t play fan, and they began to slap each other over the grandmother. The grandmother said she would tell them a story if they would keep quiet. When she told a story, she rolled her eyes and waved her head and was very dramatic. She said once when she was a maiden lady she had been courted by a Mr. Edgar Atkins Teagarden from Jasper, Georgia. She said he was a very goodlooking man and a gentleman and that he brought her a watermelon every Saturday afternoon with his initials cut in it, E.A.T. Well, one Saturday, she said, Mr. Teagarden brought the watermelon and there was nobody at home and he left it on the front porch and returned in his buggy to Jasper, but she never got the watermelon, she said, because a nigger boy ate it when he saw the initials, E.A.T.! This story tickled John Wesley’s funny bone and he giggled and giggled but June Star didn’t think it was any good. She said she wouldn’t marry a man that just brought her a watermelon on Saturday. The grandmother said she would have done well to marry Mr. Teagarden because he was a gentleman and had bought Coca-Cola stock when it first came out and that he had died only a few years ago, a very wealthy man. They stopped at The Tower for barbecued sandwiches. Hie Tower was a part

38

Plot

stucco and part wood filling station and dance hall set in a clearing outside of iimothy. A fat man named Red Sammy Butts ran it and there were signs stuck heie and there on the building and for miles up and down the highway saving, TRY RED SAMMY’S FAMOUS BARBEQUE. NONE LIKE FAMOUS RED SAMMY’S! RED SAM! THE FAT BOY WITH THE FIAPPY LAUGH. A VET¬ ERAN! RED SAMMY’S YOUR MAN! Red Sammy was lying on the bare ground outside The Tower with his head under a truck while a gray monkey about a foot high, chained to a small chinabeny tree, chattered nearby. The monkey sprang back into the tree and got on the highest limb as soon as he saw the children jump out of the car and run toward him.

30

Inside, The Tower was a long dark room with a counter at one end and tables at the other and dancing space in die middle. They all sat down at a board table next to the nickelodeon and Red Sam’s wife, a tall burnt-brown woman with hair and eyes lighter than her skin, came and took their order. The children’s mother put a dime in the machine and played “The Tennessee Waltz,” and the grand¬ mother said that tune always made her want to dance. She asked Bailey if he would like to dance but he only glared at her. Fie didn’t have a naturally sunny disposition like she did and trips made him nervous. The grandmother’s brown eyes were veiy bright. She swayed her head from side to side and pretended she was dancing in her chair. June Star said play something she could tap to so the children s mother put in another dime and played a fast number and June Star stepped out onto the dance floor and did her tap routine. “Ain’t she cute?” Red Sam’s wife •said, leaning over the counter. “Would you like to come be my little girl?” “No I certainly wouldn’t,” June Star said. “I wouldn’t five in a broken-down place like this for a million bucks!” and she ran back to the table. “Ain’t she cute?” the woman repeated, stretching her mouth politely. Aren t you ashamed?” hissed the grandmother. Red Sam came in and told his wife to quit lounging on the counter and hurry with these people’s order. His khaki trousers reached just to his hip bones and his stomach hung over them like a sack of meal swaying under his shirt. Fie came over and sat down at a table nearby and let out a combination sigh and yodel. “\ou can’t win,” he said. ‘You can’t win,” and he wiped his sweating red face off with a gray handkerchief. “These days you don’t know who to trust,” he said. “Ain’t that the truth?”

35

People aie certainly not nice like they used to be,” said the grandmother. I wo fellers come in here last week,” Red Sammy said, “driving a Chrysler. It was a old beat-up car but it was a good one and these boys looked ah right to me. Said they worked at the mill and you know I let them fellers charge die gas they bought? Now why did I do that?” “Because you’re a good man!” the grandmother said at once. \ es m, I suppose so, ” Red Sam said as if he were struck with the answer. Ilis wife brought the orders, carrying the five plates all at once without a tray, two in each hand and one balanced on her arm. “It isn’t a soul in this green world of God s that you can trust, she said. “And I don’t count nobody out of that, not nobody,” she repeated, looking at Red Sammy.

40

“Did you read about that criminal, The Mis£t, that’s escaped?” asked the grand¬ mother. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he didn’t attack this place right here,” said the

Flannery O’Connor

39

woman. “If he hears about it being here, I wouldn’t be none surprised to see him. If he hears it’s two cent in the cash register, I wouldn’t be a tall surprised if he “That’ll do,” Red Sam said. “Go bring these people their Co’Colas,” and the woman went off to get the rest of the order. “A good man is hard to find,” Red Sammy said. “Everything is getting terrible. I remember the day you could go off and leave your screen door unlatched. Not no more.” He and the grandmother discussed better times. The old lady said that in her opinion Europe was entirely to blame for the way things were now. She said the way Europe acted you would think we were made of money and Red Sam said it was no use talking about it, she was exacdv right. The children ran outside into the white sunlight and looked at the monkey in the lacy chinaberry tree. He was busy catching fleas on himself and biting each one carefully between his teeth as if it were a delicacy. They drove off again into the hot afternoon. The grandmother took cat naps and woke up every few minutes with her own snoring. Outside of Toombsboro she woke up and recalled an old plantation that she had visited in this neighborhood once when she was a young lady. She said the house had six white columns across the front and that there was an avenue of oaks leading up to it and two litde wooden trellis arbors on either side in front where you sat down with your suitor after a stroll in the garden. She recalled exactly which road to turn off to get to it. She knew that Bailey would not be willing to lose any time looking at an old house, but the more she talked about it, the more she wanted to see it once again and find out if the little twin arbors were still standing. “There was a secret panel in this house,” she said craftily, not telling die truth but wishing that she were, “and the story went that all the family silver was hidden in it when Sherman came through but it was never found ...” “Hey!” John Wesley said. “Let’s go see it! We’ll find it! We’ll poke all the wood¬ work and find it! Who lives there? Where do you turn off at? Hey Pop, can’t we turn off there?” “We never have seen a house with a secret panel!” June Star shrieked. “Let’s go to the house with the secret panel! Hey Pop, can’t we go see the house with the secret panel!” “It’s not far from here, I know,” the grandmother said. “It wouldn’t take over twenty minutes.” Bailey was looking straight ahead. His jaw was as rigid as a horseshoe. “No,” he said. The children began to yell and scream that they wanted to see the house with the secret panel. John Wesley kicked the back of the front seat and June Star hung over her mother’s shoulder and whined desperately into her ear that they never had any fun even on their vacation, that they could never do what THEY wanted to do. The baby began to scream and John Wesley kicked the back of the seat so hard that his father could feel the blows in his kidney. “All right!” he shouted and drew the car to a stop at the side of the road. “Will you all shut up? Will you all just shut up for one second? If you don’t shut up, we won’t go anywhere.” “It would be very educational for them,” the grandmother murmured. “All right,” Bailey said, “but get this: this is the only time we’re going to stop for anything like this. This is the one and only time. ”

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55

Plot

“The dirt road that you have to turn down is about a mile back, ” the grandmother directed. “I marked it when we passed. ” “A dirt road, ” Bailey groaned. After they had turned around and were headed toward the dirt road, the grand¬ mother recalled other points about the house, the beautiful glass over the front doorway and the candle-lamp in the hall. John Wesley said that the secret panel was probably in the fireplace.

60

\ ou can’t go inside this house, ” Bailey said. ‘ Arou don’t know who lives there. ” While you all talk to the people in front, I’ll run around behind and get in a window,” John Wesley suggested. “We’ll all stay in the car,” his mother said. They turned onto the dirt road and the car raced roughly along in a swirl of pink dust. The grandmother recalled the times when there were no paved roads and thirty miles was a day’s journey. The dirt road was hilly and there were sudden washes in it and sharp curves on dangerous embankments. All at once they would be on a hill, looking down over the blue tops of trees for miles around, then the next minute, they would be in a red depression with the dust-coated trees looking down on them. “This place had better turn up in a minute,” Bailey said, “or I’m going to turn around. ”

>5

The road looked as if no one had traveled on it in months. “It’s not much farther,” the grandmother said and just as she said it, a horrible thought came to her. The thought was so embarrassing that she turned red in the face and her eyes dilated and her feet jumped up, upsetting her valise in the comer. Idle instant the valise moved, the newspaper top she had over the basket under it rose with a snarl and Bitty Sing, the cat, sprang onto Bailey’s shoulder. The children were thrown to the floor and their mother, clutching the baby, was thrown out the door onto the ground; the old lady was thrown into the front seat. The car turned over once and landed right-side-up in a gulch on the side of the road. Bailey remained in the driver’s seat with the cat—gray-striped with a broad white face and an orange nose—clinging to his neck like a caterpillar. As soon as the children saw they could move their arms and legs, they scrambled out of the car, shouting, A e ve had an ACCIDKNT!” The grandmother was curled up under the dashboard, hoping she was injured so that Bailey’s wrath would not come down on her all at once. The horrible thought she had had before the accident was that the house she had remembered so vividly was not in Georgia but in Tennessee. Bailey removed the cat from his neck with both hands and flung it out the window against the side of a pine tree. Then he got out of the car and started looking for the children’s mother. She was sitting against the side of the red gutted ditch, holding the screaming baby, but she only had a cut down her face "and a broken shoulder. A eve had an ACCIDENT!” the children screamed in a frenzy of delight. “But nobody’s killed,” June Star said with disappointment as the grandmother limped out of the car, her hat still pinned to her head but the broken front brim standing up at a jaunty angle and the violet spray hanging off the side. They all sat down in the ditch, except the children, to recover from the shock. They were all shaking. “Maybe a car will come along,” said the children’s mother hoarsely.

Flannery O’Connor

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41

“I believe I have an injured organ,” said the grandmother, pressing her side, but no one answered her. Bailey’s teeth were clattering, tie had on a yellow sport shirt with bright blue parrots designed on it and his face was as yellow as the shirt. The grandmother decided that she would not mention that the house was in Ten¬ nessee. The road was about ten feet above and they could see only the tops of the trees on the other side of it. Behind the ditch they were sitting in there were more woods, tall and dark and deep. In a few minutes they saw a car some distance away on top of a hill, coming slowly as if the occupants were watching diem. The grandmother stood up and waved both arms dramatically to attract dieir attention. The car continued to come on slowly, disappeared around a bend and appeared again, moving even slower, on top of the hill they had gone over. It was a big black battered hearse-like automobile. There were three men in it. It came to a stop just over them and for some minutes, the driver looked down with a steady expressionless gaze to where they were sitting, and didn’t speak. Then he turned his head and muttered something to the other two and diev got out. One was a fat boy in black trousers and a red sweat shirt with a silver stallion embossed on the front of it. He moved around on the right side of them and stood staring, his mouth partly open in a kind of loose grin. The other had on khaki pants and a blue striped coat and a gray hat pulled down very low, hiding most of his face. He came around slowly on the left side. Neither spoke. The driver got out of the car and stood by the side of it, looking down at them. He was an older man than the other two. His hair was just beginning to gray and he wore silver-rimmed spectacles that gave him a scholarly look. He had a long creased face and didn’t have on any shirt or undershirt. He had on blue jeans that were too tight for him and was holding a black hat and a gun. The two boys also had guns. “We’ve had an ACCIDENT!” the children screamed. "Hie grandmother had the peculiar feeling that the bespectacled man was some¬ one she knew. His face was as familiar to her as if she had known him all her life but she could not recall who he was. He moved away from the car and began to come down the embankment, placing his feet carefully so that he wouldn’t slip. He had on tan and white shoes and no socks, and his ankles were red and thin. “Good afternoon, ” he said. “I see you all had you a little spill. ” “We turned over twice!” said the grandmother. “Oncet,” he corrected. “We seen it happen. Try their car and see will it run, Hiram, ” he said quietly to the boy with the gray hat. “What you got that gun for?” John Wesley asked. “Whatcha gonna do with that gun?” “Lady,” the man said to the children’s mother, “would you mind calling them children to sit down by you? Children make me nervous. I want all you all to sit down right together there where you’re at.” “What are you telling US what to do for?” June Star asked. Behind them the line of woods gaped like a dark open mouth. “Come here,” isaid their mother. “Look here now,” Bailey began suddenly, “we’re in a predicament! W e’re m . . . The grandmother shrieked. She scrambled to her feet and stood staring. “\ ou’re The Misfit!” she said. “I recognized you at once!”

42

Plot

“Yes’m,” the man said, smiling slightly as if he were pleased in spite of himself to be known, “but it would have been better for all of you, lady, if you hadn’t of reckemized me.” Bailey turned his head sharply and said something to his mother that shocked even the children. The old lady began to ciy and The Misht reddened. “Lady,” he said, “don’t you get upset. Sometimes a man says things he don’t mean. I don’t reckon he meant to talk to you thataway. ” 4ou wouldn’t shoot a lady, would you?” the grandmother said and removed a clean handkerchief from her cuff and began to slap at her eyes with it. The Misht pointed the toe of his shoe into the ground and made a little hole and then covered it up again. “I would hate to have to,” he said. “Listen,” the grandmother almost screamed, “I know you’re a good man. You don’t look a bit like you have common blood. I know you must come from nice people!” ‘Yes mam,” he said, “finest people in the world.” When he smiled he showed a row of strong white teeth. “God never made a finer woman than my mother and my daddy’s heart was pure gold,” he said. The boy with the red sweat shirt had come around behind them and was standing with his gun at his hip. The Misht squatted down on the ground. “Watch them children, Bobby Lee,” he said. “You know they make me nervous. ” He looked at the six of them huddled together in front of him and he seemed to be embarrassed as if he couldn’t think of anything to say. “Ain’t a cloud in the sky, ” he remarked, looking up at it. “Don’t see no sun but don’t see no cloud neither. ” “Yes, it’s a beautiful day,” said the grandmother. “Listen,” she said, “you shouldn’t call yourself The Misht because I know you’re a good man at heart. I can just look at you and tell. ” “Hush!” Bailey yelled. “Hush! Everybody shut up and let me handle this!” He was squatting in the position of a runner about to sprint forward but he didn’t move. I pre-chate that, lady, with die butt of his gun.

The Misfit said and drew a little circle in the ground

“It’ll take a half a hour to hx this here car,” Hiram called, looking over the raised hood of it. Well, first you and Bobby Lee get him and that lithe boy to step over yonder with you,” The Misht said, pointing to Bailey and John Wesley. “The boys want to ask you something, he said to Bailey. “Would you mind stepping back in them woods there with them?” “Listen,” Bailey began, “we’re in a terrible predicament! Nobody realizes what this is,” and his voice cracked. His eyes were as blue and intense as the parrots on his shirt and he remained perfecdy still. Hie grandmother reached up to adjust her hat brim as if she were going to the woods with him but it came off in her hand. She stood staring at it and after a second she let it fall on tire ground. Hiram pulled Bailey up by the arm as if he were assisting an old man. John Wesley caught hold of his father’s hand and Bobby Lee followed. They went off toward the woods and just as they reached the dark edge, Bailey turned and supporting himself against a gray naked pine trunk, he shouted, 111 be back in a minute, Mamma, wait on me!” Come back this instant! woods.

his mother shriljed but they all disappeared into the

“Bailey Boy!” the grandmother called in a tragic voice but she found she was

Flannery O’Connor

43

looking at The Misfit squatting on the ground in front of her. “I just know you’re a good man,” she said desperately. ‘"You’re not a bit common!” “Nome, I ain’t a good man,” The Misfit said after a second as if he had considered her statement carefully, “but I ain’t the worst in the world neither. My daddy said I was different breed of dog from my brothers and sisters. ‘You know,’ Daddy said, ‘it’s some that can live their whole life out without asking about it and it’s others has to know why it is, and this boy is one of the latters. He’s going to be into everything!’ ” He put on his black hat and looked up suddenly and then away deep into the woods as if he were embarrassed again. “I’m sorry I don’t have on a shirt before you ladies,” he said, hunching his shoulders slightly. “We buried our clothes that we had on when we escaped and we’re just making do until we can get better. We borrowed these from some folks we met,” he explained. “That’s perfectly all right,” the grandmother said. “Maybe Bailey has an extra shirt in his suitcase. ” “I’ll look and see terrecdy,” The Misfit said. “Where are they taking him?” the children’s mother screamed. “Daddy was a card himself,” The Misfit said. “You couldn’t put anything over on him. He never got in trouble with the Authorities though. Just had the knack of handling them.” “You could be honest too if you’d only try,” said the grandmother. “Think how wonderful it would be to settle down and live a comfortable life and not have to think about somebody chasing you all the time. ” The Misfit kept scratching in the ground with the butt of his gun as if he were thinking about it. “Yes’m, somebody is always after you,” he murmured. The grandmother noticed how thin his shoulder blades were just behind his hat because she was standing up looking down on him. “Do you ever pray?” she asked. He shook his head. All she saw was the black hat wiggle between his shoulder blades. “Nome,” he said. There was a pistol shot from the woods, followed closely by another. Then silence. "Hie old lady’s head jerked around. She could hear the wind move through the tree tops like a long satisfied insuck of breath. “Bailey Boy!” she called. “I was a gospel singer for a while,” Hie Misfit said. “I been most everydiing. Been in the arm service, both land and sea, at home and abroad, been twict married, been an undertaker, been with the railroads, plowed Mother Earth, been in a tornado, seen a man burnt alive oncet,” and he looked up at the children’s mother and the little girl who were sitting close together, their faces white and their eyes glassy; “I even seen a woman flogged,” he said. “Pray, pray,” the grandmother began, “pray, pray ...” “I never was a bad boy that I remember of,” The Misfit said in an almost dreamy voice, “but somewheres along die line I done something wrong and got sent to the penitentiaiy. I was buried alive,” and he looked up and held her attention to him by a steady stare. “That’s when you should have started to pray,” she said. “What did you do to get sent to the penitentiary that first time?” “Turn to the right, it was a wall,” Hie Misfit said, looking up again at the cloudless sky. “Turn to the left, it was a wall. Look up it was a ceiling, look down it was a floor. I forgot what I done, lady. I set there and set there, trying to remember what it was I done and I ain’t recalled it to this day. ()ncet in a while, I would think it was coming to me, but it never come. ”

44

Plot

“Maybe they put you in by mistake,” the old lady said vaguely. “Nome,” he said. “It wasn’t no mistake. They had the papers on me.” “You must have stolen something, ” she said. * The Misht sneered slightly. “Nobody had nothing I wanted,” he said. “It was a head-doctor at the penitentiary said what I had done was kill my daddy but I known that for a he. My daddy died in nineteen ought nineteen of the epidemic flu and I never had a thing to do with it. He was buried in the Mount Hopewell Baptist churchyard and you can go there and see for yourself. ” “If you would pray,” the old lady said, “Jesus would'help you.” “That’s right,” The Misht said. “Well then, why don’t you pray?” she asked trembling with delight suddenly. “I don’t want no help,” he said. “I’m doing ah right by myself.” Bobby Tee and Hiram came ambling back from the woods. Bobby Tee was dragging a yellow shirt with bright blue parrots in it. fhrow me that shirt, Bobby Tee, ” The Misht said. The shirt came hying at him and landed on his shoulder and he put it on. The grandmother couldn’t name what the shirt reminded her of. No, lady,” The Misht said while he was buttoning it TIT I found out the crime don t matter. \ou can do one thing or you can do another, kill a man or take a tire off his car, because sooner or later you’re going to forget what it was you done and just be punished for it. ” The children’s mother had begun to making heaving noises as if she couldn’t get hei breath. Tady, he asked, would you and that little girl like to step off yonder with Bobby Tee and Hiram and join your husband?” es, thank you, ” the mother said faintly. Her left arm dangled helplessly and she was holding the baby, who had gone to sleep, in the other. “Hep that lady up, Hiram, ” The Misht said as she struggled to climb out of the ditch, “and Bobby Tee, you hold onto that littie girl’s hand. ” I don t want to hold hands with him, pig.”

June Star said. “He reminds me of a

The fat boy blushed and laughed and caught her by the arm and pulled her off into the woods after Hiram and her mother. Alone with The Misht, the grandmother found that she had lost her voice. There was not a cloud in the sky nor any sun. Hiere was nothing around her but woods. She wanted to tell him that he must pray. She opened and closed her mouth se\ eral times before anything came out. Finally she found herself saying, “Jesus, Jesus,” meaning Jesus will help you, but the way she was saying it, it sounded as if she might be cursing. \esm, Fhe Misht said as if he agreed. “Jesus thown everything off balance. It was the same case wdth Him as with me except He hadn’t committed any crime and they could prove I had committed one because they had the papers on me. Of course,” he said, “they never shown me my papers. That’s why I sign myself now. I said long ago, you get you a signature and sign everything you do and keep a copy of it. Then you’ll know what you done and you can hold up the crime to the punishment and see do they match and in the end you’ll have something to prove you ain’t been treated right. I call myself The Misfit,” he said, “because I can’t malm what all I done wrong fit what all I gone dirough in punishment.” u There was a piercing scream from the woods, followed closely by a pistol report. “Does it seem right to you, lady, that one is'punished a heap and another ain’t punished at all?” “Jesus!” the old lady cried. “You’ve got good blood! I know you wouldn’t shoot

Flannery O’Connor

45

a lady! I know you come from nice people! Pray! Jesus, you ought not to shoot a lady. I’ll give you all the money I’ve got!” “Lady,” The Misfit said, looking beyond her far into the woods, “there never was a body that give the undertaker a tip.” There were two more pistol reports and the gra,* 1 mother raised her head like a parched old turkey hen crying for water and called, “Bailey Boy, Bailey Boy!” as if her heart would break. “Jesus was the only One that ever raised the dead,” The Misfit continued, “and He shouldn’t have done it. fie thown everything off balance. If He did what He said, then it’s nothing for you to do but thow away everything and follow Him, and if He didn’t, then it’s nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can—by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him. No pleasure but meanness,” he said and his voice had become almost a snarl. “Maybe He didn’t raise the dead,” the old lady mumbled, not knowing what she was saying and feeling so dizzy that she sank down in the ditch with her legs twisted under her. “I wasn’t there so I can’t say He didn’t,” The Misfit said. “I wisht I had of been there,” he said, hitting the ground with his fist. “It ain’t right I wasn’t there because if I had of been there I would of known. Listen lady, ” he said in a high voice, “if I had of been there I would of known and I wouldn’t be like I am now.” His voice seemed about to crack and the grandmother’s head cleared for an instant. She saw the man’s face twisted close to her own as if he were going to cry and she mur¬ mured, “Why you’re one of my babies. You’re one of my own children!” She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. The Misfit sprang back as if a snake had bitten him and shot her three times through the chest. Then he put his gun down on the ground and took off his glasses and began to clean them. Hiram and Bobby Lee returned from the woods and stood over the ditch, looking down at the grandmother who half sat and half lay in a puddle of blood and with her legs crossed under her like a child’s and her face smiling up at the cloudless

135

skv. Without his glasses, The Misfit’s eyes were red-rimmed and pale and defense¬ less-looking. “Take her off and thow her where you thown the others,” he said, picking up the cat that was rubbing itself against his leg. “She was a talker, wasn’t she?” Bobby Lee said, sliding down the ditch with a •/

140

yodel. “She would of been a good woman,” The Misfit said, “if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.” “Some fun!” Bobby Lee said. “Shut up, Bobby Lee,” The Misfit said. “It’s no real pleasure in life.”

Questions on plot . . . 1. When you first hear of The Misfit, do you expect to meet him? How does this early mention affect the plot? 2. How many different tasks does paragraph 10 perform for this story? 3. What does the conversation with Red Sammy contribute to the plot? Is it part of the complication or the conflict? 4. A lie takes the family onto the dirt road. A lie and an error thus combine to advance the plot. Are these coincidences? Do they arise from character?

46

Plot

5. Notice the horrible thought at the start of paragraph 63, completed at the end of paragraph 65. What is accomplished by interrupting this horrible thought with action? 6. How soon do you know that the man we meet is actually The Misfit? Does the lapsed time, before the grandmother names him, further the story’s interest? 7. During the conversation between the grandmother and The Misfit, events take place offstage. What is the relationship between the dialogue and the action? What is the effect on the story? 8. Where is the climax of the story?

. . . and other elements 9. Who is the deepest thinker among the characters? Does the story emphasize an idea? 10. The protagonist is first identified as the grandmother, not by a proper name. Does this general name characterize her? 11. Do you ever understand anything in this story before a character does? What is the effect of this device? 12. Remembering the title, look over the grandmother’s conversation with Red Sammy and her conversation with The Misfit. Is this story about good and evil? What does it say about good and evil? 13. Do any of the characters change or develop? 14. Who is most morally responsible for the five deaths of this family?

V

Chapter 5 C haracter

A character is an imagined person in a story, whom we know from the words we read on the page. Plot shows character; character causes plot. In most stories you cannot speak of the one without evoking the other. In “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” the grandmother’s hiding the cat is essential to the plot, yet if her character did not make the act probable, the plot of the story would be flawed. In some stories characterization is minimal and plot is the all; “action-packed” the advertisers call them, and for characterization we may learn little more than that the cowboy is lean-jawed and the heiress raven-haired. Such descriptions make for ster¬ eotypes, thoroughly predictable characters.

Characterization Fiction writers have many ways to present character, beginning with the names they bestow on characters. When Henry James shows us May Bartram in love with John Marcher, we may fear that his frosts will chill her flowers. Charles Dickens is a resourceful namer: Mr. Gradgrind, Uriah Ileep. But of course characterization requires more than a name. Let us start with a broad division. If in conversation with friends we try to describe an absent person whom they have never met, we can describe the person directly: the absent friend is five foot ten inches tall, black-haired, stammers, is Irish in ancestry and interested in politics, goes to law school, is loyal, decent, and brave. This method is exposition of character. On the other hand, we may prefer to reveal the person indirecdy, bv showing action. Wre then have the choice of telling what he is, or

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48

Character

of showing what he is like. Thus, we can characterize our old friend by telling about a day we went to the roller skating rink to recruit donors for the blood drive, and all of a sudden. . . . This is characterization by action or anecdote. A slogan of the creative writing class: “Don’t tell ’em, show ’em. ” Writers characterize mostly by showing a character in action, but they do both. In “A Rose for Emily,” for instance, Miss Emily is characterized first in a summary, a telling, and then by a series of anecdotes, a showing. This organization—brief telling followed by considerable showing—is common in fiction. Indirect presentation takes various forms. Describing the character’s house or clothes or furniture with the objectivity of a camera provides indirect char¬ acterization. When some characters talk about others, they help to characterize them not only by what they say, at its face value, but by what they don’t say. For instance, if one character is known to be a sneak and a liar, and praises another character, we are apt to take that praise ironically. And of course we know a character best from what that character does. Thus Miss Emily’s in¬ dependence, eccentricity, and doughtiness show in the way she deals with the aldermen and the pharmacist. In reading most fiction, we make three related demands on the author’s characterization. First, we demand that his characters be consistent. We do not demand that they be unchanging; but if characters change, they must change for a reason. Our second demand: we must understand that the characters’ change is motivated; it is usual in the psychology of fiction that characters act from known motives. This psychology serves to make characters plausible to us—which is our third requirement: that they be credible, realistic, probable. These doctrines of realistic characterization do not apply to all fiction but do t° most fiction. Stories that differ—with unmotivated acts and implausible or unrealistic characters—often declare themselves deliberate exceptions from the norms of literature.

Characters round and flat, dynamic and static The English novelist E. M. Forster, in his book Aspects of the Novel (1927), distinguished between round characters and “flat” ones. Sometimes we make much the same metaphor by calling characters “three-dimensional” or “twodimensional. Die round or three-dimensional character in fiction seems more real and more whole than the flat character, the character abstracted into two dimensions. The round character is complex, the flat character simple; the round character can surprise us, remaining unpredictable but probable; the flat character remains predictable, summed up in a few traits. In a novel we regu¬ larly find several round characters and a backdrop of flat ones. In a stoiy we often find one or two round characters among, flat ones. It takes time to develop a round character. In second-rate fiction (and drama, film, and television) all characters are flat, and no one has the complexity Forster describes as round. The absence of round characters, or the dominance of flat ones, is therefore often, but not always, a clear indication of fiction’s failure or inferiority. Some¬ times flat characters are exactly what a story requires. Some stories concentrate

James Joyce

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so much on matters outside characterization that flat characters do the job. In Thurber’s ‘The Catbird Seat,” the characters are two-dimensional, yet the story emphasizes ideas and plot above all; the characterization is adequate to the story’s purposes. Some novelists (like Dickens) show genius in constructing flat characters, dominated by a few traits, with such a richness that we remem¬ ber them forever. Sometimes flat or two-dimensional characters are stereotypes. Much tele¬ vision drama relies on stereotypes: the tough, street-wise detective and his sidekick the idealistic rookie. Everyone recognizes stereotypes and sums them up in cliches: the whore with the heart of gold; the dumb jock; the pompous bank president; the hillbilly. But not all flat characters are stereotypes. In “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” both the grandmother and The Misfit are round; once met, we would know them anywhere. The other characters—The Misfit’s henchman, the father and mother—are flat without dwindling into stereotype. Unlike mere cliches, they are recognizably individual, even though they lack the detail and depth of the round characters. Usually a round character is dynamic or changing. It is common but not invariable that a short story recount a crisis in a protagonist’s life and a sub¬ sequent change. Some important event takes place, something is decided or understood: a life alters. If a character’s life alters—and we find the change convincing—that character must almost certainly be round. Usually such change occurs within the character, but sometimes the change occurs within someone observing the action, and we grow to understand a character as more complex than we had believed. (Consider “A Rose for Emily.”) Other characters remain static or unchanging. Two stories strong in the portrayal of character follow.

James Joyce

Counterp arts James Joyce (1882-1941) was bom in Dublin and spent most of his adult life in Paris and Zurich. His long, innovative novel Ulysses (1922) is widely considered a major work of our literature. Earlier, Joyce wrote an autobiographical novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916), as well as poems and a plav. uCounte^parts, comes from Dubliners, a collection of short stories that, taken together, makes a portrait of the Dubliner in different guises: male and female, young and old, married and single. Farrington is the Dubliner as an adult, married man.

The bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a furious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent: —Send Farrington here! Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing at a desk: —Mr Alleyne wants you upstairs. The man muttered Blast him! under his breath and pushed back his chair to

50

Character

stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had a hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair eyebrows and moustache: his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites of them were dirty. He lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went out of the office with a heavy step. He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, where a door bore a brass plate with the inscription Mr Alleyne. Here he halted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill voice cried: —Come in!

10

Hie man entered Mr Alleyne s room. Simultaneously Mr Alleyne, a little man wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a clean-shaven face, shot his head up over a pile of documents. The head itself was so pink and hairless that it seemed like a large reposing on die papers. Mr Alleyne did not lose a moment: Farrington ? What is the meaning of this? Why have I always to complain of you? May I ask you why you haven’t made a copy of that contract between Bodley and Kirwan? I told you it must be ready by four o’clock. —But Mr Shelley said, sir— Mr Shelley said, sir. . . . Kindly attend to what I say and not to what Mr Shelley says, sir. You have always some excuse or another for shirking work. Let

me tell you that if the contract is not copied before this evening I’ll lay the matter before Mr Crosbie. . . . Do you hear me now? —Yes, sir. —Do you hear me now? ... Ay and another little matter! I might as well be talking to the wall as talking to you. Understand once for all that you get a half an hour foi your lunch and not an hour and a half. How many courses do you want, I d like to know. . . . Do you mind me, now? —Yes, sir. is

Mr Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man stared fixedly at the polished skull which directed the affairs of Crosbie & Alleyne, gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped his throat for a few moments and then passed, lea\Ing after it a sharp sensation of thirst. The man recognized the sensation and felt that he must have a good night’s drinking. The middle of the month was passed and, if he could get the copy done in time, Mr Alleyne might give him an order on the cashier. He stood still, gazing fixedly at the head upon the pile of papers Suddenly Mr Alleyne began to upset all the papers, searching for something. Then, as if he had been unaware of the man’s presence till that moment, he shot up his head again, saying: —Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington you take things easy! —I was waiting to see . . . —\ ery good, you needn t wait to see. Go downstairs and do your work. The man walked heavily towards the door and. as he went out of the room, he heard Mr Alleyne cry after him that if the contract was not copied by evening Mr Crosbie would hear of the matter.

3

He returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets which re¬ mained to be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink but he continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had written: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be . . . Hie evening was falling and in a few minutes they would be lighting the gas: then he could write. He felt that h^e must slake the thirst in his throat. e stood up from his desk and, lifting the counter as before, passed out of the office. As he was passing out the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly.

James Joyce

51

—It’s all right, Mr Shelley, said the man, pointing with his finger to indicate the objective of his journey. The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack but, seeing the row complete, offered no remark. As soon as he was on the landing the man pulled a shepherd’s plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and ran quickly down the rickety stairs. From the street door he walked on furtively on the inner side of the path towards the comer and all at once dived into a doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of O’Neill’s shop, and, filling up the lithe window that looked into the bar with his inflamed face, the colour of dark wine or dark meat, he called out: —Flere, Pat, give usag.p.,1 like a good fellow. The curate2 brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at a gulp and asked for a caraway seed. He put his penny on the counter and, leaving the cu¬ rate to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out of the snug as furtively as he had entered it. Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk of February and the lamps in Eustace Street had been lit. The man went up by the houses until he reached die door of the office, wondering whether he could finish his copy in time. On the stairs a moist pungent odour of perfumes saluted his nose: evidendv Miss Delacour had come while he was out in O’Neill’s. He crammed his cap back again into his pocket and re-entered the office, assuming an air of absentmindedness. —Mr Alleyne has been calling for you, said the chief clerk severely. Where were you? The man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the counter as if to intimate that their presence prevented him from answering. As the clients were both male the chief clerk allowed himself a laugh. —I know that game, he said. Five times in one day is a littie bit. . . . Well, you better look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence in the Delacour case for Mr Alleyne. This address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs and the porter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he sat down at his desk to get what was required, he realized how hopeless was the task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five. The dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars, drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of the office. He hoped Mr Alleyne would not discover that the last two letters were missing. The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr Allevne’s room. Miss Delacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr Alleyne was said to be sweet on her or on her money. She came to the office often and stayed a long time when she came. She was sitting beside his desk now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and nodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr Alleyne had swivelled his chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon his left knee. Hie man put the correspondence on die desk and bowed respectfully but neither Mr Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any notice of his bow. Mr Alleyne tapped a finger on the correspondence and then flicked it towards him as if to say: That’s all right: you can go. Glass of porter (dark beer, or light stout) Bartender; ironic reference to an assistant parish priest

52

Character

The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. He stared intently at the incomplete phrase: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be ■ . . and thought how strange it was that the last three words began with the same letter. The chief clerk began to hurry Miss Parker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for post. The man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes and dien set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear and his mind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It was a night for hot punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when the clock struck five he had still fourteen pages to write. Bla^t it! He couldn’t finish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist down on something violently. He was so enraged that he'wrote Bernard Bernard instead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a clean sheet. He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office single-handed. His body ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. All the indignities of his life enraged him. . . . Could he ask the cashier privately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no damn good: he wouldn’t give an advance. . . . He knew where he would meet the boys: Leonard and O’Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot. His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice before he answered. Mr Alleyne and Miss Delacour were standing outside the counter and all the clerks had turned round in anticipation of something. The man got up from his desk. Mr Alleyne began a tirade of abuse, saying that two letters were missing. The man answered that he knew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy. The tirade continued: it was so bitter and violent that the man could hardly restrain his fist from descending upon the head of the manikin before him. I know nothing about any other two letters, he said stupidly. —You—know—nothing. Of course you know nothing, said Mr Alleyne. Tell me, he added, glancing first for approval to the lady beside him, do you take me for a fool? Do you think me an utter fool? Hie man glanced from the lady s face to the little egg-shaped head and back again; and, almost before he was aware of it, his tongue had found a felicitous moment: I don t think, sir, he said, that that’s a fair question to put to me. Hiere w as a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Kveiyone was astounded (the author of the witticism no less than his neighbours) and Miss Delacour, who was a sf°uf amiable person, began to smile broadly. Mr Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild rose and his mouth twitched with a dwarfs passion. He shook his fist in the man s face till it seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric machine: ^ 011 Impertinent ruffian! \ou impertinent ruffian! I’ll make short work of you! Wait till you see! You’ll apologize to me for your impertinence or you’ll quit the office instanter! \ou 11 quit this, I’m telling you, or you’ll apologize to me!

•

•••••

He stood in a doorway opposite the office watching to see if die cashier would come out alone. All the clerks passed out and finally the cashier came out with the chief clerk. It was no use dying to say a word to him when he was with the chief clerk. Fhe man felt that his position was bad enough. Fie had been obliged to offer an abject apology to Mr Alleyne for his impertinence but he knew what a hornet s nest the office would be for him. He could remember the way in which Mr Alleyne had hounded litde Peake out dt the office in order to make room for his own nephew. He felt savage and thirsty and revengeful, annoyed with himself

James Joyce

53

and with everyone else. Mr Alleyne would never give him an hour’s rest; his life would be a hell to him. He had made a proper fool of himself this time. Could he not keep his tongue in his cheek? But they had never pulled together from the first, he and Mr Alleyne, ever since the day Mr Alleyne had overheard him mim¬ icking his North of Ireland accent to amuse Higgins and Miss Parker: that had been the beginning of it. He might have tried Higgins for the money, but sure Higgins never had anything for himself. A man with two establishments to keep up, of course he couldn’t. . . . He felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the public-house. The fog had begun to chill him and he wondered could he touch Pat in O’Neill’s. He could not touch him for more than a bob—and a bob was no use. Yet he must get money ’ somewhere or other: he had spent his last penny for the g.p. and soon it would be too late for getting money anywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watchchain, he thought of Terry Kelly’s pawn-office in Fleet Street. That was die dart! Why didn’t he think of it sooner? He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to himself that they could all go to hell because he was going to have a good night of it. The clerk in Terry Kelly’s said A crown! but the consignor held out for six shillings; and in the end the six shillings was allowed him literally. He came out of the pawn-office joyfully, making a little cylinder of the coins between his thumb and fingers. In Westmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded with young men and women returning from business and ragged urchins ran here and there yelling out the names of the evening editions. The man passed through the crowd, looking on the spectacle generally with proud satisfaction and staring masterfully at die office-girls. His head was full of the noises of tram-gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose already sniffed the curling fumes of punch. As he walked on he preconsidered the terms in which he would narrate the incident to the boys: —So, I just looked at him—coolly, you know, and looked at her. Then I looked back at him again—taking my time, you know. I don’t think that that’s a fair question to put to me, says I. Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual comer of Davy Bryne’s and, when he heard the story, he stood Farrington a half-one, saying it was as smart a thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a drink in his turn. After a while O’Halloran and Paddy Leonard came in and the story was repeated to diem. O’Halloran stood tailors of malt, hot, all round and told the story of the retort he had made to the chief clerk when he was in Callan’s of Fownes’s Street; but, as the retort was after the manner of the liberal shepherds in the eclogues,1 he had to admit that it was not so clever as Farrington’s retort. At this Farrington told the boys to polish ofl 46

that and have another. Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins! Of course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give his version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the sight of five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roared laughing when he showed the way in which Mr Alleyne shook his fist in Farrington’s face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, And here was my nabs, as cool as you please, while Farrington looked at the company out of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops of liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip. fin the Roman poet Vergil’s Eclogues, ten short poems idealizing rural life, the shepherds are

gentle and hospitable.

54

Character

When that round was over there was a pause. O’Halloran had money but neither of the odier two seemed to have any; so the whole party left the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Ifiggins and Nosey Flynn bevelled off to die left while the other three turned back towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House. Fhe bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses. The three men pushed past die whining match-sellers at the door and formed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to exchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knock-about artiste. Farrington stood a dnnk all round. Weathers said he would take a small Irish1 and Apollinaris.2 Farrington, who had definite notions of what was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris too; but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical. O Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another round, Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He promised to get them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some nice girls. O’Halloran said that he and Leonard would go but that Farrington wouldn’t go because he was a married man; and Farrington s heavy dirty eyes leered at the company in token that he understood he was being chaffed. Weathers made them all have just one little tincture at his expense and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan’s in Poolbeg Street. When the Scotch House closed they went round to Mulligan’s. They went into the parlour at the back and O’Halloran ordered small hot specials all round. They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington was just standing another round when Weathers came back. Much to Farrington’s relief he drank a glass of bitter3 this time. Funds were running low but they had enough to keep them going. Presently two young women with big hats and a young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table close by. Weathers saluted them and told the company that they were out of the Tivoli. Farrington’s eyes wandered at eveiy moment in the direction of one of the young women. There was something striking in her ap¬ pearance. An immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was wound round her hat and knotted in a great bow under her chin; and she wore bright yellow gloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly at the plump arm which she moved veiy often and with much grace; and when, after a little time, she answered his gaze he admired still more her large dark brown eyes. The oblique staring expression in them fascinated him. She glanced at him once or twice and, when the party was leaving the room, she brushed against his chair and said O, pardon! in a London accent. He watched her leave the room in the hope that she would look back at him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his want of money and cursed all the rounds he had stood, particularly all the whiskies and Apollinaris w liich he had stood to Weathers. If there was one thing that he hated it was a sponge. He was so angry that he lost count of the conversation of his friends. When Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking about feats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the company and boasting so much that the other two had called on Farrington to uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his sleeve accordingly and showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two arms were examined and compared and finally it was agreed

' Msb whiskey

8A German mineral water

3Ale

James Joyce

55

to have a trial of strength. The table was cleared and the two men rested their elbows on it, clasping hands. When Paddy Leonard said Go! each was to tty to bring down the other’s hand on to the table. Farrington looked very serious and determined. The trial began. After about thirty seconds, Weathers brought his opponent’s hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington’s dark wine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation at having been defeated by such a stripling. —-You’re not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair, he said. —Who’s not playing fair? said the other. —Come on again. The two best out of three. The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington’s forehead, and the pallor of Weathers’ complexion changed to peony. Their hands and arms trembled under the stress. After a long struggle Weathers again brought his opponent’s hand slowly on to the table. There was a murmur of applause from the spectators. The curate, who was standing beside the table, nodded his red head toward die victor and said with loutish familiarity7: —Ah! that’s the knack! —What die hell do you know about it? said Farrington fiercely, turning on the man. What do you put in your gab for? —Sh, sh! said O’Halloran, observing the violent expression of Farrington’s face. Pony up, boys. We’ll have just one litde smahan1 more and dien we’ll be off. A very sullen-faced man stood at the comer of O’Connell Bridge waiting lor die litde Sandvmount tram to take him home. He was full of smouldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated and discontented; he did not even feel drunk; and he had only twopence in his pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for himself in the office, pawned his watch, spent all his money; and he had not even got drunk. He began to feel thirsty again and he longed to be back again in the hot reeking public-house. He had lost his reputation as a strong man, having been defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart swelled with fury and, when he thought of the woman in the big hat who had brushed against him and said Pardon! his fiuy nearly choked him. His tram let him down at Shelboume Road and he steered his great body along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed returning to his home. When he went in by the side-door he found the kitchen empty and the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled upstairs: —Ada! Ada! His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when he was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. They had five children. A little boy came running down the stairs. —Who is that? said tire man, peering through the darkness. —Me, pa. —Who are you? Charlie? —No, pa. Tom. —Where’s your mother? —She’s out at the chapel. —That’s right. . . . Did she think of leaving any dinner for me?

An Irish dialect word for taste; a smidgeon

56

Character

—Yes, pa. I— Light the lamp. What do you mean by having the place in darkness? Are the other children in bed?

70

The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs while the little boy lit the lamp. He began to mimic his son’s flat accent, saying half to himself: At the chapel At the chapel, if you please! When the lamp was lit he banged his fist on the table and shouted: —What’s for my dinner? —I’m going ... to cook it, pa, said the little boy. The man jumped up furiously and pointed to the fire. On that fire! \ou let the fire out! By God, I’ll teach you to do that again! Ife took a step to the door and seized the walking-stick which was standing behind it. 111 teach you to let the fire out! he said, rolling up his sleeve in order to give his arm free play. Hie little boy cried O, pa! and ran whimpering round the table, but the man followed him and caught him by the coat. The little boy looked about him wildly but, seeing no way of escape, fell upon his knees. —Now, you’ll let the fire out the next time! said the man, striking at him vi¬ ciously with the stick. Take that, you little whelp! The boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick cut his thigh. He clasped his hands together in the air and his voice shook with fright. ? —O, pa! he cried. Don’t beat me, pa! And I’ll. . . I’ll say a Hail Mary for you. I’ll say a Hail Mary for you, pa, if you don’t beat me. . . . I’ll say a Hail Mary.

Questions on character . . . 1. Go through this story, noting Joyce’s different methods of conveying Farring¬ ton s character. List the methods of characterization you find. 2. Point of view affects characterization. From whose point of view is this story told? When furiously and furious both turn up in the first paragraph, is this the author’s contribution? Or does the character contribute the idea of fu¬ riousness? 3. In paragraph 3, how do we know who a man is? How does this introduction help the characterization? 4. When do we find the first physical description of Farrington? How does it help characterize him? Is a heavy step description of gesture or action? Does it characterize Farrington? 5. In paragraph 8, does the last sentence characterize Mr. Alleyne? Farrington? Both? How could it characterize both? 6. Is Farrington a dynamic character? Is he static? Docs anything change in the stor\ . \\ ill Farrington be different tomorrow? Do you know more about his character than he does? How can this be so? How do we get this impression? 7. Does Miss Delacour’s presence help establish or develop Farrington’s char¬ acter? *

8. Farrington makes a witticism. Is it consistent with his character? Contrast Farrington’s different reactions to his own witticism. Does this variety indi¬ cate a round character? 9. In paragraph 45, is the first sentence the author’s way of expressing himself? Who says it? What does it do?

Eudora Welty

57

10. How do we begin to understand Weathers’s character? Do we observe it ob¬ jectively? Through Farrington’s eyes? Both? 11. Later in the story we learn a little about Farrington’s wife. How much? Does this information contribute to Farrington’s characterization? 12. Is Farrington’s last action the final touch in his characterization? Is it a climax to the story? Does it resemble other scenes in the story? 13. On the basis of what you know, construct these scenes: a. Ada returns and finds Farrington beating her child. b. Farrington has breakfast with Ada and the children. c. Farrington is summoned to Mr. Alleyne’s office the next morning.

. . . and other elements 14. What does the title mean? 15. In Farrington’s mind, two places are in conflict. Could you describe this story as a conflict of settings?

Eudora Welty (1909) was bom and lives in Jackson, Mississippi, having lived elsewhere only briefly. Her novels include The Robber Bridegroom (1942), Delta Wedding (1946), The Ponder Heart (1954), and Losing Battles (1970). This story comes from her first book, a collection of stories called A Curtain of Green (1941), which was followed by The Wide Net (1943), The Golden Apple (1949), and The Bride of the Innisfallen (1954). Miss Welty has also published a collection of essays called The Eye of the Story (1978), in which she comments on “A Worn Path.’’

It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Iler name was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozen earth in front of her. I his made a grave and persistent noise in the still air, that seemed meditative like the chirping of a solitary little bird.

58

Character

She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might have fallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. 'Her eyes were blue with age. Her skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree stood in the middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran un¬ derneath, and the two knobs of her cheeks were illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the red rag her hair came down on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with an odor like copper. Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenix said, “Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits, coons and wild animals! Keep out from under these feet, little bob-whites. . . . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don’t let none of those come running my direction. I got a long way. ” Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggy whip, would switch at the brush as if to rouse up any hiding things. On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made the pine needles almost too bright to look at, up where the wind rocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in the hollow was the mourning dove—it was not too late for him. The path ran up a hill. “Seem like there is chains about my feet, time I get this far, she said, in the voice of argument old people keep to use with themselves. “Something always take a hold of me on this hill—pleads I should stay. ” iVftei she got to the top she turned and gave a full, severe look behind her where she had come. “Up through pinesshe said at length. “Now down through oaks.” Her eyes opened their widest, and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom of the hill a bush caught her dress. Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full and long, so that before she could pull diem free in one place they were caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress to tear. “I in the thorny bush,” she said. “Thoms, you doing your appointed work. Never want to let folks pass, no sir. Old eyes thought you was a pretty litde green bush.” Finally, trembling all over, she stood free, and after a moment dared to stoop for her cane. “Sun so high!” she cried, leaning back and looking, while the thick tears went over her eyes. “The time getting all gone here. ” At the foot of this hill was a place where a log was laid across the creek. “Now comes the trial,” said Phoenix. I utting her right foot out, she mounted die log and shut her eyes. Uifting her skirt, le\ eling her cane fiercely before her, like a festival figure in some parade, she began to march across. Then she opened her eyes and she was safe on the other side. “I wasn’t as old as I thought,” she said. But she sat down to rest. She spread her skirts on the bank around her and folded her hands over her knees. Up above her was a tree in a pearly cloud of mistletoe. She did not dare to close her eyes, and when a little boy brought her a plate with a slice of marble-cake on it she spoke to him. “That would be accept¬ able, she said. But when she went to take it there was just her own hand in die air. So she left that tree, and had to go through a barbed-wire fence. There she had to creep and crawl, spreading her knees and stretching her fingers like a baby

Eudora Welty

20

25

30

35

59

trying to climb the steps. But she talked loudly to herself: she could not let her dress be tom now, so late in the day, and she could not pay for having her arm or her leg sawed off if she got caught fast where she was. At last she was safe through the fence and risen up out in the clearing. Big dead trees, like black men with one arm, were standing in the purple stalks of die withered cotton field. There sat a buzzard. “Who you watching?” In the furrow she made her way along. “Glad this not the season for bulls, ” she said, looking sideways, “and the good Lord made his snakes to curl up and sleep in the winter. A pleasure I don’t see no two-headed snake coming around that tree, where it come once. It took a while to get by him, back in the summer. ” She passed through the old cotton and went into a field of dead com. It whis¬ pered and shook and was taller than her head. “Through the maze now,” she said, for diere was no path. Then there was something tall, black, and skinny there, moving before her. At first she took it for a man. It could have been a man dancing in the field. But she stood still and listened, and it did not make a sound. It was as silent as a ghost. “Ghost,” she said sharply, “who be you the ghost of? For I have heard of nary death close by. ” But there was no answer—only the ragged dancing in the wind. She shut her eyes, reached out her hand, and touched a sleeve. She found a coat and inside that an emptiness, cold as ice. ‘Arou scarecrow,” she said. Her face lighted. “I ought to be shut up for good,” she said with laughter. “My senses is gone. I too old. I die oldest people I ever know. Dance, old scarecrow,” she said, ‘While I dancing with you.” She kicked her foot over the furrow, and with mouth drawn down, shook her head once or twice in a littie strutting way. Some husks blew down and whirled in streamers about her skirts. Then she went on, parting her way from side to side with the cane, through the whispering field. At last she came to die end, to a wagon track where the silver grass blew between the red mts. The quail were walking around like pullets, seeming all dainty and unseen. “Walk pretty,” she said. “This the easy place. This the easy going.” She followed the track, swaying through the quiet bare fields, through die litde strings of trees silver in their dead leaves, past cabins silver from weather, with the doors and windows boarded shut, all like old women under a spell sitting there. “I walking in their sleep,” she said, nodding her head vigorously. In a ravine she went where a spring was silendy flowing through a hollow log. Old Phoenix bent and drank. “Sweet-gum makes the water sweet,” she said, and drank more. “Nobody know who made this well, for it was here when I was bom.” The track crossed a swampy part where the moss hung as white as lace from every limb. “Sleep on, alligators, and blow your bubbles.” Then the track went into the road. Deep, deep the road went down between the high green-colored banks. Over¬ head the live-oaks met, and it was as dark as a cave. A black dog with a lolling tongue came up out of the weeds by the ditch. She was meditating, and not ready, and when he came at her she only hit him a litde with her cane. Over she went in the ditch, like a little puff of milkweed.

60

Character

Down there, her senses drifted away. A dream visited her, and she reached her hand up, but nothing reached down and gave her a pull. So she lay there and presently went to talking. “Old woman,” she said to herself, “that black dog come up out of the weeds to stall you off, and now there he sitting on his fine tail, smiling at you. ” A white man finally came along and found her—a hunter, a young man, with his dog on a chain. “Well, Granny!” he laughed. “What are you doing there?” “Lying on my back like a June-bug waiting to be turned over, mister,” she said, reaching up her hand. 40

He lifted her up, gave her a swing in the air, and set her down. “Anything broken, Granny?” No sir, them old dead weeds is springy enough,” said Phoenix, when she had got her breath. “I thank you for your trouble.” Where do you five, Granny? he asked, while the two dogs were growling at each other.

45

Away back yonder, sir, behind the ridge. You can’t even see it from here. ” “On your way home?” “No sir, I going to town.” Why, that s too far! fhats as far as I walk when I come out mvself, and I get something for my trouble. ” He patted the stuffed bag he carried, and there hung down a little closed claw. It was one of the bob-whites, with its beak hooked bitterly to show it was dead. “Now you go on home, Granny!” “I bound to go to town, mister?’ said Phoenix. “The time come around. ” He gave another laugh, filling the whole landscape. “I know you old colored people! Wouldn’t miss going to town to see Santa Claus!”

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But something held old Phoenix veiy still. The deep fines in her face went into a fierce and different radiation. Without warning, she had seen with her own eyes a flashing nickel fall out of the man’s pocket onto the ground. How old are you, Granny?” he was saying. “There is no telling, mister,” she said, “no telling.” Then she gave a little ciy and clapped her hands and said, “Git on away from here, dog! Look! Look at that dog!” She laughed as if in admiration. “He ain’t scared of nobody. Pie a big black dog.” She whispered, “Sic him!” Watch me get rid of that cur, said the man. “Sic him, Pete! Sic him!” Phoenix heard the dogs fighting, and heard the man running and throwing sticks. She even heard a gunshot. But she was slowly bending forward by that time, further and further forward, the fid stretched down over her eyes, as if she were doing this in her sleep. Her chin was lowered almost to her knees. The yellow palm of her hand came out from the fold of her apron. Her fingers slid down and along the ground under the piece of money with the grace and care they would have in lifting an egg from under a setting hen^Then she slowly straightened up, she stood erect, and the nickel was in her apron pocket. A bird flew by. Her lips mo\ ed. God watching me the whole time. I come to stealing. ” Phe man came back, and his own dog panted about them. “Well, I scared him off that time,” he said, and then he laughed and lifted his gun and pointed it at Phoenix. She stood straight and faced him. “Doesn’t the gun scare you?” he said, still pointing it.

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“No, sir, I seen plenty go off closer by, in my day, and for less than what I done,” she said, holding utterly still. He smiled, and shouldered the gun. “Well, Granny,” he said, “you must be a hundred years old, and scared of nothing. I’d give you a dime if I had any money with me. But you take my advice and stay home, and nothing will happen to you.” “I bound to go on my way, mister,” said Phoenix. She inclined her head in the red rag. Then they went in different directions, but she could hear the gun shooting again and again over the hill. She walked on. The shadows hung from the oak trees to the road like curtains. Then she smelled wood-smoke, and smelled the river, and she saw a steeple and the cabins on their steep steps. Dozens of little black children whirled around her. There ahead was Natchez shining. Bells were ringing. She walked on. In the paved city it was Christmas time. There were red and green electric lights strung and crisscrossed everywhere, and all turned on in the daytime. Old Phoenix would have been lost if she had not distrusted her eyesight and depended on her feet to know where to take her. She paused quietly on the sidewalk where people were passing by. A lady came along in the crowd, carrying an armful of red-, green- and silver-wrapped presents; she gave off perfume like the red roses in hot summer, and Phoenix stopped her. “Please, missy, will you lace up my shoe?” She held up her foot. “What do you want, Grandma?” “See my shoe,” said Phoenix. “Do all right for out in the country", but wouldn’t look right to go in a big building. ” “Stand still then, Grandma,” said the lady. She put her packages down on the sidewalk beside her and laced and tied both shoes tightly. “Can’t lace ’em with a cane,” said Phoenix. “Thank you, missy. I doesn’t mind asking a nice lady to tie up my shoe, when I gets out on the street. ” Moving slowly and from side to side, she went into the big building, and into a tower of steps, where she walked up and around and around until her feet knew to stop. She entered a door, and there she saw nailed up on the wall the document that had been stamped with the gold seal and framed in the gold frame, which matched the dream that was hung up in her head. “Plere I be,” she said. There was a fixed and ceremonial stiffness over her body. “A charity case, I suppose, ” said an attendant who sat at the desk before her. But Phoenix only looked above her head. There was sweat on her face, the wrinkles in her skin shone like a bright net. “Speak up, Grandma,” the woman said. “What’s your name? We must have your historv, vou know. Have you been here before? What seems to be the trouble with you?” Old Phoenix only gave a twitch to her face as if a fly were bothering her. “Are you deal?” cried the attendant. But then the nurse came in. “Oh, that’s just old Aunt Phoenix,” she said. “She doesn’t come for herself— she has a little grandson. She makes these trips just as regular as clockwork. She fives away back off the Old Natchez Trace.” She bent down. “Well, Aunt Phoenix, why don’t you just take a seat? We won’t keep you standing after your long trip. ” She pointed. The old woman sat down, bolt upright in the chair.

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“Now, how is the boy?” asked the nurse. Old Phoenix did not speak. “I said, how is the boy?” But Phoenix only waited and stared straight ‘ahead, her face veiy solemn and withdrawn into rigidity. 85

“Is his throat any better?” asked the nurse. “Aunt Phoenix, don’t you hear me? Is your grandson’s throat any better since the last time you came for the medicine?” With her hands on her knees, the old woman waited, silent, erect and motion¬ less, just as if she were in armor. “You mustn’t take up our time this way, Aunt Phoenix,” the nurse said. ‘Tell us quickly about your grandson, and get it over. He isn’t dead, is he?” At last there came a flicker and then a flame of comprehension across her face, and she spoke.

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“My grandson. It was my memory had left me. There I sat and forgot why I made my long trip. ” “Forgot?” The nurse frowned. “After you came so far?” Then Phoenix was like an old woman begging a dignified forgiveness for waking up frightened in the night. “I never did go to school, I was too old at the Surrender, ” she said in a soft voice. “I’m an old woman without an education. It was my memory fail me. My little grandson, he is just the same, and I forgot it in the coming. ” Throat never heals, does it?” said the nurse, speaking in a loud, sure voice to old Phoenix. By now she had a card with something written on it, a little list. Y es. Swallowed lye. When was it?—January—two-three years ago—” Phoenix spoke unasked now. “No, missy, he not dead, he just the same. Every little while his throat begin to close up again, and he not able to swallow. He not get his breath. He not able to help himself. So the time come around, and I go on another trip for the soothing medicine. ” All right. The doctor said as long as you came to get it, you could have it, ” said the nurse. “But it’s an obstinate case.”

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My little grandson, he sit up there in the house all wrapped up waiting by himself,” Phoenix went on. “We is the only two left in the world. He suffer and it don’t seem to put him back at all. He got a sweet look. He going to last. He wear a little patch quilt and peep out holding his mouth open like a litde bird. I remembers so plain now. I not going to forget him again, no, the whole enduring time. I could tell him from all the others in creation. ” “All right. ” The nurse was hying to hush her now. She brought her a botde of medicine. “Charity,” she said, making a check mark in a book. Old Phoenix held the bottle close to her eyes, and then carefully put it into her pocket. “I thank you,” she said. “It’s Christmas time, Grandma,” said the attendant. “Could I give you a few pennies out of my purse?” “Five pennies is a nickel,” said Phoenix stiffly. “Here’s a nickel,” said the attendant. T

Phoenix rose carefully and held out her hand. She received the nickel and then fished the other nickel out of her pocket and laid it beside die new one. She stared at her palm closely, with her head on one side. Then she gave a tap with her cane on the floor.

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“This is what come to me to do,” she said. “I going to the store and buy my child a little windmill they sells, made out of paper. He going to find it hard to believe there such a thing in the world. I’ll march myself back where he waiting, holding it straight up in this hand. ” She lifted her free hand, gave a little nod, turned around, and walked out of the doctor’s office. Then her slow step began on the stairs, going down.

Questions on character . . . 1. In the first paragraph, notice how the narrative moves from naming into de¬ scription and beyond description into metaphor. Do you begin to find char¬ acterization in this description? How do the metaphors give you notions of Phoenix’s character? 2. Throughout the story, what categories of characterization does Welty use for Phoenix? 3. Most people revise their estimate of Phoenix’s age upward as they read the story. What details suggest her age? 4. Why does Phoenix talk to herself? How much do you learn from this one-way conversation? Do you learn different things from her out-loud talk and from her silent thoughts? 5. Pick out the thoughts by which Phoenix reveals most about her character. Do you feel that you know something of Phoenix’s past life? Find instances of Phoenix’s sense of humor when she is alone. 6. What do you learn of Phoenix’s character when she first meets another per¬ son? 7. In the hospital, Phoenix forgets everything. Does anything in the story ear¬ lier—we could call it plot or character—prepare you for this forgetting? Is it another hill*? 8. In paragraph 78 we learn about Phoenix from another character. Does it hurt the story that this information comes so late? Would it have been better for the story if we had known earlier? Why? 9. In paragraph 100, why does Phoenix define a nickel? What does this add to her character? 10. Comment on the last sentence of the story. Relate it to the title.

. . . and other elements 11. In paragraph 2 we hear about Phoenix’s shoelaces; in paragraph 65, we hear of them again. Why repeat this one detail? Does it tell us something about Phoenix, about her character or her situation? 12. What happens to Phoenix in paragraph 15? 13. The plot is a journey and a task. If you were going to make it into a film, how many scenes would you need? 14. In the hospital we meet a nurse who knows Phoenix and remembers her grandson. Would it be correct to say that the nurse’s speeches make the story’s climax? 15. In paragraph 96: “ ‘Charity,’ she said, making a checkmark in a book.” Com¬ ment on the theme of the story.

Chapter 6 Setting

Setting is the place or time of a story—its geography, era, season, and society. In many stories, setting is only the air characters breathe, vital and taken for granted. In others, setting is basic to the theme of a story. Some stories need no background at all. Fables live in a timeless present where crickets talk; usually fantasy happens anywhere and nowhere. But most writers invoke par¬ ticular places and particular times, and their stories establish these settings precisely. Precise setting helps to establish the truth of the story, to persuade the reader of the validity of the tale. Setting can give us information vital to plot and theme. The two leading characters of Thurber’s “The Catbird Seat” grow out of their generalized office life. Faulkner’s Miss Emily is shaped by the social details of her changing town. Without these specific historical and social settings, the story would be melo¬ drama; its theme arises horn its setting. In “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” the three settings (home, Red Sammy’s, the scene of the accident) contrast sordid reality with would-be elevated talk to ironic effect. In “A Worn Path” the setting is the path itself. In this last type of setting landscape fits a subjective mood, and description becomes symbolic. Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Fall of the House of Usher” begins with such a description, where physical details represent mental traits: Shaking off from my spirit wkat must have been a dream, I scanned more nar¬ rowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi over¬ spread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet

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all this was apart from any extraordinary dilapidation. No portion of the masoniy had fallen; and there appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the individual stones. In this there was much that reminded me of the specious totality'- of old woodwork which has rotted for long years in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little token of instability. Perhaps die eye of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending from die roof of the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zig-zag direction, until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.

The fissure is subjective, a representation of the psyche of Roderick Usher, the story’s main character and the owner of the house. Finally, we should not forget that we read to entertain ourselves, among other reasons, and that we are entertained bv the exotic and the unusual. For the same reasons we travel to strange places, we read about strange places.

Mary Lavin

The Green Grave and the Black Grave Mary Lavin (19l£— ) was bom in Massachusetts to Irish parents, emigrants who migrated back when she was ten years old. She has lived in Ireland ever since, and now divides her time between a house in Dublin and a farm in County Meath. Her Collected Stories appeared in the United States in 1971, The Shrine and Other Stories in 1977.

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It was a body all right. It was hard to see in the dark, and the scaly black sea was heaving up between them and the place where they saw the thing floating. But it was a body all right. “I knew it was a shout I heard,” said the taller of the two tall men in the black boat that was out fishing for mackerel. He was Tadg Mor and he was the father of the less tall man, that was blacker in the hair than him and broader in the chest than him, but was called Tadg Og because he was son to him. Mor means “big” and Og means “son.” “I knew it was a shout I heard,” said Tadg Mor. “I knew it was a boat I saw and I dragging in the second net, ” said Tadg Og. “I said the sound I heard was a kittiwake, crying in the dark. ” “And I said the boat I saw was a black wave blown up on the wind. ” “It was a shout all right. ” “It was a boat all right. ” “It was a body all right. ” “But where is the black boat?” Tadg Og asked. “It must be that the black boat capsized,” said Tadg Mor, “and went down into die green sea.” “Whose boat was it, would you venture for to say?” Tadg Og asked, pulling stroke for stroke at the sea. “I’d venture for to say it was the boat of Eamon Buidhe,” said Tadg Mor, pulling

Setting

with his oar against the sharp up-pointing waves of the scaly, scurvy sea. The tall men rowed hard toward the clumsy thing that tossed on the tips of the deft green waves. Eamon Buidhe Mumane!” said Tadg Mor, lifting clear his silver-dropping oar. “Eamon Buidhe Mumane!” said Tadg Og lifting his clear, dripless, yellow oar. It was a hard drag, dragging him over the arching sides of the boat. His clothes logged him down to the water and the jutting waves jottled him back against the boat. His yellow hair slipped from their fingers like floss, and the loose fibers of his island-spun clothes broke free from their grip. But they got him up over the edge of the boat, at the end of a black hour that was only lit by the whiteness of the breaking wave. They laid him down on the boards of the floor on their haul of glittering mackerel, and they spread the nets out over him. But the scales of the fish glittered up through the net and so, too, the eyes of Eamon Buidhe Mumane glittered up through the net. And the live glitter of the dead eyes put a strain on Tadg Mor and he turned the body over on its face among the fish; and when they had looked a time at the black corpse with yellow hair, set in the silver and opal casket of fishes, they turned the oar blades out again into the scurvy seas, and pulled toward the land. How did you know it was Eamon Buidhe Mumane, and we forty pointed waves away from him at the time of your naming his name?” Tadg Og asked Tadg Mor. “Whenever it is a thing that a man is pulled under by the sea,” said Tadg Mor, “think around in your mind until you think out which man of all the men it might be that would be the man most missed, and that man, that you think out in your mind, will be the man that will be “cast up on the shingle.” 'This is a man that will be missed mightily,” said Tadg Og. “He is a man that will be mightily bemoaned,” said Tadg Mor. “He is a man that will never be replaced. ” “He is a man that will be prayed for bitterly and mightily. ” “Many a night, forgetful, his wife will set out food for him,” said Tadg Og. fhe Brightest and the Bravest!” said Tadg Mor. “Those are the words that will be read over him—the Brightest and the Bravest. ” The boat rose up on the points of the waves and cleft down again between die points, and the oars of Tadg Mor and the oars of Tadg Og split the points of many waves. “How is it the green sea always greeds after the Brightest and the Bravest?” Tadg Og asked Tadg Mor. “And for the only son?” Tadg Mor said. “And the widows’ sons?” “And the men with one-year wives. The one-year wife that’s getting this corpse tonight”—Tadg Mor pointed down with his eyes—“will have a black sorrow diis night, ” And every night after diis night,” said Tadg Og, because he was a young man and knew about such things. “It’s a great thing that he was not dragged down to the green grave, and that is a thing will lighten the nights of the one-year wife,” said Tadg Mor. “It isn’t many are saved out of the green grave,” said Tadg Og. “Mairtin Mor wasn’t got,” said Tadg Mor. “And Muiris Fada wasn’t got. ” \ “Lorcan Og wasn’t got. ” “Ruairi Dubh wasn’t got. ”

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“It was three weeks and the best part of a night before the Frenchman with the leather coat was got, and five boats out looking for him. ” “It was seven weeks before Maolshaughlin O’Dalaigh was got, and his eye sock¬ ets emptied by the gulls and the gannies. ” “And by the waves. The waves are great people to lick out your eyeballs!” said Tadg Mor. “It was a good thing, this man to be got,” said Tadg Og, “and his eyes bright in his head. ” “Like he was looking up at the sky!” “Like he was thinking to smile next thing he’d do. ” ' “He was a great man to smile, this man,” said Tadg Mor. “He was ever and always smiling.” “He was a great man to laugh too,” said Tadg Og. “He was ever and always laughing. ” “Times he was laughing and times he was not laughing,” said Tadg Mor. “Times all men stop from laughing,” said Tadg Og. ‘Times I saw this man and he not laughing. Times I saw him and he putting out in the black boat looking back at the inland woman where she’d be standing on the shore and her hair weaving the wind, and there wouldn’t be any laugh on his face those times. ” “An island man should take an island wife,” said Tadg Og. “An inland woman should take an inland man. ” “The inland woman that took this man had a dreadful dread on her of the sea and the boats that put out in it. ” ‘Times I saw this woman from the inlands standing on the shore, from his putting out with the dry black boat to his coming back with the shivering silverbelly boat. ” “He got it hard to go from her every night. ” “He got it harder than iron to go from her if there was a streak of storm gold in the sky at time of putting out. ” “An island man should not be held down to a woman from the silent inlands. ” “It was love-talk and love-looks that held down this man,” said Tadg Mor. “The island women give love-words and love-talk too,” said Tadg Og. “But not the love-words and the love-looks of this woman,” said Tadg Mor. ‘Times I saw her wetting her feet in the waves and wetting her fingers in the waves and you’d see she was a kind of lovering the waves so they’d bring him back to her. Times he told me himself she had a dreadful dread of the green grave. There dies as many men in the inlands as in the islands,’ I said. Tell her that,’ I said. ‘I told her that,’ said he. “ ‘ “But they get the black grave burial,” she said. “They get the black grave burial in clay that’s blessed by two priests and they get the speeding of the green sods thrown down on them by dieir kinsmen. ” Tell her there’s no worms in the green grave,’ I said to him. ‘I did,’ said he. ‘What did she say to that?’ said I. ‘She said, “The bone waits for the bone,” said he. ‘What does she mean by that?’ said I. ‘She gave another saying as her meaning to that saving,’ said he. ‘She said, “There’s no sorrow in death when two go down together into the one black grave. Clay binds closer than love,” she said, “but the green grave binds nothing,” she said. “The green grave scatters,” she said. “The green grave is for sons,” she said, “and for brothers,” she said, “but the black grave is for lovers,” she said, “and for husbands in the faitliful clay under the jealous sods.”

Setting

“She must be a great woman to make sayings, ” said Tadg Og. “She made great sayings for that man every hour of the day, and she stitching the nets for him on the step while he’d be salting fish or blading oars. ” “She’ll be glad us to have saved him from the salt green grave. It’s a great wonder but he was dragged down before he was got. ” “She is the kind of woman that always has great wonders happening round her,” said Tadg Mor. “If she is a woman from the inlands itself, she has a great power in herself. She has a great power over the sea. Times—and she on the cliff shore and her hair weaving the wind, like I told you—I’d point' my eyes through the wind across at where Eamon Buidhe would be in the waves back of me, and there wouldn’t be as much as one white tongue of spite rising out of the waves around his boat, and my black boat would be splattered over every board of it with white sea-spittle. ” “I heard tell of women like that. She took the fuiy out of the sea and burned it out to white salt in her own heart. ” The talk about the inland woman who fought the seas in her heart was slow talk and heavy talk, and slow and heavy talk was fit talk as the scurvy waves crawled over one another, scale by scale, and brought the bitter boat back to the shore. Sometimes a spiteful tongue of foam forked up in the dark by the side of the boat and reached for the netted corpse on die boards. When this happened Tadg Og picked up the loose end of the raggy net and lashed out with it at the sea. “Get down, you scaly-belly serpent,” he said, “and let the corpse dry out in his dead-clothes. ” “Take heed to your words, Tadg Og,” Tadg Mor would say. “We have the point to round yet. Take heed to your words!” “Here’s a man took heed to his words and that didn’t save him,” said Tadg Og. “Here was a man was always singing back song for song to the singing sea, and look at him now lying there. ” They looked at him lying on his face under the brown web of the nets in his casket of hsh scales, silver and opal. And as they looked, another venomous tongue of the sea licked up the side of the boat and strained in toward the body. Tadg Og beat at it with the raggy net. “Keep your strength for the loud knocking you’ll have to give on the wooden door, said Tadg Mor. And I adg Og understood that he was the one would walk up the shingle and bring the death news to the one-year wife, who was so strange among the island women with her hair weaving the wind at evening and her white feet wetted in the sea by day. “Is it not a thing that she’ll be, likely, out on the shore?” he asked, in a bright hope, pointing his eyes to where the white edge of the shore-wash shone by its own light in the dark. “Is there a storm tonight?” said Tadg Mor. “Is there a great wind tonight? Is there a rain spate? Are there any signs of danger on the sea?” “No,” said Tadg Og, “there are none of those things that you mention.” “I will tell you die reason you asked that question,” said Tadg Mor. “You asked that question because that question is the answer that you’d like to get. ” “It’s a hard thing to bring news to a one-year wife and she one that has a dreadful dread of the sea, ” said Tadg Og. x\ It’s good news you’re bringing to the one-year wife when you bring news that

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her man is got safe, to go down like any inlander into a black grave blessed by a priest and tramped down by the feet of his kinsmen on the sod.11 “It’s a queer thing to be caught by the sea on a fine night with no wind blowing, ” said Tadg Og. “On a fine night the women lie down to sleep, and if any woman has a power over the sea, with her white feet in the water and her black hair in the wind and a bright fire in her heart, the sea can only wait until that woman’s spirit is out of her both7, likely back home in the inlands, and then the sea serpent gives a slow turnover on his scales, one that you wouldn’t heed to yourself, maybe, and you standing up with no hold on the oars; and before there’s time for more than the first shout out of you the boat is logging down to the depths of the water. And all the time the woman that would have saved you, with her willing and wishing for you, is in the deep bed of a dark sleep, having no knowledge of the thing that has happened until she hears the loud-handed knocking of the neighbor on the door outside. ” Tadg Og knocked with his knuckles on the sideboards of tire boat. “Louder than that,” Tadg Mor said. Tadg Og knocked another, louder knock on the boat side. “Have you no more knowledge than that of how to knock at a door in the fastness of the night and the people inside the house buried in sleep and the corpse down on the shore getting covered with sand and the fish scales drying into him so tight that the fingernails of the washing women will be broken and split peeling them off him? Have you no more knowledge than that of how to knock with your knucklebones?” Tadg Mor gave a loud knocking on the wet seat of the boat. “That is the knock of a man that you might say knows how to knock at a door, daytime or nighttime,” he said, and he knocked again. And he knocked again, louder, if it could be that any knock could be louder than the first knock. Tadg Og listened and then he spoke, not looking at Tadg Mor, but looking at the oar he was rolling in the water. “Two people knocking would make a loud knocking entirely,” he said. “One has to stay with the dead,” said Tadg Mor. Tadg Og drew a long stroke on the oar and he drew a long breadi out of his lungs, and he took a long look at the nearing shore. “What will I say,” he asked, ‘When she comes to my knocking1?” “When she comes to the knocking, step back a bit from the door, so’s she’ll see the wet shining on you and smell the salt water off you, and say in a loud voice that the sea is queer and rough this night.” “She’ll be down with her to the shore if that’s what I say. ” “Say then,” said Tadg Mor, pulling in the oar to slow the boat a bit, “say there’s news come in that a boat went down beyond the point.” “If I say that, she’ll be down with her to the shore without waiting to hear more, and her hair flying and her white feet freezing on the shingle. ” “If that is so,” said Tadg Mor, “then you’ll have to stand back bold from the door and call out loudly in the night, The Brightest and the Bravest!’ ” “What will she say to that?” “She’ll say, ‘God bless them!’ ” “And what will I say to that?” “You’ll say, ‘God rest them!’ ”

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“And what will she say to that?” “She’ll say, ‘Is it in the black grave or the green grave?’ ” “And what will I say to that?” “You say, ‘God rest Eamon Buidhe, in the black grave in the holy ground, blessed by the priest and sodded by the people. ’ ” “And what will she say to that?” “She’ll say, likely, ‘Bring him in to me, Tadg Og!’ ” “And what will I say to that?” “Whatever you say after that, let it be loud and raising echoes under the rafters, so she won’t hear the sound of the coipse being dragged up on the shingle. And when he’s lifted up on to the scoured table, let whatever you say be loud then too, so’s she won’t be listening for the sound of the water drabbling down off his clothes on the floor! There was only the noise of the oars then, till a shoaly sound stole in between the oar strokes. It was the shoaly sound of the pebbles dragged back from the shore by the tide. A few strokes more and they beached, and stepped out among the sprawling waves and dragged the boat after them till it cleft its depth in the damp shingle. “See that you give a loud knocking, Tadg Og,” said Tadg Mor, and Tadg Og set his head against the darkness, and his feet were heard for a good time grinding down the shifting shingle as he made for the house of the one-year wife. The house was set in a shrifty sea-field, and his steps did not sound down to the shore once he got to the dune grass of the shrifty sea-field. But in another little while there was a sound of a fist knocking upon wood, stroke after stroke of a strong hand coming down on hard wood. Tadg Mor, waiting with the body in the boat, recalled to himself all the times he went knocking on the island doors bringing news to the women of the death of their men. But island wives were the daughters of island widows. The sea gave food. The sea gave death. Life or death, it was all one in the end. The sea never lost its scabs. The sea was there before the coming of man. Island women had that knowledge. But what knowledge of the sea and its place in the world since the beginning of time had a woman from the inlands? No knowledge. An inland woman had no knowledge when the loud knocking came on her door in the night. Tadg Mor listened to the loud, hard knocking of his son Tadg Og on the door of the one-year wife of Eamon Buidhe that was lying in the silver casket of fishes on the floor of the boat, cleft fast in the shingle sand. The night was cold. The fish scales glittered even though it was dark. They glittered in the whiteness made by the breaking waves breaking on the shore. The sound of the sea was sadder than the sight of the yellow-haired corpse, but still Tadg Mor was gladder to be down on the shore dian up in the dune grass knocking at the one-night widow’s door.

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The knocking sound of Tadg Og’s knuckles on the wooden door was a human sound and it sounded good in the ears of Tadg Mor for a time; but, like all sounds that continue too long, it sounded soon to be as inhuman as the washing of the waves tiding in on the shingle. Tadg Mor put up his rounded palms to his mouth and shouted out to Tadg Og to come back to the boat. Tadg Og came back running over the shore, and the air was grained with sounds of sliding shingle, “There’s no one in the house where you were knocking,” said Tadg Mor. “I knocked louder on the door than you khocked on the boat boards, ” said Tadg Og.

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“I heard how you knocked,” said Tadg Mor; ‘Vou knocked well. But let you knock better when you go to the neighbor’s house to find out where the one-night widow is from her own house this night. ” “If I got no answer at one door is it likely I’ll get an answer at another door?” said Tadg Og. “It was you yourself I heard to say one time that the man that knows how a thing is to be done is the man should do that thing when that thing is to be done.” “How is a man to get knowledge of how to do a thing if that man doesn’t do that thing when that thing is to be done?” said Tadg Mor. Tadg Og got into the boat again and they sat there in the dark. After four or maybe five waves had broken by their side, Tadg Og lifted the net and felt the clothes of Eamon Buidhe. “The clothes are drying into him,” he said. “If I was to go up with you to the house of Seana Bhride, who would there be to watch the dead?” said Tadg Mor, and then Tadg Og knew that Tadg Mor was going with him and he had no need to put great heed on die answer he gave to him. “Let the sea watch him,” he said, putting a leg out over the boat after the wave went back with its fistful of little complaining pebbles. “We must take him out of the boat first,” said Tadg Mor. “Take hold of him there by the feet,” he said as he rolled back the net, putting it over the oar with each roll so it would not ravel and knot. They lifted Eamon Buidhe out of the boat and the mackerel slipped about dieir feet into the place where he had left his shape. They dragged him up a boat length from the sprawling waves, and they faced his feet to the shore, but when they saw that that left his head lower than his feet, because the shingle shelved greatly at that point, they faced him about again toward the waves that were clashing their sharp, pointy scales together and sending up spits of white spray in the air. The dead man glittered with the silver and verdigris scales of the mackerel that were clinging to his clothing over every part. Tadg Mor went up the sliding shingle in front of Tadg Og, and Tadg Og put his feet in the shelves that were made in the shingle by Tadg Mor because the length of the step they took was the same length. The sea sounded in their ears as they went through the shingle, but by the time the first coarse dune grass scratched at their clothing the only sound they could hear was die sound of die other’s breath¬ ingThe first cottage that rose out blacker than the night in their path was the cottage where Tadg Og made the empty knocking. Tadg Mor stopped in front of the door as if he might be thinking of dying his hand at knocking, but he thought better of it and went on after Tadg Og to the house that was next to that house, and that was die house of Seana Bhride, a woman that would know anything that eye or ear could know about those that lived within three islands of her. Tadg Mor hit the door of Seana Bhride’s house with a knock of his knuckles, and although it was a less loud knock than the echo of the knock that came down to die shore when Tadg Og struck the first knock on the door of the wife of Eamon Buidhe, there was a foot to the floor before he could raise his knuckle off the wood for another knock. A candle lit up and a shadow fell across the windowpane and a face came whitening at the door gap.

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Setting

“You came to the wrong house this dark night,” said Seana Bhride. ‘The sea took all the men was ever in this house twelve years ago and two months and seventeen days.” 125

“It may be that we have no corpse for this house, but we came to the right house for all that,” said Badg Mor. “We came to this house for knowledge of the house across two sea-fields from this house, where we got no answer to our knocking with our knuckles. ” “And I knocked with a stone up out of the ground, as well,” said Tadg Og, coming closer. v

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The woman with the candle-flame blowing drew back into the dark. “Is it for the inland woman, die one-year wife, you’re bringing the corpse you have below in the boat this night?” she said. “It is, God help us,” said Tadg Mor. “It is, God help us,” said Tadg Og. 'The Brightest and the Bravest, ” said Tadg Mor. “Is it a thing that you got no answer to your knocking?” said the old woman, bending out again with the blowing candle-flame. “No answer,” said Tadg Og, “and sturdy knocking.” “Knocking to be heard above the sound of the sea,” said Tadg Mor. “They sleep deep, the people from the inland?” said Tadg Og, asking a question. “The people of the inland sleep deep in the cottage in the middle of the fields,” said Seana Bhride, “but when diey’re rooted up and set down by the sea their spirit never passes out of hearing of the step on the shingle. It’s a queer tiling entirely that you got no answer tO' your knocking. ” “We got no answer to our knocking,” said Tadg Mor and Tadg Og, bringing their words together like two oars striking the one wave, one on this side of the boat and one on that “When the inland woman puts her face down on the feather pillow,” said Seana Bhride, “that pillow is like the seashells children put against their ears, diat pillow has in it the sad ciying voices of the sea. ” “Is it that you think she is from home this night?” said Tadg Mor. “It must be a thing that she is,” said the old woman. “Is it back to her people in the inlands she’d be gone?” said Tadg Og, who had more than the curiosity of the one night in him. “Step into die kitchen,” said the old woman, “while I ask Brid Og if she saw die wife of Eamon Buidhe go from her house this night. ” While she went into the room that was back from the kitchen, Tadg Og put a foot inside the kitchen door, but Tadg Mor stayed looking down to the shore. “If it is a thing die inland woman is from home this night, where will we put hanion Buidhe, that we have below on the shore, with his face and no sheet on it, and his eyes and no lids drawn down tight over them, and the fish scales sticking to him faster than they stuck to the mackerels when diey swam beyond the nets, blue and silver and green?”

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“Listen to Brid Og,” said Tadg Og, and he stepped a bit farther into the kitchen of Seana Bhride. Brid Og, the old woman asked, “is it a thing diat die inland woman from two fields over went from her house this night?” “It is a thing that she went,” said Brid Og.

Mary Lavin

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Tadg Og spoke to Tadg Mor: “Brid Og talks soft in the day, but she talks as soft as die sea in summer when she talks in the night in the dark. ” “Listen to what she says,” said Tadg Mor, coming in a step after Tadg Og. “Is it that she went to her people in the inlands?” Seana Bhride asked. “The wife of Eamon Buidhe never stirred a foot to her people in die inlands since the first day she came to the islands, in her blue dress with the beads,” said the voice of Brid Og. “Where did she go then?” said the old woman. “If it is a thing that she didn’t go to her people in the inlands?” “Where else but where she said she’d go,” said the voice of Brid Og, “out in die boat with her one-vear husband?” There was sound of rusty springs creaking in the room where Brid Og slept, back behind the kitchen, and her voice was clearer and stronger like as if she was sitting up in the bed looking out at the black sea and the white points rising in it, lit by the light of their own brightness. “She said the sea would never drag Eamon Buidhe down to the green grave and leave her to lie lonely in the black grave on the shore, in die black clay that held tight under the weighty sods. She said a man and woman should lie in die one grave. She said a night never passed without her heart being burnt out to a cold white salt. She said that this night, and every night after, she’d go out with Eamon in the black boat over the scabby back of the sea. She said if he got the green grave, she’d get die green grave too, and her arms would be stronger than the weeds of the sea, to bind them together forever. She said the island women never fought the sea. She said the sea needed taming and besting. She said there was a curse on the black clay for women that lay alone in it while tiieir men washed to and fro in the caves of the sea. She said the black clay was all right for inland women. She said the black clay was all right for sisters and mothers. She said die black clay was all right for girls that died at seven years. But the green grave was the grave for wives, she said, and she went out in the black boat this night and she’s going out every night after,” said Brid Og. “Tell Brid Og diere will be no night after,” said I adg Mor. “Let her sleep till day,” said Tadg Og. “Time enough to tell her in the day,” and he strained his eyes past the flutter-flame candle as the old woman came out from Brid Og’s room. “You heard what she said?” said the old woman. “It’s a bad thing he was got,” said Tadg Og. “That’s a thing was never said on this island before this night,” said Tadg Mor. “There was a fire on every point of the cliff shore to light home the men who were dragging for Mairtin Mor,” the old woman said. “And he never was got,” said Tadg Mor. “There was a shroud spun for Ruairi Dubh between the time of the putting-out of the island boats to look for him and their coming back with the empty news in the green daylight,” said the old woman. “Ruairi Dubh was never got. ” “Mairtin Mor was never got. ” “Lorcan Og was never got.” “Muiris Fada was never got” “My four sons were never got,” said the old woman.

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Setting

“The father of Brid Og was never got,” said Tadg Og, and he was looking at the shut door of the room where Brid Og was lying in the dark; the candle shadows were running their hands over that door. “The father of Brid Og was never got,” said Tadg Og again, forgetting what he was saying. “Of all the men that had yellow coffins standing up on their ends by the gable, and all the men that had brown shrouds hanging up on the wall with the iron nail eating out through the yam, it had to be the one man that should have never been got that was got,” said Tadg Og, opening the top half of the door and letting in the deeper sound of the tide. “That is the way,” said Tadg Mor. “That is ever and always the way, ” said the old woman. “The sea is stronger than any man,” said Tadg Mor. “The sea is stronger than any woman,” said Tadg Og. “The sea is stronger than women from the inland fields, ” said Tadg Mor, going to the door. “The sea is stronger than talk of love,” said Tadg Og, going out after him into the dark. It was so dark, he could not see where the window of Brid Og’s room was, but he was looking where it might be while he buttoned over his jacket. Tadg Mor and ladg Og went back to the shore, keeping their feet well on the shelving shingle, as they went toward the sprawling waves. The waves were up to the sea-break in the graywacke wall.

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The boat was floating free. It was gone from the cleft in the shingle. And the body of Bamon Bui, that had glittered with fish scales of opal and silver and verdigris, was gone from the shore. It was gone from the black land that was scored crisscross with gravecuts by spade and shovel. It was gone and would never be got. The men spoke together, “Mairtin Mor wasn’t got. ” “Muiris Fada wasn’t got. ” “Torcan Og wasn’t got. ” “Ruairi Dubh wasn’t got. ” tcThe four sons of Seana Bhride were never got. ” “The father of Brid Og wasn’t got. ” The men of the island were caught down in the sea by the tight weeds of the sea. They were held in the tendrils of the sea anemone and by the pricks of the sallow thorn, by the green sea-grasses and the green sea-reeds and the winding stems of the green sea-daffodil. But Bamon Buidhe Mumane would be held fast in the white arms of his one-year wife, who came from the inlands where women have no knowledge of the sea but only a knowledge of love.

Questions on setting . . . 1. Does this story’s title suggest the importance of setting to this story? If you were the writer, what phrase or bit of information (overheard on a visit to the west of Ireland, say ) might have started you off inventing this story? 2. Do these characters react to death as you would react? Are their feelings implausible? Does setting affect plausibility of character and feeling?

. . . and other elements 3. Do you have trouble telling the two men apart at first? Could this difficulty be deliberate?

Peter Taylor

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4. What is the conflict in this story? The climax? The denouement? 5. Can you identify a narrative in this story? From whose point of view is the story told? 6. Do you find this story realistic? Do you start out feeling one way about its realism and end up feeling another way? Why? 7. Midway through the story-, Tadg Mor and Tagd Og anticipate a conversation. Does this anticipated conversation figure in the plot? How? 8. Rewrite any strong passage of description—say, the last third of paragraph 108—in plain American. What have you lost?

Peter Taylor

A Spinster’s Tale Peter Taylor (1917— ) was bom in Tennessee and now teaches at the University- of Virginia and lives in Charlottesville. He has written plays and novels but is principally a writer of short stories, which are gathered in The Collected Stories of Peter Taylor (1969) and in In the Miro District (1977).

My brother would often get drunk when I was a little girl, but that put a different sort of fear into me from what Mr. Speed did. With Brother it was a spiritual thing. And though it was frightening to know that he would have to burn for all that giggling and bouncing around on the stair at night, the truth was that he only seemed jollier to me when I would stick my head out of the hall door. It made him seem almost my age for him to act so silly, putting his white forefinger all over his flushed face and finally over his lips to say, “Sh-sh-sh-sh!” But the really frightening thing about seeing Brother drunk was what I always heard when I had slid back into bed. I could always recall my mother’s words to him when he was sixteen, the year before she died, spoken in her greatest sincerity, in her most religious tone: “Son, I’d rather see you in your grave. ” Yet those nights put a scaredness into me that was clearly distinguishable from the terror that Mr. Speed instilled by stumbling past our house two or three after¬ noons a week. The most that I knew about Mr. Speed was his name. And this I considered that I had somewhat fabricated—by allowing him the “Mr.”—in my effort to humanize and soften the monster that was forever passing our house on Church Street. My father would point him out through the wide parlor window in soberness and severity to my brother with: “There goes Old Speed, again. ” Or on Saturday when Brother was with the Benton boys and my two uncles were over having toddies with Father in the parlor, Father would refer to Mr. Speed’s passing with a similar speech, but in a blustering tone of merry tolerance: “There goes Old Speed, again. The rascal!” These designations were equally awful, both spoken in tones that were foreign to my father’s manner of addressing me; and not uncon¬ sciously I prepared the euphemism, Mister Speed, against the inevitable day when I should have to speak of him to someone. I was named Elizabeth, for my mother. My mother had died in the spring before Mr. Speed first came to my notice on that late afternoon in October. I had bathed at four with the aid of Lucy, who had been my nurse and who was now die upstairs maid; and Lucy was upstairs turning back the covers of the beds in the rooms with their color schemes of blue and green and rose. I wandered into the shadowy

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Setting

parlor and sat first on one chair, then on another. I tried lying down on the settee that went witii the parlor set, but my legs had got too long this summer to stretch out straight on the settee. And my feet looked long in their pumps against the wicker arm. I looked at the pictures around the room blankly and at the stainedglass windows on either side of the fireplace; and the winter fight coming through them was hardly bright enough to show the colors. I struck a match on the mosaic hearth and fit the gas logs. Kneeling on the hearth I watched the flames till my face felt hot. I stood up then and turned direcdy to one of the full-length mirror paiiels that were on each side of the front window. This one was just to the right of the broad window and my reflection in it stood out strangely from the rest of the room in the dull fight that did not penetrate beyond my figure. I leaned closer to the mirror trying to discover a resemblance between myself and the wondrous Alice who walked through a looking glass. But that resemblance I was seeking I could not find in my sharp features, or in my heavy, dark curls hanging like fragments of hosepipe to my shoulders. I propped my hands on the borders of the narrow mirror and put my face close to watch my lips say, “Away. ” I would hardly open them for the “a”; and then I would contort my face by the great opening I made for the “way.” I whispered, Away, away.” I whispered it over and over, faster and faster, watching myself in the mirror: “A-way—a-way—away-away-awayaway. ” Suddenly I burst into tears and turned from the gloomy mirror to the daylight at the wide parlor window. Gazing tearfully through the expanse of plate glass there, I beheld Mr. Speed walking like a cripple with one foot on the curb and one in the street. And faintly I could hear him cursing the trees as he passed them, giving each a lick with his heavy walking cane. Presently I was chy-eyed in my fright. My breath came short, and I clasped the black bow at the neck of my middy blouse. When he had passed from view, I stumbled back from the window. I hadn’t heard the houseboy enter the parlor, and he must not have noticed me there, I made no move of recognition as he drew the draperies across the wide front win¬ dow for the night. I stood cold and silent before the gas logs with a sudden inex¬ plicable memory of my mother’s cheek and a vision of her in her bedroom on a spring day. fliat April day when spring had seemed to crowd itsefi through the windows into the bright upstairs rooms, the old-fashioned mahogany sick-chair had been brought down from the attic to my mother’s room. Three days before, a quiet service had been held there for the stillborn baby, and I had accompanied my father and brother to our lot in the gray cemetery to see die box (large for so tiny a parcel) lowered and covered widi mud. But in die parlor now by die gas logs I remembered the day that my mother had sent for the sick-chair and for me. The practical nurse, sitting in a straight chair busy at her needlework, looked over her glasses to give me some little instruction in the arrangement of my mother’s pillows in the chair. A few minutes before, this practical nurse had lifted my sick motiier bodily from the bed, and I had the privilege of rolling my mother to the big bay window that looked out ideally over the new foliage of small trees in our side yard. I stood self-consciously straight, close by my mother, a maturing little girl awk¬ ward in my curls and long-waisted dress. My pale mother, in her silk bed jacket, widi a smile leaned her cheek against the cheek of her daughter. Outside it was

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spring. The furnishings of the great blue room seemed to partake for that one moment of nature’s life. And my mother’s cheek was warm on mine. This I re¬ membered when I sat before the gas logs trying to put Mr. Speed out of my mind; but that a few moments later my mother beckoned to the practical nurse and sent me suddenly from the room, my memory did not dwell upon. I remembered only the warmth of the cheek and the comfort of that other moment. I sat near the blue burning logs and waited for my father and my brother to come in. When they came saying the same things about office and school that they said every day, turning on lights beside chairs that they liked to flop into, I realized not that I was ready or unready for them but that there had been, within me, an attempt at a preparation for such readiness. They sat so customarily in their chairs at first and the talk ran so easily that I thought that Mr. Speed could be forgotten as quickly and painlessly as a doubting of Jesus or a fear of death from the measles. But the conversation took insinuating and malicious twists this afternoon. My father talked about the possibilities of a general war and recalled opinions that people had had just before the SpanishAmerican. He talked about the hundreds of men in the Union Depot. Thinking of ah those men there, that close together, was something like meeting Mr. Speed in the front hall. I asked my father not to talk about war, which seemed to him a natural enough request for a young lady to make. “How is your school, my dear?” he asked me. “How are Miss Hood and Miss Herron? Have they found who’s stealing the boarders’ things, my dear?” All of those little girls safely in Belmont School being called for by gentle ladies or warm-breasted Negro women were a pitiable sight beside the beastly vision of Mr. Speed which even they somehow conjured. At dinner, with Lucy serving and sometimes helping my plate (because she had done so for so many years), Brother teased me first one way and then another. My father joined in on each point until I began to take the teasing very seriously, and then he told Brother that he was forever earning tilings too far. Once at dinner I was convinced that my preposterous fears that Brother knew what had happened to me by the window in the afternoon were not at all prepos¬ terous. He had been talking quietly. It was something about the meeting that he and the Benton boys were going to attend after dinner. But quickly, without rea¬ son, he turned his eyes on me across the table and fairly shouted in his new deep voice: “I saw three horses running away out on Harding Road today! They were just like the mules we saw at the mines in the mountains! They were running to beat hell and with little girls riding them!” The first week after I had the glimpse of Mr. Speed through the parlor window, I spent the afternoon dusting the bureau and mantel and bedside table in my room, arranging on the chaise longue the dolls which at this age I never played with and rarely even talked to; or I would absent-mindedly assist Lucy in turning down the beds and mavbe watch the houseboy set the dinner table. I went to the parlor only when Father came or when Brother came earlier and called me in to show me a shin bruise or a box of cigarettes which a girl had given him. Finally, I put my hand on the parlor doorknob just at four one afternoon and entered the parlor, walking stiffly as I might have done with my hands in a muff going into church. The big room with its heavy furniture and pictures showed no change since the last afternoon that I had spent there, unless possibly diere were fresh antimacassars on the chairs. I confidently pushed an odd chair over to the window and took my seat and sat erect and waited.

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Setting

My heart would beat hard when, from the comer of my eye, I caught sight of some figure moving up Church Street. And as it drew nearer, showing the form of some Negro or neighbor or drummer, I would sigh from relief and from regret. I was ready for Mr. Speed. And I knew that he would come again and again, that he had been passing our house for inconceivable numbers of years. I knew that if he did not appear today, he would pass tomorrow. Not because I had had ac¬ cidental, unavoidable glimpses of him from upstairs windows during the past week, nor because there were indistinct memories of such a figure, hardly noticed, seen on afternoons that preceded that day when I had seen him stumbling like a cripple along the curb and beating and cursing the trees did I know that Mr. Speed was a pemianent and formidable figure in my life which I would be called upon to deal with; my knowledge, I was certain, was purely intuitive. I was ready now not to face him with his drunken rage directed at me, but to look at h im far off in the street and to appraise him. He didn’t come that afternoon, but he came the next. I sat prim and straight before the window. I turned mv head neither to the right to anticipate the sight of him nor to the left to follow his figure when it had passed. But when he was passing before my window, I put my eyes full on him and looked though my teeth chattered in my head. Amd now I saw his face heavy, red, fierce like his body. He walked with an awkward, stomping sort of stagger, carrying his gray topcoat over one arm; and with his other hand he kept poking his walnut cane into the soft sod along the sidewalk. When he was gone, I recalled my mother s cheek again, but the recollection this time, though more deliberate, was dwelt less upon; and I could only think of watching Mr. Speed again and again. There was snow on the ground the third time that I watched Mr. Speed pass our house. Mr. Speed spat on the snow, and with his cane he aimed at the brown spot that his tobacco made there. And I could see that he missed his aim. The fourth time that I sat watching for him from the window, snow was actually falling out¬ side, and I felt a sort of anxiety to know what would ever drive him into mv own house. For a moment I doubted that he would really come to my door; but I prodded myself with the thought of his coming and finding me unprepared. And I continued to keep my secret watch for him two or three times a week during the rest of the winter. Meanwhile my life with my father and brother and the servants in the shadowy house went on from day to day. On w^eek nights the evening meal usually ended with petulant arguing between the two men, the atlas or the encyclopedia usually drawing them from the table to read out the statistics. Often Brother was accused of having looked-them-up-previously and of maneuvering the conversation toward the particular subject, for topics were very easily introduced and dismissed by the two. Once I, sent to the library to fetch a cigar, returned to find the discourse shifted in two minutes’ time from the Kentucky Derby winners to the languages in which the Bible was first written. Once I actually heard the conversation slip, in the course of a small dessert, from the comparative advantages of urban and agrarian life for boys between the ages of fifteen and twenty to the probable origin and age of the Icelandic parliament and then to the doctrines of the Campbellite Church. That night I followed them to the library and beheld them fingering the pages of die flimsy old atlas in the light from the beaded lampshade. They paid no attention

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to me and little to one another, each trying to turn the pages of the book and mumbling references to newspaper articles and to statements of persons of re¬ sponsibility. I slipped from the library to the front parlor across the hall where I could hear the contentious hum. And I lit the gas logs, trying to warm my long legs before them as I examined my own response to the unguided and remorseless bickering of the masculine voices. It was, I thought, their indifferent shifting from topic to topic that most disturbed me. Then I decided that it was the tremendous gaps that there seemed to be between the subjects that was bewildering to me. Still again, I thought that it was the equal interest which they displayed for each subject that was dismaying. All things in the world were equally at home in their arguments. They exhibited equal indifference to the horrors that each topic might suggest; and I wondered whedier or not their imperturbability was a thing that they had achieved. I knew that I had got myself so accustomed to the sight of Mr. Speed’s peregrinations. persistent yet, withal, seemingly without destination, that I could view his passing with perfect equanimity. And from this I knew that I must extend my preparation for the day when I should have to view him at closer range. When the day would come, I knew that it must involve my father and my brother and that his existence therefore must not remain an unmentionable thing, the secrecy of which to explode at the moment of crisis, only adding to its confusion. Now, the door to my room was the first at the top of the long red-carpeted stairway. A wall Light beside it was left burning on nights when Brodier was out, and, when he came in, he turned it off. The light shining through my transom was a comforting sight when I had gone to bed in die big room; and in the summertime I could see the reflection of light bugs on it, and often one would plop against it Sometimes I would wake up in die night with a start and would be frightened in the dark, not knowing what had awakened me until I realized that Brother had just turned out the light On other nights, however, I would hear him close die front door and hear him bouncing up die steps. When I then stuck my head out the door, usually he would toss me a piece of candy and he always signaled to me to be quiet. I had never intentionally stayed awake till he came in until one night toward the end of February of that year, and I hadn’t been certain then that I should be able to do it. Indeed, when finally the front door closed, I had dozed several times sitting up in the dark bed. But I was standing with my door half open before he had come a third of the way up the stair. When he saw me, he stopped still on the stairway resting his hand on the banister. I realized that purposefulness must be showing on my face, and so I smiled at him and beckoned. 11 is red face broke into a fine grin, and he took the next few steps two at a time. But he stumbled on the carpeted steps. He was on his knees, yet with his hand still on the banister, lie was motionless there for a moment with his head cocked to one side, listening. The house was quiet and still. He smiled again, sheepishly this time, and kept putting his white forefinger to his red face as he ascended on tiptoe the last third of the flight of steps. At the head of the stair he paused, breathing hard. I le reached his hand into his coat pocket and smiled confidently as he shook his head at me. I stepped

30

backward into my room. “Oh,” he whispered. “Your candy.” I stood straight in my white nightgown with my black hair hanging over my

Setting

shoulders, knowing that he could see me only indistinctly. I beckoned to him again. He looked suspiciously about the hall, then stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “What’s the matter, Betsy?” he said. I turned and ran and climbed between the covers of my bed. What’s the matter, Betsy?” he said. He crossed to my bed and sat down beside me on it. I told him that I didn’t know what was the matter. “Have you been reading something you shouldn’t, Betsy?” he asked. I was silent. “Are you lonely, Betsy?” he said. “Are you a lonely little girl?” I sat up on the bed and threw my arms about his neck. And as I sobbed on his shoulder I smelled for the first time the herce odor of his cheap whiskey. “Yes, I’m always lonely,” I said with directness, and I was then silent with my eyes open and my cheek on the shoulder of his overcoat which was yet cold from the February night air. He kept his face turned away from me and finally spoke, out of the other comer of his mouth, I thought, “I’ll come home earlier some afternoons and we’ll talk and play. ” “Tomorrow.” When I had said this distincdy, I fell away from him back on the bed. He stood up and looked at me curiously, as though in some way repelled by mv settling so comfortably in the covers. Amd I could see his eighteen-year-old head cocked to one side as though trying to see ifTy face in the dark. He leaned over me, and I smelled his whiskey breath. It was not repugnant to me. It was blended with the odor that he always had. I thought that he was going to strike me. He didn’t, however, and in a moment was opening the door to the lighted hall. Before he went out, again I said: “Tomorrow.” Hie hall light dark and the sound of Brother’s footsteps gone, I naturally re¬ peated the whole scene in my mind and upon examination found strange elements present. One was something like a longing for my brother to strike me when he was leaning over me. Amother was his bewilderment at my procedure. On the whole I was amazed at the way I had carried the thing off. It was the first incident that I had ever actively carried off. Now I only wished that in the darkness when he was leaning over me I had said languidly, “Oh, Brother,” had said it in a tone indicating that we had in common some unmentionable trouble. Then I should have been certain of his presence next day. As it was, though, I had little doubt of his coming home early. I would not let myself reflect further on my feelings for my brother—my desire for him to strike me and my delight in his natural odor. I had got myself in the habit of postponing such elucidations until after I had completely settled with Mr. Speed. But, as after all such meetings with my brother, I reflected upon the post¬ humous punishments in store for him for his carousing and drinking, and remem¬ bered my mother s saying that she had rather see him in his grave. The next afternoon at four I had the chessboard on the tea table before the front parlor window. I waited for my brother, knowing pretty well that he would come and feeling certain that Mr. Speed would pass* (For this was a Thursday afternoon; and during the winter months I had found that there were two days of the week

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on which Mr. Speed never failed to pass our house. These were Thursday and Saturday.) I led my brother into that dismal parlor chattering about the places where I had found the chessmen long in disuse. When I paused a minute, slipping into my seat by the chessboard, he picked up with talk of the senior class play and his chances for being chosen valedictorian. Apparently I no longer seemed an enigma to him. I thought that he must have concluded that I was just a lonely httfe girl named Betsy. But I doubted that his nature was so different from my own that he could sustain objective sympathy for another child, particularly a younger sister, from one day to another. And since I saw no favors that he could ask from me at this time, mv conclusion was that he believed that he had never exhibited his drunkenness to me with all his bouncing about on the stair at night; but that he was not certain that talking from the other corner of his mouth had been precaution enough against his whiskey breath. We faced each other over the chessboard and set the men in order. There were only a few days before it would be March, and the light through the window was first bright and then dull. During my brother’s moves, I stared out die window at the clouds that passed before the sun and watched pieces of newspaper that blew about the yard. I was calm beyond my own credulity. I found myself responding to my brother’s litde jokes and showing real interest in the game. I tried to terrorize myself by imagining Mr. Speed’s coming up to the very window this day. I even had him shaking his cane and his derby hat at us. But the frenzy which I expected at this step of my preparation did not come. And some part of Mr. Speed s formidability seemed to have vanished. I realized that by not hiding my face in my mother’s bosom and by looking at him so regularly lor so many months, I had come to accept his existence as a natural part of my life on Church Street, though something to be guarded against, or, as I had put it before, to be thoroughly prepared for when it came to my door. The problem then, in relation to my brother, had suddenly resolved itself in something much simpler than the conquest of my fear of looking upon Mr. Speed alone had been. This would be only a matter of how I should act and of what words I should use. And from the incident of the night before, I had some notion that I’d find a suitable way of procedure in our household. Mr. Speed appeared in the street without his overcoat but with one hand holding the turned-up lapels and collar of his gray suit coat. I Ie followed his cane, stomping like an enraged blind man with his head bowed against the March wind. I squeezed from between my chair and the table and stood right at the great plate glass w indow, looking out. From the comer of my eye I saw that Brother was intent upon his play. Presently, in the wind, Mr. Speed’s derby went back on his head, and his hand grabbed at it, pulled it back in place, then returned to hold his lapels. I took a sharp breath, and Brother looked up. And just as he looked out the window, Mr. Speed’s derby did blow off and across the sidewalk, over the lawn. Mr. Speed turned, holding his lapels with his tremendous hand, shouting oaths that I could hear ever so faintly, and tried to stumble after his hat. Then I realized that my brother was gone from the room; and he was outside the window with Mr. Speed chasing Mr. Speed s hat in the wind. I sat back in my chair, breathless; one elbow went down on the chessboard disordering the black and white pawns and kings and cashes. And through the window I watched Brother handing Mr. Speed his derby. I saw his apparent in¬ difference to the drunk man’s oaths and curses. I saw him coming back to the

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house while the old man yet stood railing at him. I pushed the table aside and ran to the front door lest Brother be looked outside. He met me in the hall smiling blandly. I said, “That’s Mr. Speed.” lie sat down on the bottom step of the stairway, leaning backward and looking at me inquisitively. He’s drunk, Brother,” I said. “Always.” My brother looked frankly into the eyes of this half-grown sister of his but said nothing for a while. 55

I pushed myself up on the console table and sat swinging my legs and looking seriously about the walls of the cavernous hallway at the expanse of oak paneling, at the inset canvas of the sixteenth-century Frenchman making love to his lady’ at die hat rack, and at the grandfather’s clock in the darkest corner. I waited for Brother to speak. “You don’t like people who get drunk?” he said. I saw that he was taking the whole thing as a thrust at his own behavior. “I just think Mr. Speed is veiy ugly, Brother. ”

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From the detached expression of his eyes I knew that he was not convinced. “I wouldn’t mind him less if he were sober,” I said. “Mr Speed’s like^-a loose horse. ” This analogy convinced him. He knew then what I meant. ‘You mustn’t waste your time being afraid of such things,” he said in great earnestness. “In two or three years there’ll be things that you’ll have to be afraid of. Things you really can’t avoid. ’v “What did he say to you?” I asked.

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He cussed and threatened to hit me with that stick ” “For no reason?” Old Mr. Speed’s burned out his reason with whiskey. ” Tell me about him. ” I was almost imploring him. Everybody knows about him. He just wanders around town, drunk. Sometimes downtown they take him off in the Black Maria.” I pictured him on the main streets that I knew downtown and in the big de¬ partment stores. I could see him in that formal neighborhood where my grand¬ mother used to live. In the neighborhood of Miss Hood and Miss Herron’s school. Around the little houses out where my father’s secretary lived. Even in nigger town. '

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“You’ll get used to him, for all his ugliness, ” Brother said. Then we sat diere till my Either came in, talking almost gaily about things that were particularly ugly in Mr. Speed s clothes and face and in his wayr of walking. Since the day that I watched myself say “away” in the mirror, I had spent painful hours trying to know once more that experience which I now regarded as some¬ thing like mystical. But the stringent course that I, motherless and lonely in our big house, had brought myself to follow while only thirteen had given me certain mature habits of diought. Idle and unrestrained daydreaming I eliminated almost entirely from my experience, though I delighted myself with fantasies that I quite consciously worked out and which, when concluded, I usually considered carefully, trying to fix them with some sort of childish symbolism. Even idleness in my nightly dreams disturbed me. .And sometimes as I tossed half awake in my big bed I would fry to piece together my dreams into at least a

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form of logic. Sometimes I would complete an unfinished dream and wouldn’t know in the morning what part I had dreamed and what part pieced out. I would often smile over die ends that I had plotted in half-wakeful moments but found pride in dreams that were complete in themselves and easy to fix with allegory, which I called “meaning.” I found that a dream could start for no discoverable reason, with the sight of a printed page on which the first line was, "Once upon a time”; and soon could have me a character in a strange store. Once upon a time there was a little girl whose hands began to get veiy large. Grown men came for miles around to look at die giant hands and to shake them, but the little girl was ashamed of diem and hid them under her skirt. It seemed that the litde girl lived in the stable behind my grandmother’s old house, and I watched her from die top of the loft ladder. Whenever there was the sound of footsteps, she trembled and wept; so I would beat on die floor above her and laugh uproariously at her fear. But presentlv I was the little girl listening to the noise. At first I trembled and called out for my father, but then I recollected that it was I who had made the noises and I felt that I had made a very considerable discovery for myself. I awoke one Saturday morning in early March at the sound of my father s voice in the downstairs hall. lie was talking to the servants, ordering the carriage I think. I believe that I awoke at the sound of the carriage horses’ names. I went to mv door and called “Goodbye” to him. He was twisting his mustache before the hall mirror, and he looked up the stairway at me and smiled. lie was always abashed to be caught before a looking glass, and he called out self-consciously a"nd affectionately that he would be home at noon. I closed my door and went to die little dressing table that he had had put in my room on my birthday. 'Hie card with his handwriting on it was still stuck in the comer of die mirror: “For my young lady daughter.” I was so thoroughly aware of the gendeness in his nature this morning that any childish timidity before him would, I thought, seem an injustice, and I determined that I should sit with him and my uncles in the parlor that afternoon and perhaps tell them all of my fear of the habitually drunken Mr. Speed and with them watch him pass before the parlor window. That morning I sat before the mirror of my dressing table and put up my hair in a knot on the back of my head for the first time. Before Father came home at noon, however, I had taken my hair down, and I was not now certain that he would be unoffended by mv mention of the neigh¬ borhood drunkard. But I was resolute in my purpose, and when my two uncles came after lunch, and the three men shut themselves up in the pailoi for the afternoon, I took my seat across the hall in the little library, or den, as my mother had called it, and spent the first of the afternoon skimming over the familiar pages of Tales of 01’ Virginny, by Thomas Nelson Page. My father had seemed tired at lunch. He talked very little and drank only half his cup of coffee. He asked Brother matter-of-fact questions about his plans for college in the fall and told me once to try cutting my meat instead of pulling it to pieces. And as I sat in the library afterward, I wondered if he had been thinking of mv mother. Indeed, I wondered whether or not he ever thought of her. He never mentioned her to us; and in a year I had forgotten exactly how he treated hei when she had been alive. It was not only the fate of my brother’s soul that I had given thought to since my mother’s death, bather had always had his toddy on Satuidav afternoon with his two bachelor brothers. But there was more than one round of toddies served in the parlor on Saturday now. Throughout the early part of this afternoon I could

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hear the tinkle of the bell in the kitchen, and presently the houseboy would appear at the door of the parlor with a tray of ice-hlled glasses. As he entered the parlor each time, I would catcli a glimpse over my book of die thiee men. One was usually standing, whichever one was leading the conver¬ sation. Once diey were laughing heartily; and as the Negro boy came out with the tray of empty glasses, there was a smile on his face. As their voices grew louder and merrier, my courage slackened. It was then I first put into words the thought that in my brother and father I saw something of Mr. Speed. And I knew that it was more than a taste for whiskey they had in common. At four o’clock I heard Brother’s voice mixed with those of the Benton boys outside the front door. They came into the hall, and their voices were high and excited. First one, then another would demand to be heard with: “No, listen now; let me tell you what. ” In a moment I heard Brother on the stairs. Then two of the Benton brothers appeared in the doorway of the library. Even the youngest, who was not a year older than I and wdiose name was Flemy, wore long pants, and each carried a cap in hand and a linen duster over his ami. I stood up and smiled at them, and with my right forefinger I pushed the black locks which hung loosely about my shoulders behind my ears. “We’re going motoring in the Carltons’ machine,” Hemy said. I stammered my surprise and asked if Brother were going to ride in it. One of them said that he was upstairs getting his hunting cap, since he had no motoring cap. The older brother, Gam Benton, went back into the hall. I walked toward I Ienry, who was standing in the •doorway. “But does Fadier know you’re going?” I asked. As I tried to go through the doorway, Hemy stretched his ami across it and looked at me with a critical frown on his face. “Why don’t you put up your hair?” he said. I looked at him seriously, and I felt the heat of the blush that came over my face. I felt it on the back of my neck. I stooped with what I thought considerable grace and slid under his arm and passed into the hall. There were the other two Benton boys listening to the voices of my uncles and my father through the parlor door. I stepped between them and threw open the door. Just as I did so Hemy Benton commanded, “Elizabeth, don’t do that!” And I, swinging the door open turned and smiled at him. I stood for a moment looking blandly at my father and my uncles. I was con¬ sidering what had made me burst in upon them in diis manner. It was not merely that I had perceived the opportunity of creating this little disturbance and slipping m under its noise, though I was not unaware of the advantage. I was frightened by the boys impending adventure in the horseless carriage but surely not so much as I normally should have been at breaking into the parlor at this forbidden hour. Hie immediate cause could only be die attention which Henry Benton had shovm me. His insinuation had been diat 1 remained too much a litde girl, and I had showrn him that at any rate I was a bold, or at least a naughty, little girl. My father was on his feet. He put his glass on the mantelpiece. .And it seemed to me that from the three men came in rapid succession all possible arrangements ot the words, Boys-come-in. Come-in-boys. Well-boys-come-in. Come-on-in. Boys-come-in-the-parlor. The boys went in„ rather showing off their breeding and poise, I thought. The three men moved and talked clumsily before them, as the three Benton brothers went each to each of the men carefully distinguishing be-

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tween my uncles’ titles: doctor and colonel. I thought how awkward all of the members of mv own family appeared on occasions that called for grace. Brother strode into the room with his hunting cap sideways on his head, and he announced their plans, which the tactful Bentons, uncertain of our family’s prejudices re¬ garding machines, had not mentioned. Father and my uncles had a great deal to say about who was going-to-do-the-driving, and Henry Benton without giving an answer gave a polite invitation to the men to join them. To my chagrin, both my uncles accepted with-the-greatest-of-pleasure what really had not been an invita¬ tion at all. And they persisted in accepting it even after Brother in his rudeness raised the question of room in the five-passenger vehicle. Father said, “Sure. The more, the merrier.” But he declined to go himself and declined for me Henry’s invitation. The plan was, then, as finally outlined by the oldest of die Benton brothers, that the boys should proceed to die Carltons’ and that Brother should return with the driver to take our uncles out to the Carltons’ house which was one of the new residences across from Centennial Park, where the excursions in the machine were to be made. The four slender youths took their leave from the heavy men with the gold watch chains across their stomachs, and I had to shake hands with each of the Benton brothers. To each I expressed my regret that Fadier would not let me ride with them, emulating their poise with all my art. Henry Benton was the last, and he smiled as though he knew what I was up to. In answer to his smile I said, “Games are so much fun.” I stood by the window watching die four boys in die street until they were out of sight. My father and his brothers had taken their seats in silence, and I was aware of just how unwelcome I was in the room. Finally, my uncle, who had been a colonel in die Spanish War and who wore bushy blond sideburns, whisded under his breath and said, “Well, there’s no doubt about it, no doubt about it.” He winked at my father, and my father looked at me and then at my uncle. Then quickly in a ridiculously overserious tone he asked, “What, sir'? Xo doubt about what, sir?” “Why, there’s no doubt that this daughter of yours was flirting with the youngest

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of the Messrs. Benton.” My fadier looked at me and twisted his mustache and said with die same pomp that he didn’t know what he’d do with me if I started that sort of thing. My two uncles threw back their heads, each giving a short laugh. My uncle die doctor took off his pince-nez and shook diem at me and spoke in the same mock-serious tone of his brodiers: “Young lady, if you spend your time in such pursuits you’ll only bring upon yourself and upon the young men about Nashville the greatest unhappiness. I, as a bachelor, must plead the cause of the young Bentons! I turned to my father in indignation that approached rage. “Fadier,” I shouted, “there’s Mr. Speed out there!” Fadier sprang from his chair and quickly stepped up beside me at the window. Then, seeing the old man staggering harmlessly along the sidewalk, he said in, I thought, affected easiness: ‘Yes. Yes, dear.” “He’s drunk,” I said. My lips quivered, and I think I must have blushed at this

100

first mention of the unmentionable to my fadier. “Poor Old Speed,” he said. I looked at my uncles, and they were shaking their heads, echoing my father’s tone. “What ever did happen to Speed’s old-maid sister? mv uncle the doctor said.

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“She’s still with him,” Father said. Mr. Speed appeared soberer today than I had ever seen him. He carried no overcoat to drag on the ground, and his stagger was barely noticeable. Hie move¬ ment of his lips and an occasional gesture were the only evidence of intoxication. I was enraged by the irony that his good behavior on this of all days presented. Had I been a little younger I might have suspected conspiracy on the part of all men against me, but I was old enough to suspect no person’s being even interested enough in me to plot against my understanding, unless it be some vague person¬ ification of life itself. Hie course which I took, I thought afterward, was the proper one. I do not think that it was because I was then really conscious that when one is determined to follow some course rigidly and is blockaded one must fire furiously, if blindly, into the blockade, but rather because I was frightened and in my fear forgot all logic of attack. At any rate, I fired furiously at the three immutable creatures. “I’m afraid of him,” I broke out tearfully. I shouted at them, “He’s always drunk! He’s always going by our house drunk!” My father put his arms about me, but I continued talking as I wept on his shirt fiont. I heard the barking sound of the machine horn out in front, and I felt my father move one hand from my back to motion my uncles to go. And as they shut the parlor door after them, I felt that I had let them escape me. I heard the sound of the motor fading out up Church Street, and Father led me to the settee. We sat there together for a long while, and neither of us spoke until my tears had dried. I was eager to tell him just exaedv how fearful I was of Mr. Speed’s coming into our house. But he only allowed me to tell him that I was afraid; for when I had barely suggested that much, he said that I had no business watching Mr. Speed that I must shut my eyes to some things. “After all,” he said, nonsensically I thought, you re a young lady now. ” And in several curiously twisted sentences he told me that I mustn’t seek things to fear in this world. He said that it was most unlikely, besides, that Speed would ever have business at our house. He punched at Ins left side several times, gave a prolonged belch, settled a pillow behind his head, and soon was sprawled beside me on the settee, snoring.

But Mr. Speed did come to our house, and it was in less than two months after this dreary twilight. And he came as I had feared he might come, in his most extreme state of drunkenness and at a time when I was alone in the house with the maid Lucy. But I had done everything that a little girl, now fourteen, could do m preparation for such an eventuality. And the sort of preparation that I had been able to make, the clearance of all restraints and inhibitions regarding Mr. Speed m my own mind and in my relationship with my world, had necessarily, I think given me a maturer view of my own limited experiences; though, too, my very age must be held to account for a natural step toward maturity, io

In the two months following the day that I first faced Mr. Speed’s existence with my father, I came to look at eveiy phase of our household life with a more direct and more discerning eye. As I wandered about that shadowy and somehow brutally elegant house, sometimes now with a knot of hair on the back of my head, events and customs there that had repelled or frightened me I gave the closest scrutiny. In the daytime I ventured into such forbidden spots as the servants’ and the men’s bathrooms. The filth of the former became a matter of interest in the study of the

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servants’ natures, instead of the object of ineffable disgust. The odier became a fascinating place of wet shaving brushes and leather straps and red rubber bags. There was an anonymous little Negro boy that I had seen many mornings hur¬ rying away from our back door with a pail. I discovered that he was toting butter¬ milk from our icebox with die permission of our cook. And I sprang at him from behind a comer of the house one morning and scared him so that he spilled the buttermilk and never returned for more. Another morning I heard the cook threatening to slash the houseboy with her butcher knife, and I made myself burst in upon them; and before Lucy and the houseboy I told her that if she didn’t leave our house diat day, I d call my father and, hardly knowing what I was saying, I added, “And the police.” She was gone, and Lucy had got a new cook before dinnertime. In this way, from day to day, I began to take my place as mistress in our motherless household. I could no longer be frightened by my brother with a mention ol runaway horses. And instead of terrorized I felt only depressed by his long and curious arguments with my father. I was depressed by the number ol the subjects to and from which they oscillated. The world as a whole still seemed unconscionably larger than anything I could comprehend. But I had learned not to concern myself with so general and so unreal a problem until I had cleared up more particular and real ones. It was during these two months that I noticed the difference between the manner in which my father spoke before my uncles of Mr. Speed when he passed and that in which he spoke of him before my brodier. I o my brother it was die condemning, “There goes Old Speed, again.” But to my uncles it was, “Fhere goes Old Speed, with the sympathetic addition, “the rascal.” Though my father and his brothers obviously found me more agreeable because a pleasant spirit had replaced my old timidity, they yet considered me a child; and my father little dreamed that I dis¬ cerned such traits in his character, or that I understood, if I even listened to, their anecdotes and their long funny stories, and it was an interest in the peculiar choice of subject and in the way that the men told their stories. When Mr. Speed came, I was accustomed to thinking that there was something in my brother’s and in my father’s natures that was fully in sympathy with the very brutality of his drunkenness. And I knew that they would not consider my hatred for him and for that part of him which I saw in them. For that alone I was glad that it was on a Thursday afternoon, when I was in the house alone with Lucy, that one of the heavy sort of rains that come toward the end of May drove Mr. Speed onto our porch for shelter. Otherwise I wished for nothing more than the sound of my father’s strong voice when I stood trembling before the parlor window and watched Mr. Speed stum¬ bling across our lawn in the flaying rain. I only knew to keep at the window and make sure that he was actually coming into our house. I believe that he was drunker than I had ever before seen him, and his usual ire seemed to be doubled by the raging weather. Despite the aid of his cane, Mr. Speed fell to his knees once in the muddy sod. lie remained kneeling there for a time with his face east in resignation. Flien once more he struggled to his feet in the rain. Though I was ever conscious that I was entering into young womanhood at that age, I can only think of myself as a child at that moment; for it was the helpless fear of a child that I felt as I watched Mr. Speed approaching our door. Perhaps it was the last time I ever experienced the inconsolable desperation of childhood.

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Next, I could hear his cane beating on the boarding of the little porch before our door. I knew that he must be walking up and down in that little shelter. Then I heard Lucy’s exasperated voice as she came down the steps. I knew immediately, what she confirmed afterward, that she thought it Brother, eager to get into the house, beating on the door. I, aghast, opened the parlor door just as she pulled open the great front door. Her black skin ashened as she beheld Mr. Speed—his face crimson, his eyes bleary, and his gray clothes dripping water. He shuffled through the doorway and threw his stick on the hall floor. Between his oaths and profanities he shouted over and over in his broken, old man’s voice, “Nigger, nigger. ” I could understand little of his rapid and slurred speech, but I knew his rage went round and round a man in the rain and the shelter of a neighbor’s house. 120

Lucy fled up the long flight of steps and was on her knees at the head of the stair, in the dark upstairs hall, begging me to come up to her. 1 only stared, as though paralyzed and dumb, at him and then up the steps at her. The front door was still open; the hall was half in fight; and I could hear the rain on the roof of die porch and the wind blowing the trees which were in full green foliage. At last I moved. I acted. I slid along die wall past the hat rack and the console table, my eyes on die drunken old man who was swearing up the steps at Lucy. I reached for the telephone; and when I had rung for central, I called for the police station. I knew what they did with Mr. Speed downtown, and I knew with what I had threatened die cook. There was a part of me that was crouching on the top step with Lucy, vaguely longing to hide my face from this in my own mother’s bosom. But diere was another part which was making me deal with Mr. Speed, however wrongly, myself. Innocently I asked the voice to send “the Black Maria’1’ to our house number on Church Street. Mr. Speed had heard me make the call. He was still and silent for just one moment. Hien he broke into tears, and he seemed to be chanting his words He repeated the word “child” so many times that I felt I had acted wrongly, with courage but without wisdom. I saw myself as a little beast adding to the injure that what was bestial in man had already done him. He picked up his cane and didn’t seem to be talking either to Lucy or to me, but to the cane. He started out the doorway, and I heard Lucy come running down the stairs. She fairly glided around the newel post and past me to the telephone. She wasn’t certain that I had made the call. She asked if I had called my father. I simply told her that I had not. " s she rang the telephone, I watched Mr. Speed cross the porch. He turned to us at the edge ol the porch and shouted one more oath. But his foot touched the wet porch step, and he slid and fell unconscious on the steps. He lay there with the rain beating upon him and with Lucy and myself watching him, motionless from our place by die telephone. I was frightened by the thought o the cruelty which I found I was capable of, a cruelty which seemed inextricably mixed with what I had called courage. I looked at him lying out there in die rain and despised and pitied him at die same time, and I was afraid to go minister to die helpless old Mr. Speed.

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Lucy had her anus about me and kept them there until two gray horses pulling their black coach had galloped up in front of the house and two policemen had carried the limp body through the rain to the dreadful vehicle. Just as die policemen closed the doors in, the back of the coach, my father rode UP 111 a closed cab- He jumped out and stood in the rain for several minutes arguing wit i the policemen. Lucy and I went to the door and waited for him to come in.

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When he came, he looked at neither of ns. lie walked past us saying only, “I regret that die bluecoats were called. ” And he went into the parlor and closed the door. I never discussed the events of that day with my father, and I never saw Mr. Speed again. But, despite the surge of pity I felt for the old man on our porch that afternoon, my hatred and fear of what he had stood for in my eyes has never left me. And since the day that I watched myself say “away” in the mirror, not a week has passed but that he has been brought to my mind by one thing or another. It was only die other night that I dreamed I was a littie girl on Church Street again and that there was a drunk horse in our yard.

Questions on setting . . . 1. How does die author, using a first-person narrator who takes her own place for granted, let us know about setting? Reading the first dozen paragraphs, list all die words that tell you about place and era. 2. As if you were making a play from diis story, describe rooms so that a designer might draw a stage setting. 3. Are clothes part of setting in this story? When? How? 4. Does setting help to explain why the narrator’s fadier is displeased that she called die police?

. . . and other elements 5. Does die title contribute to the story? How? 6. How do you feel about a male author writing a first-person story of a woman? 7. Does die first paragraph associate or disassociate the narrator’s brother and Mr. Speed? 8. How many characters do you meet in die first paragraph? 9. In paragraph 2, why does the author use scaredness instead of the more com¬ mon fear? 10. Does Mr. Speed’s name matter? 11. In paragraph 16, what does the narrator mean? What do the horses have to do with Mr. Speed? 12. What do the brother and Mr. Speed have in common besides drink? 13. Consider the mirrors in this story. Do all the characters encounter mirrors? 14. Do you sense that the narrator unconsciously desires something from her father or brother that diey will not give her, that she does not know she wants?

Chapter 7 Point of View and Irony

A story’s point of view is our window on its fictional world and gives us our angle of vision. Often we watcli through the viewpoint of one character, but not always. In fiction, the window’s angle makes all the difference. Suppose I met you on the street, having just witnessed a bank robbery and a police shootout with the criminal. I could tell you about it from my position as an observer. On the other hand, suppose I met you having just been mugged and having chased and caught my assailant. I could tell you about it as protag¬ onist of the story. Next, suppose that you continued walking, met someone else you know, and repeated what I told you. You would make one essential change in the telling. No longer would the stoiy be told in the first person (7 and we aie first-person pronouns). Because it had not happened to you, you would change 7 to the third-person he. ‘Then he saw a policeman vault over a Porsche, firing his revolver. . . . ” If I had told you my thoughts or feelings, you could recount them: “He was scared. ” Storytellers use three principal points of view. The first uses an 7 who is an observ er or peripheral character. The second uses an 7 who is central to the story either as protagonist or participant. Hie third (and most common) uses the third person he, she, or they—and the storyteller conveys only that one person’s thoughts and feelings. We call this point of view limited omnisci¬ ence omniscient because it can read minds, limited because it cannot read all minds. Another point of view is unlimited omniscience. Suppose that, when you repeated the story I told you, you imagined what the bank robbers and the police were thinking and feeling. You would continue to use the third person, but you would assert your own unlimited omniscience into the minds of others. 90

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Of course there are other variations and combinations, and there are still more possible points of view. On rare occasions, an author may use the second person: “Suppose that you continued walking. . . but this point of view is rare. More common is the objective point of view, which narrates action but does not report on anyone’s ideas or feelings. The reteller of the mugging story, for instance, could tell what happened without speaking of anybody’s fear. In the objective point of view the narrator appears to acknowledge that no one can know what anyone else is thinking. Ernest Hemingway wrote some stories with an objective point of view, never reporting on thoughts or feelings, but he wrote many others that are largely objective (reticent about violating privacy) but at a crucial moment indicate, in an adverb perhaps, something about a character’s feelings. It should be noted that objective is a technical term for a device of fiction, not a critical compliment to an author’s disinterest. We have considered these possibilities: First-person observer First-person participant or protagonist Third person with limited omniscience FTnlimited omniscience Objective point of view Now we must look into the distinctive features of each point of view: The first person grants a sense of immediacy. Sometimes the point-of-view character speaks in the first person as an observer of the action and narrates a stow about him, her, or them—like a narrator either objective or with limited omniscience. In “A Rose for Emily” the narrator is an observer, a collective bystander who speaks as a plural we. Hie citizenry-as-narrator is rare but not unique to this story; it exemplifies the point of view of first person as observer. In Tillie Olsen’s “I Stand Here Ironing,” the 7 is at the center of the story, the mother in a story about mother and daughter. Here we have an 7 narrator who is a protagonist rather than an observer. We watch everything from her angle of vision. She is our eyes and ears, she is our interpreting brain; we must decide whether we trust her or not. Hie character of the narrator qualifies the narration. If you distrust the 7’s honesty, for instance, you will look behind the words. Be cautious. Never assume that the 7 of a story is the author. In "I Stand Here Ironing,” 7 is not Tillie Olsen; 7 is a character invented by Tillie Olsen. With the point of view called limited omniscience, everyone except the nar¬ rator is presented objectively, without access to thoughts and feelings. We enter only one person’s head, and that character may be first- or third-person. The viewpoint character may have opinions about somebody else’s feelings (“George looked terrified”), but does not have knowledge (“George felt terrified ). The third-person narrator with limited omniscience is the most common point of view in the modern short stow. In John Cheever’s HIre Chaste Clar¬ issa,” we know what we know by way of Baxter’s thoughts and feelings. Clarissa comes to us through him, and if we think we understand her, we understand

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Point of View and Irony

her through Baxter’s observations. If we think we understand Baxter himself, it is because the author has given us a window on Baxter’s skull through which we watch his thoughts. Finally, let us consider unlimited omniscience, in which the narrator has total access to knowledge, thoughts, and feelings. Fliis point of view was com¬ mon when the novel was new, in the eighteenth century. Novelists then seemed conscious of creating their worlds and felt free to tell us not only what groups of people were saying but what they were thinking at the same time. Authors veie apt to enter their stories not only as all-knowing voices but also as alljudging moralists. As the novel developed, unlimited omniscience began to seem gross to many novelists. Many preferred the limited omniscience of the third-person narrator. Others switched points of view from chapter to chapter. A common device in both novels and stories keeps almost entirely to limited omniscience but switches subtly and almost imperceptibly to unlimited omnis¬ cience when the point-of-view character is not on the scene. With this subtle exception, the short story usually works best with a single and limited point of view. We can read a story (unlike a novel) in one sitting and comprehend it whole. In the short story unlimited omniscience can seem formall\ clumsy, untethered, and unsettling-—as when, setded into one vantage for observation, we are jerked away to another place by a single sentence. Think of how disturbing it would have been in “A Rose for Emily” if the we narrating the story had suddenly claimed to know what we couldn’t know, saying “But Miss Emily in her heart never intended to marry Homer Barron.” It is not to exaggerate to say that it would ruin the stoiy, and the ruin is not only a ruin m form. Limited omniscience owes its popularity neither to form nor to fashion but to human nature; from our own experience we find real the notion that one consciousness and only one consciousness—-whether it be represented as he or as I—observes and interprets the world. About the objective point of view there is less to observe. Often it carries an air of careful reticence, as if the narrator were too noble to gossip or too cool to care. Of course the author must somehow embody feelings in descriptions ol gesture and action so that we know how a character feels or responds or changes. The objective point of view is the acme of showing-with out-telling For an objective stoiy, see Raymond Carver’s “The Father,” pages 376-377.^ Deliberately shifting points of view can provide authors opportunities for effects like light and shade, bright sun and dark shadow. Joseph Conrad uses a nar¬ rator named Marlowe in a number of stories in which Marlowe speaks in a modern present about the past (for one contrast ) to a group of rich Londoners about savages m a jungle (for another contrast) with his own observant (I) character sharply contrasted with a (he) protagonist. Marlowe may tell his stoiy lor many pages as if he were an author writing from a limited-omniscient thirdperson point of view. Then one of his listeners may interrupt him, and the reader is jolted back into the first-person present. The effect gives depth and perspective to a series of contrasts, one scene or time or circumstance illumi¬ nated by its opposite.

Point of View and Irony

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We have not vet mentioned the ultimate subjectivity, which is stream of consciousness. Here the author gives us not only the viewpoint character’s relevant thought or feeling but also imitates the whole flow of mind from ob¬ servation to reverie. In his novel Ulysses, James Joyce gives us Leopold Bloom’s stream of consciousness: Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. Jhe other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of the well stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must cam7 a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.

In “Counterparts,” an earlier work, Joyce’s acquaintance with Farrington’s mind does not extend so far. Joyce is expert at another device bearing on point of view. lie will narrate using style, jargon, or lingo appropriate to the subject of his narration. In “Counterparts” he introduces a narrative passage “Just as they were naming then poisons who should come in but Higgins!” This sentence is not James Joyce’s own voice—with its cliche for ordering drinks—and it is not a sentence actually spoken. It uses language appropriate to the scene to characterize both the scene and the people in it. If in the future Farrington or one of his barfly friends recounts this poindess evening, he will use this sort of language.

Irony and the unreliable narrator Point of view often contributes to a short story’s irony. Irony is the perception of incongruity or discrepancy—between words and meanings, between actions and reality, between appearances and reality. If I tell you that breaking my leg in three places was enjoyable, I am either ironic or very sick; you perceive the incongruity between statement and meaning. In “The Catbird Seat,” it is ironic that a villain gets her comeuppance by being considered a liar when she is telling the truth. In “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” ironic discrepancies be¬ tween overt statement and implicit meaning color the dialogue between the grandmother and The Misfit. Dramatic irony occurs when a character says more than he means, or when he proclaims as false something that the reader later discovers to be true. Some ironic effects arise from situations rather than from words; we distin¬ guish verbal irony from situational irony. An old burlesque act featured a violinist performing a solo at the front of the stage while a stripper performed behind him, fully visible to the audience. Cooperating, the audience would applaud the stripper, while the violinist pretended to accept the applause as a reward for his own efforts. In literature, of course, we learn situational irony from the narrator’s words. But we can distinguish between irony that arises from the author’s language and irony implicit in the situation. Sometimes we have both at once. In Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,’ the

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Point of View and Irony

grandmother praises The Misfit, in a desperate attempt at placating him, while it is obvious that other members of the family tire being executed. This irony is situational, but the grandmother’s pious language adds verbal irony to the irony of situation. A common ironic device uses a narrator who is dishonest or stupid, who gives the reader an interpretation of the action which the writer expects the reader to distrust. In Joyce’s “Counterparts,” Farrington is obtuse and unreli¬ able. He thinks it appropriate to pawn his watch for a night’s drinking; we know better. He thinks he beats his son because his son let the fire go out; we know better. Because of the writer’s skill the reader sees through the narrator, or sees more than the narrator sees. This device—the “unreliable narrator”—can work with first person or thud. \\ illiam Faulkner narrated a large portion of The

Sound and the Fury in the fust person, through the mind of an idiot. Henry James achieved some of his finest effects through an obtuse narrator. In “The Beast in the Jungle,” John Marcher is cold and reticent, unable to connect with energetic life outside him. In this long story, we see him with his friend May Bartram, and we see her fall in love with him, offer him in effect a chance to join humanity. We see everything through the third-person point of view of John Marcher. W e realize that he is drying up for want of love, and we see love offered

but w e see as w ell that he does not see it. The effect is extraordinarv:

our mountaineering guide cannot see the mountain he walks on', we want to reach into the book, shake John Marcher by the shoulder, and say Look! Foi piactice in thinking about point of view, identify the following examples made up for the occasion: 1. Hopeless and forlorn, the shepherd regarded his prize sheep covered with mud. Meantime the sheep was thinking of nothing but supper. 2. Harry knew that Gloria was stingy, but this topless convertible was worse than he had expected. He kissed her. She spat into the wind. a. I guess she’s annoyed, thought Harry. b. She, was annoyed. c. She looked annoyed. d. Annoyance crept over her features like a swarm of bees. A. Hie grass turned blue in front of Angelique as she stumbled in the hot wind. Black cattle swung their long heads to stare, fiien bent to graze again. In die distance a speck of dust grew larger. 4. As I watched, the Mexican reached under the porch and retrieved his pistol. I wondered what Maravich would do under such provocation. Before I could imagine the next moment, I heard a shot from somewhere deep in die house and watched Maravich’s body twist in the air. 5. I bioke die vTalls myself, and it took a long time. Let me tell you the story from the beginning. 6. While Henry sat at die table, Marge pretended to read comic books. He was praising \ erdi’s Otello, as it happened, when Marge flicked her gum in his hair. Smiling at her youthful exuberance, Henry.

'John Chccvcr

The Chaste Clarissa John Cheever (1912— ) is a novelist (The Wapshot Chronicle, 1957; The Wapshot Scandal, 1964; Bullet Park, 1969; Falconer, 1976) who has published many volumes of short stories, collected in The Stories of John Cheever (1978). Bom in Quincy, Massachusetts, lie has lived in the East all his life and has first published most of his stories in The New Yorker.

"Hie evening boat for Vineyard Haven was loading freight. In a little while, the warning whistle would separate the sheep from the goats—that’s the way Baxter thought of it—the islanders from the tourists wandering through the streets of Woods Hole. His car, like all the others ticketed for the ferry, was parked near the wharf. He sat on the front bumper, smoking. The noise and movement of the small port seemed to signify that the spring had ended and that the shores of West Chop, across the Sound, were the shores of summer, but the implications of the hour and the voyage made no impression on Baxter at all. Hie delay bored and irritated him. When someone called his name, he got to his feet with relief. It was old Mrs. Ryan. She called to him from a dusty station wagon, and he went over to speak to her. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew that I’d see someone here from Holly Cove. I had that feeling in my bones. We’ve been traveling since nine this morning. We had trouble with the brakes outside Worcester. Now I’m wondering if Mrs. Talbot will have cleaned the house. She wanted seventy-five dollars for opening it last summer and I told her I wouldn’t pay her that again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s thrown all my letters away. Oh, I hate to have a journey end in a dirty house, but if worse comes to worst, we can clean it our¬ selves. Can’t we, Clarissa?” she asked, turning to a voting woman who sat beside her on the front seat. “Oh, excuse me, Baxter!” she exclaimed. “You haven’t met Clarissa, have you? This is Bob’s wife, Clarissa Ryan.” Baxter’s first thought was that a girl like that shouldn’t have to ride in a dusty station wagon; she should have done much better. She was young. He guessed that she was about twenty-five. Red-headed, deep-breasted, slender, and indolent, she seemed to belong to a different species from old Mrs. Ryan and her large¬ boned, forthright daughters. “ ‘The Cape Cod girls, they have no combs. They comb their hair with codfish bones,’ ” he said to himself but Clarissa’s hair was well groomed. Her bare arms were perfectly white. Woods Hole and the activity on the wharf seemed to bore her and she was not interested in Mrs. Ryan’s insular gossip. She lighted a cigarette. At a pause in the old lady’s monologue, Baxter spoke to her daughter-in-law. “When is Bob coming down, Mrs. Ryan?” he asked. “He isn’t coming at all,” the beautiful Clarissa said. “He’s in France. He’s—” “He’s gone there for the government,” old Mrs. Ryan interrupted, as if her daughter-in-law could not be entrusted with this simple explanation. “lie’s work¬ ing on this terribly interesting project. He won’t be back until autumn. I m going abroad myself. I’m leaving Clarissa alone. Of course,’ she added forcefully, I expect that she will love the island. Everyone does. I expect that she will be kept very busy. I expect that she—” The warning signal from the ferry cut her off. Baxter said goodbye. One by one, the cars drove aboard, and the boat started to cross the shoal water from the

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Point of View and Irony

mainland to the resort. Baxter drank a beer in the cabin and watched Clarissa and old Mrs. Ryan, who were sitting on deck. Since he had never seen Clarissa before, he supposed that Bob Ryan must have married her during the past winter. He did not understand how this beauty had ended up. with the Rvans. Thev were a family of passionate amateur geologists and bird-watchers. “We’re all terribly keen about birds and rocks,” they said when they were introduced to strangers. Their cottage was a couple of miles from any odier and had, as Mrs. Ryan often said, “been thrown together out of a bam in 1922.” They sailed, hiked, swam in the surf, and organized expeditions to Cuttyhunk and Tarpaulin Gove. They were people who emphasized corpore sano unduly, Baxter thought, and drey shouldn’t leave Clar¬ issa alone in the cottage. "The wind had blown a strand of her flame-colored hair across her cheek. Her long legs were crossed. As the ferry entered the harbor, she stood up and made her way down the deck against the light salt wind, and Baxter, who had returned to the island indifferently, felt that the summer had begun. Baxter knew that in trying to get some information about Clarissa Ryan he had to be careful. He was accepted in Holly Cove because he had summered there all his life. lie could be pleasant and he was a good-looking man, but his two divorces, his promiscuity, his stinginess, and his Latin complexion had left with his neigh¬ bors a vague feeling that he was unsavory. He learned that Clarissa had married Bob Ryan in November and that she was from Chicago. He heard people say that she was beautiful and stupid. That was all he did find out about her. He looked for Clarissa on the tennis courts and the beaches. He didn’t see her. He \\ ent several times to die beach nearest the Ryans’ cottage. She wasn’t there. When he had been on the island only a short time, he received from Mrs. Ryan, in die mail, an invitation to tea. It was an invitation that he would not ordinarily have accepted, bid he drove eagerly that afternoon over to the Ryans’ cottage. He was late. The cars of most of his friends and neighbors were parked in Mrs. Ryan’s field. Their \oices drifted out of the open windows into the garden, where Mrs. Ryan’s climbing roses were in bloom. “Welcome aboard!” Mrs. Ryan shouted when he crossed the porch. “This is my farewell party. I’m going to Norway.” She led him into a crowded room. Clarissa sat behind the teacups. Against the wall at her back was a glass cabinet that held die Ryans’ geological specimens. Her arms were bare. Baxter watched them while she poured his tea. “Hot? . . . Cold? Lemon? . . . Cream?” seemed to be all she had to say, but her red hair and her white arms dominated that end of the room. Baxter ate a sandwich. He hung around the table. “Have you ever been to the island before, Clarissa?” he asked. _ res. CC\T

“Do you swim at the beach at Holly Cove?” “It’s too far away. ” When your mother-in-law leaves,” Baxter said, “you must let me drive you there in the mornings. I go down at eleven. ” “A ell, thank you.” Clarissa lowered her green eyes. She seemed uncomfortable, and the thought that she might be susceptible crossed Baxter’s mind exuberandy. V ell, thank you, she repeated, “but I have a car of my own and—well, I don’t know, I don’t—” What aie you two talking about?” Mrs. Ryan asked, coming between diem and smiling wildly in an effort to conceal some of the force of her interference. “I know it isn’t geology, ” she went on, “and I know that it isn’t birds, and I know that it

John Cheever

97

can’t be books or music, because those are all tilings that Clarissa doesn’t like, aren’t they, Clarissa? Come with me, Baxter,” and she led him to die odier side of die room and talked to him about sheep raising. When the conversation had ended, the party itself was nearly over. Clarissa’s chair was empty. She was not in the room. Stopping at the door to thank Mrs. Ryan and say goodbye, Baxter said that he hoped she wasn’t leaving for Europe immediately. “Oh, but I am,” Mrs. Ryan said. “I’m going to the mainland on the six-o’clock boat and sailing from Boston at noon tomorrow. ” At half past ten the next morning, Baxter drove up to the Ryans’ cottage. Mrs. Talbot, the local woman who helped die Ryans with their housework, answered the door. She said that young Mrs. Ryan was home, and let him in. Clarissa came downstairs. She looked more beautiful than ever, although she seemed put out at finding him there. She accepted his invitation to go swimming, but she accepted it unenthusiastically. “Oh, all right,” she said. When she came downstairs again, she had on a bathrobe over her bathing suit, and a broad-brimmed hat. On the drive to Ilolly Cove, he asked about her plans for the summer. She was noncommittal. She seemed preoccupied and unwilling to talk. They parked the car and walked side by side over the dunes to the beach, where she lay in the sand with her eyes closed. A few of Baxter’s friends and neighbors stopped to pass the time, but they didn’t stop for long, Baxter noticed. Clarissa’s unresponsiveness made it difficult to talk. He didn’t care. He went swimming. Clarissa remained on die sand, bundled in her wrap. When he came out of the water, he lay down near her. lie watched his neighbors and their children. The weather had been fair. Hie women were tanned. They were all married women and, unlike Clarissa, women with children, but the rigors of mar¬ riage and childbirth had left them all pretty, agile, and contented. While he was admiring them, Clarissa stood up and took off her bathrobe. I Iere was something else, and it took his breath away. Some of the inescapable power of her beauty lay in the whiteness of her skin, some of it in die fact that, unlike the other women, who were at ease in bathing suits, Clarissa seemed humiliated and ashamed to find herself wearing so lithe. She walked down toward the water as if she were naked. When she first felt the water, she stopped short, for, again unlike the others, who were sporting around the pier like seals, Clarissa didn’t like the cold. Mien, caught for a second between nakedness and the cold, Clarissa waded in and swam a few feet. She came out of the water, hastily wrapped herself in the robe, and lay down in the sand. Then she spoke, for die first time that morning—for the first time in Baxter’s experience—with warmth and feeling. “You know, those stones on the point have grown a lot since I was here last,” she said. “What?” Baxter said. “Those stones on the point,” Clarissa said. “They’ve grown a lot.” “Stones don’t grow,” Baxter said. “Oh yes they do,” Clarissa said. “Didn’t you know that? Stones grow. There’s a stone in Mother’s rose garden that’s grown a foot in the last few years. ” “I didn’t know that stones grew,” Baxter said. “Well, they do,” Clarissa said. She yawned; she shut her eyes. She seemed to fall asleep. When she opened her eyes again, she asked Baxter the time. “Twelve o’clock,” he said. “I have to go home,” she said. “I’m expecting guests.”

Point of View and Irony

Baxter could not contest this. He drove her home. She was unresponsive on the ride, and when he asked her if he could drive her to the beach again, she said no. It was a hot, fair day and most of the doors on the island stood open, but when Clarissa said goodbye to Baxter, she closed the door in his face. Baxter got Clarissa’s mail and newspapers from the post office the next day, but when he called with them at the cottage, Mrs. Talbot said that Mrs. Ryan was busy. He went that week to two large parties that she might have attended, but she was not at either. On Saturday night, he went to a barn dance, and late in the evening—they were dancing “Lady of the Lake”—he noticed Clarissa, sitting against the wall. She was a striking wallflower. She was much more beautiful than any other woman there, but her beauty seemed to have intimidated the men. Baxter dropped out of the dance when he could and went to her. She was sitting on a packing case. It was the first thing she complained about. “There isn’t even anything to sit on,” she said. “Don’t you want to dance?” Baxter asked. “Oh, I love to dance,” she said. “I could dance all night, but I don’t think that’s dancing. She winced at the music of the fiddle and the piano. “I came with the Hortons. They just told me there was going to be a dance. They didn’t tell me it was going to be this kind of a dance. I don’t like all that skipping and hopping.” “Have your guests left?” Baxter asked. “What guests?” Clarissa said. “You told me you were expecting guests on Tuesday. When we were at the beach.” “I didn’t say they were coming on Tuesday, did I?” Clarissa asked. “They’re coming tomorrow.” “Can’t I take you home?” Baxter asked. “All right.” lie brought the car around to the bam and turned on the radio. She got in and slammed the door with spirit. He raced the car over the back roads, and wdien he brought it up to the Ryans’ cottage, he turned off the lights. He watched her hands. She folded them on her purse. “Well, thank you very much,” she said. “I was having an awful time and you saved my life. I just don’t understand this place, I guess. I’ve always had plenty of partners, but I sat on that hard box for nearly an hour and noboby even spoke to me. You saved my life.” ‘You’re lovely, Clarissa,” Baxter said. \\ ell, Clarissa said, and she sighed. “That’s just my outward self. Nobody knows the real me. ” That wras it, Baxter thought, and if he could only adjust his flattery to what she believed herself to be her scmples would dissolve. Did she think of herself as an actress, he wondered, a Channel swimmer, an heiress? Hie intimations of sus¬ ceptibility that came from her in the summer night were so powerful, so heady, that they convinced Baxter that here was a woman wdiose chastity hung by a thread. I fiiink I know the real you,” Baxter said. “Oh no you don’t,” Clarissa said. “Nobody does.” Hie radio played some lovelorn music from a Boston hotel. By the calendar, it was still early in the summer, but it seemed, from the stillness and the hugeness of the dark trees, to be much later. Baxter put his arms around Clarissa and planted a kiss on her lips.

John Cheever

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She pushed him away violently and reached for the door. “Oh, now you’ve spoiled everything,” she said as she got out of the car. “Now you’ve spoiled every¬ thing. I know what you’ve been thinking. I know you’ve been thinking it all along. ” She slammed the door and spoke to him across the window. “Well, you needn’t come around here any more, Baxter,” she said. “My girl friends are coming down from New York tomorrow on the morning plane and I’ll be too busy to see you for the rest of the summer. Good night.” Baxter was aware that he had only himself to blame; he had moved too quickly. He knew better. lie went to bed feeling angry and sad, and slept poorly. He was depressed when he woke, and his depression was deepened by the noise of a sea rain, blowing in from the northeast. He lay in bed listening to the rain and the surf. The storm would metamorphose the island. Hie beaches would be empty. Drawers would stick. Suddenly he got out of bed, went to the telephone, called the airport. The New York plane had been unable to land, diey told him, and no more planes were expected that day. Hie storm seemed to be playing directly into his hands. At noon, he drove in to the village and bought a Sunday paper and a box of candy. The candy was for Clarissa, but he was in no hurry to give it to her. She would have stocked the icebox, put out the towels, and planned the picnic, but now the arrival of her friends had been postponed, and die lively day that she had anticipated had turned out to be rainy and idle. There were ways, of course, for her to overcome her disappointment, but on the evidence of the bam dance he felt that she was lost without her husband or her mother-in-law, and that there were few, if any, people on the island who would pay her a chance call or ask her over for a drink. It was likely that she would spend the day listening to the radio and the rain and that by the end of it she would be ready to welcome anyone, including Baxter. But as long as the forces of loneliness and idleness were working on his side, it was shrewder, Baxter knew, to wait. It would be best to come just before dark, and he waited until then. He drove to the Ryans’ with his box of candy. Hie windows were lighted. Clarissa opened the door. “I wanted to welcome your friends to the island,” Baxter said. “I—” ‘They didn’t come,” Clarissa said. “"Hie plane couldn’t land. They went back to New York. They telephoned me. I had planned such a nice visit. Now everything’s

oo

changed. ” “I’m sorry, Clarissa,” Baxter said. “I’ve brought you a present.” “Oh!” She took the box of candy. “What a beautiful box! What a lovely present! What—” Her face and her voice were, for a minute, ingenuous and yielding, and dien he saw the force of resistance transform them. “You shouldn’t have done it,” she said. “May I come in?” Baxter asked. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “You can’t come in if you’re just going to sit

60

around. ” “We could play cards,” Baxter said. “I don’t know how,” she said. “I’ll teach you,” Baxter said. “No,” she said. “No, Baxter, you’ll have to go. You just don’t understand the kind of woman I am. I spent all day writing a letter to Bob. I wrote and told him that you kissed me last night. I can’t let you come in.” She closed the door. From die look on Clarissa’s face when he gave her the box of candy, Baxter judged that she liked to get presents. An inexpensive gold bracelet or even a bunch

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Point of View and Irony

of flowers might do it, he knew, but Baxter was an extremely stingy man, and while he saw the usefulness of a present, he could not bring himself to buy one. He decided to wait The storm blew all Monday and Tuesday. It cleared on Tuesday night, and by Wednesday afternoon the tennis courts were dry and Baxter played. He played until late. Then, when he had bathed and changed his clothes, he stopped at a cocktail party to pick up a drink. Here one of his neighbors, a married woman with four children, sat down beside him and began a general discussion of the nature of married love. 65

It was a conversation, with its glances and innuendoes, that Baxter had been through many times, and he knew roughly what it promised. His neighbor was one of the pretty mothers that Baxter had admired on the beach. Her hair was brown. Her arms were thin and tanned. Her teeth were sound. But while he appeared to be deeply concerned with her opinions on love, the white image of Clarissa loomed up in his mind, and he broke off the conversation and. left the party. He drove to the Ryans’. From a distance, the cottage looked shut. The house and the garden were per¬ fectly still. He knocked and then rang. Clarissa spoke to him from an upstairs window. “Oh, hello, Baxter,” she said. “I’ve come to say goodbye, Clarissa,” Baxter said. He couldn’t think of anything better.

70

“Oh, dear,” Clarissa said. “Well, wait just a minute. I’ll be down.” “I’m going away, ('larissa, ” Baxter said when she opened the door. “I’ve come to say goodbye. ” “Where are you going?” “I don’t know. ” He said this sadly. “Well, come in, then,” she said hesitantly. “Come in for a minute. This is the last time that 111 see you, I guess, isn’t it? Please excuse the way the place looks. Mr. Talbot got sick on Monday and Mrs. Talbot had to take him to the hospital on the mainland, and I haven’t had anybody to help me. I’ve been all alone. ” He followed her into the living room and sat down. She was more beautiful than ever. She talked about the problems that had been presented by Mrs. Talbot’s departure. Hie fire in the stove that heated the water had died. There was a mouse in the kitchen. Hie bathtub wouldn t drain. She hadn’t been able to get the car started.

75

In the quiet house, Baxter heard the sound of a leaky water tap and a clock pendulum. The sheet of glass that protected the Ryans’ geological specimens re¬ flected the fading sky outside the window. The cottage was near the water, and he could hear the surf. He noted these details dispassionately and for what they were worth. When Clarissa finished her remarks about Mrs. Talbot, he waited a full minute before he spoke. “Hie sun is in your hair,” he said. “What?” “The sun is in your hair. It’s a beautiful color.

80

“Well, it isn’t as pretty as it used to be,” she said. “Hair like mine gets dark. But I’m not going to dye it. I don’t think that women should dye their hair. H ou’re so intelligent, ” he murmured. s “You don’t mean that?” “Mean what?”

John Chcever

85

90

101

“Mean that I’m intelligent. ” “Oh, but I do,” he said. “You’re intelligent. You’re beautiful. I’ll never forget that night I met you at the boat. I hadn’t wanted to come to the island. I’d made plans to go out West. ” “I can’t be intelligent,” Clarissa said miserably. “I must be stupid. Mother Ryan says that I’m stupid, and Bob says that I’m stupid, and even Mrs. Talbot says that I’m stupid, and—” She began to cry. She went to a mirror and dried her eyes. Baxter followed. He put his anus around her. “Don’t put your arms around me,” she said, more in despair than in anger. “Nobody ever takes me seriously until they get their arms around me. ” She sat down again and Baxter sat near her. “But you’re not stupid, Clarissa,” he said. “You have a wonderful intelligence, a won¬ derful mind. I’ve often thought so. I’ve often felt that you must have a lot of very interesting opinions.” “Well, that’s funny,” she said, “because I do have a lot of opinions. Of course, I never dare say them to anyone, and Bob and Mother Ryan don’t ever let me speak. They always interrupt me, as if they were ashamed of me. But I do have these opinions. I mean, I think we’re like cogs in a wheel. I’ve concluded that we’re like cogs in a wheel. Do you think we’re like cogs in a wheel?” “Oh, yes,” he said. “Oh, yes, I do!” “I think we’re like cogs in a wheel,” she said. “For instance, do you think that women should work? I’ve given that a lot of thought. My opinion is that I don’t think married women should work. I mean, unless they have a lot of money, of course, but even then I think it’s a full-time job to take care of a man. Or do you drink that women should work?” “What do you think?” he asked. “I’m terribly interested in knowing what you think. ” “Well, my opinion is,” she said timidly, “that you just have to hoe your row. I don’t think that working or joining the church is going to change everything, or special diets, either. I don’t put much stock in fancy diets. We have a friend who eats a quarter of a pound of meat at every meal. He has a scales right on the table and he weighs the meat. It makes the table look awful and I don’t see what good it’s going to do him. I buy what’s reasonable. If ham is reasonable, I buy ham. If lamb is reasonable, I buy lamb. Don’t you think that’s intelligent?” “I think that’s very intelligent. ” “And progressive education,” she said. “I don’t have a good opinion of progres¬ sive education. Wien we go to the Howards’ for dinner, the children ride their tricycles around the table all the time, and it’s my opinion that they get this way from progressive schools, and that children ought to be told what’s nice and what isn t. Hie sun diat had lighted her hair was gone, but there was still enough light in die room for Baxter to see that as she aired her opinions, her face suffused with color and her pupils dilated. Baxter listened patiendy, for he knew by then that she merely wanted to be taken for something that she was not—that the poor girl was lost. “You’re very intelligent,” he said, now and then. “You’re so intelligent” It was as simple as that.

Questions on point of view . . . 1. From whose point of view is this story told? Arc there any exceptions? 2. Do we miss being told Clarissa’s thoughts?

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Point of View and Irony

d Imagine what would happen if the story were told from Clarissa’s point of view. Rewrite a paragraph from Clarissa’s point of view. 4. What difference would it make if this story were told in the first person? 5. If you feel that you know what Clarissa thinks, how did you acquire your knowledge? 6. Could this story be told from an objective point of view? What kind of problem would arise?

. . . and other elements /. What is the conflict in this story? The climax? The denouement? 8. What is the author’s attitude toward his characters? 9. Divide the story into scenes to determine the function of each scene to the story as a whole. 10. Is Baxter a round character?

Tillie Olsen

I Stand Here Ironing nilie Olsen (1913) has lived most of her life in San Francisco. Mother of foui children, she had little time for her writing when she was young, and did not publish her first book, Tell Ale a Riddle, until 1962. Yonnondio appeared in 1974, and in 1978 Silences, which investigates the problems of writers, especially women, who have written little or stopped writing. “I Stand Here Ironing” comes from Tell Me a Riddle.

I stand here ironing, and what you asked me moves tormented back and forth with the iron. “I wish you would manage the time to come in and talk with me about your daughter. I’m sure you can help me understand her. She’s a youngster who needs help and whom I’m deeply interested in helping. ” ‘Who needs help.” . . . Even if I came, what good would it do? You think because I am her mother I have a key, or that in some way you could use me as a key? She has lived for nineteen years. There is all that life that has happened outside of me, beyond me. And when is there time to remember, to sift, to weigh, to estimate, to total? I will start and there will be an interruption and I will have to gather it all together again. Or I will become engulfed with all 1 did or did not do, with what should have been and what cannot be helped. She was a beautiful baby. The first and only one of our five that was beautiful at birth. You do not guess how new and uneasy her tenancy in her now-loveliness. \ on did not know her all those years she was thought homely, or see her poring over her baby pictures, making me tell her over and over how beautiful she had been and would be, I would tell her—and was now, to the seeing eye. But the seeing eyes were few or non-existent. Including mine. I nursed her. They feel that’s important nowadays. I nursed all the children, but with her, with all the fierce rigidity of first motherhood,' I did like the books then said. Though her cries battered me to trembling and my breasts ached with swol¬ lenness, I waited till the clock decreed.

Tillie Olsen

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Why do I put that first? I do not even know if it matters, or if it explains anything. She was a beautiful baby. She blew shining bubbles of sound. She loved motion, loved light, loved color and music and textures. She would lie on the floor in her blue overalls patting the surface so hard in ecstasy her hands and feet would blur. She was a miracle to me, but when she was eight months old I had to leave her daytimes with the woman downstairs to whom she was no miracle at all, for I worked or looked for work and for Emily’s father, who “could no longer endure” (he wrote in his good-bye note) “sharing want with us.” I was nineteen, it was the pre-relief, pre-WPA world of the depression. I would start running as soon as I got off the streetcar, running up the stairs, the place smelling sour, and awake or asleep to startle awake, when she saw me she would break into a clogged weeping that could not be comforted, a weeping I can hear yet. After a while I found a job hashing at night so I could be with her days, and it was better. But it came to where I had to bring her to his family and leave her. It took a long time to raise the money for her fare back. Then she got chicken pox and I had to wait longer. When she finally came, I hardly knew her, walking quick and nervous like her father, looking like her father, thin, and dressed in a shoddy red that yellowed her skin and glared at the pockmarks. All the baby loveliness gone. She was two. Old enough for nursery school they said, and 1 did not know then what I know now—the fatigue of the long day, and the lacerations of group life in the kinds of nurseries that are only parking places for children. Except that it would have made no difference if I had known. It was the only place there was. It was the only way we could be together, die only way I could hold a job. And even without knowing, I knew. I knew the teacher that was evil because all these years it has curdled into my memory, the little boy hunched in the corner, her rasp, “why aren’t you outside, because Alvin hits you? that’s no reason, go out, scaredy. ” I knew Emily hated it even if she did not clutch and implore “don’t go Mommy” like the odier children, mornings. She always had a reason why we should stay home. Momma, you look sick, Momma, I feel sick. Momma, the teachers aren’t there today, they’re sick. Momma, we can’t go, there was a fire there last night. Momma, it’s a holiday today, no school, they told me. But never a direct protest, never rebellious. I think of our others in their three, four-vear-oldness—the explosions, the tempers, the denunciations, the de¬ mands—and I feel suddenly ill. I put the iron down. What in me demanded that goodness in her? And what was the cost, the cost to her of such goodness? The old man living in the back once said in his gentle way: “You should smile at Emilv more when you look at her.” What was in my face when I looked at her? I loved her. There were all the acts of love. It was only with the others I remembered what he said, and it was the face of joy, and not of care or tightness or worry I turned to them—too late for Emily. She does not smile easily, let alone almost always as her brothers and sisters do. Her face is closed and sombre, but when she wants, how fluid. You must have seen it in her pantomimes, you spoke of her rare gift for comedy on the stage that rouses a laughter out of the audience so dear they applaud and applaud and do not want to let her go.

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20

25

Point of View and Irony

Where does it come from, that comedy? There was none of it in her when she came back to me that second time, after I had had to send her away again. She had a new daddy now to learn to love, and I think perhaps it was a better time. Except when we left her alone nights, telling ourselves she was old enough. “Can’t you go some other time, Mommy, like tomorrow?” she would ask. “Will it be just a little while you’ll be gone? Do you promise?” The time we came back, the front door open, the clock on the floor in the hall. She rigid awake. “It wasn’t just a little while. I didn’t cry. Three times I called you, just three times, and then I ran downstairs to open the door so you could come faster. The clock talked loud. I threw it away, it scared me what it talked. ” She said the clock talked loud again that night I went to the hospital to have Susan. She was delirious with the fever drat comes before red measles but she was fully conscious all the week I was gone and the week after we were home when she could not come near the new baby or me. She did not get well. She stayed skeleton thin, not wanting to eat, and night after night she had nightmares. She would call for me, and I would rouse from exhaustion to sleepily call back: “You’re all right, darling, go to sleep, it’s just a dream, and if she still called, in a sterner voice, “now go to sleep, Emilv, there’s nothing to hurt you. Twice, only twice, when 1 had to get up for Susan anyhow, I went in to sit with her. Now when it is too late (as if she would let me hold and comfort her like I do the others) I get up and go to her at once at her moan or restless stirring. “Are you awake, Emily? Can I get you something?” And the answer is always the same: “No, I’m all right, go back to sleep-? Mother. ” They persuaded me at the clinic to send her away to a convalescent home in the country where she can have the kind of food and care you can’t manage for her, and you’ll be free to concentrate on the new baby.” They still send children to that place. I see pictures on the society page of sleek young women planning affairs to raise money for it, or dancing at the affairs, or decorating Easter eggs or filling Christmas stockings for the children. They never have a picture of the children so I do not know if the girls still wear those gigantic red bows and the ravaged looks on the everv other Sunday when parents can come to visit unless otherwise notified”—as we wTere notified the first six weeks. Oh it is a handsome place, green lawns and hill trees and fluted flower beds. High up on the balconies of each cottage the children stand, the girls in their red bows and white dresses, the boys in white suits and giant red ties. The parents stand below shrieking up to be heard and the children shriek down to be heard, and between them the invisible wall “Not To Be Contaminated by Parental Germs or Physical Affection. ”

0

IT ere wras a tiny girl who always stood hand in hand with Emily. Iler parents never came. One visit she was gone. “They moved her to Rose Cottage,” Emily shouted in explanation. “They don’t like you to love anybody here. ” ^ie wrote once a week, the labored waiting of a seven-year-old. “I am fine. How is the baby. If I write my leter niclv I will have a star. Dove. ” There never was a star. V e wTrote every other day, letters she could never hold or keep but only hear read—once. “We simply do not have room for children to keep any personal pos¬ sessions, they patiently explained when wp pieced one Sunday’s shrieking to¬ gether to plead how much it would mean to Emily, who loved so to keep things, to be allowred to keep her letters and cards.

Tillie Olsen

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Each visit she looked frailer. “She isn’t eating,” they told ns. (They had runny eggs for breakfast or mush with lumps, Emily said later, I’d hold it in my mouth and not swallow. Nothing ever tasted good, just when they had chicken.) It took us eight months to get her released home, and only the fact that she gained back so little of her seven lost pounds convinced the social worker. I used to try to hold and love her after she came back, but her body would stay stiff, and after a while she’d push away. She ate little. Food sickened her, and I think much of life too. Oh she had physical lightness and brightness, twinkling by on skates, bouncing like a ball up and down up and down over the jump rope, skimming over the hill; but these were momentary. She fretted about her appearance, thin and dark and foreign-looking at a time when every little girl was supposed to look or thought she should look a chubby blonde replica of Shirley Temple. The doorbell sometimes rang for her, but no one seemed to come and play in the house or be a best friend. Maybe because we moved so much. There was a boy she loved painfully through two school semesters. Months later she told me how she had taken pennies from my purse to buy him candy. “Licorice was his favorite and I brought him some eveiy day, but he still liked Jennifer better’ll me. Why, Mommy?” The kind of question for which there is no answer. School was a worry to her. She was not glib or quick in a world where glibness and quickness were easily confused with ability to learn. To her overworked and exasperated teachers she was an overconscientious “slow learner” who kept trying to catch up and was absent entirely too often. I let her be absent, though sometimes the illness was imaginary. How different from my now-strictness about attendance with the others. I wasn’t working. We had a new baby, I was home anyhow. Sometimes, after Susan grew old enough, I would keep her home from school, too, to have them all together. Mostly Emily had asthma, and her breathing, harsh and labored, would fill the house with a curiously tranquil sound. I would bring the two old dresser mirrors and her boxes of collections to her bed. She would select beads and single earrings, bottle tops and shells, dried flowers and pebbles, old postcards and scraps, all sorts of oddments; then she and Susan would play Kingdom, setting up landscapes and furniture, peopling them with action. Those were the only times of peaceful companionship between her and Susan. I have edged away from it, that poisonous feeling between them, the terrible bal¬ ancing of hurts and needs I had to do between the two, and did so badly, those earlier years. Oh there are conflicts between the others too, each one human, needing, de¬ manding, hurting, taking—-but only between Emily and Susan, no, Emily toward Susan that corroding resentment. It seems so obvious on the surface yet it is not obvious. Susan, the second child, Susan, golden- and curly-haired and chubby, quick and articulate and assured, everything in appearance and manner Emily was not; Susan, not able to resist Emily’s precious things, losing or sometimes clum¬ sily breaking them; Susan telling jokes and riddles to company for applause while Emily sat silent (to say to me later that was my riddle, Mother, I told it to Susan); Susan, who for all the five years’ difference in age was just a year behind Emily in developing physically. I am glad for that slow physical development that widened the difference between

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her and her contemporaries, though she suffered over it. She was too vulnerable for that terrible world of youthful competition, of preening and parading, of con¬ stant measuring of yourself against every other, of envy. “If I had that copper hair,” “If I had that skin. ...” She tormented herself enough about not looking like the others, there was enough of the unsureness, the having to be conscious of words before you speak, the constant caring—what are they thinking of me? without having it all magnified by the merciless phvsical drives. Ronnie is calling. He is wet and I change him. It is rare there is such a crv now. fhat time of motherhood is almost behind me when the ear is not one’s own but must always be racked and listening for the child cry, the child call. We sit for a while and I hold him, looking out over the city spread in charcoal with its soft aisles of light. rrShoogily,” he breathes and curls closer. I cany him back to bed, asleep. Shoogily. A funny word, a family word, inherited from Emily, invented by her to say: comfort. In this and other ways she leaves her seal, I say aloud. And startle at my saying it. What do I mean? What did I start to gather together, to try and make coherent? I was at the terrible, growing years. War years. I do not remember them well. I was working, there were four smaller ones now, there was not time for her. She had to help be a mother, and housekeeper, and shopper. She had to set her seal. Mornings of crisis and near hysteria trying to get lunches packed, hair combed, coats and shoes found, everyone to school or Child Care on time, the baby ready for transportation. And always the paper scribbled on by a smaller one, the book looked at by Susan then mislaid, the homework not done. Running out to that huge school where she was one, she was lost, she was a drop; suffering over the unpreparedness, stammering and unsure in her classes. There was so little time left at night after the kids were bedded down. She would struggle over books, always eating (it was in those years she developed her enor¬ mous appetite that is legendary in our family) and I would be ironing, or preparing food for the next day, or writing \ -mail to Bill, or tending the babv. Sometimes, to make me laugh, or out of her despair, she would imitate happenings or types at school. I think I said once: “Why don’t you do something like this in the school amateur show?” One morning she phoned me at work, hardly understandable through the weeping: Mother, I did it. I won, I won; they gave me first prize; they clapped and clapped and wouldn’t let me go. ” Now suddenly she wras Somebody, and as imprisoned in her difference as she had been in anonymity. She began to be asked to perform at other high schools, even in colleges, then at city and statewdde affairs. Hie first one we went to, I only recognized her that first moment wdien thin, shy, she almost drowned herself into the curtains. Then: Was this Emily? The control, the command, the convulsing and deadly clowning, the spell, then the roaring, stamping audience, unwilling to let this rare and pre¬ cious laughter out of their lives. Afterwards: You ought to do something about her with a gift like that_but without money or knowing how, what does one do? We have left it all to her, and the gift has as often eddied inside, clogged and clotted, as been used and growing. She is coming. She runs up the stairs two at a time with her light graceful step, and I know she is happy tonight. Whatever It was that occasioned your call did not happen today. Aren t you ever going to finish the ironing, Mother? Whistler painted his mother

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in a rocker. I’d have to paint mine standing over an ironing board. ” This is one of her communicative nights and she tells me everything and nothing as she fixes herself a plate of food out of die icebox. She is so lovely. Why did you want me to come in at all"? Why were you con¬ cerned"? She will find her way. She starts up the stairs to bed. “Don’t get me up with die rest in the morning. ” “But I thought you were having midterms. ” “Oh, those,” she conies back in, kisses me, and says quite lightly, “in a couple of years when we’ll all be atom-dead diey won’t matter a bit. ” She has said it before. She believes it. But because I have been dredging the past, and all that compounds a human being is so heavy and meaningful in me, I cannot endure it tonight. I will never total it all. I will never come in to say: She was a child seldom smiled at. Her father left me before she was a year old. I had to work her hrst six years when there was work, or I sent her home and to his relatives. There were years she had care she hated. She was dark and thin and foreign-looking in a world where the prestige went to blondeness and curly hair and dimples, she was slow where glibness was prized. She was a child of anxious, not proud, love. We were poor and could not afford for her the soil of easy growth. I was a young mother, I was a distracted mother. There were the other children pushing up, demanding. Iler vounger sister seemed all that she was not. There were years she did not want me to touch her. She kept too much in herself, her life was such she had to keep too much in herself. My wisdom came too late. She has much to her and probably nothing will come of it. She is a child of her age, of depression, of war, of fear. Let her be. So all that is in her will not bloom—but in how many does it? There is still enough left to live by. Only help her to know—help make it so there is cause for her to know—that she is more than this dress on the ironing-board, helpless before the iron.

Questions on point of view . . . 1. What is the point of view in this story? Is it consistent? 2 Who is you in the first line? Does the reader know exactly? Does the reader know approximately? Does Olsen’s story require that the reader know no

.

more than the reader knows? 3. What kind of speech is this story? Is it spoken out loud? Is the narrator speaking to anyone in particular? When? Why is the story told as it is? 4. The narrator supplies important information in paragraph 18. Did you know

5. 6.

it at the time? What do we learn about you in paragraph 50? Who speaks in paragraph 51?

7. What does the verb tense tell us in paragraph 52? 8. Does paragraph 53 offer information lacking since paragraph 1"? Would this story be better if you had known it before?

. . and other elements 9.

10.

How is Emily characterized? How much do we know of Emily’s father? Reconstruct the major events of the mother’s life in sequence.

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Point of View and Irony

11. How does the final image of the mother ironing, given prominence by the title, bear on the structure and the theme of the story?

Anton Chekhov

Gooseberries Translated by Avrahm Yarmolinsky Anton C hekhov (1860—1904) trained to be a doctor but abandoned medicine to write stories. Later he became a playwright (see pages 956-958 for a further note on Chekhov and for the text of The Cherry Orchard). His grandfather began life as a serf and died a wealthy merchant. Although his father was born to the middle class, he lost his money while Chekhov was in school. If his social and family background was thus confused, Chekhov learned from the confusion. In stories written during the last decades of the Czarist regime, lie reached out to all levels of society. Although tuberculosis shortened his life, he virtually invented the modem short story, leaving behind hundreds.

The sky had been overcast since early morning; it was a still day, not hot, but tedious, as it usually is when the weather is gray and dull, when clouds have been hanging over the fields for a long time, and you wait for the rain that does not come. Ivan Ivanych, a veterinary, and Burkin, a high school teacher, were already tired with walking, and the plain seemed endless to them. Far ahead were the scarcely visible windmills of the village of Mironositzkoe; to the light lay a range of hills that disappeared in the distance beyond the village, and both of them knew that over there were the river, and fields, green willows, homesteads, and if you stood on one of the hills, you could see from there another vast plain, telegraph poles, and a train that from alar looked like a caterpillar crawling, and in clear weather you could even see the town. Now, when it was still and when nature seemed mild and pensive, Ivan Ivanych and Burkin were filled with love for this plain, and both of them thought what a beautiful land it was. “Last time when we were in Elder Prokofy’s barn,” said Burkin, “you were going to tell me a stone” ‘Aes; I wanted to tell you about my brother.” T an Ivanych heaved a slow sigh and lit his pipe before beginning his storv, but just then it began to rain. And five minutes later there was a downpour, and it was hard to tell when it would be over. The two men halted, at a loss; the dogs, already wet, stood with their tails between their legs and looked at them feelingly. “We must find shelter somewhere,” said Burkin. “Let’s go to Alvohin’s; it’s quite near. ” “Let’s. ” I hey turned aside and walked across a mown meadow, now going straight ahead, now bearing to the right, until they reached the road. Soon poplars came into view, a garden, then the red roofs of barns; the river gleamed, and the view' opened on a broad expanse of water with a mill «nd a white bathing-cabin. That was Sofyino, Alyohin’s place. The mill was going, drowning out the sound of the rain; the dam was shaking. \\ et horses stood near the carts, their heads drooping, and men w^ere walking about, their heads covered with sacks. It was damp, muddy, dreary; and the water looked cold and unkind. Ivan Ivanych and Burkin felt cold and messv and uncom-

Anton Chekhov

109

fortable through and through; their feet were heavy with mud and when, having crossed the dam, they climbed up to the bams, they were silent as though they were cross with each other. The noise of a winnowing-machine came from one of tire bams, the door was open, and clouds of dust were pouring from within. On tire threshold stood Alyohin himself, a man of forty, tall and rotund, with long hair, looking more like a professor or an artist than a gentleman farmer. lie was wearing a white blouse, badly in need of washing, that was belted with a rope, and drawers, and his high boots were plastered with mud and straw. His eyes and nose were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanych and Burkin and was apparendv very glad to see them. “Please go up to the house, gendemen,” he said, smiling; “I’ll be there directly, in a moment. ” It was a large structure of two stories. Alyohin lived downstairs in what was formerly the stewards’ quarters: two rooms that had arched ceilings and small windows; the furniture was plain, and the place smelled of rye bread, cheap vodka, and harness. He went into the showy rooms upstairs only rarely, when he had guests. Once in the house, die two visitors were met by a chambermaid, a young woman so beautiful that both of them stood still at the same moment and glanced at each other. “You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you, gendemen,” said Alyohin, joining diem in the hall. “What a surprise! Pelageya,” he said, turning to die chambermaid, “give the guests a change of clothes. And, come to think of it, I will change, too. But I must go and bathe first, I don’t think I’ve had a wash since spring. Don’t you want to go into the bathing-cabin? In the meanwhile things will be got ready here.” The beautiful Pelageya, with her soft, delicate air, brought them bath towels and soap, and Alyohin went to the bathing-cabin with his guests. “Yes, it’s a long time since I’ve bathed,” he said, as he undressed. “I’ve an excellent bathing-cabin, as you see—it was put up by niv father—but somehow I never find time to use it.” He sat down on the steps and ladiered his long hair and neck, and the water around him turned brown. “I say—” observed Ivan Ivanych significantly, looking at his head. “I haven’t had a good wash for a long time,” repeated Alyohin, embarrassed, and soaped himself once more; the water about him turned dark-blue, the color of ink. Ivan Ivanych came out of the cabin, plunged into the water with a splash and swam in the rain, thrusting his arms out wide; he raised waves on which white lilies swayed. He swam out to the middle of the river and dived and a minute later came up in another spot and swam on and kept diving, trying to touch bottom. “By God!” he kept repeating delightedly, “by God!” He swam to the mill, spoke to the peasants there, and turned back and in the middle of the river lay floating, exposing his face to the rain. Burkin and Alyohin were already dressed and ready to leave, but he kept on swimming and diving. “By God!” he kept exclaiming. “Lord, have mercy on me.” “You’ve had enough!” Burkin shouted to him. They returned to the house. And only when the lamp was lit in the big drawing room upstairs, and the two guests, in silk dressing-gowns and warm slippers, were lounging in armchairs, and Alyohin himself, washed and combed, wearing a new jacket, was walking about the room, evidently savoring the warmth, the cleanliness, the dry clothes and light footwear, and when pretty Pelageya, stepping

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noiselessly across the carpet and smiling softly, brought in a tray with tea and jam, only then did Ivan Ivanvch begin his story, and it was as though not only Burkin and Aiyohin were listening, but also the laches, old and young, and the military men who looked down upon them, calmly and severely, from their gold frames. 20

“Ve are two brothers,” he began, “I, Ivan Ivanvch, and my brother, Nikolay Ivanvch, who is two years my junior. I went in for a learned profession and became a veterinary; Nikolay at nineteen began to clerk in a provincial branch of the Treas¬ ury. Our father was a kantomst,1 but he rose to be an officer and so a nobleman, a rank that he bequeathed to us together with a small estate. After his death there was a lawsuit and we lost the estate to creditors, but be that as it may, we spent our childhood in the country. Just like peasant children we passed davs and nights in the fields and tire woods, herded horses, stripped bast from the trees, fished, and so on. And, you know, whoever even once in his life has caught a perch or seen thrushes migrate in the autumn, when on clear, cool davs they sweep in flocks over the village, will never really be a townsman and to the day of his death will have a longing for the open. My brother was unhappy in the government office, hears passed, but lie went on warming the same seat, scratching away at the same papers, and thinking of one and the same thing: how to get away to the country. Mid little by little this vague longing turned into a definite desire, into a dream of buying a little property somewhere on the banks of a river or a lake. lie was a kind and gentle soul and I loved him, but I never sympathized with Ins desire to shut himself up for the rest of his life on a little property of his own. It is a common saying that a man needs only slx feet of earth. But six feet is what a corpse needs, not a man. It is also asserted that if our educated class is drawn to the land and seeks to settle on farms, that’s a good thing. But these farms amount to the same sLx feet of earth. To retire from the eityf from the struggle, Ironi the hubbub, to go off and hide on one’s own farm—that’s not life, it is selfishness, sloth, it is a land of monasticism, but monasticism without works. . an needs not six feet of earth, not a farm, but the whole globe, all of Nature w ere unhindered he can display all the capacities and peculiarities of his free spirit. ‘Mv l)rother Nikolay, sitting in his office, dreamed of eating his own shchi, which would till the whole farmyard with a delicious aroma, of picnicking on the green grass, of sleeping in the sun, of sitting for hours on the seat by the gate gazing at held and forest. Books on agriculture and the farming items in almanacs were his joy, the delight of his soul. He liked newspapers too,' but the only things he read m then, were advertisements of land for sale, so many acres of tillable land and pasture with house, garden, river, mill, and millpond. And he pictured to uinself garden paths, flowers, fruit, birdhouses with starlings in them, crucians Hi the pond, and all that sort of thing, you know. These imaginary pictures varied " I™ the advertisements he came upon, but somehow gooseberry bushes figured m every one of them. He could not picture to himself a single country-house, a single rustic nook, without gooseberries. *( ountry life has its advantages, ’ he used to say. “You sit on the veranda having tea, and your ducks swim in the pond, and everything smells delicious and—the gooseberries are ripening.’

Tie son of a low-ranking soldier, enrolled in a military school

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“He would draw a plan of his estate and invariably it would contain the following features: a) the master’s house; b) servants’ quarters; c) kitchen-garden; d) a gooseberry patch. lie lived meagerly: he deprived himself of food and drink; he dressed God knows how, like a beggar, but he kept on saving and salting money away in the bank. He was terribly stingy. It was painful for me to see it, and I used to give him small sums and send him something on holidays, but he would put that away too. Once a man is possessed by an idea, there is no doing anything with him. Wears passed. He was transferred to another province, he was already past forty, yet he was still reading newspaper advertisements and saving up money. Then I heard that he was married. Still for the sake of buying a property with a gooseberry patch he married an elderly, homely widow, without a trace of affection for her, but simply because she had money. After marrying her, he went on living parsimoniously, keeping her half-starved, and he put her money in the bank in his own name. She had previously been the wife of a postmaster, who had got her used to pies and cordials. This second husband did not even give her enough black bread. She began to sicken, and some three years later gave up the ghost. Arid, of course, it never for a moment occurred to my brother that he was to blame for her death. Money, like vodka, can do queer things to a man. Once in our town a merchant lay on his deadibed; before he died, he ordered a plateful of honey and he ate up all his money and lottery tickets widi the honey, so that no one should get it. One day when I was inspecting a drove of cattle at a railway station, a cattle dealer fell under a locomotive and it sliced off his leg. We earned him in to the infirmary, the blood was gushing from the wound—a terrible business, but he kept begging us to find his leg and was very anxious about it: he had twenty rubles in the boot that was on that leg, and he was afraid they would be lost. ” “That’s a tune from another opera,” said Burkin. Ivan Ivanych paused a moment and then continued: “After his wife’s death, my brother began to look around for a property. Of course, you may scout about for five years and in the end make a mistake, and buy something quite different from what you have been dreaming of. Through an agent my brother bought a mortgaged estate of three hundred acres with a house, servants’ quarters, a park, but with no orchard, no gooseberry patch, no duckpond. There was a stream, but the water in it was the color of coffee, for on one of its banks there was a brickyard and on the other a glue factory. But my brother was not at all disconcerted: he ordered a score of gooseberry bushes, planted them, and settled down to the life of a country gentleman. “Last year I paid him a visit I thought I would go and see how things were with him. In his letter to me my brother called his estate ‘Chumbaroklov Waste, or Himalaiskoe’ (our surname was Chimsha-Himalaisky). I reached the place in die afternoon. It was hot. Everywhere there were ditches, fences, hedges, rows of fir trees, and I was at a loss as to how to get to the yard and where to leave my horse. I made my way to the house and was met by a fat dog with reddish hair that looked like a pig. It wanted to bark, but was too lazy. Hie cook, a fat, barelegged woman, who also looked like a pig, came out of the kitchen and said that the master was resting after dinner. I went in to see niv brother, and found him sitting up in bed, with a quilt over his knees. I le had grown older, stouter, flabby; his cheeks, his nose, his lips jutted out: it looked as though he might grunt into the quilt at any moment. “We embraced and dropped tears of joy and also of sadness at the thought that

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die two ot us had once been young, but were now gray and nearing death, fie got dressed and took me out to show me his estate. ‘Well, how are you getting on here?’ I asked. Oh, all right, thank God. I am doing very well.’ 44

Cl

44

4/

“He was no longer the poor, timid clerk he used to be but a real landowner, a gentleman. He had already grown used to his new manner of living and developed a taste for it. He ate a great deal, steamed himself in the bathhouse, was growing stout, was already having a lawsuit with the village commune and the two factories and was very much offended when the peasants failed to address him as ‘Your Honor. ’ And he concerned himself with his soul’s welfare too in a substantial, upper-class mannef, and performed good deeds not simply, but pompously. And what good works! He dosed the peasants with bicarbonate and castor oil for all eir ailmentft ancl on llis name day he had a thanksgiving service celebrated in the center of the village, and then treated the villagers to a gallon of vodka, which e thought was the thing to do. Oh, those horrible gallons of vodka! One day a fat landowner hauls the peasants up before the rural police officer for trespassing, and the next, to mark a feast day, treats them to a gallon of vodka, and they drink and shout ‘Hurrah’ and when they are drunk bow down at his feet. A higher standard of living, overeating and idleness develop the most insolent self-conceit m a Russian. Nikolay Ivanvch, who when he was a petty official was afraid to have opinions of his own even if he kept them to himself, now uttered nothing but incontrovertible truths and did so in the tone of a minister of state: ‘Education is necessary, but the masses are not ready for it; corporal punishment is generally iarmful, but in some cases it is useful and nothing else will serve.’ “ ‘IJ“ow the common people,..and I know how to deal with them,’ he would say. They love me. I only have to raise my little finger, and they will do anything 35

“Yd aU this’ mark y°u< would be said with a smile that bespoke kindness and intelligence. Twenty times over he repeated: ‘We, of the gently,’ ‘I, as a member ot the gentiy.’ Apparently he no longer remembered that our grandfather had been a peasant and our father just a private. Even our surname, ‘Chimsha-Himalaisky which in reality is grotesque, seemed to him sonorous, distinguished, and delights “But I am concerned now not with him, but with me. I want to tell you about the change that took place in me during the few hours that I spent on his estate hi the evening when we were haring tea, the cook served a plateful of gooseberries 1 hey were not bought, they were his own gooseberries, the first ones picked since t ic lushes were planted. My brother gave a laugh and for a minute looked at the gooseberries in silence, with tears in his eyes-he could not speak for excitement. len he put one berry in his mouth, glanced at me with the triumph of a child who has at last been given a toy he was longing for and said: ‘How tasty'’ And he ate the gooseberries greedily, and kept repeating: ‘All, how delicious! Do taste them! ‘They were hard and sour, but as Pushkin has it, Ihe falsehood that exalts we cherish more Than meaner truths that are a thousand strong.

I saw a happy man, one whose cherished dream had so obviously come true who had attained his goal in life, who had got what he wanted, who was satisfied with Ins lot and with himself. For some reason an element of sadness had alwavs

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mingled with my thoughts of human happiness, and now at the sight of a happy man I was assailed by an oppressive feeling bordering on despair. It weighed on me particularly at night. A bed was made up for me in a room next to my brother’s bedroom, and I could hear that he was wakeful, and that he would get up again and again, go to the plate of gooseberries and eat one after another. I said to myself: how many contented, happy people there really are! What an overwhelming force they are! Look at life: the insolence and idleness of die strong, the ignorance and brutishness of the weak, horrible poverty everywhere, overcrowding, degen¬ eration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lying—Yet in all the houses and on all die streets there is peace and quiet; of the fifty thousand people who live in our town there is not one who would cry out, who would vent his indignation aloud. We see the people who go to market, eat by day, sleep by night, who babble nonsense, marry, grow old, good-naturedly drag their dead to die cemetery, but we do not see or hear diose who suffer, and what is terrible in life goes on somewhere behind the scenes. Everything is peaceful and quiet and only mute statistics protest: so many people gone out of their minds, so many gallons of vodka drunk, so many children dead from malnutrition— And such a state of things is evidendy necessary; ob¬ viously the happy man is at ease only because die unhappy ones bear their burdens in silence, and if there were not this silence, happiness would be impossible. It is a general hypnosis. Behind the door of every contented, happy man there ought to be someone standing with a little hammer and continually reminding him with a knock that there are unhappy people, that however happy he may be, life will sooner or later show him its claws, and trouble will come to him—illness, poverty, losses, and then no one will see or hear him, just as now he neither sees nor hears others. But there is no man with a hammer, llie happy man lives at his ease, faintlv fluttered by small daily cares, like an aspen in the wind—and all is well. ” “That night I came to understand that I too had been contented and happy, ’ Ivan Ivanych continued, getting up. UI too over the dinner table or out hunting would hold forth on how to live, what to believe, the right way to govern the people. I too would say that learning was the enemy of darkness, that education was necessarv but that for the common people the three R s were sufficient foi the time being. Freedom is a boon, I used to say, it is as essential as air, but we must wait awhile. Yes, that’s what I used to say, and now I ask: Why must we wait?” said Ivan Ivanych, looking wrathfullv at Burkin. “Why must we wait, I ask you? For what reason? I am told that nothing can be done all at once, that every idea is realized gradually, in its own time. But who is it that says so? Wliere is the proof that it is just? You cite the natural order of things, the law governing all phenomena, but is there law, is there order in the fact that I, a living, thinking man, stand beside a ditch and wait for it to close up of itself or fill up with silt, when I could jump over it or throw a bridge across it ? And again, why must we wait? Wait, until we have no strength to live, and yet we have to live and are eager to live! “I left my brother’s place early in the morning, and ever since then it has become intolerable for me to stay in town. I am oppressed by the peace and the quiet, I am afraid to look at die windows, for there is nothing that pains me more than the spectacle of a happy family sitting at table having tea. I am an old man now and unfit for combat, I am not even capable of hating. I can only grieve imvardlv, get irritated, worked up, and at night my head is ablaze with the rush of ideas and I cannot sleep. Oh, if I wrere young!”

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40

Ivan Ivanvch paced up and down the room excitedly and repeated, “If I were young!” He suddenly walked up to Alyohin and began to press now one of his hands now the other. “Pavel Konstantinych, ” he said imploringly, “don’t quiet down, don’t let yourself be lulled to sleep! As long as you are young, strong, alert, do not cease to do good! 1 here is no happiness and there should be none, and if life has a meaning and a purpose, that meaning and purpose is not our happiness but something greater and more rational. Do good!” All this Ivan Ivanych said with a pitiful, imploring smile, as though he were asking a personal favor. Afterwards all three of them sat in armchairs in different comers of the drawing room and were silent. Ivan Ivanych’s story satisfied neither Burkin nor Alyohin. \ ith the ladies and generals looking down from the golden frames, seeming alive m the dim light, it was tedious to listen to the stow of the poor devil of a clerk

T

I n fgOOSiebeiTies' 0ne felt like talking about elegant people, about women. And the tact that they were sitting in a drawing room where evenffhing—the chanc e ier under its cover, the armchairs, the carpets underfoot—testified that the very people who were now looking down from the frames had once moved about here sat and had tea, and the fact that lovely Pelageya was noiselessly moving about— that was better than any story. 45

Alyohin was very sleepy; he had gotten up earlv, before three o’clock in the morning, to get some work done, and now he could hardly keep his eves open, ut he was afraid Ins visitors might tell an interesting storv in his absence and he would not leave. He did not trouble to ask himself if what Ivan Ivanvch had just said was intelligent or right. The guests were not talking about groats, or hay or tar, but about something that had no direct bearing on his life, and he was glad oi it and wanted them to go on. “However, it’s bedtime,” said Burkin, rising. “Allow me to wish you good night ” Alyohin took leave of his guests and went downstairs to his own quarters, while hey remained upstairs, fhey were installed for the night in a big room in which stood two old wooden beds decorated with carvings and in the corner was an ivory crucifix. Hie wide cool beds which had been made bv the lovely Pelageva gave off a pleasant smell of clean linen. ' ' 8 Ivan Ivanych undressed silently and got into bed. “Lord forgive us sinners!” he murmured, and drew the bedclothes over his head, is pipe, which lay on the table, smelled strongly of burnt tobacco, and Burkin

50

caifffrom

^

3 l0ng Ume’ kept wonderinS where the unpleasant odoi

Hie rain beat against the window panes all night.

Questions on point of view . . . Si-- 0fAT d° W£ find in ^ first Paraph? How long does this last? Wien does a different point of view take over? In paragraph 9, how does the word apparently enforce a point of view? In paragraph 15, can you feel tire pom of

2.

o i lew shifting? C an the story' accommodate the change? Why? How? 2°’ h°W d°eS POlnt °f View

One can speak in an ironic tone, which calls attention to incongruity by saying words that indicate one thing and reveal another. One can exaggerate iioity to the point of sarcasm—another word describing tone. One’s tone can be genteel; when a character speaks of someone as wealthy, avoiding the word rich because it seems vulgar, that character’s tone is genteel. The same genteel charactei is apt to say that he builds a new home rather than a house, because the word home has a comfy tone to it. Both house and home may denote the same wooden frame or brick structure, but the connotations or associations of the two words differ. We speak of words as having denotations or dictionary meanings, by which rich and wealthy are synonyms. But a good writer, careful of style, uses connotations or associations to characterize; connotations are like gestures of social tone: someone using the word wealthy wishes to sound genteel; someone saying rich is plain-spoken. When we read good fiction, we understand the tone by the author’s manip¬ ulation of language, which is why we speak of tone in connection with style. An unskilled author might use an adverb (“He said, sarcastically”) but the best writers seldom need such obvious signposts. We understand the tone, as it were, by gesture—but it is a gesture the author makes in words. When Peter Taylor s spinster says of spring that it “had seemed to crowd itself through the windows ...” we understand by her style that she is reticent, fearful of energv outside herself; her choice of metaphors tells us. Metaphors indicate a char¬ actei s feelings, ideas, and background. A happy farmer may feel like the cow let out of the bam after winter; a consumer character mav feel as if he had free mn of Tiffany’s. Style can convey an author’s judgment of a character. Instead of saving “For Miss Simmons was vain and silly, unable to tell the difference between ...” the author can make Miss Simmons reveal her vanity and silliness in the stvle and tone of her speech.

'foliu Updike

Ace in the Hole John Updike (1932) grew up in Pennsylvania, attended Harvard and Oxford, and worked for a while at The New Yorker, where his stories and poems first appeared. He writes articles and reviews, stories and poems, and he is best known as a novelist. Some of his many novels are Rabbit Run (1960), The Centaur (1963), Couples (1968), Rabbit Redux (1971), and The Coup (1978). Lpdike s fiction is detailed, observant, and exactly constructed. “Ace in the Hole comes from his earliest collection of stories, The Same Door (1959), and gnes us an early version of the character Updike developed under another name m Rabbit Run and Rabbit Redux.

No sooner did his car touch the boulevard heading home than Ace flicked on the radio. He needed the radio, especially today. In the seconds before the tubes warmed up, he said aloud, doing it just to hear a human voice, “Jesus. She’ll pop her lid. His voice, though familiar, irked him; it sounded thin and scratchy as it the bones m his head were picking up static. In a deeper register Ace added,

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“Shell murder me.” Then the radio came on, warm and strong, so he stopped worrying. The Five Kings were doing “Blueberry Hill”; to hear them made Ace feel so sure inside that from the pack pinched between the car roof and the sun shield he plucked a cigarette, hung it on his lower lip, snapped a match across the rusty place on the dash, held the flame in the instinctive spot near the tip of his nose, dragged, and blew out the match, all in time to the music. He rolled down the window and snapped the match so it spun end-over-end into the gutter. “Two points,” he said, and cocked the cigarette toward the roof of die car, sucked pow¬ erfully, and exhaled two plumes through his nostrils. lie was beginning to feel like himself, Ace Anderson, for the first time that whole day, a bad day. lie beat time on the accelerator. The car jerked crazily. “On Blueberry Hill,” he sang, “my heart stood still. The wind in the wil-low tree”—he braked for a red light—“played love’s suh-weet melodee—” “Go, Dad, bust your lungs!” a kid’s voice blared. Hie kid was riding in a '52 Pontiac that had pulled up beside Ace at the light. The profile of the driver, another kid, was dark over his shoulder. Ace looked over at him and smiled slowly, just letting one side of his mouth lift a little. “Shove it,” he said, good-naturedly, across the little gap of years that separated them. He knew how they felt, young and mean and shy. But the kid, who looked Greek, lifted his thick upper lip and spat out the win¬ dow. The spit gleamed on the asphalt like a half-dollar. “Now isn’t that pretty?” Ace said, keeping one eye on the light. “You miserable wop. You are miserable. ” While the kid was trying to think of some smart come¬ back, the light changed. Ace dug out so hard he smelled burned rubber. In his rear-view mirror he saw the Pontiac lurch forward a few yards, then stop dead, right in the middle of the intersection. The idea of them stalling their fat tin Pontiac kept him in a good humor all the way home. He decided to stop at his mother’s place and pick up the baby, instead of waiting for Evey to do it. His mother must have seen him drive up. She came out on the porch holding a plastic spoon and smelling of cake. ‘"You’re out early,” she told him. “Friedman fired me,” Ace told her. “Good for you,” his mother said. “I always said he never treated you right” She brought a cigarette out of her apron pocket and tucked it deep into one comer of her mouth, the way she did when something pleased her. Ace lighted it for her. “Friedman was O.K. personally,” he said. “He just wanted too much for his money. I didn’t mind working Saturdays, but until eleven, twelve Friday nights was too much. Everybody has a right to some leisure.’ “Well, I don’t dare think what Evey will say, but I, for one, thank dear God you had the brains to get out of it. I always said that job had no future to it—no future of any kind, Freddy.” “I guess,” Ace admitted. “But I wanted to keep at it, for the family’s sake.” “Now, I know I shouldn’t be saying this, but any time Evey—this is just between us_any time Evey thinks she can do better, there’s room for you and Bonnie right in your father’s house.” She pinched her lips together. He could almost hear the old lady think. There, I’ve said it. “Look, Mom, Evey tries awfully hard, and anyway you know she can’t work that way. Not that that—I mean, she’s a realist, too . . .’’lie let the rest of the thought fade as he watched a kid across the street dribbling a basketball around a telephone pole that had a backboard and net nailed on it.

l&O

Style and Tone

15

‘Evey’s a wonderful girl of her own kind. But I’ve always said, and your father agrees, Roman Catholics ought to many among themselves. Now I know I’ve said it before, but when they get out in the greater world_” “No, Mom.” She frowned, smoothed herself, and said, “Your name was in the paper today.” Ace chose to let that go by. He kept watching the kid with the basketball. It was funny how, though the whole point was to get the ball up into the air, kids grabbed it by the sides and squeezed. Kids just didn’t think. “Did you hear?” his mother asked.

20

Sure, but so what? Ace said. His mother’s lower lip was coming at him so he changed the subject. “I guess I’ll take Bonnie.” Ills mother went into the house and brought back his daughter, wrapped in a blue blanket. Hie baby looked dopey. “She fussed all day,” his mother complained. I said to your father, ‘Bonnie is a dear little girl, but without a doubt she’s her mother’s daughter. ’ You were the best-natured boy. ” A ell 1 had everything. ” Ace said with an impatience that made his mother ilink. He nicely dropped his cigarette into a brown flowerpot on the edge of the porch and took his daughter into his arms. She was getting heavier, solid. When he reached the end of the cement walk, his mother was still on the porch, waving to him. He was so close he could see the fat around her elbow jiggle, and he onlv lived a half block up the street, yet here she was, waving to him as if he was going to Japan. & At the door of his car, it seemed stupid to him to drive the measly half block loine. His old coach, Bob Behn, used to say never to ride where you could walk, ars were the death of legs. Ace Jeff the ignition keys in his pocket and ran along the pavement with Bonnie laughing and bouncing at his chest. He slammed the door of his landlady’s house open and shut, pounded up the two flights of stairs and was panting so hard when he reached the door of his apartment that it took him a couple of seconds to fit the key into tire lock.

rile run must have tuned Bonnie up. As soon as he lowered her into the crib, she began to shout and wave her arms. He didn’t want to play with her He tossed some blocks and a rattle into the crib and walked into the bathroom, where he turned on the hot water and began to comb his hair. Holding the comb under the faucet before every stroke, he combed his hair forward. It was so long, one strand curled under his nose and touched his lips. He whipped the whole mass back wrth a single pull. He tucked in the tufts around his ears, and ran the comb straight back on both sides of his head. With his fingers he felt for tire little ridge at the back where the two sides met It was there, as it should have been Finally he mussed the hair in front enough for one little lock to droop over his forehead’ like Alan Ladd. It made die temple seem lower than it was. Every day, his hairline looked higher. He had observed all around him how blond men went bald first. 1 ie :remembered reading somewhere, though, that baldness shows virility On his way to the kitchen he flipped the left-hand knob of the television Bonnie was always quieter with the set on. Ace didn’t see how she could understand much of it, but it seemed to mean something to her He found a can of beer in die refrigerator behind some brownish lettuce and those hot dogs Evev never got around to cooking. She’d be home any time. The clock said 5:12. She’d pop her ,, Ace see wllat lle could do but try and reason with her. “Evev,” he’d sav you ought to thank God I got out of it. It had no future to it at all.” He hoped she

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wouldn’t get too mad, because when she was mad he wondered if he should have married her, and doubting that made him feel crowded. It was bad enough, his mother always crowding him. He punched the two triangles in the top of the beer can, die little triangle first, and then the big one, the one he drank from. He hoped Evey wouldn’t say anything that couldn’t be forgotten. What women didn’t seem to realize was that there were things you knew but shouldn’t say. He felt sorry he had called the kid in the car a wop. Ace balanced the beer on a corner where two rails of the crib met and looked under die chairs for the morning paper. He had trouble finding his name, because it was at the bottom of a column on an inside sports page, in a small article about the county basketball statistics: “Dusty” Tremwick, Grosvenor Park’s sure-fingered center, copped the individual scor¬ ing honors with a season’s grand (and we do mean grand) total of 376 points. This is within eighteen points of the all-time record of 394 racked up in the 1949—1950 season by Olinger High’s Fred Anderson.

30

Ace angrily sailed the paper into an armchair. Now it was Fred Anderson; it used to be Ace. He hated being called Fred, especially in print, but then the sportswriters were all office boys anyway, Behn used to say. “Do not just ask for shoe polish,” a man on television said, “but ask for Emu Shoe Gloss, the only polish that absolutely guarantees to make your shoes look shinier than new.” Ace turned the sound off, so that the man moved his mouth like a fish blowing bubbles. Right away, Bonnie howled, so Ace turned it up loud enough to drown her out and went into the kitchen, without knowing what he wanted there. He wasn’t hungry; his stomach was tight. It used to be like that when he walked to the gymnasium alone in the dark before a game and could see the people from town, kids and parents, crowding in at the lighted doors. But once he was inside, the locker room would be bright and hot, and the other guys would be there, laughing it up and towel-slapping, and the tight feeling would leave. Now there were whole days when it didn’t leave. A key scratched at the door lock. Ace decided to stay in the kitchen. Fet her find him. Her heels clicked on the floor for a step or two; then the television set went off. Bonnie began to cry. “Shut up, honey,” Evey said. Hiere was a silence. “I’m home,” Ace called. “No kidding. I thought Bonnie got the beer by herself.” Ace laughed. She was in a sarcastic mood, thinking she was Lauren Bacall. That was all right, just so she kept funny. Still smiling, Ace eased into die living room and got hit with, “What are you smirking about? Another question: What’s the idea running up the street with Bonnie like she was a football?

35

40

“You saw that?” “Your mother told me. ” “You saw her?” “Of course I saw her. I dropped by to pick up Bonnie. What the hell do you think?—I read her tiny mind?” ‘Take it easy,” Ace said, wondering if Mom had told her about Friedman. ‘Take it easy? Don’t coach me. Another question: Why’s the car out in front of her place? You give the car to her?” “Look, I parked it there to pick up Bonnie, and I thought I’d leave it there.”

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Style and Tone

“Why?” “Whaddeya mean, why? I just did I just thought I’d walk. It’s not that far, vou know.” ’

45

“No, I don’t know. If you’d be on your feet all day a block would look like one hell of a long way. ” “Okay. I’m sony.” She hung up her coat and stepped out of her shoes and walked around the room picking up things. She stuck the newspaper in the wastebasket. Ace said, “My name was in the paper today. ” They spell it right?” She shoved the paper deep into the basket with her foot. 1 liere was no doubt; she knew about Friedman. “They called me Fred. ”

50

^ Isn t that your name? What is your name anyway? Hero J. Great?” There wasn’t any answer, so Ace didn’t try any. He sat down on the sofa, lighted a cigarette, and waited. Evey picked up Bonnie. “Poor thing stinks. What does your mother do scrub out the toilet with her?” Can t you take it easy? I know you’re tired.” “You should. I’m always tired.”

55

Evey and Bonnie went into the bathroom; when they came out, Bonnie was clean and Evey was calm. Evey sat down in an easy chair beside Ace and rested her stocking feet on his knees. “Hit me,” she said, twiddling her fingers for the cigarette. Hie baby crawled up to her chair and tried to stand, to see what he gave her Leaning over close to Bonnie’s nose, Evey grinned, smoke leaking through her teeth, and said, “Only for grownups, honey. ” U “M’”Ace began’ “there was no future in that job. Working- all Saturday, and then Friday nights on top of it. ” “I know. Your mother told me all that, too. All I want from vou is what happened. ' ^ She was going to take it like a sport, then. He tried to remember how it did appen. It wasn t my fault,” he said. “Friedman told me to back this ’51 Chevw into the line that faces Church Street. He just bought it from an old guv this morning who said it only had thirteen thousand on it. So in I jump and start her up. ere was a knock in the engine like a machine gun. I almost told Friedman he d bought a squirrel, but you know I cut that smart stuff out ever since Palotta laid me off.

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h ou told me that story What happens in this one?” ^ Look, Eve. I am telling ya. Do you want me to go out to a movie or something?” Suit yourself. ” “So I jump in the ( hewy and snap it back in line, and there was a kind of scrape anc ^thump, I get out and look and Friedman’s running over, his amis going like this Ace whirled his own amis and laughed—“and here was the whole back tender of a 49 Merc mashed in. Just looked like somebody took a planer and shaved off the bulge, you know, there at the back.” He tried to show her with his an t e hewy, though, didn’t have a dent. It even gained some paint. But riedman, to hear him—Boy, they can rave when their pocketbook’s hit He said —Ace laughed again—“never mind. ” Evey said, “You’re proud of yourself.”

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No, listen. I’m not happy about it. But there wasn’t a thing I could do. It wasn’t

John Updike

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1£3

my driving at all. I looked over on the other side, and there was just two or three inches between the Chewy and a Buick. Nobody could have gotten into that hole. Even if it had hair on it.” lie thought this was pretty good. She didn’t. “You could have looked. ” “There just wasn’t the space. Friedman said stick it in; I stuck it in.” “But you could have looked and moved the other cars to make more room. ” “I guess that would have been the smart thing.” “I guess, too. Now what?” “What do you mean?” “I mean now what? Are you going to give up? Go back to the Army? Your mother? Be a basketball pro? What?” “You know I’m not tall enough. Anybody under six-six they don’t want ” “Is that so? Six-six? Well, please listen to this, Mr. Six-Foot-Five-and-a-Half: I’m fed up. I’m ready as Christ to let you run.” She stabbed her cigarette into an ashtray on the arm of the chair so hard the ashtray jumped to the floor. Evey flushed and shut up. What Ace hated most in their arguments was these silences after Evey had said something so ugly she wanted to take it back. “Better ask the priest first,” he murmured. She sat right up. “If there’s one thing I don’t want to hear about from you it’s priests. You let the priests to me. You don’t know a damn thing about it. Not a damn thing.” “Hey, look at Bonnie,” he said, trying to make a fresh start with his tone. Evey didn’t hear him. “If you think,” she went on, “if for one rotten moment you think, Mr. Fred, that die be-all and end-all of my life is you and your hot-shot stunts—” “Look, Mother,” Ace pleaded, pointing at Bonnie. Hie baby had picked up the aslitrav and put it on her head for a hat and was waiting for praise. Evey glanced down sharply at the child. “Cute,’ she said. “Cute as her daddy.’ The aslitrav slid from Bonnie’s head and she patted where it had been and looked around puzzled. “Yeah, but watch,” Ace said. “Watch her hands. They’re really terrific hands.” “You’re nuts,” Evey said. “No, honest. Bonnie’s great. She’s a natural. Get the rattle for her. Never mind, I’ll get it.” In two steps, Aee was at Bonnie’s crib, picking the rattle out of the mess of blocks and plastic rings and beanbags. lie extended the rattle toward his daughter, shaking it delicately. Made wary by this burst of attention, Bonnie reached with both hands; like two separate animals they aoproached from opposite sides and touched the smooth rattle simultaneously. A smile bubbled up on her face. Ace tugged weakly. She held on, and then tugged back. “She’s a natural, Ace said, “and it won’t do her any good because she’s a girl. Baby, we got to have

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a boy. ” “I’m not your baby,” Evey said, closing her eyes. Saving “Baby” over and over again, Ace backed up to the radio and, without turning around, switched on the volume knob. In the moment before the tubes warmed up, Evey had time to say, “Wise up, freddy. What shall we do: Hie radio came in on something slow: dinner music. Ace picked Bonnie up and set her in the crib. “Shall we dance0 lie asked his wife, bowing. “I want to talk.” “Babv. It’s the cocktail hour.”

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"This is getting us no place,” she said, rising from her chair, though. IHred Junior. I can see him now,” he said, seeing nothing. “We will have no Juniors.” In her crib, Bonnie whimpered at the sight other mother being seized. Ace fitted his hand into the natural place on Evey’s back and she shuffled stiffly into his lead. When, with a sudden injection of saxophones, the tempo quickened, he spun her out carefully, keeping the beat with his shoulders. Her hair brushed his lips as she minced in, then swung away, to the end of his arm; he could feel her toes dig into the carpet. He flipped his own hair back from his eyes. The music ate through his skin and mixed with the nerves and gmall veins; he seemed to be gieat again, and all the other kids were around them, in a ring, clapping time.

Questions on style ... 1. There are two verbs in the first sentence. Which of them characterizes Ace? If you substituted turned for flicked, would you lose anything? •w. Characterize Aces personal style in both diction and syntax. 3* Looking at the first paragraph alone, list all the details that define Ace’s character. How many of these details depend on style? 4. Note the adverb in paragraph 3. Is it an example of too much telling? 5* Discuss tlle simile in paragraph 4. Whose character does it indicate? 6. When Ace speaks, does he ever sound as if he is quoting something he picked up’ saN from a television ad? Took at paragraph 10. Is this a matter of style? /. How much of Ace’s mother’s character do you learn from her speech? Her gestures? Ace’s interpretations? 8. In paragraph 24, do we see Ace comb his hair as he would describe it? Does Tpdike’s style characterize Ace here? 9. In paragraph 30, does the author’s style change when Ace remembers somet ing from the past? Does this change happen again in the storv? What does it mean in the story? 10. Discuss Evey’s style. What words characterize her tone?

. . . and oilier elements 11. When do you realize the point of view in the storv? What tells you? 12. How much attention does Updike pay to setting?

Ernest Hemingway

In Another Country Ernest Hemingway (1898—1961) is a great American novelist who began as a poet and short-story writer. Many critics prefer his stories to his novels, even the celebrated The Sun Also Rises (1926) and A Farewell to Arms (1929). In Our Time (1925) alternated short stories with italicized sketches (see page 23). Later novels included To Have and Have Not (1937), For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940), Across the River and into the Trees (1950), The Old Man and the Sea (1952), and the posthumous Islands in the Stream (1970). During the First World War, Hemingway was an ambulance driver on the Italian front, where he was wounded and hospitalized, an experience presumably behind “In Another Country.” Hemingway’s individual style colors die world he inhabited: a place of melancholy where codes of behavior protect the hero from madness and dissolution.

In the fall the war was always there, but we did not go to it any more. It was cold in the fall in Milan and the dark came very early. Then the electric lights came on, and it was pleasant along the streets looking in the windows. There was much game hanging outside the shops, and the snow powdered in the fur of the foxes and the wind blew their tails. The deer hung stiff and heavy and empty, and small birds blew in the wind and the wind turned their feathers. It was a cold fall and the wind came down from the mountains. We were all at the hospital every afternoon, and there were different ways of walking across the town through the dusk to the hospital. Two of the ways were alongside canals, but they were long. Always, though, you crossed a bridge across a canal to enter the hospital. There was a choice of three bridges. On one of them a woman sold roasted chestnuts. It was warm, standing in front of her charcoal fire, and the chestnuts were warm afterward in your pocket. The hospital was very old and very beautiful, and you entered through a gate and walked across a court¬ yard and out a gate on the other side. There were usually funerals starting from the courtyard. Beyond the old hospital were die new brick pavilions, and there we met every afternoon and were all very polite and interested in what was the matter, and sat in the machines that were to make so much difference. The doctor came up to the machine where I was sitting and said: “What did you like best to do before the war? Did you practice a sport?” I said: “Yes, football.” “Good,” he said. ‘You will be able to play football again better than ever.” My knee did not bend and the leg dropped straight from the knee to the ankle without a calf, and the machine was to bend die knee and make it move as in riding a tricycle. But it did not bend yet, and instead the machine lurched when it came to the bending part. The doctor said: “That will all pass. \ ou are a fortunate voting man. You will play football again like a champion. ” In the next machine was a major who had a little hand like a baby s. He winked at me when the doctor examined his hand, which was between two leather straits that bounced up and down and flapped the stiff fingers, and said: “And will I, too, play football, captain-doctor?” He had been a very great fencer, and before the war the greatest fencer in Italy. The doctor went to his office in a back room and brought a photograph which showed a hand that had been withered almost as small as the major s, before it had taken a machine course, and after was a little larger. The major held the

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photograph with his good hand and looked at it very carefully. “A wound?” he asked. “An industrial accident, ” the doctor said. 10

“Very interesting, very interesting,” the major said, and handed it back to the doctor. Aou have confidence?” “No,” said the major. Theie veie tlnee boys who came each day who were about the same age I was. ^ey were ah three from Milan, and one of them was to be a lawyer, and one was to be a painter, and one had intended to be a soldier, and after we were finished with the machines, sometimes we walked back together to the Cafe Cova, which was next door to the Scala. We walked the short way through the Communist quarter because we were four together. The people hated us because we were officers, and from a wineshop someone would call out, "A basso gli ufficiali!” as we Passed. Another boy who walked with us sometimes and made five wore a black silk handkerchief across his face because he had no nose then and his face was to do rebuilt. He had gone out to the front from the military academy and been wounded within an hour after he had gone into the front line for the first time. They rebuilt his face, but he came from a very old family and they could never get die nose exactly right. He went to South America and worked in a bank. But this was a long time ago, and then we did not any of us know how it was going to be afterward. We only knew then that there was always the war, but that we were not going to it any more. We all had the same medals, except the boy with die black silk bandage across his face, and he had not been atrthe front long enough to get any medals. Hie tall boy with a very pale face who was to be a lawyer had been a lieutenant of Arditi and had three medals of die sort we each had only one of. He had lived a very long time with death and was a little detached. We were all a little detached, and there was nothing that held us together except that we met every afternoon at the hospital. Although, as we walked to die Cova through the tough part of town walking in the dark, with light and singing coming out of the wineshops, and sometimes having to walk into the street when the men and women would crowd together on the sidewalk so that we would have had to jostle them to get by we felt held together by there being something that had happened that they, the people wdio disliked us, did not mderstand. V e ourselves all understood the Cova, where it was rich and warm and not too irightly lighted, and noisy and smoky at certain hours, and there were always girls at the tables and die illustrated papers on a rack on die wall. The girls at the Cova w ere very patriotic, and I found that the most patriotic people in Italy were the cafe girls—and I believe they are still patriotic. 1 he boys at first were very polite about my medals and asked me wdiat I had c one to get them. I showed them the papers, which were written in very beautiful anguage and full of fratellanza and abnegazione, but which realiv said with die aqjectives removed, that I had been given the medals because I was an American. After that their manner changed a little toward me, although I was their friend against outsiders. I was a friend, but I was never really one of them after they had i ead the citations, because it had been different with them and they had done very different things to get their medals. I had been wounded, it was true; but we all Yiicw that being wounded, after all, was really an accident. I was never ashamed of the ribbons, though, and sometimes, after the cocktail hour, I would imagine

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myself having done all the things they had done to get their medals; but walking home at night through the empty streets with the cold wind and all the shops closed, trying to keep near the streetlights, I knew that I would never have done such diings, and I was very much afraid to die, and often lay in bed at night by myself, afraid to die and wondering how I would be when I went back to the front again. The three with the medals were like hunting-hawks; and I was not a hawk, although I might seem a hawk to those who had never hunted; they, die diree, knew better and so we drifted apart. But I stayed good friends with the boy who had been wounded his first day at the front, because he would never know now how he would have turned out; so he could never be accepted either, and I liked him because I thought perhaps he would not have turned out to be a hawk either. The major, who had been the great fencer, did not believe in bravery and spent much time while we sat in the machines correcting my grammar. He had com¬ plimented me on how I spoke Italian, and we talked together very easily. One day I had said that Italian seemed such an easy language to me that I could not take a great interest in it; everything was so easy to say. “Ah, yes,” the major said. “Why, then, do you not take up the use of grammar?” So we took up die use of grammar, and soon Italian was such a difficult language that I was afraid to talk to him until I had die grammar straight in my mind. The major came very regularly to the hospital. I do not think he ever missed a day, although I am sure he did not believe in the machines. There was a time when none of us believed in the machines, and one day the major said it was all nonsense. The machines were new then and it was we who were to prove them. It was an idiotic idea, he said, “a theory, like another.” I had not learned my grammar, and he said I was a stupid impossible disgrace, and he was a fool to have bothered with me. lie was a small man and he sat straight up in his chair with his right hand thrust into the machine and looked straight ahead at the wall while the straps thumped up and down with his fingers in them. “What will you do when the war is over if it is over?” he asked me. “Speak grammatically! ” “I will go to the States.” “Are you married?” “No, but I hope to be.” ‘The more of a fool you are,” he said. He seemed very angry “A man must not marrv. Why, Signor Maggiore?” “Don’t call me ‘Signor Maggiore. “Why must not a man marry?” “He cannot mam. He cannot marry,” he said angrily. “If he is to lose everything, he should not place himself in a position to lose that. I le should not place himself in a position to lose. 1 Ie should find filings he cannot lose. He spoke verv angrily and bitterly, and looked straight ahead while he talked. “But why should he necessarily lose it?” “He’ll lose it,” the major said. He was looking at the wall. Then he looked down at die machine and jerked his little hand out from between the straps and slapped it hard against his thigh. “He’ll lose it,” he almost shouted. “Don’t argue with me!” Then he called to the attendant who ran the machines. “Come and turn this U

damned thing off.” He went back into the other room for the light treatment and the massage. Then

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I heard him ask the doctor if he might use his telephone and he shut the door. When he came back into the room, I was sitting in another machine. He was wearing his cape and had his cap on, and he came directly toward my machine and put his arm on my shoulder. “I am so soriy, ” he said, and patted me on the shoulder with his good hand. “I would not be rude. My wife has just died. You must forgive me.” “Oh—■” I said, feeling sick for him. “I am so sony. ” 35

He stood there, biting his lower lip. “It is very difficult,” he said. “I cannot resign myself.” He looked straight past me and out through the window. Then he began to ciy. “I am utterly unable to resign myself,” he said and choked. And then crying, his head up looking at nothing, carrying himself straight and soldierly, with tears on both his cheeks and biting his lips, he walked past the machines and out the door. Hie doctor told me that the major’s wife, who wras very young and whom he had not married until he was definitely invalided out of the war, had died of pneu¬ monia. She had been sick only a fewr days. No one expected her to die. Hie major did not come to the hospital for three days. Then he came at the usual hour, wearing a black band on the sleeve of his uniform. When he came back, there were large framed photographs around the wall, of all sorts of wounds before and after they had been cured by the machines. In front of the machine the major used were three photographs of hands like his that were completely restored. I do not know- where the doctor got them. I always understood w^e were the first to use the machines. Hie photographs did not make much difference to the major because he only looked out of die window.

Questions on style . . . 1. Does the first sentence indicate an attitude tow ard the war? Try rewriting it to give the same information but by style to alter the tone. 2. In the first paragraph, there is no first-person speaker. Do the sentences, however, seem to indicate a single character’s feelings? If you have this impression, try to find out howr you get it. 3. What is tlie doctor up to in paragraphs 3 through 6? How do you know? 4. In die last sentence of paragraph 7, Hemingway almost says the same diing twice. What happens in the second half of the sentence to warrant the repe¬ tition? What is the effect of this redundancy? 5. Paragraph 13 echoes an earlier sentence. Is this stylistic trait realistic? 6. In paragraph 15 the narrator diinks of patriotism. He does not tell us what he thinks of it. Does the style show you what the narrator thinks of patriotism? 7. Hie narrator speaks of hawks in paragraph 17. What is he thinking about? How do you know? 8. In paragraph 18 and following, how do you learn about die major’s mind and character? How much do you know’ from the narrator’s comments? How much do you knowT from the objective description and dialogue? 9. How much does Hemingway’s way of telling this story contribute to the theme of die story?

. . . and other elements 10. Describe the point of vieve in this store.

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11. How important is setting to this story? How does Hemingway indicate the setting? 12. How do we know what the first-person character thinks? Distinguish between degrees of objective and subjective narration in this story. 13. If the narrator told us his feelings about tire wounds he describes, would the story be more effective? 14. In paragraph 13 there is a flash forward in time, the opposite of the usual flashback. What does it do to the plot? 15. Why does the major care about grammar? Do you have the sense that he treats grammar as a symbol of something else?

Chapter 9 Theme

The theme of a story is the implicit generality the story supports. Often we consider that a story s theme is its reason for being. When we speak of a story’s theme, \\ e suggest that a tale implies a central ipsight into human experience. We express the theme of a story not by summarizing its plot but by a sentence or two of generalization. Thus we might sum up Chekhov’s “Gooseberries”: people deceive themselves, and their overriding purposes distort their percep¬ tions of reality; we might sum up Joyce’s “Counterparts”: people when bullied by someone more powerful than themselves express their anger by bullying someone weaker than themselves. Of course these simple summaries of theme are not adequate to describe gieat short stories. The story is not a problem to which thematic summary provides an answer. But summaries of plot and of theme can reassure us that we are all reading the same story. Such summaries are always arguable. One of the weaknesses and one of the strengths of literature is that interpretation is never final, always subject to refinement and alteration. But at the same time, one interpretation is not as good as another; literature does not resemble clouds in which we can freely imagine shapes. Interpretations will vary, but we must be able to support them by reference to the story. When we compare varying interpretations, they will often both be true and both be limited. By comparing them we can enlarge our response to the story. And it is possible_ e\en commonplace for interpretations to be wrong. Reading “Counterparts” after a session in sociology, we might feel that its theme connected drunken¬ ness with child abuse. We would be wrong. Reading “Gooseberries” without full attention, we might take Ivan Ivanych’s theme—that happiness is nothing,

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that only altruism is important—as a theme propounded by the author himself. Again we would be wrong. All in all, theme is harder to argue about than technical matters like plot, character, point of view, and setting. But, difficult or not, theme requires our attention because it is a story’s reason for being. Not all stories have themes. When Edgar Allan Poe embarks on “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” the purpose of the story is suspense and mystery. It will not lead to an insight into human character. Generally, stories without themes are inferior art. They can be entertaining, they can be well-written and pleasing, but they lack seriousness. On the other hand, not all stories with themes are serious works of art. Many popular stories develop commonplace or trite themes. Finishing such stories, we say to ourselves, with satisfaction in our wisdom, “How true! It does take all kinds to make a world, just as I always said. ” There is also the propaganda story, whose theme has designs on us. The author wants to manipulate us into a particular view of the world or into a particular political position. Everyone is familiar with stories about how evil Communists are; in Communist countries, people read the same stories with capitalist villains. Themes and meanings are clear and sharp: hate the wicked -and love the noble-. But in a political propaganda story (or a didactic tale in the Sunday School Weekly, for that matter) we find no subfie characterization, no overview, no genuine insight. Propaganda characters have the simple-mindedness we associate with comic books, whether the cause be good (ours) or bad (theirs). When you read a pr vpaganda story, be wary of approving the fiction just because you agree with the politics. Don’t swallow bad art for the sake of worthy ideas.

Looking for themes It helps, when we investigate stories for their themes, to keep several matters in mind: E In looking for a theme, pay attention to the story’s tide. It may help, as it does in “Counterparts.” In “Gooseberries,” the title helps as long as we already have some notion of the theme; most of us have our own gooseberries. In “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” the title’s irony leads us toward the theme. In “A Spinster’s Tale,” the tide points toward a generalization; like many titles it works as a hint. 2. Remember to state a theme as a complete sentence. “Old people” is not a theme; it’s a topic. “Old people continually find the young neglectful” could be a theme. 3. Remember to state a theme as a generalization. “Farrington is bullied, gets drunk, and beats his son” is a plot summary, not a theme. 4. If in the course of a story you come to understand a character, or a character comes to understand herseli or himself, the discovery probably sug¬ gests the story’s theme. Joyce constructed bis stories to contain epiphanies, sudden moments of revelation—either to character or to reader or to both. In

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Theme

“Counterparts,” the epiphany occurs to us as readers when we understand the title, which leads us to the theme. 5. When you write down the generality that is the theme, double-check: does it encompass all the major events of the story? If it doesn’t, the theme is prob¬ ably incomplete. Does anything in the story contradict the generality? If any¬ thing does, start over again. Do you find your generality in the story, or do you bring to the story some expectation from outside? 6. If you are baffled in finding the theme of a story, reread it one more time, pa\ ing special attention to those parts of the story that seem not to make sense or seem irrelevant or seem odd. If, for instance, at the end of t4The Spinster’s Tale, her dream of a drunk horse puzzles you, you are missing some of the theme.

liuiltciniic Anne Porter

Rope Katherine Anne Porter (1890-1980) was novelist, essayist, and short-story writer. She grew up in Texas, an independent young woman determined to write. She worked for newspapers, traveled widely, lived in Europe and Mexico, and did not publish a volume until she collected short stories into Flowering Judas (1930). Further collections are Pale Horse, Pale Rider (1939) and The Leaning Tower (1944), followed by her only novel, Ship of Fools (1962). Her Collected Essays and Collected Stories are available in paperback.

On the third day after they moved to the country he came walking back from the village carrying a basket of groceries and a twenty-four-yard coil of rope. She came out to meet him, wiping her hands on her green smock. Her hair was tumbled, her nose was scarlet with sunburn; he told her that already she looked like a born country woman. His gray flannel shirt stuck to him, his heaw shoes were dusty. She assured him he looked like a rural character in a play. Had he brought the coffee? She had been waiting all day long for coffee. They had forgot it when they ordered at the store the first day. Gosh, no, he hadn’t. Lord, now he’d have to go back. Yes, he would if it lulled him. lie thought, though, he had everything else. She reminded him it was only because he didn t drink coffee himself. If he did he would remember it quick enough. Suppose they ran out of cigarettes? Then she saw the rope. What was that for? Well, he thought it might do to hang clothes on, or something. Naturally she asked him if he thought they were going to run a laundry? They already had a fifty-foot line hanging right before his eyes? Why, hadn’t lie'noticed it, really? It was a blot on the landscape to her. He thought there were a lot of things a rope might come in handy for. She wanted to know what, for instance. He thought a few seconds, but nothing oc¬ curred. 'They could wait and see, couldn’t they? You need all sorts of strange odds and ends around a place in the country. She said, yes, that was so; but she thought just at that time when every penny counted, it seemed funny to buy more rope. That was all. She hadn t meant anything else. She hadn’t just seen, not at first, why he felt it was necessary. Y ell, thunder, he had bought it because he wanted to, and that was all there

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was to it. She thought that was reason enough, and couldn’t understand why lie hadn’t said so, at first. Undoubtedly it would be useful, twentv-four yards of rope, there were hundreds of things, she couldn’t think of any at die moment, but it would come in. Of course. As he had said, things always did in the country. But she was a litde disappointed about the coffee, and oh, look, look, look at the eggs! Oh, my, diey’re all running! What had he put on top of them? Hadn’t he known eggs mustn’t be squeezed? Squeezed, who had squeezed them, he wanted to know. What a silly filing to say. He had simply brought them along in the basket with the other things. If they got broke it was the grocer’s fault. He should know better than to put heavy things on top of eggs. She believed it was the rope, 'that was the heaviest thing in the pack, she saw him plainly when he came in from the road, the rope was a big package on top of everything. He desired the whole wide world to witness that this was not a fact. He had carried the rope in one hand and the basket in the other, and wliat was file use of her having eyes if that was the best they could do for her? Well, anyhow, she could see one thing plain: no eggs for breakfast. They’d have to scramble them now, for supper. It was too damned bad. She had planned to have steak for supper. No ice, meat wouldn’t keep. He wanted to know why she couldn’t finish breaking the eggs in a bowl and set them in a cool place. Cool place! if he could find one for her, she’d be glad to set them there. Well, then, it seemed to him they might very well cook the meat at the same time they cooked the eggs and then warm up the meat for tomorrow. Hie idea simply choked her. Warmed-over meat, when they might as well have had it fresh. Second best and scraps and makeshifts, even to the meat! He rubbed her shoulder a little. It doesn’t really matter so much, does it, darling? Sometimes when they were playful, he would rub her shoulder and she would arch and pun*. This time she hissed and almost clawed. He was getting ready to say that they could surely manage somehow when she turned on him and said, if he told her they could manage somehow she would certainly slap his face. He swallowed the words red hot, his face burned. He picked up the rope and started to put it on the top shelf. She would not have it on the top shelf, the jars and tins belonged there; positively she would not have the top shelf cluttered up with a lot of rope. She had borne all the clutter she meant to bear in the flat in town, there was space here at least and she meant to keep things in order. Well, in that case, he wanted to know what the hammer and nails were doing up there? And why had she put them there when she knew very well he needed that hammer and those nails upstairs to fix the window sashes? She simply slowed down everything and made double work on the place with her insane habit of changing things around and hiding them. She was sure she begged his pardon, and if she had had any reason to believe he was going to fix the sashes this summer she would have left the hammer and nails right where he put them; in the middle of the bedroom floor where they could step on them in the dark. And now if he didn’t clear the whole mess out of there she would throw them down the well. Oh, all right, all right—could he put them in the closet? Naturally not, there were brooms and mops and dustpans in the closet, and why couldn’t he find a place for his rope outside her kitchen? Had he stopped to consider there were seven God-forsaken rooms in the house, and only one kitchen? He wanted to know what of it? And did she realize she was making a complete fool of herself? And what did she take him for, a three-vear-old-idiot? Hie whole

134 Theme

trouble with her was she needed something weaker than she was to heckle and tyrannize over. Tie wished to God now they had a couple of children she could take it out on. Maybe he’d get some rest. 15

Her face changed at this, she reminded him he had forgot die coffee and had bought a worthless piece of rope. And when she thought of all the things they actually needed to make the place even decently fit to live in, well, she could cry, that was all. She looked so forlorn, so lost and despairing he couldn’t believe it \\ as only a piece of rope that was causing all the racket. What was die matter, for God’s sake? Oh, would he please hush and go away, and stay away, if he could, for hve minutes? By all means, yes, he would. He’d stay away indefinitely if she wished. Lord, yes, theie was nothing he d like better than to clear out and never come back. She couldn’t for the life of her see what was holding him, then. It was a swell time. Ileie she was, stuck, miles from a railroad, with a half-empty house °n her hands, and not a penny in her pocket, and everything on earth to do; it seemed the God-sent moment for him to get out from under. She was surprised he hadn’t stayed in town as it was until she had come out and done the work and got things straightened out. It was his usual trick. It appeared to him that this was going a little far. Just a touch out of bounds, if she didn t mind his saying so. Why the hell had he stayed in town the summer before? To do a half-dozen extra jobs to get the money he had sent her. That was it. She knew perfectly well they couldn t have done it otherwise. She had agreed with him at the time. And that was the only time so help him he had ever left her to do anyThing by herself. ( )h, he could tell that to his great-grandmother. She had her notion of what had kept him in town. Considerably more than a notion, if he wanted to know. So, she was going to bring all that up again, was she? Well, she could just think what she pleased. lie was tired of explaining. It may have looked funny but he had simply got hooked in, and what could he do? It was impossible to believe that she was going to take it seriously. Yes, yes, she knew how it was with a man: if he wTas left by himself a minute, some woman was certain to kidnap him. And nat¬ urally he couldn’t hurt her feelings by refusing! Well, what was she raving about? Did she forget she had told him those two weeks alone in the country were the happiest she had known for four years? And liow long had they been married when she said that? Ml right, shut up! If she thought that hadn’t stuck in his craw.

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She hadn t meant she was happy because she was away from him. She meant she was happy getting the devilish house nice and ready for him. That was what she had meant, and now look! Bringing up something she had said a year ago simply to justify himself for forgetting her coffee and breaking the eggs and buying a wretched piece of rope they couldn’t afford. She really thought it was time to drop the subject, and now she wanted only two things in the world. She wanted him to get that rope from underfoot, and go back to the village and get her coffee, and if he could remember it, he might bring a metal mitt for the skillets, and two more curtain rods, and if there were any rubber gloves in the village, her hands were simply raw, and a bottle of milk of magnesia from the drugstore. I le looked out at the dark blue afternoon sweltering on the slopes, and mopped bis foiehead and sighed heavily and said, if only she could wait a minute for anything, he was going back. He had said so, hadn’t he, the very instant they found lie had overlooked it?

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Oh, yes, well. . . run along. She was going to wash windows. Idle country was so beautiful! She doubted they’d have a moment to enjoy it. He meant to go, but he could not until he had said that if she wasn’t such a hopeless melancholiac she might see that this was only for a few days. Couldn’t she remember anything pleasant about the other summers? Hadn’t they ever had any fun? She hadn’t time to talk about it, and now would he please not leave that rope lying around for her to trip on? He picked it up, somehow it had toppled off the table, and walked out with it under his arm. Was he going this minute? He certainly was. She thought so. Sometimes it seemed to her he had second sight about die precisely perfect moment to leave her ditched. She had meant to put the mattresses out to sun, if they put them out this minute they would get at least three hours, he must have heard her say that morning she meant to put them out. So of course he would walk off and leave her to it. She supposed he thought the exercise would do her good. Well, he was merely going to get her coffee. A four-mile walk for two pounds of coffee was ridiculous, but he was perfeedy willing to do it. The habit was making a wreck of her, but if she wanted to wreck herself there was nothing he could do about it. If he thought it was coffee that was making a wreck of her, she congrat¬ ulated him: he must have a damned easy conscience. Conscience or no conscience, he didn’t see why the mattresses couldn’t very well wait until tomorrow. And anyhow, for God’s sake, were they living in the house, or were they going to let the house ride them to death? She paled at this, her face grew livid about the mouth, she looked quite dangerous, and reminded him that housekeeping was no more her work than it was his: she had other work to do as well, and when did he think she was going to find time to do it at diis rate? Was she going to start on that again? She knew as well as he did that his work brought in the regular money, hers was only occasional, if they depended on what she made—and she might as well get straight on this question once for all! That was positively not the point. The question was, when both of them were working on their own time, was there going to be a division of the housework, or wasn’t there? She merely wanted to know, she had to make her plans. Why, he thought that was all arranged. It was understood that he was to help. Hadn’t he always, in summers? Hadn’t he, though? Oh, just hadn’t he? And when, and where, and doing what? Lord, what an uproarious joke! It was such a very uproarious joke that her face turned slightly purple, and she screamed with laughter. She laughed so hard she had to sit down, and finally a rush of tears spurted from her eyes and poured down into the lifted corners of her mouth. He dashed towards her and dragged her up to her feet and tried to pour water on her head. The dipper hung by a string on a nail and he broke it loose. Then he tried to pump water with one hand while she struggled in the other. So he gave it up and shook her instead. She wrenched away, crying out for him to take his rope and go to hell, she had simply given him up: and ran. He heard her high-heeled bedroom slippers clat¬ tering and stumbling on the stairs. He went out around the house and into the lane; he suddenly realized he had a blister on his heel and his shirt felt as if it were on fire. Things broke so suddenly you didn’t know where you were. She could work herself into a fury about simply nothing. She was terrible, damn it: not an ounce of reason. You might as well talk

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to a sieve as that woman when she got going. Damned if he’d spend his life humoring her! Well, what to do now? He would take back the rope and exchange it for something else. Things accumulated, things were mountainous, you couldn’t move them or sort them out or get rid of them. They just lay and rotted around. He’d take it back. Hell, why should he? He wanted it. What was it anyhow? A piece of rope. Imagine anybody caring more about a piece of rope than about a man’s feelings. What earthly right had she to say a word about it? He remembered all the useless, meaningless things she bought for herself: Why? because I wanted it, that’s why! He stopped and selected a large stone by the road. He would put the rope behind it. He would put it in the tool-box when he got back. He’d heard enough about it to last him a life-time. When he came back she was leaning against the post box beside the road wait¬ ing. It was pretty late, the smell of broiled steak floated nose high in the cooling air. Her face was young and smooth and fresh-looking. Her unmanageable funny black hair was all on end. She waved to him from a distance, and he speeded up. She called out that supper was ready and waiting, was he starved? You bet he was starved. Here was the coffee. He waved it at her. She looked at his other hand. What was that he had there? Well, it was the rope again. He stopped short. He had meant to exchange it but forgot. She wanted to know why lie should exchange it, if it was something he really wanted. Wasn’t the air sweet now, and wasn’t it fine to be here? She walked beside him with one hand hooked into his leather belt. She pulled and jostled him a little as he walked, and leaned against him. He put his ami clear around her and patted her stomach. They exchanged wary smiles. Coffee, coffee for the Ootsum-Wootsums! IlejeIt as if he were bringing her a beautiful present. He was a love, she firmly believed, and if she had had her coffee in the morning, she wouldn t have behaved so funny. . . . Hiere was a whippoorwill still coming back, imagine, clear out of season, sitting in the crab-apple tree calling all by himself. Maybe his girl stood him up. Maybe she did. She hoped to hear him once more, she loved whippoorwills . . . He knew how she was, didn’t he? Sure, he knew how she was.

Questions on theme 1. State the theme of the story. Remember to make it a whole sentence of gen¬ eralization, not a plot summary. 2. Does the title “Rope” work like Chekhov’s title “Gooseberries”? Does it help define theme? Does the title comment on the story? 3. Does the author present a moral or give us a lesson? What is the story’s purpose?

. . . and other elements 4. What is the point of view of this story? 5. This story is almost entirely dialogue without direct quotation. What is the effect? 6.

I rv putting part ol this story into direct quotation. How does it change? Try rewriting a portion of the story as a play, with stage directions. How is it different?

7. Does the first sentence present us with information important to the char¬ acters’ motives?

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8. Are these characters flat or round? 9. Plow much setting do you have in the story? Would you like to have more?

Richard Wilbur

A Game of Catch Richard Wilbur (1921— ) was bom in New York, attended Amherst, and fought in Europe during World War II, when he began to write poems. (There are a number of his poems in this text, some with commentary—check the index.) He has translated into English verse three plays by Moliere, including Tartuffe, which begins on page 905. Richard Wilbur has taught at several .universities, has a house in Massachusetts, and winters in Key West.

Monk and Glennie were playing catch on the side lawn of the firehouse when Scho caught sight of them. They were good at it, for seventh-graders, as anyone could see right away. Monk, wearing a catchers mitt, would lean easily sidewise and back, with one leg lifted and his throwing hand almost down to the grass, and then lob the white ball straight up into the sunlight Glennie would shield his eyes with his left hand and, just as the ball fell past him, snag it with a little dart of his glove. Then he would bum the ball straight toward Monk, and it would spank into the round mitt and sit, like a still-life apple on a plate, until Monk flipped it over into his right hand and, with a negligent flick of his hanging arm, gave Glennie a fast grounder. They were going on and on like that, in a kind of slow, mannered, luxurious dance in the sun, their faces perfectly blank and entranced, when Glennie noticed Scho dawdling along the other side of the street and called hello to him. Scho crossed over and stood at the front edge of the lawn, near an apple tree, watching. “Got your glove?” asked Glennie after a time. Scho obviously hadn’t. ‘YY>u could give me some easy grounders,” said Scho. “But don’t bum ’em.” “All right,” Glennie said. He moved off a little, so the three of them formed a triangle, and they passed the ball around for about five minutes, Monk tossing easy grounders to Scho, Scho throwing to Glennie, and Glennie burning them in to Monk. After a while, Monk began to throw them back to Glennie once or twice before he let Scho have his grounder, and finally Monk gave Scho a fast, bumpy grounder diat hopped over his shoulder and went into the brake on the other side of the street. “Not so hard,” called Scho as he ran across to get it. ‘Trou should’ve had it,” Monk shouted. It took Scho a little while to find the ball among the ferns and dead leaves, and when he saw it, he grabbed it up and threw it toward Glennie. It struck the trunk of the apple tree, bounced back at an angle, and rolled steadily and stupidly onto the cement apron in front of the firehouse, where one of the trucks was parked. Scho ran hard and stopped it just before it rolled under the truck, and this time he carried it back to his former position on the lawn and threw it carefully to Glennie. “I got an idea,” said Glennie. “Why don’t Monk and I catch for five minutes more, and then you can borrow one of our gloves?” ‘That’s all right with me,” said Monk. lie socked his fist into his mitt, and Glennie burned one in.

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Theme

“All right, ” Scho said, and went over and sat under the tree. There in the shade he watched them resume their skillful play. They threw lazily fast or lazily slow— high, low, or wide—and always handsomely, their expressions serene, changeless, and forgetful. When Monk missed a low backhand catch, he walked indolently after the ball and, hardly even looking, flung it sidearm for an imaginary put-out. After a good while of this, Scho said, “Isn’t it five minutes yet?” “One minute to go,” said Monk with a fraction of a grin. Scho stood up and watched the ball slap back and forth for several minutes more, and then he turned and pulled himself up into the crotch of the tree. “Where you going?” Monk asked. “Just up the tree,” Scho said. “I guess he doesn’t want to catch,” said Monk. Scho went up and up through the fat light-gray branches until they grew slender and bright and gave under him. He found a place where several supple branches were knit to make a dangerous chair, and sat there with his head coming out of the leaves into the sunlight. He could see the two other boys down below, the ball going back and forth between them as if they were bowling on the grass, and Glennie’s crew-cut head looking like a sea urchin. “I found a wonderful seat up here,” Scho said loudly. “If I don’t fall out.” Monk and Glennie didn’t look up or comment, and so he began jouncing gently in his chair of branches and singing. “Ao-ho, heave ho” in an exaggerated way. “Do you know what, Monk?” he announced in a few moments. “I can make you two guys do anything I want. Catch that ball, Monk! Now you catch it, Glennie!” “I was going to catch it anyway,” Monk suddenly said. “You’re not making anybody do anything when they-’re already going to do it anyway. ” “I made you say what you just said,” Scho replied joyfully. No, you didn t,” said Monk, still throwing and catching but now less serenely absorbed in the game. ‘That’s what I wanted you to say, ” Scho said. The ball bounced off the rim of Monk’s mitt and plowed into a gladiolus bed beside the firehouse, and Monk ran to get it while Scho jounced in his treetop and sang, “I wanted you to miss that. Anything you do is what I wanted you to do.” “Let’s quit for a minute, ” Glennie suggested. “We might as well, until the peanut gallery shuts up, ” Monk said. They went over and sat cross-legged in the shade of the tree. Scho looked down between his legs and saw them on the dim, spotty ground, saying nothing to one another. Glennie soon began abstractedly spinning his glove between his palms; Monk pulled his nose and stared out across the lawn. I want you to mess around with your nose, Monk,” said Scho, giggling. Monk withdrew his hand from his face. Do that with your glove, Glennie, ” Scho persisted. “Monk, I want you to pull up hunks of grass and chew on it. ”

o

Glennie looked up and saw a self-delighted, intense face staring down at him through the leaves. “Stop being a dope and come down and we’ll catch for a few minutes,” he said. Scho hesitated, and then said, in a tentatively mocking voice, “That’s what I wanted you to say. ” “All right, then, nuts to you,” said Glennie. “Why don’t you keep quiet and stop bothering people?” Monk asked.

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“I made you say that,” Scho replied, softly. “Shut up,” Monk said. “I made you say that, and I want you to be standing there looking sore. And I want you to climb the tree. I’m making you do it!” Monk was scrambling up through the branches, awkward in his haste, and getting snagged on twigs. His face was furious and foolish, and he kept telling Scho to shut up, shut up, shut up, while the other’s exuberant and panicky voice poured down upon his head. “Now you shut up or you’ll be sony,” Monk said, breathing hard as he reached up and threatened to shake the cradle of slight branches in which Scho was sitting. “I want—” Scho screamed as he fell. Two lower branches broke his rustling, crackling fall, but he landed on his back with a deep thud and lay still, with a strangled look on his face and his eyes clenched. Glennie knelt down and asked breathlessly, “Are you O.K., Scho? Are you O.K.?,” while Monk swung down through the leaves crying that honestly he hadn’t even touched him, the crazy guy just let go. Scho doubled up and turned over on his right side, and now both die other boys knelt beside him, pawing at his shoulder and begging to know how he was. Then Scho rolled away from them and sat partly up, still struggling to get his wind but forcing a species of smile onto his face. “I’m sorry, Scho,” Monk said. “I didn’t mean to make you fall.” Scho’s voice came out weak and gravelly, in gasps. “I meant—you to do it. You—had to. You can’t do—anything—unless I want—you to. ” Glennie and Monk looked helplessly at him as he sat there, breathing a bit more easily and smiling fixedly, with tears in his eyes. Mien they picked up dieir gloves and the ball, walked over to the street, and went slowly away down the sidewalk, Monk punching his fist into the mitt, Glennie juggling the ball between glove and hand. From under the apple tree, Scho, still bent over a little for lack of breath, croaked after them in triumph and misery, “I want you to do whatever you’re going to do for the whole rest of your life!”

Questions on theme . . . 1. What is the theme of this story? How do you derive it? From action? From character? 2. Wilbur has written a book of poetry for children called Opposites. Might he have called this story by the same title? Is the title, “A Game of Catch,” as ordinary as it sounds? After you think about the theme, does the title mean more than it did at first? Explain. 3. Is it possible that Wilbur agrees with Scho’s sense of omnipotence? How do you know he does not? 4. When Monk climbs the tree and the story moves to its climax, Wilbur uses some adverbs that are important to the story. Find them.

. . . and other elements 5. Describe point of view. Does it change to fit the plot? 6. How much characterization can you find in the description of playing catch? 7. How can anybody speak at once “in triumph and misery”?

Chapter 10 Symbolisi

A symbol is something that remains itself while it stands for something besides itself the way a piece of red, white, and blue cloth is literally fabric while symbolically it stands for our country, lire word symbol begins by meaning a like a circle containing a cigarette crossed out by a diagonal line. Every¬ body knows that this sign is a symbol for NO SMOKING. We speak of conven¬ tional symbols like these signs, like national flags, or like the logos of sports teams. We also speak of natural symbols, which occur in literature but veer toward the cliche: night is a natural symbol of death, and so is autumn. Shake¬ speare and other geniuses have made great literature using natural symbols; Hallmark makes greeting cards out of them. In a story a symbol usually stands for or suggests something more than it is—for a class of events or relationships. In “Gooseberries,” the fruit literally grows on Ivan Ivanych’s brother’s estate. As Ivan Ivanych describes the goose¬ berries, they become a symbol of how a person’s dreams promote self-deceit; as Chekhov manipulates his story, we understand that Ivan Ivanych has gooseberries” of his own—as most of us do. Chekhov uses gooseberries to stand in for something else; he uses gooseberries as a symbol. Chekhov’s gooseberries make a literary symbol, a term that needs defining. Let us begin by saying what a literary symbol is not. It is not a ripe; Farrington is not a symbol of middle-aged Irish drunkards; Farrington is a type. lie is typical, but he does not stand for anything. A literary symbol signifies some¬ thing of another class—the way gooseberries stand in for dreaming and decep¬ tion. Also, a literary symbol is not a translation of an abstract idea into a con¬ crete image. This device is allegory, not symbolism. In the medieval allegorical 140

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play called Everyman, the hero of the title has acquaintances called Fellowship, Kindred, Goods, Knowledge, Beauty, and Strength. Summoned by Death, Ev¬ eryman Ends only Good Deeds willing to accompany him to the grave. In UA Worn Path,’1 Phoenix is another character who undertakes a journey, but Phoe¬ nix’s journey is not allegorical. A good case might be made, however, for taking Phoenix’s journey as a symbol of the human ability to endure and survive. It remains to sav what a literarv symbol is. It is characteristic of the literarv symbol, as opposed to the allegorical device, that it is difficult to name what the symbol stands for. If it were not difficult, the author could name it without troubling himself to invent a literary symbol; the French poet Stephane Mallarme called the symbol “the new word,” suggesting that the writer creates in symbols new concepts previously unexpressed. Perhaps we would call “Goose¬ berries” a “new word.” In the context of his story, Chekhov makes gooseber¬ ries stand for something. The attempt to name the symbol of “Gooseberries” feels awkward and inadequate, but the image of gooseberries remains when we have finished the story, resonant in our memories like a figure from a dream. When we read a story, certain clues suggest the presence of symbolism; we discover a symbol in a story by its aura of import, its obsessive presence, its inexplicability. Often but not always the presence of fantasy suggests symbol¬ ism. Here are two symbolic stories that—unlike “A Worn Path” or “Gooseber¬ ries”—are dreamlike and fantastic.

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Young Goodman Brown Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804—1864) is the first great author of American literature. One of his ancestors was a judge at the Salem witch trials, and Hawthorne throughout his life expressed ambivalence toward his Puritan past. His father was a sea captain who died on a voyage when Nathaniel was four. Growing up in a small town in Maine, he attended Bowdoin College as a classmate of Longfellow and roommate of Franklin Pierce, who became president. After college lie began to write, mixing his literary pursuits with various government posts. President Pierce made him American consul at Liverpool in 1853, after which he spent some time in Italy. Next to his novels The Scarlet Letter (1848) and The House of the Seven Gables (1851), Hawthorne’s short stories are his best work.

Young Goodman Brown came forth at sunset into the street at Salem village;1 but put his head back, after crossing the threshold, to exchange a parting kiss with his young wife. And Faith, as the wife was aptly named, thrust her own pretty head into the street, letting the wind play with the pink ribbons of her cap while she called to Goodman Brown. “Dearest heart,” whispered she, softly and rather sadly, when her lips were close to his ear, “prithee put off your journey until sunrise and sleep in your own bed to-night. A lone woman is troubled with such dreams and such thoughts that

fin 1692 nineteen people were executed in Salem, Massachusetts, after being convicted of witch-

craft.

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Symbolism

she’s afeared of hersell' sometimes. Pray tarty with me this night, dear husband, of all nights in the year. ” “My love and my Faith,” replied young Goodman Brown, “of all nights in the year, this one night must I tarry away from thee. My journey, as thou callest it, forth and back again, must needs be done ’twixt now and sunrise. What, my sweet, pretty wife, dost thou doubt me already, and we but three months married?” “Then God bless you!” said Faith, with the pink ribbons; “and may you find all well when you come back. ” “Amen!” cried Goodman Brown. “Say thy prayers, dear Faith, and go to bed at dusk, and no harm will come to thee.” So they parted; and die young man pursued his way until, being about to turn the comer by the meeting-house, he looked back and saw the head of Faith still peeping after him with a melancholy air in spite of her pink ribbons. “Poor littie Faith!” thought he, for his heart smote him. “What a wretch am I to leave her on such an errand! She talks of dreams, too. Methought as she spoke fiiere was trouble in her face, as if a dream had warned her what work is to be done to-night. But no, no; ’twould kill her to think it. Well, she’s a blessed angel on earth; and after this one night I’ll cling to her skirts and follow her to heaven. ” With diis excellent resolve for the future, Goodman Brown felt himself justified in making more haste on his present evil purpose. He had taken a drearv road, darkened by all the gloomiest trees of the forest, which barelv stood aside to let die narrow path creep dirough, and closed immediately behind. It was all as lonely as could be; and there is this peculiarity in such a solitude, that the traveller knows not who may be concealed by the innumerable trunks and the thick boughs over¬ head; so that with lonely footsteps he may yet be passing through an unseen multitude. “There may be a devilish Indian behind eveiv tree,” said Goodman Brown to himself; and he glanced fearfully behind him as he added, “What if the devil himself should be at my very elbow!” His head being turned back, he passed a crook ol the road, and, looking forward again, beheld die figure of a man, in grave and decent attire, seated at the foot of an old tree. He arose at Goodman Brown’s approach and walked onward side by side with him. \ou are late, Goodman Brown, said he. “The clock of the Old South was striking as I came through Boston, and that is full fifteen minutes agone.” “Faith kept me back a while,” replied the young man, with a tremor in his voice, caused by the sudden appearance of his companion, though not wholly unex¬ pected. It was now deep dusk in the forest, and deepest in that part of it where fiiese two were journeying. As nearly as could be discerned, the second traveller was about fifty years old, apparenfiv in the same rank of life as Goodman Brown, and bearing a considerable resemblance to him, though perhaps more in expression than features. Still they might have been taken for father and son. And yet, though the elder person was as simply clad as the younger, and as simple in manner too, he had an indescribable air of one who knew the world, and who would not have felt abashed at the governor’s dinner table or in King William’s court, were it possible that his affairs should call him thither. But the only thing about him that could be fixed upon as remarkable was his staff, which bore the likeness of a great black snake, so curiously wrought Fiat it might almost be seen to twist and wriggle

Nathaniel Hawthorne

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itself like a living serpent. This, of course, must have been an ocular deception, assisted by the uncertain light. “Come, Goodman Brown,” cried his fellow-traveller, “this is a dull place for the beginning of a journey. Take my staff, if you are so soon weary.” “Friend,” said the other, exchanging his slow pace for a full stop, “having kept covenant by meeting thee here, it is my purpose now to return whence I came. I have scruples touching the matter thou wot’st of. ” “Sayest thou so?” replied he of the serpent, smiling apart. “Let us walk on, nevertheless, reasoning as we go; and if I convince thee not thou shalt turn back. We are but a little way in the forest yet. ” “Too far! too far!” exclaimed the goodman, unconsciously resuming his walk. “My father never went into the woods on such an errand, nor his father before him. We have been a race of honest men and good Christians since the days of the martyrs; and shall I be the first of the name of Brown that ever took this path and kept—” “Such company, thou wouldst say,” observed the elder person, interpreting his pause. “Well said, Goodman Brown! I have been as well acquainted with your family as with ever a one among the Puritans; and that’s no trifle to say. I helped your grandfather, die constable, when he lashed the Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem; and it was I that brought your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in King Philip’s war.1 They were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have we had along this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you for their sake. ” “If it be as thou sayest,” replied Goodman Brown, “I marvel they never spoke of these matters; or, verily, I marvel not, seeing that the least rumor of the sort would have driven them from New England. We are a people of prayer, and good works to boot, and abide no such wickedness. ” “Wickedness or not,” said the traveller with the twisted staff, “I have a very general acquaintance here in New England. Idle deacons of many a church have drunk the communion wine with me; the selectmen of divers towns make me their chairman; and a majority of the Great and General Court' are firm supporters of my interest. The governor and I, too—But these are state secrets. ” “Can this be so?” cried Goodman Brown, with a stare of amazement at his undisturbed companion. “Howbeit, I have nothing to do with the govenor and council; they have their own ways, and are no rule for a simple husbandman like me. But, were I to go on with thee, how should I meet the eye of that good old man, or minister, at Salem village? Oh, his voice would make me tremble both Sabbath day and lecture3 day.” Thus far the elder traveller had listened with due gravity; but now burst into a fit of irrepressible mirth, shaking himself so violently that his snakelike staff ac¬ tually seemed to wriggle in sympathy. “Ila! ha! ha!” shouted he again and again; then composing himself, “Well, go on, Goodman Brown, go on; but, prithee, don’t kill me with laughing.”

'The last Indian uprising against the Puritan colonists (1675—1676). King Philip was also 3 A midweek sermon, known as Metacomet. ~The colonial legislature of Massachusetts ( olony often delivered on Thursday

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Symbolism

Well, then, to end the matter at once,” said Goodman Brown,7 considerably J nettled, “there is my wife, Faith. It would break her dear little heart; and I’d rather break mv own. ” j

25

“Nay, if that be the case,” answered the other, “e’en go thy ways, Goodman Brown. I would not for twenty old women like the one hobbling before us that Faith should come to any harm. ” As he spoke he pointed his staff at a female figure on the path, in whom Good¬ man Brown recognized a very pious and exemplary dame, who had taught him his catechism in youth, and was still his moral and spiritual adviser, jointly with the minister and Deacon Gookin. A marvel, truly, that Goody Cloyse1 should be so far in the wilderness at night¬ fall,” said he. “But with your leave, friend, I shall take a cut through the woods until we have left this Christian woman behind. Being a stranger to you, she might ask whom I was consorting with and whither I was going. ” “Be it so,” said his fellow-traveller. “Betake you die woods, and let me keep the path.”

30

Accordingly the young man turned aside, but took care to watch his companion, who advanced softly along the road until he had come within a staffs length of the old dame. She, meanwhile, was making the best of her way, with singular speed for so aged a woman, and mumbling some indistinct words—a prayer, doubtless_ as she went. The traveller put forth his staff and touched her withered neck with what seemed the serpent’s tail. “The devil!” screamed the pious old lady. “Then Goody Cloyse knows her old friend?” observed the traveller, confronting her and leaning on his writhing stick. “Ah, forsooth, and is it your worship indeed?” cried the good dame. ‘Tea, truly it is, and in the veiv image of my old gossip,2 Goodman Brown, the grandfather of tlie silly fellow that now is. But—would your worship believe it?—mv broom¬ stick hath strangely disappeared, stolen, as I suspect, by that unhanged witch. Goody Cory, and that, too, when I was all anointed with die juice of smallage, and cinquefoil, and wolfs bane—” ^ “Mingled with fme wheat and die fat of a new-born babe,” said the shape of old Goodman Brown. “Ah, your worship knows the recipe,” cried the old lady, cackling aloud. “So, as I was saying, being all ready for die meeting, and no horse to ride on, I made up my mind to foot it; for they tell me tiiere is a nice young man to be taken into communion to-night. But now your good worship will lend me your arm, and we shall be there in a twinkling. ”

35

That can hardly be,” answered her friend. “I may not spare you my arm, Goody Cloyse; but here is my staff, if you will.” So saying, he threw it down at her feet, where, perhaps, it assumed life, being one of the rods which its owner had formerly lent to the Egyptian magi.3 Of this fact, however, Goodman Brown coidd not take cognizance. He had cast up his eyes in astonishment, and, looking down again, beheld neitiier Goody Cloyse nor die serpentine staff, but his fellow-traveller alone, who waited for him as calmly as if nothing had happened.

Tie ical name of a woman condemned in 1692. Goody is a contraction of Goodwife, which like Goodman was an epithet for a married person. 2Friend 3Exodus 7

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“That old woman taught me my catechism,” said die young man; and diere was a world of meaning in this simple comment. They continued to walk onward, while die elder traveller exhorted his compan¬ ion to make good speed and persevere in the path, discoursing so aptly that his arguments seemed rather to spring up in the bosom of his auditor than to be suggested by himself. As they went, he plucked a branch of maple to serve for a walking stick, and began to strip it of the twigs and hide boughs, which were wet with evening dew. The moment his fingers touched them diey became strangely withered and dried up as with a week’s sunshine. Thus the pair proceeded, at a good free pace, until suddenly, in a gloomy hollow of die road, Goodman Brown sat himself down on the stump of a tree and refused to go any farther. “Friend,” said he, stubbornly, “my mind is made up. Not another step wifi I budge on this errand. What if a wretched old woman do choose to go to the devil when I thought she was going to heaven: is that any reason why I should quit my dear Faith and go after her?” “You will think better of this by and by,” said his acquaintance, composedly. “Sit here and rest yourself a while; and when you feel like moving again, there is my staff to help you along. ” Without more words, he threw his companion the maple stick, and was as speedily out of sight as if he had vanished into the deepening gloom. The young man sat a few moments by the roadside, applauding himself greatly, and thinking with how clear a conscience he should meet the minister in his morning walk, nor shrink from the eye of good old Deacon Gookin. And what calm sleep would be his that very night, which was to have been spent so wickedly, but so purely and sweetly now, in the arms of Faidi! Amidst these pleasant and praiseworthy meditations, Goodman Brown heard the tramp of horses along the road, and deemed it advisable to conceal himself within the verge of the forest, conscious of the guilty purpose that had brought him thither, though now so happily turned from it. On came the hoof tramps and the voices of the riders, two grave old voices, conversing soberly as they drew near. These mingled sounds appeared to pass along the road, within a few yards of the young man’s hiding-place; but, owing doubtless to the depth of the gloom at that particular spot, neither the travellers nor their steeds were visible. Though dieir figures brushed die small boughs by the wayside, it could not be seen that they intercepted, even for a moment, the faint gleam from the strip of bright sky athwart which they must have passed. Goodman Brown alternately crouched and stood on tiptoe, pulling aside the branches and thrusting forth his head as far as he durst without discerning so much as a shadow. It vexed him the more, because he could have sworn, were such a thing possible, diat he recognized the voices of the minister and Deacon Gookin, jogging along quietly, as they were wont to do, when bound to some ordination or ecclesiastical council. While yet within hearing, one of the riders stopped to pluck a switch. “Of the two, reverend sir,” said the voice like the deacon’s, “I had rather miss an ordination dinner than to-night’s meeting. They tell me that some of our com¬ munity are to be here from Falmouth and beyond, and others from Connecticut and Rhode Island, besides several of the Indian powwows,1 who, after their fash-

Medicine men

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Symbolism

ion, blow almost as much deviltry as the best of us. Moreover, there is a goodly young woman to be taken into communion. ” “Mighty well, Deacon Gookin!” replied the solemn old tones of the minister. Spur up, or we shall be late. Nothing can be done, you know, until I get on the ground. ” The hoofs clattered again; and the voices talking so strangely in the empty air, passed on through the forest, where no church had ever been gathered or solitary Christian prayed. Whither, then, could these holy men be journeying so deep into the heathen wilderness? \ oung Goodman Brown caught hold of a tree for support, being ready to sink down on the ground, faint and overburdened with the heavy sickness of his heart. He looked up to the sky, doubting whether there really was a heaven above him. Yet there was the blue arch, and the stars brightening in it. ^ “With heaven above and Faith below, I will stand firm against the devil!” cried Goodman Brown. While he still gazed upward into the deep arch of the firmament and had lifted his hands to pray, a cloud, though no wind was stirring, hurried across the zenith and hid the brightening stars. The blue sky was still visible, except directly over¬ head, where this black mass of cloud was sweeping swiftlv northward. Aloft in the air, as if from the depths of the cloud, came a confused and doubtful sound of voices. Once die listener fancied that he could distinguish the accents of towns¬ people of his own, men and women, both pious and ungodly, many of whom he had met at the communion table, and had seen others rioting at the tavern. The next moment, so indistinct were the sounds, he doubted whether he had heard aught but the murmur of the old forest, whispering without a wind. Then came a stronger swell of those familiar tones, heard daily in the sunshine at Salem village, but never until now from a cloud of night. There was one voice, of a young woman, uttering lamentations, vet with an uncertain sorrow, and entreating for some favor, which, perhaps, it would grieve her to obtain; and all the unseen multitude, both saints and sinners, seemed to encourage her onward. “Faith!” shouted Goodman Brown, in a voice of agony and desperation; and the echoes of the forest mocked him, ciying, “Faith! Faith!” as if bewildered wretches were seeking her ah through the wilderness. The cry of grief, rage, and terror was yet piercing the night, when the unhappy husband held his breath for a response. There wras a scream, drowned immediately in a louder murmur of voices, fading into far-off laughter, as the dark cloud swept away, lea\ing the clear and silent sky above Goodman Browm. But something fluttered lightly dowm through the air and caught on the branch of a tree. The young man seized it, and beheld a pink ribbon. ' M\ I aith is gone! cried he, after one stupefied moment. “There is no good on earth, and sin is but a name. Come, devil; for to thee is this world given.” And, maddened with despair, so that he laughed loud and long, did Goodman Brown grasp his staff and set forth again, at such a rate that he seemed to flv along the forest path rather than to wralk or run. The road grew wilder and drearier and moie faintly traced, and vanished at length, leaving him in die heart of the dark wilderness, still rushing onward with the instinct that guides mortal man to evil. Fhe whole forest was peopled with frightful sounds—the creaking of the trees, the howling of wild beasts, and the yell of Indians; while sometimes the wind tolled like a distant church bell, and sometimes gave a broad roar around the traveller, as if all Nature were laughing him to scorn. But he was himself the chief horror of the scene, and shrank not from its other horrors.

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“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Goodman Brown when die wind laughed at him. “Let us hear which will laugh loudest. Think not to frighten me with your deviltry. Come witch, come wizard, come Indian powwow, come devil himself, and here comes Goodman Brown. You may as well fear him as he fear you.” In truth, all dirough the haunted forest diere could be nodiing more frightful than the figure of Goodman Brown. On he flew among the black pines, brandishing his staff with frenzied gestures, now giving vent to an inspiration of horrid blas¬ phemy, and now shouting forth such laughter as set all the echoes of die forest laughing like demons around him. "Hie fiend in his own shape is less hideous than when he rages in the breast of man. Thus sped the demoniac on his course, until, quivering among the trees, he saw a red light before him, as when the felled trunks and branches of a clearing have been set on fire, and dirow up their lurid blaze against die sky, at the hour of midnight. He paused, in a lull the of tempest that had driven him onward, and heard the swell of what seemed a hymn, rolling solemnly from a distance with the weight of many voices. He knew the tune; it was a familiar one in the choir of the village meeting-house. The verse died heavily away, and was lengthened by a chorus, not of human voice, but of all die sounds of the benighted wilderness pealing in awful harmony together. Goodman Brown cried out, and his cry was lost to his own ear by its unison with die cry of the desert. In the interval of silence he stole forward until die light glared full upon his eyes. At one extremity of an open space, hemmed in by the dark wall of the forest, arose a rock, bearing some rude, natural resemblance either to an altar or a pulpit, and surrounded by four blazing pines, their tops aflame, dieir stems untouched, like candles at an evening meeting. The mass of foliage that had overgrown the summit of the rock was all on fire, blazing high into die night and fitfully illuminating die whole held. Each pendent twig and leafy festoon was in a blaze. As the red light arose and fell, a numerous congregation alternately shone forth, then disappeared in shadow, and again grew, as it were, out of the darkness, peopling the heart of the solitary woods at once. “A grave and dark-clad company,” quoth Goodman Brown. In truth they were such. Among them, quivering to and fro between gloom and splendor, appeared faces that would be seen next day at the council board of die province, and others which, Sabbath after Sabbath, looked devoudy heavenward, and benignantlv over the crowded pews, from the holiest pulpits in the land. Some affirm that the lady of the governor was there. At least there were high dames well known to her, and wives of honored husbands, and widows, a great multitude, and ancient maidens, all of excellent repute, and fair young girls, who trembled lest their mothers should espy them. Either the sudden gleams of light flashing over the obscure held bedazzled Goodman Brown, or he recognized a score of the church members of Salem village famous for their especial sanctity7. Good old Deacon Gookin had arrived, and waited at the skirts of that venerable saint, his revered pastor. But, irreverently consorting with these grave, reputable, and pious people, these elders of die church, these chaste dames and dewy virgins, there were men of dissolute lives and women of spotted fame, wretches given over to all mean and hlthv vice, and suspected even of horrid crimes. It wras strange to see that the good shrank not from the wicked, nor w7cre the sinners abashed by die saints. Scattered also among their pale-faced enemies w7ere the Indian priests, or powwows, wrho had often scared their native forest with more hideous incan¬ tations than any known to English witchcraft.

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Symbolism

But where is Faith?” thought Goodman Brown; and, as hope came into his heart, he trembled. Another verse of the hymn arose, a slow and mournful strain, such as the pious love, but joined to words which expressed all that our nature can conceive of sin, and darkly hinted at far more. Unfathomable to mere mortals is the lore of fiends. Verse after verse was sung; and still the chorus of the desert swelled between like die deepest tone of a mighty organ; and with the final peal of that dreadful anthem there came a sound, as if the roaring wind, the rushing streams, the howling beasts, and every othei voice of the unconcerted wilderness were mingling and according with the voice of guilty man in homage to the prince of all. The four blazing pines threw up a loftier flame, and obscurely discovered shapes and visages of horror on die smoke wreaths above the impious assembly. At the same moment the fire on the rock shot redly forth and formed a glowing arch above its base, where now appeared a figure. With reverence be it spoken, the figure bore no slight similitude, bodi in garb and manner, to some grave divine of the New Eng¬ land churches. “Bring forth the converts!” cried a voice that echoed through the field and rolled into the forest. 60

At the word, Goodman Brown stepped forth from the shadow of die trees and approached the congregation, with whom he felt a loathful brotherhood by the s\ mpathy of all that was wicked in his heart. He could have well-nigh sworn that the shape of his own dead father beckoned him to advance, looking downward from a smoke wreath, while a woman, with dim features of despair, threw out her hand to warn him back. Was it his mother? But he had no power to retreat one step, nor to resist, even in thought, when the minister and good old Deacon Gooldn seized his arms and led him to the blazing rock. Thither came also die slender form of a veiled female, led between Goody Clovse, that pious teacher of the catechism, and Martha Carrier, who had received the devil’s promise to be queen of hell. A rampant hag was she. And there stood the proselytes beneath the canopy of fire. V elcome, my children said the dark figure, “to the communion of your race. e have found thus young your nature and your destinv. My children, look behind you!” Fhey turned; and flashing forth, as it were, in a sheet of flame, the fiend wor¬ shippers were seen; the smile of welcome gleamed darkly on every visage. There, resumed the sable form, are all whom ye have reverenced from youth. 4 e deemed them holier than yourselves, and shrank from your own sin, contrast¬ ing it with their lives of righteousness and prayerful aspirations heavenward. Yet here are they all in my worshipping assembly. This night it shall be granted you to know their secret deeds: how hoary-bearded elders of the church have whis¬ pered wanton words to the young maids of their households; how many a woman, eager for widows’ weeds, has given her husband a drink at bedtime and let him sleep his last sleep in her bosom; how beardless youths have made haste to inherit their fadrers’ wealth; and how fair damsels—blush not, sweet ones—have dug little graves in the garden, and bidden me, the sole guest, to an infant’s funeral. By the sympathy of your human hearts for sin ye shall scent out all the places—whether in church, bed-chamber, street, field, or forest—where crime has been committed, and shall exult to behold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one mighty blood spot! Far more than this. It shall be yours to penetrate, in every bosom, the deep mystery of sin, the fountain of all wicked arts, and which inexhaustibly supplies more evil

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impulses than human power—than my power at its utmost—can make manifest in deeds. And now, my children, look upon each other.” They did so; and, by the blaze of the hell-kindled torches, the wretched man beheld his Faith, and the wife her husband, trembling before that unhallowed altar. “Lo, there ye stand, my children,” said the figure, in a deep and solemn tone, almost sad with its despairing awfulness, as if his once angelic nature could yet mourn for our miserable race. “Depending upon one another’s hearts, ye had still hoped that virtue were not all a dream. Now are ye undeceived. Evil is the nature of mankind. Evil must be your only happiness. Welcome again, my children, to the communion of your race.” “Welcome,” repeated the fiend worshippers, in one cry of despair and triumph. And there they stood, the only pair, as it seemed, who were yet hesitating on the verge of wickedness in this dark world. A basin was hallowed, naturally, in the rock. Did it contain water, reddened by the lurid light! or was it blood? or, perchance, a liquid flame? Herein did the shape of evil dip his hand and prepare to lay tlie mark of baptism upon their foreheads, that they might be partakers of the mystery of sin, more conscious of the secret guilt of others, both in deed and thought, than they could now be of their own. The husband cast one look at his pale wife, and Faith at him. What polluted wretches would the next glance show them to each other, shuddering alike at what they disclosed and what they saw! “Faith! Faith!” cried the husband, “look up to heaven, and resist die wicked one. ” Whether Faith obeyed he knew not. Hardly had he spoken when he found him¬ self amid calm night and solitude, listening to a roar of the wind which died heavily away through the forest. He staggered against the rock, and felt it chill and damp; while a hanging twig, that had been all on fire, besprinkled his cheek with the coldest dew. Idle next morning young Goodman Brown came slowly into the street of Salem village, staring around him like a bewildered man. The good old minister was talcing a walk along the graveyard to get an appetite for breakfast and meditate his sermon, and bestowed a blessing, as he passed, on Goodman Brown. He shrank from the venerable saint as if to avoid anathema. Old Deacon Gookin was at domestic worship, and the holy words of his prayer were heard through the open window. “What God doth the wizard pray to?” quoth Goodman Brown. Goody Clovse, that excellent old Christian, stood in the early sunshine at her own lattice, catechizing a lithe girl who had brought her a pint of morning’s milk. Goodman Brown snatched away the child as from the grasp of the fiend himself. Turning the comer by the meeting-house, he spied the head of Faith, with the pink ribbons, gazing anxiously forth, and bursting into such joy at sight of him that she skipped along the street and almost kissed her husband before the whole village. But Goodman Brown looked sternly and sadly into her face, and passed on without a greeting. Had Goodman Brown fallen asleep in the forest and only dreamed a wild dream of a witch-meeting? Be it so if you will; but, alas! it was a dream of evil omen for young Goodman Brown. A stem, a sad, a darkly meditative, a distrustful, if not a desperate man did he become from the night of that fearful dream. On the Sabbath day, when the congregation were singing a holy psalm, he could not listen because an anthem of sin rushed loudly upon his ear and drowned all the blessed strain. When the minister spoke from the pulpit with power and fervid eloquence, and, with his

150

Symbolism

hand on the open Bible, of the sacred truths of our religion, and of saint-like lives and triumphant deaths, and of future bliss or miseiy unutterable, then did Good¬ man Brown turn pale, dreading lest the roof should thunder down upon the gray blasphemer and his hearers. Often, awaking suddenly at midnight, he shrank from die bosom of Faith; and at morning or eventide, when the family knelt down at prayer, he scowled and muttered to himself, and gazed sternly at his wife, and turned away. And when he had lived long, and was borne to his grave a hoaiy corpse, followed by Faith, an aged woman, and children and grandchildren, a goodly procession, besides neighbors not a few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone, for his dying hour was gloom. v

Questions on symbolism . . . 1. Is Goodman an allegorical name like Everyman? What sort of a name is Brown? Can names be symbolic? Ironic? 2. Is this tale an allegory? Why? 3. Who is it that Young Goodman Brown meets in the forest? Discuss the staff the man carries. Why does Hawthorne suggest a reasonable explanation for its appearance? 4. Why do Young Goodman Brown and his companion look alike? Is the forest itself a symbol? Is it conventional, natural, traditional, or liter¬ ary? 6. Does symbolism enhance the theme of this story?

. . . and other elements 7. What is the point of view? Who thinks that Faith is aptly named? 8. What happened before the beginning of this store? Howt do vou know^ about it? 9. Can \ou find a motif of reversals in this story? List all the reversals you can find. 10. Was it all a dream? What kind of experience has Young Goodman Brown undergone?

I ran/, Kafka

A Hunger Artist Translated by Edwin and Willa Muir Franz Kafka (1883-1924) made fantastic and symbolic fictions. In “The Metamorphosis” the hero is transformed into a gigantic insect. His Amerika (1927) is a symbolic country, and The Castle (1926) is a symbolic structure. Kafka was an insurance clerk who published little in his lifetime and who, when he died of tuberculosis, requested that his manuscripts be burned. Fortunately for us his best friend ignored his request.

During these last decades the interest in professional fasting has markedly dimin¬ ished. It used to pay very well to stage such great performances under one’s own management, but today that is quite impossible. We live in a different world now. At one time the wrhole town took a lively interest in the hunger artist; from day to day of his fast the excitement mounted; everybody wanted to see him at least once a day; there were people who bought season tickets for the last few days and sat

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from morning till night in front of his small barred cage; even in the nighttime there were visiting hours, when the whole effect was heightened by torch flares; on fine days the cage was sent out in the open air, and then it was the children’s special treat to see the hunger artist; for their elders he was often just a joke that happened to be in fashion, but the children stood open-mouthed, holding each other’s hands for greater security, marveling at him as he sat there pallid in black tights, with his ribs sticking out so prominently, not even on a seat but down among straw on the ground, sometimes giving a courteous nod, answering ques¬ tions with a constrained smile, or perhaps stretching an arm through the bars so that one might feel how thin it was, and then again withdrawing deep into himself, paying no attention to anyone or anything, not even to the all-important striking of the clock that was the only piece of furniture in his cage, but merely staring into vacancy with half-shut eyes, now and then taking a sip from a tiny glass of water to moisten his lips. Besides casual onlookers there were also relays of permanent watchers selected bv the public, usually butchers, strangely enough, and it was their task to watch the hunger artist day and night, three of them at a time, in case he should have some secret recourse to nourishment, dliis was nothing but a formality, instituted to reassure the masses, for the initiates knew well enough that during his fast the artist would never in any circumstances, not even under forcible compulsion, swallow the smallest morsel of food; the honor of his profession forbade it. Not every watcher, of course, was capable of understanding this, there were often groups of night watchers who were very lax in earning out their duties and delib¬ erately huddled together in a retired comer to play cards with great absorption, obviously intending to give the hunger artist the chance of a little refreshment, which they supposed he could draw from some private hoard. Nothing annoyed the artist more than such watchers; they made him miserable; they made his fast seem unendurable; sometimes he mastered his feebleness sufficiently to sing dur¬ ing their watch for as long as he could keep going, to show them how unjust their suspicions were. But that was of little use; they only wondered at his cleverness in being able to fill his mouth even while singing. Much more to his taste were the watchers who sat close up to the bars, who were not content with the dim night lighting of the hall but focused him in the full glare of the electric pocket torch given them by the impresario, lire harsh light did not trouble him at all. In any case he could never sleep properly, and he could always drowse a little, what¬ ever the light, at any hour, even when the hall was thronged with noisy onlookers. He was quite happy at the prospect of spending a sleepless night with such watch¬ ers; he was ready to exchange jokes with them, to tell them stories out of his nomadic life, anvthing at all to keep them awake and demonstrate to them again that he had no eatables in his cage and that he was lasting as not one ol them could fast. But his happiest moment was when the morning came and an enor¬ mous breakfast was brought them, at his expense, on which they flung themselves with the keen appetite of healthy men after a weary night of wakefulness. Of course there were people who argued that this breakfast was an unfair attempt to bribe the watchers, but that was going rather too tar, and when they were invited to take on a night’s vigil without a breakfast, merely for the sake of the cause, they made themselves scarce, although they stuck stubbornly to their suspicions. Such suspicions, anyhow, were a necessary accompaniment to the profession of fasting. No one could possibly watch the hunger artist continuously, day and night, and so no one could produce first-hand evidence that the fast had really

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Symbolism

been rigorous and continuous; only the artist himself could know that; he was therefore bound to be the sole completely satisfied spectator of his own fast. Yet for other reasons he was never satisfied; it was not perhaps mere fasting that had brought him to such skeleton thinness that many people had regretfully to keep away from his exhibitions, because the sight of him was too much for them, perhaps it was dissatisfaction with himsell that had worn him down. For he alone knew, what no other initiate knew, how easy it was to fast. It was the easiest tiling in the world. He made no secret of this, yet people did not believe him; at tlie best they set him down as modest, most of them, however, thought he was out for publicity or else was some kind of cheat who found it easy to fast because he had discovered a way of making it easy, and then had the impudence to admit the fact, more or less. He had to put up with all that, and in the course of time had got used to it, but his inner dissatisfaction always rankled, and never yet, after any term of fasting—this must be granted to his credit-had he left the cage of his own free will. The longest period of fasting was fixed by his impresario at forty days, beyond that term he was not allowed to go, not even in great cities, and there was good reason for it, too. Experience had proved that for about forty days the interest of the public could be stimulated by a steadily increasing pressure of advertisement, but after that the town began to lose interest, sympathetic support began notably to fall off; there were of course local variations as between one town and another or one country and another, but as a general rule fortv days marked the limit. So on the fortieth day the flower-bedecked cage was opened, enthusiastic spectators filled the hall, a military band played, two doctors entered the cage to measure the results of the fast, which were announced through a megaphone, and finally two young ladies appeared, blissful at having been selected for the honor, to help the hunger artist down the few steps leading to a small table on which was spread a carefully chosen invalid repast. And at this veiv moment the artist always turned stubborn. True, he would entrust his bony amis to the outstretched helping hands of the ladies bending over him, but stand up he would not. Why stop fasting at this particular moment, after forty days of it? He had held out for a long time, an illimitably long time; why stop now, when he was in his best fasting form, or rather, not yet quite in his best fasting form? Why should he be cheated of the fame he would get for fasting longer, for being not only the record hunger artist of all time, which presumably he was already, but for beating his own record by a performance beyond human imagination, since he felt that there were no limits to his capacity for fasting? His public pretended to admire him so much, why should it ha\ e so little patience with him; he could endure fasting longer, why shouldn’t the public endure it? Besides, he was tired, he was comfortable sitting in the straw, and now he was supposed to lift himself to his full height and go down to a meal the very thought of which gave him a nausea that only the presence of the ladies kept him from betraying, and even that with an effort. And he looked up into tlie eyes of the ladies who were apparently so friendly and in reality so cruel, and shook his head, which felt too heavy on its strengthless neck. But then there happened yet again what always happened. The impresario came forward, without a word—for the band made speech impossible—lifted his arms in the ah above the artist, as if inviting Heaven to look down upon its creature here in the straw, this suffering martyr, which indeed he was, although in quite another sense, grasped him round the emaciated waist, with exaggerated caution, so that the frail condi¬ tion he was in might be appreciated; and committed him to the care of the blench¬ ing ladies, not without secretly giving him a shaking so that his legs and body

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tottered and swayed. The artist now submitted completely; his head lolled on his breast as if it had landed there by chance; his body was hollowed out; his legs in a spasm of self-preservation clung close to each other at the knees, yet scraped on the ground as if it were not really solid ground, as if they were only trying to find solid ground; and the whole weight of his body, a feather-weight after all, relapsed onto one of the ladies, who, looking round for help and panting a little— this post of honor was not at all what she had expected it to be—first stretched her neck as far as she could to keep her face at least free from contact with die artist, dien finding this impossible, and her more fortunate companion not coming to her aid but merely holding extended on her own trembling hand the little bunch of knucklebones that was the artist’s, to die great delight of the spectators burst into tears and had to be replaced by an attendant who had long been stationed in readiness. Then came the food, a little of which die impresario managed to get between the artist’s lips, while he sat in a kind of half-fainting trance, to the accompaniment of cheerful patter designed to distract the public’s attention from the artist’s condition; after that, a toast was drunk to the public, supposedly prompted by a whisper from the artist in the impresario’s ear; the band confirmed it with a mighty flourish, the spectators melted away, and no one had any cause to be dissatisfied with die proceedings, no one except the hunger artist himself, he only, as always. So he lived for many years, with small regular intervals of recuperation, in visible glory, honored by the world, yet in spite of that troubled in spirit, and all the more troubled because no one would take his trouble seriously. What comfort coidd he possibly need? What more could he possibly wish for? And if some good-natured person, feeling sorry for him, tried to console him by pointing out that his mel¬ ancholy was probably caused by fasting, it could happen, especially when he had been fasting for some time, that he reacted with an outburst of fury and to the general alarm began to shake the bars of his cage like a wild animal. Yet the impresario had a way of punishing these outbreaks which he rather enjoyed putting into operation. lie would apologize publicly for die artist’s behavior, which was only to be excused, he admitted, because of the irritability caused by fasting; a condition hardly to be understood by well-fed people; then by natural transition he went on to mention the artist’s equally incomprehensible boast that he could fast for much longer than he was doing; he praised die high ambition, the good will, the great self-denial undoubtedly implicit in such a statement; and then quite simplv countered it by bringing out photographs, which were also on sale to the public, showing the artist on the fortieth day of a fast lying in bed almost dead from exhaustion. This perversion of the truth, familiar to the artist though it was, always unnerved him afresh and proved too much for him. What was a conse¬ quence of the premature ending of his fast was here presented as the cause of it! To fight against this lack of understanding, against a whole world of nonunder¬ standing, was impossible. Time and again in good faith lie stood by the bars listening to the impresario, but as soon as the photographs appeared he always let go and sank with a groan back on to his straw, and the reassured public could once more come close and gaze at him. A few vears later when the witnesses of such scenes called them to mind, they often failed to understand themselves at all. For meanwhile the aforementioned change in public interest had set in; it seemed to happen almost overnight; there may have been profound causes for it, but who was going to bother about that; at any rate the pampered hunger artist suddenly found himself deserted one line day

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by the amusement seekers, who went streaming past him to other more favored attractions. For the last time the impresario hurried him over half Europe to dis¬ cover whether the old interest might still survive here and there; all in vain; everywhere, as if by secret agreement, a positive revulsion from professional fast¬ ing was in evidence. Of course it could not really have sprung up so suddenly as all that, and many premonitory symptoms which had not been sufficiently re¬ marked or suppressed during the rush and glitter of success now came retrospec¬ tively to mind, but it was now too late to take any counter-measures. Fasting would surely come into fashion again at some future date, yet that was no comfort for those living in the present. What, then, was tF^e hunger artist to do? Fie had been applauded by thousands in his time and could hardly come down to showing himself in a street booth at village fairs, and as for adopting another profession, he was not only too old for that but too fanatically devoted to fasting. So he took leave of the impresario, his partner in an unparalleled career, and hired himself to a large circus; in order to spare his own feelings he avoided reading the conditions of his contract. A large circus with its enormous traffic in replacing and recruiting men, animals and apparatus can always find a use for people at any time, even for a hunger artist, provided of course diat he does not ask too much, and in this particular case anyhow it was not only the artist who was taken on but his famous and longknown name as well; indeed considering the peculiar nature of his performance, which was not impaired by advancing age, it could not be objected that here was an artist past his prime, no longer at the height of his professional skill, seeking a refuge in some quiet comer of a circus; on the contrary, the hunger artist averred that he could fast as well as ever, which was entirely credible; he even alleged that if he were allowed to fast as he liked, and this was at once promised him without more ado, he could astound the world by establishing a record never yet achieved, a statement which certainly provoked a smile among the other professionals, since it left out of account the change in public opinion, which die hunger artist in his zeal conveniently forgot. I Ie had not, however, actually lost his sense of the real situation and took it as a matter of course that he and his cage should be stationed, not in the middle of the ring as a main attraction, but outside, near the animal cages, on a site that was after all easily accessible. Large and gaily painted placards made a frame for the cage and announced what was to be seen inside it. When the public came thronging out in the intervals to see the animals, they could hardly avoid passing the hunger artist’s cage and stopping there for a moment, perhaps they might even hav e stayed longer had not those pressing behind them in the narrow gangway, who did not understand why they should be held up on their way towards the excitements of the menagerie, made it impossible for anyone to stand gazing qui¬ etly for any length of time. And that was the reason why the hunger artist, who had of course been looking forward to these visiting hours as the main achievement of his life, began instead to shrink from them. At first he could hardly wait for the intervals; it was exhilarating to watch the crowds come streaming his way, until only too soon—not even the most obstinate self-deception, clung to almost con¬ sciously, could hold out against the fact-—the conviction wras borne in upon him that these people, most of them, to judge from their actions, again and again, without exception, w^ere all on their way to the menagerie. And the first sight of them from the distance remained the best. For when they reached his cage he was at once deafened by the storm of shouting and abuse that arose from the two

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contending factions, which renewed themselves continuously, of those who wanted to stop and stare at him—he soon began to dislike them more than die others—not out ol real interest but only out of obstinate self-assertiveness, and those who wanted to go straight on to the animals. When the first great rush was past, die stragglers came along, and these, whom nothing could have prevented from stopping to look at him as long as they had breath, raced past with long strides, hardly even glancing at him, in their haste to get to the menagerie in time. And all too rarely did it happen that he had a stroke of luck, when some father of a family fetched up before him with his children, pointed a huger at the hunger artist and explained at length what die phenomenon meant, telling stories of earlier years when he himself had watched similar but much more thrilling performances, and the children, still radier uncomprehending, since neither inside nor outside school had they been sufficiently prepared for this lesson—what did they care about fasting?—yet showed by the brightness of their intent eyes that new and better times might be coming. Perhaps, said the hunger artist to himself many a time, things would be a little better if his cage were set not quite so near the menagerie. That made it too easy for people to make their choice, to say nothing of what he suffered from the stench of the menagerie, the animals’ restlessness by night, the carrying past of raw lumps of flesh for the beasts of prey, the roaring at feeding times, which depressed him continually. But he did not dare to lodge a complaint with the management; after all, he had the animals to tiiank for the troops of people who passed his cage, among whom there might always be one here and there to take an interest in him, and who could tell where they might seclude him if he called attention to his existence and thereby to the fact that, strictiy speaking, he was only an impediment on the way to the menagerie. A small impediment, to be sure, one that grew steadily less. People grew familiar with the strange idea that they could be expected, in times like these, to take an interest in a hunger artist, and with this familiarity the verdict went out against him. He might fast as much as he could, and he did so; but nothing cotdd save him now, people passed him by. Just tiv to explain to anyone the art of fasting! Anyone who has no feeling for it cannot be made to understand it. 'lire fine plac¬ ards grew dirty and illegible, they were tom down; the little notice board telling the number of fast days achieved, which at first was changed carefully every day, had long stayed at the same figure, for after the first few weeks even this small task seemed pointiess to the staff; and so the artist simply fasted on and on, as he had once dreamed of doing, and it was no trouble to him, just as he had always foretold, but no one counted the days, no one, not even the artist himself, knew what records he was already breaking, and his heart grew heavy. And when once in a time some leisurely passer-by stopped, made merry over the old figure on the board and spoke of swindling, that was in its way the stupidest lie ever invented by indifference and inborn malice, since it was not the hunger artist who was cheating; he was working honestly, but the world was cheating him of his record. Many more days went by, however, and that too came to an end. An overseer’s eye fell on the cage one day and he asked the attendants why this perfectly good stage should be left standing there unused with dirty straw inside it; nobody knew, until one man, helped out by the notice board, remembered about the hunger artist. They poked into the straw with sticks and found him in it. “Are you still fasting?” asked the overseer. “When on earth do you mean to stop?” “Forgive me, everybody,” whispered the hunger artist; only the overseer, who had his car to the

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bars, understood him. “Of course,” said the overseer, and tapped his forehead with a finger to let the attendants know what state the man was in, “we forgive you.” “I always wanted you to admire my fasting,” said the hunger artist. uWe do admire it,” said the overseer, affably. “Butyou shouldn’t admire it,” said the hunger artist. “Well, then we don’t admire it,” said the overseer, “but why shouldn’t we admire it?” “Because I have to fast, I can’t help it,” said the hunger artist. “What a fellow you are,” said the overseer, “and why can’t you help it?” “Because,” said the hunger artist, lifting his head a little and speaking, with his lips pursed, as if , for a kiss, right into the overseer’s ear, so that no syllable might be lost, “because I couldn’t find the food I liked. If I had found it, believe me, I should have made no fuss and stuffed myself like you or anyone else.” These were his last words, but in his dimming eyes remained the firm though no longer proud persuasion that he was still continuing to fast. W ell, clear this out now!” said the overseer, and they buried the hunger artist, straw and all. Into the cage they put a young panther. Even the most insensitive felt it refreshing to see this wild creature leaping around the cage that had so long been dreary, the panther was all right. The food he liked was brought him without hesitation by the attendants; he seemed not even to miss his freedom; his noble body, furnished almost to the bursting point with all that it needed, seemed to carry freedom around with it too; somewhere in his jaws it seemed to lurk; and the joy of life streamed with such ardent passion from his throat that for the on¬ lookers it was not easy to stand the shock of it. But they braced themselves, crowded round the cage, and did not want ever to move away.

Questions on symbolism . . . 1. Is the hunger artist an allegorical figure? What idea would he stand in for? 2. Do you find the hunger artist symbolic? Of what? Is he a “new word”? Do you know anyone who is a hunger artist in matters not related to food and nour¬ ishment? 5. Could a writer tell a story of a flagpole sitter or a person who remained in a dark closet for three months and still convey Kafka’s theme? 4. What is the relationship between symbol and theme? 5. Is the panther symbolic? 6. What is the point of view of this story? How does the point of view affect the symbolism of tire story?

. . . and other elements /. IIow does the first sentence set the tone for the whole story? Do you suspect irony when you read the first sentence? What word tells you the most? 8. What is the function of the minor characters here?

Chapter 11 Three Modes of Contemporary Fiction

In the preceding chapter we concluded our introduction to the elements of fiction. Now it remains to provide further examples of fiction, with a few notes on particular categories. First we will look at stories of fantasy and absurdity, then at humorous stories, and finally at examples of science fiction—which might have been printed as further examples of fantasy, except that the mode is so pervasive it calls out for special treatment.

Fantasy and absurdity7 •/

V

The fiction of fantasy describes an imagined world where everyday reality is distorted. In literature, works of fantasy are as various as the two stories in the preceding chapter, as J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, and as Jonathan Swift’s Gullivers Travels; science fiction is fantasy, along with Shakespeare’s The Tempest, Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and most of the horror stories of Edgar Allan Poe. The only thing these works have in common is negative: the world they describe does not duplicate our commonsense reality. Fantastic fiction begins with an improbable basis or given (like an imaginary hypothesis in mathematics) and then becomes probable in terms of that given. It is unlikely that any of us will walk like Alice through a mirror into a land peopled with fantastic creatures, but we demand that .Alice behave appropriately under her fantastic circumstances. Alice of course is human, and many works mix the human into a fantastic world. But even when all the creatures of fiction are fantastic, they behave according to the character given them by the author.

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Three Modes of Contemporary Fiction

Often an author uses the unhuman behavior of a fantastic folk—Tolkien’s Mid¬ dle Earthlings—to comment on actual human life and on human character. Only recently have critics spoken of the absurd in fiction; absurd literature is modern but, like fantasy, its antecedents go back as far as literature does. To the absurdist vision, the ordinary world seems insane and purposeless. In one of his novels, Samuel Beckett spends page after page describing how his pro¬ tagonist sucks on pebbles and the scheme he develops to switch pebbles among his pockets in order to give them equal attention. We understand that, pointless as his behavior is, it is no sillier than anything else; we understand that the world’s habits—its nations and laws and institutions and schools and busi¬ nesses and customs and morals—are as arbitrary as pebble-sucking. In Albert Camus’s novel The Stranger we understand the irrelevance of all behavior, until finally there is no reason for doing anything at all, or for not doing anything at all. Despite the grimness of the vision—a purposeless world without destiny or divinity—absurdist literature is often comic. If comedy lies in the perception of incongruity, an absurdist vision, where everything in the world is incongruous, would therefore naturally be comical. Thus, when describing the absurd in literature, critics have spoken of black comedy, a combination of despair and laughter that seems peculiarly modern. In America, Donald Barthelme creates a world in his short stories where everything is arbitrary, fantastic, absurd, dark, and usually funny. Other writers—Philip Roth has a man turn into a woman’s breast, Robert Coover has the Cat in the Hat run for President, Max Apple imagines a Mr. Howard John¬ son—also write in this modern tradition.

Donald Barthelme

The Indian Uprising Donald Barthelme (1933) has published two novels, Snow White (1967) and The Dead Father (1975), and many collections of short fiction. Bom in I exas, living now in New York City, he writes from a comic, surreal vision of American life and fragments his perceptions as if lie looked at the world through a verbal kaleidoscope. Yet he is one of our most careful and conscious stylists, gathering his fragments into fine sentences.

We defended the city as best we could. The arrows of the Comanches came in clouds. The war clubs of the Comanches clattered on the soft, yellow pavements. There were earthworks along the Boulevard Mark Clark and the hedges had been laced with sparkling wire. People were trying to understand. I spoke to Sylvia. “Do you think this is a good life?” Hie table held apples, books, long-playing records. She looked up. “No. ” Patrols of paras and volunteers with armbands guarded the tall, flat buildings. WTe interrogated the captured Comanche. Two of us forced his head back while another poured water into his nostrils. His body jerked, he choked and wept. Not believing a hurried, careless, and exaggerated report of the number of casualties in the outer districts where trees, lamps, swans had been reduced to clear fields

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of fire we issued entrenching tools to those who seemed trustworthy and turned the heavy-weapons companies so that we could not be surprised from that direc¬ tion. And I sat there getting drunker and more in love and more in love. We talked. “Do you know Faure’s ‘Dolly’?” “Would that be Gabriel Faure?” “It would. ” ‘Then I know it,” she said. “May I say that I play it at certain times, when I am sad, or happy, although it requires four hands.” “How is that managed?” “I accelerate,” she said, “ignoring the time signature.” And when they shot the scene in the bed I wondered how you felt under die . eyes of the cameramen, grips, juicers, men in the mixing booth: excited? stimu¬ lated? And when they shot the scene in die shower I sanded a hollow-core door working carefully against the illustrations in texts and whispered instructions from one who had already solved the problem. I had made after all other tables, one while living with Nancy, one while living with Alice, one while living with Eunice, one while living with Marianne.

10

Red men in waves like people scattering in a square startled by something tragic or a sudden, loud noise accumulated against the barricades we had made of win¬ dow dummies, silk, thoughtfully planned job descriptions (including scales for the orderly progress of other colors), wine in demijohns, and robes. I analyzed the composition of the barricade nearest me and found two ashtrays, ceramic, one dark brown and one dark brown with an orange blur at the lip; a tin frying pan; two-litre bottles of red wine; three-quarter-litre bottles of Black & White, aquavit, cognac, vodka, gin, Fad #6 sherry; a hollow-core door in birch veneer on black wrought-iron legs; a blanket, red-orange with faint blue stripes; a red pillow and a blue pillow; a woven straw wastebasket; two glass jars for flowers; corkscrews and can openers; two plates and two cups, ceramic, dark brown; a yellow-andpurple poster; a Yugoslavian carved flute, wood, dark brown; and other items. I decided I knew nothing. The hospitals dusted wounds with powders the worth of which was not quite established, other supplies having been exhausted early in the first day. I decided I knew nothing. Friends put me in touch with a Miss R., a teacher, unorthodox they said, excellent they said, successful with difficult cases, steel shutters on the windows made the house safe. I had just learned via an International Distress Coupon that Jane had been beaten up by a dwarf in a bar on Tenerife but Miss R. did not allow me to speak of it. “You know nothing,” she said, “you feel nothing, you are locked in a most savage and terrible ignorance, I despise you, my boy, mon cher, my heart. You may attend but you must not attend now, you must attend later, a day or a week or an hour, you are making me ill. . . . ”1 nonevaluated these remarks as Korzybski instructed. But it was difficult. Then they pulled back in a feint near the river and we rushed into that sector with a reinforced battalion hastily formed among the Zouaves and cabdrivers. This unit was crushed in the afternoon of a day that began with spoons and letters in hallways and under win¬ dows where men tested the history of the heart, cone-shaped muscular organ that maintains circulation of the blood. But it is you I want now, here in the middle of this Uprising, with the streets yellow and threatening, short, ugly lances with fur at the throat and inexplicable shell money lying in the grass. It is when I am with you that I am happiest, and it is for you that I am making this hollow-core door table with black wrought-iron

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Three Modes of Contemporary Fiction

legs. I held Sylvia by her bear-claw necklace. “Call off your braves,” I said. “We have many years left to live.” There was a sort of muck running in the gutters, yellowish, filthy stream suggesting excrement, or nervousness, a city that does not know what it has done to deserve baldness, errors, infidelity. “With luck you will survive until matins,” Sylvia said. She ran off down the Rue Chester Nimitz, uttering shrill cries. Then it was learned that they had infiltrated our ghetto and that the people of the ghetto instead of resisting had joined the smooth, well-coordinated attack with zipguns, telegrams, lockets, causing that portion of the line held by the I. R.A. to swell and collapse. We sent more heroin into the ghetto, and hyacinths, ordering another hundred thousand of the pale, delicate flowers. On the map we considered the situation with its strung-out inhabitants and merely personal emotions. Our parts were blue and their parts were green. I showed the blue-and-green map to Sylvia. “Your parts are green,” I said. “You gave me heroin first a year ago,” Sylvia said. She ran off down George C. Marshall Allee, uttering shrill cries. Miss R. pushed me into a large room painted white (jolting and dancing in the soft fight, and I was excited! and there were people watching!) in which there were two chairs. I sat in one chair and Miss R. sat in the other. She wore a blue dress containing a red figure. There was nothing exceptional about her. I was disap¬ pointed by her plainness, by the bareness of the room, by the absence of books. The girls of my quarter wore long blue mufflers that reached to their knees. Sometimes the girls hid Comanches in their rooms, the blue mufflers together in a room creating a great blue fog. Block opened the door. He was carrying weapons, flowers, loaves of bread. And he was friendly, kind, enthusiastic, so I related a little of the history of torture,-reviewing the technical literature quoting the best modern sources, French, German, and American, and pointing out the flies which had gafliered in anticipation of some new, cool color. “What is the situation?” I asked. “"Flie situation is liquid,” he said. “We hold the south quarter and they hold the north quarter. The rest is silence.” “And Kenneth?” “That girl is not in love with Kenneth,” Block said frankly. “She is in love with his coat. When she is not wearing it she is huddling under it. Once I caught it going down the stairs by itself. I looked inside. Sylvia. ” Once I caught Kenneth’s coat going down the stairs by itself but the coat was a trap and inside a Comanche who made a thrust with his short, ugly knife at my leg which buckled and tossed me over the balustrade through a window and into another situation. Not believing that your body brilliant as it was and your fat, liquid spirit distinguished and angry as it was were stable quantities to which one could return on wires more than once, twice, or another number of times I said: “See the table?” Skinny Wainwright Square the forces of green and blue swaved and struggled. The referees ran out on the field trailing chains. And then die blue part would be enlarged, the green diminished. Miss R. began to speak. “A former king of Spain, a Bonaparte, lived for a time in Bordentown, New Jersey. But that’s no good.” She paused. “The ardor aroused in men by the beauty of women can only be satisfied by God. That is very good (it is Valery) but it is not what I have to teach you, goat, muck, filth, heart of my heart.” I showed the table to Nancy. “See the table?” She stuck out her tongue red as a cardinal’s hat. “I made such a table once, Block said frankly. “People all over America have made such tables. I doubt

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very much whether one can enter an American home without finding at least one such table, or traces of its having been there, such as faded places in die carpet. ” And afterward in the garden die men of the 7th Cavalry played Gabrieli, Albinoni, Marcello, Vivaldi, Boccherini. I saw Sylvia. She wore a yellow ribbon, under a long blue muffler. “Which side are you on, ” I cried, “after all?” “The only form of discourse of which I approve,” Miss R. said in her dry, tense voice, “is the litany. I believe our masters and teachers as well as plain citizens should confine themselves to what can safely be said. Thus when I hear the words pewter, snake, tea, Fad #6 sherry, serviette, fenestration, crown, blue coming from the mouth of some public official, or some raw youth, I am not disappointed. Vertical organization is also possible,” Miss R. said, “as in pewter snake tea Fad #6 sherry serviette fenestration crown blue.

I run to liquids and colors,” she said, “but you, you may run to something else, my virgin, my darling, my thistie, my poppet, my own. Young people,” Miss R. said, “run to more and more unpleasant combinations as they sense die nature of our society. Some people,” Miss R. said, “run to conceits or wisdom but I hold to the hard, brown, nutlike word. I might point out that there is enough aesthetic excitement here to satisfy anyone but a damned fool.” I sat in solemn silence. Fire arrows lit my way to the post office in Patton Place where members of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade offered their last, exhausted letters, postcards, calen¬ dars. I opened a letter but inside was a Comanche flint arrowhead play by Frank Wedekind in an elegant gold chain and congratulations. Your earring rattled against my spectacles when I leaned forward to touch die soft, ruined place where the hearing aid had been. “Pack it in! Pack it in!” I urged, but the men in charge of the Uprising refused to listen to reason or to understand tiiat it was real and that our water supply had evaporated and that our credit was no longer what it had been, once. We attached wires to the testicles of the captured Comanche. And I sat tiiere getting drunker and drunker and more in love and more in love. When we threw the switch he spoke. His name, he said, was Gustave Aschenbach. lie was born at L—, a country town in the province of Silesia. lie was the son of an upper official in the judicature, and his forebears had all been officers, judges, depart¬ mental functionaries. . . . And you can never touch a girl in the same way more than once, twice, or another number of times however much you may wish to hold, wrap, or otherwise fix her hand, or look, or some other quality, or incident, known to you previously. In Sweden the little Swedish children cheered when we managed nothing more remarkable than getting off a bus burdened with packages, bread and liver-paste and beer. We went to an old church and sat in the royal box. Hie organist was practicing. And then into the graveyard next to the church. Here lies Anna Pedersen, a good woman. I threw a mushroom on the grave. The officer commanding the garbage dump reported by radio that the garbage had begun to move.

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Three Modes of Contemporary Fiction

Jane! I heard via an International Distress Coupon that you were beaten up by a dwarf in a bar on Tenerife. That doesn’t sound litre you, Jane. Mostly you kick the dwarf in his little dwarf groin before he can get his teeth into your tasty and nice-looking leg, don’t you, Jane? Your affair with Harold is reprehensible, you know that, don’t you, Jane? Harold is married to Nancy. And there is Paula to think about (Harold’s kid), and Billy (Harold’s other kid). I think your values are peculiar, Jane! Strings of language extend in every direction to bind the world into a rushing, ribald whole. And you can never return to felicities in the same way, the brilliant body, the distinguished spirit recapitulating moments that occur once, twice, or another number of times in rebellions, or water. The rolling consensus of the Comanche nation smashed our inner defenses on three sides. Block was bring a greasegun from the upper boor of a building designed by Emery Roth & Sons. “See the table?” “Oh, pack it in with your bloody table!” The city officials were tied to trees. Dusky warriors padded with their forest tread into the mouth of the mayor. “Mho do you want to be?” I asked Kenneth and he said he wanted to be Jean-Luc Godard but later when time permitted conversations in large lighted rooms, whispering gal¬ leries with black-and-white Spanish rugs and problematic sculpture on calm, red catafalques. The sickness of the quarrel lay thick in the bed. I touched your back, the white, raised scars. We killed a great many in the south suddenly with helicopters and rockets but we found that those we had killed were children and more came from the north and from die east and from other places where there are children preparing to live. “Skin,” Miss R. said softly in the white, yellow room. “This is the Clemency Committee. And would you remove your belt and shoelaces. ” I removed my belt and shoelaces and looked (rain shattering from a great height the prospects of silence and clear, neat rows of houses in the subdivisions) into their savage black eyes, paint; feathers, beads.

Questions 1. After reading this story through, you may well feel bewildered; most people do the brst time. Ask yourself, in a general way, what the story is about. What sort of feeling, what sort of world, is Barthelme describing or embodying? Looking back at the story, try to discover what happens in it. For instance, what happens at the very end? What do you learn about the speaker? Do you like him? Are you supposed to like him? 2. How soon do you realize that these Comanclies are not the Coinanches of history? When do you begin to realize their identity, or their sort of identity? 3. Its date of composition sometimes affects the meaning of a work of art. This story appeared in The New Yorker in 1967, while the Vietnam war hourislied and young Americans took to the streets in protest. Have I just hinted that the Comanclies are the Viet Cong? The Yippies? 4. Why are the public places named as they are? 5. Find places Barthelme seems to comment, not on the world outside, but on the form of fiction itself, or on language. Can you relate this interest to other concerns in the story? 6. Some of Barthelme’s sentences end by, disappointing an expectation set up in

Max Apple

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the first part of the sentence. Find examples. Does this technique remind you of James Thurber? /. Why the motif of the tables? Is there social commentary7 here? Social satire? 8. What is the point of view here? Who is you? 9. What is the Clemency7 Committee and what is it going to do? 10. What is fantastic in this story7? What is absurd?

Max Apple

The Oranging of America Max Apple (1941— ) was bom in Grand Rapids and studied at die University of Michigan, where he won awards for his writing. He published a collection of short stories, The Oranging of America, in 1976, and a novel— Zip—in 1978. He teaches English at Rice University in Houston.

I From the outside it looked like any ordinary7 1964 Cadillac limousine. In die ex¬ pensive space between die driver and passengers, where some installed bars or even bathrooms, Mr. Howard Johnson kept a tidy7 ice-cream freezer in which there were always at least eighteen flavors on hand, though Mr. Johnson ate only7 va¬ nilla. The freezer’s power came from the battery7 with an independent auxiliary7 generator as a back-up system. Although now Howard Johnson means primarily motels, Millie, Mr. HJ, and Otis Brighton, the chauffeur, had not forgotten that ice cream was the cornerstone of their empire. Some of the important tasting was still done in the car. Mr. HJ might have reports in his pocket from sales executives and marketing analysts, from home economists and chemists, but not until Mr. Johnson reached over the lowered Plexiglas to spoon a taste or two into the expert waiting mouth of Otis Brighton did he make any7 final flavor decision. He might go ahead with butterfly shrimp, with candy kisses, and with packaged chocolatechip cookies on the opinion of the specialists, but in ice cream he trusted only7 Otis. From the back seat Howard Johnson would keep his eye on the rearview mirror, where the reflection of pleasure or disgust showed itself in the dark ey7es of Otis Brighton no matter what the driving conditions. I Ie could be stalled in a commuter rush with the engine overheating and a dripping oil pan, and still a taste of the right kind never went unappreciated. When Otis finally said, “Mr. Howard, that shore is sumpin, that one is uinhum. "that is it, my man, that is it. ” Then and not until then did Mr. IIJ finally7 decide to go ahead with something like banana-fudge-ripple roy7ale. Mildred rarely7 tasted and Mr. HJ was addicted to one scoop of vanilla every7 afternoon at three, eaten from his aluminum dish with a disposable plastic spoon. The duties of Otis, Millie, and Mr. Johnson were so divided that they rarely in¬ fringed upon one another in the car, which was their office. Neither Mr. HJ nor Millie knew how to drive, Millie and Otis understood little of financing and leasing, and Mr. IIJ left the compiling of the “Traveling Reports” and “The Howard John¬ son Newsletter” strictly to the literary7 style of his longtime associate, Miss Mildred Bivce. It was an ideal division of labor, which, in one form or another, had been in continuous operation for well over a quarter of a century. While Otis listened to the radio behind his soundproof Plexiglas, while Millie in her small, neat hand compiled data for the newsletter, Mr. IIJ liked to lean back

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into the spongy leather seat looking through his specially tinted windshield at the fleeting land. Occasionally, lulled by the hum of the freezer, he might doze off, his large pink head lolling toward the shoulder of his blue suit, but there was not too much that Mr. Johnson missed, even in advanced age. Along with Millie he planned their continuous itinerary as they traveled. Mildred would tape a large green rehef map of the United States to the Plexiglas separating them from Otis. The mountains on the map were light brown and seemed to melt toward the valleys like the crust of a fresh apple pie settling into cinnamon sur¬ roundings. The existing HJ houses (Millie called the restaurants and motels houses) were marked by orange dots, while projected future sites bore white dots. The deep green map with its brown mountains and colorful dots seemed much more alive than the miles that twinkled past Mr. Johnson’s gaze, and nothing gave the ice-cream king greater pleasure than watching Mildred with her fine touch, and using the original crayon, turn an empty white dot into an orange fulfillment. “It’s like a seed grown into a tree, Millie,” Mr. HJ liked to say at such moments when he contemplated the map and saw that it was good. They had started traveling together in 1925: Mildred, then a secretary to Mr. Johnson, a young man with two restaurants and a dream of hospitality, and Otis, a twenty-year-old busboy and former driver of a Louisiana mule. When Mildred graduated from college, her father, a Michigan doctor who kept his money in a blue steel box under the examining table, encouraged her to try the big city. He sent her a monthly allowance. In those early days she always had more than Mr. Johnson, who paid her $ 16.50 a week and meals. In the first decade they traveled only on weekends, but every year since 1936 they had spent at least six months on the road, and it might have, gone on much longer if Mildred’s pain and the trouble in New York with Howard Jr. had not come so close together. Hiey were all stoical at the Los Angeles International Airport. Otis waited at the car for what might be his last job while Miss Bryce and Mr. Johnson traveled toward the New York plane along a silent moving floor. Millie stood beside Howard while they passed a mural of a Mexican landscape and some Christmas drawings by fourth graders from Watts. For forty years they had been together in spite of Sonny and the others, but at this most recent appeal from New York Millie urged him to go back. Sonny had cabled, “My God, Dad, you’re sixty-nine years old, haven’t you been a gypsy long enough? Board meeting December third with or without you. Policy changes imminent.” Normally, they ignored Sonny’s cables, but this time Millie wanted him to go, wanted to be alone with the pain that had recently come to her. She had left Howard holding the new canvas suitcase in which she had packed her three note¬ books of regional reports along with his aluminum dish, and in a moment of real despair she had even packed the orange crayon. When Howard boarded Flight 965 he looked old to Millie. His feet dragged in the wing-tipped shoes, the hand she shook was moist, the lip felt dry, and as he passed from her sight down the entry ramp Mildred Bryce felt a fresh new ache that sent her hobbling toward the car. Otis had unplugged the freezer, and the silence caused by the missing hum was as intense to Millie as her abdominal pain.

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It had come quite suddenly in Albuquerque, New Mexico, at the grand opening of a 210-unit house. She did not make a fuss. Mildred Brvce had never caused trouble to anyone, except perhaps to Mrs. IIJ. Millie’s quick precise actions, angular face, and thin body made her seem birdlike, especially next to Mr. HJ,

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six three with splendid white hair accenting his dark blue gabardine suits. Howard was slow and sure. lie could sit in the same position for hours while Millie fidgeted on the seat, wrote memos, and held reports in the small gray cabinet that sat in front of her and parallel to the ice-cream freezer. Her health had always been good, so at first she tried to ignore the pain. It was gas: it was perhaps the New Mexico water or the cooking oil in die fish dinner. But she could not convince away the pain. It stayed like a match burning around in her belly, etching itself into her as the round IIJ emblem was so symmetrically embroidered into the bedspread, which she had lucked off in the flush that accompanied the pain. She felt as if her sweat would engulf the foam mattress and crisp percale sheet. Finally, Millie brought up her knees and made a ball of herself as if being as small as possible might make her misery disappear. It worked for everything except the pain. The little circle of hot torment was all that remained of her, and when finally at some¬ time in the early morning it left, it occurred to her that perhaps she had struggled with a demon and been suddenly relieved by the coming of daylight. She stepped lightly into the bathroom and before a full-length mirror (new in IIJ motels exclu¬ sively) saw herself whole and unmarked, but sign enough to Mildred was her smell, damp and musty, sign enough that something had begun and that some¬ thing else would therefore necessarily end.

II Before she had the report from her doctor, Howard Jr.’s message had given her the excuse she needed. There was no reason why Millie could not tell Howard she was sick, but telling him would be admitting too much to herself. Along with Howard Johnson Millie had grown rich beyond dreams. Her inheritance, the 0100,000 from her father’s steel box in 1939, went directly to Mr. Johnson, who desperately needed it, and the results of that investment brought Millie enough capital to employ two people at the Chase Manhattan with the management of her finances. With money beyond the hope of use, she had vacationed all over the world and spent some time in the company of celebrities, but the reality of her life, like his, was in the back seat of the limousine, waiting for that point at which the needs of the automobile and die human body met the undeviating purpose of the highway and momentarily conquered it. Her life was measured in rest stops. She, Howard, and Otis had found them out before they existed. They knew the places to stop between Buffalo and Albany, Chicago and Milwaukee, Toledo and Columbus, Des Moines and Minneapolis, they knew through their own bodies, measured in hunger and discomfort in die ’30s and ’40s when they would stop at remote places to buy land and borrow money, sensing in themselves the hunger that would one day be upon the place. People were wary and Howard had trouble borrowing (her 0100,000 had perhaps been the key) but invariably he was right. Howard knew the land, Mildred thought, the way the Indians must have known it. There were even spots along the way where the earth itself seemed to make men stop. Howard had a sixth sense that would sometimes lead them from the main roads to, say, a dark green field in Iowa or Kansas. Howard, who might have seemed asleep, would rap with his knuckles on the Plexiglas, causing the knowing Otis to bring the ear to such a quick stop that Millie almost llew into her filing cabinet. And before the emergency brake had settled into its final prong, I Ioward Johnson was into the field and after the scent. While Millie and Otis waited, he would walk it out slowly. Sometimes he would sit down, disappearing in a field of long and tangled weeds, or he might

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find a large smooth rock to sit on while he felt some secret vibration from the place. Turning his back to Millie, he would mark the spot with his urine or break some of the clayey earth in his strong pink hands, sifting it like flour for a delicate recipe. She had actually seen him chew the grass, getting down on all fours like an animal and biting the tops without pulling the entire blade from the soil. At times he ran in a slow jog as far as his aging legs would carry him. Whenever he slipped out of sight behind the uneven terrain, Millie felt him in danger, felt that something alien might be there to resist the civilizing instinct of Howard Johnson. Once when Howard had been out of sight for more than an hour and did not respond to their frantic calls, Mille sent Otis into the field and in desperation flagged a passing car. “Howard Johnson is lost in that field,” she told the surprised driver. “He went in to look for a new location and we can’t find him now. ” “The restaurant Howard Johnson?” the man asked. “Yes. Help us please. ” The man drove off, leaving Millie to taste in his exhaust fumes the barbarism of an ungrateful public. Otis found Howard asleep in a field of light blue wild flowers. He had collapsed from the exertion of his run. Millie brought water to him, and when he felt better, right there in the field, he ate his scoop of vanilla on the very spot where three years later they opened the first fully air-conditioned motel in the world. When she stopped to think about it, Millie knew they were more than businessmen, they were pioneers. And once, while on her own, she had the feeling too. In 1951 when she visited the Holy Land there was an inkling of what Howard must have felt all the time. It happened without any warning on a bus crowded with tourists and resident Arabs on their way to the Dead Sea. Past ancient Sodom the bus creaked and bumped, down, down, toward the lowest point on earth, when suddenly in the midst of the crowd and her stomach queasy with the motion of the bus, Mildred Biyce experienced an overwhelming calm. A light brown patch of earth surrounded by a few pale desert rocks overwhelmed her perception, seemed closer to her than the Arab lady in the black flowered dress pushing her basket against Millie at that very moment. She wanted to stop the bus. Had she been near the door she might have actually jumped, so strong was her sensitivity to that barren spot in the endless desert. Her whole body ached for it as if in unison, bone by bone. Her limbs tingled, her breadi came in short gasps, the sky rolled out of the bus windows and obliterated her view. Hie Arab lady spat on the floor and moved a suspicious eye over a squirming Mildred. When the bus stopped at the Dead Sea, the Arabs and tourists rushed to the soupy brine clutching damaged limbs, while Millie pressed twenty dollars Amer¬ ican into the dirty palm of a cab-driver who took her back to the very place where the music of her body began once more as sweetly as the first time. While die incredulous driver waited, Millie walked about die place wishing Howard were there to understand her new understanding of his kind of process. There was nothing there, absolutely nothing but pure bliss. The sun beat on her like a wish, the air was hot and stale as a Viennese bathhouse, and yet Mildred felt peace and rest there, and as her cab bill mounted she actually did rest in die miserable barren desert of an altogether unsatisfactory land. When the driver, wiping die sweat from his neck, asked, “Meesez . . . pleeze. Why American woman wants Old Jericho in such kind of heat?” When he said “Jericho,” she understood that this was a place where men had always stopped. In dim antiquity Jacob had perhaps watered

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a flock here, and not far away Lot’s wife paused to scan for the last time the city of her youth. Perhaps Mildred now stood where Abraham had been visited by a vision and, making a rock his pillow, had first put the ease into the earth. Whatever it was, Millie knew from her own experience that rest was created here by historical precedent. She tried to buy that piece of land, going as far as King Hussein’s secretaiy of the interior. She imagined a Palestinian HJ with an orange roof angling toward Sodom, a seafood restaurant, and an oasis of fresh fruit. But the land was in dispute between Israel and Jordan, and even King Hussein, who expressed admiration for Howard Johnson, could not sell to Millie the place of her comfort. That was her single visionary moment, but sharing them with Howard was almost as good. And to end all this, to finally stay in her eighteenth-floor Santa Monica penthouse, where the Pacific dived into California, this seemed to Mildred a paltry conclusion to an adventurous life. Her doctor said it was not so serious, she had a bleeding ulcer and must watch her diet. Hie prognosis was, in fact, excellent. But Mildred, fifty-six and alone in California, found the doctor less comlorting than most of the rest stops she had experienced.

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California, right after the Second War, was hardly a civilized place for travelers. Millie, PIJ, and Otis had a twelve-cylinder ’47 Lincoln and snaked along five days between Sacramento and Los Angeles. “Comfort, comfort,” said IIJ as he sur¬ veyed the redwood forest and the bubbly surf while it slipped away from Otis, who had rolled his trousers to chase the ocean away during a stop near San Francisco. Howard Johnson was contemplative in California. They had never been in the West before. Their route, always slightly new, was yet bound by Canada, where a person couldn’t get a tax break, and roughly by the Mississippi as a western frontier. Their journeys took them up the eastern seaboard and through New England to the early reaches of the Midwest, stopping at the plains of Wisconsin and the cool crisp edge of Chicago where two HJ lodges twinkled at the lake. One day in 1947 while on the way from Chicago to Cairo, Illinois, IIJ looked long at the green relief maps. While Millie kept busy with her filing, IIJ loosened the tape and placed the map across his soft round knees. The map jiggled and sagged, the Mid- and Southwest hanging between his legs. When Mildred finally noticed that look, he had been staring at the map for perhaps fifteen minutes, brooding over it, and Millie knew something was in the air. IIJ looked at that map the way some people looked down from an airplane trying to pick out the familiar from the colorful mass receding beneath them. I toward Johnson’s eye flew over the land—over the Tetons, over the Sierra Nevada, over file long thin gouge of the Canyon flew his gaze—charting his course by rest stops the way an antique mariner might have gazed at the stars. “Millie,” he said just north of Carbondale, “Millie . . .’’lie looked toward her, saw her fingers engaged and her thumbs circling each other in anticipation. He looked at Millie and saw that she saw what he saw. “Millie”—I IJ raised his right arm and its shadow spread across the continent like a prophecy—“Millie, what if we turn right at Cairo and go that way?” California, already peeling on the green map, balanced on IIJ’s left knee like a happy child. Twenty years later Mildred settled in her eighteenth-floor apartment in the build¬ ing owned by Lawrence Welk. I toward was in New \ ork, ()tis and the car waited in Arizona. The pain did not return as powerfully as it had appeared that night in

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Albuquerque, but it hurt with dull regularity and an occasional streak of dark blood from her bowels kept her mind on it even on painless days. Directly beneath her gaze were the organized activities of the golden-age groups, tiny figures playing bridge or shuffleboard or looking out at the water from their benches as she sat on her sofa and looked out at them and the fluffy ocean. Mildred did not regret family life. The HJ houses were her offspring. She had watched them blossom from the rough youngsters of the ’40s with steam heat and even occasional kitchenettes into cool mature adults with lung-sized beds, color TVs, and room service. Her late years were spent comfortably in the modern houses just as one might enjoy in age the benefits of a child’s prosperity. She regretted only that it was probably over. 25

But she did not give up completely until she received a personal letter one day telling her that she was eligible for burial insurance until age eighty. A 01000 policy would guarantee a complete and dignified sendee. Millie crumpled the ad¬ vertisement, but a few hours later called her Los Angeles lawyer. As she sus¬ pected, there were no plans, but as the executor of the estate he would assume full responsibility, subject of course to her approval. “I’ll do it myself,” Millie had said, but she could not bring herself to do it. The idea was too alien. In more than forty years Mildred had not gone a day without a shower and change of underclothing. Everything about her suggested order and precision. Her fingernails were shaped so that the soft meat of the tips could stroke a typewriter without damaging the apex of a nail, her arch slid over a 6B shoe like an egg in a shell, and never in her adult life did Mildred recall having vomited. It did not seem right to suddenly let all this sink into the dark green earth of Forest Lawn because some organ or other developed a hole as big as a nickel. It was not right and she wouldn’t do it. Her first idea was to stay in dre apartment, to write it into the lease if necessary. She had the lawyer make an appointment for her with Mr. Welk’s management firm, but canceled it the day before. “They will just think I’m crazy,” she said aloud to herself, “and they’ll bury me anyway.” She thought of cryonics while reading a biography of William Chesebrough, die man who invented petroleum jelly. Howard had known him and often mentioned that his own daily ritual of the scoop of vanilla was like old Chesebrough’s two teaspoons of Vaseline every day. Chesebrough lived to be ninety. In the biography it said that after taking the daily dose of Vaseline, he drank three cups of green tea to melt everything down, rested for twelve minutes, and then felt fit as a young man, even in his late eighties. When he died they froze his body and Millie had her idea. The Vaseline people kept him in a secret laboratory somewhere near Cleveland and claimed he was in better condition than Lenin, whom die Russians kept hermetically sealed, but at room temperature. In the phone book she found die Los Angeles Crvonic Society and asked it to send her information. It all seemed very clean. The cost was 0200 a year for maintaining the cold. She sent the pamphlet to her lawyer to be sure that the society was legitimate. It wasn’t much money, but, still, if they were charlatans, she didn’t want them to take advantage of her even if she would never know about it. They were aboveboard, the lawyer said. “The interest on a ten-tliousand-dollar trust fund would pay about five hundred a year,” the lawyer said, “and they only charge two hundred dollars. Still, who knows what the cost might be in say two hundred years?” To be extra safe, thevjput 025,000 in trust for eternal mainte-

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nance, to be eternally overseen by Longstreet, Williams, and their eternal heirs. When it was arranged, Mildred felt better than she had in weeks.

IV Four months to the day after she had left Iioward at the Los Angeles International Airport, he returned tor Mildred without the slightest warning. She was in her housecoat and had not even washed the night cream from her cheeks when she saw through the viewing space in her door the familiar long pink jowls, even longer in the distorted glass. Howard,” she gasped fumbling with the door, and in an instant he was there picking her up as he might a child or an ice-cream cone while her tears fell like dandruff on his blue suit. While Millie sobbed into his soft padded shoulder, HJ told her the good news. “I’m chairman emeritus of the board now. That means no more New York responsibilities. They still have to listen to me because we hold the majority of the stock, but Howard Junior and Keyes will take care of the business. Our main job is new home-owned franchises. And, Millie, guess where we’re going first?” So overcome was Mildred that she could not hold back her sobs even to guess. Howard Johnson put her down, beaming pleasure through his old bright eyes. “Florida,” HJ said, then slowly repeated it, “Flor-idda, and guess what we’re going to do?” “Howard,” Millie said, swiping at her tears with the filmy lace cuffs of her dress¬ ing gown, “I’m so surprised I don’t know what to say. You could tell me we’re going to the moon and I’d believe you. Just seeing you again has brought back all my hope. ” They came out of the hallway and sat on the sofa that looked out over the Pacific. HJ, all pink, kept his hands on his knees like paperweights. “Millie, you’re almost right. I can’t fool you about anything and never could. We’re going down near where they launch the rockets from. I’ve heard . . HJ leaned toward the kitchen as if to check for spies. He looked at the stainless-steeland-glass table, at the built-in avocado appliances, then leaned his large moist lips toward Mildred’s ear. “Walt Disney is planning right this minute a new Disneyland down there. They’re trying to keep it a secret, but his brother Roy bought options on thousands of acres. We’re going down to buy as much as we can as close in as we can.” Howard sparkled. “Millie, don’t you see, it’s a sure thing.” After her emotional outburst at seeing Howard again, a calmer Millie felt a slight twitch in her upper stomach and in the midst of her joy was reminded of another sure thing. They would be a few weeks in Los Angeles anyway. Howard wanted to thor¬ oughly scout out the existing Disneyland, so Millie had some time to think it out. She could go, as her heart directed her, with HJ to Florida and points beyond. She could take the future as it happened like a Disneyland ride or she could listen to the dismal eloquence of her ulcer and try to make the best arrangements she could. I Ioward and Otis would take care of her to the end, there were no doubts about that, and the end would be the end. But if she stayed in this apartment, sure of the arrangements for later, she would miss whatever might still be left before the end. Mildred wished there were some clergyman she could consult, but she had never attended a church and believed in no religious doctrine. Her father had been a firm atheist to the very moment of his office suicide, and she remained a passive nonbeliever. Her theology was the order of her own life. Millie had never

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deceived herself; in spite of her riches all she truly owned was her life, a pocket of habits in the burning universe. But the habits were careful and clean and they were best represented in the body that was she. Freezing her remains was the closest image she could conjure of eternal life. It might not be eternal and it surely would not be life, but that damp, musty feel, that odor she smelled on herself after the pain, that could be avoided, and who knew what else might be saved from the void for a small initial investment and 0200 a year. And if you did not believe in a soul, was there not every reason to preserve a body? Mrs. Albert of the Cryonic Society welcomed Mildred to a tour of the premises. “See it while you can,” she cheerfully told the group (Millie, two men, and a boy with notebook and Polaroid camera). Mrs. Albert, a big woman perhaps in her mid-sixties, carried a face heavy in flesh. Perhaps once the skin had been tight around her long chin and pointed cheekbones, but having lost its spring, the skin merely hung at her neck like a patient animal waiting for the rest of her to join in the decline. From the way she took the concrete stairs down to the vault, it looked as if the wait would be long. “I’m not ready for the freezer yet. I tell every group I take down here, it’s gonna be a long time until they get me. ” Millie believed her. “I may not be the world’s smartest cookie”—Mrs. Albert looked directly at Millie— “but a bird in the hand is the only bird I know, huh? That’s why when it does come . . . Mrs. A. is going to be right here in this facility, and you better believe it. Now, Mr. King on your left”—she pointed to a capsule that looked like a large bullet to Millie—“Mr. King is the gentleman who took me on my first tour, cancer finally but had everything perfectly ready and I would say he was in prime cooling state within seconds and I belieye that if they ever cure cancer, and you know they will the way they do most eveiything nowadays, old Mr. King may be back yet. If anyone got down to low-enough temperature immediately it would be Mr. King.” Mildred saw the boy write “Return of the King” in his notebook. “Over here is Mr. and Mizz Winkleman, married sixty years, and went off within a month of each other, a lovely, lovely couple. ” While Mrs. Albert continued her necrology and posed for a photo beside the Winklemans, Millie took careful note of the neon-lit room filled with bulletlike capsules. She watched the cool breaths of the group gather litre flowers on the steel and vanish without dimming the bright surface. The capsules stood in straight lines with ample walking space between them. To Mrs. Albert they were friends, to Millie it seemed as if she were in a furniture store of the Scandinavian type where elegance is suggested by the absence of material, where straight lines of steel, wood, and glass indicate that relaxation too requires some taste and is not an indifferent sprawl across any soft object that happens to be nearby. Cemeteries always bothered Millie, but here she felt none of the dread she had expected. She averted her eyes from the cluttered graveyards they always used to pass at die tips of cities in the early days. Fortunately, the superhighways twisted traffic into the city and away from diose desolate marking places where used-car lots and the names of famous hotels inscribed on bams often neighbored die dead. Howard had once commented that never in all his experience did he have an intuition of a good location near a cemetery. You could put a lot of things there, you could put up a bowling alley, or maybe even a theater, but never a motel, and Millie knew he was right. He knew where to put his houses but it was Millie who knew how. From that first orange roof angling toward the east, the HJ design and the idea had been Millie’s. She had not invented die motel, she had changed it

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from a place where you had to be to a place where you wanted to be. Perhaps, she thought, the Cryonic Society was trying to do the same for cemeteries. When she and Howard had started their travels, the old motel courts huddled like so many dark graves around the stone marking of the highway. And what traveler coming into one of those dingy cabins could watch the watery rust dripping from his faucet without thinking of everything he was missing by being a traveler . . . his two-stall garage, his wife small in the half-empty bed, his children with hair the color of that rust. Under the orange Howard Johnson roof all this changed. For about the same price you were redeemed from the road. Headlights did not dazzle you on the foam mattress and percale sheets, your sanitized glasses and toilet appliances sparkled like the mirror behind them. Hie room was not just there, it awaited you, courted your pleasure, sat like a young bride outside the walls of the city wanting only to please you, you only you on the smoothly pressed sheets, your friend, your one-night destiny. As if it were yesterday, Millie recalled right there in the cryonic vault the moment when she had first thought the thought that made Howard Johnson Howard Johnson’s. ..And when she told Howard her decision that evening after cooking a cheese souffle and risking a taste of wine, it was that memoiy she invoked for both of diem, the memory of a cool autumn day in the ’30s when a break in their schedule found Millie with a free afternoon in New Hampshire, an afternoon she had spent at the farm of a man who had once been her teacher and remembered her after ten years. Otis drove her out to Robert Frost’s farm, where the poet made for her a lunch of scrambled eggs and 7 LTp. Millie and Robert Frost talked mosfiy about the farm, about the cold winter he was expecting and the autumn apples they picked from the trees. He was not so famous then, his hair was only streaked with gray as Howard’s was, and she told the poet about what she and Howard were doing, about what she felt about being on the road in America, and Robert Frost said he hadn’t been that much but she sounded like she knew and he believed she might be able to accomplish something. I Ie did not remember the poem she wrote in his class but that didn’t matter. “Do you remember, Howard, how I introduced you to him? Mr. Frost, this is Mr. Johnson. I can still see the two of you shaking hands there beside the car. I’ve always been proud that I introduced you to one another.” Howard Johnson nodded his head at die memory, seemed as nostalgic as Millie while he sat in her apartment learning why she would not go to Florida to help bring Howard John¬ son’s to the new Disneyland. “And after we left his farm, Howard, remember? Otis took the car in for servicing and left us with some sandwiches on the top of a hill overlooking a town, I don’t even remember which one, maybe we never knew the name of it. And we stayed on that hilltop while the sun began to set in New I Iampshire. I felt so full of poetry and”—she looked at Howard—“of love, Howard, only about an hour’s drive from Robert Frost’s farmhouse. Maybe it was just the way we felt then, but I think the sun set differently that night, filtering through the clouds like a big paintbrush making die top of die town all orange. And suddenly I thought what if the tops of our houses were that kind of orange, what a world it would be, I Ioward, and my God, that orange stayed until the last drop of light was left in it. I didn’t feel the cold up there even- though it took Otis so long to get back to us. Hie feeling we had about diat orange, Howard, that was ours and that’s what I’ve tried to bring to every house, the way we felt that night. Oh, it makes me sick to think of Golonel Sanders, and Big Boy, and Holiday Inn, and Best Western ...”

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45

“It’s all right, Millie, it’s all right.” Howard patted her heaving back. Now that he knew about her ulcer and why she wanted to stay behind, the mind that had conjured butterfly shrimp and twenty-eight flavors set himself a new project. He contemplated Millie sobbing in his lap the way he contemplated prime acreage. There was so little of her, less than one hundred pounds, yet without her Howard Johnson felt himself no match for the wily Disneys gathering near the moonport. He left her in all her sad resignation that evening, left her thinking she had to give up what remained here to be sure of the proper freezing. But Howard Johnson had other ideas. He did not cancel the advance reservations made for Mildred Bryce along the route to Florida, nor did he remove her filing cabinet from the limousine. The man who hosted a nation and already kept one freezer in his car ordered another, this one designed according to cryonic specifications and pre¬ sented to Mildred housed in a twelve-foot orange U-Haul trailer connected to the rear bumper of the limousine. “Everything’s here, ” he told the astonished Millie, who thought Howard had left the week before, “everything is here and you’ll never have to be more than seconds away from it. It’s exacdy like a refrigerated truck.” Howard Johnson opened the rear door of die U-Haul as proudly as he had ever dedicated a motel. Millie’s steel capsule shone within, surrounded by an array of chemicals stored on heavily padded rubber shelves. The California sun was on her back, but her cold breadi hovered visibly within the U-Haul. No tears came to Mildred now; she felt relief much as she had felt it that afternoon near ancient Jericho. On Santa Monica Boulevard, in front of Lawrence Welk’s apartment building, Mildred Bryce con¬ fronted her immortality, a gift from the ice-cream Icing, another companion for the remainder of her travels. Howard Johnson had turned away, looking toward the ocean. To his blue back and patriarchal white hairs, Mildred said, “Howard, you can do anything,” and closing the doors of the U-Haul, she joined the host of the highways, a man with two portable freezers, ready now for the challenge of Disney World.

Questions 1. How soon do you suspect that this is not about the real formder of the Howard Johnson restaurants and motels, but someone made up? Is it fantasy for Max Apple to remake Howard Johnson according to his imagination? Is this an absurdist story? How? 2. Is this story satirical? Does it have a theme?

a glass pitcher, the tumbler turned down, by which a key is lying—And the immaculate white bed

10

—William Carlos Williams

Questions 1. 2. 3. 4.

Most of these images are visual. Is there an exception? Is changed an image? Is it an idea? Do these images carry feeling? Can you name the feeling? Can you paraphrase this poem for its ideas?

Gary Soto is a young Chicano poet who grew up working in the fields of the San Joaquin Valley in California. He uses images from his experience as a farm worker. This poem comes from a sequence called C4The Elements of San Joa¬ quin”:

Sun In June the sun is a bonnet of light Coming up, Little by little, From behind a skyline of pine. Hie pastures sway with fiddle-neck Tassels of foxtail.

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At Piedra A couple fish on the river’s edge, Their shadows deep against the water. Above, in the stubbled slopes, Cows climb down As the heat rises In a mist of blond locusts, Returning to the valley.

Questions 1. Compare this poem with H.D.’s “Heat,” p. 409. 2. Distinguish the different senses Soto’s images appeal to. 3. What kind of action lies behind sway and connects it with fiddle-neck? What does the poet compare the foxtail to?

Denise Levertov is an .American poet whov takes great pleasure in observation of 'w oild outside. Sight and sound, coolness and soot from chimneys.

Images

413

The World Outside i On the kitchen wall a flash of shadow: swift pilgrimage of pigeons, a spiral celebration of air, of sky-deserts. And on tenement windows a blaze

10

of lustred watermelon: stain of the sun westering somewhere back of Hoboken.

ii

20

The goatherd upstairs! Music from his sweet flute roves from summer to summer in the dusty air of airshafts and among the flakes of soot that float in a daze from chimney to chimney—notes remote, cool, speaking of slender shadows under olive-leaves. A silence.

iii

30

Groans, sighs, in profusion, with coughing, muttering, orchestrate solitary grief; the crash of glass, a low voice repeating over and over, ‘No. No. I want my key. No you did not. No.’—a commonplace. And in counterpoint, from other windows, the effort to be merry—ay, maracas! —sibilant, intricate—the voices wailing pleasure, arriving perhaps at joy, late, after sets have been switched off, and silences are dark windows?

Questions 1. How many images can you find in this poem, appealing to how many senses? 2. When the poet says pilgrimage, what world does she enter? Is it figurative or literal? What other words go with pilgrimage? 3. Is there any sort of connection between “a blaze / of . . . watermelon” and “notes / remote, cool . . .”?

We have been reading poems that describe realities. Allen Ginsberg’s dancers and police cars are really there—we accept his word for it. Herrick’s Julia wears

414

Images

silk clothing. H.D.’s poem exaggerates, but it does not invent a bizarre world. William Carlos Williams, Gary Soto, and Denise Levertov describe an objective world in language that specifies the way they take it in. But some poems use fantastic images to create worlds previously uncreated, as if the poet were recounting a dream. Here’s a dreamy poem bv Gregory Orr called “Washing My Face”: Last night’s dreams disappear. They are like the sink draining: a transparent rose swallowed by its stem.

The last image conjures up something imaginary-—a transparent rose. Because we know what roses look like, and because we know what transparency means, we can assemble these words into an image of a transparent rose. Then we understand that the transparent rose resembles the water in the washstand, when we wash our faces at waking, making a swirling shape like petals as it disappears down the drain. The tenuousness of last night’s dreams makes transparent feel right; the pleasant word rose implies that these disappearing dreams were happy ones. Many contemporary Americans write poems that include realistic as well as fantastic images. These poems may move back and forth from one sort of con¬ crete detail to another, from the seen to the dreamed and back again. James Wright wrote many poems that combined the two ways of seeing—looking out and looking in. Here is one:

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

10

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly, Asleep on the black trunk, Blowing like a leaf in green shadow. Down the ravine behind the empty house, The cowbells follow one another Into the distances of the afternoon. To my right, In a field of sunlight between two pines, The droppings of last year’s horses Blaze up into golden stones. I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on. A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home. I have wasted my life.

Hie first time one reads the poem, the last line is a shock. Some people feel that the last line is not earned, that it comes out of nowhere, that the poem fails because of a trick ending. Other readers report that although they are shocked by the ending, it feels right. Hie issue is whether the last line grows

Images

415

naturally out of what goes before. Granted that it is a surprise, is it a cheap surprise or is it a surprise that leads to clear understanding? hook back at what the poet sees, as he lies in the hammock at William Duffy’s tarm in Pine Island, Minnesota. Notice the lethargy and passivity, not only of lying in a hammock but also of the many enclosures of space—in a hammock, which is on a farm, which is in a town, which is named after an island, which is in a state. There are many layers to this cocoon. First the poet sees a butterfly colored bronze. But bronze is not only a color; it is a metal, and if a butterfly were bronze it would be permanent and inorganic. One of the connotations of butterfly, on the other hand, is the fragility of a brief life. In the phrase bronze butterfly, fantastic when we think of the metal bronze, we find the paradox of evanescence and solidity, change and permanence. We also see the color of bronze in contrast to the tree trunk’s color, and then we see the butterfly move, “Blowing like a leaf in green shadow,” as if its fragility returned quickly and the vision of permanence were brief. In the dream world images can change quickly. The first three lines give us an extended image of cleai contrasting colors—and contrasting senses of permanence and change. In the next three lines we cannot see the cows but, hearing the cowbells, we can visualize the ravine where they walk. Some of these words carry feeling without carrying images. “Into the distances of the afternoon” is not a visual image, nor is it addressed to any other sense, but the line takes the cows away from us, and the increasing distance—together with the emptiness of the house in the line before—introduces loneliness. The next four lines give us another scene and an absence of horses. We begin to realize that most things in this poem are gone. The horses have left behind only their manure. In this poem, nothing goes down but what it must come up; nothing comes up but what it must go down. Any perception calls forth its opposite; if a butterfly is bronze it is also moving in the wind. Even when the poet talks of the cowbells (more frail and distant than cows) he has them follow one another (which is warm and companionable) into the distances, which is far, lonely, and separate. Now, like a playwright keeping our attention with dramatic con¬ trast, the poet has built to something glorious—and shocks us with horse ma¬ nure; then he shocks us again by making horse manure glorious: it blazes up “into golden stones,” an image of fantasy. The more we look at these words, the more we realize the complications of feeling that control them. The poem is not intellectually complex; it is complex in feeling, an emotional density embodied in images. In the next line, the poet at first departs from imaging the world around him, and says I lean back as if in passive withdrawal. Then he observes the world again, as the evening darkens and comes on. This is not the absence of light but the gathering of darkness, something coming close to him as everything else leaves. Loneliness slides toward something more desperate, and the poet writes the line that brings everything together. The next-to-last line is the climax of the poem and the skeleton key to the feelings of the poem: “A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home. ” In the mind of this lonely speaker, the bird is going home; even this predator, killer of the homely chicken, has a home to

416

Images

look for. Bv implication of the whole poem, and especially of the last line, the speaker does not have a home to go to. Instead, he lies in a hammock on somebody else’s farm, and everything he looks at reminds him of his solitude and his unworthiness. We sense that wherever, the poet looks in the landscape, he cannot help but see his own troubles. Once you have understood the psychological state of the poem’s speaker, its images make their melancholy point. At first sight, the butterfly was trans¬ formed into solidity and value—the speaker wants his life to change—then it becomes fragile and transitory again; but it remains beautiful in its sleep, as he does not in his passivity. The empty house is the home the speaker is exiled from, as he is exiled from cows’ company. Wherever the cowbells move, we know that eventually in the afternoon the cows will go home to be milked; the bells remind us of a destination. While the speaker remains static, passive, unchanging, even horse droppings are glorified! All the speaker can think to do, under the ominous pressure of darkness, is give up. Try reading another poem by James Wright and following the track of its different images.

A Blessing

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20

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me Aid nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, I Ier mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear fhat is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom.

Questions 1. Which images describe a real world? WJiich are fantastic? Interpret the fan¬ tastic images.

Images

417

i. Why is it appropriate that there be two ponies, instead of one or three? 3. In the second line, is the verb bounds an image? What sense does it bring you? 4. The poet puts together two sentences—“ Flicy love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs”—that would not normally seem to go together. Can you defend the juxtaposition? 5. Analyze the image young tufts of spring.

Other poetry goes further into fantasy than James Wright’s. Sometimes a poet will use wholly bizarre images—without even the connection of rose to washbasin, or horse droppings to gold—to tell the truth of feeling. Chilean poet Pablo Neruda received the gift of a pair of socks hand-knitted by a peasant woman. He was pleased at this tribute, and wrote a poem that embodied his pleasure. Robert Bly translated it from the Spanish.

Ode to My Socks w

Maru Mori brought me a pair of socks

which she knitted herself with her sheep-herder’s hands, two socks as soft as rabbits.

to

I slipped my feet into them as though into two cases knitted

with threads of

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30

twilight and goatskin. Violent socks, my feet were two fish made of wool,

two long sharks seablue, shot through by one golden thread, two immense blackbirds, two cannons, my feet were honored in tliis way by these

418

40

so

60

70

so

Images

heavenly socks. They were so handsome for the first time my feet seemed to me unacceptable like two decrepit firemen, firemen unworthy of diat woven hre, of those glowing socks. Nevertheless I resisted the sharp temptation to save them somewhere as schoolboys keep fireflies, as learned men collect sacred texts, I resisted the mad impulse to put them in a golden cage and each day give them birdseed and pieces of pink melon. Like explorers in the jungle who hand over the very rare green deer to the spit and eat it with remorse, I stretched out my feet and pulled on the magnificent socks and then my shoes. Idle moral of my ode is this: beauty is twice beautv

Images

419

and what is good is doubly good when it is a matter of two socks made of wool in winter.

Questions 1. When Neruda writes that he “resisted / the mad impulse / to put them / in a golden / cage . . . is he using an image to describe the socks? Did this help you know what they look like? If an image does not describe an object, what else can it describe?

2. In rapid succession, Neruda says that his feet were “two fish made / of wool,” “two long sharks,” “two immense blackbirds,” and “two cannons.” What does this do to advice about trying to take poems literally? d. Find other examples of the fantastic image in this poem and interpret them. 4. Contrast: Dear Maru Mori, Thank you ever so much for your kind gift of a pair of socks. They are very pretty. They are warm. They fit me perfectly. I will wear them all die time. Mrs. Neruda lilies them too. Thank you again. Yours truly, Pablo Neruda

Chapter 4 Figures of Speech, Especially Metap tors

Figures of speech are extraordinary", original, nonliteral uses of language, com¬ mon to lively speech and literature. It would be literal to say “She walked slowly across the held. ” To say “She walked across the held as slowly as a snail with a pulled muscle” uses a hgure of speech; this hgure is simile, which makes an explicit comparison using like or as or a verb like seems or appears. A metaphor resembles a simile by talking about one thing in terms of another, but a met¬ aphor s comparison is implicit; it does not use like or as, seems or appears: “She snailed her painful way across the held.” Poems abound in metaphors. This chapter deals mainly with metaphors and similes; at the end we will men¬ tion a few other hgures of speech. Here is another poem by Gregory Orr that uses simile:

All Morning All morning the dream lingers. I am like thick grass in a meadow, still soaked with dew at noon.

Hie poet compares himself to grass, declaring that he shares a quality with it. Phe simile works through a visual image—we see grass soaked with dew—but it is not the picture that does the comparing: a set of relationships makes the comparison work. This simile, like many, can be expressed as an equation: dew is to grass as dreams are to me. The comparison states that my dreams

420

Figures of Speech, Especially Metaphors

421

remain with me for a while, the way dew clings to a blade of grass. Besides this statement there are tw o implications to the simile: eventually the dream/dew will vanish/evaporate; because dew brings nourishment to grass, dreaming has value for me. If we omitted like from Orr’s poem, we would have: All morning the dream lingers. I am thick grass in a meadow, still soaked with dew at noon.

The last three lines would make not a simile but a metaphor. The terms com¬ pared I to thick grass, dreams to persistent dew—would remain the same, but the manner of the comparison would change. The reader is led by the simile: “I am like thick grass”; when the line becomes “I am thick grass,” the guiding hand disappears and the reader may not know where to go. Often metaphor is more powerful than simile. Apparently it is older and more primitive, and derives from “primary process thinking,” as psychologists de¬ scribe it, in which dissimilar things are perceived as identical. Metaphor is the poetic mode of thought, flying across barriers of logic to assert identities. When a small child speaks of the leg of a table or the hand of a clock, he or she perceives a flesh-and-blood leg and a hand; the table in his language has power to walk, the clock to gesture and to point. For the child, such metaphors are alive; for the adult they are dead. When the adult mind thinks in metaphor, it regains lost power misplaced in the pursuit of maturity. All language began as metaphor, and in many of our words is buried an image that unites dissimilar things: a daisy was once a day’s eye. In casual speech we use continual personification (a figure of speech by which we humanize the nonhuman): clouds frown, fires rage, distant mountains glower, meadows look cheerful, zippers prove recalcitrant, the sun smiles, and the horizon looks inviting. Metaphors in poems often happen quickly; we are moved without knowing what has touched us; unless we are explicating, we do not even notice that the poet has used metaphor. One of Robert Frost’s best poems, “To Earthward” (p. 515), begins by saying that when he was young feelings came easily; a tiny stimulus produced a strong response: “The petal of the rose,” he says, “It was that stung.” We understand stung as “gave pain” with the consciousness that this pain derives from pleasure too exquisite; the pang of beauty is overwhelm¬ ing and therefore painful. If we think about it, stung is a metaphor, because a rose does not ordinarily sting anything. What stings us? A thorn pricks, but it does not sting. When Frost writes “The petal of the rose / It was that stung,” he compares the soft petal of a flower to the harsh sting of a bee. Metaphors work by contrast as well as by comparison; things compared in a metaphor must be unlike, and the poet makes them alike. Usually difference affects ns more than similarity; when a poet compares the seemingly incomparable lie wins us with energy of resolved contrast.

422

Figures of Speech, Especially Metaphors

It is easy to see how sting and petal contrast. But how do they come together? A bee—never named, yet part of the connotations of sting—-belongs in a garden. A poem often finds its metaphors within an area, and Frost’s poem moves among flowers and gardens for its images and metaphors. Bees work in gardens for pollen. If Frost had substituted for stung an image of a dentist’s office— uThe petal of the rose / It was that drilled”—we would not have been able to follow him in his feeling. Coherence of metaphor makes Frost’s words operate upon us, even if we do not know that we are operated upon. Coherence of rose and stung, by way of an unstated bee, develops the metaphor. Many metaphors in poetry work almost subliminally, like Frost’s stung, but we also find extended metaphors. In the following poem, William Shakespeare starts by asking if he might make a comparison: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d. But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st.° Nor shall Death brag thou wand’rest in his shade, When in eternal hues to time thou grow’st; So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee. 0

10

beautiful tiling

ownest: possess

litis poem follows the common poetic form of the sonnet, fourteen lines of rhymed iambic pentameter (see pages 459, 472-474). In the course of his fourteen lines, Shakespeare compares relentlessly, always to the effect that A is greater than B. No, you are not like a summer’s day, you are better. To prove his conclusion, he compares parts of wholes. lie breaks a summer’s day down into weather, temperature, and temperament. Weather is more changeable than you are; you remain the same as the weather does not. Even in May, when blossoms begin to show, the weather can be unpleasant—but not you. Summer is a tenant who has rented an estate for a short time only (Shakespeare’s son¬ nets and plays are full of legal and financial metaphor) but your tenancy of beauty is longer than a mere summer. Notice that by the fourth line Shake¬ speare has established his comparison of thee and summer so thoroughly that he can introduce the further metaphor of tenancy without confusion. If summer leases, summer resembles a human being. The fifth line intro¬ duces another personification, when we hear of the eye of heaven, and we identify the eye with the sun when we hear that this eye shines. Having estab¬ lished the sun, without speaking of it direcdy, Shakespeare describes his gold complexion, as if the yellow sun had skin, and makes a cloudv dav the sun’s loss. In contrast his love is never lessened or dimmed. Notice how the eon-

Figures of Speech, Especially Metaphors

423

notations of precious metal work to flatter the dav, and thus flatter the love that is greater than the day. Hie first eight lines of the poem—the octave of a sonnet—cany out its im¬ plications. Flie sestet the sonnet s last six lines—expands upon the unchanging quality of the lo\e and ends by praising itself. Death shall not brag of keeping this person-summer’s day in shade, because these lines of poetry give eternal life. Shakespeare is able to bring Death into his metaphor, because shade treats sun as death treats life. Shakespeare s poem extends a series of linked metaphors through fourteen lines. Here is another example of a single-word metaphor, like Frost’s stung, which I use in order to move on to another subject. At the end of “During Wind and Rain” (page 405), Thomas Ilardv writes: Down their cawed names the rain-drop ploughs.

A plow is a natural object in the rural scene of this poem—and thus belongs in this poem’s metaphorical area—but this is not a literal plow; metaphor turns a raindrop into an agricultural implement: raindrop is to gravestone as plow is to earth. The metaphor of ploughs has implications central to the poem: if raindrop acts on granite as plow on meadow, by implication many years have passed. If, however, we read the line lazily, taking ploughs as if it meant “moves vigorously forward”—as in a dead metaphor like “the fullback plows through the line” or “the tugboat plows through the waves”—nothing happens at all. We constantly use figures of speech that once enjoyed freshness and vitality but that we no longer hear as figures of speech. Declaring we feel immovable, we say “I am glued to my chair. ” If we picture what we have said, we have a comical scene. But with dead metaphors, neither speaker nor hearer pictures anything at all. In a dead metaphor, the old comparison or assertion of identity is what is dead. If we did not say that we were glued to the chair, we might have said that we were anchored to the spot and no one would see the old schooner in the harbor, its anchor played out behind it, caught in the coral of the harbor bottom. For that matter, “dead metaphor” is a dead metaphor; and if I say that the old comparison is buried, I make the same morbid assertion. Once these metaphors were alive; now they are decayed corpses. The first time anyone used the metaphor of “dead metaphor,” he implied that a hole had been dug—sLx feet deep, six feet long, three feet across—in the dirt of the phrase, and that somebody had placed the body of a comparison in this hole and heaped dirt over the body. Live metaphors embody feelings./Dead metaphors embody stock responses, cliches, and lethargy. Bad poetry uses dead metaphors as commonly as we do in speech. Good poetry invents new metaphors, making vivid comparisons. People often even mix their dead metaphors. “Then the hand of God stepped in . . . ” makes a wonderful anatomical mixture. Of course the hand of God was used as if it meant “fortuitous circumstance,” and stepped in as if it meant “happened next.” When I first taught writing, one of my students wrote in a

424

Figures of Speech, Especially Metaphors

poem ‘The door yawned and beckoned. ” By yawned she meant that it opened, by beckoned that it looked inviting. But the two dead metaphors together made an impossible anatomy again, in which a door was an open mouth from which a hand suddenly extended. (Journalists as well as poets are experts at mixing dead metaphors. Take this example: “Mushrooming insurance and energy costs represent a double-barreled shotgun pointed at New England’s ski areas. ” The writer of this sentence developed the ability not to see, or the writer could not have turned a soft vegetable into a steel weapon.) Forming the habit of taking things literally, a reader becomes increasingly sensitive to language. Reading literally, we do not read the word blind auto¬ matically as if it meant “obtuse”—which is to use blind as a dead metaphor. When we read blind, we take it to mean “sighdess” until we find out otherwise. Then we do not write a sentence like this one recently printed in a country weekly: “ ‘American optometrists are blind to the advantages of small town living,’ said Dr. Harvey Bagnold to the Rotary Club last Tuesday.” Taking words as literally as possible—until the poem forces us to understand that we are reading a metaphor—we read the metaphor that is there. When Hamlet talks about his problems, he says that one possibility is to “take arms against a sea of troubles.” The Encyclopaedia Britannica, in an otherwise sen¬ sible entry on “Metaphor,” cites this figure as a mixed metaphor because people do not bear weapons against the ocean. It is not a mixed metaphor. It is visual metaphor embodying an idea and the emotions appropriate to that idea. I lamlet acknowledges that his problems are as soluble as the sea is vulnerable to his assault. The image expresses his feelings of futility. Shakespeare has Hamlet reveal his feelings by making a metaphor that provides an image of someone taking arms—in the context of the play, a sword or dagger—against an ocean. Besides personification, a subdivision of metaphor mentioned on page 421, and hyperbole, or extreme exaggeration (“That room was two miles wide!”), we need mention only two other forms of figurative language, not quite so common as metaphor and simile. In synechdoche we speak of something by naming only a part of it. A poet might refer to a naval fleet as “two hundred keels,” for instance, and his audience would understand that keel stood for boat. It is a way of referring to boats without using the word, which has perhaps lost freshness through overuse. We use synechdoche in everyday speech if we say that, during the summer, Gloria acquired wheels—she bought a used Oldsmobile. The part of the car stands in for the whole of the car. In metonomy we speak of the object in terms of something closely connected with it, not a part of it as in synechdoche but a thing closely and legitimately associated with it. Thus we can refer to a stow as its heat, for heat is not a part of the stove but a quality of it, or an association. Charles Reznikoff writes: Y

I folding the stem of the beauty she had as if it were still a rose.

Figures of Speech, Especially Metaphors

425

The poet first uses beauty by metonomy, as a quality of flowers; then he makes the flower particular. Ileie are some poems followed by questions about metaphor and other figures of speech.

10

that time of year thou mavst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare min’d choirs1 where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish’d bv. This thou perceiv’st which makes thy love more strong, I o love that well which thou must leave ere long. —William Shakespeare 1 Choir lofts, the part of the church building where the choirboys sang during religious services.

Questions 1. Paraphrase the poem, summarize the content, and discern the structure. 2. Where do you find the first figure of speech? What sort of figure is it? 3. How are the three quatrains linked in idea? Is there metaphorical coherence? Imagistic coherence? 4. In the fourth line, arc the birds literal or figurative or both? 5. In the eleventh and twelfth lines, does the analogy make a complex idea simpler? Or does it make a simple idea more difficult? 6. List and name all figures of speech in this sonnet.

Orchids They lean over the path, Adder-mouthed, Swaying close to the face, Coming out, soft and deceptive, Limp and damp, delicate as a young bird’s tongue; Their buttery fledgling lips Move slowly, Drawing in the warm air.

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And at night, Tire faint moon falling through whitewashed glass. The heat going down So their musky smell comes even stronger.

426

Figures of Speech, Especially Metaphors >

Drifting down from tlieir mossy cradles: So many devouring infants! Soft luminescent fingers, Lips neither dead nor alive, Loose ghostly mouths Breathing. —Theodore Roethke

Questions 1. List the different things the orchids are compared to. 2. The poem moves from one metaphoric area to another. What are the areas? Does the poem cohere? What keeps its different parts together?

The Hill It is sometime since I have been to what it was had once turned me backwards, and made my head into a cruel instrument. It is simple to confess. Then done, to walk away, walk away, to come again.

io

But that form, I must answer, is dead in me, completely, and I will not allow it to reappear— Saith perversity, the willful, the magnanimous cruelty, which is in me like a hill. —Robert Creeley

Questions 1. What are the connotations of instrument? Is the word a metaphor? 2. Note all the metaphors in this poem. Is there a dead metaphor here? A per¬ sonification? 3. Note other figures of speech. 4. Does the final figure of speech have impact on the earlier word me?

Chapter 5 Tone, witli a iVoic on Intentions

A poem’s tone, in common definition, reveals the writer’s attitude toward sub¬ ject, an attitude that could include sarcasm or irony or awe. In conversation we indicate tone by our manner of speaking or by our facial expression: “Great!” can be pronounced so that it is a compliment or an insult. When we discuss a poem’s tone, we discuss the value we attribute to its statements. In Wallace Stevens’s “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock,” he wrote: People are not going To dream of baboons and periwinkles.

In the context of this poem, which has already told us about “houses . . . haunted / By white night-gowns,” we hear the speaker’s tone as ironic. Irony is the perception of incongruity or discrepancy—between statement and mean¬ ing, for instance. Because we know that these unimaginative people will dream colorless dreams, it is ironic to name the exotic baboons and periwinkles as possible subjects of their dreams. Other poems arc explosive and angry in tone, like John Donne’s line beginning “The Canonization”: For Godsake hold your tongue and let me love!

Other poems reveal sarcasm, as in E. E. Cummings’s lines from “Poem, or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal”:

427

428

Tone, with a Note on Intentions

take it from me kiddo believe me my country, ’tis of

10

you, land of the Cluett Shirt Boston Garter and Spearmint Girl With llie Wrigley Eyes (of you land of the Arrow Ide and Earl & Wilson Collars) of you i sing: land of Abraham Lincoln and Evdia E. Pinkham, land above all of Just Add Hot Water and Serve— from every B. V. D. let freedom ring

These examples are relatively simple. As most poems are complex, many-sided, and ambivalent, so the tone of many poems is hard to name and easy to mistake. When we speak of a poem’s tone we make a metaphor, speaking of a poem as if it were a person and voiced its own words. It can help, studying tone in poetry, to try out the analogy of poems-as-people. If we sometimes misunder¬ stand tone in poems, it is also true that we can misunderstand personal tones of voice, even when we have body and pitch, gesture and eyebrows to help us understand. In everyday life, we interpret people’s tones every hour of the day, without noticing that we do it. When we are offended by someone, or when we are touched or pleased, it is often the tone that does the offending or the pleas¬ ing. Perhaps we live with someone, and after dinner one night someone says “I’ll do the dishes. ” These four words, depending on their tone, could mean a gieat many things. They could mean “Of course I’m getting stuck with doing the dishes, you slob, the way I always do, and the way I get stuck with taking out the garbage and picking up the biology notes from Gem and standing in line for the football tickets. ” Or they could mean “I want to do the dishes because you look so tired, and I’m always happy to take on a little work on your behalf, because you do so much for me, and I’m grateful for you getting that book from the library.” Or they could mean “I’m about to ask a favor,” or “I think you re mad at me,” or "Til get points this way,” or “Here is something I can do in order to avoid doing homework,” or “When you wash the dishes they never get clean. ” Usually we can decode the tone of somebody’s voice. For that matter, we decode the way someone crosses a room or closes a door or drinks a Coke. Decoding a roommate, we use a glossary of behavior that we have been learning since birth. Door slams mean anger, says this dictionary; deep sighs mean frustration. We receive signals through gestures and through words, and we respond in kind; we communicate bv tones. Readers of poetry learn a system of signals by which they understand the tone of a poem, just as everybody learns the tones of personal pitch and gesture. One of the contracts that poet makes with reader stipulates that tone shall be

Tone, with a Note on Intentions

429

ascertainable: an assured tone is another criterion of excellence in poetry. Sometimes poems fail by not making tone clear enough. For instance, here is a portion of a poem by a talented student: ... on sour air, the bells chimed season’s greetings to the departed host of Christmas . . .

If you cannot decode the tone of this fragment, you are not alone. What is the authors attitude toward the subject? The poet intended season s greetings to be highly ironic, even sarcastic, but reading it one could not be certain; a potential irony floated, unanchored, two inches above the page. The poet might have anchored irony any number of ways, but it is worth saying that ironic cliches are difficult to control; sometimes a context that demands irony provides control, sometimes a structure that repeats and varies the same irony. This fragment fails to make the irony seem intentional.

A note on intentions When most of us speak about poetry, we refer to an author’s intentions without even noticing that we do it. Speaking of diction and idiom, metaphor and image, we couch our discoveries in terms of the poet’s presumed wishes and endeav¬ ors. Interpreting meaning, we say "This is what the poet was trying to say.” The last phrase is especially common—and it is unfortunate: it promotes a picture of the poet as a fumbling, inarticulate slob, unable to say what is meant. The expression suggests that we will help out the dolt standing there with mouth open; let us inform the grateful poet of what he or she was trying and failing to say. Whenever we begin to speak of a poet’s intentions, we ought to consider what we are really talking about. Surely no one is so presumptuous as to believe that he or she really knows what was in Milton’s mind before he wrote Paradise Lost—or what was in Robert Frost’s mind before he wrote “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” for that matter. Common sense reveals our ignorance; we need no degrees in psychology. Everything that ever happened to Robert Frost—every poem he ever read, every conversation he ever took part in, every winter he ever lived through, every horse he ever drove—entered his poem. Or so I am free to suppose. We never know, with anything like certainty, why we make important deci¬ sions in our own lives. If ignorance prevails about our own intentions, how can we possibly presume to know someone else’s? The formula What was he trying to do? I low well did he accomplish his purposes? presupposes a sort of knowl¬ edge we cannot claim. It is true that some poets have revealed their intentions to us—in autobiography, in letters to editors or to friends, and in answer to questions. I suggest that we should not believe them. WTe should listen to what they say—if'the poem is good, the poet’s talk about it is bound to be interesting.

430

Tone, with a Note on Intentions

even if only for what the poet leaves out. But we should listen skeptically, with our minds alert for falsity; we should not listen naively, as if we were getting the words from the horse’s mouth. Often the most sophisticated people become naive when artists claim to explain their work. When politicians explain that their motives are noble and selfless, nobody believes them. When poets do the same, people nod their heads. Really, there is every reason for artists to lie to us when they tell us about their work—because they have every reason to lie to themselves. Good poems by their nature reveal many sides of a person, including sides poets may wish to conceal. Robert Fipst, for instance, revealed a dark side in many poems—-fears of madness, longings for oblivion, notions of evil, intimations of meaninglessness—which was not the self he chose to reveal on the lecture platform. In speaking about his poems, he denied their darkness. Some poets have the illusion that they intend whatever takes place in their poems. They are like people who, in an argument, defend the rightness of e\ erything they have ever said or done. Other poets admit that they wrote this phrase, or that whole poem, without knowing exactly what they were saying. T. S. Eliot, for instance, proclaimed his innocence of intention in much of ‘The Waste Land.” Probably more often, a writer will consciously intend something on the surface—and write something else as well, underneath the surface, that the writer is not aware of until later, when somebody points it out, or that, sometimes, the writer denies even after it is pointed out. Some students and teachers talk in classrooms about “hidden meanings” in a poem, an unfortunate phrase that makes reading poems sound like detective work. If we must speak of “hidden meanings,” we ought to acknowledge that poets frequently hide meanings from themselves, and not just from readers. Maybe the word intention should be stricken from our critical vocabulary; for we begin to speak sometimes of “unconscious intentions,” a phrase in which the noun contradicts the adjective. In our lives we tend to judge by actions or results rather than intentions; if someone breaks our jaw while “only trving to help, we are smarter to remember the broken jaw than to warm ourselves over the avowed intention. Thus with poems: we must pay no attention to inten¬ tions, or even to the idea of intentions, but to actions and results. We must attend to what is there, really there on the page, and to the impingements of those words upon us. Tone is easy to miss or misinterpret. Many readers seize on one notion of tone, a quick reading, and ignore or cannot see alternative readings. Assuming one tone, we eliminate the possibility of others, or of tonal variation. Here is a short poem, alive with tone, requiring thoughtful reading.

Transformations Portion of this yew Is a man my grandsire knew, Bosomed here at its foot:

Tone, with a Note on Intentions

431

This branch may be his wife, A ruddy human life Now turned to a green shoot. These grasses must be made Of her who often prayed, Last century, for repose; to

And the fair girl long ago Whom I often tried to know May be entering this rose. So, diey are not underground, But as nerves and veins abound In the growths of upper air, And they feel the sun and rain, And the energy again "That made them what they were! —Thomas Hardy

First, let tts see if we can agree on a summary. A man walks among the graves of people he has heard about or has known in life. lie observes that all these bodies endure, at least as particles in graveyard plants. This summary is as pale as a government bulletin because I am trying to sanitize the tone of it. What, then, is the tone of Hardy’s poem? Is he melan¬ choly? Is he happy in the graveyard? Does he announce molecular immortality as a discovery of vast scientific and spiritual importance? At first glance, he may seem to do the last. One student writing about this poem said, at the end of a paper, “So after this depression about everybody dying Thos. I lardy shakes himself out of it. I Ie decides to look on the bright side of things so he notices that everybody really lives and nobody really dies because the roses etcetera go on blooming vear after vear after year ctfter year.” Ihese sentences run into trouble as a parphrase, and describe a poem which, if Hardy had written it, would have been dishonest; this student has Hardy turn himself away from sadness by lying to himself and to his readers. And this poem is almost the one I lardy wrote; I don’t think that this student’s interpretation is far off, but that it mistook I lardy’s tone. “Transformations” begins with a physical scene. An old man—many cities, like his acquaintance with someone “last century,” hint that the speaker is getting on—walks musing in a graveyard. At the beginning, he thinks of deaths remote from him, and the tone is quiet and contemplative. As the old man moves forward in time, closer to his own end, the tone shifts. Notice that I lardy begins by implying that he is certain, and modifies his tone of certainty as the poem develops. The change in the degree and in the type of assertion makes the change in tone. The first two lines are plain statement: “Portion of this yew / Is a man my grandsire knew. ...” Obviously, the speaker knows the truth of what he says, and we believe him; the yew tree must be adjacent to the grave, and we can accept this assertion scientifically. If someone is buried next to a tree, after a number of vears it must be true that some of the

432

Tone, with a Note on Intentions

tree’s molecules contain atoms that were earlier part of that person’s body. When the speaker goes on “Bosomed here at its foot, ” he moves into metaphor. I he metaphor has resonance and secondary implication, but it also carries information: the man my grandsire knew is buried (his burial compared to a baby snuggled up to a breast) at the base of the tree. When the speaker continues, he has taken his certainty as a starting point and added fancy: “This branch may be his wife . . .’’lie plavs straight with us: he admits that when he begins to think of a particular part of the tree as com¬ posed of a particular person, he is playing with the possibilities of his scientific commonplace. If the wife (as we can assume) is buried beside her husband heic at its foot, it is common sense to assume that she also participates in the tice s molecules, but it is fanciful to think of her as a special new branch. ( Hi at she’s thought of as a green shoot implies that she died more recently than hei husband.) Idle speaker modestly admits his lack of knowledge or certainty, admits his playful fancy, by using the verb form may be. 7lie hist line of the second Stanza appears at first glance to make a definite assertion: “These grasses must be made ...” If must be in our usage meant absolutely, incontrovertibly has to be,” we would have a statement of certainty. But, with the typical oddity of our speech, must be encodes a lack of certainty. When Hardy writes “These grasses must be made,” he uses must be the way we do when we say “It must be six o’clock.” (Robert Frost, as we have seen, used the same idiom when he wrote “My little horse must think it dueer • • •”)Hardy’s poem, we are allowed to understand that a woman (who “prayed / Last century for repose”) is buried hereabouts, so her remains may well be part of the grasses here; on the other hand, the lines sav, possibly they are not (because of the length of time? because of possible error about the gra\ esite:). In the second part of this stanza Ilardv reverts to the may be form ot possibility, making the metaphor that is the high point of the poem: “the fan gill ... / May be entering this rose.” Her molecules promenade through the stem to the blossom. In the metaphor, the rose has doors or portals, like house or church, and the pretty young woman in the shape of her molecules walks through the door. So fai the tone has been simple. I lardy told us a certainty followed by fancies and probabilities. We walk beside an old man through a churchyard, where he ruminates on the persistence of matter translated from one organism to another. In the thiid stanza tone changes entirely. We can perceive the change in the poem’s grammar. In his verb forms, Hardy reverts from must be and may be to direct assertion. So, the poem tells us, as a result of what has just been said, “they [the dead] are not underground.” But they are. 7es, some molecules of decay may have escaped, but the dead are not really “as nerves or veins” abounding “In the growths of upper air.” We know that the poem tells us false when it says that they abound and that “they feel the sun and rain / And the,energy again / That made them what they were!” I he tone of tins assertion is made loud by the exclamation point, a triumphant, almost ecstatic assertion of the survival of the dead. It is the tone of the excla¬ mation that must concern the reader. The'poem seems to argue that it has

Tone, with a Note on Intentions

433

proved survival after death by what it has observed of plant life. The poem began by winning our trust with its scrupulous tise of verbs moving from is to may be and must be. Now it seems to violate that trust, by asserting are when we must be aware that the idea depends on speculation, on fantasv, and on a scientific notion that deals with particles of human flesh, not with whole human beings. Because the leap to assertion is such a grand leap, because we have learned to trust the implicit reasonableness of the speaker, the leap to false assertion creates a tone of strong and urgent feeling, which speaks to us like unwritten lines of poetry, saying “I know this assertion to be false; I make it only because I must, because the mortality of bodies is unacceptable to me!” The poem, through its tone—tone accomplished mosdy by variations in verbs—speaks to us eloquently of the dread and fear of death. Hardy’s intention, in writing the poem, is not known to the reader—not to me, not to you, not to I lardy’s most devoted student or scholar. But his poem in its own words, in its slow and steady motion down the page, makes its shape inevitable—if we read with a steady care, with attention, and with the same sensitivity we use interpreting the gesture and pitch of a person we love. I Iere are some poems to read for their tone.

Museum Piece Hie good grey guardians of art Patrol the halls on spongy shoes, Impartially protective, though Perhaps suspicious of Toulouse.1 I Iere dozes one against the wall, Disposed upon a funeral chair. A Degas' dancer pirouettes Upon the parting of his hair. See how she spins! The grace is there, 10

But strain as well is plain to see. Degas loved the two together: Beauty joined to energy. Edgar Degas purchased once A fine El Greco/ which he kept Against the wall beside his bed To hang his pants on while he slept. —Richard Wilbur 1 Henri dc Toulouse-Lautrec Monfa (1864—1901) made notable paintings of Parisian life and

characters but is best known for his posters ot nightclubs and entertainers. 'Edgar Degas (1834—1917), one of the important French impressionists, is best known for his paintings and pastels of ballerinas. ;Tl Greco (1548?—1614? or 1625?), native of Crete and student of the Venetian master Titian, lived in Toledo from his late twenties and was the leading sixteenth-century mystical Spanish painter. I Iis work often distorts the human form by elongating it.

434

lone, with a Note on Intentions

Questions 1. In the first line, what is the tone of the word good? 2. Alliteration is the repetition of consonant sounds, as in good gray guardians. Does alliteration in the first line contribute to the tone of the line? 3. Notice the rhyme in die first stanza. Can a rhyme contribute to tone? Does diis rhyme? 4. Does the first stanza introduce a tone that remains the same throughout the poem? Where does the poem’s tone change? How do you know? o. What is die tone of die last line of the poem? Does it resolve the differing tones earlier in the poem?

Ilay for the Horses

io

I Ie had driven half the night From far down San Joaquin Through Mariposa, up the Dangerous mountain roads, And pulled in at eight a. m. With his big truckload of hav behind the bam. With winch and ropes and hooks \\ e stacked the bales up clean To splintery redwood rafters High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa Whirling through shingle-cracks of light, Itch of havdust in the sweaty shirt and shoes. At lunchtime under Black oak Out in the hot corral, —Hie old mare nosing lunchpails, Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds— ‘I’m sixty-eight,’ he said, I fust bucked hay when I was seventeen. I thought, that day I started, I sure would hate to do this all my life. And dammit, that’s just what I’ve gone and done. ’ —Gary Snyder

Questions 1. How would you characterize the tone of the first stanza of tiiis poem? Do you trust it to be straightforward? Why? 2. In die poem’s middle, does the tone change at all? Do you sense any change in the speaker’s attitude toward the subject? a In die last part of die poem, the poet quotes anodier speaker. Does this new speaker have a characteristic tone? What do you know of him from his tone? v\ nat does the poet do to reveal his tone?

Tone, with a Note on Intentions

435

Ends Loud talk in the overlighted house That made us stumble past. Oh, there had once been night the first. But this was night the last. Of all the things he might have said, Sincere or insincere, He never said she wasn’t young, And hadn’t been his dear.

to

Oh, some as soon would throw it all As throw a part away. And some will say all sorts of things, But some mean what they say. —Robert Frost

Questions 1. Who is us? 2. What is overheard? 3. Do any overheard words have a tone to them that you trust? distrust? What words give you your impressions? 4. What do you feel you know about the overheard people? Try to discover every¬ thing you can about them, and then decide how you know what you know. 5. What are these people arguing about? Do you know? Or do you only know the tone of the argument? Which is more important, the subject of an argument or its tone?

Chapter 6 Sjn ibols and AUu$ioii§

In lo Read a Story,” a symbol was defined as a person, object, place, or event that comes to stand for something other than it is, usually something more than it is, and for a class of events or relationships. This definition can serve as a starter here. Again, we must make distinctions among lands of symbolism: the conventional (or traditional) symbol, the natural symbol, and the lit¬ erary symbol. And we must speak as well about allusion and reference in poetry, devices that overlap when a poet refers or alludes to a traditional symbol and that resemble each other in the difficulty they cause for students. It is easiest to speak first of natural symbols, which occur in literature but which tend toward cliche: night is a natural symbol of death, and so is autumn. Shakespeare and other geniuses have made great literature using natural sym¬ bols; remember That time of year thou mavst in me behold ...” (page 425), where both night and autumn are symbols of death. Because natural symbols tend to be trite, modern writers seldom use them, or use them in the negative, setting up the expectation of a stock response, and then disappointing it. The gieat modern poet I. S. Eliot began one of his first poems, “The Love Sons of J. Alfred Prufrock,” with Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky . . . appealing to stock responses, and to the natural symbolism of sunset as beauty or fulfillment. Ilis audience, when he wrote the poem in 1911, might have

436

Symbols and Allusions

437

expected him to go on: Like veils of painted gossamer on high . . .

Instead, he turned this expectation upside down with his actual third line: Like a patient etherized upon a table.

A natural symbol underwent a radical alteration. The word symbol begins by meaning a simple sign, like a circle containing a cigarette, with a diagonal line crossing out the cigarette; everybody knows the sign'of the symbol for NO SMOKING. We speak of conventional symbols like these signs and like national flags or the logos of sports teams. Another soil of conventional symbol (it would be better perhaps to speak of these as tradi¬ tional symbols) are images or phrases that have acquired meaning over cen¬ turies of history or association, like the cross and the Star of David. When a poet uses an image of a cross, he can hardly avoid reference to Christ, Chris¬ tianity, and to suffering. Therefore reference allies itself to traditional (and conventional) symbolism. We speak of conventional and traditional symbols together because the distinction between them is quantitative; “conventional” symbols are simple signs; “traditional” symbols are signs with long and complex associations. Finally, there is the literary symbol, of which a fictional example was Chek¬ hov’s “Gooseberries.” Here is a poem by William Blake:

The Sick Rose 0 Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

Reading this poem, let us as always first try the literal. A sick rose could suffer from a plant bacterium. But the second line of the poem reveals that we cannot continue to read on a literal level, because invisible worms fly only in the imagination. Back to the first line, then. Rose is capitalized, which may give ns the sense that this flower is more than a flower, or that a real flower is addressed as if it embodied something beyond itself. To connect this flower with the notion of sickness seems a violation of the natural, as if we said that a mountain squeaked like a mouse. The contrast between rose and sick occurs at the levels

438

Symbols and Allusions

of both sound and idea, as the full os of the first two syllables dwindle into the quick short is of sick and invisible. “The Sick Rose” makes a literary symbol. When we ask what it is a symbol °f-> we ask the wrong sort of question. A literary symbol is not a figure or a riddle to which there exists a simple answer,, or a correct interpretation. In¬ stead, it is a series of words—creating image or event or character or fantasy or plot or scene that is irreducible, that in itself is a formula for a complex set of feelings and ideas never before rendered in the same way. The literary symbol cannot be translated or identified. We can talk about it and we can talk around it, but the symbol will always sit in the center of our words, smiling enigmati¬ cally, content to be itself. A great French symbolist poet, Stephane Mallarme, made a metaphor for the symbol: he said it was “the new word. ” We can find the metaphor useful to our dunking about the literary symbol, because it cannot be defined or named by anything except itself. It resembles, then, a “new word” as if the poet in\ ented the word chair for the first time, and there were no other word for chair but chair. William Blake makes a symbol for a new thing. The invisible worm is not described in terms of horns and claws; it is a general “worm,” with the particular attribute of invisibility—and with other attributes as well that associate feelings with this new word. This is a worm gifted with flight like a dragon, and gifted especially to fly in a darkness (night as a natural symbol is frightening, possibly the place of evil) and through a storm (destruction, possibly divine wrath) that makes a noise like the cries of someone in pain. The sick rose and its worm li\ e in a place of terror and fear, are themselves instruments and victims of terror and fear. Syntax of subject and object, predator and victim, locates a scene in the second stanza. Tire worm has found “thy bed / Of crimson joy ...” The word joy seems unambivalent, but it is not: crimson is blood-color, one of sin’s colors, and dangerous; at least violent and extreme. One would expect malice from such a worm, and one hears instead of love; but it is a dark, secret love, and it is a love that rhymes joy with destroy. When love is both dark and secret, adjectives like crimson complicate the wholeness of the noun; if they do not reverse love into hate, or jov into pain, or fondness into malice, they introduce elements of the negative into the positive; they make by thencomplexity a wholeness. It is a wholeness that is also a new, single thing: symbolist poem or “new word. ” Many poems speak of roses, in many different ways—sometimes as traditional or literary symbols and sometimes not. Theodore Roethke’s great contemporary poem, The Rose” (page 530), makes a literary symbol, another new word like William Blake s. But in Charles Reznikoffs four-line poem, Ilolding the stem of the beauty she had as if it were still a rose. \

Symbols and .Illusions

439

rose is not a symbol but a type, “a thing of beauty. ” When Shakespeare says “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” or when Gertrude Stein tells us A rose is a rose is a rose,” these writers do not make new words, but like Reznikoff use the rose as a type: a flower beautiful in its odor; a thing of this world.

The problem of allusion Blake’s “The Sick Rose” carries countless associations for the student of lit¬ erature. If a cam temporary poet wrote now about “the rose’s worm”—he would make an allusion to “The Sick Rose,” almost a quotation. Allusion works with ideas as well as with words. One critic reading Blake’s “The Sick Rose” believed that he found an allusion to Shakespeare’s line “Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. ” It is now time for us to focus on allusion. Poems can allude to other poems and to history, to ideas, to fact, and to myth. All poems retelling old stories are allusive; a new version of “Casey at the Bat” would be an allusion to the old ballad; a new poem that tells about Oedipus or Ilamlet must be based on allusions to the old plays. Allusion has become a problem for modem readers, because people no longer share the same backgrounds. A century ago, an allusion to the Bible supposed no special knowledge; a century ago, among literate people, it was not obscure to speak of Greek deities like Apollo or Aphrodite; a century ago, even scientific knowledge was commonly held, partly because there was relatively little of it. Now we not only specialize in fields; we find specialties within specialties. The high-energy physicist cannot understand the physicist who studies the behavior of particles at low temperatures. Allusion is common in poetry, and acts as a barrier to understanding. Sen¬ sitivity to allusion in poetry can only grow with extended reading. It is not an element of poetry that can be studied by exercise and thought; it is an element of poetry that can be named and introduced—but then it must be learned and practiced by much reading. No short cut will solve the problem of allusion. But one short cut, obvious enough, will help with certain poems. I Ierc is an epigram (a short, pithy poem; see pages 479—480) by Louise Bogan:

To ail Artist, to Take Heart Slipping in blood, by his own hand, through pride, I lamlct, Othello, Coriolanus fall. Upon his bed, however, Shakespeare died, I laving endured them all.

Bogan alludes to three Shakespearean heroes. The names of Hamlet and Othello will be familiar to most American students, though not always the stories that their names allude to. The name of Coriolanus will be new to most.

440

Symbols and Allusions

Reading this poem, the student is forced to a dictionary or a reference book.* The problem of allusion is often a problem of vocabulary, especially when it is a matter of proper names. To know that Ilamlet is the hero of a play by Shake¬ speare called Hamlet—as a dictionary might tejl us—would not help, even with this brief poem. But if we know enough of the story to remember that Ilamlet died young and by violence, we can begin to understand the allusion and the poem. We cannot understand the poem without understanding the allusions. (Checking allusions in Louise Bogan’s four lines, we learn that Coriolanus’s tragic Haw was pride; we add this fact to Othello’s suicide and Hamlet’s death in a duel. We notice that the three phrases of Bogan’s first line follow the order of the thiee heroes names in the second line. We understand that the play¬ wright who conceived them lived longer than they did, even if he suffered {en¬ dured has the connotation of survival with difficulty) and ended by dying in bed—which is viewed as preferable to violent death. Because of the difficulties of allusion, certain great and allusive poets are under-represented in this book, among them Milton, Drvden, and Pope. For the same reason, it is hard to choose poems that can give fair exercise in uncovering allusions. Hie poems that follow, and the questions that go with them, raise issues largely of symbolism. But not entirely.

Proust’s Madeleine

10

Somebody has given my Baby daughter a box of Old poker chips to play with. 1 oday she hands me one while I am sitting with my tired Brain at my desk. It is red. On it is a picture of An elk’s head and the letters B.P.O.E.—a chip from A small town Elks’ Club. I llip It idly in the air and Catch it and do a coin trick To amuse my little girl.

./Earlier *hls book urSed the use of the Oxford English Dictionary (page 40b). In the pursuit of allusions, the student can use the whole reference room. For help with the proper names in Bogan’s poem, the Oxford Companion to English Literature would perhaps be the best resource in which entires for these names summarize plots and tell the tragic flaws of heroes. Oxford also prints a Companion to American Literature, and Companions to the literatures of other languages. The xford Classical Dictionary is very good on mythology, and there are classical dictionaries and companions from other publishers. The Readers’ Encyclopedia is a useful volume, as are more specialized volumes of reference: the Encyclopedia of American Biography, Webster’s Biographical Dictionary, An Encyclopedia of World History, and of course the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Tire NeW Columbla Encyclopedia is an excellent resource ifi one volume. Reference librarians will often point you in the nght direction. With certain poets, especially highly allusive poets of the eighteenth century who refer to their own contemporaries by name and by pseudonvm, it is usefU t0 consult thc notes of a scholarly edition of the poefs work, where the research has been done

Symbols and Allusions

20

441

Suddenly everything slips aside. I see my father Doing the very same thing, Whistling “Beautiful Dreamer,” His breath smelling richly Of whiskey and cigars. I can Hear him coming home drunk From die Elks’ Club in Elkhart Indiana, bumping the Chairs in the dark. I can see Him dying of cirrhosis Of the liver and stomach Ulcers and pneumonia, Or, as he said on his deathbed, of Crooked cards and straight whiskey, Slow horses and fast women. —Kenneth Rexroth

Questions 1. Where does allusion begin in this poem? List and explain its allusions. 2. Does this poem use any sort of symbol?

Taking the hands of someone you love Taking the hands of someone you love, You see they are delicate cages . . . Tiny birds are singing In the secluded prairies And in the deep valleys of the hand. —Robert Bly

Question Compare this poem with the poem above by Kenneth Rexroth. Does this one invite you to look for svinbolism? What sort of symbolism? Why? j

j

The Draft Ilorse W7ith a lantern that wouldn’t bum In too frail a buggy we drove Behind too heavy a horse Through a pitch-dark limitless grove. And a man came out of the trees And took our horse by the head And reaching back to his ribs Deliberately stabbed him dead.

io

The ponderous beast went down WTith a crack of a broken shaft.

*

*

442

Symbols and Allusions

And the night drew through the trees In one long invidious draft. The most unquestioning pair That ever accepted fate And the least disposed to ascribe Any more than we had to to hate,

20

We assumed that the man himself Or someone he had to obey Wanted us to get down Amd walk the rest of the way.

—Robert Frost

Questions 1. Do you take this action literally? 2. iVrc there natural symbols here? Traditional or conventional symbols? 3. Does this poem make a “new word”? What in this poem gives you the sug¬ gestion that it might be symbolic?

The Monument

io

20

Now can you see the monument? It is of wood built somewhat like a box. No. Built like several boxes in descending sizes one above the other. Each is turned half-way round so that its corners point toward the sides of the one below and the angles alternate. Then on the topmost cube is set a sort ot fleur-de-lvs of weathered wood, long petals of board, pierced with odd holes, four-sided, stiff, ecclesiastical. From it four thin, warped poles spring out, (slanted like fishing-poles or flag-poles) and from them jig-saw work hangs down, four lines of vaguely whittled ornament over the edges of the boxes to the ground. The monument is one-third set against a sea; two-thirds against a skv. The view is geared (that is, the view’s perspective) so low there is no “far away,” and we are far away within the view. A sea of narrow, horizontal boards lies out behind our lonely monument, its long grains alternating right and left like floor-boards—spotted, swarming-still,

Symbols and Allusions

30

40

50

60

70

and motionless. A sky runs parallel, and it is palings, coarser than the sea’s: splintery sunlight and long-fibred clouds. “Why does that strange sea make no sound? Is it because we’re far away? Where are we? Are we in Asia Minor, or in Mongolia?” An ancient promontory, an ancient principality whose artist-prince might have wanted to build a monument to mark a tomb or boundary, or make a melancholy or romantic scene of it . . . aBut that queer sea looks made of wood, half-shining, like a driftwood sea. And the sky looks wooden, grained with cloud. It’s like a stage-set; it is all so flat! Those clouds are full of glistening splinters! What is that?” It is the monument. “It’s piled-up boxes, outlined with shoddy fret-work, half-fallen off, cracked and unpainted. It looks old.” —The strong sunlight, the wind from the sea, all the conditions of its existence, may have flaked off the paint, if ever it was painted, and made it homelier than it was. “Why did you bring me here to see it? A temple of crates in cramped and crated scenery, what can it prove? I am tired of breathing this eroded air, this dryness in which the monument is cracking.” It is an artifact of wood. Whod holds together better than sea or cloud or sand could by itself, much better than real sea or sand or cloud. It chose that way to grow and not to move. The monument’s an object, yet those decorations, carelessly nailed, looking like nothing at all, give it away as having life, and wishing; wanting to be a monument, to cherish something. Tire crudest scroll-work says “commemorate,” while once each day the light goes around it like a prowling animal, or the rain falls on it, or the wind blows into it. It may be solid, may be hollow. 'lire bones of the artist-prince may be inside or far away on even drier soil. But roughlv but adequately it can shelter

443

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Symbols and Allusions

so

what is within (which after all cannot have been intended to be seen). It is the beginning of a painting, a piece of sculpture, or poem, or monument, and all of wood. Watch it closely. —Elizabeth Bishop

Questions 1. Is this a symbolist poem? What lines or words help you decide? What sorts of symbol can you discover in this poem?

The Apparitions Because there is safety in derision I talked about an apparition, I took no trouble to convince, Or seem plausible to a man of sense, Distrustful of that popular eye Whether it be bold or sly. Fifteen apparitions have I seen; The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.

io

I have found nothing half so good As my long-planned half solitude, Where I can sit up half the night With some friend that has the wit Not to allow his looks to tell Wien I am unintelligible. Fifteen apparitions have I seen; The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.

o

When a man grows old his joy Grows more deep day after day, 1 lis empty heart is full at length, But he has need of all that strength Because of the increasing Night I hat opens her mystery and fright. Fifteen apparitions have I seen; The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger. —William Butler Yeats

Questions 1. Note any use of conventional or traditional symbols. 2. Does the image of a coat upon a coat-hanger change its implications as it is repeated? Does the poem make a literary symbol?

Vv

Symbols and Allusions

445

The Return See, they return; ah, see the tentative Movements, and the slow feet. Idle trouble in the pace and the uncertain Wavering!

10

See they return, one, and by one, With fear, as half-awakened; As if the snow should hesitate And murmur in the wind, and half turn back; These were the Wing’d-with-Awe, ’ Inviolable. Gods of the winged shoe! With them the silver hounds, sniffing the trace of air! Hale! Haie! These were the swift to ham'; These the keen-scented; These were the souls of blood.

20

Slow on the leash, pallid the leash-men! —Ezra Pound

Questions 1. Can you find any allusions in this poem? 2. Can you identify they in this poem? If you cannot name a definite identity, can you name a kind of action that they embody? 3. If the poem is symbolic, what kind of a symbol does it make?

Chapter 7 The Sound of Poems

When we explicate a poem, we investigate its sound as well as its symbol, its shape and architecture as well as its paraphrase and implication. Talking about Wdlliam Carlos Williams’s wheelbarrow poem, we looked at the poem as artifact, as made object, this chapter concentrates on the pleasures poems make bv their sound. There are at least two distinct pleasures we derive from the sound of language in poetry. One is the pleasure of rhythm, ol words in motion, uncoiling in sentences from poetic line to line. Here is the beginning of Paradise Lost bv John Milton: Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, W ith loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain die blissful seat, Sing, Heavenly Muse . . .

le pleasure of rhythm is like the pleasure of dancing, or of tapping our feet to eep time Wlth music, and it recalls primitive origins of poetry where song and poem and dance happened together. This rhythm-pleasure of poetrv’s sound connects with our pleasure in bodily motion. The other pleasure is the delight that we take in adjacent sounds rubbing ogether, vowels held and savored, consonants clicking together. I fere are some lines from fo Autumn” by John Keats:

446

The Sound of Poems

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows,0 borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; . . .

447

willows

Rhythm and linebreak First, let us look at rhythm. The lines of a poem are essential to its signature and its identity". Milton broke some ol his lines where the meaning paused, as with Brought death into the world, and all our woe . . .

When the sense pauses or stops at the end of a line we call it end-stopped. Most of the time, Milton broke his lines in the middle of a phrase, so that the sense of the sentence ran over into the line following, as with WTith loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us . . .

When the sense runs over the end of a line we call the line enjambed, and the practice enjambment. Even when a line is enjambed, it retains its identity as a line of poetry, and reading it aloud we niche a slight pause at the end. Or we show the line-end in another way, by" raising our voice perhaps, or by holding onto the last syllable. We do not pause evenly-—we pause longer when the line is end-stopped—but we find some means to show with our voices that we have come to the end of a line. If we do not, we might as well be reading prose. One eighteenth-century critic with no ear suggested that we print Milton as prose or that we re-break his lines according to phrases or sense, which could make the first lines of Paradise Lost look like this: Of man’s first disobedience and the fruit of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste brought death into the world and all our woe, with loss of Eden, till one greater Man restore us, and regain the blissful seat, sing 1 leavenly Muse . . .

How boring and fiat the lines become! There can be little attention to pauses within lines, because the critic would break the line wherever there might be

448

The Sound of Poems

a pause. There is no tension; music and sense become identical, which results in the disappearance of music. We must develop a sense of the poetic line if we are to take pleasure in poetry. Here are lines by Louis Simpson: Caesar Augustus In liis time lay Dying, and just as Cold as they, On the cold morning Of a cold day.

These lines lose their pleasure, as well as their dance and their power, if we space them according to the phrases of their sense: Caesar Augustus In his time lay dying And just as cold as they On the cold morning Of a cold day.

And as prose it disappears completely: “Caear Augustus in his time lav dying and just as cold as they on the cold morning of a cold day.” (The complete poem is on pages 467-468.) Hie examples we have looked at use rhyme and meter, subjects of the next chapter. W ith fiee \eise, which lacks any regular beat, the line becomes the major way of organizing sound. Here is a stanza from a free-verse poem by 'John Haines, And W/hen the Green Man Comes,” revised into phrase-unit lines: His eyes are blind with April, his breath distilled of butterflies and bees, and in his beard the maggot sings.

Here it is with the lines broken arbitrarily, not as the poet broke them in his finished poem: Ilis eyes are blind with April, his breath distilled of butterflies and bees, and in his beard the maggot sings.

The Sound of Poems

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Hie first version is boring, the second jagged or nervous. Here is the stanza as I Iaines actually wrote it: I Iis eyes are blind with April, his breath distilled of butterflies and bees, and in his beard the maggot sings.

Notice how the organized rhythm of the last version calls attention to sound; putting eyes and blind together in a short line, for instance, repeats the long ais. Notice as well the repetition of Is, in the last syllable of each of the first four lines. Sounds can exist for their own sakes—and because they can, sounds organize emphasis, blind / with April and distilled / of butterflies share a syntactic structure, but instead of ending at the same place, one of the two clauses continues of butterflies / and bees. Syntax and linebreak combine to isolate, in the last line of the stanza, the significant conclusion: the maggot sings. My earlier linebreaks, falsifying the poem, obscured or invalidated these possibili¬ ties. Some free-verse poems use a long line in which the linebreak seldom inter¬ rupts the sense. They are all end-stopped. Take these lines by Walt Whitman, from “Song of Myself”: I think I could turn and live with animals, they’re so placid and self-contain’d, I stand and look at them long and long. They do They do They do Not one Not one Not one

not sweat and whine about their condition, not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, not make me sick discussing their duty to God, is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

If one printed these lines as prose, in paragraph form, one would lose the slow pace that the long lines give. On the other hand, one could slow the pace into absolute boredom by breaking the lines at the commas, making them shorter: I think I could turn and live with animals, they’re so placid and self-contain’d. I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition.

450

The Sound of Poems

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins. They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God. Not one is dissatisfied. Not one is demented with the mania of owning things. Not one kneels to another nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago. Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

In this mistreatment, I have reduced the various pauses—commas, shorter pauses between whole phrases, lone line-end pauses—into one sort of pause. We should be grateful for Whitman’s generous line, which makes a satisfying rhythm within itself—and not only by its motion from line to line. A pause within the line is called a caesura, and is shown by a pair of vertical lines || . Whitman’s lines include many pauses or caesuras. In a shorter line like Milton’s we do not have so many, but we can often find an obvious place to pause, sometimes shown by punctuation: Of man’s first disobedience, 11 and the fruit

and sometimes not, as in Keats’s line: Or sinking 11 as the light wind lifts or dies . . .

Poets work with a variety of pauses, at the ends of lines and inside them, which contribute to the rhythm of the poetic line. Here are some exercises possibly suited for out-loud performance in the class¬ room.

Exercises 1. Following is a passage from Antony and Cleopatra, done Shakespeare’s way and as two actors with differing interpretations might have done it. Notice which lines are enjambed, which end-stopped, in the first passage. Discuss the difference the linebreaks make in the three versions. a.

Ihe barge she sat in, like a burnished throne. Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and rtiade Die water which they beat to follow faster.

The Sound of Poems

451

b. The barge she sat in like a burnished throne burned on the water. The poop was beaten gold, purple the sails, and so perfumed that the winds were love-sick with them. The oars were silver, which to the flutes kept stroke and made the water which they beat to follow faster. c. The barge she sat in like a burnished throne burned on the water the poop was beaten gold purple the sails and so perfumed that the winds were love¬

sick with them the oars were silver which to the tunc of ilutcs kept stroke and made the water which they beat to follow faster. 2.

Here are three versions of a frcc-vcrse poem by William Carlos Williams. Which is die poet’s? Which is the least pleasing lineation?

a. As the cat climbed over die top of the jamcloset first the right forefoot carefully then die hind stepped down into the pit of the empty flower pot b. As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right forefoot carefully then the hind stepped down

452

The Sound of Poems

into die pit of die empty flowerpot c. As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right forefoot carefully dien the hind stepped down

v

into die pit of the empty flower pot

Vowels and consonants

To enjoy the intimate sounds of poems, we take pleasure in savoring words and parts of words. This pleasure does not exclude meanings but it can exist for its own sake. Sometimes we enjoy tripping along with nonsense sounds, as when Teats makes a line of fol, de rol, de roily of7 or Shakespeare mixes words ctnd sounds: “With a hey, ho, the wind and the rain.77 Alliteiation is the repetition of consonant sounds, especially at the beginning of words. When Wallace Stevens writes “In kitchen cups concupiscent curds,” he keeps our tongues flicking at the roofs of our mouths. Assonance is the repetition of vowel sounds—“beside the white”; “glazed with rain.” We take pleasure in holding onto vowels which remind us of each other. Idle last line of Ilardv’s “During Wind and Rain” shows interlocking assonance and alliteration:

Hie two syllables at the beginning and end of the line contain the same ow vowel sound; in the middle of the line, there is the long a of names and the long a of rain. In addition, the lines repeat the n of down, names, and rain; the r of carved, ram, and drop■ the p of drop and ploughs. Poets typically ascend to assonance, holding long vowels, when their poems are most exalted, as when Hardy ends his lyric. When Keats wrote his odes_ more than in his other poems—he especially delighted in repeating vowels and consonants. This stanza is from “Ode to a Nightingale”: I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. Nor wliat soft incense hangs upon the ►boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild—

The Sound of Poems

1()

453

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May’s eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewv wine, Idic murmurous haunt of llies on summer eves.

In the first line Keats mixes assonance and alliteration. The vowels of see and feet are identical, while flowers and feet begin with the same consonant. The consonant sound of th repeats softly through lines 4 to 6: Wherewith, the (four times), month, thicket, and hawthorn. I wo of the sets of rhyme words have the same long ai: wild, eglantine, child, wine. The identical diphthong (a dou¬ ble vowel, this one composed of ah and ee) occurs elsewhere within the lines: White, violets, flies. It is not a requirement of great poetry that sounds be so gorgeous. Frost is never so ornate, in his alliteration or his assonance, as Keats in the odes. Frost’s attention dotes on rhythm, linebreak, on the happy and continuous tension between sentence and line. Here are poems for sound study.

New Year’s Day ••

Again and then again . . . the year is born To ice and death, and it will never do To skulk behind storm-windows by the stove To hear the postgirl sounding her French horn When the thin tidal ice is wearing through. Here is the understanding not to love Each other, or tomorrow that will sieve Our resolutions. While we live, we live

To snuff the smoke of victims. In the snow to

The kitten heaved its hindlegs, as if fouled, And died. We bent it in a Christmas box .And scattered blazing weeds to scare the crow Until the snake-tailed sea-winds coughed and howled For alms outside the church whose double locks Wait for St. Peter, the distorted key. Under St. Peter’s bell the parish sea

454

The Sound of Poems

Swells with its smelt into the burlap shack Where Joseph plucks his hand-lines like a harp, And hears die fearful Puer natus est1 20

Of Circumcision, and relives the wrack And howls of Jesus whom he holds. How sharp The burden of the Taw before the beast: i

Time and the grindstone and the knife of God. The Child is bom in blood, O child of blood. —Robert Lowell iThe Child is born

Questions 1. At the end of each line, write either S (for end-stopped) or T (for enjambed). A What one consonant is most often repeated at the beginnings of words in this poem? Can you discover further alliteration? 3. In the next-to-last line, what vowel sound dominates?

I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent I his night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And more must, in yet longer light’s delav. With witness 1 speak this. But where I say Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent To dearest him that lives alas! away. I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree io

Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me; Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse. Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see Hie lost are like this, and their scourge to be As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse. —Gerard Manley Hopkins

The Sound of Poems

455

Questions 1. Underline the alliteration in this poem. 2. Letter each line as end-stopped (S) or enjambed (E).

The Dalliance of the Eagles Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,) Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, tire dalliance of the eagles, The rushing amorous contact high in space together, The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel. Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling, In tumbling turning clustering loops, straight downward falling, Till o’er the river pois’d, the twain yet one, a moment’s lull, A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing, Upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight, 10

She hers, he his, pursuing.

—Walt Whitman

Questions 1. In this poem, mark the pauses within the line (cacsiuas) with a double line. 2. Note any alliteration or assonance.

To Autumn I Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom friend of the maturing sun, Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run: To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, io

Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o’er-brimmed their clammv cells.

456

The Sound of Poems

II Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hah soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook i

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 20

Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. III Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue. Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows,0 borne aloft

willows

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 30

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; I ledge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

—John Keats

Question Make curved marks over the lines showing the interconnections of alliteration; underneath the lines, make angular marks to connect assonances. (See the markings on a line by Thomas Hardy, page 452.)

Chapter 8 Meter and Rhyme

“Meter and Rhyme” is examined separately from “The Sound of Poetry” to make a point. From all poems we demand pleasing sound. All good poems are formal: the poem’s words, and their order and arrangement, must seem inevitable and immovable. In some poems, meter and rhyme provide specialized means toward these ends. Now we must define meter, distinguishing it from rhythm, and exemplifying its use by poets in the English tradition. Because rhyme is a separate device, and because meter and rhyme can each occur without the other, we will treat rhyme separately later in the chapter.

Meter English meter is a count of syllables, usually syllables in pairs of which one is louder than the other. Meter is not the same as rhythm. Meter is numbers or counting; rhythm is a vaguer word, implying an approximate recurrence or repetition in the pacing of sound; rhythm is fast or slow, staccato or flowing. Words describing rhythm are imprecise, because rhythm cannot accept precise description. We compare rhythm to a liquid when we call it flowing, or to a broken solid when we call it jagged. The last chapter devoted space to rhythm in the poetic line, and contrasted the rhythm of Milton’s metrical line with the rhythm of the same words broken into different lines; then it made the same contrast with free verse, using poems by John Ilaines and Walt Whitman (pages 448—450). In each example the poet’s rhythms, deployed in lines, were pleasing to the ear. The same words, broken into other lines, made monotonous or unpleasing

457

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Meter and Rhyme

rhythms. When we read poems, we invariably perceive rhythm: in a good poem, the rhythm is pleasurable—and from time to time it is even expressive. In a bad poem, the rhythm tends to be weak, prosaic, boring, and without expressive function. Poems in free verse and poems in meter both have rhythm; in either metrical verse or free verse, rhythms may be good or bad. Meter is numbers, or counting, as we have noted already. The word comes from a Greek word, metron, which means “measure”—like a yardstick or the metric system. Meter is a count of something we can hear. Each language has its own genius, and in English the common meter (known by various names) counts relative loudness and softness of syllables. Relative stress In order to hear English meter, you must be able to distinguish relative loud¬ ness, which is also called stress or accent. Within a word that has more than one syllable, one syllable is louder than the rest. We speak of proNOUNcing a word, not of PROnouncing or of pronounCING it. In pronouncing the words of our own language, we have memorized a pattern of loudness. When we say conTENT our listeners know we are not speaking of CONtent, because we make two different words depending on which of the syllables we pronounce more loudly. Practice your sense of relative loudness. Everyone knows how to pronounce the words that follow; everyone saying them aloud will put the accent at the right place. (Accent means prominence; in our language, accent is mostly achieved by relative volume. Sometimes greater length or pitch variation is added to volume for the sake of accentuation.) But not everyone, in his head, can name what it is he is doing when he pronounces correctly. Pronounce each of these words; then decide which of the two syllables is louder. depict hammer cowbell rampart nugget neglect

necktie destroy dispatch debris dental

Try these words of three and more syllables: memory rambunctious amaryllis reputation dangerous

implement implementation compliment comprehend

Three-syllable words which take their major accent on the first or the third syllable carry a minor accent on the syllable at the word’s other end. In MEMoi-v, mem is the accentuated syllable, but the little -y at the end is louder, at least, than the -or- in the middle. The opposite arrangement works with com-

Meter and Rhyme

459

pie IIEND. A word like ar-RAN GE - men t, with the accent in the middle, shows no minor accent (Minor accent is sometimes called secondary stress.) These habits ol three-syllable words become important in metrical poems. Iambic pentameter: the foot For examples, let’s start with the English ten-syllable line, arranged as iambic pentameter, the most common meter in great English poems. An iambic foot in English is a softer syllable followed by a louder one. Pentameter translates as “five-measure.” Therefore, typical iambic pentameter is five groups of two syllables, the second syllable in each group louder than the first. When we scan—or put marks to indicate the meter of a line—we put bars to separate the feet of the line, making the typical line w' | w | w | w | . these bars erect a figurative barrier between the feet to emphasize that stress is relative (and relevant) only within the foot. The w f | | |w | shows the counting which remains constant, which assures that the verse remains metrical. But while the counting, or scansion, stays the same, the rhythm can vary considerably. After all, |w |w|w | w/ | could contain ten monosyllables or two polysyllables; it could be fast, it could be slow; it could contain a period, the end of one sentence and the start of another; it could contain many commas, caesuras slowing the line, or it could contain no punctuation at all and move more quickly. The w |w/ | w/ |w | w/ | tells us very little of what the line will sound like; it shows meter, not rhythm, five relative hills and five relative valleys. The hills at one point in the line may be lower in elevation than the valleys in another part of the line. “Bang hang, bang bang, bang bang, bang bang, bang bang” fulfills the pattern. (We can bang this out on the desk top, every even bang louder than every odd one.) But “The University of Michigan” also fulfills the pattern. Say it slowly, exaggerating a little, and you can hear it: “The U-ni-VER-sit-Y of MICH-i-GAN.” If you try saying “THE u-NI-ver-SI-ty OF Mich-I-gan,” you do not pronounce our language. The scansion w | w/ | w/ |w/ |, common to many lines different in rhythm, describes an expectation the mind develops from reading thousands of lines of poetry—iambic pentameter means, or translates, “the only thing which all these lines have in common.” Terms for feet and for length of line In the examples we shall continue to concentrate on the iambic foot, most often in the pentameter line. Because we occasionally encounter other meters it is useful to know terms for the most common leet and lengths of lines. Some types of feet: Iambic: a softer syllable followed by a louder: desPAIR w Trochaic: a louder syllable followed by a softer: IIAPPy r w Dactylic: a louder syllable followed by two softer ones: CIIAXGHable r Anapestic: two softer syllables followed by a louder one: in the HOUSE

460

Meter and Rhyme

Some lengths of lines: Monometer: one foot Dimeter: two feet Trimeter: three feet Tetrameter: fonr feet Pentameter: five feet Hexameter (or the Alexandrine): six feet Rhythmical variety within metrical regularity Within absolute metrical regularity, every line scanning

| w/

| w | w

|

|, iambic pentameter can find all the variety it wants or needs. It need never depart from this scheme for variety’s sake. Iambic pentameter finds most of its variety in playing upon the relativity of stress. Seldom in our literature do you find a line as evenly stressed as bang hang, or as “Hie man who stole the bread was making toast.” “The University of Michigan,” which has only two really loud noises, is more typical of iambic pentameter. Here is the beginning of Keats’s ‘The Eve of St. Agnes”:

st. L

w

/

w

/

w

/

nes Eve— | Ah, bit | ter chill

w

f

it was . .

The first line scans exacdv as our example does,

|

|w'

|w/

|

There is a pause after the fourth syllable, a rhythmical fact the meter does not count. All the even-numbered syllables are louder than all the odd-numbered syllables in this line, and in this particular line, the “louder” sounds are almost equal to each other. The last syllable, was, is probably a little softer than the second, fourth, sixth, or eighth syllables—a fact that is part of the rhythm of the line but is irrelevant to its meter. The second line reads: The owl,

for afl

his feath

ers, was | a-cold;

which again scans like the pattern. Two caesuras after the second and the seventh syllables contribute rhythmical variation. Of the five relatively loud syllables, creating the five feet, three are quite loud; two are not so loud as the other three, but still louder than their proximate neighbors all and was. So the \ ariations in true loudness, small as they are, make rhythmical varietv, while the sameness of relative loudness makes metrical identity. In the third line, The hare | limp’d tremb | ling through | the fro | zen grass,

we have another line that scans typically—but this line varies considerably in rhythm from the earlier two. For instance, through is louder than the -ing of trembling, and thus -ing through makes a regular foot of relative stress, but through is not truly loud at all; its softness—which remains louder than its neighbor is metrically irrelevant, and rhythmically pleasing bv providing va¬ riety . In the first half of this line, the seconty third, and fourth svllables are all quite loud. Bang, bang, bang. I do not mean that they are equally loud; it would

Meter and Rhyme

461

be absurd to suggest that they were each pronounced with an equal number of decibels. But they are all louder than the through that takes metrical stress later in the line. But they cannot be louder than each other. English meter uses relative stress, and we can expect that the first loud syllable (the second syllable in the line) is louder than the first soft syllable; the line begins with a regular iamb. Then we have two loud syllables together, limp’d tremh-, and in English we would expect that one of the two—the second, if the poem appears iambic— can easily and naturally be spoken more loudly than the first. And so it can. The order of these four syllables, as a reader says them, may climb four steps of increasing volume, each syllable a litde louder than the one before it. If that is so, then limp’d—a softer syllable in the meter of the line—would in fact be louder than hare—a louder syllable in the meter of the whole line. Because an invisible foot-separator comes between the two syllables, the relative loudness of hare and limp’d is metrically irrelevant. Keats’s fourth line is more like his second line: w

/

And si

W

/

W

f

lent was i the flock

W

f

in wool

W

/

ly fold .

Was is not very loud, but it is relatively lottd. Nowhere else in the line is there metrical ambiguity or a rhythmical variation. Thus English meter, by shrewd use of relativity, can find rhythmical variation without changing the number of syllables in a line, and without changing the order of louder and softer syllables. Once we have read a few thousand lines with a typical swing of louder and softer, we have an expectation in our heads through which we perceive and sort out the syllables on the page. Meter is what lines have in common. If you were asked to scan the single line: Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death

you would be right to refuse. But if you came upon this line deep in Milton’s Paradise Lost, when you had learned to step to the tune of iambic pentameter, you would sort it by twos, giving a sharp beat like a foot tap to the even-num¬ bered syllables: Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death . . .

You would not sort it (as you could have done if the words had turned up in a prose paragraph) by threes, for instance: Rocks, caves, lakes, bogs, fens, dens, and shades of death . . .

The reading dictated by meter allows large latitude—there can be different heights to these peaks and valleys—but meter imposes limits to its latitude: a peak remains peakish, relative to an adjacent valley. The Miltonic line gives us an example of iambic pentameter which finds

462

Meter and Rhyme

rhythmic variation by adding more volume. It has more loud noises in the line than we expect, though it retains only five relative stresses. More commonly, lines like “The University of Michigan” contain fewer loud noises than five. Scholars tell us that Shakespeare’s pentameter averages about three loud noises a line—and, not by average but always, five relative stresses. In Macbeth Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . .

makes a typical Shakespearean line. The three -mor-s, middles of three tomor¬ rows , make three loud noises, each louder than the syllable in front of it, the three tos. The two ands are not loud, but they are louder than the -ows which come before them, thus adding up to the five iambics of the pentameter. Metrical variations

There are several common departures from the | w j w | [scheme, departures that are not irregularities; we call them metrical variations—they are variations with in meter, not outside it—and we will talk about them in the order of their frequency. As they are used, they contribute to the variety of metrical verse. 13y far the most common metrical variation is reversal of the order of louder and softer syllables in one foot. This happens most frequentlv in the first foot in the line and is called initial inversion. Suppose you have read a hundred lines that sharew| | ^r | w/ i Initial inversion

Then you come on a line beginning with a loud syllable—maybe a two-syllable word that can only be pronounced with die louder syllable first, like studies. The beginning of this line reverses for one second the order of louder and softer, only to return immediately to the old and expected order. This line with initial inversion scans | | | w' | | . Look at this sample: r The i | niver ^

/

~ f

sitv

of Mich

w

Studies

the po

etrv

r*

igan '

w

f

of Keats I and Frost.

The litfie rhythmical turn at the beginning of the second line becomes a familiar dance step in the motion of metrical poetry in English: a litfie whirl, a sudden tipping over and recovery, bang bang-bang bang. File movement can remind us of one of those large dolls children play with, weighted on the round bottom, which a child will push over and which will then immediately right itself. When Macbeth has said “Iomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” he continues, Creeps in | this pet

/

. w

f

ty pace | from day

to dav . . .

and it is clear that in is softer than Creeps. Although the remainder of this line scans like the pattern, the first foot is inverted—and the expectation that this foot may be inverted lurks in the head of tye reader. Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, Frost metrical poets use initial variation frequently. After Keats wrote

Meter and Rhyme

463

“And silent was the flock in woolly fold,” his next line made the dance-step of initial inversion: /

W

W

/

W

/

f

W

f

Numb were | the beads | man’s fing | ers, while | he told . . .

and the next lines returned to regular motion: His rosary, and while his frosted breath Like pious incense from a censor old . . .

Less frequent than initial inversion is inversion elsewhere in the line, which is called medial inversion wherever it comes. Medial inver¬ sion makes its own pause, wherever it happens in the line; most medial inver¬ sions therefore take place after natural caesuras, often indicated by commas or other marks of punctuation: Medial inversion

She said to me: open your book and read!

Open your book is that litde dance-step of inversion again, now in the middle of the line. In “The Eve of St. Agnes,” Keats makes this line: f

w

w

/

w

f

/

w

w / ,

From hur | ly to | and fro. | Soon, up j aloft . . .

Soon is louder than its neighboring up. After the pause for the end of the preceding sentence, Keats has started a new thought with a medial inversion. Even if the line lacks a natural caesura, medial inversion will make a pause. In Theodore Roethke’s “My Papa’s Waltz,” the poet makes a sudden medial inversion (with an iambic trimeter line, three feet, not five): f

f

w

w

t

You beat | time on | my head . . .

Tie slight awkwardness of the enforced pause between beat and time sounds just right for someone beating time on a small boy’s head. After inversion, the most common metrical variation is the extra syllable. Shakespeare’s line Feminine endings

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . .

is regular iambic. But it has eleven syllables, with an extra syllable at the end of the line, called a feminine ending. Tie extra syllable dangles into the pause at the end of the line. It does not feel like a variation, although it varies in fact w w/ w from the basic scheme. We scan it ^f Robert Frost’s blank verse has many feminine endings, as in “The Death of the Hired Man w

/

w

/

w

J

w

/

w

/

He bund | les ev | eiy fork ! fill in | to place f

W

f

w

/

w

/

w

/

w?

And tags | and numb | ers it | for fur | ther reference w

f

w

f

w

f

w /

w

f

w

So lie | can hnd i and eas | ilv I dislodge it.

464

Meter and Rhyme

The last two lines have feminine endings, providing you pronounce reference with two syllables, as Frost did. An extra syllable elsewhere in the line—or in the final foot before the last stress—is a palpable metrical variation. The extra svllable makes a second softer syllable, a foot of three syllables, which scans Again in “The Death of the Hired Man,” Frost writes: Extra syllables

You never see him standing on the hay tie’s trying to lift, straining to lift himself.

Practice scanning these lines. In the second line, the meter begins easily enough with an iambic, He’s tryy the linemends with three feet that start with a medial inversion: straining | to lift | himself. In between these two clumps we have the three syllables of an extra-syllabic foot: ~ing to lift. Yoti may notice that these three syllables are quick to say, occupying no more elapsed time than two syllables elsewhere in the line. Three-syllable feet in an iambic poem tend to be quick to say. When metrical poetry sounds most conversational and speechlike (in later Shakespeare, in Robert Frost) vre find most extra syllables and feminine end¬ ings.

Exercises 1. 1 o mark the meter of a line, as we have done in the text, is to scan—the result called scansion, as we have seen. Scan the following poems, drawing vertical lines to separate the feet, and showing which syllables are louder, which softer.

from Richard II Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, Make dust our paper, and with rainy eves Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth . . . For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of lungs: I low some have been deposed; some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed; Some poisoned by their wives; some sleeping killed; Ml murdered: for within the hollow crown io

That rounds the mortal temples of a king vv

Keeps Death his court; and there the antick sits,

Meter and Rhyme

465

Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp; Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks; Infusing him with self and vain conceit— As if diis flesh which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable; and humoured thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle-wall, and—farewell Icing!

—William Shakespeare

To the Western World A siren sang, and Europe turned away From the high castle and the shepherd’s crook. Three caravels went sailing to Cathay On the strange ocean, and the captains shook Their banners out across the Mexique Bay.

And in our early days we did the same. Remembering our fathers in their wreck We crossed the sea from Palos where they came And saw, enormous to the little deck, A shore in silence waiting for a name.

10

The treasures of Cathay were never found. In this America, this wilderness Where the axe echoes with a lonely sound, Tire generations labor to possess And grave by grave we civilize the ground. —Louis Simpson

2.

The following examples, fabricated for this text, include metrical errors. As¬ sume that they come from poems which have established themselves as iam¬ bic pentameter.

466

Meter and Rhyme

a. Ridiculous impoverishments of gold Adorn her throat, where jealousy was often told. b. The dance of death, begun in August air, Regales the Autumn and the fair.

c.

Harsh moments fail the resplendent flesh of Doorjambs heavy, gilt, worn, and repulsive.

Rlivme Rhyme is a feature common to many metrical poemg, not to all. Blank verse is iambic pentameter without rhyme; rhyme is what it is blank of. (Do not confuse blank verse with free verse. Free verse, which is free of meters, occa¬ sionally has rhyme.) The most common rhyme is the exact repetition, in two or more words, of the final vowel and consonants of a word. Love, as we all know, rhymes with dove. Here -ove is the unity, / and d the variety.5 Direct rh\ me

Look at a rhyming dictionary, and you may be astonished at the variety of rhymes available. Suppose I am writing a rhymed poem and am stuck for a ih> me evith the word decrease. Probably I would find the right word in my head, but if I didnt I could look in The Complete Rhyming Dictionary and Poet’s Craft Book, edited by Clement Wood, and find under the sound ees hffv-nine possible words, beginning: afterpiece/ambergris/battlepiece/Bereneice/Bemice/ cantatrice/caprice/cease/sumce/chimney-piece/Clarisse/coulease/crease If I were rhyming on two or more syllables, feminine rhyme, I would hnd in another list: accretion/completion/concretion/deletion; for three-syllable rhyme, I would go to another list: credulous/sedulous. These examples are direct rhyme. Indirect rhyme

Sometimes poets use indirect rhyme or off-rhyme, almost-but-not-quite di¬ rectly rhyming. Rhyme/line, for instance, is indirect because the consonants though similar are not the same. In rhyme/spice, the vowels rhyme but the consonants differ; this example is also indirect rhyme, but the degree of indi¬ rectness is greater. Another poet might rhyme consonants and let the vowels fend for themselves: rhyme/lame/: goat/bleet. Emily Dickinson used indirect rhyme on many occasions, often rhyming open vowels together, vowels similar but not the same: The Silence condescended— Creation stopped—for Me— But awed beyond my errand— I worshipped—did not “pray”—

If you hold on to the vowel ending pray, its diphthong, separates out into an a and an e. The e you end by holding rhymes with Me. Dickinson also rhymes consonants: vV

Meter and Rhyme

467

I cannot live with You— It would be Life— And Life is over there— Behind the Shelf. Cliche rhyme

When poets rhyme love with dove, they make a cliche rhyme. Other cliche rhymes include fire/desire, breath/death, and womb/tomb. Occasionally good poets get away with cliche rhyme, because their syntax or sense makes the second of the cliche rhymes somehow unexpected. Most times a cliche rhyme is a flaw in a poem. Iliis is not an important tool in evaluating poems, but a way to look at what happens in rhyming. These rhymes are cliche not onlv because they have been used so often, but also because the words resemble each other: in the list above, each of the examples can be a noun, and all but one are monosyllables. Each belongs to the same level of diction. Most impor¬ tant, each recalls its mate by similarity or opposition of meaning. Fire is a symbol of desire. Breath is ended by death. What begins in the womb ends in the tomb. For all these reasons, the first word of each pair leads one to expect the second, and when expectation is exacdv fulfilled, the result is boredom. A poem must balance the predictable with the unpredictable, expectation with surprise, unity with variety. Original rhyme

In a rhyme, the unity is the repetition of sound; the variety is all the other differences two words can muster. For instance, words can differ in length, and we can rhyme a monosyllable with a polysyllable, like tracks with haversacks. We can rhyme words spelled differently, like tracks with axe. We can rhyme different parts of speech, a verb hacks with a noun jacks. We can rhyme words of different backgrounds, like egomaniacs with humpbacks,or kleptomaniacs with packs. We can rhyme combinations of alien words: Jack’s/hypochondriacs/ kayaks/quacks. In feminine rhyme, we can pair two words with one, rhyming pluck it with Nantucket. The further apart the words are, the more original the rhyme. At extremes, rhyme can be witty or comic. In one of his poems Ogden Nash uses a boom¬ erang for hunting in order to cook a kangaroo meringue. Witty rhyme would be inappropriate to many poems, in which neither poet nor reader would want rhyme to stand out and be noticeable apart from the poem’s other qualities. Highly original rhyme is appropriate in this poem:

Early in the Morning Early in the morning The dark Queen said, “The trumpets are warning There’s trouble ahead.” Spent with carousing,

468

Meter and Rhyme

10

With wine-soaked wits, Antony drowsing Whispered, “It’s Too cold a morning To get out of bed.”

20

The army’s retreating, Idle fleet has fled, Caesar is beating His drums through the dead. “Antony, horses! We’ll get away, Gaflier our forces For another day ...” “It’s a cold morning,” Antony said.

30

Caesar Augustus Cleared his phlegm. “Corpses disgust us. Cover them. ” Caesar Augustus In his time lay Dying, and just as Cold as they, On the cold morning Of a cold day.

—Louis Simpson Line length contributes to the wit of rhyming here; with only two feet to a line, rhyming becomes a stunt. Who would have expected drowsing to rhyme with carousing, or Augustus with just as and disgust us? Natural rhyme

Cbi the other hand, here is a poem by Thomas TIardy in which rhyme is neither cliche nor witty, but through the skill of the poet appears natural in the poem while it adds its particular music.

The Oxen Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock. “Now they are all on their knees,” An elder said as we sat in a flock By the embers in hearthside ease. We pictured the meek mild creatures where They dwelt in their strawy pen, Nor did it occur to one of us there To doubt they vrere kneeling then.

Meter and Rhyme

10

469

So fair a fancy few would weave In these years! Yet, I feel, If someone said on Christmas Eve, “Come; see the oxen kneel “In the lonely barton0 by yonder coomb0 Our childhood used to know,” I should go with him in the gloom, Hoping it might be so. —Thomas Hardy

farmyard; a hollow

This rhyme helps fix the poem’s form, click the lid of its box; it neither stands out as a stunt of wit nor bores us with the overly predictable.

Rhymed stanzas

ctThe Oxen” is written in stanzas; a stanza is an arrangement of metrical lines, sometimes different in length, with a repeated order of rhyme, a rhyme-scheme. Here, the first and third lines rhyme, and the second and fourth; we indicate rhyme-schemes by letters; this scheme is ABAB. (First and third lines are iambic tetrameter, second and fourth iambic trimeter.) Sometimes poets invent stanzas and rhyme schemes of great complexity, varying line length and the arrangements of rhyme.

Exercises Look at the rhyming of these poems. 1. Mark the rhyme-schemes and stanza patterns in each poem. 2. Find three direct rhymes. Can you find indirect or off-rliymes of different sorts? Discuss the difference. 3. Can you find examples of cliche rhyme? Original rhyme? Natural rhyme?

Tvwater Death of Sir Nihil, book the nth, Upon the charred and clotted sward, Lacking the lily of our Lord, Alases of the hyacinth. Could flicker from behind his ear A whistling silver throwing knife And with a holler punch the life Out of a swallow in the air.

10

Behind the lariat’s butterfly Shuttled his white and gritted grin, And cuts of sky would roll within The noose-hole, when he spun it high.

470

Meter and Rhyme

The violent, neat and practised skill Was all he loved and all he learned; When he was hit, his body turned To clumsy dirt before it fell. And what to say of him, God knows. Such violence. Amd such repose.

—Richard Wilbur

Samuel Sewall Samuel Sewall, in a world of wigs, Flouted opinion in his personal hair; For foppeiy he gave not any figs, But in his right and honor took the air. Thus in his naked style, though well attired, lie went forth in the city, or paid court To Madam Winthrop, whom he much admired, Most godly, but yet liberal with the port.

10

And all the town admired for two full years Flis excellent address, his gifts of fruit, Iler gracious ways and delicate white ears, Aaid held the course of nature absolute. But yet she bade him suffer a peruke, 'That One be not distinguished from the All’; Delivered of herself this stem rebuke Framed in the resonant language of St. Paul.

20

‘Madam,’ he answered her, ‘I have a Friend Furnishes me with hair out of His strength, .And He requires only I attend Unto Ilis charity and to its length.’ Amd all the town was witness to his trust: On Monday he walked out with the Widow Gibbs, A pious lady of charm and notable bust, Whose heart beat tolerably beneath her ribs. On Saturday he wrote proposing marriage, And closed, imploring that she be not cmel, ‘Your favorable answer will oblige, Madam, your humble servant, Samuel Sewall. ’

—Anthony Hecht

Chapter 9 Forms and Types of Poetry

Poetic forms are traditional arrangements of line and rhyme-scheme, like the sonnet. (If we use the word forms for these arrangements, we are not calling other poetry—like free verse or blank verse—formless. Form is merely a tra¬ ditional word for this sort of arrangement.) By types of poetry we mean distinctions between narrative and dramatic po¬ etry on the one hand and on the other subdivisions like the epigram and the prose poem.

Poetic forms The limerick

Each form of poetry demands a particular number of lines, of certain length, rhyming in a certain way. In a limerick, for instance, two trimeter lines rhyme, followed by two dimeter lines which also rhyme, and then a fifth trimeter line which rhymes with the first two. The rhyme-scheme is AABBA, and the BB lines are often indented. A limerick’s feet are usually three syllables long, each an anapest: softer, softer, louder, or (Authors of limericks sometimes substitute iambs for anapests.) I Iere is an example by a modem master of the form, Edward Gorcy (born 1925): Each night Father fills me with dread When he sits on the foot of my bed; I’d not mind that he speaks In gibbers and squeaks, But for seventeen years he’s been dead.

471

472

Forms and Types of Poetry

These anonymous limericks can provide a refresher course in meter: There was a young man of Japan Whose verses would never scan. When he was asked why He would reply, Well, I simply try to get as many syllables into the last line as I possibly can. There was a young man of China Whose aesthetic was somewhat fina. It was his design To make the last line Short.

So much for limericks, which can serve as an example of many forms. * The haiku Many American students have written haikus in school. When the English haiku-writer follows the Japanese syllable count, he uses lines of five, seven, and fir e syllables. The haiku is an imagistic poem, usually including two im¬ ages, of which the second is a surprise, a leap from the first; or at least the two images conflict. Here is a translation from a sixteenth-century Japanese poet named Moritaki: A falling petal drops upward, back to the branch; it’s a butterfly. j

Many poets writing haikus in English, aware of differences between English and Japanese, ignore syllable count and concentrate on images. The sonnet Important for us to know is a poetic form that has remained at the center of English poetry from the sixteenth century onward. English poets from Thomas Wyatt (1503—1542) to the present have found the sonnet a congenial form, rnosdy for emotional statement. In one of his own sonnets, Wordsworth spoke of the sonnet as the key with which Shakespeare unlocked his heart. Shake¬ speare wrote a sequence of sonnets, as did many other poets in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Even when it is a part of a sequence, a sonnet is a whole and individual poem, a certain length with several possible internal structures whereby a poet can entertain and conclude a whole, small subject. Early sonnets and sonnet sequences were mostly concerned with love. John Donne’s “Holy Sonnets” are religious, as are many of Milton’s sonnets. More recently, sonnets have extended themselves to all sorts of feelings. * Readers interested in the many poetic forms not mentioned here may consult Lewis Turco’s A Book of Forms, which defines and exemplifies widely among special forms. Or look at the pages about poetic forms in Clement Wood’s Complete Rhyming Dictionary.

Forms and Types of Poetry

473

The sonnet is fourteen lines long, and written in iambic pentameter. (We can find poems called sonnets that are exceptions to these rules; the word originally meant “little song” and some poets have interpreted the word broadly.) There are three main traditional structures and rhyme schemes. One is the Italian or Petrarchan sonnet, which is divided into two parts. The octave is the first eight lines, and it uses only two rhymes: ABBAABBA. The sestet in an Italian or Petrarchan sonnet can rhyme in several ways—CDECDE is com¬ mon; so is CDCDCD—so long as it does not end in a couplet. Many English poets have practiced the Italian sonnet with success, notably Milton and Words¬ worth. The English language, however, is noted for the paucity of its rhyme, espe¬ cially compared to the Italian richness in rhyme-words. Therefore the octave of the Italian sonnet can make trouble for the English poet because it uses only two rhyme-sounds for eight words. The English sonnet, more commonly called the Shakespearean sonnet, began a little earlier than Shakespeare—it was first used by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1547)—and uses a rhyme scheme more adapted to the English language: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. Ed¬ mund Spenser, finding the Italian sonnet not suited to English but the English sonnet too loose, invented a third rhyme scheme that is a compromise between the two: ABAB BCBC CDCD EE. Hiis arrangement makes the Spenserian sonnet. Rhyme-schemes are probably less important to sonnets than structures of thought, but rhyme-schemes seem to suggest such structures. In the Italian sonnet, the octave and the sestet usually make a two-part structure not further subdivided. Frequendv an octave will set forth a problem, or tell a story, to which the sestet may provide a solution, a counterdirection, a commentary, or a surprise. Of course there are exceptions; some Italian sonnets feature no division at all but make an indivisible fourteen-line poem. On the other hand, the English or Shakespearean sonnet, which often breaks down into eight and six, may also break in other places. It may further subdivide into four and four, plus four and two, or it may break down into four, four, four, and two; or it may break down into eight, four, and two. If the Shakespearean sonnet is structurally more adaptable, it is for the same reason a less precise form. Quoted throughout this text are sonnets by Shakespeare (see pages 422 and 425). Here is another:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark lhat looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand’ring bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

474

Forms and Types of Poetry

Love’s not lime’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks \\ itliin his bending sickle’s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Here is a sonnet by Bohn Milton. Jkotice the rhyme scheme:

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont1 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Ev’n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 10

To heav’n. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O’er all th’ Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple' Tyrant that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.3

In 1655 the Protestant Waldenses of southern France were suppressed for refusing to adhere to Roman Catholicism.

A reference to the papal crown.

3See Revelation 27:8.

Wordsworth, Keats, Tennyson, Frost-most great poets have turned to the sonnet during their lives. Examples of the sonnet may be found throughout this book. See, for instance, pages 454, 538, 541, 545, 546, 549, and 574.

Poetic types Ballad A ballad is almost a form; at least, there are typical stanzas, and even ballads we can call Apical; but the word ballad does not represent a form as codified as sonnet. Although ballads tell stories, we separate them from the later cate¬ gory of narrative poetry because they form a great body of anonymous literature; and there is also the later, sophisticated imitation of the ballad. Here is an anonymous Scots ballad, with some old Scottish words footnoted.

Forms and Types of Poetry

475

Edward “Why dois1 your brand2 sae3 drap4 wi bluid,D Edward, Edward, Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid, And why sae sad gang6' vee O?” “O I hae' killed my hauke8 sae guid,9 Mither, mither, O I hae killed my hauke sae guid, And I had nae mair10 but bee O.”

10

20

30

“Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid,11 Edward, Edward, Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, My deir son I tell thee O.” “O I hae lulled my reid roan steid,12 Mither, mither, O I hae lulled my reid roan steid, 'That erst13 was sae fair and free O.” “Your steid was auld,14 and ye hae gat mair, Edward, Edward, Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, Sum other dule15 ye drie16 O.” “O I hae killed my fadir1' deir, Mither, mither, O I hae lulled my fadir deir, Alas, and wae18 is mee O!” “And whatten penance wul19 ye drie for that, Edward, Edward? And whatten penance wul ye drie for that? My deir son, now tell me O. ” “lie set my feet in yonder boat, Mither, mither, lie set me feet in yonder boat, And lie fare ovir the sea O. ” “And what wul ye doe wi your towirs and your ha,20

40

Edward, Edward? And what wul ye doe wi your towirs and your ha, lliat were sae fair to see O?” “He let thame stand till they doun fa, Mither, mither, He let thame stand tul they doun fa, For here nevir mair maun"1 I bee O.” “And what wul ye leive to your bairns22 and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, Whan vc gang ovir the sea O?” “'Idie warldis23 room, let them beg thrae24 life, Mither, mither,

2 sword -Mrm ^Klnod han °so ‘‘drip °blood ’go does 12steed 13formerly 14old 15gricf 16suffer 22children 23worid’s 24through

'have

’'father

hawk 18,

woe

9good '''will

"’more "red 20hall 21must

476

Forms and Types of Poetry

\

The warldis room, let them beg thrae life, For thame nevir mair wul I see O.”

so

And what wul ye leive to your ain~° mither deir? Edward, Edward? And what wul ye leive to your ain mither deir? My deir son, now tell me O.” “The curse of hell frae36 me sail37 ye beir,88 Mither, mither, The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, Sic89 counseils ye gave to me O. ” —Anonymous '°own

2()from

2'shall

28bear

29such

A ballad tells a story. In “Edward,” the story is told in dialogue,, as if the poem were a tiny play, the speeches organized into stanzas. In the tight and musical stanzas of this ballad, we hear a son reluctantly telling his mother that he has killed his father, and finally cursing his mother for having urged him to patricide. When a harrowing story is told in rhymed and delicate verses, the tension between form and content, story and music makes a dreadful energy. See page 536 for another ballad. Eater poets imitated old ballad forms in writing narrative poems. One of the most famous literary ballads in English is by John Keats.

La Belle Dame sans Merci Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing! Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done.

lo

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads Full beautiful, a fairy’s child. Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; !The beautiful, pitiless woman

Forms and Types of Poetry

20

477

She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed, .And nothing else saw all day long; For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy’s song. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew; .And sure in language strange she said, “I love thee true.”

30

She took me to her elfm grot, And there she wept, and sighed full sore, .And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. .And there she lulled me asleep And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!— llie latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill side.

40

I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—“La belle Dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!” I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill side. And this is why I sojourn here, .Alone and palely loitering, Tdiough the sedge is withered from the lake, .And no birds sing.

(On page 489 are examples of Keats’s revisions of this poem.) ddie verse is smoother and more literary than the old ballads, and the language is closer to our own, but the poem makes its ancestry clear. Narrative, epic, dramatic Many poems, including ballads, tell stories, and are therefore narrative. The earliest surviving poetry is narrative, ancient epics originally chanted or sung to a form of musical accompaniment. Gilgamesh is the oldest surviving poem, composed in Sumeria about five thousand years ago; Ilomer’s Iliad and Od¬ yssey are a mere three thousand years old. These epics were composed orally, before the invention of writing; they were memorized, and changed (“revised”) by generations of reciter-poets. (There was no single, innovative, sole-author Homer; though it is possible that one blind bard assembled and organized the Iliad and the Odyssey more thoroughly than any of his predecessors.)

478

Forms and Types of Poetry

Prehistoric Greeks remembered and celebrated their past by memorizing Homer. Epics are historical records of the heroes of the tribe, combining fact and legend. Centuries after these oral epics were composed, professional poets made sophisticated epics in imitation of the old collective style. The Roman Vergil, wishing to write a patriotic poem to flatter the emperor Augustus, fol¬ lowed the pattern of Homer when he composed The Aeneid. In the Christian era, Dante’s Divine Comedy is a sophisticated epic. Its em¬ bodiment of Christian theology makes it a vast departure from classical forms, but the ghost who guides Dante through hell to purgatory is Vergil himself. In English, the great epic is Milton’s seventeenth-century account of creation, and the war between good and evil, in Paradise Lost. Many poems are narrative tales, comic or tragic, without being epic. The great narrative poet in English is Geoffrey Chaucer. His language is archaic, and best sa\ed foi advanced study, but there is a sample of his poetry on page 535. The Canterbury Tales is a lengthy series of different stories told by and about oidinary people not, like an epic, tales of gods and heroes making historv. After Chaucer, to the present time, many poets have written stories in rhyme and meter (less often in free verse). Sometimes the stories take dramatic form, most often as monologues by a speaker who reveals himself as he tells his stoiy (see Robert Browning’s “My Last Duchess, ” page 589). One example of modern narrative is a story poem by Robert Frost:

“Out, Out—”

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20

The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard Aid made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood. Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. .Aid the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. ( all it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. Ilis sister stood beside them in her apron To tell them “Supper. ” At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap— lie must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! Hie boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—

Forms and Types of Poetry

30

479

Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart— He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off— The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!” So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. Fie lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

Lyric and song We have come to use lyric to mean a short poem, usually emotional or de¬ scriptive. The term is perhaps too general to be useful. Originally derived from the word for lyre (a musical instrument) the word indicated a poem composed for singing. Many old poems were originally written as songs. Here is one of Shakespeare’s songs, from Loves Labour’s Lost.

Winter When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 10

When all aloud die wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, .And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nighdv sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Epigrams An epigram is short, pithy, witty, and conclusive. Here is one by Thomas I lardv:

480

Forms and Types of Poetry

Epitaph on a Pessimist I’m Smith of Stoke, aged sixty-odd, I’ve lived without a dame From youth-time on; and would to God My Dad had done the same.

(An epitaph is an inscription for a gravestone; some epitaphs are also epigrams. Note that there is a third word sometimes confused with epigram and epitaph; an epigraph is a quotation an author places at the start of a work.) Walter Savage Landor wrote many epigrams, among them this one: I strove with none, for none was worth my strife. Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art: I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

The modern American J. V. Cunningham has written most of his work in epigrammatic form, some of it very funny: Naked I came, naked I leave the scene, And naked was my pastime in between.

some not: On a cold night I came through the cold rain And false snow to the wind shrill on your pane With no hope and no anger and no fear: Who are you? and with whom do you sleep here?

Most epigrams rhyme. Wre call a short free-verse poem an epigram only when brevity combines with wit:

The Bath Tub As a bathtub lined with white porcelain, When the hot water gives out or goes tepid, So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion, O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady. —Ezra Pound

Visual poetry While most poetry appeals to the ear, some poetry arranges itself for the pleas¬ ure of the eye. Early in the seventeenth century, George I Ierbert wrote “Easter Wings.” a

Forms and Types of Poetry

10

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more Till he became Most poor: With thee 0 let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

20

My tender age in sorrow did begin; And still with sicknesses and shame Thou didst so punish sin, That I became Most thin. With thee Let me combine, And feel this dav thv victory; For, if I imp my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

481

This poem is a pleasure both to ear and to eye. If you heard the poem read aloud, you would be aware of lines becoming shorter, then longer again—a closing in, an opening up—but you would not be aware that the poem created on the page the visual shape of an angel’s wings. Reading and seeing the poem are separate pleasures. Herbert’s “Easter Wings” is a concrete poem because a portion of its creation is visual. Modem poems sometimes exist to the eye and not to the ear. WTien E. E. Cummings makes l(a le af fa

11 s) one

1 iness

there is no way to pronounce the poem except by spelling it and indicating marks of punctuation. (Even then the voicing will detract from the poem; the voice will have to decide whether the first character is ell or one. (It is ell, in terms of the words loneliness and a leaf falls, but the meaning of the poem is underscored by the visual pun on ell and one.) The poem exists, not to the eye and ear together, nor to both eye and ear separately, but to the eye alone.

482

Forms and Types of Poetry

Concrete poetry is a blend of poetry and painting, or visual art. Ian I tamilton Finlay is a contemporary leader among concretists. Here is his “Homage to Malevich the painter who tilted a white square on a white background in “White on White”: lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb

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lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb lackblockblackb lockblackbiockb Some poems assembled as concrete are less like pictures and more like col¬ lections of letters for the mind to dwell on—like the French movement lettrism. Thus Aram Saroyan has composed poems of a single word like oxygen, or a single nonword like blod (immortalized by the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s shortest poem). These poems are not so interesting in their own sen¬ suous shape as they are in the thoughts they lead to. Thus thev resemble conceptual sculpture, like \ oko Ono’s row of empty flowerpots tided “Imagining Flowers. ” Prose poems I oems v ritten in paragraphs have been a part of literature for more than a hundred years. Usually a prose poem shares most of the qualities we associate with poetry images, metaphor, figures, controlled rhythm, and fantasy—ex¬ cept for lines and linebreaks. Most poets who make prose poems write lined poems also. Robert Blv’s lined poems appear on pages 441 and 681.

Forms and Types of Poetry

483

The Dead Seal near McClure’s Beach 1 \\ alking north toward the point, I came on a dead seal. From a few feet away, he looks like a brown log. The body is on its back, dead only a few hours. I stand and look at him. There’s a quiver in the dead flesh. My God he is still alive. A shock goes through me, as if a wall of my room had fallen away. Ilis head is arched back, the small eyes closed, the whiskers sometimes rise and fall. lie is dying. This is the oil. Here on its back is the oil diat heats our houses so efficiently. Wind blows hne sand back toward the ocean. Hie flipper near me lies folded over the stomach, looking like an unfinished ami, lightly glazed with sand at the edges. The other flipper lies half underneath. The seal’s skin looks like an old overcoat, scratched here and there, by sharp mussel-shells maybe. . . . I reach out and touch him. Suddenly he rears up, turns over, gives three cries, Awaark! Awaark! Awaark!—like the cries from Christmas toys. lie lunges toward me. I am terrified and leap back, aldiough I know there can be no teeth in that jaw. He starts flopping toward the sea. But he kills over, on his face. He does not want to go back to the sea. He looks up at the sky, and he looks like an old ladv who has lost her hair. He puts his chin back on the sand, rearranges his flippers, and waits for me to go. I go.

2 Today I go back to say goodbye: he’s dead now. But lie’s not—he’s a quarter mile farther up the shore. Today he is thinner, squatting on his stomach, head out. The ribs show more—each vertebra on the back under the coat is now visible, shiny. He breathes in and out. He raises himself up, and tucks his flippers under, as if to keep them warm. A wave comes in, touches his nose. He turns and looks at me—the eyes slanted, the crown of his head is like a black leather jacket. He is taking a long time to die. The whiskers white as porcupine quills, the forehead slopes . . . goodbye brother, die in the sound of waves, forgive us if we have lulled you, long live your race, your inner-tube race, so uncomfortable on land, so comfortable in the ocean. Be comfortable in death then, where the sand will be out of your nostrils, and you can swim in long loops through the pure death, ducking under as assassinations break above you. You don’t want to be touched by me. I climb the cliff and go home the other way.

Notice how in the form of prose Bly uses the details of the world and yet (as in a poem) leaps across spaces of thought to see inside things. Russell Edson is another contemporary American who writes prose poems. lie writes tiny narratives—which might be called fables, or novels to read through a microscope—that other people call prose poems. When it becomes difficult to decide whether a piece of writing is a story, a poem, a play, or an essay, then by and large the task is useless. I lere is a prose poem—I’ll call it—by Russell Edson:

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Forms and Types of Poetry

Bringing a Dead Man Back into Life The dead man is introduced back into life. They take him to a country fair, to a French restaurant, a round of late night parties . . .He’s beginning to smell. They give him a few days off in bed.

10

He’s taken to a country fair again; a second engagement at the French restaurant; another round of late night parties . . . No response . . . They brush the maggots away . . . That terrible smell! . . . No use . . . What’s wrong with you? ... No use . . . They slap his face. Ilis cheek conies off; bone under¬ neath, jaws and teeth . . . Another round of late night parties . . . Dropping his fingers ... An ear falls off. . . Doses a foot in a taxi . . . No use . . . The smell . . . Maggots everywhere! Another round of late night parties. His head comes off, rolls on the floor. A woman stumbles on it, an eve rolls out. She screams.

20

No use . . . Under his jacket nothing but maggots and ribs . . . No use . . .

Chapter 10 Versions of the Same

This chapter gathers different versions of the same texts: poets1 revisions of their own work, variant translations of one original, and a pedagogic paraphrase. Saying that different words express the same content, we beg questions; when two texts differ in their wording, by definition nothing is truly the same. Still, revisions and variant translations can give us multiple examples of phrases that resemble each other and are not the same, thus providing opportunity to ex¬ amine differences of diction, rhythm, image, metaphor, sound, and (often) me¬ ter. By noticing these differences, we can review the study of poetry and sharpen our ability to tell better from good, best from better.

Poets’ revisions William Butler Yeats revised his poems every chance he got. lie published his first volume in 1885, and by 1895 he had revised some of these poems in a new collection of his work. When he was in his sixties he rewrote some poems he had written in his twenties. When people objected, he made an answer: 'Hie friends that have it I do wrong Whenever I remake a song, Should know what issue is at stake: It is myself that I remake.

485

486

Versions of the Same

With his early revisions, he remade style, not self. lie changed: In three days’ time he stood up with a moan And he went down to the long sands alone.

to: In three days’ time, Cuchulain* with a moan Stood up, and came to the long sands alone.

In this revision a proper name replaces a pronoun, and a boring rhythm be¬ comes varied and expressive: Stood up, with a pause alter it, then eight syllables of walking, seems to imitate in its rhythm the action it describes. In 1892, in the first version of a famous poem called “When You Are Old,” Yeats wrote the couplet: Murmur, a little sad, “From us fled Love. He paced upon the mountains far above ...”

The adjective sad goes strangely with the verb murmur, and the normal word order at the end of the first line would have been Love fled from us. Dissatisfied six years later, Yeats rewrote the lines to read: Murmur, a lithe sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead . . .

Now this line approaches natural speech, without affectation or awkwardness. Four versions of the last stanza of “Cradle Song” show Yeats growing in simplicity and directness: 1889

My darling I kiss you, With amis round my own. Ah, how I shall miss you When heavy and grown. 1892

I lass you and kiss you With arms round my own. Ah, how I shall miss you When, dear, you have grown. 1901

1 kiss you and kiss you My pigeon, my own. Ah, how I shall miss you, When you have grown. *Cuchulain is pronounced cuh-HULL-an.

Versions of the Same

487

1925 I sigh that kiss you For I must own That I shall miss you When you have grown.

In the 1889 stanza, the first line lacks the energy it picked up later when Yeats packed the line with two verbs. In the last line, the word heavy is unfor¬ tunate—the kind of error any writer can make, where a word brings in an irrelevant association the writer is blind to; heavy for Yeats probably implied ponderous and slow-moving, an end to youth; unfortunately it is a euphemism for obesity. In 1892, he improved the first line and in the fourth line got rid of heavy but added the rhythmically awkward apostrophe to dear, chopping the line up with commas. In 1901 he repaired the fourth line—finally—but left behind the decorative pigeon and the decorative Ah. By 1925 he was all for spareness. In judging among these “versions of the same” there is room for difference of opinion, but I like the last version best. This 1925 change comes closer to remaking the self, like these two versions of “Tie Lamentation of the Old Pensioner” (original title “The Old Pensioner”): 1890 I had a chair at every hearth, When no one turned to see With “Look at that old fellow there; kid who may he be?” And therefore do I wander on, And the fret is on me.

10

The road-side trees keep murmuring— Ah, wherefore murmur ye As in the old days long gone by, Green oak and poplar tree! The well-known faces are all gone, And the fret is on me.

1939 Although I shelter from the rain 1 aider a broken tree My chair was nearest to the fire In even' company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.

10

Though lads are making pikes again For some conspiracy, .And crazy rascals rage their fill At human tyranny, My contemplations are of Time That has transfigured me.

488

Versions of the Same >

There’s not a woman turns her face Upon a broken tree, And yet the beauties that I loved Are in my memory; I spit into the face of Time That has transfigured me.

Exercises 1. The two poems use a different sort of sound, for different effect. Pick out the characteristic sounds of each poem. 2. It is often said that Yeats’s poems became more speechlike as he matured. Could you use these poems to support this assertion?

Here are more examples of Yeats’s revisions. Those labeled A are the earlier versions, B the later. See if you can decide why Yeats changed the lines. A “My father,” made he smiling answer then, “Still treads the world amid his armed men. ” B

“My father dwells among the sea-worn bands, And breaks the ridge of battle with his hands.”

A file oldest hound with mournful din Lifts slow his wintery head: — The servants bear the body in— The hounds keen for the dead. B

The blind hound with a mournful din Lifts slow his wintery head;— The servants bear the bodv in— The hounds wail for the dead.

Yeats was not the only great poet to revise his work. William Blake in “Lon¬ don” (page 566), originally wrote: But most the midnight harlot’s curse From every dismal street I hear, Weaves around the marriage hearse And blasts the new bom infant’s tear.

A year later, he revised these lines into:

Versions of the Same

489

But most through midnight streets I hear I low die youthful harlot’s curse Blasts the new-born infant’s tear And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

Notice that the elements of the first stanza—midnight, harlot’s curse, street, infant, marriage hearse, blasts, tear—turn up again in the later stanza. \Ye lose dismal and we gain another adjective, youthful, in exchange. We lose the pretty word weave—to weave is to create, to turn thread into cloth; in this context the pretty word is oddly used for destructive purpose—and we have in return the far more powerful blights with plagues, combining diseases of plants and ani¬ mals. Although the first stanza was powerful, the revision increases the poem’s power, the intensity, and the density, adding a new area of meaning in the metaphor of diseases. Before, death entered with hearse, but we lacked the cause of death. The order of things is changed in the second version, and the order itself makes the poetry more powerful. It moves from the innocent streets to the prostitute and her oath, to the damnation of the infant’s weeping, and finally to the disease and death of the institution of marriage.

Exercise In “La Belle Dame sans Merci,” Keats originally wrote the stanza: She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept, and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.

He changed these lines—three out of four—into: She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gazed and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes— So kissed to sleep.

Many critics feel that Kcat’s revision is inferior to the original. What do you think, and why?

Robert Frost kept most of his variant versions from the public. lie liked to give the impression that he revised little. Still, he published a number of poems in an early version, tinkered with them, and published them in revised form. Ilis most remarkable printed revision is that of “Design,” one of his greatest poems. In 1912 he included in a letter this poem:

In White A dented spider like a snowdrop white On a white Ileal-all,1 holding up a moth Like a white piece of lifeless satin cloth— Saw ever curious eye so strange a sight? ‘A flower, normally blue, reported to have healing qualities

490

Versions of the Same

Portent in little, assorted death and blight Like die ingredients of a witches’ brodi? llie beady spider, the flower like a froth, And the moth carried like a paper kite.

10

What had that flower to do with being white,1 Hie blue Prunella,2 3 4 5 6 7 every child’s delight? Adi at brought the kindred spider to that height? (Make we no thesis of the miller’s0 plight.) What but design of darkness and of night? Design, design! Do I use the word aright? 2Another name for the healall

Not until 1922 did “In White” turn up again:

Design I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, On a white heal-all, holding up a moth Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth— Assorted characters of death and blight Mixed ready to begin the morning right. Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth— A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth, And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

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What had that flower to do with being white, fldie wayside blue and innocent heal-all? What brought the kindred spider to that height, flflien steered the white moth thither in the night? What but design of darkness to appall?— II design govern in a thing so small.

It is useful with this poem, or these two poems, to compare them line by line. Here “In White” is in roman type, “Design” in italic. 1. A dented spider like a snowdrop white 1. I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, 2. On a white Heal-all, holding up a moth 2. On a white heal-all, holding up a moth 3. Like a white piece of lifeless satin cloth— 3. Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth— 4. Saw ever curious eye so strange a sight? 4. Assorted characters of death and blight 5. Portent in little, assorted death and blight 5. Mixed ready to begin the morning right, 6. Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth? 6. Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth— 7. flflie beady spider, the flower like a froth, 7. A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,

Versions of the Same

491

8. And the moth carried Hire a paper kite. 8. And dead wings carried like a paper kite. 9. What had that flower to do with being white, 9. What had that flower to do with being white, 10. The blue Brunella every child’s delight? 10. The wayside blue and innocent heal-all? 11. What brought the kindred spider to that height? 11. What brought the kindred spider to that height, 12. (Make we no thesis of the miller’s plight.) 12. Then steered the white moth thither in the night? 13. What the design of darkness and of night? 13. What but design of darkness to appall?— 14. Design, design! Do I use the word aright? 14. If design govern in a thing so small.

Exercises 1. In 1/1, compare dented with dimpled. What kind of object do you associate with dented? What kind with dimpled? Is either association preferable to the other in the context of the whole poem? 2. In 3/5, could you defend lifeless against rigid? Is either of these adjectives more specific than the other? More physical? 3. Paraphrase 3/4. How does the sentence work? Does 314 say something simi¬ lar? Different? Does the grammar help the later poem? 4. In 7/7, compare beady and snow-drop. 5. In 8/S, compare the rhythms of the two lines at the beginning. What arc the changes? Do you like the change? Can you say why? 6. Hie second stanzas or sestets of these two versions differ in a number of ways. List all the differences you can see. Decide whether you approve of the changes made. Imagine why Robert Frost might have wanted to make them. Look up the history" o 1 appall and decide how it is used in this poem. Which of the two poems is clearer? Which of the two poems is better? Why?

Different translations Different translations of the same poem can offer us an opportunity to compare style, rhythm, and diction—even when we do not know the original. We can turn translations to our purposes by deciding which version we prefer, and why. We can sharpen our wits by defining our choices. Here is the Twentythird Psalm, translated from the Hebrew of the Old Testament, in the seven¬ teenth-century King James version:

Die Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he lcadeth me beside the still waters.

492

Versions of the Same

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

10

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; div rod and thy staff they comfort me. Idiou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Here is the Revised Standard Version, which came out hrst in 1952—very close, but not the same: The Lord is niv shepherd, I shall not want; he makes me lie down in green pastures, fie leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

io

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in die presence of my enemies; thou anointest my head with oil, my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

Here is the same Psalm in a version from The Psalms for Modern Man, copyrighted by the American Bible Society in 1970: The Lord is my shepherd; I have everything I need. He lets me rest in fields of green grass and leads me to quiet pools of fresh water. lie gives me new strength. He guides me in the right way, as he has promised.

io

Even if diat way goes through deepest darkness, I will not be afraid, Lord, because you are with me! Your shepherd’s rod and staff keep me safe. ^ ou prepare a banquet for me, where all my enemies can see me;

v

Versions of the Same

493

\ ou welcome me by pouring ointment on my head and filling my cup to the brim. Certainly your goodness and love will be with me as long as I live; and your house will be my home forever.

Finally, here is a version by a young American poet named David Rosenberg who is translating “A Poet’s Bible” book by book; this modem version is taken from Blues of the Sky, Rosenberg’s selection from the Psalms: The Lord is my shepherd and keeps me from wanting what I can’t have lush green grass is set around me and crystal water to graze by there I revive with my soul find die way that love makes for his name 10

and though I pass through cities of pain, through death’s living shadow I’m not afraid to touch to know what I am your shepherd’s staff is always there to keep me calm in my body you set a table before me in the presence of my enemies you give me grace to speak

20

to quiet them to be full with humanness to be warm in my soul’s lightness to feel contact every day in my hand and in my belly love coming down to me in the air of your name, Lord in your house in niv life

Here is a poem in Pablo Nerudas Spanish, followed by four American trans¬ lations:

Entierro en el Este Yo trabajo de noclie, rodeado de ciudad, de Pescadores, de alfareros, de difuntos quemados con azafran y frutas, envueltos en muselina escarlata:

494

Versions of the Same

10

bajo mi balcon esos muertos terribles pasan sonando cadenas v flautas de cobre, estridentes v fmas y lugubres silban entre el color de las pesadas flores envenenadas y el grito de los cenicientos danzarines y el creciente monotono de los tamtam y el humo de las maderas que arden y huelen. Porqne una vez doblado el camino, junto til turbio rio, sus corazones, detenidos o iniciando un mayor movimiento, rodaran quemados, con la pierna y el pie hechos fuego, y la tremula ceniza caera sobre el agua, flotara como ramo de flores calcinadas o como extinto fuego dejado por tan poderosos viajeros que hicieron arder algo sobre las negras aguas, y devoraron un aliento desaparecido y un licor extremo.

Burial in the East

to

I work nights, in the ring of the city, among lisheifolk, potters, cadavers, cremations of saffron and fruits shrouded into red muslin. Under my balcony pass the terrible dead sounding their coppery flutes and their chains, strident and mournful and delicate—they hiss in a blazon of poisoned and ponderous flowers, through the cries of the smoldering dancers, the tom-tom’s augmented monotony, in the crackle and fume of the woodsmoke. One turn in the road, by the ooze of the river, and their hearts, clogging up or preparing some monstrous exertion, will whirl away burning, their legs and their feet incandescent; the tremulous ash will descend on the water and float like a branching of carbonized flowers_ a bonfire put out by the might of some wayfarer who lighted the black of the water and devoured some part °f a vanished subsistence, a consummate libation. —Ben Bellitt

Burial in the East I work at night, surrounded by city, by fishermen, by potters, by the dead burned with saffron and fruits, wrapped in red muslin: under my balcony these terrible coq;>ses go past playing chains and copper flutes, strident and thin and lugubrious they whistle amidst the colour of the heavy poisoned flowers and the cry of the holy fire-dancers v

Versions of die Same

10

and the growing monotony of the tom-toms and the smoke of the different woods burning and giving off odours. Because once around the comer, by the muddy river, their hearts, held in check or beginning a major motion, will roll, burning, their legs and feet will be hre and the tremulous ash will fall over the water, will float like a branch of calcined flowers or like an extinct hre left by such mighty voyagers as forced to burn something over the black waters, and devoured a vanished breath and an extreme liquor. —W. S. Merwin

Burial in the East

10

I work at night, surrounded by city, by fishermen, by potters, by corpses burned with saffron and fruit, wrapped in scarlet muslin: underneath my balcony those terrible dead go by, sounding their chains and copper flutes, strident and clear and lugubrious they pipe amid the colour of heavy poisoned flowers and the cry of the ash-coloured dancers and the mounting monotony of the drums and smoke from logs that bum and smell. For, once they reach the turn in the road, near the turbid river, their hearts unmoving, or in greater movement, they will roll burning, leg and foot made flame, and the tremulous ashes will fall upon the water, will float like a cluster of calcined flowers or a quenched fire left by travelers so powerful that they burned something over the black waters, and devoured a vanished food, an utter liquor. —Angel Flores

Funeral in the East

io

I work at night, the city all around me, fishermen, and potters, and corpses that are burned with saffron and fruit, rolled in scarlet muslin: those terrifying corpses go past under my balcony, making their chains and copper flutes give off noise, whistling sounds, harsh and pure and mournful, among the brightness of the flowers heavy and poisoned, and the cries of the dancers covered with ashes, and the constantly rising monotony of the drum, and the smoke from the logs scented and burning. For once around the corner, near the muddy river, their hearts, either stopping or starting off at a greater speed,

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Versions of the Same

will roll over, burned, the leg and the foot turned to fire, and the fluttering ashes will settle down on the water and float like a branch of chalky flowers, or like an extinct hrc left by travellers with such great powers they made something blaze up on the black waters, and bolted down a food no longer found, and one finishing drink. —Robert Bly

Shakespeare in paraphrase Let us end with a gross example of paraphrase. Recently a publisher issued four Shakespearean tragedies with the original lines on the left-hand page and line-bv-line paraphrases on the right. The editors—or translators—intended to provide pedagogical help for contemporary students, changing archaic words into modern synonyms. At the same time, they often turned Shakespeare’s metaphors into plain speech. At the beginning ol Hamlet, when the guards challenge each other, one of them says “Stand and unfold yourself.” In the paraphrase the sentence reads “Stand still and tell me who you are. ” When we remove metaphor in favor of plain speech, we remove images—and often we remove images that cany feelings on their backs. When Francisco asked Bernardo “Stand and unfold yourself,” he thought of Bernardo physically opening up his body like a bird or like a butterfly expanding vulnerable wings or perhaps like a flag unfurling. But when Francisco asks Bernardo in the paraphrase Stand still and tell me who you are,” we have a mere request for identification. We have no picture, no image, no sense of something vulnerable, no sense of something formerly closed in on itself, now opening up. Here is a well-known speech, with Shakespeare’s text in roman tvpe. In¬ dented, in italic, after each Shakespearean line, is the modern paraphrase. You can read each speech as a whole or read one line at a time, first the original and then the paraphrase.

1. To be, or not to be: that is the question: 1. To be, or not to be: that is what really matters. 2. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer 2. Is it nobler to accept passively 3. file slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 3. the trials and tribulations that unjust fate sends, 4. Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 4. or to resist an ocean of troubles, 5. And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep_ ^ 5. and, by our own effort, defeat them? To die, to fall asleep— 6. No more—and by a sleep to say we end 6. perhaps that s all there is to it—and-by that sleep suppose we put an end to

7. Hie heartache, and the thousand natural shocks 7. the heartache and the thousands of pains and worries

8. Hi at flesh is heir to! I is a consummation

Versions of the Same

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8. that are a part of being human! That’s an end 9. Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep— 9. we could all look forward to. To die, to sleep— 10. To sleep—perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub, 10. to sleep—maybe to dream: yes, that’s the catch. 11. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 11. For in that sleep of death the nightmares that may come 12. When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 12. when we have freed ourselves from the turmoil of this mortal life 13. Must give us pause. There’s the respect 13. must make us hesitate. There’s the thought 14. That makes calamity of so long life: 14. that makes a disaster out of living to a ripe old age. 15. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 15. After all, who wants to put up with the lashes and insults of this world, 16. TIT oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, 16. the tyrant’s injustice and contempt of arrogant men, 17. Hie pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, 17. the pains of rejected love, the law’s frustrating slowness, 18. Hie insolence of office, and the spurns 18. insults from our superiors, and the snubs 19. ddiat patient merit of th’ unworthy takes, 19. that deserving and hopeful people have to take from powerful inferiors, 20. When he himself might his quietus make 20. when he could end the whole process by killing himself 21. With a bare bodkin? . . . 21. with a bare dagger? . . .

In Shakespeare’s first line he speaks of the question, which as I Iamlet thinks out loud becomes a true, unanswerable question—not a question in the ab¬ stracted sense of problem, like “the Middle East question.” Instead of using question, the paraphraser speaks of what really matters, which is empty lan¬ guage. Idte difference is small, because Shakespeare’s question is not a word of great importance in Hamlet’s speech. Yet the difference in the two words is typical: question is concrete, in the form of a real question; what really matters has neither “reality"” nor “matter” in its syllabic bones. When the paraphraser substitutes to accept passively for in the mind to suffer, one wants to argue. Shakespeare distinguishes between inaction, which in¬ cludes mental suffering, and external action against huge forces. I he para¬ phraser includes the notion of passivity" but excludes mental suffering; Shake¬ speare seems mistranslated. In trials and tribulations we find a cliche to substitute for an image of weapons. Although the slings and arrows may be abstracted into trials and tribulations in our minds—almost like calling them “nuisances and annoyances”—the cliche is pale; we lose the implication of pain and death carried in slings and arrows. Paraphrasing outrageous as unjust is another diminishment. Outrageous retains in modern speech most of its old character, especially when we denounce something with the noun an outrage. Unjust is less emotional, more intellectual. W e begin to see that the paiapluasc,

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Versions of the Same

by draining the language of particularity in metaphor and image, drains the poetry of feeling. So much f< the hist five lines. Hie rest of this speech, and another famous one, can bear more attention. *1

Exercises 1. In 7/7 discuss the removal of natural. Is anything missing that Shakespeare may have felt essential? 2. In 8/8, what is the first metaphor removed? Does' the missing metaphor have any general relevance to this play? 3. In 9/9, is devoutly paraphrased? 4. 12/12. Using a large dictionary (the Oxford English Dictionary, usually in a college library, would be the best) consider the metaphor of shuffle . . . coil. Does the turmoil of this mortal life paraphrase parts of Shakespeare’s line? Does it paraphrase the whole? 5. In 14/14, find a new metaphor added by the parapliraser. Is it good poetry? 6. 15/25, are the substitute words examples of the occasional usefulness of par¬ aphrases in reading older authors? Do you find other good examples of par¬ aphrase in this passage from Hamlet2

A paraphrase from Macbeth 22. I oinorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow •2-2- Tomoi row follows tomorrow and is followed by tomorrow, 23. Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 23. feebly creeping from day to day 24. To the last syllable of recorded time; 24. to the last syllable of written history, 25. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 25. and our entire past has lighted the way for fools 26. The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! 26. down the path to dusty death. Burn out, burn out, you short candle of life. 27. Life s but a walking shadow, a poor plaver 27. A man s life is only a walking shadow, a poor actor 28. fhat struts and frets his hour upon the stage 28. who swaggers and paces about the stage for an hour 29. And then is heard no more. It is a tale 29. and then is never heard from again. Life is a tale 30. Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury 30. told by an idiot, full of noise and rage, 31. Signifying nothing . . . 31. but meaning nothing . . .

Exercises 1. In 22-23122-23, notice the change in grammatical mood and syntactic struc¬ ture. Does Shakespeare’s syntax enforce^Shakespeare’s meaning? Is die par¬ aphrased syntax equal in energy?

Versions of the Same

499

2. In 25/25, discuss the difference between all our yesterdays and our entire past. Is it accurate paraphrase? Is it equal in forcefulness? Why? 3. In 25—26, readers have noticed that Macbeth’s image of a candle derived from his earlier notion of yesterday that ligh ted people on a path or way. When candle becomes candle of life, what happens to die notion of the passage? 4. No one expects paraphrase to equal the sound and rhythm of die original; however, one may use a paraphrase’s relative deficiency in sound as a way to notice the sound of the poet’s original language. Analyze the rhythmic dis¬ tinction between lines 27—31 and 27—31.

Three Poets

E!===i=~~B5=

Emily .Oicklnson SI" nCrSt’ M““- -here her young women, but as she gr«Towt b g£' attended sch°o1 with other own room. When she was von no CCdmc reclusive, until she rarely left her

^

placed a few in obscure publicationst0 print ller Poems and she notion of fame and «*> punctuation, not to mention tho eirann _ ’ r! nerseli. Hei eccentricities of derive from her sense that she wm t ^Cness ° lcr metaphors and rhymes, may

insight accumulated Lto isolaTon ShcT M °J’ orout language, and

female poet

He put the Belt around mv life_ w

lie put the Belt around my life_ I heard the Buckle snap_ .Hid turned away, imperial, My Lifetime folding up_ Deliberate, as a Duke would do A Kingdom’s Title Deed— Henceforth, a Dedicated sort_ A Member of the Cloud.

500

Yet P°"'er an

and in the comcrib, like her fives in that house the mouse nibbled away at the cob’s yellow grain until six o’clock when her sorrows grew less and my father came home On the debt my mother owed to sears roebuck? I have nothing to say, it gave me clothes to wear to school, and my mother brooded in the rooms of the house, the kitchen, waiting for the men she knew, her husband, her son from work, from school, from the air of locusts and dust masking the hedges of fields she knew in her eye as a vague land where she lived, boundaries, whose tractors chugged pulling harrows pulling discs, pulling great yields from the earth pulse for the armies in two hemispheres, 1943 and she was part of that stay at home army to keep tilings going, owing that debt.

Thom Gunn Thom Gunn (1929) grew up in England, son of a successful journalist, attended Cambridge, and came to California in 1954. He fives in San Francisco, where he has spent most of the time since leaving England.

On the Move ‘Man, you gotta Go?

The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows Some hidden purpose, and the gust of birds That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows, Have nested in the trees and undergrowth. Seeking their instinct, or their poise, or both, One moves with an uncertain violence Under die dust thrown by a baffled sense Or the dull thunder of approximate words.

to

On motorcycles, up the road, they come: Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boys, Until the distance throws them forth, their hum Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh.

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A Gathering of Poems

In goggles, donned impersonality, In gleaming jackets trophied with the dust, They strap in doubt—by hiding it, robust— And almost hear a meaning in their noise. _

20

30

40

Exact conclusion of their hardiness Has no shape yet, but from known whereabouts They ride, direction where the tires press. They scare a flight of birds across the field: Much that is natural, to the will must yield. Men manufacture bodi machine and soul, And use what they imperfectly control To dare a future from the taken routes. It is a part solution, after all. One is not necessarily discord On earth; or damned because, half animal, One lacks direct instinct, because one wakes Afloat on movement that divides and breaks. One joins the movement in a valueless world, Choosing it, till, both hurler and the hurled, One moves as well, always toward, toward. A minute holds them, who have come to go: The self-defined, astride the created will They burst away; the towns they travel through Are home for neither bird nor holiness, For birds and saints complete their purposes. At worst, one is in motion; and at best. Reaching no absolute, in which to rest, One is always nearer by not keeping still.

X. J. Kennedy X. J. Kennedy (1929— ) is the only poet in diis book with a pen-initial. His name is Joseph Kennedy, but he felt that there had been enough Joseph Kennedys in the news. He is the author of poems for children, successful textbooks, and two books of poems.

In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One Day (To tlie tune of ‘The Old Orange Flute’ or the tune of ‘Sweet Betsy from Pike’)

In a prominent bar in Secaucus one day Rose a lady in skunk with a topheavv sway, Raised a knobby red finger—all turned from their beer— While with eyes bright as snowcrust she sang high and clear: ‘Now who of you’d think from an eyeload of me That I once was a lady as proud as could be? Oh I’d never sit down by a tumbledown drunk If it wasn’t, my dears, for the high cost of junk.

A Gathering of Poems

10

‘All the gents used to swear that the white of my calf Beat the down of the swan by a length and a half. In the kerchief of linen I caught to my nose Ah, there never fell snot, but a little gold rose. ‘I had seven gold teeth and a toothpick of gold, My Virginia cheroot was a leaf of it rolled And I d light it each time with a thousand in cash— Why the bums used to fight if I flicked them an ash.

20

‘Once the toast of the Biltmore, the belle of the Taft, I would drink bottle beer at the Drake, never draught, And dine at the Astor on Salisbury steak With a clean tablecloth for each bite I did take. ‘In a car like the Roxy I’d roll to the track, A steel-guitar trio, a bar in the back, And the wheels made no noise, they turned over so fast, Still it took you ten minutes to see me go past. ‘When the horses bowed down to me that I might choose, I bet on them all, for I hated to lose. Now I’m saddled each night for my butter and eggs And the broken threads race down the backs of my legs.

30

‘Let you hold in mind, girls, that your beauty must pass Like a lovely white clover that rusts with its grass. Keep your bottoms off bar stools and marry you young Or be left —an old barrel with many a bung. ‘For when time takes you out for a spin in his car h ou’ll be hard-pressed to stop him from going too far And be left by the roadside, for all your good deeds, Two toadstools for tits and a face full of weeds.’

-o

All the house raised a cheer, but the man at the bar Made a phonecall and up pulled a red patrol car And she blew us a kiss as they copped her away From that prominent bar in Secaucus, N.J.

Adrienne Rich Adrienne Rich (1929— ) grew up in Baltimore and attended Radcliffe College. She was Yale Younger Poet in her senior year at college and two years later received a Guggenheim Fellowship. Her second volume—The Diamond Cutters—followed in 1955 and then there was a gap of some years, while she had three sons in rapid succession. Her work has changed considerably, losing its decorativeness, becoming starker, tighter, tougher, and more emotional. Her prose book, Of Woman Born (1977), is a monument of the feminist movement.

From an Old House in America 1. Deliberately, long ago the carcasses

705

706

A Gathering of Poems

of old bugs crumbled into die rut of the window and we started sleeping here Fresh June bugs batter this June’s screens, June Jiglitning batters the spiderweb

10

I sweep the wood-dust from the wood-box the snout of the vacuum cleaner sucks die past away

2. Other lives were lived here: mostly un-articulate yet someone left her creamy signature in the trail of rusticated narcissus straggling up through meadowgrass and vetch

20

Families breatiied close boxed-in from the cold hard times, short growing season the old rainwater cistern hulks in the cellar

3. Like turning through the contents of a drawer: diese rusted screws, this empty vial useless, this box of watercolor paints dried to insolubility— but this— this pack of cards with no card missing so

still playable and three good fuses and this toy: a little truck scarred red, yet all its wheels still turn The humble tenacity of things waiting for people, waiting for months, for years

4. Often rebuked, yet always back returning

I place my hand on the hand of the dead, invisible palm-print on the doorframe

A Gathering of Poems

40

spiked with daylilies, green leaves catching in the screen door or I read the backs of old postcards curling from thumbtacks, winter and summer fading through cobweb-tinted panes— white church in Norway Dutch hyacinths bleeding azure red beach on Corsica set-pieces of the world stuck to this house of plank

50

I flash on wife and husband embattled, in the years that dried, dim ink was wet those signatures

5. If they call me man-hater, you would have known it for a he but the you I want to speak to has become your death If I dream of you these days I know my dreams are mine and not of you 60

yet something hangs between us older and stranger than ourselves like a translucent curtain, a sheet of water a dusty window the irreducible, incomplete connection between the dead and living or between man and woman in this savagely fathered and unmothered world

6. The other side of a translucent curtain, a sheet of water 70

a dusty window, Non-being utters its flat tones die speech of an actor learning his lines phonetically the final autistic statement of the self-destroyer .All my energy reaches out tonight to comprehend a miracle beyond

707

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A Gathering of Poems

raising the dead: the undead to watch back on the road of birth

7. so

I am an American woman: I turn that over like a leaf pressed in a book I stop and look up from into the coals of the stove or the black square of the window Foot-slogging through the Bering Strait jumping from the Arbella to my death chained to the corpse beside me I feel my pains begin

90

I am washed up on this continent shipped here to be fruitful my body a hollow ship bearing sons to the wilderness sons who ride away on horseback, daughters whose juices drain like mine

....

into die arroyo of stillbirths, massacres Flanged as witches, sold as breeding-wenches my sisters leave me ioo

I am not die wheatfield nor the virgin forest I never chose this place yet I am of it now In my decent collar, in the daguerrotype I pierce its legend with my look niv hands wring the necks of prairie chickens I am used to blood When die men hit the hobo track I stay on with the children

no

my power is brief and local but I know my power I have lived in isolation from odier women, so much in the mining camps, the first cities die Great Plains winters Most of the time, in my sex, I was alone

A Gathering of Poems

8. Tonight in this northeast kingdom striated iris stand in a jar with daisies

120

the porcupine gnaws in the shed fire flies beat and simmer

caterpillars begin again flieir long, innocent climb the length of leaves of burdock or webbing of a garden chair plain and ordinary things speak softly the light square on old wallpaper where a poster has fallen down

130

Robert Indiana’s LOVE leftover of a decade

9. I do not want to simplify Or: I would simplify^ by naming the complexity It was made over-simple all along the separation of powers the allotment of sufferings her spine cracking in labor

his plow driving across the Indian graves

140

her hand unconscious on the cradle, her mind with the wild geese

his mother-hatred driving him into exile from the earth the refugee couple with their cardboard luggage standing on the ramshackle landing-stage he with fingers frozen around his Law she with her down quilt sewn through iron nights —the weight of the old world, plucked drags after them, a random feather-bed

10. iso

Her children dead of diphtheria, she set herself on fire with kerosene (O Lord I was unworthy Thou didst find me out)

709

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A Gathering of Poems

she left the kitchen scrubbed down to the marrow of its boards “The penalty for barrenness is emptiness my punishment is my crime what I have failed to do, is me . . . ” —Another month without a show mo

and this the seventh year O Father let this thing pass out of me

I swear to You I will live for the others, asking nothing I will ask nothing, ever, for myself

11. Out back of this old house

datura tangles with a gentler weed its spiked pods smelling of bad dreams and death I reach through the dark, groping 170

past spines of nightmare to brush the leaves of sensuality A dream of tenderness wrestles with all I know of history I cannot now lie down with a man who fears my power or reaches for me as for death or with a lover who imagines we are not in danger

12. If it was lust that had defined us— iso

their lust and fear of our deep places we have done our time as faceless torsos licked by hre we are in the open, on our way— our counterparts the pinyon jay, the small gilt-winged insect the Cessna throbbing level tlie raven floating in die gorge

A Gathering of Poems

190

the rose and violet vulva of the earth filling with darkness yet deep within a single sparkle of red, a human fire and near and yet above the western planet calmly biding her time

13. They were the distractions, lust and fear but are . themselves a key Everything that can be used, will be:

200

the fathers in their ceremonies the genital contests the cleansing of blood from pubic hair the placenta buried and guarded their terror of blinding by the look of her who bore them If you do not believe that fear and hatred read the lesson again in the old dialect

14. But can’t you see me as a human being 210

he said

What is a human being she said

I try to understand he said

what will you undertake she said

will you punish me for history he said

what will you undertake 220

she said

do you believe in collective guilt he said

let me look in your eyes she said

711

712 A Gathering of Poems

15. Who is here. The Erinyes.1 One to sit in judgment. One to speak tenderness. One to inscribe the verdict on the canyon wall.

230

If you have not confessed the damage if you have not recognized the Mother of reparations if you have not come to terms with the women in the mirror if you have not come to terms with the inscription the terms of the ordeal the discipline the verdict

240

if still you are on your way still She awaits your coming

16. “Such women are dangerous to the order of things” and yes, we will be dangerous to ourselves groping through spines of nightmare (datura tangling widi a simpler herb) because the line dividing luciditv from darkness j

is yet to be marked out 250

Isolation, the dream of the frontier woman leveling her rifle along the homestead fence still snares our pride —a suicidal leaf laid under the burning-glass in the sun’s eye Any woman’s death diminishes me

vV

1The Furies; in Greek mythology, terrible winged goddesses who avenge unpunished crime.

Gregory Corso Gregory Corso (1930— ), bom in New York, has worked as a manual laborer, a merchant seaman, and a teacher. Two of his early books were published by City Lights Books in San Francisco, where he belonged to the Beat Generation.

Marriage Should I get married? Should I be good? Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood? Don’t take her to movies but to cemeteries tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries and she going just so far and I understanding why not getting angry saying You must feel! It’s beautiful to feel! Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone and woo her the entire night the constellations in the skv— 10

20

30

4o

When she introduces me to her parents back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie, should I sit knees together on dieir 3rd degree sofa and not ask Wiere’s the bathroom? How else to feel other than I am, often thinking Flash Gordon soap— O how terrible it must be for a young man seated before a family and the family thinking We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou! After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living'? Should I tell them? Would they like me then? Say ..All right get married, we’re losing a daughter but we’re gaining a son— And should I then ask Where’s the bathroom? O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded just wait to get at the drinks and food— And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated asking me Do you Like this woman for your lawful wedded wife? .And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue! I kiss die bride all diose corny men slapping me on the back She’s all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha! .And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on— Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates! .All streaming into cozy- hotels All going to do die same thing tonight Hie indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen The lobby zombies they knowing what Hie whistling elevator man he knowing 'Ilie winking bellboy knowing Everybody knowing! I’d be almost inclined not to do anything!

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714 A Gathering of Poems

Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye! Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon! running rampant into those almost climactic suites yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel! O I’d live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls I’d sit there the Mad Honeymooner devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy a saint of divorce— 50

60

70

so

But I should get married I should be good IIow nice it’d be to come home to her and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen aproned young and lovely wanting my baby and so happy about me she bums the roast beef and conies crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf! God what a husband I’d make! Yes, I should get married! So much to do! like sneaking into Mr Jones’ house late at night and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky! And when the mayor conies to get my vote tell him When are you going to stop people lulling whales! And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the botde Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust— Yet if I should get married and it’s Connecticut and snow and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn, up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me, finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup— O what would that be like! Surely I’d give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records Tack Della Francesca all over its crib Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib Aid build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon No, I doubt I’d be that kind of father not rural not snow no quiet window but hot smelly tight New York City seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job! Aid five nose running brats in love with Batman Aid the neighbors all toothless and dry haired like those hag masses of die 18di centuiy all wanting to come in and watch TV The landlord wants his rent Grocery store Blue Cross & Electric Knights of Columbus

A Gathering of Poems

90

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no

Impossible to lie back and dream I elephone snow, ghost parking— No! I should not get married I should never get married! But—imagine If I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window from which we could see all of New York and ever farther on clearer days No, can’t imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream— O but what about love? I forget love not that I am incapable of love it’s just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes— I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible .And there’s maybe a girl now but she’s already married And I don’t like men and— but there’s got to be somebody! Because what if I’m 60 years old and not married, all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me! Ah, \ ret well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible then marriage would be possible— Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover so I wait—bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

Ted Hughes Ted Hughes (1930— ) attended Cambridge University, where lie met and married Sylvia Plath. His poems have been continually difficult, obdurate, and violent, often about animals—real or mythical. He is concerned to discover and explore instinctual life.

Thrushes Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn, More coiled steel than living-—a poised Dark deadly eye, those delicate legs Triggered to stirrings beyond sense—with a start, a bounce, a stab Overtake the instant and drag out some writhing thing. No indolent procrastinations and no yawning stares, No sighs or head-scratchings. Nothing but bounce and stab And a ravening second.

io

Is it their single-mind-sized skulls, or a trained Body, or genius, or a nestful of brats Gives their days this bullet and automatic Purpose? Mozart’s brain had it, and the shark’s mouth That hungers down the blood-smell even to a leak of its own

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Side and devouring of itself: efficiency which Strikes too streamlined for any doubt to pluck at it Or obstruction deflect. With a man it is otherwise. Heroisms on horseback, Outstripping his desk-diary at a broad desk, Carving at a tiny ivory ornament 20

For years: his act worships itself—while for him, Though he bends to be blent in the prayer, how loud and above what Furious spaces of fire do the distracting devils Orgy and hosannah, under what wilderness Of black silent waters weep.

Gary Snyder Gary Snyder (1930— ) grew up on the West Coast and attended Reed College. He did graduate work in Oriental languages at Berkeley and has lived many years in Japan, studying Zen Buddhism in Kyoto. Now he lives in a house of his own construction called Kitkitdizze, north of Sacramento, and practices die life he preaches. See also page 434.

Above Pate Valley We finished clearing die last Section of trail by noon, High on the ridge-side Two thousand feet above the creek— Reached the pass, went on Beyond the white pine groves, Granite shoulders, to a small Green meadow watered by the snow, Edged with Aspen—sun to

Straight high and blazing But the air was cool. Ate a cold fried trout in the Trembling shadows. I spied A glitter, and found a flake Black volcanic glass—obsidian— By a flower. Hands and knees Pushing the Bear grass, thousands Of arrowhead leavings over a Hundred yards. Not one good

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Head, just razor flakes On a hill snowed all but summer, A land of fat summer deer, They came to camp. On their Own trails. I followed my own Trail here. Picked up the cold-drill, Pick, singlejack, and sack Of dynamite. Ten thousand vears.

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Geoffrey Hill Geoffrey Hill (1932— ) grew up in a Midlands English town, where his father was the local policeman. He attended Oxford, and after earning two degrees there went to Leeds, where he has become a professor. He w7rites his poems slowly and produces little, but his work has great powder and originality7.

Merlin I will consider the outnumbering dead: For they are the husks of what was rich seed. Now, should they come together to be fed, They would outstrip the locusts’ co\7ering tide. Arthur, Elaine, Mordred; they are all gone Among the raftered galleries of bone. By the long barrows of Eogres they are made one, And o\rer their city7 stands the pinnacled com.

Orpheus and Eurvdice Though there are wild dogs Infesting the roads We have recitals, catalogues Of protected birds; And the rare pale sun To water our days. Men turn to sa\Tageiy now or turn To the laves’ Immutable black and red. 10

To be judged for his song, Tra\7ersing the still-moist dead, The newlv-stung, Love goes, carrying compassion To the rawly-difficult; His countenance, his hands’ motion, Serene even to a fault.

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Sylvia Plat It Sylvia Plath (1932—1963) attended Smith College, and wrote with a professional skill from an early age. She attended Cambridge University on a fellowship, where she met and married the English poet Ted Hughes. After the birth of theh second child, when Plath and Hughes were separated, her work abandoned its skillful surfaces and became profoundly emotional, angry, brilliant, and disturbing. There was a brief moment of great poetry", ended by her suicide. The posthumous Ariel (1965) collects her best poetry.

Popi>ies in October Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts. Nor the woman in the ambulance Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly— A gift, a love gift Utterly unasked for By a sky Palely and flamily Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes Dulled to a halt under bowlers. 10

O my God, what am I That these late mouths should cry open In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Lady Lazarus I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it-— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. io

Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me

A Gathering of Poems

And I a smiling woman. 20

I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. Alt at a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot— The big strip tease.

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Gentleman, ladies, These are my hands, My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut

40

As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you coidd say I’ve a call. It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

50

It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute .Amused shout: “A miracle!” That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart—

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It really goes.

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A Gathering of Poems

And there is a charge, a very large charge,' For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, Hie pure gold baby 70

That melts to a shriek. I turn and bum. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing diere— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer,

so

Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Death & Co. Two, of course diere are two. It seems perfectly natural now— Hie one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded And balled, like Blake’s, Who exhibits The birthmarks that are his trademark— The scald scar of water, The nude Verdigris of the condor. 10

I am red meat. Ilis beak Claps sidewise: I am not his yet. He tells me how badly I photograph, lie tells me how sweet The babies look in their hospital Icebox, a simple Frill at the neck, Then die flutings of their Ionian Death-gowns,

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A Gathering of Poems

Then two little feet. 20

He does not smile or smoke. The other does that, I lis hair long and plausive. Bastard Masturbating a glitter, He wants to be loved. I do not stir. Hie frost makes a flower, Hie dew makes a star, The dead bell,

30'

Hie dead bell. Somebody’s done for.

Etheridge Knight Etheridge Knight (1933— ) was wounded in Korea and later became addicted to heroin. He supported his habit by stealing, which left him in the Indiana State Prison. He began to write poems in prison, where Gwendolyn Brooks visited and encouraged him. His first volume was called Poems from Prison. Since his release he has taught poetry at various colleges and conducted workshops all over die United States.

Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane I lard Rock was “known not to take no shit From nobody,” and he had the scars to prove it: Split purple lips, lumped ears, welts above His yellow eyes, and one long scar that cut Across his temple and plowed through a thick Canopy of kinky7 hair. Hie WORD was that Hard Rock wasn’t a mean nigger Anymore, that the doctors had bored a hole in his head, Cut out part of his brain, and shot electricity7 10

Through the rest. When they brought Hard Rock back. Handcuffed and chained, he was turned loose, Like a freshly gelded stallion, to try his new status. And we all waited and watched, like indians at a corral, To see if the WORD was true. As we waited we wrapped ourselves in the cloak Of his exploits: “Man, the last time, it took eight Screws to put him in the Hole.” “Yeah, remember when he Smacked the captain with his dinner tray?” “I Ie set Hie record for time in the Hole—67 straight days!”

20

“Ol Hard Rock! man, that’s one crazy nigger.” And then the jewel of a myth, that Hard Rock had once bit A screw on the thumb and poisoned him with syphilitic spit.

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A Gathering of Poems

The testing came, to see if Hard Rock was really tame. A hillbilly called him a black son of a bitch And didn’t lose his teeth, a screw who knew Hard Rock From before shook him down and barked in his face. And Hard Rock did nothing. Just grinned and looked silly, His eyes empty like knot holes in a fence.

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And even after we discovered that it took Hard Rock Exactly 3 minutes to tell you his first name, We told ourselves that he had just wised up, Was being cool; but we could not fool ourselves fdr long, And we turned away, our eyes on the ground. Crushed. He had been our Destroyer, the doer of things We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do, Hie fears of years, like a biting whip, Had cut grooves too deeply across our backs.

2 Poems for Black Relocation Centers I

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Flukum couldn’t stand the strain. Flukum wanted inner and outer order, so he joined the army where U.S. Manuals made everything plain—even how to button his shirt, and how to lull the yellow men. (If Flukum ever felt hurt or doubt about who his enemy was, the Troop Information Officer or the Stars and Stripes1 straightened him out.) Plus, we must not forget that Flukum was paid well to let the Red Blood. And sin? If Flukum ever thought about sin or Hell for squashing the yellow men, the good Chaplain (Holy by God and by Congress) pointed out with Devilish skill that to lull the colored men was not altogether a sin. Flukum marched back from the war, straight and tall, and with presents for all: a water pipe for daddy, teeny tea cups for mama, sheer silk for tittee, and a jade inlaid dagger for me. But, with a smile on his face in a place just across the bay, Flukum, the patriot, got shot that same day, got shot in his great wide chest, bedecked with good conduct ribbons. He died surprised, he had thought the enemy far awav on the other side of the sea. (When we received his belongings they took away my dagger.)

Newspaper published for U.S. service personnel overseas

A Gathering of Poems

II

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Dead. He died in Detroit, his beard was filled with lice; his halo glowed and his white robe flowed magnificently over the charred beams and splintered glass; his stern blue eyes were rimmed with red, and full of reproach; and the stench: roasted rats and fat baby rumps swept up his nose that had lost its arch of triumph. He died outraged, and indecently, shouting impieties and betrayals. And he arose out of his own ashes. Stripped. A faggot in steel boots.

Imamu Amiri Baraka Imamu Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones) (1934) is a leading black playwright and poet. He has also published short stories and polemical prose. He began publishing as an integrated black writer and edited a magazine in collaboration with white editors. In later years his politics have moved from black separatism to Marxism-Leninism.

Watergate

to

“Dead Crow” is an ol ugly eagle i know run a “eagle laundry” wash eagles over & over fliis eagle wash hisself like lady macbeth blood mad & sterile hooked teeth pulled out in a flag costume just stripes no stars

Careers What is the life of the old lady standing on the stair print flowered housedress

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A Gathering of Poems

gray and orange hair bent on a rail eyes open for jrbobby jb, somebody to come, and carry her wish slow cripple woman, still does white folks work in the mornings she get up creeps into a Cadillac up into the florient lilac titty valleys of blind ugliness, you think the woman loves the younger white woman the woman she ladles soup for the radio she turns on when the white lady nods she carries them in her bowed back hunched face my grandmother workd the same but stole things for jesus’ sake we wore boss rags in grammar school straight off the backs of straight up americans used but groovy and my grandmother when she returned at night with mason jars and hat boxes full of goods probably asked for forgiveness on the bus i think the lady across from me must do the same though she conies back in a cab, so times, it seems, have changed.

Wendell Berry Wendell Berry (1934— ) was bom in Kentucky, lived in New York briefly, and returned to Kentucky7, where for a time he taught at the University. Increasingly Berry has turned to farming his own land and to writing about “culture and agriculture.” He has written novels and books of essays as well as poems. With Gary Synder, he is a poet whose work and life serve to preserve the planet.

The Wild Geese Horseback on Sunday morning, harvest over, we taste persimmon and wild grape, sharp sweet of summer’s end. In time’s maze over the fall fields, we name names that went west from here, names that rest on graves. We open

A Gathering of Poems

a persimmon seed to find the tree that stands in promise, 10

pale, in die seed’s marrow. Geese appear high over us, pass, and the sky closes. Abandon, as in love or sleep, holds them to their way, clear, in the ancient faith: what we need is here. And we pray, not for new earth or heaven, but to be quiet in heart, and in eye clear. What we need is here.

Mark Strand Mark Strand (1934— ) was bom in Canada and attended colleges in die United States, where he has settled. He lives in New York City.

Pot Roast I gaze upon the roast, that is sliced and laid out on my plate and over it I spoon the juices of carrot and onion. And for once I do not regret the passage of time.

10

I sit by a window that looks on the soot-stained brick of buildings and do not care that I see no living thing—not a bird, not a branch in bloom, not a soul moving in the rooms behind the dark panes. These days when there is litde to love or to praise

20

one could do worse than yield to the power of food. So I bend to inhale the steam that rises from my plate, and I think of the first time I tasted a roast like this.

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A Gathering of Poems

It was years ago in Seabright, Nova Scotia; my mother leaned over my dish and filled it and when I finished filled it again. I remember the gravy, its odor of garlic and celery, and sopping it up

40

with pieces of bread. And now I taste it again. The meat of memory. The meat of no change. I raise my fork in praise, and I eat.

Charles Wright Charles Wright (1935— ) comes from Virginia and lives in California, where he teaches at the University of California at Irvine.

Virgo Descending Through the viridian (and black of the burnt match), Through ox-blood and ochre, die ham colored clay, Through plate after plate, down Where the worm and the mole will not go, Through ore-seam and fire-seam, My grandmother, senile and 89, crimpbacked, stands Like a door ajar on her soft bed, Hie open beams and bare studs of die hall Pink as an infant’s skin in the floating dark; 10

Shavings and curls swing down like snowflakes across her face. My aunt and I walk past. As always, niv father Is planning rooms, dragging his lame leg, Stroke-straightened and foreign, behind him, An aberrant 2-by-4 he can’t fit snug. I lay my head on my aunt’s shoulder, feeling At home, and walk on. Through arches and doorjambs, die spidery wires And coiled cables, the blueprint takes shape: My mother’s room to the left, the door closed;

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My father’s room to the left, the door closed— Ahead, my brother’s room, unfinished; Behind, my sister’s room, also unfinished. Buttresses, winches, block-and-tackle: the scale of everything

A Gathering of Poems

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Is enormous. We keep on walking. And pass My aunt’s room, almost complete, the curtains up, The lamp and the medicine arranged In their proper places, in ami’s reach of where the bed will go . . . The next one is mine, now more than half done, Cloyed by the scent of jasmine White-gummed and anxious, their mouths sucking die air dry.

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Home is what you he in, or hang above, the house Your father made, or keeps on making, The dirt you moisten, the sap you push up and nourish . . . I enter the living room, it, too, unfinished, its far wall Not there, opening on to a radiance I can’t begin to imagine, a light My father walks from, approaching me, Dragging his right leg, rolling his plans into a perfect curl. 'That light, he mutters, that damned light. We can’t keep it out. It keeps on filling your room.

Charles Simic Charles Simic (1938— ) was bom in Yugoslavia and came to die United States in 1949. He lives in New Hampshire and has published three books of poems.

Fork This strange thing must have crept Right out of hell. It resembles a bird’s foot Worn around the cannibal’s neck. As you hold it in your hand, As you stab with it into a piece of meat, It is possible to imagine the rest of the bird: Its head which like your fist Is large, bald, beakless and bhnd.

Tom Clark Tom Clark (1941— ) was bom in Illinois, attended die University of Michigan, and studied at Cambridge University in England. He writes books on baseball: Champagne and Baloney about Charles Finley, No Big Deal about Mark Fidrych.

Poem Like musical instruments Abandoned in a field The parts of your feehngs

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Are starting to know a quiet The pure conversion of your Life into art seems destined Never to occur You don’t mind You feel spiritual and alert 10

As the air must feel Turning into sky aloft and blue You feel like You’ll never feel like touching anything or anyone Again And then you do

Louise Gluck Louise Gliick (1943— ) lives in Vermont and has published two collections of her poems, the latest The House on the Marshland (1975 ).

Gratitude Do not think I am not grateful for your small kindness to me. I like small kindnesses. In fact I actually prefer them t‘o the more substantial kindness, that is always eying you, like a large animal on a rug, until your whole life reduces to nothing but waking up morning after morning cramped, and the bright sun shining on its tusks.

Gregory Orr Gregory Orr (1947) published two books of poems, Burning the Empty Nests and Gathering the Bones Together, while still in his twenties. He was bom hi upper New York state and attended .Antioch College and Columbia University. He teaches at the University of Virginia. See also pages 414 and 420.

The Sweater I will lose you. It is written into this poem the way the fisherman’s wife knits his death into the sweater.

Jovcc Pescroff w

- Joyce Peseroff (1948) grew up in New York City, studied writing at die Uni\ ersity oi C alifornia at Irvine, and lives outside Boston.

The Hardness Scale Diamonds are forever so I gave you quartz which is #7 on the hardness scale and it’s hard enough to get to know anybody these days if only to scratch the surface and quartz will scratch six other mineral surfaces: it will scratch glass it will scratch gold it will even to

scratch your eyes out one morning—-you can’t be too careful. Diamonds are industrial so I bought a ring of topaz which is #8 on the hardness scale. I wear it on my right hand, the way it was supposed to be, right? No tears and fewer regrets for reasons smooth and clear as glass. Topaz will scratch glass, it will scratch your quartz, and all your radio crystals. You’ll have to be silent the rest of your days

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not to mention your nights. Not to mention die night you ran away very drunk verv very drunk and you tried to cross die border but couldn’t make it across the lake. Stirring up geysers with die oars you drove the red canoe in circles, tried to pole it but your left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing. You fell asleep and let everyone know it when you woke up.

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In a gin-soaked morning (hair of the dog) you went hunting for geese, shot diree lake trout in violation of the game laws, told me to clean them and that my eyes were bright as sapphires which is #9 on the hardness scale. A sapphire will cut a pearl it will cut stainless steel it will cut vinyl and mylar and will probably cut a record this fall

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to be released on an obscure label known only to aficionados. I will buy a copy. I may buy you a copy depending on how your tastes have changed. I will buy copies for my friends

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we’ll get a new needle, a diamond needle, which is #10 on the hardness scale and will cut anything. It will cut wood and mortar, so

plaster and iron, it will cut the sapphires in my eyes and I will bleed blind as 4 A.M. in the subways when even degenerates are dreaming, blind as the time you shot up the room with a new hunting rifle blind drunk as vou were. j You were #11 on the hardness scale later that night apologetic as

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you worked your way up slowly from the knees and you worked your way down from the open-throated blouse. Diamonds are forever so I give you softer doings.

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Chapter 1 The Mental Theater

Each genre of literature suggests its own style of reading. We usually read fiction and poetry silently, in private. When we read plays, privacy and silence impoverish the genre, for a play comes alive only when it is performed before an audience. In a theater, actors’ voices may sink to a whisper, rise to a shout, or tremble with emotion: bodies gesture, eyes weep; flowing robes sweep be¬ neath elegant wigs in front of painted mountains, while a bird sings offstage. Characters with names like Hamlet and Hedda Gabler walk, leap, wheel about; others dance, strut, collapse on a stage that (we are instructed) is a castle in Denmark or a drawing room in Norway. Characters hold objects in their hands: the skull of an old jester, a philosopher’s manuscript. When we read drama* in silence and in private, we must make up for the absence of sight and sound. The playwright, * the poet, and the novelist have different powers at their disposal. Neither playwright nor novelist can expect focused attention on par¬ ticular words as the poet can. Nor can the playwright declaim onstage his own psychological analysis of character the way the novelist sometimes does. The play we read is a script (dialogue and stage directions) in which the playwright provides the means for a production that will show characters in action, and in this showing drama discovers its power: the dramatist has the advantage of

* Drama can mean several things. It means the entire genre of plays, as in “An Introduction to Drama.” It means a historical segment of the genre, as in “Greek drama.” Yet a drama is a single play—“Hamlet is Shakespeare’s greatest drama. ” We also use the word as a metaphor to describe exciting events: “a real-life drama. ” A playwright writes plays, as a wheelwright makes wheels. (Do not spell the word play write.)

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employing actual bodies and voices of skilled actors, costumed by expert de¬ signers, directed and coached and rehearsed for performance. With the move¬ ments of bodies, occupying space, surrounded by objects, the playwright’s words engage the playwright’s audience. The biggest distinguishing fact about the genre of drama is that to experience it fully we must experience it communally. An audience responds to language, spectacle, motion, and gesture as a community, and each of us is affected by the responses—laughter, tears, coughs, intaken breaths—of people around us. Actors are aware of audience too, and partly because no audience is identical to another, no two performances of a play are ever quite the same—even when the same actors perform the same drama twice in one day. The uniqueness of each performance is product of the interaction of actors and watchers. Reading drama in private, we can to a degree supply what is missing by making a mental theater as we read. We can supply the missing voice, gesture, motion, and spectacle. The more we have experienced theater, the more vividly we can populate the brain’s stage with imagined actors. Sometimes, knowing what we are doing, we may turn off the lights of the mental stage and read plays as if they were stories or poems. Shakespeare’s plays are poetry as well as drama, and they reward the close attention to lan¬ guage that poetry demands of us. Chekhov’s plays, with their psychological curiosities, and Shaw’s with their psychological stage directions, invite us to investigate and understand character, as if we were reading Katherine Anne Porter’s or Joseph Conrad’s fiction. When we read closet drama—works writ¬ ten in the form of plays but intended for reading rather than for production—of course we read as if we were reading fiction or poetry. But we do not read drama fully without knowing particularities of staging and performance. To prepare the way for reading plays, let us start by listing Aris¬ totle’s classic components of drama and then the common features of the thea¬ ter like direction, acting, costuming, blocking, and lighting.

Chapter 2 Elements of Drama

The first critic to analyze plays was the Greek philosopher Aristotle, in his Poetics. While Aristotle based his analysis only on Greek plays, his description of drama’s elements remains useful. He discussed them in an order of impor¬ tance: plot, character, thought, diction, spectacle, and song. Of course, many modem playwrights and directors depart from Aristotle’s sequence. Some ele¬ vate character over plot, others put thought above both plot and character; still others emphasize one or two qualities to the exclusion of others. Melodramas, for instance, are plays in which action and suspense dominate the stage at the expense of thought, character, and all other qualities; musicals like A Chorus Line emphasize spectacle and song.

Plot Plot is the sequence of events in narration, the structure of action and incident by which the playwright tells a story. Usually a play’s plot divides into acts, which are the main divisions of plays, traditionally signaled by the lowering of the curtain if one is used and raising of the house lights, followed by an inter¬ mission. Modem plays are usually divided into three or two acts; older plays often have five. Both the Greeks and the Elizabethans performed plays without interruption, like today’s films, but modem editors and directors have divided old plays into acts for modem audiences and readers. Acts are often subdivided into scenes, separate episodes of dialogue among groups of characters. Acts and scenes are the blocks out of which the playwright constructs the plot. A commonplace example of plot is “Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets

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Elements of Drama

girl” (the sexes are reversible). Tire cliche describes a brief union, then a crisis or conflict of separation, and finally a resolution of conflict joining girl and boy. It makes a stick-figure story, which exemplifies the unified or symmetrical plot. In a unified plot, the audience finds forpial satisfaction in the raising and resolution of suspense and expectation. If an issue is raised or a problem is stated early in the play, we know that the plot will return to this issue or problem. Suspense raises tension when it asks if something desired or feared will happen. In a conflict (often between characters, sometimes between char¬ acter and circumstance or idea or fate) we need to discover who will prevail and how. When the play’s end answers the questions suspense had raised, our tension is resolved. As audience we are first excited, then we are relaxed. Along with our emotional response, we take esthetic pleasure in resolution of tension, as we do in the tension and release of a piece of music when we enjoy a theme’s return. All plays include conflict, tension, suspense, resolution. But plots need not be unified or symmetrical. Sometimes a plot is linear or episodic, thrusting a narrative forward scene by scene. The episodic plot emphasizes time and se¬ quence, and it can be seen mainly in the pageants or panoramas by which townspeople sometimes present the history of their town at its centennial. Such linear plots proceed chronologically without attention to symmetries or bal¬ ances. Of course they may retain conflict, tension, resolution: they tend to proceed by a series of conflicts resolved and new conflicts encountered; the township survives a flood only to be ravaged by cholera. An episodic play in this volume is Shaw’s Saint Joan, where a life unfolds through chosen epi¬ sodes; the film Citizen Kane is also episodic. Both play and movie are unified in ways besides plot—by character, by idea, in Citizen Kane by a thematic device—but the plots are largely linear and episodic. Oedipus the King, Hamlet, Tartuffe, Hedda Gabler, and Death of a Salesman are all plays with a unified or symmetrical plot. For familiar examples of each plot type at its extreme we need look no further than a television play. A soap opera is episodic, interweaving different plot lines like braided hair. On the other hand, a half-hour situation comedy is unified, even predictable in shape— with a goal (raise money for die school band) and a conflict (against the school board’s rules) and a crisis (a student ruse is defeated) and a resolution (alternate fu ncling discovered). In many plays, more than one plot occupies the stage; if one plot dominates, anything else is considered a subplot. In an episodic play, a subplot may be a story told and completed in one episode; in a unified play it is likely to be ongoing; in either case, die subplot tells a story in tandem with the main story (often plots touch each other, as characters meet or overlap from one plot to another) that usually acts as commentary on the main story. In the heroic plays of the eighteenth century, the main plot was often a highly serious tale of love and honor; yet underneath the story of lords and ladies, servants or commoners played out a love story, less honorable and more* funny, that cast an ironic reflection on the main plot. In Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the love-quarrels of the nobility and the love-quarrels of the fairy king and queen

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interweave to our delight; the workers’ stage company, rehearsing a play about ticigie lovers, makes a thud set of characters interwoven with the other two. It is helpful to know certain terms used in discussing plot. Often at the beginning of a play, the author needs to present information on which the plot is based. In Saint Joan, Shaw must let us know about the military and political situation of the French befoie he can show us < Joan trying to rectify matters. Exposition is the presentation of necessary background information. We find exposition in fiction and in poetry also, but on the stage it gives the playwright a particular problem; poet or storyteller can speak as narrator, but the play¬ wright cannot speak so directly. (Occasionally plays use narrators. Shakespeare occasionally used a prologue—lines spoken by an actor to introduce a play_ and Thornton Wilder’s Stage Manager in Our Town narrates background and pio\ ides commentary, but the device is uncommon.) A skillful playwright gives us necessary information through the dialogue of his characters_so cleverly that we are not aware that we are being informed. A less experienced writer may begin a play with the butler and the maid, otherwise unimportant to the story, letting us know that Lord and Lady Bedes worth are expected home soon fiom the bridge tournament, that their spendthrift nephew will arrive for supper, and that the murder trial of Sir Humphrey’s niece begins in the morning. Clumsy exposition is faulty plotting. Plays without conflict or tension bore us; so do plays in which the motives for action seem arbitrary; many a poor playwright has killed an innocent character merely to lower the first-act curtain. On the other hand, some second-rate theater is skillful in plotting—and we associate its inferiority with the slickness of its skill. Of course skillful con¬ struction is essential to the theater, but if a play shows nothing but formal skill we belittle it with the label well-made play. The expression refers to a type of theater piece developed by the French playwright Eugene Scribe (1791-1861) and his followers, a play constructed on an ingenious pattern, sure to satisfy the box office—often rather shallow in situation and character. Ibsen (who directed nearly a hundred light French plays as an apprentice) broke away from the formula but kept elements like the “obligatory scene”—as when Iledda Gabler’s idealistic illusions are destroyed. Bernard Shaw inverted the tricks of the well-made play to disguise his satire of Victorian complacency. If exposition tells us what has already happened or can be expected to hap¬ pen, foreshadowing predicts, hints, warns, or threatens what may happen. Oedipus warns what will happen to the guilty party (whom the audience knows to be Oedipus himself, thus contributing to the play’s tension). As the com¬ plexities and complications build, we speak of rising action—as if it toiled uphill through small conflicts and minor crises toward a supreme crisis, a final conflict. This is the play’s climax, answer to the dramatic question posed by the conflict: Will Ilamlet avenge his father’s murder? After the climax, there are often smaller questions left to be answered, problems to be solved; the play’s conclusion, a falling action generally swifter than its rising action, may be called its resolution, or its conclusion, or its denouement—from a French word that means the untying of a knot. If the denouement drags on too long, though, we grow displeased or frustrated and call it anticlimax.

738 Elements of Drama

Character A character is an imagined person, created by the playwright in dialogue and stage direction, made particular by director and by actor. A character begins in the script-—a potential, an outline, a series of possibilities noted in dialogue— and can be realized in different ways (and with different degrees of success) by different directors and actors. We may divide characters, as we find them in reading drama, as realistic, nonrealistic, and stereotyped. A realistic character is a human being presented with background or history that discloses motivation for actions and feelings. Usually in the realistic drama we empathize with die character; empathy allows us to feel ourselves into a character, imaginatively to become that character. A nonrealistic character, on the other hand, may be nonhuman, a talking fish or a leprechaun. When medieval playwrights wrote allegory for the theater, char¬ acters on the stage would take the roles of abstractions like Christian or Lust. In contemporary pageants we sometimes find allegorical figures standing in for abstractions like Liberty or Totalitarianism. But allegory is only one form of nonrealism. William Buffer Yeats in his modern poetic drama uses characters called The Fool and The Blind Man. They cannot be reduced to abstractions, the way allegorical figures can, but neither are they realistic human beings with histories and motives. The stereotype is a familiar kind of character. When we use the word ster¬ eotype about modem drama, we are usually being critical, as when we criticize a poet for using cliches or stock language. In a television show about a police department, we often find stereotypes like the old street-wise detective paired with the young idealistic detective. In the classic American western movie, we expect the figure of the hero’s loyal sidekick. In earlier times, many dramatists wrote parts for characters their audience expected. When we speak of such characters as stereotypes, we speak of ex¬ pected features of a land of drama; we are not being critical. In Roman comedy audiences laughed at a bragging, vainglorious military man; English comedy from Shakespeare’s time onward invented variants on the stereotype of the fop—generally overdressed peacocks with pretentions to valor and to success with women—whose lies and strategems are comically exposed. A stereotype is a collection of characteristics. While a fully drawn character may be expected to change within a play, a stereotype remains a sum of qualities unchanged and unchanging. Even exposed, the fop will remain a fop. In great drama, we find characters who enter as stereotypes but soon tran¬ scend their expected roles. One stereotype is the ingenue—the innocent or naive young woman—but to call Hamlet's Ophelia an ingenue, while true enough, tells us little about her. Shakespeare creates Ophelia’s character with Ophelia’s distinctive language, and she becomes a fully realized character, as when she says, observing Hamlet when he appears insane: 0, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tringue, sword, Th’expectancv and rose of the fair state,

Elements of Drama

7'M)

Ehe glass of fashion, and the mould of form, Fh’observed of all observers, quite quite down, And I ot ladies most deject and wretched, That sucked the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh, That unmatched form and feature of blown youth. Blasted with ecstasv!

No essayist could tell of devotion and grief more eloquently than Shakespeare shows us in Ophelia’s words. Frequently conflict, mentioned in discussing plot, Hares up between the char¬ acters of a play. W e call the hero ot a play, especially a tragedy, the play’s protagonist, and sometimes he finds himself in conflict with an enemy or antagonist who seeks to thwart his putpose. Not all plays are so neat in their opposition of characters. If Oedipus is clearly the protagonist of the play bearing his name, his early conflict with Kreon would seem to name Kreon an antag¬ onist; but surely Oedipus’s ultimate antagonist is Fate. In Hamlet the villain is Claudius, but Hamlet’s conflict is largely internal. In a modern play, the playwright may indicate character by writing stage directions in the script, lines describing character or scene or action. At the beginning of Sain t Joan, Shaw has the violent Captain Robert seize his steward by the scruff of his neck. After a few words of dialogue, Shaw’s stage directions tell us Robert has to let him drop. He [the steward] squats on his knees on the floor, contemplating his own master resignedly. Shaw gives the actor something to do on the stage; with the last word of stage direction he specifies a facial expression. Stage business is the gesture or nonverbal action of actors on the stage; stage business contributes to characterization. Although the modern playwright supplies business in his stage directions, no author describes every minute action or expression of every character. In any production of a play, character¬ ization is developed by further stage business, facial expression, gesture, and movement—hundreds of particulars not specified in any script. These expres¬ sions of the text are the province of the play’s director—the person who over¬ sees the play’s performance, controlling interpretations, movement, pacing, lighting, scenery, and integrating all the dramatic ingredients. When we stage a play in our mental theater, we are our own director. With the director we pass from characterization as a quality of the script to characterization as a product of performance. Stage business, in practice, is partly the playwright’s doing and partly the director’s. At least this division of labor holds true for the modern theater; until the eighteenth century, authors did not supply stage directions, and directors as such were unknown. Plays were produced under somebody’s leadership—perhaps the chief actor of the company, perhaps the playwright, perhaps the stage manager. When the mod¬ ern director takes on an old play, he feels free to invent his own staging. For that matter, many directors feel considerable freedom to make new interpreta-

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Elements of Drama

tions of a modem play, even to departing from the playwright’s indicated inter¬ pretation. If the director is the emperor of characterization in the play’s world, actors are the lieutenants who control the realm. The actor’s skills, acquired over years of training and experience, cover the range of feelings that voice and body can express. Volume, pitch, timbre, and accent of voice combine with the vo¬ cabulary of body language in gesture, gait, and posture. But actors’ skills must work in service to the whole production, and it is the director’s job to set the overall tone and to make the production cohere. A simple text is subject to many interpretations. Readers and critics of Hamlet differ widely in their un¬ derstanding of the play, and different productions reflect these differences. Laurence Olivier’s film production of Hamlet (1948) has been called a psy¬ choanalytic interpretation, dwelling on the young prince’s attachment to his mother as the motive for his actions. On the other hand, a few decades back the American actor Maurice Evans directed a fast-moving and decisive Hamlet, the prince less meditative than he is in Olivier’s production. To fit these varying interpretations of the protagonist, each production required a different Ger¬ trude, a different Ophelia. The director begins production with a script horn which he or she derives a notion of character. Under ideal circumstances, the director chooses actors who fulfill the requirements of the interpretation. One director might want a muscular, vigorous lead actor; another might want someone lean and ascetic. Director and actor are also subject to the theatrical conventions of their day. Stereotypes are conventions of theater. In the Greek theater it was a convention that the players speak from behind masks; women’s parts in Elizabethan theater were taken by boys. The usual realism of the modem play is itself a series of conventions; in most modem plays we take it as realistic that a drawing room or a bedroom should have one open side, through which we can view the proceedings, and that most of the actors face that open side as they speak to each other. Although it is easy enough to notice conventions alien to our own, like masks, we seldom notice the conventions we are used to. Perhaps nothing dates so quickly as theatrical styles and conventions. For example, on the Elizabethan stage, where boys played women’s roles, love scenes were understandably stylized. When in the late seventeenth century women began to play women’s roles, love scenes became more realistic; yet from the Restoration until recent times, an actor and actress in a passionate love scene would wait for applause after an eloquent embrace, as if they had just sung an operatic duet. Only in the late nineteenth century and the early twentieth did actors begin to imitate feeling, not from the gesture book but from their own psyches and their director’s ideas of human character. Some actors are highly technical, learning by study what to do with body, voice, and expression, and they reproduce feeling by expertise. Others draw from their own feelings, improvising dramatic movement and gesture out of private emotion. Konstantin Stanislavsky (1865—1938) proposed in his book An Actor Prepares (1926) that actors perform by summoning their own feel¬ ings. In his Moscow Art Theater, he trained his actors to search their own

Elements of Drama

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psyches for their characters’ emotions, and then to act on stage as the character would.

Language Aristode’s fourth element of drama is usually translated “diction. ” In the Poetics Aristode defines the style appropriate to Greek drama, writing from a theatrical tradition odier than ours. The importance he grants to language may serve to remind us that plays are language first, that they begin as dialogue, and drat great dialogue is words arranged in the best order. (Exceptions like the oneactor play—Samuel Beckett’s Krapp’s Last Tape, for instance—give us theat¬ rical language without dialogue, although Krapp converses with his own taped voice. Wordless mime theater, sometimes one-actor performances like Marcel Marceau’s, remain a portion of theater striedy speaking outside literature.) The greatest playwrights are great writers: Shakespeare and Sophocles poets, Chek¬ hov and Shaw masters of prose. It is no coincidence that Shakespeare’s sonnets and long poems would earn him prominence in the history of literature if he had written no plays or that Chekhov is often considered literature’s greatest master of the short story. The “best words” for a particular play depend on the subject undertaken. If we did not feel that the characters in Death of a Salesman speak in an American idiom, we would not believe in them. If the poetic language of Yeats’s Cat and the Moon were attributed to the salesman Willy Loman, we would find the play intolerably confusing. Good plays range wide in their language, from the poetic choruses of Sophocles to the natural non sequiturs of Chekhov’s characters in The Cherry Orchard. In comedy, characters often speak with a wit—balanced phrases, paradox, epigram—few of us can manage in everyday life; and as their language is, so is their witty construction of plot. For a quick look at the difference language makes, glance at Shakespeare and Shakespearean paraphrase, pages 496-498. On page 904 are two translations of the same passage from Moliere’s Tartuffe.

Thought For most readers, the thought of a play, its theme, its ideas, will take precedence over other elements. Thought is drama’s summation, what remains in the mind when the theater is dark or the book is closed. Aristotle placed thought third, recognizing it as product of plot and character. For Aristotle, thought is the statement about human life that the play’s action exemplifies. It resides largely in dialogue, Aristotle tells us, and can be subsumed under three headings: first, “proof and refutation”; second, “the excitation of the feelings, such as pity, fear, anger . . .”; third, “the suggestion of importance or its opposite.” These three categories suggest different sorts of thought in drama, or different uses of thought. If a play offers “proof or refutation” the play is argumentative, and its design is didactic. To be didactic is to teach. There is a long tradition

742 Elements of Drama of plays which teach, which have a design oh our thoughts and actions. Shaw’s plays are almost always didactic as well as entertaining; they make persuasive statements about politics and society. Of course if a didactic play does not otherwise engage us, it will not convince us by its arguments or persuade us by its teaching; finding it merely didactic, we will dismiss it as propaganda. Aristotle’s second category of thought implies a response to script and pro¬ duction observable in the audience: “the excitation of the feelings. ...” Aris¬ totle does not separate idea from feeling: he includes emotions within his cat¬ egory of thought or theme. Finally Aristotle speaks qf values—“importance and its opposite.” Thought ascribes value—or lack of value—to a drama’s action. Sophocles’ subject in Oedipus—the welfare of a people, the fated guilt of their king, his punishment—has a magnitude to which his characters in their speech and actions are adequate. The “opposite of importance, ” on the other hand, can result from the triviality of a subject or from the inadequate treatment of a serious subject The themes of popular dramatic art can often be justly sum¬ marized by a cliche: “It takes all kinds to make a world” or “There’s a little bit of good in just about everybody. ” In most plays, the protagonist’s conflicts embody the play’s thought. In Saint Joan Shaw uses the life of his protagonist as a vehicle for thought about politics, the state, and the individual. Although we cannot reduce Hamlets themes to an easy paraphrase, we can observe Shakespeare’s thought in his protagonist’s crises: first as Hamlet strives to establish his uncle’s guilt, second as he strug¬ gles within himself to act upon his knowledge. We understand that the thought of the play centers on the question of Hamlet’s action and on the conflicts within him that prevent or impede action. But the reader does well to observe the minor characters as well as major ones, for in theater everything coalesces to create the play’s thought. Thinking about a play, we should draw back from the emotional crises of the plot to ask ourselves, for instance, about Horatio’s function in Hamlet: What does his presence mean to the play’s ideas, as well as to its structure? If Lopaliin were not onstage in The Cherry Orchard, what would be lacking in Chekhov’s play? What use is Cleante in Tartuffd? By analyzing the intellectual function of a play’s characters, we analyze the content of the play. Sometimes a play or a him includes physical objects important to its thought. If a playwright continually reminds us of a place or a thing, onstage or off, we should consider its function and meaning in the play with as much attention as if it were another character, lire cherry orchard itself in Chekhov’s play is not listed among the performers and remains invisible to the audience, but it is essential to the play’s theme and thought; Chekhov suggests as much by taking it for his title. In the film script of Citizen Kane, one word runs through the plot, a mysterious unidentified Rosebud, its nature revealed visually to the cinema audience in a late fr&me of film. Rosebud is a clue to Kane’s character, and to the “importance and its opposite” of the life the film portrays.

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Spectacle The physical stage Spectacle is what the audience sees, the play as it exists to the eve, the visual theater. The first element of spectacle is the theater itself and its physical stage. When we read Oedipus the King and Hcimlet, it helps to know about the actual theaters Sophocles and Shakespeare wrote for. Beginning with the mid¬ seventeenth century, the most common western theater shape (almost univer¬ sal until recent years) has been the proscenium stage. The stage with which modem Americans are most familiar is a slight variant, which we will call the picture stage: at the front of an auditorium is a framed, rectangular space_ the proscenium arch—across which we may draw a stage curtain. At the bot¬ tom of the stage’s front there are footlights for low illumination; at the top of the frame are further lights to cast illumination downward. This framed rectan¬ gular lighted space is the box within which the actors act, and it extends to various depths from the stage front to stage rear. The original proscenium stages of the seventeenth century featured a fore¬ stage, a platform thrust into the audience before the proscenium arch. Most of the acting was done on this forward deck, but gradually in the eighteenth and in the earlier nineteenth centuries, the forestage grew smaller, and acting tended to concentrate itself behind the proscenium arch, where lighting could be better controlled, where scenery could be varied, where stage machinery could raise and lower painted scenes on pulleys, for instance, or slide them on rails laterally from the wings. Although most theaters and auditoriums, from high schools to Broadway, still feature the picture stage, many vary in shape. In the later nineteenth cen¬ tum some theatrical producers began to experiment with the return of the fore¬ stage, often building a platform over the orchestra pit—a sunken area, below the level of the audience, between picture stage and the first row of seats, where musicians play their instruments in productions of musical plays and opera. Some more modem theaters, especially those built for the production of Shake¬ spearean plays, extend a narrowing forestage (sometimes called the thrust stage) into the audience, with rows of seats on three sides. Some theatrical spaces are constructed with the audience seated on all sides—called the arena stage, or theater in the round For this physical theater, plays must be directed to be seen on all sides and must do largely without scenery. Still other exper¬ imental theaters feature actors who wander among the spectators. Scenery, set, and props A director typically relies on a set or scenic designer; the set is the scenery and furniture the audience sees. Tie setting for a play may include a realistic painted backdrop of forest or castle, or the back of the set may be the wall of a room, with real wallpaper and a real window in it. The designer submits sketches to the director; carpenters and painters turn these designs into fur¬ niture and scenery. In the most realistic interpretations of plays, rooms look like rooms we live in and forests as much like forests as a designer’s skills can

744 Elements of Drama

make them. This sort of production may require many changes of scene as the plays plot moves from battleground to commander’s tent to lung’s palace. Often the curtain is drawn while the set is changed. A production may use backdrops painted on sliding wings, stored out of sight To left and right until they are needed. Or sets may be lifted to hang above the stage, lowered by stage ma¬ chinery when they are needed. Stage machinery needed for such equipment is expensive and bulky. Some modern stages are equipped with a revolving stage, a circular platform cut into the stage floor, moved by hand or by machine; this revolving stage is divided into segments, and each qegment can be rotated to face the audience with a different set. On the other hand, many modem directors use a nonrealistic set, even for scripts and productions with realistic characters. On a relatively bare stage, the designer may create a unit set, perhaps a platform with steps leading to it, and a few black boxes; as the script requires, a box may become a throne or a tree trunk, the platform a balcony or a bedroom. Such staging requires imagination from director and audience; it is cheaper in production and it allows the play to move faster because no set changes are required. In nonrealistic modem theater, like Yeats’s The Cat and the Moon, a non¬ realistic setting is often specified in stage directions: a curtain, a mg, a screen. Samuel Beckett’s nonrealistic Waiting for Godot specifies only “A Country Road. A tree”; few designers have been tempted to realism. Taking the play¬ wright’s general indication, the designer makes the set particular. Props are properties, or portable pieces of scenery, not attached to walls or screens, which may include sofas and chairs or objects characters carry in then hands. Costume Only in the last century and a half has costuming attempted realism. Alien Elizabethans took on the roles of Romans, they dressed in high Elizabethan fashion (a practice used as an argument for performing old plays in the dress of our own day). Actors tended to stmt the stage in their greatest finery and thus their clothing contributed to theatrical spectacle. In the middle of the nineteenth century, as the theater moved further toward the illusion of reality, actors began to wear clothes considered appropriate to the historical time of the script, and Romans looked as we believe Romans to have looked. The play’s director collaborates with the costume designer or costumer as he does with the set designer, and for many productions both settings and costumes are created by a single designer. Makeup On the Greek stage actors wore masks that made their faces look larger, more powerful from the distant perspective of the Greek auditorium. In the modem realistic stage, makeup is a portion of spectacle—and frequently it uses artifice to appear natural. The bright lighting of most stag£ productions can give a healthy actor the pallor of a coqDse unless The actor first applies a ruddy base

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makeup, lightly rouges lips, and emphasizes eyes. Made-up eyes look larger; eyes tend to disappear without it, especially from the rear of the second balcony. Lighting The ancient stage, from the Greeks to the Elizabethans, used no light but the sun. The only variations of light occurred when an actor entered a shaded area of the stage, as when an Elizabethan hid or conspired under the small balcony at stage rear. When the theater moved indoors in the seventeenth century, only candles illuminated the stage, casting a dim and fitful light even when massed in candelabra. Successive technological innovations gradually improved stage lighting. Oil lamps afforded more control than candles and could cast bright light on a single part of the stage by the use of reflecting mirrors; colored glass in front of the flame could cast tinted light to imitate sunlight or fire. Then early in the nineteenth century came the gas light—still brighter than oil lamps and still more controllable. Late in the nineteenth century theaters began to use electric lights, which could go and off without the use of matches—a miracle. Todays directors planning productions write light cues into their texts and work with lighting engineers to realize their intentions.* Options are many: light can be general and uniform all over the stage; light can illuminate one character or one group of characters, keeping the rest of the stage dark or dim; lights can emphasize the finality of a scene by turning off all at once (a black¬ out); lights can shine on an actor from the theater ceiling in front of the stage, or from a balcony, or from banks of lights at the theater’s side; light can come from below (foodights) or behind (backlighting) or beside (from the wings.) Lighting can further the plot as in the weird contrasts of melodrama, or the thought when it delineates part of the stage as a dream area or a reality area. Lights can be used for character; one actor can wear a virtual halo of follow spots. Lights can turn one character sallow and another ruddy. They can in¬ dicate the lapse of time by suggesting twilight or dawn. The rear of the stage may be occupied by a cvclorama—a curved white surface that readily accepts lighting, useful for sunrises, sunsets, rainbows, or the abstract play of color and shadow. With actors positioned behind gauze or scrim, a sidelight will render the gauze opaque and the actors invisible; a front light will reverse the vision—actors visible and gauze transparent; still another arrangement of lights will show the actors as shadows against the scrim. Because light can create illusions of movement—when actors move out of light into dimness, for instance, they appear to move farther than they do— lighting is integral to the planning of the play’s movement and gesture. The more subtle the play, the more subtle the lighting it calls for. Melodramas tend to be higher in contrast of dark and light, and musicals more bright, than Hamlet or Saint Joan. In the didactic theater of Brecht and others, the play¬ wright may specify an even light—like the light in a classroom or lecture hall. *A lighting designer is sometimes one of a three-part design team (with scenic and costume designers) who work with each other and with the director to mount a theater production.

746

Elements of Drama

Blocking When directors plan a production, they plan the movement of players on the stage: this control of movement is called blocking. The audience looks at actors placed on stage in relationship to one another,' and the director’s blocking cre¬ ates and continually recreates the relationships the audience perceives. Moving or standing still, bodies in relationship to each other can express character and further plot or contribute to the expression of idea. If character A walks nerv¬ ously up and down during an interview with character B, who sits still, we observe in spectacle an enactment of character ami conflict. Nowhere are di¬ rectors more active or are their presences more felt than in this spectacle of bodies in relation. Dance A final element of spectacle is dance. In a musical play its presence is obvious and necessitates the use of a choreographer or dance director. These plays are entertainment, and spectacle remains spectacle. But in other plays, like Peter Shaffer’s Equus or like Sean O’Casey’s Juno and the Paycock, with its actor impersonating a bird, dance or dancelike movement is essential to plot, char¬ acter, and thought.

Music and sound When Aristotle incorporated music in his list of drama’s components, he was writing about an ancient theater in which speech was probably sung or chanted. In theater as we know it, sound is part of the total effect: first as spoken dialogue, in its manner of speaking; then as nonverbal utterance by actors— laughs and grunts and cries of pain; then as noises made by props, like a chair scraping or a radio turned on, or Hedda Gabler’s piano-playing; then as silence; then as sound effects, like train whisdes and a mysterious snapping sound in The Cherry Orchard or a telephone ringing or an offstage gunshot.

Assembling the elements Theatrical genius can be defined as the ability to make all these elements of theater work at once. Though the proportions of responsibility differ—play¬ wright largely responsible for language and director largely responsible for spec¬ tacle—the results are interdependent. In good productions plot is not sacrificed to spectacle or sound to character, but all cohere to make the single master¬ piece. In the plays that follow, we must gauge the possibilities of coherence in a script. Thinking of Aristotle’s six categories, we can observe their potential interaction or integration. When Laertes and Ophelia talk with their father Polonius in Hamlet, the language provides us with plot, character, thought, and language; but the playwright has also allowed us, by his power of imaginative seeing, to make a mental theater.

Elements of Drama

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Some suggestions for studying drama Reading the plays that follow, students may study characterization and inter¬ pretation by reading scenes aloud in class, different students using the same words for different ideas of character. In discussion a class may simulate a production, down to details of gesture, costuming, and lighting. Still, it is good to practice not only at directing but at our most familiar role—at being an au¬ dience. If a class is able to attend a performance of any drama on any level of competence, it can profit by discussing the production in the terms used in this chapter. Excerpts from a recorded play heard in the classroom will provide no examples of spectacle but for that very reason may prove useful to consideration of plot, character, thought, voice-acting, and sound. A film will allow' discussion of spectacle. Or the class may agree to wmtch the same television show (a halfhour dramatic show7 would be best) for discussions of dramatic ingredients. Some profit may even be discovered in analysis of the plot structure of a thirtysecond commercial.

Chapter 3 Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles

History About the origins of Greek theater we can only speculate; by the time we are able to speak of probable fact we are only a century away from Sophocles’ Oedipus the King, which was first produced about 430 or 425 B.C. Apparently by 535 B.C. the citizens of Athens watched tragedies during the festival of Dionysus—a Greek fertility god and the god of wine, worshiped in late winter and early spring at ceremonies called the Dionysia. One part of the Dionysia was a contest among playwrights, in which three authors each entered a tragic trilogy (three plays) accompanied by a short comedy or satire. Drama seems to have evolved from religious worship in which a chorus of voices spoke hymns to Dionysus. We are told that a man named Thespis added to the chorus the figure of a single speaker who addressed the group and thus invented drama. Although further speakers or characters were added, the cho¬ rus always remained part of Greek drama, speaking as the collective voice of a people. In some plays the chorus leader detaches himself from the group, almost becoming another individual character, to engage in dialogue. The great playwright Aeschylus (ca. 524—456 B.C.) wrote the earliest plays that survive. According to Aristotle, it was Aeschylus who added a second speaker to Thespis’s first, and Sophocles (ca. 496—406 B.C.) who added the third actor and fixed the fluctuating size of the chorus at fifteen speakers. The surviving plays of Aeschylus are great works of the ancient world, notably the Oresteia trilogy (Agamemnon, Choephoroe, and Eumenides) and Seven Against Thebes. It is testimony to drama’s ritual origins that Aeschylus was accused of revealing in his plays religious secrets he had learned in a private initiation. Among the Greek gods, only Dionysus took possession of his worshipers; the actors at the Dionysia, shedding their personal identities to act, could be re¬ garded as possessed by Dionysus. T

748

Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles

749

The classic Greek theater at Epidaurus, constructed in the fourth century B.C., seated fourteen thousand spectators on fifty-five tiers. Today, as in Hellenistic times, audiences throng there for performances of the tragedies of Sophocles and other masterworks.

We do know a little about the staging of Greek drama. At the back of the stage was a row of decorative columns, suggestive of a palace, before which the play took place. Behind this fagade stood a small room where the actors could retire. The front of this room, visible between the columns, was probably dec¬ orated with scenery; this fagade was called the skerte, ancestor of our word scene. In front of the skene and the columns, the actors spoke their roles. As a voice of the citizenry, the chorus occupied an intermediary place in the orchestron, an area for dancing and choral speaking midway between actors and audience. Greek theater thus placed distance between actors and audience, perhaps because of the drama’s religious nature. Actors were magnified, their faces enlarged and made rigid by masks that apparently also functioned as mega¬ phones, enlarging voice as well as face. The voice needed amplification because Greek theaters were huge: at Epidaurus the amphitheater seated fourteen thou¬ sand people. Each stage was built below a small hill, the audience seated in tiers rising in horseshoe shape uphill from the stage. Actors’ voices boomed from the wall of the skene and rose up the hillside.

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Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles

Aristotle’s Poetics The Greek philosopher Aristotle (384—322 B.C.), writing shortly after the great age of the playwrights, investigated their work in his Poetics, which remains history’s most influential work of literary criticism. Earlier we noted his six elements of drama. Here we need to touch on Aristotle’s larger idea of art as imitation of nature, /m his definition of tragedy/on his notions of the psycho¬ logical functions of tragedy, and on a few of his formal observations. For us today, the word imitation sounds negative; an imitation is inferior, secondhand, derivative. But the Greeks attached no negative connotation to mimesis or imitation: to imitate nature meant to be true to life. Truth was not defined historically as what really happened, or morally as what ought to hap¬ pen, but philosophically as what would happen according to the laws of prob¬ ability and human nature. If Sophocles’ Oedipus howls with anguish when he learns his dreadful secret, it is probable or true to nature that he would do so. If his mother-wife hangs herself when she learns the horrid truth, it is probable or true to nature that she would do so. Aristotle tells us Literature is more probable than history. Historical fact gives us the actions of one person on one day under the accidental conditions of that day. If a reporter were recording the events of a historic Thebes, maybe we would learn that it was raining or that a messenger fell asleep in a ditch and was late or that Kreon pulled a muscle and needed help climbing stairs. These historical particulars would be irrelevant to the general truth to nature that Greek playwrights imitated. Hiis notion of probability helps explain the clear line of plot in Greek drama. If the playwright’s task is to imitate nature’s probability, the playwright may dispense with local particulars and concentrate on essences. This directness helps account for the inevitability we sense in Greek tragedy as events follow each other, not at random or by accident but because one event leads to the next by inexorable laws.

Aristotle defined tragedy not as a theorist saying what it ought to be but as a critic telling us what it had been. He described the features of tragedy as he observed them, like a naturalist describing a species of fish. “Tragedy, then,” he summarizes “is the imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude ... in the form of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions. ” Defining terms within this famous definition, he tells us that “an action implies personal agents, who necessarily possess certain distinctive qualities both of character and thought . . . the two natural causes from which accidents spring. . . . But most impor¬ tant of all is the structure of the incident. For Tragedy is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life. ...” Thus Aristotle places plot foremost in his hierarchy of elements. Probability of the plot, built on causation rather than accident, becomes a requirement of form—for it leads to the clarity with which we perceive the whole “complete” and “sepous” action. Becoming more particular, Aristode tells us that a tragedy by its nature must

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tell of a downfall, and that the hero must be a virtuous man of some eminence, brought down by “some error or frailty. ” The unmerited fall of someone perfectly virtuous would merely shock us. On the other hand, the fall of a villain “would inspire neither pity nor fear. ” For the Greek words usually translated “fear” and “pity” commentators have suggested that we might better understand Aristotle’s ideas if we read dread and compassion. Dread is the emotion that confronts inevitable evil; if pity seems to elevate and separate the audience from the character of the drama, compassion identifies the audience with the protagonist in his downfall; without some manner of empathy or identification it is difficult to argue for the presence of dread. Aristotle asserts that the audience—as a result of experiencing these emo¬ tions in witnessing tragedy—undergoes an emotional purging or catharsis. This idea has puzzled commentators for hundreds of years. The notion of ca¬ tharsis, most people agree, is Aristotle’s defense of drama’s social value and therefore a reply to Plato, who banned poets from his ideal Republic for pro¬ moting irrationality. Catharsis does not simply imply that tragedy is a safety valve for dangerous feelings, the way American football is sometimes defended as relieving spectators of their aggression. Aristotle’s idea implies that art first arouses emotions and then directs and controls them, not removing them but shaping them. Plato’s complaint that poetry “feeds and waters the passions instead of starving them” is countered by the notion that the emotions need not be (perhaps cannot be) starved, but that they may be directed by intelligence and by the formal control of the dramatic artist. A few other points from Aristotle’s Poetics-. The protagonist is “of high estate” and is frequently a king. Remember that a Greek king was not a symbolic monarch but a leader and protector of his people. We should think of Greek kings in terms of power and the state. When the dramatic protagonist is royal, like Oedipus, his downfall is a calamity for his people. And tragedy deals not with any king, but with kings who have displayed special courage or nobility or intelligence. Oedipus came to Thebes a stranger without title or wealth, then by his wit he solved the riddle of the Sphinx and saved the city. People commonly speak of the tragic protagonist as possessed of a “tragic flaw”—like a flaw in a diamond. Aristotle himself speaks of the tragic hero’s “error or frailty. ” In later tragedies we can often speak of flaws like Macbeth’s ambition or Hamlet’s indecisiveness—though one-word summations remain superficial. If we look for such a fatal weakness in Oedipus, we might point to his violent temper, his killing a stranger at a crossroads. But Oedipus the King is clearly more than a play about someone who should have controlled his temper. It is a play about someone of whom it was prophesied at birth that he would kill his father—and who killed his father, despite everybody’s attempts to keep it from happening. Oedipus is a play about fate or inevitability. Although some tragic heroes possess a moral Achilles’ heel, it is more correct to under¬ stand Oedipus’ frailty as being intrinsic to all human beings, not avoidable by exercise of will to virtue. These errors or frailties are fated and ineluctable; the dread with which we watch them work their way to the hero’s downfall is a religious dread. Greek tragedies are saturated with awe for the gods, with a

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sense of the distinction between mortals and the divine. Remember that Dio¬ nysus was a god of fertility. We rely for the food we eat on the fated, necessary, ineluctable death and rebrrth of the year. Nature must die in the autumn in order to be bom again in the spring. Many primitive peoples felt that, unless they enacted the ritual of dying, using their king as a sacrifice or scapegoat, some year the spring would not return. In discussing the plots of Greek tragedies, Aristotle emphasized formal features, reversal of intention and recognition . These features are usually interrelated; Aristotle says that they must “form the internal structure of the plot, so that what follows should be the necessary or probable result. ...” In reversal of intention, the audience watches a character take an action intended to accom¬ plish one thing, and as the audience watches, this action accomplishes the opposite of what the character intends. “Thus in the Oedipus a messenger came to cheer Oedipus and free him from his alarms about his mother, but by revealing who he is, he produces the opposite effect.” Recognition is revelation, something previously unknown coming to light. The messengers reversal, in the paragraph above, affords Oedipus a terrible recognition: his wife Jocasta is also his mother. Many critics have noticed that an almost pervasive concern of the theater is to question appearance and reality, perhaps because in watching a drama we are aware that the stage is occupied by actors who pretend to be what they are not. Central to the theater as we -know it is the act of unmasking—a form of recognition—and we should notice that the mask itself was a property of the Greek stage. While tragic recognition is shocking or painful, comic recognition is often funny and satirical, as when, in Tartuffe, a villain’s hypocrisy is publicly unmasked.

More terms of tragedy Later critics have named other features of tragedy. Dramatic irony is some¬ times called tragic irony because it is so common to tragedy. It often results from reversal of intention. Dramatic irony runs throughout Oedipus the King, where the hero unwittingly denounces himself when he denounces the evildoer. In dramatic irony the audience understands the consequences of the character’s speech or act, but the character understands nothing until too late. We may want to rise in our chairs like the naive watcher of a melodrama, to shout at the hero “Look out! Behind you!” We may want to say “Oedipus, think about what you’re saying!” But no matter what we wish to say, the story will act itself out, as it has acted itself out over the centuries. Dramatic irony supports a sense of tragic inevitability and therefore supports and intensifies our dread and our awe. Inevitable and inexorable is our sense of our own death and the deaths of people close to us—and possibly the deaths of our country, culture, or kind. The Sphinx’s riddle that Oedipus solved \vas the identity of the creature that ■

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had four legs in morning, two legs at noon, and three at nightfall. Oedipus answered: Humankind, that crawls as a baby, stands up as an adult, and hob¬ bles with a cane in old age. Moreover, the riddle prefigures the plav. Although we see nothing of baby Oedipus on stage, the plot relies on accounts of Oedi¬ pus’s infancy; the play starts with a strong, upright, powerful, two-legged lung of his country; it ends with Oedipus a pitiful wreck, self-aged by his self-blind¬ ing, being led olf the stage in disgrace, impotence, and exile. The hero’s downfall has moved him from noon to night. If catharsis is an idea difficult to understand, we know it is Aristotle’s attempt to explain the exaltation or relief with which audiences and readers have re¬ sponded to tragedy over the centuries. Why does a spectacle so depressing exalt us, or leave us better than we were? People have put forward all sorts of ex¬ planations. In a poem he called “Lapis Lazuli” William Butler Yeats suggests something that may help us understand Aristotle’s catharsis. The poet de¬ scribes a world in which civilization may be destroyed at any moment, and then asserts that every human figure acts out a tragic role; he describes the world as if it were a play. Moving back from individual to group, he says that every culture or civilization will die, as we all know. Finally, he imagines people carved in lapis lazuli (a hard stone knowm for its long endurance) who regard the world’s scene from a distance while they listen to a skilled artist performing tragic art. When we see the characters of the world through the spectacles of tragedy, he tells us, our deaths and downfalls become acceptable; Areats even claims that we may accept the tragic world with gaiety if we view human life and death through the form of tragedy. He answers Plato firmly. We may regard catharsis as tragic art’s ability to reconcile us, through its inevitable form, to the dread of our own ending.

Sophocles Sophocles was bom at Colonus about 496 B.C. As a young man he was mu¬ sician, dancer, poet, and actor—roles the Greeks did not differentiate so much as we do. Like Shakespeare and Moliere, he learned stagecraft by performing as an actor. We are told that he wrote 123 plays by which he won twenty-four victories in the playwrights’ contest at the Dionvsia. Only seven of his plays survive entire: after Oedipus the King the best known axe Antigone and Oedipus at Colonus—Sophocles’ final play, performed after his death at the age of ninety. When the first audience witnessed the first production of Oedipus the King, around 430 to 425 B.C., they already knew the myth of Oedipus, which Homer recounted briefly in the Odyssey. Bom to the king and queen of Thebes, Oed¬ ipus was sent to be exposed on a hillside because a prophecy warned that he would kill his father. By a series of believable events, the baby was not killed, and Oedipus was raised in another city thinking himself the true son of another coiiple. Traveling as a stranger, he killed a man at a crossroads; coming to Thebes thereafter he saved the city from the scourge of the Sphinx by answering the Sphinx’s riddle. He then married the widowed queen. At the beginning of

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the play many years have passed since the encounter at the crossroads, the triumph over the Sphinx, and the marriage, but a plague has infested the city, the result of an impious act at first unknown. In the course of the play Oedipus discovers that he killed his father and married' his mother.

Sophocles

Oedipus the King Translated by Stephen Berg and Diskin Clay*

Characters OEDIPUS, king of Thebes

JOCASTA, wife of Oedipus

PRIEST of Zeus

MESSENGER from Corinth

KREON, Oedipus’ brother-in-law

SHEPHERD, member of Laios’

CHORUS of Theban elders

household SERVANT, household slave of Oedipus

LEADER of the chorus TEIRESIAS, prophet, servant to Apollo

Delegation of Thebans, servants to lead Teiresias and Oedipus; attendants to Oed¬ ipus, Kreon, Jocasta; and Antigone and Ismene, the daughters of Oedipus. Dawn. Silence. The royal palace of Thebes. The altar of Apollo to the left of the central palace. A delegation of Thebans—old men, boys, young children—enters the orchestra by the steps below the altar, assembles, and waits. They carry sup¬ pliant boughs—olive branches tied with strips of wool. Some climb the steps be¬ tween the orchestra and the altar, place their branches on the altar, and return to the orchestra. A PRIEST stands apart from the suppliants at the foot of one of the two stairs. Silence. Waiting. The central doors open. From inside the palace, limping, OEDIPUS comes through the palace doors and stands at the top of the steps leading down into the orchestra. He is dressed in gold and wears a golden crown. Why, children, why are you here, why are you holding those branches tied with wool,1 begging me for help? Children, the whole city smolders with incense. Wherever I go I hear sobbing, praying. Groans fill the air.

OEDIPUS

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*Our text of Oedipus the King is a new translation by the poet Stephen Berg and the classical scholar Diskin Clay, under the general editorship of William Arrowsmith, published in 1978 by Oxford University Press. In his introduction, Arrowsmith writes: “To my perhaps prejudiced eye, the special achievements of this new translation of Oedipus the King are, first, the functional precision and power of its poetry; and, second, its pervasive metaphysical suggestiveness. Again and again the play, but also the translation, evokes the sense of another, larger world, of an eternally recurring reality looming behind, sometimes violently erupting into, the immediate foreground, here and now, of the dramatic situation.” A 1Wool was an offering to Apollo, god of healing as well as a source of oracles.

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Rumors, news from messengers, they are not enough for me. Others cannot tell me what you need. I am king, I had to come. As king, I had to know. Know for myself, know for me. Everybody everywhere knows who I am: Oedipus. King. Priest of Zeus, we respect your age, your high office. Speak. Why are you kneeling? Are you afraid, old man? What can I give you? How can I help? Ask. Ask me anything. Anything at all. My heart would be a stone if I felt no pity for these poor shattered people of mine kneeling here, at my feet. PRIEST Oedipus, lord of Thebes, you see us, the people of Thebes, your people, crowding in prayer around your altar, these small children here, old men bent with age, priests, and I, die priest of Zeus, and our noblest young men, the pride and strength of Thebes. And there are more of us, lord Oedipus, more—gadiered in die city, stunned, kneeling, offering their branches, praying before the two great temples of Athena1 or staring into the ashes of burnt offerings, staring, waiting, waiting for the god to speak. Look, look at it, lord Oedipus—right there, in front of your eyes—this city— it reels under a wild storm of blood, wave after wave battering Thebes. We cannot breathe or stand. We hunger, our world shivers with hunger. A disease hungers, nothing grows, wheat, fruit, nothing grows bigger than a seed. Our women bear dead things, all they can do is grieve, our catde wither, stumble, drop to die ground, flies simmer on their bloated tongues, the plague spreads everywhere, a stain seeping through our streets, our fields, our houses, look—god’s fire eating everyone, everything, stroke after stroke of lightning, the god stabbing it alive— it can’t be put out, it can’t be stopped, its heat thickens the air, it glows like smoking metal, this god of plague guts our city and fills the black world under us where the dead go with die shrieks of women,

'Pallas Athena, goddess of wisdom and protector of Athens. The original audience was aware of her two temples on the city’s Acropolis.

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Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles

living women, wailing. You are a man, not a god—I know. We all know this, the young kneeling here before you know it, too, but we know how great you are, Oedipus, greater than any man. When crisis struck, you saved us here in Thebes, you faced the mysterious, strange disasters hammered against us by the gods. This is our history— we paid our own flesh to the Sphinx1 until you set us free. You knew no more than anyone, but you knew. There was a god in it, a god in you. [The PRIEST kneels.]

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Help us. Oedipus, we beg you, we ah turn to you, kneeling to your greatness. Advice from the gods or advice from human beings—you will know which is needed. But help us. Power and experience are yours, all yours. Between thought and action, between our plans and their results a distance opens. Only a man like you, Oedipus, tested by experience, can make them one. That much I know. Oedipus, more like a god than any man alive, deliver us, raise us to our feet. Remember who you are. Remember your love for Thebes. Your skill was our salvation once before. For this Thebes calls you savior. Don’t let us remember you as the king—godlike in power— who gave us back our life, then let us die. Steady us forever. You broke the riddle for us then. It was a sign. A god was in it. Be die man you were— rule now as you ruled before. Oh Oedipus, how much better to rule a city of men than be king of empty earth. A city is nothing, a ship is nothing where no men live together, where no men work together. OEDIPUS Children, poor helpless children, I know what brings you here, I know. You suffer, this plague is agony for each of you, but none of you, not one suffers as I do. Each of you suffers for himself, only himself. My whole being wails and breaks for this city, for myself, for all of you, old man, all of you. Everydiing ends here, with me. I am the man. You have not wakened me from some kind of sleep. I have wept, struggled, wandered in this maze of thought, tried every road, searched hard— ’When the young Oedipus arrived at Thebes the monster Sphinx (lion’s body, bird’s wings,

woman’s face) controlled the city. He saved Thebes by answering the Sphinx’s riddle (see page 752) and was made king.

Oedipus the King

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finally I found one cure, only one:

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I sent my wife’s brother, Kreon, to great Apollo’s shrine at Delphi;1 I sent him to learn what I must say or do to save Thebes. But his long absence troubles me. Why isn’t he here? Where is he? When he returns, what land of man would I be if I failed to do everything the god reveals? Some of the suppliants by the steps to the orchestra stand to announce KREON’s arrival to the PRIEST. KREON comes in by the entrance to the audiences left with a garland on his head. \ou speak of Kreon, and Kreon is here. OEDIPUS [turning to the altar of Apollo, then to KREON] Lord Apollo, look at him—-his head is crowned with laurel, his eyes glitter. Let his words blaze, blaze like his eyes, and save us. PRIEST fie looks calm, radiant, like a god. If he brought bad news, would he be wearing that crown of sparkling leaves? OEDIPUS At last we will know. Lord Kreon, what did the god Apollo say? KREON His words are hopeful. Once everything is clear, exposed to the light, we will see our suffering is blessing. Ah we need is luck. OEDIPUS What do you mean? What did Apollo say? What should we do? Speak. KREON Here? Now? In front of ah these people? Or inside, privately? PRIEST

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no

[KREON moves toward the palace.]

Stop. Say it. Say it to the whole city. I grieve for them, for their sorrow and loss, far more than I grieve for myself. KREON This is what I heard—there was no mistaking the god’s meaning— Apollo commands us: Cleanse the city of Thebes, cleanse the plague from that city, destroy the black stain spreading everywhere, spreading, poisoning the earth, touching each house, each citizen, sickening the hearts of the people of Thebes! Cure this disease that wastes all of you, spreading, spreading, before it grows so vast nothing can cure it OEDIPUS What is this plague? How can we purify the city? KREON A man must be banished. Banished or lulled. Blood for blood. The plague is blood, blood, breaking over Thebes. OEDIPUS Who is the man? Who is Apollo’s victim? KREON My lord, before you came to Thebes, before you came to power, Laios was our king. OEDIPUS I know. But I never saw Laios. OEDIPLTS

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'Where an oracle revealed the future and uncovered past secrets

Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles

Laios was murdered. Apollo’s command was very clear:

KREON

Avenge the murderers of Laios. Whoever they are. OEDIPUS

But where are his murderers?

The crime is old. How will we find their tracks? Hie killers could be anywhere.

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Apollo said the killers are still here, here in Thebes.

KREON

Pursue a thing, and you may catch it; ignored, it slips away. OEDIPUS

And Laios—where was he murdered?

At home? Or was he away from Thebes?

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He told us before he left—he was on a mission to Delphi,

KREON

his last trip away from Thebes. He never returned. Wasn’t there a witness, someone with Laios who saw what happened?

OEDIPUS

Hiey were all lulled, except for one man. He escaped.

KREON

But he was so terrified he remembered only one thing.

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OEDIPUS

What was it? One small clue might lead to others.

Hiis is what he said: bandits ambushed Laios, not one man.

KREON

They attacked him like hail crushing a stalk of wheat. OEDIPUS

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How could a single bandit dare attack a king

unless he had supporters, people with money, here, here in Hiebes? There were suspicions. But after Laios died we had no leader, no king. Our life was turmoil, uncertainty.

KREON

OEDIPLTS

But once the throne was empty,

what threw you off the track, what kept you from searching

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until you uncovered everything, knew every detail? KREON

The intricate, hard song of the Sphinx

persuaded us the crime was not important, not then. It seemed to say we should focus on what lay at our feet, in front of us, ignore what we could not see.

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OEDIPUS

Now I am here.

I will begin the search again, I will reveal the truth, expose everything, let it all be seen. Apollo and you were right to make us wonder about the dead man. Like Apollo, I am your ally.

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Justice and vengeance are what I want, for "Thebes, for the god. Family, friends—I won’t rid myself of this stain, this disease, for them— they’re far from here. I’ll do it for myself, for me. Hie man who killed Laios might take revenge on me

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just as violently. So by avenging Laios’ death, I protect myself. [Turning to the suppliants] Rise, children, pick up your branches,

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let someone announce my decision to the whole city of Hiebes. [ To the PRIEST] I will do everything. Everything. And, with the god’s help, we will be saved. Bright Apollo, let your light help us see. Our happiness is yours to give, our failure and ruin yours.

Oedipus the King

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Rise. We have the help we came for, children. The king himself has promised. May Apollo, who gave these oracles, come as our savior now. Apollo, heal us, save us from this plague!

PRIEST

180

OEDIPUS enters the palace. Its doors close. KREON leaves by a door to the right on

the wing of the stage. The PRIEST and suppliants go down into the orchestra and leave by the entrance to the left as a chorus of fifteen Theban elders files into the orchestra by the entrance on the right, preceded by a flute player. voice voice voice voice who knows everything o god glorious voice of Zeus how have you come from Delphi bathed in gold what are you telling our bright city Thebes what are you bringing me health death fear I know nothing so frightened rooted here awed by you healer what have you sent is it the sudden doom of grief or the old curse the darkness looming in the turning season

CHORUS

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o holy immortal voice hope golden seed of the future listen be with me speak these cries of mine rise tell me I call to you reach out to you first holy Athena god’s daughter who lives forever and your sister Artemis who cradles the earth our earth who sits on her great dirone at die hub of the market place and I call to Apollo who hurls light from deep in the sky o gods be with us now shine on us your three shields blazing against the darkness come in our suffering as you came once before to Thebes o bright divinities and threw your saving light against the god of grief o gods be with us now pain pain my sorrows have no sound no name no word no pain like this plague sears my people everywhere everyone army citizens no one escapes no spear of strong anxious thought protects us

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great Thebes grows nothing seeds rot in the ground our women when they labor cry Apollo Apollo but their children die and lives one after another split the air birds taking off wingrush hungrier than fire souls leaping away they fly to the shore of the cold god of evening west the death stain spreads so many corpses he in the streets everywhere nobody grieves for them the city dies and young wives and mothers gray-haired mothers wail sob on the altar steps they come from the city everywhere mourning their bitter days prayers blaze to the Healer grief cries a flute mingling daughter of Zeus o shining daughter show us the warm bright face of peace of help of our salvation [The doors of the palace open. OEDIPUS enters.]

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and turn back the huge raging jaws of the death god Ares drive him back drive him away his flames lash at me this is his war these are his shields shouts pierce us on all sides turn him back lift him on a strong wind rush him away to the two seas at the world’s edge the sea where the waters boil the sea where no traveler can land because if night leaves anything alive day destroys it o Zeus god beyond all other gods handler of the fire father make the god of our sickness ashes Apollo great bowman of light draw back your bow fire arrow after arrow make them a wall circling us shoot into our enemy’s eyes

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draw the string twined with gold come goddess who dances on the mountains sowing light where your feet brush the ground blind our enemy come god of golden hair piled under your golden cap Bacchus1 your face blazing like the sea when the sun falls on it like sunlight on wine god whose name is our name Bacchus god of joy god of terror be with us now your bright face like a pine torch roaring thrust into the face of the slaughtering war god blind him drive him down from Olympos drive him away from Thebes forever Every word of your prayers lias touched me. Listen. Follow me. Join me in fighting this sickness, this plague, and all your suffering may end, like a dark sky, clear suddenly, blue, after a week of storms, soothing the tom face of the sea, soothing our fears. Your fate looms in my words— I heard nothing about Laios’ death, I know nothing about the murder, I was alone, how could I have tracked the killer, without a clue, I came to Thebes after the crime was done, I was made a Theban after Laios’ death. Listen carefully— these words come from an innocent man.

OEDIPUS

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[Addressing the CHORUS]

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One of you knows who lulled Laios. Where is that man?

Speak.

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I command it. Fear is no excuse. lie must clear himself of the dangerous charge. Who did this thing? Whs it a stranger? Speak. I will not harm him. The worst he will suffer is exile. I will pay him well. lie will have a king’s thanks. But if he will not speak because he fears me, if he fears what I will do to him or to those he loves, if he will not obey me,

u‘So Thebes, the site of the oriental Dionysos' vindication of his claim to power over Greece, is called ‘Bacchic.’ ...” [Translator’s notel

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I say to him: My power is absolute in Thebes, my rule reaches everywhere, my words will drive the guilty man, the man who knows,

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out of this city, away from Thebes, forever. Nothing. My word for him is nothing. Let him be nothing. Give him nothing.

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Let him touch nothing of yours, he is nothing to you. Lock your doors when he approaches. Say nothing to him, do not speak. No prayers with him, no offerings with him. No purifying water.

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Nothing. Drive him from your homes. Let him have no home, nothing. No words, no food, shelter, warmth of hand, shared worship. Let him have nothing. Drive him out, let him die.

He is our disease. 330

I know. Apollo has made it clear. Nothing can stop me, nothing can change my words. I fight for Apollo, I fight for the dead man. You see me, you hear me, moving against the killer.

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My words are his doom. Whether he did it alone, and escaped unseen, whether others helped him kill, it makes no difference— let my hatred bum out his Life, hatred, always. Make him an ember of suffering.

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Make all his happiness ashes. If he eats at my side, sits at my sacred hearth, and I know these things, let every curse I spit out against him find me, come home to me.

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Carry out my orders. You must, for me, for Apollo, and for Thebes, Thebes, this poor wasted city, deserted by its gods.

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I know—the gods have given us this disease. That makes no difference. You should have acted, you should have done something long ago to purge our guilt. The victim was noble, a king—

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you should have done everything to track his murderer down. And so, because I mle now where he ruled; because I share his bed, his wife; because the same woman who mothered my children might have mothered his;

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because fate swooped out of nowhere and cut him down; because of all these things I will fight for him as I would fight for my own murdered father.

Oedipus the King

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Nothing will stop me.

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No man, no place, nothing will escape my gaze. I will not stop until I know it all, all, until everything is clear. For every king, every king’s son and his sons, for every royal generation of Thebes, my Thebes, I will expose the killer, I will reveal him to the light. Oh gods, gods, destroy ah those who will not listen, will not obey.

Freeze the ground until they starve. Make their wives barren as stone. Let this disease that shakes Thebes to its roots— or any worse disease, if there is any worse than this—waste them, 375

crush everything they have, everything they are.

But you men of Thebes— you, who know my words are right, who obey me— may justice and the gods defend you, bless you, graciously, forever. 380

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Your curse forces me to speak, Master. I cannot escape it. I did not murder the king, I cannot show you the man who did. Apollo told us to search for the killer. Apollo must name him. OEDIPUS No man can force the gods to speak. LEADER Then 1 will say the next best thing. OEDIPUS If there’s a third best thing, say that too. LEADER Teiresias sees what the god Apollo sees. Truth, truth. If you heard the god speaking, heard his voice, you might see more, more, and more. OEDIPUS Teiresias? I have seen to that already. Kreon spoke of Teiresias, and I sent for him. Twice. I find it strange he still hasn’t come. LEADER And there’s an old story, almost forgotten, a dark, faded rumor. OEDIPUS What rumor? I must sift each stow, see it, understand it. LEADER Laios was killed by bandits. LEADER

OEDIPUS 4oo

405

I have heard that stow: but who can show me the man who saw the

murderer?

Idas anyone seen him? LEADER If he knows the meaning of fear, if he heard those curses you spoke against him, those words still scorching the air, you won’t find him now, not in Thebes. OEDIPUS The man murdered. Why would words frighten him? TEI RES LAS has appeared from the stage entrance to the right of the audience. He

walks with a staff and is helped by a slave boy and attendants. He stops at some distance from center stage.

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Here is the man who can catch the criminal. They’re bringing him now— the godlike prophet who speaks with the voice of god. He, only he, knows truth. The truth is rooted in his sonl. OEDIPUS Teiresias, you understand ah things, what can be taught, what is locked in silence, the distant things of heaven, and things that crawl die earth. You cannot see, yet you know the nature of this plague infesting our city. Only you, my lord, can save us, only you can defend us. Apollo told our messenger—did you hear?— that we could be saved only by tracking down Laios’ killers, only by killing them, or sending them into exile. Help us, Teiresias. Study the cries of birds, study their wild paths, ponder the signs of fire, use all your skills of prophecy. Rescue us, preserve us. Rescue yourself, rescue Thebes, rescue me. Cleanse every trace of the growing stain left by the dead man’s blood. We are in your hands, Teiresias. No work is more nobly human than helping others, helping with all die strength and skill we possess. TEIRESIAS Wisdom is a curse when wisdom does nothing for die man who has it. Once I knew this well, but I forgot. I never should have come. OEDIPUS Never should have come? Why diis reluctance, prophet? TEIRESIAS Let me go home. That way is best, for you, for me. Let me live my life, and you live yours. OEDIPUS Strange words, Teiresias, cruel to the city that gave you life. Your holy knowledge could save Hiebes. How can you keep silent? TEIRESIAS What have you said that helps Thebes? Your words are wasted. I would rather be silent than waste my words. OEDIPUS Look at us, [OEDIPUS stands, the CHORUS kneel] kneeling to you, Teiresias, imploring you. In the name of the gods, if you know— help us, tell us what you know. TEIRESIAS You kneel because you do not understand. But I will never let you see my grief Never. My grief is yours. OEDIPUS What? You know and won’t speak? You’d betray us all, you’d destroy the city of Hiebes? TEIRESIAS I will do nothing to hurt myself, or you. Why insist? I will not speak. OEDIPLTS Stubborn old fool, you’d make, a rock angry! Tell me what you know! Say it! Where are your feelings? Won’t you ever speak? TEIRESLLS You call me cold, stubborn, unfeeling, you insult me. But you, Oedipus, what do you know about yourself, LEADER

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Oedipus the King

about your real feelings? You don’t see how much alike we are. How can I restrain my anger when I see how little you care for Thebes.

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The truth will come, by itself, the truth will come no matter how I shroud it in silence. OEDIPUS All the more reason why you should speak. TEIRESL4.S Not another word. Rage away. You will never make me speak. OEDIPUS I’ll rage, prophet, I’ll give you all my anger. I’ll say it all— TEIRESIAS

Listen: I think you were involved in the murder of Laios, you helped plan it, I think you did everything in your power to kill Laios, everything but strike him with your own hands, and if you weren’t blind, if you still had eyes to see with, I’d say you, and you alone, did it all. TEIRESIAS Do you think so? Then obey your own words, obey the curse everyone heard break from your own lips: Never speak again to these men of Thebes, never speak again to me. You, it’s you. What plagues the city is you. "Hie plague is you. OEDIPUS Do you know what you’re saying? Do you think I’ll let you get away with these vile accusations? TEIRESIAS I am safe. Truth lives in me, and the truth is strong. OEDIPUS Who taught you this truth of yours? Not your prophet’s craft. TEIRESIAS You taught me. You forced me to speak. OEDIPUS Speak what? Explain. Teach me. TEIRESIAS Didn’t you understand? Are you trying to make me say the word? OEDIPUS What word? Say it. Spit it out. TEIRESIAS Murderer. I say you, you are the killer you’re searching for.

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You won’t say that again to me and get away with it. TEIRESIAS Do you want more? Shall I make you really angry? OEDIPUS Say anything you like. Your words are wasted. OEDIPUS

TEIRESL4S

I say you live in shame, and you do not know it,

do not know that you 500

and those you love most wallow in shame, you do not know in what shame you live.

You’ll pay for these insults, I swear it. TEIRESIAS Not if the truth is strong. OEDIPUS

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The truth is strong, but not your truth. You have no truth. You’re blind. Blind in your eyes. Blind in your ears. Blind in your mind. TEIRESIAS And I pity you for mocking my blindness. Soon everyone in Thebes will mock you, Oedipus. They’ll mock you as you have mocked me. OEDIPUS One endless night swaddles you in its unbroken black sky. You can’t hurt me, you can’t hurt anyone who sees the light of day. TEIRESIAS True. Nothing I do will harm you. You, you and your fate belong to Apollo. v Apollo will see to you. OEDIPUS Are these your own lies, prophet—or Kreon’s? TEIRESL\S Kreon? Your plague is you, not Kreon. OEDIPUS Money, power, one great skill surpassing another, if a man has these things, other men’s envy grows and grows, their greed and hunger are insatiable. Most men would lust for a life like mine—but I did not demand my life, Thebes gave me my life, and from the beginning, my good friend Kreon, loyal, trusted Kreon, was reaching for my power, wanted to ambush me, get rid of me by hiring this cheap wizard, this crass, conniving priest, who sees nothing but proht, whose prophecy is simple proht. You, what did you ever do that proves you a real seer? What did you ever see, prophet? And when the Sphinx who sang mysteriously imprisoned us why didn’t you speak and set us free? No ordinary man could have solved her riddle, it took prophecy, prophecy and skill you clearly never had. Even the paths of birds, even the gods’ voices were useless. But I showed up, I, Oedipus, stupid, untutored Oedipus, I silenced her, I destroyed her, I used my wits, not omens, to sift the meaning of her song. And this is the man you want to kill so you can get close to King Kreon, weigh his affairs for him, advise him, influence him. No, I think you and your master, Kreon, who contrived this plot, will be whipped out of Thebes. Look at you. If you weren’t so old, and weak, oh I’d make you pay for this conspiracy of yours. LEADER Oedipus, both of you spoke in anger. Anger is not what we need. We need all our wits, all our energy to .interpret Apollo’s words. Then we will know what to do. TEIRESL4S Oedipus, you are king, but you must hear my reply. My right to speak is just as valid as yours. I am not your slave. Kreon is not my patron. OEDIPUS

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Oedipus the King

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My master is Apollo. I can say what I please. You insulted me. You mocked me. You called me blind. Now hear me speak, Oedipus. You have eyes to see with, but you do not see yourself, you do not see the horror shadowing every step of your life, the blind shame in which you live, you do not see where you live and who lives with you, lives always at your side. Tell me, Oedipus, who are your parents? Do you know? You do not even know the shame and grief you have brought your family, those still alive, those buried beneath the earth. But the curse of your mother, the curse of your father will whip you, whip you again and again, wherever you turn, it will whip you out of Thebes forever, your clear eyes flooded with darkness. That day will come. And then what scoured, homeless plain, what leafless tree, what place on Kithairon, where no other humans are or ever will be, where the wind is the only thing that moves, what raw track of thorns and stones, what rock, gullev, or blind hill won’t echo your screams, your howls of anguish when you find out that the marriage song, sung when you came to Thebes, heard in your house, guided you to this shore, this wilderness you thought was home, your home? And you do not see all the other awful things that will show you who you really are, show you to your children, face to face. Go ahead! Call me quack, abuse Kreon, insult Apollo, the god who speaks through me, whose words move on my lips. No man will ever know worse suffering than you, your life; your flesh, your happiness an ember of pain. Ashes. OEDIPUS [to the CHORUS]

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Must I stand here and listen to these attacks? TEIRESIAS [ beginning to move away] I am here, Oedipus, because you sent for me. OEDIPUS You old fool, I’d have thought twice before asking you to come if I had known you’d spew out such idiocy. TEIRESIAS Call me fool, if you like, but your parents, who gave you life, they respected my judgment. OEDIPUS Parents? What do you mean? Who are my mother and father? TEIRESIAS This day is your mother and father—this day will give you your birth,

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it will destroy you too. OEDIPUS How you love mysterious, twisted words. TEIRESIAS Aren’t you the great solver of riddles? Aren’t you Oedipus? OEDIPUS Taunt me for the gift of my brilliant mind. That gift is what makes me great. TEIRESIAS ""TEat gift is your destiny. It made you everything you are, and it has ruined you. OEDIPUS But if this gift of mine saved Thebes, who cares what happens to me? TEIRESIAS I’m leaving. Boy, take me home. OEDIPUS Good. Take him home. Here I keep stumbling over you, here you’re in my way. Scutde home, and leave us in peace! TEIRESIAS I’m going. I said what I came to say, and that scowl, darkening your face, doesn’t frighten me. How can you hurt me? I tell you again: the man you’ve been trying to expose— with all your threats, with your inquest into Laios’ murder— that man is here, in Thebes. Now people think he comes from Corinth, but later they will see he was bom in Thebes. When they know, he’ll have no pleasure in that news. Now he has eyes to see widi, but they will be slashed out; rich and powerful now, he will be a beggar, poking his way with a stick, feeling his way to a strange country. And his children—the children he lives with— will see him at last, see what he is, see who he really is: their brother and their father; his wife’s son, his mother’s husband;

the lover who slept with his father’s wife; the man who murdered his father— the man whose hands still drip with his father’s blood. These truths will be revealed. Go inside and ponder that riddle, and if you find I’ve lied, 635

then call me a prophet who cannot see.

OEDIPUS turns and enters the palace. TEIRESIAS is led out through the stage

entrance on the right. CHORE'S who did crimes unnameable things things words cringe at

which man did the rock of prophecy at Delphi say did these things 640

his hands dripping with blood he should mn now flee his strong feet swallowing the air stronger than the horses of storm winds their hooves slicing the air

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now in his armor

Apollo lunges at him v his inhnite branching hre reaches out

Oedipus die King

and the steady dreaa death-hungry Fates follow and never stop their quick scissors seeking the cloth of his life 650

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just now from high snowy Parnassus the god’s voice exploded its blazing message follow his track find the man no one knows a bull loose under wild bushes and trees among caves and gray rocks cut from the herd he runs and runs but runs nowhere zigzagging desperate to get away birds of prophecy birds of death circling his head forever voices forged at the white stone core of the earth they go where he goes always

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terror’s in me flooding me how can I judge what the god Apollo says trapped hoping confused I do not see what is here now when I look to the past I see nothing I know nothing about a feud wounding the families of Laios or Oedipus no clue to the truth then or now nothing to blacken his golden fame in Thebes and help Laios’ family solve the mystery of his death Zeus and Apollo know they understand only they see the dark threads crossing beneath our life but no man can say a prophet sees more than I one man surpasses another wisdom against wisdom skill against skill but I will not blame Oedipus whatever anyone says until words are as real as things one thing is clear years back the Sphinx tested him his answer was true he was wise and sweet to the city so he can never be evil not to me KREON enters through the stage entrance at right, and addresses the CHORUS.

Men of Thebes, I hear Oedipus, our Icing and master, has brought terrible charges against me.

KREON

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I have come to face those charges. I resent them bitterly. If he imagines I have hurt him, spoken or acted against him while our city dies, believe me—I have nothing left to live for. His accusations pierce me, wound me mortally— nothing they touch is trivial, private— if you, my family and friends, think I’m a traitor, if all Thebes believes it, says it. LEADER Perhaps he spoke in anger, without thinking, perhaps his anger made him accuse you. KREON Did he really say I persuaded Teiresias to lie? LEADER

I heard him say these things,

but I don’t know what they mean. 705

Did he look you in the eyes when he accused me? Was he in his right mind? LEADER I do not know or see what great men do. KREON

[Turning to OEDIPUS, who has emerged from the palace]

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But here he is—Oedipus. OEDIPUS What? You here? Murderer! You dare come here, to my palace, when it’s clear you’ve been plotting to murder me and seize the throne of Thebes? You’re the bandit, you’re the killer. Answer me— Did you think I was cowardly or stupid? Is that why you betrayed me? Did you really think I wouldn’t see what you were plotting, how you crept up on me like a cloud inching across the sun? Did you think I wouldn’t defend myself against you? You thought I was a fool, but the fool was you, Kreon. Thrones are won with money and men, you fool! KREON You have said enough, Oedipus. Now let me reply. Weigh my words against your charges, then judge for yourself. OEDIPUS Eloquent, Kreon. But you won’t convince me now. Now that 1 know your hatred, your malice. KREON Let me explain. OEDIPUS Explain? What coidd explain your treachery? KREON If you think this stubborn anger of yours, this perversity, is something to be proud of, you’re mad. OEDIPUS And if you think you can injure your sister’s husband, and not pay for it, you’re mad. KREON I would be mad to hurt you. How have I hurt you? OEDIPUS Was it you who advised me to send for that great holy prophet? KREON Yes, and I’d do it again. OEDIPUS How long has it been since Laios disappeared? KREON Disappeared? OEDIPUS Died. Was murdered. ... KREON Many, many years. OEDIPUS And this prophet of yours—was he practicing his trade at the time?

Oedipus the King 740

With as much skill, wisdom and honor as ever. OEDIPUS Did he ever mention mv name? KREON Not in my presence. KREON

Was there an inquest? A formal inquiry? KREON Of course. Nothing was ever discovered. OEDIPUS Then why didn’t our wonderful prophet, our Theban wizard, denounce me as the murderer then? KREON I don’t know. And when I don’t know, I don’t speak. OEDIPUS But you know this. You know it with perfect certainty. KREON What do you mean? OEDIPUS

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This: if you and Teiresias were not conspiring against me, Teiresias would never have charged me with Laios’ murder. KREON If he said that, you should know. But now, Oedipus, it’s my right, my turn to question you. OEDIPUS Ask anything. You’ll never prove I killed Laios. KREON Did you marry my sister, Jocasta? OEDIPUS I married Jocasta. KREON And you gave her an equal share of die power in Thebes? OEDIPUS Whatever she wants is hers. KREON And I share that power equally with you and her? OEDIPUS Equally. And that’s precisely why it’s clear you’re false, treacherous. KREON No, Oedipus. Consider it rationally, as I have. Reflect: What man, what sane man, would prefer a king’s power with all its dangers and anxieties, when he could enjoy the same power, without its cares, and sleep in peace each night? Power? I have no instinct for power, no hunger for it either. It isn’t royal power I want, but its advantages. And any sensible man would want the same. Look at the life I lead. Whatever I want, I get from you, with your goodwill and blessing. I have nothing to fear. If I were king, my life would be constant duty and constraint. Why would I want your power or the throne of Thebes more than what I enjoy now—the privilege of power without its dangers? I would be a fool to want more than what I have—the substance, not the show, of power. As matters stand, no man envies me, I am courted and admired by all. Men wear no smiling masks for Kreon. And those who want something from you come to me because the way to royal favor lies through me. Tell me, Oedipus, why should I give these blessings up to seize your throne and all the dangers it confers? A man like me, who knows his mortal limits and accepts them, cannot be vicious or treacherous by nature. The love of power is not my nature, nor is treason or the thoughts of treason that go with love of power. I would never dare conspire against your life. OEDIPUS

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Do you want to test the truth of what I say? Go to Delphi, put the question to the oracle, ask if I have told you exactly what Apollo said. Then if you find that Teiresias and I have plotted against you, seize me and put me to death. Convict me not by one vote alone, but two—yours and mine, Oedipus. But don’t convict me on the strength of your suspicions, don’t confuse friends with traitors, traitors with friends. There’s no justice in that. To throw away a good and loyal friend v is to destroy what you love most— your own life, and what makes life worth living. Someday you will know the truth: time, only time reveals the good man; one day’s light reveals die evil man. LEADER Good words for someone careful, afraid he’ll fall. But a mind like lightning stumbles. OEDIPUS When a clever man plots against me and moves swiftly I must move just as swiftly, I must plan. But if I wait, if I do nothing, he will win, win everything, and I will lose. KREON What do you want? My exile? OEDIPUS No. Your death. KREON You won’t change your mind? You won’t believe me? OEDIPUS I’ll believe you when you teach me the meaning of envy. KREON Envy? You talk about envy. You don’t even know what sense is. Can’t you listen to me? OEDIPUS I am listening. To my own good sense. KREON Listen to me. I have sense on my side too. OEDIPUS You? You were bom devious. KREON And if you’re wrong? OEDIPUS

Not if you govern badly. OEDIPUS Oh Thebes, Thebes . . . KREON Thebes is mine too. LEADER [turning to JOCASTA, who has entered from the palace, accompanied by a woman attendant] Stop. I see Jocasta coming from the palace just in time, my lords, to help you setde diis deep, bitter feud raging between you. Listen to what she says JOCASTA Oedipus! Kreon! Why this insane quarreling? You should be ashamed, both of you. Eorget yourselves. This is no time for petty personal bickering. Thebes is sick, dying. —Come inside, Oedipus. —And you, Kreon, leave us. KREON

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I still must govern.

Oedipus the King

Must you create all this misery over nothing, nothing? KREON Jocasta, 840

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Oedipus has given me two impossible choices: Either I must be banished from Thebes, mv city, mv home or be arrested and put to deadi. OEDIPUS That’s right. I caught him plotting against me, Jocasta. Viciously, cunningly plotting against the king of Thebes. KREON fake every pleasure I have in life, curse me, let me die, if I’ve done what you accuse me of, let the gods destroy everything I have, let them do anything to me. I stand here, exposed to their infinite power. JOCASTA Oedipus, in the name of the gods, believe him. His prayer has made him holy, naked to the mysterious whims of the gods, has taken him beyond what is human. Respect his words, respect me, respect diese men standing at your side. CHORUS [beginning a dirgelike appeal to OEDIPUS]

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listen to her think yield we implore you OEDIPUS What do you want? CHORUS be generous to Kreon give him respect he was never foolish before now his prayer to the gods has made him great great and frightening OEDIPLTS Do you know what you’re asking? CHORUS I know OEDIPUS Then say it. CHORUS

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don’t ever cut him off

without rights or honor blood binds you both his prayer has made him sacred don’t accuse him

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because some blind suspicion hounds you OEDIPUS Understand me: when you ask for these things you ask for my death or exile. CHORUS

no

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the god who bathes us in his light who sees all I will die godless no family no friends if what I ask means that it is Thebes Thebes dying wasting away life by life this is the misery that breaks my heart and now this quarrel raging between you and Kreon is more more than I can bear OEDIPUS Then let him go, even if it means I must die

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or be forced out of Thebes forever, stripped of all my rights, all my honors. Your grief, your words touch me. Not his. I pity you. But him, my hatred will reach him wherever he goes. KREON It’s clear you hate to yield, clear you yield only under pressure, only when you’ve worn out the fierceness of your anger. Then all you can do is sit, and brood. Natures like yours are a torment to themselves. OEDIPUS Leave. Go! KREON I’m going. Now I know you do not know me. But these men know I am the man I seem to be, a just man, not devious, not a traitor. [KREON leaves]

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CHORUS

woman why are you waiting

lead him inside comfort him JOCASTA

Not before I know what has happened here.

CHORUS

blind ignorant words suspicion without proof

the injustice of it 905

gnaws at us JOCASTA CHORUS

From both men? yes

What caused it? CHORUS enough enough no more words Thebes is so tormented now let it rest where it ended OEDIPUS Look where cooling my rage,

JOCASTA

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where all your decent, practical thoughts have led you. 915

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Oedipus I have said this many times I would be mad helpless to give advice if I turned against you now once you took our city in her storm of pain straightened her course found fair weather o lead her to safety now if you can JOCASTA If you love the gods, tell me, too, Oedipus—I implore you— why are you still so angry, why can’t you let it go? OEDIPUS I will tell vou, Jocasta. You mean more, far more to me than these men here. Jocasta, it is Kreon—Kreon and his plots against me. JOCASTA What started your quarrel? OEDIPUS He said I murdered Laios. JOCASTA Does he know something? Or is it pure hearsay? OEDIPUS lie sent me a vicious, trouble-qiaking prophet to avoid impheating himself. He did not say it to my face. CHORUS

Oedipus the King

JOCASTA 935

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Oedipus, forget all this. Listen to me:

no mortal can practice the art of prophecy, no man can see the future. One experience of mine will show you why. Long ago an oracle came to Laios. It came not from Apollo himself but from his priests. It said Laios was doomed to be murdered by a son, his son and mine. But Laios, from what we heard, was murdered by bandits from a foreign country, cut down at a crossroads. My poor baby was only three days old when Laios had his feet pierced together behind the ankles

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and gave orders to abandon our child on a mountain, leave him alone to die in a wilderness of rocks and bare gray trees where there were no roads, no people. So you see—Apollo didn’t make that child his father’s killer, Laios wasn’t murdered by his son. That dreadful act which so terrified Laios— it never happened. All those oracular voices meant was nothing, nothing. Ignore them.

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Apollo creates. Apollo reveals. He needs no help from men. OEDIPUS [ who has been very still] While you were speaking, Jocasta, it flashed through my mind like wind suddenly ruffling a stretch of calm sea. It stuns me. I can almost see it—some memory, some image. My heart races and swells— JOCASTA Why are you so strangely excited, Oedipus? OEDIPUS You said Laios was cut down near a crossroads? JOCASTA That was the story. It hasn’t changed. OEDIPUS Where did it happen? Tell me. Where? JOCASTA In Phokis. Where the roads from Delphi and Daulia meet. OEDIPUS When? JOCASTA Just before you came to Thebes and assumed power. Just before you were proclaimed King. OEDIPUS O Zeus, Zeus, what are you doing with my life? JOCASTA Why are you so disturbed, Oedipus? OEDIPUS Don’t ask me. Not yet. Tell me about Laios. How old was he? What did he look like? JOCASTA Streaks of gray were beginning to show in his black hair. He was tall, strong—built something like you. OEDIPUS No! O gods, o it seems each hard, arrogant curse I spit out was meant for me, and I didn’t know it! JOCASTA Oedipus, what do you mean? Your face is so strange. You frighten me.

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It is frightening—can the blind prophet see, can he really see? I would know if you told me . . . JOCASTA I’m afraid to ask, Oedipus. Told you what? OEDIPUS Was Laios traveling with a small escort or with many armed men, like a king? JOCASTA There were five, including a herald. Laios was riding in his chariot. OEDIPUS Light, o light, light now everything, everything is clear. All of it. Who told you this? Who was it? JOCASTA A household slave. The only survivor. OEDIPUS Is he here, in Thebes? JOCASTA No. When he returned and saw that you were king and learned Laios was dead, he came to me and clutched my hand, begged me to send him to the mountains where shepherds graze their flocks, far from the city, so he could never see Thebes again. I sent him, of course. He deserved that much, for a slave, and more. OEDIPUS Can he be called back? Now? JOCASTA Easily. But why? OEDIPUS

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I must see him. Now. JOCASTA Then he will come. But surely I have a right to know what disturbs you, Oedipus. OEDIPUS Now that IVe come this far, Jocasta, hope torturing me, each step of mine heavy with fear, I won’t keep anything from you. Wandering through the mazes of a fate like this, how could I confide in anyone but you?

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I am afraid I may have said too much—

My father was Polybos, of Corinth. My mother, Merope, was Dorian. Everyone in Corinth saw me as its first citizen, but one day something happened, something strange, puzzling. Puzzling, but nothing more. Still, it worried me. One night, I was at a banquet, and a man—he was very drunk—said I wasn’t my father’s son, called me “bastard. ” That stung me, I was shocked. I could barely control my anger, I lay awake all night Hie next day I went to my father and mother, I questioned them about the man and what he said. They were furious with him, outraged by his insult, and I was reassured. But I kept hearing the word “bastard” “bastard”— I couldn’t get it out of my head. Without my parents’ knowledge, I went to Delphi: I wanted the truth, but Apollo refused to answer me. vV

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And yet he did reveal other tilings, he did show me a future dark with torment, evil, horror, he made me see— 1030

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see myself, doomed to sleep with my own mother, doomed to bring children into this world where the sun pours down, children no one could bear to see, doomed to murder the man who gave me life, whose blood is my blood. My father. And after I heard all this, I fled Corinth, measuring my progress by the stars, searching for a place where I would never see those words, those dreadful predictions come true. And on my way I came to the place where you say King haios was murdered. Jocasta, the stoiy I’m about to tell you is the truth: I was on the road, near the crossroads you mentioned, when I met a herald, with an old man, just as you described him. The man was riding in a chariot and his driver tried to push me off the road and when he shoved me I hit him. I hit him. The old man stood quiet in the chariot until I passed under him, then he leaned out and caught me on the head with an ugly goad— its two teeth wounded me—and with this hand of mine, this hand clenched around my staff, I struck him back even harder—so hard, so quick he couldn’t dodge it, and he toppled out of the chariot and hit die ground, face up. I killed them. Every one of them. I still see them. [To the CHORUS] If this stranger and Eaios are somehow linked by blood, tell me what man’s torment equals mine?

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Citizens, hear my curse again— Give this man nothing. Let him touch nothing of yours. Lock your doors when he approaches. Say nothing to him when he approaches. And these, these curses, with my own mouth I spoke these monstrous curses against myself. [OEDIPUS turns hack to JOCASTA]

These hands, these bloodstained hands made love to you in your dead husband’s bed, these hands murdered him.

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If I must be exiled, never to see my family, never to walk the soil of my country so I will not sleep with my mother

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and kill Polybos, my father, who raised me—his son!— wasn’t I bom evil—answer me!—-isn’t every part of me unclean? Oh some unknown god, some savage venomous demon must have done this, raging, swollen with hatred. Hatred for me. Holiness, pure, radiant powers, o gods don’t let me see that day, don’t let it come, take me away from men, men with their eyes, hide me before I see the filthy black stain reaching down over me, into me. [The CHORUS have moved away from the stage] Your words make us shudder, Oedipus, but hope, hope until you hear more from the man who witnessed the murder. OEDIPUS That is the only hope I have. Waiting. Waiting for that man to come from the pastures. JOCASTA And when he finally comes, what do you hope to learn? OEDIPUS If his story matches yours, I am saved. JOCASTA What makes you say that? OEDIPUS Bandits—you said he told you bandits killed Laios. So if he still talks about bandits^ more than one, I couldn’t have killed Taios. One man is not the same as many men. But if he speaks of one man, traveling alone, then all die evidence points to me. JOCASTA Believe me, Oedipus, those were his words. And he can’t take them back: the whole city heard him, not onlv me. And if he changes only the smallest detail of his story, that still won’t prove Laios was murdered as the oracle foretold. Apollo was clear—it was Laios’ fate to be killed by my son. but my poor child died before his father died. The future has no shape. The shapes of prophecy he. I see nothing in them, they are ah illusions. OEDIPLTS Even so, I want that shepherd summoned here. Now. Do it now. JOCASTA I’ll send for him immediately. But come inside. My only wish is to please you. LEADER

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[JOCASTA dispatches a servant] 1105

CHORUS

fate

be here let what I say be pure let all my acts be pure laws forged in the huge clear fields of heaven rove the sky 1110

shaping my words limiting what I do

Oedipus die King

Olympos made those laws not men who live and die nothing lulls those laws to sleep they cannot die and the infinite god in them never ages 1115

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arrogance insatiable pride breed the tyrant feed him on thing after tiling blindly at the wrong time uselessly and he grows reaches so high nothing can stop his fall his feet thrashing the air standing on nothing and nowhere to stand he plunges down o god shatter the tyrant but let men complete let self-perfection grow

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let men sharpen their skills

soldiers citizens building the good city Apollo protect me always always the god I will honor if a man walks through his life arrogant strutting proud says anything does anything does not fear justice fear the gods bow to dieir shining presences let fate make him stumble in his tracks for all his lecheries and headlong greed if he takes whatever he wants right or wrong if he touches forbidden things what man who acts like this would boast he can escape the anger of the gods why should I join these sacred public dances if such acts are honored no I will never go to the holy untouchable stone navel of the earth at Delphi never again go to the temples at Olympia at Abai1 if all these things are not joined if past present future are not made one made clear to mortal eyes o Zeus if that is your name power above all immortal lung see these things look those great prophecies are fading men say they’re nothing nobody prays to the god of light no one believes nothing of the gods stays

Aike Delphi, the site of an oracle

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JOCASTA enters from the palace, carrying a branch tied with strands of wool, and

a jar of incense. She is accompanied by a servant woman. She addresses the CHORUS.

Lords of Thebes, I come to the temples of the god with offerings—this incense and this branch. So many thoughts torture Oedipus. He never rests, fie acts without reason. He is like a man who has lost everything he knows—the past is useless to him; strange, new things baffle him. v And if someone talks disaster, it stuns him: he listens, he is afraid. I have tried to reassure him, but nothing helps. So I have come to you— Apollo, close to my life, close to this house, listen to my prayers: [She kneels] help us purify ourselves of this disease, help us survive the long night of our suffering, protect us. We are afraid when we see Oedipus confused and frightened—Oedipus, the only man who can pilot Thebes to safety.

JOCASTA

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MESSENGER from Corinth has arrived by the entrance to the orchestra on the

audience s left. He sees JOCASTA praying, then turns to address the CHORUS. Friends, can you tell me where King Oedipus lives or better still, where I can find him? LEADER Here, in this house. This lady is his wife and mother of his children. MESSENGER May you and your family prosper. May you be happy always under this great roof JOCASTA Happiness and prosperity to you, too, for your land words. But why are you here? Do you bring news? MESSENGER Good news for your house, good news for King Oedipus. JOCASTA What is your news? Who sent you? MESSENGER I come from Corinth, and what I have to say I know will bring you joy. And pain perhaps. ... I do not know. JOCASTA Both joy and pain? What news could do that? MESSENGER The people of Corinth want Oedipus as their Icing. That’s what they’re saying. JOCASTA But isn’t old Polvbos still Icing of Corinth? MESSENGER His kingdom is his grave. JOCASTA Polybos is dead? MESSENGER If I’m lying, my lady, let me die for it. JOCASTA You. [To a servant} Go in and tell Oedipus. O oracles of the gods, where are you now! This man, the man Oedipus was afraid he would murder, MESSENGER

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the man lie feared, the man he fled from has died a natural death. Oedipus didn’t kill him, it was luck, luck. [She turns to greet OEDIPUS as he comes out of the palace]

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Jocasta, why did you send for me? [ Taking her gently by the arm] JOCASTA Oedipus, listen to this man, see what those ominous, holy predictions of Apollo mean now. OEDIPUS Who is this man? What does he say? JOCASTA He comes from Corinth. 1205 Your father is dead. Polvbos is dead! OEDIPUS What? Let me hear those words from your own mouth, stranger. Tell me yourself, in your own words. MESSENGER If that’s what you want to hear first, dien I’ll say it: 1210 Polvbos is dead. OEDIPUS How did he die? Assassination? Illness? How? MESSENGER An old man’s life hangs by a fragile thread. Anything can snap it. OEDIPUS That poor old man. It was illness then? MESSENGER Illness and old age. 1215 OEDIPUS Why, Jocasta, why should men look to the great hearth at Delphi or listen to birds shrieking and wheeling overhead— cries meaning I was doomed to lull my father? He is dead, gone, covered by the earth. 1220 And here I am—my hands never even touched a spear— I did not kill him, unless he died from wanting me to come home. No. Polvbos has bundled up all these oracles and taken them with him to the world below. 1225 They are only words now, lost in the air. JOCASTA Isn’t that what I predicted? OEDIPUS You were right. My fears confused me. JOCASTA You have nothing to fear. Not now. Not ever. OEDIPUS But the oracle said I am doomed to sleep with my mother. 1230 How can I five with that and not be afraid? JOCASTA Why should men be afraid of anything? Fortune rules our fives. Luck is everything. Things happen. The future is darkness. No human mind can know it. It’s best to five in the moment, five for today, Oedipus. 1235 Why should the thought of marrying your mother make you so afraid? Many men have slept with their mothers in their dreams. Why worry? See your dreams for what they are—nothing, nothing at all. Be happy, Oedipus. OEDIPUS All tliat you say is right, Jocasta. I know it. 1240 I should be happy, but my mother is still living. As long as she’s alive, I five in fear. This fear is necessary. OEDIPUS

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I have no choice. JOCASTA 1245

But Oedipus, your father’s death is a sign, a great sign—

the sky has cleared, the sun’s gaze holds us in its warm, hopeful light OEDIPUS

A great sign, I agree. But so long as my mother is alive,

my fear lives too. MESSENGER OEDIPUS

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Merope, King Polvbos’ wife.

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

Why does Merope frighten you so much?

A harrowing oracle hurled down upon us by some great god.

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

Who is this woman you fear so much?

Can you tell me? Or did the god seal yopr lips?

I can.

Long ago, Apollo told me I was doomed to sleep with my mother

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and spill my father’s blood, murder him with these two hands of mine. That’s why I never returned to Corinth. Luckily, it would seem. Still, nothing on earth is sweeter to a man’s eyes than the sight of his father and mother.

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MESSENGER OEDIPUS

And you left Corinth because of this prophecy?

Yes. And because of my father. To avoid killing my father.

MESSENGER

But didn’t my news prove you have nothing to fear?

I brought good news. OEDIPUS 1265

And I will reward you for your kindness.

MESSENGER

That’s why I came, my lord. I knew you’d remember me

when you returned to Corinth. OEDIPLTS

I will never return, never live with my parents again.

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

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What do you mean? In the name of the gods, speak.

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

Son, it’s clear you don’t know what you’re doing. If you’re afraid to go home because of your parents.

I am afraid, afraid

Apollo’s prediction will come true, all of it, as god’s sunlight grows brighter on a man’s face at dawn when he’s in bed, still sleeping,

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and reaches into his eyes and wakes him. MESSENGER

Afraid of murdering your father, of having his blood on your

hands? OEDIPUS

Yes. His blood. The stain of his blood. That terror never leaves me.

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

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I’m their son, they’re my parents, aren’t they?

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

Polvbos is nothing to you.

Polvbos is not my father?

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

But Oedipus, then you have no reason to be afraid.

No more dian I am.

But you are nodiing to me. Nothing. And Polvbos is nothing to you either. Then why did he call me his son?

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OEDIPUS

Because I gave you to him. With these hands I gave you to him.

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

I low could he have loved me like a fadier if I am not his son? He had no children. That opened his heart. And what about you? J vV

MESSENGER

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OEDIPUS

Did you buy me from someone? Or did you find me?

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I found you squawling, left alone to die in the thickets of

MESSENGER

Kithairon. OEDIPUS

Kithairon? What were you doing on Kidiairon? Herding sheep in the high summer pastures.

MESSENGER

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OEDIPUS

You were a shepherd, a drifter looking for work? A drifter, yes, but it was I who saved you.

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

Saved me? Was I hurt when you picked me up? Ask your feet.

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

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Why,

why did you bring up that childhood pain? I cut you free. Your feet were pierced, tied together at the ankles

MESSENGER

with leather thongs strung between the tendons and the bone. OEDIPUS

That mark of my shame—I’ve worn it from the cradle. That mark is the meaning of your name:

MESSENGER

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Oedipus, Swollenfoot, Oedipus. OEDIPUS

Oh gods

who did this to me? My mother? My father?

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MESSENGER OEDIPUS

So you didn’t find me? Somebody else gave me to you?

MESSENGER OEDIPUS OEDIPUS

As I recall, he worked for Laios.

The same Laios who was king of Thebes?

MESSENGER OEDIPUS

I got you from another shepherd.

What shepherd? Who was he? Do you know?

MESSENGER

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I don’t know. The man I took you from—he would know.

The same Laios. The man was one of Laios’ shepherds.

Is he still alive? I want to see this man.

MESSENGER [pointing to the CHORUS]

"These people would know that better

than I do. OEDIPUS

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Do any of you know this shepherd he’s talking about?

Have you ever noticed him in the Helds or in the city? Answer, if you have. It is time everything came out, time everything was made clear. Everything. LEADER

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I think he’s the shepherd y^ou sent for.

But Jocasta, she would know. OEDIPUS [to JOCASTA]

Jocasta, do yrou know this man? Is he the man this shepherd here say^s worked for Laios? JOCASTA

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WTiat man? Forget about him. Forget what was said.

It’s not worth talking about. OEDIPUS

How can I forget

with clues like these in my hands?

Wdth tlie secret of my birth staring me in the face? JOCASTA

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No, Oedipus!

No more questions. For god’s sake, for the sake of y^our own life! Isn’t my anguish enough—more than enough? OEDIPUS

You have nothing to fear, Jocasta.

Even if my mother

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Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles

mo

and her mother before her were both slaves, that doesn’t make you the daughter of slaves. JOCASTA Oedipus, you must stop. I beg you—stop! OEDIPUS Nothing can stop me now. I must know everything. Everything! JOCASTA I implore you, Oedipus. For your own good. OEDIPUS Damn my own good! JOCASTA Oh, Oedipus, Oedipus, I pray to god you never see who you are! OEDIPUS [ to one of the attendants, who hurries off through the exit stage left] You there, go find that shepherd, bring him here. Let that woman bask in the glory of her noble birth. JOCASTA God help you, Oedipus— you were bom to suffer, bom to misery and grief. These are the last last words I will ever speak, ever Oedipus.

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JOCASTA rushes offstage into the palace. Long silence. LEADER 1360

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Why did Jocasta rush away,

Oedipus, fleeing in such pain? I fear disaster, or worse, will break from diis silence of hers. OEDIPUS Let it break! Let everything break! I must discover who I am, know the secret of my birth, no matter how humble, how vile. Perhaps Jocasta is ashamed of my low birth, ashamed to be my wife. Like all women she’s proud. But Luck, goddess who gives men ah that is good, made me, and I won’t be cheated of what is mine, nothing can dishonor me, ever. I am like the months, my brodiers the months—they shaped me when I was a baby in the cold hills of Kithairon, they guided me, carved out my times of greatness, and they still move their hands over my life. I am the man I am. I will not stop until I discover who my parents are. CHORUS if I know if I see if the dark force of prophecy is mine Kithairon when the full moon rides over us tomorrow listen listen to us sing to you dance worship praise you mountain where Oedipus was found know Oedipus will praise you praise his nurse country and mother who blessed our king

Oedipus the King

I call on you Apollo let these visions please you god Apollo healer 1390

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Oedipus son who was your mother which of the deathless mountain nymphs who lay with the great god Pan on the high peaks he runs across or with Apollo who loves the high green pastures above which one bore you did the god of the bare windy peaks Hermes or the wild, dervish Dionysos living in the cool air of the hills take you a foundling from one of the nymphs he plays with joyously lift you hold you in his arms OEDIPUS Old men, I think the man coming toward us now must be the shepherd we are looking for. I have never seen him, but the years, chalking his face and hair, tell me he’s the man. And my men are with him. But you probably know him. LEADER I do know him. If Laios ever had a man he trusted, this was the man. OEDIPUS [to the MESSENGER] You—is this the man you told me about? MESSENGER That’s him. You’re looking at the man. OEDIPUS [to the SHEPHERD who has been waiting, hanging back] You there, come closer. Answer me, old man. Did you work for Laios? SHEPHERD I was bom his slave, and grew up in his household. OEDIPUS What was your work? SHEPHERD Herding sheep, all my life. OEDIPUS Where? SHEPHERD Kithairon, mostly. And the country around Kithairon. OEDIPUS Do you remember ever seeing this man? MESSENGER Which man? OEDIPUS [pointing to the MESSENGER] This man standing here. I lave you ever seen him before? SHEPHERD Not that I remember. MESSENGER No wonder, master. But I’ll make him remember. He knows who I am. We used to graze our flocks together in the pastures around Kithairon. Every year, for six whole months, three years mnning. From March until September, when the Dipper rose, signaling the harvest. I had one flock, he had two.

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And when the frost came, I drove my sheep back to then winter pens and he drove his back to Laios’ fold. Remember, old man? Isn’t that how it was? SHEPHERD Yes. But it was all so long ago. MESSENGER And do you remember giving me a baby boy at the time—

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to raise as my own son? SHEPHERD What if I do? Why all these questions? MESSENGER That boy became King Oedipus, friend. SHEPHERD Damn you, can’t you keep quiet. OEDIPUS Don’t scold him, old man. v It’s you who deserve to be punished, not him. SHEPHERD What did I say, good master? OEDIPUS You haven’t answered his question about the boy. SHEPHERD He’s making trouble, master. He doesn’t know a thing. [OEDIPUS takes the SHEPHERD by the cloak]

Tell me or you’ll be sorry. SHEPHERD For god’s sake, don’t hurt me, I’m an old man. OEDIPUS [to one of his men] You there, hold him. We’ll make him talk. OEDIPUS

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The attendant pins the SHEPHERD’S arms behind his back Oedipus, Oedipus, god knows I pity you. What more do you want to know? OEDIPUS Did you give the child to this man? SHEPHERD

1455

Speak.

Yes or no?

Yes. And I wish to god I’d died diat day. OEDIPUS You will be dead unless you tell me the whole truth. SHEPHERD And worse than dead, if I do. OEDIPUS It seems our man won’t answer. SHEPHERD No. I told you already. I gave him the boy. OEDIPUS Where did you get him? From Laios’ household? Or where? SHEPHERD He wasn’t my child. He was given to me. OEDIPUS [ turning to the CHORUS and the audience] By whom? Someone here in Thebes? SHEPHERD

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Master, please, in god’s name, no more questions. OEDIPPIS You’re a dead man if I have to ask you once more. SHEPHERD He was one of the children from Laios’ household. OEDIPUS A slave child? Or Laios’ own? SHEPHERD I can’t say it . . . it’s awful, the words are awful . . . awful. OEDIPUS And I, I am afraid to hear them . . . SHEPHERD

Oedipus die King

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but I must. SHEPHERD He was Laios’ own child. Your wife, inside the palace, she can explain it all. 1480

OEDIPUS

She gave you the child?

SPIEPHERD OEDIPUS

My lord . . . yes.

Why?

SHEPHERD She wanted me to abandon the child on a mountain. OEDIPUS His own mother? 1485

SHEPHERD Yes. There were prophecies, horrible oracles. She was afraid. OEDIPUS What oracles?

Oracles predicting he would murder his own father. OEDIPUS But why did you give the boy to this old man? SHEPHERD Because I pitied him, master, because I thought the man would take the child away, take him to anodier country. Instead he saved him. Saved him for—oh gods, a fate so horrible, so awful, words can’t describe it. If you were the baby that man took from me, Oedipus, what misery, what grief is yours! SHEPHERD

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OEDIPUS [looking up at the sun]

LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT never again flood these eyes with your white radiance, oh gods, my eves. Ah, ah the oracles have proven true. I, Oedipus, I am the chhd of parents who should never have been mine—doomed, doomed! Now everything is clear—I lived with a woman, she was my mother, I slept in my mother’s bed, and I murdered, murdered my father, the man whose blood hows in these veins of mine, whose blood stains these two hands red. OEDIPLTS raises his hands to the sun, then turns and walks into the palace. CHORUS

man after man after man

o mortal generations here once almost not here 1510

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what are we

dust ghosts images a rustling of air nothing nothing we breathe on the abyss we are the abyss our happiness no more than traces of a dream the high noon sun sinking into the sea the red spume of its wake raining behind it we are you we are you Oedipus dragging your maimed foot in agony and now that I see your life finally revealed

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your life fused with the god blazing out of the black nothingness of all we know I say no happiness lasts nothing human lasts wherever you aimed you hit no archer had your skill you grew rich powerful great everything came falling to your feet o Zeus after he killed the Sphinx whose claws curled under whose weird song of the future baffled and destroyed he stood like a tower high above our country warding off death and from then on Oedipus we called you Icing our Icing draped you in gold our highest honors were yours and you ruled this shining city Thebes Thebes now your story is pain pity no story is worse than yours Oedipus ruined savage blind as you struggle with your life as your life changes and breaks and shows you who you are Oedipus Oedipus son father you harbored in the selfsame place the same place sheltered you both bridegroom how could the furrow your father plowed not have cried out all this time while you lay there unknowing and saw the truth too late time like the sun sees all things and it sees you you cannot hide from that light your own life opening itself to you to all married unmarried father son for so long justice comes like the dawn always and it shows the world your marriage now I wish o child of Laios I wish I had never seen you

a

Oedipus the King

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I grieve for you wail after wail fills me and pours out because of you my breath came flowing back but now the darkness of your life floods my eyes The palace doors open. A SERVANT enters and approaches the CHORUS and audience. Noble citizens, honored above all others in Thebes, if you still care for the house of Laios, if you still can feel the spirit of those who ruled before, now the horrors you will hear, the horrors you will see, will shake your hearts and shatter you with grief beyond enduring. Not even the waters of those great rivers Ister and Phasis could wash away the blood that now darkens every stone of this shining house, this house that will reveal, soon, soon the misery and evil two mortals, both masters of this house, have brought upon themselves.

SERVANT

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The griefs we cause ourselves cut deepest of all. LEADER What we already know has hurt us enough, has made us ciy out in pain. What more can you say? SERVANT This: Jocasta is dead. The queen is dead. LEADER Ah, poor unhappy Jocasta, how did she die? SERVANT She killed herself. She did it. But you did not see what happened there, vou were not there, in the palace. You did not see it. I did. I will tell you how Queen Jocasta died, the whole story, all of it. All I can remember. After her last words to Oedipus she rushed past us through the entrance hall, screaming, raking her hair with both hands, and flew into die bedroom, their bedroom, and slammed die doors shut as she lunged at her bridal bed, crying “Laios” “Laios”—dead all these years— remembering Laios—how his own son years ago grew up and then killed him, leaving her to sleep with her own son, to have his children, their children, children—not sons, not daughters, something else, monsters. . . . Then she collapsed, sobbing, cursing the bed where she held both men in her arms, got husband from husband, children from her child.

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We heard it all, but suddenly, I couldn’t tell what was happening. Oedipus came crashing in, he was howling, stalking up and down—we couldn’t take our eyes off him— and we stopped listening to her pitiful cries. We stood there, watching him move like a bull, lurching, charging, shouting at each of us to give him a sword, demanding we tell him where his wife was, that woman whose womb carried him, him and his children, that wife who gave him birth. Some god, some demon, led him to her, and he knew— none of us showed him— suddenly a mad, inhuman cry burst from his mouth as if the wind rushed through his tortured body, and he heaved against those bedroom doors so the hinges whined and bent from their sockets and the bolts snapped, and he stood in the room. There she was— we could see her—his wife dangling by her neck from a noose of braided, silken cords tied to a rafter, still swaying. And when he saw her he bellowed and stretched up and loosened the rope, cradhng her in one arm, and slowly laid her body on the ground. That’s when it happened—he ripped off the gold brooches she was wearing—one on each shoulder of her gown— and raised them over his head—you could see them flashing— and tilted his face up and brought them right down into his eyes and the long pins sank deep, all the way back into the sockets, and he shouted at his eyes: “Now you won’t see me, you won’t see my agonies or my crimes, but in endless darkness, always, there you’ll see those I never should have seen. And those I should have known were my parents, father and mother— these eyes will never see their faces in die light. These eyes will never see the light again, never.” Cursing his two blind eyes over and over, he lifted the brooches again and drove their pins through his eyeballs up to die hilts until they were pulp, until the blood streamed out soaking his beard and cheeks, a black storm splashing its hail across his face. Two mortals acted. Now grief tears their lives apart as if that pain sprang from a single, sorrowing root to curse each one, man and wife. For all those years their happiness was truly happiness, but now, now wailing, madness, shame and death, every evil men have given a name,

Oedipus the King

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everything criminal and vile that mankind suffers they suffer. Not one evil is missing. LEADER But now does this tom, anguished man have any rest from his pain? SERVANT No, no— then he shouted at us to open the doors and show everyone in Thebes his father’s killer, his mother’s—I cannot say it. Once we have seen him as he is he will leave Thebes, lift the curse from his city— banish himself, cursed by his own curses. But his strength is gone, his whole life is pain, more pain than any man can bear. He needs help, someone to guide him. He is alone, and blind. Look, look—the palace doors are opening—now a thing so horrible will stand before you you will shudder with disgust and try to turn away while your hearts will swell with pity for what you see. The central doors open. OEDIPUS enters, led by his household servants. His mask is covered with blood. The CHORUS begin a dirge to which OEDIPUS responds antiphonally. CHORUS

honor horror o what suffering

men see

1685

1690

1695

but none is worse than this Oedipus o how could you have slashed out vour eves what god leaped on you from beyond the last border of space what madness entered you clawing even more misery into you I cannot look at you but there are questions so much I would know so much that I would see no no the shape of your life makes me shudder OEDIPUS

1700

1705

I

I

this voice of agony I am what place am I where? Not here, nowhere I know! What force, what tide breaks over my life? Pain, demon stabbing into me leaving nothing, nothing, no man I know, not human, fate howling out of nowhere what am I fire a voice where where is it being taken?

792

Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles

Beyond everything to a place so terrible nothing is seen there, nothing is heard.

LEADER

OEDIPUS [reaching out, groping]

1710

1715

1720

1725

1730

1735

1740

1745

1750

1755

Thing thing darkness spilling into me, my black cloud smothering me forever, nothing can stop you, nothing can escape, I cannot push you away. I am nothing but my own cries breaking again and again the agony of those gold pins the memoiy of what I did stab me again again. LEADER What can you feel but pain. It all comes back, pain in remorse, remorse in pain, to tear you apart with grief. OEDIPUS Dear, loyal friend you, only you, are still here with me, still care for this blind, tortured man. Oh, I know you are there, I know you, friend, even in this darkness, friend, touched by your voice. LEADER Wdiat you did was horrible, but how could you quench the fire of your eyes, what demon lifted your hands? OEDIPUS Apollo Apollo it was Apollo, always Apollo, who brought each of my agonies to birth, but I, nobody else, I, I raised these two hands of mine, held them above my head, and plunged them down, I stabbed out these eyes. Why should I have eyes? Wdiy, when nothing I saw was worth seeing? Nothing. LEADER Nothing. Nothing. OEDIPUS Oh friends. Nothing. No one to see, no one to love, no one to speak to, no one to hear! Friends, friends, lead me away now. Lead me away from Thebes—Oedipus, destroyer and destroyed, the man whose life is hell for others and for himself, the man more hated by the gods than any other man, ever.

Oedipus tlic King

LEADER

1760

I weep for your fate and for your mind, for what it is to be you, Oedipus. I wish you had never seen die man you are. OEDIPUS

1765

1770

1775

1780

1785

1790

1795

1800

Oil I pity you,

I hate

the man who found me, cut the diongs from my feet, snatched me from death, cared for me— I wish he were dead! I should have died up there on those wild, desolate slopes of Kithairon. Then my pain and the pain those I love suffer now never would have been. LEADER These are my wishes too. OEDIPUS Tiien I never would have murdered my father, never heard men call me my mother’s husband. Now I am Oedipus! Oedipus, who lay in that loathsome bed, made love there in that bed, his father’s and mother’s bed, the bed where he was bom. No gods anywhere now, not for me, now, unholy, broken man. What man ever suffered grief like this? LEADER How can I say that what you did was right? Better to be dead than live blind. OEDIPUS I did what I had to do. No more advice. How could my eyes, when I went down into that black, sightiess place beneath the earth, the place where the dead go down, how, how could I have looked at anything, with what human eyes could I have gazed on my father, on my mother— oh gods, my mother! What I did against those two not even strangling could punish. And my children, how would the sight of them, bom as they were bom, be sweet? Not to these eyes of mine, never to these eyes. Nothing, nothing is left me now—no city with its high walls, no shining statues of the gods. I stripped all these things from myself— I, Oedipus, fallen lower than any man now, bom nobler than the best, bom the king of Thebes! Cursed with my own curses, I commanded Thebes to drive out the killer. | I banished the royal son of Laios, the man the gods revealed f is stained with the awful stain. The secret stain that I myself revealed is my stain. And now, revealed at last, how could I ever look men in the eyes? Never. Never.

793

794

isos

i8io

Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles

If I could, I would have walled my ears so they heard nothing, I would have made this body of mine a wall. I would have heard nothing, tasted nothing, smelled nothing, seen nothing. No thought. No feeling. Nothing. Nothing. So pain would never reach me any more. O Kithairon, why did you shelter me and take me in? Why did you let me live? Better to have died on that bare slope of yours where no man would ever have seen me or known the secret of my birth!

1815

Polybos, Corinth, that house I thought was my father’s home, how beautiful I was when you sheltered me as a child and oh what disease festered beneath that beauty. Now everyone knows the secret of my birth, knows how vile I am.

1820

O roads, secret valley, cluster of oaks, O narrow place where two roads join a third, roads that drank my blood as it streamed from my hands, flowing from my dead father’s body, do you remember me now? Do you remember what I did with my own two hands, there in your presence, and what I did after that, when I came here to Thebes? O marriage, marriage, you gave me my life, and then from die same seed, my seed,-spewed out fathers, brothers, sisters, children, brides, wives— nothing, no words can express the shame. No more words. Men should not name what men should never do.

1825

1830

[ To the CHORUS j

1835

Gods, oh gods, gods, hide me, hide me now far away from Thebes, kill me, cast me into the sea, drive me where you will never see me—never again. [Reaching out to the CHORUS, who back away]

1840

1845

Touch this poor man, touch me, don’t be afraid to touch me. Believe me, nobody, nobody but me can bear this Ere of anguish. It is mine. Mine. LEADER Kreon has come. Now he, not you, is the sole guardian of Thebes, and only he can grant you what you asly

‘

Oedipus the King

795

OEDIPUS [ turning toward the palace]

What can I say to him, how can anything I say make him listen now? 1850

I wronged him. I accused him, and now everything I said proves I am vile. KREON [enters from the entrance to the right. He is accompanied by men who gather around OEDIPUS]

I have not come to mock you, Oedipus; I have not come to blame you for die past. [To attendants) You men, standing there, if you have no respect for human dignitv, at least revere the master of life, 1855 the all-seeing sun whose light nourishes every living thing on earth. Come, cover this cursed, naked, holy thing, hide him from the earth and the sacred rain and the light, you powers who cringe from his touch. i860 Take him. Do it now. Be reverent. Only his family should see and hear his grief. Their grief. OEDIPUS I beg you, Kreon, if you love the gods, grant me what I ask. 1865 I have been vile to you, worse than vile. I have hurt you, terribly, and yet you have treated me with kindness, with nobility. You have calmed my fear, you did not turn away from me. Do what I ask. Do it for yourself, not for me. 1870 KREON What do you want from me, Oedipus? OEDIPUS Drive me out of Thebes, do it now, now— drive me someplace where no man can speak to me, where no man can see me anymore. KREON Believe me, Oedipus, I would have done it long ago. 1875 But I refuse to act until I know precisely what the god desires. OEDIPUS Apollo has revealed what he desires. Everything is clear. I killed my father, I am polluted and unclean. I must die. KREON That is what die god commanded, Oedipus. 1880 But there are no precedents for what has happened. We need to know before we act. OEDIPUS Do you care so much for me, enough to ask Apollo? For me, Oedipus? KREON Now even you will trust the god, I think. 1885 OEDIPUS I will. And I turn to you, I implore you, Kreon— die woman lying dead inside, your sister, give her whatever burial you think best. As for me, never let this city of mv fathers sec me here in Thebes.

796

1890

1895

1900

Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles

Let me go and live on the mountains, on Kithairon—the mountain my parents intended for my grave. Let me die the way they wanted me to die: slowly, alone— die their way. And yet this much I know— no sickness, no ordinary, natural death is mine. I have been saved, preserved, kept alive for some strange fate, for something far more awful still When that thing comes, let it take me where it will. [OEDIPUS turns, looking for something, waiting]

1905

As for my sons, Kreon, they are grown men, they can look out for themselves. But my daughters, those two poor girls of mine, who have never left their home before, never left their father’s side, who ate at my side every day, who shared whatever was mine, I beg you, Kreon, care for them, love them. But more than anything, Kreon, I want to touch them, [He begins to lift his hands]

1910

let me touch them with these hands of mine, let them come to me so we can grieve together. My noble lord, if only I could touch them with my hands, they would still be mine just as they were when I had eyes that could still see. [Oedipus’ two small daughters are brought out of the palace]

1915

O gods, gods, is it possible? Do I hear my two daughters crying? Has Kreon pitied me and brought me what I love more than mv life— my daughters? J

1920

KREON I brought them to you, knowing how much you love diem, Oedipus, knowing the joy you would feel if they were here. OEDIPUS May die gods who watch over the path of your life, Kreon, prove kinder to you than they were to me. Where are you, children? Come, come to your brother’s hands— [Taking his daughters into his arms]

1925

his mother was your mother, too, come to these hands which made these eyes, bright clear eyes once, sockets seeing nothing, the eyes

Oedipus the King

797

of the man who fathered you. Look . . . your father’s eyes, your father— 1930

1935

1940

1945

1950

1955

who knew nothing until now, saw nothing until now, and became the husband of the woman who gave him birth. I weep for you when I think how men will treat you, how bitter your lives will be. What festivals will you attend, whose homes will you visit and not be assailed by whispers, and people’s stares? Where will you go and not leave in tears? And when the time comes for you to marry, what men will take you as their brides, and risk the shame of marrving the daughters of Oedipus? What sorrow will not be yours? Your father killed his father, made love to the woman who gave birth to him. Amd he fathered you in the same place where he was fathered. That is what you will hear; that is what they will say. Who will marry you then? You will never marry, but grow hard and dry like wheat so far beyond harvest that the wind blows its white flakes into the winter sky. Oh Kreon, now you are the only father my daughters have. Jocasta and I, their parents, are lost to them forever. These poor girls are yours. Your blood. Don’t let them wander all their lives, begging, alone, unmarried, helpless. Don’t let them suffer as their father has. Pity them, Kreon, pity these girls, so young and helpless except for you. Promise me this. Noble Kreon, touch me with your hand, give me a sign. [KREON takes his hands]

Daughters, i960

1965

1970

daughters, if you were older, if you could understand, there is so much more I would say to you. But for now, I give you this prayer— Live, live your lives, live each day as best you can, may your lives be happier than your father’s was. KREON No more grief. Come in. OEDlPLTS I must. But obedience comes hard. KREON Everything has its time. OEDIPUS First, promise me this. KREON Name it. OEDIPUS Banish me from Thebes. KREON I cannot. Ask the gods for that. OEDIPUS The gods hate me. KREON Then you will have your wish. OEDIPUS You promise?

798

Greek Drama, Tragedy, and Sophocles

1975

KREON

I say only what I mean. OEDIPUS Then lead me in. OEDIPUS reaches out and touches his daughters, trying to take them with him.

Oedipus, come with me. Let your daughters go. Come. OEDIPUS No. You will not take my daughters. I forbid it. KREON You forbid me? You have no power any more. All the great power you once had is gone, gone forever. KREON

1980

The CHORUS turn to face the audience. KREON leads OEDIPUS toward the palace. His daughters follow. He moves slowly, and disappears into the palace as the CHORUS ends. O citizens of Thebes, this is Oedipus, who solved the famous riddle, who held more power than any mortal. See what he is: all men gazed on his fortunate life, all men envied him, but look at him, look. All he had, all this man was, pulled down and swallowed by the storm of his own life, and by the god. Keep your eyes on that last day, on your dying. Happiness and peace, they were not yours unless at death you can look back on your life and say I lived, I did not suffer.

CHORUS

1985

1990

Questions 1. On a sheet of paper, outline the plot of Oedipus the King by summarizing what happens in each exchange of dialogue between two or more characters. (Count the chorus or die leader of the chorus as a character.) For instance: Chorus complains about plague; Oedipus consults oracle . . .

Using your outline, summarize the conflicts and crises of the play. 2. How many reversals of intention can you discover? Recognitions? Moments of dramatic irony? (See definitions, page 752.) 3. After Teiresias first reveals Oedipus’ guilt (to the audience if not to Oedipus), there is a moment of dialogue when it seems diat Teiresias must be mistaken. Where is it? What purpose does this misdirection serve in the shape of the play? 4. Discuss coincidence and probability in Oedipus the King. What is the effect of the accumulation of coincidence? 5. Does Jocasta understand what happened before Oedipus does? What does she know? How do we know that she knows? 6. After the guilt and die punishment of this tragic hero, what will happen to Thebes? Does Sophocles prepare us for an enduring society? (You might like to know diat Kreon means “ruler” or “king.”)

Oedipus the King

799

7. A servant describes Jocasta’s hanging and Oedipus’ self-mutilation. Would the play be better if these actions took place onstage? 8. How does Sophocles give us the character of Oedipus? How much do we learn front other characters when Oedipus is not on the stage? From other char¬ acters in the way they speak to Oedipus? From his own speech? From his gestures? From his actions? 9. How does the chorus represent the citizenry of Thebes? When is it most like a group, and when is it most like a particular person? How does it serve the action of the play? 10. After Oedipus’ discovery and downfall, does his character change? How? Is there development ? After his downfall, how is it possible to continue to speak of his greatness? 11. Why does Oedipus blind himself as he does? What instruments does he use and why? 12. The last three lines of the play, uttered by the chorus, give a warning to the audience—which now includes you. Do you take this warning? 13. Discuss in class possible stagings of Oedipus the King. If you performed the play in what you understand of the ancient Greek manner, how would you stage it? To answer the question, choose two or three pages of the play and consider the blocking and the entrances and exits for them. Remember that you are dealing with an all-male cast, wearing masks, in daylight, with limited scenery. How would you stage the same two or three pages in a contemporary theater with a picture stage? How would you use lighting? How realistic would you want to be, in costuming, make-up, properties? Discuss the differences in the productions. 14. To watch the play with under standing, how much would a contemporary au¬ dience need to know that an ancient audience would already have known? Could we make up for ignorance by staging? By other means? 15. Is this play out of date? Can you apply its thought to yourself, to your own life, to other twentieth-century American lives? Can you apply it to all people everywhere at any time?

Chapter 4 Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

In England during the reign of Elizabeth I (1558-1603), theater flourished as it had not for some centuries. Roman theater had followed and imitated the Greek, producing the great comedies of Plautus and Terence, who wrote in the third and second centuries B.C. In the Middle Ages elements of theater survived in church ritual and in popular festivals. In tenth-century England, for example, we find the Quem Quaeritis (Latin: “Whom do you seek?”), a dialogue in which priests representing the three Marys, as part of a church sendee, approach another priest dressed in white, playing the role of an angel at the tomb of Jesus. The angel speaks from the tomb: “Whom do you seek?”; the three answer that they seek Jesus; the angel tells them “I Ic has risen as I Ie foretold,” and the three Marys announce the Resurrection to the world—the worshipers in the church. In* this small enactment, theater had its rebirth. But six centuries elapsed between the Quem Quaeritis and the Elizabethan age. We are aware of the gradual growth of theater, and some medieval plays survive. A few old secular plays chronicle the adventures of Robin I Iood, but most plays from the Middle Ages to the time of Elizabeth are religious. Perhaps the best known is the Second Shepherds' Play, although it is a drama that enacts Christ’s birth, the anonymous playwright makes broad and bawdy comedy before he shows the birth in the manger. In the Renaissance avrevival of classical learning added the remains of ancient drama to existing religious plays. Drama expanded into the

800

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

801

universities, aristocratic houses, the court, the law schools, and the inn yards. This same period saw the development of short secular plays called interludes and the beginning of professional acting companies. Drama graduallv became a popular form of entertainment, and permanent theaters were built in the suburbs of London. The first generation of Elizabethan playwrights included Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Kyd, (John Lviv, Robert Greene, and George Peele. Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593), author of The Tragical History of Doc¬ tor Faustus, is the first great Elizabethan playwright. lie developed for dramatic use the poetic line of iambic pentameter, or blank verse, that Shakespeare perfected. (For a discussion of blank verse, see page 466.) Ben Jonson (1572-1637) was Shakespeare’s greatest contemporary, author of great com¬ edies, Volpone (1606) and The Alchemist (1610) for example. (There is a poem by Christopher Marlowe on page 539; for two of Ben Jonson’s poems see pages 408 and 546.) Along with many other playwrights, Jonson lived from Eliza¬ beth’s time into the reign of James I. But when Oliver Cromwell’s Puritan revolution overthrew James’s son Charles I, Cromwell, like a good Puritan, closed the theaters. About twenty years later, when Cromwell had died and the monarchy had been returned, the Restoration began a new era in English thea¬ ter.

>

The Globe Playhouse— Shakespeare’s theater—stood on the Bankside, across the Thames from the walled city of London. Constructed in 1599, it burned during the performance of a play in June 1613. (This is a model reconstruction by John Cranford Adams.)

802

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Elizabethan theater was a secular, popular art played by traveling troupes like the wandering players in Hamlet and by resident companies in London play¬ houses. The Globe was Shakespeare’s theater, located across the Thames from London proper. It was many-sided, almost round—the “wooden O” which Shakespeare describes in Henry V. Going inside, an Elizabethan could stand on the ground before the stage for a fee of one penny. Or with more money he could sit in one of the galleries that ran for three stories around three-quarters of the building. Perhaps eight hundred people stood in the unroofed center— where they might be rained on—while fifteen hundred sat in the sheltered gal¬ leries. The stage itself thrust from a rear wall, with entrances and exits at the sides and rear, where characters might hide or where they might be revealed by an opening curtain. (It was from behind this curtain that Polonius spied on Hamlet.) Over the alcove actors could perform on a balcony or gallery. At the front of the stage, a trapdoor allowed a ghost to rise or a damned soul to drop screaming into hell. Elizabethan theater used little scenery and few props; an Elizabethan diary lists some of the props one company owned, including swords, pikes, daggers, scepters, broken staffs, scrolls, and torches. Gravediggers might carry shovels. Servants might bring tables and chairs on stage. For the most part, speeches described where the characters were and what they carried. Instead of lights rising pink to show us dawn, a character described the light of dawn in a poetic image. (In the first scene of Hamlet, Horatio points: “But look, the mom in russet mantle clad / Walks o’er the dew. . . .”) Lacking scenerv, the staging required neither blackout nor curtain for changing scenery, and stage action for the Elizabethans was continuous, like the action of a modern film. Actors walked off, actors walked on—and we learned bv their dialogue that the scene had shifted. Stimulated by language, the audience made a seacoast of a bare stage or by imagination turned the bare stage into the opulent dining hall of a great lung. Modem editors have added stage directions to our texts of Shake¬ speare. As we study the drama of the Greeks and the Elizabethans, one of the greatest differences appears to be the audience played to. Elizabethan society and theater were more secular and more diverse than the Greek. Both societies were pros¬ perous, expanding, energetic, adventurous, imperialistic, but the society of Ath¬ ens was more cohesive, more unified by religion and by social order. Elizabe¬ than England was colorful, chaotic, and relatively lawless. Elizabethan tragedy is more diverse, various, and inclusive than Greek; less singular and uncom¬ promising in its shape and purpose. An Elizabethan came to the theater ex¬ pecting to be lifted from his seat by surprise, shock, shouting, outrage, and murder; he would be cajoled by fools, he would hear songs, he would laugh at puns and leer at sexual innuendoes. He probably knew how the story went, just as the Greeks did. (Hamlet is an old story, apparently the subject of an earlier play now lost.) Although Hamlet and Oedipus derive from similar psychic sources (we have been told, for the last seventy-five years, that Hamlet suffered from an Oedipus complex), the details of the plays suggest wide dif¬ ferences in the two eras. Sophocles would never have invented Rosencrantz

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

803

and Guildenstern, that hapless pair from Wittenberg. Nor would Hamlet’s bawdy remarks to Ophelia find their way to Thebes, or his jokes to the players, or the extraordinary number of crude bits of reality—like the discovery of Yoriek’s skull. Elizabethan drama was superabundant in energy and language and life; Greek drama found its magnificence not so much in abundance as in stark¬ ness. The Elizabethans were less interested in probability, more in particular color; the Greeks were more obsessed by the sense of inevitability. I wo terms need special definition in connection with Elizabethan drama. Some¬ times a character on the Elizabethan stage will speak an aside directed to the audience, which by convention the other characters on the stage are unable to hear. Its ironic utility is clear: the audience learns something from character A that character B lmows nothing of—although the audience can see that A and B occupy the same stage. As an aside provides access to a character’s mind, to his concealed or private thoughts, so does the soliloquy—a speech bv an actor alone on the stage, like I lamlet’s meditation on suicide beginning ‘To be or not to be. . . . ” Alien playwrights have their characters think aloud on the stage, in asides or in soliloquies, they show not only a character’s actions but a character’s inward thoughts.

804

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

About William Shakespeare (1564-1616) we do not know as much as we would like. He was born in Stratford-upon-Avon, son of a glovemaker who became mayor of his town. Apparently Shakespeare attended school in Strat¬ ford, and in 1582 married Anne Hathaway, who was eight years his senior. They had three children; one son named Hamnet died in childhood. At some point in the decade after his marriage, Shakespeare moved to London alone and became an actor. (He continued acting after becoming a playwright; tradition has him playing Hamlet’s father’s ghost.) He began writing for the stage about 1590. He acted and wrote for the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, later called the King’s Men, which was the best company of his time and starred the great actor Richard Burbage, who took the original lead in Hamlet. Other great Shakespearean tragedies include Julius Caesar, Macbeth, King Lear, and Othello. He excelled not only in tragedy but also in comedy: Loves Labours Lost, The Taming of the Shrew, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Tempest, Measure for Measure, Twelfth Night, and many others. He excelled as well in writing the history play, a form of drama that recounted English history—reigns, rebellions, and wars. Over the centuries, however, when read¬ ers have looked for literature’s highest moments, they have found them in tragedy, and in no tragedian more than in William Shakespeare. Although a given reader may prefer King Lear or Othello, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark is the most intriguing of tragedies—combining nobility and power with an unusual psychological subtlety.

William Shakespeare

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark Dramatis Personae CLAUDIUS, Icing of Denmark

FRANCISCO, a soldier

HAMLET, son to the late, and nephew to

REYNALDO, servant to Polonius

the present, Icing POLONIUS, Lord Chamberlain HORATIO, friend to Hamlet LAERTES, son to Polonius

PLAYERS

A NORWEGIAN CAPTAIN

VOLTE MAN D

ENGLISH AMBASSADORS

CORNELIUS

GERTRUDE, Queen of Denmark, mother

ROSENCRANTZ

> courtiers

GIT LDEN STERN OSRIC A GENTLEMAN

J

FORTINBRAS, Prince of Norway

to Hamlet OPHELIA, daughter to Polonius GHOST of Hamlet’s fafiier LORDS, LADLES, OFFICERS, SOLDIERS,

A PRIEST MARCELLUS

TWO CLOWNS, gravediggers

SAILORS, MESSENGERS, ATTENDANTS

officers

BARNARD O

Scene: Elsinore Act I, Scene I. A guard platform of the castle. Enter BARNARDO and FRANCISCO, two sentinels. Who’s there? FRANCISCO Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold1 yourself. BARNARDO Long live the Icing!' BARNARDO

FRANCISCO

Bamardo?

BARNARDO

fie.

You come most carefully upon your hour. BARNARDO Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco. FRANCISCO For this relief much thanks. Tis bitter cold, Aid I am sick at heart. BARNARDO Have you had quiet guard? FRANCISCO Not a mouse stirring. BARNARDO Well, good night. If you do meet I Ioratio and Marcellus, The rivals3 of my watch, bid them make haste. FRANCISCO

10

Enter HORATIO and MARCELLUS. I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who is there? Friends to this ground.

FRANCISCO IIORATIO

This text of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, edited by Edward Ilubler, includes his explanatory notations. Footnotes that gloss or translate a single word are in roman type. When the explanation covers more than one word, the relevant passage in Shakespeare precedes the explanation, in italic type. ’disclose

'Long live the King (perhaps a password, perhaps a greeting)

'partners

805

806

is

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

MARCELLUS FRANCISCO

Act I, Scene I

And liegemen to the Dane.1 Give von2 good night.

>LARCELLUS

O, farewell, honest soldier.

Who hath relieved you? FRANCISCO

Bamardo hadi my place.

Exit

Give you good night. MARCELLUS

FRANCISCO.

Holla, Barnardo! Say-

BARNARDO

What, is Horatio there? A piece of him. BARNARDO Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus. MARCELLUS What, has this thing appeared again tonight? BARNARDO I have seen nothing. MARCELLUS Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight twice seen of us; Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night, That, if again this apparition come, He may approve3 our eyes and speak to it. HORATIO Tush, tush, ’twill not appear. BARNARDO Sit down awhile, And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we have two nights seen. HORATIO Well, sit we down, And let us hear Barnardo speak of this. BARNARDO Last night of all, When yond same star that’s westward from die pole4 Had made his course t’ illume that part of heaven Where now it bums, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating oneHORATIO

20

25

30

35

Enter 40

45

so

GHOST.

Peace, break thee off. Look where it comes again. BARNARDO In the same figure like the king that’s dead. MARCELLUS Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio. BARNARDO Look ’a not like the Icing? Mark it, Horatio. HORATIO Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder. barnardo It would be spoke to. >LARCELLUS Speak to it, Horatio. HORATIO What art thou that usurp’st diis time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark5 Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee, speak. MARCELLUS It is offended, BARNARDO See, it stalks away. MARCELLUS

liegemen to the Dane loyal subjects to the King offDenmark 3conkrm

4polestar

zGive you God give you

°buried Denmark the buried King of Denmark

Act I, Scene I

Hamlet

HORATIO

807

Stay! Speak, speak. I charge thee, speak.

Exit

GHOST.

Tis gone and will not answer. BARNARDO How now, Horatio? You tremble and look pale. Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on’t? HORATIO Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch1 Of mine own eyes. MARCELLUS Is it not like the King? HORATIO As thou art to thyself. Such was the veiv armor he had on When he the ambitious Norway2 combated: So frowned he once, when, in an angiv parle,3 He smote the sledded Polacks4 on the ice. His strange. 1SLARCELLUS Thus twice before, and jump0 at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. HORATIO In what particular thought to work I know not; But, in the gross and scope0 of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state. 1NLARCELLUS Good now, sit down, and tell me he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject' of the land, And why such daily cast of brazen cannon And foreign mart'4 for implements of war, Why such impress9 of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week, What might be toward10 that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-laborer with the day? Who is’t that can inform me? HORATIO That can I. At least the whisper goes so: our last king, Whose image even but now appeared to us, Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, Thereto pricked on by a most emulate pride, Dared to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet (For so this side of our known world esteemed him) Did slay this Fortinbras, who, by a sealed compact Well ratified by law and heraldry,11 Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands Which he stood seized12 of, to the conqueror; Against the which a moiety competent13 Was gaged14 by our King, which had returned MARCELLUS

55

60

65

70

75

so

85

9o

1 sensible and true avouch sensory and true proof lacks Poles in sledges

°just

subjects toil

‘forced sendee

Trading

(governing the combat)

2King of Norway

ugross and scope general drift

‘'possessed

10in preparation

^parley

4sledded Po¬

'toils the subject makes the

l]law and heraldry heraldic law

] >,moiety competent equal portion

‘ ‘engaged, pledged

808

95

100

105

no

ns

120

125

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act I, Scene I

To the inheritance of Fortinbras, Had he been vanquisher, as, by the same comart1 And carriage of the article designed,2 His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Of unimproved3 mettle hot and full, Hath in the skirts4 of Norway here and there Sharked up5 a list of lawless resolutes,6 For food and diet, to some enterprise That hath a stomach in’t;' which is no other, As it doth well appear unto our state, But to recover of us by strong hand And terms compulsatoiy, those foresaid lands So by his father lost; and this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch, and the chief head8 Of this posthaste and romage9 in the land. BARNARDO I think it be no other but e’en so; Well may it sort10 that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch so like the King That was and is the question of these wars. HORATIO A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eve: In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in tlie.Roman streets;11 As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters12 in the sun; and the moist star,13 Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands, Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse. And even the like precurse14 of feared events, As harbingers10 preceding still10 the fates And prologue to the omen1' coming on, Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climatures18 and countrymen. Enter GHOST.

But soft, behold, lo, where it comes again! I’ll cross it,19 though it blast me.—Stay, illusion. It spreads his20 arms.

Agreement ^borders

~carriage of the article designed import of the agreement drawn up

°Sharked up collected indiscriminately (as a shark gulps its prey)

‘hath a stomach in t i.e., requires courage

8fountainhead, origin

Tustle

Nmtried

6desperadoes 10befit

uDid

squeak . . . Roman streets (the break in the sense which follows this line suggests that a line has dropped out) ^forerunners

1 Threatening signs ’"always

1'calamity

13moist star moon 18regions

it (2) make the sign of the cross in front of it

14precursor, foreshadowing

cross it (1) cross its path, confront

20its, the ghost’s (though possibly what is

meant is that Horatio spreads his own arms, making a cross of himself)

Act I, Scene I

130

135

Hamlet

809

It thou hast any sound or use of voice, Speak to me. If there be any good thing to be done That may to thee do ease and grace to me, Speak to me. If thou art privy to thy country’s fate, Which happily1 foreknowing may avoid, O, speak! Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted' treasure in the womb of earth, For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, The cock crows.

140

Speak of it. Stay and speak. Stop it, Marcellus. MARCELLUS Shall I strike at it with my partisan?3 HORATIO Do, if it will not stand. BARNARDO Tis here. HORATIO Tis here. MARCELLUS

Tis gone. Exit GHOST.

145

iso

155

160

165

We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence, For it is as the air, invulnerable, And our vain blows malicious mockers7. BARNARDO It was about to speak when the cock crew. HORATIO And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth wfth his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day, and at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, TIT extravagant and erring4 spirit hies To his confine; and of die truth herein This present object made probation.0 MARCELLUS It faded on the crowing of die cock. Some say that ever ’gainst'1 that season, conies Wherein our Savior’s birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, Tie nights are wholesome, then no planets strike,' No fain7 takes, 4 nor witch hath power to charm: So hallowed and so gracious is that time. HORATIO So have I heard and do in part believe it. But look, the mom in msset mande clad Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill. Break we our watch up, and by my advice

’haply, perhaps 'ill-won 3pike (a long-handled weapon) 4extravagant and erring out of bounds and wandering °proof just before 'exert an evil influence "bewitches

810

170

175

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act I, Scene II

Let ns impart what we have seen tonight Unto young Hamlet, for upon my life This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, fitting our duty? MARCELLUS Let’s do’t, I pray, and I this morning know Where we shall find him most convenient

Scene II. The castle.

Exeunt.

v

Flourish.1 Enter CLAUDIUS, King of Denmark, GERTRUDE the Queen, COUN¬ CILORS, POLONIUS and his son LAERTES, HAMLET, cum aliis2 including VOLTEMAND and CORNELIUS. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death The memory be green, and diat it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe, Yet so far hadi discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him Togedier with remembrance of ourselves. Hierefore our sometime sister,3 now our Queen, Th’ imperial jointress4 to this warlike state, Have we, as ’twere, with a defeated joy, With an auspicious0 and a dropping eye, With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole, Taken to wife. Nor have we herein barred Your better wisdoms, which have freelv gone WTith this affair along. For all, our thanks. Now follows that you know young Fortinbras, Holding a weak supposal of our worth, Or thinking by our late dear brother’s death Our state to be disjoint and out of frame,6 Colleagued with this dream of his advantage,7 He hath not failed to pester us with message, Importing the surrender of those lands Lost by his father, with all bands of law, To our most valiant brother. So much for him. Now for ourself and for this time of meeting. Thus much the business is: we have here writ To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras— Who, impotent and bedrid, scarcely hears Of diis his nephew’s purpose—to suppress His further gait8 herein, in diat die levies,

KING

5

10

is

20

25

30

1 fanfare of trumpets ~cum aliis with others sister-in-law 4joint tenant, partner 5jovful

6 our sometime sister my (the royal “we”) former 6ord^r 'superiority proceeding

Act I, Scene II

35

40

Hamlet

The lists, and full proportions1 are all made Out of his subject;' and we here dispatch You, good Cornelius, and you, Yoltemand, For bearers of this greeting to old Norway, Giving to you no further personal power To business with the King, more than the scope Of diese delated articles'1 allow. Farewell, and let your haste commend your duty. CORNELIUS, YOLTEMAND In that, and all diings, will we show our duty. ICING We doubt it nothing. Heartily farewell.

Exit YOLTEMAND and

45

so

55

eo

65

70

811

CORNELIUS.

And now, Laertes, what’s the news with you? You told us of some of it. What is’t, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane And lose your voice.4 What wouldst thou beg, Laertes, That shall not be my offer, not thy asking? The head is not more native0 to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes? LAERTES My dread lord, Your leave and favor to return to France, From whence, though willingly I came to Denmark To show my duty in your coronation, Yet now I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon. KING Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius? POLONIES He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave By laborsome petition, and at last Upon his will I sealed my hard consent.'’ I do beseech you give him leave to go. KING Take thy fair hour, Laertes. Time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will. But now, my cousin' Hamlet, and mv son— HAMLET [Aside} A little more than kin, and less than kind!8 KING How is it that the clouds still hang on you? HAMLET Not so, my lord. I am too much in the sun.0 QUEEN Good I Iamlet, cast thy nigh ted color off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not forever with thy vailed10 lids

Supplies for war

2Out of his subject out of old Norway’s subjects and realm

ticles detailed documents

4lose your voice waste your breath

consent to his desire I gave my reluctant consent

'kinsman

'^related

4delated ar¬

Upon his . . . hard

8pun on the meanings kindly

and “natural”; though doubly related—more than kin—Hamlet asserts that he neither resembles Claudius in nature nor feels kindly toward him 9sunshinc of royal favor (with a pun on “son”) 1 lowered

812

75

so

85

90

95

ioo

105

no

ns

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act I, Scene II

Seek for thy noble father in the dust. Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die, Passing dirough nature to eternity. HAMLET Ay, madam, it is common.1 QUEEN If it be, ' Why seems it so particular with thee? HAMLET Seems, madam? Nay, it is. I know not '‘‘seems. ” Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration2 of forced breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected havior of the visage, Togedier with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly. These indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play, But I have that within which passes show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe. KING Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father, But you must know your father lost a father, That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound In filial obligation for some term To do obsequious3 sorrow. But to persever In obstinate condolement4 is a course Of impious stubbornness. Tis unmanly grief. It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschooled. For what we know must be and is as common As any the most vulgar5 thing to sense, Why should we in our peevish opposition Take it to heart? Fie, ’tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd, whose common theme Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse6 till he that died today, “This must be so.” We pray you throw to earth This unprevailing' woe, and think of us As of a father, for let the world take note You are the most immediate to our throne, And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son Do I impart toward you. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde8 to our desire, And we beseech you, bend you9 to remain

(1) universal (2) vulgar windy suspiration heavy sighing mourning common 6corpse 'unavailing 8contrary

Suitable to obsequies (funerals) 'bend you incline

Act I, Scene II

120

125

Hamlet

813

Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. QUEEN Let not thy mother lose her prayers, I Iamlet. I pray thee stay with us, go not to Wittenberg. HAMLET I shah in all my best obey you, madam. KING Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply. Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come. This gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart, in grace whereof No jocund health that Denmark drinks today, But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell. And the King’s rouse1 the heaven shall bruit2 again, Respeaking earthly thunder. Come away. Flourish. Exeunt all hut HAMLET.

O that this too too sullied'1 flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew, Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon4 ’gainst self-slaughter. O God, God, How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on’t, ah, fie, ’tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed. Things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely.0 That it should come to this: But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two, So excellent a king, that was to this Hyperion6 to a satyr, so loving to my mother That he might not beteenT the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth, Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet within a month— Let me not think on’t; frailty, thy name is woman— A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father’s body Like Niobe,8 all tears, why she, even she— O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason' ’ Would have mourned longer—married with my uncle, My father’s brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules. Within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing10 in her galled eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post11

HAMLET 130

135

140

145

iso

155

1deep drink

announce noisily

4(The Second Quarto has sallied, here modernized to sullied,

which makes sense and is therefore given; but the Folio reading, solid, which fits better with melt, is quite possibly correct)

flaw

’^entirely

’the sun god, a model ol beauty

mother who wept profusely at the death of her children soning power

U)left the flushing stopped reddening

allow

a

wants discourse of reason lacks rea¬ 11 hasten

814

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act I, Scene II

With such dexterity to incestuous1 sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good. But break my heart for I must hold my tongue. Enter HORATIO, MARCELLUS, and BARNARBO. HORATIO

160

165

Hail to your lordship!

HAMLET I am glad to see you well. Horatio—or I do forget myself. HORATIO The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever. HAMLET Sir, my good friend, I’ll change2 that name, with you. And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus. My good lord! HAMLET I am very glad to see you. [To BARXARDO] Good even, sir. But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg? HORATIO A truant disposition, good my lord. HAMLET I would not hear your enemy say so, Nor shall you do my ear that violence To make it truster3 of your own report Against yourself. I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart. HORATIO My lord, I came to see your father’s funeral. HAMLET I prithee do not mock me, fellow student. I think it was to see my mother’s wedding. HORATIO Indeed, niv lord, it followed hard upon, ILAMLET Thrift, thrift, Horatio. "Hie funeral baked meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest4 foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! My father, methinks I see my father. HORATIO Where, my lord? HAMLET In my mind’s eye, Horatio HORATIO I saw him once. ’A° was a goodly lung. HAMLET ’A was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again. HORATIO My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. HAMLET Saw? Who? HORATIO My lord, the King your father. MARCELLUS

170

175

iso

185

190

ILAMLET

The King my father? HORATIO Season your admiration6 for a while W ith an attent ear till I may deliver Upon the witness of these gentlemen This marvel to vou. 195

HAMLET

most intensely felt

For God’s love let me hear!

°he

6Season your,■ admiration control your wonder

Act I, Scene II

Hamlet

815

Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Bamardo, on their watch In the dead waste and middle of the night Been thus encountered. A figure like your father, Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pe,1 Appears before them, and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them. Thrice he walked By their oppressed and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon’s length,' whilst they, distilled3 Almost to jelly with the act4 of fear, Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful0 secrecy impart they did, And I with them the third night kept the watch, Where, as they had delivered, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes. I knew your father. These hands are not more like. HAMLET But where was this? MARCELLUS My lord, upon the platform where we watched. HAMLET Did you not speak to it? HORATIO My lord, I did; But answer made it none. Yet once methought It lifted up if’ head and did address Itself to motion like as it would speak: But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away And vanished from our sight. HAMLET Tis very strange. HORATIO As I do live, my honored lord, ’tis true, And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it. HAMLET Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. I Iold you the watch tonight? ALL We do, my lord. ILAMLET Armed, say you? AIM Armed, my lord. HAMLET From top to toe? ALL My lord, from head to foot. HAMLET Then saw you not his face. HORATIO O, yes, my lord. He wore his beaver' up. HAMLET What, looked he frowninglv? HORATIO A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

HORATIO

200

205

210

215

220

225

230

Pale or red? HORATIO Nay, very pale. ILAMLET ILAMLET HORATIO 'head to foot f>it.s

And fixed his eyes upon you? Most constantly. ~truncheons length space of a short staff

'visor, face guard

'Veduced

Fiction

° terrified

816

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

235

I would I had been there. HORATIO It would have much amazed you. HAMLET Very like, very like. Stayed it long? HORATIO While one with moderate haste might tell1 a hundred. BOTH Longer, longer. HORATIO Not when I saw’t. HAMLET His beard was grizzled,2 no? HORATIO It was as I have seen it in his life, A sable-silvered.3 HAMLET I will watch tonight. Perchance ’twill walk again.

240

Act I, Scene III

HAMLET

HORATIO

I warr’nt it will.

If it assume my noble father’s person, I’ll speak to it though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto concealed this sight, Let it be tenable4 in your silence still, And whatsomever else shall hap tonight, Give it an understanding but no tongue; I will requite your loves. So fare you well. Upon the platform ’twixt eleven and twelve I’ll visit you. ALL Our duty to your honor. HAMLET Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell. HAMLET

245

250

Exeunt [all but HAMLET]. 255

My father’s spirit—in arms? All is not well. I doubt0 some foul play. Would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm diem, to men’s eyes. Exit.

Scene III. A room. Enter LAERTES and OPHELIA, his sister. LAERTES

My necessaries are embarked. Farewell.

And, sister, as the winds give beneht .And convoy6 is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you. OPHELIA Do you doubt that? 5

LAERTES

For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor,

Hold it a fashion and a toy" in blood, A violet in the youth of priiny8 nature, Forward,9 not permanent, sweet, not lasting, The perfume and suppliance10 of a minute, No more. 1 count 'gray ance idle fancy

3sable-silvered black mingled with white springlike premature 1''diversion

Field

5suspect

Convey¬

Hamlet

Act I, Scene III

No more but so?

OPHELIA to

15

20

25

30

35

40

45

so

817

Think it no more. For nature crescent1 does not grow alone In thews2 and bulk, but as this temple'1 waxes, The inward sendee of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, And now no soil nor cautel4 doth besmirch The virtue of his will; but you must fear, His greatness weighed,5 his will is not his own. For he himself is subject to his birth. He may not, as unvalued6 persons do, Carve for himself; for on his choice depends The safety and health of this whole state; And therefore must his choice be circumscribed LTnto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is die head. Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed, which is no further Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honor may sustain If with too credent' ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmastered importunity. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister, .And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon. Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes. The canker8 galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons9 be disclosed, And in the mom and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then; best safety lies in fear; Youth to itself rebels, though none else near. OPHELIA I shall the effect of this good lesson keep As watchman to my heart, but, good my brother, Do not, as some ungracious111 pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, Whiles, like a puffed and reckless libertine, I Iimself the primrose path of dalliance treads .And recks not his own rede.11

LAERTES

Enter

POLONIUS.

LAERTES

O, fear me not.

I stav too long. But here my father comes. Vowing considered

8muscles and sinews 6 of low rank

3i. e., the body

Credulous

cankerworm

not his own rede does not heed his own advice

°greatness weighed high rank 11 recks buds lacking grace

hfeceit

818

55

60

65

70

75

so

85

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act I, Scene III

A double blessing is a double grace; Occasion smiles upon a second leave. POLONIUS Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame! The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stayed for. There—my blessing with thee, And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character.1 Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned2 thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel, But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged courage.3 Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear’t that th’ opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man’s censure,4 but reserve thv judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy, For die apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous, chief in that.5 Neither a borrower nor a lender be, For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulleth edge of husbandry.6 This above all, to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell. My blessing season this7 in thee! LAERTES Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. POLONIUS The time invites you. Go, your servants tend.8 LAERTES Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well What I have said to you. OPHELIA Tis in my memory locked, And you yourself shall keep the key of it. Farewell. POLONIUS What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you? OPHELIA So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet. POLONLUS Marry,9 well bethought. Tis told me he hath very oft of late Given private time to you, and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous. If it be so—as so ’tis put on me, LAERTES

90

Exit LAERTES.

’inscribe "unbalanced 3gallant youth Opinion 5Are of... in that show their fine taste and their gentlemanly instincts more in that than in any other point of manners (Kittredge) thrift

‘season this make fruitful this (advice)

Attend

9(a light oath, from “By the Virgin

Hamlet

Act I, Scene III

95

819

And that in way of caution—I must tell you You do not understand yourself so clearly As it behooves my daughter and your honor. What is between you? Give me up the truth. OPHELIA

100

lie hath, my lord, of late made many tenders1

Of his affection to me. POLONIES

.Affection pooh! You speak like a green girl,

Unsifted' in such perilous circumstance.

Do you believe his tenders, as you call them? OPHELLL

105

POLONIES

I do not know, my lord, what I should think.

Marry, I will teach you. Think yourself a baby

That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly, Or (not to crack die wind of the poor phase) Tend’ring it thus you’ll tender me a fool. '1 no

OPHELLL

My lord, he hadi importuned me with love

In honorable fashion. POLONIUS OPIIELLV

Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to. And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,

With almost all the holy vows of heaven, ns

POLONIES

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks.4 I do know,

When die blood bums, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows. These blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat, extinct in both, Even in their promise, as it is a-making, 120

You must not take for fire. From this time Be something scanter of your maiden presence. Set your entreatments4 at a higher rate Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him that he is young,

125

And with a larger tether may he walk 'Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows, for they are brokers/' Not of that dye7 which their investments'4 show, But mere implorators9 of unholy suits,

130

Breathing like sanctified and pious bonds,10 Idle better to beguile. This is for all: I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth Have you so slander11 any moment leisure As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.

135

Look to’t, I charge you. Come your ways. OPHELIA

I shall obey, my lord.

1 offers (in line 103 it has the same meaning, but in line 106 Polonius speaks of tenders in the sense of counters or chips; in line 109 Tend’ring means “holding,” and tender means “give,” “present”) baby

Ymtried

3tender me a fool (1) present me with a fool (2) present me with a

4springes to catch woodcocks snares to catch stupid birds

'i.e., kind

^garments

'solicitors

'‘pledges

"disgrace

inters ievs

proc liters

820

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act I, Scene IV

Scene IV. A guard platform. Enter HAMLET, HORATIO, and MARCELLUS. HAMLET

The air bites shrewdly;1 it is very cold.

HORATIO HAMLET

It is a nipping and an eager2 air.

What hour now?

HORATIO

I think it lacks of twelve.

No, it is struck. HORATIO Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. MARCELLUS

5

A flourish of trumpets, and two pieces go off.

What does this mean, my lord? HAMLET The King doth wake3 tonight and takes his rouse,4 Keeps wassail, and the swagg’ring upspring5 reels, And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish6 down The kettledrum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.7 HORATIO Is it a custom?

io

HAMLET

Ay, marry, is’t,

But to my mind, though I am native here And to the manner born, it is a custom More honored in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduced and taxed of8 other nations. They clepe9 us drunkards and with swinish phrase Soil our addition,10 and indeed it takes From our achievements, though performed at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute.11 So off it chances in particular men That for some vicious mole12 of nature in them, As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty, (Since nature cannot choose his origin) By the o’ergrowth of some complexion,13 Oft breaking down the pales14 and forts of reason, Or by some habit that too much o’erleavens15 The form of plausive16 manners, that (these men, Carrying, I say, die stamp of one defect, Being nature’s livery, or fortune’s star17) Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo, Shall in the general censure18 take corruption From that particular fault. The dram of evil

15

20

25

30

35

bitterly wine toast

"sharp

3hold a revel by night

4takes his rouse carouses

°a dance

6Rhine

The triumph of his pledge the achievement (of drinking a wine cup in one draught) of his staxed of blamed by

12blemish

’^natural disposition

call

10reputation (literally, “tide of honor”)

Enclosures

15mixes with, corrupts

16pleasing

deputation 17nature’s

livery, or fortune’s star nature’s equipment (i.e., “inpate”), or a person’s destiny determined by the stars 18general censure popular judgment

Hamlet

Act I, Scene IV

821

Doth all the noble substance of a doubt, To his own scandal.1

Enter GHOST. Look, my lord, it comes. HAMLET Angels and masters of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of healdi' or goblin damned, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable4 shape That I will speak to thee. I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance, but tell Why thy canonized4 bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements,B why the sepulcher Wherein we saw diee quietly interred Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again. What may this mean Tliat thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, Revisits thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition'1 With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?

HORATIO 40

45

so

55

GHOST beckons HAMLET.

It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impairment1 did desire To you alone. MARCELLOS Look with what courteous action It waves you to a more removed ground. But do not go with it. HORATIO No, bv no means. HAMLET It will not speak. Then I will follow it. HORATIO Do not, my lord. HAMLET Why, what should be the fear?

HORATIO

60

I do not set my life at a pin’s fee,

65

70

And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a tiling immortal as itself? It waves me forth again. I’ll follow it. HORATIO What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles8 o’er his base into the sea, And there assume some other horrible form, Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason xThe dram . . . own scandal (though the drift is clear, there is no agreement as to the exact

meaning of these lines) dubious

'spirit of health good spirit

4buried according to the canon or ordinance < >f the church

our disposition disturb us

^communication

reason destroy the sovereignty of your reason

juts out

(1) capable of discourse (?) M axed linen slnoud

shake

deprive yom sovereignty of

822

75

so

85

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act I, Scene V

And draw you into madness? Think of it. 'flie very place puts toys1 of desperation, Without more motive, into eveiy brain That looks so many fathoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath. HAMLET It waves me still. Go on; I’ll follow thee. MARCELLUS You shall not go, my lord, HAMLET Hold off your hands. HORATIO Be ruled. You shall not go. HAMLET My fate cries out Mid makes each petty arte re" in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.3 Still am I called! Unhand me, gentlemen. By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets4 me! I say, away! Go on. I’ll follow thee. Exit GHOST and HAMLET. He waxes desperate with imagination. MARCELLUS Let’s follow. ’Tis not fit thus to obey him. IIORATIO Have after! To what issue will this come? MARCELLUS Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. HORATIO Heaven will direct it. HORATIO

90

Nay, let’s follow him.

MARCELLUS

Exeunt.

Scene Y. The battlements. Enter GHOST and HAMLET. ILAMLET Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak; I’ll go no further. GHOST Mark me. HAMLET

I will.

My hour is almost come, When I to sulfrous and tormenting flames Must render up myself. HAMLET Alas, poor ghost. GHOST Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing To what I shall unfold. HAMLET Speak. I am bound to hear. GHOST So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear. HAMLET What? GHOST I am thy father’s spirit, Doomed for a certain term to walk the night, And for the day confined to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes0 done in my days of nature Me burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison house, GHOST

5

io

whims, fancies cules hinders

_ ~arteiy °sins

3Nemean lions nerv sinews of the mythical lion slain by Her¬

Act I, Scene V

is

Hamlet

823

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,1 Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand an end

20

Like quills upon the fearful porpentine.' But this eternal blazon3 must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list! If thou didst ever thy dear father loveHAMLET GIIOST

25

HAMLET GHOST

O God! Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. Murder? Murder most foul, as in the best it is,

But this most foul, strange, and unnatural. H4MLET

so

Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift

As meditation4 or the thoughts of love, May sweep to my revenge. I find thee apt,

GHOST

And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, 0 Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear. 35

Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, A serpent stung me. So the whole ear of Denmark Is by a forged process3 of my deadi Rankly abused. But know, thou noble youth, ITie serpent that did sting thy father’s life Now wears his crown.

40

O my prophetic soul!

HAMLET

My uncle? GHOST Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate' beast, With witchcraft of his wits, with traitorous gifts— O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power 45

So to seduce!—won to his shameful lust The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen. O I Iamlet, what a falling-off was there, From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow

so

I made to her in marriage, and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine. But virtue, as it never will be moved, Though lewdness8 court it in a shape of heaven,

55

So lust, though to a radiant angel linked, Will sate itself in a celestial bed And prey on garbage.

Tn Ptolemaic astronomy, each planet was fixed in a hollow transparent shell concentric w ith the earth 4thought account

8fearful porpentine timid porcupine

3eternal blazon revelation of eternity

5Lethe wharf bank of the river of forgetfulness in Hades 'adulterous

Hlust

"forged process false

8&4

60

65

70

75

so

85

90

95

ioo

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act I, Scene \

But soft, me thinks I scent the morning air; Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure1 hour thy uncle stole With juice of cursed hebona8 in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour The leperous distillment, whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That swift as quicksilver it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body, And with a sudden vigor it doth posset3 Mid curd, like eager4 droppings into milk, Hie thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine, And a most instant tetter5 barked about Most lazarlike6 with vile and loathsome crust All my smooth body. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brodier’s hand Of life, of crown, of queen at once dispatched, Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhouseled, disappointed, unaneled,' No reck’ning made, but sent to my account With all niv imperfections on my head, O, horrible! O, horrible! Most horrible! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not. Let not the royal bed of Denmark be A couch for luxury8 and damned incest. But howsomever thou pursues this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thv mother aught. Leave her to heaven And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once. Hie glowworm shows the matin9 to be near And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire. Adieu, adieu, adieu. Remember me. HAMLET O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple hell? O fie! Hold, hold, my heart, And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles memoir holds a seat In this distracted globe.10 Remember thee? Yea, from the table11 of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond18 records, All saws13 of books, all forms, all pressures14 past That youth and observation copied diere, And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain,

Exit

Unsuspecting 8a poisonous plant 3curdle 4acid 5scab Yeperlike 7 Unhouseled, disappointed, unaneled without the sacrament of communion, unabsolved, without extreme unction lust impressions

morning

1()i.e., his head

11 tablet, notebook

vv

^foolish

13maxims

Act I, Scene V

105

no

Hamlet

825

Unmixed with baser matter. Yes, by heaven! O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables—meet it is I set it down That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain. At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark. [ Writes.] So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word: It is “Adieu, adieu, remember me.” I have sworn’t. HORATIO AND MARCELLOS [ Within} My lord, my lord! Enter HORATIO and MARCELLUS. Lord Ilamlet! Heavens secure him!

MARCELLTJS HORATIO ILAMLET 115

So be it!

MARCELLUS

Ulo, ho, ho,1 my lord!

Ilillo, ho, ho, boy! Come, bird, come. >LARCELLUS How is’t, my noble lord? HORATIO What news, my lord? ILAMLET O, wonderful! HORATIO Good my lord, tell it. ILAMLET No, you will reveal it. HORATIO Not I, my lord, by heaven. ALARCELLLTS Nor I, my lord. ILAMLET How say you then? Would heart of man once think it? But you’ll be secret? BOTH Ay, by heaven, my lord. HAMLET There’s never a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he’s an arrant knave. HORATIO There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us diis. ILAMLET Why, right, you are in the right; And so, without more circumstance' at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part: You, as your business and desire shall point you, For every man hath business and desire Such as it is, and for my own poor part, Look you, I’ll go pray. HORATIO These are but wild and whirling words, my lord. ILAMLET I am sorrv they offend vou, heartilv; Yes, faith, heartily. HORATIO There’s no offense, my lord. ILAMLET Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, I Ioratio, And much offense too. Touching this vision here, It is an honest ghost,3 that let me tell you. For vour desire to know what is between us, ILAMLET

120

125

130

135

'll to, ho, ho (falconer’s call to his hawk) father’s shape

'details

3honest ghost i.e., not a demon in his

826

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

140

O’ermaster’t as you may. And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, Give me one poor request. HORATIO What is’t, my lord? We will. HAMLET Never make known what you have seen tonight. BOTH My lord, we will not. HAMLET Nay, but swear’t. HORATIO In faith, My lord, not I. MARCELLUS Nor I, my lord—in faith. HAMLET Upon my sword. MARCELLUS We have sworn, my lord, already. HAMLET Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.

145

Act I, Scene V

GHOST cries under the stage.

Swear. HAMLET Ha, ha, boy, say’st thou so? Art thou there, truepenny?1 Come on. You hear this fellow in the cellarage. Consent to swear. HORATIO Propose the oath, my lord. HAMLET Never to speak of this that you have seen. Swear by my sword. GHOST [Beneath] Swear. HAMLET Hie et ubique?2 Then we’ll shift our ground; Come hither, gendemen, And lay your hands again upon my sword. Swear by my sword Never to speak of this that you have heard. GHOST [Beneath] Swear by his sword. HAMLET Well said, old mole! Canst work i’ th’ earth so fast? A worthy pioner!3 Once more remove, good friends. HORATIO O day and night, but this is wondrous strange! HAMLET And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come: Here as before, never, so help you mercy, How strange or odd some’er I bear myself (As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition4 on), That you, at such times seeing me, never shall With arms encumb’red5 thus, or this headshake, Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, As “Well, well, we know,” or “We could, an if we would,” Or “If we list to speak,” or “There be, an if they might,” Or such ambiguous giving out, to note GHOST

iso

155

160

165

no

175

'honest fellow 'Hie et ubique here and everywhere (Latin) position fantastic behavior °folded

. 3digger of mines

4antic dis¬

Act II, Scene I

iso

185

190

Hamlet

That you know aught of me—this do swear, So grace and mercy at your most need help you. GHOST [Beneath] Swear. HAMLET Rest, rest, perturbed spirit. So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me1 to you, And what so poor a man as Hamlet is May do t’ express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together, And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint. O cursed spite, That ever I was bom to set it right! Nay, come, let’s go together.

827

[ They swear.)

Exeunt.

Act II, Scene I. A room. Enter old POLONIES, with his man REYNALDO. Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo. REYNALDO I will, my lord. POLONIUS You shall do marvell’s2 wisely, good Reynaldo, Before you visit him, to make inquire Of his behavior. REYNALDO My lord, I did intend it. POLONLUS Marry, well said, very well said. Look you sir, Inquire me first what Danskers8 are in Paris, And how, and who, what means, and where they keep,4 What company, at what expense; and Ending By diis encompassment0 and drift of question That they do know my son, come you more nearer Ilian your particular demands'1 will touch it. Take you as ’twere some distant knowledge of him, As thus, “I know his father and his friends, Aid in part him. ” Do you mark this, Reynaldo? REYNALDO Ay, very well, my lord. POLONIUS “And in part him, but,” you may say, “not well, But if t be he I mean, he’s veiy wild, Addicted so and so. ” And there put on him What forgeries' you please; marry, none so rank As may dishonor him—take heed of that— But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty. REYNALDO As gaming, my lord. POLONIUS Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarreling, Drabbing.8 You may go so far. POLONIUS

5

10

is

20

25

1 commend me entrust myself

'inventions

8wenching

~marvelous(ly)

Danes

4dwell

circling

h questions

828

Act II, Scene I

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

My lord, that would.dishonor him. POLONIUS Faith, no, as you may season it in the charge. You must not put another scandal on him, That he is open to incontinencv.1 That’s not my meaning. But breathe his faults so quaintly2 That they may seem the taints of liberty, The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of general assault.3 REYNALDO

30

35

REYNALDO POLONIUS

But, my good lord—

Wherefore should you do diis? Ay, my lord,

REYNALDO

I would know that. Marry, sir, here’s my drift, And I believe it is a fetch of warrant.4 You laying these slight sullies on my son As ’twere a diing a litde solid i’ th’ working, Mark you, Your party in converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes0 The youth you breathe of guilty, be assured I Ie closes with you in this consequence:6 “Good sir,” or so, or “friend,” or “gentleman”— According to the phrase or the addition' Of man and country— REYNALDO Very good, my lord. POLONIUS And then, sir, does ’a8 this—’a does— What was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something! Where did I leave? REYNALDO At “closes in the consequence,” at “friend POLONIUS

40

45

so

or so,” and “gentleman.”

At “closes in die consequence”—Ay, marry! He closes thus: “I know the gentleman; I saw him yesterday, or t’other day, Or then, or then, with such or such, and, as you say, There was ’a gaming, there o’ertook in’s rouse, There falling out at tennis”; or perchance, “I saw him enter such a house of sale,” Videlicet,9 a brothel, or so forth.

POLONIUS

55

60

See you now—

65

Your bait of falsehood take this carp of truth, And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,10 With windlasses11 and with assays of bias,12

habitual licentiousness

ingeniously,

delicately

'''Of general assault common to all bHaving . . . crimes if he has ever been seen in the

men 4fetch of warrant justifiable device aforementioned crimes bHe closes this consequence he falls in with you in this conclusion tide hhe Tamely 10far-reaching awareness(?) ^circuitous i1"' courses 12 assays of bias indirect attempts (metaphor from bowling; bias = curved course)

Act II, Scene I

Hamlet

829

By indirections find directions out. So, by my former lecture and advice, Shall you my son. You have me, have you not? REYNALDO My lord, I have. POLONIUS God bye ye, fare ve well. REYNALDO Good my lord. POLONIUS Observe his inclination in yourself.1 REYNALDO I shall, my lord. POLONIUS And let him ply his music. REYNALDO Well, my lord. POLONIUS Farewell. Exit REYNALDO.

70

Enter OPIIELLY. 75

80

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90

95

ioo

How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter? OPIIELLY O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted! POLONIUS With what, i’ th’ name of God? OPHELIA My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,2 Lord Iiamlet, with his doublet all unbraced,2 No hat upon his head, his stockings fouled, Ungartered, and down-gyved4 to his ankle, Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in purport,5 As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors—he comes before me. POLONIUS Mad for thy love? OPHELIA My lord, I do not know, But truly I do fear it. POLONIUS What said he? OPtlELLY He took me by the wrist and held me hard; Then goes he to the length of all his arm, And with his other hand thus o’er his brow He falls to such perusal of my face As ’a would draw it. Long stayed he so. At last, a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving up and down, He raised a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk And end his being. That done, he lets me go, And, with his head over his shoulder turned, He seemed to find his way without his eyes, For out o’ doors he went without their helps, And to the last bended their light on me. POLONIUS Come, go with me. I will go seek the King. This is the very ecstasy’ of love, Whose violent property fordoes' itself And leads the will to desperate undertakings

lin yourself for yourself

^private room

4down-gyved hanging down like fetters

destroys

3doublet all unbraced jacket entirely unlaced

’^expression

madness

property fordoes quality

830

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

105

As oft as any passions under heaven That does afflict our natures. I am sorry. What, have you given him any hard words of late? OPHELIA No, my good lord; but as you did command, I did repel his letters and denied His access to me, POLONIUS That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and judgment I had not quoted1 him. I feared he did but trifle And meant to wrack thee; but beshrew my jealousy.8 By heaven, it is as proper3 to our age To cast beyond ourselves4 in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. Come, go we to the King. This must be known, which, being kept close, might move More grief to hide than hate to utter love.5 Come.

no

ns

120

Act II, Scene II

Exeunt.

Scene II. The castle. Flourish. Enter KING and QUEEN, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN [with others].

Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstem. Moreover that1' we much did long to see you, The need we have to use you “did provoke Our hasty sending. Something have you heard Of Hamlet’s transformation: so call it, Sith' nor th’ exterior nor the inward man Resembles that it was. What it should be, More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him So much from th’ understanding of himself, I cannot dream of. I entreat you both That, being of so8 young days brought up widi him, And sith so neighbored to his youth and havior,9 That you vouchsafe your rest10 here in our court Some little time, so by your companies To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus, That opened11 lies within our remedy. QUEEN Good gentlemen, he hath much talked of you, And sure 1 am, two men there is not living To whom he more adheres. If it will please you KING

5

10

is

20

Toted

~beshrew my jealousy curse on my suspicions

ourselves to be overcalculating

;3natural

4To cast beyond

°Come, go . . . utter love (the general meaning is that while

telling the King of Hamlet’s love may anger the King, more grief would come from keeping it secret)

'Moreover that beside the fact that

havior behavior in his youth

'since

8 of so from such

10vouchsafe your rest consent to remain

^youth and nrevealed

Act II, Scene II

25

30

35

Hamlet

831

To show us so much gentry1 and good will As to expend your time with us awhile For the supply and profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits a king’s remembrance. ROSENCRANTZ Both your Majesties Might, by the sovereign power von have of us, Put your dread pleasures more into command Mian to entreaty. GUILDENSTERN But we both obey, And here give up ourselves in the full bent2 To lay our sendee freely at your feet, To be commanded. KING Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstem. QUEEN Thanks, Guildenstem and gende Rosencrantz. And I beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed son. Go, some of you, Mid bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is. GUILDENSTERN I leavens make our presence and our practices Pleasant and helpful to him! QUEEN

Ay, amen!

Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN [ with some ATTENDANTS]. Enter POLONIUS. 40

45

so

Mi’ ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, Are joyfully returned. KING Thou still3 hast been the father of good news. POLONIUS Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege, I hold my duty, as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious king; And I do think, or else this brain of mine Blunts not the trial of policy so sure4 As it hath used to do, that I have found The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy, KING O, speak of that! That do I long to hear. POLONIUS Give first admittance to tlT ambassadors. My news shah be the fruit to that great feast. POLONIUS

KING

Mivself do grace to them and bring them in.

[Exit POLONIUS. ]

55

He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found The head and source of all your son’s distemper. QUEEN

I doubt5 it is no other but the main,"

His father’s death and our o’erliasty marriage. KING Well, we shall sift him.

1 courtesy

2in the full bent entirely (the figure is of a bow bent to its capacity)

4Hunts not ... so sure does not follow clues of political doings with such sureness "principal point

aalways °suspect

832

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act II, Scene II

Enter POLONIUS, VOLTEMAiYD,,cincl CORNELIUS.

60

65

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75

Welcome, my good friends. Say, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway? VOLTEMAND Most fair return of greetings and desires. Upon our first,1 fie sent out to suppress I Iis nephew’s levies, which to him appeared To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack; But better looked into, he truly found It was against your Highness, whereat grieved, That so his sickness, age, and impotence 1 Was falsely borne in hand,' sends out arrests On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys, Receives rebuke from Norway, and in fine,3 Makes vow before his uncle never more To give th’ assay4 of arms against your Majesty. Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him threescore thousand crowns in annual fee And his commission to employ those soldiers, So levied as before, against the Polack, With an entreaty, herein further shown, [ Gives a paper.]

so

That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this enterprise, On such regards of safety and allowance5 As therein are set down, KING It likes us well; And at our more considered time6 we’ll read, Answer, and think upon this business. Meantime, we thank you for your well-took labor. Go to your rest; at night we’ll feast together. Most welcome home!

85

9o

95

Exeunt Ambassadors.

This business is well ended. My liege and madam, to expostulate' What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,8 And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. Mad call I it, for, to define true madness, What is’t but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go. QUEEN More matter, with less art. POLONIUS Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he’s mad, ’tis true: ’tis tine ’tis pity, POLONIUS

1 first audience

~borne in hand deceived

allowance i.e., conditions understanding

Hn fine finally

* Trial

6considered time time proper for considering

5regards of safety and 7discuss

8wisdom,

Act II, Scene II

100

los

Hamlet

833

And pity ’tis true—a foolish figure.1 But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him then; and now remains That we find out the cause of this effect, Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause. Thus it remains, and the remainder thus, Perpend.2 I have a daughter: have, while she is mine, Who in her duty and obedience, mark, Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise. [Reads] the letter.

no

ns

120

125

130

135

‘Ho the celestial, and my soul’s idol, die most beautified Ophelia”— That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase; “beautified” is a vile phrase. But you shall hear. Thus: “In her excellent white bosom, these, &c. ” QUEEN Came this from Hamlet to her? POLONIUS Good madam, stay awhile. I will be faithful. “Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt8 truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love. O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers.4 I have not art to reckon my groans; but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine0 is to him, HAMLET.” This in obedience hath my daughter shown me, And more above8 hath his solicitings, As they fell out by time, by means, and place, All given to mine ear. KING But how hath she Received his love? POLONIUS What do you think of me? KING As a man faithful and honorable. POLONIUS I would fain prove so. But what might you think, When I had seen this hot love on the wing (As I perceived it, I must tell you that, Before my daughter told me), what might you, Or my dear Majesty your Queen here, think, If I played the desk or table book,' Or given my heart a winking,8 mute and dumb, Or looked upon this love with idle sight? What might you think? No, I went round to work

1 figure of rhetoric

verses

^consider carefully

“complex device (here, his body)

book i.e., been a passive recipient of secrets

Csuspect

dll at these numbers unskilled in

''more above in addition closing of the eyes

‘played the desk or table

834

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

140

And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: “Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star.1 This must not be.” And then I prescripts gave her, That she should lock herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. Which done, she took the fruits of my advice, And he, repelled, a short tale to make, Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, Thence to a watch,2 thence into a weakness, Thence to a lightness,8 and, by this declension, Into the madness wherein now he raves, And all we mourn for. KING Do you think tis this? QUEEN It may be, very like. POLONIUS Hath there been such a time, I would fain know that, That I have positively said ‘Tis so,” When it proved otherwise? KING Not that I know. POLONIUS [Pointing to his head and shoulder ] Take this from this, if this be otherwise. If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the center.4 KING How may we try it further? POLONIUS You know sometimes he walks four hours together Here in the lobby. QUEEN So he does indeed. POLONIUS At such a time. I’ll loose my daughter to him. Be you and I behind an arras5 then. Mark the encounter. If he love her not, And be not from his reason fall’ll thereon, Let me be no assistant for a state But keep a farm and carters. KING WTe will try it.

145

iso

155

160

165

Act II, Scene II

Enter HAMLET reading on a hook.

But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading. POLONIUS Away, I do beseech you both, away. QUEEN

Exit KING and QUEEN. 170

I’ll board him presently.(> O, give me leave. How does my good Lord Hamlet? ILtMLET Well, God-a-mercy. POLONIUS Do you know me, my lord? HAMLET Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.'

1 sphere

Avakefulness

front of a wall

3mental derangement

v deenter of the earth

’’hoard him presently accost him at once

5tapestry hanging in

'dealer in fish (slang for a procurer)

Act II, Scene II

175

180

190

835

Not I, my lord. HAMLET Then I would you were so honest a man. POLONIUS Honest, my lord? HAMLET Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. POLONIUS That’s very true, my lord. HAMLET For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing car¬ rion1-Have you a daughter? POLONIUS

POLONIUS 185

Hamlet

I have, my lord.

Let her not walk f th’ sun. Conception2 is a blessing, but as your daugh¬ ter may conceive, friend, look to’t. POLONIUS [Aside] How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first. ’A said I was a fishmonger. ’A is far gone, far gone. And truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love, very near this. I’ll speak to him again—What do you read, my lord? HAMLET Words, words, words. ILAMLET

POLONIUS

What is the matter, my lord?

Between who? POLONIUS I mean the matter3 that you read, my lord. HAMLET Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here that old men have gray beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plumtree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams. All which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty4 to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, should be old as I am if, like a crab, you could go backward. POLONIUS [Aside] Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t. Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave. POLONIUS Indeed, that’s out of the air. [Aside] How pregnant0 sometimes his replies are! A happiness6 that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him and suddenly contrive tlie means of meeting between him and my daughter.—My lord, I will take my leave of you. ILAMLET You cannot take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal— except my life, except my life, except my life. ILAMLET

195

200

205

Enter GUILDENSTERN and ROSENCRANTZ. 210

Fare you well, my lord. ILAMLET These tedious old fools! POLONIUS You go to seek the Lord I Iamlet? There he is. ROSENCRANTZ [ To POLONIUS] God save you, sir!

POLONIUS

[Exit POLONIUS. | GUILDENSTERN

215

ROSENCRANTZ

My honored lord! My most dear lord!

la good kissing carrion (perhaps the meaning is “a good piece of flesh to kiss? but many editors

emend good to god, taking the word to refer to the sun) 2(1) understanding (2) becoming preg¬ nant 'Tolonius means “subject matter,” but Ilamlet pretends to take the word in the sense of “quarrel” 4decency °meaningful 6apt turn of phrase

836

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act II, Scene II

My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstem? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do you both? ROSENCRANTZ As the indifferent1 children of the earth. GUILDENSTERN Ilappy in that we are not overhappv. On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button' HAMLET Nor the soles of her shoe? ROSENCRANTZ Neither, my lord. HAMLET Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favors? GUILDENSTERN Faith, her privates2 we. HAMLET In the secret parts of Fortune? O, most tripe! She is a strumpet. What news? ROSENCRANTZ None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest. HAMLET Then is doomsday near. But your news is not true. Let me question more in particular. What have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune that she sends you to prison hither? GUILDENSTERN Prison, my lord? HAMLET Denmark’s a prison. ROSENCRANTZ Then is the world one. HAMLET A goodly one, in which there are many confines, wards,3 and dungeons, Denmark being one o’ th’ worst. ROSENCRANTZ We think not so, my lord. HAMLET Why, then ’tis none to you, for there is nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison. ROSENCRANTZ Why then your ambition makes it one. Tis too narrow for your mind. HAMLET O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a Icing of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. GUILDENSTERN Which dreams indeed are ambition, for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. HAMLET A dream itself is but a shadow. ROSENCRANTZ Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow. HAMLET Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretched heroes the beggars’ shadows.4 Shall we to th’ court? For, by my fay,5 I cannot reason. BOTH We’ll wait upon you. HAMLET No such matter. I will not sort you with the rest of my servants, for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore? ROSENCRANTZ To visit you, my lord; no other occasion. HAMLET Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks, but I thank you; and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny.6 Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, come, deal justly with me. Come, come; nay, speak. GUILDENSTERN What should we say, my lord? HAMLET Why anything—but to th’ purpose. You were sent for, and there is a HAMLET

220

225

230

235

240

245

250

255

260

1 ordinary

Ordinary men (with a pun on “private parts”)

Yells

4Then are . . . beggars

shadows i.e., by your logic, beggars (lacking ambition) are substantial, and great men are elongated shadows Taith 6too dear a halfpenny i. e., not worth a halfpenny

Act II, Scene II

265

270

275

280

285

290

Hamlet

837

land ol confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to color. I know the good King and Queen have sent for you. ROSENCRANTZ To what end, my lord? HAMLET That you must teach me. But let me conjure you by the rights of our fellowship, by die consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-pre¬ served love, and by what more dear a better proposer can charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no. ROSENCRANTZ [ Aside to GUIL DEN STERN ] What say you? HAMLET [Aside] Nay then, I have an eye of you.—If you love me, hold not off. GUILDENSTERN My lord, we were sent for. HAMLET I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery,1 and your secrecy to the King and Queen molt no feather. I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted' with golden fire: why, it appearedi nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express3 and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god: the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals; and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so. ROSENCRANTZ My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts. HAMLET Why did ye laugh then, when I said “Man delights not me”? ROSENCRANTZ To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what lenten4 enter¬ tainment the players shall receive from you. We cotedD them on the way, and hither are they coming to offer you service. ILAMLET lie that plays the king shall be welcome; his Majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous maiT shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle o’ tlT sere;3 and the lady shall say her mind freely, or9 the blank verse shall halt10 fort. What players are they? ROSENCRANTZ Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the tragedians

295

of the city.

IIow chances it they travel? Their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways. ROSENCRANTZ I think their inhibition11 comes by the means of the late innova¬ HAMLET

tion. 300

12

HAMLET

Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are

they so followed? ROSENCRANTZ No indeed, are they not ILAMLET IIow comes it? Do they grow rusty? ROSENCRANTZ Nay, their endeavor keeps in the wonted pace, but there is, sir,

1prevent your discovery forestall your disclosure 'shield

3exact

‘meager

’^overtook

7humorous man i.e., eccentric (among stock characters in dramas were men dominated

by a “humor” or odd trait) 9else

'adorned

10limp

1'hindrance

3tickle o’ th’ sere on hair trigger (sere = part of the gunlock) "probably an allusion to the companies of child actors that had

become popular and were offering serious competition to the adult actors

838

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

305

an eyrie1 of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question2 and are most tyrannically3 clapped for’t. These are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages4 (so they call them) that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goosequills0 and dare scarce come thither. HAMLET What, are they children? Who maintains ’em? How are they escoted?6 Will they pursue the quality' no longer than they can sing? Will they not sav afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players (as it is most like, if their means are no better), their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim against their own succession?8 ROSENCRANTZ Faith, there has been much to-do Qn both sides, and the nation holds it no sin to tarre' ’ them to controversy. There was, for a while, no monev bid for argument10 unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question. HAMLET Is’t possible? GUILDENSTERK O, there has been much throwing about of brains. HAMLET Do the boys earn' it away? ROSENCRANTZ Ay, that they do, my lord—Hercules and his load11 too. HAMLET It is not very strange, for niv uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived give twenty, fortv, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little. ’Sblood,12 there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.

3io

315

320

Act II, Scene II

A flourish. 325

330

There are the players. HAMLET Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come then. Th’ appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply13 with you in this garb,14 lest my extent10 to the players (which I tell you must show fairly outwards) should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome. But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived. GUILDENSTERN In what, my dear lord? HAMLET I am but mad north-northwest:10 when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw. GUILDENSTERN

Enter POLONHJS.

Well be with you, gentlemen. HAMLET Hark you, Guildenstem, and you too; at each ear a hearer. That great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts. ROSENCRANTZ Happily18 he is the second time come to them, for they say an old man is twice a child. POLONIUS

335

I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it.—You say right, sir; a Monday morning, ’twas then indeed.

HAMLET 340

nest debate

'eyases, that . . . of question unfledged hawks that ciy shrilly above others in matters of ’Violently

4berattle the common stages cry down the public theaters (with the adult

acting companies)

°pens (of satirists who ridicule the public theaters and their audiences)

'financially supported

'profession of acting

8future

''incite

10plot of a play

11 Hercules

and. his load i.e., the whole world (with a reference to the Globe Theatre, which had a sign that represented Hercules bearing the globe) lsby God’s blood 13be courteous 14outward 16- „ show 15behavior l. e. on one point of the compass only u hawk from, a handsaw (hawk can refer not only to a bud but to a kind of pickax; fund saw—a caipenter’s tool—may involve a similar pun on “hemshaw,” a heron) 18perhaps

Act II, Scene II

Hamlet

839

My lord, I have news to tell you. HAMLET My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius1 was an actor in Rome—

POLONIUS

POLONIUS

llie actors are come hither, my lord.

Buzz, buzz.' POLONIUS Upon my honor— HAMLET Then came each actor on his ass— POLONIUS The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pas¬ toral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comicalhistorical-pastoral; scene individable,3 or poem unlimited.4 Seneca5 cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus6 too light. For the law of writ and the liberty,/ these are tlie only men. ILAMLET O Jeptha, judge of Israel,3 what a treasure hadst thou! POLONIUS What a treasure had he, my lord? IIAMLET Why, “One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well. ” POLONIUS [Aside] Still on my daughter. HAMLET Am I not i’ th’ right, old Jeptha? POLONIUS If you call me Jeptha, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well. HAMLET Nav, that follows not. POLONIUS What follows then, my lord? HAMLET Why, “As by lot, God wot, ” and then, you know, “It came to pass, as most like it was. ” The first row of the pious chanson9 will show you more, for look where my abridgment10 comes. IIAMLET

345

350

355

360

365

Enter the PLAYERS.

370

375

You are welcome, masters, welcome, all. I am glad to see thee well. Welcome, good friends. O, old friend, why, thy face is valanced11 since I saw thee last. Com’st thou to beard me in Denmark? What, my young lady1' and mistress? By’r Lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last by the altitude of a chopine.13 Pray God your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring.14—Masters, you are all welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers, flv at anything we see. We’ll have a speech straight. Come, give us a taste of your quality. Come, a passionate speech. PLAYER What speech, my good lord?

Ta famous Roman comic actor is old)

'Buzz, buzz (an inteq'ection perhaps indicating that the news

3scene individable plays observing the unities of time, place, and action

ited plays not restricted by the tenets of criticism dramatist

Toman tragic dramatist

4poem unlim¬ ' Roman comic

For the law of writ and the liberty (perhaps “for sticking to the text and for impro¬

vising”; perhaps “for classical plays and for modem loosely written plays”)

8Jeptha, judge of

Israel (the tide of a ballad on the Hebrew judge who sacrificed his daughter; see Judges 11) of the pious chanson stanza of the scriptural song (2) interrupters shoe

11 fringed (with a beard)

'row

10( 1) i.e., entertainers, who abridge the time

vzyoung lady i. e., boy for female roles

13thick-soled

ulike a piece . . . the ring (a coin was unfit for legal tender if a crack extended from the

edge through the ring enclosing the monarch’s head. Hamlet, punning on ring, refers to the change of voice that the boy actor will undergo)

840

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act II, Scene II

I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted, or if it was, not above once, for the play, I remember, pleased not the million; ’twas caviary to the general,1 but it was (as I received it, and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in the top of' mine) an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning.3 I remember one said there were no sallets4 in the lines to make the matter savory; nor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of affectation, but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than line.5 One speech in’t I chiefly loved. Twas Aeneas’ tale to Dido, and thereabout of it especially when he speaks of Priam’s slaughter. Iffft live in your memory, begin at this line—-let me see, let me see: “The rugged Pyrrhus, like th’ Hyrcanian beast*'—” Tis not so; it begins with Pyrrhus: “The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable' arms, Black as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in tli’ ominous horse,8 Hath now this dread and black complexion smeared With heraldry more dismal.9 Head to foot Now is he total gules, horridly tricked10 With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Baked and impasted11 with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and a damned light To their lord’s murder. Roasted in wrath and fire, And thus o’ersized1' with coagulate gore, With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks.” So, proceed you. POLONIUS Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion. PLAYER “Anon he Ends him, Striking too short at Greeks. Plis antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command.13 Unequal matched, Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide, But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword Th’ unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,14 Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top Stoops to his base,15 and with a hideous crash Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear. For lo, his sword, Which was declining on the milky head Of reverend Priam, seemed i’ th’ air to stick. So as a painted tyrant10 Pyrrhus stood, And like a neutral to his will and matter17 HAMLET

380

385

390

395

400

405

4io

415

420

1 caviary to the general i. e., too choice for the multitude as cunning restraint as art rather than ornamented

4salads, spicy jests

“encrusted

14senseless Ilium insensate Troy rant tyrant in a picture “task

3modesty

°more handsome than fine well-proportioned

"'Hyrcanian beast i.e., tigef (Ilyrcania was in Asia)

horse i.e., wooden horse at the siege of Troy red, horridly adorned

'in the top of overtopping

9ill-omened

“smeared over

7black

8ominous

wtotal gules, horridly tricked all

lsRepugnant to command disobedient

loStoops to his^base collapses (his = its)

16painted ty¬

Act II, Scene II

425

430

435

440

445

450

455

460

465

Hamlet

841

Did nothing. But as we often see, against1 some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack' stand still, The bold winds speechless, and the orb below As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder Doth rend the region, so after Pyrrhus’ pause, A roused vengeance sets him new awork, And never did die Cyclops’ hammers fall On Mars’s armor, forged for proof eteme,3 With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword Now falls on Priam. Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you gods, In general synod4 take away her power, Break all the spokes and fellies0 from her wheel, And bowl the round nave6 down the hill of heaven, As low as to the fiends. ” POLONIUS This is too long. HAMLET It shall to the barber’s, with your beard.—Prithee say on. He’s for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to Hecuba. PLAYER “But who (ah woe!) had seen die molded' queen—” HAMLET ‘The mobled queen”? POLONIUS That’s good, “Mobled queen” is good. PLAYER “Run barefoot up and down, threat’ning the flames With bisson rheum;8 a clout9 upon that head Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe, About her lank and all o’erteemed10 loins, A blanket in the alarm of fear caught up— Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steeped ’Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pronounced. But if die gods themselves did see her then, When she saw I Airbus make malicious sport In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, The instant burst of clamor that she made (Unless things mortal move them not at all) Would have made milch11 the burning eyes of heaven And passion in the gods. ” POLONIUS Look, whe’r12 he has not turned his color, and has tears in’s eyes. Prithee no more. ILAMLET Tis well. I’ll have thee speak out the rest of this soon. Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed?13 Do you hear? Let them be well used, for thev are the abstract and brief chronicles of die time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live. POLONIUS My lord, I will use them according to their desert. HAMLET God’s bodkin,14 man, much better! Use every man after his desert, and who shall scape whipping? Use them after your own honor and dignity. The less they deserve, die more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.

*just before 8clouds 3proof eteme eternal endurance ^council °rims 'muffled Hbisson rheum blinding tears rag 10exhausted with childbearing (literally, “milk-giving”)

12whether

'Moused

Tub 11 moist

14God’s bodkin by God’s little body

842

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act II, Scene II

Come, sirs. HAMLET Follow him, friends. We’ll hear a play tomorrow. [Aside to PLAYER] Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play The Murder of Gonzago? PLAYER Ay, my lord. HAMLET We’ll ha’t tomorrow night. You could for a need study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines which I would set down and insert in’t, could you not? PLAYER Ay, my lord. HAMLET Very well. Follow that lord, and look you mock him not. My good friends, I’ll leave you till night. You are welcome to Elsinore. PQLONIUS

470

475

Exeunt POLONIUS and PLAYERS. ROSENCRANTZ

Good my lord. Exeunt [ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN].

Ay, so, God bye to you.—Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,1 Could force his soul so to his own conceit2 That from her working all his visage wanned, Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function3 suiting With forms4 to his conceit? And all for nothing! For Hecuba! What’s Flecuba to him, or he tp Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech, Make mad the guilty and appall the free,5 Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled’ rascal, peak Like John-a-dreams,' unpregnant of8 my cause, And can say nothing. No, not for a lung, LTpon whose property and most dear life A damned defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? Breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? Gives me the he i’ th’ throat As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? Ha, ’swounds,9 I should take it, for it cannot be But I am pigeon-livered10 and lack gall

HAMLET

480

485

490

495

500

505

1 dream of passion imaginary emotion

imagination

°appall the free terrify (make pale?) the guiltless John-a-dreams mope like a dreamer 10gentle as a dove

3action

4bodily expressions

6muddy-mettled weak-spirited

8unpregnant of unquickened by

7peak/Like

9 by God’s wounds

Act III, Scene I

510

515

520

525

530

535

Hamlet

To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should ha’ fatted all the region lutes1 With this slave’s offal. Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless' villain! O, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,3 That I, the son of a dear father murdered, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words And fall a-cursing like a very drab,4 A stallion!0 Fie upon’t, foh! About,6 my brains. Hum— I have heard that guilty creatures sitting at a play Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently' They have proclaimed their malefactions. For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle. I’ll observe his looks, I’ll tent8 him to the quick. If’a do blench,6 I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be a devil, and the devil hath power T’ assume a pleasing shape, yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me. I’ll have grounds More relative10 ffian this. The play’s die thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.

843

Exit.

Act III, Scene I. The castle. Enter KING, QUEEN, POLONIES, OPHELIA, ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN, LORDS.

Mid can you by no drift of conference11 Get from him why he puts on this confusion, Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy?

KING

ROSENCRANTZ

He does confess he feels himself distracted,

But from what cause ’a will by no means speak. GUILDENSTERN Nor do we find him forward to be sounded,1' But with a crafty madness keeps aloof

1 region kites kites (scavenger birds) of the sky 'unnatural fine ^prostitute male prostitute (perhaps one should adopt the Folio reading, scullion — kitchen wench) to work 'immediately 8probe 'flinch 1 0 probably pertinent, but possibly able to be related plausibly” 11 drift of conference management of conversation 12forward to be sounded willing to be questioned

844

10

15

20

25

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act III, Scene I

When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state. QUEEN Did he receive you well? ROSENCRAXTZ Most like a gentleman. GUILDENSTERX But with much forcing of his disposition.1 ROSENCRAXTZ Niggard of question,2 but of our demands Most free in his reply. QUEEN Did you assay3 him To any pastime? ROSENCRAXTZ Madam, it so fell out that certain players We o’erraught4 on the wav; of these we told him, And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it. They are here about the court, And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him. POLONIUS Tis most true, And he beseeched me to entreat your Majesties To hear and see die matter. ICING With all my heart, and it doth much content me To hear him so inclined. Good gendemen, give him a further edge And drive his purpose into these delights. ROSENCRAXTZ

We shall, my lord.

Exeunt ROSENCRAXTZ and GUILDENSTERX. Sweet Gertrude, leave us too, For we have closely0 sent for Hamlet hither, That he, as ’twere by accident, may here Affront6 Ophelia. Her father and myself (lawful espials)' Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge And gather by him, as he is behaved, Ift be th’ affliction of his love or no That thus he suffers for.

KING 30

35

QUEEN

40

I shall obey you.

And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet’s wildness. So shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again, To both your honors. OPHELIA Madam, I wish it may. Exit QUEEN. Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves. [To OPIIELL4] Read on this book,

POLONIUS

1 forcing of his disposition effort 8Niggard of question uninclined to talk Overtook °secretly '’meet face to face 'spies

3tempt

Act III, Scene I

45

50

55

Hamlet

845

That show of such an exercise may color1 Your loneliness. We are oft to blame in this, Tis too much proved, that with devotion’s visage And pious action we do sugar o’er The devil himself KING [Aside\ 0, ’tis too true. How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plast’ring art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word. O heavy burden! POLONIUS I hear him coming. Let’s withdraw, my lord. Exeunt KIXG and POLONIUS. Enter HAMLET.

To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in die mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep— Xo more—and by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to! Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep— To sleep—perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub,' For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 3 Must give us pause. There’s the respect4 That makes calamity7 of so long life:0 For who would bear die whips and scorns of time, Tli’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus6 make With a bare bodkin?' Who woidd fardels3 bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country, from whose bourn6 Xo traveler returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear diose ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience10 does make cowards of us all,

HAMLET

60

65

70

75

so

1exercise may color act of devotion may give a plausible hue to (the book is one of devotion) 'impediment (obstruction to a bowler’s ball) encircling the soul)

^consideration

^ makes calamity of so long life (1) makes calamity so

long-lived (2) makes living so long a calamity ®burdens

9 region

'(1) turmoil (?) a ring of rope (here the flesh 'full discharge (a legal term)

10self-consciousness, introspection

'dagger

846

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act III, Scene I

And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast1 of thought, And enterprises of great pitch' and moment, With this regard'3 their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.—Soft you now:, The fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons4 Be ah my sins remembered. OPHELIA Good my lord, i low does your honor for this many a day?

85

90

HAMLET

I humbly thank you; well, well, well.

Mv lord, I have remembrances of yours That I have longed long to redeliver. I pray you now, receive them. HAMLET No, not I, I never gave you aught. OPHELIA My honored lord, you know right well you did, And with them words of so sweet breath composed As made these things more rich. Their perfume lost, Take these again, for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord. HAMLET Ha, ha! Are you honest?5 OPHELIA My lord? HAMLET Are you fair? OPHELIA What means your lordship? HAMLET That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.6 OPHELIA Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty? HAMLET Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd' than the force of honesty can translate beau tv into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once. OPHELIA Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. HAMLET You should not have believed me, for virtue cannot so inoculate8 our old stock but we shall relish of it.9 I loved you not. OPHELIA

95

too

105

no

ns

OPHELLA

I was the more deceived.

Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest,10 but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me: I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offenses at my beck11 than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father? OPHELIA At home, my lord. HAMLET

120

125

1 color

'height (a term from falconry)

Consideration

you modest (2) are you chaste (3) have you integrity modesty should permit no approach to your beauty it (our old sinful nature)

4prayers

5Are you honest (1) are

uyour honesty ... to your beauty your

"procurer

*8graft

indifferent honest moderately virtuous

9relish of it smack of

Wall

Act III, Scene I

Hamlet

847

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell. OPHELIA O help him, you sweet heavens! ILAMLET If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get diee to a nunnery. Go, farewell. Or if thou wilt needs marry, many a fool, for wise men know well enough what monsters1 you make of diem. To a nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell. OPHELIA Heavenly powers, restore him! ILAMLET I have heard of your paintings, well enough. God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig and amble, and you lisp; you nickname God’s creatures and make your wantonness your ignorance. ~ Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath made me mad. I say we will have no moe3 marriage. Those that are married already—all but one—shall live. The rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go. Exit. OPILELIA O what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword, Th’ expectancy and rose4 of the fair state, Hie glass of fashion, and the mold of form, 0 Th’ observed of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That sucked the honey of his musicked vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason Like sweet bells jangled, out of time and harsh, That unmatched form and feature of blown6 youth Blasted with ecstasy.' O, woe is me T’ have seen what I have seen, see what I see! ILAMLET

130

135

140

145

150

Enter KING and POLONIUS. Love? His affections8 do not that way tend, Nor what he spake, though it lacked form a little, Was not like madness. There’s something in his soul O’er which his melancholy sits on brood, And I do doubt9 the hatch and the disclose Will be some danger; which for to prevent, I have in quick determination Thus set it down: he shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected tribute. Haply the seas, and countries different, With variable objects, shall expel This something-settled10 matter in his heart, Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus From fashion of himself. What think you on’t? POLONIUS It shall do well. But vet do I believe

KING

155

160

165

homed beasts, cuckolds

zmake your wantonness your ignorance excuse your wanton

speech by pretending ignorance

3more

4expectancy and rose i.e., fair hope

of form the mirror of fashion, and the pattern of excellent behavior inclinations

Year

10somewhat settled

blooming

The glass . . . 'madness

848

170

175

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act III, Scene II

The origin and commencement of his grief Sprung from neglected love. How now, Ophelia? You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said; We heard it all. My lord, do as you please, But if you hold it fit, after the play, Let his queen mother all alone entreat him To show his grief Let her be round1 with him, And I’ll be placed, so please you, in the ear Of all their conference. If she find him not,2 To England send him, or confine him where Your wisdom best shall think. KING It shall be so. Madness in great ones must not unwatched go. Exeunt. Scene II. The castle. Enter HAMLET and three of the PLAAHRS.

iso

185

190

195

200

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me .to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated3 fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings,4 who for the most part are capable of5 nothing but inexplicable dumb shows6 and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant. It outherods Herod.' Pray you avoid it. PLAAHR I warrant your honor. HAMLET Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so o’erdone is from8 the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.9 Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it makes the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your al¬ lowance o’erweigh a whole theater of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to speak it profanely), that neither having th’ accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature’s jour¬ neymen10 had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. HAMLET

blunt headed

'find him not does not find him out

0robustious periwig-pated boisterous wig¬

fihose who stood in the pit of the theater (the poorest and presumably most ignorant of

the audience)

°are capable of are able to understand

6dumb shows (it had been the fashion

for actors to preface plays or parts of plays with silent mime) characters in the old mystery plays) of their craft

Contrary to

7 Termagant . . . Herod (boisterous

ymage, impress

10workers not yet masters

Hamlet

Act III, Scene II

205

849

PLAYER I hope we have reformed that indifferently1 with ns, sir. O, reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them, for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean¬ time some necessary7 question of the play be then to be considered. That’s villainous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready.

ILAMLET

210

Exit PLAYERS. Enter POLONIES, GUILDENSTERN, and ROSENCRANTZ.

215

How now, my lord? Will die King hear this piece of work? POLONIUS /And the Queen too, and that presently. HAMLET Bid the players make haste. Will you two help to hasten them? ROSENCRANTZ

Av,

Exit POLONIES.

my lord.

Exeunt they two. HAMLET

What, ho, Iloratio!

Enter HORATIO. HORATIO

I lere, sweet lord, at your sendee.

Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man As e’er my conversation coped withal.' HORATIO O, my dear lord— HAMLET Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement3 may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe diee? Why should the poor be flattered? No, let the candied4 tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant0 hinges of the knee Where thrift6 may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish her election, S’ hath sealed thee7 for herself, for thou hast been As one, in suffring all, that suffers nothing, A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards Hast ta’en with equal thanks; and blest are those Whose blood8 and judgment are so well commeddled9 That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, av, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much of this— There is a play tonight before the King. One scene of it comes near the circumstance Which I have told thee, of my father’s death. I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot, HAMLET

220

225

230

235

240

Tolerably 2coped withal met with “promotion 4sugared, flattering °(1) pliant (2) full of promise of good fortune 6profit ‘ S’hath sealed thee she (the soul) has set a mark on you 8passion blended

850

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

245

Even with the very comment1 of thy soul Observe my uncle. If his occulted2 guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen, And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan’s stithy.3 Give him heedful note, For I mine eyes will rivet to his face, And after we will both our judgments join In censure of his seeming.4 HORATIO Well, my lord. If ’a steal aught the whilst this play is playing, And scape detecting, I will pay the theft.

250

255

Act III, Scene II

Enter Trumpets and Kettledrums, KING, QUEEN, POLONIUS, OPHELIA, ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDERSTERN, and other LORDS attendant with his Guard carrying

torches. Danish March. Sound a Flourish.

They are coming to the play: I must be idle;5 Get you a place. KING How fares our cousin Hamlet? HAMLET Excellent, i’ faith, of the chameleon’s dish;6 I eat the air, promisecrammed; you cannot feed capons so. KING I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine. HAMLET No, nor mine now. [To POLONIUS] My lord, you played once i’ th’ uni¬ versity, you say? POLONIUS That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor. HAMLET

260

265

HAMLET

What did you enact? -

I did enact Julius Caesar. I was killed i’ th’ Capitol; Brutus killed me. HAMLET It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the players ready? POLONIUS

Ay, my lord. They stay upon your patience. QUEEN Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me. HAMLET No, good mother. Here’s metal and more attractive.' POLONIUS [To the KING] O ho! Do you mark that? HAMLET Lady, shall I lie in your lap? ROSENCRANTZ

270

He lies at Ophelia’s feet. OPHELIA

275

HAMEET OPHELIA HAMLET OPHELIA HAMLET

280

OPHELIA HAMLET OPHELIA HAMLET

No, my lord. I mean, my head upon your lap? Ay, my lord. Do you think I meant country matters?8 I think nothing, my lord. That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs. What is, my lord? Nothing. You are merrv, my lord. Who, I?

xvery comment ~ deepest wisdom shidden 3forge, smithy ^censure of his seeming judgment on his looks °6e idle play the fool bthe chameleons dish air (on which chameleons were thought to live) the pudendum)

'magnetic

8country matters rustic doings (with a pun on the vulgar word for

Hamlet

Act III, Scene II

851

Ay, my lord. HAMLET 0 God, your only jig-maker!1 What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within’s two hours. OPHELIA Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord. HAMLET So long1? Nay then, let die devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables.' O heavens! Die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year. But, by’r Lady, ’a must build churches then, or else shall ’a suffer not thinking on, with die hobby-horse,3 whose epitaph is “For O, for O, the hobby-horse is forgot!” OPHELIA

285

290

The trumpets sound. Dumb show follows: Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly, the Queen embracing him, and he her. She kneels; and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck. He lies him down upon a bank of flowers. She, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon come in another man: takes off his crown, kisses it, pours poison in the sleeper’s ears, and leaves him. The Queen returns, finds the King dead, makes passionate action. The poisoner, with some three or four, come in again, seem to condole with her. The dead body is carried away. The poisoner woos the Queen with gifts; she seems harsh awhile, but in the end accepts love. Exeunt. What means this, my lord? HAMLET Marry, this is miching mallecho;4 it means mischief. OPHELL\ Belike diis show imports the argument'"’ of the play. OPHELL4

295

Enter PROLOGIJE. HAMLET

We shall know by this fellow. Idle players cannot keep counsel; they’ll

tell all. Will ’a tell us what this show meant? HAMLET Ay, or anv show diat you will show him. Be not you ashamed to show, OPHELIA 300

305

he’ll not shame to tell you what it means. OPHELIA You are naught,0 you are naught; I’ll mark the play. PROLOGUE For us, and for our tragedy, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing patiently. HAMLET Is this a prologue, or the posy ol a ring?' OPHELL4 ’Tis brief, my lord. HAMLET As woman’s love.

[Exit.]

Enter [two PLAYERS as] King and Queen. Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart3 gone round Neptune’s salt wash9 and Tellus’10 orbed ground,

PLAYER KING 310

komposer of songs and dances (often a Fool, who performed them) “luxurious furs”

knock horse worn by a performer in the morris dance

mallecho sneaking mischief j-p^g

’plot

sPhoebus’ cart the sun’s chariot

the earth

2pun on “black” and

wicked, improper

1miching

posy of a ring motto inscribed in a

Neptune s salt wash the sea

Roman goddess of

852

315

320

325

330

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

And thirty dozen moons with borrowed sheen About the world have times twelve thirties been, Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands, Unite commutual in most sacred bands. PLAYER QUEEN So many journeys may the sun and moon Make us again count o’er ere love be done! But woe is me, you are so sick of late, So far from cheer and from your former state, That I distrust1 you. Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must. For women fear too much, even as they love, And women’s fear and love hold quantity, In neither aught, or in extremity.2 Now what my love is, proof3 hath made you know, And as my love is sized, my fear is so. Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there. PLAYER KING Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too; My operant4 powers their functions leave to do: And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, Honored, beloved, and haply one as kind For husband shalt thou— PLAYER QUEEN

335

340

350

355

O, confound the rest!

Such love must needs be treason in my breast. In second husband let me be .accurst! None wed the second but who lulled the first. HAMLET [Aside] That’s wormwood.5 PLAYER QUEEN The instances6 that second marriage move7 Are base respects of thrift,8 but none of love. A second time I lull my husband dead When second husband losses me in bed. PLAYER KING

345

Act III, Scene II

I do believe you think what now you speak,

But what we do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent birth, but poor validity,6 Which now like fruit unripe sticks on the tree, But fall unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary ’tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt. What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, dodi the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures10 with themselves destroy: Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament; Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.

Gm anxious about

'And women’s ... in extremity (perhaps the idea is that women’s

anxiety is great or little in proportion to their love. The previous line, unrhvmed, mav be a false start that Shakespeare neglected to delete) 3experience 4active 5a bitter herb induce 8respects of thrift considerations of profit 9strength 10acts

6motives

Act III, Scene II

360

365

370

375

380

Hamlet

853

This world is not for aye, nor ’tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change, For ’tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favorite flies; The poor advanced makes friends of enemies; And hitherto doth love on fortune tend, For who not needs shall never lack a friend; And who in want a hollow friend doth try, Directly seasons him1 his enemy. But, orderly to end where I begun, Our wills and fates do so contrary run ddiat our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. So think thou wilt no second husband wed, But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead. PLAYER QUEEN Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light, Sport and repose lock from me day and night, To desperation turn my trust and hope, An anchor’s2 cheer in prison be my scope, Each opposite that blanks'- the face of joy Meet what I would have well, and it destroy: Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife, If, once a widow, ever I be wife! HAMLET

If she should break it now!

Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile; My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. PLAYER QUEEN Sleep rock thy brain, PLAYER KING

[He] sleeps. 385

And never come mischance between us twain! HAMLET Madam, how like you this play? QUEEN Hie lady doth protest too much, methinks. ILAMLET

Exit.

O, but she’ll keep her word.

Have you heard the argument?4 Is there no offense in’t? HANHET No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offense i’ th’ world. KING What do you call the play? HAMLET The Mousetrap. Marry, how? Tropically. 5 This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the Duke’s name; his wife, Baptista. You shall see anon. ’Tis a knavish piece of work, but what of that? Your Majesty, and we that have free6 souls, it touches us not Bet the galled jade winch;' our

KING 390

395

withers are unwrung. Enter LUCIANUS. This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King. 1seasons him ripens him into that blanches horse wince

4plot

'anchorite’s, hermit’s

5figumtively (with a pun on “trap”)

1opposite that blanks adverse thing '’innocent

‘ galled jade winch chafed

854

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act III, Scene II

You are as good as a chorus, my lord. HAMLET I could interpret1 between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying. OPHELIA You are keen,2 my lord, you are keen. OPHELIA

400

HAMLET

It would cost you a groaning to tak'e off mine edge.

Still better, and worse. HAMLET So you mistake3 your husbands.—Begin, murderer, heave thy damnable faces and begin. Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge. LUCLANUS Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing, Confederate season,4 else no creature seeing, Thou mixture rank of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate’s ban° thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property6 On wholesome life usurps immediately. OPHELIA

405

4io

Pours the poison in his ears. HAMLET

415

420

’A poisons him i’ th’ garden for his estate. His name’s Gonzago. The

story is extant, and written in very choice Italian. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife. OPHELIA The Kang rises. HAMLET What, frighted with false fire?' QUEEN How fares my lord? POLONIUS Give o’er the play. KING Give me some light. Away! POLONHJS Lights, lights, lights.! Exeunt all but HAMLET and HORATIO.

Why, let the strucken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play: For some must watch, while some must sleep; Thus runs the world away. Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers8—if the rest of my fortunes turn lurk with me—with two Provincial roses10 on my razed11 shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry12 of players? HORATIO Half a share. HAMLET A whole one, I. For thou dost know, O Damon dear, Hiis realm dismantled was Of Jove himself; and now reigns here A very, very—pajock.13 HORATIO You might have rhymed.14 HAMLET O good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive? HAMLET

425

430

435

Hike a showman explaining the action of puppets taking

2(1) sharp (2) sexually aroused

4Confederate season the opportunity allied with me

goddess of sorcery

6nature

part of a costume

furn Turk i. e., go bad, treat me badly

°Hecate’s ban the curse of the

'false fire blank discharge of firearms

roses of Provence (?) “ornamented with slashes might have rhymed i.e., rhymed “was” with “ass” 'V

3err in

8plumes were sometimes

10Prouincial roses rosettes like the

“pack, company

“peacock

uYou

Hamlet

Act III, Scene II

855

Very well, my lord. HAMLET Upon the talk of poisoning? HORATIO I did very well note him. ILAVILET Ah ha! Come, some music! Come, the recorders!1 For if the Iking like not the comedy, Why then, belike he likes it not, perdy.2 Come, some music! HORATIO

440

Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILD ENSTERX.

Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. HAMLET Sir, a whole history. GUILDENSTERN The Iking, sir— HAMLET Av, sir, what of him? GUILDENSTERN Is in his retirement marvelous distemp’red. HAMLET With drink, sir? GUILDENSTERN No, my lord, with choler.1 HAMLET Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to the doctor, for for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into more choler. GLIILDENSTERN Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame,4 and start not so wildly from my affair. HAMLET I am tame, sir; pronounce. GUILDENSTERN The Queen, your mother, in most great affliction of spirit hath sent me to you. HAMLET You are welcome. GUILDENSTERN Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s commandment: if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my busi¬ GUILDENSTERN

445

450

455

460

ness. HAMLET 465

Sir, I cannot.

ROSENCRANTZ

What, mv lord?

Make you a wholesome5 answer; my wit’s diseased. But, sir, such an¬ swer as I can make, you shall command, or rather, as you say, my mother. Therefore no more, but to die matter. My mother, you say— ROSENCRANTZ Then thus she says: your behavior hath struck her into amazement and admiration.6 HAMLET O wonderful son, that can so stonish a mother! But is diere no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration? Impart. ROSENCRANTZ She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed. HAMLET We shall obey, were she ten times our modier. Have you any further

HAMLET

470

475

trade with us? My lord, you once did love me. HAMLET And do still, by these pickers and stealers.' ROSENCRANTZ Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your griefs to your friend. ROSENCRANTZ

480

HAMLET

g Sir, I lack advancement.'

1 flutelike instruments

2by God (French : par dieu)

word in its sense of “biliousness”)

3anger (but Hamlet pretends to take the

4frame order, control

°sane

6wonder

‘pickers and

stealers i.e., hands (with reference to the prayer “Keep my hands from picking and stealing”)

promotion

856

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

ROSENCRANTZ

Act III, Scene II

How can that be, when you have the voice of the King himself

for your succession in Denmark?

Enter the PLAYERS with recorders. HAMLET

Ay, sir, but “while the grass grows’'—the proverb1 is something musty.

O, the recorders. Let me see one. To withdraw2 with you—why do you go about to recover the wind3 of me as if you would drive me into a toil4?4

485

GLTLDENSTERN

0 my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.5

I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe? GLTLDENSTERN My lord, I cannot. HAMLET HAMLET 490

I pray you.

GUILD ENSTERN HAMLET

Believe me, I cannot.

I pray you. J J -L

Believe me, I cannot. I do beseech you.

GLTLDENSTERN HAMLET

GLTLDENSTERN

495

HAMLET

I know no touch of it, my lord.

It is as easy as lying. Govern these ventages6 with your fingers and

thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops. GLTLDENSTERN

But these cannot I command to any utt’ranee of harmony; I have

not the skill. 500

HAMLET

Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would

play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass;7 and there is much, music, excellent voice, in this little organ,8 yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on 505

than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret9 me, you cannot play upon me. Enter POLONIUS. God bless you, sir! POLONIUS

My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently.

Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? POLONIUS By th’ mass and ’tis, like a camel indeed. HAMLET Methinks it is like a weasel. HAMLET

5io

POLONIUS HAMLET POLONIUS sis

It is backed like a weasel. Or like a whale. Very like a whale.

Then I will come to my mother by and by. [Aside] They fool me to the top of my bent.10—I will come by and bv.11

HAMLET

POLONIUS hamlet

I will say so.

Exit.

“By and by” is easily said. Leave me, friends. | Exeunt all hut HAMLET. ]

1 “While the grass groweth, the horse starveth” the windward side (as in hunting)

4snare

2speak in private

3recover the wind get on

°if myrduty . . . too unmannerly i. e., if these ques¬

tions seem rude, it is because my love for you leads me beyond good manners. a recorder

range of voice

i.e., the recorder

Vents, stops on

Vex (with a pun alluding to the frets, or ridges,

that guide the fingering on some instruments) 10T7^ey fool . . . my bent they compel me to play the fool to the limit of my capacity uby and by very soon

Hamlet

Act III, Scene III

857

Tis now the very witching time of night, 520

When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft, now to my mother. O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever

525

'flie soul of Nero1 enter this firm bosom. Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none. My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites: How in my words somever she be shent,'

530

Exit.

To give them seals1 never, my soul, consent!

Scene III. The castle.

Enter KING, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN. KING

I like him not, nor stands it safe with us

To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you. I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you. 5

The terms4 of our estate may not endure Hazard so near’s5 as dodi hourly grow Out of his brows. GUILDENSTERN

We will ourselves provide.

Most holy and religious fear it is To keep diose many many bodies safe 10

That live and feed upon your Majesty. ROSENCRANTZ Hie single and peculiar6 life is bound With all the strength and armor of the mind To keep itself from noyance, ‘ but much more That spirit upon whose weal depends and rests

15

The lives of many. The cess of majesty8 Dies not alone, but like a gulf6 doth draw What’s near it with it; or it is a massy wheel Fixed on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things

20

Are mortised and adjoined, which when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends10 the boist’rous ruin. Never alone Did the King sigh, but with a general groan. KING Ann11 you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage,

25

For we will fetters put about this fear, Which now goes too free-footed. We will haste us.

ROSENCRANTZ

Exeunt GENTLEMEN. 'Roman emperor who had liis mother murdered with deeds

^conditions

(death) of a king

"’near us

'whirlpool

rebuked

individual, private

"waits on, participates in

give them senls confirm them

"injury prepare

cess of majesty cessation

858

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act III, Scene III

Enter POLONIUS.

My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet. Behind the arras I’ll convey myself To hear the process.1 I’ll warrant she’ll tax him home,8 And, as you said, and wisely was it said, Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear The speech of vantage.3 Fare you well, my liege. I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed And tell you what I know. KING Thanks, dear my lord. POLONIUS

30

35

Exit [POLONIUS].

O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse4 upon’t, A brother’s murder. Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will. My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And like a man to double business bound I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront0 the visage of offense? And what’s in prayer but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardoned being down? Then I’ll look up. My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? “Forgive me my foul murder”? That cannot be, since I am still possessed Of those effects3 for which I did the murder, My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardoned and retain th’ offense? In the corrupted currents of this world Offense’s gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law. But ’tis not so above. There is no shuffling;7 there the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compelled Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests?8 Try what repentance can. What can it not? \et what can it when one cannot repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed9 soul, that struggling to be free

40

45

so

55

60

65

tax him home censure him sharply 3of vantage from an advantageous 4primal eldest curse curse of Cain, who killed Abel 5oppose 6things gained

proceedings place trickery birds)

remains

Taught (as with birdlime, a sticky substance spread on boughs to snare vV

Hamlet

Act III, Scene IV

859

Art more engaged!1 Help, angels! Make assay.2 70

Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe. All may be well.

He kneels.

Enter HAMLET. HAMLET

Now might I do it pat, now ’a is a-praving,

And now I’ll do’t. And so ’a goes to heaven, 75

And so am I revenged. That would be scanned.3 A villain kills my father, and for that I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge. ’A took my father grossly, full of bread,4

80

With all his crimes broad blown,0 as flush'’ as May; And how his audit' stands, who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, Tis heavy with him; and am I then revenged, 85

To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and seasoned for his passage? No.

Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent.8 When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage,

Or in th’ incestuous pleasure of his bed,

90

At game a-swearing, or about some act That has no relish'1 of salvation in’t— Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, And that his soul may be as damned and black 95

As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays. Exit.

This physic10 but prolongs thy sickly days. KING [ Rises j My words fly up, my thoughts remain below

Exit.

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

Scene IV. The Queen s closet. Enter [QUEEN] GERTRUDE and POLONIUS. POLONIUS

’A

will come straight. Took you lay home11 to him.

Tell him his pranks have been too broad1' to bear with, And that your Grace hath screened and stood between Much heat and him. I’ll silence me even here. 5

Pray you be round with him. HAMLET [ Within ] Mother, Mother, Mother! QUEEN I’ll warrant you; fear me not. Withdraw; I hear him coming. POLONIUS hides behind the arras. 1 ensnared

tion

2an attempt

3would be scanned ought to be looked into

5crimes broad blown sins in frill bloom

for seizing)

9flavor

’rigorous

account

4i.e., worldly gratifica¬ grasp (here, occasion

^Claudius’ purgation by prayer, as Hamlet thinks in line 85

home thrust (rebuke) him sharply

''unrestrained

nlay

860

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act III, Scene IV

Enter HAMLET. HAMLET

10

Now, Mother, what’s the matter? Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

QUEEN HAMLET

Mother, you have my father much offended.

Come, come, you answer with an idle1 tongue. HAMLET Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. QUEEN Why, how now, Hamlet? QUEEN

What’s the matter now?

HAMLET QUEEN

is

Have you forgot me? No, by the rood,2 notvso!

HAMLET

You are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife, And would it were not so, you are my mother. QUEEN

Nay, then I’ll set those to you that can speak.

Come, come, and sit you down. You shah not budge. You go not till I set you up a glass3

HAMLET

20

Where you may see the inmost part of you! What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? Help, ho!

QUEEN

POLONIUS [Behind]

25

HAMLET [Draws]

What, ho! Help!

How now? A rat? Dead for a ducat, dead!

[Makes a pass through the arras and] kills POLONIUS. POLONIUS [Behind] QUEEN HAMLET QUEEN

O, I am slain!

O me, what hast thou done? Nay, I know not. Is it the King'? O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!

A bloody deed—almost as bad, good Mother, As lull a lung, and marry with his brother. QUEEN As lull a king? HAMLET

30

Ay, lady, it was my word.

HAMLET

[Lifts up the arras and sees POLONIUS.] Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune. Thou fmd’st to be too busy is some danger.— 35

Leave wringing of your hands. Peace, sit you down And let me wring your heart, for so I shall If it be made of penetrable stuff, If damned custom have not brazed4 it so That it be proof5 and bulwark against sense.6

40

What have I done that thou dar’st wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me?

QUEEN

Such an act

HAMLET

That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love,

foolish

cross

^mirror

^hardened like brass vV

’’armor

6feeling

Act III, Scene IV

45

Hamlet

861

And sets a blister1 there, makes marriage vows As false as dicers1 oaths. O, such a deed As from the body of contraction2 plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody'1 of words! Heaven’s face does glow

50

O’er this solidity and compound mass With heated visage, as against the doom Is thoughtsick at die act.4

Ay me, what act,

QUEEN

That roars so loud and thunders in the index?0 HAMLET

55

Look here upon this picture, and on this,

The counterfeit presentment0 of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this brow: Hyperion’s curls, the front' of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, A station8 like the herald Mercury

New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill— A combination and a form indeed

60

Where every god did seem to set his seal To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband. Look you now what follows. 65

Here is your husband, like a mildewed ear Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,

And batten9 on this moor? Ha! Have you eyes? You cannot call it love, for at your age 70

The heyday10 in the blood is tame, it’s humble, And waits upon the judgment, and what judgment Would step from this to this? Sense11 sure you have, Else could you not have motion, but sure that sense Is apoplexed,12 for madness would not err,

75

Nor sense to ecstasy1'1 was ne’er so thralled But it reserved some quantity of choice To sene in such a difference. What devil was’t That thus hath cozened you at hoodman-blind?14 Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,

80

Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans15 all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope.10 O shame, where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones,

To flaming youth let virtue be as wax

85

And melt in her own tire. Proclaim no shame 'sets a blister brands (as a harlot)

2marriage contract 3senseless string 4Heavens face ... the act i.e., the face of heaven blushes over this earth (compounded of four elements), the face hot, as if Judgment Day were near, and it is thoughtsick at the act °prologue ”counterfeit presentment represented image 'forehead Tearing feed gluttonously excitement 1 Teeling 12paralyzed 13madness ^cozened you at hoodman-blind cheated you at Hindman’s buff

lowithout

16be stupid

862

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act III, Scene IV

When the compulsive ardor1 gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth bum, And reason panders will. ~ 0 f Iamlet,

QUEEN

90

speak no more.

Thou turn’st mine eyes into my veiy soul,' And there I see such black and grained6 spots As will not leave their tinct.4 Nay, but to live

HAMLET

In the rank sweat of an enseamed5 bed, Stewed in corruption, honeying and making love^ Over the nasty sty— O, speak to me no more.

QUEEN

95

"These words like daggers enter in my ears. No more, sweet Hamlet. A murderer and a villain,

HAMLET

A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe6 Of your precedent lord, a vice" of kings,

ioo

A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket— No more.

QUEEN

Enter GHOST. HAMLET

A king of shreds and patches—

Save me and hover o’er me with your wings, 105

You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure? QUEEN Alas, he’s mad. HAMLET

Do you not come your tardy son to chide,

That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by no

Th’ important acting of your dread command? O, say! GHOST

Do not forget. This visitation

Is but to whet diy almost blunted purpose. But look, amazement on thy mother sits. O, step between her and her fighting soul! us

Conceit6 in weakest bodies strongest works. Speak to her, Ilamlet. ILAMLET QUEEN

How is it with you, lady? Alas, how is’t with you,

That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with th’ incorporal9 air do hold discourse? 120

Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep, And as the sleeping soldiers in th’ alarm

1 compulsive ardor compelling passion desire

3dyed in grain (fast dyed)

“much wrinkled” 6tenth part plays imagination 9bodiless

4color

2 reason panders will reason acts as a procurer for ’perhaps “soaked in grease,” i.e., sweaty; perhaps

dike the Vice, a fool and mischief-maker in the old morality

Act III, Scene IV

125

130

135

Hamlet

863

Your bedded hair1 like life in excrements' Start up and stand an end.3 O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of dry distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look? HAMLET On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares! His form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones, Would make them capable.4—Do not look upon me, Lest with dris piteous action you convert My stem effects.0 Then what I have to do Will want true color; tears perchance for blood. QUEEN To whom do you speak this? HAMLET Do you see nothing there? QUEEN Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. ILAMLET Nor did you nothing hear? QUEEN No, nothing but ourselves. HAMLET Why, look you there! Look how it steals away! My father, in his habit3 as he lived! Look where he goes even now out at the portal! Exit GHOST.

This is the very coinage of your brain. This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in. ILAMLET Ecstasy? My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time And makes as healthful music. It is not madness That I have uttered. Bring me to the test, And I the matter will reword, which madness Would gambol7 from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction8 to your soul, 'That not your trespass but my madness speaks. It will but skin and him the ulcerous place Whiles rank corruption, mining9 all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come, And do not spread the compost10 on the weeds To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue. For in the fatness of these pursy11 times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb1' and woo for leave to do him good. QUEEN O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. HAMLET O, throw away the worser part of it. And live the purer with the other half, Good night—-but go not to my uncle’s bed. QUEEN

140

145

150

155

mo

1bedded hair hairs laid flat

'outgrowths (here, the hair)

bconvert/My stern effects divert my stem deeds

an end on end

recepthe

6garment (the First Quarto is probably correct in

saving that at line 102 the ghost enters in his nightgown, i.e., dressing gown) ^ointment ‘ undermining ^fertilizing substance 11 bloated 1'bow low away

stait

864

165

wo

175

iso

185

190

195

200

Act III, Scene IV

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits devil, is angel yet in this, That to the use1 of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or lively2 That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence; the next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either'1 the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good night, And when you are desirous to be blest, I’ll blessing beg of you.—For this same lord, I do repent; but heaven hath pleased it so, To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their4 scourge and minister. I will bestow0 him and will answer well The death I gave him. So again, good night. I must be cruel only to be kind, Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady. QUEEN What shall I do? HAMLET Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat King tempt you again to bed, Pinch wanton on your cheek, call you his mouse, And let him, for a pair of reechy6 lasses, Or paddling in your neck with his damned fingers, Make you to ravel' all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, But mad in craft. Twere good you let him know, For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock,8 from a bat, a gib,9 Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape, fo try conclusions,10 in the basket creep And break your own neck down. QUEEN Be thou assured, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me. IIAMLET I must to England; you know that? QUEEN Mack, I had forgot. Tis so concluded on. HAMLET Fhere’s letters sealed, and my two schoolfellows, Y

1 practice

'characteristic garment (punning on “habits” in line 163)

3probably a word is miss¬

ing after either; among suggestions are “master,” “curb,” and “house”; but possibly either is a verb meaning “make easier” reveal

8toad

'tomcat

4i. e., the heavens’

5stowv lodge

6foul (literally “smoky”)

10To try conclusions to make experiments

'unravel,

Act IV, Scene I

205

210

215

Hamlet

865

Whom I will trust as I will adders fanged, They bear die mandate;1 they must sweep my way And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; For ’tis die sport to have the enginer Ploist with his own petar, ~ and’t shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon. O, ’tis most sweet Wien in one line two crafts'3 directly meet. This man shall set me packing: I’ll lug the guts into the neighbor room. Modier, good night. Indeed, diis counselor Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, Who was in life a foolish prating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. Good night, Mother. [Exit the QUEEN. Then] exit I LEM LET, tugging in POLONIUS.

Act IV, Scene I. The castle. Enter KING and QUEEN, with ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.

There’s matter in these sighs. These profound heaves You must translate; ’tis fit we understand them. Where is your son? QUEEN Bestow this place on us a little while.

KING

[Exeunt ROSEN CRANTZ and GUILDEN STERN. ]

5

10

is

20

Ah, mine own lord, what have I seen tonight! KING What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet? QUEEN Mad as die sea and wind when both contend Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit, Behind the arras hearing something stir, Whips out his rapier, cries, “A rat, a rat!” And in this brainish apprehension4 lulls The unseen good old man. KING O heavy deed! It had been so with us, had we been there. His liberty is full of direats to all, To you yourself, to us, to every one. Mas, how shall diis bloody deed be answered? It will be laid to us, whose providence0 Should have kept short, restrained, and out of haunt0 This mad young man. But so much was our love We would not understand what was most fit, But, like the owner of a foul disease, To keep it from divulging, let it feed

Command imagination

Tomb ^foresight

3( 1) boats (2) acts of guile, crafty schemes

4brainish apprehension mad

1 out of haunt away from association with others

866

25

30

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act IV, Scene II

Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone? QUEEN To draw apart the body he hath killed; O’er whom his veiy madness, like some ore Among a mineral1 of metals base, Shows itself pure. ’A weeps for what is done. KING O Gertrude, come away! The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch But we will ship him hence, and this vile deed We must with all our majesty and skill Both countenance and excuse. Ho, Guildenstem! Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.

35

Friends both, go join you with some further aid: Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, And from his mother’s closet hath he dragged him. Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body Into the chapel. I pray you haste in this. [.Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. ]

40

45

Come, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends And let them know both what we mean to do And what’s untimely done ...2 Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter, As level as the cannon to his blank3 Transports his poisoned shot, may miss our name And hit the woundless4 air. O, come away! My soul is full of discord and dismay.

Exeunt.

Scene II. The castle. Enter HAMLET.

Safely stowed. GENTLEMEN [Within] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet! HAMLET But soft, what noise? Who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come. HAMLET

Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.

5

10

What have you done, my lord, with the dead body? HAMLET Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin. ROSENCRANTZ Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence And bear it to the chapel. HAMLET Do not believe it. ROSENCRANTZ Believe what? ROSENCRANTZ

1 ore!Among

a mineral vein of gold in a mine

'done . . . (evidently something has dropped out

of the text. Capell’s conjecture, “So, haply slander,” is usually printed) get 4invulnerable

3\vhite center of a tar¬

Hamlet

Act IV, Scene III

HAMLET

867

That I can keep your counsel and not mine own. Besides, to be de¬

manded of1 a sponge, what replication2 should be made by the son of a king? Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

ROSENCRAXTZ HAMLET 15

Ay, sir, that soaks up the King’s countenance,3 his rewards, his au-

thorities. But such officers do the King best service in the end. He keeps them, like an ape, in the comer of his jaw, first mouthed, to be last swallowed. When he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you and, sponge, you shall be dry again. I understand you not, my lord.

ROSENCRAXTZ 20

HAMLET

I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.

ROSENCRAXTZ

My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the

King. HAMLET

The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body. "Hie King

is a thing— 25

A thing, my lord? Of nothing. Bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after.4

GUILDENSTERN HAMLET

Exeunt.

Scene III. The castle.

Enter KING, and two or three. KING

I have sent to seek him and to find the body:

I low dangerous is it that this man goes loose! Yet must not we put the strong law on him: He’s loved of the distracted0 multitude, 5

Who like not in then judgment, but their eyes, And where ’tis so, th’ offender’s scourge is weighed, But never the offense. To bear’ all smooth and even, This sudden sending him away must seem Deliberate pause.' Diseases desperate grown

10

By desperate appliance are relieved. Or not at all.

Enter ROSENCRAXTZ, [GUILDENSTERN,] and all the rest. How now? What hath befall’n? ROSENCRAXTZ

Where the dead body is bestowed, my lord,

We cannot get from him. But where is he?

KING ROSENCRAXTZ KING

15

Without, my lord; guarded, to know your pleasure.

Bring him before us.

ROSENCRAXTZ

Ho! Bring in the lord.

They enter. KING

Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?

xdemanded of questioned by

2reply

3favor

as hide-and-seek; Hamlet runs from the stage)

'Hide fox, and all after (a cry in a game such “bewildered, senseless

Tarry out

'planning

868

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

HAMLET KING

At supper.

At supper? Where?

HAMLET

20

Act IV, Scene III

Not where he eats, but where ’a is eaten. A certain convocation of

politic1 worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat outselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service'—two dishes, but to one table. That’s the end. KING

25

Alas, alas!

A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a lung, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.

HAMLET KING

What dost thou mean by this?

Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress3 through the guts of a beggar.

HAMLET 30

KING

Where is Polonius?

HAMLET

In heaven. Send thither to see. If your messenger find him not there,

seek him i’ th’ other place yourself. But if indeed you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby. KING [to ATTENDANTS] Go seek him there. 35

HAMLET

’A will stay till you come. [Exeunt ATTENDANTS.]

KING

Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,

Which we do tender4 as we dearly grieve For that which thou hast done, must send thee hence 40

With fiery quickness. Therefore prepare thyself. The bark is ready and the wind at help, Th’ associates tend,5 and everything is bent For England. HAMLET

For England? Ay, Hamlet.

KING

Good.

HAMLET KING

So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes.

HAMLET

45

I see a cherub'’ that sees them. But come, for England! Farewell, dear

Mother. KING

Thy loving father, Hamlet.

My mother—father and mother is man and wife, man and wife is one flesh, and so, my mother. Come, for England! Exit.

HAMLET

Follow him at foot;/ tempt him with speed aboard, Delay it not; I’ll have him hence tonight.

KING

so

Away! For everything is sealed and done Hi at else leans8 on th’ affair. Pray you make haste. [Exeunt all but the KING.] And, England, if my love thou hold’st at aught— As my great power thereof may give fliee sense,

55

Since vet thy cicatrice9 looks raw and red 1 statesmanlike, shrewd

Wait

-variable service different courses 3royal journey '’angel of knowledge 7 at foot closely 8depends 9scar

Told dear

Act IV, Scene XV

60

Hamlet

869

After the Danish sword, and thy free awe1 Pays homage to us—thou mavst not coldly set Our sovereign process,2 which imports at full By letters congruing to that effect The present3 death of Hamlet Do it, England, For like the hectic4 in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done, Howe’er my haps,5 my joys were ne’er begun. Exit.

Scene IV. A plain in Denmark. Enter FORTINBRAS with his Army over the stage.

Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king. Tell him that by his license Fortinbras Craves the conveyance off a promised march Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. If that his Majesty would aught with us, We shall express our duty in his eye;' And let him know so. CAPTAIN I will do’t, my lord. FORTINBRAS Go softly8 on.

FORTINBRAS

5

[Exeunt all hut the CAPTAIN. ] Enter HAMLET, ROSENCRANTZ, &c.

Good sir, whose powers9 are these? CAPTAIN They are of Norway, sir. ILAMLET How purposed, sir, I pray you? CAPTAIN Against some part of Poland. HAMLET Who commands them, sir? CAPTAIN The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras. HAMLET Goes it against the main10 of Poland, sir, Or for some frontier? CAPTAIN Truly to speak, and with no addition,11 We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it, Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole A ranker12 rate, should it be sold in fee.13 HAMLET Why, then the Polack never will defend it. CAPTAIN Yes, it is already garrisoned. HAMLET Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats ILAMLET

10

15

20

25

lfree awe uncompelled submission royal command

3instant

4fever

2coldly set!Our sovereign process regard slightly our

°chances, fortunes

eye before his eyes (i.e., in his presence) plainly 12higher 13in fee outright

8slowly

"forces

"conveyance of escort for '"mainpart

‘in his

11 with no addition

870

30

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act IV, Scene IV

Will not debate1 the question of this straw. This is th’ imposthume2 of much wealth and peace, Tliat inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir. CAPTAIN God bye you, sir. ROSENCRANTZ Wilft please you go, my lord? HAMLET I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before.

Exit.

[Exeunt all but HAMLET.] How all occasions do inform against me And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, If his chief good and market3 of his time Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse,4 Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust5 in us unused. Now, whether it be Bestial oblivion,6 or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on th’ event'— A thought which, quartered, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward—I do not know Why yet I live to say, “This thing’s to do, ” Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means To do’t. Examples gross8 as earth exhort me. Witness this army of such mass and charge,9 Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit, with divine ambition puffed, Makes mouths at the invisible event,10 Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great Is not11 to stir without great argument,12 But greatly13 to find quarrel in a straw When honor’s at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father lulled, a mother stained, Excitements14 of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while to my shame I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men Hi at for a fantasy and trick of fame15 Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent16 Lo hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nodiing worth!

35

40

45

so

55

60

65

settle 'outcome

“abscess, ulcer large, obvious

3profit

Understanding

'expense

'’grow moldy

Exit. '’forgetfulness

l0Makes mouths at the invisible event makes

scornful faces (is contemptuous of) the unseen outcome not’ '“reason 13i.e., nobly 14incentives reputation 16receptacle, container

nthe sense seems to require “not

Io fantasy and trick of fame illusion and trifle of

Act IV, Scene V

Hamlet

871

Scene V. The castle. Enter IIORATIO, [QUEEN] GERTRUDE, and a GENTLEMAN. QUEEN

I will not speak with her.

She is importunate, indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied. QUEEN What would she have? GENTLEMAN She speaks much of her father, says she hears There’s tricks i’ th’ world, and hems, and beats her heart, Spurns enviously at straws,1 speaks things in doubt2 That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection;3 they yawn4 at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts, Which, as her winks and nods and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. IIORATIO Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ih-breeding minds. QUEEN Let her come in. [Exit GENTLEMAN.] [Aside] To my sick soul (as sin’s true nature is) Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss;0 So full of ardess jealousy6 is guilt It spills' itself in fearing to be spilt.

GENTLEMAN

5

10

is

20

Enter OPHELIA [distracted.]

Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark? QUEEN How now, Ophelia? OPHELIA (She sings.) How should I your truelove know From another one? By his cockle hat8 and staff And his sandal shoon.9 QUEEN Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? OPHELIA Say you? Nay, pray you mark. He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone. O, ho! QUEEN Nay, but Ophelia— OPHELIA Pray you mark. [Sings.] White his shroud as the mountain snow— OPHELIA

25

30

35

1 Spurns enviously at straws objects spitefully to insignificant matters uncertainly

in doubt

sYet the .. . to collection i.e., yet the formless manner of it moves her listeners to

gather up some sort of meaning destroys

(Song)

4gape (?)

5misfortune

6artless jealousy crude suspicion

8cockle hat (a cockleshell on the hat was the sign of a pilgrim who had journeyed

to shrines overseas. The association of lovers and pilgrims was a common one. )

shoes

872

Act IV, Scene V

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Enter KING. Alas, look here, my lord. OPHELIA Larded1 all with sweet flowers (Song) Which bewept to the grave did not go With truelove showers. KING How do you, pretty lady? OPHELIA Well, God dild2 you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.'1 Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table! KING Conceit4 upon her father. OPHELIA Pray let’s have no words of this, but when diey ask you what it means, say you this: Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day.5 (Song) All in die morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be vour Valentine. QUEEN

40

45

so

55

60

65

70

75

j

Then up he rose and donned his clodies And dupped” the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more. KING Pretty Ophelia OPHELIA Indeed, la, without an oadi, I’ll make an end on’t: [Smg's.] By Gis' and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do’t if they come to’t, By Cock,8 they are to blame. Quodi she, “Before you tumbled me, You promised me to wed. ” He answers: “So would I ’a’ done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed. ” KING How long hath she been thus? OPHELIA I hope all will be well. We must be patient, but I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i’ th’ cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies, good night. Sweet ladies, good night, good night. Exit. KING Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you. [Exit HORATIO.] O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father’s death—and now behold! O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions: first, her father slain; Next, your son gone, and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied,'1 Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers

’decorated

2yield, i.e., reward

1baker s daughter (an allusion to a tale of a baker’s daughter

who begrudged bread to Christ and was turned into an owl)

* 4brooding

0Saint Valentines

day Feb. 14 (the notion was that a bachelor would become the truelove of the first girl he saw on this day)

'’opened (did up)

'contraction of “Jesus”

8( 1) God (2) phallus

’muddled

Hamlet

Act IV, Scene V

so

873

For good Polonius’ death, and we have done but greenly1 In huggermugger2 to inter him; poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgment, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts; Last, and as much containing as all these,

85

Her brother is in secret come from France, Feeds on his wonder,3 keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers4 to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father’s death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggared,5 Will nothing stick6 our person to arraign

90

In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murd’ring piece,' in many places Gives me superfluous death.

A noise within.

Enter a MESSENGER. QUEEN 95

KING

Alack, what noise is this? Attend, where are my Switzers?8 Let them guard the door.

Vliat is the matter? MESSENGER

Save yourself, my lord.

The ocean, overpeering of his list, 6 Eats not the flats with more impiteous haste Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,10 ioo

O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord, And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of even" word, They cry, “Choose we! Laertes shall be king!”

105

Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds “Laertes shall be king! Laertes king!” QUEEN

A noise within.

How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!

O, this is counter,11 you false Danish dogs!

Enter LAERTES with others.

no

KING The doors are broke. LAERTES Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without ALL No, let’s come in. LAERTES I pray you give me leave. We will, we will. LAERTES I thank you. Keep the door. [Exeunt his Followers.] O thou vile King,

.ALL.

ns

Give me my father. QUEEN Calmly, good Laertes. LAERTES That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard. Cries cuckold12 to my father, brands the harlot

Foolishly

2secret haste Suspicion 4wants not buzzers does not lack talebearers aof mutter beggured unprovided with facts Will nothing stick will not hesitate murd ring piece (a cannon that shot a kind of shrapnel) Swiss guards shore in u riotous heud with a rebellious force ''a hound runs counter when he follows the scent backward fiom the prey

‘'man whose wife is unfaithful

874

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act IV, Scene V

Even here between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother. 120

What is the cause, Eaertes,

KING

That thy rebellion looks so giantlike? Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear1 our person. There’s such divinity doth hedge a king That treason can but peep to~ what it would, 125

Acts little of his will. Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incensed. Let him go, Gertrude. Speak, man. LAERTES

Where is my father? Dead.

KING QUEEN KING 130

But not by him.

Let him demand his fill.

LAERTES

How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with.

To hell allegiance, vows to the blackest devil, Conscience and grace to the profound pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, That both the worlds I give to negligence,3 135

Let come what comes, only I’ll be revenged Most throughly for my father. KING LAERTES

Who shall stay you? My will, not all the world’s.

And for my means, I’ll husband them4 so well They shall go far with little. Good Laertes,

KING 140

If you desire to know the certainty

Of your dear father, is’t writ in your revenge That swoopstake3 you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser? LAERTES

None but his enemies.

Wall

KING 145

LAERTES

you know them then?

To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms

And like the kind life-rend’ring pelican ’ Repast' them with my blood. Why, now you speak

KING

Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father’s death, iso

And am most sensibly8 in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgment ’pear As day does to your eye. A noise within: rrLet her come in.” LAERTES

How now? What noise is that?

Enter OPHELIA.

Tear for 'peep to i.e., look at from a distance 3That both ... to negligence i.e., I care not what may happen (to me) in this world or the next rnsband them use them economically °in a clean sweep Thought to feed its young with its own blood Teed 8acutely

Hamlet

Act IV, Scene V

155

160

165

170

175

180

185

875

O heat, dry up my brains; tears seven times salt Bum out the sense and virtue1 of mine eye! By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight Till our scale turn the beam.2 O rose of May, Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits Should be as mortal as an old man’s life? Nature is fine3 in love, and where ’tis fine, It sends some precious instance4 of itself After the thing it loves. OPHELIA They bore him barefaced on the bier (Song) Ilev non nonv, nony, hey nony And in his grave rained many a tear— Fare you well, my dove! LAERTES Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus. OPHELIA You must sing “A-down a-down, and you call him a-down-a. ” O, how the wheel5 becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master’s daughter. LAERTES This nothing’s more than matter.6 OPHELLL There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts. LAERTES A document' in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted. OPHELIA There’s fennel8 for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say ’a made a good end. [Sings) For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy. LAERTES Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor9 and to prettiness. OPHELLL And will ’a not come again? And will ’a not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy deathbed, He never will come again.

190

(Song)

His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll.10 He is gone, he is gone, Aid we cast away moan. God ’a’ mercy on his soul! And of all Christian souls, I pray God, God bye you. Exit.

1 power

~turn the beam weigh down the bar (of the balance)

refined, delicate

sample

5of uncertain meaning, but probably a turn or dance of Ophelia s, rathei than Fortune s v heel 6This nothing’s more than matter this nonsense has more meaning than matters of consequence 7lesson

8The distribution of flowers in the ensuing lines has symbolic meaning, but the

meaning is disputed. Perhaps fennel, flattery; columbines, cuckoldry; rue, sorrow for Ophelia and repentance for the Queen; daisy, dissembling; violets, faithfulness. lor othei interpietations, see J. W. Lever in Review of English Studies, New Series 3 [ 1952], pp. 123-29. 9charm, beauty

10All flaxen was his poll white as flax was his head

876

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act IV, Scene VI

Do you see this, O God? KING Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me. If by direct or by collateral1 hand They find us touched,' we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours, To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labor with your soul To give it due content. LAERTES Let this be so. Ilis means of death, his obscure funeral— No trophy, sword, nor hatchment8 o’er his bones, No noble rite nor formal ostentation4— Cry to be heard, as ’twere from heaven to earth, That I must call’t in question. KING So you shall; And where th’ offense is, let the great ax fall. I pray you go with me. LAERTES

195

200

205

210

Exeunt.

Scene VI. The castle.

Enter HORATIO and others.

What are they that would speak with me? GENTLEM AN Seafaring men, sir. They say they have letters for you. HORATIO Let them come in. [Exit ATTENDANT. ] I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet. HORATIO

5

Enter SAILORS.

God bless you, sir. HORATIO Let Him bless thee too. SAILOR ’A shall, sir, an’t please Him. There’s a letter for you, sir—it came from th’ ambassador that was bound for England—if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is. HORATIO [Reads the letter.] “Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked5 this, give these fellows some means to the King. They have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment6 gave us chase, Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valor, and in the grapple I boarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship; so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy, but they knew what they did: I am to do a good turn for them. Let the King have the letters I have sent, and repair thou to me with as much speed as thou wouldest SAILOR

10

is

1 indirect °surveyed

'implicated ^equipment

8tablet bearing the coat offarms of the dead

Ceremony

Hamlet

Act IV, Scene YII

20

877

fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make diee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore1 of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstem hold dieir course for England. Of diem I have much to tell thee. Farewell. He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.”

25

Come, I will give you way for these letters, And do’t the speedier that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them.

Exeunt.

Scene YII. The castle.

Enter KING and LAERTES. Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, That he which hath your noble father slain Pursued my life. LAERTES It well appears. But tell me Why you proceeded not against these feats So criminal and so capital2 in nature, As by your safety, greatness, wisdom, all things else, You mainly3 were stirred up. KING O, for two special reasons, Which may to you perhaps seem much unsinewed,4 But yet to me they’re strong. Hie Queen his mother Lives almost by his looks, and for myself— My virtue or my plague, be it either which— She is so conjunctive5 to my life and soul, That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive Why to a public count6 I might not go Is the great love die general gender' bear him, Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, Would, like the spring that tumeth wood to stone, Convert his gyves9 to graces; so that my arrows, Too slighdy timbered10 for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, And not where I had aimed them. LAERTES And so have I a noble father lost, A sister driven into desp’rate terms,11 Whose worth, if praises may go back again,1' Stood challenger on mount of all the age

KING

5

10

is

20

25

Reserving death powerfully Veak Closely united Caliber (here, “importance ”) ,sspring that tumeth wood to stone (a spring in Reckoning 'general gender common people Shakespeare’s county was so charged with lime that it would petrify wood placed in 1 'go back again revert to what is past it) 9fetters 10shafted nc onditions

878

30

35

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act IV, Scene ATI

For her perfections. But my revenge will come. KING Break not your sleeps for that. You must not think That we are made of stuff so flat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger, And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more. I loved your father, and we love ourself, And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine— Enter a MESSENGER with letters.

Flow now? What news? Letters, my lord, from Hamlet: These to your Majesty; this to the Queen. KING From Hamlet? Who brought them? MESSENGER Sailors, my lord, they sav; I saw them not. They were given me by Claudio; he received them Of him that brought them. KING Laertes, you shall hear them.— Leave us. [Exit MESSENGER. ] MESSENGER

40

[Reads.] “High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked1 on your kingdom.

45

Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes; when I shall (first asking your pardon thereunto) recount the occasion of my sudden and more strange return. HAMLET.”

so

What should this mean? Are ah the rest come back? Or is it some abuse,2 and no such thing? LAERTES Know you the hand? Tis Hamlet’s character.3 “Naked”! And in a postscript here, he says “alone. ” Can you devise4 me? LAERTES I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come. It warms the very sickness in my heart That I shah five and tell him to his teeth, ‘Thus didst thou.” KING If it be so, Laertes (As how should it be so? How otherwise?), Will you be ruled by me? LAERTES Ay, mv lord, So you will not o’ermle me to a peace. KING To thine own peace. If he be now returned, As checking aff his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him To an exploit now ripe in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall; And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe, KING

55

60

65

1 destitute falconry)

'deception

handwriting

hdvise. v

'checking at turning away from (a term in

Hamlet

Act IV, Scene VII

879

But even his mother shall uncharge the practice" And call it accident. LAERTES My lord, I will be ruled; The rather if you could devise it so That I might be the organ. KIXG It falls right. You have been talked of since your travel much. And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality” Wherein they say you shine. Your sum of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one, and that, in my regard. Of the unworthiest siege.2 LAERTES What part is that my lord? KIXG A very riband in the cap of youth, Yet needful too, for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Than settled age his sables and his weeds.3 Importing health and graveness. Two months since Here was a gendeman of Normandy. I have seen myself, and served against, the French, And they can4 well on horseback, but this gallant Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat. And to such wondrous doing brought his horse As had he been incorpsed and deminatured Wdth the brave beast. So far he topped my thought That I, in forgery0 of shapes and tricks, Come short of what he did. LAERTES A Norman was’t?

70

75

so

85

90

A Norman. LAERTES Upon my life, Lamord. KixG The very same. LAERTES I know him well. He is the brooch' indeed .And gem of all the nation. KIXG He made confession' of you, And gave you such a masterly report. For art and exercise in your defense. And for your rapier most especial. That he cried out ’twould be a sight indeed If one could match you. The scrimers8 of their nation He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye, If you opposed them. Sir, this report of his Did I lamlet to envenom with his envy Tliat he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o’er to play with you.

KIXG

95

loo

105

Now, out of this— WTiat out of this, my lord? Laertes, was your father dear to you ?

LAERTES KIXG

1 uncharge the practice not charge the device with treachery i e., sober attire

klo

invention

ornament

report

rank tcmcis

sables and his needs

880

no

ns

120

125

130

135

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act IV, Scene VII

Or are you like the painting of a‘sorrow, A face without a heart? LAERTES Why ask you this? KING Not that I think you did not love your father, But that 1 know love is begun by time, And that I see, in passages of proof,1 Time qualifies2 the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff3 that will abate it, And nothing is at a like goodness still,4 For goodness, growing to a plurisy,0 Dies in his own too-much. That we would do We should do when we would, for this “would” changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents, And then this “should” is like a spendthrift sigh,6 That hurts by easing. But to the quick7 of th’ ulcer— Hamlet conies back; what would you undertake To show yourself in deed your father’s son More dian in words? LAERTES To cut his throat i’ th’ church! KING No place indeed should murder sanctuarize;8 Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes, Will you do this? Keep close within your chamber. Hamlet returned shall know you are come home. We’ll put on those9 shall praise your excellence And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine10 together And wager on your heads. He, being remiss, Most generous, and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils, so that with ease, Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated,11 and, in a pass of practice,12 Requite him for your father. LAERTES

140

145

I will do’t,

And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword. 1 bought an unction of a mountebank,13 So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood, no cataplasm14 so rare, Collected from all simples15 that have virtue16 Under the moon, can save the thing from death That is but scratched withal. I’ll touch my point With diis contagion that, if I gall him slighdv, It may be death.

1 passages of proof proved cases light)

4always

dullness, excess,

2 diminishes

3 residue of burnt wick (which dims the

'"spendthrift sigh (sighing prorides ease, but because it

was thought to thin the blood and so shorten life it was spendthrift) ,sprotect

'Well put on those we’ll incite persons who

pass of practice treacherous thrust power (to heal)

13quack

'sensitive flesh

10in fine finally

14p®ultice

nnot blunted

lomedicinal herbs

lbuirtue

Hamlet

Act IV, Scene VII

881

Let’s further think of this,

KING

Weigh what convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape.1 If this should fail, And that our drift look through2 our bad performance,

150

Twere better not assayed. Therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold If this did blast in proof.3 Soft, let me see. We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings— 155

I ha t!

When in your motion you are hot and dry— As make your bouts more violent to that end— And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepared him A chalice for the nonce,4 whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venomed stuck,0

160

Our purpose may hold there.—But stay, what noise? Enter QUEEN. QUEEN

One woe doth tread upon another’s heel.

So fast they follow. Your sister’s drowned, Laertes. Drowned! O, where? There is a willow grows askant6 the brook,

LAERTES 165

QUEEN

That shows his hoar7 leaves in the glassy stream: Therewith8 fantastic garlands did she make Of crowflowers, netdes, daisies, and long purples, 'that liberal9 shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.

170

There on the pendent boughs her crownet10 weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver11 broke, When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Iler clothes spread wide, Aid mermaidlike awhile they bore her up, Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds,1'

175

As one incapable13 of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indued14 Unto that element. But long it could not be iso

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pulled die poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death. LAERTES

Alas, then she is drowned?

Drowned, drowned. LAERTES Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, QUEEN

185

And therefore I forbid my tears; but yet It is our trick;15 nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman19 will be out. Adieu, my lord.

3 blast in proof burst (fail) in perfomiano zdrift look through purpose show through "free-spoken, coarseAslant 7silver-gray Ye., with willow twigs ^occasion Thrust 14 13 in har 10 unaware 11 envious sliver malicious branch ’"hymns coronet mouthed 15 trait, way 16i.e., womanly part of me mony with

hole

.

882

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act V, Scene I

I have a speech o’ fire, that fain would blaze, 190

Exit.

But that this folly drowns it. Bet’s follow, Gertrude. How much I had to do to calm his rage!

KING

Now fear I this will give it start again;

Exeunt.

Therefore let’s follow.

Act Y, Scene I. A churchyard. Enter two CLOWNS.1 Is she to be buried in Christian burial when she willfully seeks her own salvation?

CLOWN

I tell thee she is. Therefore make her grave straight.2 The crowner3 hath sate on her, and finds it Christian burial.

OTHER 5

OTHER

How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defense? Why, ’tis found so.

CLOWN

It must be se offendendo\x it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I

CLOWN

drown myself wittingly, it argues an act, and an act hath three branches—it is 10

to act, to do, to perform. Argal,5 she drowned herself wittingly. OTHER Nay, but hear you, Goodman Delver. CLOWN

Give me leave. Here lies the water—good. Here stands the man—good.

If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is, will he nill he,6 he goes; mark you that. But if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not 15

himself. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death, shortens not his own life. OTHER But is this law? CLOWN

Ay many, is’t—crowner’s quest/ law.

Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o’ Christian burial.

OTHER CLOWN 20

Why, there thou say’st. And the more pity that great folk should have

count’nance8 in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their evenChristenC Come, my spade. There is not ancient gentlemen but gard’ners, ditch¬ ers, and gravemakers. They hold up10 Adam’s profession. OTHER Was he a gentleman? OTHER

’A was the first that ever bore arms.11 Why, he had none.

CLOWN

What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? Hie Scrip¬

CLOWN 25

ture says Adam digged. Could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself— OTHER Go to. 30

What is he that builds stronger dian either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

CLOWN OTHER

The gallowsmaker, for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

CLOWN

I like thy wit well, in good faith. The gallows does well. But how does it

well? It does well to those that do ill. Now thou dost ill to say the gallows is 35

built stronger than the church. Argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come. rustics

straightway

Coroner

Be offendendo (blunder for se defendendo, a legal term

meaning “in self-defense”) blunder for Latin ergo, “therefore” ' 6will he nill he will he or will he not (whether he will or will not) finquest 8pqvilege 9fellow Christian 10hold up keep up 11 bore arms had a coat of arms (the sign of a gentleman)

Hamlet

Act V, Scene I

OTHER CLOWN OTHER

40

CLOWN OTHER

883

Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter? Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.1 Marry, now I can tell. To’t. Mass,2 I cannot tell.

Enter ILAMLET and HORATIO afar off. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating. And when you are asked this question next, say "a gravemaker.” The houses he makes lasts till doomsday. Go, get tliee in, and fetch

CLOWN

45

me a stoup4 of liquor. [Exit OTHER CLOWN. ] In youth when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet To contract—O—the time for—a—my behove,4 O, methought there—a—was nothing—a—meet.

so

(Song)

I las this fellow no feeling of his business? ’A sings in gravemaking. HORATIO Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness. ° HAMLET Tis e’en so. Tire hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

HAMLET

CLOWN

But age with his stealing steps Hath clawed me in his clutch, And hath shipped me into die land, As if I had never been such.

(Song)

[ Throws up a skull. ] That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. IIow the knave jowls' it to the ground, as if ’twere Cain’s jawbone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o’erreaches,8 one that

ILAMLET

60

would circumvent God, might it not? HORATIO It might, my lord. HAMLET Or of a courtier, which could say “Good morrow, sweet lord! How dost

thou, sweet lord?” This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that praised my Lord Such-a-one’s horse when ’a went to beg it, might it not? 65

HORATIO Ay, my lord. HAMLET Why, e’en so, and now my Lady W orm’s, chapless,

and knocked about the mazzard10 with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine revolution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets11 with them? Mine ache to think on’t.

70

CLOWN

A pickax and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding sheet; O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.

(Song)

[ Throws up another skull. | h.e., stop work for the day

2by the mass

4tankard

Advantage

in him a property of

6hath the daintier sense is more sensitive (because it is not '’lacking the lower calloused) 7hurls 8( 1) reaches over (2) has the advantage over jaw 10head 1]a game in which small pieces of wood were thrown at an < )bject easiness easy for him

884

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act V, Scene I

There’s another. Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities1 now, his quillities,2 his cases, his tenures,3 and his tricks? Why does he suffer this mad knave now to knock him about the sconce4 with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in’s time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fmes,5 his double vouchers, his recoveries. Is this the fine6 of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him not more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures?' The very conveyances8 of his lands will scarcely lie in diis box, and must th’ inheritor himself haye no more, ha? HORATIO Not a jot more, my lord. HAMLET Is not parchment made of sheepskins? HORATIO Ay, my lord, and of calveskins too. HAMLET They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance9 in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave’s this, sirrah? CLOWN Mine, sir. O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet. HAMLET I diink it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t. CLOWN You He out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours. For mv part, I do not he in’t, yet it is mine. HAMLET

75

so

85

90

95

ioo

105

lio

Thou dost he in’t, to be in’t and say it is thine. Tis for the dead, not for the quick;10 therefore thou best. CLOWN Tis a quick he, sir; ’twill away again from me to you. HAMLET What man dost thou -dig it for? CLOWN For no man, sir. HAMLET What woman then? CLOWN For none neither. HAMLET Who is to be buried in’t? CLOWN One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead. HAMLET How absolute11 the knave is! We must speak by the card,12 or equivocation13 will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, this three years I have took note of it, the age is grown so picked14 that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.15 How long hast thou been a gravemaker? CLOWN Of ah the days i’ th’ year, I came to’t that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras. HAMLET How long is that since? HAMLET

CLOWN

young HAMLET

ns

I/O "^ ’tis no HAMLET

Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was that very day that Hamlet was bom—he that is mad, and sent into England. Ay, marry, why was he sent into England? di y, b e c au s e ’a was mad. ’A shall recover his wits there; or, if ’a do not, great matter there. WTiy?

Yubtle arguments (from Latin quidditas, “whatness”) holding land

bread

2fine distinctions

begal means of

Tis statutes, his recognizances, his fines his documents giving a creditor

control of a debtor’s land, his bonds of surety, his documents changing an entailed estate into fee simple (unrestricted ownership) land actly

end

contracts

8legal documents for the transference of

safety °living npositive, decided l'by the card' by the compass card, i.e., ex¬ Ambiguity 14refined losore on the back of the heel

Hamlet

Act V, Scene I

885

Twill not be seen in him there. There the men are as mad as he. HAMLET How came he mad? CLOWTv Very strangely, they say. ILAMLET How strangely? CLOWN Faith, e’en with losing his wits. ILAMLET Upon what ground? CLOWN Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty

CLOWN

120

years. 125

How long will a man lie i’ th’ earth ere he rot? CLOWN Faith, if ’a be not rotten before ’a die (as we have many pocky corses1 nowadays that will scarce hold the laying in), ’a will last you some eight year or nine year. A tanner will last you nine year. ILAMLET Why he, more than another? CLOWN Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade that ’a will keep out water a great while, and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now hath hen you i’ th’ earth three and twenty years.

HAMLET

130

Whose was it? CLOWN A whoreson mad fellow’s it was. Wiose do you think it was?

ILAMLET

135

Nav, I know not. CLOWN A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! ’A poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was, sir, Aorick’s skull, the King’s jester.

ILAMLET

This? CLOWN E’en that. ILAMLET Let me see. [ Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Aorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times. .And now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols, your songs, your flashes of merriment that were wont to set die table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning? Quite chapfafl’n?2 Now' get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favor3 she must come. Make her laugh at that. Prithee,

ILAMLET 140

145

150

Horatio, tell me one thing. HORATIO What’s that, my lord? HAMLET Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ diis fashion i’ th’ earth? HORATIO E’en so. HAMLET And smelt so? Pah!

Puts down the skull.

E’en so, my lord. ILAMLET To what base uses we may return, Floratio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till ’a find it stopping a bunghole? HORATIO Twrere to consider too curiously,4 to consider so. ILAMLET No, faith, not a jot, but to follow him thither with modesty enough,5 and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander retumeth to dust; the dust is earth; of earth wTe make loam; and why of that loam whereto he wras converted might they not stop a beei barrel. Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, HORATIO

155

160

1pocky corses bodies of persons who had been infected with the pox (syphilis) the mouth (2) jawless geration

3facial appearance

hninutely

'(1) down in

5with modesty enough without exag¬

886

165

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act V, Scene I

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. 0, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall t1 expel the winter’s flaw!1 But soft, but soft awhile! Here comes the King. Enter KING, QUEEN, LAERTES, and a coffin, with LORDS attendant [and a Doctor of Divinity],

170

175

iso

185

190

Tire Queen, the courtiers. Who is this they follow? And with such maimed2 rites? This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desp’rate hand Fordo it3 own life. Twas of some estate.4 Couch0 we awhile, and mark. [Retires with HORATIO.] LAERTES What ceremony else? HAMLET That is Laertes, A very noble youth. Mark. LAERTES What ceremony else? DOCTOR Her obsequies have been as far enlarged As we have warranty. Her death was doubtful,6 And, but that great command o’ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified been lodged Till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers, Shards,' flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her. Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants,8 Her maiden strewments,9 and the bringing home Of bell and burial. LAERTES Must there no more be done? DOCTOR No more be done. We should profane the service of the dead To sing a requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls. LAERTES Lay her i’ th’ earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A minisf ring angel shall my sister be When thou liest howling! HAMLET What, the fair Ophelia? QUEEN Sweets to the sweet! Farewell. [Scatters flowers.]

195

I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife. I thought thy bride bed to have decked, sweet maid, And not have strewed thy grave. LAERTES O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense10 Deprived thee of! Hold off the earth awhile, 1 ill I have caught her once more in mine arms.

!gust incomplete 3Fordo it destroy its pieces of pottery 8garlands Ji. e., of flowers

4high rank

Tide

Auspicious broken 10most ingenious sense finely endowed mind

Hamlet

Act V, Scene I

887

Leaps in the grave. Now pile vour dust upon the quick and dead Till of this flat a mountain you have made T’o’ertop old Pelion1 on the skyish head Of blue Olympus. HAMLET [Coming forward] What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand’ring stars,2 and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. LAERTES The devil take thy soul!

200

205

[ Grapples with him. ]3 Thou prav’st not well. I prithee take thy fingers from my throat, For, though I am not splenitive4 and rash, Yet have I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand. KING Pluck them asunder. QUEEN I Iamlet, I lamlet!

HAMLET

210

ALL

Gentlemen!

HORATIO

Good mv lord, be quiet. [ATTENDANTS part them.}

Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

HAMLET

215

QUEEN HAMLET

220

225

230

O my son, what theme? I love Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers

Could not with all dieir quantity of love Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her? KING O, he is mad, Laertes. QUEEN For love of God forbear him. HAMLET ’Swounds, show me what thou’t do. Woo’t weep? Woo’t fight? Woo’t fast? Wood tear thyself? Wood drink up eisel?5 Eat a crocodile? I’ll dod. Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I. And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone/'

According to classical legend, giants in their fight with the gods sought to reach heaven by piling Mount Pelion and Mount Ossa on Mount Olympus

~wand’ring stars planets

2Grapples with

him (the First Quarto, a bad quarto, presumably reporting a version that toured, has a previous direction saving U Iamlet leaps in after Laertes.

Possibly he does so, somewhat hysterically Hut

such a direction—absent from the two good texts. Quarto 2 and Folio

makes I Iamlet the aggressoi,

somewhat contradicting his next speech. Perhaps Laertes leaps out of the gra\e to attack Ham¬ let) orbit

4fierv (the spleen wras thought to be the seat of anger)

"vinegar

burning zone sun s

888

235

240

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Act Y, Scene II

Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth, I’ll rant as well as thou. QUEEN This is mere madness; And thus a while the ht will work on him. Anon, as patient as the female dove When that her golden couplets are disclosed,1 His silence will sit drooping. HAMLET Hear you, sir. What is the reason that you use me thus? I loved you ever. But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do what he may, Hie cat will mew, and dog will have his day. KING I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him. [Exit HAMLET and HORATIO. ]

245

[To Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech. We’ll put the matter to the present push.2 Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son. This grave shall have a living3 monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till dien in patience our proceeding be.

Exeunt.

Scene II. The castle.

Enter HAMLET and HORATIO. So much for diis, sir; now shall you see the other. You do remember ah die circumstance? HORATIO Remember it, my lord! HAMLET Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay Worse than the mutines in the bilboes.4 Rashly (And praised be rashness for it) let us know, Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well When our deep plots do pah,5 and that should learn us There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will. HORATIO That is most certain. HAMLET Up from my cabin, My sea gown scarfed about me, in the dark Groped I to find out them, had my desire, Fingered6 their packet, and in fine7 withdrew To mine own room again, making so bold, My fears forgetting manners, to unseal HAMLET

s

10

is

1golden couplets are disclosed (the dove lays two eggs, and the newly hatched (disclosed] young are covered with golden down)

'present push immediate test'

ieference to the plot against Hamlet’s life) Tail 6stole 7in fine finally

hasting (with perhaps also a

^mutines in the bilboes mutineers in fetters

Act V, Scene II

20

25

30

35

40

45

so

55

Hamlet

889

Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio— Ah, royal knavery!—an exact command, Larded1 with many several sorts of reasons, Importing Denmark’s health, and England’s too, With, ho, such bugs and goblins in my life,2 That on the supervise,'3 no leisure bated,4 No, not to stay the grinding of the ax, My head should be struck off. HORATIO Is’t possible? HAMLET Here’s the commission; read it at more leisure. But wilt thou hear now how I did proceed? HORATIO I beseech you. ILAMLET Being thus benetted round with villains, Orn I could make a prologue to my brains, They had begun the play. I sat me down, Devised a new commission, wrote it fair. I once did hold it, as our statists6 do, A baseness to write fair,' and labored much How to forget that learning, but, sir, now It did me yeoman’s sendee. Wilt thou know Th’ effect8 of what I wrote? HORATIO Ay, good my lord. HAMLET An earnest conjuration from the King, As England was his faithful tributary, As love between them like the palm might flourish, As peace should still her wheaten garland wear And stand a comma9 ’tween their amities, And many suchlike as’s of great charge,10 That on the view and knowing of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, He should those bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving11 time allowed. HORATIO How was this sealed? HAMLET Why, even in that was heaven ordinant12 I had my father’s signet in my purse, Which was the model13 of that Danish seal, Folded the writ up in the form of th’ odier, Subscribed it, gave’t th’ impression, placed it safely, 'Hie changeling never known. Now, the next day Was our sea fight, and what to this was sequent Thou knowest already. HORATIO So Guildenstem and Rosencrantz go to’t. HAMLET Why, man, they did make love to this employment. They are not near my conscience; their defeat Does by their own insinuation14 grow. 1 enriched

2such bugs and goblins in my life such bugbears and imagined terrors if I were ^reading 4leisure bated delay allowed °ere "statesmen 'clearly allowed to live 1 4T 1 11 11 J 10great charge (1) serious exhortation (2) heavy burden (punning on ■link purport 14 12 li meddling ^counterpart ruling absolution as’s and ‘asses”)

Act V, Scene II

890

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

60

Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass1 and fell2 incensed points Of mighty opposites. HORATIO Why, what a king is this! HAMLET Does it not, think thee, stand me now upon3— He that hath killed my king, and whored my mother, Popped in between th’ election4 and my hopes, Thrown out his angle0 for my proper life,6 And with such coz’nage'—is’t not perfect conscience To quit8 him with this arm? And is’t not to be damned To let this canker of our nature come In further evil? HORATIO It must be shortly known to him from England What is the issue of the business there. HAMLET It will be short; the interim’s mine, And a man’s life’s no more than to say “one. ” But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself, For by the image of my cause I see The portraiture of his. I’ll court his favors. But sure the bravery9 of his grief did put me Into a tow’ring passion. HORATIO Peace, who comes here?

65

70

75

so

Enter young OSRIC, a courtier. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark. HAMLET I humbly thank you, sir. [Aside to HORATIO] Dost know this waterfly? HORATIO [Aside to HAMLET] No, my good lord. HAMLET [Aside to HORATIO] Thy state is the more gracious, for ’tis a vice to know him. He hadi much land, and fertile. Let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king’s mess.10 Tis a chough,11 but, as I say, spacious12 in the possession of dirt. OSRIC Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his Majesty. OSRIC

85

90

HAMLET

95

loo

I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit.

Put your bonnet to his right use. Tis for the head. OSRIC I thank your lordship, it is very hot. HAMLET No, believe me, ’tis veiy cold; the wind is northerly. OSRIC It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed. ILAMLET But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion.13 OSRIC Exceedingly, my lord; it is veiy sultry, as ’twere—I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that ’a has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter— HAMLET I beseech you remember. HAMLET moves him to put on his hat.

1 thrust

2cruel

fistand me now upon become incumbent upon me

monarchy was elective Yravado

10table

’fishing fine

6my proper life my own life

“jackdaw (here, chatterer)

“2well off

The Danish Trickery

13temperament

8pay back

Act V, Scene II

Hamlet

891

Nay, good my lord; for my ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes—believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differ¬ ences, 1 of very soft society and great showing. Indeed, to speak feelingly8 of him, he is the card3 or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent4 of what part a gentleman would see. HAMLET Sir, his definement0 suffers no perdition'’ in you, though, I know, to divide him inventorially would dozy' tlf arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither in respect of his quick sail.8 But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article,9 and his infusion10 of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction11 of him, his semblable12 is his mirror, and who else would trace him, his umbrage,13 nothing more. OSRIC Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. ' HAMLET The concemancv,14 sir? Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath? OSRIC Sir? HORATIO Is’t not possible to understand in another tongue? You will to’t,10 sir, really. HAMLET What imports the nomination of this gendeman? OSRIC Of Laertes? HORATIO [Aside to HAMLET] His purse is empty already. All’s golden words are spent. HAMLET Of him, sir. OSRIC I know you are not ignorant— HAMLET I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did, it would not much approve19 me. Well, sir? OSRIC You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is— HAMLET I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself. OSRIC I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation1' laid on him by them, OSRIC

105

no

ns

120

125

130

135

140

in his meed18 he’s unfellowed.

HAMLET What’s his weapon? OSRIC Rapier and dagger. HAMLET That’s two of his weapons—-but well. OSRIC The King, sir, hath wagered with him six Barbary horses, against the which he has impawned,19 as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns,80 as girdle, hangers,21 and so. Three of the carriages,22 in faith, are very dear to fancy, veiv responsive23 to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit.24 HAMLET What call you the carriages? HORATIO [Aside to HAMLET] I knew you must be edified by the margent25 ere you had done.

ITie carriages, sir, are the hangers. HAMLET The phrase would be more germane to the matter if we could carry a

OSRIC

1 distinguishing'characteristics

2justly

3chart

4summary

° description

"loss

'dizzy

Hand yet . . . quick sail i.e., and vet only stagger despite all (yaw neither) in trying to overtake his virtues

'diterally, “item,” but here perhaps “traits” or “importance”

“description “reputation

12likeness 18merit

13shadow

“wagered

22an affected word for hangers marginal (explanatory) comment

“meaning

Xowill tot will get there

20accompaniments

^corresponding

10essential quality '"commend

21 straps hanging the sword to the belt

24liberal conceit elaborate design

2ni.e.,

892

145

150

Act V, Scene II

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

cannon by our sides. I would it might be hangers till then. But on! Six Barbaiy horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages—that’s the French bet against the Danish. Why is this all impawned, as you call it? OSRIC The King, sir, hath laid, sir, that in 'a dozen passes between yourself and him he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath laid on twelve for nine, and it would come to immediate trial if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer. HAMLET How if I answer no? OSRIC

I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.

Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his Majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me.1 Let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose, I will win for him an I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits. OSRIC Shall I deliver you e’en so? HAMLET To this effect, sir, after what flourish your nature will. HAMLET

155

OSRIC

160

165

I commend my duty to your lordship.

Yours, yours. [Exit OSRIC.] He does well to commend it himself; there are no tongues else for’s turn. HORATIO This lapwing8 runs away with the shell on his head. HAMLET ’A did comply, sir, with his dug3 before ’a sucked it. Hius has he, and many more of the same breed that I know the drossy age dotes on, only got the tune of the time and, out of an habit of encounter,4 a kind of yeasty0 collection, which carries them through and through the most fanned and winnowed opin¬ ions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out.6

HAMLET

Enter a LORD.

My lord, his Majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him that you attend him in the hall. He sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will take longer time. HAMLET I am constant to my purposes; they follow the King’s pleasure. If his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided I be so able as now. LORD The King and Queen and all are coming down. HAMLET In happy time. LORD The Queen desires you to use some gende entertainment7 to Laertes before you fall to play. HAMLET She well instructs me. Exit LORD. HORATIO You will lose this wager, my lord. HAMLET I do not think so. Since he went into France I have been in continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart. But it is no matter. HORATIO Nay, good my lord— LORD

170

175

iso

HAMLET

It is but foolery but it is such a kind of gain-giving8 as would perhaps

trouble a woman.

1 breathing time of day with me time when I take exercise thought to run around with half its shell on its head ceremoniously polite to his mother’s breast

'the new-hatched lapwing was

3A did comply, sir, with his dug he was

4out of an habit of encounter out of his own super¬

ficial way of meeting and conversing with people

Yrothy

blown away (the reference is to the “yeasty collection”) courteous 8 misgiving

Hhe bubbles are out i.e., they are

‘to use some gentle entertainment to be

Act V, Scene II

185

HORATIO

Hamlet

893

If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their repair hither

and say you are not fit.

Not a whit, we defy augury. There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.1 If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all. Since no man of aught he leaves knows, what is’t to leave betimes?2 Let be.

HAMLET

190

A table prepared. [Enter] Trumpets, Drums, and OFFICERS with cushions; KING, QUEEN, [OSRIC,] and all the State, [with] foils, daggers, [and stoups of wine borne in]; and LAERTES. KING

Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.

[The KING puts LAERTES' hand into HAMLET s. ] Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong, But pardon’t, as you are a gentleman. This presence3 knows, and you must needs have heard, How I am punished with a sore distraction. What I have done That might your nature, honor, and exception4 Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was’t Hamlet wronged Laertes? Never Hamlet. If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it then? His madness. Ift be so, Hamlet is of the faction0 that is wronged; His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy. Sir, in this audience, Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts That I have shot my arrow o’er the house And hurt my brother.

HAMLET

195

200

205

210

LAERTES

215

Whose motive in this case should stir me most To my revenge. But in my terms of honor I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement Till by some elder masters of known honor I have a voice and precedent3 of peace To keep my name ungored. But till that time I do receive your offered love like love, And will not wrong it. HAMLET

220

I am satisfied in nature,

I embrace it freely,

And will this brother’s wager frankly play. Give us the foils. Come on. LAERTES Come, one for me. HAMLET I’ll be your foil,' Laertes. In mine ignorance

The fall of a sparrow (cf. Matthew 10:29 “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father”) 4disapproval

5party, side

'early

3royal assembly

6uoice and precedent authoritative opinion justified by precedent

fil) blunt sword (2) background (of metallic leaf) for a jewel

894

ActV, Scene II

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Your skill shall, like a star i’ th’ darkest night, Stick hery off1 indeed. You mock me, sir.

LAERTES

No, by this hand. Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet,

HAMLET 225

KING

You know the wager? Very well, my lord.

HAMLET

Your grace has laid the odds o’ th1 weaker side. KING

I do not fear it, I have seen you both;

But since he is bettered,2 we have therefore odds. 230

LAERTES HAMLET

This is too heavy; let me see another. This likes me well. These foils have all a length? Prepare to play.

OSRIC KING

Ay, my good lord. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table.

If Hamlet give the first or second hit, 235

Or quit3 in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance hre. The King shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath, And in the cup an union4 shall he throw Richer than that which four successive kings

240

In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the cups, And let the kettle0 to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, "Hie cannons to the heavens, the heaven to earth, “Now the King drinks to Hamlet.” Come, begin. Trumpets the while.

245

And you, the judges, bear a wary eye. HAMLET LAERTES

Come on, sir Come, my lord. They play.

One.

HAMLET

No.

LAERTES

Judgment?

HAMLET OSRIC

A hit, a very palpable hit.

Drum, trumpets, and shot. Flourish; a piece goes off. LAERTES KING

Well, again.

Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine.

Here’s to thy health. Give him the cup. 250

HAMLET

I’ll play this bout first; set it by awhile.

Come. [They play.] Another hit. What say you? A touch, a touch; I do confess’t. Our son shall win.

LAERTES KING

1 Stick fiery off stand out brilliantly °kettledrum

2has improved (in France)

Vepav, hit back

4pearl

Act V, Scene II

Hamlet

QUEEN

255

895

He’s fat,1 and scant of breath.

Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, mb thy brows. The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet HAMLET Good madam! KING Gertrude, do not drink. QUEEN

I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me. [Drinks.]

It is die poisoned cup; it is too late. HAMLET I dare not drink yet, madam—by and by. QLtEEN Come, let me wipe thy face. LAERTES My lord, I'll hit him now. KING [Aside]

260

KING

I do not think’t.

.And yet it is almost against my conscience. HAMLET Come for the third, Laertes. You do but dally. I pray you pass with your best violence; I am sure you make a wanton2 of me. LAERTES Say you so? Come on. OSRIC Nothing neither way. LAERTES Have at you now! LAERTES [Aside]

265

[They] play.

In scuffling they change rapiers, [and both are wounded].

Part them. They are incensed.

KING

270

HAMLET

Nay, come—again!

[The QUEEN falls.]

Look to the Queen there, ho! HORATIO They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord? OSRIC How is’t, Laertes? LAERTES Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe,3 Osric. I am jusdv killed with mine own treachery. HAMLET How does die Queen? KING She sounds4 to see them bleed. QLEEX No, no, the drink, the drink! O my dear Hamlet! The drink, the drink! I am poisoned. [Dies.] HAMLET O villainy! Ho! Let the door be locked. Treachery! Seek it out. [LAERTES falls.] LAERTES It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain; No med’eine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour’s life. The treacherous instrument is in thy hand. Unbated and envenomed. The foul practice'’ Hath turned itself on me. Lo, here I he, Never to rise again. Thy mother’s poisoned. I can no more. The King, the King’s to blame. HAMLET Hie point envenomed too? Then, venom, to thy work. Hurts the KING. .ALL Treason! Treason! OSRIC

275

280

285

290

KING

O, yet defend me, friends. I am but hurt.

Here, thou incestuous, murd’rous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion. Is thy union here?

HASHET

Follow my mother. *(1) sweaty (2) out of training

KING dies.

'’spoiled child

3snare

4swoons

deception

896

Act V, Scene II

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

He is justly served. It is a poison tempered1 by himself. Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me! , Dies. HAMLET Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio. Wretched Queen, adieu! You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes' or audience to this act, Had I but time (as this fell sergeant,3 Death, Is strict in his arrest) O, I could tell you— But let it be. Horatio, I am dead; Thou livest; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied.4 HORATIO Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman5 than a Dane. Here’s yet some liquor left. HAMLET As th’ art a man, Give me the cup. Tet go. By heaven, I’ll ha’t! O God, Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity6 awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story. A march afar off. [Exit OSRIC.] What warlike noise is this? LAERTES

295

300

305

310

315

Enter OSRIC.

Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland, To th’ ambassadors of England gives This warlike volley. HAMLET O, I die, Horatio! Hie potent poison quite o’ercrows' my spirit. I cannot live to hear the news from England, But I do prophesy th’ election lights On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice. So tell him, with th’ occurrents,8 more and less, Which have solicited6—the rest is silence. Dies. HORATIO Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet Prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. Why does the drum come hither? [March within.] OSRIC

320

325

Enter FORTINBRAS, with the AMBASSADORS with Drum, Colors, and ATTEND¬ ANTS. FORTINBRAS

Where is this sight?

What is it you would see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.

HORATIO

1 mixed Yminformed

'performers who have no words to speak

3fell sergeant dread sheriffs officer

°antique Roman (with reference to the old Roman fashion of suicide)

6i.e., the felicity of death Occurrences ^incited

'overpowers (as a triumphant cock crows over its weak opponent)

Act V, Scene II

Hamlet

897

This quany1 cries on havoc.2 O proud Death, What feast is toward3 in thine eternal cell That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck? AMBASSADOR The sight is dismal; And our affairs from England come too late. The ears are senseless that should give us hearing To tell him his commandment is fulfilled, That Rosencrantz and Guildenstem are dead. Where should we have our thanks? HORATIO Not from his4 mouth, Had it th’ ability of life to thank you. He never gave commandment for their death. But since, so jump0 upon this bloody question, You from the Polack wars, and you from England, Are here arrived, give order that these bodies High on a stage0 be placed to the view, And let me speak to th1 yet unknowing world How these things came about. So shall you hear Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts, Of accidental judgments, casual' slaughters, Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause, And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall’n on th1 inventors’ heads. All this can I Truly deliver. FORTINBRAS Let us haste to hear it, And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune. I have some rights of memory8 in this kingdom, Which now to claim my vantage dodi invite me. HORATIO Of that I shall have also cause to speak, And from his mouth whose voice will draw on" more. But let this same be presently performed, Even while men’s minds are wild, lest more mischance On10 plots and errors happen. FORTINBRAS Let four captains Bear Hamlet like a soldier to die stage, For he was likely, had he been put on,11 To have proved most royal; and for his passage12 The soldiers’ music and die rite of war Speak loudly for him. Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this Becomes the field,13 but here shows much amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot. FORTINBRAS

330

335

340

345

350

355

360

365

Exeunt marching; after the which a peal of ordnance are shot off ’heap of slain bodies ~ cries on havoc proclaims general slaughter 3in preparation 4Claudius’ ^precisely 6platform ' not humanly planned, chance 8rights of memory remembered claims "voice will draw on vote will influence 1(’on top of 1 lput on advanced (to the throne) 1 Heath ’ battlefield

898

Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare

Questions 1. Write a brief description of the purposes of plot served by each scene in the first act. From this outline, determine the crises and conflicts that begin Hamlet. 2. Make a list of the comic scenes in the play. How are they placed in relation

3.

4.

5.

6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

13.

14.

to the rest of the action? Does their position in the plot suggest a function? Discuss conflict in the character of Hamlet—conflict with other people, with himself, with fate. Could you argue that all small conflicts combine to become one major conflict in the uncoiling of the play? We know Hamlet’s motives in constructing the play within the play. We as audience watch the play within the play, and we watch Claudius watch. Con¬ sider the dramatic purposes of the play within the play. Hamlet is a long play, and often when producers mount a new production, they cut scenes out of it. If you had to cut one scene from the play, which would you cut? Why? Would you lose anything? A class discussion can raise many issues about the construction of Hamlet. When do you become certain that Claudius murdered Hamlet’s father? What are the stages by which you become certain? Hamlet has been called a subjective play: “We perceive all action through Hamlet’s mind.” Is this statement exaggerated? Hamlet treats the play’s women badly. Does anything justify his treatment of his mother? Of Ophelia? Does he love Ophelia? Is he ambivalent? Is Hamlet crazy? Is Ophelia? Does Shakespeare in the language of their speeches indicate a difference in tlieir mental conditions? “Purely evil characters are uninteresting because purity is inhuman.” Does Claudius seem purely evil? Aristotle required that a tragic hero be a great man. Is Hamlet great? What supports the notion of Hamlet’s greatness? What detracts from these notions? Where did innocent Ophelia learn such nasty language? Is it unrealistic that Ophelia speaks as she does? On the other hand, could you use Ophelia’s bawdy speeches as an argument for Shakespeare’s greatness? Compare the poetic originals with the prose paraphrases quoted on pages 496 through 498. Does Shakespeare’s own language advance the action as well as the modern paraphrase does? In a famous essay, “Hamlet and His Problems,” T. S. Eliot wrote: Hamlet (the man) is dominated by an emotion which is inexpressible, because it is in excess of the facts as they appear. And the supposed identity of Hamlet with his author is genuine to this point: diat Hamlet’s bafflement at the absence of objective equivalent to his feelings is a prolongation of die bafflement of his creator in die face of his artistic problem. Hamlet is up against die difficulty that his disgust is occasioned by his modier, but that his mother is not an adequate equivalent for it; his disgust envelops and exceeds her. It is thus a feeling which he cannot understand; he cannot objectify it, and it therefore remains to poison life and obstruct action. None of die possible actions can satisfy it; and nothing diat Shakespeare can do with the plot can express Hamlet for him.

Discuss 15. Taking a brief scene—the dialogue between Hamlet and his mother, for in¬ stance, before he kills Polonius (Act III, Scene IV)—describe how you would

Hamlet

899

stage it in the Globe llieater. Remember that you can use the balcony, dif¬ ferent exits, and the alcove at the rear of the stage. Remember when you do your blocking that the audience stands on three sides of the thrust stage. Remember that you have no lighting, that your sound effects are limited, that costuming is contemporary, and that you may use only simple props. Write another staging of the same scene using the picture stage and features available to a modern theater. 16. Is there a role in Hamlet like Kreon’s in Oedipus the King? 17. Someone has suggested that the ghost in Hamlet functions like the plague in Oedipus. To what extent does this suggestion make sense? 18. Do you feel in Hamlet, as much as you do in Oedipus, the inevitability7 of what must happen? If you do, notice what elements of each play produce this result; discover if the plays use different methods to achieve the same end. If you do not believe that Hamlet"s plot seems so inevitable as Oedipus the King's, search out and explain the reasons why.

Chapter 5 Comedy, Seoclassidsm, and Moliere

Comedy makes us laugh and leaves us smiling, but that is not all it does. The tragic mask in Greek theater shows the downtumed mouth, fitted to the role of the protagonist whose downfall is fated. If the comic mask shows a perpetual smile, we should not imagine that comedy is evenly comic or does not provoke tears and sober thoughts. Comedy is various in its mixture of feelings, fre¬ quently frightening in its crises, frequendy satiric and cruel—but by definition in a comedy things come out all right in the end. Like tragedy, comedy derived from the worship of Dionysus, the wine god of ancient Greece. Although the year must die each autumn into winter, passing inexorably underground, the year will be bom again in spring—-just as neces¬ sarily. The Greek word that becomes comedy means revelry and suggests the celebration of triumph over adversity. In tragedy adversity overcomes a king. In comedy at its most typical, someone socially a little lower than a king faces adversity, overcomes it by good luck—and gets married. The hero’s adversity may take the form of a villain, whose overthrow may be comic or satiric, or adversity may be a trick of fate, like a mixed-up set of identical twins and a shipwreck. In the ritual that lies behind comedy, adversity was winter and triumph was the green shoots of spring. Both comedy and the year’s cycle lead to fruition: from the marriage that brings down the final curtain we can expect a green crop of children. Aristotle’s elements of theater can be applied to comedy as well as to tragedy. Comic plots move through conflicts and crises as the protagonist works to overcome adversity. Coincidence and improbable good luck aid the protagonist; scenes of recognition make our happy ending: long-lost wives and sons sold into slavery miraculously reappear; the beggar inherits a great fortune; the vil¬ lain proves to be the heir’s double and an imposter. Improbability of resolution, rather than displeasing us, seems essential to the comic view of the world. The counterpart to tragedy’s unavoidable doom* comedy’s happy ending is unavoid¬ able. Improbability emphasizes the comic understanding: no matter how bad things Took, something will turn up to save the day. 900

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Molicrc

901

Characters in comedy tend to be types, as tragic characters tend to be individ¬ uals. Tides of comedies often name a characteristic, as in Moliere’s The Mis¬ anthrope:; tides of tragedies like Oedipus the King and Hamlet tend to be the names of tragic heroes. (Moliere’s Tartuffe is an exception, named after the play’s villain; although at one point Moliere called it The Imposter.) It is com¬ mon for a comic character to embody one human trait with a monstrous con¬ sistency: the miser is always and only a miser, the fop nothing but a fop. The ancient idea of humours portrayed human character according to the mixture of four bodily fluids, or humours: blood, phlegm, yellow bile, black bile—and a dominance of any one determined a person’s character: sanguine, phlegmatic, choleric, or melancholy. In the comedy of humours, a character is wholly dom¬ inated by one characteristic trait or humour—rather like Dopey or Grumpy among Disney’s Seven Dwarfs. Exaggeration, of course, is a device of humor. By multiplying or expanding a trait to monstrosity, we expose it to laughter. Comedies use exaggerated stock characters to expose social foolishness as well as the foolishness of individuals. With types, and exaggerated types, we approach stereotypes (see page 738), which are common to comedy, less common in tragedy. Thus we have the classic stereotypes of the braggart and the artful slave. Even in Shakespearean comedy, and comedies of the modem theater, we find many expected roles: the young lovers, the scheming (for good or evil) servant, the kind parent and the wicked guardian, the chunk, the greedy landlord. Thought in comedy runs the gamut from profundity to fatuousness. Satiric comedy is moral, and exposes foolishness to ridicule. As such, it can be said to benefit society by providing moral guidelines and allowing us to correct our¬ selves. Tartuffe’s hypocritical mask of pious morality in the endeavor to enrich himself is condemned by being revealed. Because Tartuffe is thoroughly evil, he himself provides an audience no moral lesson. We know that we do not resemble this man. But the dupe of his wickedness is Orgon, who believes the most outrageous of Tartuffe’s lies. It is Orgon’s eyes that must be opened, his foolishness that the play’s satire condemns, exposes, and holds up to ridicule. Even in satiric comedies we usually find blameless young lovers to admire. Not all comedies, however, are satiric. Shakespeare’s early comedies, like As You Like It, or Loves Labour’s Lost, while they include obvious silliness ob¬ viously corrected, entertain us first—and seldom bother to persuade us of moral ideas. We take from these plays a delight in their shape, their wit, their reso¬ lution: we are entertained. This is the romantic comedy, at which Shakespeare excelled; his rival Ben Jonson wrote satiric comedy. While the satiric comedy takes a sharp view of human foibles, a romantic comedy is good-natured, op¬ timistic, or accepting. Language provides us another means for distinguishing types of comedy. In high comedy the characters speak with verbal wit. Shakespeare’s fools may tease puns for lines, his heroes sum up a scene in an epigram; on Broadway characters wisecrack at each other. In low comedy we laugh at situations and pratfalls. A farce is low comedy usually without pretention to satire or to pro-

902

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

found thought, in which plotting makes situations which are inherently absurd. The variant bedroom farce may show us a woman stuffing one lover after another into closets, under beds, and onto balconies. In slapstick, the laughter comes from physical movement more than from situation, as characters slip and fall down, bang their heads on closet doors, and hit each other with any¬ thing handy. There are many theories of laughter and its sources, and no consensus. The poet Baudelaire, the philosopher Bergson, the novelist George Meredith, and the psychologist Freud have all written famous essays on humor. Reading com¬ edy, attending to its thoughts, action, and language, we find incongruity a comic constant. Perhaps we laugh feeling superior to characters on the stage, per¬ ceiving an incongruity between what we would do and what they have done. Perhaps we laugh because we see our suppressed desires acted out on the stage, our alienated characteristics exhibited, an incongruity between desire and performance. Perhaps we laugh to see our wishes fulfilled.

Tragicomedy and mixed forms We have treated tragedy and comedy as if these forms of drama never touched upon each other. But few great plays are so pure: in Shakespeare’s great tra¬ gedies, we have noticed comic routines and considerable laughter; in Shake¬ speare’s comedy we have tears; and in a late comedy like Measure for Measure we have tragic figures and possible tragedy, turned aside into comedy. In mod¬ ern theater the mixture of laughter and tears has become the rule rather than the exception. Chekhov’s comedies are funny and melancholy at once. In ret¬ rospect, modem readers have found that even the later Greek drama admitted some mixture; in Kuripides’ comedy Alcestis we see a tragedy averted by a comic turn of plot. When in Shakespeare’s Macbeth, after a dreadful murder a drunken porter delivers a comic, bawdy soliloquy, some critics have spoken of comic relief. Perhaps we feel in laughter a release of the tension that mounts as we witness evil. Other critics find the dramatic effect greater than mere relief; a conflict of modes in the play’s form, they claim, adds to the play’s complexity by providing dramatic contrast: while our hearts are still swollen with horror at the murder of an innocent and generous lung, we are wrenched aside by a description of the effects of alcohol on sexual desire and potency. Presumably a similar con¬ flict has similar effects when a serious element enters a play that is mostly funny: our laughter and our lightness stand out against a black background.

Neoclassic drama Because the Renaissance brought about, a revival of classical learning, it was natural that the new theater should model itself on the classic plays of Greece and Rome. Neoclassic (neo means new) drama began in Italy, and spread to France to influence the great French drama of the seventeenth century, domi¬ nated by the tragedians Pierre Corneille (1606—1684) and Jean Baptiste Racine (1639—1699) and by the comic playwright Moliere (1622—1673.) In neoclassic

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

903

theory and practice, comedy and tragedy are kept distinct, any mixture consid¬ ered barbarous. (The playwright and philosopher Voltaire [1694—1778] dis¬ missed Shakespeare as ua drunken savage.”) Neoclassic drama further insisted on the three unities of time, place, and action. The time elapsed in the plot should take no more than twenty-four hours; the place of the action should remain the same; the action must be unified and integral, one plot in one tone of voice. Italian critics ol the Renaissance claimed to derive the three unities from Aristotle’s Poetics, although Aristode never mentioned time and place, only unity of action: a beginning and a middle and an end. Wherever the three unities came from, they dominated the neoclassic stage with their formal de¬ mands, and Tartuffe obeys them. Tartuffe uses one stage set, depicting one room; its events take place on one day; and it tells a simple and unified story, to which only the lovers’ quarrel makes something like a brief subplot. French neoclassic staging The architecture of the neoclassic theater was like our own common stage. The theater was indoors—with a proscenium arch, a curtain, and a box stage: the room with the missing wall. Scenery was painted, and illuminated by the light of candles and lanterns. Actors wore makeup. Women played women’s roles, with the exception of the role of a grotesque woman like Mme. Pemell in Tar¬ tuffe, whose part could be played by a man.

Moliere Moliere (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, 1622—1673) gave up the study of law when he was a young man to join a theatrical company. The company failed and Moliere was jailed for debt; but as soon as he emerged from prison he returned to the stage, and after a few years of touring the provinces began to produce plays he had written. After an apprenticeship as the author of farces, he turned his hand to satirical comedy. Besides Tartuffe, his famous plays include The School for Wives (1662), The Misanthrope (1666), The Doctor in Spite of Himself (1666), The Miser (1668), The Would-Be Gentleman (1671), and The Imaginary Invalid (1673). During a performance of this last play—like Shake¬ speare, he continued to act—Moliere became fatally ill onstage. In Tartuffe he played Orgon. We know something of the cast of his company, and it is amusing to note that his Tartuffe (an actor named Du Croisv) was a big healthy fellow with a florid complexion. Part of the humor for Moliere’s audience was to see this burly man brag of wearing hair shirts and going without food; casting made Tartuffe’s deception part of the play’s spectacle. When Tartuffe was first produced in 1664 it was suppressed by forces that considered it an attack on religion. In 1667, Moliere presented it in altered form, but opposition persisted. Not until 1669 was the play allowed free pro¬ duction. Reading the play now, it is hard to see how it could have been con¬ sidered an attack on religion. No one is so far from religious feeling as Tartuffe; he merely uses the piety of gullible people in his ruthless pursuit of wealth. Like Oedipus the King and Hamlet, Tartuffe is written in verse. Moliere’s form is the hexameter couplet, each pair of twelve-syllable lines (called Alex-

904

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

andrines) rhyming. Moliere wrote some of his plays in prose, and Tartuffe has been well translated into English prose, but we will use a verse translation by the contemporary American poet Richard Wilbur. It may be interesting to look at the difference between the same speech in .prose and in verse. Here is the play’s opening—its exposition—as translated by John Wood: MADAME PERNEIXE

Come, Flipote, come along, bet me be getting away from

them. ELMIRE

You walk so fast one can hardly keep up with you.

MADAME PERNELLE

Never mind, my dear, never mind! Don’t come any further.

I can do without all this politeness. ELMIRE We are only paying you the respect that is due to you. Why must you be in such a hurry to go, mother? MADAME PERNELLE Because I can’t bear to see the goings-on in this house and because there’s no consideration shown to me at all. I have had a very tin edifying visit indeed! All my advice goes for nothing here. There’s no respect paid to anything. Everybody airs his opinions—the place is a veritable Bedlam! DORINE If. . .

We catch the bustle, the abruptness of interchange; we absorb the subtlety of exposition. Here is Wilbur’s verse translation of the same speeches: Come, come, Flipote; it’s time I left this place. ELMIRE I can’t keep up, you walk at such a pace. MADAME PERNELLE Don’t trouble child; no need to show me out. It’s not your manners I’m concerned about. ELMIRE We merely pay you the respect we owe. But, Mother, why this hurry? Must you go? MADAME PERNELLE I must. This house appals me. No one in it Will pay attention for a single minute. Children, I take my leave much vexed in spirit. I offer good advice, but you won’t hear it. You all break in and chatter on and on. It’s like a madhouse with the keeper gone. DORINE If. . . MADAME PERNELLE

We have the same qualities of character in the speeches, but in Wilbur we also fmd the rhythm and resolution of the rhymed ten-syllable line.* *Neither a madhouse with the keeper gone nor a veritable Bedlam translates Moliere’s French precisely, yet each phrase adequately renders the gesture of his meaning. For anyone who has studied some French it may be interesting to read these speeches in the original: MADAME PERNELLE ELMIRE

Allons, Flipote, allons, que d’eux je me delivre.

Vous marchez d’un tel pas qu’on a peine a vous suivre.

MADAME PERNELLE

Laissez, ma bra, laissez; lie venez pas plus loin;

Ce sont toutes fagons dont je n’ai pas besoin. ELMIRE

De ce que Ton vous doit envers vous on s’aequitte.

Mais ma mere, d’ou vient que vous sortez si vite? MADAME PERNELLE

C’est que je ne puis voir tout ce menage-ci

Et que de me complaire on ne prend mil souci Oui, je sors de chez vous fort mal edifiee; Dans toutes mes legons j’v suis contrariee: On n’y respecte rien, chacun v parle haut, v\ Et c’est tout justement la cour du roi Petaud. DORINE

Si . . .

Molicre

Tartuffe Translated by Richard Wilbur

Characters MME PERNELLE, Orgon’s mother

CLEANTE, Orgon’s brother-in-law

ORGON, Elmire’s husband

TARTYtTE, a hypocrite

ELMIRE, Orgon’s wife

I)ORL\E, Mariane’s lady’s-maid C

DAMIS, Orgon’s son, Elmire’s stepson

M. LOYAL, a bailiff

MARIANE, Orgon’s daughter, Elmire’s

A POLICE OFFICER

stepdaughter, in love with Yalere YALERE, in love with Mariane

FLIPOTE, Mme Pemelle’s maid

The scene throughout: ORGON’s house in Paris

Act I Scene 1 MADAME PERNELLE and FLIPOTE, her maid ELMIRE

DORINE

CLEANTE

MARIANE

DAMIS

Come, come, Flipote; it’s time I left this place. ELMIRE I can’t keep up, you walk at such a pace. MADAME PERNELLE Don’t trouble, child; no need to show me out. It’s not your manners I’m concerned about. ELMIRE We merely pay you the respect we owe. But, Mother, why this hurry? Must you go? MADAME PERNELLE I must. This house appalls me. No one in it Will pay attention for a single minute. Children, I take my leave much vexed in spirit. I offer good advice, but you won’t hear it. You all break in and chatter on and on. It’s like a madhouse with the keeper gone. DORINE If. . . MADAME PERNELLE Girl, you talk too much, and I’m afraid You’re far too saucy for a lady’s maid. You push in everywhere and have your say. DAMIS But . . . MADAME PERNELLE You, boy, grow more foolish every day. To think my grandson should be such a dunce! I’ve said a hundred times, if I’ve said it once, That if you keep the course on which you’ve started, You’ll leave your worthy father broken-hearted. MARIANE I think . . . MADAME PERNELLE And you, his sister, seem so pure. So shv, so innocent, and so demure. MADAME PERNELLE

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Act I, Scene 1

But you know what they say about still waters. I pity parents with secretive daughters. EIMIRE Now, Mother . . . MADAME PERNELLE And as for you, child, let me add That your behavior is extremely bad, And a poor example for these children, too. Their dear, dead mother did far better dian you. You’re much too free with money, and I’m distressed To see you so elaborately dressed. When it’s one’s husband that one aims to please, v One has no need of costly fripperies. CLEANTE Oh, Madam, really . . . MADAME PERNELLE You are her brother, Sir, And I respect and love you; yet if I were My son, this lady’s good and pious spouse, I wouldn’t make you welcome in my house. You’re full of worldly counsels which, I fear, Aren’t suitable for decent folk to hear. I’ve spoken bluntly, Sir; but it behooves us Not to mince words when righteous fervor moves us. DAM IS Your man Tartuffe is full of holy speeches . . . MADAME PERNELLE And practises precisely what he preaches, lie’s a fine man, and should be listened to. I will not hear him mocked by fools like you. DAMIS Good God! Do you expect me to submit To the tyranny of that carping hypocrite? Must we forgo all joys and satisfactions Because that bigot censures all our actions? DORINE To hear him talk—and he talks all the time— There’s nothing one can do that’s not a crime. He rails at everything, your dear Tartuffe. MADAME PERNELLE Whatever he reproves deserves reproof. He’s out to save your souls, and all of you Must love him, as my son would have you do. DAMIS Ah no, Grandmother, I could never take To such a rascal, even for my father’s sake. That’s how I feel, and I shall not dissemble. His every action makes me seethe and tremble With helpless anger, and I have no doubt That he and I will shortly have it out. DORINE Surely it is a shame and a disgrace To see this man usurp die master’s place— To see this beggar who, when first he came, Ilad not a shoe or shoestring to his name So far forget himself that he behaves As if the house were his, and we his slaves. MADAME PERNELLE Well, mark my words, your souls would fare far better If you obeyed his precepts to the letter. DORINE You see him as a saint. I’m far lyss awed; In fact, I see right through him. He’s a fraud.

Act I, Scene 1

MADAME PERXELLE

Tartuffe

Nonsense!

His man Laurent’s tlie same, or worse; I’d not trust either with a penny purse.

DOREXE

M\DAME PERXELLE

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I can’t say what his sewant’s morals may be;

His own great goodness I can guarantee. You all regard him with distaste and fear Because he tells you what you’re loath to hear, Condemns your sins, points out your moral flaws, .And humbly strives to further Heaven’s cause. DOREVE If sin is all that bothers him, why is it He’s so upset when folk drop in to visit? Is Heaven so outraged by a social call That he must prophesy against us all? I’ll tell you what I think: if you ask me He’s jealous of my mistress’ company. MADAME PERXELLE Rubbish! [To ELMIRE] He’s not alone, child, in complaining Of all your promiscuous entertaining. Why, the whole neighborhood’s upset, I know, By all these carriages that come and go, With crowds of guests parading in and out .And noisy servants loitering about. In all of this, I’m sure there’s nothing vicious; But why give people cause to be suspicious? CLEAXTE They need no cause; they’ll talk in any case. Madam, this world would be a joyless place If, fearing what malicious tongues might say, We locked our doors and turned our friends away. And even if one did so dreary a tiling, D’you think those tongues would cease their chattering? One can’t fight slander; it’s a losing battle; Let us instead ignore their tittle-tattle. Let’s strive to live by conscience’ clear decrees, .And let the gossips gossip as they please. DORINE If there is talk against us, I know the source: It’s Daphne and her little husband, of course. Those who have greatest cause for guilt and shame .Are quickest to besmirch a neighbor’s name. Alien there’s a chance for libel, they never miss it; Alien something can be made to seem illicit They’re off at once to spread the joyous news, Adding to fact what fantasies they choose. By talking up their neighbor’s indiscretions They seek to camouflage their own transgressions, Hoping that offiers’ innocent affairs Alll lend a hue of innocence to theirs, Or that their own black guilt will come to seem Part of a general shady color-scheme. MADAME PERXELLE All that is quite irrelevant. I doubt That anyone’s more virtuous and devout

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Act I, Scene 1

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

Than dear Orante; and I’m informed that she 120

Condemns your mode of life most vehemently. DORINE

Oh, yes, she’s strict, devout, and has no taint

Of worldliness; in short, she seems a saint. But it was time which taught her that disguise; She’s thus because she can’t be otherwise. 125

So long as her attractions could enthrall, She flounced and flirted and enjoyed it all, But now that they’re no longer what they were She quits a world which fast is quitting her, And wears a veil of virtue to conceal

130

Iler bankrupt beauty and her lost appeal. That’s what becomes of old coquettes today: Distressed when all their lovers fall away, They see no recourse but to play the prude, And so confer a style on solitude.

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Thereafter, they’re severe with everyone, Condemning all our actions, pardoning none, And claiming to be pure, austere, and zealous Alien, if the truth were known, they’re merely jealous, And cannot bear to see another know

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The pleasures time has forced them to forgo. MADAME PERNELLE [initially to ELM IRE]

That sort of talk is what you like to

hear; Therefore you’d have us all keep still, my dear, While Madam rattles on the livelong day. Nevertheless, I mean to have my say. 145

I tell you that you’re blest to have Tartuffe Dwelling, as niv son’s guest, beneath this roof; That Heaven has sent him to forestall its wrath By leading you, once more, to the true path; That all he reprehends its reprehensible,

iso

And that you’d better heed him, and be sensible. These visits, balls, and parties in which you revel Are nothing but inventions of the Devil. One never hears a word that’s eddying:

Nothing but chaff and foolishness and lying, 155

As well as vicious gossip in which one’s neighbor Is cut to bits with epee, foil, and saber. People of sense are driven half-insane At such affairs, where noise and folly reign And reputations perish thick and fast,

mo

As a wise preacher said on Sunday last, Parties are Towers of Babylon, because The guests all babble on with never a pause;

And then he told a story which, I think . . . [ To CLEANTE] I heard that laugh, Sir, arid I saw that wink! 165

Go find your silly friends and laugh some more! Enough; I’m going; don’t show me to the door.

Act I, Scene 2

170

Tartuffe

I leave this household much dismayed and vexed; I cannot say when I shall see you next. [Slapping FLIPOTE] Wake up, don't stand diere gaping into space! I’ll slap some sense into that stupid face. Move, move, you slut.

Scene 2 CLEAXTE

I think I'll stay behind; I want no further pieces of her mind. How that old lady . . . DORIXE Oh, what wouldn't she say If she could hear you speak of her that way! She’d thank you for the lady, but I'm sure She’d find the old a little premature. CLEAXTE My, what a scene she made, and what a din! Mid how this man Tartuffe has taken her in! DORIXE Yes, but her son is even worse deceived: His folly must be seen to be believed. In the late troubles, he played an able part And sewed his king with wise and loyal heart. But he’s quite lost his senses since he fell Beneath Tartuffe’s infatuating spell. He calls him brother, and loves him as his life. Preferring him to mother, child, or wife. In him and him alone wifi he confide; He’s made him his confessor and his guide; I le pets and pampers him with love more tender Mian any pretty mistress could engender. Gives him the place of honor when they dine. Delights to see him gorging like a swine. Stuffs him with dainties till his guts distend. And when he belches, cries “God bless you, friend!" In short, he’s mad; he worships him; he dotes; His deeds he marvels at, his words he quotes. Thinking each act a miracle, each word Oracular as those that Moses heard. Tartuffe, much pleased to find so easy a victim, I las in a hundred ways beguiled and tricked him. Milked him of money, and with his permission Established here a sort of Inquisition. Even Laurent, his lackey, dares to give Us arrogant advice on how to live; I Ie sermonizes us in thundering tones And confiscates our ribbons and colognes. Last week he tore a kerchief into pieces CLEAXTE

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Act I, Scene 4

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

Because he found it pressed in a Life of Jesus-. He said it was a sin to juxtapose 40

Unholy vanities and holy prose.

Scene 3 ELMIRE

DAM IS

DORINE

ELMIRE [to CLEANTE]

MARIANE

CLEANTE

You did well not to follow; she stood in the door

.And said verbatim all she’d said before. I saw my husband coming. I think I’d best Go upstairs now, and take a litde rest. 5

CLEANTE

I’ll wait and greet him here; then I must go.

I’ve ready only time to say hello. Sound him about my sister’s wedding, please.

DAMIS

I think Tartuffe’s against it, and that he’s Been urging Father to withdraw his blessing. 10

As you well know, I’d find that most distressing. Unless my sister and Yalere can many, My hopes to wed his sister will miscarry, And I’m determined . . . He’s coming.

DORINE

Scene 4 ORGON

CLEANTE

ORGON CLEANTE

DORINE

Ah, Brother, good-day. Well, welcome back. I’m sorry I can’t stay.

How was the country? Blooming, I trust, and green? ORGON Excuse me, Brother; just one moment. [To DORINE]

Dorine . . .

[To CLEANTE]

5

To put my mind at rest, I always learn The household news the moment I return. [To DORINE] Has all been well, these two days I’ve been gone? How are the family? What’s been going on? DORINE

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Your wife, two days ago, had a bad fever,

.And a fierce headache which refused to leave her. ORGON

.All. And Tartuffe? Tartuffe? Why, he’s round and red,

DORINE

Bursting with health, and excellently fed. ORGON Poor fellow! That night, the mistress was unable To take a single bite at the dinner-table,

DORINE

is

Her headache-pains, she said, were simply hellish.' ORGON DORINE

All. .And Tartuffe?

v He ate his meal with relish,

Act I, Scene 5

Tartuffe

.And zealously devoured in her presence A leg of mutton and a brace of pheasants. ORGOX Poor fellow! Well, the pains continued strong,

DORIXE

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.And so she tossed and tossed the whole night long, Now icy-cold, now burning like a flame. We sat beside her till morning came. .Ah. And Tartuffe?

ORGOX

Why, having eaten, he rose .And sought his room, already in a doze,

DORIXE

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Got into his warm bed, and snored away In perfect peace until the break of day. Poor fellow!

ORGOX

After much ado, we talked her

DORIXE

Into dispatching someone for die doctor, lie bled her, and die fever quickly fell. ORGOX

30

.Ah. And Tartuffe? He bore it very well.

DORIXE

To keep his cheerfulness at any cost, And make up for the blood Madame had lost, He drank, at lunch, four beakers full of port. ORGOX

Poor fellow! Both are doing well, in short.

DORIXE

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I’ll go and tell Madame that you’ve expressed Keen sympathy and anxious interest. Scene 5 ORGOX

That girl was laughing in your face, and though I’ve no wish to offend you, even so I’m bound to say that she had some excuse. How can you possibly be such a goose? .Are you so dazed by diis man’s hocus-pocus That all the world, save him, is out of focus? You’ve given him clothing, shelter, food, and care; Why must you also . . . ORGOX Brother, stop right there. You do not know the man of whom you speak. CLEAXTE I grant you that. But my judgment’s not so weak That I can’t tell, by his effect on others . . . ORGOX .Hi, when you meet him, you two will be like brothers! Hiere’s been no loftier soul since time began. He is a man who ... a man who ... an excellent man. To keep his precepts is to be reborn, .Aid view diis dunghill of a world with scorn. Yes, thanks to him I’m a changed man indeed. Under his tutelage my soul’s been freed From earthlv loves, and even' human tie: CLEAXTE

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My mother, children, brother, and wife could die, And I’d not feel a single moment’s pain. CLEANTE That’s a fine sentiment, Brother; most humane. ORGON Oh, had you seen Tartuffe as I first knew him, Your heart, like mine, would have surrendered to him. He used to come into our church each day And humbly kneel nearby, and start to pray. He’d draw the eyes of everybody there By the deep fervor of his heartfelt prayer; He’d sigh and weep, and sometimes with a sound' Of rapture he would bend and kiss the ground; And when I rose to go, he’d run before To offer me holy-water at the door. His serving-man, no less devout than he, Informed me of his master’s poverty; I gave him gifts, but in his humbleness He’d beg me every time to give him less. “Oh, that’s too much,” he’d cry, “too much by twice! I don’t deserve it. The half, Sir, would suffice.” And when I wouldn’t take it back, he’d share Half of it with the poor, right then and there. At length, Heaven prompted me to take him in To dwell with us, and free our souls from sin. He guides our lives, and to protect my honor Stays by my wife, and keeps an eye on her; He tells me whom she sees, and all she does, And seems more jealous than I ever was! And how austere he is! Why, he can detect A mortal sin where you would least suspect; In smallest trifles, he’s extremely strict. Last week, his conscience was severely pricked Because, while praying, he had caught a flea And killed it, so he felt, too wrathfuhy. CLEANTE Good God, man! Have you lost your common sense— Or is this all some joke at my expense? How can you stand there and in all sobriety . . . ORGON Brother, your language savors of impiety. Too much free-thinking’s made your faith unsteady, Amd as I’ve warned you many times already, ’Twill get you into trouble before you’re through. -

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CLEANTE

So I’ve been told before by dupes like you:

Being blind, you’d have all others blind as well; The clear-eyed man you call an infidel, And he who sees through humbug and pretense Is charged, by you, with want of reverence. Spare me your warnings, Brother; I have no fear Of speaking out, for you and I leaven to hear, Against affected zeal and pious knavery. There’s true and false in piety, as in bravery, And just as those whose courage shines the most

Act I, Scene 5

Act I, Scene 5

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In battle, are the least inclined to boast, So those whose hearts are truly pure and lowly Don’t make a flashy show of being holy. There’s a vast difference, so it seems to me, Between true piety and hypocrisy: How do you fail to see it, may I ask? Is not a face quite different from a mask? Cannot sincerity and cunning art, Reality and semblance, be told apart? Are scarecrows just like men, and do you hold That a false coin is just as good as gold? Ah, Brother, man’s a strangely fashioned creature Who seldom is content to follow Nature, But recklessly pursues his inclination Beyond the narrow bounds of moderation, And often, by transgressing Reason’s laws, Perverts a lofty aim or noble cause. A passing observation, but it applies. ORGON I see, dear Brother, that you’re profoundly wise; You harbor all the insight of die age. You are our one clear mind, our only sage. The era’s oracle, its Cato too, And all mankind are fools compared to you. CLEANTE Brother, I don’t pretend to be a sage, Nor have I all the wisdom of the age. There’s just one insight I would dare to claim: I know that true and false are not the same; And just as there is nothing I more revere Than a soul whose faith is steadfast and sincere, Nothing that I more cherish and admire Than honest zeal and true religious fire, So there is nothing that I find more base Than specious piety’s dishonest face— Than these bold mountebanks, these histrios Whose impious mummeries and hollow shows Exploit our love of Heaven, and make a jest Of all that men think holiest and best; These calculating souls who offer prayers Not to their Maker, but as public wares, And seek to buy respect and reputation With lifted eyes and sighs of exaltation; These charlatans, I say, whose pilgrim souls Proceed, by way of I leaven, toward earthly goals, Who weep and pray and swindle and extort, Who preach the monkish life, but haunt the court, Who make their zeal the partner of their viceSuch men are vengeful, sly, and cold as ice, And when there is an enemy to defame They cloak their spite in fair religion’s name, Their private spleen and malice being made

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To seem a high and virtuous crusade, Until, to mankind’s reverent applause, They crucify their foe in Heaven’s cause. Such knaves are all too common; yet, for the wise, True piety isn’t hard to recognize, And, happily, these present times provide us With bright examples to instruct and guide us. Consider Ariston and Periandre; Look at Oronte, Alcidamas, Clitandre; Their virtue is acknowledged; who could doubt if? But you won’t hear them beat the drum about it. They’re never ostentatious, never vain, And their religion’s moderate and humane; It’s not their way to criticize and chide: They think censoriousness a mark of pride, And therefore, letting others preach and rave, They show, by deeds, how Christians should behave. They think no evil of their fellow man, But judge of him as kindly as they can. They don’t intrigue and wangle and conspire; To lead a good life is their one desire; Hie sinner wakes no rancorous hate in them; It is the sin alone which they condemn; Nor do they try to show a fiercer zeal For Heaven’s cause than Heaven itself could feel. These men I honor, these men I advocate As models for us all to emulate. Your man is not their sort at all, I fear: And, while your praise of him is quite sincere, I think that you’ve been dreadfully deluded. ORGON Now then, dear Brother, is your speech concluded? CLEANTE Why, yes. ORGON Your servant, Sir. CLEANTE No, Brother; wait. Hie re’s one more matter. You agreed of late That young Yalere might have your daughter’s hand. ORGON I did. CLEANTE And set the date, I understand. ORGON Quite so. CLEANTE You’ve now postponed it; is that true? ORGON No doubt. CLEANTE The match no longer pleases you? ORGON Who knows? CLEANTE D’you mean to go back on your word? ORGON I won’t say that. CLEANTE Has anything ^occurred Which might entitle you to break your pledge? ORGON Perhaps. CLEANTE Why must you hem, and haw, and hedge? The boy asked me to sound you in this affair . . .

Act I, Scene 5

[He turns to go.]

Act II, Scene 1

Tartuffc

It’s been a pleasure.

ORGON

But what shall I tell Yalere?

CLEANTE ORGON

Whatever you like. But what have you decided?

CLEANTE

What are your plans? I plan, Sir, to be guided

ORGON

By Heaven’s will. 165

Come, Brother, don’t talk rot.

CLEANTE

You’ve given Yalere your word; will you keep it, or not? ORGON

Good day.

/

This looks like poor Yalere’s undoing;

CLEANTE

I’ll go and warn him that there’s trouble brewing.

Act II Scene 1 ORGON

MARIANE

ORGON

Mariane. Yes, Father?

MARIANE

A word with you; come here.

ORGON MARIANE

What are you looking for?

ORGON [peering into a small closet]

Eavesdroppers, dear.

I’m making sure we shan’t be overheard. Someone in there could catch our every word.

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Ah, good, we’re safe. Now, Mariane, my child, You’re a sweet girl who’s tractable and mild, Whom I hold dear, and think most highly of. ALAR LANE ORGON

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That’s well said, Daughter; and you can repay me

If, in all things, you’ll cheerfully obey me. MARIANE ORGON

I, Sir?

Yes. Weigh your answer; think it through.

ORGON MARIANE ORGON

To please you, Sir, is what delights me best.

Good, good. Now, what d’vou think of Tartuffe, our guest?

MARIANE

is

I’m deeply grateful, Fattier, for your love.

Oh, dear. I’ll say whatever you wish me to.

That’s wisely said, my Daughter. Say of him, then,

That lie’s the very worthiest of men, And that you’re fond of him, and would rejoice In being his wife, if that should be my choice. Well? MARIANE

What? What’s that?

ORGON MARIANE

I . . .

Well?

ORGON MARIANE ORGON 20

Forgive me, pray.

Did you not hear me?

MARIANE

Of whom, Sir, must I say

That I am fond of him, and would rejoice In being his wife, if that should be your choice?

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ORGON

Act II, Scene 2

Why, ofTartuffe. But, Father, that’s false, you know.

MARIANE

Why would you have me say what isn’t so? 25

ORGON

Because I am resolved it shall be true.

That it’s my wish should be enough for you. ALARIANE

You can’t mean, Father . . . Yes, Tartuffe shall be

ORGON

Allied by marriage to this family, And lie’s to be your husband, is that clear? 30

It’s a father’s privilege ...

Scene 2 DORINE

ORGON

MARIANE

ORGON [ to DORINE]

What are you doing in here?

Is curiosity so fierce a passion With you, that you must eavesdrop in this fashion? DORINE 5

There’s lately been a rumor going about—

Based on some hunch or chance remark, no doubt— That you mean Mariane to wed Tartuffe. I’ve laughed it off, of course, as just a spoof. ORGON

You find it so incredible?

- Yes, I do. I won’t accept that story, even from you.

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ORGON DORINE ORGON DORINE ORGON DORINE ORGON

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Well, you’ll believe it when the thing is done. Yes, yes, of course. Go on and have your fun. I’ve never been more serious in my life. Ha! Daughter, I mean it; you’re to be his wife. No, don’t believe your father; it’s all a hoax. See here, young woman . . . Come, Sir, no more jokes;

DORINE

You can’t fool us, ORGON DORINE

How dare you talk that way? All right, then: we believe you, sad to say.

But how a man like you, who looks so wise And wears a moustache of such splendid size, Can be so foolish as to . . . 20

ORGON

Silence, please!

My girl, you take too many liberties. I’m master here, as you must not forget. DORINE Do let’s discuss this calmly; don’t be upset. You can’t be serious, Sir, about diis plan. 25

What should that bigot want with Mariane? Praying and fasting ought to keep him busy. And then, in terms of wealth and rank, what is lie? Why should a man of property like yoiy Pick out a beggar son-in-law?

. VC

II, Scene 2

That will do. Speak of his poverty with reverence. I Iis is a pure and saintly indigence Which far transcends all worldly pride and pelf. l ie lost his fortune, as he says himself, Because he cared for Heaven alone, and so Was careless of his interests here below. I mean to get him out of his present straits And help him to recover his estates— Which, in his part of the world, have no small fame. Poor though he is, he’s a gentleman just the same. DORIXE Yes, so he tells us; and, Sir, it seems to me Such pride goes very ill with piety. A man whose spirit spurns this dungy earth Ought not to brag of lands and noble birth; Such worldly arrogance will hardly square With meek devotion and the life of prayer. . . . But this approach, I see, has drawn a blank; Let’s speak, then, of his person, not his rank. Doesn’t it seem to you a trifle grim To give a girl like her to a man like him? Wien two are so ill-suited, can’t you see What the sad consequence is bound to be? A young girl’s virtue is imperilled, Sir, When such a marriage is imposed on her; For if one’s bridegroom isn’t to one’s taste, It’s hardly an inducement to be chaste, And many a man with horns upon his brow Has made his wife the thing that she is now. It’s hard to be a faithful wife, in short, To certain husbands of a certain sort, And he who gives his daughter to a man she hates Must answer for her sins at Heaven’s gates. Think, Sir, before you play so risky a role. ORGOX This servant-girl presumes to save my soul! DORIXE You would do well to ponder what I’ve said. ORGOX Daughter, we’ll disregard this dunderhead. Just trust your father’s judgment. Oh, I’m aware That I once promised you to young Yalere; But now I hear he gambles, which greatly shocks me; Wiat’s more, I’ve doubts about his orthodoxy. I Iis visits to church, I note, are very few. DORIXE Would you have him go at die same hours as you, And kneel nearby, to be sure of being seen? ORGOX I can dispense with such remarks, Dorine. [ To MARIAXE ] Tartuffe, however, is sure of Heaven’s blessing, And that’s the only treasure worth possessing. This match will bring you joys beyond all measure; Your cup will overflow with even' pleasure; You two will interchange your faithful loves ORGOX

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Act II, Scene 2

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

Like two sweet cherubs, or two turtle-doves, No harsh wrord shall be heard, no frown be seen, And he shall make you happy as a queen. DORINE And she’ll make him a cuckold, just wait and see. ORGON What language! DORINE Oh, he’s a man of destiny; lie’s made for horns, and what the stars demand Your daughter’s virtue surely can’t withstand. ORGON Don’t interrupt me further. Why can’t you learn That certain things are none of your concern? v DORINE It’s for your own sake that I interfere. She repeatedly interrupts ORGON just as he is turning to speak to his daughter. Most kind of you. Now, hold your tongue, d’you hear? DORINE If I didn’t love you . . . ORGON Spare me your affection. DORINE I love you, Sir, in spite of your objection. ORGON Blast! DORINE I can’t bear, Sir, for your honor’s sake, To let you make this ludicrous mistake. ORGON You mean to go on talking? DORINE If I didn’t protest This sinful marriage, my conscience couldn’t rest. ORGON If you don’t hold your-tongue, you little shrew . . . DORINE What, lost your temper? A pious man like you? ORGON Yes! Yes! You talk and talk. I’m maddened by it. Once and for all, I tell you to be quiet. DORINE Well, I’ll be quiet. But I’ll be thinking hard. ORGON Think all you like, but you had better guard That saucy tongue of yours, or I’ll . . . [Turning hack to MARIANE] Now, child, I’ve weighed this matter fully. DORINE [aside] It drives me wild That I can’t speak. ORGON

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ORGON turns his head, and she is silent.

Tartuffe is no young dandy, But, still, his person . . . DORINE [aside] Is as sweet as candy. ORGON Is such that, even if you shouldn’t care For his other merits . . . ORGON

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He turns and stands facing DORINE, arms crossed. ►

DORINE f aside j

no

They’ll make a lovely pair. If I wrere she, no man would marry me Against my inclination, and go scot-free, Ile’d learn, before die wedding-day was over,

Act II, Scene 3

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Tartuffe

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How readily a wife can find a lover. ORGON [ to DORINE] It seems you treat my orders as a joke. DORINE Why, what’s die matter? ’Twas not to you I spoke. ORGON What were you doing? DORINE Talking to myself, that’s all. ORGON Ah! [Aside] One more bit of impudence and gall, And I shall give her a good slap in the face. [He puts himself in position to slap her; DORINE, whenever he glances at her, stands immobile and silent.]

120

Daughter, you shall accept, and with good grace, Hie husband I’ve selected . . . Your wedding-day . . . [To DORINE] Why don’t you talk to yourself? DORINE I’ve nothing to say. ORGON Come, just one word. DORINE No thank you, Sir. I pass. ORGON Come, speak; I’m waiting. DORINE I’d not be such an ass. ORGON [ turning to MARIANE] In short, dear Daughter, I mean to be obeyed. And you must bow to the sound choice I’ve made. DORINE [moving away] I’d not wed such a monster, even in jest. ORGON attempts to slap her, but misses.

125

Daughter, that maid of yours is a thorough pest; She makes me sinfully annoyed and nettled. I can’t speak further; my nerves are too unsettled. She’s so upset me by her insolent talk, I’ll calm myself by going for a walk.

ORGON

Scene 3 DORINE

MARIANE

DORINE [returning]

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10

Well, have you lost your tongue, girl? Must I play Your part, and say the lines you ought to say? Faced with a fate so hideous and absurd, Can you not utter one dissenting word? MARIANE What good would it do? A father’s power is great. DORINE Resist him now, or it will be too late. MARIANE But . . . DORINE Tell him one cannot love at a fadier’s whim; That you shall mam’ for yourself, not him; That since it’s you who are to be the bride, It’s you, not he, who must be satisfied; And that if his Tartuffe is so sublime, lie’s free to marry him at any time. MARIANE I’ve bowed so long to Father’s strict control, I couldn’t oppose him now, to save my soul.

920

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

15

DORINE

Act II, Scene 3

Come, come, Mariane. Do listen to reason, won’t you?

Yalere has asked your hand. Do you love him, or don’t you? MARIANE

Oh, how unjust of you! What can you mean

By asking such a question, dear Dorine? You know the depth of my affection for him; 20

I’ve told you a hundred times how I adore him. DORINE

I don’t believe in everything I hear;

Who knows if your professions were sincere? MARIANE

They were, Dorine, and you do me wrong to doubt it;

Heaven knows that I’ve been all too frank about it. i

DORINE

25

You love him, then? Oh, more than I can express.

MARLAvE DORINE MARIANE DORINE

And he, I take it, cares for you no less? I think so.

And you both, with equal fire,

Bum to be married? MARIANE DORINE

30

MARIANE DORINE

That is our one desire. What of Tartuffe, then? What of your father’s plan? I’ll kill myself, if I’m forced to wed that man. I hadn’t thought of that recourse. How splendid!

Just die, and all your troubles will be ended! A fine solution. Oh, it maddens me To hear you talk in that self-pitying key. 35

MARIANE

Dorine, how harsh you are! It’s most unfair.

You have no sympathy for my despair. DORINE I’ve none at all for people who talk drivel And, faced with difficulties, whine and snivel. MARIANE

40

DORINE MARIANE

No doubt I’m timid, but it would be wrong . . . True love requires a heart diat’s firm and strong. I’m strong in my affection for Yalere,

But coping with my father is his affair. DORINE

But if your father’s brain has grown so cracked

Over his dear Tartuffe that he can retract 45

His blessing, though your wedding-day was named, It’s surely not Yalere who’s to be blamed. IMARLANE

If I defied my father, as you suggest,

Would it not seem unmaidenly, at best? Shall I defend my love at the expense so

Of brazenness and disobedience? Shall I parade my heart’s desires, and flaunt . . . DORINE

No, I ask nothing of you. Clearly you want

To be Madame Tartuffe, and I feel bound Not to oppose a wish so very sound. 55

What right have I to criticize the match? Indeed, my dear, the man’s a brilliant catch. Monsieur Tartuffe! Now, there’s a man of weight! Yes, yes, Monsieur Tartuffe, I’m bound to state, Is quite a person; that’s not to be denied;

60

’Twill be no little thing to be his bride.

Act II. Scene 3

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The world already rings with his renown; lie’s a great noble—in his native town; Ilis ears are red, he has a pink complexion, And all in all, he’ll suit you to perfection. MARIAXE Dear God! DORIXE Oh, how triumphant you will feel At having caught a husband so ideal! MARLAXE Oh, do stop teasing, and use your cleverness To get me out of this appalling mess. Advise me, and I’ll do whatever you say. DORIXE Ah no, a dutiful daughter must obey Her father, even if he weds her to an ape. You’ve a bright future; why struggle to escape? Tartuffe will take you back where his family lives, To a small town aswann with relatives— Uncles and cousins whom you’ll be charmed to meet. You’ll be received at once by the elite, Calling upon the bailiff s wife, no less— Even, perhaps, upon the mayoress. Who’ll sit you down in the best kitchen chair, Then, once a year, you’ll dance at the village fair To the drone of bagpipes—two of them, in fact— .And see a puppet-show, or an animal act. Your husband . . . ALARLAXE Oh, you turn my blood to ice! Stop torturing me, and give me your advice. DORIXE [threatening to go] Your servant, Madam. MARLAXE Dorine, I beg of you . DORIXE No, you deserve it; this marriage must go through. MARLAXE Dorine! DORIXE Xo. ALARLAXE Not Tartuffe! You know I think him . . . DORIXE Tartuffe’s your cup of tea, and you shall drink him. MARLAXE I’ve always told you everything, and relied . . . DORIXE No. You deserve to be tartuffihed. MARLAXE Well, since you mock me and refuse to care, I’ll henceforth seek my solace in despair: Despair shall be my counsellor and friend, .And help me bring my sorrows to an end.

She starts to leave.

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Tartuffe

There now, come back; my anger has subsided. You do deserve some pity, I’ve decided. MARLAXE Dorine, if Father makes me undergo This dreadful martyrdom. I’ll die, I know. DORIXE Don’t fret; it won’t be difficult to discover Some plan of action . . . Hut here’s Yalere, your lover.

DORIXE

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Act II, Scene 4

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

Scene 4 VALERE

MARIAN E

DORINE

Madam, I’ve just received some wondrous news Regarding which I’d like to hear your views.

VALERE

MARIANE

What news?

You’re marrying Tartuffe.

VALERE MARIANE

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I hud

That Father does have such a match in mind. VALERE Your father, Madam . . . MARIANE • • • has just this minute said That it’s Tartuffe he wishes me to wed. VALERE

Can he be serious?

MARIANE

io

Oh, indeed he can;

He’s clearly set his heart upon the plan. YAEERE And what position do you propose to take, Madam? MARIANE Why—I don’t know. VALERE For heaven’s sake— You don’t know? MARIANE VALERE

No.

Well, well!

Advise me, do. VALERE Marry the man. That’s my advice to you. MARIANE That’s your advice? MARIANE

VALERE MARIANE VALERE

is

Yes. Truly? Oh, absolutely.

You couldn’t choose more wisely, more astutely, MARIANE Thanks for this counsel; I’ll follow it, of course. VALERE Do, do; I’m sure ’twill cost you no remorse. MARIANE To give it didn’t cause your heart to break. VALERE

I gave it, Madam, only for your sake.

And it’s for your sake diat I take it, Sir. DORINE [ withdrawing to the rear of the stage j Let’s see which fool will prove die stubbomer. VALERE So! I am nothing to you, and it was flat Deception when you . . . MARIANE Please, enough of that. You’ve told me plainly that I should agree To wed the man my father’s chosen for me, And since you’ve designed to counsel me so wisely, I promise, Sir, to do as you advise me. MARIANE

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VALERE

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Ah, no, ’twas not by me that you were swayed.

No, your decision was already made; Though now, to save appearances, you protest That you’re betraying me at my behest. MARIANE Just as you say. vv

Act II, Scene 4

Tartuffc

YALERE

Quite so. And I now see

That you were never truly in love with me. >LARLAXE YALERE 35

Alas, you’re free to think so if you choose. I choose to think so, and here’s a bit of news:

You’ve spumed my hand, but I know where to turn For kinder treatment, as you shall quickly leant. >LARLAXE I’m sure you do. Your noble qualities Inspire affection . . . YALERE

Forget my qualities, please.

They don’t inspire you overmuch, I find. 40

But there’s another lady I have in mind Whose sweet and generous nature will not scorn To compensate me for the loss I’ve borne. MARLAXE

I’m no great loss, and I’m sure that you’ll transfer

Your heart quite painlessly from me to her. 45

YALERE

Ill do my best to take it in my stride.

The pain I feel at being cast aside Time and forgetfulness may put an end to. Or if I can’t forget, I shall pretend to. No self-respecting person is expected 50

To go on loving once he’s been rejected. ALARLAXE YALERE

Now, that’s a fine, high-minded sentiment. One to which any sane man would assent.

Would you prefer it if I pined away In hopeless passion till my dying day? 55

Am I to yield you to a rival’s amis And not console myself with other charms? ALARLAXE

Go them console yourself; don’t hesitate.

I wish you to; indeed, I cannot wait. YALERE

You wish me to?

AIARIAXE

Yes.

YALERE 60

That’s die final straw.

Madam, farewell. Your wish shall be my law. He starts to leave, and then returns: this repeatedly. MARIAXE

Splendid.

YALERE [coming back again) This breach, remember, is of your making; It’s you who’ve driven me to the step I’m taking. MARLAXE

Of course.

YALERE [coming back again ] Remember, too, that I am merely Following your example. 65

MARLAXE I see that clearly. YALERE Enough, I’ll go and do your bidding, then. MARLAXE Good. YALERE [coming back again J You shall never sec my face again.

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Act II, Scene 4

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

MARIANE

Excellent.

YALE RE [ walking to the door, then turning about]

Yes? What?

MARIANE YA LE RE ;\LARLANE

What’s that? What did you say? Nothing. You’re dreaming. Ah. Well, I’m on my way.

YALE RE

Farewell, Madame. He moves slowly away. MARIANE Farewell. DORINE [to MARIANE]

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If you ask me,

Both of you are as mad as mad can be. Do stop this nonsense, now. I’ve only let you Squabble so long to see where it would get you. Whoa there, Monsieur Valere! She goes and seizes VALERE by the arm; he makes a great show of resistance. What’s this, Dorine?

YALE RE DORINE

Come here.

V

No, no, my heart’s too full of spleen. Don’t hold me back; her wish must be obeyed.

VALERE

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DORINE VALERE DORINE

Stop! It’s too late nowy.my decision’s made. Oh, pooh!

MARIANE [aside]

He hates die sight of me, that’s plain. I’ll go, and so deliver him from pain.

DORINE [ leaving VALERE, running after MARIANE]

And now you run away! Come back. No, No. Nothing you say will keep me here. Let go!

MARIANE

so

VALERE [aside]

She cannot bear my presence, I perceive.

To spare her further torment, I shall leave. DORINE [leaving MARIANE, running after VALERE]

Again! You’ll not escape,

Sir; don’t you try it. Come here, you two. Stop fussing, and be quiet. She takes VALERE by the hand, then MARIANE, and draws them together. VALERE [ to DORINE] 85

What do you want of me?

MAJRIANE [ to DORINE] DORINE

What is the point of this?

We’re going to have a little armistice.

[To VALERE] Now weren’t you silly to get so overheated? VALERE

Didn’t you see how badly I was treated?

DORINE [to ALAELANE] 90

MARIANE

Aren’t you a simpleton, to have lost your head?

Didn’t you hear the hateful things he said?

DORINE [ to VALERE )

You’re both great fools. Her sole desire, Valere, Is to be yours in marriage. To that I’ll swear.

Act II, Scene 4

Tartu tie

92

[To MARIANEJ lie loves you only, and he wants no wife

95

But you, Mariane. On that I’ll stake my life. YLARLANE [to YALE RE ] Then why you advised me so, I cannot see. YALERE [to MARLYNE] On such a question, why ask advice of me? Oh, you’re impossible. Give me your hands, you two. [To YALERE] Yours first. YALERE [giving DORINE his hand] But why? DORINE [to MARIANE] And now a hand from you. DORINE

MARIANE [also giving DORINE her hand]

What are you doing? There: a perfect fit. You suit each other better than you’ll admit.

DORINE

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V

YALERE and YLARLYNE hold hands for some time without looking at each other. V

YALERE [turning toward MARIANE]

Ah, come, don’t be so haughty. Give a

man A look of kindness, won’t you, Mariane? YLARLYNE turns toward YALERE and smiles. DORINE

I tell you, lovers are completely mad!

YALERE [to MARIANE ] 105

Now come, confess that you were very bad To hurt my feelings as you did just now. I have a just complaint, you must allow. You must allow that you were most unpleasant . . .

YLARLYNE

Bet’s table that discussion for the present; Your father has a plan which must be stopped, MARLYNE Advise us, then; what means must we adopt? DORINE We’ll use all manner of means, and all at once. [ To MARIANE] Your father’s addled; he’s acting like a dunce. Therefore you’d better humor the old fossil. Pretend to yield to him, be sweet and docile, And then postpone, as often as necessary, The day on which you have agreed to marry. You’ll thus gain time, and time will turn the trick. Sometimes, for instance, you’ll be taken sick, .And that will seem good reason for delay; Or some bad omen will make you change the day— You’ll dream of muddy water, or you’ll pass A dead man’s hearse, or break a looking-glass. If all else fails, no man can many you Unless you take his ring and say “I do. ” But now, let’s separate. If they should find Us talking here, our plot might be divined. [ To YALERE] Go to your friends, and tell them what’s occurred, .And have firem urge her father to keep his word. Meanwhile, we’ll stir her brother into action. .And get Elmire, as well, to join our faction. DORINE

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Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

Good-bye. VALERE

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( to MARIANE )

Though each of us will do his best, It’s your true heart on which my hopes shall rest. MARIANE [to VALERE] Regardless of what Father may decide, None but Valere shall claim me as his bride. VALERE Oh, how those words content me! Come what will . . DORINE Oh, lovers, lovers! Their tongues are never still. Be off, now. VALERE [ turning to go, then turning hack]

One last word . . . No time to chat: You leave by this door; and you leave by that.

DORINE

DORINE pushes them, hy the shoulders, toward opposing doors.

Act III Scene

1

DAMIS

DORINE

May lightning strike me even as I speak, May all men call me cowardly and weak, If any fear or scruple holds me back From settling things, at once-;- with that great quack! DORINE Now, don’t give way to violent emotion. Your father’s merely talked about this notion, And words and deeds are far from being one. Much that is talked about is left undone. DAMIS No, I must stop that scoundrel’s machinations; I’ll go and tell him off; I’m out of patience. DORINE Do calm down and be practical. I had rather My mistress dealt with him—and with your father. She has some influence with Tartuffe, I’ve noted, lie hangs upon her words, seems most devoted, And may, indeed, be smitten by her charm. Pray I leaven it’s true! ’Twould do our cause no harm. She sent for him, just now, to sound him out On this affair you’re so incensed about; She’ll find out where he stands, and tell him, too, What dreadful strife and trouble will ensue If he lends countenance to your father’s plan. I couldn’t get in to see him, but his man Says that lie’s almost finished with his prayers. Go, now. I’ll catch him when he conies downstairs. DAM IS

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DAMIS DORINE

I want to hear this conference, and I will.

No, they must be alone.

Oh, I’ll keep still. DORINE Not you. I know your temper. You’d start a brawl, And shout and stamp your foot and spoil it all.

DAMIS

Act III, Scene 1

Act III, Scene 3

Tartuffe

Go on. DAM IS

30

I won’t; I have a perfect right . . .

Lord, you’re a nuisance! lie’s coming; get out of sight.

DORINE

DAMIS conceals himself in a closet at the rear of the stage.

Scene 2 TARTUFFE

DORINE

TARTUFFE [ observing DORINE, and calling to his manservant offstage

s

I Iang up my hair-shirt, put my scourge in place, And pray, Laurent, for Heaven’s perpetual grace. I’m going to the prison now, to share My last few coins with the poor wretches there, DORINE [aside] Dear God, what affectation! What a fake! TARTLTFE You wished to see me? DORINE Yes . . . TARTLTFE [ taking a handkerchief from his pocket]

For mercy’s sake, Please take this handkerchief, before you speak. DORINE

What?

Cover that bosom, girl. Hie flesh is weak. And unclean thoughts are difficult to control. Such sights as that can undermine the soul. DORINE Your soul, it seems, has very poor defenses, And flesh makes quite an impact on your senses. It’s strange that you’re so easily excited; My own desires are not so soon ignited, And if I saw you naked as a beast, Not all your hide would tempt me in die least. TARTUFFE Girl, speak more modestly; unless you do, I shall be forced to take my leave of you. DORINE Oh, no, it’s I who must be on my way; I’ve just one little message to convey. Madame is coming down, and begs you, Sir, To wait and have a word or two with her. TARTLTFE Gladly. TARTUFFE

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DORINE [aside]

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That had a softening effect!

I think my guess about him was correct. TARTUFFE Will she be long1? DORINE No: that’s her step I hear. Ah, here she is, and I shall disappear. Scene 3 ELM I RE

TARTUFFE

TARTLTFE

May Heaven, whose infinite goodness we adore,

Preserve your body and soul forevermore, And bless your days, and answer thus the plea

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Act III, Scene 3

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

Of one who is its humblest votary. 5

ELMIRE

I thank you for that pious wish. But please,

Do take a chair and let’s be more at ease. They sit down. TARTl TEE ELMIRE

10

I trust that you are once more well and strong?

Oh, ves: the fever didn’t last for long.

TARTUFFE My prayers are too unworthy, I am sure, To have gained from Heaven this most gracious pure; But lately, Madam, my every supplication Has had for object your recuperation. ELMIRE You shouldn’t have troubled so. I don’t deserve it. TARTUFFE

15

Your health is priceless, Madam, and to preserve it

I’d gladly give my own, in all sincerity. ELMIRE

Sir, you outdo us all in Christian charity.

You’ve been most kind. I count myself your debtor. TARTUFFE ELMIRE 20

’Twas nothing, Madam. I long to serve you better.

There’s a private matter I’m anxious to discuss.

I’m glad there’s no one here to hinder us. TARTUFFE

I too am glad; it floods my heart with bliss

To find myself alone with you like this. For just this chance I’ve prayed with all my power— But prayed in vain, until this happy hour. 25

ELMIRE

This won’t take long,- Sir, and I hope you’ll be

Entirely frank and unconstrained with me. TARTUFFE

Indeed, there’s nothing I had rather do

Than bare my inmost heart and sold to you. First, let me say that what remarks I’ve made 30

About the constant visits you are paid Were prompted not by any mean emotion, But rather by a pure and deep devotion, A fervent zeal . . . ELMIRE No need for explanation. Your sole concern, I’m sure, was my salvation. TARTUFFE [taking ELM I RE’s hand and pressing her fingertips ]

35

Quite so; and

such great fervor do I feel . . . Ooh! Please! You’re pinching! TARTUFFE ’Twas from excess of zeal. ELMIRE

I never meant to cause you pain, I swear. I’d rather . . . He places his hand on ELMlRE’s knee. What can your hand be doing there?

ELMIRE 40

TARTl TEE ELMIRE

Feeling your gown; what soft, fine-woven stuff!

Please, I’m extremely ticklish. That’s enough.

She draws her chair away; TARTUFFE pulls his after her.

Act III, Scene

3

Tartuffc

rARTUFFE [fondling the lace collar of her gown]

45

so

I see: you care for nothing here below.

Ah, well—my heart’s not made of stone, you know. ELMIRE .All your desires mount heavenward, I’m sure, In scorn of all that’s earthly and impure. TARTUFFE A love of heavenly beauty does not preclude A proper love for earthly pulchritude; Our senses are quite rightly captivated By perfect works our Master has created. Some glory clings to all that Heaven has made; In you, all Heaven’s marvels are displayed. On that fair face, such beauties have been lavished, The eyes are dazzled and the heart is ravished; How could I look on you, O flawless creature, And not adore the Author of all Nature, Feeling a love both passionate and pure For you, his triumph of self-portraiture? At first, I trembled lest that love should be A subtle snare that Hell had laid for me; I vowed to flee the sight of you, eschewing A rapture that might prove my soul’s undoing; But soon, fair being, I became aware That my deep passion could be made to square With rectitude, and with my bounden duty. I thereupon surrendered to your beauty. It is, I know, presumptuous on my part To bring you this poor offering of my heart, And it is not my merit, I leaven knows, But your compassion on which my hopes repose. You are my peace, my solace, my salvation; On you depends my bliss—or desolation; I bide your judgment and, as you think best, I shall be either miserable or blest. ELMIRE Your declaration is most gallant, Sir, But don’t you think it’s out of character? You’d have done better to restrain your passion And think before you spoke in such a fashion. It ill becomes a pious man like you . . . TARTUFFE I may be pious, but I’m human too: With vour celestial charms before his eyes, TARTUFFE

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My, my, what lovely lacework

on your dress! The workmanship’s miraculous, no less. IVe not seen anything to equal it. ELMIRE Yes, quite. But let’s talk business for a bit. They say my husband means to break his word And give his daughter to you, Sir. Had you heard? TARTUFFE lie did once mention it. But I confess I dream of quite a different happiness. It’s elsewhere, Madam, that my eyes discern The promise of that bliss for which I yearn. ELMIRE

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A man has not the power to be wise. I know such words sound strangely, coming from me, But I’m no angel, nor was meant to be, And if you blame my passion, you must needs Reproach as well the charms on which it feeds. Your loveliness I had no sooner seen Than you became my soul’s unrivalled queen; Before your seraph glance, divinely sweet, My heart’s defenses crumbled in defeat, And nothing fasting, prayer, or tears might do Could stay my spirit from adoring you. My eyes, my sighs have told you in the past What now my lips make bold to say at last, And if, in your great goodness, you will deign To look upon your slave, and ease his pain,— If, in compassion for my soul’s distress, You’ll stoop to comfort my unworthiness, I’ll raise to you, in thanks for that sweet manna, An endless hymn, an infinite hosanna. With me, of course, there need be no amdetv, No fear of scandal or of notoriety. These young court gallants, whom all the ladies fancy. Are vain in speech, in action rash and chancy; When they succeed in love, the world soon knows it; No favor’s granted them but they disclose it And by the looseness of their tongues profane The very altar where their hearts have lain. Men of my sort, however, love discreetly, And one may trust our reticence completely. My keen concern for my good name insures The absolute security of yours; In short, I offer you, my dear Elmire, Love without scandal, pleasure without fear. ELMIRE I’ve heard your well-turned speeches to the end, And what you urge I clearly apprehend. Aren’t you afraid that I may take a notion To tell my husband of your warm devotion, And that, supposing he were duly told, Ilis feelings toward you might grow rather cold? TARTUEFE I know, dear lady, that your exceeding charity Will lead your heart to pardon my temerity; That you’ll excuse my violent affection As human weakness, human imperfection; And that—O fairest!—you will bear in mind That I’m but flesh and blood, and am not blind. ELMIRE Some women might do otherwise, perhaps, But I shall be discreet about your lapse; I’ll tell my husband nothing of what’s occurred If, in return, you’ll give your solemn word To advocate as forcefully as you can

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Act III, Scene 3

Act III, Scene 5

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Tartuffe

The marriage ofValere and Mariane, Renouncing all desire to dispossess Another of his rightful happiness, And . . . Scene 4 DAM IS

ELM I RE

TARTUFFE

DAMIS [emerging from the closet where he has been hiding]

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No! We’ll not hush up this vile affair; I heard it all inside that closet there, Where Heaven, in order to confound the pride Of this great rascal prompted me to hide. Ah, now I have my long-awaited chance To punish his deceit and arrogance, And give my father clear and shocking proof Of die black character of his dear Tartuffe. EEMIRE Ah, no, Damis; I’ll be content if he Will study to deserve my leniency. I’ve promised silence—don’t make me break my word; To make a scandal would be too absurd. Good wives laugh off such trifles, and forget them; Why should they tell their husbands, and upset them? DAMIS You have your reasons for taking such a course, And I have reasons, too, of equal force. To spare him now would be insanely wrong. I’ve swallowed my just wrath for far too long .And watched this insolent bigot bringing strife And bitterness into our family life. Too long he’s meddled in my father’s affairs, Thwarting my marriage-hopes, and poor Yalere’s. It’s high time that my father was undeceived, And now I’ve proof that can’t be disbelieved— Proof that was furnished me by Ileaven above. It’s too good not to take advantage of. This is my chance, and I deserve to lose it If, for one moment, I hesitate to use it. ELM I RE Damis . . . DAMIS No, I must do what I think right. Madam, my heart is bursting with delight, And, say whatever you will, I’ll not consent To lose the sweet revenge on which I’m bent. I’ll settle matters without more ado; And here, most opportunely, is my cue. Scene 5 ORGON

TARTUFFE

DAMIS

EEMIRE

Father, I’m glad you’ve joined us. Let us advise you Of some fresh news which doubtless will surprise you.

DAMIS

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You’ve just now been repaid with interest For all your loving-kindness to our guest. He’s proved his warm and grateful feelings toward you; It’s with a pair of lioms he would reward you. Yes, I surprised him with your wife, and heard His whole adulterous offer, every word. She, with her all too gentle disposition, Would not have told you of his proposition; But I shall not make terms with brazen lechery, And feel that not to tell you would be treachery. v ELMIRE And I hold that one’s husband’s peace of mind Should not be spoilt by tattle of this kind, One’s honor doesn’t require it: to be proficient In keeping men at bay is quite sufficient. These are my sentiments, and I wish, Damis, That you had heeded me and held your peace. Scene

6

ORGON

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DAMIS

TARTUFFE

Can it be true, this dreadful thing I hear? TARTUFFE Yes, Brother, I’m a wicked man, I fear: A wretched sinner, all depraved and twisted, The greatest villain that has ever existed. My life’s one heap of crimes, which grows each minute; Hiere’s naught but foulness and corruption in it; And I perceive that Heaven, outraged by me, Has chosen this occasion to mortify me. Charge me with any deed you wish to name; Til not defend myself, but take the blame. Believe wliat you are told, and drive Tartuffe bike some base criminal from beneath your roof; Yes, drive me hence, and with a parting curse: I shan’t protest, for I deserve far worse. ORGON [to DAMIS] All, you deceitful boy, how dare you try To stain his purity with so foul a he? DAMIS What! Are you taken in by such a bluff? Did you not hear . . . ORGON Enough, you rogue, enough! TARTUFFE Ah, Brother, let him speak: you’re being unjust. Believe his story; the boy deserves your trust. Why, after all, should you have faith in me? How can you know what I might do, or be? Is it on my good actions that you base Your favor? Do you trust my pious face? Mi, no, don’t be deceived by hollow shows; I’m far, alas, from being what men suppose; Though the world takes me for a man of worth, I’m truly the most worthless man on earth. [To DAMIS] Yes, my dear son, speak but now: call me the chief ORGON

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Act III, Scene 6

Act III, Scene 6

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sinners, a wretch, a murderer, a thief; Load me with all the names men most abhor; I’ll not complain; I’ve earned them all, and more; I’ll kneel here while you pour them on my head As a just punishment for die life I’ve led. ORGON [to TARTUFFE] This is too much, dear Brother.

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Have you no heart? DAMIS Are you so hoodwinked by diis rascals art . . . ? ORGON Be still, you monster. [ To TARTUFFE] Brother, I pray you, rise. [To DAMIS] Villain! DAMIS But . . . ORGON Silence! DAMIS Can’t you realize . . . ? ORGON Just one word more, and I'll tear you limb from limb. TARTUFFE In God’s name, Brodier, don’t be harsh with him. I’d rather far be tortured at die stake Than see him bear one scratch for my poor sake. ORGON [to DAMIS] Ingrate!

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[To DAMIS]

TARTITFE

If I must beg you, on bended knee,

To pardon him . . . ORGON [falling to his kness, addressing TARTUFFE]

Such goodness cannot be! [To DAMIS] Now, there’s true charity! DAMIS 45

What, you . . . ?

ORGON

Villain, be still!

I know your motives; I know you wish him ill:

so

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Yes, all of you—wife, children, servants, all— Conspire against him and desire his fall. Employing every shameful trick you can To alienate me from this saintly man. All, but the more you seek to drive him away, The more I’ll do to keep him. Without delay, I’ll spite this household and confound its pride By giving him my daughter as his bride. DAMIS You’re going to force her to accept his hand? ORGON Yes, and this very night, d’you understand? I shall defy you all, and make it clear Hi at I’m the one who gives the orders here. Come, wretch, kneel down and clasp his blessed feet, And ask his pardon for your black deceit. DAMIS I ask that swindler’s pardon? Why, I’d rather . . . ORGON So! You insult him, and defy your father! A stick! A stick! [ To TARTITFE ] No, no—release me, do. ( To DAMIS] Out of mv house this minute! Be off with you, And never dare set foot in it again. DAMIS Well, I shall go, but . . . ORGON Well, go quicklv, then. I disinherit you; an empty purse Is all you’ll get from me—except my curse!

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Act III, Scene 7

Scene 7 ORGON

TARTUFFE

How lie blasphemed your goodness! What a son! TARTUFFE Forgive him, Lord, as I’ve already, done. [To ORGON] You can’t know how it hurts when someone tries To blacken me in my dear Brother’s eyes. ORGON Ahh! TARTUFFE The mere thought of such ingratitude Plunges my soul into so dark a mood ... Such horror grips my heart ... I gasp for breath, And cannot speak, and feel myself near death. ORGON

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ORGON [He runs, in tears, to the door through which he has just driven his

son]

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You blackguard! Why did I spare you? Why did I not Break you in little pieces on the spot? Compose yourself, and don’t be hurt, dear friend. TARTUFFE These scenes, these dreadful quarrels, have got to end. I’ve much upset your household, and I perceive That the best thing will be for me to leave. ORGON What are you saying! TARTUFFE They’re all against me here; They’d have you think me false and insincere. ORGON Ah, what of that? Have I ceased believing in you? TARTUFFE Their adverse talk will certainly continue, And charges which you now repudiate You may find credible at a later date. ORGON No, Brother, never. TARTUFFE Brother, a wife can sway Her husband’s mind in many a subtle way. ORGON No, no. TARTUFFE To leave at once is the solution; Thus only can I end their persecution. ORGON No, no, I’ll not allow it; you shall remain. TARTUFFE Ah, well; ’twill mean much martyrdom and pain, But if you wish it . . . ORGON Ah! TARTUFFE Enough; so be it. But one thing must be settled, as I see it. For your dear honor, and for our friendship’s sake, There’s one precaution I feel bound to take. I shall avoid your wife, and keep away . . . ORGON No, you shall not, whatever they may say. It pleases me to vex them, and for spite I’d have them see you with her day and night. What’s more, I’m going to drive them to despair By making you my only son and heir; „ Hiis very day, I’ll give to you alone Clear deed and title to everything I own. A dear, good friend and son-in-law-to-be Is more than wife, or child, or kin to me.

Act IV, Scene 1

Tartuffe

Will you accept my offer, dearest son? TARTUFFE In all things, let the will of Ileaven be done. ORGON Poor fellow! Come, well go draw up the deed. Then let diem burst with disappointed greed!

Act IV Scene 1 CLEANTE

TARTUFFE

\

Yes, all the town’s discussing it, and truly, Their comments do not flatter you unduly. I’m glad we’ve met, Sir, and I’ll give my view Of this sad matter in a word or two. As for who’s guilty, that I shan’t discuss; Let’s say it was Damis who caused the fuss; Assuming, then, diat you have been ill-used By young Damis, and groundlessly accused, Ought not a Christian to forgive, and ought lie not to stifle every vengeful thought? Should you stand by and watch a father make His only son an exile for your sake? Again I tell you frankly, be advised: 'Hie whole town, high and low, is scandalized; This quarrel must be mended, and my advice is Not to push matters to a further crisis. No, sacrifice your wrath to God above, And help Damis regain his father’s love. TARTUFFE Alas, for my part I should take great joy In doing so. I’ve nothing against the boy. I pardon all, I harbor no resentment; To serve him would afford me much contentment. But Heaven’s interest will not have it so: If he comes back, then I shall have to go. After his conduct—so extreme, so vicious— Our further intercourse would look suspicious. God knows what people would think! Why, they’d describe My goodness to him as a sort of bribe; They’d say that out of guilt I made pretense Of loving-kindness and benevolence— That, fearing my accuser’s tongue, I strove To buy his silence with a show of love. CLEANTE Your reasoning is badly warped and stretched, /And these excuses, Sir, are most far-fetched. Why put yourself in charge of Heaven’s cause? Does Heaven need our help to enforce its laws? Leave vengeance to the Lord, Sir; while we live, Our duty’s not to punish, but forgive; And what the Lord commands, we should obey Without regard to what the world may say. CLEANTE

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Act IV, Scene 2

What! Shall the fear of being misunderstood Prevent our doing what is right and good? No, no; let’s simply do what Heaven ordains, And let no other thoughts perplex our brains. TARTUFFE Again, Sir, let me say that I’ve forgiven Damis, and thus obeyed the laws of Heaven; But I am not commanded by the Bible To live with one who smears my name with libel. CLEANTE Were you commanded, Sir, to indulge the whim Of poor Orgon, and to encourage him In suddenly transferring to your name A large estate to which you have no claim'? TARTUFFE ’Twould never occur to those who know me best To think I acted from self-interest. The treasures of this world I quite despise; Their specious glitter does not charm my eyes; And if I have resigned myself to taking The gift which my dear Brother insists on making, I do so only, as he well understands, Lest so much wealth fall into wicked hands, Lest those to whom it might descend in time Turn it to purposes of sin and crime, And not, as I shall do, make use of it For Heaven’s glory and mankind’s benefit. CLEANTE Forget these trumped-up fears. Your argument Is one the rightful heir might well resent; It is a moral burden to inherit Such wealth, but give Damis a chance to bear it. And would it not be worse to be accused Of swindling, than to see that wealth misused? I’m shocked that you allowed Orgon to broach This matter, and that you feel no self-reproach; Does true religion teach that lawful heirs May freely be deprived of what is theirs? And if the Lord has told you in your heart That you and young Damis must dwell apart, Would it not be the decent thing to beat A generous and honorable retreat, Rather than let the son of the house be sent, For your convenience, into banishment? Sir, if you wish to prove the honesty Of your intentions . . . TARTUFFE Sir, it is half-past three. I’ve certain pious duties to attend to, And hope my prompt departure won’t offend you. CLEANTE [alone] Damn. Scene 2 ELMIRE

DORINE

CLEANTE

MARIANE

DORINE a

Stay, Sir, and help Mariane, for Heaven’s sake!

Act IY, Scene 3

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She’s suffering so, I fear her heart will break. I Ier father’s plan to many her off tonight Has put the poor child in a desperate plight. I hear him coming. Let’s stand together, now, And see if we can’t change his mind, somehow, About this match we all deplore and fear.

Scene 3 ORGON

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DORINE

ELMIRE

CLEANTE

Hah! Glad to find you all assembled here. [ To MARLANE ] Hiis contract, child, contains your happiness, And what it says I think your heart can guess. MARLINE [falling to her kness] Sir, by that Heaven which sees me here distressed, .And by whatever else can move your breast, Do not employ a father’s power, I pray you, To crush my heart and force it to obey you, Nor by your harsh commands, oppress me so Hiat I’ll begmdge the duty which I owe— And do not so embitter and enslave me That I shall hate the very life you gave me. If my sweet hopes must perish, if you refuse To give me to the one I’ve dared to choose, Spare me at least—I beg you, I implore— Hie pain of wedding one whom I abhor; .And do not, by a heartless use of force, Drive me to contemplate some desperate course. ORGON [feeling himself touched hy her] Be firm, my soul. No human weakness, now. MARIANE I don’t resent your love for him. Allow Your heart free rein, Sir; give him your property, Hid if that’s not enough, take mine from me; He’s most welcome to my money; take it, do, But don’t, I pray, include my person too. Spare me, I beg you; and let me end the tale Of my sad days behind a convent veil. ORGON A convent! Hah! When crossed in their amours, A1 lovesick girls have the same thought as yours. Get up! Hie more you loathe the man, and dread him, Hie more ennobling it will be to wed him. Marry Tartuffe, and mortify your flesh! Enough; don’t start that whimpering afresh. DORINE But why . . . ? ORGON Be still, there. Speak when you’re spoken to. Not one more bit of impudence out of you. CLEANTE If I may offer a word of counsel here . . . ORGON Brother, in counseling you have no peer; Ml your advice is forceful, sound, and clever; I don’t propose to follow it, however. ORGON

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ELMIRE [ to ORGON ]

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Your blindness simply takes my breath away. You are indeed bewitched, to take no warning From our account of what occurred this morning. ORGON Madam, I know a few plain facts, and one Is that you’re partial to my rascal son; Hence, when he sought to make Tartuffe the victim Of a base lie, you dared not contradict him. Ah, but you underplayed your part, my pet; You shoidd have looked more angry, more upset. v ELMIRE When men make overtures, must we reply With righteous anger and a battle-cry? Must we turn back their amorous advances With sharp reproaches and with fiery glances? Myself, I find such offers merely amusing, And make no scenes and fusses in refusing; My taste is for good-natured rectitude, And I dislike the savage sort of prude Who guards her virtue with her teeth and claws, And tears men’s eyes out for die slightest cause: The Lord preserve me from such honor as that, Which bites and scratches like an alley-cat! I’ve found that a polite and cool rebuff Discourages a lover quite enough. ORGON I know the facts, and L.shall not be shaken. ELMIRE

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I am amazed, and don’t know what to sav;

I marvel at your power to be mistaken.

Would it, I wonder, carry weight with you If I could show you that our tale was true? ORGON Show me? ELMIRE Yes. ORGON Rot. ELMIRE Come, what if I found a way To make you see the facts as plain as day? ORGON Nonsense. ELMIRE Do answer me; don’t be absurd. I’m not now asking you to trust our word. Suppose that from some hiding-place in here You learned the whole sad truth by eye and ear— What would you say of your good friend, after that? ORGON Why, I’d say . . . nothing, by Jehoshaphat! It can’t be true. ELMIRE You’ve been too long deceived, And I’m quite tired of being disbelieved. Come now: let’s put my statements to the test, And you shall see the truth made manifest. ORGON I’ll take that challenge. Now do your uttermost. We’ll see how you make good your empty boast. ELM I ICE [to DORINE] Send him to me. DORINE He’s crafty; it may be hard Vv To catch the cunning scoundrel off his guard.

Act IV, Scene 3

Act IV, Scene 5

Tartuffe

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No, amorous men are gullible. Their conceit So blinds them that they’re never hard to cheat. Have him come down. [To CLEANTE and MARIANE] Please leave us, for a bit.

ELMIRE

Scene 4 ELMIRE

ORGON

Pull up this table, and get under it. ORGON What?

ELMIRE

It’s essential that you be well-hidden. ORGON Why there?

ELMIRE

Oh, Heavens! Just do as you are bidden. I have my plans; we’ll soon see how they fare. Under the table, now; and once you’re there, Take care that you are neither seen nor heard. ORGON Well, I’ll indulge you, since I gave my word To see you through this infantile charade. ELMIRE Once it is over, you’ll be glad we played. [To her husband, who is now under the table) I’m going to act quite strangely, now, and you Must not be shocked at anything I do. Whatever I may say, you must excuse As part of that deceit I’m forced to use. I shall employ sweet speeches in the task Of making that impostor drop his mask; I’ll give encouragement to his bold desires, And furnish fuel to his amorous fires. Since it’s for your sake, and for his destruction, That I shall seem to yield to his seduction, I’ll gladly stop whenever you decide That all your doubts are fully satisfied. I’ll count on you, as soon as you have seen What sort of man he is, to intervene, And not expose me to his odious lust One moment longer than you feel you must. Remember: you’re to save me from my plight Whenever . . . He’s coming! Hush! Keep out of sight! ELMIRE

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Scene 5 TARTUFFE

ELMIRE

ORGON

You wish to have a word with me, I’m told. ELMIRE Yes. I’ve a little secret to unfold. Before I speak, however, it would be wise To close that door, and look about for spies.

TARTUFFE

[TARTUFFE goes to the door, closes it, and returns, j

s

Hie very last thing that must happen now

1/ X ■

Act IV, Scene 5

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

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Is a repetition of this morning’s row. I’ve never been so badly caught off guard. Oh, how I feared for you! You saw how hard I tried to make that troublesome Damis Control his dreadful temper, and hold his peace. In my confusion, I didn’t have the sense Simply to contradict his evidence; But as it happened, that was for the best. And all has worked out in our interest. Idris storm has only bettered your position; My husband doesn’t have the least suspicion, And now, in mockery of those who do, He bids me be continually with you. And that is why, quite tearless of reproof, I now can be alone with niv Tartuffe, And why my heart-—perhaps too quick to yield— Feels free to let its passion be revealed. TARTUFFE

Madam, your words confuse me. Not long ago,

You spoke in quite a different style, you know. 25

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All, Sir, if that refusal made you smart, It’s little that you know of woman’s heart, Or what that heart is trying to convey When it resists in such a feeble way! Always, at hrst, our modesty prevents The frank avowal of tender sentiments; However high the passion which inflames us, Still, to confess its power somehow shames us. Thus we reluct, at hrst, yet in a tone Which tells you that our heart is overthrown, That what our lips deny, our pulse confesses, And that, in time, all noes will turn to yesses. I fear my words are all too frank and free, And a poor proof of woman’s modesty; But since I’m started, tell me, if you will— Would I have tried to make Damis be still, Would I have listened, calm and unoffended, Until your lengthy offer of love was ended, And been so very mild in my reaction, Had your sweet words not given me satisfaction? And when I tried to force you to undo The marriage-plans my husband has in view, What did my urgent pleading signify If not that I admired you, and that I Deplored the thought that someone else might own Part of a heart I wished for mine alone? TARTUFFE Madam, no happiness is so complete As when, from lips we love, come words so sweet; Their nectar floods my every sense, and drains In honeyed rivulets through all my veins. To please you is my joy, my only goal; Your love is the restorer of my soul;

HUM IFF

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And yet I must beg leave, now, to confess Some lingering doubts as to my happiness. Might this not be a trick? Might not the catch Be that you wish me to break off the match With Mariane, and so have feigned to love me? I shan’t quite trust your fond opinion of me Until the feelings you’ve expressed so sweetly .Are demonstrated somewhat more concretely, .And you have shown, by certain kind concessions, That I may put my faith in your professions. ELM I RE [She coughs, to warn her husband ] Why be in such a hurry? Must my . heart Exhaust its bounty at the very start? To make that sweet admission cost me dear, But you’ll not be content, it would appear, Unless my store of favors is disbursed To the last farthing, and at the very first. TARTUFFE The less we merit, the less we dare to hope, .And with our doubts, mere words can never cope. We trust no promised bliss till we receive it; Not till a jov is ours can we believe it. I, who so little merit your esteem, Can’t credit this fulfillment of my dream, .And shan’t believe it, Madam, until I savor Some palpable assurance of your favor. ELM IRE My, how tyrannical your love can be, .And how it flusters and perplexes me! How furiously you take one’s heart in hand, And make your every wish a fierce command! Come, must you hound and harry me to death? Will you not give me time to catch my breath? Can it be right to press me with such force, Give me no quarter, show me no remorse, And take advantage, by your stern insistence, Of the fond feelings which weaken my resistance? TARTUFFE Well, if you look with favor upon my love, Why, then, begrudge me some clear proof thereof? ELM I RE But how can I consent without offense To Heaven, toward which you feel such reverence? TARTUFFE If Heaven is all that holds you back, don’t worry. I can remove that hindrance in a hurry. Nothing of that sort need obstruct our path. ELM IRE Must one not be afraid of I leaven’s wrath? TART!FEE Madam, forget such fears, and be my pupil, And I shall teach you how to conquer scruple. Some joys, it’s true, are wrong in Heaven’s eyes; Yet Heaven is not averse to compromise; dliere is a science, lately formulated, Where!)v one’s conscience may be liberated, And anv wrongful act you care to mention May be redeemed by purity of intention. t

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Act IV, Scene 6

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

I’ll teach you, Madam, the secrets of that science; Meanwhile, just place on me your full reliance. Assuage my keen desires, and feel no dread: The sin, if any, shall be on my head. [ELMIRE coughs, this time more loudly.]

You’ve a bad cough. Yes, yes. It’s bad indeed. TARTUFFE [producing a little paper bag J A bit of licorice may be what you need. ELMIRE No, I’ve a stubborn cold, it seems. I’m sure it Will take much more than licorice to cure it. TARTUFFE How aggravating. ELMIRE Oh, more than I can say. TARTUFFE If you’re still troubled, think of things this way: No one shall know our joys, save us alone, And there’s no evil till the act is known; It’s scandal, Madam, which makes it an offense, And it’s no sin to sin in confidence. ELMIRE [having coughed once more] Well, clearly I must do as you require, And yield to your importunate desire. It is apparent, now, that nothing less Will satisfy you, and so I acquiesce. To go so far is much against my will; I’m vexed that it should come to this; but still, Since you are so determined on it, since you Will not allow mere language to convince you, And since you ask for concrete evidence, 1 See nothing for it, now, but to comply. If this is sinful, if I’m wrong to do it, So much the worse for him who drove me to it. The fault can surely not be charged to me. TARTUFFE Madam, the fault is mine, if fault there be, And ELMIRE Open the door a little, and peek out; I wouldn’t want my husband poking about. TARTUFFE Why worry about the man? Each day he grows More gullible; one can lead him by the nose. To find us here would fill him with delight, And if he saw the worst, he’d doubt his sight. ELMIRE Nevertheless, do step out for a minute Into the hall, and see that no one’s in it. ELMIRE

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* ELMIRE

ORGON [coming out from under the tatileJ

must admit!

That man’s a perfect monster, 1

Act rY, Scene 7

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I’m simply stunned I can’t get over it. ELMIRE What, coming out so soon? How premature! Get back in hiding, and wait until you’re sure. Stay till the end, and be convinced completely; We mustn’t stop till things are proved concretely. ORGON

Iiell never harbored anything so vicious!

Tut, don’t be hasty. Try to be judicious. Wait, and be certain that there’s no mistake. No jumping to conclusions, for Heaven’s sake!

ELMIRE

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She places ORGON behind her, as TARTUFFE re-enters.

Scene 7 TARTUFFE

ELMIRE

ORGON

TARTUFFE [not seeing ORGON]

5

io

perfection; I’ve given the neighboring rooms a full inspection; No one’s about; and now I may at last . . . ORGON [ intercepting him j Hold on, my passionate fellow, not so fast! I should advise a little more restraint. Well, so you thought you’d fool me, my dear saint! How soon you wearied of the saintly life— Wedding my daughter, and coveting my wife! I’ve long suspected you, and had a feeling That soon I’d catch you at your double-dealing. Just now, you’ve given me evidence galore; It’s quite enough; I have no wish for more. ELMIRE [to TARTUFFE]

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Madam, all things have worked out to

I’m sorry to have treated you so slyly,

But circumstances forced me to be wily. TARTUFFE Brother, you can’t think . . . ORGON No more talk from you; Just leave this household, without more ado. TARTUFFE What I intended . . . ORGON That seems fairly clear. Spare me your falsehoods and get out of here. TARTUFFE No, I’m the master, and you’re the one to go! This house belongs to me, I’ll have you know, And I shall show you that you can’t hurt me By this contemptible conspiracy, Hi at those who cross me know not what they do, .And that I’ve means to expose and punish you, Avenge offended I leaven, and make you grieve That ever you dared order me to leave. Scene 8 ELMIRE

ORGON

ELMIRE

What was the point of all that angry chatter?

943

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Act V, Scene 1

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

Dear God, I’m worried. This is no laughing matter. ELMIRE How so? ORGON I fear I understood his drift. I’m much disturbed about that deed of gift. __ ORGON

You gave him . . . ?

ELMIRE 5

Yes, it’s all been drawn and signed. But one thing more is weighing on my mind. ELMIRE What’s that? ORGON I’ll tell you; but first let’s see if there’s A certain strong-box in his room upstairs. ORGON

Act« Scene 1 ORGON

CLEANTE

CLEANTE ORGON CLEANTE

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Where are you going so fast? God knows! Then wait;

Let’s have a conference, and deliberate On how this situation’s to be met. ORGON That strong-box has me utterly upset; This is the worst of many, many shocks. CLEANTE Is there some fearful mystery in that box? ORGON Mv poor friend Argas brought that box to me With his own hands, in utmost secrecy; ’Twas on the very morning of his flight. It’s full of papers which, if they came to light, Would ruin him—or such is my impression. CLEANTE Then why did you let it out of your possession? ORGON Those papers vexed my conscience, and it seemed best To ask the counsel of my pious guest, "Hie cunning scoundrel got me to agree To leave the strong-box in his custody. So that, in case of an investigation, I could employ a slight equivocation And swear I didn’t have it, and thereby, At no expense to conscience, tell a lie. CLEANTE It looks to me as if you’re out on a limb. Trusting him with that box, and offering him That deed of gift, were actions of a kind Which scarcely indicate a prudent mind. With fwd"such weapons, lie has the upper hand, Aid since you’re vulnerable, as matters stand, You erred once more in bringing him to bay. You should have acted in some subtler way. ORGON Just think of it: behind that fervent face, A heart so wicked, and a soul so base! I took him in, a hungry beggar, and then . . . Enough, by God! I’m through with pious men:

Act V, Scene 3

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Tartuffc

Henceforth I’ll hate the whole false brotherhood, And persecute them worse than Satan could. CLEANTE .Ah, there you go—extravagant as ever! Why can you not be rational? You never Manage to take the middle course, it seems, But jump, instead, between absurd extremes. 4 ouYe recognized your recent grave mistake In falling victim to a pious fake; Now, to correct that error, must you embrace An even greater error in its place, .And judge our worthy neighbors as a whole By what you’ve learned of one corrupted soul? Come, just because one rascal made you swallow A show of zeal which turned out to be hollow, Shall you conclude that all men are deceivers, And that, today, there are no true believers? Let atheists make that foolish inference; Learn to distinguish virtue from pretense, Be cautious in bestowing admiration, .And cultivate a sober moderation. Don’t humor fraud, but also don’t asperse True piety; the latter fault is worse, .And it is best to err, if err one must, As you have done, upon the side of trust. Scene 2 DAMIS

ORGON

CLEANTE

Father, I hear that scoundrel’s uttered threats Against you; that he pridefully forgets Flow, in his need, he was befriended by you. And means to use your gifts to crucify you. ORGON It’s true, my boy. I’m too distressed for tears. DAMIS Leave it to me, Sir; let me trim his ears. Faced with such insolence, we must not waver. I shall rejoice in doing you the favor Of cutting short his life, and your distress. CLEANTE What a display of young hotheadedness! Do learn to moderate your fits of rage. In this just kingdom, this enlightened age, One does not settle things by violence. DAM IS

5

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Scene 3 MADAME PERNELLE

ORGON

MARIAXE

DAMIS

CLEANTE

I hear strange tales of very strange events. Yes, strange events which these two eyes beheld.

MADAME PERNELLE ORGON

DORIXE

ELM IRE

945

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Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

Act V, Scene 3

The man’s ingratitude is unparalleled. I save a wretched pauper from starvation, 5

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House him, and treat him like a blood relation,

Shower him every day with my largesse. Give him my daughter, and all that I possess; And meanwhile the unconscionable knave Tries to induce my wife to misbehave; And not content with such extreme rascality, Now threatens me with my own liberality, And aims, by taking base advantage of *, The gifts I gave him out of Christian love, To drive me from my house, a ruined man, And make me end a pauper, as he began. DORINE Poor fellow! MADAME PERNELLE No, mv son, I’ll never bring Myself to think him guilty of such a thing. ORGON How’s that? MADAME PERNELLE The righteous always were maligned. ORGON Speak clearly, Mother. Say what’s on your mind. MADAME PERNELLE

I mean that I can smell a rat, my dear.

You know how everybody hates him, here. ORGON That has no bearing on the case at all. MADAME PERNELLE I told you a hundred times, when you were small, That virtue in this world is hated ever; Malicious men may die, bub-malice never. ORGON No doubt that’s true, but how does it apply? MADAME PERNELLE They’ve turned you against him by a clever lie. ORGON I’ve told you, I was there and saw it done. MADAME PERNELLE Ah, slanderers will stop at nothing, Son. ORGON Mother, I’ll lose my temper . . . For the last time, I tell you I was witness to the crime. MADAME PERNELLE The tongues of spite are busy night and noon, And to their venom no man is immune. ORGON You’re talking nonsense. Can’t you realize I saw it; saw it; saw it with my eyes? Saw, do you understand me? Must I shout it Into your ears before you’ll cease to doubt it? MADAAIE PERNELLE Appearances can deceive, my son. Dear me, We cannot always judge by what we see. ORGON Drat! Drat! MADAME PERNELLE One often interprets things awry; Good can seem evil to a suspicious eye. ORGON Was I to see his pawing at Elmire As an act of charity? MADAME PERNELLE Till his guilt is clear, A man deserves the benefit of the doubt. You should have waited, to see how things turned out. ORGON Great God in Heaven, what more proof did I need? Was I to sit there, watching, until he’vd . . . You drive me to the brink of impropriety.

Act V, Scene 4

Tartuffe

94

Xo, no, a man of such surpassing piety Could not do such a thing, hou cannot shake me. I don t believe it, and you shall not make me.

MADAME PERXELEE 50

ORGOX

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\ ou vex me so that, if you weren’t mv mother,

I’d say to you . . . some dreadful thing or other. DORIXE It’s your turn now, Sir, not to be listened to; You’d not trust us, and now she won’t trust you. CLEAXTE My friends, we’re wasting time which should be spent In facing up to our predicament. I fear that scoundrel’s threats weren’t made in sport. DAM IS Do you think he’d have the nerve to go to court? ELMIRE I’m sure he won’t: they’d find it all too crude A case of swindling and ingratitude. CLEAXTE Don’t be too sure. He won’t be at a loss To give his claims a high and righteous gloss; And clever rogues with far less valid cause Have trapped their victims in a web of laws. I say again that to antagonize A man so strongly armed was most unwise. ORGOX I know it; but the man’s appalling cheek Outraged me so, I couldn’t control my pique. CLEAXTE I wish to Heaven that we could devise Some truce between you, or some compromise. ELMIRE If I had known what cards he held, I’d not Have roused his anger by my little plot. ORGOX [to DORIXE, as M. LOYAL enters) What is that fellow looking for? Who is he? Go talk to him—and tell him that I’m busy. Scene 4 MOXSIEUR LOYAL MARIAXE

DAM IS

CLEAXTE

MOXSIELTR LOYAL

ELMIRE

ORGOX

MADAME PERXELLE

DORIXE

Good day, dear sister. Kindly let me see

Your master. DORIXE

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I Ie’s involved with company,

And cannot be disturbed just now, I fear. MOXSIECR LOYAL I hate to intrude; but what has brought me here Will not disturb your master, in any event Indeed, my news will make him most content. DORIXE He’s involved with company, MOXSIECR LOYAL Just say that I bring greetings from Monsieur Tartuffe, on whose behalf I’ve come. DORIXE [to ORGOX] Sir, lie’s a very gracious man, and bears A message from Tartuffe, which, he declares. Will make you most content. CLEAXTE Upon my word, I think this man had best be seen, and heard. ORGOX Perhaps he has some settlement to suggest.

»/T

15

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

I low shall I treat him? What manner would be best? CLEANTE Control your anger, and if he should mention Some fair adjustment, give him your full attention. MONSIEUR LOYAL Good health to you, good Sir. May Heaven confound Your enemies, and may your joys abound* A gentle salutation: it confirms My guess that he is here to offer terms. MONSIEUR LOYAL IVe always held your family most dear; 1 served your father, Sir, for many a year. ORGON Sir, I must ask your pardon; to my shame, I cannot now recall your face or name. MONSIEUR LOYAL Loyal’s my name; I come from Normandy, And I’m a bailiff, in all modesty. For forty years, praise God, it’s been my boast To serve with honor in that vital post, And I am here, Sir, if you will permit The liberty, to serve you with this writ ... ORGON To—what? MONSIEUR LOYAL Now, please, Sir, let us have no friction: It’s nothing but an order of eviction. You are to move your goods and family out And make way for new occupants, without Deferment or delay, and give the keys . . . ORGON I? Leave this house? MONSIEUR LOYAL Why yes, Sir, if you please. This house, Sir, from the cellar to the roof, Belongs now to the good Monsieur Tartuffe, And he is lord and master of your estate By virtue of a deed of present date, Drawn in due form, with clearest legal phrasing . . . DAMIS Your insolence is utterly amazing! MONSIEUR LOYAL Young man, my business here is not with you, But with your wise and temperate father, who, Like every worthy citizen, stands in awe Of justice, and would never obstruct the law. ORGON But . . . MONSIEUR LOYAL Not for a million, Sir, would you rebel Against authority; I know that well. You’ll not make trouble, Sir, or interfere With the execution of my duties here. DAMIS Someone may execute a smart tattoo On that black jacket of yours, before you’re through. MONSIEUR LOYAL Sir, bid your son be silent. I’d much regret Having to mention such a nasty threat Of violence, in writing my report. DORINE [aside] This man Loyal’s a most disloyal sort! ORGON [aside, to CLEANTE]

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MONSIEUR LOYAL

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Act V, Scene 4

I loye all men of upright character,

And when I agreed to serve these papers, Sir, It was your feelings that I had in mind. I couldn’t bear to see the case assigned

Act Y, Scene 5

Tartuffe

949

To someone else, who might esteem you less And so subject you to unpleasantness. ORGON What’s more unpleasant than telling a man to leave His house and home? You’d like a short reprieve? If you desire it. Sir, I shall not press you, But wait until tomorrow to dispossess you. Splendid. I’ll come and spend the night here, then, Most quietly, with half a score of men. For form’s sake, you might bring me, just before \ ou go to bed, the keys to the front door. My men, I promise, will be on their best Behavior, and will not disturb your rest. But bright and early, Sir, you must be quick And move out all your furniture, every stick: Hie men I’ve chosen are both young and strong, And with their help it shouldn’t take you long. In short, I’ll make things pleasant and convenient, And since I’m being so extremely lenient, Please show me, Sir, a like consideration, .And give me your entire cooperation. ORGON [aside] I may be all but bankrupt, but I vow I’d give a hundred louis, here and now, Just for the pleasure of landing one good clout Right on the end of that complacent snout. CLEANTE Careful; don’t make things worse. DAMIS My bootsole itches 1 o give that beggar a good lack in the breeches. DORINE Monsieur Loyal, I’d love to hear the whack Of a stout stick across your fine broad back. MONSIEUR LOYAL Take care: a woman too may go to jail if She uses threatening language to a bailiff. CLEANTE Enough, enough, Sir. This must not go on. Give me that paper, please, and then begone. MONSIEUR LOYAL Well, au revoir. God give you all good cheer! ORGON May God confound you, and him who sent you here! MONSIEUR LOYAL

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Scene 5 ORGON

DORINE

CLEANTE

MADAME PERNELLE

Now, Mother, was I right or not? This writ Should change your notion of Tartuffe a bit. Do you perceive his villainy at last? MADAME PERNELLE I’m thunderstruck. I’m utterly aghast. DORINE Oh, come, be fair. You mustn’t take offense At this new proof of his benevolence, lie’s acting out of selfless love, I know. Material things enslave the soul, and so He kindly has arranged your liberation ORGON

5

ELMIRE

DAMIS

MAR LANE

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Act V, Scene 6

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

From all that might endanger your salvation. ORGON Will you not ever hold your tongue, you dunce? CLEANTE Come, you must take some action, and at once. ELMIRE Go tell the world of the low trick lie’s tried. The deed of gift is surely nullified By such behavior, and public rage will not . Permit the wretch to carry out his plot.

Scene 6 ir. - —*

YALE RE

1

ELMIRE

DAMIS

ORGON

MARIANE

DORINE

MADAME PERNELLE

Sir, though I hate to bring you more bad news, Such is the danger that I cannot choose. A friend who is extremely close to me And knows my interest in your family Has, for my sake, presumed to violate The secrecy that’s due to things of state, And sends me word that you are in a plight From which your one salvation lies in flight. That scoundrel who’s imposed upon you so Denounced you to the King an hour ago And, as supporting evidence, displayed The strong-box of a certain renegade Whose secret papers, so he testified, You had disloyally agreed to hide. I don’t know just what charges may be pressed, But there’s a warrant out for your arrest; Tartuffe has been instructed, furthermore, To guide the arresting officer to your door. CLEANTE He’s clearly done this to facilitate Ilis seizure of your house and your estate. ORGON That man, I must say, is a vicious beast! YALERE Quick, Sir; you mustn’t tarry in the least. My carriage is outside, to take you hence; This thousand louis should cover all expense. Let’s lose no time, or you shall be undone; "Hie sole defense, in this case, is to run. I shall go with you all the way, and place you In a safe refuge to which they’ll never trace you. ORGON Alas, dear boy, I wish that I could show you My gratitude for everything I owe you. But now is not the time; I pray the Lord That I may live to give you your reward. Farewell, my dears; be careful ... CLEANTE Brother, hurry. We shall take care of things; you needn’t worry. YALERE

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CLEANTE

Act Y, Scene 7

Tartnffc

Scene 7 THE OFFICER

ELM I RE

MADAME PERNELLE

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I ) AM IS

TARTUFFE

MAR I AXE

CLEANTE

VALERE

ORGON

Gently, Sir, gently; stay right where you are. No need for haste; your lodging isn’t far. You’re off to prison, by order of the Prince. ORGON This is the crowning blow, you wretch; and since It means my total ruin and defeat, Your villainy is now at last complete. TARTUFFE You needn’t try to provoke me; it’s no use. Those who serve Heaven must expect abuse. CLEANTE You are indeed most patient, sweet, and blameless. DORINE How he exploits the name of Heaven! It’s shameless. TARTUFFE Your taunts and mockeries are all for naught; To do my duty is my only thought. >LARE\NE Your love of duty is most meritorious, And what you’ve done is little short of glorious, TARTUFFE All deeds are glorious, Madam, which obey Hie sovereign prince who sent me here today. ORGON I rescued you when you were destitute; Have you forgotten that, you thankless brute? TARTUFFE No, no, I well remember everything; But my first duty is to serve my King. Hi at obligation is so paramount That other claims, beside it, do not count; Aid for it I would sacrifice my wife, My family, niv friend, or niv own life. ELM I RE Hypocrite! DORINE All that we most revere, he uses To cloak his plots and camouflage his ruses. CLEANTE If it is true that you are animated By pure and loyal zeal, as you have stated, Why was this zeal not roused until you’d sought To make Orgon a cuckold, and been caught? Why weren’t you moved to give your evidence Until your outraged host had driven you hence? I shan’t say that the gift of all his treasure Ought to have damped your zeal in any measure; But if he is a traitor, as you declare, I low could you condescend to be his heir? TARTUFFE [to the OFFICER] Sir, spare me all this clamor; it’s growing shrill. Please carry out your orders, if you will. OFFICER Yes, I’ve delayed too long, Sir. Thank you kindly. You’re just the proper person to remind me. Come, you are off to join the other boarders / In the King’s prison, according to his orders. TARTUFFE Who I, Sir? OFFICER Yes, TARTUFFE

5

DORINE

951

952

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

Act V, Scene 7

To prison? This can’t be true! OFFICER I owe an explanation, but not to you. [To ORGOX] Sir, all is well; rest easy, and be grateful. We serve a Prince to whom all sham is hateful, A Prince who sees into our inmost hearts, And can’t be fooled by any trickster’s arts. Ilis royal soul, though generous and human, Views all things with discernment and acumen; Ilis sovereign reason is not lightly swayed, And all his judgments are discreetly weighed, lie honors righteous men of every kind, And yet his zeal for virtue is not blind, Nor does his love of piety numb his wits .And make him tolerant of hypocrites. Twas hardly likely that this man conld cozen A King who’s foiled such liars by the dozen. With one keen glance, the King perceived the whole Perverseness and corruption of his soul, .And thus high Heaven’s justice was displayed: Betraying you, the rogue stood self-betrayed. The King soon recognized Tartuffe as one Notorious by another name, who’d done So many vicious crimes that one coirid fill Ten volumes with them, and be writing still. But to be brief: our sovereign-was appalled By this man’s treachery toward you, which he called The last, worst villainy of a vile career, .And bade me follow the imposter here To see how gross his impudence could be, And force him to restore your property. Your private papers, by the King’s command, I hereby seize and give into your hand. Hie King, by royal order, invalidates The deed which gave this rascal your estates, And pardons, furthermore, your grave offense In harboring an exile’s documents. By these decrees, our Prince rewards you lor Your loyal deeds in the late civil war, And shows how heartfelt is his satisfaction In recompensing any worthy action, I low much he prizes merit, and how he makes More of men’s virtues than of their mistakes. DORINE Heaven be praised! yLADAME PERNELLE I breathe again, at last. ELM I RE We’re safe.

TARTUFFE

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marlmne

I can’t believe the danger’s past.

ORGOX [to TARTUFFE]

Well, traitor, now you see . . . CEE ANTE * Ah, Brother, please. Let’s not descend to such indignities. Leave the poor wretch to his unhappy late,

Act Y, Scene 7

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TartufFc

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.And don't say anything to aggravate I Iis present woes; but rather hope that he Will soon embrace an honest piety. And mend his ways, and by a true repentance Move our just King to moderate his sentence.

95

Meanwhile, go kneel before your sovereign's throne .And thank him for the mercies he has shown. ORGOX

Well said: let's go at once and. gladly kneeling.

Express the gratitude which all are feeling. Then, when that first great duty' has been done, too

We ll turn with pleasure to a second one. .And give Yalere, whose love has proven so true. The wedded happiness which is his due.

Questions 1. Moliere has been criticized for delaying Tartuffe’s entrance: although Tartuffe's character runs away with the play and steals its title, lie docs not make his entrance until the third act. Moliere himself wrote: "I have employed . . . two entire acts to prepare for the entrance of my scoundrel. He does not fool the auditor for a single moment . . . from one end to the other he says not a word and performs not an action which does not paint for the spectators the character of an evil man." Does this statement justify Iartuffcs late en¬ trance? Or is it a flaw in the play's structure? Explain.

2.

flow does earlier dialogue prepare us for 1 artufle s entrance? In the first three or four minutes of Tartuffe's presence on the stage, what earlier

speeches arc illustrated or explained? 3. Describe in a few words what Cleante's character supplies to the plot of Tar-

tuffe. Is a character of this sort necessary to the unfolding of the plot?

4. Define Dorinc's function in the plot, especially early in the play. Have you noticed other characters who perform in other plays as she does? Some people have found her like a playwright or a play's director: what do they mean by such a suggestion? 5. “When Dainis denounces Tartuffe to his father as Elmire's would-be seducer. Tartuffe readily admits his sinfulness in such sweeping terms of self-abase¬ ment that Orgon becomes only further convinced of his C hristian humility." What is the term for such a twist of plot? 6. The translator writes: "We gather from the maid Dorine that Orgon has until latclv seemed a good and sensible man. but the Orgon whom we meet in Act I. Scene IY. has become a fool. What has happened to him?" What do you think? 7. “While the Tartuffes of the world are dangerous, they can exist only because of the Orgons, for the prosperity' of the wicked depends on the gullibility of the foolish.” Could you defend the assertion that Tartuffe. who is merely a criminal, is not genuinely the villain ol this play? 8. Is this plav about religious hypocrisy? If religious hypocrisy is not the major topic of this plav, what is? Did Moliere want to convince his audience of anvtliing in particular? Is this play didactic? Satiric0 9. Using a desk or a table and a screen or a large map. stage in the classroom

954

Comedy, Neoclassicism, and Moliere

one of the scenes in which characters overhear other characters. Discuss pos¬ sibilities of blocking, gesture (including facial expression), and lighting. 10. In other plays you have read, how often does someone hide and overhear something? It happens twice in Tartuffe. Often it is a comic device, but it happens in tragedy also; Polonius hides behind a curtain in Hamlet with re¬ sults that are not funny. Is overhearing dramatic or theatrical by its nature? Why? In real life, if a crook like Tartuffe is exposed—perhaps a politician who has taken bribes or an embezzling banker—a newspaper will often declare that the culprit has been “unmasked.” Is there anything inherently theatrical about unmasking? Is Tartuffe unmasked? Was Qedipus unmasked? 11. Richard Wilbur writes: “Tartuffe is only incidentally satiric; what we experi¬ ence in reading or seeing it, as several modern critics have argued, is not a satire, but a ‘deep’ comedy in which (1) a knave tries to control life by cold chicanery, (2) a fool tries to oppress life by unconscious misuse of the highest values, and (3) Life, happily, will not have it.” Does this summation omit anyth ing of importance?

Chapter 6 Modern Drama, Realism and Clieldiov

The idea of realism We call modern drama realistic when it uses theatrical conventions we accept as representing the world we live in. In realistic modern drama we look at actors imitating actual people, speaking dialogue constructed to resemble people talk¬ ing, among sets that resemble rooms or gardens. To understand why we call this theater realistic wre must look at it from the other side of history, and understand realism in the context of earlier drama. We must understand what modern realistic drama is not: people do not speak in rhymed couplets; people do not converse with ghosts or address the audience in asides or speak eloquent blank-verse meditations on empty stages; people are not kings fated to marry widowed queens who are their secret mothers. On the modem realistic stage, instead of kings, characters are salesmen, landowners, nurses, society ma¬ trons, politicians, real-estate developers. Instead of poetry they speak prose, and they interrupt and misunderstand each other. Their problems lie not in mysterious plagues but in diseases like tuberculosis. Instead of needing to avenge a king-father’s murder, realistic heroes struggle to prevail over petty envy or to love and be loved, find a job or keep a pension. If we contrast Oedipus the King with Death of a Salesman, the difference seems to justify the word realistic. Yet the term is treacherous. After all, when we praise Oedipus the King as true to nature, or Hamlet as psychologically profound, we are calling each of the plays real—if not realistic drama. The movement toward realism on the stage began earlier than the mid-nine¬ teenth century and arose from social and historical causes. Iwen on the stage of the Jacobean period, which succeeded the Elizabethan era in England, mid-

956

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

dle-class characters took over subplots; gradually middle-class subplots weighed heavier than noble main plots. A rising middle class required mirrors of itself on the stage it patronized. Realism necessitated improved technology in light¬ ing, stage machinery, sets, and sound effects. The same capitalist industrialism that enriched the middle class invented the phonograph and the electric light. By the late nineteenth century a materialistic world view, which substituted neurosis for witchcraft and syphillis for fate, demanded from the theater plain talk and sophisticated technology. For the great playwrights of the modem stage, drama was no mere plaything of the middle class or an entertainment for tired capitalists. Their art was a rep¬ resentation of life as it actually was lived, viewed with attitudes ranging from indictment to affection. Henrik Ibsen (1828—1906) wrote realistic drama in the great middle period of his long artistic life (see “Henrik Ibsen and Hedda Gabler” page 1150). A great British realist was George Bernard Shaw (1856—1950), represented in this volume by his historical play Saint Joan (page 1208). Among many playwrights of the realistic stage, August Strindberg (1849—1912) in his early work carried realism on to naturalism—a variant that is concerned with the most sordid parts of reality, or, to use the title of a naturalist play by Maxim Gorki (1868—1936), The Lower Depths.

Chekhov and The Cherry Orchard One of the masters of dramatic realism was the Russian Anton Chekhov (1864—1904), a master as well of the short story (his “Gooseberries” appears on pages 108-114). Chekhov emerged from the rising merchant class in the late years of Tzarist Russia; his grandfather had been a serf and his father was a small shopkeeper. Chekhov trained to be a doctor, and while he was studying medicine wrote humorous short stories to make money. Ultimately literature won out over medicine. Yet when he turned to the theater after success in fiction, the first production of The Sea Gull was a disaster. Only when Kon¬ stantin Stanislavsky (see page 740), the great director of the Moscow Art Thea¬ ter, produced The Sea Gull in 1898 did the play succeed. In the brief time

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

957

Act 1 of the first production of The Cherry Orchard at the Moscow Art Theater, January 1904.

remaining to him, Chekhov wrote Uncle Vanya (1899), The Three Sisters (1901), and The Cherry Orchard (1904). Contemporary Americans should understand the social background of Che¬ khov’s plays, perhaps most particularly of The Cherry Orchard. In fiction and in drama alike, Chekhov presents peasants and merchants and aristocrats with equal clarity, compassion, and humor. Reading The Cherry Orchard, we must realize that the serfs, who had been virtual slaves, had been only recendv lib¬ erated; it became legal for landowners to free serfs in 1803, compulsory in 1861. Old Fiers therefore acts as if he were still a serf. On the other hand, Lopahin like Chekhov comes from a family of liberated serfs—and Lopahin belongs to a rising class of entrepreneurs. We might expect Chekhov with his background to make class war on Madame Kanevskaya and her brother, but Chekhov’s temperament is gentle and ironic, his artistic attitude objective. In The Cherry Orchard liberated serfs and impoverished landowners associate with one another, and younger Russians of various backgrounds attempt to adjust to the new Russia. Many of the characters seem left over from an old life; others are visionaries of the future. Yet if the play is dense with the texture of society, it is by no means a social document. Tire historical context of The Cherry Orchard merely provides particulars for a view of the world—as human comedy—Chekhov was able to discover. The Cherry Orchard has survived seventy years of melancholy productions. Chekhov considered it a comedy almost as broad as farce, and recendv the play has been acted for its humor. The best productions are nevertheless funny and sad at die same time. The Cherry Orchard varies emotional pitch continually,

958

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

is by turns euphoric and miserable. Its realism lies not in its social particularity so much as in its psychological exactness; here is a silly, vain, affectionate woman; here is her ineffectual, optimistic, doomed brother; here is a shrewd, opportunistic peasant, at the same time shy, diffident; here are lovers, here are fools: and each is unique. Chekhov’s stage is large enough to suggest the uni¬ verse.

Anton Chekhov

The Cherry Orchard Translated by Stark Young

Characters LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA KANEVSKAYA, a landowner ANYA, her daughter, seventeen years old VARYA, her adopted daughter, twentyfour years old LEONID ANDREEVICH GAYEFF, brother

of Ranevskaya YERMOLAY ALEXEEVICH LOPAHIN, a merchant PYOTR SERGEE\TCH TROFIMOFF, a student

CHAR LOTT A IVANOVNA, a governess SEMYON PANTELEEVICH EPIHODOFF, a clerk DUNYASHA, a maid FIERS, a valet, an old man of eightyseven YASHA, a young valet A PASSERBY" or STRANGER THE STATIONMASTER A POST-OFFICE CLERK VISITORS, SERVANTS

BORIS BORISOVICH SEMYONOFFPISHTCHIK, a landowner

The action takes place on the estate of L. A. Ranevskaya.

Act I A room that is still called the nursery. One of the doors leads into ANYA’s room. Dawn, the sun will soon be rising. It is May, the cherry trees are in blossom, but in the orchard it is cold, with a morning frost. The windows in the room are closed. Enter DUNYASHA with a candle and LOPAHIN with a book in his hand. The train got in, thank God! What time is it? DUNYASHA It’s nearly two. [Blows out his candle] It’s already daylight. LOPAHIN But how late was the train? Two hours at least. [Yawning and stretching] I’m a fine one, I am, look what a fool thing I did! I drove here on purpose just to meet them at the station, and then all of a sudden I’d overslept myself! Fell asleep in my chair. How provoking!—You could have waked me up. DUNYASHA I thought you had gone. [Listening] Listen, I think they are coming now. LOPAHIN

LOPAHIN [listening]

No—No, there’s the luggage and one thing and another. [A pause] Lyuboff Andreevna has been living abroad five years. I don’t know what she is like now—She is a good woman. An easy-going, simple woman. I remember when I was a boy about fifteen, my father, who is at rest—in those days he ran a shop here in the village—hit me in the face with his fist, my nose was bleeding— We’d come to the yard together for something or other, and he was a little drunk.

Act I

The Cherry Orchard

959

Lyuboff Andreevna, I can see her now, still so young, so slim, led me to the washbasin here in this very room, in the nursery. “Don’t cry,” she says, “little peasant, it will be well in time for your wedding”—[A pause] Yes, little peasant— Mv father was a peasant truly, and here I am in a white waistcoat and yellow shoes. Like a pig rooting in a pastry shop—I’ve got this rich, lots of money, but if you reahv stop and think of it, I’m just a peasant—[Turning the pages of a book) Here I was reading a book and didn’t get a thing out of it. Reading and went to sleep. [A pause] DUNYAS HA And all night long the dogs were not asleep, they know their mas¬ ters are coming. LOPAHIN What is it, Dunyasha, you’re so— DUNYASHA My hands are shaking. I’m going to faint. LOPAHIN You’re just so delicate, Dunyasha. And all dressed up like a lady, and your hair all done up! Mustn’t do that. Must know your place. Enter EPIHODOFF, with a bouquet: he wears a jacket and highly polished boots with a loud squeak. As he enters he drops the bouquet. EPIHODOFF [picking up the bouquet]

Look, the gardener sent these, he says to put them in the dining room. [ Giving the bouquet to DUNYASHA] LOPAHIN And bring me some kvass. DUNYASHA Yes, sir. [Goes out.] EPIHODOFF There is a morning frost now, three degrees of frost [Sighing] and the cherries all in bloom. I cannot approve of our climate—I cannot. Our climate can never quite rise to the occasion. Listen, Yermolay Alexeevich, allow me to subtend. I bought myself, day before yesterday, some boots and they, I venture to assure you, squeak so that it is impossible. What could I grease them with? LOPAHIN Go on. You annoy me. EPIHODOFF Every day some misfortune happens to me. But I don’t complain, I am used to it and I even smile. DUNYASHA enters, serves LOPAIIIN the kvass.

I’m going. [Stumbling over a chair and upsetting it.] There. [As if triumphant.] There, you see, pardon the expression, a circumstance like that, among others— It is simply quite remarkable. [Goes out.] DUNYASHA And I must tell you, Yermolay Alexeevich, that Epihodoff has pro¬ posed to me. LOPAHIN

All!

I don’t know really what to—He is a quiet man but sometimes when he starts talking, you can’t understand a thing he means. It’s all very nice, and full of feeling, but just doesn’t make any sense. I sort of like him. He loves me madly. lie’s a man that’s unfortunate, every day there’s something or other. 'They tease him around here, call him twenty-two misfortunes— LOPAHIN [Cocking his ear] Listen, I think they are coming— DUNYASHA They are coming! But what’s the matter with me—I’m cold all over. LOPAHIN They’re really coming. Let’s go meet them. Will she recognize me? It’s five years we haven’t seen each other. DUNYASHA [ Excitedly} I’m going to faint this very minute. Ah, I’m going to faint! DUNYASILV

960

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Act I

Two carriages can be heard driving up to the house. LOPAHIN and DUNYASHA hurry out. The stage is empty. In the adjoining rooms a noise begins. FIERS hurries across the stage, leaning on a stick; he has been to meet LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA, and wears an old-fashioned livery and a high hat; he mutters something to him¬ self, but you cannot understand a word of it. The noise offstage gets louder and louder. A voice: rrLook! Let’s go through here—” LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA, ANYA and CILAREOTTA IVANOVNA, with a little dog on a chain, all of them dressed for trav¬ eling, VARYA, in a coat and kerchief, GAYEFF, SEMYONOFF-PISHTCHIK, LOPAHIN, DUNYASIEA, with a bundle and an umbrella, servants with pieces of luggage—all pass through the room. Let’s go through here. Mama, do you remember what room this is? LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [ happily, through her tears] The nursery! VARYA How cold it is, my hands are stiff. [To LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA.] Your rooms, the white one and the violet, are just the same as ever, Mama. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA The nursery, my dear beautiful room—I slept here when I was little—[Crying] And now I am like a child—[ Kisses her brother and VARYA, then her brother again] And Varya is just the same as ever, looks like a nun. And I knew Dunvasha—[Kisses DUNYASHA.] GAYEFF The train was two hours late. How’s that? How’s that for good man¬ agement? CHAREOTTA [ to PISHTCHIK. ] My dog he eats nuts too. PISHTCHIK [astonished] Think of that! ANYA

Everybody goes out except ANYA and DUNYASHA. We waited so long—[Taking off ANYA’s coat and hat.] ANYA I didn’t sleep all four nights on the way. And now I feel so chilly. DUNYASHA It was Lent when you left, there was some snow then, there was frost, and now? My darling [Laughing and kissing her], I waited so long for you, my joy, my life—I’m telling you now, I can’t keep from it another minute. ANYA [wearily] There we go again— DUNYASHA The clerk Epihodoff proposed to me after Holy Week. ANYA You’re always talking about die same thing—[Arranging her hair] I’ve lost all my hairpins—[She is tired to the point of staggering.] DUNYASHA I just don’t know what to think. He loves me, loves me so! ANYA [looks in through her door, tenderly.] My room, my windows, it’s just as if I had never been away. I’m home! Tomorrow morning I’ll get up, I’ll run into the orchard—Oh, if I only could go to sleep! I haven’t slept all the way, I was tormented by anxiety. DUNVASHA Day before yesterday, Pyotr Sergeevich arrived. ANYA [joyfully] Petya! DUNYASHA He’s asleep in the bathhouse, he lives diere. I am afraid, he says, of being in die way. [Taking her watch from her pocket and looking at it.] Some¬ body ought to wake him up. It’s only that Varvara Mikhailovna told us not to. Don’t you wake him up, she said. DUNYASHA

Enter VARYA with a bunch of keys at her belt. Dunvasha, coffee, quick—Mama is asking for coffee. DUNYASHA This minute. [Goes out.]

VARYA

Act I

The Cherry Orchard

961

VARYA Well, thank goodness, you’ve come back. You are home again. [Ca¬ ressingly] My darling is back! My precious is back! ANYA I’ve had such a time. VARYA I can imagine! ANYA I left during Holy Week, it was cold then. Charlotta talked all the way and did her tricks. Why did you fasten Charlotta on to me—? VARYA But you couldn’t have traveled alone, darling: not at seventeen! ANYA We arrived in Paris, it was cold there and snowing. I speak terrible French. Mama lived on the fifth floor; I went to see her; diere were some French people in her room, ladies, an old priest with his prayer book, and the place was full of tobacco smoke—-very dreary. Suddenly I began to feel sorry for Mama, so sony, I drew her to me, held her close and couldn’t let her go. Then Mama kept hugging me, crying—yes— VARYA [tearfully] Don’t—oh, don’t— ANYA Her villa near Mentone she had already sold, she had nothing left, noth¬ ing. And I didn’t have a kopeck left. It was all we could do to get here. And Mama doesn’t understand! We sit down to dinner at a station and she orders, insists on the most expensive things and gives the waiters rouble tips. Charlotta does the same. Yasha too demands his share; it’s simply dreadful. Mama has her butler, Yasha, we’ve brought him here— VARYA I saw the wretch. ANYA Well, how are tilings? Has the interest on the mortgage been paid? VARYA IIow could we? ANYA Oh, my God, my God—! VARYA In August the estate is to be sold— ANYA Mv God—! LOPAHIN [looking in through the door and mooing like a cow.] Moo-o-o— [Goes away. ] VARYA [tearfully] I’d land him one like that— [Shaking her fist] ANYA [embracing VARYA gently] Varya, has he proposed? [Varya shakes her head. ] But he loves you—Why don’t you have it out with him, what are you waiting for? VARYA I don’t think anything will come of it for us. He is very busy, he hasn’t any time for me—And doesn’t notice me. God knows, it’s painful for me to see him—Everybody talks about our marriage, everybody congratulates us, and the truth is, there’s nothing to it—it’s all like a dream— [In a different tone] You have a brooch looks like a bee. ANYA [sadly] Mama bought it. [Going toward her room, speaking gaily, like a child] And in Paris I went up in a balloon! VARYA My darling is back! My precious is back! [ DUNYAS HA has returned with the coffee pot and is making coffee. VARYA is standing by the door. ] Darling, I’m busy all day long with the house and I go around thinking things. If only you could be married to a rich man, I’d be more at peace too, I would go all by myself to a hermitage—then to Kiev—to Moscow, and I’d keep going like that from one holy place to another—I would go on and on. Heavenly! ANYA The birds are singing in the orchard. WTiat time is it now? \ARYA It must be after two. It’s time you were asleep, darling. [ Going into ANYAs room ] Heavenly! YASHA enters with a lap robe and a traveling bag.

962

Act I

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

YASHA [crossing the stage airily] May I go through here? DUNYAS HA We’d hardly recognize you, Yasha; you’ve changed so abroad! YASHA I Ini— And who are you? DUNYAS HA When you left here, I was like that—[Her hand so high from the floor] I’m Dunyasha, Fyodor KozoyedofFs daughter. You don’t remember! YASHA Hm— You little peach! Looking around before he embraces her; she shrieks and drops a saucer; YASHA hurries out. VARYA [at the door, in a vexed tone] And what’s going on here? DUNYASHA [tearfully] I broke a saucer— YARYA That’s good luck. ANYA [emerging from her room] We ought to tell Mama beforehand: Petya is here— YARYA I told them not to wake him up. ANYA [pensively] Six years ago our father died, a month later our brother Grisha was drowned in the river, such a pretty lithe boy, just seven. Mama couldn’t bear it, she went away, went away without ever looking back— [Shuddering] Flow I understand her, if she only knew I did. [A pause] And Petya Trohmoff was Grisha’s tutor, he might remind— Enter FIERS; he is in a jacket and white waistcoat. Goes to the coffee urn, busy with it. FIERS The mistress will have her breakfast here— [Putting on white gloves] Is the coffee ready? [To DUNYASHA, sternly] You! What about the cream? DUNYASHA Oh, my God— [Hurrying out] FIERS [busy at the coffee urn] Oh, you good-for-nothing—! [Muttering to him¬ self.] Come back from Paris—And the master used to go to Paris by coach— [Laughing] YARYA Fiers, what are vou—? FIERS At your service. [Joyfully] My mistress is back! It’s what I’ve been waiting for! Now I’m ready to die— [Crying for joy] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA, GAYEFF and SEMYONOFF-PISHTCHIK enter; SEMYONOFFPISHTCHIK is in a podyovka1 of fine cloth and sharovaryr GAYEFF enters; he makes gestures with his hands and body as if he were playing billiards. LYTIBOFF ANDREEYNA How is it? Tet me remember—Yellow into the comer! Duplicate in the middle! GAYHFF 1 cut into the comer. Sister, you and I slept here in this very room once, and now I am fifty-one years old, strange as that may seem— LOPAHIN Yes, time passes. GAYEFF What? LOPAHIN Time, I say, passes. GAYEFF And it smells like patchouli here. ANYA I’m going to bed. Good night, Mama. [ Kissing her mother] vV

'The traditional Russian long jacket

'Loose trousers bloused over the boots

Act I

The Cherry Orchard

963

LYUBOFF ANDRFEVNA My sweet little child. [Kissing her hands] You’re glad you are home? I still can’t get myself together. ANYA Good-by, Uncle. GAYEFF [kissing her face and hands] God be with you. How like your mother you are! [To his sister] Lyuba, at her age you were exactly like her. ANYA shakes hands with LOPAIIIN and PISHTCHIK, goes out and closes the door behind her. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA She’s very tired. PISHTCHIK It is a long trip, I imagine. VARYA [ to LOPAHIN and PISHTCHIK] Well, then, sirs? It’s going on three o’clock, time for gentlemen to be going. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [Laughing] Hie same old Varya. [Drawing her to her and kissing her] There, I’ll drink my coffee, then we’ll all go. [FIERS puts a small cushion under her feet.] Thank you, my dear. I am used to coffee. Drink it day and night. Thank you, my dear old soul. Kissing FIERS. VARYA I’ll go see if all the things have come. [Goes out.] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Is it really me sitting here? [ Laughing ] I’d like to jump around and wave my arms. [Covering her face with her hands.] But I may be dreaming! God knows I love my country, love it deeply, I couldn’t look out of the car window, I just kept crying. [Tearfully] However, I must drink my coffee. 'Thank you, Fiers, thank you, my dear old friend. I’m so glad you’re still alive. FIERS Day before yesterday. GAYEFF He doesn’t hear well. LOPAHIN And I must leave right now. It’s nearly five o’clock in the morning, for Harkoff. What a nuisance! I wanted to look at you—talk— You are as beautiful as ever. PISHTCHIK [breathing heavily] Even more beautiful— In your Paris clothes —It’s a feast for the eyes— LOPAHIN Your brother, Leonid Andreevich here, says I’m a boor, a peasant money grubber, but that’s all the same to me, absolutely. Let him say it. All I wish is you’d trust me as you used to, and your wonderful, touching eyes would look at me as they did. Merciful God! My father was a serf; belonged to your grandfather and your father; but you, your own self, you did so much for me once that I’ve forgotten all that and love you like my own kin—more than my kin. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA I can’t sit still—I can’t. [Jumping up and walking about in great excitement.] I’ll never live through this happiness— Laugh at me, I’m silly—My own little bookcase—! [Kissing the bookcase.] My little table! GAYEFF And in your absence the nurse here died. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [sitting down and drinking coffee.] Yes, may she rest in Heaven! They wrote me. GAYEFF And Anastasy died. Cross-eyes Petrushka left me and lives in town now at the police officer’s. [ Taking out of his pocket a box of hard candy and sucking a piece. ] PISHTCHIK Mv daughter, Dashenka—sends you her greetings— LOPAHIN I want to tell you something very pleasant, cheerful. [ Glancing at

964

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Act I

his watch] I’m going right away. There’s no time for talking. Well, I’ll make it two or three words. As you know, your cherry orchard is to be sold for your debts; the auction is set for August 22nd, but don’t you worry, my dear, you just sleep in peace, there’s a way out of it. Here’s my plan. Please listen to me. Your estate is only thirteen miles from town. They’ve run the railroad by it. Now if the cherry orchard and the land along the river were cut up into building lots and leased for summer cottages, you’d have at the very lowest twenty-five thousand roubles per year income. GAYEFF Excuse me, what rot! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA I don’t quite understand yofi, Yermolav Alexeevich. LOPAHIN At the very least you will get from the summer residents twenty-five roubles per year for a two-and-a-half acre lot and if you post a notice right off, I’ll bet you anything that by autumn you won’t have a single patch of kind free, every¬ thing will be taken. In a word, my congratulations, you are saved. The location is wonderful, the river’s so deep. Except, of course, it all needs to be tidied up, cleared— For instance, let’s say, tear all the old buildings down and this house, which is no good any more, and cut down the old cherry orchard— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Cut down? My dear, forgive me, you don’t understand at all. If there’s one thing in the whole province that’s interesting—not to say remarkable—it’s our cherry orchard. LOPAHIN The only remarkable thing about this cherry orchard is that it’s very big. There’s a crop of cherries once every two years and even that’s hard to get rid of. Nobody buys them. GAYEFF This orchard is even mentioned in the encyclopedia. LOPAHIN [glancing at his watch] If we don’t cook up something and don’t get somewhere, the cherry orchard and the entire estate will be sold at auction on the twenty-second of August. Do get it settled then! I swear there is no other way out. Not a one! FIERS There was a time, forty-fifty years ago when the cherries were dried, soaked, pickled, cooked into jam and it used to be— GAYEFF Keep quiet, Fiers. FIERS And it used to be that the dried cherries were shipped by the wagon¬ load to Moscow and to Kharkov. And the money there was! And the dried cherries were soft then, juicy, sweet, fragrant— They had a way of treating them then— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA And where is that way now? FIERS They have forgotten it. Nobody remembers it. PISIITCIIIK [ to LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA] What’s happening in Paris? How is everything1? Did you eat frogs? LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA I ate crocodiles. PISHTCHIK Think of it—! LOPAHIN Up to now in the country there have been only the gentry and the peasants, but now in summer the villa people too are coming in. All the towns, even the least big ones, are surrounded with cottages. In about twenty years very likely the summer resident will multiply enormously. Pie merely drinks tea on the porch now, but it might well happen that on this two-and-a-half acre lot of his, he’ll go in for farming, and then your cherfv orchard would be happy, rich, splen¬ did— GAYEFF [getting hot] What rot! Enter VARYA and YASHA.

Act I

The Cherry Orchard

965

VARYA Here, Mama. Two telegrams for you. [Choosing a key and opening the old bookcase noisily] Here they are. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA From Paris. [ Tearing up the telegrams without reading them] Paris, that’s all over— GAYEFF Do you know how old this bookcase is, Lyuba? A week ago I pulled out the bottom drawer and looked, and diere the figures were burned on it. Hie bookcase was made exactly a hundred years ago. How’s that? Eh? You might celebrate its jubilee. It’s an inanimate object, but all the same, be diat as it may, it’s a bookcase. PISHTCHIK [ in astonishment] A hunched years—! Think of it—! GAYEFF Yes—quite something— [,Shaking the bookcase] Dear, honored book¬ case! I salute your existence, which for more than a hundred years has been directed toward the clear ideals of goodness and justice; your silent appeal to fruitful endeavor has not flagged in all the course of a hundred years, sustaining [Tearfully] through the generations of our family, our courage and our faidi in a better future and nurturing in us ideals of goodness and of a social consciousness. A pause. LOPAIIIX Yes. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA You’re the same as ever, Lenva. GAYEFF [ slightly embarrassed] Carom to the right into the corner pocket. I cut into the side pocket! LOPAHIN [glancing at his watch] Well, it’s time for me to go. YASHA [handing medicine to LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA] Perhaps you’ll take the pills now— PISHTCHIK You should never take medicaments, dear madam— They do nei¬ ther harm nor good— Hand diem here, dearest lady. [He takes the pillbox, shakes the pills out into his palm, blows on them, puts them in his mouth and washes them down with kvass.] There! Now! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [ startled ] Why, you’ve lost your mind! PISHTCHIK I took all the pills. LOPAHIN Such a glutton! Everyone laughs. FIERS Hie gendeman stayed with us during Holy Week, he ate half a bucket of pickles— [Muttering] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA What is he muttering about? VARYA He’s been muttering like that for three years. We’re used to it. YASIL\ In his dotage. CHARLOTTA IVANOVNA in a white dress—she is very thin, her corset laced very tight—with a lorgnette at her belt, crosses the stage. LOPAHIN Excuse me, Charlotta Ivanovna, I haven’t had a chance yet to wel¬ come you. [Trying to kiss her hand] CHARLOTTA [drawing her hand away ] If I let you kiss my hand, ’twould be my elbow next, then my shoulder— LOPAHIN No luck for me today. [Everyone laughs.] Charlotta Ivanovna, show us a trick!

966

Act I

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

CILARLOTTA No. I want to go to bed. [Exit] LOPAHIN In three weeks we shall see each other. [Kissing LYUBOFF AN¬ DREEVNA’S hand] Till then, good-by. It’s time. [To GAYEEF] See you soon. (Kissing PISHTCHIK] See you soon. [Shaking VARYA’s hand, then FIER’s and YASHA’s] I don’t feel like going. [To EYUBOEF ANDREEVNA] If you think it over and make up your mind about the summer cottages, let me know and I’ll arrange a loan of something like fifty thousand roubles. Think it over seriously. VARYA [angrily] Do go on, anyhow, will you! LOPAHIN I’m going, I’m going— [Exit] GAYEEF Boor. However, pardon—Varya is going to mam7 him, it’s Varya’s tittle fiance. VARYA Don’t talk too much, Uncle. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Well, Varya, I should be very glad. He’s a good man. PISHTCHIK A man, one must say truthfully—A most worthy—And my Dashenka—says also that—she says ah sorts of things— [ Snoring but immediately waking up] Nevertheless, dearest lady, oblige me—With a loan of two hundred and forty roubles—-Tomorrow the interest on my mortgage has got to be paid— VARYA [startled] There’s not any money, none at ah. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Really, I haven’t got anything. PISHTCHIK I’ll find it, somehow. [Laughing] I never give up hope. There, I think to myself, ah is lost, I am mined and lo and behold—a railroad is put through my land and—they paid me. And then, just watch, something else will turn up— if not today, then tomorrow—Dashenka will win two hundred thousand— She has a ticket. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA We’ve finished the coffee, now we can go to bed. FIERS [ brushing GAYEFF’s clothes, reprovingly] You put on the wrong trousers again. What am I going to do with you! VARYA [softly] Anva is asleep. [Opening the window softly] Already the sun’s rising—it’s not cold. Look, Mama! What beautiful trees! My Lord, what air! The starlings are singing! GAYEFF [opening another window] The orchard is all white. You haven’t for¬ gotten, Lyuba? That long lane there runs straight—as a strap stretched out. It glistens on moonlight nights. Do you remember? You haven’t forgotten it? LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [looking out of the window on to the orchard] Oh, my childhood, my innocence! I slept in this nursery and looked out on the orchard from here, every morning happiness awoke with me, it was just as it is now, then, nothing has changed. [Laughing with joy] All, all white! Oh, my orchard! After a dark, rainy autumn and cold winter, you are young again and full of happiness. "Hie heavenly angels have not deserted you—If I only could lift the weight from my breast, from my shoulders, if I could only forget my past! GAYEFF' Yes, and the orchard will be sold for debt, strange as that may seem. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Look, our dear mother is walking through the orchard— In a white dress! [Laughing happily] It’s she. GAYEFF Wdiere? VARYA God be with you, Mama! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA There’s not anybody, it only seemed so. To the right, as you turn to the summerhouse, a little white tree, is leaning there, looks like a woman— v\

Enter TROFTMOFF, in a student’s uniform, well worn, and glasses.

Act I

The Cherry Orchard

967

What a wonderful orchard' The white masses of blossoms, the sky all blue. TROFIMOFF

Lyuboff Andreevna! [She looks around at him.] I will just greet

you and go immediately. [Kissing her hand warmly] I was told to wait until morn¬ ing, but I hadn’t the patience— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA looks at him puzzled. VARYA [ tearfully ] TROFIMOFF changed so?

This is Petya Trohmoff—

Petya Trohmoff, the former tutor of your Grisha— Have I really

LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA embraces him; and crying quietly. GAYEFF [embarrassed]

There, there, Lyuba. VARYA [crying] I told you, Petya, to wait till tomorrow. EYUBOFF ANDREEVNA My Grisha—My boy—Grisha—Son— VARYA What can we do, Mama? It’s God’s will. TROFIMOFF [m a low voice tearfully] There, there— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [weeping softly] My boy was lost, drowned— Why? Why, my friend? [More quietly] Anya is asleep there, and I am talking so loud— Making so much noise— But why, Petya? Why have you lost your looks? Why do you look so much older? TROFIMOFF A peasant woman on the train called me a inangv-looking gendeman. LY1TBOFF ANDREEVNA You were a mere boy then, a charming young student, and now your hair’s not very thick any more and you wear glasses. Are you really a student still? [Going to the door.] TROFIMOFF Very likely I’ll be a perennial student. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [ kissing her brother, then VARYA] Well, go to bed— You’ve grown older too, Leonid. PISHTCHIK [following her] So that’s it, we are going to bed now. Oh, my gout! I’m staying here— I’d like, Lvuboff Andreevna, my soul, tomorrow morning—Two hundred and forty roubles— GAYEFF He’s still at it. PISHTCHIK Two hundred and forty roubles— To pay interest on the mortgage. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA I haven’t any money, my dove. PISHTCHIK I’ll pay it back, my dear— It’s a trifling sum— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Oh, very well, Leonid will give—You give it to him, Leonid. GAYEFF Oh, certainly, I’ll give it to him. Hold out your pockets. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA What can we do, give it, he needs it— He’ll pay it back. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA, TROFIMOFF, PISHTCHIK and FIERS go out. GAYEFF, VARYA

and YASHA remain. GAYEFF

My sister hasn’t yet lost her habit of throwing money away. [To

YASHA] Get away, my good fellow, you smell like hens. YASHA [with a grin]

And you are just the same as you used to be, Leonid

Andreevich. GAYEFF What? [ To VARYA ] What did he say?

968

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Act I

VARYA [to YASHA ]

Your mother has come from the village, she’s been sitting in the servants’ hall ever since yesterday, she wants to see you— YASHA The devil take her! VARYA Ach, shameless creature! YASHA A lot I need her! She might have come tomorrow. Goes out. Mama is just the same as she was, she hasn’t changed at all. If she could, she’d give away everything she has. GAYEFF Yes— If many remedies are prescribed for an illness, you may know the illness is incurable. I keep thinking, I wrack my brains, I have many remedies, a great many, and that means, really, I haven’t any at all. It would be fine to inherit a fortune from somebody, it would be fine to marry off our Anya to a very rich man, it would be fine to go to Yaroslavl and try our luck with our old aunt, the Countess. Auntie is very, very rich. VARYA [crying] If God would only help us! GAYEFF Don’t bawl! Auntie is very rich but she doesn’t like us. To begin with, Sister married a lawyer, not a nobleman— [ANYA appears at the door.] Married not a nobleman and behaved herself, you could say, not very virtuously. She is good, kind, nice, I love her very much, but no matter how much you allow for the extenuating circumstances, you must admit she’s a depraved woman. You feel it in her slightest movement. VARYA [whispering] Anya is standing in the door there. GAYEFF What? [A pause] It’s amazing, something got in my right eye. I am beginning to see poorly. And on Thursday, when I was in the District Court— VARYA

ANYA enters.

But why aren’t you asleep, Anya? ANYA I don’t feel like sleeping. I can’t. GAYEFF My little girl— (Kissing ANYA’s face and hands] My child— [ Tearfully] You are not my niece, you are my angel, you are everything to me. Believe me, believe— ANYA I believe you, Uncle. Everybody loves you, respects you— But dear Un¬ cle, you must keep quiet, just keep quiet— What were you saying, just now, about my mother, about your own sister? What did you say that for? GAYEFF Yes, yes— [Putting her hand up over his face] Really, it’s terrible! My God! Oh, God, save me! And today I made a speech to the bookcase— So silly! And it was only when I finished it that I could see it was silly. VARYA It’s true. Uncle, you ought to keep quiet. Just keep quiet. That’s all. ANYA If you kept quiet, you’d have more peace. GAYEFF I’ll keep quiet. | Kissing ANYA’s and VARYA’s hands] I’ll keep quiet. Only diis, it’s about business. On Thursday I was in die District Court; well, a few of us gathered around and a conversation began about this and that, about lots of things; apparendy it will be possible to arrange a loan on a promissory note to pay die bank the interest due. VARYA If the Lord would only help us! GAYEFF Tuesday I shall go and talk it over again. [To VARYA] Don’t bawl! [To ASYA] Your mother will talk to Lopahiii; of course, he won’t refuse her . . . And VARYA

Act I

The Cherry Orchard

969

as soon as you rest up, you will go to Yaroslavl to your great-aunt, the Countess. There, that’s how we will move from three directions, and the business is in the bag. We’ll pay the interest. I am convinced of that— [Putting a hard candy in his mouth] On my honor I’ll swear, by anything you like, that the estate shall not be sold! [Excitedly ] By my happiness, I swear! Here’s my hand, call me a worthless, dishonorable man, if I allow it to come up for auction! With all my soul I swear it! ANYA [a quieter mood returns to her; she is happy.]

I low good you are, Uncle, how clever! [Embracing her uncle] I feel easy now! I feel easy! I’m happy! FIERS enters. FIERS [reproachfully]

Leonid Andreevich, have you no fear of God! When are

you going to bed? GAYEFF Right away, right away. You may go, Fiers. For this once I’ll undress myself. Well, children, beddv bye— More details tomorrow, and now, go to bed. [Kissing ANYA and VARYA] I am a man of the eighties— It is a period that’s not admired, but I can say, nevertheless, that I’ve suffered no little for my convictions in the course of my life. It is not for nothing that the peasant loves me. One must know the peasant! One must know from what— ANYA Again, Uncle! VARYA You, Uncle dear, keep quiet. FIERS [angrily] Leonid Andreevich! GAYEFF I’m coming, I’m coming— Go to bed. A double bank into the side pocket! A clean shot— Goes out, FIERS hobbling after him. I feel easy now. I don’t feel like going to Yaroslavl; I don’t like Greataunt, but still I feel easy. Thanks to Uncle. [Site down.] VARYA I must get to sleep. I’m going. And there was unpleasantness here during your absence. In the old servants’ quarters, as you know, live only the old servants: Yephemushka, Polya, Yevstignay, well, and Karp. They began to let even7 sort of creature spend the night with them—I didn’t say anything. But then I hear they’ve spread the rumor that I’d given orders to feed them nothing but beans. Out of stinginess, you see— And all that from Yevstignay— Very well, I think to myself. If that’s the way it is, I think to myself, then you just wait. I call in Yevstignay— [Yawning] He comes— How is it, I say, that you, Yevstignay— You’re such a fool!— [Glancing at ANYA] Anitchka!—[A pause] Asleep! [Takes ANYA by her arm] Let’s go to bed— Come on!— [Leading her] My little darling fell asleep! Come on— ANYA

[They go. Far away beyond the orchard a shepherd is playing on a pipe. TROFIMOFF walks across the stage and, seeing VARYA and ANYA, stops. ] Shh—She is asleep—asleep—Let’s go, dear. ANYA [softly, half dreaming]

I’m so tired— All the bells!—Thiele—dear— And

Mama and Uncle—Varya. VARYA Come on, my dear, come on.

970

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Act II

They go into ANYA’s room. TROFIMOFF [ tenderly]

My little sun! My spring!

Act II A field. An old chapel, long abandoned, with crooked walls, near it a well, big stones that apparently were once tombstones, and an old bench. A road to the estate of GAYEFF can be seen. On one side poplars rise, casting their shadows, the cherry orchard begins there. In the distance a row of telegraph poles; and far, far away, faintly traced on the horizon, is a large towp, visible only in the clearest weather. The sun will soon be down. CILYRLOTTA, YASHA and DUNYASHA are sitting on the bench; EPIIIODOFF is standing near and playing the guitar; everyone sits lost in thought. CHARLOTTA wears an old peak cap (fourrage); she has taken a rifle from off her shoulders and is adjusting the buckle on the strap. CHARLOTTA [pensively]

I have no proper passport, I don’t know how old I am—it always seems to me I’m very young. When I was a little girl, my father and mother traveled from fair to fair and gave performances, very good ones. And I did salto mortale and different tricks. And when Papa and Mama died, a German lady took me to live with her and began teaching me. Good. I grew up. And became a governess. But where I came from and who I am I don’t know— Who my parents were, perhaps they weren’t even married—I don’t know. [ Taking a cucumber out of her pocket and beginning to eat it] I don’t know a thing. [A pause] I’d like so much to talk but there’s not anybody. I haven’t anybody. EPIHODOFF [playing the guitar and singing] “What care I for the noisy world, what care I for friends and foes. ”—How pleasant it is to play the mandolin! DUNYASELA That’s a guitar, not a mandolin. [Looking into a little mirror and powdering her face.] EPIHODOFF For a madman who is in love this is a mandolin— [Singing] “If only my heart were warm with the fire of requited love. ” YASHA sings with him.

How dreadfully these people sing— Phooey! Like jackals. DHNYASEA [to YASHA] All the same what happiness to have been abroad. YASHA Yes, of course. I cannot disagree with you. CHARLOTTA

Yawning and then lighting a cigar. That’s easily understood. Abroad everything long since attained its complete development. YASHA That’s obvious. EPIHODOFF I am a cultured man. I read all kinds of remarkable books, but the trouble is I cannot discover my own inclinations, whether to live or to shoot myself, but nevertheless, I always carry a revolver on me. Here it is— [Showing a revolver] CHARLOTTA That’s done. Now I am going. [Slinging the rifle over her shoul¬ der] You are a very clever man, Epihodoff, and a wry terrible one; the women must love you madly. Brrrr-r-r-r! [GoingJ These clever people are all so silly, I EPIHODOFF

Act II

The Cherry Orchard

971

haven’t anyboch' to talk with. I m always alone, alone, 1 have nobodv and— Who I am, why I am, is unknown— [Goes out without hurrying] EPIHODOFF Strictly speaking, not touching on other subjects, I must state about myself, in passing, that fate treats me mercilessly, as a storm does a small ship. If, let us suppose, I am mistaken, then why, to mention one instance, do I wake up this morning, look and there on my chest is a spider of terrific size— There, like that. [Showing the size with both hands] And also I take some kvass to drink and in it I find something in the highest degree indecent, such as a cockroach. [A pause] Have you read Buckle? [A pause] I desire to trouble you, Avdotya Feodorovna. with a couple of words. DUXYASHA Speak. EPIHODOFF I have a desire to speak with you alone— Sighing. DUXYASHA [embarrassed] Yen' well— But bring me my cape first—by the cup¬ board— It’s rather damp here— EPIHODOFF Yety well—I'll fetch it— Now I know what I should do with my revolver—[Takes the guitar and goes out playing] YASHA Twenty-two misfortunes! Between us he’s a stupid man, it must be said. [Yawning] DUXYASHA God forbid he should shoot himself. [A pause] I’ve grown so un¬ easy, I’m always fretting. I was only a girl when I was taken into the master’s house, and now I’ve lost the habit of simple living—and here are my hands white, white as a lady's. I’ve become so delicate, fragile, ladylike, afraid of everything— Frightfully so. .And, Yasha, if you deceive me, I don’t know what will happen to my nerves. YASHA [kissing her] You little cucumber! Of course even' girl must behave properly. What I dislike above everything is for a girl to conduct herself badly. DUXYASHA I have come to love you passionately, you are educated, you can discuss anything. [A pause] YASHA [ Yawning] Yes, sir—To my mind it is like this: If a girl loves someone, it means she is immoral. [A pause] It is pleasant to smoke a cigar in the clear air—[Listening] They are coming here— It is the ladies and gentlemen— DUXYASHA impulsively embraces him. YASHA Go to the house, as though you had been to bathe in the river, go by this path, otherwise, they might meet you and suspect me of making a rendezvous with you. That I cannot tolerate. DUXYASHA [with a little cough] Your cigar has given me the headache. [Goes out] YASHA remains, sitting near the chapel. LYUBOFF AXDREFXXA, GAYEFF and LOPAHIX enter. LOPAHIX We must decide definitely, time doesn’t wait. Why, the matter’s quite simple. .Are you willing to lease your land for summer cottages or are you not? .Answer in one word, yes or no? Just one word!

972

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Act II

LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Who is it smokes those disgusting cigars out here—? [Sitting down] GAYEFF The railroad running so near is a great convenience. [Sitting down] We made a trip to town and lunched there— Yellow in the side pocket! Perhaps I should go in the house first and play one game— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA You’ll have time. LQPAHIN Just one word! [Imploringly] Do give me your answer! GAYEFF [ Yawning] What? LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [ looking in her purse ] Yesterday there was lots of money in it. Today there’s very little. My poor Varya! For the sake of economy she feeds everybody milk soup, and in the kitchen the old people get nothing but beans, and here I spend money—senselessly— [Dropping her purse and scattering gold coins] There they go scattering! [She is vexed.] YASHA Allow me, I’ll pick them up in a second. [Picking up the coins] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA If you will, Yasha. And why did I go in town for lunch—? Your restaurant with its music is trashy, the tablecloths smell of soap— Why drink so much, Lyonya? Why eat so much? Why talk so much? Today in the restaurant you were talking a lot again, and all of it beside the point. About the seventies, about the decadents. And to whom? Talking to waiters about the decadents! LOPAHIN Yes. GAYEFF [waving his hand] I am incorrigible, that’s evident— [To YASHA ir¬ ritably] What is it?—You are forever swirling around in front of us. YASHA [laughing] I cannot hear your voice without laughing. GAYEFF [to his sister] Either I or he— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Go away, Yasha. Go on— YASHA [giving LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA her purse] I am going right away. [Barely suppressing his laughter] This minute. [Goes out] LOPAHIN The rich Deriganoff intends to buy your estate. They say he is coming personally to the auction. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA And where did you hear that? LOPAHIN In town they are saying it. GAYEFF Our Yaroslavl aunt promised to send us something, but when and how much she will send, nobody knows— LOPAHIN How much will she send? A hundred thousand? Two hundred? LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Well—maybe ten, fifteen thousand—we’d be thankful for that. LOPAHIN Excuse me, but such light-minded people as you are, such odd, unbusinesslike people, I never saw. You are told in plain Russian that your estate is being sold up and you just don’t seem to hike it in. LYUBC)FF ANDREEVNA But what are we to do? Tell us what? LOPAHIN I tell you every day. Every day I tell you the same thing. Both die cherry orchard and the land have got to be leased for summer cottages, it has to be done right now, quick— The auction is right under your noses. Do understand! Once you finally decide that there are to be summer cottages, you will get all the money you want, and then you’ll be saved. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Summer cottages and summer residents—it is so trivial, excuse me. GAYEFF I absolutely agree with you. LOPAHIN I’ll either burst out crying^ or scream, or faint. I can’t bear it! You are torturing me! [ To GAYEFF] You’re a perfect old woman!

Act II

The Cherrv Orchard

GAYEFF

973

Wliat?

A perfect old woman! [About to go] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [alarmed] No, don’t go, stay, my lamb, I beg you. Per¬ haps we will think of something! LOPAHIN

LOPAHIN

What is there to think about?

LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

Don’t go, I beg you. With you here it is more cheerful

anyhow— [A pause] I keep waiting for something, as if the house were about to tumble down on our heads. GAYEFF [ deep in thought]

Double into the comer pocket— Bank into the wide

pocket— LYLJBOFF ANDREEVNA

We have sinned so much—

What sins have you—? GAYEFF [puts a hard candy into his mouth] They say I’ve eaten my fortune up in hard candies— [Laughing] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Oh, mv sins—I’ve always thrown money around like mad, recklessly, and I married a man who accumulated nothing but debts. My husband died from champagne—he drank fearfully—and to my misfortune I fell in love with another man. I lived with him, and just at that time—it was my first punishment—a blow over the head: right here in the river my boy was drowned and I went abroad—went away for good, never to return, never to see this river again—I shut my eyes, ran away, beside myself, and he after me—mercilessly, brutally. I bought a villa near Mentone, because he fell ill there, and for three years I knew no rest day or night, the sick man exhausted me, my soul dried up. And last year when the villa was sold for debts, I went to Paris and there he robbed me of everything, threw me over, took up with another woman; I tried to poison myself—so stupid, so shameful— And suddenly I was seized with longing for Russia, for my own country, for my little girl— [Wiping away her tears] Lord, Lord, have mercy, forgive me my sins! Don’t punish me any more! [Getting a telegram out of her pocket] I got this today from Paris, he asks forgiveness, begs me to return— [Tears up the telegram] That sounds like music somewhere. LOPAHIN

Listening. It is our famous Jewish orchestra. You remember, four violins, a flute and double bass. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Does it still exist? Wre ought to get hold of it sometime and give a party. LOPAHIN [listening] Can’t hear it— [Singing softly] “And for money the Ger¬ mans will frenchifv a Russian.” [Laughing] What a play I saw yesterday at the theatre, veiy funny! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA And most likely there was nothing funny about it. You shouldn’t look at plays, but look oftener at yourselves. I low gray all your lives are, what a lot of idle things you say! LOPAHIN 'That’s true. It must be said frankly this life of ours is idiotic— [A pause] My father was a peasant, an idiot, he understood nothing, he taught me nothing, he just beat me in his drunken fits and always with a stick. At bottom I am just as big a dolt and idiot as he was. I wasn’t taught anything, my handwriting is vile, I write like a pig—I am ashamed for people to see it. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA You ought to get married, my friend. LOPAHIN Yes—That’s true. GAYEFF

974

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

Act II

To our Varya, perhaps. She is a good girl.

LOPAHIN Yes. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

She comes from simple people, and she works all day long, but the main thing is she loves you. And you, too, have liked her a long time. ,, LOPAHIN Why not? I am not against it— She’s a good girl. [A pause] GAYEFF They are offering me a position in a bank. Six thousand a year—Have you heard that? LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Not you! You stay where you are— FIERS enters, bringing an overcoat. FtERS [to GAYEFF]

Pray, Sir, put this on, it’s damp. GAYEFF [putting on the overcoat] You’re a pest, old man. FIERS That’s all right— This morning you went off without letting me know. [Looking him over] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA How old you’ve grown, Fiers! FIERS At your sendee. LOPAHIN She says you’ve grown very old! FIERS I’ve lived a long time. They were planning to many' me off before your papa was bom. [Laughing] And at the time the serfs were freed I was already7 the head footman. I didn’t want to be freed then, I stayed with the masters—[A pause] And I remember, everybody was happy, but what they were happy about they7 didn’t know themselves. LOPAHIN In the old days it was hne. At least they7 flogged. FIERS [not hearing] But, of course. The peasants stuck to the masters, the masters stuck to the peasants, and now everything is all smashed up, you can’t tell about anything. GAYEFF Keep still, Fiers. Tomorrow I must go to town. They have promised to introduce me to a certain general who might make us a loan. LOPAHIN Nothing will come of it. And you can rest assured you won’t pay die interest. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA He’s just raving on. There aren’t any such generals. TROFIM OFF, ANYA and VARYA enter.

Here they7 come. ANYA There is Mama sitting there. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [ tenderly ] Come, come—My darlings—[Embracing ANYA and VARYA] If you only knew how I love you both! Come sit by me—there—like that. GAYEFF

Everybody sits down. Our perennial student is always strolling with die young ladies. TROFIMOFF It’s none of y7our business^ LOPAHIN He will soon be fifty7 and lie’s still a student. TROFIMOFF Stop your stupid jokes. LOPAHIN But why7 are you so peevish, you queer duck? TROFIMOFF Don’t you pester me. LOPAHIN

Act II

The Cherry Orchard

975

LOPAHIN [laughing]

Permit me to ask you, what do you make of me? TROFIMOFF Yermolay Alexeevich, I make this of you: you are a rich man, you’ll soon be a millionaire. Just as it is in the metabolism of nature, a wild beast is needed to eat up everything that comes his way; so you too are needed. Everyone laughs. Petya, you’d better tell us about the planets. LYUBOFF .ANDREEVNA No, let’s go on with yesterday’s conversation. TROFIMOFF What was it about? GAYEFF About the proud man. TROFIMOFF We talked a long time yesterday, but didn’t get anywhere. In a proud man, in your sense of the word, there is something mystical. Maybe you are right, from your standpoint, but if we are to discuss it in simple terms, without whimsy, then what pride can there be, is there any sense in it, if man physiolog¬ ically is poorly constructed, if in the great majority he is crude, unintelligent, profoundly miserable. One must stop admiring oneself. One must only work. GAYEFF All the same, you will die. TROFIMOFF Who knows? And what does it mean—you will die? Man may have a hundred senses, and when he dies only the five that are known to us may perish, and the remaining ninety-five go on living. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA How clever you are, Petya! LOPAHIN [ironically.] Terribly! TROFIMOFF Humanity goes forward, perfecting its powers. Everything that’s unattainable now will some day become familiar, understandable; it is only that one must work and must help with all one’s might those who seek the truth. With us in Russia so far only a very few work. The great majority of the intelligentsia diat I know are looking for nothing, doing nothing, and as yet have no capacity for work. 'They call themselves intelligentsia, are free and easy with the servants, treat the peasants like animals, educate themselves poorly, read nodiing seriously, do absolutely nothing; about science they just talk and about art they understand very litde. Every one of them is serious, all have stem faces; they all talk of nodiing but important things, philosophize, and all the time everybody can see that the workmen eat abominably, sleep without any pillows, thirty or forty to a room, and everywhere there are bedbugs, stench, dampness, moral uncleanness— And ap¬ parently with us, all the fine talk is only to divert the attention of ourselves and of others. Show me where we have the day nurseries they are always talking so much about, where are the reading rooms? They only write of these in novels, for the tmth is there are not any at all. 'There is only filth, vulgarity, orientalism— I am afraid of very serious faces and dislike them. I’m afraid of serious conversa¬ tions. Rather than that let’s just keep still. LOPAHIN You know I get up before five o’clock in the morning and work from morning till night. Well, I always have money, mv own and other people’s, on hand, and I see what the people around me are. One has only to start doing something to find out how few honest and decent people there are. At times when I can’t go to sleep, I think: Lord, thou gavest us immense forests, unbounded fields and the widest horizons, and living in die midst of diem we should indeed be giants— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA You feel the need for giants— Hiey are good only in fairy tales, anywhere else they only frighten us. VARYA

976

Act II

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

At the back of the stage EPIHODOFF passes by, playing the guitar. [LYUBOFF ANDREEATLA, lost in thought, says:] Epihodoff is coming— ANYA [ lost in thought] Epihodoff is coming. GAYEFF The sun has set, ladies and gentlemen. TROFIMOFF Yes. GAYEFF [ not loud and as if he were declaiming] Oh, Nature, wonderful, you gleam with eternal radiance, beautiful and indifferent, you, whom we call Mother, combine in yourself both life and death, you give life, and you take it away. VARYA [Beseechingly] Uncle! ANYA Uncle, you’re doing it again! TROFIMOFF You’d better bank the yellow into the side pocket. GAYEFF I’ll be quiet, quiet. All sit absorbed in their thoughts. There is only the silence. FIERS is heard mut¬ tering to himself softly. Suddenly a distant sound is heard, as if from the sky, like the sound of a snapped string, dying away, mournful. What’s that? LOPAHIN I don’t know. Somewhere far off in a mine shaft a bucket fell. But somewhere very far off. GAAFFF And it may be some bird—like a heron. TROFIMOFF Or an owl— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [shivering] It’s unpleasant, somehow. [A pause] FIERS Before the disaster it was like that. The owl hooted and the samovar hummed without stopping, both. GAYEFF Before what disaster? FIERS Before the emancipation. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

A pause. You know, my friends, let’s go. Twilight is falling. [ To ANYA] You have tears in your eyes— What is it, my dear little girl? [Embracing her] ANYA It’s just that, Mama. It’s nothing. TROFIMOFF Somebody is coming. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

A STRANGER appears in a shabby white cap, and an overcoat; he is a little drunk. THE STRAYGER

Allow me to ask you, can I go straight through here to die

station? You can. Go by that road. THE STRANGER I am heartily grateful to you. [ Coughing] The weather is splen¬ did— [Declaiming] Brother of mine, suffering brother— Go out to the Volga, whose moans— [To VARYA] Mademoiselle, grant a hungry Russian man some thirty kopecks— GAYEFF

VARYA is frightened and gives a shriek.

vv

Act II

The Cherry Orchard

977

LOPAHIN [angrily \

There’s a limit to everything. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [ flustered] Take this— Here’s this for you— [ Searching in her purse] No silver—It’s all the same, here’s a gold piece for you— THE STRANGER I am heartily grateful to you. [ Goes out. Laughter. ] VARYA [ frightened] I’m going—I’m going— Oh, Mama, you poor little Mama! There’s nothing in the house for people to eat, and you gave him a gold piece. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA What is to be done with me, so silly? I shall give you all I have in the house. Yermolay Alexeevich, you will lend me some this once more!— LOPAHIN

Agreed.

Let’s go, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time. And here, Varya, we have definitely made a match for you, I congratulate you. VARYA [ through her tears] Mama, that’s not something to joke about. LOPAHIN Achmelia, get thee to a nunnery. GAYEFF And my hands are trembling; it is a long time since I have played billiards. LOPAHIN Achmelia, Oh nymph, in thine orisons be all my sins remember’d— LYLROFF ANDREEVNA Let’s go, my dear friends, it will soon be suppertime. VARYA He frightened me. My heart is thumping so! LOPAHIN I remind you, ladies and gentleman: August 22nd the cherry orchard will be auctioned off. Think about that!—Think!— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

All go out except TROFIMOFF and ANYA. ANYA [laughing]

My thanks to the stranger, he frightened Varya, now we are

alone. Varya is afraid we might begin to love each other and all day long she won’t leave us to ourselves. With her narrow mind she cannot understand that we are above love. To sidestep the petty and illusory, which prevent our being free and happy, that is the aim and meaning of our life. Forward! YTe march on irresistibly toward the bright star that bums there in the distance. Forward! Do not fall behind, friends! ANYA [extending her arms upward] How well you talk! [A pause] It’s won¬ derful here today! TROFIMOFF Yes, the weather is marvelous. ANYA What have you done to me, Petya, why don’t I love the cherry orchard any longer the way I used to? I loved it so tenderly, it seemed to me there was not a better place on earth than our orchard. TROFIMOFF All Russia is our orchard. Hie earth is immense and beautiful, and on it are many wonderful places. [A pause] Just think, Anya: your grandfather, great-grandfather and all your ancestors were slave owners, in possession of living souls, and can you doubt that from every cherry in the orchard, from every leaf, from even7 trunk, human beings are looking at you, can it be that you don’t hear their voices? To possess living souls, well, that depraved all of you who lived before and who are living now, so that your mother and you, and your uncle no longer notice that you live by debt, at somebody else’s expense, at the expense of those very people whom you wouldn’t let past your front door— We are at least two hundred years behind the times, we have as yet absolutely nothing, we have no definite attitude toward the past, we only philosophize, complain of our sadness TROFIMOFF

978

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Act III

or drink vodka. Why, it is quite clear that to begin to live in the present we must first atone for our past, must be done with it; and we can atone for it only through suffering, only through uncommon, incessant labor. Understand that, Anya. ANYA The house we live in ceased to be ours long ago, and I’ll go away, I give you my word. TROFIMOFF If you have the household keys, throw them in the well and go away. Be free as the wind. ANYA [transported] How well you said that! TROFIMOFF Believe me, Anya, believe me! I am not thirty yet, I am young, I am still a student, but I have already borne so much! Every winter I am hungry, sick, anxious, poor as a beggar, and—where has destiny not chased me, where haven’t I been! And yet, my soul has always, every minute, day and night, been full of inexplicable premonitions. I have a premonition of happiness, Anya, I see it alreadv— ANYA [pensively] The moon is rising. J

EPIHODOFF is heard playing on the guitar, always the same sad song. The moon

rises. Somewhere near the poplars VARYA is looking for ANYA and calling: "Anya! Where are you V’

Yes, the moon is rising. [A pause] Here is happiness, here it comes, comes always nearer and nearer, I hear its footsteps now. And if we shall not see it, shall not come to know it, what does that matter? Others will see it! VARYA [ off] Anya! Where are you? TROFIMOFF Again, that Varya! [Angrily] It’s scandalous! ANYA Well, let’s go to the river. It’s lovely there. TROFIMOFF Let’s go. [They go out.] VARYA [ off] Anya! Anya! TROFIMOFF

Act III The drawing room, separated by an arch from the ballroom. A chandelier is lighted. A Jewish orchestra is playing—the same that was mentioned in Act II. Evening. In the ballroom they are dancing grand rond. The voice of SEMYONOFFPISHTCHIK: "Promenade a une paire!” They enter the drawing room; in the first

couple are PISHTCHIK and CHARLOTTA IVANOVNA; in the second, TROFIMOFF and LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA; in the third, ANYA with the POST-OFFICE CLERK; in the

fourth, VARYA with the STATIONM ASTER, et cetera—VARYA is crying softly and wipes away her tears while she is dancing. DUNYASHA is in the last couple through the drawing room, PISHTCHIK shouts: "Grand rond, balancez!” and "Les Cava¬ liers a genoux et remerciez vos dames!” FIERS in a frock coat goes by with seltzer water on a tray. PISHTCHIK and TROFIMOFF come into the drawing room.

I am full-blooded, I have had two strokes already, and dancing is hard for me, but as they say, if you are in a pack of dogs, you may bark and bark, but you must still wag your tail. At that, I have the health of a horse. My dear father—he was a great joker—may he .dwell in Heaven—used to talk as if our ancient line, the Semyonoff-Pishtchiks, were descended from the very horse that Caligula made a Senator—[Sitting down] But here’s my trouble: I haven’t any money. A hungiy dog believes in nothing but meat—[Snoring but waking at once] And the same way with me—I can’t talk about anything but money. PISHTCHIK

Act III

The Cherry Orchard

TROFIMOFF

979

Well, to tell you the truth, there is something of a horse about your

figure. PISHTCHIK

Well—a horse is a fine animal— You can sell a horse—

The sound of playing billiards comes from the next room. VARYA appears under the arch to the ballroom.

Madam Lopahin! Madam Lopahin! VARYA [angrily] A mangy-looking gentleman! TROFIMOFF Yes, I am a mangy-looking gentleman, and proud of it! VARYA [In bitter thought] Here we have gone and hired musicians and what are we going to pay them with? TROFIMOFF [teasing]

Goes out. TROFIMOFF [ to PISHTCHIK]

If the energy you have wasted in the course of your life trying to find money to pay the interest had gone into something else, you could very likely have turned the world upside down before you were done with it.

Nietzsche—the philosopher—the greatest—the most celebrated— a man of tremendous mind—says in his works that one may make counterfeit money. TROFIMOFF And have you read Nietzsche? PISHTCHIK Well—Dashenka told me. And I’m in such a state now that I could make counterfeit money myself— Day after tomorrow three hundred and ten rou¬ bles must be paid—one hundred and thirty I’ve on hand— [Feeling in his pockets, alarmed] The money is gone! I have lost the money! [Tearfully] Where is the money? [Joyfully] Here it is, inside the lining— I was in quite a sweat— PISHTCHIK

LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA and CHARLOTTA IVANOVNA come in.

Why does Leonid take so long1? What’s he doing in town? [To DUNYASHA] Dunyasha, offer the musicians some tea— TROFIMOFF In all probability" the auction did not take place. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA And the musicians came at an unfortunate moment and we planned the ball at an unfortunate moment—Well, it doesn’t matter. [Sitting LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [humming lazginka, a Georgian dance]

down and singing softly] CILARLOTTA [gives PISHTCHIK a deck of cards.]

Here is a deck of cards for

you, think of some one card. PISHTCHIK I have thought of one. CILARLOTTA Now, shuffle the deck. Yen" good. Hand it here; oh, my dear Monsieur Pishtchik. Eins, zwei, drei! Now look for it, it’s in your coat pocket— PISHTCHIK [getting a card out of his coat pocket] The eight of spades, diat’s absolutely right! [Amazed] Fancy that! CILARLOTTA [Hoiding a deck of cards in her palm; to TROFIMOFF] Tell me quick now, which card is on top? TROFIMOFF What is it? Well—the Queen of Spades. CHARLOTTA Right! [to PISHTCHIK] Well? Which card’s on top? PISHTCHIK Hie Ace of I learts.

980

Act III

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Right! [Strikes the deck against her palm; the deck of cards dis¬ appears.] And what beautiful weather we are having today! CHARLOTTA

A mysterious feminine voice answers her, as if from under the floor: "Oh, yes. The weather is splendid, madame.” rrYou are so nice, you’re my ideal—” The voice: "Madame, you too please me greatly.” THE STATIONMASTER [ applauding] PISHTCHIK [amazed]

Madam Ventriloquist, bravo! Fancy that! Most charming Charlotta Ivanovna—I am

simply in love with you. CHAREOTTA In love? [Shrugging her shoulders] Is it possible that you can love? Guter Mensch aher schlechter Musikant. TROFIMOEF [slapping PISHTCHIK on the shoulder] You horse, you— CHARLOTTA I beg your attention, one more trick. [Taking a lap robe from the chair] Here is a very hne lap robe—I want to sell it— [Shaking it out] Wouldn’t somebody like to buy it? PISHTCHIK [amazed\ Fancy that! CHARLOTTA

Eins, zwei, drei!

She quickly raises the lowered robe, behind it stands ANYA, who curtseys, runs to her mother, embraces her and runs back into the ballroom amid the general de¬ light. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [ applauding] CHARLOTTA

Bravo, bravo—!

Now again! Eins, zwei, drei!

Lifting the robe: behind it stands VARYA, she bows.

Fancy that! That’s all.

PISHTCHIK [amazed\ CHARLOTTA

Throwing the robe at PISHTCHIK, curtseying and running into the ballroom. PISHTCHIK [hurrying after her]

You little rascal—What a girl! What a girl!

[Goes out.]

And Leonid is not here yet. What he’s doing in town so long, I don’t understand! Everything is finished there, either the estate is sold by now, or the auction didn’t take place. Why keep it from us so long? VARYA [trying to comfort her] Uncle has bought it, I am sure of that. TROFIMOFF [mockingly] Yes. VARYA Great-aunt sent him power of attorney to buy it in her name and transfer the debt. She did this for Anya. And I feel certain, God willing, that Uncle will buy it. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Our Yaroslavl great-aunt has sent fifteen thousand to buy the estate in her name— She doesn’t trust us, but that wouldn’t be enough to pay the interest even— [Covering her face with her hands] Today my fate will be decided, mv fate— TROFIMOFF [teasing VARYA] Madam Lopahin! VARYA [angrily] Perennial student! You have already been expelled from the Lhiiversity twice. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

Act III

The Cherry Orchard

981

But why are you angry, Varya? Tie teases you about Lopahin, what of it? Marry Lopahin if you want to, he is a good man, interesting. If you don’t want to, don’t many him; darling, nobody is making you do it. VARYA I look at this matter seriously, Mama, one must speak straight out. He’s a good man, I like him. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA "Then many him. What there is to wait for I don’t un¬ derstand! VARYA But I can’t propose to him myself, Mama. It’s two years now; everyone has been talking to me about him, everyone talks, and he either remains silent or jokes. I understand. He’s getting rich, he’s busy with his own affairs, and has no time for me. If there were money, ever so little, even a hundred roubles, I would drop everything, and go far away. I’d go to a nunnery. TROFIMOFF How saintly! VARYA [to TROFIMOFF] A student should be intelligent! [In a low voice, tear¬ fully] How homely you have grown, Petya, how old you’ve got. [ To LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA, no longer crying] It is just that I can’t live without working, Mama. I must be doing something every minute. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

YASHA enters. YASHA [barely restraining his laughter]

Epihodoff has broken a billiard cue!—

[Goes out]

But why is Epihodoff here? Who allowed him to play billiards? I don’t understand these people—[Goes out] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Don’t tease her, Petya; you can see she has troubles enough without that. TROFIMOFF She is just too zealous. Sticking her nose into things that are none of her business. All summer she gave us no peace, neither me nor Anva; she was afraid a romance would spring up between us. What business is that of hers? And besides I haven’t shown any signs of it. I am so remote from triviality. We are above love! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Well, then, I must be beneath love. [ Very anxiously] Why isn’t Leonid here? Just to tell us whether the estate is sold or not? Calamity seems to me so incredible that I don’t know what to think, I’m lost—I could scream this minute—I could do something insane. Save me, Petya. Say something, VARYA

do say. . . . Whether the estate is sold today or is not sold—is it not the same? There is no turning back, the path is all grown over. Calm yourself, my dear, all that was over long ago. One mustn’t deceive oneself, one must for once at least in one’s life look truth straight in the eye. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA What truth? You see where the truth is and where the untruth is, but as for me, it’s as if I had lost my sight, I see nothing. You boldly decide all important questions, but tell me, my dear boy, isn’t that because you are young and haven’t had time yet to suffer through any one of your problems? You look boldly ahead, and isn’t that because you don’t see and don’t expect anything terrible, since life is still hidden from your young eyes? You are braver, more honest, more profound than we are, but stop and think, be magnanimous, have a litde mercy on me, just a little. Why, I was bom here. My father and mother lived here and my grandfather. I love this house, I can’t imagine my life without the cherrv orchard and if it is very necessary to sell it, then sell me along with the TROFIMOFF

982

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Act III

orchard— [Embracing TROFIMOFF and kissing him on the forehead] Why, my son was drowned here—[Crying] Have mercy on me, good, land man. TROFIMOFF You know I sympathize with you from the bottom of my heart. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA But that should be said differently, differently—[Taking out her handkerchief; a telegram falls on the floor.] My heart is heavy today, you can’t imagine how heavy. It is too noisy for me here, my soul trembles at every sound, I tremble all over and yet I can’t go off to myself, when I am alone the silence frightens me. Don’t blame me, Petya—I love you as one of my own. I should gladly have given you Anya’s hand, I assure you, only, my dear, you must study and finish your course. You do nothing. Fate simply flings you about from place to place, and diat’s so strange—Isn’t that so? Yes? And you must do some¬ thing about your beard, to make it grow somehow— f Laughing] You look funny! TROFIMOFF [picking up the telegram] I do not desire to be beautiful. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA This telegram is from Paris. I get one even7 day. Yes¬ terday and today too. That wild man has fallen ill again, something is wrong again with him—He asks forgiveness, begs me to come, and really I ought to make a trip to Paris and stay awhile near him. Your face looks stem, Petya; but what is there to do, my dear, what am I to do, he is ill, he is alone, unhappy and who will look after him there, who will keep him from doing die wrong thing, who will give him his medicine on time? And what is there to hide or keep still about? I love him, that’s plain. I love him, love him—It’s a stone about my neck, I’m sinking to the bottom with it, but I love that stone and live without it I cannot. [Pressing TROFIMOFF^ hand] Don’t think harshly of me, Petya, don’t say anything to me, don’t— TROFIMOFF [tearfully] Forgive my frankness, for God’s sake! Why, he picked your bones. LYLTBOFF ANDREEVNA No, no, no, you must not talk like that. [Stopping her ears]

But he is a scoundrel, only you, you are the only one that doesn’t know it. He is a petti7 scoundrel, a nonentity-— LYUBOFF ANDREE\TNA [angry but controlling herself] You are twenty-six years old or twenty-seven, but you are still a schoolboy in the second grade! TROFIMOFF Very well! LYTTJOFF ANDREEVNA You should be a man—at your age you should under¬ stand people who love. And you yourself should love someone—-you should fall in love! [Angrily] Yes, yes! And there is no purity in you; you are simply smug, a ridiculous crank, a freak— TROFIMOFF [Horrified] What is she saying! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA “I am above love!” You are not above love, Petya, you are, as our Fiers would say, just a good-for-nothing. Imagine, at your age, not having a mistress—! TROFIMOFF [horrified] This is terrible! What is she saying! [Goes quickly into the ballroom, clutching his head] This is horrible—I can’t bear it, I am going— [Goes out but immediately returns] All is over between us. [Goes out into the hall] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [shouting after him] Petya, wait! You funny creature, I was joking! Petya! TROFIMOFF

[In the hall you hear someone running up the stairs and suddenly falling back down with a crash. You hear ANYA and VARYA scream but immediately you hear laughter.] A

Act III

The Cherry Orchard

983

\Yhafs that? ANYA runs in.

Petya fell down the stairs! [Runs out.] LYUBOFF ANDREE\TNA What a funny boy that Petya is—!

ANYA [laughing]

[The STATIONMASTER stops in the center of the ballroom and begins to recite ”The Sinner” by A. Tolstoi. They listen to him but he has recited only a few lines when the strains of a waltz are heard from the hall and the recitation is broken off. They all dance. TROFIMOFF, ANYA, VARYA and LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA come in from the hall.]

But, Petya—but, dear soul—I beg your forgiveness— Let’s go dance. She dances with TROFIMOFF. ANYA and VARYA dance. FIERS enters, leaving his stick by the side door. YASHA also comes into the drawing room and watches the dancers.

What is it, Grandpa? FIERS I don’t feel very well. In the old days there were generals, barons, ad¬ mirals dancing at our parties, and now we send for the post-office clerk and the stationmaster, and even they are none too anxious to come. Somehow I’ve grown feeble. The old master, the grandfather, treated everybody with sealing-wax for all sickness. I take sealing-wax every day, have done so for twenty-odd years or more; it may be due to that that I’m alive. YASHA You are tiresome, Grandpa. [Yawning] Why don’t you go off and die? FIERS Aw, you—good-for-nothing!—[Muttering] YASHA

TROFIMOFF and LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA dance in the ballroom and then in the

drawing room. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

Merci. I’ll sit down awhile— [ Sitting down] I’m tired.

ANYA enters.

.And just now in die kitchen some man was saying that the cherry orchard had been sold today. LYUBOFF ANDREEX'NA Sold to whom? ANYA He didn’t say who to. He’s gone. ANYA [agitated]

Dancing with TROFIMOFF, they pass into the ballroom.

It was some old man babbling there. A stranger. FIERS And Leonid Andreevich is still not here, he has not arrived. 'Hie overcoat he has on is light, mid-season—let’s hope he won’t catch cold. Ach, these young YASHA

things! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

I shall die this minute. Go, Yasha, find out who it was

sold to. YASHA

But he’s been gone a long time, the old fellow.

984

Act III

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Laughing. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [ with some annoyance\

Well, what are you laughing at?

What are you so amused at? YASHA Epihodoff is just too funny. An empty-headed man. Twenty-two mis¬ fortunes! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Fiers, if the estate is sold, where will you go? FIERS Wherever you say, there I’ll go. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Why do you look like that? Aren’t you well? You know you ought to go to bed— FIERS Yes—[ With a sneer] I go to bed and without me who’s going to serve, who’ll take care of things? I’m the only one in the whole house. YASHA [to LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA] Lyuboff Andreevna, let me ask a favor of you, do be so kind! If you ever go back to Paris, take me with you, please do! It’s impossible for me to stay here. [Looking around him, and speaking in a low voice.] Why talk about it? You can see for yourself it’s an uncivilized country, an immoral people and not only that, there’s the boredom of it. The food they give us in that kitchen is abominable and there’s that Fiers, too, walking about and mut¬ tering all kinds of words that are out of place. Take me with you, be so kind! PISHTCHIK enters.

Allow me to ask you—for a little waltz, most beautiful lady— [LYU¬ BOFF ANDREEVNA goes with him.] Charming lady, I must borrow a hundred and eighty roubles from you—will borrow— [Dancing] a hundred and eighty roubles— PISHTCLIIK

[They pass into the ballroom.] YASHA [singing low]

“Wilt thou know the unrest in my soul!”

In the ballroom a figure in a gray top hat and checked trousers waves both hands and jumps about; there are shouts ofrrBravo, Charlotta Ivanovna!” DUNYASIIA [stopping to powder her face]

The young lady orders me to dance— diere are a lot of gentlemen and very few ladies—but dancing makes my head swim and my heart thump. Fiers Nikolaevich, the post-office clerk said something to me just now that took my breath away. The music plays more softly.

What did he say to you? DUNYASHA You are like a flower, he says. YASHA [yawning] What ignorance—! [Goes out] DUNYASHA Tike a flower—I am such a sensitive girl, I love tender words aw¬ fully. FIERS You’ll be getting your head turned. FIERS

EPIHODOFF enters.

Avdotva Feodorovna, you don’t want to see me— It’s as if I were some sort of insect. [Sighing] Ach, life! DUNYASHA What do you want? EPIHODOFF

Act III

The Cherry Orchard

985

Undoubtedly you may be right. [Sighing] But of course, if one considers it from a given point of view, dien you, I will allow myself so to express it, forgive my frankness, absolutely led me into a state of mind. I know my fate, every day some misfortune happens to me, but I have long since become accus¬ tomed to diat, and so I look on my misfortunes with a smile. You gave me your word and, although I— DUNYASHA I beg you, we’ll talk later on, but leave me now in peace. I’m in a dream now. [Playing with her fan] EPIHODOFF I have a something wrong happens every day—I will allow myself so to express it—I just smile, I even laugh. EPIHODOFF

VARYA enters from the ballroom.

You are not gone yet, Semyon? What a really disrespectful man you are! [To DUNYAS HA] Get out of here, Dunyasha. [To EPIHODOFF] You either play billiards and break a cue or you walk about the drawing room like a guest. EPIHODOFF Allow me to tell you, you cannot make any demands on me. VARYA I’m not making any demands on you, I’m talking to you. All you know is to walk from place to place but not do any work. We keep a clerk, but what for, nobody knows. EPIHODOFF [offended] Whether I work, whether I walk, whether I eat, or whether I play billiards are matters to be discussed only by people of understanding and my seniors. VARYA You dare to say that to me! [Flying into a temper] You dare? So I don’t understand anything? Get out of here! This minute! EPIHODOFF [alarmed) I beg you to express yourself in a delicate manner. VARYA [ beside herself ] This very minute, get out of here! Get out [He goes to the door; she follows him. ] Twenty-two misfortunes! Don’t you dare breathe in here! Don’t let me set eyes on you! VARYA

EPIHODOFF has gone out, but his voice comes from outside the door: rrI shall

complain about you

Ah, you are coming back? [ Grabbing the stick that ITERS put by the door] Come on, come—come on, I’ll show you— Ah, you are coming? You are coming? Take that dien—! She swings the stick, at the very moment when LOPAHIN is coming in.

Most humbly, I thank you. VARYA [angrily and ironically ] I beg your pardon! LOPAHIN It’s nothing at all. I humbly thank you for the pleasant treat. VARYA It isn’t worth your thanks. [ Moving away, then looking back and asking gently ] I haven’t hurt you? LOPAHIN No, it’s nothing. There’s a great bump coming though. LOPAHIN

Voices in the ballroom: rrLopahin has come back." "Yermolay Alexeevich!" PISHTCIIIK enters. PISHTCIIIK

See what we see, hear what we hear—! | He and LOPAHIN kiss one

986

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Act III

another.] You smell slightly of cognac, my dear, my good old chap. And wc arc

amusing ourselves here too. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA enters. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

Is that you, Yermolay Alexeevich? Why were you so

long? Where is Leonid? LOPAHIN Leonid Andreevich got back when I did, he’s coming. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [ agitated] Well, what? Was there an auction? Do speak! LOPAHIN [embarrassed, afraid of showing the joy he feels] The auction was over by four o’clock— We were late for the train, had to wait till half-past nine. [Sighing heavily] Ugh, my head’s swimming a bit! GAYEFF enters; with his right hand he carries his purchases, with his left he wipes

away his tears.

Lyona, what? Lyona, eh? [Impatiently, with tears in her eyes) Quick, for God’s sake— GAYEFF [not answering her, merely waving his hand; to FIERS, crying) Here, take it— There are anchovies, some Kertch herrings— I haven’t eaten anything all day—What I have suffered! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

[The door into the billiard room is open; you hear the balls clicking and YASHA’s voice: "Seven and eighteen!” GAYEFF’s expression changes, he is no longer crying.]

I’m terribly tired. You help me change, Fiers. Goes to his room through the ballroom, FIERS behind him.

What happened at the auction? Go on, tell us! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA Is the cherry orchard sold? LOPAHIN It’s sold. PISHTCHIK

LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA LOPAHIN

Who bought it?

I bought it.

[A pause. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA is overcome. She would have fallen had she not been standing near the chair and table. VARYA takes the keys from her belt, throws them on the floor in the middle of the drawing room and goes out.]

I bought it. Kindly wait a moment, ladies and gentlemen, everything is muddled up in my head, I can’t speak—[Laughing] We arrived at the auction, Deriganoff was already there. Leonid Andreevich had only fifteen thousand and Deriganoff right off bids thirty over and above indebtedness. I see how filings are, I match him with forty thousand. He forty-five. I fifty-five. That is to say he raises it by fives, I by tens.—So it ended. Over and above the indebtedness, I bid up to ninety thousand, it was knocked down to me. The cherry orchard is mine now. Mine! [Guffawing] My God, Lord, the cherry orchard is mine! Tell me I’m drunk, out of my head, that I’m imagining all this— [Stamps his feet] Don’t laugh at me! If only my father and grandfather could rise from their graves and see this whole business, see how their Yermolay, beaten, half-illiterate Yermolay, who used to run around

Act IY

The Cherry Orchard

987

barefoot in winter, how that very Yennolay has bought an estate that nothing in the world can beat. I bought the estate where grandfather and father were slaves, where you wouldn’t even let me in the kitchen. I am asleep, it’s only some dream of mine, it only seems so to me— That’s nothing but the fruit of your imagination, covered with the darkness of the unknown—[Picking up the keys, with a gentle smile] She threw down the keys, wants to show she is not mistress any more— [Jingling the keys] Well, it’s all the same. [The orchestra is heard tuning up.] Hey, musicians, play, I want to hear you! Come on everybody, and see how Yermolav Lopahin will swing the ax in the cherry orchard, how the trees will fall to the ground! We are going to build villas and our grandsons and great-grandsons will see a new life here— Music, play! [ The music is playing. IATJBOFF ANDREEVNA has sunk into a chair, crying bitterly. LOPAHIN, reproachfully] Why, then, didn’t you listen to me? My poor dear, it can’t be undone now. [With tears] Oh, if this could all be over soon, if somehow our awkward, unhappy life would be changed! PISHTCHIK[taking him by the arm, in a low voice]

She is crying. Come on in

the ballroom, let her be by herself—Come on— [Taking him by the arm and leading him into the ballroom ] LOPAHIN What’s the matter? Music, there, play up! [ Sarcastically ] Everything is to be as I want it! Here comes the new squire, the owner of the cherry orchard. [Quite accidentally, he bumps into the little table, and very nearly upsets the candelabra. ] I can pay for everything! Goes out with PISHTCHIK. There is nobody left either in the ballroom or the draw¬ ing room but LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA, who sits all huddled up and crying bitterly. The music plays softly. ANYA and TROFIMOFF enter hurriedly. ANYA comes up to her mother and kneels in front of her. TROFIMOFF remains at the ballroom door.

Mama—! Mama, you are crying? My dear, kind, good Mama, my beau¬ tiful, I love you—I bless you. Hie cherry orchard is sold, it’s not ours any more, that’s true, true; but don’t cry, Mama, you’ve your life still left you, you’ve your good, pure heart ahead of you— Come with me, come on, darling, away from here, come on— We will plant a new orchard, finer than this one, you’ll see it, you’ll understand; and joy, quiet, deep joy will sink into your heart, like the sun at evening, and you’ll smile, Mama! Come, darling, come on! ANYA

Act TV The same setting as in Act I. There are neither curtains on the windows nor are there any pictures on the walls. Only a little furniture remains piled up in one corner as if for sale. A sense of emptiness is felt. Near the outer door, at the rear of the stage, is a pile of suitcases, traveling bags, and so on. The door on the left is open, and through it VARYA s and ANYA’s voices are heard. LOPAHIN is standing waiting. YASHA is holding a tray with glasses of champagne. In the hall EPIIIODOFF is tying up a box, offstage at the rear there is a hum. It is the peasants who

have come to say good-by. GAYEFFs voice: "Thanks, brothers, thank you."

Hie simple folk have come to say good-by. I am of the opinion, Yermolay Alexeevich, that the people are kind enough but don’t understand anything. YASHA

988

Act IV

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

The hum subsides. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA enters through the hall with GAYEFF; she is not crying, but is pale, her face quivers, she is not able to speak. You gave them your purse, Lyuba. Mustn’t do that! Mustn’t do that!

GAYEFF

LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

I couldn’t help it! I couldn’t help it!

Both go out. LOPAHIN [calling through the door after them]

Please, I humbly beg you! A

little glass at parting. I didn’t think to bring some from town, and at the station I found just one bottle. Please! [A pause] Well, then, ladies and gentlemen! You don’t want it? [Moving away from the door] If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have bought it. Well, then I won’t drink any either. [YASHA carefully sets the tray down

on a chair. ] At least, you have some, Yasha. YASHA

To those who are departing! Pleasant days to those who stay behind!

[Drinking] This champagne is not the real stuff, I can assure you. LOPAHIN Eight roubles a bottle. [A pause] It’s devilish cold in here. YASHA They didn’t heat up today, we are leaving anyway. [Laughing] LOPAHIN

What are you laughing about?

For joy. LOPAHIN Outside it’s October, but it’s sunny and still, like summer. Good for

YASHA

building. [Looking at his watch, then through the door] Ladies and gentlemen, bear in mind we have forty-six minutes in ah till train time! Which means you have to go to the station in twenty minutes. Hurry up a little. TROFIMOFF [in an overcoat, entering from outside] Seems to me it is time to go. The carriages are ready. The devil knows where my rubbers are. They’ve dis¬ appeared. [In the door] Anya, my rubbers are not here! I can’t find them. LOPAHIN

And I have to go to Harkoff. I’m going on the same train with you.

I’m going to five in Harkoff ah winter. I’ve been dilly-dallying along with you, I’m tired of doing nothing. I can’t be without work, look, I don’t know what to do with my hands here, see, they are dangling somehow, as if diev didn’t belong to me. TROFIMOFF

We are leaving right away, and you’ll set about your useful labors

again. LOPAHIN

Here, drink a glass.

TROFIMOFF LOPAHIN

It’s to Moscow now?

TROFIMOFF LOPAHIN

I shan’t.

Yes. I’ll see them off to town, and tomorrow to Moscow.

Yes— Maybe die professors are not giving their lectures. I imagine

they are waiting till you arrive. TROFIMOFF LOPAHIN

That’s none of your business.

How many years is it you’ve been studying at die University?

TROFIMOFF

Think of something newer. This is old and flat. [Looking for his

rubbers] You know, perhaps, we shall not see each other again; therefore, permit me to give you one piece of advice at parting! Don’t wave your arms! Cure yourself of that habit—of arm waving. And also of building summer cottages, figuring that the summer residents will in time become individual landowners; figuring like that is arm waving too— Just die same, however, I like you. You have delicate soft fingers like an artist, you have a delicate soft heart-—„ LOPAHIN [embracing him]

Good-by, my dear boy. Thanks for everything. If

you need it, take some money from me foV die trip.

Act IY

The Cherry Orchard

989

Why should I? 'There’s no need for it. But you haven’t any!

TROFIMOFF LOP All IN

I have. Thank you. I got some for a translation. Here it is in mv

TROFIMOFF

pocket. [Anxiously] But my rubbers are gone. VARYA [ from another room ]

Take your nasty things! [ Throws a pair of rubbers

on to the stage] TROFIMOFF

But what are you angiy about, Varya? Hm— Why, these are not

my rubbers. In the spring I planted twenty-seven hundred acres of poppies and

LOPAHIN

now I’ve made forty thousand clear. And when my poppies were in bloom, what a picture it was! So look, as I say, I’ve made forty7 thousand, which means I’m offering you a loan because I can afford to. Why turn up your nose? I’m a peasant— I' speak straight out. TROFIMOFF

Your father was a peasant, mine—an apothecary—and from that

absolutely nothing follows. [LOPAHIN takes out his wallet.] Leave it alone, leave it alone—If you gave me two hundred thousand even, I wouldn’t take it. I am a free man. And everything that you all value so highly and dearly, both rich man and beggars, has not the slightest power over me, it’s like a mere feather floating in the air. I can get along without you. I can pass you by, I am strong and proud. Humanity is moving toward the loftiest truth, toward the loftiest happiness that is possible on earth and I am in the front ranks. LOPAHIN

Will you get there?

I’ll get there. [A pause] I’ll get there, or I’ll show the others the way to get there. TROFIMOFF

In the distance is heard the sound of an ax on a tree. LOPAHIN

Well, good-by, my dear boy. It’s time to go. We turn up our noses at

one another, but life keeps on passing. When I work a long time without stopping, my thoughts are clearer, and it seems as if I, too, know what I exist for, and, brother, how many people are there in Russia who exist, nobody knows for what! Well, all the same, it’s not that that keeps things circulating. Leonid Andreevich, they say, has accepted a position—he’ll be in a bank, six thousand a year—the only thing is he won’t stay there, he’s very lazy— ANYA [in the doorway]

Mama begs of you until she’s gone, not to cut down

the orchard. TROFIMOFF

Honestly, haven’t you enough tact to—

Goes out through the hall. LOPAHIN

Right away, right away— What people, really!

Goes out after him. ANYA YASHA

Has Fiers been sent to the hospital? I told them to this morning. 'They must have sent him.

ANYA [to EPIHODOFF, who is passing through the room]

Semyon Panteleevich,

please inquire whether or not they have taken Fiers to the hospital. YASHA [huffily] EPIHODOFF

This morning, I told Igor. Why ask ten times over!

The venerable Fiers, according to my conclusive opinion, is not

990

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

Act rv

worth mending, he ought to join his forefathers. And I can only envy him. [ Putting

a suitcase on a hatbox and crushing it] Well, there you are, of course. I knew it. [ Goes out] YASHA [ mockingly] Twenty-two misfortunes— VARYA [on the other side of the door] Have they taken Fiers to the hospital? ANYA

They have. Then why didn’t they take the letter to the doctor?

VARYA ANYA

We must send it on after them— [ Goes out]

VARYA [ from the next room]

Where is Yasha? Tell him his mother has come,

she wants to say good-by to him. YASHA [ waving his hand]

They merely tiy my patience.

DUNYASHA has been busying herself with the luggage; now when YASHA is left

alone, she goes up to him. DUNYASHA

If you’d only look at me once, Yasha. You are going away—leaving

me—[ Crying and throwing herself on his neck] Why are you crying? [Drinking champagne ] In six days I’ll be in Paris

YASHA

again. Tomorrow we will board the express train and dash off out of sight; some¬ how, I can’t believe it. Vive la France! It doesn’t suit me here—I can’t live here— Can’t help that. I’ve seen enough ignorance—enough for me. [Drinking cham¬

pagne] Why do you civ? Behave yourself properly, then you won’t be crying. DUNYASHA [Powdering her face, looking into a small mirror] Send me a letter from Paris. I loved you, Yasha, you know, loved you so! I am a tender creature, Yasha! They are coming here. [Bustling about near the suitcases, humming

YASHA

low] LYUBOFF AND HAVANA, GAYEFF, ANNA and CHARUOTTA IVANOVNA enter. GAYEFF

We should be going. There is very little time left. [Looking at YASHA]

Who is it smells like herring! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

In about ten minutes let’s be in the carriage—{Glancing

around the room ] Good-by, dear house, old Grandfather. Winter will pass, spring will be here, but you won’t be here any longer, they’ll tear you down. How much these walls have seen! [Kissing her daughter warmly] My treasure, you are beam¬ ing, your eyes are dancing like two diamonds. Are you happy? Very? Very! It’s the beginning of a new life, Mama! GAYEFF [gaily] Yes, indeed, everything is tine now. Before the sale of the

ANYA

cherry orchard, we all were troubled, distressed, and then when the question was settled definitely, irrevocably, we all calmed down and were even cheerful— I’m a bank official. I am a financier now— Yellow ball into the side pocket, anyway, Lyuba, you look better, no doubt about that. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

Yes. Mv nerves are better, that’s true. [They hand her

her hat and coat.} I sleep well. Carry out my things, Yasha. It’s time. [ To ANYA] My little girl, we shall see each other again soon— I am going to Paris, I shall live there on the money your Yaroslavl great-aunt sent for the purchase of the estate— long live Great-aunt! But that money won’t last long. ANYA

Mama, you’ll come back soon, soon— Isn’t that so? I’ll prepare myself,

Act IV

The Cherry Orchard

991

pass the examination at high school, and then I’ll work, I will help von. We’ll read all sorts of books together. Mama, isn’t that so? [Kissing her mother’s hands] \\ e 11 read in the autumn evenings, read lots ol books, and a new, wonderful world will open up before us—[Daydreaming} Mama, do come— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

I’ll come, my precious. [Embracing her daughter ]

LOPAHIN enters with CHARLOTTA, who is softly humming a song. GAYEFF

Lucky Charlotta: she’s singing!

CHARLOTTA [taking a bundle that looks like a baby wrapped up\

My baby,

bye, bye—[A baby’s cry is heard: Ooah, ooah—/] Hush, my darling, my dear litde boy. f Ooah, ooah—■/] I am so sorry for you! [Throwing the bundle back] Will you please find me a position? I cannot go on like this. LOPAHIN

We will find something, Charlotta Ivanovna, don’t worry.

Everybody is dropping us, Varya is going away.—All of a sudden we are not needed. GAYEFF

CHARLOTTA

I have no place in town to live. I must go away. [Humming] It’s

all the same— PISHTCHIK enters. LOPAHIN

The freak of nature—!

PISHTCHIK [Out of breath ]

Ugh, let me catch my breath—I’m exhausted— My honored friends— Give me some water— GAYEFF

After money, I suppose? This humble servant will flee from sin!

Goes out. PISHTCHIK It’s a long time since I was here— Most beautiful lady— [ To LO¬ PAHIN] You here—? Glad to see you—a man of die greatest intellect—Here— Take it— [Giving LOPAHIN some money] Four hundred roubles— That leaves eight hundred and forty I still owe you— LOPAHIN [With astonishment, shrugging his shoulders] I must be dreaming. But where did you get it? PISHTCHIK Wait—I’m hot— Most extraordinary event. Some Englishmen came and found on my land some kind of white clay— [ To LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA] And four hundred for you—Beautiful lady—Wonderful lady— [ Handing over the money] The rest later. [Taking a drink of water] Just now a young man was saying on the train that some great philosopher recommends jumping off roofs— “Jump!” he says, and “therein lies the whole problem.” [With astonishment] You don’t say! Water! LOPAHIN And what Englishmen were they? PISHTCHIK I leased them the parcel of land with the clay for twenty-four years— And now, excuse me, I haven’t time—I must run along—I’m going to ZnoykofPs—To Kardamonoffs—I owe everybody—(Drinking | I wish you well— I’ll drop in on Thursday— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA We are moving to town right away, and tomorrow I’m going abroad— PISHTCHIK What? [ Alarmed ] Why to town? That’s why I see furniture— Suit-

992

Act IV

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

cases—Well, no matter—[ Tearfully ] No matter— Men of the greatest minds— those Englishmen— No matter— Good luck! God will help you— No matter— Everything in this world comes to an end—(Kissing LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA^ hand] And should the report reach you that my end has come, think of that well-known horse and say: “There was once on earth a so and so— Semyonoff Pishtchik— The Kingdom of Heaven be his.” Most remarkable weather—yes— [Going out greatly disconcerted, hut immediately returning and speaking from the door] Daslienka sends her greetings! Goes out. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

.And now we can go. I am leaving with two worries.

First, that Fiers is sick. [Glancing at her watch] We still have five minutes— ANYA

Mama, Fiers has already been sent to the hospital. Yasha sent him off

this morning. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

My second worry—is Varya. She is used to getting up

early and working, and now without any work she is like a fish out of water. She has grown thin, pale and cries all the time, poor thing— [A pause] You know this, Yermolay Alexeevich: I dreamed— of marrying her to you. And there was every sign of your getting married.

Whispering to ANYA, who beckons to CHARLOTTA; both go out. She loves you, you are fond of her, and I don’t know, don’t know why it is you seem to avoid each other—I don’t understand it! LOPAHIN

I don’t understand it either, I must confess. It’s all strange some¬

how— If there’s still time, I am ready right now even— Let’s finish it up—and

basta, but without you I feel I won’t propose. LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

But that’s excellent. Surely it takes only a minute. I’ll

call her at once. LOPAHIN

And to fit the occasion there’s the champagne. [Looking at the

glasses] Empty, somebody has already drunk them. [YASHA coughs. ] That’s what’s called lapping it up— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA [ vivaciously]

Splendid! We’ll go out— Yasha, allez! I’ll

call her— [Through the door] Varya, drop everything and come here. Come on!

Goes out with YASHA. LOPAHIN [looking at his watch]

Yes—

A pause. Behind the door you hear smothered laughter, whispering, finally VARYA

enters. VARYA [ looking at the luggage a long time] LOPAIIIN VARYA

A pause.

That’s strange, I just can’t find it—

What are you looking for?

I packed it myself and don’t remember where.

Act IV

The Cherry Orchard

993

Where do you expect to go now, Varvara Mikhailovna? VARYA I? To Regulin’s. I agreed to go there to look after the house— As a sort of housekeeper. LOPAIIIN

That’s in Yashnevo? It’s nigh on to seventy miles. [A pause] And here ends life in this house— LOPAHIN

VARYA [examining the luggage]

But where is it? Either I put it in the trunk, perhaps— A es, life in this house is ended—it won’t be any more— LOPAHIN And I am going to Harkoff now— By the next train. I’ve a lot to do. And I am leaving Epihodoff—on the ground here—I’ve hired him. VARYA Well! East year at this time it had already been snowing, if you remember, and now it’s quiet, it’s sunny. It’s only that it’s cold, about three degrees of frost. VARYA I haven’t noticed. [A pause] And besides our thermometer is broken— [A pause. A voice from the yard through the door: tfYermolay Alexevich—”] LOPAHIN [As if he had been expecting this call for a long time) This minute! [Goes out quickly] LOPAHIN

VARYA, sitting on the floor, putting her head on a bundle of clothes, sobs quietly.

The door opens, LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA enters cautiously. VARYA [she is not crying any longer, and has wiped her eyes.)

Yes, it’s time, Mama. I can get to Regulin’s today, if we are just not too late for the train— [Through the door) Anya, put your things on! [ ANYA, then GAYEFF and CHARLOTTA IVANOVNA enter. GAYEFF has on a warm overcoat, with a hood. The servants gather, also the drivers. EPIIIODOFF busies himself with the luggage.) Now we can be on our way. ANYA [joyfully) On our way! GAARFF Mv friends, my dear, kind friends! leaving this house forever, can I remain silent, can I restrain myself from expressing, as we say, farewell, diose feelings that fill now my whole being— ANYA [ beseechingly ] Uncle! VARYA Dear Uncle, don’t! GAYEFF [ dejectedly) Bank die yellow into the side pocket— I am silent— TROFIMOFF and then LOPAHIN enter.

Well, ladies and gentiemen, it’s time to go! LOPAHIN Epihodoff, my coat! LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA I’ll sit here just a minute more. It’s as if I had never seen before what the walls in this house are like, what kind of ceilings, and now I look at them greedily, with such tender love— GAYEFF I remember when I was six years old, on Trinity Day, I sat in this window and watched my father going to Church— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA .Are all the things taken out? LOPAHIN Everything, I drink. [Putting on his overcoat. To EPIIIODOFF] Epi¬ hodoff, you see that everything is in order. TROFIMOFF

994

Act TV

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

EPIHODOFF [talking in a hoarse voice] LOPAHIN

Why is your voice like that?

EPIHODOFF

Just drank some water, swallowed something.

YASHA [ with contempt ] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA LOPAHIN

Don’t worry, Yermolay Alexeevich!

The ignorance— We are going and there won’t be a soul left here—

Till spring.

VARYA [She pulls an umbrella out from a bundle, it looks as if she were going

to hit someone; LOPAHIN pretends to be frightened. ]

What do you, what do you—

I never thought of it. TROFIMOFF

Ladies and gentlemen, let’s get in the carriages— It’s time! The

train is coming any minute. Petya, here they are, your rubbers, by the suitcase. [ Tearfully] And

VARAA

how dirtv yours are, how old—! TROFIMOFF [putting on the rubbers]

Let’s go, laches and gentlemen!

GAYEFF [greatly embarrassed, afraid he will cry\

The train— The station—

Cross into the side, combination off the white into the comer— LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA LOPAHIN

Let’s go!

Everybody here? Nobody there? fLocking the side door on the left]

Things are stored here, it must be locked up, let’s go! ANYA

Good-by, house! Good-by, the old life!

TROFIMOFF

Long live the new life!

Goes out with ANYA. VARYA casts a glance around the room and, without hurrying, goes out. YASHA and CHARLOTTA, with her dog, go out. LOPAHIN

And so, till spring. Out, ladies and gentlemen— Till we meet. [ Goes

out] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA and GAYEFF are left alone. As if they had been waiting for

this, they throw themselves on one another’s necks sobbing, but smothering their sobs as if afraid of being heard. GAYEFF [in despair] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

Oh, Sister, Sister— Oh, my dear, my lovely, beautiful orchard! My life, my

youth, my happiness, good-by! ANYA [ANYA S voice, gaily, appealingly]

Mama—!

TROFIMOFF [TROFIMOFF’s voice, gaily, excitedly] LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

Aaoocli!

For the last time, just to look at the walls, at the win¬

dow—My dear mother used to love to walk around in this room— GAYEFF

Oh, Sister, Sister—!

ANYA [ANYA’s voice ]

Mama—!

TROFIMOFF [TROFIMOFF’s voice \ LYUBOFF ANDREEVNA

Aaooch—!

Wre are coming! [ They go out.]

The stage is empty. You hear the keys locking all the doors, then the carriages drive off. It grows quiet. In the silence you hear the dull thud of an ax on a tree, a lonely, mournful sound. Footsteps are heard. From the door on the right FIERS appears. He is dressed as usual, in a jacket and a white waistcoat, slippers on his feet. He is sick.

Act IY

The Cherry Orchard

995

Locked. They’ve gone. [Sitting down on the sofa ] They forgot about me— No matter— I’ll sit here awhile— And Leonid Andreevich, for sure, didn’t put on his fur coat, he went off with his top¬ coat [Sighing anxiously] And I didn’t see to it— The young saplings! (He mutters something that cannot be understood.] Life has gone by, as if I hadn’t lived at all— [Lying down] I’ll lie down awhile— You haven’t got any strength, nothing is left, nothing— Ach, you—good-for-nothing— [He lies still.] PIERS [going to the door and trying the knob]

There is a far-off sound as if out of the sky, the sound of a snapped string, dying away, sad. A stillness falls, and there is only the thud of an ax on a tree, far away in the orchard. Curtain

Questions 1. Is there a villain in this play? If so, is Lopaliin the villain? Explain. 2. Chekhov’s stage directions require the sound effects of trains. What other sound effects does the author specify? Follow sounds through The Cherry Or¬ chard and see how they contribute to plot or character. How do these stage directions separate The Cherry Orchard from older drama? 3. Is Lopahin a practical, decisive character? In what matters is he indecisive? 4. We think of masks as worn to delude other people. Do any of these characters wear masks to delude themselves? Describe them. 5. The cherry orchard itself has been called the tragic hero of this play. Com¬ ment. Discuss each character in terms of what the cherry orchard means to him or her. 6. Is it funny that Tiers is locked in a deserted house at the end of the play? Could one argue that Fiers’s death would make this play a tragedy? Discuss. 7. Do you sense that Chekhov’s characters are not speaking to each other? Aren’t hearing each other? Find an example. How would you block the scene you find so that spectacle reflected incomplete dialogue? 8. Look up non sequitur in the dictionary, if you do not know it. .Are there non sequiturs in Chekhov’s dialogue? .Arc there non sequiturs in the plot? Com¬ ment on this description of the play: “A monument to disconnectedness.” 9. Try turning The Cherry Orchard into a California play, with The Tomato Patch threatened by a condominium developer. What problems do you encounter? 10. When the dying Chekhov saw The Cherry Orchard performed for the first time he was disappointed. He considered it broad comedy, and Stanislavsky had directed it as a melancholy play. Chekhov protested when he attended re¬ hearsals but was too ill to press his arguments. “Stanislavsky has ruined my play,” said the author. Write a dialogue between playwright and director on the subject of this play. Stanislavsky came from the landowning class; Chekhov did not. 11. Is it possible to imagine a tragic production of Tartuffe‘? A comic production of HamletS Oedipus? Compare with Chekhov. 12. Chekhov wrote “The artist should be, not the judge of his characters and t heir conversations, but only an unbiased witness.” Docs Chekhov practice what he preaches in The Cherry Orchard?

996

Modem Drama, Realism, and Chekhov

13. Compare “Gooseberries” (pages 108-114) with The Cherry Orchard. Is Chek¬ hov an “unbiased witness” in “Gooseberries”? In The Cherry Orchard? How do the two works remind you of each other? Compare point of view in the short story with dramatic form in the play. What can plays do that stories cannot? What can stories do that plays cannot? If you turned “Gooseberries” into a play, what would you lose? What might you gain?

Chapter 7 ^onrealisdc Modern Drama, Theater of ilie Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Most contemporary among varieties of nonrealistic drama is theater of the absurd, which Luigi Pirandello anticipated with his public doubts about reality and identity. To define absurdity in the theater, we must first mention exis¬ tentialism, a modem philosophic doctrine that derives from the philosophy of Sbren Kierkegaard (1813-1855). Kierkegaard was a religious thinker who felt that God and humanity were utterly distinct, and human life inherently absurd. Kierkegaard himself made “a leap of faith” to Christianity, but the later German philosopher Martin Heidegger (1889-1976) and the French philosopher, nov¬ elist, and playwright Jean Paul Sartre (1905-1980) affirmed absurdity while they denied divinity. Another French philosopher, novelist, and playwright, Albert Camus (1913-1960), wrote a collection of essays called The Myth of Sisyphus (1942) that set forth literary existentialist notions of absurdity. In existentialist thought, humans are distinguished from the rest of nature by their consciousness and their will. Human character has no innate form, but is selfcreated against the nothingness and meaninglessness out of which people are bom and into which they die. Absurdist playwrights need not subscribe to existentialist philosophy, but they share the notions that human life lacks discernible meaning or purpose, that we make up our own characters as we go along, that we act without mles or with mles which make no sense, that our consciousness is dominated only by certain death, that our existence in a word is absurd. If absurdity makes for comedy, it is hardly happy; the smile on the comic mask of absurdist theater is sometimes sardonic, sometimes wild with graveyard gaity; it is never placid. When we speak of absurdist plays as tragicomedies, we speak of a mixture of laughter and anxiety, melancholy and farce—not of elements found in the clas¬ sic definitions of either tragedy or comedy. Human beings have cilways been prone to visions of life’s absurdity, and we can point to pre-absurdist writers from Aristophanes to Oscar Wilde who an¬ ticipate these later playwrights. In France the playwright Alfred Jarry 997

998

Nonrcalistic Modem Drama, Tlieater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

(1873-1907) wrote in Ubu Roi (1898) a zany, meaningless, very funny play that anticipated both surrealism and absurdity. But the true originator of ab¬ surdism is surely Samuel Beckett (1906— ), an Irishman living in Paris and writing in French. In his Waiting for Godot (1953), which inaugurated ab¬ surdist theater, two tramps who resemble clowns occupy the stage, attended by a servant or a slave who is worse off than they are. They wait for the mys¬ terious and powerful Godot who will come and set things right—and who never arrives. These two tramps are antiheroes, far from the noble souls of high estate that Aristotle prescribed for tragedy. Beckett subtitles his play a tragi¬ comedy, and the comedy is indeed broad and farcical, featuring bits of slapstick that may remind us of The Three Stooges. We laugh, we feel dread, we sym¬ pathize and emphathize—and we laugh again. Among other Beckett dramas, Endgame (1957) sums up humanity in a blind, paralyzed hero who lives like his father and mother in a garbage can. In Krapp’s Last Tape (1958 ), a single actor playing an old man talks to himself, and listens to tape recordings made in years past. Other leading playwrights of the absurd include Eugene Ionesco, who was born in Romania in 1912 and writes in French; the Englishman Harold Pinter (1930— ); and the American Edward Albee (1928— ).

Tom Stoppard and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead Tom Stoppard was bom in Czechoslovakia in 1937 to parents named Straussler who lied Hitler and settled in Singapore, then fled the Japanese to India. After the war, his widowed mother married an Englishman from whom Stoppard took his name and they settled in England, where Stoppard was educated. He worked for a time as a journalist and reviewed plays in the city of Bristol, which had an excellent repertory company in the Bristol Old Vic. He wrote fiction; he tried his hand at plays. Stoppard’s first success was Rosencrantz and Guilden¬ stern Are Dead (1967), his absurdist encounter with Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Hie playwright has followed Rosencrantz with an almost unbroken series of commercial and literary successes, many of them based on earlier theater. The Real Inspector Hound (1968) parodies thy stage thriller, especially Agatha Christie’s highly successful contributions to the genre. Jumpers (1972) is a witty and learned encounter not with theater but with modem English linguistic

Rosenkrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

999

philosophy. Travesties (1974) is set in Zurich and makes reference to Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest, as Rosencrantz does to Hamlet. Night and Day opened in London in 1978 and in New York in 1979, as did Dogg’s Hamlet, Cahoot’s Macbeth. Plays have been written out of plays before. Shakespeare’s Hamlet was based on an earlier play; many seventeenth-century plays had classical sources. But recent literature has especially delighted in recalling earlier literature, and not only in drama. James Joyce’s great novel Ulysses bases itself on Ilomer’s Od¬ yssey, with an antiheroic Odysseus in the Irish Jew Leopold Bloom. Ezra Pound’s epic Cantos used Dante’s Divine Comedy as a structural scaffold. Each of T. S. Eliot’s plays, from The Family Reunion on, used a Greek model. In Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead, Hamlet is not a model but a context. In modem antiheroic fashion, Stoppard focuses on Hamlet’s feckless fellow students from Wittenberg. In Shakespeare’s Hamlet these characters are so peripheral that in some productions directors remove them in order to shorten the play. Yet for Stop¬ pard, their very inconsequence makes them consequential. The world Stop¬ pard’s Rosencrantz arid Guildenstem inhabit is existential; from the opening scene, where chance is abolished, there is no certainty for Rosencrantz and Guildenstem except the certainty that the title foreshadows.

Tom Stoppard

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead Characters ROSENCRANTZ

GERTRUDE

GUILDENSTERN

POLONIUS

THE PLAYER

SOLDIER

ALFRED

HORATIO

TRACED LAN S

COURTIERS, AMBASSADORS, SOLDIERS,

HAMLET

AND ATTENDANTS

OPHELIA

MUSICIANS

CLAUD ILIS

Act I Two

ELIZABETHANS

passing the time in a place without any visible character.

They are well dressed

hats, cloaks, sticks and all.

—

Each of them has a large leather money bag. GUILDENSTERN’s

bag is nearly empty. \

ROSENCRANTZ’s

bag is nearly full.

The reason being: they are betting on the toss of a coin, in the following manner: GUILDENSTERN (hereafter frGUIL”) takes a coin out of his bag, spins it, letting it fall. ROSENCRANTZ (hereafter "ros”) studies it, announces it as rrheads” (as it happens) and puts it into his own bag. Then they repeat the process. They have apparently been doing this for some time.

1000

Nonrealistic Modern Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act I

The run of "heads” is impossible, yet ROS betrays no surprise at all—he feels none. However, he is nice enough to feel a little embarrassed at taking so much money off his friend. Let that be his character note. GUIL is well alive to the oddity of it. He is not worried about the money, but he

is worried by the implications; aware but not going to panic about it—his character note. GUIL sits. ROS stands (he does the moving, retrieving coins). GUIL spins. ROS

studies coin. ROS

Heads.

[He picks it up and puts it in his bag. The process is repeated.] Heads. [Again] Heads. [Again] Heads. [Again] Heads. GUIL [flipping a coin]

Heads. GUIL [flipping another]

There is an art to the building up of suspense.

ROS

Though it can be done by luck alone.

Heads. GUIL If that’s the word I’m after. ROS ( raises his head at GUIL] Seventy-six—love. ROS

GUIL gets up but has nowhere to go. He spins another coin over his shoulder

without looking at it, his attention being directed at his environment or lack of it. Heads. A weaker man might be moved to re-examine his faith, if in nothing else at least in the law of probability. [He slips a coin over his shoulder as he goes to GUIL

look upstage.] ROS Heads. GUIL, examining the confines of the stage, flips over two more coins as he does so,

one by one of course. ROS announces each of them as "heads.” GUIL [musing]

The law of probability, it has been oddly asserted, is something to do with die proposition that if six monkeys [ he has surprised himself] ... if six monkeys were ... ROS Game? GUIL Were they? A

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

ROS

1001

Are you?

GUIL [understanding] Game. [Flips a coin.] The law of averages, if I have got this right, means that if six monkeys were thrown up in the air for long enough they would land on their tails about as often as tliev would land on their— ROS Heads. [He picks up the coin.] GUIL Which even at first glance does not strike one as a particularly rewarding speculation, in either sense, even without the monkeys. I mean you wouldn’t bet on it. I mean I would, but you wouldn’t. . . . [As he flips a coin.] ROS Heads. GUIL Would you? [Flips a coin.] ROS Heads. [Repeat] Heads. [He looks up at GUIL—embarrassed laugh.] Getting a bit of a bore, isn’t it? GUIL [ coldly ] A bore? ROS Well . . . GUIL What about the suspense? ROS [innocently] What suspense? Small pause. GLdL It must be the law of diminishing returns. ... I feel the spell about to be broken. [Energizing himself somewhat. He takes out a coin, spins it high, catches it, turns it over on to the back of his other hand, studies the coin—and tosses it to ROS. His energy deflates and he sits, j Well, it was an even chance ... if my calculations are correct. ROS Eighty-five in a row—beaten the record! GUIL Don’t be absurd. ROS Easily! GUIL [angry] Is that it, then? Is that all? ROS What? GUIL A new record? Is that as far as vou are prepared to 20? ROS Well . . . GUIL No questions? Not even a pause? ROS You spun them yourself. GUIL Not a flicker of doubt? ROS [aggrieved, aggressive] Well, I won—didn’t I? GUIL [ approaches him—quieter ] And if you’d lost? If they’d come down against you, eighty-five times, one after another, just like that? ROS [dumbly] Eighty-five in a row? Tails? GUIL Yes! What wrould you think? ROS [doubtfully] Well . . . [Jocularly. ] Well, I’d have a good look at your coins for a start! GUIL [retiring] I’m relieved. At least we can still count on self-interest as a predictable factor. ... I suppose it’s the last to go. Your capacity for trust made me wonder if perhaps . . . you, alone . . . | He turns on him suddenly, reaches out a hand. ] Touch.

1002

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act I

ROS clasps his hand. GUIL pulls him up to him. GUIL [more intensely] We have been spinning coins together since— [He re¬ leases him almost as violently.] This is not the first time we have spun coins! ROS Oh no—-we’ve been spinning coins for as long as I remember. GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL

How long is that? I forget. Mind you—eighty-five times! Yes? It’ll take some beating, I imagine. Is that what you imagine? Is that it? No fear ? Fear?

[in fury—flings a coin on the ground]

Fear! The crack that might flood

your brain with fight! ROS Heads. . . . [He puts it in his bag.]

GUIL sits despondently. He takes a coin, spins it, lets it fall between his feet. He looks at it, picks it up, throws it to ROS, who puts it in his bag. GUIL takes another coin, spins it, catches it, turns it over on to his other hand, looks at it, and throws it to ROS, who puts it in his bag. GUIL takes a third coin, spins it, catches it in his right hand, turns it over onto his left wrist, lobs it in the air, catches it with his left hand, raises his left leg, throws the coin up under it, catches it and turns it over on the top of his head, where it sits. ROS comes, looks at it, puts it in his bag. ROS I’m afraid— GUIL So am I. ROS I’m afraid it isn’t your day. GUIL I’m afraid it is. Small pause. ROS Eighty-nine. GUIL It must be indicative of something, besides tire redistribution of wealth. [He muses.] List of possible explanations. One: I’m willing it. Inside where nothing shows, I am the essence of a man spinning double-headed coins, and betting against himself in private atonement for an unremembered past. [He spins a coin

at ROS.] ROS Heads. GUIL Two: time has stopped dead, and the single experience of one coin being spun once has been repeated ninety times. . . . [He flips a coin, looks at it, tosses it to ROS.] On the whole, doubtful. Three: divine intervention, that is to say, a good turn from above concerning him, cf. children of Israel, or retribution from above concerning me, cf. Lot’s wife. Four: a spectacular vindication of the principle that each individual coin spun individually [ he spins one] is as likely to come down heads as tails and therefore should cause no surprise each individual time it does.

[It does. He tosses it to ROS.] ROS I’ve never known anything like it! GUIL And a syllogism: One, he has never known anything like it. Two, he has never known anything to write home about. Three, it is nothing to write home about. . . . Home . . . What’s the first thing you remember?

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

ROS GULL ROS

GUIL after all ROS

1003

Oh, let’s see. . . . The first thing that comes into my head, you mean? No—the first thing you remember. Ah. [Pause.] No, it’s no good, it’s gone. It was a long time ago. [patient but edged] You don’t get my meaning. What is the first thing the things you’ve forgotten? Oh I see. [Pause.] I’ve forgotten the question.

GUIL leaps up and paces. GUIL

Are you happv? ROS What? GUIL Content? At ease? ROS I suppose so. GUIL What are you going to do now? ROS I don’t know. What do you want to do? GUIL I have no desires. None. [He stops pacing dead. ] There was a messenger . . . that’s right. We were sent for. [He wheels at ROS and raps out] Syllogism the second: One, probability is a factor which operates within natural forces. Two, probability is not operating as a factor. Three, we are now within un-, sub- or supernatural forces. Discuss. [ROS is suitably startled. Acidly.] Not too heatedly. ROS I’m sorry I—What’s the matter with you? GUIL The scientific approach to the examination of phenomena is a defence against the pure emotion of fear. Keep tight hold and continue while there’s time. Now—counter to the previous syllogism: tricky one, follow me carefully, it may prove a comfort. If we postulate, and we just have, that within un-, sub- or supernatural forces the probability is that the law of probability will not operate as a factor, then we must accept that the probability of the first part will not operate as a factor, in which case the law of probability will operate as a factor within un-, sub- or supernatural forces. And since it obviously hasn’t been doing so, we can take it that we are not held within un-, sub- or supernatural forces after all; in all probability, that is. Which is a great relief to me personally. [Small pause.] Which is all veiv well, except that—[He continues with tight hysteria, under con¬ trol.] We have been spinning coins together since I don’t know when, and in all that time (if it is all that time) I don’t suppose either of us was more than a couple of gold pieces up or down. I hope that doesn’t sound surprising because its verv unsurprisingness is something I am trying to keep hold of. The equanimity of your average tosser of coins depends upon a law, or rather a tendency, or let us sav a probability, or at any rate a mathematically calculable chance, which ensures that he will not upset himself by losing too much nor upset his opponent by winning too often. This made for a kind of harmony and a kind of confidence. It related the fortuitous and the ordained into a reassuring union which we recognized as nature. The sun came up about as often as it went down, in the long run, and a coin showed heads about as often as it showed tails. Then a messenger arrived. We had been sent for. Nothing else happened. Ninety-two coins spun consecutively have come down heads ninety-two consecutive times . . . and for the last three minutes on the wind of a windless day I have heard the sound of drums and flute. . . . ROS [cutting his fingernails] Anodier curious scientific phenomenon is the fact that the fingernails grow after death, as does the beard. GUIL What?

1004

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

ROS [loud]

Act I

Beard!

GUIL But you’re not dead. ROS [irritated] I didn’t say they started to grow after death! [Pause, calmer.]

'The fingernails also grow before birth, though not the beard. GUIL What? ROS [shouts] Beard! What’s the matter with you? [Reflectively.] The toenails, on the other hand, never grow at all. GUIL [bemused] The toenails never grow at all? ROS Do they? It’s a funny thing—I cut my fingernails all the time, and even7 time I think to cut them, they need cutting. Now, for instance. And yet, I never, to the best of my knowledge, cut my toenails. They ought to be curled under my feet by now, but it doesn’t happen. I never think about them. Perhaps I cut them absent-mindedly, when I’m thinking of something else. GUIL [tensed up by this rambling] Do you remember the first thing that hap¬ pened today? ROS [promptly]

I woke up, I suppose. [ Triggered. ] Oh—I’ve got it now—that

man, a foreigner, he woke us up— GUIL A messenger. [He relaxes, sits.] ROS That’s it—pale sky before dawn, a man standing on his saddle to bang on the shutters—shouts—What’s all the row about?! Clear off!—But then he called our names. You remember that—this man woke us up. GUIL Yes. ROS We were sent for. GUIL Yes. ROS That’s why we’re here. \He looks round, seems doubtful, then the expla¬

nation.] Travelling. GUIL Yes. ROS [dramatically]

It was urgent—a matter of extreme urgency, a royal sum¬

mons, his verv words: official business and no questions asked—lights in the stable-yard, saddle up and off headlong and hotfoot across the land, our guides outstripped in breakneck pursuit of our duty! Fearful lest we come too late!!

Small pause. GUIL Too late for what? ROS How do I know? We haven’t got there yet. GUIL

Then what are we doing here, I ask myself.

ROS

You might well ask.

GUIL

We better get on.

ROS GUIL

You might well think. We better get on.

ROS [actively]

Right! [Pause.] On where?

GUIL Forward. ROS [forward to footlights]

Ah. [Hesitates.] Which way do we-[He turns

round.] Which way did we-? GUIL

Practically starting from scratch. . . . Ai awakening, a man standing on

his saddle to bang on the shutters, our names shouted in a certain dawn, a mes¬ sage, a summons ... A new record for heads and tails. We have not been . . . picked out . . . simply to be abandoned . . . set loose to find our own way. . . . We are entitled to some direction. . . . Fwould have thought.

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildcnstem Are Dead

ROS [alert, listening] GUIL ROS

1005

I say-! I say-

Yes? I can hear—I thought I heard—music.

GUIL raises himself. GUIL

Yes?

Like a band. [He looks around, laughs embarrassedly, expiating himself, j It sounded like—a band. Drums. ROS

GUIL

Yes.

ROS [ relaxes ]

It couldn’t have been real. GUIL “The colours red, blue and green are real. The colour yellow is a mystical experience shared by everybody”—demolish. ROS [at edge of stage J

It must have been thunder. Like drums . . .

By the end of the next speech, the band is faintly audible. A man breaking his journey between one place and another at a third place of no name, character, population or significance, sees a unicorn cross his path and disappear. That in itself is startling, but there are precedents for mystical encounters of various kinds, or to be less extreme, a choice of persuasions to put it down to fancy; until—“My God,” says a second man, “I must be dreaming, I thought I saw a unicorn.” At which point, a dimension is added that makes the experience as alarming as it will ever be. A third witness, you understand, adds no further dimension but only spreads it thinner, and a fourth thinner still, and the more witnesses there are the thinner it gets and the more reasonable it be¬ comes until it is as thin as reality, die name we give to die common experience. . . . “Look, look!” recites the crowd. “A horse with an arrow in its forehead! It must have been mistaken for a deer. ” ROS [ eagerly ] I knew all along it was a band. GUIL [ tiredly ] He knew all along it was a band. ROS Here they come! GUIL [at the last moment before they enter—wistfully] I’m sorry it wasn’t a unicorn. It would have been nice to have unicorns. GUIL

The TRAGEDIANS are six in number, including a small BOY [ALFRED]. Two pull and push a cart piled with props and belongings. There is also a DRUMMER, a HORN-PLAYER and a FLAUTIST. The SPOKESMAN ["the PLAYER”] has no instru¬ ment. He brings up the rear and is the first to notice them. PLAYER

Halt!

The group turns and halts. [ Joyously ] An audience! [ ROS and GUIL half rise] Don’t move!

1006

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act I

[They sink back. He regards them fondly.) Perfect! A lucky thing we came along. ROS For us? PLAYER Let us hope so. But to meet two gentlemen on the road—we would not hope to meet them off it. ROS No? PLAYER Well met, in fact, and just in time. ROS Why’s that? PLAYER Why, we grow rusty and you catch us at the very point of decadence— by this time tomorrow we might have forgotten everything we ever knew. That’s a thought, isn’t it? [He laughs generously.] We’d be back where we started—im¬ provising. ROS Tumblers, are you? PLAYER We can give you a tumble if that’s your taste, and times being what they are. . . . Otherwise, for a jingle of coin we can do you a selection of gory romances, full of hue cadence and corpses, pirated from the Italian; and it doesn’t take much to make a jingle—even a single coin has music in it. [They all flourish and bow, raggedly.) Tragedians, at your command. ROS and GUIL have got to their feet. ROS

My name is Guildenstem, and this is Rosencrantz.

[GUIL confers briefly with him.)

[Without embarrassment) I’m sorry—his name’s Guildenstem, and I’m Rosen¬ crantz. A pleasure. We’ve played to bigger, of course, but quality counts for something. I recognized you at onceROS And who are we? PLAYER

PLAYER

—as fellow artists.

I thought we were gentlemen. PLAYER For some of us it is performance, for others, patronage. They are two sides of the same coin, or, let us say, being as there are so many of us, the same side of two coins. [Bows again.) Don’t clap too loudly—it’s a very old world. ROS What is your line? PLAYER Tragedy, sir. Deaths and disclosures, universal and particular, de¬ nouements both unexpected and inexorable, transvestite melodrama on all levels including die suggestive. We transport you into a world of intrigue and illusion . . . clowns, if you like, murderers—we can do you ghosts and batdes, on the skirmish level, heroes, villains, tormented lovers—set pieces in the poetic vein; we can do you rapiers or rape or both, by all means, faithless wives and ravished virgins—flagrante delicto at a price, but that comes under realism for which there are special terms. Getting warm, am I? ROS [doubtfully) Well, I don’t know. '. . . ROS

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildcnstem .Arc Dead

1007

It costs little to watch, and little more if you happen to get caught up in the action, if that s your taste and times being what tliev are. ROS What are they? PLAYER

PLAYER ROS

Indifferent.

Bad?

Wicked. Now what precisely is your pleasure? [He turns to the TRAGEDLAXS.] Gendemen. disport yourselves. PLAYER

[The TRACED LAX S shuffle into some kind of line.] There! See anything you like? ROS [doubtful, innocent]

What do they do?

Let your imagination run riot. They are beyond surprise. .And how much?

PLAYER

ROS

PLAYER

ROS

To take part?

To watch.

PLAYER

Watch what?

A private performance. PLAYER How private? ROS

ROS

Well, there are only two of us. Is that enough? For an audience, disappointing. For voyeurs, about average. What's die difference?

PLAYER ROS

PLAYER

Ten guilders.

ROS [horrified] PLAYER ROS

Each. I don't think you understand—

What are you saying?

PLAYER ROS

I mean eight.

Together?

PLAYER

ROS

Ten guilders!

Wliat am I saying—seven.

Wliere have you been ?

PLAYER

Roundabout. A nest of children carries the custom of die town. Ju¬

venile companies, they are the fashion. But they cannot match our repertoire . . . we'll stoop to anything if that’s your bent. . . .

He regards ROS meaningfully but ROS returns the stare blankly. ROS

They'll grow up.

PLAYER [giving up]

There's one bom every minute. [To TRACE I) IAYS ] On¬

ward!

The TRACED LAX S start to resume their burdens and their journey. CEIL stirs himself at last. CEIL

Where are you going*?

PLAYER

Ha-alt!

[They halt and turn.] Home, sir. CEIL

Where

from?

1008

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

PLAYER

Act I

Home. We’re travelling people. We take our chances where we find

them. GUIL

It was chance, then?

PLAYER GUIL

You found us.

PLAYER GUIL

Oh, yes.

You were looking?

PLAYER GUIL

Chance?

Oh no.

Chance, then.

PLAYER

Or fate.

GLJIL Yours or ours? PLAYER It could hardly be one without the other. GUIL Fate, then. PLAYER Oh, yes. We have no control. Tonight we play to the court. Or the night after. Or to the tavern. Or not. GUIL

Perhaps I can use my influence.

PLAYER GUIL

At the court. I would say I have some influence.

PLAYER GUIL

At the tavern? Would you say so?

I have influence vet.

PLAYER

Yet what?

GLTIL seizes the PLAYER violently. GUIL

I have influence!

[ The PLAYER does not resist. GUIL loosens his hold.]

[More calmly.] You said something—about getting caught up in the actionPLAYER [gaily freeing himself] I did!—I did!—You’re quicker than your friend. . . . [Confidently.] Now for a handful of guilders I happen to have a private and uncut performance of The Rape of the Sabine Women—or rather woman, or rather Alfred--[ Over his shoulder. ] Get your skirt on, Alfred[The BOY starts struggling into a female robe.] . . . and for eight you can participate, [GUIL backs, PLAYER follows.]

. . . taking either part. [GUIL backs.) ... or both for ten. [GUIL tries to turn away, PLAYER holds his sleeve.] . . . with encores[GUIL smashes the PLAYER across the faceK The PLAYER recoils. GUIL stands trem¬ bling. ]

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildenstcm Are Dead

1009

[Resigned and quiet]. Get your skirt off, Alfred. . . ALFRED struggles out of his half-on robe. GUIL [shaking with rage and fright j

It could have been—it didn’t have to be

obscene. ... It cotdd have been—a bird out of season, dropping bright-feathered on my shoulder. ... It could have been a tongueless dwarf standing by the road to point the way. ... I was prepared. But it’s this, is it? No enigma, no dignity, nothing classical, portentous, only this—a comic pomographer and a rabble of prostitutes. . . . PLAYER [acknowledging the description with a sweep of his hat, bowing;

sadly] You should have caught us in better times. We were purists then. [Straightens up.J On-ward. The PLAYERS make to leave. ROS [his voice has changed: he has caught on]

Excuse me!

Ha-alt!

PLAYER:

[They halt.] A-al-l-fred! ALFRED resumes the struggle. The PLAYER comes forward. ROS

You’re not—ah—exclusively players, then?

PLAYER ROS

So you give—exhibitions?

PLAYER ROS

We’re inclusively players, sir. Performances, sir.

Yes, of course. There’s more money in that, is there?

PLAYER

There’s more trade, sir.

Times being what they are. PLAYER Yes. ROS

ROS

Indifferent.

PLAYER ROS

You know I’d no idea-

PLAYER ROS

No-

I mean, I’ve heard of—but I’ve never actually-

PLAYER ROS

Completely.

No.

I mean, what exactly do you do?

PLAYER

We keep to our usual stuff, more or less, only inside out. We do on

stage the things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit being an entrance somewhere else. ROS [ nervy, loud ]

Well, I’m not really the type of man who—no, but don’t hurry

off—sit down and tell us about some of the things people ask you to do-

The PLAYER turns away. PLAYER ROS

On-ward!

Just a minute!

1010

Nonrealistic Modern Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act I

[ They turn and look at him without expression.} Well, all right—I wouldn’t mind seeing—-just an idea of the kind of—[Bravely, j What will you do for that? [And tosses a single coin on the ground between them.. ] [ The PLAYER spits at the coin, from where he stands.

The TRAGEDIANS demur, trying to get at the coin. He kicks and cuffs them back.) On! [ALFRED is still half in and out of his robe. The PLAYER cuffs him.)

[ To ALFRED ] What are you playing at? ROS is shamed into fury.

ROS

Filth! Disgusting—I’ll report you to the authorities—perverts! 1 know your

game all right, it’s all hlth!

The PLAYERS are about to leave. GUIL has remained detached. GEIL

[ casually]

Do you like a bet?

The TRAGEDIANS turn and look interested. The PLAYER comes forward. PLAYER

What kind of bet did you have in mind?

GUIL walks half the distance towards the PLAYER, stops with his foot over the

coin. GUIL

Double or quits.

PLAYER

Well . . . heads.

GULL raises his foot. The PLAYER bends. The TRAGEDIANS crowd round. Relief

and congratulations. The PLAYER picks up the coin. GUIL throws him a second coin. GUIL

Again?

Some of the TRAGEDIANS are for it, others against. GUIL

Evens.

The PLAYER nods and tosses the coin. GUIL

Heads.

[It is. He picks it up.]

Again.

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildcnstcni Arc Dead

1011

GUIL spins coin. PLAYER

Heads.

It is. PLAYER picks up coin. He has two coins again. He spins one. Heads.

GUIL

It is. GUIL picks it up. Then tosses it immediately. PLAYER [fractional hesitation]

Tails.

But it s heads. GUIL picks it up. PLAYER tosses down his last coin by way of paying up, and turns away. GUIL doesn’t pick it up; he puts his foot on it. Heads.

GEtil

PLAYER

No!

[Pause. The TRAGEDIANS are against this.] [Apologetically. ] They don’t like the odds. GUIL [lifts his foot, squats; picks up the coin still squatting; looks up]

You

were right—heads. [Spins it, slaps his hand on it, on the floor.] Heads I win. PLAYER

No.

GUIL [uncovers coin] PLAYER

No.

GUIL [uncovers coin] PLAYER

Right again. [Repeat.] Heads I win. And right again. [Repeat. ] Heads I win.

No!

He turns away, the TRAGEDIANS with him. GUIL stands up, comes close. Would you believe it? [ Stands back, relaxes, smiles. ] Bet me the year of my birth doubled is an odd number. GUIL

PLAYER GUIL

If you don’t trust me don’t bet with me. Would you trust me?

PLAYER GUIL

Bet me then.

PLAYER GUIL

Your birth-!

My birth?

Odd numbers you win.

PLAYER

You’re on-

The TRAGEDIANS have come forward, wide awake. GUIL

Good. Year of your birth. Double it. Even numbers I win, odd numbers

I lose. Silence. An awful sigh as the TRAGEDIANS realize that any number doubled is even. Then a terrible row as they object. Then a terrible silence. PLAYER

We have no monev.

1012

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act I

GUIL turns to him. GUIL

Ah. Then what have you got?

[The PLAYER silently brings ALFRED forward. GUIL regards ALFRED sadly.]

Was it for this? PLAYER It’s the best we’ve got. GUIL f looking up and around]

Then the times are bad indeed. i

[The PLAAT3R starts to speak, protestation, but GUIL turns on him viciously.]

The very air stinks. [The PLAAER moves back. GUIL moves down to the footlights and turns.]

Come here, Alfred. [ALFRED moves down and stands, frightened and small.] [Gently.] Do you lose often?

Yes, sir. GUIL Then what could you have left to lose? ALFRED Nothing, sir. ALFRED

Pause. GUIL regards him,.

Do you like being ... an actor? ALFRED No, Sir. GUIL

GUIL looks around, at the audience. GUIL

You and I, Alfred—we could create a dramatic precedent here.

[And .ALFRED, who has been near tears, starts to sniffle.]

Come, come, Alfred, this is no way to fill the theatres of Europe. [The PLAYER has moved down, to remonstrate with ALFRED. GUIL cuts him off again.] [Viciously.) Do you know any good plays? PLAYER

Plays?

Exhibitions. . . . GUIL I thought you said you were actors. PLAYER [ dawning ] Oh. Oh well, we are. We are. But there hasn’t been much callROS [coming forward, faltering shyly]

You lost. Well then—one of the Greeks, perhaps? You’re familiar with the tragedies of antiquity, are you? Tli^ great homicidal classics? Matri, patri, fratri, sorrori, uxori and it goes without sayingGUIL

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

ROS

Saucy-

GUIL

—Suicidal—hm? Maidens aspiring to godheads.And vice versa-

ROS

1013

Your kind of thing, is it?

GUIL

W ell, no, I can’t say it is, really. We’re more of the blood, love and rhetoric school. PLAYER GLIL

W ell, 111 leave the choice to you, it there is anything to choose between

them. PLAYER

They’re hardly divisible, sir—well, I can do you blood and love without

die rhetoric, and I can do you blood and rhetoric without the love, and I can do you all three concurrent or consecutive, but I can’t do you love and rhetoric with¬ out die blood. Blood is compulsory—they’re all blood, you see. GLTIL Is that what people want? PLAYER

It’s what we do. [Small pause. He turns away.]

GLTIL touches ALFRED on the shoulder. GUIL [wry, gentle]

Thank you; we’ll let you know.

The PLAYER has moved upstage. ALFRED follows. PLAYER [to TRAGEDLAXS ]

Tliirty-eight!

ROS [moving across, fascinated and hopeful] PLAYER ROS

Sir?

One of your—tableaux?

PLAYER ROS

Position?

Xo, sir.

Oh.

PLAYER [to the TRAGED LAYS, now departing with their cart, already taking

various props off it]

Entrances there and there [indicating upstage].

The PLAYER has not moved his position for his last four lines. He does not move now. GUIL waits.

Well . . . aren’t you going to change into your costume? PLAYER I never change out of it, sir. GUIL

GLTIL

Always in character.

PLAYER

That’s it.

Pause.

GUIL

.Aren’t you going to—come on ?

PLAYER GLTIL

But if you are on, you can’t come on. Can you?

FLAYER GUIL

I am on. I start on.

But it hasn’t started. Go on. We’ll look out for you.

PLAYER

I’ll

give you a wave.

He does not move. His immobility is now pointed, and getting awkward. Pause. ROS walks up to him till they are face to face.

1014

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

ROS

Act I

Excuse me.

[Pause. The PLAYER lifts his downstage foot. It was covering GUIL’S coin. ROS puts his foot on the coin. Smiles.] Thank you. The PLAYER turns and goes. ROS has hent for the coin. GUIL [moving out] ROS

I say—that was lucky.

GLTIL [turning] ROS

Come on.

What?

It was tails.

He tosses the coin to GUIL who catches it. Simultaneously—a lighting change sufficient to alter the exterior mood into interior, but nothing violent. And OPHELIA runs on in some alarm, holding up her skirts—followed by HAMLET. OPHELIA has been sewing and she holds the garment. They are both mute. HAM¬ LET, with his doublet all unbraced, no hat upon his head, his stockings fouled,

ungartered and downgyved to his ankle, pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other . . . and with a look so piteous, he takes her by the wrist and holds her hard, then he goes to the length of his arm, and with his other hand over his brow, falls to such perusal of her face as he would draw it. .. . At last, with a. little shaking of his arm, and thrice his head waving up and down, he raises a sigh so piteous and profound that it does seem to shatter all his bulk and end his being. That done he lets her go, and with his head over his shoulder turned, he goes out backwards without taking his eyes off her . . . she runs off in the opposite direction. ROS and GUIL have frozen. GUIL unfreezes first. He jumps at ROS.

GUIL

Come on!

But a flourish—enter CLAUDIUS and GERTRUDE, attended. CLAUDIUS

Welcome, dear Rosencrantz ... [he raises a hand at GUIL while

ROS bows—GUIL bows late and hurriedly] . . . and Guildenstem.

[He raises a hand at ROS while GUIL bows to him—ROS is still straightening up from his previous bow and halfway up he bows down again. With his head down, he twists to look at GUIL, who is on the way up.] Moreover that we did much long to see you, The need we have to use you did provoke Our hasty sending. [ ROS and GUIL still adjusting their clothing for CLAUDIUS'S presence.]

Something have you heard Of Hamlet’s transformation, so call it.

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildcnstem Arc Dead

1015

Sith nor th’exterior nor the inward man Resembles that it was. What it should be, More than his fadier’s death, that thus hath put him. So much from th’understanding of himself, I cannot dream of I entreat you both That, being of so young days brought up with him And sith so neighboured to his youth and haviour That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court Some little time, so by your companies To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus, That opened lies within our remedy. GERTRUDE

Good [ fractional suspense] gentlemen . . .

[ They both bow. ] lie hath much talked of you, And sure I am, two men there is not living To whom lie more adheres. If it will please you To show us so much gentry and goodwill As to expand your time with us awhile For the supply and profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits a king’s remembrance. ROS

Both your majesties

Might, by the sovereign power you have of us, Put your dread pleasures more into command Than to entreaty. GUIL

But we both obey,

And here give up ourselves in the full bent To lay our service freely at your feet, To be commanded. CLAUDIUS

Thanks, Rosencrantz [turning to ROS who is caught unprepared,

while GUIL bows] and gentle Guildenstern [turning to GUIL who is bent double}. GERTRUDE [ correcting]

Thanks Guildenstern [ turning to ROS, who bows as

GUIL checks upward movement to bow too—both bent double, squinting at each

other] . . . and gentle Rosencrantz [turning to GUIL, both straightening up—GUIL checks again and bows again J. And I beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed son. Go, some of you, And bring these gentlemen where I Iamlet is. Two ATTENDANTS exit backwards, indicating that ROS and GUIL should follow. GUIL

I leaven make our presence and our practices

Pleasant and helpful to him. GERTRUDE

Ay, amen!

ROS and GUIL move towards a downstage wing. Before they get there, POLONIUS

1016

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act I

enters. They stop and bow to him. He nods and hurries upstage to CLAUDIUS. They turn to look at him. POLONIUS

The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, are joyfully returned.

CLAUDIUS

Thou still hast been the father of good news.

POLONIUS

Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege,

I hold my duty as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious King; And I do think, or else this brain of mine Hunts not the trail of policy so sure As it hath used to do, that I have found The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy. . . . Exeunt—leaving ROS and GUIL. ROS GUIL ROS GULL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL

I wrant to go home. Don’t let them confuse you. I’m out of my step hereWe’ll soon be home and high—dry and home—I’llIt’s all over my depth—I’ll hie you home and—out of my head—dry you high and-

ROS [ cracking, high ]

—over my step over my head body!—I tell you it’s all

stopping to a death, it’s boding to a depth, stepping to a head, it’s all heading to a dead stopGUIL [the nursemaid]

Hiere! . . . and we’ll soon be home and dry . . . and

high and dry. . . . [ Rapidly. ] lias it ever happened to you that all of a sudden and for no reason at all you haven’t the faintest idea how to spell the word—“wife”— or “house”—because when you write it down you just can’t remember ever having seen those letters in that order before . . . ? ROS GUIL ROS GUIL

I remember—— Yes? I remember when there were no questions. There were always questions. To exchange one set for another is no

great matter. ROS GUIL

Answers, yes. There were answers to everything. You’ve forgotten.

ROS [ flaring]

I haven’t forgotten—how I used to remember my own name—

and yours, oh yes! There were answers everywhere you looked. There was no question about it—people knew who I was and if they didn’t they asked and I told them. GUIL

You did, the trouble is, each of them is . . . plausible, without being

instinctive. All your life you live so close to truth, it becomes a permanent blur in die corner of your eye, and when something nudges it into outline it is like being ambushed by a grotesque. A man standing in his saddle in the half-lit half-alive dawn banged on the shutters and called two names. He was just a hat and a cloak levitating in the grey plume of his own breath, but when he called we came. That much is certain—we came. ROS Well I can tell you I’m sick to death of it. I don’t care one way or anodier, so why don’t you make up your mind.

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildcnstcm Arc Dead

GULL

1017

We can’t afford anything quite so arbitrary. Nor did we come all this way

for a christening. All that—preceded us. But we are comparatively fortunate; we might have been left to sift the whole field of human nomenclature, like two blind men looting a bazaar for their own portraits. ... At least we are presented with alternatives. ROS GUIL ROS GUIL

Well as from now—But not choice. You made me look ridiculous in there. I looked just as ridiculous as you did.

ROS [ an anguished cry ] GUIL f low, wry rhetoric] ROS [a dying fall]

Consistency is all I ask! Give us this day our daily mask.

I want to go home. [Moves] Which way did we come in?

I’ve lost my sense of direction. GLTIL

The only beginning is birth and the only end is death—if you can’t count

on that, what can you count on? They connect again. ROS GLHL

We don’t owe anything to anyone. We’ve been caught up. Your smallest action sets oft' another somewhere

else, and is set off by it. Keep an eye open, an ear cocked. Tread warily, follow instructions. We’ll be all right. ROS GUIL

For how long? Till events have played themselves out. There’s a logic at work—it’s all

done for you, don’t worry. Enjoy it. Relax. To be taken in hand and led, like being a child again, even without the innocence, a child—it’s like being given a prize, an extra slice of childhood when you least expect it, as a prize for being good, or compensation for never having had one. . . . Do I contradict myself? ROS

I can’t remember. . . . What have we got to go on?

GUIL

We have been briefed. Hamlet’s transformation. What do you recollect?

ROS

Well, lie’s changed, hasn’t he? The exterior and inward man fails to re¬

semble— GUIL ROS GUIL

Draw him on to pleasures—glean what afflicts him. Something more than his father’s deathHe’s always talking about us—there aren’t two people living whom he

dotes on more than us. ROS GUIL

We cheer him up—find out what’s the matterExactly, it’s a matter of asking the right questions and giving away as

little as we can. It’s a game. ROS GUIL ROS GUIL

And then we can go? And receive such thanks as fits a king’s remembrance. I like the sound of that. What do you think he means by remembrance? I Ie doesn’t forget his friends.

ROS Would you care to estimate? GUIL Difficult to say, really—some kings tend to he amnesiac, others I sup¬ pose—the opposite, whatever that is. . . . ROS

Yes—-but-

GUIL Elephantine . . . ? ROS Not how long—how much? GUIL Retentive—lie’s a very retentive king, a royal retainer. . . .

1018

Nonrealistic Modern Drama, Theater of die Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

ROS

GUIL

Act I

What are you playing at? Words, words. They’re all we have to go on.

Pause. ROS GUIL ROS

Shouldn’t we be doing something—constructive? What did you have in mind? ... A short, blunt human pyramid . . . ? We could go.

GUIL

Where?

ROS

After him.

GUIL

Why? They’ve got us placed now—if we start moving around, we’ll all be

chasing each other all night. Hiatus. ROS [at footlights]

How very intriguing! [Turns] I feel like a spectator—an

appalling business. The only thing that makes it bearable is the irrational belief that somebody interesting will come on in a minute. . . . GLTIL ROS GUIL

See anyone? No. You? No. [At footlights ] What a fine persecution—to be kept intrigued without

ever quite being enlightened. . . . [Pause] We’ve had no practice. ROS

We could play at questions.

GUIL

What good would that do?

ROS

GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL

Practice! Statement! One—love. Cheating! IIow?

I hadn’t started yet. Statement. Two—love.

ROS

Are you counting that?

GUIL

What? Are you counting that?

ROS GUIL

Foul! No repetitions. Three—love. First game to . . .

ROS

I’m not going to play if you’re going to be like drat.

GUIL

Whose serve? Hah?

ROS

GUIL

Foul! No grunts. Love—one.

Whose go? GUIL Why? 1 ROS

ROS

GUIL ROS GUIL

Why not? What for? Foul! No synonyms! One—all. What in God’s name is going on?

ROS

Foul! No rhetoric. Two—one.

GUIL

What does it all add up to?

Can’t you guess? GUIL Were you addressing me? ROS

Is there anyone else? GUIL Who? ' ROS

o

Rosencrantz and Guildenstcm Arc Dead

x\ct I

ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROSR GUIL ROS

How would I know? Why do you ask? Are you serious? Was that rhetoric? No.

Statement! Two—all. Game point. What’s the matter with you today? When?

What? Are you deaf? Am I dead? Yes or no? Is there a choice? Is there a God? Foul! No non sequiturs, three—two, one game all.

GUIL f seriously ] ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS

What’s your name?

What’s yours? I asked you first.

Statement. One—love. What’s your name when you’re at home? What’s yours? When I’m at home?

Is it different at home? What home? I laven’t you got one? Why do you ask? What are you driving at?

GUIL [ with emphasis] ROS

What’s your name?!

Repetition. Two—love. Match point to me.

GUIL [seizing him violently} ROS GUIL

1019

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Rhetoric! Game and match! [Pause] Where’s it going to end? That’s the question.

It’s all questions. GUIL Do you think it matters? ROS

ROS GUIL ROS

Doesn’t it matter to you? Why should it matter? What does it matter why?

GUIL f teasing gently)

Doesn’t it matter why it matters?

ROS [rounding on him ]

What’s the matter with you?

Pause. GUIL

It doesn’t matter.

ROS [ voice in the wilderness ] GUIL

... What’s the game?

What are the rules?

Enter HAMLET behind, crossing the stage, reading a book—as he is about to dis¬ appear GUIL notices him. GUIL [sharply]

Rosencrantz!

1020

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

ROS [jumps]

What!

HAMLET goes. Triumph dawns on them, they smile.

There! How was that?

GUIL

Clever!

ROS

Natural?

GUIL ROS

Instinctive. Got it in your head?

GUIL ROS

I take mv hat off to you. -

i

Shake hands.

GUIL

They do. ROS GUIL ROS

Now I’ll try you—Guff—! —Not yet—catch me unawares. Right.

[They separate. Pause. Aside to GUIL.] Ready? GUIL [explodes] ROS

Don’t be stupid.

Sorry.

Pause. GUIL [snaps] ROS [jumps]

Guildenstem! What?

He is immediately crestfallen, GUIL is disgusted. GUIL

Consistency is all I ask!

ROS [quietly]

Immortality is all I seek. . . .

GUIL [ dying fall]

Give us this day our daily week. . .

Beat. ROS GUIL

Who was that? Didn’t you know him?

ROS

He didn’t know me.

GUIL

lie didn’t see you.

ROS

I didn’t see him.

GUIL

We shall see. I hardly knew him, lie’s changed. You could see that?

ROS GUIL ROS GLJIL ROS GUIL

Transformed. How do you know? Inside and out. I see.

He’s not himself.

Act I

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Arc Dead

ROS GUIL

1021

He’s changed. I could see that.

[Beat.) Glean what afflicts him. ROS

Me?

GUIL

I lim.

ROS

How?

GUIL Question and answer. Old ways are the best ways. ROS He’s afflicted. GUIL •

ROS GUIL

You question, I’ll answer. I Ie’s not himself, you know. I’m him, you see.

Beat. ROS

Who am I then?

GUIL

You’re yourself.

ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GL'IL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS

And he’s you? Not a bit of it. Are you afflicted? That’s the idea. Are you ready? Let’s go back a bit. I’m afflicted. I see. Glean what afflicts me. Right. Question and answer. IIow should I begin? Address me. Mv dear Guildenstern!

GUIL [quietly]

You’ve forgotten—haven’t you?

ROS My dear Rosencrantz! GUIL [great control ] I don’t think you quite understand. What we are attempt¬ ing is a hvpothesis in which I answer for him, while you ask me questions. ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL

Mi! Ready? You know what to do? What? Me you stupid? Pardon? Are you deaf?

ROS Did you speak? GUIL [admonishing] Not nowROS Statement. GUIL [ shouts ] Not now! [Pause] If I had any doubts, or rather hopes, they are dispelled. What could we possibly have in common except our situation? [ They separate and sit. ] Perhaps he’ll come back this way. ROS GUIL

Should we go? Why?

1022

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act I

Pause. ROS [starts up. Snaps fingers]

Oh! You mean—-you pretend to be him, and I

ask you questions! GUIL [dry] Very good. ROS You had me confused. GUIL I could see I had. ROS How should I begin? GUIL Address me. They stand and face each other, posing. My honoured Lord! GUIL My dear Rosencrantz! ROS

Pause. An I pretending to be you, then? GUIL Certainly not. If you like. Shall we continue? ROS Question and answer. GUIL Right. ROS Right. My honoured lord! GUIL My dear fellow! ROS How are you? GUIL Afflicted! ROS Really? In what way? GUIL Transformed. ROS Inside or out? GUIL Both. ROS I see. [Pause] Not much new there. GUIL Go into details. Delve. Probe the background, establish the situation. ROS So—so your uncle is the king of Denmark?! GUIL And my father before him. ROS His fattier before him? GUIL No, my father before him. ROS But surelyGUIL You might well ask. ROS Let me get it straight. Your father was Icing. You were his only son. Your father dies. You are of age. Your uncle becomes king. GUIL Yes. ROS Unorthodox. GUIL Undid me. ROS Undeniable. Where were you? GUIL In Germany. ROS Usurpation, then. GUIL He slipped in. ROS Which reminds me. GUIL Well, it would. ROS

ROS GUIL

I don’t want to be personal.

It’s common knowledge.

Act I

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem .Arc Dead

ROS GUIL

1023

Your mother’s marriage. He slipped in.

Beat. ROS [ lugubriously]

His body was still warm.

GUIL

So was hers.

ROS

Extraordinary.

GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GULL ROS GUIL

Indecent. Hasty. Suspicious. It makes you think. Don’t think I haven’t thought of it. And with her husband’s brother. They were close. She went to him—Too close-

ROS

—for comfort.

GUIL

It looks bad.

ROS GLTIL

It adds up. Incest to adultery.

Would you go so far? GUIL Never.

ROS

ROS

To sum up: your father, whom you love, dies, you are his heir, you come

back to find that hardly was the corpse cold before his young brother popped onto his throne and into his sheets, thereby offending both legal and natural practice. Now why exactly are you behaving in this extraordinary manner? GUIL

I can’t imagine! [Pause] But all that is well known, common propertv.

Yet he sent for us. And we did come. ROS [alert, ear cocked] GUIL ROS GUIL

I say! I heard music-

We ’re here. —Like a band—I thought I heard a band. Rosencrantz . . .

ROS [absently, still listening]

What?

Pause, short. G\]YL[gently wry]

Guildenstem . . .

ROS [irritated by the repetition] GLTIL

What?

Don’t you discriminate at all?

ROS [turning dumbly]

Wha’?

Pause.

GUIL ROS GUIL

Go and see if he’s there. Who? "There.

ROS goes to an upstage wing, looks, returns, formally making his report.

1024

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

ROS GUIL

Act I

Yes. What is he doing?

ROS repeats movement. ROS GUIL

Talking. To himself?

[ROS starts to move. GUIL cuts in impatiently.}

Is he alone? No. GUIL Then lie’s not talking to himself, is he? ROS Not by himself. . . . Coming this way, I think. [Shiftily] Should we go? ROS

GUIL

Why? We’re marked now.

HAMLET enters, backwards, talking, followed by POLONIUS, upstage, ROS and GUIL occupy the two downstage corners looking upstage. HAMLET

. . . for you yourself, sir, should be as old as I am if like a crab you

could go backward. POLONIES [aside]

Though this be madness, yet there is method in it. Will you

walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET POLONIUS

Into my grave. Indeed, that’s out of the air.

[HAMLET crosses to upstage exit, POLONIUS asiding unintelligibly until-]

My lord, I will take my leave of you. HAMLET

You cannot take from me anything that I will more willingly part

withal—except my life, except my life, except my life. . . . POLONIUS [crossing downstage]

Fare you well, my lord. [To ROS] You go to

seek Lord Hamlet? There he is. ROS [ to POLONIUS]

God save you sir.

POLONIUS goes GUIL [calls upstage to HAMLET] ROS

My honoured lord!

My most dear lord!

ILAMLET centred upstage, turns to them. HAMLET

Mv excellent good friends! How dost thou Guildenstem? [Coming

downstage with an arm raised to ROS, GUIL meanwhile bowing to no greeting. HAMLET corrects himself. Still to ROS] All Rosencrantz!

They laugh good-naturedly at the mistake. They all meet midstage, turn upstage to walk, HAMLET in the middle, arm over each shoulder. HAMLET Blackout

Good lads how do you both?

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

1025

Act II HAMLET, ROS and GUIL talking, the continuation of the previous scene. Their

conversation, on the move, is indecipherable at first. The first intelligible line is HAMLET’S, coming at the end of a short speech—see Shakespeare Act II, scene ii.

Shlood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out. HAMLET

A flourish from the TRAGEDIANS' band. GUIL

There are the players.

HAMLET

Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come then.

[He takes their hands.] The appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players (which I tell you must show fairly outwards) should more appear like entertainment than yours, fou are welcome. [About to leave.] But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived. GUIL

In what, my dear lord?

ILAMLET

I am but mad north north-west; when the wind is southerly I know

a hawk from a handsaw. POLONIUS enters as GLTL turns away.

Well be with you gentlemen.

POLONIUS

ILAMLET [to ROS]

Mark you, Guildenstem [uncertainly to GUIL] and you too;

at each ear a hearer. That great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts. . . . [He takes ROS upstage with him, talking together.) My Lord! I have news to tell you.

POLONIUS

ILAMLET [ releasing ROS and mimicking]

My lord, I have news to tell you. . . .

When Roscius was an actor in Rome . . . ROS comes downstage to rejoin GULL. POLONIUS [as he follows ILAMLET out] ILAMLET

The actors are come hither my lord.

Buzz, buzz.

Exeunt ILAMLET and POLONIUS. ROS and GUIL ponder. Each reluctant to speak first. GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS

Hm?

Yes? What? I thought you . . . No. Ml.

Pause. GUIL ROS GUIL

I think we can say we made some headway. You think so? I think we can say that.

1026

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

ROS

Act II

I think we can say he made us look ridiculous. We played it close to the chest of course.

GUIL

ROS \derisively\

“Question and answer. Old ways are the best ways”! He was

scoring off us all down the line. GUIL

lie caught us on the wrong foot once or twice, perhaps, but I thought

we gained some ground. ROS [simply]

lie murdered us.

He might have had the edge.

GUIL

ROS [roused]

Twenty-seven—three, and you think he might have had the

edge?! He murdered us. What about our evasions?

GUIL ROS

Oh, our evasions were lovely. “Were you sent for?” he says. “My lord, we

were sent for. . . . ” I didn’t know where to put myself. GUIL ROS

He had six rhetoricalsIt was question and answer, all right. Twenty-seven questions he got out

in ten minutes, and answered three. I was waiting for you to delve. “When is he going to start delving?” I asked myself. GUIL ROS

—And two repetitions. Hardly a leading question between us. We got his symptoms, didn’t we?

GUIL ROS

Half of what he said meant something else, and die other half didn’t mean

anything at all. Thwarted ambition—a sense of grievance, that’s my diagnosis.

GUIL ROS

Six rhetorical and two repetition, leaving nineteen, of which we answered

fifteen. And what did we get in return? He’s depressed! . . . Denmark’s a prison and he’d rather live in a nutshell; some shadow-play about the nature of ambition, which never got down to cases, and finally one direct question which might have led somewhere, and led in fact to his illuminating claim to tell a hawk from a handsaw. Pause. When the wind is southerly.

GUIL ROS

And the weather’s clear. And when it isn’t he can’t.

GUIL

He’s at the mercy of the elements. [ Licks his finger and holds it up—

ROS

facing audience] Is tiiat southerly? They stare at audience. It doesn’t look southerly. What made you think so?

GUIL ROS

I didn’t say I think so. It could be northerly for all I know.

GUIL ROS

I wouldn’t have thought so.

Well, if you’re going to be dogmatic.

GUIL

Wait a minute—we came from roughly south according to a rough map.

ROS

I see. Well, which way did we come in? [GUIL looks round vaguely.]

Roughly. GUIL [clears his throat]

can assume that. ROS

That it’s morning?

In the morning the sun would be easterly. I think we

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern .Arc Dead

1027

If it is, and the sun is over there [his right as he faces the audience J for

GUIL

instance, that [front] would be northerly. On the other hand, if it is not morning and the sun is over there [his left] . . . that . . . [lamely] would still be northerly.

[Picking up] To put it anodier way, if we came from down there [front] and it is morning, the sun would be up there [his left], and if it is actually over there [his

right] and it’s still morning, we must have come from up there [ behind him], and if that is southerly [/iis left] and the sun is really over there [front], then it’s the afternoon. However, if none of these is the caseROS GUIL

WTlv don’t you go and have a look? Pragmatism0!—is that all you have to offer? You seem to have no con¬

ception of where we stand! You won’t find the answer written down for you in the bowl of a compass—I can tell you that. [Pause] Besides, you can never tell tiiis far north—it’s probably dark out there. ROS

I merely suggest that die position of die sun, if it is out, would give you

a rough idea of the time; alternatively, the clock, if it is going, would give you a rough idea of the position of the sun. I forget which you’re trying to establish. GUIL ROS GUIL

I’m trying to establish the direction of the wind. There isn’t any wind. Draught, yes. In diat case, the origin. Trace it to its source and it might give us a rough

idea of the way we came in—which might give us a rough idea of south, for further reference. ROS

It’s coming up through the floor. [He studies the floor.] That can’t be

south, can it? GUIL

That’s not a direction. Lick your toe and wave it around a bit.

ROS considers the distance of his foot. ROS

No, I think you’d have to lick it for me.

Pause. GLTIL ROS GUIL ROS

I’m prepared to let die whole matter drop. Or I could lick yours, of course. No thank you. I’ll even wave it around for you.

GUIL [down ROSs throat] ROS

What in God’s name is the matter with you?

Just being friendly.

GUIL [retiring]

Somebody might come in. It’s what we’re counting on, after

all. Ultimately.

Good pause. ROS

Perhaps they’ve all trampled each otiier to death in the rush. . . . Give

them a shout. Something provocative. Intrigue them. GUIL

WJieels have been set in motion, and they have their own pace, to which

we are . . . condemned. Each move is dictated by the previous one—that is the meaning of order. If we start being arbitrary it’ll just be a shambles: at least, let us hope so. Because if we happened, just happened to discover, or even suspect, that our spontaneity was part of their order, we’d know that we were lost. [He

sits. ] A Chinaman of the Tang Dynasty—and, by which definition, a philosopher—

1028

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act II

dreamed he was a butterfly, and from that moment he was never quite sure that he was not a butterfly dreaming it was a Chinese philosopher. Envy him; in his two-fold security. A good pause. ROS leaps up and bellows at the audience. ROS

Fire!

GUIL jumps up.

GUIL ROS

Where? It’s all right—I’m demonstrating the misuse of free speech. To prove that

it exists. [He regards the audience, that is the direction, with contempt—and other directions, then front again.] Not a move. They should burn to death in their shoes. [He takes out one of his coins. Spins it. Catches it. Looks at it. Replaces it.] GUIL ROS

What was it?

What? Heads or tails?

GUIL

Oh. I didn’t look. GUIL Yes you did. ROS

ROS

Oh, did I? [He takes out a coin, studies it.] Quite right—it rings a bell What’s the last thing you remember?

GUIL ROS

I don’t wish to be reminded of it. We cross our bridges when we come to them and bum them behind us,

GUIL

with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of die smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered. ROS approaches him brightly, holding a coin between finger and thumb. He covers

it with his other hand, draws his fists apart and holds them for GIRL. GLTIL considers them. Indicates the left hand, ROS opens it to show it empty. ROS

No.

[Repeat process. GUIL indicates left hand again. ROS shows it empty.] Double bluff Repeat process—GUIL taps one hand, then the other hand, quickly. ROS inadvert¬ ently shows that both are empty. ROS laughs as GUIL turns upstage. ROS stops laughing, looks around his feet, pats his clothes, puzzled. POLONIUS breaks that up by entering upstage followed by the TRAGEDIANS and HAMLET. POLONIUS [entering] HAMLET

Come sirs.

Follow him, friends. We’ll hear a play tomorrow. [ Aside to the

PLAYER, who is the last of the TRAGEDIANS;] Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can

you play The Murder of Gonzago? PLAYER

Ay, my lord.

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Arc Dead

HAMLET

1029

We’ll ha’t tomorrow night. You could for a need study a speech of

some dozen or sixteen lines which I would set down and insert in’t, could you not? PLAYER HAMLET

Ay, my lord. Very well. Follow that lord, and look you mock him not.

The PLAYER crossing downstage, notes ROS and GULL. Stops. HAMLET crossing downstage addresses them without pause. HAMLET

My good friends, I’ll leave you till tonight. You are welcome to Elsi¬

nore. ROS

Good, my lord.

HAMLET goes. GUIL

So you’ve caught up.

PLAYER \ coldly]

Not yet, sir.

Now mind your tongue, or we’ll have it out and throw the rest of you away, like a nightingale at a Roman feast. GUIL

ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GLHL ROS

Took the very words out of my mouth. You’d be lost for words. You’d be tongue-tied. Like a mute in a monologue. Like a nightingale at a Roman feast. Your diction will go to pieces. Your lines will be cut. To dumbshows. And dramatic pauses.

GUIL

You’ll never find your tongue.

ROS

Lick your lips.

GLJIL ROS GLIIL ROS GLHL ROS GUIL

Taste your tears. Your breakfast. You won’t know the difference. There won’t be any. We’ll take the very words out of your mouth. So you’ve caught on. So you’ve caught up.

PLAYER [tops] GUIL

Not yet! [Bitterly] You left us.

Mi! I’d forgotten—you performed a dramatic spectacle on the way. Yes,

I’m sorry we had to miss it. PLAYER [bursts out]

We can’t look each other in the face! [Pause, more in

control] You don’t understand the humiliation of it—to be tricked out of the single assumption which makes our existence viable—that somebody is watching. . . . Mie plot was two corpses gone before we caught sight of ourselves, stripped naked in the middle of nowhere and pouring ourselves down a bottomless well. ROS

Is that thirty-eight?

PL ALL R [tos£]

There we were—demented children mincing about in clothes

diat no one ever wore, speaking as no man ever spoke, swearing love in wigs and rhymed couplets, killing each other with wooden swords, hollow protestations of faith hurled after empty promises of vengeance—and every gesture, every pose,

1030

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act II

vanishing into the thin unpopulated air. We ransomed our dignity to the clouds, and the uncomprehending birds listened. [He rounds on them.) Don’t you see?! We’re actors—-we’re the opposite of people! [They recoil nonplussed, his voice calms.) Think, in your head, now, think of the most . . . private . . . secret . . . intimate thing you have ever done secure in the knowledge of its privacy. . . . [He gives them—and the audience—a good pause. ROS takes on a shifty look.) Are you thinking of it? [He strikes with his voice and his head.) Well, I saw you do it! ROS leaps up, dissembling madly. ROS

You never! It’s a he! [He catches himself with a giggle in a vacuum and

sits down again.)

We’re actors. . . . We pledged our identities, secure in the conventions of our trade, that someone would be watching. And then, gradually, no one was. We were caught, high and dry. It was not until the murderer’s long soliloquy that we were able to look around; frozen as we were in prohle, our eyes searched you out, first confidently, then hesitantly, then desperately as each patch of turf, each log, every exposed comer in every direction proved uninhabited, and ah the while the murderous King addressed the horizon with his dreary interminable guilt. Our heads began to move, wary as lizards, the corpse of unsullied Rosalinda peeped through his fingers, and the King faltered. Even then, habit and a stubborn trust that our audience spied upon us from behind the nearest bush, forced our bodies to blunder on long after they had emptied of meaning, until like runaway carts they dragged to a halt. No one came forward. No one shouted at us. The silence was unbreakable, it imposed itself upon us; it was obscene. We took off our crowns and swords and cloth of gold and moved silent on the road to Elsinore. PLAYER

Silence. Then GUIL claps solo with slow measured irony.

Brilliantly re-created—if these eyes could weep! . . . Radier strong on metaphor, mind you. No criticism—only a matter of taste. And so here you are— with a vengeance. That’s a figure of speech . . . isn’t it? Well let’s say we’re made up for it, for you may have no doubt whom to thank for your performance at the court. ROS We are counting on you to take him out of himself. You are the pleasures which we draw him on to—[he escapes a fractional giggle but recovers immedi¬ ately ) and by that I don’t mean your usual filth; you can’t treat royalty like people with nomial perverted desires. They know nothing of that and you know nothing of them, to your mutual survival. So give him a good clean show suitable for all the family, or you can rest assured you’ll be playing the tavern tonight. GUIL Or the night after. ROS Or not. PLAYER We already have an entry here. And always have had. GUIL You’ve played for him before? PLAYER Yes, sir. ROS And what’s his bent? PLAYER Classical. ROS Saucy! GUIL What will you play? GUIL

PLAYER

The Murder of Gonzago.

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Arc Dead

1031

Full of fine cadence and coqoses. PLAYER Pirated from the Italian. . . . ROS What is it about? PLAYER It’s about a King and Queen. . . . GUIL Escapism! What else? PLAYER BloodGUIL —Love and rhetoric. PLAYER Yes. [Going] GUIL Where are you going? PLAYER I can come and go as I please. GUIL You’re evidently a man who knows his way around. PLAYER I’ve been here before. GLTIL We’re still finding our feet. PLAYER I should concentrate on not losing your heads. GUIL Do you speak from knowledge? PLAYER Precedent. GUIL You’ve been here before. PLAYER And I know which way the wind is blowing. GUIL Operating on two levels, are we?! IIow clever! I expect it comes naturally to you, being in the business so to speak. GUIL

[The PLAYER S grave face does not change. He makes to move off again. GUIL for the second time cuts him off. ]

The truth is, we value your company, for want of any other. We have been left so much to our own devices—after a while one welcomes the uncertainty of being left to other people’s. PLAYER Uncertainty is the normal state. You’re nobody special. He makes to leave again. GUIL loses his cool.

But for God’s sake what are we supposed to do?! PLAYER Relax. Respond. That’s what people do. You can’t go through life questioning your situation at every turn. GUIL But we don’t know what’s going on, or what to do with ourselves. We don’t know how to act. PLAYER Act natural. You know why you’re here at least. GUIL We only know what we’re told, and that’s little enough. And for all we know it isn’t even true. PLAYER For ah anyone knows, nothing is. Everything lias to be taken on trust; trudi is only that which is taken to be true. It’s the currency of living. There may be nothing behind it, but it doesn’t make any difference so long as it is honoured. One acts on assumptions. What do you assume? ROS Ilamlet is not himself, outside or in. We have to glean what afflicts him. GUIL He doesn’t give much away. PLAYER Who does, nowadays? GUIL He’s—melancholy. PLAYER Melancholy? ROS Mad. GLTIL

PLAYER

I low is he mad?

1032

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

ROS GUIL

Ah. [To GUIL] How is ho mad? More morose than mad, perhaps.

PLAYER GUIL ROS

ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS

Melancholy.

Moody. lie has moods.

PLAYER GLTIL

Act II

Of moroseness?

Madness. And yet. Quite. For instance. He talks to himself, which might be madness. If he didn’t talk sense, which he does.

Which suggests the opposite.

PLAYER

Of what?

Small pause. GLTIL

I think I have it. A man talking sense to himself is no madder than a man

talking nonsense not to himself. ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS

Or just as mad. Or just as mad.

And he does both. So there you are. Stark raving sane.

Pause. PLAYER GUIL

Why?

Ah. [to ROS] Why?

ROS

Exactly.

GUIL

Exactly what? Exactly why.

ROS GULL ROS GUIL

Exactly why what? What?

Why?

ROS

Why what, exactly?

GUIL

Why is he mad?! / don’t know!

ROS

Beat. PLAYER

The old man thinks he’s in love with his daughter.

ROS [appalled]

Good God! We’re out of our depth here. PLAYER No, no, no—he hasn’t got a daughter—the old man thinks he’s in love with his daughter. ROS

"The old man is?

Hamlet, in love with the old man’s daughter, the old man thinks. Ha! It’s beginning to make sense! Unrequited passion!

PLAYER ROS

The PLAYER moves. GUIL [fascist.]

reason.

Nobody leaves this room! [Pause, lamely] Without a very good

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem .Are Dead

PLAYER

1033

Why not?

All this strolling about is getting too arbitrary by half—I’m rapidly losing my grip. From now on reason will prevail. GLTIL

PLAYER GULL

I have lines to learn.

Pass!

The PLAYER passes into one of the wings. ROS cups his hands and shouts into the opposite one. ROS

Next!

But no one comes. GUIL ROS

What do you expect? Something . . . someone . . . nothing.

[They sit facing front.] Are you hungry? GUIL

No, are you?

ROS [thinks] GUIL ROS GUIL ROS

No. You remember that coin?

No.

I think I lost it. What coin? I don’t remember exactly.

Pause. GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL

Oh, that coin . . . clever. I can’t remember how I did it. It probably comes natural to you. Yes, I’ve got a show-stopper there. Do it again.

Slight pause.

ROS GUIL ROS

We can’t afford it.

Yes, one must think of die future. It’s the normal thing.

To have one. One is, after all, having it all the time . . . now . . . and now . . . and now. . . . GUIL ROS

It could go on for ever. Well, not for ever, I suppose. [Pause] Do you ever

think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on it? GUIL ROS

No.

Nor do I, really. . . . It’s silly to be depressed by it. I mean one thinks of

it like being alive in a box, one keeps forgetting to take into account the fact that one is dead . . . which should make all the difference . . . shouldn’t it? I mean, you’d never know you were in a box, would you? It would be just like being asleep in a box. Not that I’d like to sleep in a box, mind you, not without any air—you’d wake up dead, for a start, and dien where would you be? Apart from inside a box. That’s the bit I don’t like, frankly. That’s why I don’t think of it. . . .

1034

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act II

GUIL stirs restlessly, pulling his cloak round him. Because you’d be helpless, wouldn’t you? Stuffed in a box like that, I mean you’d be in there for ever. Even taking into account the fact that you’re dead, it isn’t a pleasant thought. Especially if you’re dead, really . . . ask yourself, if I asked you straight off—I’m going to stuff you in this box now, would you rather be alive or dead? Naturally, you’d prefer to be alive. Life in a box is better than no life at all. I expect. You’d have a chance at least. You could he there thinking—well, at least I’m not dead! In a minute someone’s going to bang on the lid and tell me to come out. [Banging the floor with his fists.] “Iley you, jvhatsyername! Come out of there!” GUIL [jumps up savagely]

You don’t have to flog it to death!

Pause. 1 wouldn’t think about it, if I were you. You’d only get depressed. [Pause]

ROS

Eternity is a terrible thought. 1 mean, where’s it going to end? [Pause, then

brightly] Two early Christians chanced to meet in Heaven. “Saul of Tarsus yet!” cried one. “What are you doing here?!” . . . ‘Tarsus-Sclimarsus,” replied the other, “I’m Paul already.” [He stands up restlessly and flaps his arms.] They don’t care. We count for nothing. We could remain silent till we’re green in the face, they wouldn’t come. GUIL ROS

Blue, red.

A Christian, a Moslem and a Jew chanced to meet in a closed carriage. . . .

“Silverstein!” cried the Jew. “Who’s your friend?” . . . “His name’s Abdullah,” replied die Moslem, “but he’s no friend of mine since he became a convert. ” [ He leaps up again, stamps his foot and shouts into the wings. ] All right, we know you’re in there! Come out talking! [Pause] We have no control. None at all . . . [He paces.] Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one, a moment, in childhood when it first occurred to you that you don’t go on for ever. It must have been shattering—stamped into one’s memory. And yet I can’t remember it. It never occurred to me at all. What does one make of that? We must be born with an intuition of mortality. Before we know the words for it, before we know that there are words, out we come, bloodied and squalling with the knowledge that for all the compasses in die world, there’s only one direction, and time is its only measure. [He reflects, getting more desperate and rapid. ] A Hindu, a Buddhist and a lion-tamer chanced to meet, in a circus on the Indo-Chinese border. [He breaks out.] They’re taking us for granted! Well, I won’t stand for it! In future, notice will be taken. [He wheels again to face into the wings. J Keep out, then! I forbid anyone to enter! [No one comes. Breathing heavily.] That’s better. . . . Immediately, behind him a grand procession enters, principally CLAUDIUS, GER¬ TRUDE, POLONIUS and OPHELIA. CLAUDIUS takes ROS’s elbow as he passes and

is immediately deep in conversation: the context is Shakespeare Act III, scene i. GUIL still faces front as CLAUDIUS, ROS, etc., pass upstage and turn. GUIL

Death followed by eternity . . . the worst of both worlds. It is a terrible

thought. a

He turns upstage in time to take over the conversation with CLAUDIUS. GERTRUDE and ROS head downstage.

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem .Arc Dead

1035

GERTRUDE Did he receive you well? ROS Most like a gentleman. Gl IL [ returning in time to take it up]

But with much forcing of his disposition.

ROS [a flat lie and he knows it and shows it, perhaps catching GUILDS eye] Niggard ol question, but of our demands most free in his reply. GERTRUDE Did you assay him to any pastime? ROS Madam, it so fell out diat certain plavers We o’erraught on the way: of these we told him And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it. They are here about the court, And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him. POLONIUS

Tis most true

And he beseeched me to entreat your Majesties To hear and see the matter. CLAUDIUS With all my heart, and it dodi content me To hear him so inclined. Good gentlemen, give him a further edge And drive his purpose into these delights. ROS

We shall, my lord.

CLAUDIUS [leading out procession]: Sweet Gertrude, leave us, too, For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, That he, as t’were by accident, may here Affront Ophelia. . . . Exeunt CLAUDIUS and GERTRUDE. ROS [peevish] Never a moment’s peace! In and out, on and off, they’re coming at us from all sides. GUIL

ATu’re never satisfied.

ROS Catching us on the trot. . . . Why can’t we go by them? GUIL What’s the difference? ROS

I’m going.

[ROS pulls his cloak round him. GUIL ignores him. Without confidence ROS heads upstage. He looks out and comes back quickly.] lie’s coming. GUIL ROS

What’s he doing? Nothing.

GUIL lie must be doing something. ROS Whlking. GUIL

On his hands?

ROS

No, on his feet.

GUIL

Stark naked?

ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS

Fully dressed. Selling toffee apples? Not that I noticed. You could be wrong? I don’t think so.

1036

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act II

Pause. GUIL

I can’t for the life of me see how we’re going to get into conversation.

HAMLET enters upstage, and pauses, weighing up the pros and cons of making

his quietus. ROS and GUIL watch him.

Nevertheless, I suppose one might .say that this was a chance. . . . One might well . . . accost him. . . . Yes, it definitely looks like a chance to me. . . . Something on the lines of a direct informal approach . . . man to man . . . straight from the shoulder. . . . Now look here, what’s it all about . . . sort of thing. Yes. Yes, this looks like one to be grabbed with both hands, I should say ... if I were asked. ... No point in looking at a gift horse till you see the whites of its eyes, etcetera. [He has moved towards HAMLET but his nerve fails. He returns.] We’re overawed, that’s our trouble. When it comes to the point we succumb to their personality. . . . ROS

OPHELLA enters, with prayerbook, a religious procession of one. HAMLET

Nvmph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.

At his voice she has stopped for him, he catches her up. OPHELIA HAMLET

Good my lord, how does your honour for this many a day? I humbly thank you—well, well, well.

They disappear talking into the wing.

It’s like living in a public park! GUIL Very impressive. Yes, I thought your direct informal approach was going to stop this thing dead in its tracks there. If I might make a suggestion—shut up and sit down. Stop being perverse. ROS [near tears] I’m not going to stand for it! ROS

A FEMALE FIGURE, ostensibly the QUEEN, enters. ROS marches up behind her, puts his hands over her eyes and says with a desperate frivolity. ROS

Guess who?!

PLAYER [having appeared in a downstage corner j

Alfred!

ROS lets go, spins around. He has been holding ALFRED, in his robe and blond

wig. PLAYER is in the downstage corner still. ROS comes down to that exit. The PLAYER does not budge. He and ROS stand toe to toe. *

ROS

Excuse me.

The PLAYER lifts his downstage foot. RO^ bends to put his hand on the floor. The PLAYER lowers his foot. ROS screams and leaps away.

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildcnstem Arc Dead

PLAYER [gravely] GULL [to ROS] PLATER ROS GLTIL ROS GUIL ROS

1037

I beg your pardon.

What did he do?

I put my foot down.

My hand was on the floor! You put your hand under his foot? I-

What for? I thought-[Grabs GLTL] Don’t leave me!

He makes a break for an exit. A TRAGEDUAC dressed as a KING enters. ROS recoils, breaks for the opposite wing. Two cloaked TRAGEDLAXS enter. ROS tries again but another TRAGED LAX enters, and ROS retires to midstage. The PLAYER claps his hands matter-of-factly. Right! We haven’t got much time. What are you doing*?

PLAYER GLTL

PLAYER

Dress rehearsal. Now if }T)u two wouldn’t mind just moving back

. . . there . . . good. . . . [To TRAGED LAX S ] Everyone ready? And for goodness’ sake, remember what we’re doing. [To ROS and GUIL] We always use the same costumes more or less, and they forget what they are supposed to be in you see. . . . Stop picking your nose, Alfred. When Queens have to they do it by a cerebral process passed down in the blood. . . . Good. Silence! Off we go! PLAYER-KING

Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart-

PLAYER jumps up angrily.

PLAYER

No, no, no! Dumbshow first, your confounded majesty! [To ROS and

GULL] They’re a bit out of practice, but they always pick up wonderfully for the

deaths—it brings out the poetry in them. GLTL

How nice.

PLAYER GUIL

There’s nodiing more unconvincing than an unconvincing death.

I’m sure.

PLATER claps his hands.

PLATER

Act One—moves now.

The mime. Soft music from a recorder. PLAYER-KING and PLATER-QUEEN embrace. She kneels and makes a show of protestation to him. He takes her up, declining his head upon her neck. He lies down. She, seeing him asleep, leaves him. GLTL

What is die dumbshow for?

PLATER

Well, it’s a device, really—it makes the action that follows more or

less comprehensible; you understand, we are tied down to a language which makes up in obscurity what it lacks in style. The mime (continued)—enter another. He takes off the SLEEPERs crown, kisses it. He has brought in a small bottle of liquid. He pours the poison in the SLEEPER s ear, and leaves him. The SLEEPER convulses heroically, dying.

1038

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act II

Who was that? PLAYER The King’s brother and uncle to the Prince. ROS

Not exactly fraternal. PLAYER Not exactly avuncular, as time goes on. GUIL

The QUEEN returns, makes passionate action, finding the KING dead. The POI¬ SONER comes in again, attended by two others (the two in cloaks). The POISONER

seems to console with her. The dead body is carried away. The POISONER woos the QUEEN with gifts. She seems harsh awhile but in the end accepts his love. End of mime, at which point, the wail of a woman in torment and OPHELIA appears, wailing, closely followed by HAMLET in a hysterical state, shouting at her, circling her, both midstage. Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath made me mad!

HAMLET

\She falls on her knees weeping.] I say we will have no more marriage! [His voice drops to include the TRAGEDIANS, who have frozen.] Those that are married already [he leans close to the PLAYERQUEEN and POISONER, speaking with quiet edge] all but one shall live. [He smiles

briefly at them without mirth, and starts to back out, his parting shot rising again. ) The rest shall keep as they are. [As he leaves, OPHELIA tottering upstage, he speaks into her ear a quick clipped sentence.] To a nunnery, go. He goes out. OPHELIA falls on -to her knees upstage, her sobs barely audible. A slight silence. PLAYER-KING

Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart-

CLAUDIUS enters with POLONIUS and goes over to OPHELIA and lifts her to her

feet. The TRAGEDIANS jump back with heads inclined. CLAUD HIS

Love? I lis affections do not that way tend,

Or what he spake, though it lacked form a little, Was not like madness. There’s something In his soul o’er which his melancholy sits on Brood, and I do doubt the hatch and the Disclose will be some danger; which for to Prevent I have in quick determination thus set It down: he shall with speed to England . . . Which carries the three of them—CLAUDIUS, POLONIUS, OPHELIA—out of sight. The PLAYER moves, clapping his hands for attention. PLAYER

Gentleme/i! [They look at him.] It doesn’t seem to be coming. We are

not getting it at all. [ To GUIL] What did you think? GUIL

What was I supposed to think?,

PLAYER [ to TRAGEDIANS]

You’re not getting across!

ROS had gone halfway up to OPHELIA; he returns.

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

1039

That didn’t look like love to me. GUIL Starting from scratch again . . . PLAYER [ to TRAGEDIANS] It was a mess. ROS [to GUIL] It’s going to be chaos on the night. GUIL Keep back—-we’re spectators. PLAYER Act Two! Positions! GUIL Wasn’t that the end? ROS

Do you call that an ending?—-with practically everyone on his feet? My goodness no—over your dead body. GLiiL How am I supposed to take that? PLAYER Tying down. [He laughs briefly and in a second has never laughed in his life.\ There’s a design at work in all art—surely you know that? Events must play themselves out to aesthetic, moral and logical conclusion. GUIL And what’s that, in this case? PLAYER It never varies—we aim at the point where evervone who is marked for death dies. GUIL Marked? PLAYER

Between “just desserts” and “tragic irony” we are given quite a lot of scope for our particular talent. Generally speaking, things have gone about as far as they can possibly go when things have got about as bad as they reasonably get. [He switches on a smile.] GUIL Who decides? PLAYER [switching off his smile ] Decides? It is written. PLAYER

[He turns away. GUIL grabs him and spins him back violently. ] [Unflustered.] Now if you’re going to be subtle, we’ll miss each other in the dark. I’m referring to oral tradition. So to speak. [GUIL releases him.]

We’re tragedians, you see. We follow directions—there is no choice involved. The bad end unhappily, the good unluckily. That is what tragedy means. [Calling] Positions! The TRAGEDIANS have taken up positions for the continuation of the mime: which in this case means a love scene, sexual and passionate, between the QUEEN and the POISONER/KING. PLAYER

Go!

[The lovers begin. The PLAYER contributes a breathless commentary for ROS and GUIL.]

Having murdered his brother and wooed the widow—the poisoner mounts the throne! Here we see him and his queen give rein to their unbridled passion! She little knowing that the man she holds in her anus-! ROS Oh, I say—here—really! You can’t do that! PLAYER Why not?

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Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

ROS

Act II

Well, really—I mean, people want to be entertained—they don’t come

expecting sordid and gratuitous filth. PLAYER

You’re wrong—they do! Murder, seduction and incest—what do you

want—jokes ? ROS

I want a good story, with a beginning, middle and end.

PLAYER [to GUIL] GUIL

And you?

I’d prefer art to mirror life, if it’s all the same to you.

PLAYER

It’s all the same to me, sir. [To the grappling LOVERS] All right, no

need to indulge yourselves. [They get up. To GULL] I come on in a minute. Lucianus, nephew to the king! [Turns his attention to the TRAGEDIANS.] Next!

They disport themselves to accommodate the next piece of mime, which consists of the PLAYER himself exhibiting an excitable anguish [choreographed, stylized] leading to an impassioned scene with the QUEEN [cf rrThe Closet Scene,” Shake¬ speare Act III, scene iv] and a very stylized reconstruction of a POLONrus figure being stabbed behind the arras [the murdered KING to stand in for POLONIUS] while the PLAYER himself continues his breathless commentary for the benefit of ROS and GUIL. PLAYER

Lucianus, nephew to the king . . . usurped by his uncle and shattered

by his mother’s incestuous marriage . . . loses his reason . . . throwing the court into turmoil and disarray as he alternates between bitter melancholy and unre¬ stricted lunacy . . . staggering from the suicidal [a pose] to the homicidal [here he

kills "POLONIUS”]... he at last confronts his mother and in a scene of provocative ambiguity—[a somewhat oedipal embrace] begs her to repent and recant-[He springs up, still talking.] The King—[he pushes forward the POISONER/KING] tormented by guilt—haunted by fear—decides to despatch his nephew to Eng¬ land—and entrusts this undertaking to two smiling accomplices—friends—cour¬ tiers—to two spies-

[He has swung round to bring together the POISONER/KING and the two cloaked TRAGEDIANS; the latter kneel and accept a scroll from the KING.] —giving them a letter to present to the English court-! And so they depart—on board ship[ The two SPIES position themselves on either side of the PLAYER, and the three of

them sway gently in unison, the motion of a boat; and then the PLAYER detaches himself.] —and they arrive-

[One SPY shades his eyes at the horizon.] —and disembark—and present themselves before the English king-[He wheels

round, j The English king-

»

[An exchange of headgear creates the ENGLISH KING from the remaining player— that is, the PLAYER who played the original murdered king.]

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildcnstem Arc Dead

1041

But where is the Prince? Where indeed? The plot has thickened—a twist of fate and cunning has put into their hands a letter that seals their deaths!

[The two SPIES present their letter; the ENGLISH KING reads it and orders their deaths. They stand up as the PLAYER whips off their cloaks preparatory to exe¬ cution.] Traitors hoist by their own petard?—or victims of the gods?—we shall never know!

The whole mime has been fluid and continuous but now ROS moves forward and brings it to a pause. What brings ROS forward is the fact that under their cloaks the two SPIES are wearing coats identical to those worn by ROS and GULL, whose coats are now covered by their cloaks. ROS approaches rrhis” SPY doubtfully. He does not quite understand why the coats are familiar. ROS stands close, touches the coat, thoughtfully. . . . ROS

Well, if it isn’t-! No, wait a minute, don’t tell me—it’s a long time

since—where was it? Ah, this is taking me back to—when was it? I know you, don’t I? I never forget a face—[he looks into the spy’s face] . . . not that I know yours, that is. For a moment I thought—no, I don’t know you, do I? Yes, I’m afraid you’re quite wrong. You must have mistaken me for someone else. GULL meanwhile has approached the other SPY, brow creased in thought. PLAYER [to GUIL]

Are you familiar with this play?

GULL No. PLAYER A slaughterhouse—eight corpses all told. It brings out the best in us. GUIL [tense, progressively rattled during the whole mime and com¬

mentary] PLAYER

You!—What do you know about death? It’s what the actors do best. They have to exploit whatever talent is

given to them, and their talent is dying. They can die heroically, comically, iron¬ ically, slowly, suddenly, disgusting, charmingly, or from a great height. My own talent is more general. I extract significance from melodrama, a significance which it does not in fact contain; but occasionally, from out of this matter, there escapes a thin beam of light that, seen at the right angle, can crack the shell of mortality. ROS Is that all they can do—die? PLAYER No, no—they kill beautifully. In fact some of them lull even better than they die. The rest die better than they kill. They’re a team. ROS

Which ones are which?

PLAYER There’s not much in it. GLUL [fear, derision] Actors! The mechanics of cheap melodrama! That isn’t

death! [More quietly] You scream and choke and sink to your knees, but it doesn’t bring death home to anyone—it doesn’t catch them unawares and start die whisper in their skulls that says—“One day you are going to die.” [He straightens up.} You die so many times; how can you expect them to believe in your death? PLAYER

On the contrary, it’s the only kind diey do believe. They’re conditioned

to it. I had an actor once who was condemned to hang for stealing a sheep—or a lamb, I forget which—so I got permission to have him hanged in die middle of a play—had to change the plot a bit but I thought it would be effective, you know— and vou wouldn’t believe it, he just wasn’t convincing! It was impossible to sus-

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Act II

pend one’s disbelief—and what with the audience jeering and throwing peanuts, the whole thing was a disaster!—he did nothing but cry all the time—right out of character—just stood there and cried. . . . Never again.

[In good humour he has already turned hack to the mime: the two SPIES awaiting execution at the hands of the PLAYER, who takes his dagger out of his belt.] Audiences know what to expect, and that is all that they are prepared to believe in. [To the SPIES] Show!

The SPIES die at some length, rather well. The light has begun to go, and it fades as they die, and as GUIL speaks. GUIL

No, no, no . . . you’ve got it all wrong . . . you can’t act death. The fact

of it is nothing to do with seeing it happen—it’s not gasps and blood and falling about—that isn’t what makes it death. It’s just a man failing to reappear, that’s all—now you see him, now you don’t, that’s the only thing that’s real: here one minute and gone the next and never coming back—an exit, unobtrusive and un¬ announced, a disappearance gathering weight as it goes on, until, finally, it is heavy with death.

The two SPIES lie still, barely visible. The PLAYER comes forward and throws the SPIES’ cloaks over their bodies. ROS starts to clap, slowly. BLACKOUT.

A second of silence, then much noise. Shouts . . . rrThe King rises!” . . . ”Give o’er the play!” . . . and cries for "Lights, lights, lights!” When the light comes, after a few seconds, it comes as a sunrise. The stage is empty save for two cloaked figures sprawled on the ground in the approximate positions last held by the dead SPIES. As the light grows, they are seen to be ROS and GUIL, and to be resting quite comfortably. ROS raises himself on his elbows and shades his eyes as he stares into the auditorium. Finally: ROS GUIL ROS

That must be east, then. I think we can assume that. I’m assuming nothing. No, it’s all right. That’s the sun. East.

GUIL [looks up] ROS GUIL

Where?

I watched it come up. No ... it was light all the time, you see, and you opened your eyes very,

very slowly. If you’d been facing back there you’d be swearing that was east. ROS [standing up] GUIL

You’re a mass of prejudice.

I’ve been taken in before.

ROS [looks out over the audience] GUIL ROS GUIL

Rings a bell.

They’re waiting to see what we’re going to do. Good old east. As soon as we make a move they’ll come pouring in from every side,

shouting obscure instructions, confusing us with ridiculous remarks, messing us about from here to breakfast and getting our names wrong.

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

1043

ROS starts to protest but he has hardly opened his mouth before: CLAUDIUS [off stage—with urgency]

Ho, Guildenstem!

GUIL is still prone. Small pause ROS AND GUIL

You’re wanted. . . .

GUIL furiously leaps to his feet as CLAUDIUS and GERTRUDE enter. They are in

some desperation. Friends both, go join you with some further aid: Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, and from his mother’s closet hath he dragged him. Go seek him out; speak fair and bring the body into the chapel. I pray you haste in this. [As he and GERTRUDE are hurrying out] Come Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends and let them know both what we mean to do. . . . CLAUDIUS

They’ve gone. ROS and GUIL remain quite still. Well . . . ROS Quite . . . GUIL Well, well. ROS Quite, quite. [Nods with spurious confidence] Seek him out. [Pause] Et¬ cetera. GUIL Quite. ROS Well. [Small pause] Well, that’s a step in the right direction. GUIL

GUIL

You didn’t like him?

Who? GUIL Good God, I hope more tears are shed for ws! . . . ROS Well, it’s progress, isn’t it? Something positive. Seek him out. [Looks round without moving his feet] Where does one begin . . . ? [ Takes one step towards the wings and halts] GUIL Well, that’s a step in the right direction. ROS You think so? He could be anywhere. GLIIL Ail right—you go that way, I’ll go this way. ROS Right. ROS

[They walk towards opposite wings. ROS halts.] No. [GUIL halts.] You go this way—I’ll go that way. GUIL

All right.

They march towards each other, cross. ROS halts. ROS

Wait a minute.

[GUIL halts.]

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Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act II

I think we shoidd stick together. He might be violent. GUIL Good point. I’ll come with you. GUIL marches across to ROS. They turn to leave. ROS halts.

No, I’ll come with you. GUIL Right. ROS

They turn, march across to the opposite wing. ROS halts. GUIL halts.

I’ll come with you, my way. GUIL All right. ROS

They turn again and march across. ROS halts. GUIL halts. I’ve just thought. If we both go, he could come here. That would be stupid, wouldn’t it? GUIL All right—I’ll stay, you go. ROS Right. ROS

[GUIL marches to midstage.]

I say. [GUIL wheels and carries on marching hack towards ROS, who starts marching

downstage. They cross. ROS halts.] I’ve just thought. [GUIL halts.]

We ought to stick together; he might be violent. GUIL Good point. [GUIL marches down to join ROS. They stand still for a moment in their original

positions.] Well, at last we’re getting somewhere. [Pause] Of course, he might not come. ROS [airily] Oh, he’ll come. GLTIL We’d have some explaining to do. ROS He’ll come. [Airily wanders upstage] Don’twom—take my word for it— [Looks out—is appalled] He’s coming! GUIL What’s he doing? ROS Walking. v GUIL Alone?

Act II

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Arc Dead

1045

No. GUIL Not walking? ROS No. GUIL Who’s with him? ROS The old man. GUIL Walking? ROS No. GUIL Ah. That’s an opening if ever there was one. [ And is suddenly galvanized into action] Let him walk into the trap! ROS What trap. GUIL You stand there! Don’t let him pass! ROS

He positions ROS with his back to one wing, facing HAMLET’s entrance. GUIL positions himself next to ROS, a few feet away, so that they are covering one

side of the stage, facing the opposite side. GUIL unfastens his belt. ROS does the same. They join the two belts, and hold them taut between them. ROS's trousers slide slowly down. HAMLET enters opposite, slowly, dragging POLONIES A body. He enters upstage,

makes a small arc and leaves by the same side, a few feet downstage. ROS and GUIL, holding the belts taut, stare at him in some bewilderment. HAMLET leaves, dragging the body. They relax the strain on the belts.

That was close. GUIL There’s a limit to what two people can do. ROS

They undo the belts: ROS pulls up his trousers. ROS [worriedly—he walks a few paces towards HAMLETL exit]

He was dead.

Of course he’s dead! ROS [turns to GUIL] Properly. GUIL [angrily] Death’s death, isn’t it? GUIL

[ ROS falls silent. Pause. \

Perhaps he’ll come back this way. [ROS starts to take off his belt.]

No, no, no!—if we can’t learn by experience, what else have we got? ROS desists.

Pause ROS GUIL

Give him a shout. I thought we’d been into all that.

Hamlet! GUIL Don’t be absurd. ROS [shouts] Lord Hamlet! ROS[s/mw£s]

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Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act II

[HAMLET enters. ROS is a little dismayed.]

What have you done, my lord, with the dead body? HAMLET Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin. ROS Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence and bear it to the chapel. HAMLET Do not believe it. ROS Believe what? HAMLET That I can keep your counsel and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge, what replication should be made by the son of a king? ROS Take you me for a sponge, my lord? HAMLET Ay, sir, that soaks up the King’s countenance, his rewards, his au¬ thorities. But such officers do the King best service in the end. He keeps them, like an ape, in the comer of his jaw, first mouthed, to be last swallowed. When he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you and, sponge, you shall be dry again. ROS I understand you not, my lord. HAMLET I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear. ROS My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the King. HAMLET The body is with the King, but die King is not with the body. The King is a thingGUIL A thing, my lord-? HAMLET Of nothing. Bring me to him. HAMLET moves resolutely towards one wing. They move with him, shepherding.

Just before they reach the exit, HAMLET, apparently seeing CLAUDIUS approaching from off stage, bends low in a sweeping bow. ROS and GUIL, cued by HAMLET, also bow deeply—a sweeping ceremonial bow with their cloaks swept round them. HAMLET, however, continues the movement into an about-turn and walks off in the opposite direction. ROS and GUIL, with their heads low, do not notice. No one comes on. ROS and GUIL squint upwards and find that they are bowing to nothing. CLAUDIUS enters behind them. At first words they leap up and do a double-take.

How now? What hadi befallen? ROS Where the body is bestowed, my lord, we cannot get from him. CLAUDIUS But where is he? ROS [fractional hesitation] Without, my lord; guarded to know your pleasure. CLAUDIUS [moves] Bring him before us. CLAUDIUS

This hits ROS between the eyes but only his eyes show it. Again his hesitation is fractional. And then with great deliberation he turns to GUIL. ROS

Ho! Bring in die lord.

Again there is a fractional moment in which ROS is smug, GUIL is trapped and betrayed. GUIL opens his mouth and closes it. The situation is saved: HAMLET, escorted, is marched in just as CLAUDIUS leaves. HAMLET and his ESCORT cross the stage and go out, following CLAUDIUS.

Act II

Rosenerantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

1047

Lighting changes to Exterior. ROS [moves to go]

All right, then? GUIL [does not move; thoughtfully] And yet it doesn’t seem enough; to have breathed such significance. Can that be all? And why us?—anybody would have done. And we have contributed nothing. ROS It was a trying episode while it lasted, but they’ve done with us now. GUIL Done what? ROS I don’t pretend to have understood. Frankly, I’m not very interested. If they won’t tell us, that’s their affair. [He wanders upstage towards the exit. J For my part, I’m only glad that that’s the last we’ve seen of him—[and he glances off stage and turns front, his face betraying the fact that HAMLET is there. ] GUIL I knew it wasn’t the end. . . . ROS [high] What else?! GUIL We’re taking him to England. What’s he doing?

'

ROS goes upstage and returns.

Talking. GULL To himself? ROS

[ROS makes to go, GUIL cuts him off.]

Is he alone? ROS No, he’s with a soldier. GLTIL Then he’s not talking to himself, is he? ROS Not by himself. . . . Should we go? GUIL Where? ROS Anywhere. GUIL Why? ROS puts up his head listening.

There it is again. [In anguish] All I ask is a change of ground! GUIL [coda] Give us this day our daily round. . . . ROS

HAMLET enters behind them, talking with a soldier in arms. ROS and GUIL don’t

look round. They’ll have us hanging about till we’re dead. At least. And the weather will change. [Looks up] The spring can’t last for ever. HAMLET Good sir, whose powers are these? SOLDIER They are of Norway, sir. HAMLET How purposed sir, I pray you? SOLDIER Against some part of Poland. HAMLET Who commands them, sir? SOLDIER The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras. ROS We’ll be cold. The summer won’t last. GUIL It’s autumnal. ROS [examining the ground] No leaves. GLTL Autumnal—nothing to do with leaves. It is to do with a certain brownROS

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Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act II

ness at the edges of the day. . . . Brown is creeping up on us, take my word for it. . . . Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very outside edge of the senses . . . deep shining ochres, burnt umber and parchments of baked earth— reflecting on itself and through itself, filtering the light. At such times, perhaps, coincidentally, the leaves might fall, somewhere, by repute. Yesterday was blue, like smoke. ROS [ head up, listening] I got it again then. They listen—faintest sound of TRAGEDIANS* hand. i

HAMLET

I humbly thank you, sir.

SOLDIER

God by you, sir. [Exit]

ROS gets up quickly and goes to HAMLET.

Will it please you go, my lord? HAMLET I’ll be with you straight. Go you a little before. ROS

HAMLET turns to face upstage. ROS returns down. GUIL faces front, doesn’t turn.

Is he here? ROS Yes. GUIL What’s he doing? GULL

ROS looks over his shoulder.

Talking. GUIL To himself? ROS Yes. ROS

Pause. ROS makes to leave. He said we can go. Cross my heart. GUIL I like to know where I am. Even if I don’t know where I am, I like to know that. If we go there’s no knowing. ROS No knowing what? GUIL If we’ll ever come back. ROS We don’t want to come back. GUIL That may very well be true, but do we want to go? ROS We’ll be free. GUIL I don’t know. It’s the same sky. ROS We’ve come this far. ROS

[He moves towards exit. GUIL follows him.] And besides, anything could happen yet They go. BLACKOUT

vV

Act III

Rosencrantz and Guildenstcm Are Dead

1049

Act III Opens in pitch darkness. Soft sea sounds. After several seconds of nothing, a voice from the dark . . . Are you there? ROS Where? GUIL [bitterly] A flying start. . . . GUIL

Pause Is that you? GUIL Yes. ROS How do you know? GUIL [explosion] Oh-for-God’s-sake! ROS We’re not finished, then? GULL Well, we’re here, aren’t we? ROS Are we? I can’t see a thing. GUIL You can still think, can’t you? ROS I think so. GULL You can still talk. ROS What should I say? GULL Don’t bother. You can feel, can’t you? ROS Ah! There’s life in me yet! GUIL What are you feeling? ROS A leg. Yes, it feels like my leg. GUIL How does it feel? ROS Dead. GUIL Dead? ROS [panic\ I can’t feel a thing! GUIL Give it a pinch! [Immediately he yelps. ] ROS Sorry GULL Well, that’s cleared that up. ROS

[Longer pause: the sound builds a little and identifies itself—the sea. Ship timbers, wind in the rigging, and then shouts of sailors calling obscure but inescapably nautical instructions from all directions, far and near: A short list: } Hard a larboard! Let go the stays! Reef down me hearties! Is that you, cox’n? Hel-llo! Is that you? Hard a port! Easy as she goes! Keep her steady on the lee! Haul away, lads! f Snatches of sea shanty maybe.] Fly the jib! Tops’l up, me maties!

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Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act III

When the point has been well made and more so. We’re on a boat. [Pause.] Dark, isn’t? GUIL Not for night. ROS No, not for night. GUIL Dark for day. ROS

Pause Oh yes, it’s dark for day. GUIL We must have gone north, of course. ROS Off course? GUIL Land of the midnight sun, that is. ROS Of course. ROS

[Some sailor sounds. A lantern is lit upstage—in fact by HAMLET. The stage lightens disproportionately— Enough to see: ROS and GUIL sitting downstage.

Vague shapes of rigging, etc., behind.] I think it’s getting light. GUIL Not for night. ROS This far north. GUIL Unless we’re off course. ROS [small pause] Of course. A better light—Lantern? Moon? . . . Light. Revealing, among other things, three large man-sized casks on deck, upended, with lids. Spaced but in line. Behind and above—a gaudy striped umbrella, on a pole stuck into the deck, tilted so that we do not see behind it—one of those huge six-foot-diameter jobs. Still dim upstage. ROS and GUIL still facing front. Yes, it’s lighter than it was. It’ll be night soon. This far north. [Dolefully.] I suppose we’ll have to go to sleep. [He yawns and stretches. ] GUIL Tired? ROS No ... I don’t think I’d take to it. Sleep all night, can’t see a thing all day. . . . Those eskimos must have a quiet life. GUIL Where? ROS What? GUIL I thought you-[Relapses] I’ve lost all capacity for disbelief. I’m not sure that I could even rise to a little gentle scepticism. ROS

Pause

vv

Act III

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

1051

Well, shall we stretch our legs? GUIL I don’t feel like stretching my legs. ROS I’ll stretch them for you, if you like. GUIL No. ROSS We could stretch each other’s. That way we wouldn’t have to go any¬ where. GUIL [pause] No, somebody might come in. ROS In where? GUIL Out here. ROS In out here? GUIL On deck. ROS

ROS considers the floor: slaps it.

Nice bit of planking, that. GUIL Yes, I’m very fond of boats myself. I like the way they’re—contained. You don’t have to worn about which way to go, or whether to go at all—the question doesn’t arise, because you’re on a boat, aren’t you? Boats are safe areas in the game of tag . . . the players will hold their positions until die music starts. ... I think I’ll spend most of my life on boats. ROS Very healthy. ROS

ROS inhales with expectation, exhales with boredom. GUIL stands up and looks

over the audience. GUIL One is free on a boat. For a time. Relatively. ROS What’s it like? GUIL

Rough.

ROS joins him. They look out over the audience. ROS

I think I’m going to be sick.

GLTIL licks a finger, holds it up experimentally. GUIL

Other side, I think.

[ROS goes upstage: Ideally a sort of upper deck joined to the downstage lower deck

by short steps. The umbrella being on the upper deck. ROS pauses by the umbrella and looks behind it. GUIL meanwhile has been resuming his own theme—looking out over the audience-] Free to move, speak, extemporise, and yet. We have not been cut loose. Our truancy is defined by one fixed star, and our drift represents merely a slight change of angle to it: we may seize the moment, toss it around while the moments pass, a short dash here, an exploration there, but we arc brought round full circle to face again the single immutable fact—that we, Rosencrantz and Guildcnstern, bearing a letter from one king to anodier, are taking I lamlet to England. By which time, ROS has returned, tiptoeing with great import, teeth clenched for secrecy, gets to GUIL, points surreptitiously behind him—and a tight whisper:

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Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act III

ROS I say—he’s there! GUIL [ unsurprised ] What’s he doing? ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL

Sleeping. It’s all right for him. What is? He can sleep. It’s all right for him. He’s got us now. He can sleep. It’s all done for him. He’s got us. And we’ve got nothing. [A cry.] All I ask is our common due! For those in peril on the sea. . . . Give us this day our daily cue.

Beat, pause. Sit. Long pause. ROS [after shifting, looking around]

What now?

What do you mean? ROS Well, nothing is happening. GUIL We’re on a boat. ROS I’m aware of that. GUIL [angrily] Then what do you expect? [Unhappily.] We act on scraps of information . . . sifting half-remembered directions that we can hardly separate from instinct. GULL

ROS puts a hand into his purse, then both hands behind his back, then holds his

fists out. GUIL taps one fist. ROS opens it to show a coin.

He gives it to GUIL. He puts his hand back into his purse. Then both hands behind his back, then holds his fists out. GUIL taps one. ROS opens it to show a coin. He gives it to GUIL.

Repeat. Repeat. GUIL getting tense. Desperate to lose.

Repeat. GUIL taps a hand, changes his mind, taps the other, and ROS inadvertently reveals

that he has a coin in both fists. GUIL

You had money in both hands.

Act III

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

ROS [embarrassed]

1053

Yes.

Every time? ROS Yes. GUIL What’s the point of that? ROS [pathetic] I wanted to make you happy. GUIL

Beat. GUIL ROS

How much did he give you? Who?

"Hie King. He gave us some money. ROS How much did he give you? GUIL I asked you first. ROS I got the same as you. GUIL He wouldn’t discriminate between us. ROS How much did you get? GUIL The same. ROS How do you know? GUIL You just told me—how do you know? ROS He wouldn’t discriminate between us. GUIL Even if he could. ROS Which he never could. GLTIL He couldn’t even be sure of mixing us up. ROS Without mixing us up. GUIL [turning on him furiously] Why don’t you say something original! No wonder the whole thing is so stagnant! You don’t take me up on anything—you just repeat it in a different order. ROS I can’t think of anything original. I’m only good in support. GUIL I’m sick of making the running. ROS [humbly] It must be your dominant personality. [Almost in tears] Oh, what’s going to become of us! GUIL

And GUIL comforts him, all harshness gone. GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS GUIL ROS

Don’t cry . . . it’s all right . . . there . . . there, I’ll see we’re all right. But we’ve got nothing to go on, we’re out on our own. We’re on our way to England—we’re taking Hamlet there. What for? What for? Where have you been? When? [Pause.] Wre won’t know what to do when we get there. We take him to the King. Will he be there? No—the king of England. He’s expecting us?

GUIL No. ROS He won’t know what we’re playing at. What are we going to say?

WTe’ve got a letter. You remember the letter. ROS Do I? GUIL Everything is explained in the letter. WTe count on diat. GLLL

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ROS

Act III

Is that it, then?

GUIL What? ROS We take Hamlet to the English king, we hand over the letter—what then?

'There may be something in the letter to keep us going a bit. ROS And if not? GUIL Then that’s it—we’re finished. ROS At a loose end? GUIL Yes. GUIL

Pause.

v

Are there likely to be loose ends? [Pause. ] Who is the English king? GUIL That depends on when we get there. ROS What do you think it says? GUIL Oh . . . greetings. Expressions of loyalty. Asking of favours, calling in of debts. Obscure promises balanced by vague threats. . . . Diplomacy. Regards to the family. ROS And about Hamlet? ROS

GUIL Oh yes. ROS And us—the full background? GUIL

I should say so.

Pause. So we’ve got a letter which explains everything. GUIL You’ve got it.

ROS

[ROS takes that literally. He starts to pat his pockets, etc.]

What’s the matter? ROS 'Hie letter. GUIL Have you got it? ROS [rising fearJ Have I? [Searches frantically.] Where would I have put it? GUIL You can’t have lost it. ROS I must have! GUIL That’s odd—I thought he gave it to me. ROS looks at him hopefully.

Perhaps he did. GUIL But you seemed so sure it was you who hadn’t got it. ROS ( high] It was me who hadn’t got it! GUIL But if he gave it to me there’s no reason why you should have had it in the first place, in which case I don’t see what all the fuss is about you not having it. ROS [pause] I admit it’s confusing. GUIL This is all getting rather undisciplined. . . . The boat, the night, the sense of isolation and uncertainty ... all these induce a loosening of the concentration. WTe must not lose control. Tighten up. Now. Either you have lost the letter or you ROS

Act III

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

1055

didn’t have it to lose in the first place, in which case the King never gave it to you, in which case he gave it to me, in which case I would have put it into my inside top pocket, in which case [calmly producing the letter] ... it will be . . . here.

[They smile at each other.] We mustn’t drop off like that again. Pause. ROS takes the letter gently from him. ROS Now that we have found it, why were we looking for it? GUIL [ thinks ] We thought it was lost. ROS

Something else?

GUIL

No.

Deflation. ROS GUIL

Now we’ve lost the tension. What tension?

ROS What was the last thing I said before we wandered off? GUIL When was that? ROS [helplessly]

I can’t remember.

GUIL [leaping up]

What a shambles! We’re just not getting anywhere.

ROS [mournfully] GUIL What?

Not even England. I don’t believe in it anyway.

ROS GUIL

England. Just a conspiracy of cartographers, you mean?

I mean I don’t believe it! [Calmer.] I have no image. I try to picture us arriving, a little harbour perhaps . . . roads . . . inhabitants to point the way . . . horses on the road . . . riding for a day or a fortnight and dien a palace and die English king. . . . That would be the logical kind of thing. . . . But my mind re¬ mains a blank. No. We’re slipping off the map. ROS

GUIL fies . . . yes. . . . [Rallying, j But you don’t believe anything till it hap¬ pens. And it has all happened. Hasn’t it? ROS We drift down time, clutching at straws. But what good’s a brick to a drowning man? GUIL ROS GLIIL

Don’t give up, we can’t be long now. We might as well be dead. Do you think death could possibly be a boat? No, no, no . . . Death is . . . not. Death isn’t. You take my meaning.

Death is the ultimate negative. Not-being. You can’t not-be on a boat. ROS GUIL

I’ve frequendy not been on boats. No, no, no—what you’ve been is not on boats.

ROS I wish I was dead. [Considers the drop.] I could jump over the side. That would put a spoke in their wheel. GUIL

Unless they’re counting on it.

I shall remain on board. That’ll put a spoke in their wheel, f The futility of it, fury.] All right! We don’t question, we don’t doubt. We perform. But a line ROS

must be drawn somewhere, and I would like to put it on record that I have no confidence in England. Thank you. [Thinks about this.] And even if it’s true, it’ll just be anodier shambles. GUIL

I don’t see why.

ROS [furious] to say?

He won’t know what we’re talking about.—What are we going

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Act III

We say—Your majesty, we have arrived! ROS [kinglyj And who are you? GUIL We are Rosencrantz and Guildenstem. ROS [ barks ] Never heard of you! GUIL Well, we’re nobody specialROS [regal and nasty] What’s your game? GUIL We’ve got our instructionsROS First I’ve heard of itGUIL [angry] Let me finish-[Humble.] We’ve come from Denmark. ROS What do you want? GUIL Nothing—we’re delivering HamletROS Who’s he? GUIL [irritated] You’ve heard of himROS Oh, I’ve heard of him all right and I want nothing to do with it GUIL ButROS You march in here without so much as a by-your-leave and expect me to GUIL

take in every lunatic you try to pass off with a lot of unsubstantiatedGUIL

We’ve got a letter-

ROS snatches it and tears it open. ROS [efficiently]

I see ... I see . . . well, this seems to support your story such as it is—it is an exact command from the king of Denmark, for several different reasons, importing Denmark’s health and England’s too, that on the read¬ ing of diis letter, without delayed should have Hamlet’s head cut off-! GUIL snatches the letter. ROS, double-taking, snatches it back. GUIL snatches it

halfback. They read it together, and separate. Pause. They are well downstage looking front. Hie sun’s going down. It will be dark soon. GUIL Do you diink so? ROS I was just making conversation. [Pause.] We’re his friends. GUIL How do you know? ROS From our young days brought up with him. GUIL You’ve only got their word for it. ROS But that’s what we depend on. GUIL Well, yes, and then again no. [Airily.] Let us keep diings in proportion. Assume, if you like, that they’re going to kill him. Well, he is a man, he is mortal, death comes to us all, etcetera, and consequently he would have died anyway, sooner or later. Or to look at it from the social point of view—he’s just one man among many, the loss would be well within reason and convenience. And then again, what is so terrible about death? As Socrates so philosophically put it, since we don’t know what death is, it is illogical to fear it. It might be . . . very nice. Certainly it is a release from die burden of life, and, for the godly, a haven and a reward. Or to look at it another wav—we are little- men, we don’t know the ins and outs of the matter, there are wheels within wheels, etcetera—it would be presumptuous of us to interfere with the designs of fate or even of kings. All in ROS

Act III

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

1057

all, I think we’d be well advised to leave well alone. Tie up the letter—there— neatly—like that. — I'hey won’t notice the broken seal, assuming you were in char¬ acter. But what’s the point? GUIL Don’t apply logic. ROS He’s done nothing to us. GUIL Or justice. ROS It’s awful. ROS

But it could have been worse. I was beginning to think it was. [ And his relief comes out in a laugh.] GUIL

Behind them HAMLET appears from behind the umbrella. The light has been going. Slightly. HAMLET is going to the lantern. The position as I see it, then. We, Rosencrantz and Guildenstem, from our young days brought up with him, awakened by a man standing on his saddle, are summoned, and arrive, and are instructed to glean what afflicts him and draw him on to pleasures, such as a play, which unfortunately, as it turns out, is abandoned in some confusion owing to certain nuances outside our appreciation— which, among other causes, results in, among other effects, a high, not to sav, homicidal, excitement in Hamlet, whom we, in consequence, are escorting, for his own good, to England. Good. We’re on top of it now. ROS

HAMLET blows out the lantern. The stage goes pitch black. The black resolves

itself to moonlight, by which HAMLET approaches the sleeping ROS and GUIL. He extracts the letter and takes it behind his umbrella; the light of his lantern shines through the fabric, HAMLET emerges again with a letter, and replaces it, and retires, blowing out his lantern. Morning comes. ROS watches it coming—from the auditorium. Behind him is a gay sight. Beneath

the re-tilted umbrella, reclining in a deck-chair, wrapped in a rug, reading a book, possibly smoking, sits HAMLET. ROS watches the morning come, and brighten to high noon.

I’m assuming nothing. [He stands up. GUIL wakes.] The position as I see it, then. That’s west unless we’re off course, in which case it’s night; the King gave me the same as you, the King gave you the same as me; the King never gave me the letter, the King gave you the letter, we don’t know what’s in the letter; we take Hamlet to the English king, it depending on when we get there who he is, and we hand over the letter, which may or may not have something in it to keep us going, and if not, we are finished and at a loose end, if they have loose ends. We could have done worse. I don’t think we missed any chances. . . . Not that we’re getting much help. [He sits down again. They lie down—prone.] If we stopped breathing we’d vanish. ROS

The muffled sound of a recorder. They sit up with disproportionate interest. GUIL

Here we go.

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ROS

Act III

Yes, but what?

They listen to the music. GUIL [excitedly ]

Out of the void, finally, a sound; while on a boat [admittedly] outside the action [admittedly] the perfect and absolute silence of the wet lazy slap of water against water and the rolling creak of timber—-breaks; giving rise at once to the speculation or the assumption or the hope that something is about to happen; a pipe is heard. One of the sailors has pursed his lips against a woodwind, his fingers and thumb governing, shall we say, the yentages, whereupon, giving it breath, let us say, with his mouth, it, the pipe, discourses, as the saying goes, most eloquent music. A thing like that, it could change the course of events. [Pause.] Go and see what it is. ROS It’s someone playing on a pipe. GUIL Go and find him. ROS And then what? GUIL I don’t know—request a tune. ROS What for? GUIL Quick—-before we lose our momentum. ROS Why!—something is happening. It had quite escaped my attention! He listens: Makes a stab at an exit. Listens more carefully: Changes direction. GULL takes no notice. ROS wanders about trying to decide where the music comes from. Finally he tracks

it down—unwillingly—to the middle barrel. There is no getting away from it. He turns to GUIL who takes no notice. ROS, during this whole business, never quite breaks into articulate speech. His face and his hands indicate his incredulity. He stands gazing at the middle barrel. The pipe plays on within. He kicks the barrel. The pipe stops. He leaps back toward GUIL. The pipe starts up again. He ap¬ proaches the barrel cautiously. He lifts the lid. The music is louder. He slams down the lid. The music is softer. He goes back towards GUIL. But a drum starts, muffled. He freezes. He turns. Considers the left-hand barrel. The drumming goes on within, in time to the flute. He walks back to GUIL. He opens his mouth to speak. Doesn’t make it. A lute is heard. He spins round at the third barrel. More instruments join in. Until it is quite inescapable that inside the three barrels, distributed, playing together a familiar tune which has been heard three tim,es before, are the TRAGEDIANS. They play on. ROS sits beside GUIL. They stare ahead.

The tune comes to an end. Pause. *

I thought I heard a band. [In anguish.] Plausibility is all I presume! GUIL [coda] Call us this day our daily tune. ... *

ROS

v\

The lid of the middle barrel flies open and the PLAYER’s head pops out.

Act III

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem .Are Dead

1059

Aha! .All in the same boat, then! [He climbs out. He goes round bang¬ ing on the barrels.] PLAYER

Everybody out! [Impossibly, the TRAGEDLANS climb out of the barrels. With their instruments, but not their cart. A few bundles. Except .ALFRED. The PLAYER is cheerful. ] [ To ROS] Where are we? ROS Travelling. PLAYER Of course, we haven’t got there yet. ROS .Are we ah right for England? PLAYER You look all right to me. I don’t think they’ve veiy particular in Eng¬ land. Al-l-ffed! ALFRED emerges from the PLAATER s barrel.

What are you doing here? PLAYER Travelling. [To TRAGEDIANS:] Right—blend into the background! GULL

[ The TRAGEDLANS are in costume (from the mime): A king with crown, ALFRED as Queen, Poisoner and the two cloaked figures. They blend.] [To GULL] Pleased to see us? [Pause] You’ve come out of it very well, so far. GUIL And you? PLAYER In disfavour. Our play offended the King. guil

Yes.

W/ell, lie’s a second husband himself Tactless, really. ROS It was quite a good play nevertheless. PLAA"ER W7e never really got going—it was getting quite interesting when they stopped it. PLAATER

[Looks up at ILAMLET] Tliat’s the way to travel. . . . GUIL What were you doing in there? PLAYER Hiding. [Indicating costumes. ] WTe had to run for it just as we were. ROS Stowaways. PLAATER Naturally—we didn’t get paid, owing to circumstances ever so slightly beyond our control, and all the money we had we lost betting on certainties. Life is a gamble, at terrible odds—if it was a bet you wouldn’t take it. Did you know that any number doubled is even? ROS Is it? PLAYER Wre learn something every day, to our cost. But we troupers just go on and on. Do you know what happens to old actors? ROS What? PLAYER Nothing. They’re still acting. Surprised, then? GUIL What? PLAATR Surprised to see us?

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Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act III

GUIL I knew it wasn’t the end. PLAYER With practically eveiyone on his feet. What do yon make of it, so far?

We haven’t got much to go on. PLAYER You speak to him? ROS It’s possible. GULL But it wouldn’t make any difference. ROS But it’s possible. GUIL Pointless. ROS It’s allowed. GUIL Allowed, yes. We are not restricted. No bpundaries have been defined, no inhibitions imposed. We have, for the while, secured, or blundered into, our release, for the while. Spontaneity and whim are the order of the day. Other wheels are turning but they are not our concern. We can breathe. We can relax. We can do what we like and say what we like to whomever we like, without restriction. ROS Within limits, of course. GUIL Certainly within limits. GUIL

HAMLET comes down to footlights and regards the audience. The others watch hut

don’t speak. HAMLET clears his throat noisily and spits into the audience. A split second later he claps his hand to his eye and wipes himself. He goes hack upstage. A compulsion towards philosophical introspection is his chief character¬ istic, if I may put it like that. It does not mean he is mad. It does not mean he isn’t. Very often, it does not mean anything at all. Which may or may not be a kind of madness. GUIL It really boils down to symptoms. Pregnant replies, mystic allusions, mistaken identities, arguing his father is his mother, that sort of thing; intimations of suicide, forgoing of exercise, loss of mirth, hints of claustrophobia not to say delusions of imprisonment; invocations of camels, chameleons, capons, whales, weasels, hawks, handsaws—riddles, quibbles and evasions; amnesia, paranoia, myopia; day-dreaming, hallucinations; stabbing his elders, abusing his parents, insulting his lover, and appearing hatless in public—knock-kneed, droop-stock¬ inged and sighing like a love-sick schoolboy, which at his age is coming on a bit strong. ROS And talking to himself. GUIL And talking to himself. ROS

[ROS and GUIL move apart together.]

Well, where has that got us? ROS He’s the Player. GUIL His play offended the KingROS —offended the KingGUIL —who orders his arrestROS —orders his arrestGUIL —so he escapes to England-ROS On the boat to which he meetsGUIL Guildenstem and Rosencrantz taking HamletROS —who also offended the King—— GUIL —and killed Polonius-

Act III

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

1061

—offended the King in a variety of waysGUIL —to England. [Pause. ] That seems to be it. ROS

ROS jumps up.

Incidents! All we get is incidents! Dear God, is it too much to expect a little sustained action?! ROS

And on the word, the PIRATES attack. That is to say: Noise and shouts and rushing about. rPirates. ” Everyone visible goes frantic. HAMLET draws his sword and rushes downstage. GUIL, ROS and PLAYER draw swords and rush upstage. Collision. HAMLET turns back up. They turn back down. Collision. By which tune there is general panic right upstage. All four charge upstage with ROS, GUIL and PLAYER shouting: At last! To arms! Pirates! Up there! Down there! To my sword’s length! Action! All four reach the top, see something they don’t like, waver, run for their lives downstage: HAMLET, in the lead, leaps into the left barrel. PLAYER leaps into the right barrel. ROS and GUIL leap into the middle barrel. All closing the lids after them.

The lights dim to nothing while the sound of fighting continues. The sound fades to nothing. The lights come up. The middle barrel [ROS s and OLEGS ] is missing. The lid of the right-hand barrel is raised cautiously, the heads of ROS and GUIL appear. The lid of the other barrel [ HAMLET’s] is raised. The head of the PLAYER appears. All catch sight of each other and slam down lids. Pause. Lids raised cautiously. ROS [ relief] They’ve gone. [He starts to climb out.] That was close. I’ve never thought quicker. They are all three out of barrels. GUIL is wary and nervous. ROS is light-headed. The PLAYER is phlegmatic. They note the missing barrel. ROS looks round. ROS

Wire re’s-?

The PLAYER takes off his hat in mourning.

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Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act III

Once more, alone—on our own resources. GUIL [worried] What do you mean? Where is he? PLAYER Gone. GUIL Gone where? PLAYER Yes, we were dead lucky there. If that’s the word I’m after. ROS [not a pick up] Dead? PLAYER Lucky. ROS [he means] Is he dead? PLAYER Who knows? GUIL [rattled] He’s not coming back? PLAYER Hardly. ROS He’s dead then. He’s dead as far as we’re concerned. PLAYER Or we are as far as he is. [He goes and sits on the floor to one side.] PLAYER

Not too bad, is it? GUIL [rattled] But he can’t—we’re supposed to be—we’ve got a letter—we’re going to England with a letter for the KingYes, that much seems certain. I congratulate you on the unambiguity of your situation. GUIL But you don’t understand—it contains—we’ve had our instructions-the whole thing’s pointless without him. PLAYER Pirates could happen to anyone. Just deliver the letter. They’ll send ambassadors from England to explain. . . . GUIL [worked up] Can’t you see—the pirates left us home and high—dry and home—drome-[Furiously.] 'Hie pirates left us high and dry! PLAYER [comforting] "There-.- . . GUIL [near tears] Nothing will be resolved without him. . . . PLAYER There . . . ! GUIL We need Hamlet for our release! PLAYER There! GUIL What are we supposed to do? PLAYER This. PLAYER

He turns away, lies down if he likes. ROS and GUIL apart. Saved again. GUIL Saved for what? ROS

ROS sighs.

The sun’s going down. [Pause.] It’ll be night soon. [Pause.] If that’s west. [Pause.] Unless we’veGUIL [shouts | Shut up! I’m sick of it! Do you think conversation is going to help us now? ROS

ROS [hurt, desperately ingratiating]

I—I bet you all the money I’ve got the year of my birth doubled is an odd number. GUIL [moan] No-o. ROS Yoz/r birth! GUIL smashes him down.

Act III

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

GUIL [ broken]

1063

We’ve travelled too far, and our momentum has taken over; we

move idly towards eternity, without possibility of reprieve or hope of explanation. Be happy—il you’re not even happy what’s so good about surviving? [He picks himself up.] We’ll be all right. I suppose we just go on. GUIL Go where? ROS

ROS

To England. England! That’s a dead end. I never believed in it anyway.

GUIL ROS

All we’ve got to do is make our report and that’ll be that. Surely. I don’t believe it—a shore, a harbour, say—and we get off and we stop

GUIL

someone and say—Where’s the King?—And he says, Oh, you follow that road there and take the first left and-[Furiously.} I don’t believe any of it! ROS

It doesn’t sound very plausible.

GUIL And even if we came face to face, what do we say? ROS We say—We’ve arrived! GUIL [kingly]

And who are you?

ROS We are Guildenstem and Rosencrantz. GUIL Which is which? ROS

Well, I’m—-You’re-

GUIL ROS

What’s it all about?Well, we were bringing Hamlet—but then some pirates-

GUIL I don’t begin to understand. Who are all these people, what’s it got to do with me? You turn up out of the blue with some cock and bull stoiyROS [ with letter]

We have a letter-

GUIL [snatches it, opens it]

A letter—yes—that’s true. That’s something . . .

a letter . . . [Reads.] “As England is Denmark’s faithful tributary ... as love be¬ tween them like the palm might flourish, etcetera . . . diat on the knowing of this contents, without delay of any kind, should those bearers, Rosencrantz and Guil¬ denstem, put to sudden death-”

He double-takes. ROS snatches the letter. GUIL snatches it back. ROS snatches it halfback. They read it again and look up. The PLAYER gets to his feet and walks over to his barrel and kicks it and shouts into it. PLAYER

They’ve gone! It’s all over!

One by one the PLAYERS emerge, impossibly, from the barrel, and form a casually menacing circle round ROS and GUIL, who are still appalled and mesmerised. GUIL [quietly]

Where we went wrong was getting on a boat. We can move, of

course, change direction, rattle about, but our movement is contained within a larger one that carries us along as inexorably as the wind and current. . . . ROS

They had it in for us, didn’t they? Right from the beginning. Who’d have

thought that we were so important? GUIL

But why? Was it all for this? Who are we that so much should converge

on our little deaths? [In anguish to the PLAYERJ Who are wed PLAYER GUIL

You are Rosencrantz and Guildenstem. That’s enough.

No—it is not enough. To be told so little—to such an end—and still,

finally, to be denied an explanation-

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Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act III

In our experience, most things end in death. GULL [fear, vengeance, scorn] Your experience!—Actors!

PLAYER

[He snatches a dagger from the PLAYER’s belt and holds the point at the PLAYER’s throat: the PLAYER backs and GUIL advances, speaking more quietly.] I’m talking about death—and you’ve never experienced that. And you cannot act it. You die a thousand casual deaths—with none of that intensity which squeezes out life . . . and no blood runs cold anywhere. Because even as you die you know that you will come back in a different hat. But no one gets up after death—there is no applause—there is only silence and some second-hand clothes, and that’s— death[And he pushes the blade in up to the hilt. The PLAYER stands with huge, terrible eyes, clutches at the wound as the blade withdraws: he makes small weeping sounds and falls to his knees, and then right down. While he is dying, GUIL, nervous, high, almost hysterical, wheels on the TRAGE¬ DIANS—]

If we have a destiny, then so had he—and if this is ours, then that was his—and if there are no explanations for us, then let there be none for himThe TRAGEDIANS watch the PLAYER die: they watch with some interest. The PLAYER finally lies still. A short moment of silence. Then the TRACED LAYS start to applaud with genuine admiration. The PLAYER stands up, brushing himself down. PLAYER [modestly]

Oh, come, come, gentlemen—no flattery—it was merely

competentThe TRAGEDIANS are still congratulating him. The PLAYER approaches GUIL, who stands rooted, holding the dagger. What did you think? [Pause.] You see, it is the kind they do believe in—it’s what is expected. PLAYER

[He holds his hand out for the dagger. GUIL slowly puts the point of the dagger on to the player’s hand, and pushes . . . the blade slides back into the handle. The PLAYER smiles, reclaims the dagger.] For a moment you thought I’d—cheated. ROS relieves his own tension with loud nervy laughter.

Oh, very good! Very good! Took me in completely—didn’t he take you in completely—[claps his hands.] Encore! Encore! PLAYER [activated, arms spread, the professional\ Deaths for all ages and oc¬ casions! Deaths by suspension, convulsion, consumption, incision, execution, asphyxiation and malnutrition—! Climactic carnage, by poison and by steel—! Double deaths by duel!—! Show!— ROS

Act III

Rosencrantz and Guildenstem Are Dead

1065

[ALFRED, still in his Queens costume, dies by poison: the PLAYER, with rapier,

kills the "KING” and duels with a fourth TRAGEDIAN, inflicting and receiving a wound. The two remaining TRAGEDLANS, the two "SPIES” dressed in the same coats as ROS and GUIL, are stabbed, as before. And the light is fading over the deaths which take place right upstage. ]

[Dying amid the dying—tragically; romantically.] So there’s an end to that—it’s commonplace: light goes with life, and in the winter of your years the dark comes early. . . . GLTIL [tired, drained, but still an edge of impatience; over the mime]

No . . . no . . . not for us, not like that. Dying is not romantic, and death is not a game which will soon be over . . . Death is not anything . . . death is not . . . It’s the absence of presence, nothing more . . . the endless time of never coming back ... a gap you can’t see, and when the wind blows through it, it makes no sound. . . .

The light has gone upstage. Only GUIL and ROS are visible as ROS’s clapping falters to silence. Small pause. ROS

That’s it, then, is it?

[No answer. He looks out front.] The sun’s going down. Or the earth’s coming up, as the fashionable theory has it. [ Small pause. ] Not that it makes any difference. [Pause.] What was it all about? When did it begin? [Pause. No answer. ] Couldn’t we just stay put? I mean no one is going to come on and drag us off. . . . They’ll just have to wait. WVre still young . . . fit . . . we’ve got years. . . . [Pause. No answer.] [A cry.] We’ve done nothing wrong! Wre didn’t harm anyone. Did we? GUIL I can’t remember. ROS pulls himself together. ROS

relieved.

All right, then. I don’t care. I’ve had enough. To tell you the truth, I’m

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Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

Act III

And he disappears from view. GUIL does not notice. Our names shouted in a certain dawn ... a message ... a summons . . . There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said—no. But somehow we missed it. [He looks round and sees he is alone.] GUIL

Rosen—? Guil—? [He gathers himself.] y

Well, we’ll know better next time. Now you see me, now you—[and disappears]. Immediately the whole stage is lit up, revealing, upstage, arranged in the ap¬ proximate positions last held by the dead TRAGEDIANS, the tableau of court and corpses which is the last scene of Hamlet. That is: The KING, QUEEN, LAERTES and HAMLET all dead. HORATIO holds HAM¬ LET, FORTINBRAS is there. So are two AMBASSADORS from England. The sight is dismal; and our affairs from England come too late. The ears are senseless that should give us hearing to tell him his commandment is fulfilled, that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Where should we have our thanks? HORATIO Not from his mouth, had it the ability of life to thank you: He never gave commandment for then death. But since, so jump upon this bloody question, you from the Polack wars, and you from England, are here arrived, give order that these bodies high on a stage be placed to the view; and let me speak to the yet unknowing world how these things came about: so shall you hear of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, of accidental judgments, casual slaughters, of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause, and, in this upshot, purposes mistook fallen on the inventors’ heads: all this can I truly deliver. AMBASSADOR

But during the above speech, the play fades out, overtaken by dark and music.

Questions 1. Guildenstern has several alternate explanations for the behavior of the coins. Relate each explanation to the play as a whole.

Rosencrantz and Guildcnstem Are Dead

1067

2. Look at the end of the first act. What does the playwright do just before the curtain to make his dramatic actions suitable for interruption? 3. A messenger who is offstage, whom we never see, is responsible for the action of the play. Do messengers in earlier plays perform a similar function? Are there other characters, not precisely messengers, whose function resembles a messenger’s function? 4. In stage directions, Hamlet spits at the audience and then wipes his own eye. What has happened? What does this farcical bit of stage business imply? 5. When Rosencrantz cannot remember his own name, he repeats an old mo¬ ment of theatrical farce. Why is this joke a staple of low comedy? Does Stop¬ pard’s use of it mean amdhing more profound? 6. Why do Hamlet and Ophelia not speak in dieir first scene in diis play? When Stoppard writes stage directions for diis scene, he uses an archaic language. Is the language appropriate to the dumb show described? Can the prose style of this stage direction be interpreted by a director in his direction? 7. When the player greets Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as fellow artists, does his mistake seem significant? If so, why? 8. Comment on these lines: a. We didn’t come all this way for a christening. b. Give us this day our daily . . . c. Words, words. Hiat’s all we have to go on.

9. Guildenstern plays Hamlet when he and Rosencrantz are rehearsing for their meeting with the prince. Could you argue that this play proposes that every¬ body is Hamlet? Explain. 10. In an interview, Stoppard once said: “I write plays because dialogue is the most respectable way of contradicting myself.” Is there anything inherently dramatic about contradicting oneself? 11. On page 1006, the player describes theater. Look at what he says. Does Ro¬ sencrantz use die theater as a symbol or an analogy to all human life? Is there a consistent view of theater in this play? Give your reasons. 12. The player tells us about an actor who was really hanged onstage but the hanging was theatrically unconvincing. Comment. 13. On learning diat they are delivering Hamlet to his deadi, Guildenstern im¬ provises a series of excuses for continuing on die murderous errand. Does this moral equivocation remind you of Tartuffe? Why? Does it make the play a satire? Why? 14. How does diis play differ in its script from a realistic play? Do stage directions make nonrealistic suggestions? Is the dialogue nonrealistic? 15. Find two or three pages to stage—indicating costumes, makeup, lighting, blocking, sound effects—in a nonrealistic fashion. 16. In several speeches, Claudius mixes up Shakespeare’s language. How do you know without looking back at the original? 17. In Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead the play within a play—which we watch in rehearsal and hear in the Players’ summary—differs from the play within a play in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. How does it differ and why? 18. The critic Clive James wrote: “The mainstream of Rosencrantz and Guilden¬ stern Are Dead is the perception—surely a compassionate one—that the fact of their deaths mattering so little to Hamlet was something that ought to have mattered to Shakespeare.” When people do not like Rosencrantz and Guilden-

1068

Nonrealistic Modem Drama, Theater of the Absurd, and Tom Stoppard

stern Are Dead, they call it cold, artificial, shallow, without feeling. Do you agree with these critics or with Clive James? Why? 19. Compare the final scenes in Shakespeare and Stoppard. 20. Do Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have a chance to avoid their fate? If so, how? 21. Critics have noticed a connection between this play and T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Pruffock” (pages 625-628). Read the poem and com¬ ment.

Plays for Further Reading

1070

Plays for Further Reading

William Shakespeare and Othello After Shakespeare finished Hamlet he probably next wrote his dark comedy Measure for Measure. Then his tragic imagination traveled south, and he wrote about the Moor of Venice in Othello—the tale of a heroic black soldier who loves and marries a Venetian maiden. (To review the background of Elizabethan theater and Shakespearean tragedy, see pages 800—803.) The two tragedies differ greatly. Prince Hamlet is inward, a brooding young man given to selfanalysis; the stage is dark with ghosts and portents. General Othello is vigor¬ ous, outward, generous, brave, apparently less complex than the Dane, and the play turns on real objects in a clear light—like a lady’s handkerchief. Yet both plays are tragedies of love and jealousy, and readers have found similarities in the murderous poison that starts the action of Hamlet and the figurative poison of Iago’s malice in Othello.

William Shakespeare

Othello, The Moor of Venice Dramatis Personae OTItELLO, the Moor B RAH ANTI O, father to Desdemona

LODOYICO and GRATLANO, two noble

Venetians

CASSIO, an honorable lieutenant

SAILORS

LAGO, a villain

CLOWN

RODERIGO, a gulled gentleman

DESDEMONA, wife to Othello

DUKE OL VENICE

EMILLA, wife to Iago

SENATORS

BLANCA, a courtesan

MONTANO, Governor of Cyprus

[MESSENGER, HERALD, OFFICERS,

GENTLEMEN OF CYPRUS

GENTLEMEN, MUSICLANS, ATTENDANTS]

Scene: Venice and Cyprus

Act I,

Scene I. [Venice. A street.]

Tush! Never tell me? I take it much unkindly That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this. LAGO Sblood, but you’ll not hear me! If ever I did dream Of such a matter, abhor me. RODERIGO Thou told’st me Thou didst hold him in thy hate. IAGO Despise me If I do not. Three great ones of the city, In personal suit to make me his lieutenant, Off-capped1 to him; and, by the faith of man, I know my price; I am worth no worse a place. But he, as loving his own pride and purposes, Evades them with a bombast circumstance,' I Iorribly stuffed with epithets of war; Nonsuits'3 my mediators. For, “Certes,” says he, “I have already chose my officer.” And what was he? RODERIGO

10

This text of Othello, edited by Alvin Neman, is based on that of the First Folio, or large collection, of Shakespeare’s plays (1623). However, there are many differences between the Folio text and that of the play’s first printing in the Quarto, or small volume, of 1621 (eighteen or nineteen years after the play’s first performance). Some readings from the Quarto are included. Some material has been added by the editor (some indications of scene, some stage directions). Such additions are enclosed in brackets. Alvin Neman’s text and notes were prepared for the edition of Othello in the Signet Classic Shakespeare series (New York: New American Library, 1963), under the general editorship of Sylvan Barnet. Footnotes that gloss or translate a single word are in roman type. When the explanation covers more than one word, the relevant passage in Shakespeare precedes the explanation, in italic type.

1 doffed their caps—as a mark of respect

'bombast circumstance stuffed, roundabout speech

^rejects

1071

1072

Act I, Scene I

Plays for Further Reading

Forsooth, a great arithmetician,1 One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, (A fellow almost damned in a fair wife)' That never set a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a battle knows More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric, Wherein the tongued3 consuls can propose As masterly as he. Mere prattle without practice Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had th’ election; And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds Christian and heathen, must be belee’d and calmed By debitor and creditor. This counter-caster,4 He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, And I—God bless the mark!—-his Moorship’s ancient.5 RODERIGO By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman. IAGO Why, there’s no remedy. Tis the curse of sendee: Preferment goes by letter and affection,6 And not by old gradation,' where each second Stood heir to th’ first. Now, sir, be judge yourself, Whether I in any just term am affined8 To love the Moor. RODERIGO I would not follow him then. IAGO O, sir, content you. I follow him to senre my turn upon him. We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly followed. You shall mark Many a duteous and knee-crooking'9 knave That, doting on his own obsequious bondage, Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass, For naught but provender; and when he’s old, cashiered. Whip me such honest knaves! Others there are Who, trimmed in forms and visages of duty, Keep yet then hearts attending on themselves, And, throwing but shows of sendee on their lords, Do well thrive by them, and when they have lined their coats, Do themselves homage. These fellows have some soul; And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir, It is as sure as you are Roderigo, Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago. In following him, I follow but myself. Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,

20

25

30

35

40

45

so

55

1 theorist (rather than practical)

~A... wife (a much-disputed passage, probably best taken as

a general sneer at Cassio as a dandy and a ladies’ man. But in the story from which Shakespeare took his plot the counterpart of Cassio is married, aiid it may be that at the beginning of the play Shakespeare had decided to keep him married but later changed his mind)

3 eloquent

caster i.e., a bookkeeper who casts (reckons up) figures on a counter (abacus) an under-officer erence

4counter -

Standard-bearer;

hletter and affection recommendations (from men of power) and personal pref¬

' old gradation seniority

Yound

Towing

Act I, Scene I

William Shakespeare • Othello

1073

But seeming so, for my peculiar1 end; For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native' act and figure of my heart 60

In complement extern,3 ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at; I am not what I am. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe4 If he can carry’t dius!

RODERIGO

Call up her father,

IAGO

Rouse him. Make after him, poison his delight,

65

Proclaim him in the streets, incense her kinsmen, And though he in a fertile climate dwell, '

Plague him with flies; though that his joy be joy, Yet throw such chances of vexation on’t

70

As it may lose some color. RODERIGO LAGO

Here is her father’s house. I’ll call aloud.

Do, with like timorous0 accent and dire yell

As when, by night and negligence, the fire Is spied in populous cities. 75

RODERIGO LAGO

What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Ilrabantio, ho!

Awake! What, ho, Brabantio! Thieves! Thieves!

Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags! Thieves! Thieves! BRABANTIO above' [at a window]. BRABANTIO

so

What is the reason of this terrible summons?

Wdiat is the matter there? RODERIGO LAGO

Signior, is all your family within?

Are your doors locked? Why, wherefore ask you this?

BRABANTIO LAGO

Zounds, sir, y’are robbed! For shame. Put on your gown!

Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul. 85

Even now, now, very now, an old black ram Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise! Awake the snorting citizens with die bell, Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you. Arise, I say! BRABANTIO

90

RODERIGO

Wliat, have you lost your wits? Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

BRABANTIO

Not I. What are you?

RODERIGO

Mv name is Roderigo.

BRABANTIO

The worser welcome!

I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors. In honest plainness thou hast heard me say 95

My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness, Being full of supper and distemp’ring draughts/

'personal

'natural, innate

’'complement extern outward appearance

'own

°frightening

/i.e., on the small upper stage above and to the rear of the main platform stage, which resembled the projecting upper stow of an Elizabethan house)

‘distemp’ring draughts unsettling drinks

1074

100

105

no

ns

iso

125

130

135

Upon malicious knavery dost thou come To start1 my quiet. RODERIGO Sir, sir, sir— BRABANTIO But thou must needs be sure My spirits and my place8 have in their power To make this bitter to thee. RODERIGO Patience, good sir. BRABANTIO What tell’st thou me of robbing? This is Venice, My house is not a grange.3 RODERIGO Most grave Brabantio* In simple and pure soul I come to you. IAGO Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not sene God if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you sendee and you think we are ruffians, you’ll have your daughter covered with a Barbary4 horse, you’ll have your nephews5 neigh to you, you’ll have coursers for cousins,6 and gennets for gennans.' BRABANTIO What profane wretch art thou? IAGO I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are making the beast with two backs. BRABANTIO Thou art a villain. IAGO You are—a senator. BRABANTIO This thou shaft answer. I know thee, Roderigo. RODERIGO Sir, I will answer anything. But I beseech you, Ift be your pleasure and most wise consent, As partly I find it is, that your fair daughter, At this odd-even8 and dull watch o’ th’ night, Transported, with no worse nor better guard But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier, To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor— If this be known to you, and your allowance, We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs; But if you know not this, my manners tell me We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe That from the sense of all civility9 I thus would play and trifle with your reverence. Your daughter, if you have not given her leave, I say again, hath made a gross revolt, Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes In an extravagant10 and wheeling stranger Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself. If she be in her chamber, or your house, Let loose on me the justice of the state For thus deluding you. BRABANTIO Strike on the tinder, ho! Give me a taper! Call up all my people!

1 disrupt

sons

Act I, Scene I

Plays for Further Reading

Yank, i.e., of senator

Gelations

isolated house

4 Arabian, i.e., Moorish

‘gennets for germans Spanish horses for blood relatives

5i.e., grand¬

ffietween night

and morning 0sense of all civility feeling of what is proper ’ 10vagrant, wandering (Othello is not Venetian and thus may be considered a wandering soldier of fortune)

Act I, Scene I

140

145

iso

William Shakespeare • Othello

This accident1 is not unlike my dream. Belief of it oppresses me already. Light, I say! Light! L4GO Farewell, for I must leave you. It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place, To be produced—as, if I stay, I shall— Against the Moor. For I do know the State, However diis may gall him with some check,2 Cannot with safety cast3 him; for he’s embarked With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars, Which even now stands in act,4 that for their souls Another of his fathom0 they have none • To lead their business; in which regard, Though I do hate him as I do hell-pains, Yet, for necessity of present life, I must show out a flag and sign of love, Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him, Lead to the Sagittary6 that raised search: And there will I be with him. So farewell.

1075

Exit [ above ]

[Exit.]

Enter BRABANTIO [in his nightgown], with Servants and torches. It is too true an evil. Gone she is; And what’s to come of my despised time Is naught but bitterness. Now, Roderigo, Where didst thou see her?—O unhappy girl!— With the Moor, sav’st thou?—Who would be a father?— How didst thou know ’twas she?—O, she deceives me Past thought!—What said she to you? Get moe' tapers! Raise all my kindred!—Are diey married, think you? RODERIGO Truly I diink they are. BRABANTIO O heaven! How got she out? O treason of the blood! Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’ minds By what you see them act. 3 Is there not charms By which the property'’ of youth and maidhood May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo, Of some such thing? RODERIGO Yes, sir, I have indeed. BRABANTIO Call up my brother.—O, would you had had her!— Some one way, some another.—Do you know Where we may apprehend her and the Moor? RODERIGO I think I can discover him, if you please To get good guard and go along with me. BRABANTIO Pray you lead on. At every house I’ll call; I may command at most.—Get weapons, ho! Mid raise some special officers of night.— On, good Roderigo; I will deserve your pains.10 BRABANTIO

155

160

165

170

175

happening

^restraint

name of an inn)

"more

your efforts

^dismiss Kdo

4stands in act takes place

‘’true nature

°ability

[Exeunt.) (>( probably the

10deserve your pains be worthy of (and reward)

1076

Act I, Scene II

Plays for Further Reading

Scene II. [A street.] Enter OTHELLO, IAGO, ATTENDANTS with torches. Though in the trade of war I have slain men, Yet do I hold it very stuff1 o’ th’ conscience To do no contrived murder. I lack iniquity Sometime to do me sendee. Nine or ten times I had thought t’ have yerked2 him here, under the ribs. OTHELLO Tis better as it is. L4GO Nay, but he prated, And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms Against your honor, that with the little godliness I have I did full hard forbear him. But I pray you, sir, Are you fast married? Be assured of this, That the magnifico3 is much beloved, And hath in his effect a voice potential As double as the Duke’s.4 He will divorce you, Or put upon you what restraint or grievance The law, with all his might to enforce it on, Will give him cable.5 OTHELLO Let him do his spite. My sendees which I have done the Signiory6 Shall out-tongue his complaints. His yet to know'— Which when I know that boasting is an honor I shall promulgate—I fetch my life and being From men of royal siege,3 and my demerits9 May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune As this that I have reached.10 For know, Iago, But that I love the gentle Desdemona, I would not my unhoused11 free condition Put into circumscription and confine For the seas’ worth. But look, what lights come yond? IAGO

5

10

is

20

25

Enter CASSIO, with [OFFICERS and] torches. Those are the raised father and his friends. You were best go in. OTHELLO Not I. I must be found. My parts, my tide, and my perfect soul12 Shall manifest me righdy. Is it they? IAGO By Janus, I think no: OTHELLO The servants of the Duke? And my lieutenant? The goodness of the night upon you, friends. What is the news? CASSIO Hie Duke does greet you, general; L4GO

30

35

Essence °range, scope

'stabbed

^nobleman

(’the rulers of Venice

4hath . . . Duke’s i. e., can be as effective as the Duke 'yet to know unknown as yet

. . . reached i.e., are the equal of the family I have married into soul clear, unflawed conscience

Yank

9deserts

]1unconfmed

10May 12perfect

Act I, Scene II

40

45

50

William Shakespeare • Othello

And he requires your haste-posthaste appearance Even on the instant. OTIIELLO What is the matter, think you? CASSIO Something from Cyprus, as I may divine It is a business of some heat. The galleys Have sent a dozen sequent1 messengers This very night at one anodier’s heels, And many of the consuls, raised and met, Are at the Duke’s already. You have been hotly called for. When, being not at your lodging to be found, The Senate hath sent about three several' quests To search you out. OTHELLO Tis well I am found by you. I will but spend a word here in the house, And go with you. CASSIO Ancient, what makes he here? L\GO Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land carack.3 If it prove lawful prize, he’s made forever. CASSIO I do not understand. LAGO

1077

[Exit. ]

He’s married.

To who?

CASSIO

[ Enter OTHELLO. ] IAGO

Many',1 to—Come captain, will you go? Have with you. Here comes another troop to seek for you.

OTIIELLO CASSIO

Enter BRABANTIO, RODLRIGO, with OLLICERS and torches. It is Brabantio. General, be advised. He comes to bad intent. OTIIELLO Holla! Stand there! RODLRIGO Signior, it is the Moor. BRABANTIO Down with him, thief! [ They draw swords.) L\GO You, Roderigo? Come, sir, I am for you. OTIIELLO Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. Good signior, you shall more command with years Than with your weapons. BRABANTIO O thou foul thief, where hast thou stowed my daughter? Damned as thou art, thou hast enchanted her! For I’ll refer me to all things of sense, ’’ If she in chains of magic were not bound, Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy, So opposite to marriage that she shunned Hie wealthy, curied darlings of our nation, Would ever have, t’incur a general mock,3 Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom IAGO

55

60

65

Successive

Separate

Measure ship

refer . . . sense i.e., hgeneral mock public shame

4 By Maw (an inteijection)

base (my argument) on all ordinary understanding of nature

1078

Act I, Scene III

Plays for Further Reading

70

Of such a tiling as thou—to fear, not to delight. Judge me the world iftis not gross in sense1 That thou hast practiced' on her with foul charms, Abused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals That weaken motion. 3 I’ll have’t disputed oh;

75

Tis probable, and palpable to thinking.

so

85

90

95

I therefore apprehend and do attach4 thee For an abuser of the world, a practicer Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.5 Lay hold upon him. If he do resist, Subdue him at his peril. OTHELLO I Iold your hands, Both you of my inclining and die rest. Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it Without a prompter. Whither will you that I go To answer this your charge? BRABANTIO To prison, till ht time Of law and course of direct session Call thee to answer. OTHELLO What if I do obey? How may the Duke be therewith satisfied, Whose messengers are here about my side Upon some present6 business of the state To bring me to him? OFFICER ’ Pis tmev most worthy signior. The Duke’s in council, and your noble self I am sure is sent for. BRABANTIO How? ’File Duke in council? In this time of the night? Bring him away. Mine’s not an idle cause. The Duke himself, Or any of my brothers/ of the state, Cannot but feel this wrong as ’twere their own; For if such actions may have passage free, Bondslaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.

Exeunt.

Scene III. [A council chamber.] Enter DUKE, SENATORS, and OFFICERS [set at a table, with lights and ATTEND¬ ANTS],

There’s no composition6 in this news That gives them credit.6 FIRST SENATOR Indeed, they are disproportioned. My letters say a hundred and seven galleys. DUKE And mine a hundred forty. SECOND SENATOR And mine two hundred. DUKE

1 gross in sense obvious

'used tricks

Thought, i.e., reason

prohibited and illegal (black magic) '’immediate 6gives them credit makes them believable

* 4arrest

'"inhibited.. .warrant

'i.e., the other senators

Agreement

Act I, Scene III

5

10

William Shakespeare • Othello

1079

But though they jump1 not on a just accompt2— As in these cases where the aim3 reports Tis oft with difference—yet do diey all confirm A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus. DUKE Nay, it is possible enough to judgment.4 I do not so secure me in die error, But the main article I do approve In fearful sense.0 SAILOR [ Within] What, ho! What, ho! What, ho! Enter SAILOR. OFFICER

A messenger from the galleys.

Now? What’s the business? SAILOR The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes, So was I bid report here to the State By Signior Angelo. DUKE How say you by this change? FIRST SENATOR This cannot be By no assay of reason. Tis a pageant6 To keep us in false gaze.' When we consider Th’ importancy of Cyprus to the Turk, And let ourselves again but understand That, as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes, So may he with more facile question8 bear it, For that it stands not in such warlike brace,9 But altogether lacks th’ abilities That Rhodes is dressed in. If we make thought of this, We must not think the Turk is so unskillful To leave that latest which concerns him first, Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain To wake and wage a danger profitless. DUKE Nay, in all confidence he’s not for Rhodes. OFFICER Here is more news. DUKE

is

20

25

30

Enter a MESSENGER. The Ottomites, reverend and gracious, Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes, Have there injointed them with an after10 fleet FIRST SENATOR Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess? MESSENGER Of thirty sail; and now they do restem Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano, Your trusty and most valiant senator, With his free duty11 recommends1' you thus, MESSENGER

35

40

'agree sidered

'just accompt exact counting

Approximation

4 to judgment when carefully con¬

°I do . . . sense i.e., just because the numbers disagree in the reports, I do not doubt

that the principal information (that the Turkish fleet is out) is fearfully true ‘ in false gaze looking the wrong way posture”

'Hollowing

8facile question easy struggle

11 free duty unlimited respect

''informs

‘'show, pretense

'warlike brace “military

1080

Plays for Further Reading

Act I, Scene III

And prays you to believe him. DUKB ’Tis certain then for Cyprus. Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town? FIRST SENATOR He’s now in Florence. DUKE Write from us to him; post-posthaste‘dispatch. FIRST SENATOR Here conies Brabantio and die valiant Moor.

45

Enter BRABANTIO, OTHEELO, CASSIO, LAGO, RODERIGO, and OFFICERS. Valiant Othello, we must straight1 employ you Against the general' enemy Ottoman. [To BRABANTIO] I did not see you. Welcome, gende signior. We lacked your counsel and your help tonight. BRABANTIO So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me. Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Hath raised me from my bed; nor doth the general care Take hold on me; for my particular grief Is of so floodgate and o’erbearing nature Tliat it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself. DIKE Why, what’s the matter? BRABANTIO Mv daughter! O, my daughter! SENATORS Dead? BRABANTIO Ay, to me. She is abused, stol’n from me, and corrupted By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks; For nature so prepost’rously to err, Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense, Sans3 witchcraft could not. DUKE Whoe’er he be that in this foul proceeding Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself, And you of her, the bloody book of law You shall yourself read in the bitter letter After your own sense; yea, though our proper4 son Stood in your action.5 BRABANTIO Humbly I thank your Grace. Here is the man—this Moor, whom now, it seems, Your special mandate for the state affairs Plath hither brought. ALL We are very sorry for’t. DUKE [To OTIIELLO] What in your own part can you say to this? BRABANTIO Nothing, but this is so. OTIIELLO Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved6 good masters, That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, It is most true; true I have married her. The very head and front' of my offending DUKE

50

55

60

65

70

75

so

at once suit

“universal

'without

own

Vested, proven by past performance

*Stood in your action were the accused in your ‘head and front extreme form (front = forehead)

Act I, Scene III

85

90

95

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105

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120

William Shakespeare • Othello

1081

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace. For since these arms of mine had seven years’ pith1 Till now some nine moons wasted,2 they have used Their dearest3 action in the tented field; And little of this great world can I speak More than pertains to feats of broils and batde; And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round4 unvarnished tale deliver Of my whole course of love—what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic, For such proceeding I am charged withal, I won his daughter— BRABANTIO A maiden never bold, Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion Blushed at herself, 0 and she, in spite of nature, Of years, of country, credit, everything, To fall in love with what she feared to look on! It is a judgment maimed and most imperfect That will confess perfection so could err Against all rules of nature, and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell Why this should be. I therefore vouch again That with some mixtures pow’rful o’er the blood, Or with some dram, conjured to this effect, He wrought upon her. DUKE To vouch this is no proof, Without more wider and more overt test Than these thin habits'’ and poor likelihoods Of modem' seeming do prefer against him. FIRST SENATOR But, Othello, speak. Did you by indirect and forced courses Subdue and poison this young maid’s affections? Or came it by request, and such fair question8 As soul to soul affordeth? OTHELLO I do beseech you, Send for die lady to the Sagittary And let her speak of me before her fadier. If you do find me foul in her report, The trust, the office, I do hold of you Not only take away, but let your sentence Even fall upon my life. DUKE Fetch Desdemona hither. OTHELLO Ancient, conduct them; you best know the place. [Exit I AGO, with two or three ATTENDANTS. ]

‘strength

'past

3most important

4blnnt

°her motion/Blushed at herself i.e., she was

so modest that she blushed at every thought (and movement)

6elothing

Trivial

,sdiscussion

1082

125

iso

135

140

145

iso

155

160

165

Act I, Scene III

Plays for Further Reading

And till she come, as truly as to heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I’ll present How I did thrive in this fair lady’s love, And she in mine. DUKE Say it, Othello. OTHELLO Her father loved me; oft invited me; Still1 questioned me the stoiy of my life From year to year, the battle, sieges, fortune That I have passed. I ran it through, even from my boyish days To th’ very moment that he bade me tell it. Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of hairbreadth scapes i’ th’ imminent' deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence And portance3 in my travel’s history, Wherein of anters4 vast and deserts idle,5 Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak. Such was my process. And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi,3 and men whose heads Grew beneath their shoulders. These tilings to hear Would Desdemona seriously.incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence; Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, She’d come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse. Which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,' Whereof by parcels she had something heard. But not intentivelv.3 I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of kisses. She swore in faith ’twas strange, ’twas passing9 strange; Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful. She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man. She thanked me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake. She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her that she did pity them.

hegularly 1 relate in full

'threatening Tnanner of acting 4caves 8at length and in sequence Surpassing

°empty, sterile

maneaters

Act I, Scene III

William Shakespeare • Othello

1083

This only is the witchcraft I have used. Here comes the lady. Let her witness it. Enter DESDEMONA, LAGO, ATTENDANTS. 170

175

iso

185

190

195

200

205

DUKE I think this tale would win my daughter too. Good Brabantio, take up this mangled matter at the best.1 Men do their broken weapons rather use Than their bare hands. BRABANTIO I pray you hear her speak. If she confess that she was half the wooer, Destruction on my head if my bad blame Light on the man. Come hither, gentie mistress. • Do you perceive in all this noble company Where most you owe obedience? DESDEMONA Mv noble father, I do perceive here a divided duty, To you I am bound for life and education; My life and education both do learn me How to respect you. You are the lord of duty, I am hitherto your daughter. But here’s my husband, And so much duty as my mother showed To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge' that I may profess Due to the Moor my lord. BRABANTIO God be with you. I have done. Please it your Grace, on to the state affairs. I had rather to adopt a child than get3 it. Come hither, Moor. I here do give thee that with all my heart Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee. For your sake,4 jewel, I am glad at soul I have no other child, For thy escape would teach me tyranny, To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord. DUKE Let me speak like yourself and lay a sentence0 Which, as a grise3 or step, may help these lovers. When remedies are past, die griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.' To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is die next3 way to draw new mischief on. What cannot be preserved when fortune takes, Patience her injury a mock’ry makes. The robbed diat smiles, steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless5' grief. BRABANTIO So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile: WTe lose it not so long as we can smile.

xtake . . . best i.e., make the best of this disaster sake because of you

Claim as right

°lay a sentence provide a maxim

supported by hope (of a better outcome) until lately

6step

3beget

4For your

' late on hopes depended was

Closest, surest

valueless

1084

210

215

220

225

230

He bears the sentence well that nothing bears But the free comfort which from thence he hears; But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow That to pay grief must of poor patience borrow. These sentences, to sugar, or to gall, Being strong on both sides, are equivocal. But words are words. I never yet did hear That the bruised heart was pierced1 through the ear. I humbly beseech you, proceed to th’ affairs of state. DUKE The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude2 of the place is best known to you; and' though we have there a substitute3 of most allowed sufficiency,4 yet opinion, a more sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer voice on you.5 You must therefore be content to slubber6 die gloss of your new fortunes with this more stubborn and boisterous' expedition. OTHELLO The tyrant Custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven8 bed of down. I do agnize9 A natural and prompt alacrity I find in hardness and do undertake These present wars against the Ottomites. Most humbly, therefore, bending to your state, I crave fit disposition for my wife, Due reference of place, and exhibition,10 With such accommodation and besort As levels with11 her breeding. DUKE Why, at her father’s. BRABANTIO

235

240

245

Act I, Scene III

Plays for Further Reading

I will not have it so.

Nor I. DESDEMONA Nor would I there reside, To put my father in impatient thoughts By being in his eye. Most gracious Duke, To my unfolding12 lend your prosperous13 ear, And let me find a charter14 in your voice, T assist my simpleness. DUKE What would you, Desdemona? DESDEMONA That I love the Moor to live with him, My downright violence, and storm of fortunes, May trumpet to the world. My heart’s subdued Even to the very quality of my lord.15 OTHELLO

'(some editors emend to pieced, i.e., “healed.” But pierced makes good sense: Brabantio is saying in effect that his heart cannot be further hurt [pierced] by the indignity of the useless, conventional advice the Duke offers him. Pierced can also mean, however, “lanced” in the medical sense, and would then mean “treated”) knowledged capability

2fortification

3viceroy

0opinion . . . you i. e., the, general opinion, which finally controls affairs,

is that you would be the best man in this situation and violent ^explanation

4most allowed sufficiency generallv ac¬

8i.e., softest

13favoring

9know in myself 14permission

'besmear

‘ stubborn and boisterous rough

10grant of funds

11 levels with is suitable to

loMy . . . lord i.e., I have become one in nature and

being with the man I married (therefore, I too would go to the wars like a soldier)

Act I, Scene III

250

255

260

265

270

275

280

285

William Shakespeare • Othello

1085

I saw Othello’s visage in his mind, And to his honors and his valiant parts Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. So that, dear lords, if I be left behind, A moth of peace, and he go to the war, The rites1 for why I love him are bereft me, And I a heavy interim shall support By his dear absence. Let me go with him. OTHELLO Let her have your voice.2 Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not To please the palate of my appetite, Nor to comply with heat3—the young affects4 In me defunct—and proper satisfaction;5 But to be free and bounteous to her mind; And heaven defend'’ your good souls that you think I will your serious and great business scant When she is with me. No, when light-winged toys Of feathered Cupid seel' with wanton8 dullness My speculative and officed instrument,9 That my disports corrupt and taint my business, Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, And all indign10 and base adversities Make head11 against my estimation!12— DUKE Be it as you shall privately determine, Either for her stay or going. Ill’ affair cries haste, And speed must answer it. FIRST SENATOR You must away tonight. OTHELLO With all my heart. DUKE At nine i’ th’ morning here we’ll meet again. Othello, leave some officer behind, And he shall our commission bring to you, And such things else of quality and respect As doth import you. OTHELLO So please your grace, my ancient; A man he is of honesty and trust. To his conveyance I assign my wife, With what else needful your good grace shall think To be sent after me. DUKE Let it be so. Good night to every one. [To BRABANTIO] And, noble signior, If virtue no delighted13 beauty lack, Your son-in-law is far more fair than black. FIRST SENATOR Adieu, brave Moor. Use Desdemona well. BRABANTIO Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see: She has deceived her father, and may thee.

’fmay refer either to the marriage rites or to the rites, formalities, of war)

2consent

4passions

°proper satisfaction i.e., consummation of the marriage

dascivious

9speculative . . . instrument i.e., sight (and, by extension, the mind)

11 Make head form an army, i.e., attack

1 deputation

1 Delightful

'’forbid

3lust 'sew up

10unworthy

1086

Act I, Scene III

Plays for Further Reading

[.Exeunt DUKE, SENATORS, OFFICERS, etc.] My life upon her faith! Honest Iago, Mv Desdemona must I leave to thee. I prithee let thy wife attend on her, And bring them after in the best advantage.1 Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour Of love, of worldly matter, and direction To spend with thee. We must obey the time.

OTHELLO j

290

Exit [MOOR with DESDEMONA]. 295

Iago? IAGO What say’st thou, noble heart? RODERIGO What will I do, think’st thou? IAGO Why, go to bed and sleep.

RODERIGO

RODERIGO 300

305

3io

315

320

325

I will incontinently8 drown myself.

If thou dost, I shall never love thee after. Why, thou silly gentleman? RODERIGO It is silliness to live when to live is torment; and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician. IAGO O villainous! I have looked upon the world for four times seven years, and since I could distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I would say f would drown myself for the love of a guinea hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon. RODERIGO What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so fond, but it is not in my virtue3 to amend it. IAGO Virtue? A fig! Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners; so that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract4 it with many—either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry—why, the power and corrigible5 authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensualitv, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposfrous conclusions.6 But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal sting or unbitted' lusts, whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect or scion.8 RODERIGO It cannot be. IAGO It is merely a lust of die blood and a permission of'dre will. Come, be a man! Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies! I have professed me thy friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable tough¬ ness. I could never better stead6 thee than now. Put money in thy purse. Follow thou the wars; defeat thy favor10 with an usurped11 beard. I say, put money in fnv purse. It cannot be long that Desdemona should continue her love to the Moor. Put money in thy purse. Nor he his to her. It was a violent commence¬ ment in her and thou shalt see an answerable18 sequestration—put but money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills—fill thy purse with L4GO

opportunity '^corrective

2at once

()ends

vor disguise your face

'^strength (Roderigo is saying that his nature controls him)

Ve., uncontrolled 11assumed

Hsect or scion off-shtoot

12similar

Verve

Nary

10defeat thy fa¬

Act I, Scene III

330

335

340

345

350

355

360

365

370

William Shakespeare • Othello

1087

money. The food that to him now is as luscious as locusts1 shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. ' She must change for youth; when she is sated with his body, she will find the errors of her choice. Therefore, put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all die money thou canst. If sanctimony3 and a frail vow betwixt an erring4 barbarian and supersubde Venetian be not too hard for my wits, and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her. Therefore, make money. A pox of drowning thyself, it is clean out of the way. Seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing5 thy joy than to be drowned and go without her. RODERIGO Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on the issue? IAGO Thou art sure of me. Go, make money. I have told thee often, and I retell thee again and again, I hate the Moor. My cause is hearted;6 thine hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive' in our revenge against him. If thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are manv events in die womb of time, which will be delivered. Traverse, go, provide thy money! We will have more of this tomorrow. Adieu. RODERIGO Where shall we meet f th’ morning? IAGO At niv lodging. RODERIGO I’ll be with thee betimes. IAGO Go to, farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo? RODERIGO I’ll sell all my land. Exit. IAGO Thus do I ever make niv fool niv purse; For I mine own gained knowledge8 should profane If I would time expend with such snipe But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor, And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my sheets H’as done my office. I know not if t be true, But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, Will do, as if for surety.9 He holds me well; The better shall my purpose work on him. Cassio’s a proper10 man. Let me see now: To get his place, and to plume up my will11 In double knavery How? How? Let’s see. After some time, to abuse Othello’s ears That he is too familiar with his wife. He hath a person and a smoodi dispose12 To be suspected—framed13 to make women false. The Moor is of a free and open nature "That thinks men honest that but seem to be so; And will as tenderly be led by th’ nose As asses are. I have’t! It is engendered! Hell and night Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light. [Exit. ]

!a sweet fruit hvandering

"a purgative derived from a bitter apple

°encompassing, achieving

edge i.e., practical, worldly wisdom

3sacred bond (of marriage)

''deepseated in the heart 'certainty

1‘handsome

'joined

Hgained knowl¬

11 plume up my will (manv

explanations have been offered for this crucial line, which in Q, reads “make up my will.” The general sense is something like “to make more proud and gratify my ego”)

1 'manner

1 'designed

1088

Act II, Scene I

Plays for Further Reading

Act II,

Scene I. [Cyprus.] Enter MONTANO and two GENTLEMEN [one aboveJ.1

What from the cape can you discern at sea? FIRST GENTLEMAN Nothing at all, it is a high-wrought flood. I cannot ’twixt the heaven and the main Descry a sail. MONTANO Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land; A fuller blast ne’er shook our battlements. If it hath mffianed so upon the sea, What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them, Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this? SECOND GENTLEMAN A segregation2 of the Turkish fleet. For do but stand upon the foaming shore, The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds; The wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous main,3 Seems to cast water on the burning Bear Aid quench the guards of th’ ever-fixed pole.4 I never did like molestation view On the enchafed flood. MONTANO If that the Turkish fleet Be not ensheltered and embayed, they are drowned; It is impossible to bear it out. MONTANO

5

10

15

Enter a [third] GENTLEMAN. 20

25

30

35

News, lads! Our wars are done. The desperate tempest hath so banged the Turks That their designment halts. A noble ship of Venice Hath seen a grievous wrack and sufferance0 On most part of their fleet. MONTANO IIow? Is this true? THIRD GENTLEMAN The ship is here put in, A Veronesa; Michael Cassio, Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello, Is come on shore; the Moor himself at sea, Aid is in full commission here for Cyprus. MONTANO I am glad on’t. Tis a worthy governor. THIRD GENTLEMAN But this same Cassio, th ough he speak of comfort Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly And prays the Moor be safe, for they were parted With foul and violent tempest. MONTANO Pray heavens he be; For I have served him, and the man commands Like a full soldier. Let’s to the seaside, ho! THIRD GENTLEMAN

1(the Folio arrangement of this scene requires that the First Gentleman stand above—on the upper stage—and act as a lookout reporting sights which cannot be seen by Montano standing below on the main stage)

Reparation

Toth “ocean” and “strength”

4Seems . . . pole (the

constellation Ursa Minor contains two stars which are the guards, or companions, of the pole, or North Star)

’damage

Act II, Scene I

40

William Shakespeare • Othello

1089

As well to see the vessel that’s come in As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello, Even till we make the main and th’ aerial blue An indistinct regard.1 THIRD GENTLEMAN Come, let’s do so; For eveiy minute is expectancy Of more arrivancie.2 Enter CASSIO. Thanks, you the valiant of the warlike isle, That so approve3 the Moor. O, let the heavens Give him defense against the elements, For I have lost him on a dangerous sea. MONTANO Is he well shipped? CASSIO His bark is stoutly timbered, and his pilot Of very expert and approved allowance;4 Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,5 Stand in bold cure.3 (Within: A sail, a sail, a sail!) CASSIO What noise? FIRST GENTLEMAN The town is empty; on the brow o’ th’ sea Stand ranks of people, and they cry, “A sail!” CASSIO My hopes do shape him for the governor. SECOND GENTLEMAN They do discharge their shot of courtesy: Our friends at least. CASSIO

45

so

55

CASSIO

[A shot. J

I pray you, sir, go forth

Mid give us truth who ’tis that is arrived. SECOND GENTLEMAN

60

I shall.

[Exit.}

But, good lieutenant, is your general wived? CASSIO Most fortunately. He hath achieved a maid. That paragons' description and wild fame;8 One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,9 And in th’ essential vesture of creation10 Does tire the ingener.11

MONTANO

Enter [ Second] GENTLEMAN. 65

70

How now? Who has put in? SECOND GENTLEMAN Tis one Iago, ancient to the general. CASSIO I I’as had most favorable and happy speed: Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds, The guttered12 rocks and congregated13 sands, Traitors ensteeped14 to enclog the guiltless keel, As having senseln of beauty, do omit

xthe main . . . regard i.e., the sea and sky become indistinguishable perhaps, “are as warlike and valiant as your governor”

of praising pens

'exceeds

8 wild fame extravagant report

3“honor” or,

4approved allowance known and tested

°not surfeited to death i.e., not so great as to be in danger to be restored

8arrivals

'’Stand in bold cure i.e., are likely 4quirks of blazoning pens ingenuities

10essential vesture of creation essential human nature as given by the Creator

11 tire the ingener a difficult line that probably means something like “outdo the human ability to

imagine and picture”

12jagged

’ ^gathered

14subinerged

loawareness

1090

Act II, Scene I

Plays for Further Reading

Their mortal1 natures, letting go safely by The divine Desdemona. MONTANO What is she? CASSIO She that I spake of, our great captain’s captain, Left in the conduct of the bold Iago, Whose footing2 here anticipates our thoughts A se’nnight’s3 speed. Great Jove, Othello guard, And swell his sail with thine own pow’rful breath, That he may bless this bay with his tall4 ship, Make love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms, Give renewed fire to our extincted spirits.

75

so

Enter DESDEMONA, IAGO, RODER1GO, and EMILIA.

85

90

95

ioo

105

O, behold! The riches of the ship is come on shore! You men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. [Kneeling. \ Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven, Before, behind thee, and on eveiy hand, Enwheel thee round. DESDEMONA I thank you, valiant Cassio. What tidings can you tell of my lord? CASSIO He is not yet arrived, nor know I aught But that he’s well and will be shortly here. DESDEMONA O but I fear. I low lost you company? CASSIO "Hie great contention of sea and slues Parted our fellowship. (Within: A sail, a sail!) [A shot.] But hark. A sail! SECOND GENTLEMAN They give this greeting to the citadel; This likewise is a friend. CASSIO See for the news. [Exit GENTLEMAN.] Good ancient, you are welcome. [To EMILL\] Welcome, mistress. Let it not gall your patience, good Iago, That I extend5 my manners. Tis my breeding0 That gives me this bold show of courtesy. (Kisses EMILIA.] IAGO Sir, would she give you so much of her lips As of her tongue she oft bestows on me, You would have enough. DESDEMONA Alas, she has no speech. IAGO In faith, too much. I find it still when I have leave to sleep.' Marry, before your ladyship,5 I grant. She puts her tongue a little in her heart And chides with thinking. EMILIA You have little cause to say so.

1 deadly

handing

Meek’s

Grave

0stretch

°careful training in manners (Cassio is

considerably more the polished gentleman than Iago, and aware of it) when she allows me to sleep she continues to scold "’models (of virtue)

‘still . . . sleep i.e., even

8before your ladyship in your presence

Act II, Scene I

William Shakespeare • Othello

1091

Come on, come on! Yon are pictures'* out of door, Bells in your parlors, wildcats in your kitchens, Saints in your injuries,1 devils being offended, Players in your housewiferyand housewives in your beds. DESDEMONA O, he upon thee, slanderer! L\GO Nav, it is true, or else I am a Turk: You rise to play, and go to bed to work. EMILIA You shall not write my praise. LAGO No, let me not. DESDEMONA What wouldst write of me, if thou shouldst praise me? L\GO O gentle lady, do not put me to’t. For I am nothing if not critical. IAGO

no

115

DESDEMONA IAGO

120

125

130

135

Come on, assay. There’s one gone to the harbor?

Av, madam.

DESDEMONA [Aside]

I am not merry; but I do beguile The thing I am by seeming otherwise.— Come, how wouldst thou praise me? LAGO I am about it; but indeed my invention Comes from my pate as birdlime3 does from frieze4— It plucks out brains and all. But my Muse labors, And thus she is delivered: If she be fair0 and wise: fairness and wit, The one’s for use, the other useth it. DESDEMONA Well praised. How if she be black5 and witty? IAGO If she be black, and thereto have a wit, She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit. DESDEMONA Worse and worse! EMILIA How if fair and foolish? LVGO She never yet was foolish that was fair, For even her folly helped her to an heir. Those are old fond' paradoxes to make fools laugh i’ tlf alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that’s foul and foolish? IAGO There’s none so foul, and foolish thereunto, But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do. DESDEMONA O heavy ignorance. Thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed—one that in the authority of her merit did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself?8 L\GO She that was ever fair, and never proud; Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud; Never lacked gold, and yet went never gav; Fled from her wish, and yet said “Now I may”; She that being angered, her revenge being nigh, Bade her wrong stay, and her displeasure fly; DESDEMONA

140

145

'in your injuries when you injure others

This word can mean “careful, economical household

management,” and Iago would then be accusing women of only pretending to be good housekeepers, while in bed they are either f 1 ] economical of their favors, or more likely [ 2 ] serious and dedicated workers ioned

3a sticky substance put on branches to catch birds brunette

'foolish

Tough cloth

Tight-complex -

sone . . . itself i.e., a woman so honest and deserving that even

malice would be forced to approve of her

1092

150

155

160

165

170

Act II, Scene I

Plays for Further Reading

She that in wisdom never was so frail To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail;1 She that could think, and nev’r disclose her mind; See suitors following, and not look behind: She was a wight2 (if ever such wights were}— DESDEMONA To do what? IAGO To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.3 DESDEMONA O most lame and impotent conclusion. Do not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband. How say you, Cassio? Is he not a most profane and liberal4 counselor? CASSIO He speaks home,5 madam. You may relish him more in*' the soldier than in the scholar. [Takes DESDEMONA’s hand.] IAGO [Aside] He takes her by the palm. Ay, well said, whisper! With as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do! I will gyve' thee in thine own courtship.—You say true; ’tis so, indeed!—If such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kissed your three Ungers so oft—which now again you are most apt to play the sir8 in. Very good! Well kissed! An excellent curtsy!9 Tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your lips? Would they were clyster pipes10 for your sake! [Trumpets within.] The Moor! I know his trumpet.11 CASSIO Tis truly so. DESDEMONA

Eet’s meet him and receive him.

Lo, where he comes. OTHELLO O my fair warrior! DESDEMONA My dear Othello. OTHELLO It gives me wonder great as my content To see you here before me. O my soul’s joy! If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have wakened death. And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas Olvmpusdiigh, and duck again as low As hell’s from heaven. If it were now to die, Twere now to be most happy; for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate. DESDEMONA The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow. OTHELLO Amen to that, sweet powers! I cannot speak enough of this content: It stops me here [touches his heart]; ft is too much of joy. Aid this, and this, the greatest discords be Hiat e’er our hearts shall make! CASSIO

175

iso

185

]To . . . tail i.e., to exchange something valuable for something useless

[ They kiss. ]

2person

3chronicle

small beer i.e., keep household accounts (the most trivial of occupations in Iago’s opinion) licentious as tubes

hind

°speaks home thrusts deeply with his speech ,sthe sir the fashionable gentleman

6relish him more in enjoy him more

"(courtesy, i.e., bow

uhis trumpet (great men had their own distinctive calls)

1(1clyster pipes enema

Act II, Scene I

William Shakespeare • Othello

1093

IAGO [Aside]

0, you are well tuned now! But I’ll set down the pegs1 that make this music, As honest as I am.

OTHELLO

195

200

Come, let us to the castle. News, friends! Our wars are done; die Turks are drowned. How does my old acquaintance of diis isle? Ilonev, you shall be well desired in Cyprus; I have found great love amongst diem. O my sweet, I pratde out of fashion, and I dote In mine own comforts. I prithee, good Iago, Go to the bay and disembark my coffers. Bring thou the master to the citadel; He is a good one and his worthiness Does challenge' much respect. Come, Desdemona, Once more well met at Cyprus.

Exit OTHELLO and DESDEMONA [and all but IAGO and RODERIGO], LAGO [To an ATTENDANT]

205

210

215

220

225

Do thou meet me presently at the harbor. [To ROD¬ ERIGO] Come hither. If thou be’st valiant (as they say base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them), list me. The lieutenant tonight watches on the court of guard.3 First, I must tell thee this: Desdemona is direcdv in love with him. RODERIGO With him? Why, Tis not possible. IAGO Tav thy finger thus [puts his finger to his lips], and let dry soul be instructed. Mark me with what violence she first loved the Moor but for bragging and telling her fantastical lies. To love him still for prating? Let not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed. And what delight shall she have to look on the devil? When the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there should be a game4 to inflame it and to give satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favor,5 sympathy in years,manners, and beauties; all which the Moor is defective in. Now for want of these required conveniences,7 her delicate tenderness will find itself abused, begin to heave the gorge,8 disrelish and abhor the Moor. Verv nature will instruct her in it and compel her to some second choice. Now sir, this granted—as it is a most pregnant4 and unforced position—who stands so eminent in the degree of this fortune as Cassio does? A knave very voluble; no further conscionable11’ than in putting on the mere form of civil and humane11 seeming for the better compass of his salt1' and most hidden loose13 affection. Why, none! Why, none! A slipper14 and subtle knave, a finder of occasion, that has an eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never present itself. A devilish knave. Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites in him that folly and green minds look after. A pestilent complete knave, and the woman hath found him already. RODERIGO I cannot believe that in her; she’s full of most blessed condition. LAGO Blessed fig’s-end! The wine she drinks is made of grapes. If she had been

1 set down the pegs loosen the strings (to produce discord) guard guardhouse ance

'require, exact

4sport (with the added sense of “gamey,” “rank”)

"sympathy in years sameness of age

'advantages

3court of

“countenance, appear¬

sheave the gorge vomit

"likely

1094

230

235

240

245

blessed, she would never have loved the Moor. Blessed pudding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? Didst not mark that? RODERIGO Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesy. IAGO Lechery, by this hand! [Extends his index finger] An index1 and obscure prologue to die history of lust and foul thoughts. They met so near with their lips that their breaths embraced together. Villainous thoughts, Roderigo. Wien these mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes the master and main exercise, tlT incorporate2 conclusion: Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me. I have brought you from Venice. Watch you tonight; for the command, I’ll lay’t upon vou. Cassio knows you not. I’ll not be far from vou. Do you find some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or tainting3 his discipline, or from what other course you please which the time shall more favorably minister. RODERIGO Well. IAGO Sir, he’s rash and very sudden in choler,4 and haply may strike at you. Provoke him that he may; for even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to mutiny, whose qualification shall come into no true taste0 again but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by the means I shall then have to prefer them; and the impediment most profitably removed without the which there were no expectation of our prosperity. RODERIGO

250

255

260

265

270

Act II, Scene I

Plays for Further Reading

I will do this if you can bring it to any opportunity.

I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel. I must fetch his neces¬ saries ashore. Farewell. RODERIGO Adieu. Exit. L\GO That Cassio loves her, I do well believe’t; That she loves him, ’tis apt and of great credit. The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, Is of a constant, loving, noble nature, And I dare think he’ll prove to Desdemona A most dear6 husband. Now I do love her too; Not out of absolute' lust, though peradventure8 I stand accountant for as great a sin, But partly led to diet9 my revenge, For that I do suspect the lusty Moor Hath leaped into my seat; the thought whereof Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards; And nothing can or shall content my soul Till I am evened with him, wife for wife. Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor At least into a jealousy so strong That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do, If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trace10 For his quick hunting, stand the putting on, I’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip, Abuse him to the Moor in the right garb11 IAGO

'pointer

Yamal

^discrediting

4anger

° qualification ... taste i.e., appeasement will not

be brought about (wine was “qualified” by adding water) absolutely out of

,sperchance

feed

6expensive

‘out of absolute

10(most editors emend to “trash,” meaning to hang

weights on a dog to slow his hunting: but “trace” clearly means something like “put on the trace” or “set on the track”

11 right garb i.e., “proper fashion”

Act II, Scene III

275

William Shakespeare

Othello

(For I fear Cassio with my nightcap too), Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me For niciking him egregiously an ass And practicing upon1 his peace and quiet, Even to madness. ’Tis here, but yet confused: Knavery’s plain face is never seen till used.

1095

Exit.

Scene IF [A street.] Enter OTHELLO’S HERALD, with a proclamation.

It is Othello’s pleasure, our noble and valiant general, that upon certain tidings now arrived importing the mere perdition' of the Turkish fleet, everv man put himself into triumph. Some to dance, some to make bonfires, each man to what sport and revels his addition8 leads him. For, besides these beneficial news, it is the celebration of his nuptial. So much was his pleasure should be proclaimed. AH offices4 are open, and there is full liberty of feasting from this present hour of five till the bell have told eleven. Bless the isle of Cyprus and our noble general Othello! Exit.

HEILALD

5

Scene III. [ The citadel of Cyprus.] Enter OTHELLO, DESDEMONA, CASSIO, and ATTENDANTS.

Good Michael, look you to the guard tonight. Let’s teach ourselves that honorable stop, Not to outsport direction. CASSIO Iago hath discretion what to do; But notwithstanding, with mv personal eye Will I look to’t. OTHELLO Iago is most honest. Michael, good night. Tomorrow with your earliest Let me have speech with you. [To DESDEMONA] Come, my dear love, The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue. That profit’s yet to come ’tween me and you. Good night. Exit [OTHELLO with DESDEMONA and ATTENDANTS]. OTHELLO

5

10

Enter LAGO.

Welcome, Iago. We must to the watch. LAGO Not this hour, lieutenant; ’tis not yet ten o’ th’ clock. Our general cast5 us thus early for the love of his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame. He hath not yet made wanton the night with her, and she is sport for Jove. CASSIO She’s a most exquisite lady. LAGO And, I’ll warrant her, full of game. CASSIO Indeed, she’s a most fresh and delicate creature. LAGO What an eye she has! Methinks it sounds a parley to provocation. CASSIO An inviting eve; and yet methinks right modest. CASSIO

is

20

1practicing upon scheming to destroy. 4kitchens and storerooms of food

° dismissed

'mere perdition absolute destruction

Tank

1096

Act II, Scene III

Plays for Further Reading

And when she speaks, is it not an alarum1 to love? CASSIO She is indeed perfection. IAGO Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I have a stoup' of wine, and here without are a brace of Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to the healdi of black Othello. CASSIO Not tonight, good Iago. I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking; I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment. IAGO O they are our friends. But one cup! I’ll drink for you. IAGO

25

CASSIO 30

I have drunk but one tonight, and that was craftily qualified3 too; and

behold what innovation it makes here. I am unfortunate in the infirmitv and dare not task my weakness with any more.

What, man! Tis a night of revels, the gallants desire it. CASSIO Where are they? IAGO Here, at the door. I pray you call them in. CASSIO I’ll do’t, but it dislikes me. IAGO If I can fasten but one cup upon him With that which he hath drunk tonight already, He’ll be as full of quarrel and offense As my young mistress’ dog. Now, my sick fool Roderigo, Whom love hath turned almost the wrong side out, To Desdemona hath tonight caroused Potations pottle-deep;4 and he’s to watch. Three else5 of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits, That hold their honors in a wary distance,6 The very elements of diis warlike isle, Have I tonight flustered with flowing cups, And they watch too. Now, ’mongst this flock of drunkards And I to put our Cassio in some action That may offend the isle. But here they come. IAGO

35

40

45

Exit.

Enter CASSIO, MONTANO, and GENTLEMEN.

so

55

60

If consequence do but approve my dream My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream. CASSIO ’Fore God, they have given me a rouse' already. MONTANO Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I am a soldier. IAGO Some wine, ho! [ Sings J And let me the canakin clink, clink; And let me the canakin clink. A soldier’s a man; O man’s life’s but a span. Why then, let a soldier drink. Some wine, boys! CASSIO ’Fore God, an excellent song! IAGO I learned it in England, where indeed they are most potent in potting. Your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied8 Hollander—Drink, ho!—are nothing to your English. She call to action, “general quarters”

2two-quart tankard

3 diluted

4to the bottom of the

cup °others 6hold . . . distance are scrupulous in maintaining their honor 8pendulous-bellied

'drink

Act II, Scene III

65

70

75

80

85

90

95

William Shakespeare • Othello

1097

Is your Englishman so exquisite1 in his drinking? IAGO Why, he drinks you with facility your Dane dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit ere the next pottle can be filled. CASSIO To the health of our general! MONTANO I am for it, lieutenant, and I’ll do you justice. LAGO O sweet England! [Sings ] King Stephen was and a worthy peer; His breeches cost him but a crown; He held diem sixpence all too dear, With that he called the tailor lown.2 He was a wight of high renown, And thou art but of low degree: Tis pride that pulls die country down; And take thine auld cloak about thee. Some wine, ho! CASSIO ’Fore God, this is a more exquisite song than the odier. LAGO Will you heard again? CASSIO No, for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that does those things. Well, God’s above all; and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved. LAGO It’s true, good lieutenant. CASSIO For mine own part—no offense to the general, nor any man of quality— I hope to be saved. LAGO And so do I too, lieutenant. CASSIO Ay, but, by your leave, not before me. The lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let’s have no more of this; let’s to our affairs.—God forgive us our sins!—Gendemen, let’s look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk. Hiis is my ancient; this is my right hand, and this is my left. I am not drunk now. I can stand well enough, and I speak well enough. GENTLEMEN Excellent well! CASSIO Why, very well then. You must not think then that 1 am drunk. CASSIO

Exit. To th’ platform, masters. Come, let’s set the watch. LAGO You see this fellow that is gone before. He’s a soldier fit to stand by Caesar And give direction; and do but see his vice. Tis to his virtue a just equinox, '1 The one as long as th’ other. Tis pity of him. I fear the trust Othello puts him in, On some odd time of his infirmity, Will shake this island. MONTANO But is he often thus? LAGO Tis evermore his prologue to his sleep: He’ll watch the horologe a double set4 If drink rock not his cradle. MONTANO

loo

105

1superb

2lout

‘’just equinox exact balance (of dark and light)

twice around the clock

J watch . . . set stay awake

1098

Act II, Scene III

Plays for Further Reading

It were well The general were put in mind of it. Perhaps he sees it not, or his good nature Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio And looks not on his evils. Is not this true?

MONTANO

no

Enter RODERIGO. IAGO (Aside ]

ns

120

How now, Roderigo? I pray you after the lieutenant, go! MONTANO And ’tis great pity that the noble Moor * Should hazard such a place as his own second With one of an ingraft1 infirmity. It were an honest action to say so To the Moor. IAGO Not I, for this fair island! I do love Cassio well and would do much To cure him of this evil. But hark! What noise?

[Exit RODERIGO.]

(Help! Help! Within.)

Enter CASSIO, pursuing RODERIGO. Zounds, you rogue! You rascal! MONTANO What’s the matter, lieutenant? CASSIO A knave teach me my duty? I’ll beat the knave into a twiggen2 bottle. RODERIGO Beat me? CASSIO Dost thou prate, rogue? [Strikes him.] MONTANO Nay, good lieutenant! I pray you, sir, hold your hand. CASSIO

125

[Stays him.] Let me go, sir, or I’ll knock you o’er the mazzard.3 MONTANO Come, come, you’re drunk! CASSIO Drunk? [They fight.] IAGO [Aside to RODERIGO] Away, I say! Go out and cry a mutiny! CASSIO

130

[Exit RODERIGO]

135

Nay, good lieutenant. God’s will, gentlemen! Help, ho! Lieutenant. Sir. Montano. Help, masters! Here’s a goodly watch indeed! Who’s that which rings the bell? Diablo, ho! ’Hie town will rise. God’s will, lieutenant, You’ll be ashamed forever.

[A bell rung.]

Enter OTHELLO and ATTENDANTS. What is the matter here? MONTANO Zounds, I bleed still. I am hurt to the death. He dies. „ [He and CASSIO fight again.] OTHELLO Hold for your lives! L\GO Hold, ho! Lieutenant. Sir. Montano. Gentlemen! OTHELLO

140

1 ingrained

2wicker-covered

Mead

Act II, Scene III

145

iso

155

160

170

175

iso

185

1099

I lave you forgot all place of sense and duty? Hold! The general speaks to you. Hold, for shame! OTHELLO Why, how now, ho? From whence ariseth this? Are we turned Turks, and to ourselves do that Which heaven hath forbid die Ottomites?1 For Christian shame put by this barbarous brawl! He that stirs next to carve for his own rage Holds his soul light;' he dies upon his motion, Silence that dreadful bell! It frights die isle From her propriety. ' What is the matter, masters? Honest Iago, that looks dead with grieving, Speak. Who began this? On thy love, I charge thee. IAGO I do not know. Friends all, but now, even now, In quarter4 and in terms like bride and groom Devesting them for bed; and then, but now— As if some planet had unwitted men— Swords out, and tilting one at other’s breasts In opposition bloody. I cannot speak Any beginning to this peevish odds,n And would in action glorious I had lost These legs that brought me to a part of it! OTIIELLO How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot? CASSIO

165

William Shakespeare • Othello

I pray you pardon me; I cannot speak.

Worthy Montano, you were wont to be civil; Thy gravity and stillness of your vouth Hie world hath noted, and your name is great In mouths of wisest censure.0 What’s the matter That you unlace' your reputation thus And spend your rich opinion8 for the name Of a night-brawler? Give me answer to it. MONTANO Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger. Your officer, Iago, can inform you. While I spare speech, which something now offends0 me, Of all that I do know; nor know I aught By me that’s said or done amiss this night, Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice, And to defend ourselves it be a sin When violence assails us. OTHELLO Now, by heaven, My blood begins my safer guides to rule, And passion, having my best judgment collied,10 Assays to lead the way. If I once stir Or do but lift this arm, the best of you Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know I low this foul rout began, who set it on; OTIIELLO

1 heaven . . . Ottomites i. e., by sending the storm which dispersed the Turks light values his soul lightly

°quarrel

'’judgment

'undo (the term refers specifically to the dressing of a wild boar killed in the hunt)

deputation

‘harms, hurts

1 Harkened

^proper order

4In quarter on duty

'Holds his soul

1100

190

Plays for Further Reading

And he that is approved in this offense, Though he had twinned with me, both at a birth, Shall lose me. What? In a town of war Yet wild, the people’s hearts brimful of fear, To manage1 private and domestic quarrel? In night, and on the count and guard of safety? Tis monstrous. Iago, who began’t? MONTANO

195

200

205

210

215

220

Act II, Scene III

If partially affined, or leagued in office, ~

Thou dost deliver more or less than truth, Thou art no soldier. IAGO Touch me not so near. I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth Than it should do offense to Michael Cassio. Yet I persuade myself to speak die truth Shall nothing wrong him. This it is, general. Montano and myself being in speech, There comes a fellow cxying out for help, And Cassio following him with determined sword To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman Steps in to Cassio and entreats his pause. Myself the crying fellow did pursue, Lest by his clamor—as it so fell out— The town might fall in fright, fie, swift of foot, Outran my purpose; and I returned then rather For that I heard the clink and fall of swords, And Cassio high in oath; which till tonight I ne’er might say before. When I came back— For this was brief—I found them close together At blow and thrust, even as again they were When you yourself did part them. More of this matter cannot I report; But men are men; the best sometimes forget. Though Cassio did some lithe wrong to him, As men in rage strike those that wish them best, Yet surely Cassio I believe received From him that fled some strange indignity, Which patience could not pass.3 OTHELLO I know, Iago, Thy honesty and love doth mince4 this matter, Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee; But never more be officer of mine. Enter DESDEMONA, attended.

225

Look if my gentle love be not raised up. I’ll make thee an example. DESDEMONA What is the matter, dear? OTHELLO All’s well, sweeting; come away to bed.

Conduct (of Cassio)

'If. . . office if you are partial because you are related (“affined”) or the brother officer 3allow to pass

Cut up (i.e., tell only part of).

Act II, Scene III

William Shakespeare • Othello

1101

[To MONTANO] Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon.

Lead him off. [ MONTANO led off. ]

230

Iago, look with care about the town .And silence dtose whom this vile brawl distracted. Come, Desdemona: ’tis the soldiers’ life To have their balmy slumbers waked with strife. Exit [with all but L\GO and CASSIO].

What, are you hurt, lieutenant? CASSIO Ay, past all surgery. L\GO Marry, God forbid! IAGO

235

Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation. L\GO As I am an honest man, I had thought you had received some bodily wound. There is more sense1 in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition,' oft got without merit and lost without deserving. You have lost no reputation at all unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man, there are more ways to recover the general again. You are but now cast in his mood'’—a punishment more in policy4 than in malice—even so as one would beat his offenseless dog to affright an imperious lion. Sue to him again, and lie’s yours. CASSIO I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk! And speak parrot!’’ .And squabble! Swagger! Sweat! and discourse fustian1’ with one’s own shadow! O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call diee devil! IAGO What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he done to you? CASSIO I know not. IAGO Is’t possible? CASSIO I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly: a quarrel, but noth¬ ing wherefore. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause transform ourselves into beasts! L\GO Why, but you are now well enough. How came you thus recovered? CASSIO It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the devil wrath. One unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself. IAGO Come, you arc too severe a moraler. As the time, the place, and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not befall’n; but since it is as it is, mend it for your own good. CASSIO I will ask him for my place again: he shall tell me I am a drunkard. I lad I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! () strange! Even7 inordinate cup is unblest, and the ingredient is a devil. CASSIO

240

245

250

255

260

265

270

’physical feeling

'’external thing

policy politically necessary

'“’cast in his mood dismissed because of his anger

Dspeak parrot gabble without sense

nonsense (“fustian” was a coarse cotton cloth used for stuffing)

4in

discourse fustian speak

1102

Act II, Scene III

Plays for Further Reading

Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well used. Ex¬ claim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you. CASSIO I have well approved it, sir. I drunk? IAGO You or any man living may be drunk at a time, man. I tell you what you shall do. Our general’s wife is now the general. 1 may say so in this respect, for all he hath devoted and given up himself to the contemplation, mark, and devotement of her parts1 and graces. Confess yourself freely to her; importune her help to put you in your place again. She is of so free, so land, so apt, so blessed a disposition she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested. This broken joint between you and her,,husband entreat her to splin¬ ter;2 and my fortunes against any lav3 worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before. CASSIO You advise me well. IAGO

275

280

IAGO 285

I protest, in the sincerity of love and honest kindness.

CASSIO

I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will beseech the virtuous

Desdemona to undertake for me. I am desperate of my fortunes if they check4 me.

You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant; I must to the watch. CASSIO Good night, honest Iago. IAGO

Exit CASSIO. 290

295

300

305

310

And what’s he then that says I play the villain, When this advice is free0 I give, and honest, Probal to0 thinking, and indeed the course To win the Moor again? For ’tis most easy Th’ inclining' Desdemona to subdue In any honest suit; she’s framed as fruitful8 As the free elements.9 And then for her To win the Moor—were’t to renounce his baptism, All seals and symbols of redeemed sin— Ilis soul is so enfettered to her love That she may make, unmake, do what she list, Even as her appetite10 shall play the god With his weak function.11 How am I then a villain To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, Directly to his good? Divinity of hell! When devils will the blackest sins put on,12 They do suggest at first with heavenly shows,13 As I do now. For whiles this honest fool Plies Desdemona to repair his fortune, And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, I’ll pour this pestilence into his ear: That she repeals him14 for her body’s lust; And by how much she strives to do him good, She shall undo her credit with the Moor. So will I turn her virtue into pitch,

IAGO

*

1 devotement of her parts devotion to her qualities

and open

*’Probal to provable by

'splint

'inclined (to be helpful)

generous Ye., basic nature Miking 11 thought ances 14repeals him asks for (Cassio’s reinstatement)

Wager

4repulse

°generous

I would not lull thy unprepared spirit. No, heavens forfend! I would not kill thy soul. DESDEMONA Talk you of killing? OTHELLO Ay, I do. DESDEMONA Then heaven Have mercy on me! OTHELLO Amen, with all my heart. DESDEMONA If you say so, I hope you will not lull me. OTHELLO Humh. DESDEMONA And yet I fear you; for you’re fatal then When your eyes roll so. Why I should fear I know not, Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear. OTLIELLO Think on thy sins. DESDEMONA They are loves I bear to you. OTLIELLO Ay, and for that thou diest. DESDEMONA Hi at death’s unnatural that lulls for loving. Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip? Some bloody passion shakes your very frame. These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope, They do not point on me.

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

45

Worker, servant

[ He kisses her.)

'most intricate and skillfully wrought (by nature excelling itself)

'Promethean

heat divine fire (Prometheus is the Titan who stole fire from heaven and gave it to man) Jiving

6nearbv

1141

4relight

1142

Plays for Further Reading

Act V, Scene II

Peace and be still. DESDEMONA I will so. What’s the matter? OTHELLO That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee, Thou gav’st to Cassio. DESDEMONA No, by my life and soul! Send for the man and ask him. OTIIELLO Sweet soul, take heed, Take heed of perjury; thou art on thy deathbed. DESDEMONA Ay, but not yet to die. OTILELLO Presently.1 Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin, For to deny each article2 with oath Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. DESDEMONA Then Lord have mercy on me. OTHELLO I say, amen. DESDEMONA And have you mercy too. I never did Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio But with such general warranty3 of heaven As I might love. I never gave him token. OTHELLO By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in’s hand! O perjured woman! thou dost stone4 my heart, And mak’st me call what I intend to do A murder, which I thought a sacrifice. I saw the handkerchief. DESDEMONA He found it then. I never gave it him. Send for him hidier. Let him confess a truth. OTHELLO He hath confessed. DESDEMONA What, my lord? OTILELLO That he hath used thee. DESDEMONA How? Unlawfully? OTHELLO Ay. DESDEMONA He will not say so. OTHELLO No, his mouth is stopped. Honest Iago hath ta’en order for’tA DESDEMONA O, inv fear interprets. What, is he dead? OTHELLO Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge Had stomach5 for them all. DESDEMONA Alas, he is betrayed, and I undone! OTHELLO Out, strumpet! Weep’st thou for him to my face? DESDEMONA O, banish me, my lord, but lull me not! OTHELLO Down, strumpet! DESDEMONA Kill me tomorrow; let me five tonight! OTHELLO Nay, if you strive— DESDEMONA But half an hour! OTHELLO Being done, there is no pause. OTHELLO

so

55

60

65

70

75

so

'immediately scene)

"item (of the charge of adultery. Othello makes heavy use of legal terms in this

'allowance

Turn to stone

*taen order fort made sure of it

Appetite

Act V, Scene II

DESDEMONA

William Shakespeare • Othello

1143

But while I say one prayer! It is too late.

OTHELLO

Smothers her.

EMILIA at the door.

My lord, my lord! What, ho, my lord, my lord! OTHELLO What noise is this? Not dead? Not yet quite dead? I that am cruel am yet merciful; I would not have thee linger in thy pain. EMILIA [Within] What, ho! My lord, my lord! OTHELLO So, so. Who’s there? EMILLA [Within] 0, good my lord, I would speak a word with you. OTHELLO Yes, ’tis Emilia.—By and by.—She’s dead.— • Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio’s death. The noise was high.1 Ha! No more moving1? Still as the grave.—Shall she come in? Were’t good?— I think she stirs again. No.—What’s best to do? If she come in, she’ll sure speak to my wife. My wife! My wife! What wife? I have no wife. O, insupportable! O heavy hour! Methinks2 it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun and moon, and that th’ affrighted globe Should yawn3 at alteration. EMILIA [Calls within]

85

90

95

ioo

I do beseech you That I may speak with you, O good my lord! OTHELLO I had forgot thee. O, come in, Emilia. Soft, by and by.—Let me the curtains draw.—

EMILIA [Within]

[Draws the bed hangings and then opens the door.]

Where art thou? Enter EMILLA.

los

no

ns

What’s die matter with thee now? EMILIA O my good lord, vonder’s foul murders done! OTHELLO What? Now? EMILLA But now, my lord. OTHELLO It is the very error4 of the moon. She comes more nearer earth dian she was wont And makes men mad. EMILLA Cassio, niv lord, hath killed a young Venetian Called Roderigo. OTHELLO Roderigo killed? And Cassio lulled? EMILIA No, Cassio is not lulled. OTHELLO Not Cassio lulled? Then murder’s out of tune, Mid sweet revenge grows harsh.

doud (Q1 reads “here”)

2Methinks . . . alteration (the Elizabethans believed that great changes

in human affairs were reflected by disorders in nature)

3gape open (as in an earthquake)

Vandering out of regular course (disorders in the heavens were believed by some to cause disorders on earth, as well as wee versa)

1144

Plays for Further Reading

DESDEMONA

Act V, Scene II

O, falsely, falsely murdered! O Lord! What cry is that?

EMILIA

That? What? EMILIA Out and alas! that was my lady’s voice. Help! Help, ho! Help! O lady, speak again!' Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak! DESDEMONA A guiltless death I die. EMILIA O, who hath done this deed? DESDEMONA Nobody—I myself. Farewell. Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell! OTHELLO Why, how should she be murd’red? EMILIA Alas, who knows? OTHELLO You heard her say herself, it was not I. EMILIA She said so. I must needs report the truth. OTHELLO She’s like a liar gone to burning hell! Twas I that lulled her. EMILIA O, the more angel she, And you the blacker devil! OTHELLO She turned to folly, and she was a whore. EMILIA Hiou dost belie her, and thou art a devil. OTHELLO She was false as water. EMILIA Thou art rash as fire to say That she was false. O, she was heavenly true! OTHELLO Cassio did top her. Ask thy husband else. O, I were damned beneath all depth in hell But that I did proceed upon just grounds To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all. EMILIA My husband? OTHELLO Thv husband. EMILIA That she was false to wedlock? OTHELLO Ah, with Cassio. Had she been true, If heaven would make me such another world Of one entire and perfect chiysolite,1 I’d not have sold her for it. EMILIA My husband? OTHELLO Ay, ’twas he that told me on her first. An honest man he is, and hates the slime That sticks on filthy deeds. EMILIA My husband? OTHELLO What needs this iterance? Woman, I say thy husband. EMILIA O mistress, villainy hath made mocks with love! My husband say she was false? OTHELLO He, woman, I say, thy husband. Dost understand die word? My friend, thy husband; honest, honest Iago. EMILIA If he say so, may his pernicious soul Rot half a grain a day! He lies to th’ heart. She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. OTHELLO

120

125

iso

135

j

do

145

iso

hopaz

vv

[She dies.]

Act V, Scene II

155

160

William Shakespeare • Othello

1145

Hah? EMILIA. Do thy worst. This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven Than thou wast worthy her. OTILELLO Peace, you were best.1 EMILLA Thou hast not half that pow’r to do me harm As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt! As ignorant as dirt! "Thou hast done a deed— OTHELLO

[OTHELLO moves to draw his sword. ]

I care not for thy sword; I’ll make thee known, Though I lost twenty lives. Help! Help! Ho! Help! ■ The Moor hath lulled my mistress! Murder! murder! Enter MONTANO, GRATIANO, and LAGO [and OTHERS]. 165

170

175

What is the matter? How now, general? EMILIA O, are you come, Iago? You have done well, That men must lay their murders on your neck. GRATIANO What is the matter? EMILLA Disprove this villain, if thou be’st a man. He says thou told’st him that his wife was false. I know thou didst not; thou’rt not such a villain. Speak, for my heart is full. IAGO I told him what I thought, and told no more Than what he found himself was apt and true. EMILIA But did you ever tell him she was false? MONTANO

IAGO

I did.

You told a lie, an odious damned lie! Upon my soul, a lie! A wicked lie! She false with Cassio? Did you say with Cassio? IAGO With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm2 your tongue. EMILLA I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak: My mistress here lies murdered in her bed. ALL O heavens forfend! EMILIA And your reports have set the murder on. OTHELLO Nay, stare not, masters. It is true indeed. GRATIANO Tis a strange truth. MONTANO O monstrous act! EMILLA Villainy, villainy, villainy! I think upon’t—I think I smelft!—O villainy! I thought so then.—I’ll kill myself for grief.— EMILIA

iso

185

190

O villainy, villainy!

What, are you mad? I charge you get you home. EMILLA Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak. Tis proper I obey him, but not now. Perchance, Iago, I will ne’er go home. LAGO

OTHELLO

[ Falls on the bed.)

O! O! O!

1 Peace, you were best i. e., you had better be silent

'control

1146

195

200

205

210

215

220

Plays for Further Reading

Act V, Scene II

Nay, lay thee down and roar, For thou hast lulled the sweetest innocent That e’er did lift up eye. OTHELLO O, she was foul! I scarce did know you, uncle. There lies your niece, Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopped. I know this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO Poor Desdemon! I am glad thy father’s dead. Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain. Did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn; Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobation.1 OTHELLO Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath the act of shame A thousand times committed. Cassio confessed it; And she did gratify his amorous works With that recognizance and pledge of love, Which I first gave her. I saw it in his hand. It was a handkerchief, an antique token My father gave my mother. EMILIA O God! O heavenly God! IAGO Zounds, hold your peace! EMILIA Twill out, ’twill out! I peace? No, I will speak as liberal as die north.2 Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I’ll speak. IAGO Be wise, and get you home. EMILIA

EMILIA

[Rises.]

I will not. [IAGO draws and threatens EMILIA. ]

Fie! Your sword upon a woman? EMILIA O thou dull Moor, th at handkerchief thou speak’st of I found by fortune, and did give my husband; For often with a solemn earnestness— More than indeed belonged to such a trifle— He begged of me to steal’! IAGO Villainous whore! EMILIA She give it Cassio? No, alas, I found it, And I did give’t my husband. IAGO Filth, thou liest! EMLLIA By heaven, I do not, gentiemen. O murd’rous coxcomb! What should such a fool Do with so good a wife? GRATIANO

225

230

Are there no stones3 in heaven But what serves for die thunder? Precious villain!

OTHELLO

[The MOOR runs at IAGO, hut is disarmed by MONTANO. IAGO kills his wife.]

1 damnation

2liberal as the north freely (and bitihgly) as the north wind blows

Thunderbolts

Act V, Scene II

William Shakespeare

• Othello

1147

The woman falls. Sure he hath killed his wife. EMILIA Ay, av. O, lay me by my mistress’ side. [Exit IAGO. ] GRATLANO He’s gone, but his wife’s lulled. MONTANO His a notorious1 villain. Take you this weapon, Which I have recovered from die Moor. Come, guard the door without. Tet him not pass, But lull him rather. I’ll after diat same villain, For ’tis a damned slave. Ex it [with all hut OTHELLO and EMILIA J. OTHELLO I am not valiant neither; But every puny whipster2 gets my sword. But why should honor outlive honesty? Let it go all. EMILLA What did dry song bode, lady? Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan, And die in music. [S'mg's] “Willow, willow, willow.” Moor, she was chaste. She loved thee, cruel Moor, So come my soul to bliss as I speak true. So speaking as I think, alas, I die. [She dies.] OTHELLO I have anodier weapon in this chamber; It was a sword of Spain, die ice-brook’s temper. O, here it is.—Uncle, I must come forth. GRATLANO [Within] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear. Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer. OTHELLO Look in upon me then and speak with me, Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee. GRATIANO

235

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245

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[Enter GRATLANO.] GRATLANO

What is the matter?

Behold, I have a weapon; A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier’s thigh. I have seen the day That with this little arm and this good sword I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. But O vain boast! Who can control his fate? Tis not so now. Be not afraid, diough you do see me weaponed. Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt,1 And very seamark of my utmost sail. 4 Do you go back dismayed? Tis a lost fear. Man but a rush0 against Othello’s breast. And he retires. Where should Othello go? Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starred wench! Bale as thy smock! When we shall meet at compt," This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl? Even like thy chastity.

OTHELLO

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1 out-and-out

^puny whipster small top-whipping boy (?)

of my utmost sail maker of my furthest journey '’-Judgment Day

’^target, stopping place

; seamark

°Mcm hut a rush attack with only a reed

1148

275

Plays for Further Reading

Act V, Scene II

0 cursed, cursed slave! Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of1 this heavenly sight! Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulfur! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! 0 Desdemon! Dead Desdemon; dead. O! Ob Enter LODOVICO, CASSIO, MONTANO, and IAGO [as prisoner,] with OFFICERS. Where is this rash and most unfortunate man? OTHELLO That’s he that was Othello? Here I am. LODOVICO Where is that viper? Bring the villain forth. OTHELLO I look down towards his feet8—but that’s'a fable. If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee. [ Wounds IAGO.] LODOVICO Wrench his sword from him. [OTHELLO is disarmed.] IAGO I bleed, sir, but not killed. OTHELLO I am not sorry neither. I’d have thee live; For in my sense, ’tis happiness to die. LODOVICO O thou Othello that was once so good, Fall’n in the practice3 of a cursed slave, What shall be said to thee? OTHELLO Why, anything: An honorable murderer, if you will; For naught I did in hate, but all in honor. LODOVICO This wretch hath part confessed his villainy. Did you and he consent in Cassio’s death? OTHELLO Ay. CASSIO Dear general, I never gave you cause. LODOVICO

280

285

290

295

OTHELLO

300

305

I do believe it, and I ask your pardon.

Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body? IAGO Demand me nothing. What you know, you know. From this time forth I never will speak word. LODOVICO What, not to pray? GRATIANO Torments will ope your lips. OTHELLO Well, thou dost best. LODOVICO Sir, you shall understand what hath befall’n, Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo; And here another. The one of them imports The death of Cassio to be undertook By Roderigo. OTHELLO

O villain!

Most heathenish and most gross! LODOVICO Now here’s another discontented paper Found in his pocket too; and this, it seems, Roderigo meant t’ have sent this damned villain; But that, belike, Iago in the interim Came in and satisfied him. CASSIO

310

lthe possession of being possessed by

'towards-his feet i.e., for his cloven hoofs

^plotting

Act V, Scene II

William Shakespeare

Othello

1149

0 thou pernicious caitiff! How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief That was my wife’s?

OTHELLO 315

CASSIO

320

325

I found it in my chamber;

And he himself confessed it but even now That there he dropped it for a special purpose Which wrought to his desire. OTHELLO O fool! Fool! Fool! CASSIO There is besides in Roderigo’s letter, How he upbraids Iago that he made him Brave me upon the watch; whereon it came That I was cast; and even but now he spake, After long seeming dead—Iago hurt him, Iago set him on. You must forsake this room and go with us. Your power and your command is taken off, And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave, If there be any cunning cruelty That can torment him much and hold him long, It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest Till that the nature of your fault be known To the Venetian state. Come, bring away. OTHELLO Soft you, a word or two before you go. I have done the state some sendee and they know’t. No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely, but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme; of one whose hand, Like the base Judean,1 threw a pearl away Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes, Albeit unused to the melting mood, Drops tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their med’cinable gum. Set you down this. And say besides that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turbaned Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took by th’ throat the circumcised dog And smote him—thus. LODOVICO O bloody period!2 LODOVICO

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All

GRATIANO

[He stabs himself.]

that is spoke is marred.

I kissed thee ere I killed thee. No way but this, Falling myself, to die upon a kiss. [He falls over DESDEMONA and dies. CASSIO This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon; For he was great of heart. OTHELLO

355

]

Wlost editors use the Q1 reading, “Indian,” here, but F is clear: both readings point toward the infidel, the unbeliever.

2end

1150

Plays for Further Reading

( To IAGOJ O Spartan dog, More fell1 than anguish, hunger, or the sea! Look on the tragic loading of this bed. This is thy work. The object poisons sight; Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep2 the house, ' And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor, For they succeed on you. To you, lord governor, Remains the censure of this hellish villain, The time, the place, the torture. O, enforce it! Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate.

Act V, Scene II

LODOYICO

360

365

1 cruel

[Bed curtains drawn.)

Exeunt.

'remain in

Ilenrik Ibsen and Hedda Gabler The work of Ilenrik Ibsen (1828—1906) anticipates the variety of modem thea¬ ter. His best-known plays are realistic, but he began as a poet and ended as a symbolist. Ibsen started young, writing his first play in 1850, and continued his apprenticeship with a series of romantic and historical plays. At the same time, he learned stagecraft by working as a resident with several theatrical companies. In 1866 he wrote the dramatic poem Brand, and followed it two years later with the poetic drama Peer Gynt. in his great middle period, from about 1875 to 1890, Ibsen wrote his most famous plays, in the style of dramatic realism. Pillars of Society (1877) attacked bourgeois conventions. A series of plays like A Doll’s House (1879) explored the hazards of domestic life. Ghosts (1883) was shocking because the plot turned on the subject of venereal disease. An Enemy of the People (1883), The Wild Duck (1885), and Rosmersholm (1887) all dealt with contemporary so¬ ciety; all were tightly constructed, informed by passion and compassion. To¬ ward the end of his life, Ibsen returned to a symbolic, less realistic theater— with considerable success—in The Master Builder (1893), John Gabriel Borkman (1897), and in When We Dead Awaken (1900). Ike realistic drama Hedda Gabler was first performed in Munich in 1861. Hie protagonist is an unusual woman manled to a conventional man; she is fierce, proud, neurotic, unable to direct her intelligence and energy toward an acceptable goal. Hedda Gabler shows affinities with feminist thinking, for Ibsen understood the anger and despair of his heroine, denied power by a patriarchal society. Yet the play has dramatic power separate from its political morality, and its conclusion remains ambiguous.

Henrik Ibsen

Hedda Gabler Translated by Edmund Gosse and W illiam Archer

Cast GEORGE TESMAN

JUDGE BRACK

HEDDA TESMAX. his wife

EIEERT EOVBORG

MISS JUEIANA TESMAN, his aunt

BERTA,

servant at the Tesmans’

MRS. EEVSTED SCENE: The action is at Tesman’s villa, in the west end of Christiania

Act I SCENE: A spacious, handsome, and tastefully furnished drawing room, decorated

in dark colors. In the hack, a wide doorway with curtains drawn hack, leading into a smaller room decorated in the same style as the drawing room. In the righthand wall of the front room, a folding door leading out to the hall. In the opposite wall, on the left, a glass door, also with curtains drawn hack. Through the panes can he seen part of a veranda outside, arid trees covered with autumn foliage. An oval table, with a cover on it, and surrounded hy chairs, stands well forward. In front, hy the wall on the right, a wide stove of dark porcelain, a high-hacked armchair, a cushioned footrest, and two footstools. A settee, with a small round table in front of it, fills the upper right-hand corner. In front, on the left, a little way from, the wall, a sofa. Farther back than the glass door, a piano. On either side of the doorway at the hack a whatnot with terra-cotta and. majolica orna¬ ments. Against the back wall of the inner room a sofa, with a table, and one or two chairs. Over the sofa hangs the portrait of a handsome elderly man in a General’s uniform. Over the table a hanging lamp, with an opal glass shade. A number of bouquets are arranged about the drawing room, in vases and glasses. Others lie upon the tables. The floors in both rooms are covered with thick carpets. Morning light. The sun shines in through the glass door. .MISS JULIANA TESMAX, with her bonnet on and carrying a parasol, conies in

from the hall, followed by BERTA, who carries a bouquet wrapped in paper. MISS TESMAN is a comely and pleasant-looking lady of about sixty-five. She is nicely but simply dressed in a gray walking costume. BERTA is a middle-aged woman of plain and rather countrified appearance. MISS TESMAN [ stops close to the door, listens, and says softly \ Upon my word, I don’t believe they are stirring yet! BERTA [ also softly ] I told you so, Miss. Remember how late the steamboat got in last night. And then, when they got home!—good Lord, what a lot the young mistress had to unpack before she could get to bed. MISS TESMAN Well, well—let them have their sleep out. But let us sec that they get a good breath of the fresh morning air when they do appear. \She goes to the glass door and. throws it open. ] BERTA [ beside the table, at a loss what to do with the bouquet in her hand ] I declare, there isn’t a bit of room left. I think I’ll put it down here, Miss. [ She places it on the piano. ]

1151

1152

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

So you’ve got a new mistress now, my dear Berta. Heaven knows it was a wrench to me to part with you. BERTA [on the point of weepingJ And do you think it wasn’t hard for me, too, Miss? After all the blessed years I’ve been with you and Miss Rina. MISS TESMAN We must make the best of it, Berta. There was nothing else to be done. George can’t do without you, you see—he absolutely can’t. He has had you to look after him ever since he was a little boy. BERTA Ah, but, Miss Julia, I can’t help thinking of Miss Rina lying helpless at home there, poor thing. Amd with only that new girl, too! She’ll never learn to take proper care of an invalid. MISS TESMAN Oh, I shall manage to train her. And, of course, you know I shall take most of it upon myself. You needn’t be uneasy about my poor sister, my dear Berta. BERTA Well, but there’s another thing, Miss. I’m so mortally afraid I shan’t be able to suit the young mistress. MISS TESMAN Oh, well—-just at first there may be one or two tilings . . . BERTA Most like she’ll be terrible grand in her ways. MISS TESMAN Well, you can’t wonder at that—General Gabler’s daughter! Think of the sort of life she was accustomed to in her father’s time. Don’t you remember how we used to see her riding down the road along with the General? In that long black habit—and with feathers in her hat? BERTA Yes, indeed—I remember well enough!—But, good Lord, I should never have dreamt in those days that she and Master George would make a match of it. MISS TESMAN Nor I. But by the by, Berta—while I think of it: in future you mustn’t say Master George. You must say Dr. Tesman. BERTA Yes, the young mistress spoke of that, too—last night—the moment they set foot in the house. Is it true then, Miss? MISS TESMAN Yes, indeed it is. Only think, Berta—some foreign university has made him a doctor—while he has been abroad, you understand. I hadn’t heard a word about it, until he told me himself upon the pier. BERTA Well, well, lie’s clever enough for anything, he is. But I didn’t think he’d have gone in for doctoring people, too. MISS TESMAN No, no, it’s not that sort of doctor he is. [Nods significantly ] But let me tell you, we may have to call him something still grander before long. BERTA You don’t say so! What can that be, Miss? MISS TESMAN [smiling] H’m—wouldn’t you like to know! [With emotion] All, dear, dear—if my poor brother could only look up from his grave now, and see what his little boy has grown into! [Looks around ] But bless me, Berta—why have you done this? Taken the chintz covers off all the furniture? BERTA 'Hie mistress told me to. Sh e can’t abide covers on the chairs, she says. MISS TESMAN Are they going to make this their everyday sitting room then? BERTA Yes, that’s what I understood—from the mistress. Master George—the doctor—he said nothing. MISS TESMAN

GEORGE TESMAN comes from the right into the inner room, humming to himself,

and carrying an unstrapped empty portmanteau. He is a middle-sized, younglooking man of thirty-three, rather stout, with a round, open, cheerful face, fair hair and heard. He wears spectacles, and is somewhat carelessly dressed in com¬ fortable indoor clothes. MISS TESMAN

Good morning, good morning, George.

Act I

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

1153

Aunt Julia! Dear Aunt Julia! [Goes up to her and shakes hands warmly] Come all this way-—so early! Eh? MISS TESALAN Why, of course I had to come and see how you were getting on. TESALAN In spite of your having had no proper night’s rest? MISS TESMAN Oh, that makes no difference to me. TESALAN Well, I suppose you got home all right from the pier? Eh? MISS TESMAN Yes, quite safely, thank goodness. Judge Brack was good enough to see me right to my door. TESMAN We were so sorry we couldn’t give you a seat in the carriage. But you saw what a pile of boxes Iledda had to bring with her. MISS TESALAN Yes, she had certainly plenty of boxes. BERTA [to TESMANj Shall I go in and see if there’s anything I can do for the mistress? TESALAN No thank you, Berta—-you needn’t She said she would ring if she wanted anything. BERTA [going towards the right] Very well. TESMAN But look here—take this portmanteau with you. BERTA [taking it] I’ll put it in the attic. [She goes out by the hall door.] TESATAN Fancy, Auntie—I had the whole of that portmanteau chock full of copies of documents. You wouldn’t believe how much I have picked up from all die archives I have been examining—curious old details that no one has had any idea of . . . MISS TESMAN Yes, you don’t seem to have wasted your time on your wedding trip, George. TESMAN No, that I haven’t. But do take off your bonnet, Auntie. Look here! Let me untie the strings—eh? MISS TESMAN [while he does so] Well, well—this is just as if you were still at home with us. TESMAN [with the bonnet in his hand, looks at it from, all sides] Why, what a gorgeous bonnet you’ve been investing in! MISS TESALAN I bought it on Hedda’s account. TESALAN On Hedda’s account? Eli? AIISS TESALAN Yes, so that Iledda needn’t be ashamed of me if we happened to go out together. TESALAN [patting her cheek] You always think of everything, Aunt Julia. [Lays the bonnet on a chair beside the table.] And now, look here—suppose we sit comfortably on the sofa and have a little chat, till Iledda comes. [They seat them¬ selves. She places her parasol in the corner of the sofa. ] AIISS TESALAN [takes both his hands and looks at him] What a delight it is to have you again, as large as life, before my very eyes, George! My George—my poor brother’s own boy! TESALAN And it’s a delight for me, too, to see you again, Aunt Julia! You, who have been faffier and mother in one to me. AIISS TESALAN Oh ves, I know you will always keep a place in your heart for your old aunts. TESALAN And what about Aunt Rina? No improvement—eh? AIISS TESALAN Oh no—we can scarcely look for any improvement in her case, poor thing. There she lies, helpless, as she has lain for all these years. But heaven grant I may not lose her yet awhile. For if I did, I don’t know what I should make of my life, George—especially now that I haven’t you to look after any more. TESMAN [in the doorway between the rooms]

1154

Act I

Plays for Further Reading

TESMAN [patting her back]

There, there, there . . . !

MISS TESMAN [suddenly changing her tone]

And to think that here you are a

married man, George! And that you should be the one to cany off Hedda Gabler— the beautiful Hedda Gabler! Only think of it—she, that was so beset with admirers! TESMAN [hums a little and smiles complacently]

Yes, I fancy I have several

good friends about town who would like to stand in my shoes—eh? MISS TESMAN

And then this fine long wedding tour you have had! More than

five—nearly six months . . . TESMAN

Well, for me it has been a sort of tour of research as well. I have had

to do so much grubbing among old records—and to read no end of books too, Auntie. MISS TESMAN

Oh yes, I suppose so. [More confidentially, and lowering her

voice a little] But listen now, George—have you nothing—nothing special to tell me? TESMAN

As to our journey?

MISS TESMAN TESMAN

Yes.

No, I don’t know of anything except what I have told you in mv letters.

I had a doctor’s degree conferred on me—-but that I told you yesterday. MISS TESMAN

Yes, yes, you did. But what I mean is—haven’t you any—any—

expectations . . . ? TESMAN

Expectations?

MISS TESMAN TESMAN

Why, of course I have expectations.

MISS TESMAN TESMAN

Ah!

I have every expectation of being a professor one of these days.

MISS TESMAN TESMAN

Why you know, George—I’m your old auntie!

Oh yes, a professor . . .

Indeed, I may say I am certain of it. But my dear Auntie—you know

all about that already! MISS TESMAN [laughing to herself]

Yes, of course I do. You are quite right

there. [Changing the subject] But we were talking about your journey. It must have cost a great deal of money, George? TESMAN

Well, you see—my handsome traveling scholarship went a good way.

MISS TESMAN

But I can’t understand how you can have made it go far enough

for two. TESMAN

No, that’s not so easy to understand—eh?

MISS TESMAN

And especially traveling with a lady—they tell me that makes it

ever so much more expensive. TESMAN

Yes, of course—it makes it a little more expensive. But Hedda had to

have this trip, Auntie! She really had to. Nothing else would have done. MISS TESMAN

No, no, I suppose not. A wedding tour seems to be quite indis¬

pensable nowadays. But tell me now—have you gone thoroughly over the house yet. TESMAN

Yes, you may be sure I have. I have been afoot ever since daylight.

MISS TESMAN TESMAN

And what do you think of it all?

I’m delighted! Quite delighted! Only I can’t think what we are to do

with the Wo empty rooms between this inner parlor and Hedda’s bedroom. MISS TESMAN [ laughing ]

Oh my dear George, I daresay you may find some

use for them—in die course of time.

Act I

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

1155

TESMAN Why of course you are quite right, Aunt Julia! You mean as my library increases—eh? MISS TESMAN ing of. TES>L\X

Yes, quite so, my dear boy. It was your library I was think¬

I am specially pleased on Hedda’s account. Often and often, before

we were engaged, she said that she would never care to live anywhere but in Secretary Falk’s villa. MISS TESMAX Yes, it was lucky that this very house should come into the market, just after you had started. TES!NL\X

Yes, Aunt Julia, the luck was on our side, wasn’t it—eh?

MISS TES!\L4X sive, all this.

But the expense, my dear George! You will find it very expen¬

TESMAX [looks at her, a little cast down] MISS TESMAN TESMAX

Yes, I suppose I shall, Aunt!

Oh, frightfully!

How much do you think? In round numbers?—Eh?

MISS TESIVLAX

Oh, I can’t even guess until all the accounts come in.

TESMAX Well, fortunately, Judge Brack has secured the most favorable terms for me—so he said in a letter to I Iedda. MISS TESMAX

Yes, don’t be uneasy, my dear boy. Besides, I have given se¬

curity for the furniture and all the carpets. TESMAX give?

Security? You? My dear Aunt Julia—what sort of security could you

MISS TESMAX

I have given a mortgage on our annuity.

'TESMAX [ jumps up ) MISS TESMAX

What! On your—and Aunt Rina’s annuity!

Yes, I knew of no other plan, you see.

TESMAX [placing himself before her ]

Have you gone out of your senses, Aunt¬

ie! Your annuity—it’s all that you and Aunt Rina have to live upon. MISS TESMAX

Well, well—don’t get so excited about it. It’s only a matter of

form you know—-Judge Brack assured me of that. It was he that was kind enough to arrange the whole affair for me. A mere matter of form, he said. TESMAX

Yes, that may be all very well. But nevertheless . . .

MISS TESMAX

You will have your own salary to depend upon now. And, good

heavens, even if we did have to pay up a little . . . ! To eke things out a bit at the start . . . ! Why, it would be nothing but a pleasure to us. TESMAX

Oh Auntie—will you never be tired of making sacrifices for me!

MISS TESMAX [rises and lays her hands on his shoulders]

Have I any other

happiness in this world except to smooth your way for you, my dear boy? You, who have had neither father nor mother to depend on. And now we have reached the goal, George! 'Things have looked black enough for us, sometimes; but, thank heaven, now you have nothing to fear. TESMAX

Yes, it is really marvelous how everything has turned out for the best

MISS TESMAX

And the people who opposed you—who wanted to bar the way

for you—now you have them at your feet. They have fallen, George. Your most dangerous rival—his fall was the worst. And now he has to lie on the bed he has made for himself—poor misguided creature. TESMAX

Have you heard anything of Eilert? Since I went away, I mean.

MISS TESMAN TESMAX

Only that he is said to have published a new book.

What! Eilert Lovborg! Recently—eh?

1156

Act I

Plays for Further Reading

MISS TESMAN

Yes, so they say. Heaven knows whether it can be worth any¬

thing! Ah, when your new book appears—that will be another story, George! What is it to be about? TESMAN It will deal with the domestic industries of Brabant during the Middle Ages. MISS TESMAN TESMAN

Fancy—to be able to write on such a subject as that!

However, it may be some time before the book is ready. I have all

these collections to arrange first, you see. MISS TESMAN

Yes, collecting and arranging—no one can beat you at that.

There you are my poor brother’s own son. TESMAN

I am looking forward eagerly to setting to work at it; especially now

that I have my own delightful home to work in. MISS TESMAN

And, most of all, now that you have got a wife of your heart, my

dear George. TESMAN [embracing her]

Oh yes, yes, Aunt Julia. Hedda—she is the best part

of it all! [Looks towards the doorway ] I believe I hear her coming—eh? HEDDA enters from the left through the inner room. She is a woman of nine-and-

twenty. Her face and figure show refinement and distinction. Her complexion is pale and opaque. Her steel-gray eyes express a cold, unruffled repose. Her hair is of an agreeable medium brown, but not particularly abundant. She is dressed in a tasteful, somewhat loose-fitting morning gown. MISS TESMAN [going to meet HEDDA]

Good morning, my dear Hedda! Good

morning, and a hearty welcome] HEDDA [holds out her hand]

Good morning, dear Miss Tesman! So early a

call! That is kind of you. MISS TESMAN [with some embarrassment]

Well—has the bride slept well in

her new home? HEDDA

Oh yes, thanks. Passably.

TESMAN [laughing\

Passably! Come, that’s good, Pledda! You were sleeping

like a stone when I got up. HEDDA

Fortunately. Of course one has always to accustom one’s self to new

surroundings, Miss Tesman—litde by little. [Looking towards the left] Oh—there the servant has gone and opened the veranda door, and let in a whole flood of sunshine. MISS TESMAN [going towards the door]

Well, then we will shut it.

HEDDA No, no, not that! Tesman, please draw the curtains. That will give a softer light. TESMAN [at the door ] All right—all right. There now, Hedda, now you have both shade and fresh air. HEDDA Yes, fresh air we certainly must have, with all these stacks of flowers . . . But—won’t you sit down, Miss Tesman? MISS TESMAN

No, thank you. Now that I have seen that everything is all right

here—thank heaven!—I must be getting home again. My sister is lying longing for me, poor thing. TESMAN Give her my very best love, Auntie; and say I shall look in and see her later in the day. MISS TESMAN

Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to tell her. But by the by, George—[feeling

Act I

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

1157

in her dress pocket]—I had almost forgotten—I have something for you here. TESMAN What is it, Auntie? Eh? MISS TESMAN [produces a flat parcel wrapped in newspaper and hands it to him] Look here, my dear boy. TESMAN [opening the parcel] Well, I declare! Have you really saved them for me, Aunt Julia! Hedda! Isn’t this touching—eh? HEDDA [beside the whatnot on the right] TESMAN HEDDA TESMAN Hedda!

Well, what is it?

My old morning shoes! My slippers. Indeed. I remember you often spoke of them while we were abroad. Yes, I missed them terribly. [Goes up to her] Now you shall see them,

HEDDA [going towards the stove] 'TESMAN [following her]

Thanks, I really don’t care about it.

Only think—ill as she was, Aunt Rina embroidered

these for me. Oh you can’t think how many associations cling to them. HEDDA [at the table] Scarcely for me. MISS TESMAN TESMAN

Of course not for Hedda, George.

Well, but now that she belongs to the family, I thought. . .

HEDDA [interrupting] We shall never get on with this servant, Tesman. MISS TESMAN Not get on with Berta? TESMAN

Why, dear, what puts that in your head? Eh?

HEDDA [pointing] chair.

Look there! She has left her old bonnet lying about on a

TESMAN [in consternation, drops the slippers on the floor] HEDDA TESMAN HEDDA

Just fancy, if any one should come in and see it! But Hedda—that’s Aunt Julia’s bonnet. Is it!

MISS TESMAN [ taking up the bonnet] it’s not old, Madam Hedda. IIEDDA

Yes, indeed it’s mine. And, what’s more,

I really did not look closely at it, Miss Tesman.

MISS TESMAN [trying on the bonnet] worn it—the very first time. TESMAN

Why, Hedda . . .

Let me tell you it’s the first time I have

And a veiy nice bonnet it is too—quite a beauty!

MISS TESMAN

Oh, it’s no such great filing, George. [Looks around her] My

parasol . . . ? Ah, here. [Takes it \ For this is mine too—[mutters] —not Berta’s. TESMAN HEDDA TESMAN

A new bonnet and a new parasol! Only think, Hedda! Very handsome indeed. Yes, isn’t it? Eh? But Auntie, take a good look at Hedda before you

go! See how handsome she is! MISS TESMAN

Oh, my dear boy, there’s nothing new in that. Hedda was always

lovely. [SAe nods and goes towards the right.] TESMAN [following]

Yes, but have you noticed what splendid condition she is

in? How she has filled out on the journey? HEDDA [crossing the room]

Oh, do be quiet . . . !

MISS TESMAN [ who has stopped and turned ] TESMAN

Filled out?

Of course you don’t notice it so much now that she has that dress

on. But I, who can see . . . HEDDA [at the glass door, impatiently ] TESMAN

Oh, you can’t see anything.

It must be file mountain air in the Tyrol . . .

HEDDA [curtly, interrupting]

I am exactly as I was when I started.

1158

Act I

Plays for Further Reading

TESMAN

So you insist; but I’m quite certain you are not. Don’t you agree with

me, Auntie? MISS TESMAN [ who has been gazing at her with folded hands\

Hedda is

lovely—lovely—lovely. [Goes up to her, takes her head between both hands, draws it downwards, and kisses her hair. ] God bless and preserve Hedda Tesman—for George’s sake. HEDDA \gently freeing herself] Oh—! Let me go. MISS TESMAN [in quiet emotion] I shall not let a day pass without coming to see you. TESMAN No you won’t, will you, Auntie? Eh? MISS TESMAN Good-bve—good-bye! She goes out by the hall door. TESMAN accompanies her. The door remains half open. TESMAN can be heard repeating his message to AUNT RINA and his thanks for the slippers. In the meantime, HEDDA walks about the room, raising her arms and clenching her hands as if in desperation. Then she flings back the curtains from the glass door, and stands there looking out. Presently TESMAN returns and closes the door behind him. TESMAN [picks up the slippers from the floor]

What are you looking at, Hedda? IIEDDA [once more calm and mistress of herself] I am only looking at the leaves. They are so yellow—so withered. TESMAN [wraps up the slippers and lays them on the table] Well you see, we are well into September now. HEDDA [again restless] Yes, to think of it! Already in—in September. TESMAN Don’t you think Aunt Julia’s manner was strange, dear? Almost sol¬ emn? Can you imagine what was the matter with her? Eh? HEDDA I scarcely know her, you see. Is she not often like that? TESMAN No, not as she was today. HEDDA [leaving the glass door] Do you think she was annoyed about the bonnet? TESMAN Oh, scarcely at all. Perhaps a little, just at the moment . . . HEDDA But what an idea, to pitch her bonnet about in the drawing room! No one does that sort of thing. TESMAN Well you may be sure Aunt Julia won’t do it again. HEDDA In any case, I shall manage to make my peace with her. TESMAN Yes, my dear, good I Iedda, if you only would. HEDDA When you call this afternoon, you might invite her to spend the evening here. TESMAN Yes, that I will. And there’s one thing more you could do that would delight her heart. HEDDA What is it? TESMAN If you coidd onlv prevail on yourself to say du to her. For my sake, Hedda? Eh? No, no, Tesman—you really mustn’t ask that of me. I have told you so already. I shall try to call her “Aunt”; and you must be satisfied with that. TESMAN W7ell, well. Only I think now that you belong to the family, you . . . HEDDA

*

xDu, the second person singular, implies intimacy.

Act I

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

1159

HEDDA I I’m—I can’t in the least see why . . . [She goes up towards the middle doorway] TESMAN [after a pause\

Is there anything the matter with you, Hedda? Eh?

HEDDA I’m only looking at my old piano. It doesn’t go at all well with all the other things. TESMAN HEDDA

The first time I draw my salary, we’ll see about exchanging it. No, no—no exchanging. I don’t want to part with it. Suppose we put

it there in the inner room, and then get another here in its place. When it’s con¬ venient, I mean. TESMAN [a little taken aback]

Yes—of course we could do that.

HEDDA [ takes up the bouquet from the piano] night when we arrived. TESMAN

These flowers were not here last

Aunt Julia must have brought them for you.

HEDDA [examining the bouquet]

A visiting card. [Takes it out and reads]

“Shall return later in the day. ” Can you guess whose card it is? TESMAN HEDDA TESMAN

No. Whose? Eh? The name is “Mrs. Elvsted. ” Is it really? Sheriff Elvsted’s wife? Miss Rvsing that was.

HEDDA Exactly. The girl with the irritating hair, that she was always showing off. An old flame of yours I’ve been told. TESMAN [laughing]

Oh, that didn’t last long; and it was before I knew you,

Hedda. But fancy her being in town! HEDDA

It’s odd that she should call upon us. I have scarcely seen her since

we left school. TESMAN

I haven’t seen her either for—heaven knows how long. I wonder how

she can endure to live in such an out-of-the-way hole—eh? HEDDA [after a moment’s thought, says suddenly]

Tell me, Tesman—isn’t it

somewhere near there that he—that—Eilert Lovborg is living? TESMAN

Yes, he is somewhere in that part of the country.

BERTA enters by the hall door. BERTA

That lady, ma’am, that brought some flowers a little while ago, is here

again. [Pointing] The flowers you have in your hand, ma’am. HEDDA

Ah, is she? Well, please show her in.

BERTA opens the door for MRS. ELVSTED, and goes out herself.—MRS. ELVSTED is a woman of fragile figure, with pretty, soft features. Her eyes are light blue, large, round, and somewhat prominent, with a startled, inquiring expression. Her hair is remarkably light, almost flaxen, and unusually abundant and wavy. She is a couple of years younger than HEDDA. She wears a dark visiting dress, tasteful, but not quite in the lastest fashion. HEDDA [receives her warmly]

How do you do, my dear Mrs. Elvsted? It’s

delightful to see you again. MRS. ELVSTED [ nervously, struggling for self-control ] since we met. TESMAN [gives her his hand] HEDDA

Yes, it’s a very long time

And we too—eh?

Thanks for your lovely flowers . . .

MRS. ELVSTED

Oh, not at all ... I would have come straight here yesterday

afternoon; but I heard that you were away . . . TESMAN I lave you just come to town? Eh?

1160

Act I

Plays for Further Reading >

MRS. BLASTED

I arrived yesterday, about midday. Oh, I was quite in despair

when I heard that you were not at home. HEDDA

In despair! How so?

TESMAN

Why, my dear Mrs. Rvsing—I mean Mrs. Elvsted . . .

HEDDA

I hope that you are not in any trouble?

MRS. ELVSTED.

Yes, I am. And I don’t know another living creature here that

I can turn to. HEDDA [ laying the bouquet on the table]

Come—let us sit here on the

sofa . . . MRS. ELVSTED Oh, I am too restless to sit down. HEDDA Oh no, you’re not. Come here. [She draws MRS. ELVSTED down upon the sofa and sits at her side.] TESMAN Well? What is it, Mrs. Elvsted . . . ? HEDDA

Has anything particular happened to you at home?

MRS. ELVSTED

Yes—and no. Oh—I am so anxious you should not misunder¬

stand me . . . HEDDA Then your best plan is to tell us the whole story, Mrs. Elvsted. TESMAN

I suppose that’s wliat you have come for—eh?

MRS. ELVSTED

Yes, yes—of course it is. Well then, I must tell you, if you don’t

already know, that Eilert Lovborg is in town, too. HEDDA Lovborg . . . ! TESMAN Wliat! Has Eilert Lovborg come back? Fancy that, Hedda! HEDDA

Well, well—I hear it.

MRS. ELVSTED

He has been here a week already. Just fancy—a whole week!

In this terrible town, alone! With so many temptations on all sides. IIEDDA

But, my dear Mrs. Elvsted—how does he concern you so much?

MRS. ELVSTED [looks at her with a startled air, and says rapidly]

fie was the

children’s tutor. HEDDA

Your children’s?

MRS. ELVSTED IIEDDA

My husband’s. I have none.

Your stepchildren’s, then?

MRS. ELVSTED Yes. TESMAN [somewhat hesitatingly ]

Then was he—I don’t know how to express

it—was he—regular enough in his habits to be ht for the post? Eh? MRS. ELVSTED TESMAN HEDDA

For the last Wo years his conduct has been irreproachable.

Has it indeed? Fancy that, Hedda! I hear it.

MRS. ELVSTED

Perfectly irreproachable, I assure you! In every respect. But all

the same—now that I know he is here—in this great town—and with a large sum of money in his hands—I can’t help being in mortal fear for him. TESMAN

WJiy did he not remain where he was? With you and your hus¬

band? Eh? MRS. ELVSTED

After his book was published he was too restless and unsettled

to remain with us. TESMAN Yes, by the by, Aunt Julia told me he had published a new book. MRS. ELVSTED

Yes, a big book, dealing with the march of civilization—in broad

outline, as it were. It came out about a fortnight ago. And since it has sold so well, and been so much read—and made such a sensation . . . TESMAN better davs.

Has it indeed? It must be something he has had lying by since his vV

Act I

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

MRS. ELVSTED TESMAN

1161

Long ago, you mean?

Yes.

MRS. ELVSTED

No, lie has written it all since he has been with us—-within the

last year. Isn’t that good news, Hedda? Think of that. MRS. ELVSTED Ah yes, if only it would last! HEDDA I lave you seen him here in town? MRS. ELVSTED No, not yet. I have had the greatest difficulty in finding out his address. But this morning I discovered it at last. HEDDA [looks searchingly at her] Do you know, it seems to me a little odd of your husband—h’m . . . MRS. ELVSTED [starting nervously] Of my husband! What? HEDDA That he should send you to town on such an errand—that he does not come himself and look after his friend. MRS. ELVSTED Oh no, no—my husband has no time. And besides, I—I had some shopping to do. HEDDA [with a slight smile] Ah, that is a different matter. MRS. ELVSTED [rising quickly and uneasily) And now I beg and implore you, Mr. Tesman—receive Eilert Lovborg kindly if he conies to you! And that he is sure to do. You see you were such great friends in the old days. And then you are interested in the same studies—the same branch of science—so far as I can un¬ derstand. TESMAN We used to be, at any rate. MRS. ELVSTED That is why I beg so earnestly that you—-you too—will keep a sharp eye upon him. Oh, you will promise me that, Mr. Tesman—won’t you? TESMAN With the greatest of pleasure, Mrs. Rvsing . . . HEDDA Elvsted. TESMAN I assure you I shall do all I possibly can for Eilert. You may rely upon me. MRS. ELVSTED Oh, how very, very kind of you! [Presses his hands] Thanks, thanks, thanks! [Frightened ] You see, my husband is so very fond of him! HEDDA { rising] You ought to write to him, Tesman. Perhaps he may not care to come to you of his own accord. TESMAN Well, perhaps it would be the right thing to do, I Iedda? Eh? HEDDA Mid the sooner the better. Why not at once? MRS. ELVSTED [imploringly] Oh, if you only would! TESMAN I’ll write this moment. Have you his address, Mrs.—Mrs. Elvsted? MRS. ELVSTED Yes. [Takes a slip of paper from her pocket, and hands it to him] IIere it is. TESMAN Good, good. Then I’ll go in . . . [Looks about him] By the by—my slippers? Oh, here. [Takes the packet, and is about to go \ HEDDA Be sure you write him a cordial, friendly letter. Mid a good long TESMAN

one too. TES>LAN Yes, I will. MRS. ELVSTED But please, please don’t say a word to show that I have sug¬

gested it. TESMAN

No, how could you think I would? Eh? [He goes out to the right,

through the inner room. ] HEDDA [goes up to MRS. ELVSTED, smiles and says in a low voice)

have killed two birds with one stone.

Hiere! We

1162

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

What do you mean? HEDDA Could you not see that I wanted him to go? MRS. ELVSTED Yes, to write the letter . . . HEDDA And that I might speak to you alone. MRS. ELVSTED [confused] About the same thing? HEDDA Precisely. MRS. ELVSTED [apprehensively] But there is nothing more, Mrs. Tesman! Ab¬ solutely nothing! HEDDA Oh yes, but there is. There is a great deal more—I can see that. Sit here—and we’ll have a cozy, confidential chat. [She forces MRS. ELVSTED to sit in MRS. ELVSTED

the easy-chair beside the stove, and seats herself on one of the footstools.] MRS. ELVSTED [anxiously, looking at her watch]

But, my dear Mrs. Tesman—

I was really on the point of going. HEDDA Oh, you can’t be in such a hurry. Well? Now tell me something about your life at home. MRS. ELVSTED Oh, that is just what I care least to speak about. HEDDA But to me, dear . . . ? Why, weren’t we schoolfellows? MRS. ELVSTED Yes, but you were in the class above me. Oh, how dreadfully afraid of you I was then! HEDDA Afraid of me? MRS. ELVSTED Yes, dreadfully. For when we met on the stairs you used always to pull my hair. HEDDA Did I, really? MRS. ELVSTED Yes, and once you said you would bum it off my head. HEDDA Oh, that was all nonsense, of course. MRS. ELVSTED \res, but I was so silly in those days. And since then, too—we have drifted so far—far apart from each other. Our circles have been so entirely different. HEDDA Well then, we must try to drift together again. Now listen! At school we said du to each other; and we called each other by our Christian names . . . MRS. ELVSTED No, I am sure you must be mistaken. HEDDA No, not at all! I can remember quite distinctly. So now we are going to renew our old friendship. [Draws the footstool closer to MRS. ELVSTED.] There now! [Kisses her cheek.] You must say du to me and call me Hedda. MRS. ELVSTED [presses and pats her hands] Oh, how good and kind you are! I am not used to such kindness. HEDDA There, there, there! And I shall say du to you, as in the old days, and call you my dear Thora. MRS. ELVSTED My name is Thea. HEDDA Why, of course! I meant Thea. [Looks at her compassionately] So you are not accustomed to goodness and kindness, Thea? Not in your own home? MRS. ELVSTED Oh, if I only had a home! But I haven’t any; I have never had a home. HEDDA [looks at her for a moment] I almost suspected as much. MRS. ELVSTED [gazing helplessly before her] Yes—yes—yes. HEDDA I don’t quite remember—was it not as housekeeper that you first went to Mr. Elvsted’s? I really went as governess. But his wife—his late wife—was an invalid, and rarely left her room. So I had to look after the housekeeping as well. HEDDA And then—at last—you becaihe mistress of the house. MRS. ELVSTED

I

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

MRS. ELVSTED [sadly] HEDDA

Yes, I did.

Let me see—about how long ago was that?

MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA Yes.

My marriage?

MRS. ELVSTED

Five years ago.

HEDDA

1163

To be sure; it must be that.

MRS. ELVSTED

Oh those five years . . . ! Or at all events the last two or three

of them! Oh, if you1 could only imagine . . . HEDDA [giving her a little slap on the hand] MRS. ELVSTED

De? Fie, Thea!

Yes, ves, I will try . . . Well, if—you could only imagine and

understand . . . HEDDA [lightly]

Eilert Lovborg has been in your neighborhood about three

years, hasn’t he? MRS. ELVSTED [looks at her doubtfully] HEDDA

Had you known him before, in town here?

MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

Eilert Lovborg? Yes—he has.

Scarcely at all. I mean—I knew him by name of course.

But you saw a good deal of him in the country?

MRS. ELVSTED

Yes, he came to us every day. You see, he gave the children

lessons; for in the long run I couldn’t manage it all myself. HEDDA

No, that’s clear.—Mid your husband—? I suppose he is often away

from home? MRS. ELVSTED

Yes. Being sheriff, you know, he has to travel about a good

deal in his district. HEDDA [leaning against the arm of the chair]

Thea—my poor, sweet Thea—

now you must tell me everything—exactly as it stands. MRS. ELVSTED Well then, you must question me. HEDDA What sort of a man is your husband, Thea? I mean—you know—in everyday life. Is he kind to you? MRS. ELVSTED [evasively] I am sure he means well in everything. HEDDA

I should think he must be altogether too old for you. There is at least

twenty years’ difference between you, is there not? MRS. ELVSTED [irritably] Yes, that is true, too. Everything about him is re¬ pellent to me! We have not a thought in common. We have no single point of sympathy—he and I. HEDDA But is he not fond of you all the same? In his own way? MRS. ELVSTED

Oh I really don’t know. I think he regards me simply as a useful

property. And then it doesn’t cost much to keep me. I am not expensive. HEDDA Hi at is stupid of you. MRS. ELVSTED [shakes her head]

It cannot be otherwise—not with him. I don’t

think he really cares for any one but himself—and perhaps a little for the children. HEDDA And for Eilert Lovborg, Thea. MRS. ELVSTED [looking at her] For Eilert Lovborg1? What puts that into your head? HEDDA

Well, my dear—I should say, when he sends you after him all the way

to town . . . [Smiling almost imperceptibly.] And besides, you said so yourself, to Tesman. MRS. ELVSTED [with a little nervous twitch]

Did I? f es, I suppose I did. [ V e-

hemently, but not loudly, j No—I may just as well make a clean breast of it at once! Mrs. Elvsted uses the formal de (for you) instead of the intimate du.

1164

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

For it must all come out in any case. HEDDA

Why, mv dear Thea . . . ? j 7 j

MRS. ELVSTED Well, to make a long story short: My husband did not know that I was coming. HEDDA

What! Your husband didn’t know It!

MRS. ELVSTED

No, of course not. For that matter, he was away from home

himself—he was traveling. Oh, I could bear it no longer, Hedda! I couldn’t in¬ deed—so utterly alone as I should have been in future. HEDDA

Well? And then?

MRS. ELVSTED

So I put together some of my things—what I needed most—as

quiedv as possible. And then I left the house. HEDDA Without a word? MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

Yes—and took the train straight to town.

Why, my dear, good Thea—to think of you daring to do it!

MRS. ELVSTED [ rises and moves about the room) do? HEDDA

But what do you think your husband will say when you go home again?

MRS. ELVSTED [at the table, looks at her] HEDDA Of course. MRS. ELVSTED

MRS. ELVSTED

Then you have left your home—for

Yes. There was nothing else to be done.

But then—to take flight so openly.

MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

Back to him?

I shall never go back to him again.

HEDDA [rising and going towards her] good and all? HEDDA

What else could I possibly

Oh, it’s impossible to keep things of that sort secret.

But what do you think people will say of you, Thea?

MRS. ELVSTED They may say what they like, for aught I care. [ Seats herself wearily and sadly on the sofa. ] I have done nothing but what I had to do. HEDDA [after a short silence] think of doing?

And what are your plans now? What do you

MRS. ELVSTED I don’t know yet. I only know this, that I must live here, where Eilert Lovborg is—if 1 am to live at all. HEDDA [takes a chair from the table, seats herself beside her, and strokes her hands ] My dear Thea—how did this—this friendship—between you and Eilert Lovborg come about? MRS. ELVSTED Oh it grew up gradually. I gained a sort of influence over him. HEDDA Indeed? MRS. ELVSTED

He gave up his old habits. Not because I asked him to, for I

never dared do that. But of course he saw how repulsive they were to me; and so he dropped them. HEDDA [ concealing an involuntary smile of scorn] him—as the saying goes—my little Thea. MRS. ELVSTED

Then you have reclaimed

So he says himself, at any rate. And he, on his side, has made

a real human being of me—taught me to think, and to understand so many things. HEDDA Did lie give you lessons too, then? MRS. ELVSTED

No, not exactly lessons. But he talked to me—talked about

such an infinity of things. And then came the lovely, happy time when I began to share in his work—when he allowed me to help him! HEDDA Oh he did, did he? MRS. ELVSTED

Yes! lie never wrote any tiling without my assistance.

Act I

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

HEDDA

1165

You were two good comrades, in fact?

MRS. ELVSTED [eagerly]

Comrades! Yes, fancy, Hedda—that is the very word

he used! Oh, I ought to feel perfectly happy; and yet I cannot; for I don’t know how long it will last. HEDDA

Are you no surer of him than that?

MRS. ELVSTED [gloomily ]

A woman’s shadow stands between Eilert Fovborg

and me. HEDDA [ looks at her anxiously ] MRS. ELVSTED

Who can that be?

I don’t know. Some one he knew in his—in his past. Some one

he has never been able wholly to forget. IIEDDA

What has he told you—about this?

MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

lie has only once—quite vaguely—alluded to it.

Well! And what did he say?

MRS. ELVSTED

He said that when they parted, she threatened to shoot him

with a pistol. HEDDA [with cold composure \

Oh, nonsense! No one does that sort of thing

here. MRS. ELVSTED

No. And diat is why I think it must have been that red-haired

singing woman whom he once . . . HEDDA

Yes, very likely.

MRS. ELVSTED

For I remember they used to say of her that she carried loaded

firearms. HEDDA

Oh—then of course it must have been she.

MRS. ELVSTED [ wringing her hands ]

And now just fancy, Hedda—I hear that

this singing woman—diat she is in town again! Oh, I don’t know what to do . . . HEDDA [glancing towards the inner room j

Hush! Here comes Tesman. [ Rises

and whispers. ] Thea—all this must remain between you and me. MRS. ELVSTED [springing up]

Oh yes—yes! For heaven’s sake . . . !

GEORGE TESMAN, with a letter in his hand, comes from the right through the inner room. TES>LAX HEDDA

'Hiere now—die epistle is finished. That’s right. And now Mrs. Flvsted is just going. Wait a moment—I’ll

go with you to the garden gate. TESMAN

Do you think Berta could post the letter, I Iedda dear?

HEDDA [ takes it]

I will tell her to.

[ BERTA enters from the hall.) BERTA Judge Brack wishes to know if Mrs. Tesman will receive him. HEDDA Yes, ask Judge Brack to come in. And look here—put this letter in the post. BERTA [ taking the letter ]

Yes, Ma’am.

She opens the door for JUDGE BRACK and goes out herself. BRACK is a man of forty-five; thickset, but well built and elastic in his movements. His face is round¬ ish with an aristocratic profile. His hair is short, still almost black, and carefully dressed. His eyes are lively and sparkling. His eyebrows thick. His mustaches are also thick, with short-cut ends. He wears a well-cut walking suit, a little too youthful for his age. He uses an eyeglass, which he now and then lets drop. JUDGE BRACK [ with his hat in his hand, bowing [ earlv in the day?

May one venture to call so

1166

Act I

Plays for Further Reading

HEDDA

Of course one may.

TESMAN [presses his hand] You are welcome at any time. [Introducing him.] Judge Brack—Miss Rysing . . . HEDDA

Oh ...!

BRACK [ bowing]

Ah—delighted. . .

HEDDA [looks at him and laughs] Judge! BRACK

Do you find me—altered?

HEDDA

A little younger, I think.

BRACK

It’s nice to have a look at you by daylight,

Jdiank you so much.

TESMAN But what do you think of Hedda—eh? boesn’t she look flourishing? She has actually . . . HEDDA Oh, do leave me alone. You haven’t thanked Judge Brack for all the trouble he has taken . . . BRACK

Oh, nonsense—it was a pleasure to me . . .

HEDDA Yes, you are a friend indeed. But here stands Tdiea all impatience to be off—so au revoir, Judge. I shall be back again presendy. Mutual salutations. MRS. ELVSTED and HEDDA go out by the hall door. BRACK TESMAN

Well, is your wife tolerably satisfied . . . Yes, we can’t thank you sufficiently. Of course she talks of a little

rearrangement here and there; and one or two tilings are still wanting. We shall have to buy some additional trifles. BRACK

Indeed!

TESMAN But we won’t trouble you about these things. Hedda says she herself will look after what is wanting. Shan’t we sit down? Eh? BRACK Thanks, for a moment. [Seats himself beside the table.] There is some¬ thing I wanted to speak to you about, my dear Tesman. TESMAN Indeed? Ah, I understand! [Seating himself] I suppose it’s the serious part of the frolic that is coming now. Eh? BRACK Oh, the money question is not so very pressing; though, for that matter, I wish we had gone a little more economically to work. TESMAN

But that would never have done, you know! Think of Hedda, inv dear

fellow! You, who know her so well ... I couldn’t possibly ask her to put up with a shabby style of living! BRACK TESMAN ment.

No, no—that is just the difficulty. And then—fortunately—it can’t be long before I receive my appoint¬

BRACK Well, you see—such things are often apt to hang fire for a time. TESMAN Have you heard anything definite? Eh? BRACK Nothing exactiy definite . . . [ Interrupting himself] But by the by—I have one piece of news for you. TESMAN Well? BITACK Your old friend, Eilert Lovborg, has returned to town. TESMAN I know that already. BRACK TESMAN BRACK

Indeed! How did you learn it? From that lady who went out with Hedda. Really? What was her name? I didn’t quite catch it.

Act I

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

TESMAN BRACK

1167

Mrs. Elvsted. Alia—Sheriff Elvsted’s wife? Of course—he has been living up in their

regions. And fancy—I’m delighted to hear that he is quite a reformed character! BRACK So they say. TESMAN And then he has published a new book—eh? BRACK Yes, indeed he has. TESHAN And I hear it has made some sensation! BRACK Quite an unusual sensation. TESMAN Fancy—isn’t that good news! A man of such extraordinary tal¬ ents ... I felt so grieved to think that he had gone irretrievably to ruin. BRACK That was what everybody thought. TESMAN But I cannot imagine what he will take to now! I low in the world will he be able to make his living? Eh? TESMAN

During the last words, IIEDDA has entered by the hall door. HEDDA [to BRACK, laughing with a touch of scorn)

Tesman is for every wor¬

rying about how people are to make their living. TESMAN Well you see, dear—we were talking about poor Eilert Eovborg. HEDDA [glancing at him rapidly ) Oh, indeed? [ SeoTs herself in the armchair beside the stove and asks indifferently.) What is the matter with him? TESMAN Well—no doubt he has run through all his property long ago; and he can scarcely write a new book every year—eh? So I really can’t see what is to become of him. BRACK Perhaps I can give you some information on that point. TESMAN Indeed! BRACK You must remember that his relations have a good deal of influence. TESMAN Oh, his relations, unfortunately, have entirely washed their hands of him. BRACK

At one time they called him the hope of the family. TESMAN At one time, yes! But he has put an end to all that. HEDDA Who knows? [ With a slight smile) I hear they have reclaimed him up

at Sheriff Elvsted’s . . . BRACK And then this book that he has published . . . TESMAN Well, well, I hope to goodness they may find something for him to do. I have just written to him. I asked him to come and see us this evening, Hedda dear. BRACK

But my dear fellow, you are booked for my bachelors’ party this evening.

You promised on the pier last night. HEDDA Had you forgotten, Tesman? TESMAN Yes, I had utterly forgotten. BRACK But it doesn’t matter, for you may be sure he won’t come. TESMAN What makes you think that? Eh? BRACK [ with a little hesitation, rising and resting his hands on the back of his

My dear Tesman—and you too, Mrs. I esman—I think I ought not to keep you in the dark about something that—that . . . TESMAN That concerns Eilert . . . ? BRACK Both you and him. chair]

1168

Plays for Further Reading

TESMAN

Act I

Well, my dear Judge, out with it.

BRACK You must be prepared to find your appointment deferred longer than you desired or expected. TESMAN [jumping up uneasily ]

Is there some hitch about it? Eh?

BRACK The nomination may perhaps be made conditional on the result of a competition . . . TESMAN

Competition! Think of that, Iledda!

HEDDA [leans further hack in the chair)

Alia—aha!

TESMAN But who can my competitor be? Surely not . . . ? BRACK Yes, precisely—Eilert Lovborg. TESMAN [clasping his hands] sible! Eh? BRACK TESMAN

No, no—it’s quite'inconceivable! Quite impos¬

ITm—that is what it may come to, all the same. Well but, Judge Brack—it would show the most incredible lack of

consideration for me. [Gesticulates with his arms) For—-just think—I’m a married man! We have married on the strength of these prospects, Hedda and I; and run deep into debt; and borrowed money from Aunt Julia too. Good heavens, they had as good as promised me the appointment. Eh? BRACK

Well, well, well—no doubt you will get it in the end; only after a contest.

HEDDA [immovable in her armchair) sporting interest in that. TESMAN

Why, my dearest Hedda, how can you be so indifferent about it?

HEDDA [As before) BRACK

Fancy, Tesman, there will be a sort of

I am not at all indifferent. I am most eager to see who wins.

In any case, Mrs. I esman, it is best that you should know how matters

stand. I mean—before you set about the little purchases I hear you are threatening. HEDDA This can make no difference. BRACK

Indeed! Then I have no more to say. Good-bye! [To TESMAN] I shall

look in on my way back from my afternoon walk, and take you home with me. TESMAN Oh yes, yes—your news has quite upset me. HEDDA [ reclining, holds out her hand) in the afternoon. bitack

Good-bye, Judge; and be sure you call

Many thanks. Good-bye, good-bye!

TESMAN [accompanying him to the door ] really excuse me . . .

Good-bye, my dear Judge! You must

JUDGE BRACK goes out by the hall door. TESMAN [crosses the room) tures. Eh?

Oh Hedda—one should never rush into adven¬

HEDDA [looks at him, smiling ]

Do you do that?

TESMAN Yes, dear—there is no denying—it was adventurous to go and marry and set up house upon mere expectations. HEDDA TESMAN

Perhaps you are right there. Well—at all events, we have our delightful home, Hedda! Fancy, the

home we both dreamed of—the home we were in love with, I may almost say. Eh? HEDDA [rising slowly and wearily) It was part of our compact that we were to go into society—to keep open house. TESMAN Yes, if you only knew how I had been looking forward to it! Fancy— to see you as hostess—in a select circle! Eh? Well, well, well—for the present we

Henrik Ibsen ■ Hedda Gabler

Act II

1169

shall have to get on without society, Iledda—only to invite Aunt Julia now and then. Oh, \ intended you to lead such an utterly different life, dear . . . ! Of course I cannot have my man in livery just yet.

HEDDA TESMAN

Oh no, unfortunately. It would be out of the question for us to keep

a footman, you know. HEDDA And the saddle horse I was to have had . . . TESMAN [aghast] The saddle horse! HEDDA ... I suppose I must not think of that now. TESMAN HEDDA

Good heavens, no!—that’s as clear as daylight.

[goes up the room]

in the meanwhile. TESMAN f beaming]

Well, I shall have one thing at least to kill time with

Oh thank heaven for that! What is it, Iledda? Eh?

■ HEDDA [in the middle doorway, looks at him with covert scorn]

My pistols,

George. TESMAN [in alarm] Your pistols! HEDDA [with cold eyes] General Gabler’s pistols. [She goes out through the inner room, to the left. ] TESMAN [rushes up to the middle doorway and calls after her]

No, for heaven’s

sake, Iledda darling—don’t touch those dangerous things! For my sake, Iledda! Eh?

Act II SCENE: The room at the TESMANS’ as in the first act, except that the piano has been removed, and an elegant little writing table with bookshelves put in its place. A smaller table stands near the sofa on the left. Most of the bouquets have been taken away. MRS. ELVSTEITs bouquet is upon the large table in front. It is after¬ noon. HEDDA, dressed to receive callers, is alone in the room. She stands by the open glass door, loading a revolver. The fellow to it lies in an open pistol case on the writing table. HEDDA [looks down the garden, and calls] BRACK [is heard calling from a distance] HEDDA [raises the pistol and points]

So you are here again, Judge! As you see, Mrs. Tesman!

Now I’ll shoot you, Judge Brack!

BRACK [calling unseen] No, no, no! Don’t stand aiming at me! HEDDA This is what comes of sneaking in by the back way. [ She fires. ] BRACK [ nearer]

Axe you out of your senses! . . .

HEDDA Dear me—did I happen to hit you? BRACK [still outside) I wish you would let these pranks alone! HEDDA

Come in then, Judge.

JUDGE BRACK, dressed as though for a mens party, enters by the glass door. He carries a light overcoat over his arm. BRACK

What the deuce—haven’t you tired of that sport, yet? What are you

shooting at? HEDDA Oh, I am only bring in the air. BRACK [gently takes the pistol out of her hand]

Allow me, Madam! [ Looks at

it] Ah_I know this pistol well! [Looks around] Where is the case? Ah, here it is.

1170

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

[Lays the pistol in it, and shuts it] Now we won’t play at that game any more today. HEDDA Then what in heaven’s name would you have me do with myself? BRACK Have you had no visitors? IIEDDA [closing the glass door]

Not one.' I suppose all our set are still out of

town. BRACK

And is Tesman not at home either?

HEDDA [at the writing table, putting the pistol case in a drawer which she shuts]

No. He rushed off to his aunt’s directly after lunch; he didn’t expect you

so early. BRACK I I’m—how stupid of me not to have thought of that! IIEDDA [turning her head to look at him] Why stupid?

Because if I had thought of it I should have come a little—earlier. HEDDA [ Crossing the room] Then you would have found no one to receive you; for I have been in my room changing my dress ever since lunch. BRACK

BRACK

And is there no soil of little chink that we could hold a parley through?

You have forgotten to arrange one. BRACK That was another piece of stupidity. HEDDA Well, we must just settle down here—and wait. Tesman is not likely to be back for some time yet. BRACK Never mind; I shall not be impatient. HEDDA

HEDDA seats herself in the corner of the sofa. BRACK lays his overcoat over the back of the nearest chair, and sits down, but keeps his hat in his hand. A short silence. They look at each other. HEDDA

Well?

BRACK [ in the same tone] HEDDA

Well?

I spoke first.

BRACK [ bending a little forward]

Come, let us have a cozy little chat, Mrs.

Iiedda. HEDDA [ leaning further back in the sofa ]

Does it not seem like a whole eternity since our last talk? Of course I don’t count those few words yesterday evening and this morning. BRACK You mean since our last confidential talk? Our last tete-a-tete? HEDDA Well, yes—since you put it so.

Not a day has passed but I have wished that you were home again. And I have done nothing but wish the same thing. BRACK ^ ou ? Really, Mrs. Iiedda? And I thought you had been enjoying your tour so much! BRACK HEDDA

Oh, yes, you may be sure of that! BRACK But Tesman’s letters spoke of nothing but happiness. HEDDA Oh, Tesman! You see, he thinks nothing so delightful as grubbing in libraries and making copies of old parchments, or whatever you call them. BRACK [ with a spice of malice ] Well, that is his vocation in life—or part of it at any rate. HEDDA

Yes, of course; and no doubt when it’s your vocation . . . But /! Oh, my dear Mr. Brack, how mortally bored I have been-. BRACK [sympathetically] Do you really say so? In downright earnest? HEDDA

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

Act II

HEDDA

1171

Yes, you can surely understand it . . . ! To go for six whole months

without meeting a soul that knew anything of our circle, or could talk about the things we are interested in. BRACK Yes, yes—I, too, should feel that a deprivation. HEDDA

And then, what I found most intolerable of all . . .

BRACK Well? HEDDA . . . was being everlastingly in the company of—one and the same person . . . BRACK [with a nod of assent]

Morning, noon, and night, yes—at all possible

times and seasons. HEDDA I said “everlastingly.” BRACK Just so. But I should have thought, with our excellent Tesman, one Gould . . . HEDDA

Tesman is—a specialist, my dear Judge.

BRACK Undeniably. HEDDA And specialists are not at all amusing to travel with. Not in the long run at any rate. BRACK Not even—the specialist one happens to love? HEDDA

Faugh—don’t use that sickening word!

BRACK [taken aback] What do you say, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA [ half laughingly, half irritated] You should just try it! To hear of noth¬ ing but the history of civilization morning, noon, and night . . . BRACK Everlastingly. HEDDA Yes, yes, yes! And then all this about the domestic industry of the Middle Ages . . . ! That’s the most disgusting part of it! BRACK [looks searchingly at her] But tell me—in that case, how am I to un¬ derstand your . . . ? I I’ m . . . HEDDA My accepting George Tesman, you mean? BRACK Well, let us put it so. HEDDA Good heavens, do you see anything so wonderful in that? BRACK Yes and no—Mrs. Iledda. HEDDA I had positively danced myself tired, my dear Judge. My day was done . . . [ With a slight shudder] Oh, no—I won’t say that; nor think it, either! BRACK You have assuredly no reason to. irEDDA Oh, reasons . . . [ Watching him closely] And George fesman—after all, you must admit that he is correctness itself. BRACK

His correctness and respectauiiity are beyond ail question.

HEDDA

And I don’t see anything absolutely ridiculous about him. Do you?

BRACK HEDDA

Ridiculous? N—no—I shouldn’t exactly say so . . . Well—and his powers of research, at all events, are untiring. I see no

reason why he should not one day come to the front, after all. BRACK [ looks at her hesitatingly ] I thought that you, like even7 one else, ex¬ pected him to attain the highest distinction. HEDDA [with an expression of fatigue] Yes, so I did—-And then, since he was bent, at all hazards, on being allowed to provide for me—I really don’t know why I should not have accepted his offer. BRACK No—if you look at it in that light. . . HEDDA It was more than my odier adorers were prepared to do lor me, my dear Judge.

1172

Plays for Further Reading'

Act II

BRACK [ laughing] Well, I can’t answer for all the rest; but as for myself, you know quite well that I have always entertained a—a certain respect for the marriage tie—for marriage as an institution, Mrs. lledda. IIEDDA [jestingly] Oh, I assure you I have never cherished any hopes with respect to you. BRACK All I require is a pleasant and intimate interior, where I can make myself useful in every way, and am free to come and go as—as a trusted friend . . . HEDDA Of the master of the house, do you mean? BRACK [bowing] Frankly—of the mistress first of all; but, of course, of the master, too, in the second place. Such a triangular friendship—if I may call it so— is really a great convenience for all parties, let me tell you. HEDDA Yes, I have many a time longed for some one to make a third on our travels. Oh—those railway-carriage tete-a-tetes . . . ! BRACK Fortunately your wedding journey is over now. HEDDA [shaking her head] Not by a long—long way. I have only arrived at a station on the line. BRACK Well, then the passengers jump out and move about a little, Mrs. Hedda. HEDDA I never jump out. BRACK Reallv? HEDDA No—because there is always some one standing by to . . . BRACK [laughing] To look at your legs, do you mean? HEDDA Precisely. BRACK Well, but, dear me .. . . HEDDA [with a gesture of repulsion] I won’t have it. I would rather keep my seat where I happen to be—and continue the tete-a-tete. BRACK But suppose a third person were to jump in and join the couple. HEDDA All—that is quite another matter! BRACK A trusted, sympathetic friend . . . HEDDA . . . with a fund of conversation on all sorts of lively topics . . . BRACK . . . and not die least bit of a specialist! HEDDA [ with an audible sigh] Yes, that would be a relief, indeed. BRACK [ hears the front door open, and glances in that direction] The triangle is completed. HEDDA [half aloud] And on goes the train. GEORGE TESMAN, in a gray walking suit, with a soft felt hat, enters from the hall. He has a number of unbound books under his arm and in his pockets. TESMAN [goes up to the table beside the corner settee] Ouf—what a load for a warm day—all these books. [Lays them on the table] I’m positivelv perspiring, Hedda. Hallo—are you there already, my dear Judge? Eh? Berta didn’t tell me. BRACK [rising] I came in through the garden. HEDDA What books have you got there? TESMAN [stands looking them through] Some new books on my special sub¬ jects—quite indispensable to me. HEDDA Your special subjects? BRACK Yes, books on his special subjects, Mrs. Tesman.

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

Act II

1173

BRACK and HEDDA exchange a confidential smile. HEDDA TESMAN

Do you need still more books on your special subjects? Yes, my dear I Iedda, one can never have too many of them. Of course,

one must keep up with all that is written and published. HEDDA Yes, I suppose one must. TESMAN [searching among his books]

And look here—I have got hold of Eilert

Lovborg’s new book, too. [ Offering it to her] Perhaps you would like to glance through it, Hedda? Eh? HEDDA TESMAN BRACK ■ TESMAN

No, thank you. Or rather—afterwards perhaps. I looked into it a little on the way home. Well, what do you think of it—as a specialist? I think it shows quite remarkable soundness of judgment. He never

wrote like that before. [Putting the books together] Now I shall take all these into my study. I’m longing to cut the leaves . . . ! And then I must change my clothes. [To BRACK] I suppose we needn’t start just yet? Eh? BRACK TESMAN

Oh, dear, no—there is not die slightest hurry. Well, then, I will take my time. [Is going with his books, but stops in

the doorway and turns ] By die by, Hedda—-Aunt Julia is not coming this evening. HEDDA TESMAN

Not coming? Is it that affair of the bonnet that keeps her away? Oh, not at all. How could you think such a thing of Aunt Julia? Just

fancy . . . ! The fact is, Aunt Rina is very ill. HEDDA She always is. TESMAN Yes, but today she is much worse than usual, poor dear. HEDDA

Oh, dien it’s only natural that her sister should remain with her. I

must bear my disappointment. TESMAN And you can’t imagine, dear, how delighted Aunt Julia seemed to be—because you had come home looking so flourishing! EEDDA [half aloud, rising]

Oh, diose everlasdng aunts!

TESMAN What? HEDDA [going to the glass door] Nodiing. TESMAN Oh, all right. [He goes through the inner room, out to the right.] BRACK HEDDA

What bonnet were you talking about? Oh, it was a litde episode with Miss Tesman this morning. She had

laid down her bonnet on the chair Jiere—[ looks at him and smiles] —and I pre¬ tended to think it was the servant’s. BRACK [shaking his head] Now, my dear Mrs. Hedda, how could you do such a thing? To that excellent old lady, too! HEDDA [nervously crossing the room]

Well, you see—these impulses come

over me all of a sudden; and I cannot resist them. [Throws herself down in the easy-chair by the stove] Oh, I don’t know how to explain it. BRACK [ behind the easy-chair] You are not really happy—that is at the bottom of it. HEDDA [Looking straight before her]

I know of no reason why I should be—

happy. Perhaps you can give me one? BRACK Well—amongst other things, because you have got exactly the home you had set your heart on. EEDDA [looks up at him and laughs] BRACK

Is there nothing in it, then?

Do you, too, believe in that legend?

1174

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

HEDDA Oh, yes, there is something in it. BRACK Well? HEDDA There is this in it, that I made use of Tesman to see me home from evening parties last summer . . . BRACK

I, unfortunately, had to go quite a different way.

HEDDA

That’s true. I know you were going a different way last summer.

BRACK \ laughing] HEDDA

Oh he, Mrs. Hedda! Well, then—-you and Tesman . . . ?

Well, we happened to pass here one evening; Tesman, poor fellow,

was writhing in the agony of having to find conversation; so I took pity on the learned man . . . BRACK [smiles doubtfully] HEDDA

You took pity? H’m . . .

Yes, I really did. And so—to help him out of his torment—I happened

to say, in pure thoughtlessness, that I should like to live in this villa. BRACK No more than that? HEDDA

BRACK

Not that evening. But afterwards?

HEDDA Yes, my thoughtlessness had consequences, my dear Judge. BRACK Unfortunately that too often happens, Mrs. Hedda. Thanks! So you see it was this enthusiasm for Secretary Falk’s villa that first constituted a bond of sympathy between George Tesman and me. From HEDDA

that came our engagement and our marriage, and our wedding journey, and all the rest of it. Well, well, my dear Judge—as you make your bed so you must lie, I could almost say. BRACK

This is exquisite! And you really cared not a rap about it all the time? HEDDA No, heaven knows I didn’t. BRACK

But now? Now that we have made it so homelike for you?

Ugh—die rooms all seem to smell of lavender and dried roseleaves. But perhaps it’s Aunt Julia that has brought that scent with her. HEDDA

BRACK [laughing] Falk. HEDDA

No, I think it must be a legacy from the late Mrs. Secretarv

Yes, there is an odor of mortality about it. It reminds me of a bouquet—

the day after the ball. [Clasps her hands behind her head, leans back in her chair and looks at him] Oh, my dear Judge—you cannot imagine how horribly I shall bore myself here. BRACK Hedda? HEDDA BRACK

Why should not you, too, find some sort of vocation in life, Mrs

A vocation—that should attract me? If possible, of course.

HEDDA

Heaven knows what sort of a vocation that could be. I often wonder whether . . [Breaking off] But that would never do, either. BRACK Who can tell? Let me hear what it is. HEDDA Whether I might not get Tesman to go into politics, I mean. BRACK [laughing] Tesman? No, really now, political life is not the thing for him—not at all in his line. I daresay not. But if I could get him into it all the same? BRACK Wliy—what satisfaction could you find in that? If he is not fitted for that sort of thing, why should you want to drive him into it? HEDDA Because I am bored, I tell you! [After a pause] So you think it quite out of the question that Tesman should ever get into die ministry? hedda

No,

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

Act II

1175

H’m—you see, my dear Mrs. Hedda—to get into the ministry, he would

BRACK

have to be a tolerably rich man. HEDDA [rising impatiently] Yes, there we have it! It is this genteel poverty I have managed to drop into . . . ! [Crosses the room] That is what makes life so pitiable! So utterly ludicrous!—For that’s what it is. BRACK

Now I should say the fault lay elsewhere.

HEDDA

Where, then? You have never gone through any really stimulating experience.

BRACK

Anything serious, you mean? Yes, you may call it so. But now you may perhaps have one in store.

HEDDA BRACK HEDDA

[tossing her head]

Oh, you’re thinking of the annoyances about this

wretched professorship! But that must be Tesman’s own affair. I assure you I shall not waste a thought upon it. BRACK No, no, I daresay not. But suppose now that what people call—in elegant language—a solemn responsibility were to come upon you? [Smiling] A new responsibility, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA [angrily] Be quiet! Nothing of that sort will ever happen! [warily] HEDDA [curtly ] BRACK

We will speak of this again a year hence—at the very outside. I have no turn for anything of the sort, Judge Brack. No re¬

sponsibilities for me! BRACK Are you so unlike the generality of women as to have no turn for duties which . . . ? HEDDA [beside the glass door]

Oh, be quiet, I tell you! I often think there is

only one thing in the world I have any turn for. BRACK [drawing near to her] And what is that, if I may ask? HEDDA

[stands looking out]

Boring myself to death. Now you know it. [Turns,

looks towards the inner room, and laughs] Yes, as I thought! Here comes the Professor. BRACK [softly, in a tone of warning] GEORGE TESMAN,

Come, come, come, Mrs. Hedda!

dressed for the party, with his gloves and hat in his hand,

enters from the right through the inner room. TESMAN

I ledda, has no message come from Eilert Lovborg? Eh?

No. TESMAN Then you’ll see he’ll be here presently. IEEDDA

Do you really think he will come? TESMAN Yes, I am almost sure of it. For what you were telling us this morning BRACK

must have been a mere floating rumor. You think so? TESMAN At any rate, Aunt Julia said she did not believe for a moment that he BRACK

would ever stand in my way again. Fancy that! Well, then, that’s all right. TESMAN [placing his hat and gloves on a chair on the right] BRACK

\ es, but you must

really let me wait for him as long as possible. brack We have plenty of time yet. None of my guests will arrive before seven or half-past. TESMAN

pens. Eh?

Then meanwhile we can keep Hedda company, and see what hap¬

1176

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

HEDDA [placing BRACK’S hat and overcoat upon the corner settee]

And at the

worst Mr. Lovborg can remain here with me. BRACK [offering to take his things] Oh, allow me, Mrs. Tesman! What do you mean by “at the worst”? HEDDA If he won’t go with you and Tesman. TESMAN [ looks dubiously at her] But, Hedda, dear—do you think it would quite do for him to remain with you? Eh? Remember, Aunt Julia can’t come. HEDDA No, but Mrs. Elvsted is coming. We three can have a cup of tea to¬ gether. Oh, yes, that will be all right. [smiling] And that would perhaps be the safest plan for him.

TESMAN brack

HEDDA

Why so?

Well, you know, Mrs. Tesman, how you used to jeer at my little bach¬ elor parties. You declared they were adapted only for men of the strictest principles. HEDDA But no doubt Mr. Eovborg’s principles are strict enough now. A con¬ verted sinner . . . BRACK

BERTA appears at the hall door. BERTA There’s a gentleman asking if you are at home, ma’am . . . HEDDA Well, show him in. TESMAN [softly]

I’m sure it is he! Fancy that!

EILERT LOVBORG enters the hall. He is slim and lean; of the same age as TESMAN,

but looks older and somewhat worn-out. His hair and beard are of a blackish brown, his face long and pale, but with patches of color on the cheekbones. He is dressed in a well-cut black visiting suit, quite new. He has dark gloves and a silk hat. He stops near the door, and makes a rapid bow, seeming somewhat embar¬ rassed. TESMAN [goes up to him and shakes him warmly by the hand]

Well, my dear

Eilert—so at last we meet again! EILERT LOVBORG [speaks in a subdued voice] Thanks for your letter, Tesman. [Approaching HEDDA] Will you, too, shake hands with me, Mrs. Tesman? HEDDA [taking his hand] 1 am glad to see you, Mr. Lovborg. [With a motion of her hand. ] I don’t know whether you two gentlemen . . . ? LOVBORG [ bowing slightly]

Judge Brack, I think. BRACK [doing likewise] Oh, yes—in the old days . . . TESMAN [to LOVBORG, with his hands on his shoulders] And now you must make yourself entiiely at home, Eilert! Mustn’t he, Hedda?—For I hear vou are going to settle in town again? Eh? LOVBORG Yes, I am. Quite right, quite right. Let me tell you, I have got hold of your new book; but I haven’t had time to read it yet. LOVBORG You may spare yourself the trouble. TESMAN

TESMAN

Why so?

Because there is very little in it. TESMAN Just fancy—how can you say so? BRACK But it has been very much praised, I hear. LOVBORG

Act II

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

LOtEORG

1177

That was what I wanted; so I put nothing into the book but what

even'' one would agree with. BRACK

Very wise of you.

TESMAN

Well, but, my dear Eilert . . . !

LOYBORG

For now I mean to win myself a position again—to make a fresh

start. TESMAN [a little embarrassed]

Ah, that is what you wish to do? Eh?

LOYBORG [smiling, lays down his hat, and draws a packet, wrapped in paper, from his coat pocket]

But when this one appears, George Tesman, you will have

to read it. For this is the real book—the book I have put my true self into. TESMAN

Indeed? And what is it?

LOYBORG TESMAN

It is the continuation. The continuation? Of what?

LOYBORG TESMAN

Of the book. Of the new book?

LOYBORG Of course. TESMAN Why, my dear Eilert—does it not come down to our own days? LOtEORG Yes, it does; and this one deals with the future. TESMAN With the future! But, good heavens, we know nothing of the future! LOtEORG

No; but there is a tiling or two to be said about it all the same. [ Opens

the packet] Look here . . . TESMAN WEy, that’s not your handwriting. LOtEORG

I dictated it. [ Turning over the pages ] It falls into two sections. The

first deals with the civilizing forces of the future. And here is the second—\ running through the pages towards the end ] —forecasting the probable line of development. TESMAN

flow odd now! I should never have thought of writing anything of

that sort. HEDDA [at the glass door, drumming on the pane]

H’m ... I daresay not.

LOtEORG [replacing the manuscript in its paper and laying the packet on the table ]

I brought it, thinking I might read you a little of it this evening.

TESMAN

That was very good of you, Eilert. But this evening . . . ? [Looking

at BRACK] I don’t quite see how we can manage it . . . LOtEORG BRACK

Well, then, some other time. There is no hurry.

I must tell you, Mr. Eovborg—there is a little gathering at my house

this evening—mainly in honor of Tesman, you know . . . LOtEORG [looking for his hat] BRACK

Oh—then I won’t detain you . . .

No, but listen—will you not do me die favor of joining us?

LOtEORG [curtly and decidedly] No, I can’t—thank you very much. BRACK Oh, nonsense—do! We shall be quite a select little circle. And I assure you we shall have a “lively time,” as Mrs. lied—as Mrs. Tesman says. LOtEORG I have no doubt of it. But nevertheless . . . BILACK And then you might bring your manuscript with you, and read it to Tesman at niv house. I could give you a room to yourselves. TESMAN Yes, dunk of that, Eilert—why shouldn’t you? Eli? HEDDA [interposing] But, Tesman, if Mr. Lovborg would really rather not! I am sure Mr. Lovborg is much more inclined to remain here and have supper with me. LOtEORG [looking at her] HEDDA

With you, Mrs. Tesman?

And with Mrs. Elvsted.

1178

Act II

Plays for Further Reading

LOVBORG HEDDA

All . . .(lightly] I saw her for a moment this morning. Did you? Well, she is coming this evening. So you see you are almost

bound to remain, Mr. Lovborg, or she will have no one to see her home. LOVBORG HEDDA

That’s true. Many thanks, Mrs. Tesman—in that case I will remain.

Then I have one or two orders to* give the servant . . .

She goes to the hall door and rings. BERTA enters. IIEDDA talks to her in a whisper, and points towards the inner room. BERTA nods and goes out again. TESMAN [at the same time, to LOVBORG] Tell me, Eilert—is it this new sub¬ ject—the future—that you are going to lecture about? LOVBORG Yes. TESMAN They told me at the bookseller’s that you are going to deliver a course of lectures this autumn. LOVBORG That is my intention. I hope you won’t take it ill, Tesman. TESMAN Oh no, not in the least! But . . . ? LOVBORG

I can quite understand that it must be disagreeable to you.

TESMAN [cast down] to . . . LOVBORG TESMAN me? Eh? LOVBORG

Oh, I can’t expect you, out of consideration for me,

But I shall wait till you have received your appointment. Will you wait? Yes, but—yes, but—are you not going to compete with No; it is only the moral victory I care for.

TESMAN Why, bless me—then Aunt Julia was right after all! Oh, yes—I knew it! Iiedda! Just fancy—Eilert Lovborg is not going to stand in our way! HEDDA [ curtly]

Our way? Pray leave me out of the question.

She goes up towards the inner room, where BERTA is placing a tray with decanters and glasses on the table. HEDDA nods approval, and comes forward again. BERTA goes out. TESMAN [at the same time]

And you, Judge Brack—what do you say to this?

Eh? Well, I say that a moral victory—h’m—may be all very fine . . . TESMAN Yes, certainly. But all the same . . . HEDDA [looking at TESMAN with a cold smile] You stand there looking as if you were thunderstruck . . . TESMAN Yes—so I am—I almost think . . . BRACK Don’t you see, Mrs. Tesman, a thunderstorm has just passed over? HEDDA [pointing towards the inner room] Will you not take a glass of cold punch, gentlemen? BRACK

BRACK [ looking at his watch]

A stirrup cup? Yes, it wouldn’t come amiss. TESMAN A capital idea, Iiedda! Just the thing! Now that the weight has been taken off my mind . . . HEDDA Will you not join them, Mr. Lovborg? LOVBORG [with a gesture of refusal] No, thank you. Nothing for me. BRACK Why bless me—cold punch is surely not poison. LOVBORG Perhaps not for every one. HEDDA I will keep Mr. Lovborg company in the meantime. TESMAN Yes, yes, Iiedda dear, do. A

Act II

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

1179

He and BRACK go into the inner room, seat themselves, drink punch, smoke cig¬ arettes, and carry on a lively conversation during what follows. EILERT LOYBORG remains standing beside the stove. HEDDA goes to the writing table. HEDDA [raising her voice a little]

Do you care to look at some photographs, Mr. Lovborg? You know Tesman and I made a tour in the Tyrol on our way home? She takes up an album, and places it on the table beside the sofa, in the further corner of which she seats herself. EILERT LOVBORG approaches, stops, and looks at her. Then he takes a chair and seats himself to her left, with his back towards the inner room.

Do you see this range of mountains, Mr. Lovborg? It’s the Order group. Tesman has written the name underneath. Here it is: “The Order group near Meram. ” LOVBORG [ who has never taken his eyes off her, says softly and slowly ] I Iedda— Gabler! HEDDA [glancing hastily at him] Ah! Hush! LOVBORG [repeats softly] Hedda Gabler! HEDDA [looking at the album] That was my name in the old days—when we two knew each other. LOVBORG And I must teach myself never to say Hedda Gabler again—never, as long as I live. HEDDA [still turning over the pages] Yes, you must. And I think you ought to practice in time. The sooner the better, I should say. LOVBORG [in a tone of indignation] Hedda Gabler married? And married to— George Tesman! HEDDA Yes—so the world goes. LOVBORG Oh, Hedda, Hedda—how could you1 throw yourself away! HEDDA [looks sharply at him] What? I can’t allow this! LOMIORG What do you mean?

-

HEDDA [opening the album]

TESMAN comes into the room and goes towards the sofa.

And this is a view from the Val d’Ampezzo, Mr. Lovborg. Just look at these peaks! [Looks affection¬ ately up at TESMAN ] What’s the name of these curious peaks, dear? TESMAN Let me see. Oh, those are the Dolomites. HEDDA Yes, that’s it! Those are the Dolomites, Mr. Lovborg. TESMAN Hedda, dear, I only wanted to ask whether I shouldn’t bring you a little punch after all? For yourself, at any rate—eh? HEDDA Yes, do, please; and perhaps a few biscuits. TESMAN No cigarettes? HEDDA No. TESMAN Very well. HEDDA [hears him coming and says in an indifferent tone]

He goes into the inner room and out to the right. BRACK sits in the inner room, and keeps an eye from time to time on HEDDA and LOVBORG. ldu

1180

Act II

Plays for Further Reading

LOVBORG [softly, as before\

Answer me, Hedda—how could you go and

do this? IIHDDA [ apparently absorbed in the album j

If you continue to say du to me

I won’t talk to you. LOVBORG May I not say du even when we are alone? HEDDA No. You may think it; but you mustn’t say it. LO\TBORG Ah, I understand. It is an offense against George Tesman, whom you1 love. HEDDA [glances at him and smiles] Love? What an idea! LOVBORG You don’t love him then! HEDDA But I won’t hear of any sort of unfaithfulness! Remember that. LOVBORG Hedda—answer me one thing . . . HEDDA Hush! TESMAN enters with a small tray from the inner room.

Here you are! Isn’t this tempting?

TESMAN

He puts the tray on the table.

Why do you bring it yourself? TESMAN [filling the glasses] Because I think it’s such fun to wait upon you, Hedda. HEDDA But you have poured out two glasses. Mr. Lovborg said he wouldn’t have any . . . TESMAN No, but Mrs. Elvsted will soon be here, won’t she? HEDDA Yes, by the by—Mrs. Elvsted . . . TESMAN I lad you forgotten her? Eh? HEDDA We were so absorbed in these photographs. [Shows him a picture] Do you remember this little village? TESMAN Oh, it’s that one just below the Brenner Pass. It was there we passed the night . . . HEDDA . . . and met that lively party of tourists. FES MAN Yes, that was the place. Fancy—if we could only have had you with us, Eilert! Eh? HEDDA

He returns to the inner room and sits beside BRACK. LOVBORG HEDDA

Answer me this one thing, Hedda . . . Well?

Was there no love in your friendship for me, either? Not a spark— not a tinge of love in it? LOVBORG

HEDDA

I wonder if there was? To me it seems as though we were two good

comrades—two thoroughly intimate friends. [Smilingly] You especiallv were frankness itself. LOttBORG It was you that made me so. HEDDA As I look back upon it all, I think there was really something beautiful,

Act II

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

1181

something fascinating—something daring—in—in that secret intimacy—that com¬ radeship which no living creature so much as dreamed of. LOYBORG

Yes, yes, Hedda! Was there not?—When I used to come to your

father’s in the afternoon—and the General sat over at the window reading his papers—with his back towrards us . . . HEDDA

And we two on die corner sofa . . . Always with the same illustrated paper before us . . .

LOVBORG

HEDDA

For want of an album, yes.

LOVBORG

Yes, Hedda, and wiien I made my confessions to you—told you

about myself, things that at that time no one else knew! There I would sit and tell you of my escapades—my days and nights of devilment. Oh, Hedda—what was the power in you that forced me to confess diese things? HEDDA

Do you think it was any power in me?

LOVBORG

How else can I explain it? And all those—those roundabout ques¬

tions you used to put to me . . . HEDDA

Which you understood so particularly well . . .

LOYBORG

How could you sit and question me like that? Question me quite

frankly . . . HEDDA

In roundabout terms, please observe.

LOVBORG

Yes, but frankly nevertheless. Cross-question me about—all that

sort of thing? HEDDA

And howT could you answer, Mr. Lovborg?

LOVBORG

Yes, that is just what I can’t understand—in looking back upon it.

But tell me nowr, Hedda—was there not love at the bottom of our friendship? On your side, did you not feel as though you might purge my stains away—if I made you my confessor? Was it not so? HEDDA

No, not quite.

LOYBORG What was vour motive, then? HEDDA Do you think it quite incomprehensible that a young girl—when it can be done—without any one knowing . . . LOVBORG Well? HEDDA . . . should be glad to have a peep, now and then, into a world which . . . LOMBORG Which . . . ? HEDDA . . . which she is forbidden to know anything about? LOVBORG

So that was it?

HEDDA Partly. Partly—I almost think. LOVBORG Comradeship is the thirst for life. But why should not that, at any rate, have continued? HEDDA

The fault was yours.

L0\T30RG It was you that broke with me. HEDDA Yes, when our friendship threatened to develop into somediing more serious. Shame upon you, Eilert Tovborg! I low could you think of wronging your— your frank comrade? LOVBORG [clenching his hands]

Oh, why did you not carry out your threat?

Whv did you not shoot me down? HEDDA Because I have such a dread of scandal. j

j

LOA^BORG Yes, Hedda, you are a coward at heart. HEDDA A terrible coward. [Changing her tone] But it was a lucky tiling for you. And now you have found ample consolation at the Elvsteds’.

1182

Act II

Plays for Further Reading

I know what Thea has confided to you. HEDDA And perhaps you have confided to her something about us? LOVBORG Not a word. She is too stupid to understand anything of that sort. HEDDA Stupid? LOVBORG She is stupid about matters of that sort. HEDDA And I am cowardly. [ Bends over towards him, without looking him in the face, and says more softly] But now I will confide something to you. LOVBORG [ eagerly ] Well? HEDDA The fact that I dared not shoot you down . . . LOVBORG Yes! HEDDA . . . that was not my most arrant cowardice—that evening. LOVBORG [ looks at her a moment, understands and whispers passionately] Oh, Iledda! Iledda Gabler! Now I begin to see a hidden reason beneath our comrade¬ ship! You1 and I . . . ! After all, then, it was your craving for life . . . HEDDA [ softly, with a sharp glance] Take care! Believe nothing of the sort! LOYBORG

Twilight has begun to fall. The hall door is opened from without by BERTA. HEDDA [closes the album with a bang and calls smilingly]

Ah, at last! My

darling Thea—come along! MRS. ELVSTED enters from the hall. She is in evening dress. The door is closed

behind her. ILEDDA [ on the sofa, stretches out her arms towards her\

My sweet Thea—you

can’t think how I have been longing for you! MRS. ELVSTED, in passing, exchanges slight salutations with the gentlemen in the

inner room, then goes up to the table and gives HEDDA her hand. EILERT LOVBORG has risen. He and MRS. ELVSTED greet each other with a silent nod.

Ought I to go in and talk to your husband for a moment? HEDDA Oh, not at all. Leave those two alone. They will soon be going. MRS. ELVSTED Are they going out? HEDDA Yes, to a supper party. MRS. ELVSTED [quickly, to LOVBORG] Not you? LOVBORG No. HEDDA Mr. Lovborg remains with us. MRS. ELVSTED [takes a chair and is about to seat herself at his side] Oh, how nice it is here! HEDDA No, thank you, my little Thea! Not there! You’ll be good enough to come over here to me. I will sit between you. MRS. ELVSTED Yes, just as you please. MRS. ELVSTED

She goes round the table and seats herself on the sofa on HEDDA’s right. LO\rBORG reseats himself on his chair. »►

LOVBORG [after a short pause, to HEDDA] 1 Back to du\ Iledda continues to say de.

o

Is not she lovely to look at?

Act II

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

1183

HEDDA [ lightly stroking her hair ]

Only to look at? LCJYBORG Yes. For we two—she and I—we are two real comrades. We have absolute faith in each other-, so we can sit and talk with perfect frankness . . . HEDDA Not roundabout, Mr. Tovborg? LOVBORG Well . . . MRS. ELVSTED [softly clinging close to HEDDA]

Oh, how happy I am, Hedda!

For, only think, he says I have inspired him, too. HEDDA [looks at her with a smile] Ah! Does he say that, dear? LOVBORG And then she is so brave, Mrs. Tesman! MRS. ELVSTED Good heavens—am I brave? LOVBORG

Exceedingly—where your comrade is concerned.

Ah, yes—courage! If one only had that! LOVBORG What dien? What do you mean? HEDDA Then life would perhaps be livable, after all. [With a sudden change of tone} But now, my dearest Thea, you really must have a glass of cold punch. MRS. ELVSTED No, thanks—I never take anything Qf that kind HEDDA Well, then, you, Mr. Fovborg. LOVBORG Nor I, thank you. MRS. ELVSTED No, he doesn’t, either. HEDDA [ looks fixedly at him] But if I say you shall? LOVBORG It would be no use. HEDDA [laughing] Then I, poor creature, have no sort of power over you? LOMtORG Not in that respect. HEDDA But seriously, I think you ought to—for your own sake. MRS. ELVSTED Why, Hedda . . . ! LOVBORG How SO? HEDDA Or rather on account of other people. LOVBORG Indeed? HEDDA Otherwise people might be apt to suspect that—in your heart of hearts—you did not feel quite secure—quite confident in yourself. MRS. ELVSTED [softly] Oh, please, Hedda . . . ! LOVBORG People may suspect what they like—for the present. MRS. ELVSTED [joyfully] Yes, let them! HEDDA I saw it plainly in Judge Brack’s face a moment ago. LOVBORG What did you see? HEDDA His contemptuous smile, when you dared not go with them into the inner room. LOVBORG Dared not? Of course I preferred to stop here and talk to you. MRS. ELVSTED What could be more natural, I Iedda? HEDDA But the Judge could not guess that. And I saw, too, the way he smiled and glanced at Tesman when you dared not accept his invitation to this wretched litde supper party of his. LOVBORG Dared not? Do you say I dared not? HEDDA I don’t say so. But that was how Judge Brack understood it. LOVBORG Well, let him. HEDDA Then you are not going with them? LOVBORG I will stay here with you and Thea. MRS. ELVSTED Yes, Hedda—how can you doubt that? HEDDA [smiles and nods approvingly to LOVBORG | Finn as a rock! Faithful to your principles, now and forever! Air, that is how a man should be! [ Turns to HEDDA

1184

Act II

Plays for Further Reading

MRS. ELVSTED and caresses her] Well, now, what did I tell you, when you came to us this morning in such a state of distraction . . . • LOVBQRG [ surprised]

Distraction!

MRS. ELVSTED \terrified] Hedda—oh, Hedda . . . ! HEDDA You can see for yourself! You haven’t the slightest reason to be in such mortal terror . . . [Interrupting herself] There! Now we can all three enjoy our¬ selves! LOVBORG [ who has given a start j MRS. ELVSTED ELEDDA

All—what is ah this, Mrs. Tesman?

Oh, my God, Iledda! What are you saying? What are you doing?

Don’t get excited! That horrid Judge Brack is sitting watching you.

LOVBORG

So she was in mortal terror! On my account!

MRS. ELVSTED [softly and piteously]

Oh, Iledda—now you have mined every¬

thing! LOVBORG [looks fixedly at her for a moment. His face is distorted.]

So that was

my comrade’s frank confidence in me? j

MRS. ELVSTED [imploringly]

Oh, my dearest friend—only let me tell

you ... LOVBORG [ takes one of the glasses of punch, raises it to his lips, and says in a low, husky voice]

Your health, Thea!

He empties the glass, puts it down, and takes the second. MRS. ELVSTED [softly] HEDDA

Oh, Hedda, Hedda—how could you do this?

I do it? 7? Are you crazy?

LOVBORG Here’s to your health, too, Mrs. Tesman. Thanks for the truth. Hur¬ rah for the truth! He empties the glass and is about to refill it. LIEDDA [lays her hand on his arm]

Come, come—no more for the present.

Remember you are going out to supper. MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

No, no, no!

Hush! They are sitting watching you.

LOVBORG [putting down the glass] MRS. ELVSTED Yes. LOVBORG

Did your husband know that you had come after me?

MRS. ELVSTED [ wringing her hands] ing? LOVBORG

Now, Thea—tell me the truth . . .

Oh, Hedda—do you hear what he is ask¬

Was it arranged between you and him that you were to come to town

and look after me? Perhaps it was the Sheriff himself that urged you to come? Aha, my dear—no doubt he wanted my help in his office. Or was it at the card table that he missed me? MRS. ELVSTED [ softly, in agony ]

Oh, Lovborg, Lovborg . . . !

LOVBORG [ seizes a glass and is on the point of filling it] old Sheriff, too! HEDDA [preventing him j manuscript to Tesman.

Here’s a glass for the

No more just now. Remember, you have to read your

LOVBORG [calmly, putting down the glass )

It was stupid of me all this, Thea—

to take it in this way, I mean. Don’t be angry w ith me, my dear, dear comrade. You shall see—both you and the others—that if I was fallen once—now I have risen again! Thanks to you, Ihea. o

Act II

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

MRS. ELVSTED [radiant with joy]

1185

Oh, heaven be praised . . . !

BRACK has in the meantime looked at his watch. He and TESMAN rise and come into the drawing room. BRACK HEDDA

his hat and overcoat] I suppose it has.

LOtHORG [ rising]

Well, Mrs. Tesman, our time has come.

Mine too, Judge Brack.

MRS. ELVSTED [softly and imploringly] HEDDA [pinching her arm]

Oh, Lovborg, don’t do it!

They can hear you!

MRS. ELVSTED [with a suppressed shriek] LOVBORG [to BRACK] BRACK

You were good enough to invite me.

Well, are you coming after all?

LOMtORG BRACK

Ow!

Yes, many thanks.

I’m delighted . . .

LOVBORG [to TESMAN, putting the parcel of MS. in his pocket]

I should like to

show you one or two diings before I send it to the printers. TESMAN Fancy—that will be delightful. But, Iledda dear, how is Mrs. Elvsted to get home? Eh? HEDDA

Oh, that can be managed somehow.

LOVBORG [looking towards the ladies]

Mrs. Elvsted? Of course, I’ll come again

and fetch her.[approaching] At ten or thereabouts, Mrs. Tesman? Will that do? HEDDA TESMAN

Certainly. That will do capitally. Well, then, that’s all right. But you must not expect me so early,

Hedda. ILEDDA

Oh, you may stop as long—as long as ever you please.

MRS. ELVSTED [trying to conceal her anxiety]

Well, then, Mr. Lovborg—I shall

remain here until you come. LOVBORG [with his hat in his hand] BRACK

Pray do, Mrs. Elvsted.

And now off goes the excursion train, gentlemen! I hope we shall have

a lively time, as a certain fair lady puts it. HEDDA

Ah, if only the fair lady could be present unseen . . . !

BRACK

Why unseen?

HEDDA

In order to hear a little of your liveliness at first hand, Judge Brack.

BRACK [laughing]

I should not advise the fair lady to try it.

TESMAN [also laughing ] BRACK

Come, you’re a nice one, Hedda! Fancy that!

Well, good-bye, good-bye, ladies.

LOVBORG [bowing]

About ten o’clock, then.

BRACK, LOVBORG, and TESMAN go out by the hall door. At the same time, BERTA enters from the inner room with a lighted lamp, which she places on the drawing room table; she goes out by the way she came. MRS. ELVSTED [who has risen and is wandering restlessly about the room]

Hedda—Hedda—what will come of all this?

HEDDA

At ten o’clock—he will be here. I can see him already—with vine

leaves1 in his hair—flushed and fearless . . . Jn classical mythology the Roman god Bacchus—the Greek Dionysus—was pictured with a wreath of bay (vine) leaves in his hair.

1186

Plays for Further Reading

MRS. ELVSTED HFDDA

Act III

Oh, I hope he may.

And then, you see—then he will have regained control over himself.

Then he will be a free man for all his days. MRS. ELVSTED IIEDDA

Oh, God!—if he would only come as you see him now!

He will come as I see him—so,-and not otherwise! [Rises and ap¬

proaches THEA] You may doubt him as long as you please; I believe in him. And now we will try . . . MRS. ELVSTED IIEDDA

You have some hidden motive in this, Hedda!

Yes, I have. I want for once in my life to have power to mold a human

destiny. MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

I have not—and have never had it.

MRS. ELVSTED. IIEDDA

Have you not the power? Not your husband’s?

Do you think that is worth the trouble? Oh, if you could only under¬

stand how poor I am. And fate has made you so rich! [Clasps her passionately in her arms\ I think I must bum your hair off, after all. MRS. ELVSTED

Let me go! Let me go! I am afraid of you, Hedda!

BERTA [in the middle doorway] IIEDDA

Tea is laid in the dining room, ma’am. Very well. We are coming.

MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

No, no, no! I would rather go home alone! At once!

Nonsense? First you shall have a cup of tea, you little stupid. And

then—at ten o’clock—Eilert Lbvborg will be here—with vine-leaves in his hair. She drags MRS. ELVSTED almost by force towards the middle doorway.

Act

III

SCENE: The room at the TESMAJMS’. The curtains are drawn over the middle door¬

way, and also over the glass door. The lamp, half turned down, and with a shade over it, is burning on the table. In the stove, the door of which stands open, there has been a fire, which is now nearly burnt out. MRS. ELVSTED, wrapped in a large shawl, and with her feet upon a foot-rest, sits close to the stove, sunk back in the armchair. HEDDA, fully dressed, lies sleeping upon the sofa, with a sofa-blanket over her. MRS. ELVSTED [ after a pause, suddenly sits up in her chair, and, listens eagerly.

Then she sinks back again wearily, moaning to herself] God—not yet!

Not yet!—Oh God—oh

BERTA slips in by the hall door. She has a letter in her hand. MRS. ELVSTED [turns and whispers eagerly] BERTA [softly]

Well—has anyone come? Yes, a girl has just brought this letter.

MRS. ELVSTED [quickly, holding out her hand] BERTA

No, it’s for Dr. Tesman, ma’am.

MRS. ELVSTED BERTA

A letter! Give it to me!

Oh, indeed.

It was Miss Tesman’s servant that brought it. I’ll lay it here on the

table. MRS. ELVSTED

Yes, do.

BERTA [laying down the letter]

smoking.

I think I had better put out the lamp. It’s vV

Act III

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

MRS. ELVSTED

Yes, put it out. It must soon be daylight now.

BERTA [putting out the lamp] MRS. ELVSTED BERTA

It is daylight already, ma’am.

Yes, broad day! And no one come back vet . . . !

Lord bless you, ma’am—I guessed how it would be.

MRS. ELVSTED BERTA

1187

You guessed?

Yes, when I saw that a certain person had come back to town—and

that he went off with them. For we’ve heard enough about that gentleman before now. MRS. ELVSTED

Don’t speak so loud. You will waken Mrs. Tesman.

BERTA [looks towards the sofa and sighs]

No, no—let her sleep, poor thing.

Shan’t I put some wood on the hre? MRS. ELVSTED BERTA

Thanks, not for me.

Oh, very well.

She goes softly out by the hall door. HEDDA [is awakened by the shutting of the door, and looks up]

What’s

that . . . ? MRS. ELVSTED

It was only the servant . . .

HEDDA [looking about her]

Oh, we’re here . . . ! Yes, now I remember. [Sits

erect upon the sofa, stretches herself, and rubs her eyes] What o’clock is it, Thea? MRS.ELVSTED [looks at her watch] HEDDA

It’s past seven.

When did Tesman come home?

MRS. ELVSTED He has not come. HEDDA Not come home yet? MRS. ELVSTED [rising] No one has come. HEDDA Think of our watching and waiting here till four in the morning . . . MRS. ELVSTED [wringing her hands]

And how I watched and waited for him!

HEDDA [yawns, and says with her hand before her mouth]

Well, well—we

might have spared ourselves the trouble. MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

Did you get a little sleep?

Oh, yes; I believe I have slept pretty well. Have you not?

MRS. ELVSTED

Not for a moment. I couldn’t, Hedda!—not to save my life.

HEDDA [ rises and goes towards her]

There, there, there! There’s nothing to be

so alarmed about. I understand quite well what has happened. MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

Why, of course, it has been a very late affair at Judge Brack’s . . .

MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

Well, what do you think? Won’t you tell me? Yes, yes—that is clear enough. But all the same . . .

And then, you see, Tesman hasn’t cared to come home and ring us

up in the middle of the night. [ Laughing] Perhaps he wasn’t inclined to show himself either—immediately after a jollification. MRS. ELVSTED But in that case—where can he have gone? HEDDA Of course, he has gone to his aunts’ and slept there. They have his old room ready for him. MRS. ELVSTED No, he can’t be with them; for a letter has just come for him from Miss Tesman. There it lies. HEDDA Indeed? [Looks at the address] Why, yes, it’s addressed in Aunt Julia’s own hand. Well, then, he has remained at Judge Brack’s. And as for Eilert Lovborg—he is sitting, with vine leaves in his hair, reading his manuscript. MRS. ELVSTED

Oh, Hedda, you are just saying things you don’t believe a bit.

1188

Act III

Plays for Further Reading

You really are a little blockhead, Thea.

IIEDDA

MRS. ELVSTED

Oh, yes, I suppose I am.

And how mortally tired you look.

HEDDA

MRS. ELVSTED

Yes, I am mortally tired.

Well, then, you must do as I tell you. You must go into my room and

HEDDA

lie down for a little while. MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

Oh, no, no—I shouldn’t be able to sleep.

I am sure you would.

MRS. ELVSTED

Well, but your husband is certain to come soon now; and then

I want to know at once . . . I shall take care to let you know when he comes.

HEDDA

MRS. ELVSTED

Do you promise me, Hedda?

Yes, rely upon me. Just you go in and have a sleep in the meantime.

HEDDA

MRS. ELVSTED

Thanks; dien I’ll trv to.

She goes off through the inner room. HEDDA goes up to the glass door and draws back the curtains. The broad daylight streams into the room. Then she takes a little hand glass from the writing table, looks at herself in it and arranges her hair. Next she goes to the hall door and presses the bell button. BERTA presently appears at the hall door.

Did you want anything, ma’am?

BERTA

Yes; you must put some more wood in the stove. I am shivering.

HEDDA

Bless me—I’ll make up the fire at once. [She rakes the embers together

BERTA

and lays a piece of wood upon them; then stops and listens ] That was a ring at the front door, ma’am. Then go to the door. I will look after the fire.

HEDDA

It’ll soon bum up.

BERTA

She goes out by the hall door. HEDDA kneels on the footrest and lays some more pieces of wood in the stove. After a short pause, GEORGE TESMAN enters from the hall. He looks tired and rather serious. He steals on tiptoe towards the middle doorway and is about to slip through the curtains.

HEDDA

[at the stove, without looking up)

TESMAN

[turns)

Good morning.

Iledda! [Approaching her) Good heavens—are you up so

early? Eh? HEDDA TESMAN HEDDA TESMAN

Yes, I am up very early this morning. And I never doubted you were still sound asleep! Fancy that, Hedda! Don’t speak so loud. Mrs. Elvsted is resting in my room. Has Mrs. Elvsted been here all night?

Yes, since no one came to fetch her. TESMAN Ah, to be sure. HEDDA

[closes the door of the stove and rises] at Judge Brack’s? HEDDA

TESMAN

Well, did you enjoy yourselves

Have you been anxious about me? Eh?

No, I shotdd never think of being anxious. But I asked if you had enjoyed yourself. HEDDA

Act III

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

TESMAN

1189

Oh, yes—for once in a way. Especially the beginning of the evening;

for then Eilert read me part of his book. We arrived more than an hour too early— fancy that! And Brack had all sorts of arrangements to make—so Eilert read to me. HEDDA [seating herself by the table on the right] TESMAN [sitting on a footstool near the stove]

Well? Tell me, then . . .

Oh, Hedda, yon can’t conceive

what a book that is going to be! I believe it is one of the most remarkable things that have ever been written. Fancy that! HEDDA

Yes, yes; I don’t care about that . . .

TESMAN I must make a confession to you, Hedda. When he had finished read¬ ing—a horrid feeling came over me. HEDDA

A horrid feeling?

TESMAN

I felt jealous of Eilert for having had it in him to write such a book.

Only think, I ledda! HEDDA

Yes, yes, I am thinking!

TESMAN

And then how pitiful to think that he—with all his gifts—should be

irreclaimable, after all. HEDDA

I suppose you mean that he has more courage than the rest?

TESMAN

No, not at all—I mean that he is incapable of talcing his pleasures in

moderation. HEDDA TESMAN

And what came of it all—in the end? Well, to tell the truth, I think it might best be described as an orgy,

Hedda. HEDDA TESMAN

Had he vine leaves in his hair? Vine leaves? No, I saw nothing of the sort. But he made a long,

rambling speech in honor of the woman who had inspired him in his work—that was the phrase he used. HEDDA TESMAN

Did he name her? No, he didn’t; but I can’t help thinking he meant Mrs. Elvsted. You

may be sure he did. HEDDA TESMAN

Well—where did you part from him? On the way to town. We broke up—the last of us at any rate—all

together; and Brack came with us to get a breath of fresh air. And then, you see, we agreed to take Eilert home; for he had had far more than was good for him. HEDDA I daresay. TESMAN But now comes the strange part of it, Hedda; or, I should rather say, die melancholy part of it. I declare I am almost ashamed—on Eilert’s account—to tell you . . . HEDDA TESMAN

Oh, go oil ... ! Well, as we were getting near town, you see, I happened to drop a

little behind the others. Only for a minute or two—fancy that! HEDDA Yes, yes, yes, but . . . ? TESMAN And then, as I hurried after them—what do you think I found by the wayside? Eh? HEDDA Oh, how should I know! TESMAN You mustn’t speak of it to a soul, I ledda! Do you hear? Promise me, for Flilert’s sake. [ Draws a parcel, wrapped in paper, from his coat pocket) Fancy, dear—I found this. HEDDA TESMAN

Is not that die parcel he had with him yesterday? Yes, it is the whole of his precious, irreplaceable manuscript! And

1190

Act III

Plays for Further Reading

he had gone and lost it, and knew nothing about it. Only fancy, Hedda! So deplor¬ ably . . . HEDDA TESMAN HEDDA TESMAN

But why did you not give him back the parcel at once? I didn’t dare to—in the state he was then in . . . Did you not tell any of the others that you had found it? Oh, far from it! You can surely understand that, for Eilert’s sake, I

wouldn’t do that. HEDDA

So no one knows that Eilert Lovborg’s manuscript is in your posses¬

sion? TESMAN HEDDA TESMAN

No. And no one must know it. Then what did you say to him afterwards'? I didn’t talk to him again at all; for when we got in among the streets,

he and two or three of the others gave us the slip and disappeared. Fancy that! HEDDA TESMAN HEDDA TESMAN

Indeed! They must have taken him home then. Yes, so it would appear. And Brack, too, left us. And what have you been doing with yourself since? Well, I and some of the others went home with one of the party, a

jolly fellow, and took our morning coffee with him; or perhaps I should rather call it our night coffee—eh? But now, when I have rested a litde, and given Eilert, poor fellow, time to have his sleep out, I must take this back to him. HEDDA [holds out her hand for the packet]

No—don’t give it to him! Not in

such a hurry, I mean. Bet me read it first. TESMAN HEDDA TESMAN

No, mv dearest Iledda, I mustn’t, I really mustn’t. You must not? No—for you can imagine what a state of despair he will be in when

he wakens and misses the manuscript. He has no copy of it, you must know! He told me so. HEDDA [ looking searchingly at him]

Can such a thing not be reproduced?

Written over again? TESMAN

No, I don’t think that would be possible. For the inspiration, you

see . . . HEDDA Yes, yes—I suppose it depends on that. . . [Lightly.] But, by the by— here is a letter for you. TESMAN

Fancy . . . !

HEDDA [ handing it to him] TESMAN

It came early this morning.

It’s from Aunt Julia! What can it be? [He lays the packet on the other

footstool, opens the letter, runs his eye through it, and jumps up] Oh, Hedda— she says that poor Aunt Rina is dying! HEDDA

Well, we were prepared for that.

TESMAN Amd that if I want to see her again, I must make haste. I’ll run in to them at once. HEDDA [ suppressing a smile]

Will you run?

TESMAN Oh, my dearest Hedda—if you could only make up your mind to come with me! Just dunk! HEDDA [ rises and says wearily, repelling the idea |

No, no, don’t ask me. I will

not look upon sickness and death. I loathe all sorts of ugliness. TESMAN

Well, well, dien . . . ! [Bustling around] My hat . . . ? My overcoat

. . . ? Oh, in the hall ... I do hope I mayn’t come too late, Hedda! Eh? HEDDA Oh, if you run . . .

Act III

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

1191

BERTA appears at the hall door. BERTA TESMAN HEDDA

Judge Brack is at the door, and wishes to know if he may come in. At this time! No, I can’t possibly see him. But I can. [To BERTA] Ask Judge Brack to come in.

BERTA goes out. HEDDA [quickly, whispering]

The parcel, Tesman!

She snatches it up from the stool. IESMAN HEDDA

Yes, give it to me! No, no, I will keep it till you come back.

She goes to the writing table and places it in the bookcase. TESMAN stands in a flurry of haste, and cannot get his gloves on. JUDGE BRACK enters from the hall.

HEDDA [ nodding to him ] BRACK TESMAN

You are an early bird, I must say.

Yes, don’t you think so? [To TESMAN] Are you on the move, too? Yes, I must rush off to my aunts’. Fancy—the invalid one is lying at

death’s door, poor creature. BRACK

Dear me, is she indeed? Then on no account let me detain you. At

such a critical moment . . . TESMAN

Yes, I must really rush . . . Good-bye! Good-bye!

He hastens out by the hall door. HEDDA [ approaching ]

You seem to have made a particularly lively night of it

at your rooms, Judge Brack. BRACK

I assure you I have not had my clothes off, Mrs. I Iedda.

HEDDA

Not you, either?

BRACK

No, as you may see. But what has Tesman been telling you of the

night’s adventures? HEDDA Oh, some tiresome story. Only that they went and had coffee some¬ where or other. BRACK

I have heard about that coffee party already. Eilert Lovborg was not

with them, I fancy? HEDDA BRACK HEDDA

No, they had taken him home before that. Tesman too? No, but some of the others, he said.

BRACK [ smiling ] HEDDA

George Tesman is really an ingenuous creature, Mrs. Hedda.

Yes, heaven knows he is. Then is there something behind all this?

Yes, perhaps there may be. HEDDA Well then, sit down, my dear Judge, and tell your stow in comfort. BRACK

She seats herself to the left of the table. BRACK sits near her, at the long side of the table.

1192

Act III

Plays for Further Reading

1IEDDA

Now then?

BRACK

I had special reasons for keeping track of my guests—or rather of some

of my guests—last night HEDDA BRACK HEDDA BRACK

Of Eilert Lovborg among the rest, perhaps? Frankly—yes. Now yoti make me ready curious >. . . Do you know where he and one or two of the others finished the night,

Mrs. I Iedda? HEDDA

If it is not quite unmentionable, tell me.

BRACK Oh no, it’s not at all unmentionable. Well, they put in an appearance at a particularly animated soiree. v HEDDA

Of the lively kind?

BRACK

Of the very liveliest . . .

HEDDA

Tell me more of this, Judge Brack . . .

BRACK

Lovborg, as well as the others, had been invited in advance. I knew all

about it. But he had declined the invitation; for now, as you know, he has become a new man. HEDDA

Up at the Elvsteds’, yes. But he went after all, then?

BRACK

lie seems to have made a violent resistance—to have hit one of the

constables on the head and torn the coat off his back. So they had to march him off to the police station with the rest. HEDDA BRACK

How have you learnt all this? From the police themselves.

HEDDA [gazing straight before her] no vine leaves in his hair. BRACK

So that is what happened. Mien he had

Vine leaves, Mrs. Hedda?

HEDDA [changing her tone]

But tell me now, Judge—what is your real reason

for tracking out Eilert Lovborg’s movements so carefully? BRACK In the first place, it could not be entirely indifferent to me if it should appear in the police court that he came straight from my house. HEDDA

BRACK

Will the matter come into court then? Of course. However, I should scarcely have troubled so much about

that. But I thought that, as a friend of the family, it was my duty to supply you and Tesman with a full account of his nocturnal exploits. HEDDA

Why so, Judge Brack?

BRACK Why, because I have a shrewd suspicion that he intends to use you as a sort of blind. HEDDA

Oh, how can you think such a thing!

BRACK

Good heavens, Mrs. Hedda—we have eyes in our head. Mark my

words! This Mrs. Elvsted will be in no hurry to leave town again. HEDDA Well, even if there should be anything between them, 1 suppose there are plenty of other places where they could meet. BRACK Not a single home. Henceforth, as before, every respectable house will be closed against Eilert Lovborg. HEDDA

And so ought mine to be, you mean?

BRACK

Yes. I confess it would be more than painful to me if this personage

were to be made free of your house. How superfluous, how intrusive, he would be, if he were to force his way into . . . HEDDA . . . into the triangle? BRA( K

Precisely. It would simply mean that I should find myself homeless.

Act III

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

HEDDA [looks at him with a smile]

1193

So you want to be the one cock in the

basket—that is your aim. BRACK [nods slowly and lowers his voice]

Yes, that is my aim. And for that I

will fight—with every weapon I can command. HEDDA [her smile vanishing] I see you are a dangerous person—when it comes to the point. BRACK Do you think so? HEDDA I am beginning to think so. And I am exceedingly glad to think—that you have no sort of hold over me. BRACK [laughing equivocally] Well, well, Mrs. Hedda—perhaps you are right there. If I had, who knows what I might be capable of? EtEDDA Come, come now, Judge Brack! That sounds almost like a threat. BRACK [ rising] Oh, not at all! The triangle, you know, ought, if possible, to be spontaneously constructed. HEDDA There I agree with you. BRACK Well, now I have said all I had to say; and I had better be getting back to town. Good-bye, Mrs. Hedda. [He goes towards the glass door.] IEEDDA [rising] Are you going through the garden? BRACK Yes, it’s a short cut for me. HEDDA And then it is a back way, too. BRACK Quite so. I have no objection to back ways. They may be piquant enough at times. HEDDA When there is shooting practice going on, you mean? BRACK [in the doorway, laughing to her] Oh, people don’t shoot their tame poultry, I fancy. HEDDA [also laughing] Oh no, when there is only one cock in the basket . . . They exchange laughing nods of farewell. He goes. She closes the door behind him. HEDDA, who has become quite serious, stands for a moment looking out. Presently she goes and peeps through the curtain over the middle doorway. Then she goes to the writing table, takes L0\T30RG’S packet out of the bookcase, and is on the point of looking through its contents. BERTA is heard speaking loudly in the hall. HEDDA turns and listens. Then she hastily locks up the packet in the drawer, and lays the key on the inkstand. EILERT LOVBORG, with his greatcoat on and his hat in his hand, tears open the hall door. He looks somewhat confused and irritated. LOVBORG [looking towards the hallJ

And I tell you I must and will come in!

There! He closes the door, turns, sees HEDDA, at once regains his self-control, and bows. HEDDA [at the writing table]

Well, Mr. Lovborg, this is rather a late hour to

call for Thea. You mean rather an early hour to call on you. Pray pardon me. HEDDA IIow do you know that she is still here? LOVBORG They told me at her lodgings that she had been out all night. HEDDA [going to the oval table] Did you notice anything about the people of the house when they said that? LOVBORG [ looks inquiringly at her j Notice anything about them? LOVBORG

1194

Act III

Plays for Further Reading

HEDDA

I mean, did they seem to think it odd?

LOVBORG [suddenly understanding]

Oh yes, of course! I am dragging her

down with me! However, I didn’t notice anything.—I suppose Tesman is not up yet? HEDDA

No—I think not. . .

LOVBORG HEDDA

When did he come home?

Very late.

LOVBORG HEDDA

Did he tell you anything?

Yes, I gathered that you had had an exceedingly jolly evening at Judge

Brack’s. LOVBORG HEDDA

Nothing more? I don’t think so. However, I was so dreadfully sleepy . . .

MRS.ELVSTED enters through the curtains of the middle doorway. MRS. ELVSTED [going towards him] LOVBORG

Ah, Lovborg! At last. . . !

Yes, at last. And too late!

MRS. ELVSTED [looks anxiously at him] LOVBORG

Everything is too late now. It is all over with me.

MRS. ELVSTED LOVBORG

Oh no, no—don’t say that!

You will say the same when you hear . . .

MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

What is too late?

I won’t hear anything!

Perhaps you would prefer to talk to her alone? If so, I will leave you.

LOVBORG

No, stay—you too. I beg you to stay.

MRS.ELVSTED LOVBORG

It is not last night’s adventures that I want to talk about.

MRS. ELVSTED LOVBORG

Yes, but I won’t hear anything, I tell you. What is it then . . . ?

I want to say that now our ways must part.

MRS. ELVSTED

Part!

HEDDA [involuntarily] LOVBORG

I knew it!

You can be of no more service to me, Thea.

MRS. ELVSTED

How can you stand there and say that! No more service to you!

Am I not to help you now, as before? Are we not to go on working together? LOVBORG

Henceforward I shall do no work.

MRS. ELVSTED [despairingly] LOVBORG

You must try to live your life as if you had never known me.

MRS. ELVSTED LOVBORG

Then what am I to do with my life?

But you know I cannot do that!

Try if you cannot, Thea. You must go home again . . .

MRS. ELVSTED [in vehement protest]

Never in this world! Where you are, there

will I be also! I will not let myself be driven away like this! I will remain here! I will be with you when the book appears. HEDDA [half aloud, in suspense] LOVBORG [looks at her] MRS. ELVSTED

Ah yes—the book!

My book and Thea’s; for that is what it is.

Yes, I feel that it is. And that is why I have a right to be with

you when it appears! I will see with my own eyes how respect and honor pour in upon you afresh. And the happiness—the happiness—oh, I must share it with you! LOtTiORG HEDDA

Thea—our book will never appear. Ah!

MRS. ELVSTED

Never appear!

o

Act III

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

LOVBORG

1195

Can never appear.

MRS. ELVSTED [in agonized forebodingJ the manuscript? HEDDA [looks anxiously at him) MRS. ELVSTED LOVBORG

Lovborg—what have you done with

Yes, the manuscript . . .

Where is it?

Oh, Thea—don’t ask me about it!

MRS. ELVSTED LOMIORG

Yes, yes, I will know. I demand to be told at once.

The manuscript . . . Well then—I have tom the manuscript into a

thousand pieces. MRS. ELVSTED [shrieks] HEDDA [involuntarily]

Oh no, no ... ! But that’s not . . .

LOVBORG [looks at her]

Not tme, you think?

HEDDA [collecting herself]

Oh well, of course—since you say so. But it

sounded so improbable . . . LOVBORG

It is tme, all the same.

MRS. ELVSTED [wringing her hands]

Oh God—oh God, Hedda—tom his own

work to pieces! LOVBORG

I have torn my own life to pieces. So why should I not tear my

lifewrork too . . . ? MRS. ELVSTED LOVBORG

And you did this last night?

Yes, I tell you! Tore it into a thousand pieces—and scattered them

on the fjord—far out. There there is a cool sea water at any rate—let them drift upon it—drift with the current and the wind. And then presently they will sink— deeper and deeper—as I shall, Thea. MRS. ELVSTED

Do you know, Lovborg, that what you have done with the

book—I shall think of it to my dying day as though you had killed a litde child. LOVBORG

Yes, you are right. It is a sort of child murder.

MRS. ELVSTED

How could you, then . . . ! Did not the child belong to me too?

HEDDA [almost inaudibly] All, the child . . . MRS. ELVSTED [ breathing heavily] It is all over then. Well, well, now I will go, Hedda. HEDDA But you are not going away from town? MRS. ELVSTED Oh, I don’t know what I shall do. I see nothing but darkness before me. [She goes out by the hall door.) HEDDA [stands waiting for a moment) So you are not going to see her home, Mr. Lovborg? LOVBORG I? Through the streets? Would you have people see her walking with me? HEDDA

Of course I don’t know what else may have happened last night. But

is it so utterly irretrievable? LOVBORG It will not end with last night—I know that perfectly well. And the thing is that now I have no taste for that sort of life either. I won’t begin it anew. She has broken my courage and my power of braving life out. HEDDA [ looking straight before her)

So that pretty litde fool has had her fingers

in a man’s destiny. [Looks at him) But all the same, how could you treat her so heartlessly? LOVBORG Oh, don’t say that it was heartless! HEDDA To go and destroy what has filled her whole soul for months and years! You do not call that heartless! LOtTORG To you I can tell the truth, Hedda.

1196

Act III

Plays for Further Reading

HEDDA

Hie truth?

LOVBORG First promise me—give me your word—that what I now confide to you Thea shall never know. HEDDA

I give you my word.

LOVBORG HEDDA

Good. Then let me tell you that what I said just now was untrue.

About the manuscript?

LOVBORG HEDDA

Yes. I have not torn it to pieces—nor thrown it into the fjord. No, no . . . But—where is it then?

LOVBORG HEDDA

I have destroyed it none the less—utterly destroyed it, Hedda! I don’t understand.

LOVBORG HEDDA

Thea said that what I had done seemed to her like a child murder.

Yes, so she said.

LOVBORG to it. HEDDA

But to kill his child—that is not the worst thing a father can do

Not the worst?

LOVBORG No. I wanted to spare Thea from hearing the worst. HEDDA Then what is the worst? LOVBORG

Suppose now, Hedda, that a man—in the small hours of the morn¬

ing—came home to his child’s mother after a night of riot and debauchery, and said: “Listen—I have been here and there—in this place and in that. And I have taken our child with me—to this place and to that. And I have lost the child— utterly lost it. The devil knows into what hands it may have fallen—who may have had their clutches on it. ” HEDDA book . . .

Well—but when all is said and done, you know—this was only a

LOVBORG HEDDA

Thea’s pure soul was in that book.

Yes, so I understand.

LOVBORG is possible. HEDDA

And you can understand, too, that for her and me together no future What path do you mean to take then?

EOt^BORG

None. I will only try to make an end of it all—the sooner the better.

HEDDA [a step nearer him] to do it beautifully?

Eilert Lovborg—listen to me. Will you not tiy to—

LOVBORG Beautifully? [ Smiling \ With vine leaves in my hair, as you used to dream in the old days . . . ? HEDDA

No, no. I have lost my faith in the vine leaves. But beautifully never¬

theless! For once in a way! Good-bye! You must go now—and do not come here any more. LOVBORG Good-bye, Mrs. Tesman. And give George Tesman my love. [He is on the point of going.} HEDDA

No, wait! I must give you a memento to hike with you.

She goes to the writing table and opens the drawer and the pistol case; then returns to LOVBORG with one of the pistols. LOVBORG [ looks at her]

This? Is this the memento?

HEDDA ( nodding slowly] Do you recognize it? It was aimed at you once. LOVBORG You should have used it then. HEDDA

Take it—and do you use it now.

LOVBORG [puts the pistol in his breastpocket]

Thanks!

Act IV

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

1197

And beautifully, Eilert Lovborg. Promise me that! LOVBORG Good-bye, Pledda Gabler. HEDDA

He goes out by the hall door. HEDDA listens for a moment at the door. Then she goes up to the writing table, takes out the packet of manuscript, peeps under the cover, draws a few of the sheets half out, and looks at them. Next she goes over and seats herself in the armchair beside the stove, with the packet in her lap. Presently she opens the stove door, and then the packet. HEDDA [throws one of the quires into the fire and whispers to herself ]

Now I am burning your child, Thea!—Burning it, curly-locks! [Throwing one or two more quires into the stove] Your child and Eilert Eovborg’s. [Throws the rest in] I am burning—I am burning your child.

Act IV SCENE: The same rooms at the TESMANS’. It is evening. The drawing room is in

darkness. The back room is lighted by the hanging lamp over the table. The curtains over the glass door are drawn close. HEDDA, dressed in black, walks to and fro in the dark room. Then she goes into the back room and disappears for a moment to the left. She is heard to strike a few chords on the piano. Presently she comes in sight again, and returns to the drawing room. BERTA enters from the right, through the inner room, with a lighted lamp, which she places on the table in front of the corner settee in the drawing room. Her eyes are red with weeping, and she has black ribbon in her cap. She goes quietly and circumspectly out to the right. HEDDA goes up to the glass door, lifts the curtain a little aside, and looks out into the darkness. Shortly afterwards, MISSTESMAN, in mourning, with a bonnet and veil on, comes in from the hall. HEDDA goes towards her and holds out her hand. Yes, Hedda, here I am, in mourning and forlorn; for now my poor sister has at last found peace. HEDDA I have heard the news already, as you see. Tesman sent me a card. MISS TESMAN Yes, he promised me he would. But nevertheless I thought that to Hedda—here in the house of life—I ought myself to bring the tidings of death. HEDDA 'Hiat was very kind of you. MISS TESMAN Ah, Rina ought not to have left us just now. 'this is not the time for Hedda’s house to be a house of mourning. HEDDA [changing the subject] She died quite peacefully, did she not, Miss MISS TESMAN

Tesman? Oh, her end was so calm, so beautiful. And then she had the unspeakable happiness of seeing George once more—and bidding him good-bye. MISS TESMAN

Has he not come home yet? HEDDA No. He wrote that he might be detained. But won’t you sit down? MISS TESMAN No thank you, my dear, dear Hedda. I should like to, but I have so much to do. I must prepare my dear one for her rest as well as I can. She shall go to her grave looking her best. HEDDA Can I not help you in any way? MISS TESMAN Oh, you must not think of it! I Iedda Tesman must have no hand in such mournful work. Nor let her thoughts dwell on it either—not at this time. HEDDA One is not always mistress of one’s thoughts . . .

1198

Plays for Further Reading

Act IV

MISS TESMAN [continuing]

Ah, yes, it is the way of the world. At home we shall be sewing a shroud; and here there will soon be sewing too, I suppose—but of another sort, thank God! GEORGE TESMAN enters by the hall door.

Ah, you have come at last! TESMAN You here, Aunt Julia? With Iiedda? Fancy that! MISS TESMAN I was just going, my dear boy. Well, have you done all you promised? TESMAN No; I’m really afraid I have forgotten half of it. I must come to you again tomorrow. Today my brain is all in a whirl. I can’t keep my thoughts together. MISS TESMAN Why, my dear George, you mustn’t take it in this way. TESMAN Mustn’t. . . ? How do you mean? MISS TESMAN Even in your sorrow you must rejoice, as I do—rejoice that she is at rest. TESMAN Oh yes, yes—you are thinking of Aunt Rina. HEDDA You will feel lonely now, Miss Tesman. MISS TESMAN Just at first, yes. But that will not last very long, I hope. I daresay I shall soon find an occupant for poor Rina’s little room. TESMAN Indeed? Who do you think will take it? Eh? MISS TESMAN Oh, there’s always some poor invalid or other in want of nursing, unfortunately. HEDDA Would you really take such a burden upon you again? MISS TESMAN A burden! Heaven forgive you, child-—it has been no burden to me. HEDDA But suppose you had a total stranger on your hands . . . MISS TESMAN Oh, one soon makes friends with sick folk; and it’s such an absolute necessity for me to have some one to live for. Well, heaven be praised, there may soon be something in this house, too, to keep an old aunt busy. HEDDA Oh, don’t trouble about anything here. TESMAN Yes, just fancy what a nice time we three might have together, if . . . ? HEDDA If. . .? TESMAN [uneasily] Oh, nothing. It will all come right. Let us hope so—eh? MISS TESMAN Well, well, I daresay you two want to talk to each other. [Smil¬ ing] And perhaps Hedda may have something to tell you too, George. Good-bye! I must go home to Rina. [Turning at the door] How strange it is to think that now Rina is with me and with my poor brother as well! TESMAN Yes, fancy that, Aunt Julia! Eh? [MISS TESMAN goes out by the hall HEDDA

door.]

I almost believe your Aunt Rina’s death affects you more than it does your Aunt Julia. TESMAN Oh, it’s not that alone. It’s Eilert I am so terribly uneasy about. HEDDA [quickly] Is there anything new about him? TESMAN I looked in at his rooms this afternoon, intending to tell him the manuscript was in safe keeping. HEDDA Well, did you not find him? TESMAN No. He wasn’t at home. But afterwards I met Mrs. Elvsted, and she told me that he had been here early this ihoming. HEDDA [follows TESMAN coldly and searchingly with her eyes]

Act IV

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

HEDDA TESMAN HEDDA TESMAN

1199

Yes, directly after you had gone. And he said that he had tom his manuscript to pieces—eh? Yes, so he declared. Why, good heavens, he must have been completely out of his mind!

And I suppose you thought it best not to give it back to him, Hedda? HEDDA TESMAN HEDDA TESMAN

No, he did not get it. But of course you told him that we had it? No. [Quickly] Did you tell Mrs. Elvsted? No; I thought I had better not. But you ought to have told him. Fancy,

if, in desperation, he should go and do himself some injury! Let me have the manuscript, Hedda! I will take it to him at once. Where is it? HEDDA \ cold and immovable, leaning on the armchair] -TESMAN HEDDA

I have not got it.

Flave not got it? What in the world do you mean? I have burnt it—every line of it.

TESMAN [with a violent movement of terror] Burnt! Burnt Eilert’s manuscript! HEDDA Don’t scream so. The servant might hear you. TESMAN

Burnt! Why, good God . . . ! No, no, no! It’s impossible!

HEDDA It is so, nevertheless. TESMAN Do you know what you have done, Hedda? It’s unlawful appropriation of lost property. Fancy that! Just ask Judge Brack, and he’ll tell you what it is. HEDDA else. TESMAN

I advise you not to speak of it—either to Judge Brack, or to any one But how could you do anything so unheard of? What put it into your

head? What possessed you? Answer me that—eh? EiEDDA [suppressing an almost imperceptible smile]

I did it for your sake,

George. TESMAN For my sake! HEDDA This morning, when you told me about what he had read to you . . . TESMAN Yes, yes—what then? HEDDA You acknowledged that you envied him his work. TESMAN Oh, of course I didn’t mean that literally. HEDDA No matter—I could not bear the idea that any one should throw you into the shade. TESMAN [in an outburst of mingled doubt and joy]

Hedda! Oh, is this tme?

But—but—I never knew you to show your love like that before. Fancy that! HEDDA

Well, I may as well tell you that—just at this time . . . [Impatiently,

breaking off] No, no; you can ask Aunt Julia. She will tell you, fast enough. TESMAN

Oh, I almost think I understand you, Hedda! [Clasps his hands to¬

gether] Great heavens! do you really mean it? Eh? HEDDA Don’t shout so. The servant might hear. TESMAN [laughing in irrepressible glee] The servant! Why, how absurd you are, Hedda. It’s only my old Berta! Why, I’ll tell Berta myself. HEDDA [clenching her hands together in desperation] Oh, it is killing me—it is killing me, all this! TESMAN What is, Hedda? Eh? HEDDA [ coldly, controlling herself ] All this—absurdity—George. TESMAN Absurdity! Do you see anything absurd in my being overjoyed at the news! But after all—perhaps I had better not say anything to Berta. HEDDA Oh . . . why not that too? TESMAN No, no, not yet! But I must certainly tell Aunt Julia. And then that

1200

Plays for Further Reading

Act IV

you have begun to call me George too! Fancy that! Oh, Aunt Julia will be so happy—so happy! HEDDA When she hears that I have burnt Eilert Lovborg’s manuscript—for your sake? TESMAN

No, by the by—that affair of the manuscript—of course nobody must

know about that. But that you love me so much, Hedda—Aunt Juba must really share my joy in that! I wonder, now, whether this sort of thing is usual in young wives? Eh? HEDDA TESMAN

I think you had better ask Aunt Julia that question too. I will indeed, some time or other. [Looks uneasy and downcast again]

And yet the manuscript—the manuscript! Good God! It is terrible to think what will become of poor Eilert now. MRS. ELVSTED,, dressed as in the first act, with hat and cloak, enters by the hall

door. MRS. ELVSTED [greets them hurriedly, and says in evident agitation] fledda, forgive my coming again. HEDDA TESMAN

What is the matter with you, Thea? Something about Eilert Lovborg again—eh?

MRS. ELVSTED to him.

Yes! I am dreadfully afraid some misfortune has happened

HEDDA [seizes her arm] TESMAN

Oh, dear

Ah—do you think so?

Why, good Lord—what makes you think that, Mrs. Elvsted?

MRS. ELVSTED I heard them talking at my boardinghouse—just as I came in. Oh, the most incredible rumors are afloat about him today. TESMAN Yes, fancy, so I heard too! And I can bear witness that he went straight home to bed last night. Fancy that! HEDDA

Well, what did diey say at the boardinghouse?

MRS. ELVSTED

Oh, I couldn’t make out anything clearly. Either they knew

nothing definite, or else . . . They stopped talking when they saw me; and I did not dare to ask. TESMAN [ moving about uneasily ] understood them, Mrs. Elvsted.

We must hope—we must hope that you mis¬

MRS. ELVSTED No, no; I am sure it was of him they were talking. And I heard something about the hospital or . . . TESMAN HEDDA

The hospital? No—surely that cannot be!

MRS. ELVSTED Oh, I was in such mortal terror! I went to his lodgings and asked for him there. HEDDA

You could make up your mind to that, Thea!

MRS. ELVSTED longer. TESMAN

What else could I do? I really could bear the suspense no

But you didn’t find him either—eh?

MRS. ELVSTED No. And the people knew nodiing about him. He hadn’t been home since yesterday afternoon, they said. TESMAN

Yesterday! Fancy, how could they say that?

MRS. ELVSTED

Oh, I am sure something terrible must have happened to him.

TESMAN fledda dear—how would it be if I-were to go and make in¬ quiries . . . ? HEDDA

No, no—don’t mix yourself u£> in this affair.

Act IV

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

1201

JUDGE BRACK, with his hat in his hand, enters by the hall door, which BERTA opens, and closes behind him. He looks grave and bows in silence. TESMAN BRACK TESMAN BRACK

Oh, is that you, my dear Judge? Eh? Yes. It was imperative I should see you this evening. I can see you have heard the news about Aunt Rina? Yes, that among other things.

TESMAN Isn’t it sad—eh? BRACK Well, my dear Tesman, that depends on how you look at it. TESMAN [looks doubtfully at him] BRACK

Yes.

HEDDA [in suspense] BRACK

Has anything else happened?

Anything sad, Judge Brack?

That too, depends on how you look at it, Mrs. Tesman.

MRS. ELVSTED [unable to restrain her anxiety] Lovborg! BRACK [ with a glance at her]

Oh! it is something about Eilert

What makes you think that, Madam? Perhaps

you have already heard something . . . ? MRS. ELVSTED [in confusion] No, nothing at all, but . . . TESMAN Oh, for heaven’s sake, tell us! BRACK [shrugging his shoulders] Well, I regret to say Eilert Lovborg has been taken to the hospital. He is lying at the point of death. MRS. ELVSTED [shrieks] TESMAN

Oh God! oh God . . . !

To the hospital! And at the point of death!

HEDDA [involuntarily] MRS. ELVSTED [ wailing]

So soon then . . . And we parted in anger, Hedda!

HEDDA [ whispers] Thea—Thea—be careful! MRS. ELVSTED [not heeding her] I must go to him! I must see him alive! BRACK It is useless, Madam. No one will be admitted. MRS. ELVSTED Oh, at least tell me what has happened to him? What is it? TESMAN HEDDA

You don’t mean to say that he has himself. . . Eh? Yes, I am sure he has.

TESMAN Hedda, how can you . . . ? BR\CK [keeping his eyes fixed upon her]

Unfortunately you have guessed quite

correctlv, Mrs. Tesman. MRS. ELVSTED Oh, how horrible! TESMAN HEDDA

Himself, then! Fancy that! Shot himself!

BRACK Rightly guessed again, Mrs. Tesman. MRS. ELVSTED [with an effort at self-control] When did it happen, Mr. Brack? BRACK

This afternoon—between three and four.

TESMAN But, good Lord, where did he do it? Eh? BRACK [with some hesitation] Where? Well—I suppose at his lodgings. MRS. ELVSTED BRACK

No, that cannot be; for I was there between six and seven.

Well then, somewhere else. I don’t know exactly. I only know that he

was found . . . He had shot himself—in the breast. MRS. ELVSTED Oh, howT terrible! That he should die like that! HEDDA [to BRACK]

Was it in the breast?

BRACK

Yes—as I told you.

HEDDA

Not in the temple?

BRACK

In the breast, Mrs. Tesman.

1202

Plays for Further Reading

Act IV

HEDDA

Well, well—the breast is a good place, too.

BRACK

How do you mean, Mrs. Tesman?

HEDDA \evasively] TESMAN BRACK

And the wound is dangerous, you say—eh? Absolutely mortal. The end has probably come by this time.

MRS. ELVSTED TESMAN

Oh, nothing—nothing.

Yes, yes, I feel it. The end! The end! Oh, Hedda . . . !

But tell me, how have you learnt all this?

BRACK [ curtly ]

Through one of the police. A man I had some business with.

HEDDA [in a clear voice] TESMAN [ terrified] HEDDA BRACK TESMAN

At last a deed worth doing!

Good heavens, Hedda! what are you saying?

I say there is beauty in this. H’m, Mrs. Tesman . . . Beauty! Fancy that!

MRS. ELVSTED

Oh, Hedda, how can you talk of beauty in such an act!

HEDDA Eilert Lovborg has himself made up his account with life. He has had the courage to do—the one right thing. MRS. ELVSTED No, you must never think that was how it happened! It must have been in delirium that he did it. TESMAN HEDDA

In despair! That he did not. I am certain of that.

MRS. ELVSTED Yes, yes! In delirium! Just as when he tore up our manuscript. BRACK [starting] The manuscript? Has he tom that up? MRS. ELVSTED Yes, last night. TESMAN [whispers softly] Oh, Hedda, we shall never get over this. BRACK H’m, very extraordinary. TESMAN [ moving about the room]

To think of Eilert going out of the world in

this way! And not leaving behind him the book that would have immortalized his name . . . MRS. ELVSTED TESMAN

Oh, if only it could be put together again!

Yes, if it only could! I don’t know what I would not give . . .

MRS. ELVSTED Perhaps it can, Mr. Tesman. TESMAN What do you mean? MRS. ELVSTED [searches in the pocket of her dress] the loose notes he used to dictate from. HEDDA [a step forward] TESMAN

Look here. I have kept all

Ah . . . !

You have kept them, Mrs. Elvsted! Eh?

MRS. ELVSTED Yes, I have them here. I put them in my pocket when I left home. Here they still are . . . TESMAN

Oh, do let me see them!

MRS. ELVSTED [hands him a bundle of papers] all mixed up.

But they are in such disorder—

TESMAN Fancy, if we could make something out of them, after all! Perhaps if we two put our heads together . . . MRS. ELVSTED

Oh yes, at least let us try . . .

TESMAN We will manage it! We must! I will dedicate my life to this task. HEDDA You, George? Your life? TESMAN

Yes, or rather all the time I can spare. My own collections must wait

in the meantime. Hedda—you understand, eh? I owe this to Eilert’s memory. HEDDA Perhaps. TESMAN

And so, my dear Mrs. Elvsted, we will give our whole minds to it.

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

Act IV

1203

There is no use in brooding over what can’t be undone—eh? We must try to control our grief as much as possible, and . . . MRS. ELVSTED Yes, yes, Mr. Tesman, I will do the best I can. TESMAN Well then, come here. I can’t rest until we have looked through the notes. Where shall we sit? Here? No, in there, in the back room. Excuse me, my dear Judge. Come with me, Mrs. Elvsted. MRS. ELVSTED Oh, if only it were possible! TESMAN and MRS. ELVSTED go into the hack room. She takes off her hat and cloak.

They both sit at the table under the hanging lamp, and are sooti deep in an eager examination of the papers. HEDDA crosses to the stove and sits in the armchair. Presently BRACK goes up to her. HEDDA [in a low voice]

Oh, what a sense of freedom it gives one, this act of

Eilert Lovborg’s. BRACK Freedom, Mrs. Hedda? Well, of course, it is a release for him . . . HEDDA I mean for me. It gives me a sense of freedom to know that a deed of deliberate courage is still possible in this world—a deed of spontaneous beauty. BRACK [smiling] H’m—my dear Mrs. Hedda . . . HEDDA Oh, I know what you are going to say. For you are a kind of specialist, too, like—you know! BRACK [ looking hard at her] Eilert Lovborg was more to you than perhaps you are willing to admit to yourself. Am I wrong? HEDDA I don’t answer such questions. I only know that Eilert Lovborg has had the courage to live his life after his own fashion. And then—the last great act, with its beauty! Ah! that he should have the will and the strength to turn away from the banquet of life—so early. BRACK I am sorry, Mrs. Hedda, but I fear I must dispel an amiable illusion. HEDDA Illusion? BRACK Which could not have lasted long in any case. HEDDA What do you mean? BRACK Eilert Lovborg did not shoot himself—voluntarily.

Not voluntarily! No. The thing did not happen exactly as I told it. HEDDA [in suspense] Have you concealed something? What is it? BRACK For poor Mrs. Elvsted’s sake I idealized the facts a little. HEDDA BRACK

What are the facts? BRACK First, that he is already dead. HEDDA At the hospital? BRACK Yes—without regaining consciousness. HEDDA What more have you concealed? BRACK This—the event did not happen at his lodgings. HEDDA Oh, that can make no difference. BRACK Perhaps it may. For I must tell you—Eilert Lovborg was found shot HEDDA

in—in Mademoiselle Diana’s boudoir. HEDDA [ makes a motion as if to rise, but sinks back again ] That is impossible, Judge Brack! I le cannot have been there again today. BRACK He was there this afternoon. He went diere, he said, to demand the return of something, which they had taken from him. I alked wildly about a lost child . . .

1204

Plays for Further Reading

Act IV

Ah—so that was why . . . BRACK I thought probably he meant his manuscript; but now I hear he de¬ stroyed that himself. So I suppose it must have been his pocketbook. HEDDA Yes, no doubt. And there—there he was found? BRACK Yes, there. With a pistol in his breast pocket, discharged. The ball had lodged in a vital part. HEDDA In the breast—yes. BRACK No—in the bowels. HEDDA [ looks up at him with an expression of loathing] That, too! Oh, what a curse is it that makes everything I touch turn ludjcrous and mean? BRACK There is one point more, Mrs. TIedda—another disagreeable feature in the affair. HEDDA And what is that? BRACK The pistol he carried . . . HEDDA [ breathless ] Well? What of it? BRACK He must have stolen it. HEDDA [leaps up] Stolen it! That is not true! lie did not steal it! BRACK No other explanation is possible. He must have stolen it . . . Hush! HEDDA

TESMAN and MRS. ELVSTED have risen from the table in the back room, and come

into the drawing room. TESMAN [ with the papers in both his hands]

Hedda, dear, it is almost impos¬

sible to see under that lamp. Think of that! HEDDA Yes, I am thinking.-. TESMAN Would you mind our sitting at your writing table—eh? HEDDA If you like. [ Quickly] No, wait! Let me clear it first! TESMAN Oh, you needn’t trouble, Hedda. There is plenty of room. HEDDA No, no, let me clear it, I say! I will take these things in and put them on the piano. There! She has drawn out an object, covered with sheet music, from under the bookcase, places several other pieces of music upon it, and, carries the whole into the inner room, to the left. TESMAN lays the scraps of paper on the writing table, and moves the lamp there from the corner table. He and MRS ELVSTED sit down and proceed with their work. HEDDA returns. HEDDA [ behind MRS. ELVSTED’s chair, gently ruffing her hair]

Well, my sweet

Thea, how goes it with Eilert Lovborg’s monument? MRS. ELVSTED [looks dispiritedly up at her] Oh, it will be terribly hard to put in order. We must manage it. I am determined. And arranging other people’s papers is just the work for me. TESMAN

HEDDA goes over to the stove, and seats herself on one of the footstools. BRACK

stands over her, leaning on the armchair. HEDDA [whispers] What did you say about the pistol? BRACK [softly] That he must have stolen it. HEDDA Why stolen it?

Henrik Ibsen • Hedda Gabler

Act IV

BRACK HEDDA

1205

Because every other explanation ought to be impossible, Mrs. I ledda. Indeed?

BRACK [glances at her]

Of course, Eilert Lovborg was here this morning. Was

he not? HEDDA

Yes.

BRACK

Were you alone with him?

HEDDA

Part of the time.

BRACK

Did you not leave the room whilst he was here?

HEDDA

No.

BRACK

Try to recollect. Were you not out of the room a moment?

HEDDA

Yes, perhaps just a moment—out in the hall.

BRACK

And where was your pistol case during that time?

■ HEDDA

I had it locked up in . . .

BRACK Well, Mrs. Hedda? HEDDA The case stood there on the writing table. BRACK

Have you looked since, to see whether both the pistols are there?

HEDDA No. BRACK Well, you need not. I saw the pistol found in Lovborg’s pocket, and I knew it at once as die one I had seen yesterday—and before, too. HEDDA

Have you it with you?

BRACK

No, the police have it.

HEDDA

What will die police do with it?

BRACK

Search till they find the owner.

HEDDA Do you think they will succeed? BRACK [bends over her and whispers] No, Hedda Gabler—not so long as I say nothing. HEDDA [looks frightened at him] BRACK [shrugs his shoulders]

And if you do not say nodiing—what then?

There is always the possibility that pistol was

stolen. HEDDA [firmly] Death rather than that BRACK [smiling] People say such things—-but they don’t do them. HEDDA [without replying]

And supposing the pistol was not stolen, and the

owner is discovered? What then? BRACK Well, Hedda—then comes the scandal. HEDDA BRACK

The scandal! Yes, the scandal—of which you are so mortally afraid. You will, of

course, be brought before the court—-both you and Mademoiselle Diana. She will have to explain how the thing happened—-whether it was an accidental shot or murder. Did the pistol go off as he was trying to take it out of his pocket, to threaten her with? Or did she tear the pistol out of his hand, shoot him, and push it back into his pocket? That would be quite like her; for she is an able-bodied young person, this same Mademoiselle Diana. HEDDA But I have nothing to do with all this repulsive business. brack No. But you will have to answer the question: Why did you give Eilert Lovborg die pistol? And what conclusions will people draw from the fact that you did give it to him? HEDDA [lets her head sink ] BRACK

That is true. I did not think of that.

Well, fortunately, there is no danger, so long as I say nothing.

HEDDA [looks up at him]

So I am in your power, Judge Brack. You have me

at your beck and call, from this time forward.

1206

Plays for Further Reading

BRACK [ whispers softly]

Act IV

Dearest Hedda—believe me—I shall not abuse my

advantage. HFDDA

I am in your power none the less. Subject to your will and your de¬

mands. A slave, a slave then! [Rises impetuously] No, I cannot endure the thought of that! Never! BRACK [looks half-mockingly at her]

People generally get used to the inevita¬

ble. HEDDA [returns his look]

Yes, perhaps. [She crosses to the writing table. Sup¬

pressing an involuntary smile, she imitates TESMAN’s intonations.] Well? Are you getting on, George? Eh? TESMAN

Heaven knows, dear. In any case it will be the work of months.

HEDDA [as before]

Fancy that! [Passes her hands softly through MRS. ELVSTEDs

hair] Doesn’t it seem strange to you, Thea? Here you are sitting with Tesman— just as you used to sit with Eilert Lovborg? MRS. ELVSTED HEDDA

Ah, if I could only inspire your husband in the same way!

Oh, that will come, too—in time.

TESMAN Yes, do you know, Hedda—I really think I begin to feel something of the sort. But won’t you go and sit with Brack again? HEDDA

Is there nothing I can do to help you two?

No, nothing in the world. [ Turning his head] I trust to you to keep Hedda company, my dear Brack. TESMAN

BRACK [ with a glance at HEDDA] HEDDA

With the very greatest of pleasure.

Thanks. But I am tired this evening. I will go in and lie down a little

on the sofa. TESMAN

Yes, do, dear—eh?

HEDDA goes into the back room and draws the curtains. A short pause. Suddenly she is heard playing a wild dance on the piano. MRS. ELVSTED [starts from her chair] TESMAN [runs to the doorway]

Oh—what is that?

Why, my dearest Hedda—don’t play dance mu¬

sic tonight! Just think of Aunt Rina! And of Eilert, too! HEDDA [puts her head out between the curtains]

And of Aunt Julia. And of all

the rest of them. After this, I will be quiet, [Closes the curtains again] TESMAN [at the writing table]

It’s not good for her to see us at this distres¬

sing work. I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Elvsted—you shall take the empty room at Aunt Julia’s, and then I will come over in the evenings, and we can sit and work there—eh? HEDDA [in the inner room]

I hear what you are saying, Tesman. But how am

I to get through the evenings out here? TESMAN [turning over the papers]

Oh, I daresay Judge Brack will be so kind

as to look in now and then, even though I am out. BRACK [in the armchair, calls out gaily]

Every blessed evening, with all the

pleasure in life, Mrs. Tesman! We shall get on .capitally together, we two! HEDDA [ speaking loud and clear]

Yes, don’t you flatter yourself we will. Judge

Brack? Now that you are the one cock in the basket . . . A shot is heard within. TESMAN, MRS. ELVSTED, and BRACK leap to their feet. TESMAN

Oh, now she is playing with those pistols again.

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1207

He throws back the curtains and runs in, followed by MRS. ELVSTED. HEDDA lies stretched on the sofa, lifeless. Confusion and cries. BERTA enters in alarm from the right. TESMAN [shrieks to BRACK]

Shot herself! Shot herself in the temple! Fancy

that! BRACK [half-fainting in the armchair ]

Good God!—people don’t do such

things.

George Bernard Shaw and Saint Joan George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950) wrote novels and criticism before he be¬ came a playwright Music critic, socialist lecturer, moral essayist, he promoted the social theater of Ibsen and then wrote his own. Ilis plays propose ideas and argue with wit and paradox but owe their success to his inventive and enter¬ taining theatricality. Ilis first play was Widower’s Houses (1892), followed by his first consider¬ able success, Arms and the Man (1894). Mrs. Warren’s Profession was written earlier, in 1893, but because the shocking profession was prostitution, the play was not staged in London until 1925. Other plays include Candida (1895), The Devil’s Disciple (1897), Caesar and Cleopatra (1898), Major Barbara (1905), Man and Superman (1901-1903), and Pygmalion (1913, in 1956 adapted as the musical My Fair Lady). Saint Joan (1923) is comparatively late, one of his best plays, combining an historical figure with Shaw’s invention. The sharpness and wit of its dialogue and its intelligent skepticism do not preclude an appropriate compassion for the play’s heroine. Shaw was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1925.

George Bernard Shaw

Saint Joan Characters BERTRAND DE POUEENGY

DUNOIS’ PAGE

STEWARD

RICHARD DE BEAUCHAMP, EARL OF WARWICK

JOAN

CHAPLAIN DE STOGUMBER

ROBERT DE BAUDRICOURT

PETER CAUCIION, BISHOP OF BEAIAAIS

THE ARCHBISHOP OF RIIEIMS

WARWICK’S PAGE

MGR DE LA TREMOUILEE

THE INQUISITOR1

COURT PAGE

D’ESTIVET

GILLES DE RAIS

DE COURCELLES

CAPTAIN EA HIRE

BROTHER MARTIN LADVENU

THE DAUPHIN (later CHARLES VII)

THE EXECUTIONER

DUCHESS DE LA TREMOUILLE

AN ENGLISH SOLDIER

DUNOIS, BASTARD OF ORLEANS

A GENTLEMAN OF 1920

Scene 1 A fine spring morning on the river Meuse, between Lorraine and Champagne, in the year 1429 A.D. in the castle of Vaucouleurs. Captain ROBERT DE BAUDRICOURT a military squire, handsome and physically energetic, but with no will of his own, is disguising that defect in his usual fashion by storming terribly at his steward, a trodden worm, scanty of flesh, scanty of hair, who might be any age from 18 to 55, being the sort of man whom age cannot wither because he has never bloomed. The two are in a sunny stone chamber on the first floor of the castle. At a plain strong oak table, seated in chair to match, the captain presents his left profile. The steward stands facing him at the other side of the table, if so deprecatory a stance as his can be called standing. The mullioned thirteenth-century window is open behind him. Near it in the corner is a turret with a narrow arched doorway leading to a winding stair which descends to the courtyard. There is a stout fourlegged stool under the table, and a wooden chest under the window. ROBERT

No eggs! No eggs!! Thousand thunders, man, what do you mean by

no eggs? STEWARD ROBERT

Sir: it is not my fault. It is the act of God. Blasphemy. You tell me there are no eggs; and you blame your Maker

for it. Sir: what can I do? I cannot lay eggs. ROBERT [ sarcastic] Ha! You jest about it.

STEWARD

No, sir, God knows. We all have to go without eggs just as you have, sir. The hens will not lay. STEWARD

Indeed! [Rising] Now listen to me, you. STEWARD [humbly] Yes, sir. ROBERT What am I? ROBERT

STEWARD

What are you, sir?

ROBERT [coming at him]

Yes: what am I? Am I Robert, squire of Baudricourt and captain of this castle of Vaucouleurs; or am I a cowboy?

1208

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 1

STEWARD ROBERT STEWARD

1209

Oh, sir, you know you are a greater man here than the king himself. Precisely. And now, do you know what you are? I am nobody, sir, except that I have the honor to be your steward.

ROBERT [ driving him to the wall, adjective by adjective]

You have not only the

honor of being my steward, but the privilege of being the worst, most incompetent, drivelling snivelling jibbering jabbering idiot of a steward in France. [He strides back to the table.) STEWARD [cowering on the chest)

Yes, sir: to a great man like you I must seem

like that. ROBERT [turning] My fault, I suppose. Eh? STEWARD [coming to him deprecatingly) Oh, sir: you always give my most innocent words such a turn! . ROBERT I will give your neck a turn if you dare tell me, when I ask you how many eggs there are, that you cannot lay any. STEWARD [protesting] Oh sir, oh sir— ROBERT No: not oh sir, oh sir, but no sir, no sir. My three Barbarv hens and the black are the best layers in Champagne. And you come and tell me that there are no eggs! Who stole them? Tell me that, before I kick you out through the castle gate for a liar and a seller of my goods to thieves. The milk was short yesterday, too: do not forget that. STEWARD [desperate ]

I know, sir. I know only too well. There is no milk: there

are no eggs: tomorrow there will be nothing. ROBERT Nothing! You will steal the lot: eh? STEWARD No, sir: nobody will steal anything. But diere is a spell on us: we are bewitched. ROBERT That story is not good enough for me. Robert de Baudricourt burns witches and hangs thieves. Go. Bring me four dozen eggs and two gallons of milk here in this room before noon, or I leaven have mercy on your bones! I will teach you to make a fool of me. [He resumes his seat with an air of finality.) STEWARD

Sir: I tell you there are no eggs. There will be none—not if you were

to lull me for it—as long as The Maid is at the door. ROBERT The Maid! What maid? What are you talking about? STEWARD 'Flie girl from Lorraine, sir. From Domremy. ROBERT [rising in fearful wrath] Thirty thousand thunders! Fifty thousand devils! Do you mean to say that that girl, who had the impudence to ask to see me two days ago, and whom I told you to send back to her father with my orders that he was to give her a good hiding, is here still? STEWARD I have told her to go, sir. She wont. ROBERT I did not tell you to tell her to go: I told you to throw her out. J ou have fifty men-at-arms and a dozen lumps of able-bodied servants to carry out my orders. Are they afraid of her? STEWARD She is so positive, sir. ROBERT [seizing him by the scruff of the neck ]

Positive! Now see here. I am

going to throw you downstairs. STEWARD No, sir. Please. ROBERT Well, stop me by being positive. It’s quite easy: any slut of a girl can do it. STEWARD [hanging limp in his hands]

Sir, sir: you cannot get rid of her by

throwing me out. [ ROBERT has to let him drop. He squats on his knees on the

1210

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 1

floor, contemplating his master resignedly.] You see, sir, you are much more

positive than I am. But so is she. ROBERT I am stronger than you are, you fool. STEWARD No, Sir: it isnt that: it’s your strong character, sir. She is weaker than we are: she is only a slip of a girl; but*we cannot make her go. ROBERT You parcel of curs: you are afraid of her. STEWARD [ rising cautiously] No sir: we are afraid of you; but she puts courage into us. She really doesnt seem to be afraid of anything. Perhaps you could frighten her, sir. [grimly ] Perhaps. Where is she now? STEWARD Down in the courtyard, sir, talking to the soldiers as usual. She is always talking to the soldiers except when she is praying. ROBERT

Praying! Ha! You believe she prays, you idiot. I know the sort of girl that is always talking to soldiers. She shall talk to me a bit. [He goes to the window and shouts fiercely through it.] Hallo, you there! A GIRL’S VOICE [ bright, strong and rough] Is it me, sir? ROBERT Yes, you. THE VOICE Be you captain? ROBERT

Yes, damn your impudence, I be captain. Come up here. [To the soldiers in the yard] Shew her the way, you. And shove her along quick. [He ROBERT

leaves the window, and returns to his place at the table, where he sits magisteri¬ ally.]

She wants to go and be a soldier herself. She wants you to give her soldier’s clothes. Armor, sir! And a sword! Actually! [He steals STEWARD

[whispering]

behind ROBERT. ]

JOAN

appears in the turret doorway. She is an ablebodied country girl of 17 or

18, respectably dressed in red, with an uncommon face; eyes very wide apart and bulging as they often do in very imaginative people, a long well-shaped nose with wide nostrils, a short upper lip, resolute but full-lipped mouth, and handsome fighting chin. She comes eagerly to the table, delighted at having penetrated to presence at last, and full of hope as to the results. His scowl does not check or frighten her in the least. Her voice is normally a hearty coaxing voice, very confident, very appealing, very hard to resist.

BAUDRlCOURT’s

Good morning, captain squire. Captain: you are to give me a horse and armor and some soldiers, and send me to the Dauphin. Those are your orders from my Lord. JOAN

[bobbing a curtsey]

Orders from your lord! And who the devil may your lord be? Go back to him, and tell him that I am neither duke nor peer at his orders: I am squire of Baudncourt; and I take no orders except from the king. JOAN [reassuringly] Yes, squire: that is all right. My Lord is the King of Heaven. ROBERT

[outraged]

ROBERT

Why, the girl’s mad. [To the steward] Why didnt you tell me so vou

blockhead? Sir: do not anger her: give her what she wants. JOAN [impatient, but friendly] They all say I am mad until I talk to them, squire. But you see that it is the will of God that you are to do what fie has put into my mind. vV STEWARD

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 1

1211

It is the will of God that I shall send you back to your father with

ROBERT

orders to put you under lock and key and thrash the madness out of you. What have you to say to that? JOAN

You think you will, squire; but you will find it all coming quite different.

You said you would not see me; but here I am. STEWARD

[appealing]

Yes, sir. You see, sir.

ROBERT

Hold your tongue, you.

[abjectly] Yes, sir. ROBERT [to JOAN, with a sour loss of confidence]

STEWARD

So you are presuming on my

seeing you, are you?

[sweetly] Yes, squire. ROBERT [feeling that he has lost ground, brings down his two fists squarely on

JOAN

the table, and inflates his chest imposingly to cure the unwelcome and only too familiar sensation] JOAN

[ busily]

Now listen to me. I am going to assert myself.

Please do, squire. The horse will cost sixteen francs. It is a good

deal of money: but I can save it on the armor. I can find a soldier’s armor that will fit me well enough: I am very hardy; and I do not need beautiful armor made to my measure like you wear. I shall not want many soldiers: the Dauphin will give me all I need to raise the siege of Orleans. ROBERT [ flabbergasted] To raise the siege of Orleans! JOAN [simply] Yes, squire: that is what God is sending me to do. Three men will be enough for you to send with me if they are good men and gentle to me. They have promised to come with me. Polly and Jack and— ROBERT

Polly!! You impudent baggage, do you dare call squire Bertrand de

Poulengey Polly to my face? JOAN His friends call him so, squire: I did not know he had any other name. Jack— That is Monsieur John of Metz, I suppose? Yes, squire. Jack will come willingly: he is a very kind gentleman, and

ROBERT JOAN

gives me money to give to the poor. I think John Godsave will come, and Dick the Archer, and their servants John of Honecourt and Julian. There will be no trouble for you, squire: I have arranged it all: you have only to give the order. ROBERT JOAN

[contemplating her in a stupor of amazement]

[with unruffled sweetness]

Well, I am damned!

No, squire: God is very merciful; and the

blessed saints Catherine and Margaret, who speak to me every day [he gapes], will intercede for vou. You will go to paradise; and your name will be remembered for ever as my first helper. ROBERT [to the STEWARD, still much bothered, but changing his tone as he pursues a new clue] Is this true about Monsieur de Poulengey? STEWARD [eagerly] Yes, sir, and about Monsieur de Metz too. Hiev both want to go with her. ROBERT

[thoughtful]

Mf! [He goes to the window, and shouts into the court¬

yard.] Hallo! You there: send Monsieur de Poulengey to me, will you? [He turns to JOAN. ] Get out; and wait in the yard. JOAN [smiling brightly at him] Right, squire. [She goes out.] ROBERT [to the steward] Go with her, you, you dithering imbecile. Stay within call; and keep your eye on her. I shall have her up here again. STEWARD Do so in God’s name, sir. Ihink of those hens, the best layers in Champagne; and— ROBERT Think of my boot; and take your backside out of reach of it.

1212

Plays for Further Reading

The

Scene 1

retreats hastily and finds himself confronted in the doorway by BERTR AM) DE POULENGEY, a lymphatic French gentleman-at-arms, aged 36 or thereabout, employed in the department of the provost-marshal, dreamily absentminded, seldom speaking unless spoken to, and then slow and obstinate in reply; altogether in contrast to the self-assertive, loud-mouthed, superficially energetic, fundamentally will-less ROBERT. The STEWARD makes way for him, and vanishes. POULENGEY salutes, and stands awaiting orders. STEWARD

[genially] It isnt sendee, Polly. A friendly talk. Sit down. [He hooks the stool from under the table with his instep.] ROBERT

i

relaxing, comes into the room; places the stool between the table and the window; and sits down ruminatively. ROBERT, half sitting on the end of the table, begins the friendly talk.

POULENGEY,

ROBERT POULENGEY

Now listen to me, Polly. I must talk to you like a father. looks up at him gravely for a moment, but says nothing.

It s about this girl you are interested in. Now, I have seen her. I have talked to her. First, she’s mad. That doesnt matter. Second, she’s not a farm wench. She s a bourgeoise. That matters a good deal. I know her class exactlv. Her father came here last year to represent his village in a lawsuit: he is one of their notables. A fanner. Not a gentleman farmer: he makes money by it, and lives by it. Still, not a laborer. Not a mechanic, fie might have a cousin a lawver, or in the Church. People of this sort may be of no account socially; but they can give a lot of bother to the authorities. That is to say, to me. Now no doubt it seems to you a very simple thing to take this girl away, humbugging her into the belief that you are taking her to the Dauphin. But if you get her into trouble, you may get me into no end of a mess, as I am her father’s lord, and responsible for her protection. So friends or no friends, Polly, hands off her. ROBERT

[ with deliberate impressiveness] I should as soon think of the Blessed Virgin herself in that way, as of this girl. POULENGEY

ROBERT [ coming

off the table] But she says you and Jack and Dick have offered to go with her. What for? You are not going to tell me that you take her crazy notion of going to the Dauphin seriously, are you? [slowly] There is something about her. They are pretty foulmouthed and foulminded down there in the guardroom, some of them. But there hasnt been a word that has anything to do with her being a woman. They have stopped swearing before her. There is something. Something. It may be worth trying. POULENGEY

Oh, come, Polly! pull yourself together. Commonsense was never your strong point; but this is a little too much. [He retreats disgustedly.] POULENGEY [unmoved] What is the good of commonsense? If we had any commonsense we should join the Duke of Burgundy and the English king. They hold half the country, right down to the Loire. They have Paris. They have this castle: you know very well that we had to surrender it to the Duke of Bedford, and that you are only holding it on parole. The Dauphin is in Chinon, like a rat in a comer, except that he wont fight We dont even know that he is the Dauphin: his mother says he isnt; and she ought to know. Think of that! the queen denying the legitimacy of her own son! v\ ROBERT

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 1

1213

Well, she married her daughter to the English king. Can you blame

ROBERT

the woman? I blame nobody. But thanks to her, the Dauphin is down and out;

POULENGEY

and we may as well face it. The English will take Orleans: the Bastard will not be able to stop them. He beat the English the year before last at Montargis. I was with him.

ROBERT

No matter: his men are cowed now; and he cant work miracles.

POULENGEY

And I tell you that nothing can save our side now but a miracle. Miracles are all right, Polly. The only difficulty about them is that they

ROBERT

dont happen nowadays. POULENGEY I used to think so. I am not so sure now. [Rising, and moving ruminatively towards the window] At all events this is not a time to leave any stone unturned. There is something about the girl. Oh! You think the girl can work miracles, do you?

ROBERT

I think the girl herself is a bit of a miracle. Anyhow, she is the

POULENGEY

last card left in our hand. Better play her than throw up the game. [He wanders to the turret.] ROBERT

[ wavering]

POULENGEY ROBERT

You really think that?

[ turning]

Is there anything else left for us to think?

[going to him)

Look here, Polly. If you were in my place would you

let a girl like that do you out of sixteen francs for a horse? POULENGEY ROBERT

I will pay for the horse.

You will! Yes: I will back my opinion. You will really gamble on a forlorn hope to the tune of sixteen francs?

POLLEN GEY ROBERT

It is not a gamble.

POULENGEY

What else is it? POULENGEY It is a certainty. I Ier words and her ardent faith in God have put ROBERT

fire into me. ROBERT [giving him up] POLLENGEY [obstinately]

Whew! You are as mad as she is. We want a few mad people now. See where the sane

ones have landed us! ROBERT [Ais irresoluteness now openly swamping his affected decisiveness]

I

shall feel like a precious fool. Still, if you feel sure—? POULENGEY I feel sure enough to take her to Chinon—unless you stop me. ROBERT

This is not fair. You are putting the responsibility on me. It is on you whichever way you decide.

POULENGEY ROBERT

Yes: thats just it. Which way am I to decide? You dont see how

awkward this is for me. [Snatching at a dilatory step with an unconscious hope that JOAN will make up his mind for him] Do you think I ought to have another talk to her? POULENGEY

[rising]

JOAN’S VOICE POULENGEY

Yes. [He goes to the window and calls.] Joan!

Will he let us go, Polly? Come up. Come in. [Turning to ROBERT] Shall I leave you with

her? ROBERT

POULENGEY

No: stay here; and back me up. sits down on the chest. ROBERT goes back to his magisterial chair,

but remains standing to inflate himself more imposingly. JOAN comes in, full of good news.

1214

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 1

Jack will go halves for the horse.

JOAN

Well!! [He sits, deflated.]

ROBERT

POUEENGEY

[gravely]

Sit down, Joan.

[checked a little, and looking to ROBERT] ROBERT Do what you are told.

JOAN

May I?

curtsies and sits down on the stool between them. ROBERT outfaces his perplexity with his most peremptory air. JOAN

ROBERT

What is your name?

[chattily] They always call me Jenny in 'Lorraine. Here in France I am Joan. The soldiers call me The Maid. JOAN

ROBERT

What is your surname?

Surname? What is that? My father sometimes calls himself d’Arc; but I know nothing about it. You met my father. He— JOAN

Yes, yes; I remember. You come from Domremy in Lorraine, I think. Yes; but what does it matter? we all speak French.

ROBERT JOAN

ROBERT

Dont ask questions: answer them. How old are you?

Seventeen: so they tell me. It might be nineteen. I dont remember.

JOAN

What did you mean when you said that St Catherine and St Margaret talked to you every day? ROBERT

JOAN

They do.

ROBERT

What are they like?

[suddenly obstinate] given me leave. JOAN

ROBERT

I will tell you nothing about that: they have not

But you actually see them; and they talk to you just as I am talking

to you? JOAN No: it is quite different. I cannot tell you: you must not talk to me about my voices. ROBERT

How do you mean? voices?

hear voices telling me what to do. They come from God. ROBERT They come from your imagination.

JOAN

I

Of course. That is how the messages of God come to us. POULENGEY Checkmate.

JOAN

No fear! [To JOAN] So God says you are to raise the siege of Orleans? JOAN And to crown the Dauphin in Rheims Cathedral. ROBERT [gasping] Crown the D—! Gosh! ROBERT

And to make the Lnglish leave France. ROBERT [sarcastic] Anything else?

JOAN

JOAN

[charming]

Not just at present, thank you, squire.

suppose you think raising a siege is as easy as chasing a cow out of a meadow. You think soldiering is anybody’s job? ROBERT

I

I do not think it can be very difficult if God is on your side, and you are willing to put your life in His hand. But many soldiers are very simple. JOAN

ROBERT

[grimly]

Simple! Did you ever see English soldiers fighting?

They are only men. God made them just like us; but He gave them their own country and their own language; arid it is not His will that they should come into our country and try to speak our language. JOAN

ROBERT

Who has been putting such nonsense into your head? Dont you know

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 1

1215

that soldiers are subject to their feudal lord, and that it is nothing to diem or to you whether he is the duke of Burgundy or the king of England or the king of France? What has their language to do with it? JOAN

I do not understand that a bit. WTe are all subject to the King of Heaven;

and He gave us our countries and our languages, and meant us to keep to them. If it were not so it would be murder to kill an Englishman in battle; and you, squire, would be in great danger of hell fire. You must not think about your duty to your feudal lord, but about your duty to God. POULENGEY ROBERT

It’s no use, Robert: she can choke you like that every time.

Can she, by Saint Dennis! We shall see. [To JOAN] We are not talking

about God: we are talking about practical affairs. I ask you again, girl, have you ever seen English soldiers fighting? Have you ever seen them plundering, burning, turning the countryside into a desert? Have you heard no tales of their Black Prince who was blacker than the devil himself, or of the English king’s father? JOAN

You must not be afraid, Robert—

ROBERT JOAN

Damn you, I am not afraid. And who gave you leave to call me Robert?

You were called so in church in the name of our Lord. All the other

names are your father’s or your brother’s or anybody’s. ROBERT JOAN

Tcha!

Listen to me, squire. At Domremy we had to fly to the next village to

escape from the English soldiers. Three of them were left behind, wounded. I came to know these three poor goddams quite well. They had not half my strength. ROBERT

Do you know why they are called goddams?

No. Everyone calls them goddams. ROBERT It is because they are always calling on their God to condemn then-

JOAN

souls to perdition. That is what goddam means in their language. How do you like it? JOAN

God will be merciful to them; and they will act like His good children

when they go back to the country He made for them, and made diem for. I have heard the tales of the Black Prince. "Hie moment he touched the soil of our country the devil entered into him, and made him a black fiend. But at home, in the place made for him by God, he was good. It is always so. If I went into England against the will of God to conquer England, and tried to live there and speak its language, the devil would enter into me; and when I was old I should shudder to remember the wickednesses I did. ROBERT Perhaps. But the more devil you were the better you might fight. JJiat is why the goddams will take Orleans. And you cannot stop them, nor ten thou¬ sand like you. JOAN One thousand like me can stop them. Ten like me can stop them with God on our side. [She rises impetuously, and goes at him, unable to sit quiet any longer.] You do not understand, squire. Our soldiers are always beaten because they are fighting only to save their skins; and the shortest way to save your skin is to run away. Our knights are thinking only of the money they will make in ransoms: it is not kill or be killed with them, but pay or be paid. But I will teach them all to fight that the will of God may be done in France; and then they will drive the poor goddams before them like sheep. You and Polly will live to see the day when there will not be an English soldier on the soil of France; and there will be but one king there: not the feudal English king, but God’s French one. ROBERT [ to POULENGEY] This may be all rot, Polly; but the troops might swal-

1216

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 2

low it, though nothing that we can say seems able to put any fight into them. Even the Dauphin might swallow it. And if she can put fight into him, she can put it into anybody. POULENGEY I can see no harm in trying. Can you? And there is something about the girl— ROBERT [ turning to JOAN] Now listen you to me; and [ desperately j dont cut in before I have time to think. JOAN [plumping down on the stool again, like an obedient schoolgirl] squire.

Yes,

ROBERT Your orders are, that you are to go to Chinon under the escort of this gentleman and three of his friends. JOAN [radiant, clasping her hands] light, like a saint’s. POULENGEY

Oh, squire! Your head is all circled with

How is she to get into the royal presence?

ROBERT [who has looked up for his halo rather apprehensively]

I dont know:

how did she get into my presence? If the Dauphin can keep her out he is a better man than I take him for. [Rising] I will send her to Chinon; and she can say I sent her. Then let come what may: I can do no more. JOAN

And die dress? 1 may have a soldier’s dress, maynt I, squire?

ROBERT

Have what you please. I wash my hands of it.

JOAN [ wildly excited by her success]

Come, Polly. [She dashes out.]

ROBERT [shaking POULENGEY’s hand]

Goodbye, old man, I am taking a big

chance. Few other men would have done it. But as you say, there is something about her. POULENGEY

Yes: there is something about her. Goodbye. [He goes out.]

ROBERT, still very doubtful whether he has not been made a fool of by a crazy female, and a social inferior to boot, scratches his head and slowly comes back from the door. The STEWARD runs in with a basket. STEWART) ROBERT STEWARD

Sir, sir— What now? The hens are laying like mad, sir. Five dozen eggs!

ROBERT [ stiffens convulsively: crosses himself: and forms with his pale lips the words] Christ in heaven! [Aloud but breathless] She did come from God.

Scene 2 Chinon, in Touraine. An end of the throne room in the castle, curtained off to make an antechamber. The ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS. close on 50, a full-fed prelate with nothing of the ecclesiastic about him except his imposing bearing, and the Lorrf C/iam6er/am, ^K ATEKAEUR DE LA TREMOUILLE, a monstrous arrogant wineskin of a man, are waiting for the DAUPHIN. There is a door in the wall to the right of the two men. It is late in the afternoon on the 8th of March, 1429. The ARCHBISHOP stands with dignity whilst the CHAMBERLAIN, on his left, fumes about in the worst of tempers. *

LA TREMOUILLE What the devil does the Dauphin mean by keeping us waiting like this? I dont know how you have the patience to stand there like a stone idol. THE ARCHBISHOP

You see, I am an. archbishop; and an archbishop is a sort

Scene 2

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1217

of idol. At any rate he has to learn to keep still and suffer fools patiently. Besides, my dear Lord Chamberlain, it is the Dauphin’s royal privilege to keep you waiting, is it not? LA TREMOUILLE

Dauphin be damned! saving your reverence. Do you know

how much money he owes me? THE .ARCHBISHOP

Much more than he owes me, I have no doubt, because you

are a much richer man. But 1 take it he owes you all you could afford to lend him. fliat is what he owes me. LA TREMOUILLE

Twenty-seven thousand: that was his last haul. A cool twenty-

seven thousand! THE ARCHBISHOP

What becomes of it all? He never has a suit of clothes that

I would throw to a curate. /

■ LA TREMOUILLE

He dines on a chicken or a scrap of mutton. He borrows my

last penny; and there is nothing to shew for it. [A page appears in the doorway.] At last! THE PAGE

No, my lord: it is not His Majesty. Monsieur de Rais is approaching.

LA TREMOUILLE THE PAGE

Young Bluebeard! Why announce him?

Captain La Hire is with him. Something has happened, I think.

GILLES DE RAIS, a young man of 25, very smart and self-possessed, and sporting the extravagance of a little curled beard dyed blue at a clean-shaven court, comes in. He is determined to make himself agreeable, but lacks natural joyousness, and is not really pleasant. In fact when he defies the Church some eleven years later he is accused of trying to extract pleasure from horrible cruelties, and hanged. So far, however, there is no shadow of the gallows on him. He advances gaily to the .ARCHBISHOP. The PAGE withdraws. BLUEBEARD

Your faithful lamb, Archbishop. Good day, my lord. Do you know

what has happened to La I lire? LA TREMOUILLE He has sworn himself into a fit, perhaps. BLUEBEARD No: just lie opposite. Foul Mouthed Frank, the only man in Touraine who could beat him at swearing, was told by a soldier that he shouldnt use such language when he was at the point of death. THE ARCHBISHOP Nor at any other point. But was Foul Mouthed Frank on the point of death? BLUEBEARD Yes: he has just fallen into a well and been drowned. La Hire is frightened out of his wits. CAPTAIN LA HIRE comes in: a war dog with no court manners and pronounced camp ones. BLUEBEARD

I have just been telling the Chamberlain and the Archbishop. Hie

Archbishop says you are a lost man. LA HIRE [striding past BLUEBEARD, and planting himself between the ARCH¬ BISHOP and LA TREMOUILLE]

This is nothing to joke about. It is worse than we

thought. It was not a soldier, but an angel dressed as a soldier. THE ARCHBISHOP THE CHAMBERLAIN > [exclaiming all together] An angel! BLUEBEARD

1218

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 2

Yes, an angel. She has made her way from Champagne with half a dozen men through the thick of everything: Burgundians, Goddams, deserters, robbers, and Lord knows who; and they never met a soul except the country folk. I know one of them: de Poulengey. He says she’s an angel. If ever I utter an oath again may my soul be blasted to eternal damnation! THE ARCHBISHOP A very pious beginning, Captain. LA HIRE

BLUEBEARD and LATREMOUILLE laughs at him. The PAGE returns. THE PAGE

His Majesty.

They stand perfunctorily at court attention. The dattphtn. aged 26, really King Charles the Sevnth since the death of his father, but as yet uncrowned, comes in through the curtains with a paper in his hands. He is a poor creature physically; and the current fashion of shaving closely, and hiding every scrap of hair under the headcovering or headdress, both by women and men, makes the worst of his appearance. He has little narrow eyes, near together, a long pendulous nose that droops over his thick short upper lip, and the expression of a young dog accustomed to be kicked, yet incorrigible and irrepressible. But he is neither vulgar nor stupid; and he has a cheeky humor which enables him to hold his own in conversation. Just at present he is excited, like a child with a new toy. He comes to the ARCH¬ BISHOP’S left hand. BLUEBEARD and LA HIRE retire towards the curtains.

Oh, Archbishop, do you know what Robert de Baudricourt is send¬ ing me from Vaucouleurs? CHARLES

THE ARCHBISHOP [contemptuously ] CHARLES [indignantlyj

I am not interested in the newest toys. It isnt a toy. [Sulkily] However, I can get on very well

without your interest. Your Highness is taking offence very unnecessarily. CHARLES Thank you. You are always ready with a lecture, amt you? LATREMOUILLE [roughly] Enough grumbling. What have you got there? CHARLES What is that to you?

THE ARCHBISHOP

It is my business to know what is passing between you and the garrison at Vaucouleurs. [He snatches the paper from the DAUPHIN’S hand, LA TREMOUILLE

and begins reading it with some difficulty, following the words with his finger and spelling them out syllable by syllable.]

You all think you can treat me as you please because I owe you money, and because I am no good at fighting. But I have the blood royal in mv veins. CHARLES [mortified]

j

Even that has been questioned, your Highness. One hardly recognizes in you the grandson of Charles the Wise. CHARLES I want to hear no more of my grandfather. He was so wise that he THE ARCHBISHOP

used up the whole family stock of wisdom for five generations, and left me the poor fool I am, bullied and insulted by all of you. THE ARCHBISHOP

Control yourself, sir. These outbursts of petulance are not

seemly. Another lecture! Thank you". WTat a pity it is that though you are an archbishop saints and angels dont come to see you! THE ARCHBISHOP What do you mean? CHARLES

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 2

1219

Aha! Ask that bully there [Pointing to LA TREMOUILLE. ] LA TREMOUILLE [furious] Hold your tongue. Do you hear? CILARLES Oh, I hear. You neednt shout. The whole castle can hear. Why dont you go and shout at the English, and beat them for me? LA TREMOUILLE [raising his fist] You young— CHARLES [ running behind the ARCHBISHOP] Dont you raise your hand to me. It’s high treason. LA HIRE Steady, Duke! Steady! THE ARCHBISHOP [resolutely] Come, come! this will not do. My Lord Cham¬ berlain: please! please! we must keep some sort of order. [To the DAUPHIN] And you, sir: if you cannot rule your kingdom, at least try to rule yourself. CHARLES Another lecture! Thank you. LA TREMOUILLE [handing over the paper to the ARCHBISHOP] Here: read the accursed thing for me. He has sent the blood boiling into my head: I cant distin¬ CHARLES

guish the letters. CILARLES [coming back and peering round LA TREMOUILLE’s left shoulder]

I

will read it for you if you like. I can read, you know. LA TREMOUILLE [with intense contempt, not at all stung by the tauntJ

Yes:

reading is about all you are fit for. Can you make it out, Archbishop? THE ARCHBISHOP I should have expected more commonsense from De Baudricourt. He is sending some cracked country lass here— CHARLES [interrupting] No: he is sending a saint: an angel. And she is coming to me: to me, the king, and not to you, Archbishop, holy as you are. She knows the blood royal if you dont. [He struts up to the curtains between BLUEBEARD and LA HIRE. J THE ARCHBISHOP

You cannot be allowed to see this crazy wench. CILARLES [turning] But I am the king; and I will. LA TREMOUILLE [ brutally ] Then she cannot be allowed to see you. Now! CHARLES I tell you I will. I am going to put my foot down— BLUEBEARD [laughing at him] Naughty! What would your wise grand¬

father say? That just shews your ignorance, Bluebeard. My grandfather had a saint who used to float in the air when she was praying, and told him everything he wanted to know. My poor father had two saints, Marie de Maille and the Cas¬ que of Avignon. It is in our family; and I dont care what you say: I will have my CHARLES

saint too. This creature is not a saint. She is not even a respectable woman. She does not wear women’s clothes. She is dressed like a soldier, and rides round the country with soldiers. Do you suppose such a person can be admitted to your Highness’s court? LA HIRE Stop. [Going to the ARCHBISHOP] Did you say a girl in armor, like a THE ARCHBISHOP

soldier? So De Baudricourt describes her. LA HIRE But by all the devils in hell—Oh, God forgive me, what am I saying?— by Our Lady and all the saints, this must be the angel that struck Foul Mouthed THE ARCHBISHOP

Frank dead for swearing. CHARLES [ triumphant] You see! A miracle! LA HIRE She may strike the lot of us dead if we cross her. For I leaven’s sake, Archbishop, be careful what you are doing.

1220

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 2

Rubbish! Nobody has been struck dead, A drunk¬ en blackguard who has been rebuked a hundred times for swearing has fallen into a well, and been drowned. A mere coincidence. THE ARCHBISHOP [ severely J

LA HIRE I do not know what a coincidence is. I do know that the man is dead, and that she told him he was going to die. THE ARCHBISHOP

We are all going to die, Captain.

LA HIRE [crossing himself]

I hope not. [He hacks out of the conversation.]

We can easily find out whether she is an angel or not. Let us arrange when she comes that I shall be the Dauphin, and see whether she will find me out. CHARLES Yes: I agree to that. If she cannot find the blood royal I will have nothing to do with her. BLUEBEARD

It is for die Church to make saints: let de Baudricourt mind his own business, and not dare usurp the function of his priest. I say the girl shall not be admitted. BLUEBEARD But, Archbishop— THE ARCHBISHOP [sternly] I speak in the Church’s name. [To the DAUPHIN] Do you dare say she shall? CHARLES [intimidated but sulky] Oh, if you make it an excommunication mat¬ ter, I have nothing more to say, of course. But you havnt read the end of the letter. De Baudricourt says she will raise the siege of Orleans, and beat the English for us. THE ARCHBISHOP

LA TREMOUILLE

Rot!

Well, will you save Orleans for us, with all your bullying? LA TREMOUILLE [savagely] Do not throw that in my face again: do you hear? I have done more fighting than" you ever did or ever will. But I cannot be every¬ where. THE DAUPHIN Well, thats something. BLUEBEARD [coming between the ARCHBISHOP and CHARLES ] You have Jack Dunois at the head of your troops in Orleans: the brave Dunois, the handsome Dunois, the wonderful invincible Dunois, the darling of all die ladies, the beautiful bastard. Is it likely that the country lass can do what he cannot do? CHARLES Why doesnt he raise the siege, then? LA HIRE "Die wind is against him. BLUEBEARD How can the wind hurt him at Orleans? It is not on the Channel. LA HIRE It is on the river Loire; and the English hold the bridgehead. lie must ship his men across the river and upstream, if he is to take them in the rear. Well, he cannot, because there is a devil of a wind blowing the other way. lie is tired of paying the priests to pray for a west wind. What he needs is a miracle. You tell me that what the girl did to Foul Mouthed Frank was no miracle. No matter: it finished Frank. If she changes die wind for Dunois, that may not be a miracle either; but it may finish the English. What harm is there in trying? CHARLES

THE ARCHBISHOP [who has read the end of the letter and become more thought¬ ful] It is true that de Baudricourt seems extraordinarily impressed.

De Baudricourt is a blazing ass; but he is a soldier; and if he thinks she can beat the English, all the rest of the army will think so too. LA TREMOUILLE [to the ARCHBISHOP; who is hesitating] Oh, let them have their way. Dunois’ men will give up the town in spite of him if somebody does not put some fresh spunk into them. LA HIRE

Scene 2

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1221

'Hie Church must examine the girl before anything decisive is done about her. However, since his Highness desires it, let her attend the Court. LA HIRE I will find her and tell her. [He goes out. ] CHARLES Come with me, Bluebeard; and let us arrange so that she will not know who I am. You will pretend to be me. [He goes out through the cuihains.] BLUEBEARD Pretend to be that thing! I loly Michael! [ He follows the DAUPHIN. ] THE ARCHBISHOP

LA TREMOUILLE

I wonder will she pick him out!

Of course she will. LA TREMOUILLE Why? How is she to know? THE ARCHBISHOP She will know what everybody in Chinon knows: that the Dauphin is the meanest-looking and worst-dressed figure in the Court, and that the man with the blue beard is Gilles de Rais. THE ARCHBISHOP

LA TREMOLIILLE THE ARCHBISHOP

I never thought of that.

You are not so accustomed to miracles as I am. It is part

of my profession. /

LA TREMOUILLE [puzzled and a little scandalized}

But that would not be a

miracle at all. THE ARCHBISHOP [ calmly ]

Why not? LA TREMOUILLE Well, come! what is a miracle? THE ARCHBISHOP A miracle, my friend, is an event which creates faith. That is the purpose and nature of miracles. They may seem very wonderful to the people who witness them, and very simple to those who perform them. That does not matter: if they confirm or create faith they are true miracles. LA TREMOUILLE Even when they are frauds, do you mean? THE ARCHBISHOP Frauds deceive. An event which creates faith does not de¬ ceive: therefore it is not a fraud, but a miracle. LA TREMOUILLE [ scratching his neck in his perplexity ] Well, I suppose as you are an archbishop you must be right. It seems a bit fishy to me. But I am no churchman, and dont understand these matters. THE ARCHBISHOP You are not a churchman; but you are a diplomatist and a soldier. Could you make our citizens pay war taxes, or our soldiers sacrifice their lives, if they knew what is really happening instead of what seems to them to be happening? LA TREMOUILLE No, by Saint Dennis: the fat would be in the fire before sun¬ down. THE ARCHBISHOP Would it not be quite easy to tell them the truth? LA TREMOUILLE Man alive, they wouldnt believe it. THE ARCHBISHOP Just so. Well, the Church has to rule men for the good of their souls as you have to rule them for the good of their bodies. To do that, the Church must do as you do: nourish their faith by poetry LA TREMOUILLE Poetry! I should call it humbug. THE ARCHBISHOP You would be wrong, my friend. Parables are not lies be¬ cause they describe events that have never happened. Miracles are not frauds because they are often—I do not say always—very simple and innocent contriv¬ ances by which the priest fortifies the faith of his flock. When this girl picks out the Dauphin among his courtiers, it will not be a miracle for me, because I shall know how it has been done, and my faith will not be increased. But as for the others, if thev feel the thrill of the supernatural, and forget their sinful clay in a

1222

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 2

sudden sense of the glory of God, it will be a miracle and a blessed one. And you will find that the girl herself will be more affected than anyone else. She will forget how she really picked him out. So, perhaps, will you, LA L'REMOUILLE Well, I wish I were clever enough to know how much of you is God’s archbishop and how much the most artful fox in Touraine. Come on, or we shall be late for the fun; and I want to see it, miracle or no miracle. THE ARCHBISHOP [detaining him a moment] Do not think that I am a lover of crooked ways. There is a new spirit rising in men: we are at the dawning of a wider epoch. If I were a simple monk, and had not to rule men, I should seek peace for my spirit with Aristotle and Pythagoras rather than with the saints and their miracles. v LA TREMOUILLE And who the deuce was Pythagoras? THE ARCHBISHOP A sage who held that the earth is round, and that it moves round the sun. LA TREMOUILLE What an utter fool! Couldnt he use his eyes? /

They go out together through the curtains, which are presently withdrawn, re¬ vealing the full depth of the throne room with the Court assembled. On the right are two Chairs of State on a dais. BLUEBEARD is standing theatrically on the dais, playing the king, and, like the courtiers, enjoying the joke rather obviously. There is a curtained arch in the wall behind the dais; but the main door, guarded by men-at-arms, is at the other side of the room; and a clear path across is kept and lined by the courtiers. CHARLES is in this path in the middle of the room. LA HIRE is on his right. The ARCHBISHOP, on his left, has taken his place by the dais: LA TREMOUILLE at the other side of it. The DUCHESS DE LA TREMOUILLE, pretending to be the Queen, sits in the Consort’s chair, with a group of ladies in waiting close by, behind the ARCHBISHOP. The chatter of the courtiers makes such a noise that nobody notices the appear¬ ance of the page at the door. The Duke of—[Nobody listens.) The Duke of—[The chatter contin¬ ues. Indignant at his failure to command a hearing, he snatches the halberd of the nearest man-at-arms, and thumps the floor with it. The chatter ceases; and everybody looks at him in silence.] Attention! [He restores the halberd to the manat-arms. j The Duke of Vendome presents Joan the Maid to his Majesty. CHARLES [putting his finger on his lip ] Ssli! [He hides behind the nearest courtier, peering out to see what happens.] BLUEBEARD [ majestically ] Tet her approach the throne. TILE PAGE

JOAN, dressed as a soldier, with her hair bobbed and hanging thickly round her

face, is led in by a bashful and speechless nobleman, from whom she detaches herself to stop and look round eagerly for the DAUPHIN. THE DUCHESS [to the nearest lady in waiting]

My dear! Pier hair!

All the ladies explode in uncontrollable laughter. >

BLUEBEARD [trying not to laugh, and waving his hand in deprecation of their

merriment]

Ssli—ssh! Ladies! Ladies!!

Scene 2

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

JOAN [not at all embarrassed]

1223

I wear it like this because I am a soldier. Where

be Dauphin? A titter runs through the Court as she walks to the dais. BLUEBEARD [ condescendingly ]

You are in the presence of the Dauphin.

Joan looks at him sceptically for a moment, scanning him hard up and down to make sure. Dead silence, all watching her. Fun dawns in her face. JOAN

Coom, Bluebeard! Thou canst not fool me. Where be Dauphin?

A roar of laughter breaks out as GILLES, with a gesture of surrender, joins in the /

laugh, and jumps down from the dais beside LA TREMOUILLE. JOAN, also on the broad grin, turns back, searching along the row of courtiers, and presently makes a dive, and drags out CHARLES by the arm.

Gentle little Dauphin, I am sent to you to drive the English away from Orleans and from France, and to crown you king in the cathedral at Rheims, where all true Icings of France are crowned. CHARLES [ triumphant, to the Court ] You see, all of you: she knew the blood royal. Who dare say now that I am not my father’s son? [To JOAN ] But if you want me to be crowned at Rheims you must talk to the Archbishop, not to me. There he is [he is standing behind her] ! JOAN [turning quickly, overwhelmed with emotion] Oh, my lord! [She falls on both knees before him, with bowed head, not daring to look up.] My lord: I am only a poor country girl; and you are filled with the blessedness and glory of God Himself; but you will touch me with your hands, and give me your blessing, wont you? BLUEBEARD [ whispering to LA TREMOUILLE] The old fox blushes. LA TREMOUILLE Another miracle! TILE ARCHBISHOP [touched, putting his hand on her head] Child: you are in love with religion. JOAN [startled: looking up at him] Am I? I never thought of that. Is there any JOAN [releasing him and bobbing him a little curtsey]

harm in it? THE ARCHBISHOP

There is no harm in it, my child. But there is danger.

JOAN [ rising, with a sunflush of reckless happiness irradiating her face]

There is always danger, except in heaven. Oh, my lord, you have given me such strength, such courage. It must be a most wonderful thing to be Archbishop. The Court smiles broadly: even titters a little

Gentlemen: your levity is rebuked by this maid’s faith. I am, God help me, all unworthy; but your mirth is THE ARCHBISHOP [drawing himself up sensitively]

a deadlv sin. Their faces fall. Dead silence.

1224

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 2

My lord: we were laughing at her, not at you. TEne ARCHBISHOP What? Not at my unworthiness but at her faith! Gilles de Rais: this maid prophesied that the blasphemer should be drowned in his sin— JOAN [distressed] No! THE ARCHBISHOP [silencing her by a gesture] I prophesy now that you will be hanged in yours if you do not learn when to laugh and when to pray. BLUEBEARD My lord: I stand rebuked. I am sorry: I can say no more. But if you prophesy that I shall be hanged, I shall never be able to resist temptation, because I shall always be telling myself that I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. BLUEBEARD

The courtiers take heart at this. There is more tittering. JOAN [ scandalized]

You are an idle fellow, Bluebeard; and you have great im¬ pudence to answer the Archbishop. LA HIRE [ with a huge chuckle] Well said, lass! Well said! JOAN [impatiently to the ARCHBISHOP] Oh, my lord, will you send all these silly folks away so that I may speak to the Dauphin alone? LA HIRE [goodhumoredly] I can take a hint. [He salutes; turns on his heel; and goes out.] THE ARCHBISHOP

Come, gentlemen. The Maid comes with God’s blessing,

and must be obeyed. The courtiers withdraw, some through the arch, others at the opposite side. The Archbishop marches across to the door, followed by the DUCHESS and LA TREMOUILLE. As the ARCHBISHOP passes JOAN, she falls on her knees, and kisses

the hem of his robe fervently. He shakes his head in instinctive remonstrance; gathers the robe from her; and goes out. She is left kneeling directly in the DUCIIESS’s way.

Will you allow me to pass, please? JOAN [hastily rising, and standing back] Beg pardon, maam, I am sure. THE DUCHESS [coldly]

The DUCHESS passes on. JOAN stares after her; then whispers to the DAUPHIN.

Be that Queen? CHARLES No. She thinks she is.

JOAN

JOAN [again staring after the DUCHESS]

Oo-oo-ooh! [Her awestruck amaze¬

ment at the figure cut by the magnificently dressed lady is not wholly complimen¬ tary.] /

LA TREMOUILLE [very surly]

I’ll trouble your Highness not to gibe at my wife.

[He goes out. The others have already gone.]

Who be old Gruff-and-Grum? CHARLES He is the Duke de la Tremouille. JOAN What be his job? JOAN [to the DAUPHIN]

He pretends to command the army. And whenever I find a friend I can care for, he kills him. JOAN Why dost let him? CHARLES

CHARLES [petulantly moving to the throne side of the room to escape from her

magnetic field ] JOAN

How can I prevent him? He bullies me. They all bully me. Art afraid? a

Scene 2

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1225

Yes: I am afraid. It’s no use preaching to me about it. It’s all very well for these big men with their armor that is too heavy for me, and their swords that I can hardly lift, and their muscle and their shouting and their bad tempers. They like fighting: most of them are making fools of themselves all the time they are not fighting; but I am quiet and sensible; and I dont want to kill people: I only want to be left alone to enjoy myself in my own way. I never asked to be a king: it was pushed on me. So if you are going to say ‘Son of St Louis: gird on the sword of your ancestors, and lead us to victory’ you may spare your breath to cool your porridge; for I cannot do it. I am not built that way; and there is an end of it. JOAN [ trenchant and masterful) Blethers! We are all like that to begin with. I shall put courage into thee. CHARLES But I dont want to have courage put into me. I want to sleep in a comfortable bed, and not live in continual terror of being killed or wounded. Put courage into the others, and let them have their bellyful of fighting; but let me CHARLES

alone. It’s no use, Charlie: thou must face what God puts on thee. If thou fail to make thvself king, thoult be a beggar: what else art fit for? Come! Let me see thee sitting on tire throne. I have looked forward to that. CHARLES What is the good of sitting on the throne when the other fellows give all the orders? However! [He sits enthroned, a piteous figure.] here is the king for you! Look your fill at the poor devil. JOAN Thourt not king yet, lad: thourt but Dauphin. Be not led away by them around thee. Dressing up dont fill empty noddle. I know the people: the real people that make thy bread for thee; and I tell thee they count no man lung of France until the holy oil has been poured on his hair, and himself consecrated and crowned in Rheims Cathedral. And thou needs new clothes, Charlie. Why does JOAN

not Queen look after thee properly? CHARLES We’re too poor. She wants all the money we can spare to put on her own back. Besides, I like to see her beautifully dressed; and I dont care what I wear mvself: I should look ugly anyhow. JOAN There is some good in thee, Charlie; but it is not yet a lung’s good. CILARLES We shall see. I am not such a fool as I look. I have my eyes open; and I can tell you that one good treaty is worth ten good fights. These fighting fellows lose all on the treaties that they gain on the fights. If we can only have a treaty, the English are sure to have the worst of it, because they are better at fighting than at thinking. JOAN If the English win, it is drey that will make the treaty"; and then God help poor France! Thou must fight, Charlie, whether thou will or no. I will go first to hearten thee. We must take our courage in both hands: aye, and pray lor it with both hands too. CILARLES [descending from his throne and again crossing the room to escape

Oh do stop talking about God and praying. I cant bear people who are always praying. Isnt it bad enough to have to do it at the

from her dominating urgency]

proper times? JOAN [pitying him]

Thou poor child, thou hast never prayed in thy life. I must

teach thee from the beginning. CHARLES

I am not a child: I am a grown man and a father; and I will not be

taught any more. JOAN Aye, you have a little son. He that will be Louis the Eleventh when you

die. Would you not fight for him?

1226

Plays for Further Reading

CHARLES

Scene 2

No: a horrid boy. He hates me. He hates everybody, selfish little

beast! I dont want to be bothered with children. I dont want to be a father; and I dont want to be a soil: especially a son of St Louis. I dont want to be any of these fine things you ah have your heads full of: I want to be just what I am. Why cant you mind your own business, and let me mind mine? JOAN [again contemptuous]

Minding your own business is like minding vour

own body: it’s the shortest way to make yourself sick. What is my business? Helping mother at home. What is thine? Petting lapdogs and sucking sugarsticks. I call that muck. I tell thee it is God’s business we are here to do: not our own. I have a message to thee from God; and thou must listen to it, though thy heart break with the terror of it. I dont want a message; but can you tell me any secrets? Can you do any cures? Can you turn lead into gold, or anything of that sort? CHARLES

I can turn thee into a king, in Rheims Cathedral; and that is a miracle tiiat will take some doing, it seems. JOAN

If we go to Rheims, and have a coronation, Anne will want new chesses. We cant afford them. I am all right as I am. CHARLES

JOAN

As you are! And what is fiiat? Less than my father’s poorest shepherd.

Thourt not lawful owner of thy own land of France till thou be consecrated. CHARLES

But I shall not be lawful owner of my own land anyhow. Will the

consecration pay off my mortgages? I have pledged my last acre to the Archbishop and that fat bully. I owe money even to Bluebeard. JOAN [earnestly ]

Charlie: I come from the land, and have gotten my strength

working on the land; and I tell fiiee that the land is thine to rule righteously and keep God’s peace in, and not to pledge at the pawnshop as a drunken woman pledges her children’s clothes. And I come from God to tell thee to kneel in the cathedral and solemnly give thy kingdom to Him for ever and ever, and become the greatest king in the world as His steward and His bailiff, His soldier and His servant. The very clay of France will become holy: her soldiers will be the soldiers of God: the rebel dukes will be rebels against God: the English will fall on their knees and beg thee let them return to their lawful homes in peace. Wilt be a poor litfie Judas, and betray me and Him that sent me? CHARLES [ tempted at last] JOAN

Oh, if I only dare!

I shall dare, dare, and dare again, in God’s name! Art for or against me?

CHARLES [excited]

I’ll risk it, I warn you I shant be able to keep it up; but I’ll

risk it. You shall see. [Running to the main door and shouting] Hallo! Come back, everybody. [ To JOAN, as he runs hack to the arch opposite] Mind you stand by and dont let me be bullied. [ Through the arch] Come along, will you: the whole Court. [He sits down in the royal chair as they all hurry in to their former places, chat¬ tering and wondering.] Now I’m in for it; but no matter: here goes! [To the PAGE] Call for silence, you little beast, will you? THE PAGE [ snatching a halberd as before and thumping with it repeat¬

edly] Silence for His Majesty the King. The King speaks. [Peremptorily ] Will you be silent there? [Silence] CHARLES [ rising ]

I have given the command of the army to 'Hie Maid. The Maid is to do as she likes with it. [He descends from the dais.] General amazement. LA HIRE, delighted, slaps his steel thighpiece with his gauntlet.

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 3

LA TREMOUILLE [turning threateningly towards CHARLES]

1227

What is this? I

command the army. Joan quickly puts her hand on CHARLES’S shoulder as he instinctively recoils. CHARLES, with a grotesque effort culminating in an extravagant gesture, snaps his fingers in the CHAMBERLAIN’S face. Thourt answered, old Gruff-and-Gnim. [Suddenly flashing out her sword as she divines that her moment has come] Who is for God and His Maid? Who is for Orleans with me? LA HIRE [carried away, drawing also] For God and His Maid! To Orleans! ALL THE KNIGHTS [following his lead with enthusiasm] To Orleans! JOAN

JOAN, radiant, falls on her knees in thanksgiving to God. They all kneel, except /

the .ARCHBISHOP, who gives his benediction with a sigh, and LA TREMOUILLE, who collapses, cursing.

Scene 3 Orleans, April 29th, 1429. DUNOIS, aged 26, is pacing up and down a patch of ground on the south hank of the silver Loire, commanding a long view of the river in both directions. He has had his lance stuck up with a pennon, which streams in a strong east wind. His shield with its bend sinister lies beside it. He has his commander’s baton in his hand. He is well built, carrying his armor easily. His broad brow and pointed chin give him an equilaterally triangular face, already marked by active service and responsibility, with the expression of a goodnatured and capable man who has no affectations and no foolish illusions. His page is sitting on the ground, elbows on knees, cheeks on fists, idly watching the water. It is evening; and both man and boy are affected by the loveliness of the Loire. DUNOIS [ halting for a moment to glance up at the streaming pennon and shake

his head wearily before he resumes his pacing] West wind, west wind, west wind. Strumpet: steadfast when you should be wanton, wanton when you should be steadfast. West wind on the silver Loire: what rhymes to Loire? [He looks again at the pennon, and shakes his fist at it. ] Change, curse you, change, English harlot of a wind, change. W7est, west, I tell you. [ With a growl he resumes his march in silence, but soon begins again.] West wind, wanton wind, wilful wind, womanish wind, false wind from over the water, will you never blow again'? THE PAGE [bounding to his feet] See! There! There she goes! DUNOIS [startled from his reverie: eagerly] Where? Who? Hie Maid? THE PAGE No: the kingfisher. Like blue lightning. She went into that bush. DUNOIS [furiously disappointed] Is that all? You infernal young idiot: I have a mind to pitch you into the river. THE PAGE [not afraid, knowing his man ] of blue. Look! There goes the other! DUNOIS [running eagerly to the river brim] THE PAGE [pointing] Passing the reeds. DUNOIS [ delighted ] I see. They follow the flight till the bird takes cover.

It looked frightfully jolly, that flash Where? Where?

1228

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 3

You blew me up because you were not in time to see them yesterday.

THE PAGE

You knew I was expecting The Maid when you set up your yelping. I will give you something to yelp for next time. DUNOIS

THE PAGE DUNOIS

Amt they lovely? I wish I could catch them.

Let me catch you trying to trap .them, and I will put you in the iron

cage for a month to teach you what a cage feels like. You are an abominable boy. THE PAGE f laughs, and squats down as before] ! DUNOIS [pacing]

Blue bird, blue bird, since I am friend to thee, change thou

the wind for me. No: it does not rhyme. He who has sinned for thee: thats better. No sense in it, though. [He finds himself close to the PAGE] You abominable boy!

[He turns away from him] Mary in the blue snood, kingfisher color: will you grudge me a west wind? A SENTRY’S VOICE WESTWARD JOAN’S VOICE DUNOIS

Halt! Who goes there?

The Maid.

Let her pass. Hither, Maid! To me!

JOAN, in splendid armor, rushes in in a blazing rage. The wind drops; and the

pennon flaps idly down the lance; but DUNOIS is too much occupied with JOAN to notice it. JOAN [bluntly]

Be you Bastard of Orleans?

DUNOIS [cool and stern, pointing to his shield]

You see the bend sinister. Are

you Joan the Maid? Sure.

JOAN

DJTNOIS

Where are your troops?

Miles behind. 3'hey have cheated me. They have brought me to the wrong side of the river. JOAN

DUNOIS

I told them to.

Why did you? "Hie English are on the other side!

JOAN

DUNOIS

The English are on both sides.

But Orleans is on the other side. We must fight the English there. How can we cross the river? JOAN

DUNOIS [grimly]

There is a bridge.

In God’s name, then, let us cross the bridge, and fall on them. DUNOIS It seems simple; but it cannot be done. JOAN Who says so? JOAN

DUNOIS

I say so; and older and wiser heads than mine are of the same opinion.

JOAN [ roundly]

Then your older and wiser heads are fatheads: they have made

a fool of you; and now they want to make a fool of me too, bringing me to the wrong side of the river. Do you not know that I bring you better help than ever came to any general or any town? DPTNOIS [smiling patiently]

Your own?

No: die help and counsel of the King of Heaven. Which is the way to the bridge? JOAN

DUNOIS JOAN

You are impatient, Maid.

Is this a time for patience? Our enemy is at our gates; and here we stand

doing nothing. Oh, why are you not fighting? Listen to me: I will deliver you from fear. I— DUNOIS [laughing heartily, and waving her off ]

No, no, my girl: if you deliv¬

ered me from fear I should be a good knight for a story book, but a very bad

George Bernard Shaw ■ Saint Joan

Scene 3

1229

commander of the army. Come! let me begin to make a soldier of you. [He takes

her to the water’s edge.] Do you see those two forts at this end of the bridge? the big ones? JOAN

Yes. Are they ours or the goddams’? Be quiet, and listen to me. If I were in either of those forts with only

DUNOIS

ten men I could hold it against an army. The English have more than ten times ten goddams in those forts to hold them against us. JOAN 'They cannot hold them against God. God did not give them the land under those forts: they stole it from Him. lie gave it to us. I will take those forts. Single-handed? Our men will take them. I will lead them.

DUNOIS JOAN

Not a man will follow you.

DUNOIS JOAN

I will not look back to see whether anyone is following me.

DUNOIS [ recognizing her mettle, and clapping her heartily on the shoulder ]

Good.

You have the makings of a soldier in you. You are in love with war. JOAN [startled]

Oh! And the Archbishop said I was in love with religion.

I, God forgive me, am a little in love with war myself, the ugly devil!

DUNOIS

I am like a man with two wives. Do you want to be like a woman with two husbands? JOAN [ matter-of-fact j

I will never take a husband. A man in Toul took an

action against me for breach of promise; but I never promised him. I am a soldier: I do not want to be thought of as a woman. I will not dress as a woman. I do not care for the things women care for. They dream of lovers, and of money. I dream of leading a charge, and of placing the big guns. You soldiers do not know how to use the big guns: you think you can win battles with a great noise and smoke. DUNOIS [with a shrug]

True. Half the time the artillery is more trouble than

it is worth. JOAN Aye, lad; but you cannot fight stone walls with horses: you must have guns, and much bigger guns too. DUNOIS [grinning at her familiarity, and echoing it]

Aye, lass; but a good

heart and a stout ladder will get over the stoniest wall. JOAN I will be first up the ladder when we reach the fort, Bastard. I dare you to follow me. DUNOIS You must not dare a staff officer, Joan: only company officers are allowed to indulge in displays of personal courage. Besides, you must know that I welcome you as a saint, not as a soldier. 1 have daredevils enough at my call, if diev could help me. JOAN I am not a daredevil: I am a servant of God. My sword is sacred: I found it behind the altar in the church of St Catherine, where God hid it for me; and I may not strike a blow with it. My heart is full of courage, not of anger. I will lead; and your men will follow: that is all I can do. But I must do it: you shall not stop me. DUNOIS

All in good time. Our men cannot take those forts by a sally across

the bridge. They must come by water, and take the English in the rear on this side. JOAN [ her military sense asserting itself ]

Then make raffs and put big guns on

them; and let your men cross to us. DUNOIS The rafts are ready; and the men are embarked. But they must wait for God. JOAN

What do you mean? God is waiting for them.

1230

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 4

Let Him send us a wind then. My boats are downstream: they cannot come up against both wind and current. We must wait until God changes the wind. Come: let me take you to the church. JOAN No. I love church; but the English will not yield to prayers: they under¬ stand nothing but hard knocks and slashes. I will not go to church until we have beaten them. DUNOIS

You must: I have business for you there. What business?

DUNOIS JOAN

To pray for a west wind. I have prayed; and I have given two silver candlesticks; but my prayers are not answered. Yours may be: you are young and innocent. DUNOIS

Oh yes: you are right. I will pray: I will tell St Catherine: she will make God give me a west wand. Quick: shew’- me the way to the church. TIIE PAGE [sneezes violently] At-cha!H JOAN God bless you, child! Coom, Bastard. JOAN

They go out. The PAGE rises to follow. He picks up the shield, and is. taking the spear as well when he notices the pennon, which is now streaming eastward. THE PAGE [dropping the shield and calling excitedly after them]

Seigneur!

Seigneur! Mademoiselle! DUNOIS [ running back]

What is it? The kingfisher? [He looks eagerly for it up

the river.]

Oh, a kingfisher! Where?

JOAN [joining them]

No: the wind, the wind, the wind [pointing to the pennon]-, that is what made me sneeze ^ THE PAGE

DUNOIS [looking at the pennon]

The wind has changed. [He crosses himself] God has spoken. [Kneeling and handing his baton to JOAN] You command the king’s army. I am your soldier. THE PAGE [ looking down the river]

The boats have put off. They are ripping

upstream like anything. DUNOIS [rising]

Now for the forts. You dared me to follow. Dare you lead?

JOAN [bursting into tears and flinging her arms around DUNOIS, kissing him

Dunois, dear comrade in amis, help me. My eyes are blinded with tears. Set my foot on the ladder, and say ‘Up, Joan. ’ DUNOIS [dragging her out] Never mind the tears: make for the flash of the guns. JOAN [ in a blaze of courage ] Ah! on both cheeks]

For God and Saint Dennis! The Maid! Fhe Maid! God and The Maid! Ilurrav-av-av! [He

DUNOIS [dragging her along with him] THE PAGE [shrilly]

snatches up the shield and lance, and capers out after them, mad with excitement.]

Scene 4 A tent in the English camp. A bullnecked English CHAPLAIN of 50 is sitting on a stool at a table, hard at work writing. At the other Iside of the table an imposing NOBLEMAN, aged 46, is seated in a handsome chair turning over the leaves of an

illuminated Book of Hours. The NOBLEMAN is enjoying himself: the CILAPLAIN is struggling with suppressed wrath. There is an unoccupied leather stool on the NOBLEMAN’S left. The table is on his right.

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 4

1231

Now this is what I call workmanship. There is nothing on

THE NOBLEMAN

earth more exquisite than a bonny book, with well-placed columns ol rich black writing in beautiful borders, and illuminated pictures cunningly inset. But nowa¬ days, instead of looking at books, people read them. A book might as well be one of those orders for bacon and bran that you are scribbling. I must say, my lord, you take our situation very coolly. Very

THE CHAPLAIX

coolly indeed. TILE NOBLEMAN [supercilious] THE CHAPLAIN

What is the matter? The matter, my lord, is that we English have been defeated.

THE NOBLEMAN

That happens, you know. It is only in history books and bal¬

lads that the enemy is always defeated. THE CHAPLAIN But we are being defeated over and over again. First, Orleans'— THE NOBLEMAN [poohpoohing] THE CHAPLAIN

Oh, Orleans! I know what you are going to say, my lord: that was a clear

case of witchcraft and sorcery. But we are still being defeated. Jargeau, Meung, Beaugency, just like Orleans. And now we have been butchered at Patav, and Sir John Talbot taken prisoner. [He throws down his pen, almost in tears.] I feel it, my lord: I feel it very deeply. I cannot bear to see my countrymen defeated by a parcel of foreigners. THE NOBLEMAN THE CHAPLAIN

Oh! you are an Englishman, are you? Certainly not, my lord: I am a gentleman. Still, like your lord-

ship, I was bom in England; and it makes a difference. THE NOBLEMAN THE CHAPLAIN

You are attached to the soil, eh? It pleases your lordship to be satirical at my expense: your

greatness privileges you to be so with impunity. But your lordship knows very well that I am not attached to the soil in a vulgar manner, like a serf. Still, I have a feeling about it; [ with growing agitation ] and I am not ashamed of it; and [ rising wildly ] by God, if this goes on any longer I will fling my cassock to the devil, and take arms myself, and strangle the accursed witch with my own hands. THE NOBLEMAN [ laughing at him goodnaturedly ]

So you shall, chaplain: so

vou shall, if we can do nothing better. But not yet, not quite vet. The CHAPLAIN resumes his seat very sulkily. THE NOBLEMAN [airily]

I should not care very much about the witch—-you

see, I have made my pilgrimage to the Holy Land; and the Heavenly Powers, for their own credit, can hardly allow me to be worsted by a village sorceress—but the Bastard of Orleans is a harder nut to crack; and as he has been to the Holy Land too, honors are easy between us as far as that goes. He is only a Frenchman, my lord. THE NOBLEMAN A Frenchman! Where did you pick up that expression? Are THE CHAPLAIN

these Burgundians and Bretons and Picards and Gascons beginning to call them¬ selves Frenchmen, just as our fellows are beginning to call themselves English¬ men? They actually talk of France and England as their countries. Theirs, if you please! What is to become of me and you if that way of thinking comes into fashion? Why, my lord? Can it hurt us? THE NOBLEMAN Men cannot serve two masters. II this cant of serving their THE CHAPLAIN

country once takes hold of them, good-bye to the authority of their feudal lords, and goodbye to the authority of the Church. That is, goodbye to you and me. THE CHAPLAIN

I hope I am a faithful servant of the Church; and there are only

1232

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 4

six cousins between me and Hie barony of Stogumber, which was created by the Conqueror. But is that any reason why I should stand by and see Englishmen beaten by a French bastard and a witch from Lousy Champagne? THE NOBLEMAN

Easy, man, easy: we shall bum the witch and beat the bastard

all in good time. Indeed I am waiting at present for the Bishop of Beauvais, to arrange the burning with him. He has been ttimed out of his diocese by her faction. THE CHAPLAIN You have first to catch her, my lord. THE NOBLEMAN THE CHAPLAIN THE NOBLEMAN

Or buy her. I will offer a king’s ransom. A king’s ransom! For that slut! One has to leave a margin. Some of Charles’s people wrill sell

her to the Burgundians; the Burgundians will sell her to us; and there will probably be three or four middlemen who will expect their little commissions. TILE CHAPLAIN

Monstrous. It is all those scoundrels of Jews: they get in every

time money changes hands. I would not leave a Jew alive in Christendom if I had my way. Why not? The Jews generally give value. They make you pay; but they deliver the goods. In my experience the men who want something for nothing are invariably Christians. THE NOBLEMAN

A PAGE appears. THE PAGE

The Right Reverend the Bishop of Beauvais: Monseigneur Cauchon.

CArcil()N, aged about 60, comes in. The PAGE withdraws. The two Englishmen

rise. THE NOBLEMAN [ with effusive courtesy ]

My dear Bishop, how good of you to

come! Allow me to introduce myself: Richard de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, at your service. CAUCHON

Your lordship’s fame is well known to me.

WARWICK

This reverend cleric is Master John de Stogumber.

THE CHAPLAIN [glibly j

John Bowyer Spenser Neville de Stogumber, at your

service, my lord: Bachelor of rheology, and Keeper of the Private Seal to His Eminence the Cardinal of Winchester. WARWICK [ to CAUCHON ]

You call him the Cardinal of England, I believe. Our

king’s uncle. CAUCHON

Messire John de Stogumber: I am always the very good friend of

His Eminence. [He extends his hand to the chaplain, who kisses his ring.] Do me the honor to be seated. [ He gives CAUCHON his chair, placing it at the head of the table. ] WARWICK

CAUCHON accepts the place of honor with a grave inclination. WARWICK fetches

the leather stool carelessly, and sits in his former place. The CHAPLAIN goes back to his chair. Though WARWICK has taken second place in calculated deference to the Bishop, he assumes the lead in opening the proceedings as a matter of course. He is still cordial and expansive; but there is a new note in his voice which means that he is coming to business. WARWIC K

Well, my Lord Bishop, you find us in one of our unlucky moments.

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 4

1233

Charles is to be crowned at Rheims, practically by the young woman from Lor¬ raine; and—I must not deceive you, nor flatter your hopes—we cannot prevent it. I suppose it will make a great difference to Charles’s position. CAUCHON

Undoubtedly. It is a masterstroke of The Maid’s.

THE CHAPLAIN [again agitated]

We were not fairly beaten, my lord. No Eng¬

lishman is ever fairly beaten. CAUCHON raises his eyebrow slightly, then quickly composes his face. WARWICK

Our friend here takes the view that the young woman is a sorceress.

It would, I presume, be the duty of your reverend lordship to denounce her to the Inquisition, and have her burnt for that offence. If she were captured in my diocese: yes. WARWICK [ feeling that they are getting on capitally] CAUCHON

Just so. Now I suppose

there can be no reasonable doubt that she is a sorceress. THE CHAPLAIN

Not the least. An arrant witch.

WARWICK [gently reproving the interruption j

We are asking for the Bishop’s

opinion, Messire John. CAUCHON We shall have to consider not merely our own opinions here, but the opinions—the prejudices, if you like—of a French court. WARWICK [correcting ] CAUCHON

A Catholic court, my lord. Catholic courts are composed of mortal men, like other courts, how¬

ever sacred their function and inspiration may be. And if the men are Frenchmen, as the modem fashion calls them, I am afraid the bare fact that an English army has been defeated by a French one will not convince them that there is any sorcery in the matter. THE CHAPLAIN

What! Not when die famous Sir John Talbot himself has been

defeated and actually taken prisoner by a drab from the ditches of Lorraine! CAUCHON

Sir John Talbot, we all know, is a fierce and formidable soldier,

Messire; but I have yet to learn that he is an able general. And though it pleases you to say diat he has been defeated by this girl, some of us may be disposed to give a little of the credit to Dunois. THE CHAPLAIN [contemptuously]

'The Bastard of Orleans!

Let me remind— WARWICK [ interposing ] I know what you are going to say, my lord. Dunois CAUCHON

defeated me at Montargis. CAUCHON [bowing] I take that as evidence that the Seigneur Dunois is a very able commander indeed. WARWICK Your lordship is the flower of courtesy. I admit, on our side, that Talbot is a mere fighting animal, and that it probably served him right to be taken at Patay. THE CHAPLAIN [chafing]

My lord: at Orleans this woman had her throat

pierced by an English arrow, and was seen to cry like a child from the pain ol it. It was a death wound; yet she fought all day; and when our men had repulsed all her attacks like true Englishmen, she walked alone to the wall of our fort with a white banner in her hand; and our men were paralyzed, and could neither shoot nor strike whilst the French fell on them and drove them on to the bridge, which immediately burst into flames and crumbled under them, letting them down into die river, where they were drowned in heaps. Was this your bastard’s generalship? or were those flames the flames of hell, conjured up by witchcraft?

1284

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 4

You will forgive Messire John’s vehemence, my lord; but he has put our case. Dunois is a great captain, we admit; but why could he do nothing until the witch came? WARWICK

CAUCHON

I do not say that there were no supernatural powers on her side.

But the names on that white banner were not the names of Satan and Beelzebub, but the blessed names of our Lord and His holy mother. And your commander who was drowned—Clahz-da I think you call him— WARWICK Glasdale. Sir William Glasdale. CAUCHON Glass-dell, thank you. He was no saint; and many of our people think that he was drowned for his blasphemies against Hie Maid. WARWICK [ beginning to look very dubious] Weil, what are we to infer from all this, my lord? Has The Maid converted you? CAUCHON

If she had, my lord, I should have known better than to have trusted

myself here within your grasp. WARWICK [ blandly deprecating]

Oh! oh! My lord! CAUCHON If the devil is making use of this girl—and I believe he is— WARWICK [ reassured] Ah! You hear, Messire John? I knew your lordship would not fail us. Pardon my interruption. Proceed. CAUCHON

If it be so, the devil has longer views than you give him credit for.

Indeed? In what way? Listen to this, Messire John. CAUCHON If the devil wanted to damn a country girl, do you think so easy a task cost him the winning of half a dozen battles? No, my lord: any trumpery imp could do that much if the girl could be damned at all. The Prince of Darkness does not condescend to such cheap drudgery. When he strikes, he strikes at the Cath¬ ode Church, whose realm is the whole spiritual world. When he damns, he damns the souls of the entire human race. Against that dreadful design The Church stands ever on guard. And it is as one of the instruments of that design that I see this girl. She is inspired, but diabolically inspired. THE CHAPLAIN I told you she was a witch. CAUCHON [ fiercely] She is not a witch. She is a heretic. THE CHAPLAIN What difference does that make? CAUCHON You, a priest, ask me that! You English are strangely blunt in the mind. All these things that you call witchcraft are capable of a natural explanation. The woman’s miracles would not impose on a rabbit: she does not claim them as miracles herself. What do her victories prove but that she has a better head on her shoulders than your swearing Glass-dells and mad bull Talbots, and that the cour¬ age of faith, even though it be a false faith, will always outstay the courage of wrath? WARWICK

THE CHAPLAIN [hardly able to believe his ears]

Does your lordship compare Sir John Talbot, three times Governor of Ireland, to a mad bull?!!! WARWICK It would not be seemly for you to do so, Messire John, as you are still six removes from a barony. But as I am an earl, and Talbot is only a knight, I may make bold to accept the comparison. [To the BISHOPJ My lord: I wipe the slate as far as the witchcraft goes. None the less, we must bum the woman. CAUCHON I cannot bum her. The Church cannot take life. And my first duty is to seek this girl’s salvation. No doubt. But you do bum people occasionally. CAUCHON No. When The Church cuts off an obstinate heretic as a dead branch from the tree of life, the heretic is handed over to the secular arm. The Church has no part in what the secular arm mayv see fit to do. WARWICK

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 4

1235

Precisely. And I shall be the secular arm in this case. Well, my lord, hand over your dead branch; and I will see that the fire is ready for it. If you will answer for The Church’s part, I will answer for the secular part. CAUCHON [ with smouldering anger] I can answer for nothing. You great lords are too prone to treat The Church as a mere political convenience. WARWICK [smiling and propitiatory ] Not in England, I assure you. CAUCHON In England more than anywhere else. No, my lord: the soul of this village girl is of equal value with yours or your lung’s before the throne of God; and my first duty is to save it. I will not suffer your lordship to smile at me as if I were repeating a meaningless form of words, and it were well understood between us that I should betray the girl to you. I am no mere political bishop: my faith is to me what your honor is to you; and if there be a loophole through which this baptized child of God can creep to her salvation, I shall guide her to it. THE CHAPLAIN [ rising in a fury] You are a traitor. CAUCHON [springing up] You lie, priest. [Trembling with rage] If you dare do what this woman has done—set your country above the holy Catholic Church— WARWICK

you shall go to the fire with her. THE CHAPLAIN My lord: I—I went too far. I—{He sits down with a submissive gesture.] WARWICK [ who has risen apprehensively ]

My lord: I apologize to you for the word used by Messire John de Stogumber. It does not mean in England what it does in France. In your language traitor means betrayer: one who is perfidious, treacherous, unfaithful, disloyal. In our country it means simply one who is not wholly devoted to our English interests. CAUCHON I am sorry: I did not understand. [He subsides into his chair with dignity.] WARWICK [resuming his seat, much relieved]

I must apologize on my own account if I have seemed to take the burning of this poor girl too lightly. When one has seen whole countrysides burnt over and over again as mere items in military routine, one has to grow a very thick skin. Otherwise one might go mad: at all events, I should. May I venture to assume that your lordship also, having to see so many heretics burned from time to time, is compelled to take shall I say a professional view of what would otherwise be a very horrible incident? CAUCHON Yes: it is a painful duty: even, as you say, a horrible one. But in comparison with the horror of heresy it is less than nothing. I am not thinking of this girl’s body, which will suffer for a few moments only, and which must in any event die in some more or less painful manner, but of her soul, which may suffer to all eternity. Just so; and God grant that her soul may be saved! But the practical problem would seem to be how to save her soul without saving her body. For we must face it, my lord: if this cult of The Maid goes on, our cause is lost. THE CHAPLAIN [his voice broken like that of a man who has been crying ] May WARWICK

I speak, my lord? WARWICK Really, Messire John, I had rather you did not, unless you can keep your temper. It is only7 this. I speak under correction; but Ihe Maid is full of deceit: she pretends to be devout. Her prayers and confessions are endless. I low can she be accused of heresy when she neglects no observance of a faithful THE CHAPLAIN

daughter of The Church? CAUCHON [ flaming up]

A faithful daughter of Ihe Church! Ihe Rope himself

1236

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 4

at his proudest dare not presume as this woman presumes. She acts as if she herself were The Church. She brings the message of God to Charles; and The Church must stand aside. She will crown him in the cathedral of Rheims: she, not The Church! She sends letters to the king of England giving him God’s com¬ mand through her to return to his island on pain of God’s vengeance, which she will execute. Let me tell you that the writing of such letters was the practice of the accursed Mahomet, the anti-Christ. Has she ever in all her utterances said one word of Hie Church? Never. It is always God and herself. WARWICK What can you expect? A beggar on horseback! Her head is turned. CAUCHON Who has turned it? The devil. And for a mighty purpose. He is spreading this heresy everywhere. Hie man Hus, burnt only thirteen years ago at Constance, infected all Bohemia with it. A man named WcLeef, himself an anointed priest, spread the pestilence in England; and to your shame you let him die in his bed. We have such people here in France too: I know the breed. It is cancerous: if it be not cut out, stamped out, burnt out, it will not stop until it has brought the whole body of human society into sin and corruption, into waste and ruin. By it an Arab camel driver drove Christ and His Church out of Jerusalem, and ravaged his way west like a wild beast until at last there stood only the Pyr¬ enees and God’s mercy between France and damnation. Yet what did the camel driver do at the beginning more than this shepherd girl is doing? He had his voices from the angel Gabriel: she has her voices from St Catherine and St Margaret and the Blessed Michael. He declared himself the messenger of God, and wrote in God’s name to the kings of the earth. Her letters to them are going forth daily. It is not the Mother of God now to whom we must look for intercession, but to Joan the Maid. What will the world be like when Hie Church’s accumulated wisdom and knowledge and experience, its councils of learned, venerable pious men, are thrust into the kennel by every ignorant laborer or dairymaid whom the devil can puff up with the monstrous self-conceit of being directly inspired from heaven? It will be a world of blood, of fury, of devastation, of each man striving for his own hand: in the end a world wrecked back into barbarism. For now you have only Mahomet and his dupes, and the Maid and her dupes; but what will it be when every girl thinks herself a Joan and every man a Mahomet? I shudder to the very marrow of my bones when I think of it. I have fought it all my life; and I will fight it to the end. Let all this woman’s sins be forgiven her except only this sin; for it is the sin against the Holy Ghost; and if she does not recant in the dust before the world, and submit herself to the last inch of her soul to her Church, to the fire she shall go if she once falls into my hand. WARWICK [ unimpressed] You feel strongly about it, naturally. CAUCHON Do not you? I am a soldier, not a churchman. As a pilgrim I saw something of the Mahometans. They were not so illbred as I had been led to believe. In some respects their conduct compared favorably with ours. CAUCHON [ displeased] I have noticed this before. Men go to the East to convert the infidels. And the infidels pervert them. The Crusader comes back more than half a Saracen. Not to mention that all Englishmen are bom heretics. THE CHAPLAIN Englishmen heretics!!! [Appealing to WARWICK] My lord: must we endure this? Ilis lordship is beside himself How can what an Englishman believes be heresy? It is a contradiction in terms. WARWICK

I absolve you, Messire de Stogumber, on the ground of invincible ignorance. The thick air of your country Hoes not breed theologians. CAUCHON

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 4

1237

You would not say so if you heard us quarrelling about religion, my lord! I am sorry you think I must be either a heretic or a blockhead because, as a travelled man, I know that die followers of Mahomet profess great respect for our Lord, and are more ready to forgive St Peter for being a fisherman than your lordship is to forgive Mahomet for being a camel driver. But at least we can proceed WARWICK

in this matter without bigotry. CAUCHON When men call the zeal of die Christian Church bigotry I know what to think. They are only east and west views of die same thing. CAUCHON [bitterly ironical] Only east and west! Only!! WARWICK Oh, my Lord Bishop, I am not gainsaying you. You will carry The Church with you; but you have to carry the nobles also. To my mind there is a stronger case against The Maid than the one you have so forcibly put. Frankly, I am not afraid of this girl becoming another Mahomet, and superseding The Church by a great heresy. I think you exaggerate that risk. But have you noticed that in these letters of hers, she proposes to all the kings of Europe, as she has already pressed on Charles, a transaction which would wreck the whole social structure WARWICK

of Christendom? CAUCHON Wreck The Church. I tell you so. WARWICK [whose patience is wearing out] My lord: pray get The Church out of your head for a moment; and remember that there are temporal institutions in the world as well as spiritual ones. I and my peers represent the feudal aristocracy as you represent The Church. We are the temporal power. Well, do you not see how this girl’s idea strikes at us? CAUCHON How does her idea strike at you, except as it strikes at all of us, through The Church? WARWICK Her idea is that the kings should give their realms to God, and then reign as God’s bailiffs. CAUCHON [ not interested) Quite sound theologically, my lord. But the king will hardly care, provided he reign. It is an abstract idea: a mere form of words. WARWICK By no means. It is a cunning device to supersede the aristocracy, and make the king sole and absolute autocrat. Instead of tire Icing being merely the first among his peers, he becomes their master. That we cannot suffer: we call no man master. Nominally we hold our lands and dignities from the Icing, because there must be a keystone to the arch of human society; but we hold our lands in our own hands, and defend them with our own swords and those ol our own tenants. Now by The Maid’s doctrine the king will take our lands—our lands!— and make them a present to God; and God will then vest them wholly in the king. CAUCHON Need you fear that? You are the makers of Icings after all. \ ork or Lancaster in England, Lancaster or Valois in France: they reign according to your pleasure. Yes; but only as long as the people follow their feudal lords, and know the king only as a travelling show, owning nothing but tire highway that belongs to everybody. If the people’s thoughts and hearts were turned to the king, and their lords became only the king’s servants in their eyes, the Icing could break us across his knee one by one; and then what should we be but liveried courtiers WARWICK

in his halls? Still you need not fear, my lord. Some men are bom kings; and some are bom statesmen. The two are seldom the same. Where would the Icing find counsellors to plan and carry out such a policy for him? CAUCHON

1238

Plays for Further Reading

WARWICK \with a not too friendly smile]

Scene 4

Perhaps in the Church, my lord.

CAUCHON, with an equally sour smile, shrugs his shoulders, and does not contra¬

dict him. WARWICK

Strike down the barons; and the cardinals will have it all their own

way. CAUCIION [conciliatory, dropping his polemical tone]

My lord: we shall not defeat The Maid if we strive against one another. 1 know well that there is a Will to Power in the world. I know that while it lasts there will be a struggle between the Emperor and the Pope, between the dukes andThe political cardinals, between the barons and the kings. The devil divides us and governs. I see you are no friend to The Church: you are an earl first and last, as I am a churchman first and last. But can we not sink our differences in the face of a common enemy? I see now that what is in your mind is not that this girl has never once mentioned The Church, and thinks only of God and herself, but tiiat she has never once mentioned die peerage, and thinks only of the lung and herself. WARWICK Quite so. These two ideas of hers are the same idea at bottom. It goes deep, my lord. It is the protest of the individual soul against the interference of priest or peer between the private man and his God. I should call it Protes¬ tantism if I had to find a name for it. CAUCHON [ looking hard at him]

You understand it wonderfully well, my lord. Scratch an Englishman, and find a Protestant. WARWICK [playing the pink of courtesy]

I think you are not entirely void of sympathy with The Maid’s secular heresy, my lord. I leave you to find a name for it. \ ou mistake me, my lord. I have no sympathy with her political presumptions. But as a priest I have gained a knowledge of the minds of the common people; and there you will find yet another most dangerous idea. I can express it only by such phrases as France for the French, England for the English, Italy for the Italians, Spain for the Spanish, and so forth. It is sometimes so narrow and bitter in country folk that it surprises me that this country girl can rise above the idea of her village for its villagers. But she can. She does. When she threatens to drive the English from the soil of France she is undoubtedly thinking of the whole extent of country in which French is spoken. To her the French-speaking people are what the Holy Scriptures describe as a nation. Call this side of her heresy Nationalism if you will: I can find you no better name for it. I can only tell you that it is essentially anti-Catholic and anti-Christian; for the Cadiolic Church knows only one realm, and that is the realm of Christ’s kingdom. Divide that kingdom into nations, and you dethrone Christ. Defiirone Christ, and who will stand between our throats and the sword? Fhe world will perish in a welter of war. WARWICK Well, if you will bum the Protestant, I will bum the Nationalist, though perhaps I shall not carry Messire John with me there. England for the English will appeal to him. CAUCHON

Certainly England for the English goes without saying: it is the simple law of nature. But this woman denies to England her legitimate conquests, given her by God because of her peculiar fitness to mle over less civilized races for their own good. I do not understand what your lordships mean by Protestant and Nationalist: you are too learned and subtle for a poor clerk like myself. But I know as a matter of plain commonsense fiiat the woman is a rebel; and fiiat is THE CHAPLAIN

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 5

1239

enough for me. She rebels against Nature by wearing man’s clothes, and fighting. She rebels against The Church by usurping the divine authority of the Pope. She rebels against God by her damnable league with Satan and his evil spirits against our army. And all these rebellions are only excuses for her great rebellion against England. That is not to be endured. Let her perish. Let her burn. Let her not infect the whole flock. It is expedient that one woman die for die people. WARWICK [rising] My lord: we seem to be agreed. CAUCHON [ rising also, but in protest} I will not imperil my soul. I will uphold the justice of the Church. I will strive to the utmost for diis woman’s salvation. WARWICK I am sorry for the poor girl. I hate these severities. I will spare her if I can. THE CHAPLAIN [ implacably ] 1 would bum her with my own hands. CAUCHON [blessing him] Sancta simplicitas!

Scene 5 The ambulatory in the cathedral of Rheims, near the door of the vestry. A pillar bears one of the stations of the cross. The organ is playing the people out of the nave after the coronation. JOAN is kneeling in prayer before the station. She is beautifully dressed, but still in male attire. The organ ceases as DUNOIS, also splendidly arrayed, comes into the ambulatory from the vestry.

Come, Joan! you have had enough praying. After that ht of crying you will catch a chill if you stay here any longer. It is all over: the cadiedral is empty; and the streets are full. They are calling for The Maid. We have told them you are staying here alone to pray; but they want to see you again. JOAN No: let the king have all the glory. DUNOIS He only spoils the show, poor devil. No, Joan: you have crowned him; and you must go through with it. DUNOIS

JOAN [shakes her head reluctantly.]

Come come! it will be over in a couple of hours. It’s better than the bridge at Orleans: eh? JOAN Oh, dear Dunois, how I wish it were the bridge at Orleans again! We DUNOIS [raising her]

lived at that bridge. DUNOIS Yes, faith, and died too: some of us. JOAN Isnt it strange, Jack? I am such a coward: I am frightened beyond words before a batde; but it is so dull afterwards when there is no danger: oh, so dull! dull! dull! DUNOIS

You must learn to be abstemious in war, just as you are in your food

and drink, my litde saint. JOAN Dear Jack: I think you like me as a soldier likes his comrade. DUNOIS You need it, poor innocent child of God. You have not many friends at court. Why do all these courtiers and knights and churchmen hate me? What have I done to them? I have asked nothing for myself except that my village shall not be taxed; for we cannot afford war taxes. I have brought them luck and victory I have set them right when they were doing all sorts of stupid things: I have crowned Charles and made him a real lung; and all the honors he is handing out have gone to them. Then why do they not love me? DLJNOIS [rallying her] Sim-ple-ton! Do you expect stupid people to love you for shewing them up? Do blundering old military dug-outs love the successful JOAN

1&40

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 5

young captains who supersede them? Do ambitious politicians love the climbers who take the front seats from them? Do archbishops enjoy being played off their own altars, even by saints? Why, I should be jealous of you myself if I were ambitious enough. You are the pick of the basket here, Jack: the only friend I have among all these nobles. I’ll wager your mother was from the country. I will go back to the farm when I have taken Paris. JOAN

I am not so sure that they will let you take Paris. JOAN [ startled ] What! DUNOIS

I should have taken it myself before this if they had all been sound about it. Some of them would rather Paris took you, I think. So take care. JOAN Jack: the world is too wicked for me. If the goddams and the Burgun¬ dians do not make an end of me, the French will. Only for my voices I should lose all heart. Jdiat is why I had to steal away to pray here alone after die coronation. Ill tell you something, Jack. It is in the bells I hear my voices. Not to-day, when they all rang: that was nothing but jangling. But here in this comer, where the bells come down from heaven, and the echoes linger, or in the fields,, where they come from a distance through the quiet of the countryside, my voices are in them. [The cathedral clock chimes the quarter.] Hark! [She becomes rapt.] Do you hear? Dear-child-of-God: just what you said. At the half-hour they will say ‘Be-bravego-on’. At the three-quarters they will say ‘I-am-thy-Help’. But it is at the hour, when the great bell goes after ‘God-will-save-France’: it is then that St Margaret and St Catherine and sometimes even the blessed Michael will say diings that I cannot tell beforehand. Then, oh then— DUNOIS

Then, Joan, we shall hear whatever we fancy hi the booming of the bell. You make me uneasy when you talk about your voices: I should Junk you were a bit cracked if I hadnt noticed that you give me very sensible reasons for what you do, though I hear you telling others you are only obeying Madame Saint Catherine. JOAN [ crossly] \\ ell, I have to find reasons for you, because you do not believe in my voices. But the voices come first ; and I find the reasons after: whatever von may choose to believe. DUNOIS Are you angry, Joan? DUNOIS [interrupting her kindly but not sympathetically]

JOAN

\es. [Smiling] No: not with you. I wish you were one of the village

babies. DUNOIS JOAN

Why?

I could nurse you for awhile.

DUNOIS

You are a bit of a woman after all.

No: not a bit: I am a soldier and nothing else. Soldiers always nurse children when they get a chance. DUNOIS Hiat is true. [He laughs.] JOAN

KING CHARLES, with BLUEBEARD on his left and LA HIRE on his right, comes from

the vestry, where he has been disrobing. JOAN shrinks away behind the pillar. DUNOIS is left between CHARI.ES and LA HIRE.

Well, your Majesty is an anointed lung at last. How do you like it? ( HARLES I would not go through it again to be emperor of the sun and moon. Die weight of those robes! I thought I should have dropped when they loaded that crow n on to me. And the famous holy oif they talked so much about wras rancid: DUNOIS

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 5

1241

phew! The Archbishop must be nearly dead: his robes must have weighed a ton: they are stripping him still in the vestry. DUNOIS [drily ] Your majesty should wear armor oftener. That would accustom you to heavy dressing. CHARLES Yes: the old jibe! Well, I am not going to wear armor: fighting is not my job. Where is The Maid? JOAN [ coming forward between CHARLES and BLUEBEARD, and falling on her

knee]

Sire: I have made you king: my work is done. I am going back to my father’s

farm. CIL\RLES [surprised, but relieved]

Oh, are you? Well, that will be very nice.

JOAN rises, deeply discouraged.

CILARI.ES [continuing heedlessly]

A healthy life, you know.

But a dull one. BLUEBEARD You will find the petticoats tripping you up after leaving them off for so long. LA HIRE You will miss the fighting. It’s a bad habit, but a grand one, and the hardest of all to break yourself of CILARI.ES [anxiously] Still, we dont want you to stay if you would really rather go home. DUNOIS

JOAN [ bitterly]

I know well that none of you will be sorry to see me go. [She

turns her shoulder to CHARLES and walks past him to the more congenial neigh¬ borhood of DUNOIS and LA HIRE. ] LA HIRE

Well, I shall be able to swear when 1 want to. But I shall miss you

at times. La Hire: in spite of all your sins and swears we shall meet in heaven; for I love you as I love Pitou, my old sheep dog. Pitou could lull a wolf. You will lull the English wolves until they go back to their country and become good dogs JOAN

of God, will you not? LA HIRE JOAN

You and I together: yes.

No: I shall last only a year from the beginning.

AI L THE OTHERS JOAN

WTat!

I know it somehow.

Nonsense! JOAN Jack: do you think you will be able to drive them out? DUNOIS [with quiet conviction] Yes: I shall drive them out. They beat us be¬ cause we thought battles were tournaments and ransom markets. We played the fool while the goddams took war seriously. But I have learnt my lesson, and taken their measure. They have no roots here. I have beaten them before; and I shall DUNOIS

beat them again. JOAN You will not be cruel to them. Jack? DUNOIS The goddams will not yield to tender handling. We did not begin it. JOAN [suddenlyJ Jack: before 1 go home, let us take Paris. CHARLES [terrified] Oh no no. We shall lose everything we have gained. Oh dont let us have any more fighting. We can make a very good treaty with the Duke of Burgundy. JOAN

Treaty! [ She stamps with impatience.j

CHARLES

Well, whv not, now that I am crowned and anointed? ()li, that oil!

1242

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 5

The ARCIIBISIIOP comes from the vestry, and joins the group between CHARLES and BLUE BEAR!).

Archbishop: The Maid wants to start fighting again. THE ARCHBISHOP Have we ceased fighting, then? Are we at peace? CHARLES No: I suppose not; but let us, be content with what we have done. Let us make a treaty. Our luck is too good to last; and now is our chance to stop before it turns. CHARLES

Luck! God has fought for us; and you call it luck! And you would stop while there are still Englishmen on this holy earth of dear France! THE ARCHBISHOP [sternly] Maid: the king addressed himself to me, not to you. You forget yourself. You very often forget yourself. JOAN [ unabashed, and rather roughly] Then speak, you; and tell him that it is not God’s will that he should take his hand from the plough. THE ARCHBISHOP If I am not so glib with the name of God as you are, it is because I inteipret His will with the authority of the Church and of my sacred office. When you first came you respected it, and would not have dared to speak as you are now speaking. You came clothed with the virtue of humility; and be¬ cause God blessed your enterprises accordingly, you have stained yourself with the sin of pride. The old Greek tragedy is rising among us. It is the chastisement of hubris. JOAN

CHARLES

es: she thinks she knows better than everyone else.

JOAN [ distressed, but naively incapable of seeing the effect she is producing]

But I do know better than any of you seem to. And I am not proud: I never speak unless I know I am right. Bluebeard) [exclaiming ffTa Ha! CHARLES

J

together]

j Just so.

How do you know you are right? I always know. My voices—

THE ARCHBISHOP JOAN

Oh, your voices, your voices. Why dont the voices come to me? 1 am lung, not you. CHARLES

They do come to you; but you do not hear them. You have not sat in the field in the evening listening for them. When the angelus rings you cross yourself and have done with it; but if you prayed from your heart, and listened to the thrilling of the bells in the air after they stop ringing, you would hear the voices as well as I do. [Turning brusquely from him] But what voices do you need to tell you what the blacksmith can tell you: that you must strike while the iron is hot? I tell you we must make a dash at Compiegne and relieve it as we relieved Orleans. Then Paris will open its gates; or if not, we will break through them. What is your crown worth without your capital? JOAN

Hiat is what I say too. We shall go through them like a red hot shot through a pound of butter. What do you say, Bastard? DUNOIS If our cannon balls were all as hot as your head, and we had enough of them, we should conquer the earth, no doubt. Pluck and impetuosity are good servants in war, but bad masters: they have delivered us into the hands of the English every time we have trusted to them. We never know when we are beaten: that is our great fault. LA HIRE

\ ou never know when you are victorious: that is a worse fault. I shall ha\ e to make you carry looking-glasses in battle to convince you that the English have not cut off all your noses. You would have been besieged in Orleans still. JOAN

Scene 5

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1243

vou and your councils of war, if I had not made you attack. You should always attack; and if you only hold on long enough the enemy will stop first. You dont know how to begin a battle; and you dont know how to use your cannons. And I do. She squats down on the flags with crossed ankles, pouting.

I know what you think of us. General Joan. JOAN Never mind that, Jack. Tell them what you think of me. DUNOIS I think that God was on your side; for I have not forgotten how the wind changed, and how our hearts changed when you came; and by my faith I shall never deny that it was in your sign that we conquered. But I tell you as a soldier that God is no man’s daily drudge, and no maid’s either. If you are worthy of it He will sometimes snatch you out of the jaws of death and set you on your feet again; but that is all: once on your feet you must fight with all your might and all your craft. For He has to be fair to your enemy too: dont forget that. Well, He set us on our feet through you at Orleans; and die glory of it has carried us through a few good battles here to the coronation. But if we presume on it further, and trust to God to do the work we should do ourselves, we shall be defeated; and serve us right! JOAN But— DUNOIS Sh! I have not finished. Do not think, any of you, that these victories of ours were won without generalship. King Charles: you have said no word in your proclamations of my part in this campaign; and I make no complaint of that; for the people will run after The Maid and her miracles and not after the Bastard’s hard work finding troops for her and feeding them. But I know exactly how much God did for us through The Maid, and how much He left me to do by my own wits; and I tell you diat your little hour of miracles is over, and that from this time on he who plays the war game best will win—if the luck is on his side. JOAN Ah! if, if, if, if! If ifs and ans were pots and pans there’d be no need of tinkers. [ Rising impetuously] I tell you, Bastard, your art of war is no use, because your knights are no good for real fighting. War is only a game to them, like tennis and all their other games: they make rules as to what is fair and what is not fair, and heap armor on themselves and on their poor horses to keep out the arrows; and when they fall they cant get up, and have to wait for their squires to come and lift them to arrange about the ransom with the man dial has poked them off theii horse. Cant you see that all the like of that is gone by and done with? What use is armor against gunpowder? And if it was, do you think men that are fighting lor France and for God will stop to bargain about ransoms, as half your knights live by doing? No: they will fight to win; and they will give up their lives out of their own hand into die hand of God when they go into battle, as I do. ( ommon folks understand this. They cannot afford armor and cannot pay ransoms; but the\ followed me half naked into the moat and up the ladder and over the wall. With them it is my life or thine, and God defend the right! fiou may shake your head, Jack; and Bluebeard may twirl his billvgoat’s beard and cock his nose at me; but remember the dav your knights and captains refused to follow me to attack the English at Orleans! You locked the gates to keep me in; and it was the townsfolk and the common people that followed me, and forced the gate, and shewed \ou DUNOIS

die way to fight in earnest. BLUEBEARD [ offended ] Not content with being Pope Joan, you must be C aesar and Alexander as well.

1244

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 5

Pride will have a fall, Joan. JOAN Oh, never mind whether it is pride or not: is it true? is it commonsense? LA HIRE It is true. Half of us are afraid of having our handsome noses broken; and the other half are out for paying off their mortgages. Let her have her way, Dunois: she does not know everything; but .she has got hold of the right end of the stick. Fighting is not what it was; and those who know least about it often make the best job of it. DUNOIS I know all that. I do not fight in the old way: I have learnt the lesson of Agincourt, of Poitiers and Crecv. I know how many lives any move of mine will cost; and if the move is worth the cost I make it and pay the cost. But Joan never counts the cost at all: she goes ahead and trusts to'God: she thinks she has God in her pocket. Up to now she has had the numbers on her side; and she has won. But I know Joan; and I see that some day she will go ahead when she has onlv ten men to do the work of a hundred. And then she will find that God is on the side of the big battalions. She will be taken by the enemy. And the luckv man that makes the capture will receive sixteen thousand pounds from the Earl of Ouareek. JOAN [ flattered] Sixteen thousand pounds! Eli, laddie, have they offered that for me? There cannot be so much money in the world. DUNOIS There is, in England. And now tell me, all of you, which of you will lift a huger to save Joan once the English have got her? I speak first, for the armv. The day after she has been (Lagged from her horse by a goddam or a Burgundian, and he is not struck dead: the day after she is locked in a dungeon, and the bars and bolts do not fly open at the touch of St Peter’s angel: the day when the enemy finds out diat she is as vulnerable as I am and not a bit more invincible, she will not be worth the life of a single soldier to us; and I will not risk that life, much as I cherish her as a companion-in-arms. JOAN I dont blame you, Jack: you are right. I am not worth one soldier’s life if God lets me be beaten; but France may think me worth my ransom after what God has done for her through me. THE ARCHBISHOP

CJLAREES

I tell you I have no money; and this coronation, which is all your

fault, has cost me the last farthing I can borrow.

Idle Church is richer than you. I put my trust in the Church. THE ARCHBISHOP Woman: they will drag you through the streets, and bum you as a witch. JOAN

JOAN [ running to him J

Oh, my lord, do not say that. It is impossible. I a witch! THE ARCHBISHOP Peter Cauchon knows his business. The University of Paris has burnt a woman for saying that what you have done was well done, and ac¬ cording to God. JOAN [ bewildered]

But why? What sense is there in it? What I have done is according to God. They could not burn a woman for speaking the truth. THE ARCHBISHOP They did. JOAN But you know that she was speaking the truth. You would not let them burn me. THE ARCHBISHOP

I low could I prevent them?

You would speak in the name of the Church. You are a great prince of die Church. I would go anywhere with your blessing to protect me. JOAN

THE ARCHBISHOP bedient.

I have no blessing for you while you are proud and diso¬

Oh, why will you go on saying things like that? I am not proud and disobedient. I am a poor girl, and so ignorant that I do not know A from B. How JOAN

Scene 5

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1245

could I be proud? And how can you say diat I am disobedient when I always obey my voices, because they come from God. THE ARCHBISHOP The voice of God on earth is the voice of the Church Mili¬ tant; and all the voices that come to you are the echoes of your own wilfulness. JOAN It is not true. THE ARCHBISHOP [flushing angrily ] You tell the Archbishop in his cathedral diat he lies; and yet you say you are not proud and disobedient. JOAN I never said you lied. It was you diat as good as said my voices lied. When have they ever lied? If you will not believe in them: even if they are only the echoes of my own commonsense, are they not always right? and are not your earthly counsels always wrong? THE ARCHBISHOP [ indignantly ] It is waste of time admonishing you. . CHARLES It always comes back to die same thing. She is right; and everyone else is wrong. THE ARCHBISHOP Take this as your last warning. If you perish through setting your private judgment above the instructions of your spiritual directors, the Church disowns you, and leaves you to whatever fate your presumption may bring upon you. The Bastard has told you that if you persist in setting up your military conceit above the counsels of your commanders— DUNOIS [ interposing ] To put it quite exactly, if you attempt to relieve the gar¬ rison in Compiegne without the same superiority in numbers you had at Orleans— THE ARCHBISHOP The army will disown you, and will not rescue you. And His Majesty the King has told you that the throne has not the means of ransom¬ ing you. CILHH.ES Not a penny. THE ARCHBISHOP You stand alone: absolutely alone, trusting to your own conceit, your own ignorance, your own headstrong presumption, your own impiety in hiding all these sins under the cloak of a trust in God. When you pass through diese doors into the sunlight, the crowd will cheer you. They will bring you their litde children and their invalids to heal: they will loss your hands and feet, and do what they can, poor simple souls, to turn your head, and madden you with the self-confidence that is leading you to your destruction. But you will be none die less alone: they cannot save you. We and we only can stand between you and the stake at which our enemies have brrrnt that wretched woman in Paris. JOAN [her eyes skyward] I have better friends and better counsel than yours. THE ARCHBISHOP I see that I am speaking in vain to a hardened heart. Yorr reject our protection, and are determined to turn us all against you. In future, then, fend for yourself; and if you fail, God have mercy on your soul. DUNOIS That is the truth, Joan. Heed it. JOAN Where would you all have been now if I had heeded that sort of truth? Tliere is no help, no counsel, in any of you. Yes: I am alone on earth: I have always been alone. My fadier told my brothers to drown me if I would not stay to mind his sheep while France was bleeding to death: France might perish if only our lambs were safe. I thought France would have friends at the court of the king of France; and I find only wolves fighting for pieces of her poor tom body. I thought God would have friends everywhere, because He is the friend of everyone; and in my innocence I believed that you who now cast me out would be like strong towers to keep harm from me. But I am wiser now; and nobody is any the worse for being wiser. Do not think you can frighten me by telling me that I am alone. France is alone; and God is alone; and what is my loneliness before die loneliness of my

1246

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 6

country and my God? I see now that the loneliness of God is His strength: what would fie be if He listened to your jealous little counsels? Well, my loneliness shah be my strength too; it is better to be alone with God: His friendship will not fail me, nor His counsel, nor His love. In His strength I will dare, and dare, and dare, until I die. I will go out now to the common people, and let the love in their eyes comfort me for the hate in yours. You will all be glad to see me burnt; but if I go through the fire I shall go through it to their hearts for ever and ever. And so, God be with me! She goes from them. They stare after her in glum silence for a moment. Then GlLLES DE RAIS twirls his heard.

You know, the woman is quite impossible. I dont dislike her, really; but what are you to do with such a character? DUNOIS As God is my judge, if she fell into the Loire I would jump in in full armor to hsh her out. But if she plays the fool at Compiegne, and gets caught, I must leave her to her doom. LA HIRE Then you had better chain me up; for I could follow her to hell when the spirit rises in her like that. BLUEBEARD

She disturbs my judgment too: there is a dangerous power in her outbursts. But the pit is open at her feet; and for good or evil we cannot turn her from it. CPIARLES If only she would keep quiet, or go home! THE ARCHBISHOP

They follow her dispiritedly.

Scene 6 Rouen, 30th May 1431. A great stone hall in the castle, arranged for a trial-atlaw, but not a trial-by-jury, the court being the Bishop’s court with the Inquisition participating: hence there are two raised chairs side by side for the Bishop and the Inquisitor as judges. Rows of chairs radiating from them at an obtuse angle are for the canons, the doctors of law and theology, and the Dominican monks, who act as assessors. In the angle is a table for the scribes, with stools. There is also a heavy rough wooden stool for the prisoner. All these are at the inner end of the hall. The further end is open to the courtyard through a row of arches. The court is shielded from the weather by screens and curtains. Looking down the great hall from the middle of the inner end, the judicial chairs and scribes’ table are to the right. The prisoner’s stool is to the left. There are arched doors right and left. It is a fine sunshiny May morning. WARWICK comes in through the arched doorway on the judges’ side, followed by his PAGE. THE PAGE [pertly j

I suppose your lordship is aware diat we have no business

here. This is an ecclesiastical court; and we are only the secular arm. WARWICK I am aware of that fact. Will it please your impudence to find the Bishop of Beauvais for me, and give him a hint that he can have a word with me here before the trial, if he wishes? THE PAGE [going] Yes, my lord. WARWICK

And mind you behave yourself. Do not address him as Pious Peter. vv

Scene 6

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1&47

No, my lord. I shall be kind to him, because, when The Maid is brought in, Pious Peter will have to pick a peck of pickled pepper. THE PAGE

CAUCHON enters through the same door with a Dominican monk and a canon, the

latter carrying a brief. The Right Reverend his lordship the Bishop of Beauvais. And two other reverend gentlemen. WARWICK Get out; and see that we are not interrupted. THE PAGE Right, my lord [ he vanishes airily.] CAUCHON I wish your lordship good-morrow. WARWICK Good-morrow to your lordship. Have I had the pleasure of meeting your friends before? I think not. CAUCHON [ introducing the monk, who is on his right] This, my lord, is Brother John Lemaitre, of the order of St Dominic. He is acting as deputy for the Chief Inquisitor into the evil of heresy in France. Brother John: the Earl of Warwick. WARWICK Your Reverence is most welcome. We have no Inquisitor in Eng¬ land, unfortunately; though we miss him greatly, especially on occasions like the present. THE PAGE

The INQUISITOR smiles patiently, and bows. He is a mild elderly gentleman, but has evident reserves of authority and firmness. CAUCHON [ introducing the Canon, who is on his left]

This gentleman is Canon John D’Estivet, of the Chapter of Bayeux. He is acting as Promoter. WARWICK Promoter? CAUCHON Prosecutor, you would call him in civil law. WARWICK Ah! prosecutor. Quite, quite. I am very glad to make your acquaint¬ ance, Canon D’Estivet. D’ESTIVET bows. [He is on the young side of middle age, well mannered, but

vulpine beneath his veneer.] May I ask what stage the proceedings have reached? It is now more than nine months since The Maid was captured at Compiegne by the Burgundians. It is fully four months since I bought her from the Burgundians for a very hand¬ some sum, solely that she might be brought to justice. It is very nearly three months since I delivered her up to you, my Lord Bishop, as a person suspected of heresy. May I suggest that you are taking a rather unconscionable time to make up your minds about a very plain case? Is this trial never going to end? THE INQUISITOR [smiling] It has not yet begun, my lord. WARWICK Not yet begun! Why, you have been at it eleven weeks! CAUCHON We have not been idle, my lord. We have held fifteen examinations of The Maid: six public and nine private. THE INQUISITOR [always patiently smiling] You see, my lord, I have been present at only two of these examinations. They were proceedings of the Bishop’s court solely, and not of the Holy Office. I have only just decided to associate myself—that is, to associate the Holy Inquisition—with the Bishop’s court. I did not at first think that this was a case of heresy at all. I regarded it as a political WARWICK

1248

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 6

case, and The Maid as a prisoner of war. But having now been present at two of the examinations, I must admit that this seems to be one of the gravest cases of heresy within my experience. Therefore everything is now in order, and we proceed to trial this morning. [He moves towards the judicial chairs.] CAUCHON

This moment, if your lordship’s convenience allows.

WARWICK [graciously]

Well, that is good news, gentlemen. I will not attempt

to conceal from you that our patience was becoming strained. So I gathered from the threats of your soldiers to drown those of our people who favor The Maid. CAUCHON

WARWICK

Dear me! At all events their intentions were friendly to you, my lord.

CAUCHON [sternly]

I hope not. I am determined that the woman shall have a

fair hearing. The justice of the Church is not a mockery, my lord. THE INQUISITOR [ returning]

Never has there been a fairer examination within

my experience, my lord. The Maid needs no lawyers to take her part: she will be tried by her most faithful friends, all ardently desirous to save her soul from per¬ dition. D’ESTIVET

Sir: I am the Promoter; and it has been my painful duty to present

the case against the girl; but believe me, I would throw up my case today and hasten to her defence if I did not know that men far my superiors in learning and piety, in eloquence and persuasiveness, have been sent to reason with her, to explain to her the danger she is running, and the ease with which she may avoid it. [Suddenly bursting into forensic eloquence, to the disgust of CAUCHON and the INQUISITOR, who have listened to him so far with patronizing approval] Men have

dared to say that we are acting from hate; but God is our witness that they lie. I lave we tortured her? No. Have we ceased to exhort her; to implore her to have pityr on herself; to come to the bosom of her Church as an erring but beloved child? Plave we— CAUCHON [interrupting drily]

Take care, Canon. All that you say is true; but

if you make his lordship believe it I will not answer for your life, and hardly for my own. WARWICK [deprecating, but by no means denying]

Oh, my lord, you are very

hard on us poor English. But we certainly do not share your pious desire to save Hie Maid: in fact I tell you now plainly that her death is a political necessity which I regret but cannot help. If the Church lets her go— CAUCHON [ with fierce and menacing pride]

If the Church lets her go, woe to

the man, were he the Emperor himself, who dares lay a finger on her! Hie Church is not subject to political necessity, my lord. THE INQUISITOR [interposing smoothly]

You need have no anxiety about the

result, my lord. You have an invincible ally in the matter: one who is far more determined than you that she shall burn. WARWICK

And who is this very convenient partisan, may I ask?

THE INQUISITOR

The Maid herself. Unless you put a gag in her mouth you

cannot prevent her from convicting herself ten times over eveiy time she opens it. That is perfectly true, my lord. My hair bristles on my head when I hear so young a creature utter such blasphemies. I)ES fl\ET

Well, by all means do your best for her if you are quite sure it will be of no avail. [ Looking hard at CAUCHON] I should be sony to have to act without die blessing of die Church. WARWICK

CAUCHON [with a mixture of cynical admiration and contempt]

And yet they

say Englishmen are hypocrites! You play for your side, my lord, even at the peril

Scene 6

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1249

of your soul. I cannot but admire such devotion; but I dare not go so far myself. I fear damnation. WARWICK

If we feared anything we could never govern England, my lord. Shall

I send your people in to you? CAUCHON

Yes: it will be very good of your lordship to withdraw and allow the

court to assemble. WARWICK turns on his heel, and goes out through the courtyard. CAUCHON takes

one of the judicial seats; and D’ESTIYET sits at the scribes’ table, studying his brief. CAUCHON [ casually, as he makes himself comfortable]

What scoundrels these

English nobles are! THE INQUISITOR [ taking the other judicial chair on CAUCHON’s left]

All secular

power makes men scoundrels. They are not trained for the work; and they have not the Apostolic Succession. Our own nobles are just as bad. The BISHOP’S assessors hurry into the hall, headed by CHAPLAIN DE STOGUMBER and CANON DE COURCELLES, a young priest of 30. The scribes sit at TTuTtable, leaving a chair vacant opposite ITESTIVET. Some of the assessors take their seats: others stand chatting, waiting for the proceedings to begin formally. DE STOGUM¬ BER, aggrieved and obstinate, will not take his seat: neither will the CANON, who

stands on his right. CAUCHON

Good morning, Master de Stogumber.f To the INQUISITOR] Chaplain

to the Cardinal of England. THE CHAPLAIN [ correcting him ]

Of Winchester, my lord. I have to make a

protest, my lord. You make a great many. THE CHAPLAIN I am not without support, my lord. Here is Master de CourCAUCHON

celles, Canon of Paris, who associates himself with me in my protest Well, what is the matter? THE CHAPLAIN [sulkily ] Speak you. Master de Courcelles, since I do not seem CAUCHON

to enjoy his lordship’s confidence. [He sits down in dudgeon next to CAUCHON, on his right.] COURCELLES

My lord: we have been at great pains to draw up an indictment

of Hie Maid on sixty-four counts. We are now told that they have been reduced, without consulting us. THE INQUISITOR Master de Courcelles: I am the culprit. I am overwhelmed with admiration for the zeal displayed in your sixty-four counts; but in accusing a heretic, as in other things, enough is enough. Also you must remember that all the members of the court are not so subtle and profound as you, and that some of your very great learning might appear to them to be very great nonsense. There¬ fore I have thought it well to have your sixty-four articles cut down to twelve— COURCELLES [ thunderstruck ] THE INQUISITOR THE CHAPLAIN

Twelve!!!

Twelve will, believe me, be quite enough for your purpose. But some of the most important points have been reduced

almost to nothing. For instance, The Maid has actually declared that the blessed saints Margaret and Catherine, and the holy Archangel Michael, spoke to her in French. That is a vital point.

1250

Plays for Further Reading

THE INQUISITOR CAUCHON

Scene 6

You think, doubtless, that they should have spoken in Latin?

No: he thinks they should have spoken in English.

Naturally, my lord. THE INQUISITOR Well, as we are all here agreed, I think, that these voices of THE CHAPLAIN

The Maid are the voices of evil spirits tempting, her to her damnation, it would not be very courteous to you, Master de Stogumber, or to the King of England, to assume that English is the devil’s native language. So let it pass. The matter is not wholly omitted from the twelve articles. Pray take your places, gentlemen; and let us proceed to business. All who have not taken their seats, do so. Well I protest. That is all.

THE CHAPLAIN COURCELLES

I think it hard that all our work should go for nothing. It is only

another example of the diabolical influence which this woman exercises over the court. [He takes his chair, which is on the CHAPLAIN’S right.] CAUCHON

Do you suggest that I am under diabolical influence?

COURCELLES

I suggest nothing, my lord. But it seems to me that there is a

conspiracy here to hush up the fact that The Maid stole the Bishop of Senlis’s horse. CAUCHON [keeping his temper with difficulty]

This is not a police court. Are

we to waste our time on such rubbish? COURCELLES [rising, shocked]

My lord: do you call the Bishop’s horse rub¬

bish? THE INQUISITOR [ blandly]

Master de Courcelles: Hie Maid alleges that she

paid handsomely for the Bishop’s horse, and that if he did not get the money the fault was not hers. As that may be true, the point is one on which The Maid may well be acquitted. COURCELLES

Yes, if it were an ordinary horse. But the Bishop’s horse! how

can she be acquitted for that? [He sits down again, bewildered and discouraged.] THE INQUISITOR

I submit to you, with great respect, that if we persist in trying

The Maid on trumpery issues on which we may have to declare her innocent, she may escape us on the great main issue of heresy, on which she seems so far to insist on her own guilt. I will ask you, therefore, to say nothing, when The Maid is brought before us, of these stealings of horses, and dancings round fairy trees with the village children, and prayings at haunted wells, and a dozen other things which you were diligently inquiring into until my arrival. There is not a village girl in France against whom you could not prove such things: they all dance round haunted trees, and pray at magic wells. Some of them would steal the Pope’s horse if they got the chance. Heresy, gentlemen, heresy is die charge we have to try. The detection and suppression of heresy is my peculiar business: I am here as an inquisitor, not as an ordinary magistrate. Stick to the heresy, gentlemen, and leave the other matters alone. I may say that we have sent to the girl’s village to make inquiries about her, and there is practically nothing serious against her. CAUCHON

THE CHAPLAIN| COURCELLES

| clamoring together ]

CAUCHON [out of patience]

{ Nothing serious, may lord¬ ly What! The fairy tree not— Be silent, gentlemen; or speak one at a time.

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 6

1251

COURCELLES collapses into his chair, intimidated. TIIE CHAPLAIN [sulkily resuming his seat]

That is what Jlie Maid said to us

last Friday. CAUCHON

I wish you had followed her counsel, sir. When I say nothing seri¬

ous, I mean nothing that men of sufficiently large mind to conduct an inquiry like this would consider serious. I agree with my colleague die Inquisitor that it is on the count of heresy that we must proceed. LADVENU [a young but ascetically fine-drawn Dominican who is sitting next COLTRCELLES, on his right]

But is there any great harm in the girl’s heresy? Is

it not merely her simplicity? Many saints have said as much as Joan. THE INQUISITOR [dropping his blandness and speaking very gravely]

Brother

Martin: if you had seen what I have seen of heresy, you would not think it a light thing even in its most apparently harmless and even lovable and pious origins. Heresy begins with people who are to all appearance better than their neighbors. A gentle and pious girl, or a young man who has obeyed the command of our Lord by giving all his riches to the poor, and putting on the garb of poverty, the life of austerity, and the rule of humility and charity, may be the founder of a heresy that will wreck both Church and Empire if not ruthlessly stamped out in time. The records of the holy Inquisition are full of histories we dare not give to the world, because they are beyond the belief of honest men and innocent women; yet they all began with saintly simpletons. I have seen this again and again. Mark what I sav: the woman who quarrels with her clothes, and puts on die dress of a man, is like the man who throws off his fur gown and dresses like John the Baptist: they are followed, as surely as the night follows the day, by bands of wild women and men who refuse to wear any clothes at all. When maids will neither mam- nor take regular vows, and men reject marriage and exalt their lusts into divine inspi¬ rations, then, as surely as the summer follows the spring, they begin with polyg¬ amy, and end by incest. I Ieresy at first seems innocent and even laudable; but it ends in such a monstrous horror of unnatural wickedness that die most tender¬ hearted among you, if you saw it at work as I have seen it, would clamor against the mercy of the Church in dealing with it. For two hundred years the Holy Office has striven with these diabolical madnesses; and it knows that they begin always by vain and ignorant persons setting up their own judgment against the Church, and taking it upon themselves to be the inteqireters of God’s will. You must not fall into the common error of mistaking these simpletons for liars and hypocrites. They believe honestly and sincerely that their diabolical inspiration is divine. Therefore you must be on your guard against your natural compassion. You are all, I hope, merciful men: how else could you have devoted your lives to the service of our gentle Savior? You are going to see before you a young girl, pious and chaste; for I must tell you, gentlemen, that the things said of her by our English friends are supported by no evidence, whilst there is abundant testimony that her excesses have been excesses of religion and charity and not of worldliness and wantonness. ILis girl is not one of those whose hard features are the sign ol hard hearts, and whose brazen looks and lewd demeanor condemn them before they are accused. The devilish pride that has led her into her present peril has left no mark on her countenance. Strange as it may seem to you, it has even left no mark on her character outside those special matters in which she is proud; so that you will see a diabolical pride and a natural humility seated side by side in the selfsame

1252

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 6

soul. Therefore be on your guard. God forbid that I should tell you to harden your hearts; for her punishment if we condemn her will be so cruel that we should forfeit our own hope of divine mercy were there one grain of malice against her in our hearts. But if you hate cruelty—and if any man here does not hate it I command him on his soul’s salvation to quit this holy court—1 say, if you hate cruelty, remember that nothing is so cruel in its consequences as the toleration of heresy. Remember also that no court of law can be so cruel as the common people are to those whom they suspect of heresy. The heretic in the hands of the Holy Office is safe from violence, is assured of a fair trial, and cannot suffer death, even when guiltyr, if repentance follows sin. Innumerable lives of heretics have been saved because the Holy Office has taken them out of the hands of the people, and because the people have yielded them up, knowing that the Holy Office would deal with them. Before the Holy Inquisition existed, and even now when its officers are not within reach, the unfortunate wretch suspected of heresy, perhaps quite ignorantly and unjustly, is stoned, tom in pieces, drowned, burned in his house with all his innocent children, without a trial, unshriven, unburied save as a dog is buried: all of them deeds hateful to God and most cmel to man. Gentlemen: I am compassionate by nature as well as by my profession; and though the work I have to do may seem cmel to those who do not know how much more cmel it would be to leave it undone, I would go to the stake myself sooner than do it if I did not know its righteousness, its necessity, its essential mercy. I ask you to address yourself to this trial in that conviction. Anger is a bad counsellor: cast out anger. Pity is sometimes worse: cast out pity. But do not cast out mercy. Remem¬ ber only that justice comes first. Have you anything to say, my lord, before we proceed to trial? CAUCHON

You have spoken for me, and spoken better than I could. I do not

see how any sane man could disagree with a word that has fallen from you. But this I will add. The crude heresies of which you have told us are horrible; but their horror is like that of the black death: they rage for a while and then die out, because sound and sensible men will not under any incitement be reconciled to nakedness and incest and polygamy and the like. But we are confronted today throughout Europe with a heresy that is spreading among men not weak in mind nor diseased in brain: nay, the stronger the mind, the more obstinate the heretic. It is neither discredited by fantastic extremes nor corrupted by the common lusts of the flesh; but it, too, sets up the private judgment of the single erring mortal against the considered wisdom and experience of the Church. The mighty structure of Cath¬ olic Christendom will never be shaken by naked madmen or by die sins of Moab and Ammon. But it may be betrayed from within, and brought to barbarous ruin and desolation, by this arch heresy which the English Commander calls Protes¬ tantism. THE ASSESSORS [whispering]

Protestantism! What was that? What does die

Bishop mean? Is it a new heresy? The English Commander, he said. Did you ever hear of Protestantism? etc., etc. CAUCHON [continuing]

And that reminds me. What provision has the Earl of W arwick made for the defence of the secular arm should The Maid prove obdurate, and the people be moved to pity her? THE CHAPLAIN

Have no fear on that score, my lord. The noble earl has eight

hundred men-at-arms at the gates. She will not slip through our English fingers even if the whole city be on her side.

Scene 6

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

CAUCHON [revoltedj

1253

Will you not add, God grant that she repent and purge

her sin? That does not seem to me to be consistent; but of course I

THE CHAPLAIN

agree with your lordship. CAUCHON [giving him up with a shrug of contempt) THE INQUISITOR LADYENTJ [calling)

The court sits.

Let the accused be brought in. The accused. Let her be brought in.

JOAN, chained by the ankles, is brought in through the arched door behind the

prisoner’s stool by a guard of English soldiers. With them is the EXECUTIONER and his assistants. They lead her to the prisoner’s stool, and place themselves behind it after taking off her chain. She wears a page’s black suit. Her long imprisonment and the strain of the examinations which have preceded the trial have left their mark on her; but her vitality still holds: she confronts the court unabashed, without a trace of the awe which their formal solemnity seems to require for the complete success of its impressiveness. THE INQUISITOR [kindly]

Sit down, Joan. [She sits on the prisoner’s stool.)

You look very pale today. Are you not well? JO.AN

Thank you kindly: I am well enough. But the Bishop sent me some carp;

and it made me ill. CAUCHON JOAN

I am sorry. I told them to see that it was fresh.

You meant to be good to me, I know; but it is a fish that does not agree

with me. The English thought you were trying to poison me— I r. THE CHAPLAIN | ^ JOAN [continuing) CAUCHON

-. What! er ^ ( No, my lord. They are determined that I shall be burnt as a witch; and

they sent their doctor to cure me; but he was forbidden to bleed me because the silly people believe that a witch’s witchery leaves her if she is bled; so he only called me filthy names. Why do you leave me in the hands of the English? I should be in the hands of the Church. And why must I be chained by the feet to a log of wood? Are you afraid I will fly away? D’ESTRTT [ harshly ) Woman: it is not for you to question the court: it is for us to question you. COURCELLES

When you were left unchained, did you not try to escape by

jumping from a tower sixty feet high? If you cannot fly like a witch, how is it that you are still alive? JOAN I suppose because the tower was not so high then. It has grown higher everv day since you began asking me questions about it. D’ESTRTT JOAN

flow do you know that I jumped?

D’ESTRTT JOAN

Why did you jump from the tower? You were found lying in the moat. Why did you leave the tower?

Why would anybody leave a prison if they could get out? You tried to escape? Of course I did; and not for the first time either. If you leave the door of

D’ESTRTT JOAN

tlie cage open the bird will fly out. D’ESTRTT [ rising) That is a confession of heresy. I call the attention of the court to it. JOAN Ileresv, he calls it! .An I a heretic because I tnT to escape from prison*

1254

Plays for Further Reading

D’ESTIVET

Scene 6

Assuredly, if you are in the hands of the Church, and you wilfully

take yourself out of its hands, you are deserting the Church; and that is heresy. JOAN

It is great nonsense. Nobody could be such a fool as to think that.

D’ESTIVET

You hear, inv lord, how I am reviled in the execution of my dutv bv

this woman. [He sits down indignantly.] CAUCHON

I have warned you before, Joan,. that you are doing yourself no good

by these pert answers. JOAN

But you will not talk sense to me. I am reasonable if you will be reason¬

able. THE INQUISITOR [ interposing ]

This is not yet in order. You forget, Master

Promoter, that the proceedings have not been formally opened. The time for ques¬ tions is after she has sworn on the Gospels to tell us the whole truth. JOAN

You say this to me every time. I have said again and again that I will tell

you ah that concerns this trial. But I cannot tell you the whole truth: God does not allow the whole truth to be told. You do not understand it when I tell it. It is an old saying that he who tells too much truth is sure to be hanged. I am weary of this argument: we have been over it nine times already. I have sworn as much as I will swear; and I will swear no more. COURCELLES

My lord: she should be put to the torture.

TIIE INQUISITOR

You hear, Joan? That is what happens to the obdurate. Think

before you answer, bias she been shewn the instruments? THE EXECUTIONER JOAN

They are ready, my lord. She has seen them.

If you tear me limb from limb until you separate my soul from my body

you will get nothing out of me beyond what I have told you. What more is there to tell that you could understand? Besides, I cannot bear to be hurt; and if you hurt me I will say anything you* like to stop the pain. But I will take it all back afterwards; so what is the use of it? LADtENU

There is much in that. We should proceed mercifully.

COURCELLES

But the torture is customary.

It must not be applied wantonly. If the accused will confess voluntarily, then its use cannot be justified. THE INQUISITOR COURCELLES

But this is unusual and irregular. She refuses to take the oath.

LADVENU [disgusted j

Do you want to torture the girl for the mere pleasure

of it? COURCELLES [bewildered]

But it is not a pleasure. It is the law. It is custom¬

ary. It is always done. That is not so, Master, except when the inquiries are carried on by people who do not know their legal business. THE INQUISITOR COURCELLES

But the woman is a heretic. I assure you it is always done.

CAUCHON [decisively]

It will not be done today if it is not necessary. Let there

be an end of this. I will not have it said that we proceeded on forced confessions. We have sent our best preachers and doctors to this woman to exhort and implore her to save her soul and body from the fire: we shall not now send the executioner to thrust her into it. Your lordship is merciful, of course. But it is a great responsi¬ bility to depart from the usual practice. COURCELLES

JOAN

Fhou art a rare noodle, Master. 'Do what was done last time is thy rule,

eh? COURCELLES [ rising]

Thou wanton: dost thou dare call me noodle?

Scene 6

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

THE INQUISITOR

1255

Patience, Master, patience: I fear you will soon be only too

terribly avenged. COURCELLES [mutters\ TIIE INQUISITOR

Noodle indeed! [He sits down, much discontented.]

Meanwhile, let us not be moved by the rough side of a shep¬

herd lass’s tongue. JOAN

Nav: I am no shepherd lass, though I have helped with the sheep like

anyone else. I will do a lady’s work in the house—spin or weave—against any woman in Rouen. THE INQUISITOR JOAN

This is not a time for vanity, Joan. You stand in great peril.

I know it: have I not been punished for my vanity? If I had not worn my

cloth of gold surcoat in battle like a fool, that Burgundian soldier would never have pulled me backwards off my horse; and I should not have been here. THE CHAPLAIN

If you are so clever at woman’s work why do you not stay at

home and do it? JOAN

There are plenty of other women to do it; but there is nobody to do my

work. CAUCHON

Come! we are wasting time on trifles. Joan: I am going to put a

most solemn question to you. Take care how you answer; for your life and sal¬ vation are at stake on it. Will you for all you have said and done, be it good or bad, accept the judgment of God’s Church on earth? More especially as to the acts and words that are imputed to you in this trial by the Promoter here, will you submit your case to the inspired interpretation of the Church Militant? JOAN

I am a faithful child of the Church. I will obey the Church—

CAUCHON [ hopefully leaning forward] JOAN

You will?

—-provided it does not command anything impossible.

CAUCHON sinks hack in his chair with a heavy sigh. THE INQUISITOR purses his

lips and frowns. LADVENU shakes his head pitifully. DESTRET

She imputes to the Church the error and folly of commanding the

impossible. JOAN If you command me to declare that all that I have done and said, and all the visions and revelations I have had, were not from God, then that is impossible: I will not declare it for anything in the world. What God made me do I will never go back on; and what He has commanded or shall command I will not fail to do in spite of any man alive. That is what I mean by impossible. And in case the Church should bid me do anything contrary to the command I have from God, I will not consent to it, no matter what it may be. THE ASSESSORS [shocked and indignant]

Oh! 'Hie Church contrary to God!

What do you say now? Flat heresy. This is beyond everything, etc., etc. DESTRET [ throwing down his brief]

My lord: do you need anything more than

this? CAUCHON

Woman: you have said enough to burn ten heretics. Will you not be

warned? Will you not understand? THE INQUISITOR If the Church Militant tells you that your revelations and visions are sent by the devil to tempt you to your damnation, will you not believe that the Church is wiser than you? JOAN I believe that God is wiser than I; and it is I Iis commands that I will do. All the things that you call my crimes have come to me by the command of God.

1256

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 6

I say that I have done them by the order of God: it is impossible for me to say anything else. If any Churchman says the contrary I shall not mind him: I shall mind God alone, whose command I always follow. LADVENU [pleading with her urgently ] You do not know what you are saying, child. Do you want to kill yourself? Listen. Do you not believe that you are subject to th e Church of God on earth? JOAN Yes. When have I ever denied it? LADVENU Good. That means, does it not, that you are subject to our Lord the Pope, to die cardinals, the archbishops, and the bishops for whom his lordship stands here today? JOAN God must be sewed first. v b’ESTIVET Then your voices command you not to submit yourself to the Church Militant? JOAN My voices do not tell me to disobey the Church; but God must be sewed hrst. CAUCHON And you, and not the Church, are to be the judge? JOAN What other judgment can I judge by but my own? THE ASSESSORS \scandalized] Oh! [They cannot find words.] CAUCHON Out of your own mouth you have condemned yourself. We have striven for your salvation to the verge of sinning ourselves: we have opened the door to you again and again; and you have shut it in our faces and in the face of God. Dare you pretend, after what you have said, that you are in a state of grace? JOAN If I am not, may God bring me to it: if I am, may God keep me in it! LADVENU That is a very good reply, my lord. COURCELLES Were you in a state of grace when you stole the Bishop’s horse? CAUCHON [rising in a fury] Oh, devil take the Bishop’s horse and you too! We are here to try a case of heresy; and no sooner do we come to the root of the matter than we are thrown back by idiots who understand nothing but horses. [Trembling with rage, he forces himself to sit down.] THE INQUISITOR Gentlemen, gentlemen: in clinging to these small issues you are The Maid’s best advocates. I am not surprised that his lordship has lost pa¬ tience with you. What does the Promoter say? Does he press these trumpery matters? D’ESTIVET I am bound by my office to press everything; but when the woman confesses a heresy that must bring upon her the doom of excommunication, of what consequence is it that she has been guilty also of offences which expose her to minor penances? I share the impatience of his lordship as to these minor charges. Only, with great respect, I must emphasize the gravity of two very horrible and blasphemous crimes which she does not deny. First, she has intercourse with evil spirits, and is therefore a sorceress. Second, she wears men’s cloffies, which is indecent, unnatural, and abominable; and in spite of our most earnest re¬ monstrances and entreaties, she will not change them even to receive the sacra¬ ment. Is the blessed St Catherine an evil spirit? Is St Margaret? Is Michael the Archangel? JOAN

How do you know that the spirit which appears to you is an archangel? Does he not appear to you as a naked man? JOAN Do you think God cannot afford cloffies for him? COURCELLES

The assessors cannot help smiling, especially as the joke is against COURCELLES.

Scene 6

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

LADlTiNU

1257

Well answered, Joan.

THE INQUISITOR

It is, in effect, well answered. But no evil spirit would be so

simple as to appear to a young girl in a guise that would scandalize her when he meant her to take him for a messenger from the Most High. Joan: the Church instructs you that these apparitions are demons seeking your soul’s perdition. Do you accept the instruction of the Church? JOAN

I accept the messenger of God. How could any faithful believer in the

Church refuse him? CAUCHON

Wretched woman: again I ask you, do you know what you are

saying? THE INQUISITOR

You wrestle in vain with the devil for her soul, my lord: she

will not be saved. Now as to this matter of the man’s dress. For the last time, will you put off that impudent attire, and dress as becomes your sex? JOAN

I will not.

DESTIVET [pouncing ] JOAN [distressed] LAD\DNU

"Hie sin of disobedience, my lord.

But my voices tell me I must dress as a soldier.

Joan, Joan: does not that prove to you that the voices are the voices

of evil spirits? Can you suggest to us one good reason why an angel of God should give you such shameless advice? JOAN Why, yes: what can be plainer commonsense? I was a soldier living among soldiers. I am a prisoner guarded by soldiers. If I were to dress as a woman they would think of me as a woman; and then what would become of me? If I dress as a soldier they think of me as a soldier, and I can live with them as I do at home with my brothers. That is why St Catherine tells me I must not dress as a woman until she gives me leave. COURCELLES JOAN

When will she give you leave?

When you take me out of the hands of the English soldiers. I have told

you that I should be in the hands of the Church, and not left night and day with four soldiers of the Earl of Warwick. Do you want me to live with them in petti¬ coats? LADVENU

My lord: what she says is, God knows, veiy wrong and shocking;

but there is a grain of worldly sense in it such as might impose on a simple village maiden. JOAN

If we were as simple in the village as you are in your courts and palaces,

there would soon be no wheat to make bread for you. CAUCHON

That is the thanks you get for trying to save her, Brother Martin.

LADVENU

Joan: we are all trying to save you. His lordship is trying to save

you. The Inquisitor could not be more just to you if you were his own daughter. But you are blinded by a terrible pride and self-sufficiency. JOAN Why do you say that? I have said nothing wrong. I cannot understand. THE INQUISITOR

The blessed St Athanasius has laid it down in his creed that

those who cannot understand are damned. It is not enough to be simple. It is not enough even to be what simple people call good. The simplicity of a darkened mind is no better than the simplicity of a beast. JOAN There is great wisdom in the simplicity of a beast, let me tell you; and sometimes great foolishness in the wisdom of scholars. LADVENU We know that, Joan: we are not so foolish as you think us. Try to resist the temptation to make pert replies to us. Do you see that man who stands behind you [ he indicates the EXECUTIONER]?

1258

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 6

JOAN [turning and looking at the man]

Your torturer? But the Bishop said I

was not to be tortured. You are not to be tortured because you have confessed everything

LADVENU

that is necessary to your condemnation. That man is not only the torturer: he is also the Executioner. Executioner: let The Maid hear your answers to my ques¬ tions. Are you prepared for the burning of a heretic this day? THE EXECUTIONER

Yes, Master.

Is the stake ready?

LADVENU

THE EXECUTIONER

It is. In the market-place. The English have built it too

high for me to get near her and make the death easier. It will be a cruel death. JOAN [ horrified]

But you are not going to burn nte now?

THE INQUISITOR

You realize it at last.

LADVENU

There are eight hundred English soldiers waiting to take you to the

market-place the moment the sentence of excommunication has passed the bps of your judges. You are within a few short moments of that doom. JOAN [looking round desperately for rescue] LADVENU

Oh God!

Do not despair Joan. The Church is merciful. You can save yourself.

JOAN [hopefully]

Yes: my voices promised me I should not be burnt. St Cath¬

erine bade me be bold. Woman: are you quite mad? Do you not yet see that your voices have deceived you? CAUCIION

Oh no: that is impossible. CAUCHON Impossible! They have led you straight to your excommunication,

JOAN

and to the stake which is there waiting for you. LADVENU [pressing the point hard]

Have they kept a single promise to you

since you were taken at CompRgne? The devil has betrayed you. The Church holds out its arms to you. JOAN [despairing]

Oh, it is true: it is true: my voices have deceived me. I have

been mocked by devils: my faith is broken. I have dared and dared; but only a fool will walk into a hre: God, who gave me my commonsense, cannot will me to do that. LADVENU

Now God be praised that He has saved you at the eleventh hour!

[He hurries to the vacant seat at the scribes’ table, and snatches a sheet of paper, on which he sets to work writing eagerly.] CAUCHON JOAN

What must I do?

CAUCHON JOAN

You must sign a solemn recantation of your heresy.

Sign? That means to write my name. I cannot write.

CAUCHON JOAN

Amen!

You have signed many letters before.

Yes; but someone held my hand and guided the pen. I can make my

mark. THE CHAPLAIN [ who has been listening with growing alarm and indignation]

My

lord: do you mean that you are going to allow this woman to escape us? THE INQUISITOR

"Hie law must take its course, Master de Stogumber. And you

know the law. THE CHAPLAIN [rising, purple with fury]

I know that there is no faith in a

Frenchman. [ Tumult, which he shouts down.] I know what my lord the Cardinal of Winchester will say when he hears of this. I know what the Earl of Warwick will do when he learns that you intend to betray him. Hiere are eight hundred

Scene 6

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1259

men at the gate who will see that this abominable witch is burnt in spite of your teeth. THE ASSESSORS [meanwhile] What is this? What did he say? lie accuses us of treachery! This is past bearing. No faith in a Frenchman! Did you hear that? This is an intolerable fellow. Who is he? Is this what English Churchmen are like? Fie must be mad or drunk, etc., etc. THE INQUISITOR [rising ] Silence, pray! Gentlemen: pray silence! Master Chap¬ lain: bethink you a moment of your holy office: of what you are, and where you are. I direct you to sit down. THE CHAPLAIN [folding his arms doggedly, his face working convulsively]

I

will NOT sit down. CAUCHON Master Inquisitor: this man has called me a traitor to my face be¬ fore now. THE Cl LAP LAIN So you are a traitor. You are all traitors. You have been doing nothing but begging this damnable witch on your knees to recant all through this trial. THE INQUISITOR [placidly resuming his seat] If you will not sit, you must stand: that is all. THE CHAPLAIN I will NOT stand [He flings himself hack into his chair.) LADVENU [rising with the paper in his hand] My lord: here is the form of recantation for The Maid to sign. CAUCHON Read it to her. JOAN Do not trouble. I will sign it. THE INQUISITOR Woman: you must know what you are putting your hand to. Read it to her, Brother Martin. And let all be silent. LADVENU [reading quietly] T, Joan, commonly called "The Maid, a miserable sinner, do confess that I have most grievously sinned in the following articles. 1 have pretended to have revelations from God and the angels and the blessed saints, and perversely rejected the Church’s warnings that these were temptations by demons. I have blasphemed abominably by wearing an immodest dress, contrary to the Holy Scripture and the canons of the Church. Also I have clipped my hair in the style of a man, and, against all the duties which have made my sex specially acceptable in heaven, have taken up the sword, even to the shedding of human blood, inciting men to slay each other, invoking evil spirits to delude them, and stubbornly and most blasphemously imputing diese sins to Almighty God. I con¬ fess to the sin of sedition, to the sin of idolatry, to the sin of disobedience, to the sin of pride, and to the sin of heresy. All of which sins I now renounce and abjure and depart from, humbly thanking you Doctors and Masters who have brought me back to the truth and into the grace of our Lord. And I will never return to my errors, but will remain in communion widi our Holy Church and in obedience to our Holy Father the Pope of Rome. All this I swear by God Almighty and die Holy Gospels, in witness whereto I sign my name to this recantation.’ THE INQUISITOR You understand this, Joan? JOAN [listless] It is plain enough, sir. THE INQUISITOR Mid it is true? JOAN It mav be true. If it were not true, the fire would not be ready for me in die market-place. LADVENU [taking up his pen and a hook, and going to her quickly lest she

should compromise herself again)

Come, child: let me guide your hand. Take

1260

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 6

the pen. [She does so; and they begin to write, using the book as a desk] J.E.H.A.N.E. So. Now make your mark by youself. JOAN [makes her mark, and gives him back the pen, tormented by the rebellion

of her soul against her mind and body ]

There!

LADVENU [replacing the pen on the table, and handing the recantation to CAU-

Praise be to God, my brothers, the lamb has returned to the flock; and the shepherd rejoices in her more than in ninety and nine just persons. [He returns to his seat.] THE INQUISITOR [ taking the paper from CAUCHON] We declare thee by this act set free from the danger of excommunication in which thou stoodest. [He throws CHON with a reverence]

the paper down to the table.] JOAN

I thank you.

But because thou has sinned most presumptuously against God and the Holy Church, and that thou mayst repent thy errors in solitary con¬ templation, and be shielded from all temptation to return to them, we, for the good of thy sotd, and for a penance that may wipe out thy sins and bring thee finally unspotted to the throne of grace, do condemn thee to eat the bread of sorrow and drink the water of affliction to the end of thy earthly days in perpetual imprison¬ ment. JOAN [rising in consternation and terrible anger] Perpetual imprisonment! Am I not then to be set free? LAUVENU [mildly shocked] Set free, child, after such wickedness as yours! What are you dreaming of? JOAN Give me that writing. [She rushes to the table; snatches up the paper; and tears it into fragments.] Light your fire: do you think I dread it as much as the life of a rat in a hole? My voices were right. LADVENU Joan! Joan! JOAN Yes: they told me you were fools [the word gives great offence], and that I was not to listen to your fine words nor trust your charity. You promised me my life; but you lied [indignant exclamations]. You think that life is nothing but not being stone dead. It is not the bread and water I fear: I can live on bread: when have I asked for more? It is no hardship to drink water if the water be clean. Bread has no sorrow for me, and water no affliction. But to shut me from the light of the sky and the sight of the fields and flowers; to chain my feet so that I can never again ride with the soldiers nor climb the hills; to make me breathe foul damp darkness, and keep from me everything that brings me back to the love of God when your wickedness and foolishness tempt me to hate Him: all this is worse than the furnace in the Bible that was heated seven times. I could do without my warhorse; I could drag about in a skirt; I could let die banners and the trumpets and the knights and soldiers pass me and leave me behind as they leave the odier women, if only I could still hear the wind in the trees, die larks in the sunshine, die young lambs crying through the healdiy frost, and die blessed blessed church bells that send my angel voices floating to me on the wind. But without these things I cannot live; and by your wanting to take them away from me, or from any human creature, I know that your counsel is of the devil, and that mine is of God. THE ASSESSORS [in great commotion ) Blasphemy! blasphemy! She is pos¬ sessed. She said our counsel was of die devil. And hers of God. Monstrous! The devil is in our midst, etc., etc. THE INQUISITOR

D’ESTIVET [shouting above the din]

She is a relapsed heretic, obstinate, in-

Scene 6

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1261

corrigible, and altogether unworthy of the mercy we have shewn her. I call for her excommunication. THE CHAPLAIN [to the EXECUTIONER]

Light your fire, man. To the stake with

her. The EXECUTIONER and his assistants hurry out through the courtyard. LADVENU

You wicked girl: if your counsel were of God would He not deliver

you? JOAN

Ilis ways are not your ways. lie wills that I go through the fire to Ilis

bosom; for I am Ilis child, and you are not fit that I should live among you. That is my last word to you. The soldiers seize her. CAUCHON [ rising]

Not yet.

They wait. There is a dead silence. CAUCHON turns to the INQUISITOR with an inquiring look. The INQUISITOR nods affirmatively. They rise solemnly, and intone the sentence antiphonally. CAUCHON

We decree that thou art a relapsed heretic.

THE INQUISITOR CAUCHON

Sundered from her body.

THE INQUISITOR CAUCHON

Infected with the leprosy of heresy.

A member of Satan.

THE INQUISITOR CAUCHON

Cast out from the unity of the Church.

We declare that thou must be excommunicate.

And now we do cast thee out, segregate thee, and abandon thee to

the secular power. TIIE INQUISITOR

Admonishing the same secular power that it moderate its

judgment of thee in respect of death and division of the limbs. [He resumes his seat.} CAUCHON

And if any true sign of penitence appear in thee, to permit our

Brother Martin to administer to thee the sacrament of penance. THE CHAPLAIN

Into the fire with the witch [he rushes at her, and helps the

soldiers to push her out]. JOAN is taken away through the courtyard. The assessors rise in disorder, and

follow the soldiers, except LADVENU, who has hidden his face in his hands. CAUCHON [rising again in the the act of sitting down]

No, no: this is irregular.

The representative of the secular arm should be here to receive her from us. THE INQUISITOR [also on his feet again]

That man is an incorrigible fool.

CAUCHON

Brother Martin: see that everything is done in order.

LADVENU

My place is at her side, my Lord. You must exercise your own au¬

thority. [He hurries out.] CAUCHON These English are impossible: they will thrust her straight into the fire. Look!

1262

Plays for Further Reading

Scene 6

He points to the courtyard, in which the glow and flicker of fire can now be seen reddening the May daylight. Only the BISHOP and the INQUISITOR are left in the court. CAUCHON [turning to go]

We must stop that.

THE INQUISITOR [ calmly ]

Yes; but not too fast, my lord.

CAUCHON [ halting] THE INQUISITOR

But there is not a moment to lose.

We have proceeded in perfect order. If the English choose to

put themselves in the wrong, it is not our business to put them in the right. A flaw in the procedure may be useful later on: one never knows. And the sooner it is over, the better for that poor girl. CAUCHON [relaxing]

That is true. But I suppose we must see this dreadful

thing through. THE INQUISITOR

One gets used to it. Habit is everything. I am accustomed to

the fire: it is soon over. But it is a terrible thing to see a young and innocent creature crushed between these mighty forces, the Church and the Law. CAUCHON You call her innocent! THE INQUISITOR

Oh, quite innocent. What does she know of the Church and

the Law? She did not understand a word we were saying. It is the ignorant who suffer. Come, or we shall be late for the end. CAUCHON [going with him]

I shall not be sorry if we are: I am not so accus¬

tomed as you. They are going out when WARWICK comes in, meeting them. WARWICK

Oh, I am intruding? I thought it was all over. [He makes a feint of

retiring. ] CAUCHON

Do not go, my lord. It is all over.

THE INQUISITOR

The execution is not in our hands, my lord; but it is desirable

that we should witness the end. So by your leave -{He bows, and goes out through the courtyard.] There is some doubt whether your people have observed the forms of law, my lord. CAUCHON

I am told that there is some doubt whether your authoritv runs in this city, my lord. It is not in your diocese. However, if you will answer for that I will answer for the rest. WARWICK

CAUCHON WARWICK

It is to God diat we both must answer. Good morning, my lord. My lord: good morning.

They look at one another for a moment with unconcealed hostility. Then CAUCHON follows the INQUISITOR out. WARWICK looks round. Finding himself alone, he calls for attendance. WARWICK

Hallo: some attendance here! [Silence] Hallo, there! [Silence] Hallo!

Brian, you young blackguard, where are you? [Silence] Guard! [Silence] They have all gone to see the burning: even that child. The silence is broken by someone frantically howling and sobbing. WARWICK

What in die devil’s name—?vv

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Scene 6

1263

THE CHAPLAIN staggers in from the courtyard like a demented creature, his face

streaming with tears, making the piteous sounds that WARWICK has heard. He stumbles to the prisoner’s stool, and throws himself upon it with heartrending sobs. WARWICK [going to him and patting him on the shoulder\

What is it, Master

John? What is the matter? THE CHAPLAIN [clutching at his hand)

My lord, my lord: for Christ’s sake pray

for my wretched guilty soul. Yes, yes: of course I will. Calmly, gently— THE CHAPLAIN [ blubbering miserably) I am not a bad man, my lord. WARWICK No, no: not at all. WARWICK [soothing him)

THE CHAPLAIN

I meant no harm. I did not know what it would be like.

WARWICK [ hardening ]

Oh! You saw it, then? THE CHAPLAIN I did not know what I was doing. I am a hotheaded fool; and I shall be damned to all eternity for it. WARWICK Nonsense! Very distressing, no doubt; but it was not your doing. THE CHAPLAIN [lamentably) I let them do it. If I had known, I would have tom her from their hands. You dont know: you havnt seen: it is so easy to talk when you dont know. You madden yourself with words: you damn yourself be¬ cause it feels grand to throw oil on the flaming hell of your own temper. But when it is brought home to you; when you see the thing you have done; when it is blinding your eyes, stifling your nostrils, tearing your heart, then—then—[Falling on his knees) O God, take away this sight from me! O Christ, deliver me from this hre that is consuming me! She cried to Thee in the midst of it: Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! She is in Thy bosom; and I am in hell for evermore. WARWICK [summarily hauling him to his feet] Come come, man! you must pull yourself together. We shall have the whole town talking of this. [He throws him not too gently into a chair at the table.) If you have not the nerve to see diese things, why do you not do as I do, and stay away? THE CHAPLAIN [bewildered and submissive) She asked for a cross. A soldier gave her two sticks tied together. Thank God he was an Englishman! I might have done it; but I did not: I am a coward, a mad dog, a fool. But he was an English¬ man too. The fool! they will bum him too if the priests get hold of him. THE CHAPLAIN [shaken with a convulsion) Some of the people laughed at her. They would have laughed at Christ. They were French people, my lord: I know WARWICK

they were French. WARWICK Hush! someone is coming. Control yourself. LADVENU comes back through the courtyard to WARWICK’S right hand, carrying

a bishop’s cross which he has taken from a church. He is very grave and composed.

I am informed that it is all over, Brother Martin. LADVENU [enigmatically) We do not know, my lord. It may have only just

WARWICK

begun. What does that mean, exactly? LAIJVLNU I took diis cross from the church for her that she might see it to the last: she had only two sticks that she put into her bosom. When the fire crept round us, and she saw that if I held the cross before her I should be burnt myself, WARWICK

1264

Plays for Further Reading

Epilogue

she warned me to get down and save myself. My lord: a girl who could think of another’s danger in such a moment was not inspired by the devil. When I had to snatch the cross from her sight, she looked up to heaven. And I do not believe that die heavens were empty. I firmly believe that her Savior appeared to her then in His tenderest glory. She called to Him and died, "this is not the end for her, but die beginning. WARWICK I am afraid it will have a bad effect on the people. LADVENU It had, my lord, on some of them. I heard laughter. Forgive me for saying that I hope and believe it was English laughter. THE CHAPLAIN [ rising frantically] No: it was not. There was only one Eng¬ lishman there that disgraced his country; and that was the mad dog, de Stogumber. [He rushes wildly out, shrieking.] Let them torture him. Let them bum him. I will go pray among her ashes. I am no better than Judas: 1 will hang myself. WARWICK Quick, Brother Martin: follow him: he will do himself some mis¬ chief. After him, quick. LADVENU hurries out, WARWICK urging him. The EXECUTIONER comes in by the

door behind the judges’ chairs; and WARWICK, returning, finds himself face to face with him.

Well, fellow: who are you? THE EXECUTIONER [with dignity] I am not addressed as fellow, my lord. I am the Master Executioner of Rouen: it is a highly skilled mystery. I am come to tell your lordship that your orders have been obeyed. WARWICK I crave you pardon, Master Executioner; and I will see that you lose nothing by having no relics to sell. I have your word, have I, that nothing remains, not a bone, not a nail, not a hair? WARWICK

Her heart would not bum, my lord; but everything that was left is at the bottom of the river. Yon have heard the last of her. WARWICK [ with a wry smile, thinking of what LADVENU said] Hie last of her? THE EXECUTIONER

Hm! I wonder!

Epilogue A restless fitfully windy night in June 1456, full of summer lightning after many days of heat. KING CHARLES THE SEVENTH of France, formerly Joans Dauphin, now Charles the Victorious, aged 51, is in bed in one of his royal chateaux. The bed, raised on a dais of two steps, is towards the side of the room so as to avoid blocking a tall lancet window in the middle. Its canopy bears the royal arms in embroidery. Except for the canopy and the huge pillows there is nothing to distin¬ guish it from a broad settee with bed-clothes and a valance. Thus its occupant is in full view from the foot. CHARLES is not asleep: he is reading in bed, or rather looking at the pictures

in Fouquet s Boccaccio with his knees doubled up to make a reading desk. Beside the bed on his left is a little table with a picture of the Virgin, lighted by candles of painted wax. The walls are hung from ceiling to floor with painted curtains which stir at times in the draughts. At first glance the prevailing yellow and red in these hanging pictures is somewhat flamelike when the folds breathe in the wind. The door is on CHARLES’S left, but in front of him close to the corner farthest

Epilogue

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1265

from him. A large watchman s rattle, handsomely designed and gaily painted, is in the bed under his hand. CHARLES turns a leaf. A distant clock strikes the half-hour softly. CHARLES shuts the book with a clap; throws it aside; snatches up the rattle; and whirls it energetically, making a deafening clatter. LADVENU enters, 25 years older, strange and stark in bearing, and still carrying the cross from Rouen. CHARLES evidently does not expect him; for he springs out of bed on the farther side from the door. CHARLES

Who are you? Where is my gentleman of the bedchamber? What do

you want? LADARNU [solemnly ]

I bring you glad tidings of great joy. Rejoice, O Icing; for the taint is removed from your blood, and the stain from your crown. Justice, long delayed, is at last triumphant. CHARLES What are you talking about? Who are you? LADARNU I am Brother Martin. CHARLES And who, saving your reverence, may Brother Martin be? LADVENU I held this cross when The Maid perished in the fire. Twenty-five years have passed since then: nearly ten thousand days. And on every one of those davs I have praved God to justify His daughter on earth as she is justified in heaven. CHARLES [ reassured, sitting down on the foot of the bed] Oh, I remember now. I have heard of you. You have a bee in your bonnet about The Maid. Have you been at the inquiry? LADVENU

I have given my testimony.

CHARLES

Is it over? It is over. Satisfactorily? The ways of God are very strange.

LADVENU CHARLES LADARNU

How so? LADARNU At the trial which sent a saint to die stake as a heretic and a sor¬ ceress, the truth was told; the law was upheld; mercy was shewn beyond all custom; no wrong was done but the final and dreadful wrong of the lying sentence and the pitiless fire. At this inquiry from which I have just come, there was shame¬ less peijurv, courtly corruption, calumny of the dead who did their duty according to their fights, cowardly evasion of die issue, testimony made of idle tales that could not impose on a ploughbov. Yet out of this insult to justice, this defamation of the Church, this orgy of lying and foolishness, the truth is set in the noonday sun on the hilltop; die white robe of innocence is cleansed from the smirch of the burning faggots; die holy fife is sanctified; die true heart that lived through the flame is consecrated; a great fie is silenced for ever; and a great wrong is set right CILARLES

before all men. CHARLES My friend: provided they can no longer say that I was crowned by a witch and a heretic, I shall not fuss about how die trick has been done. Joan would not have fussed about it if it came all right in the end: she was not that sort: I knew her. Is her rehabilitation complete? I made it pretty clear dial there was to be no nonsense about it. LADARNU It is solemnly declared that her judges were full of corruption, coz¬ enage, fraud, and malice. Four falsehoods. CHARLES Never mind the falsehoods: her judges are dead.

1266

Plays for Further Reading

Epilogue

The sentence on her is broken, annulled, annihilated, set aside as non-existent, without value or effect. CHARLES Good. Nobody can challenge my consecration now, can they? LADVENU Not Charlemagne nor King David himself was more sacredly crowned. CHARLES [rising] Excellent. Think of what that means to me! LADVENU I think of what it means to her! CHARLES You cannot. None of us ever knew what anything meant to her. She was like nobody else; and she must take care of herself wherever she is; for I cannot take care of her; and neither can you, whatever you may think: you are not big enough. But I will tell you this about her. If you could bring her back to life, they would bum her again within six months, fob all their present adoration of her. And you would hold up the cross, too, just die same. So [ Crossing himself] let her rest; and let you and I mind our own business, and not meddle with hers. LADVENU God forbid that I should have no share in her, nor she in me! [He turns and strides out as he came, saying] Henceforth my path will not lie through palaces, nor my conversation be with kings. CHARLES [following him towards the door, and shouting after him] Much good may it do you, holy man! [He returns to the middle of the chamber, where he halts, and says quizzically to himself] That was a funny chap. How did he get in? Where are my people? [He goes impatiently to the bed, and swings the rattle. LADVENU

A rush of wind through the open door sets the walls swaying agitatedly. The candles go out. He calls in the darkness] Hallo! Someone come and shut the

windows: everything is being blown all over the place. [A flash of summer light¬ ning shews up the lancet window. A figure is seen in silhouette against it.] Who is there? Who is that? Help! Murder! [Thunder. He jumps into bed, and hides under the clothes.]

Easy, Charlie, easy. What art making all that noise for? No one can hear thee. Thourt asleep. [ She is dimly seen in a pallid greenish light by the JOAN’S VOICE

bedside. ]

Joan! Are you a ghost, Joan? JOAN Hardly even that, lad. Can a poor bumt-up lass have a ghost? I am but a dream that thourt dreaming. [ The light increases: they become plainly visible as he sits up. ] Thou looks older, lad. CHARLES I am older. Am I really asleep? JOAN Fallen asleep over thy silly book. CHARLES That’s funny. JOAN Not so funny as that I am dead, is it? CHARLES Are you really dead? JOAN As dead as anybody ever is, laddie. I am out of the body. CHARLES Just fancy! Did it hurt much? JOAN Did what hurt much? CHARLES Being burnt. CHARLES [peeping out]

Oh, that! I cannot remember very well. I think it did at first; but then it all got mixed up; and I was not in my right mind until I was free of the body. But do not thou go handling fire and thinking it will not hurt thee. How hast been ever since? JOAN

Oh, not so bad. Do you know, I actually lead my armv out and win battles? Down into the moat up to my waist in mud and blood. Up the ladders with the stones and hot pitch raining down. Like you. JOAN No! Did I make a man of thee after all, Charlie? CHARLES

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Epilogue

1267

I am Charles the Victorious now. I had to be brave because you were. Agnes put a little pluck into me too. JOAN Agnes! Who was Agnes? CILALH.ES Agnes Sorel. A woman I fell in love with. I dream of her often. I never dreamed of you before. JOAN Is she dead, like me? CILARLES. Yes. But she was not like you. She was very beautiful. JOAN [laughing heartily ] Ha Ha! I was no beauty: I was always a rough one: a regular soldier. I might almost as well have been a man. Pity I wasnt: I should not have bothered you all so much then. But my head was in the sides; and the glorv of God was upon me; and, man or woman, I should have bothered you as long as your noses were in the mud. Now tell me what has happened since you wise men knew no better than to make a heap of cinders of me? CILARI.ES Your mother and brothers have sued the courts to have your case tried over again. And die courts have declared that your judges were full of cor¬ ruption and cozenage, fraud and malice. JOAN Not diey. They were as honest a lot of poor fools as ever burned their CHARLES

betters. The sentence on you is broken, annihilated, annulled: null, non¬ existent, without value or effect. JOAN I was burned, all the same. Can diey unbum me? CILARLES If diey could, they would think twice before diev did it. But they have decreed that a beautiful cross be placed where the stake stood, for your perpetual memory and for your salvation. JOAN It is the memory and the salvation diat sanctify the cross, not the cross that sanctifies the memory and the salvation. [She turns away, forgetting him.] I shall outlast that cross. I shall be remembered when men will have forgotten CHARLES

where Rouen stood. CHARLES Hiere you go with your self-conceit, the same as ever! I think you might say a word of thanks to me for having had justice done at last. CAUCHON [appearing at the window between them ] Liar! Thank you. Whv, if it isnt Peter Cauchon! How are you, Peter? What luck have you

CHARLES JOAN

had since you burned me? CAUCHON None. I arraign the justice of Man. It is not the justice of God. JOAN Still dreaming of justice, Peter? See what justice came to with me! But what has happened to tiiee? Art dead or alive? CAUCHON Dead. Dishonored. They pursued me beyond the grave. They ex¬ communicated my dead body: they dug it up and flung it into the common sewer. JOAN Your dead body did not feel the spade and the sewer as my live body felt the fire. But this thing that they have done against me hurts justice; destroys faith; saps the foundation of the Church. The solid earth sways like the treacherous sea beneath the feet of men and spirits alike when the innocent are slain in the name of law, and their wrongs are undone by slandering the pure of heart. JOAN Well, well, Peter, I hope men will be the better for remembering me; and they would not remember me so well if you had not burned me. CAUCHON They will be the worse for remembering me: they will see in me evil triumphing over good, falsehood over truth, cruelty over mercy, hell over heaven. Their courage will rise as they think of you, only to faint as they think of me. Yet CAUCHON

1268

Plays for Further Reading

Epilogue

God is my witness I was just: 1 was merciful: I was faithful to my light: I could do no other than I did. CHARLES [ scrambling out of the sheets and enthroning himself on the side of the bed] Yes: it is always you good men that do the big mischiefs. Look at me! I am not Charles the Good, nor Charles the -Wise, nor Charles the Bold. Joan’s worshippers may even call me Charles the Coward because I did not pull her out of the fire. But I have done less harm than any of you. You people with your heads in die sky spend all your time trying to turn the world upside down; but I take the world as it is, and say that top-side-up is right-side-up; and I keep my nose pretty close to the ground. And I ask you, what Icing of France has done better, or been a better fellow in his little way? JOAN Art really king of France, Charlie? Be the English gone? DUNOIS [coming through the tapestry on JOAN’S left, the candles relighting

themselves at the same moment, and illuminating his armor and surcoat cheer¬ fully] 1 have kept my word: the English are gone.

Praised be God! now is fair France a province in heaven. Tell me all about the fighting, Jack. Was it diou that led them? Wert diou God’s captain to thy death? JOAN

I am not dead. My body is very comfortably asleep in my bed at Chateaudun; but my spirit is called here by yours. JOAN And you fought them my way, Jack: eh? Not the old way, chaffering for ransoms; but The Maid’s way: staking life against death, with the heart high and humble and void of malice, and nothing counting under God but France free and French. Was it my way, Jack? DUNOIS Faith, it was anyway that would win. But the way that won was always your way. I give you best, lassie. I wrote a fine letter to set you right at the new trial. Perhaps I should never have let die priests burn you; but I was busy fighting; and it was the Church’s business, not mine. There was no use in both of us being burned, was there? DLINOIS

Ay! put the blame on the priests. But I, who am beyond praise and blame, tell you that the world is saved neither by its priests nor its soldiers, but by God and His Saints. The Church Militant sent this woman to the fire; but even as she burned, the flames whitened into the radiance of the Church Triumphant. CAUCHON

The clock strikes the third quarter. A rough male voice is heard trolling an im¬ provised tune. alia marcia

molto cantablle

Rum turn trumpledum, Bacon fat and rumpledum, Old Saint mumpledum, Pull his tail and stumpledum O my Ma—ry Ann!

A ruffianly English soldier comes through the curtains and marches between DUNOIS and JOAN.

a

Epilogue

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

1269

What villainous troubadour taught you that doggrel? THE SOLDIER No troubadour. We made it up ourselves as we marched. We were not gentlefolks and troubadours. Music straight out of the heart of the people, as you might say. Rum turn trumpledum, Bacon fat and rumpledum, Old Saint mumpledum, Pull his tail and stumpledum: that dont mean anything, you know; but it keeps you marching. Your servant, ladies and gentlemen. Who asked for a saint? JO AX Be you a saint? THE SOLDIER Yes, lady, straight from hell. DUNOIS A saint, and from hell! THE SOLDIER Yes, noble captain: I have a day off. Every year, you know. Tliats my allowance for my one good action. - CAUCHON Wretch! In all the years of your life did you do only one good action? THE SOLDIER I never thought about it: it came natural like. But they scored it up for me. CILARI.ES What was it? THE SOLDIER Why, the silliest thing you ever heard of. I— DUNOIS

JOAN [ interrupting him hy strolling across to the bed, where she sits beside CILAREES]

lie tied two sticks together, and gave them to a poor lass that was

going to be burned.

Right. Who told you that? JOAN Never mind. Would you know her if you saw her again? THE SOLDIER Not I. There are so many girls! and they all expect you to re¬ member them as if there was only one in the world. This one must have been a prime sort; for I have a day off every year for her; and so, until twelve o’clock punctually, I am a saint, at your service, noble lords and lovely ladies. CHARLES And after twelve? THE SOLDIER After twelve, back to the only place fit for the likes of me. JOAN [ rising] Back there! You! that gave the lass the cross! THE SOLDIER [excusing his unsoldierly conduct] Well, she asked for it; and diev were going to bum her. She had as good a right to a cross as they had; and they had dozens of them. It was her funeral, not theirs. Where was the harm in THE SOLDIER

it?* JOAN

Man: I am not reproaching you. But I cannot bear to think of you in

torment. THE SOLDIER [ cheerfully ]

No great torment, lady. You see I was used to worse. CHARLES What! worse than hell? THE SOLDIER Fifteen years’ service in the French wars. Hell was a treat after that. JOAN throws up her arms, and takes refuge from, despair of humanity before the

picture of the Virgin. THE SOLDIER [ continuing}

—Suits me somehow. The day off was dull at first, like a wet Sunday. I dont mind it so much now. They tell me I can have as many as I like as soon as I want them. CHARLES What is hell like? THE SOLDIER You wont find it so bad, sir. Jolly. Like as if you were always drunk without the trouble and expense of drinking. Tip top company too: emperors and popes and kings and all sorts. They chip me about giving that young judy the

1270

Plays for Further Reading

Epilogue

cross; but I dont care: I stand up to them proper, and tell them that if she hadnt a better right to it than they, she’d be where they are. That dumbfounds them, drat does. All they can do is gnash their teeth, hell fashion; and I just laugh, and go off singing the old chanty: Rum turn trample—Hullo! Who’s that knocking at the door? They listen. A long gentle knocking is heard. CHARLES

Come in.

The door opens; and an old priest, white-haired, bent, with a silly hut benevolent smile, comes in and trots over to JOAN.

Excuse me, gentle lords and ladies. Do not let me disturb you. Only a poor old harmless English rector. Formerly chaplain to the cardinal: to my lord of Winchester. John de Stogumber, at your sendee. [He looks at them inquiringly.] Did you say anything? I am a little deaf, unfortunately. Also a little— well, not always in my right mind, perhaps; but still, it is a small village with a few simple people. I suffice: I suffice: they love me there; and I am able to do a litde good. I am well connected, you see; and they indulge me. JOAN Poor old John! What brought thee to this state? DE STOGUMBER I tell my folks they must be very careful. I say to them, ‘If you only saw what you think about you would think quite differently about it. It would give you a great shock. Oh, a great shock.’ And they all say ‘Yes, parson: we all know you are a land man, and would not harm a fly. ’ That is a great comfort to me. For I am not cruel by nature, you know. TILE SOLDIER Who said you were? TILE NEWCOMER

Well, you see, I did a very cruel thing once because I did not know what cruelty was like. I had not seen it, you know. That is the great thing: you must see it. And then you are redeemed and saved. CAUCHON Were not the sufferings of our Eord Christ enough for you? DE STOGUMBER No. Oh no: not at all. I had seen them in pictures, and read of them in books, and been greatly moved by them, as I thought. But it was no use: it was not our Eord that redeemed me, but a young woman whom I saw actually burned to death. It was dreadful: oh, most dreadful. But it saved me. I have been a different man ever since, though a little astray in my wits sometimes. CAUCHON Must then a Christ perish in torment in every age to save those that have no imagination? DE STOGUMBER

Well, if I saved all those he would have been cruel to if he had not been cruel to me, I was not burnt for nothing, was I? JOAN

Oh no; it was not you. My sight is bad: I cannot distinguish your features: but you are not she: oh no: she was burned to a cinder: dead and gone, dead and gone. DE STOGUMBER

THE EXECUTIONER [ stepping from behind the bed curtains on CHARLES’S right,

She is more alive than you, old man. Her heart would not burn; and it would not drown. I was a master at my craft: better than the master of Paris, better than the master of Toulouse; but I could not kill The Maid. She is up and alive everywhere. the bed being between them]

THE EARL OF WARWICK [sallying from the bed curtains on the other side, and

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Epilogue

1271

Madam: my congratulations on your rehabilitation. I feel that I owe you an apology. JOAN Oh, please dont mention it. WARWICK [pleasantly ] The burning was purely political. There was no personal feeling against you, 1 assure you. coming to JOAN’S left hand]

JOAN

I bear no malice, my lord.

Just so. Very kind of you to meet me in that way: a touch of true breeding. But I must insist on apologizing very amply. The truth is, these political necessities sometimes turn out to be political mistakes; and this one was a veri¬ table howler; for your spirit conquered us, madam, in spite of our faggots. I Iistory will remember me for your sake, though the incidents of the connection were perhaps a little unfortunate. JOAN Ay, perhaps just a little, you funny man. WARWICK Still, when they make you a saint, you will owe your halo to me, just as this lucky monarch owes his crown to you. JOAN [ turning from him] I shall owe nothing to any man: I owe everything to the spirit of God that was within me. But fancy me a saint! What would St Cath¬ erine and St Margaret say if the farm girl was cocked up beside them! WARWICK

A clerical-looking gentleman in black frockcoat and trousers, and tall hat, in the fashion of the year 1920, suddenly appears before them in the corner on their right. They all stare at him. Then they burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Why this mirth, gentlemen? I congratulate you on having invented a most extraordinarily comic

THE GENTLEMAN WARWICK

dress. THE GENTLEMAN

I do not understand. You are all in fancy dress: I am properly

dressed. All dress is fancy dress, is it not, except our natural skins? THE GENTLEMAN Pardon me: I am here on serious business, and cannot en¬ gage in frivolous discussions. [He takes out a paper, and assumes a dry official manner. ] I am sent to announce to you that Joan of Arc, formerly known as the Maid, having been the subject of an inquiry instituted by the Bishop of Orleans— JOAN [interrupting ] Ah! They remember me still in Orleans. THE GENTLEMAN [ emphatically, to mark his indignation at the interruption] — by the Bishop of Orleans into the claim of the said Joan of Arc to be canonized as DUNOIS

a saint— JOAN [ again interrupting ]

But I never made any such claim. THE GENTLEMAN [as before] —the Church has examined the claim exhaus¬ tively in the usual course, and, having admitted the said Joan successively to the ranks of Venerable and Blessed,— JOAN [chuckling] Me venerable! THE GENTLEMAN —has finally declared her to have been endowed with heroic virtues and favored with private revelations, and calls the said Venerable and Blessed Joan to the communion of the Church Triumphant as Saint Joan. JOAN [ rapt]

Saint Joan! THE GENTLEMAN On every thirtieth day of May, being the anniversary of the death of the said most blessed daughter of God, there shall be in every Catholic church to the end of time be celebrated a special office in commemoration of her;

1272

Plays for Further Reading

Epilogue

and it shall be lawful to dedicate a special chapel to her, arid to place her image on its altar in every such church. And it shall be lawful and laudable for the faithful to kneel and address their prayers through her to the Mercy Seat. JOAN Oh no. It is for the saint to kneel. [She falls on her knees, still rapt.] THE GENTLEMAN [putting up his paper, and retiring beside the EXECU¬ TIONER] In Basilica Yaticana, the sixteenth day of May, nineteen hundred and twenty. DUNOIS [ raising JOAN ]

Hall' an hour to bum you, dear Saint: and four cen¬ turies to rind out the truth about vou! DE STOGUMBER Sir: I was chaplain to the Cardinal of Winchester once. They always would call him the Cardinal of England. It Would be a great comfort to me and to my master to see a fair statue to The Maid in Winchester Cathedral. Will they put one there, do you think? j

As the building is temporarily in the hands of the Anglican heresy, I cannot answer for that. THE GENTLEMAN

A vision of the statue in Winchester Cathedral is seen through the window. Oh look! look! that is Winchester. Is that meant to be me? I was stiffer on my feet.

DE STOGUMBER JOAN

The vision fades. I have been requested by the temporal authorities of France to mention that the multiplication of public statues to The Maid threatens to become an obstruction to traffic. I do so as a matter of courtesy to the said audiorities, but must, point out on behalf of the Church that The Maid’s horse is no greater obstruction to traffic than any other horse. JOAN Eh! I am glad they have not forgotten my horse. THE GENTLEMAN

A vision of the statue before Rheims Cathedral appears. JOAN

Is that funny little thing me too?

CHARLES

That is Rheims Cathedral where you had me crowned. It must be

you. Who has broken my sword? My sword was never broken. It is the sword of France. JOAN

Never mind. Swords can be mended. Your soul is unbroken; and you are the soul of France. DUNOIS

The vision fades. The ARCHBISHOP and the INQUISITOR are now seen on the right and left of CAUCHON. My sword shall conquer yet: the sword that never struck a blow. Though men destroyed my body, yet in my soul I have seen God. CAUCHON [kneeling to her] The girls in the field praise thee; for thou hast raised their eyes; and they see that thereds nothing between them and heaven. DUNOIS [ kneeling to her] The dying soldiers praise thee, because thou art a shield of glory between diem and the judgment JOAN

George Bernard Shaw • Saint Joan

Epilogue

THE ARCHBISHOP [ kneeling to her]

1273

The princes of the Church praise thee,

because thou hast redeemed the faith their worldlinesses have dragged through the mire. WARWICK [kneeling to her]

The cunning counsellors praise thee, because thou

hast cut the knots in which they have tied their own souls. DE STOGUMBER [kneeling to her] The foolish old men on their deathbeds praise thee, because their sins against thee are turned into blessings. THE INQUISITOR [ kneeling to her ]

The judges in the blindness and bondage of

the law praise thee, because thou hast vindicated the vision and the freedom ol the living soul. THE SOLDIER [kneeling to her]

Idle wicked out of hell praise thee, because

thou hast shewn them that the fire that is not quenched is a holy fire. THE EXECUTIONER [kneeling to her] The tormentors and executioners praise thee, because thou hast shewn that their hands are guiltless of the deadi of the soul. CHARLES [kneeling to her]

The unpretending praise thee, because thou hast

taken upon thvself the heroic burdens that are too heavy for them. JOAN Woe unto me when all men praise me! I bid you remember that I am a saint, and that saints can work miracles. And now tell me: shall I rise from the dead, and come back to you a living woman? A sudden darkness blots out the walls of the room as they all spring to their feet in consternation. Only the figures and the bed remain visible. What! Must I burn again? Are none of you ready to receive me? CAUCHON The heretic is always better dead. And mortal eyes cannot distin¬

JOAN

guish the saint from the heretic. Spare them. [He goes out as he came. ] DLTNOIS Forgive us, Joan: we are not yet good enough for you. I shall go back to my bed. [He also goes. ] WARWICK We sincerely regret our little mistake; but political necessities, though occasionally erroneous, are still imperative; so if you will be good enough to excuse me—[He steals discreetly away.] THE ARCHBISHOP Your return would not make me the man you once thought me. The utmost I can say is that though I dare not bless you, I hope I may one day enter into your blessedness. Meanwhile, however—[He goes.] PUP INQUISITOR I who am of the dead, testified that day that you were inno¬ cent. But I do not see how The Inquisition could possibly be dispensed with under existing circumstances. Therefore—[He goes.] DE STOGUMBER Oh, do not come back: you must not come back. I must die in peace. Give us peace in our time, O Lord! [He goes. ] THE GENTLEMAN Idle possibility of your resurrection was not contemplated in the recent proceedings for your canonization. I must return to koine loi ficsli instructions. [He bows formally, and withdraws.] THE EXECUTIONER As a master in my profession I have to consider its inter¬ ests. And, after all, my first duty is to my wife and children. I must have time to think over this. [He goes. ] CHARLES Poor old Joan! Fhev have all run away from you except this black¬ guard who has to go back to hell at twelve o’clock. And what can I do but follow Jack Dunois’ example, and go back to bed too? [He does so.]

1274

Plays for Further Reading

JOAN [sadly]

Epilogue

Goodnight, Charlie.

CHARLES [ mumbling in his pillows]

Goo ni. [He sleeps. The darkness envelops

the bed.] JOAN [to the soldier]

And you, my one faithful? What comfort have vou for

Saint Joan? Well, what do they all amount to, these kings and captains and bishops and lawyers and such like? They just leave you in the ditch to bleed to death; and the next thing is, you meet them down there, for all the airs they give themselves. What I say is, you have as good a right to your notions as they have to theirs, and perhaps better. [Settling himself for a lecture on the subject] You see, its like this, if—[the first stroke of midnight is heard softly from a distant bell.] Excuse me: a pressing appointment—[He goes on tiptoe.] THE SOLDIERS

The last remaining rays of light gather into a white radiance descending on JOAN. The hour continues to strike.

O God that madest this beautiful earth, when will it be ready to receive Thy saints? How long, O Lord, how long? JOAN

William Butler Yeats and The Cat and the Moon William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was a great poet and a leader of the Irish literary renaissance who co-founded the Abbey Theatre in Dublin with the play¬ wright Lady Gregory. Yeats was “best known for his poetry (he was awarded a Nobel Prize in 1923) but spent much of his life as a man of the theater. He wrote many plays, in prose and in verse; originals, adaptations, and trans¬ lations. Most of them, like The Cat and the Moon (1926), run contrary to the conventions of realistic theater. Dancers dance, musicians play, and characters speak to each other in poetry or in a prose that is poetical and ritualistic. Most of his life T eats despised art that catered to the mass of people; he made his theater for an artistic elite. He was influenced by translations of the Noli dramas of (Japan, ancient and hierarchical plays with dancers and musicians. I o appreciate Yeats’s theater, we must approach it without expecting it to resemble Ibsen’s realism, which Yeats disliked. We will not find characters with a reality like Hedda Gabler’s; instead we will more likely find types like The Fool or The Blind Man or creatures of myth like Cuchulain. We will find no realism of speech, costume, or scenery; instead, we will find screens un¬ rolled, actors wearing masks and speaking in rhyme. If we allow it, the effect can be spellbinding. Yeats’s drama resembles liturgy and reminds us of the theater’s ritual origins. We will not precisely identify ourselves with characters in their struggle; we will not find ourselves moved by empathy or by dread; instead, our senses and our minds will be captured by language that wins us by dazzling us. The Cat and the Moon begins and ends with a sung poem. The time and the setting aie unhistorical and mythic, the characters unspecified and archetypal.

William Butler Yeats

The Cat and the Moon Persons in the Play A BLIND BEGGAR A LAME BEGGAR THREE MUSICIANS SCENE: The scene is any hare place before a wall against which stands a patterned

screen, or hangs a patterned curtain suggesting Saint Colmans Well. THREE MU¬ SICIANS are sitting close to the wall, with zither, drum, and flute. Their faces are

made up to resemble masks. FIRST MUSICIAN [singing]

The cat went here and there And the moon spun round like a top, And the nearest kin of the moon, The creeping cat, looked up. Black Minnaloushe stared at he moon, For, wander and wail as he would, The pure cold light in he sky Troubled his animal blood. Two BEGGARS enter—a blind man with a lame man on his back. They wear grotesque masks. The BLIND BEGGAR is counting the paces. BLIND BEGGAR

One thousand and six, one housand and seven, one thousand

and nine. Look well now, for we should be in sight of the holy well of Saint Colman. The beggar at the cross-roads said it was one thousand paces from where he stood and a few paces over. Look well now, can you see the big ash-tree that’s above it? LAME BEGGAR [getting down] BLIND BEGGAR

No, not yet. Then we must have taken a wrong turn; flighty you always

were, and maybe before the day is over you will have me drowned in Kiltartan River or maybe in the sea itself. LAME BEGGAR I have brought you he right way, but you are a lazy man, Blind Man, and you make very short strides. BLIND BEGGAR It’s great daring you have, and how could I make a long stride and vou on my back from he peep o day ? LAME BEGGAR And maybe the beggcir of the cross-roads was only making it up when he said a thousand paces and a few paces more. T on and I, being beggais, know the way of beggars, and maybe he never paced it at all, being a laz\ man. Get up. It’s too much talk you have. LAME BEGGAR [getting up] But as I was saying, he being a lazy man

BLIND BEGGAR

O, ().

O, stop pinching the calf of my leg and I’ll not say another word till I’m spoken to. They go round the stage once, moving to drum-taps, and as they move the follow¬ ing song is sung.

1275

Plays for Further Reading

1276

FIRST MUSICIAN [singing]

Minnaloushe runs in the grass Lifting his delicate feet. Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance? When two close kindred meet What better than call a dance? Maybe the moon may learn, Tired of that courtly fashion, A new dance turn. BLIND BEGGAR lame BEGGAR

Do you see the big ash-tree?

1

I do then, and the wall under it, and the flat stone, and the

things upon the stone; and here is a good dry place to kneel in. BLIND BEGGAR

You may get down so. [LAME BEGGAR gets down] I begin to

have it in my mind that I am a great fool, and it was you who egged me on with your flighty talk. LAME BEGGAR How should you be a great fool to ask the saint to give you back your two eyes? BLIND BEGGAR

Fhere is many gives money to a blind man and would give

nothing but a curse to a whole man, and if it was not for one thing—but no matter anyway. LAME BEGGAR at all? BLIND BEGGAR

If I speak out all that’s in my mind you won’t take a blow at me I will not this time.

Then I’ll tell you why you are not a great fool. When yOU gG out to pick up a chicken, or maylfc a stray goose on the road, or a cabbage from a neighbour’s garden, I have to go riding on your back; and if I want a goose, or a chicken, or a cabbage, I must have your two legs under me. LAME BEGGAR

That’s true now, and if we were whole men and went different ways, there’d be as much again between us. BLIND BEGGAR LAME BEGGAR

And your own goods keep going from you because you are

blind. BLIND BEGGAR

Rogues and thieves ye all are, but there are some I may have

my eyes on vet. Because there’s no one to see a man slipping in at the door, or throwing a leg over the wall of a yard, you are a bitter temptation to many a poor man, and I say it s not right, it’s not right at all. There are poor men diat because you are blind will be delayed in Purgatory LAME BEGGAR

BLIND BEGGAR

Though you are a rogue, Lame Man, maybe vou are in the

right. And maybe we’ll see the blessed saint this day, for diere’s an odd one sees him, and maybe that will be a grander thing than having my two legs, though legs are a grand thing. LAME BEGGAR

You’re getting flighty again, Lame Man; what could be better for you than to have your two legs? BLIND BEGGAR

Do you think now will die saint put an ear on him at all, and we without an Ave or a Paternoster to put before the prayer or after the prayer? BLIND BEGGAR Wise though you are and flighty though you are, and you throwing eyes to the right of you and eyes to the left of you, there’s many a thing you don’t know about the heart of man. v LAME BEGGAR

William Butler Yeats • The Cat and the Moon

12//

But it stands to reason that he’d be put out and he maybe with a great liking for the Latin. BLIND BEGGAR I have it in mind that the saint will be better pleased at us not knowing a prayer at all, and that we had best say what we want in plain language. What pleasure can he have in all that holy company kneeling at his well on holidays and Sundays, and thev as innocent mavbe as himself? LAME BEGGAR That’s a strange thing to say, and do you say it as I or another might say it, or as a blind man? LAME BEGGAR

BLIND BEGGAR

I sav it as a blind man, I say it because since I went blind in

the tenth year of my age, I have been hearing and remembering the knowledges of the world.

And you who are a blind man say that a saint, and he living in a pure well of water, would soonest be talking with a sinful man. BLIND BEGGAR Do you mind what the beggar told you about the holy man in LAME BEGGAR

the big house at Laban? LAME BEGGAR Nothing stays in my head, Blind Man. BLIND BEGGAR WTiat does he do but go knocking about the roads with an old lecher from the county of Mayo, and he a woman-hater from the day of his birth! And what do they talk of by candle-light and by daylight? The old lecher does be telling over all the sins he committed, or maybe never committed at all, and the man of Laban does be trying to head him off and quiet him down that he may quit telling them. LAME BEGGAR

Maybe it is converting him he is. BLIND BEGGAR If you were a blind man you wouldn’t say a foolish thing the like of that. He wouldn’t have him different, no, not if he was to get all Ireland. If he was different, what would they find to talk about, will you answer me that now? LAME BEGGAR We have great wisdom between us, that’s certain. BLIND BEGGAR Now the Church says that it is a good thought, and a sweet thought, and a comfortable thought, that every man may have a saint to look after him, and I, being blind, give it out to all the world that the bigger the sinner the better pleased is the saint. I am sure and certain that Saint Colman would not have us two different from what we are. LAME BEGGAR I’ll not give in to that, for, as I was saying, he has a great hiring maybe for the Latin. BLIND BEGGAR

Is it contradicting me you are? Are you in reach of my arm"?

[Swinging stick] LAME BEGGAR

I’m not, Blind Man, you couldn’t touch me at all; but as I was

saying—

BLIND BEGGAR

Will you be cured or will you be blessed? Lord save us, that is the saint’s voice and we not on our [ They kneel Is lie standing before us, Lame Man?

LAME BEGGAR

I cannot see him at all. It is in the ash-tree he is, or up in the air.

FIRST MUSICIAN

Will you be cured or will you be blessed? Tliere he is again.

FIRST MUSICIAN LAME BEGGAR

knees.

LAME BEGGAR BLIND BEGGAR FIRST MUSICIAN

[speaking ]

I’ll be cured of my blindness.

I am a saint and lonely. Will you become blessed and stay

blind and we will be together always? BLIND BEGGAR No, no, your Reverence, if I have to choose, I’ll have the sight of my two eyes, for those that have their sight are always stealing my things and

1278

Plays for Further Reading

telling me lies, and some maybe that are near me. So don’t take it bad of me, Holy Man, that I ask the sight of my two eyes. No one robs him and no one tells him lies; it’s all in his head, it is. He’s had his tongue on me ah day because he thinks I stole a sheep of his. BLIND BEGGAR It was the feel of his sheepskin coat put it into my head, but my sheep was black, they say, and he tells me, Holy Man, that his sheepskin is of the most lovely white wool so that it is a joy to be looking at it. FIRST MUSICLAN Lame Man, will you be cured or will you be blessed? LAME BEGGAR What would it be like to be blessed? FIRST MUSICIAN You would be of the kin of the blessed saints and of the martyrs. \ LAME BEGGAR

Is it true now that they have a book and that they wrrite the names of the blessed in that book? LAME BEGGAR

FIRST MUSICIAN

Many a time I have seen the book, and your name wrould be

in it. It wrould be a grand thing to have two legs under me, but I have it in my mind that it would be a grander thing to have my name in that book. FIRST MUSICLAN It would be a grander thing. LAME BEGGAR I will stay lame, Holy Man, and I will be blessed. FIRST MUSICIAN In the name of the Father, the Son and the Floly Spirit I give this Blind Man sight and I make this Lame Man blessed. BLIND BEGGAR I see it all now, the blue sky and the big ash-tree and the well and the flat stone,—all as I have heard the people say—and the things the praying people put on the stone, the beads and the candles and the leaves torn out of prayer-books, and the hairpins and the buttons. It is a great sight and a blessed sight, but I don’t see yourself?Holy Man—is it up in the big tree you are? LAME BEGGAR Why, there he is in front of you and he laughing out of his wrinkled face. LAME BEGGAR

Where, where? LAME BEGGAR Why, there, between you and die ash-tree. BLIND BEGGAR There’s nobody there—you’re at vour lies again. LAME BEGGAR I am blessed, and that is why I can see the holy saint. BLIND BEGGAR But if I don’t see the saint, there’s something else I can see. LAME BEGGAR The blue sky and green leaves are a great sight, and a strange sight to one that has been long blind. BLIND BEGGAR

There is a stranger sight than that, and that is the skin of my owm black sheep on your back. BLIND BEGGAR

Haven’t I been telling you from the peep o’ day that skin is that white it would dazzle you? LAME BEGGAR

my

sheep¬

Are you so swept with the words that you’ve never thought that when I had my own two eyes, I’d see what colour was on it? BLIND BEGGAR

LAME BEGGAR

[very dejected]

BLIND BEGGAR LAME BEGGAR

I never thought of that.

Are you that flighty? I am that flighty.

[Cheering up] But am I not blessed, and it’s

a sin to speak against the blessed?

A ell, 111 speak against the blessed, and I’ll tell you something more that I’ll do. All the while you were telling me how, if I had my two eyes, I could pick up a chicken here and a goose diere, while my neighbours were in bed, do you know what I was thinking? BLIND BEGGAR

LAME BEGGAR

Some wicked blind man’s thought.

William Butler Yeats • The Cat and the Moon

1279

It was, and it’s not gone from me yet. I was saying to myself, I have a long arm and a strong arm and a very weighty arm, and when I get my own two eyes I shall know where to hit. LAME BEGGAR Don’t lay a hand on me. Forty years we’ve been knocking about the roads together, and I wouldn’t have you bring your soul into mortal peril. BLIND BEGGAR

BLIND BEGGAR

I have been saying to myself, I shall know where to hit and

how to hit and who to hit.

Do you not know that I am blessed? Would you be as bad as Caesar and as Herod and Nero and the other wicked emperors of antiquity? BLIND BEGGAR Where’ll I hit him, for the love of God, where’ll I hit him? LAME BEGGAR

BLIND BEGGAR

beats LAME BEGGAR. The beating takes the form of a dance and

is accompanied on drum and flute. The BLIND BEGGAR goes out.

That is a soul lost, Floly Man. FIRST MUSICIAN Maybe so. LAME BEGGAR I’d better be going, Holy Man, for he’ll rouse the whole country LAME BEGGAR

against me. He’ll do that. LAME BEGGAR And I have it in my mind not to even myself again with the martyrs, and the holy confessors, till I am more used to being blessed. FIRST MUSICIAN Bend down your back. LAME BEGGAR What for, Holy Man? FIRST MUSICIAN That I may get up on it. LAME BEGGAR But my lame legs would never bear the weight of you. FIRST MUSICIAN

I’m Up now. LAME BEGGAR I don’t feel you at all. FIRST MUSICIAN I don’t weigh more than a grasshopper.

FIRST MUSICLAM

You do not. MUSICIAN Are you happy?

LAME BEGGAR FIRST

LAME BEGGAR

I would be if I was right sure I was blessed.

Haven’t

FIRST MUSICIAN

you got

me

for

a friend?

LAME BEGGAR

I have so.

FIRST MUSICIAN

Then you’re blessed. Will you see that they put my name in the book"?

LAME BEGGAR FIRST MUSICIAN

I will then.

Let us be going, Holy Man. FIRST MUSICIAN But you must bless the road. LAME BEGGAR

LAME BEGGAR

I haven’t the right words.

What do you want words for? Bow to what is before you, bow to what is behind you, bow to what is to the left of you, bow to what is to the FIRST MUSICIAN

right of you. [The

LAME BEGGAR

FIRST MUSICIAN LAME BEGGAR

begins to bow.]

That’s no good. No good, Holy Man?

No good at all. You must dance. LAME BEGGAR But how can I dance? Ain’t I a lame man? FIRST MUSICIAN Aren’t you blessed? LAME BEGGAR Maybe so. FIRST MUSICIAN Aren’t you a miracle? LAME BEGGAR I am, Holy Man. FIRST MUSICIAN Then dance, and that’ll be a miracle. FIRST MUSICIAN

1280

Plays for Further Reading

The LAME BEGGAR begins to dance, at first clumsily, moving about with his stick, then he throws away the stick and dances more and more quickly. Whenever he strikes the ground strongly with his lame foot the cymbals clash. He goes out dancing, after which follows the FIRST MUSICIAN s song. FIRST MUSICIAN

[singing]

Minnaloushe creeps through the grass From moonlit place to place. The sacred moon overhead Has taken a new phase. Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils Will pass from change to change, And that from round to crescent, From crescent to round they range? Minnaloushe creeps through the grass Alone, important and wise, And lifts to the changing moon His changing eyes.

THE END

Arthur Miller (1915— ) is an American playwright whose tragic vision re¬ mains unreconciled to the inevitability of doom. Finding human nature altera¬ ble, he looks at society with a prophet’s fierceness, analyzing with compassion, denouncing with energy, deploring, and understanding. Ilis first successful play, All My Sons (1947), attacked war profiteering. Death of a Salesman followed a year later, an attempt to write the tragedy not of a king but of a traveling salesman, a relatively low man named Willy Ionian. Miller has writ¬ ten, ctI believe that the common man is as apt a subject for tragedy ... as kings were. ...” This protagonist experiences* tragic recognition when he is able to sec \\ ith clarity the implications of his past life. In the Salesman’s recognition he does not discover that he lulled his father and married his mother; never¬ theless what he recognizes shatters hiih as much as Oedipus is shattered. “■ • • tlle Magic feeling,” wrote Miller, “is evoked in us when we are in the

Act I

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

1281

presence of a character who is ready to lay down his life ... to secure . . . his sense of personal dignity. ” In 1952 Miller wrote The Crucible, based upon the Salem witch trials of the seventeenth century. The play was courageous; it took the metaphor of witch hunts, used to describe the political activities of Senator Joseph McCarthy, and let the analogy work itself out on the stage. lie has followed with A View from the Bridge (1955), After the Fall (1964), Incident at Vichy (1964), and The Price (1968.)

Arthur Miller

Death of a Salesman Certain Private Conversations in Two Acts and a Requiem Characters WILLY LOMAN

THE WOMAN

LINDA, his wife

HOWARD WAGNER

BIFF

JENNY

| , .

HAPPY 1

his sons

STANLEY

UNCLE BEN

MISS FORSYTHE

CHARLEY

LETTA

BERNARD

The action takes place in WILLY LOMAN’s house and yard and in various places he visits in the New York and Boston of today.

Act I A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine, telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain rises. Before us is the Salesman s house. We are aware of towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home. An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out of reality. The kitchen at center seems actual enough, for there is a kitchen table with three chairs, and a refrigerator. But no other fixtures are seen. At the back of the kitchen there is a draped entrance, which leads to the living-room. To the right of the kitchen, on a level raised two feet, is a bedroom, furnished only with a brass bedstead and a straight chair. On a shelf over the bed a silver athletic trophy stands. A window opens onto the apartment house at the side. Behind the kitchen, on a level raised six and a half feet, is the boys' bedroom, at present barely visible. Two beds are dimly seen, and at the back of the room a dormer window. (This bedroom is above the unseen living-room.) At the left a stairway curves up to it from the kitchen. The entire setting is wholly or, in some places, partially transparent. The roofline of the house is one-dimensional; under and over it we see the apartment buildings. Before the house lies an apron, curving beyond the forestage into the orchestra. This forward area serves as the back yard as well as the locale of all WILLY s

imaginings and of his city scenes. Whenever the action is in the present

1&82

Plays for Further Reading

the actors observe the imaginary wall-lines, entering the house only through its door at the left. But in the scenes of the past these boundaries are broken, and characters enter or leave a room by stepping "through” a wall onto the forestage. [From the right, WALLY LOMAN, the Salesman, enters, carrying two large sample cases. The flute plays on. He hears but is not-aware of it. He is past sixty years of age, dressed quietly. Even as he crosses the stage to the doorway of the house, his exhaustion is apparent. He unlocks the door, comes into the kitchen, and thank¬ fully lets his burden down, feeling the soreness of his palms. A word-sigh escapes his lips—it might be "Oh, boy, oh, boy.” He closes the door, then carries his cases out into the living-room, through the draped kitchen doorway.] [LINDA, his wife, has stirred in her bed at the right. She gets out and puts on a robe, listening. Most often jovial, she has developed an iron repression of her exceptions to WALLY’s behavior—she more than loves him, she admires him, as though his mercurial nature, his temper, his massive dreams and little cruelties, served her only as sharp reminders of the turbulent longings within him, longings which she shares but lacks the temperament to utter and follow to their end.] LINDA [/rearing WILLY

outside the bedroom, calls with some trepidation] Willy! WILLI" It’s all right. I came back. LINDA Why? What happened? [Slight pause] Did something happen, Willy? WILLY No, nothing happened. LINDA You didn’t smash the car, did you? WILLY [with casual irritation] I said nothing happened. Didn’t you hear me? LINDA Don’t you feel well? WILLY I’m tired to the death. [The flute has faded away. He sits on the bed beside her, a little numb.] I couldn’t make it. I just couldn’t make it, Linda. LINDA [ very carefully, delicately] Where were you all day? You look terrible. WALLY I got as far as a little above Yonkers. I stopped for a cup of coffee. Maybe it was the coffee. LINDA What? [after a pause] I suddenly couldn’t drive any more. The car kept going off onto the shoulder, y’know? WILLY

[helpfully] Oh. Maybe it was the steering again. I don’t think Angelo knows the Studebaker. LINDA

No, it’s me, it’s me. Suddenly I realize I’m goin’ sixty miles an hour and I don’t remember the last five minutes. I’m—I can’t seem to—keep my mind to it. LINDA Maybe it’s your glasses. You never went for your new glasses. WILLY No, I see everything. I came back ten miles an hour. It took me nearly four hours from Yonkers. WILLY

LINDA

[resigned]

Well, you’ll just have to take a rest, Willy, you can’t continue

this way. I just got back from Florida. LINDA But you didn’t rest your mind. Your mind is overactive, and the mind is what counts, dear. WILLY

I’ll start out in the morning. Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning. [She is taking off his shoes. ] These goddam arch supports are killing me. LINDA Take an aspirin. Should I get you an aspirin? It’ll soothe you. WILLY [with wonder] I was driving along, you understand? And I was fine. I was even observing the scenery. You can imagine, me looking at scenery, on the road every week of my life. But it’s so bekrtiful up there, Linda, the trees are so WILLY

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1283

thick, and the sun is warm. I opened the windshield and just let the warm air bathe over me. .And then all of a sudden I’m gom off the road! I’m tellin’ va, I absolutely forgot I was driving. If I’d’ve gone the other way over the white line I might’ve killed somebody. So I went on again—and five minutes later I’m dreamin’ again, and I nearly— [He presses two fingers against his eyes, j I have such thoughts, I have such strange thoughts. LINDA Willy, dear. Talk to them again. There’s no reason why you can’t work in New York. WILLY They don’t need me in New York. I’m the New England man. I’m vital in New England. LINDA But you’re sixty years old. They can’t expect you to keep traveling every week. I’ll have to send a wire to Portland. I’m supposed to see Brown and Morrison tomorrow morning at ten o’clock to show die line. Goddammit, I could WILLY

sell them! [He starts putting on his jacket.] LINDA [taking the jacket from him] Why don’t you go down to the place to¬ morrow and tell Howard you’ve simply got to work in New A ork? A ou’re too accommodating, dear. WILLY If old man Wagner was alive I’d a been in charge of New A ork now! That man was a prince, he was a masterful man. But that boy of his, that Howard, he don’t appreciate. When I went north the first time, die Wagner Company didn’t know where New England was! LINDA Why don’t you tell those things to Howard, dear? WILLY [encouraged] I will, I definitely will. Is there any cheese? LINDA I’ll make you a sandwich. WILLY No. go to sleep. I’ll take some milk. I’ll be up right away. Hie boys in? LINDA They’re sleeping. Happy took Biff on a date tonight. [interested] That so? LINDA It was so nice to see them shaving together, one behind the other, in die bathroom. .And going out together. You notice? The whole house smells of WILLY

shaving lotion. WILLY Figure it out. Work a lifetime to pay off a house. You finally own it, and there’s nobody to live in it. LINDA Well, dear, life is a casting off It’s always that way. WILLY No, no, some people—some people accomplish something. Did Biff say anything after I went this morning? LINDA You shouldn’t have criticized him, Willy, especially after he just got oft the train. You mustn’t lose your temper with him. WILLY When the hell did I lose my temper? I

simply asked

him

if he was

making any money. Is that a criticism? LINDA But, dear, how could he make any money? WILLY [worried and angered] There’s such an undercurrent in him. He be¬ came a moody man. Did he apologize when I left this morning? LINDA He was crestfallen, Willy. You know how he admires you. I think il he finds himself, then you’ll both be happier and not fight any more. WILLY How can he find himself on a farm? Is that a life? A farmhand? In the beginning, when he was young, I thought, well, a young man, it’s good for him to tramp around, take a lot of different jobs. But it s more than ten \ears now and he has yet to make thirty-five dollars a week! LINDA He’s finding himself, Willy.

1284

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

Not finding yourself at the age of thirty-four is a disgrace! LINDA Shh! WILLY The trouble is he’s lazy, goddammit! LINDA Willy, please! WILLY Biff is a lazy bum! LINDA They’re sleeping. Get something to eat. Go on down. WILLY Why did he come home? I would like to know what brought him home. LINDA I don’t know. I think he’s still lost, Willy. I think he’s very lost. WILLY Biff Loman is lost. In the greatest country in the world a young man with such—personal attractiveness, gets lost. And such a hard worker. There’s one thing about Biff—he’s not lazy. LINDA Never. WILLY

WILLY [with pity and resolve]

I’ll see him in the morning; I’ll have a nice talk with him. I’ll get him a job selling. He could be big in no time. My God! Remember how they used to follow him around in high school? When he smiled at one of them their faces fit up. When he walked down the street. . . [He loses himself in reminiscences.] LINDA [ trying to bring him out of it]

Willy, dear, I got a new kind of American-

type cheese today. It’s whipped. WILLY Why do you get American when I like Swiss? LINDA I just thought you’d like a change— I don t want a change! I want Swiss cheese. Why am I always being contradicted? WILLY

LINDA [ with a covering laugh]

I thought it would be a surprise.

Why don’t you open a window in here, for God’s sake? LINDA [ with infinite patiencej They’re all open, dear. WILLY The way they boxed us in here. Bricks and windows, windows and bricks. WILLY

We should’ve bought the land next door. WILLY" The street is lined with cars. There’s not a breath of fresh air in the neighborhood. The grass don’t grow any more, you can’t raise a carrot in the back yard. They should’ve had a law against apartment houses. Remember those two beautiful elm trees out there? When I and Biff hung the swing between them? LINDA Yeah, like being a million miles from the city. WILLY" They should’ve arrested the builder for cutting those down. They mas¬ sacred the neighborhood, [lost] More and more I think of those days, Linda. This time of year it was lilac and wisteria. And then the peonies would come out, and the daffodils. What fragrance in this room! LINDA Well, after all, people had to move somewhere. WILLY" No, there’s more people now. LINDA I don’t think there’s more people. I think— LINDA

There’s more people! That’s what’s ruining this country! Population is getting out of control. The competition is maddening! Smell the stink from that apartment house! And another one on the other side . . . How can they whip cheese? WILLY

On WILLY’S last line, BIFF and HAPPY raise themselves up in their beds, listening. LINDA

Go down, try it. And be quiet.

WILLY [turning to LINDA, guiltily]

sweetheart?

You’re not worried about me, are you, »

Act I

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

1285

What’s the matter? HAPPY Listen! LINDA You’ve got too much on the ball to worry about. WILLY You’re my foundation and my support, Linda. LINDA Just try to relax, dear. You make mountains out of molehills. WILLY I won’t light with him any more. If he wants to go back to Texas, let BIFF

him go. He’ll find his way. WILLY Sure. Certain men just don’t get started till later in life. Like Thomas Edison, I think. Or B. F. Goodrich. One of them was deaf. [He starts for the bedroom doorway.] I’ll put my money on Biff. LINDA And Willy—if it’s warm Sunday we’ll drive in the country. And we’ll open the windshield, and take lunch. WILLY No, the windshields don’t open on the new cars. LINDA But you opened it today. WILLY Me? I didn’t. [He stops.] Now isn’t that peculiar! Isn’t that a remarka¬ ble— [He breaks off in amazement and fright as the flute is heard distantly.] LINDA

What, darling? WILLY That is the most remarkable thing. LINDA What, dear? WILLY I was thinking of the Chewy. [Slight pause] Nineteen twenty-eight . . . when I had that red Chewy— [Breaks off] That funny? I coulda sworn I was LINDA

driving that Chewy today. LINDA Well, that’s nothing. Something must’ve reminded votr. WILLY Remarkable. Ts. Remember those days? The way Biff used to simonize that car? The dealer refused to believe there was eighty thousand miles on it. [He shakes his head.] Heh! [To LINDA] Close your eyes, I’ll be right up. [He walks out of the bedroom.] HAPPY [ to BIFF] Jesrrs, maybe he smashed up the car again! LINDA [calling after WILLY] Be careful on the stairs, dear! Hie cheese is on the middle shelf! [She turns, goes over to the bed, takes his jacket, and goes out of the bedroom.] Light has risen on the boys’ room. Unseen, WILLY is heard talking to himself, rfEighty thousand miles,” and a little laugh. BIFF gets out of bed, comes downstage a bit, and stands attentively. BIFF is two years older than his brother HAPPY, well built, but in these days bears a worn air and seems less self-assured. He has succeeded less, and his dreams are stronger and less acceptable than HAPFY’s. HAPPY is tall, powerfully made. Sexuality is like a visible color on him, or a scent that many women have discovered. He, like his brother, is lost, but in a different way, for he has never allowed himself to turn his face toward defeat and is thus more confused and hard-skinned, although seemingly more content. HAPPY [getting out of bed ]

I Ie’s going to get his license taken away if he keeps that up. I’m getting nervous about him, y’know, Biff? BIFF His eyes are going. HAPPY No, I’ve driven with him. lie sees all right. He just doesn’t keep his mind on it. I drove into the city with him last week. He stops at a green light and then it turns red and he goes. [He laughs.} BIFF Maybe he’s color-blind.

1286

Plays for Further Reading

HAPPY

Act I

Pop? Why he’s got the finest eye for color in the business. You know

that. BIFF [ sitting down on his bed]

Pm going to sleep. HAPPY You’re not still sour on Dad, are you, Biff? BIFF lie’s all right, I guess. WILLY [ underneath them, in the living-room] Yes, sir, eighty thousand miles— eighty-two thousand! BIFF You smoking? HAPPY [ holding out a pack of cigarettes] Want one? BIFF [ taking a cigarette] I can never sleep when I smell it. WILLY What a simonizing job, hell! HAPPY [ with deep sentiment] Funny, Biff, v’know? Us sleeping in here again? The old beds. [He pats his bed affectionately] All the talk that went across those two beds, huh? Our whole lives. BIFF Yeah, kotta dreams and plans. HAPPY [ with a deep and masculine laugh] About five hundred women would like to know what was said in this room. They share a soft laugh. Remember that big Betsy something—what the hell was her name—over on Bushwick Avenue? HAPPY [combing his hair] With the collie dog! BIFF That’s the one. I got you in there, remember? HAPPY fieah, that was my first time—I think. Boy, there was a pig! [They laugh, almost crudely.] You taught me everything I know about women. Don’t forget that. BIFF

I bet you forgot how bashful you used to be. Especially with girls. HAPPY Oh, I still am, Biff. BIFF Oil, go on.

BIFF

I just control it, that’s all. I think I got less bashful and you got more so. What happened, Biff? Where’s the old humor, the old confidence? [He shakes BlFF's knee. BIFF gets up and moves restlessly about the room.] What’s the matter? B IFF Why does Dad mock me all the time? happy He’s not mocking you, he— HAPPY

BIFF

Everything I say there’s a twist of mockeiy on his face. I can’t get near

him. He just wants you to make good, that’s all. I wanted to talk to you about Dad for a long time, Biff. Something’s—happening to him. He—talks to himself. happy

I noticed that this morning. But he always mumbled. HAPPY But not so noticeable. It got so embarrassing I sent him to Florida. And you know something? Most of the time he’s talking to you. BIFF What’s he say about me? HAPPY I can’t make it out. BIFF What’s he say about me? BIFF

HAPPY

I think the fact that you’re not settled, that you’re still kind of up in the

air . . . Hiere’s one or two other things depressing him, Happy. HAPPY What do you mean? a BIFF

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1287

Never mind. Just don’t lay it all to me. HAPPY But I think if you just got started—I mean—is there any future for you out there? BIFF I tell ya, Hap, I don’t know what the future is. I don’t know—what I’m supposed to want. BIFF

HAPPY

What do you mean?

Well, I spent six or seven years after high school trying to work myself up. Shipping clerk, salesman, business of one kind or another. And it’s a measly manner of existence. To get on that subway on the hot mornings in summer. To devote your whole life to keeping stock, or making phone calls, or selling or buying. To suffer fifty weeks of the year for the sake of a two-week vacation, when all you really desire is to be outdoors, with your shirt off. And always to have to get ahead of the next fella. And still—that’s how you build a future. HAPPY Well, you really enjoy it on a farm? Are you content out there? BIFF [with rising agitation] Hap, I’ve had twenty or thirty different kinds of jobs since I left home before the war, and it always turns out the same. I just realized it lately. In Nebraska when I herded cattle, and the Dakotas, and Arizona, and now in Texas. It’s why I came home now, I guess, because I realized it. This farm I work on, it’s spring there now, see? And they’ve got about fifteen new colts. There’s nothing more inspiring or—beautiful than the sight of a mare and a new colt. And it’s cool there now, see? Texas is cool now, and it’s spring. And when¬ ever spring comes to where I am, I suddenly get the feeling, my God, I’m not gettin’ anywhere! What the hell am I doing, playing around with horses, twentyeight dollars a week! I’m thirty-four years old, I oughta be makin’ my future. That’s when I come running home. And now, I get here, and I don’t know what to do with myself. [after a pause] I’ve always made a point of not wasting my life, and evervtime I come back here I know that all I’ve done is to waste my life. HAPPY You’re a poet, you know that, Biff? You’re a—you’re an idealist! BIFF No, I’m mixed up very bad. Maybe I oughta get married. Maybe I oughta get stuck into something. Maybe that’s my trouble. I’m like a boy. I’m not married, I’m not in business, I just—I’m like a boy. Are you content, Hap? You’re a success, BIFF

aren’t you? Are you content? ILAPPY Hell, no! BIFF Why? You’re making money, aren’t you? HAPPY [moving about with energy, expressiveness] All I can do now is wait for the merchandise manager to die. And suppose I get to be merchandise manager? He’s a good friend of mine, and he just built a terrific estate on Long Island. And he lived there about two months and sold it, and now he’s building another one. He can’t enjoy it once it’s finished. And I know that’s just what I would do. I don’t know what the hell I’m workin’ for. Sometimes I sit in my apartment—all alone. And I think of die rent I’m paying. And it’s crazy. But dien, it’s what I always wanted. My own apartment, a car, and plenty of women. And still, goddammit, I’m lonely. BIFF [with enthusiasm]

Listen, why don’t you come out West with me?

You and I, heh? biff Sure, maybe we could buy a ranch. Raise catde, use our muscles. Men built like we are should be working out in the open. HAPPY [avidly] The Loman Brothers, heh? BIFF [ with vast affection] Sure, we’d be known all over the counties! HAPPY [enthralled] That’s what I dream about, Biff. Sometimes I want to just HAPPY

1288

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

rip my clothes off in the middle of the store and outbox that goddam merchandise manager. I mean I can outbox, outrun, and outlift. anybody in that store, and I have to take orders from diose common, petty sons-of-bitches till I can’t stand it anv more. BIFF I’m telliri you, kid, if you were with me I’d be happy out there. HAPPY [enthused] See, Biff, everybody around me is so false that I’m con¬ stantly lowering my ideals . . . BIFF Baby, together we’d stand up for one another, we’d have someone to trust. HAPPY If I were around you— BIFF Hap, the trouble is we weren’t brought up to grub for money. I don’t know how to do it. HAPPY Neither can I! BIFF Then let’s go! HAPPY The only thing is—what can you make out there? BIFF But look at your friend. Builds an estate and then hasn’t the peace of mind to live in it. HAPPY Yeah, but when he waffs into the store the waves part in front of him. That’s fifty-two thousand dollars a year coming through the revolving door, and I got more in my pinky finger ffian he’s got in his head. BIFF Yeah, but you just said— HAPPY I gotta show some of those pompous, self-important executives over there that Hap Toman can make die grade. I want to waff into the store the way he walks in. Then I’ll go with you, Biff. We’ll be together yet, I swear. But take those two we had tonight. Now weren’t they gorgeous creatures? BEFF Yeah, yeah, most gorgeous I’ve had in years. HAPPY I get that any time I want, Biff. Whenever I feel disgusted. The only trouble is, it gets like bowling or somediing. I just keep knockin’ them over and it doesn’t mean anything. You still run around a lot? BIFF Naa. I’d like to find a girl—steady, somebody with substance. HAPPY That’s what I long for. BIFF Go on! You’d never come home. HAPPY I would! Somebody with character, with resistance! Tike Mom, y’know? You’re gonna call me a bastard when I tell you this. That girl Charlotte I was with tonight is engaged to be married in five weeks. [He tries on his new hat.] BIFF No kiddin’! Sure, the guy’s in line for the vice-presidency of the store. I don’t know what gets into me, maybe I just have an overdeveloped sense of competition or something, but I went and ruined her, and furthermore I can’t get rid of her. And he’s the third executive I’ve done that to. Isn’t that a crummy characteristic? And to top it all, I go to their weddings! [Indignantly, hut laughing] Tike I’m not supposed to take bribes. Manufacturers offer me a hundred-dollar bill now and then to throw an order their way. You know how honest I am, but it’s like this girl, see. I hate myself for it. Because I don’t want the girl, and, still, I take it and—I love it! BIFF Tet’s go to sleep. HAPPY I guess we didn’t settle anything, lieh? BIFF I just got one idea diat I think I’m going to try. HAPPY What’s that? BIFF Remember Bill Oliver? ,v HAPPY

Act I

.Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

1289

Sure, Oliver is veiy big now. You want to work for him again? BIFF No, but when I quit he said something to me. He put his arm on my shoulder, and he said, “Biff, if you ever need anything, come to me.” HAPPY I remember that. That sounds good. BIFF I think I’ll go to see him. If I could get ten thousand or even seven or eight thousand dollars I could buy a beautiful ranch. HAPPY I bet he’d back you. ’Cause he thought highly of you, Biff. I mean, they all do. You’re well liked, Biff. That’s why I say to come back here, and we both have the apartment. And I’m tellin’ you, Biff, any babe you want . . . BIFF No, with a ranch I could do the work I like and still be something. I just wonder though. I wonder if Oliver still thinks I stole that carton of basketballs. HAPPY Oh, he probably forgot that long ago. It’s almost ten years. You’re too sensitive. Anyway, he didn’t really fire you. BIFF Well, I think he was going to. I think that’s why I quit. I was never sure whether he knew or not. I know he thought the world of me, though. I was the only one he’d let lock up the place. WILLY [below] You gonna wash the engine, Biff? ILYPPY Shh! HAPPY

BIFF looks at HAPPY, who is gazing down, listening. WILLY is mumbling in the

parlor. HAPPY

You hear that?

They listen. WILLY laughs warmly.

Doesn’t he know Mom can hear that? Don’t get your sweater dirty, Biff!

BIFF [growing angry] WILLY

A look of pain crosses BIFF’S face.

Isn’t that terrible! Don’t leave again, will you? You’ll find a job here. You gotta stick around. I don’t know what to do about him, it’s getting embar¬ HAPPY

rassing. What a simonizing job! BIFF Mom’s hearing that! WILLY No kiddin’, Biff, you got a date? Wonderful! HAPPY Go on to sleep. But talk to him in the morning, will you? BIFF [reluctantly getting into bed] With her in the house. Brother! HAPPY [getting into bed] I wish you’d have a good talk with him.

WILLY

The light on their room begins to fade. BIFF [to himself in bed] HAPPY

That selfish, stupid . . . Sh . . . Sleep, Biff.

Their light is out. Well before they have finished speaking, willy’s form is dimly seen below in the darkened kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, searches in there, and takes out a bottle of milk. The apartment houses are fading out, and the entire house and surroundings become covered with leaves. Music insinuates itself as the leaves appear.

1290

Act I

Plays for Further Reading

Just wanna be careful with those girls, Biff, that’s all. Don’t make any promises. No promises of any kind. Because a girl, y’know, they always believe what you tell ’em, and you’re very young, Biff, you’re too young to be talking seriously to girls. WILLY

Light rises on the kitchen. WILLY, talking, shuts the refrigerator door and comes downstage to the kitchen table. He pours milk into a glass. He is totally immersed in himself, smiling faintly.

Too young entirely, Biff. You want to watch your schooling first. Then when you’re all set, there’ll be plenty of girls for a boy like you. [He smiles broadly at a kitchen chair.] That so? The girls pay for you? [He laughs.] Boy, you must really be makin’ a hit. WILLY

WILLY is gradually addressing—physically—a point offstage, speaking through

the wall of the kitchen, and his voice has been rising in volume to that of a normal conversation.

I been wondering why you polish the car so careful. Ha! Don’t leave the hubcaps, boys. Get the chamois to the hubcaps. Happy, use newspaper on the windows, it’s the easiest thing. Show him how to do it, Biff! You see, Happy? Pad it up, use it like a pad. That’s it, that’s it, good work. You’re doin’ ah right, Hap. [He pauses, then nods in approbation for a few seconds, then looks upward.] Biff, first thing we gotta do when we get time is clip that big branch over the house. Afraid it’s gonna fall in a storm and hit the roof. Teh you what. We get a rope and shng her around, and then we climb up there with a couple of saws and take her down. Soon as you finish the car, boys, I wanna see ya. I got a surprise for you, boys. BIFF [ offstage \ Whatta ya got, Dad? WILLY No, you finish first. Never leave a job tiff you’re finished—remember that. [Looking toward the ”big trees”] Biff, up in Albany I saw a beautiful ham¬ mock. I think ITL buy it next trip, and we’ll hang it right between those two elms. Wouldn’t that be something? Just swingin’ there under those branches. Boy, that would be . . . WILLY

YOUNG BIFF and YOUNG HAPPY appear from the direction WILLY was addressing. HAPPY carries rags and a pail of water. BIFF, wearing a sweater with a block rrS,”

carries a football. BIFF [pointing in the direction of the car offstage]

How’s that, Pop, profes¬

sional? Terrific. Terrific job, boys. Good work, Biff. HAPPY Where’s the surprise, Pop? WILLY WILLY

In the back seat of the car.

Boy! [He runs off.] BIFF What is it, Dad? Tell me, what’d you buy? WILLY [laughing, cuffs him] Never mind, something I want you to have. BIFF [ turns and starts off] What is it, "Hap? ILAPPY [ offstage] It’s a punching bag! BLFF Oh, Pop! WILLY It’s got Gene Tunney’s signature on it! HAPPY

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1291

HAPPY runs onstage with a punching hag.

Gee, how’d you know we wanted a punching bag? WILLY Well, it’s the finest thing for the timing. BIFF

HAPPY \lies down on his back and pedals with his feet]

I’m losing weight, you

notice, Pop? WILLY [ to HAPPY] Jumping rope is good too. BIFF Did you see the new football I got? WILLY [examining the hall] Where’d you get a new ball? BIFF The coach told me to practice my passing. WILLY That so? And he gave you the ball, heh? BIFF Well, I borrowed it from the locker room. [He laughs confidentially.] .WILLY [laughing with him at the theft] I want you to return that. HAPPY I told you he wouldn’t like it! BIFF [angrily ] Well, I’m bringing it back! WLLLY [stopping the incipient argument, to HAPPY] Sure, he’s gotta practice with a regulation ball, doesn’t he? [To BIFF] Coach’ll probably congratulate you on your initiative! BIFF Oh, he keeps congratulating my initiative all the time, Pop. WLLLY That’s because he likes you. If somebody else took that ball there’d be an uproar. So what’s the report, boys, what’s the report? BIFF Where’d you go this time, Dad? Gee we were lonesome for you. WILLY [pleased, puts an arm around each hoy and they come down to the Lonesome, heh? BIFF Missed you every minute. WLLLY Don’t say? Tell you a secret, boys. Don’t breathe it to a soul. Someday I’ll have my own business, and I’ll never have to leave home any more. HAPPY Like Uncle Charley, heh? WILLY Bigger than Uncle Charley! Because Charley is not—liked. He’s liked,

apron]

but he’s not—well liked. BIFF Where’d you go this time, Dad? WILLY Well, I got on the road, and I went north to Providence. Met the Mayor. "Hie Mayor of Providence! WILLY He was sitting in the hotel lobby. BIFF What’d he say? WILLY He said, “Morning!” And I said, “You got a fine city here, Mayor.” And then he had coffee with me. And then I went to Waterbuiy. Waterbury is a fine city. Big clock city, the famous Waterbuiy clock. Sold a nice bill there. And then Boston—Boston is the cradle of the Revolution. A fine city. And a couple of other towns in Mass., and on to Portland and Bangor and straight home! BIFF

Gee, I’d love to go with you sometime, Dad. WILLY Soon as summer comes. HAPPY Promise? WILLY You and Hap and I, and Idl show you all the towns. America is full of beautiful towns and fine, upstanding people. And they know me, boys, they know me up and down New England. The finest people. And when I bring you fellas up, there’ll be open sesame for all of us, ’cause one thing, boys: I have friends. I can park my car in any street in New England, and the cops protect it like their BIFF

own. This summer, heh? BIFF and HAPPY [together]

Yeah! You bet!

1292

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

We’ll take our bathing suits. HAPPY We’ll carry your bags, Pop! WILLY Oh, won’t that be something! Me cornin’ into the Boston stores with you boys carryin’ my bags. What a sensation! WILLY

BIFF is prancing around, practicing passing the hall.

You nervous, Biff, about the game? BIFF Not if you’re gonna be there. WILLY What do they say about you in school, now that they made you captain? HAPPY There’s a crowd of girls behind him everyhme the classes change. BIFF [ taking willy’s hand\ This Saturday, Pop, this Saturday—-just for you, I’m going to break through for a touchdown. HAPPY You’re supposed to pass. BIFF I’m takin’ one play for Pop. You watch me, Pop, and when I take off my helmet, that means I’m breakin’ out. Then you watch me crash through that line! WILLY [kisses BIFF] Oh, wait’ll I tell this in Boston! WILLY

BERNARD enters in knickers. He is younger than BIFF, earnest and loyal, a worried

boy.

Biff, where are you? You’re supposed to study with me today. WILLY Hey, looka Bernard. What’re you lookin’ so anemic about, Bernard? BERNARD He’s gotta study, Uncle Willy. He’s got Regents next week. HAPPY [ tauntingly, spinning BERNARD around] Let’s box, Bernard! BERNARD Biff! [He gets away'from HAPPY.] Listen, Biff, I heard Mr. Bimbaum say that if you don’t start studyin’ math he’s gonna flunk you, and you won’t graduate. I heard him! WILLY You better study with him, Biff. Go ahead now. BERNARD I heard him! BIFF Oh, Pop, you didn’t see my sneakers! [He holds up a foot for WILLY to BERNARD

look at.]

Hey, that’s a beautiful job of printing! BERNARD [wiping his glasses] Just because he printed University of Virginia on his sneakers doesn’t mean they’ve got to graduate him, Uncle Willy! WILLY [angrily] What’re you talking about? With scholarships to three uni¬ versities diey’re gonna flunk him? BERNARD But I heard Mr. Bimbaum say— WILLY Don’t be a pest, Bernard! [To his boys] What an anemic! BERNARD Okay, I’m waiting for you in my house, Biff. WILLY

BERNARD goes off. The LOMANS laugh.

Bernard is not well liked, is he? BIFF" He’s liked, but he’s not well liked. HAPPY That’s right, Pop. WILLY

That’s just what I mean. Bernard can get the best marks in school, /understand, but when he gets out in die business world, /understand, you are going to be five times ahead of him. That’s why I thank Almighty God you’re both built like Adonises. Because the man who makes an appearance in the business WILLY

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1293

world, the man who creates personal interest, is the man who gets ahead. Be liked and you will never want. You take me, for instance. I never have to wait in line to see a buyer. “Willy Loman is here!” That’s all they have to know, and I go right through. BIFF Did you knock them dead, Pop? WILLY Knocked ’em cold in Providence, slaughtered ’em in Boston. HAPPY [on his back, pedaling again] I’m losing weight, you notice, Pop? LINDA enters, as of old, a ribbon in her hair, carrying a basket of washing. LINDA [with youthful energy]

Hello, dear!

Sweetheart! LINDA flow’d the Chewy run? WILLY Chevrolet, Linda, is the greatest car ever built, [to the 6oys] Since when do you let your mother carry wash up the stairs? BIFF Grab hold there, boy! HAPPY Where to, Mom? LINDA Hang them up on the line. And you better go down to your friends, Biff. The cellar is full of boys. They don’t know what to do with themselves. BIFF Ah, when Pop comes home they can wait! WILLY [laughs appreciatively] You better go down and tell them what to do, WILLY

Biff. I think I’ll have them sweep out the furnace room. WILLY Good work, Biff. BIFF [ goes through wall-line of kitchen to doorway at back and calls down] Fellas! Everybody sweep out the furnace room! I’ll be right down! VOICES All right! Okay, Biff. BIFF George and Sam and Frank, come out back! We’re hangin’ up the wash! Come on, Hap, on the double! [He and HAPPY carry out the basket.] LINDA The way they obey him! WILLY Well, that’s training, the training. I’m tellin’ you, I was sellin’ thousands BIFF

and thousands, but I had to come home. LINDA Oh, the whole block’ll be at that game. Did you sell anything? WILLY I did five hundred gross in Providence and seven hundred gross in Boston. No! Wait a minute, I’ve got a pencil. [She pulls pencil and paper out of her apron pocket. ] That makes your commission ... I wo hundred my God! I wo LINDA

hundred and twelve dollars! WILLY Well, I didn’t figure it yet, but. . . LINDA I low much did you do? WILLY Well, I—I did—about a hundred and eighty gross in Providence. Well, no—it came to—roughly two hundred gross on the whole trip. LINDA [ without hesitation] Two hundred gross. Fhat’s . . . [She figures. ] WILLY The trouble was that three of the stores were half closed for inventory in Boston. Otherwise I woulda broke records. LINDA Well, it makes seventy dollars and some pennies. Iliads very good. WILLY LINA WILLY LINDA

What do we owe? Well, on the first there’s sixteen dollars on the refrigerator— Why sixteen? Well, the fan belt broke, so it was a dollar eighty.

1294

Plays for Further Reading

WILLY LINDA

Act I

But it’s brand new. Well, the man said that’s the way it is. Till they work themselves in,

y’know. They move through the wall-line into the kitchen. I hope we didn’t get stuck on that machine. LINDA They got the biggest ads of any of them! WILLY I know, it’s a fine machine. What else? LINDA Well, there’s nine-sixty for the washing machine. And for the vacuum cleaner there’s three and a half due on the fifteenth. Then the roof, you got twentyone dollars remaining. WILLY It don’t leak, does it? LINDA No, they did a wonderful job. Then you owe Frank for the carburetor. WILLY I’m not going to pay that man! That goddam Chevrolet, they ought to prohibit the manufacture of that car! LINDA Well, you owe him three and a half. And odds and ends, comes to around a hundred and twenty dollars by the fifteenth. WILLY A hundred and twenty dollars! My God, if business don’t pick up I don’t know what I’m gonna do! LINDA Well, next week you’ll do better. WILLY Oh, I’ll knock ’em dead next week. I’ll go to Hartford. I’m very well liked in Hartford. You know, the trouble is, Linda, people don’t seem to take to me. WILLY

They move onto the forestage. LINDA WILLY LINDA

Oh, don’t be foolish. I know it when I walk in. They seem to laugh at me. Why? Why would they laugh at you? Don’t talk that way, Willy.

WILLY moves to the edge of the stage. LINDA goes into the kitchen and starts to

darn stockings. I don’t know the reason for it, but they just pass me by. I’m not noticed. LINDA But you’re doing wonderful, dear. You’re making seventy to a hundred dollars a week. WILLY

But I gotta be at it ten, twelve hours a day. Other men—I don’t know— they do it easier. I don’t know why—I can’t stop myself—I talk too much. A man oughta come in with a few words. One thing about Charley. He’s a man of few words, and they respect him. LINDA You don’t talk too much, you’re just lively. WILLY [ smiling] Well, I figure, what the hell, life is short, a couple of jokes. [to himself] I joke too much! [The smile goes.] LINDA Why? You’re— WILLY

I m fat. I’m very—foolish to look at, Linda. I didn’t tell you, but Christ¬ mas time I happened to be calling on F. H. Stewarts, and a salesman I know, as I was going in to see the buyer I heard him say something about—walrus. And ^ I cracked him right across the face. I won’t take that. I simply will not take that. But they do laugh at me. I know that. WILLY

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

LINDA WILLY

1295

Darling . . . I gotta overcome it. I know I gotta overcome it. I’m not dressing to

advantage, maybe. LINDA Willy, darling, you’re the handsomest man in the world— WILLY Oh, no, Linda. LINDA To me you are. [Slight pause] The handsomest. From the darkness is heard the laughter of a woman. WILLY doesn’t turn to it, hut it continues through LiNDA’s lines. LINDA

And the boys, Willy. Few men are idolized by then children the way you

are. Music is heard as behind a scrim, to the left of the house, THE WOMAN, dimly seen, is dressing. WELLY [ with great feeling]

You’re the best there is, Linda, you’re a pal, you know that? On the road—on the road I want to grab you sometimes and just kiss the life outa you. The laughter is loud now, and he moves into a brightening area at the left, where THE WOMAN has come from behind the scrim and is standing, putting on her hat, looking into a "mirror” and laughing. ’Cause I get so lonely—especially when business is bad and there’s nobody to talk to. I get the feeling that I’ll never sell anything again, that I won’t make a living for you, or a business, a business for the boys. [He talks through THE woman’s subsiding laughter; THE WOMAN primps at the "mirror.”] There’s WILLY

so such I want to make for— THE WOMAN Me? You didn’t make me, Willy. I picked you. WILLY [pleased] You picked me? THE WOMAN [ who is quite proper-looking, willy’s age] I did. I’ve been sitting at that desk watching all the salesmen go by, day in, day out. But you ve got such a sense of humor, and we do have such a good time together, don t we ? WILLY Sure, sure. [He takes her in his arms.] Why do you have to go now? It’s two o’clock . . . WILLY No, come on in! [He pulls her.] THE WOMAN . . . my sisters’ll be scandalized. When’ll you be back? WELLY Oh, two weeks about. Will you come up again? THE WOMAN Sure thing. You do make me laugh. It’s good for me. [She squeezes his arm, kisses him.] And I think you’re a wonderful man. WELLY You picked me, heh? THE WOMAN Sure. Because you’re so sweet. And such a kidder. WILLY Well, I’ll see you next time I’m in Boston. THE W7OMAN I’ll put you right through to the buyers. WELLY [slapping her bottom] Right. Well, bottoms up! THE WOMEN [slaps him gently and laughs] You just kill me, Willy. [He sud¬ denly grabs her and kisses her roughly. ] You kill me. And thanks for the stockings. THE WOMAN

I love a lot of stockings. Well, good night. WELLY Good night And keep your pores open!

1296

Plays for Further Reading

THE WOMAN

Act I

Oh, Willy!

THE WOMAN bursts out laughing, and LINDA’s laughter blends in. THE WOMAN

disappears into the dark. Now the area at the kitchen table brightens. LINDA is sitting where she was at the kitchen table, but now is mending a pair of her silk stockings. LINDA

You are, Willy. The handsomest man. You’ve got no reason to feel

that— WILLY [ coming out of THE WOMAN S dimming area and going over to LINDA]

I’ll

make it all up to you, Linda, I’ll— LINDA There’s nothing to make up, dear. You’re doing hne, better than— WILLY [ noticing her mending] What’s that? LINDA Just mending my stockings. They’re so expensive—WILLY [angrily, taking them from her] I won’t have you mending stockings in this house! Now throw them out! LINDA puts the stockings in her pocket. BERNARD [ entering on the run]

Where is he? If he doesn’t study! WILLY [moving to the forestage, with great agitation] You’ll give him the an¬ swers! BERNARD

I do, but I can’t on a Regents! That’s a state exam! They’re liable to

arrest me! Where is he? I’ll whip him, I’ll whip him! LINDA And he’d better give back that football, Willy, it’s not nice. WILLY Biff! Where is he? Why is he taking everything? LINDA He’s too rough with the girls, Willy. All the mothers are afraid of him! WILLY I’ll whip him! BERNARD He’s driving the car without a license! WILLY

THE woman’s laugh is heard. WILLY LINDA WILLY

Shut up! All the mothers— Shut up!

BERNARD [backing quietly away and out] WILLY

Mr. Bimbaum says he’s stuck up.

Get outa here!

If he doesn’t buckle down he’ll flunk math! [He goes off] LINDA He’s right, Willy, you’ve gotta— WILLY [ exploding at her] There’s nothing the matter with him! You want him to be a worm like Bernard? He’s got spirit, personality . . . BERNARD

As he speaks, LINDA, almost in tears, exits into the living-room. WILLY is alone in the kitchen, wilting and staring. The leaves are gone. It is night again, and, the apartment houses look down from behind. Loaded with it. Loaded! What is he stealing? He’s giving it back, isn’t he? Why is he stealing? What did I tell him? I never in my life told him anything but decent things. *v WILLY

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1297

HAPPY in pajamas has come down the stairs; WILLY suddenly becomes aware of happy's presence. HAPPY Let’s go now, come on. WELLY [sitting down at the kitchen table]

Huh! Why did she have to wax die floors herself? Everytime she waxes the floors she keels over. She knows that! HAPPY Shh! Take it easy. What brought you back tonight? WILLY I got an awful scare. Nearly hit a kid in Yonkers. God! Why didn t I go to Alaska with my brother Ben that time! Ben! Hiat man was a genius, diat man was success incarnate! Wdiat a mistake! He begged me to go. HAPPY Well, there’s no use in— WELLY You guys! There was a man started with the clothes on his back and ended up with diamond mines! HAPPY Boy, someday I’d like to know how he did it. WILLY What’s die mystery? The man knew what he wanted and went out and got it! Walked into a jungle, and conies out, the age of twenty-one, and he’s rich! The world is an oyster, but you don’t crack it open on a mattress! HAPPY Pop, I told you I’m gonna retire you for life. WILLY You’ll retire me for life on seventy goddam dollars a week? And your women and your car and your apartment, and you 11 retire me for life! Christ s sake, I couldn’t get past Yonkers’ today! Where are you guys, where are you? The woods are burning! I can’t drive a car! CHARLEY has appeared in the doorway. He is a large man, slow of speech, laconic,

immovable. In all he says, despite what he says, there is pity, and, now, trepida¬ tion. He has a robe over pajamas, slippers on his feet. He enters the kitchen. Everything all right? IEAPPY Yeah, Charley, everything’s . . . WILLY What’s the matter? CHARLEY I heard some noise. I thought something happened. Can t we do something about the walls? You sneeze in here, and in my house hats blow off. CHARLEY

HAPPY

Let’s go to bed, Dad. Come on.

CHARLEY signals to HAPPY to go.

You go ahead, I’m not tired at the moment. HAPPY [to WILLY] Take it easy, huh? [He exits.] WILLY What’re you doin’ up? CHARLEY [sitting down at the kitchen table opposite WILLI]

WILLY

Couldnt sleep

good. I had a heartburn. WILLY Well, you don’t know how to eat. CHARLEY I eat with my mouth. WILLY No, you’re ignorant. You gotta know about vitamins and things like that. CILARLEY

Come on, let’s shoot, fire you out a little. WILLY [ hesitantly ] All right. You got cards? CHARLEY [taking a deck from his pocket] \eah, I got them. Someplace. What

is it with those vitamins? WILLY [dealing] They build up your bones. C hemistry.

1298

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

Yeah, but there’s no bones in a heartburn. WILLY What are you talkin’ about? Do you know the first thing about it? CHARLEY Don’t get insulted. WILLY Don’t talk about something you don’t know anything about. CHARLEY

They are playing. Pause.

What’re you doin’ home? WILLY A little trouble with the car. CHARLEY Oh. [Pause) I’d like to take a trip to California. WILLY Don’t say. CHARLEY You want a job? CHARLEY

I got a job, I told you that. [After a slight pause) What the hell are you offering me a job for? CHARLEY Don’t get insulted. WILLY Don’t insult me. WILLY

I don’t see no sense in it. You don’t have to go on this way. WILLY I got a good job. [Slight pause] What do you keep cornin’ in here for? CHARLEY You want me to go? CHARLEY

WILLY [after a pause, withering)

I can’t understand it. He’s going back to

Texas again. What the hell is that? CHARLEY Let him go. I got nothin’ to give him, Charley, I’m clean, I’m clean. CHARLEY He won’t starve. None a them starve. Forget about him. WILLY Then what have I got to remember? WILLY

You take it too hard. To hell with it. When a deposit bottle is broken you don’t get your nickel back. WILLY That’s easy enough for you to say. CHARLEY That ain’t easy for me to say. WILLY Did you see the ceiling I put up in the living-room? CHARLEA Aeah, that s a piece of work. To put up a celling is a mystery to me. How do you do it? WILLY What’s the difference? CHARLEY Well, talk about it. WILLY You gonna put up a celling? CHARLEY How could I put up a celling? WILLY Then what the hell are you bothering me for? CHARLEY You’re insulted again. CHARLEY

A man who can’t handle tools is not a man. You’re disgusting. CHARLEY Don’t call me disgusting, Willy.

WILLY

CYCLE BEN, carrying a valise and an umbrella, enters the forestage from around

the right corner of the house. He is a stolid man, in his sixties, with a mustache and an authoritative air. He is utterly certain of his destiny, and there is an aura of far places about him. He enters exactly as WILLY speaks. WILLY

I’m getting awfully tired, Ben. *

BEN s music is heard. BEN looks around at everything. CHARLEY

Good, keep playing; you’ll sleep better. Did you call me Ben?

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1299

BEN looks at his watch. WILLY BEN

That’s funny. For a second there you reminded me of my brother Ben. I only have a few minutes. [He strolls, inspecting the place. WILLY and

CHARLEY continue playing. ]

You never heard from him again, heh? Since that time? Didn’t Linda tell you? Couple of weeks ago we got a letter from his wife

CHARLEY WILLY

in Africa. He died. CHARLEY That so. BEN [chuckling] So this is Brooklyn, eh? CHARLEY Maybe you’re in for some of his money. WALLA" Naa, he had seven sons. There’s just one opportunity I had with that man . . . BEN

I must make a train, William. There are several properties I’m looking at

in Alaska. WALLA"

Sure, sure! If I’d gone with him to Alaska that time, everything would ve

been totally different. CHARLEA" Go on, you’d froze to death up there. WALLA" What’re you talking about? BEN Opportunity is tremendous in Alaska, W illiam. Surprised you re not up there. Sure, tremendous. CHARLEY Heh? WALLA" There was the only man I ever met who knew the answers.

WALLA"

Who? How are you all?

CHARLEA" BEN

WALLA" [taking a pot, smiling]

Fine, fine. CHARLEA" Pretty sharp tonight. BEN Is Mother living with you? WALLY No, she died a long time ago. CHARLEY Who? BEN That’s too bad. Fine specimen of a lady, Mother. Heh? BEN I’d hoped to see the old girl. CHARLEY Who died? BEN Heard anything from Father, have you? WALLY [unnerved] What do you mean, who died? CHARLEY [ taking a pot] What’re you talkin’ about? BEN [looking at his watch\ William, it’s half-past eight!

WALLA" [to CHARLEA"]

WILLY [as though to dispel his confusion he angrily stops CHARLEA s hand)

Tliat’s my build! CHARLEY I put the ace— willy If you don’t know how to play the game I m not gonna throw m\ mone\ awray on you! CHARLEA" [rising]

It was my ace, for God’s sake! WALLY I’m dirough, I’m through! BEN When did Mother die? WALLY Long ago. Since the beginning you never knew' how to play cards. CHARLEY [picks up the cards and goes to the door) All right! Next time 111

bring a deck wdth five aces.

1300

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

I don’t play that kind of game! CHARLEY [ turning to him] You ought to be ashamed of yourself! willy Yeah? CHARLEY Yeah! [He goes out.] WILLY [slamming the door after him] Ignoramus! WILLY

BEN [as WILLY comes toward him through the wall-line of the kitchen]

So

you’re William. WILLY [shaking BEN’s hand]

Ben! I’ve been waiting for you so long! What’s the

answer? How did you do it? BEN Oh, there’s a story in that. i

LINDA enters the forestage, as of old, carrying the wash basket.

Is this Ben? BEN [gallantly] How do you do, my dear. LINDA

Where’ve you been all these years? Willy’s always wondered why you_ WILLY [pulling BEN away from her impatiently] Where is Dad? Didn’t you follow him? How did you get started? BEN Well, I don’t know how much you remember. WILLY Well, I was just a baby, of course, only three or four years old— BEN Three years and eleven months. WILLY What a memory, Ben! LINDA

I have many enterprises, William, and I have never kept books. WILLY I remember I was sitting under the wagon in—was it Nebraska? BEN It was South Dakota, and I gave you a bunch of wild flowers. BEN

WILLY

I remember you walking away down some open road.

BEN [laughing] WILLY

I was going to find Father in Alaska.

Where is he?

At that age I had a very faulty view of geography, William. I discovered after a few days that I was heading due south, so instead of Alaska, I ended up in Africa. LINDA Africa! WILLY The Gold Coast! BEN Principally diamond mines. LINDA Diamond mines! BEN Yes, my dear. But I’ve only a few minutes— WILLY No! Boys! Boys! [YOUNG BIFF and HAPPY appear.] Listen to this. This is your Uncle Ben, a great man! Tell my boys, Ben! BEN

Why, boys, when I was seventeen I walked into the jungle, and when I was twenty-one I walked out. [He laughs.] And by God I was rich. WILLY [ to the boys] You see what I been talking about? The greatest things can happen! BEN

BEN [glancing at his watch]

I have an appointment in Ketchikan Tuesday

week. No, Ben! Please tell about Dad. I want my boys to hear. I want them to know the kind of stock they spring from. All I remember is a man with a big beard, and I was in Mamma’s lap, sitting around a hre, and some kind of high music. WILLY

Flis flute. He played the flute. WILLY Sure, the flute, that’s right! A BEN

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1301

New music is heard, a high, rollicking tune.

Father was a very great and a very wild-hearted man. We would start in Boston, and he’d toss the whole family into the wagon, and then he’d drive the team right across the country; through Ohio, and Indiana, Michigan, Illinois, and all the Western states. And we’d stop in the towns and sell die flutes that he’d made on the way. Great inventor, Father. With one gadget he made more in a week than a man like you could make in a lifetime. WILLY That’s just the way I’m bringing them up, Ben—rugged, well liked, allBEN

around. BEN

Yeah? [to BIFF] Hit that, boy—hard as you can. [He pounds his stomach.]

BIFF .

Oh, no, sir!

BEN [taking boxing stance]

Come on, get to me! [He laughs.]

Okay! [He cocks his fists and starts in.] LINDA [to WILLY ] Why must he fight, dear? BEN [sparring with BIFF] Good boy! Good boy! WILLY How’s that, Ben, heh? HAPPY Give him the left, Biff! LINDA Why are you fighting? BEN Good boy! [Suddenly comes in, trips BIFF, and stands over him, the point

BIFF

of his umbrella poised over BIFF’s eye.] LINDA

Look out, Biff Gee!

BIFF BEN [patting BlFF’s knee]

Never fight fair with a stranger, boy. You’ll never get out of the jungle that way. [Taking LiNDA’s hand and bowing] It was an honor and a pleasure to meet you, Linda. LINDA [ withdrawing her hand coldly, frightened] Have a nice—trip. BEN [to WILLY] And good luck with your—what do you do? Selling. BEN Yes. Well . . . [He raises his hand in farewell to all.] WELLY No, Ben, I don’t want you to think . . . [He takes BEN’s arm to show WILLY

him.] It’s Brooklyn, I know, but we hunt too.

Really, now. WILLY Oh, sure, there’s snakes and rabbits and—that’s why I moved out here. Why, Biff can fell any one of these trees in no time! Boys! Go right over to where they’re building the apartment house and get some sand. We’re gonna rebuild the BEN

entire front stoop right now! Watch this, Ben! BIFF Yes, sir! On die double, Hap! HAPPY [as he and BIFF run off] I lost weight, Pop, you notice? CHARLEY enters in knickers, even before the boys are gone. CHARLEY

Listen, if diey steal any more from that building the watchman 11 put

the cops on diem! LINDA [to WELLY]

Don’t let Biff . . .

BEN laughs lustily. WILLY

You shoulda seen the lumber they brought home last week. At least a

dozen six-by-tens worth all kinds a money.

1302

Plays for Further Reading

CHARLEY

Act I

Listen, if that watchman—

I gave them hell, understand. But I got a couple of fearless characters

A ILIA

there. CHARLEY

Willy, the jails are full of fearless characters.

BEN [clapping WILLY on the back, with a laugh at CHARLEY]

And the stock

exchange, friend! WILLY [joining in BEN s laughter] CHARLEY My wife bought them.

Where are the rest of your pants?

Now all you need is a golf club and you can go upstairs and go to sleep. [To BEN] Great athlete! Between him and his son Bernard they can’t hammer a nail! WILLY

BERNARD [rushing in] WILLY [angrily]

The watchman’s chasing Biff! Shut up! He’s not stealing anything!

Where is he? Biff, dear! [She exits.] WILLY [ moving toward the left, away from BEN] There’s nothing wrong. What’s the matter with you? BEN Nervy boy. Good! LINDA [alarmed, hurrying off left]

WILLY [laughing]

Oh, nerves of iron, that Biff!

Don’t know what it is. My New England man comes back and he’s bleedin , they murdered him up there. CHARLLA

WILLY

It’s contacts, Charley, I got important contacts!

Glad to hear it, Willy. Come in later, we’ll shoot a little casino. I’ll take some of your Portland money. [He laughs at WILLY and exits. J CHARLEY [sarcastically]

WILLY [turning to BEN]

course. BEN

Business is bad, it’s murderous. But not for me of ’

I’ll stop by on my way back to Africa.

Can’t you stay a few days? You’re just what I need Ben because I—I have a fine position here, but I—well, Dad left when I was such a baby and I never had a chance to talk to him and I still feel—kind of temporary about myself. J willy [ longingly. ]

BEN

I’ll be late for my train.

They are at opposite ends of the stage.

™;LYr Ben’ my boys—can’t we talk? They’d go into the jaws of hell for me see, but I— ’ yOU re ^eing first*rate with y°ur boys. Outstanding, manly chaps! WILLY [hanging on to his words] Oh, Ben, that's good to hear! Because somemes I m afraid that I m not teaching them the right kind of— Ben, how should 1 teach them? .. Tf \8nlVmg ggatr weight t0 each word’ and with a certain vicious audacftfiam, when I walked into tile jungle, I was seventeen. When I walked out I was twenty-one. And, by God, I was rich! [He goes off into darkness around the right corner of the house.]

was rich! That’s just the spirit I want to imbue them with! To walk into a jungle! I was right! I was right! I was right! WILLY

*

BL\ is gone but WILLY is still speaking to him as LINDA, in nightgown and robe

enters the kitchen, glances around for WILLY, then goes to the door of the house looks out and sees him. Comes down to his left. He looks at her

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1303

LINDA

Willy, dear? Willy?

WILLY

I was right!

LINDA

Did you have some cheese? [He can’t answer.] It’s very late, darling.

Come to bed, heh? WILLY [looking straight up]

Gotta break your neck to see a star in this yard.

You coming in? WILLY Whatever happened to that diamond watch fob? Remember? When Ben came from Africa that time? Didn’t he give me a watch fob with a diamond in it? LINDA You pawned it, dear. Twelve, thirteen years ago. For Biffs radio cor¬ LINDA

respondence course. WILLY Gee, that was a beautiful thing. I’ll take a walk. LINDA But you’re in your slippers. WILLY [starting to go around the house at the left] I was right! I was! [Half to LINDA, as he goes, shaking his head] What a man! There was a man worth talking to. I was right! LINDA [calling after WILLY)

But in your slippers, Willy!

WILLY is almost gone when BIFF, in his pajamas, comes down the stairs and enters

the kitchen.

What is he doing out there? LINDA Sh! BIFF God Almighty, Mom, how long has he been doing this?

BIFF

Don’t, he’ll hear you. BIFF What the hell is the matter with him? LINDA It’ll pass by morning. BIFF Shouldn’t we do anything1? LINDA Oh, my dear, you should do a lot of things, but there s nothing to do, LINDA

so go to sleep. ILAPPY comes down the stairs and sits on the steps. HAPPY LINDA

I never heard him so loud, Mom. Well, come around more often; you’ll hear him. [She sits down at the

table and mends the lining of WILLY’s jacket.]

Why didn’t you ever write me about this, Mom? LINDA How would I write to you? For over three months you had no address. BIFF I was on the move. But you know I thought of you all the time. \ ou know

BIFF

that, don’t you, pal? LINDA I know, dear, I know. But he likes to have a letter. Just to know that there’s still a possibility for better things. BIFF He’s not like this all the time, is he? LINDA It’s wdien you come home he’s always the worst. BIFF When I come home? LINDA When you write you’re coming, he s all smiles, and talks about the

future, and—he’s just wonderful. And then the closer you seem to come, the more shaky he gets, and then, by the time you get here, he’s arguing, and he seems angry at you. I think it’s just that maybe he can’t bring himself to—to open up to you. Why are you so hateful to each other? Why is that? BIFF [evasively] I’m not hateful, Mom.

1304

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

But you no sooner come in the door than you’re fighting! BIFF I don’t know why. I mean to change. I’m tryin’, Mom, you understand? LINDA Are you home to stay now? LINDA

BIFF

I don’t know. I want to look around see what’s doin’.

LINDA

Biff, you can’t look around all your life, can you?

I just can’t take hold, Mom. I can’t take hold of some kind of a life. LINDA Biff, a man is not a bird, to come and go with the springtime. BIFF Your hair . . . [He touches her hair.] Your hair got so gray. LINDA Oh, it’s been gray since you were in high school. I just stopped dyeing it, that’s all. BIFF Dye it again, will ya? I don’t want my pal looking old. [He smiles.] LINDA You’re such a boy! You think you can go away for a year and . . . You’ve got to get it into your head now that one day you’ll knock on this door and there’ll be strange people here— BIFF What are you talking about? You’re not even sixty, Mom. LINDA But what about your father? BIFF [lamely] Well, I meant him too. HAPPY He admires Pop. LINDA Biff, dear, if you don’t have any feeling for him, then you can’t have any BIFF

feeling for me. BIFF

Sure I can, Mom.

No. You can’t just come to see me, because I love him. [With a threat, but only a threat, of tears] He’s the dearest man in the world to me, and I won’t have anyone making him feel unwanted and low and blue. You’ve got to make up your mind now, darling, there’s no leeway any more. Either he’s your father and you pay him that respect, or else you’re not to come here. I know he’s not easy to get along with—nobody knows that better than me—-but. . . WILLY [from the left, with a laugh] Hey, hey, Biffo! BIFF [starting to go out after WILLY] What the hell is the matter with him? LINDA

[HAPPY stops him.] LINDA

Don’t—don’t go near him!

Stop making excuses for him! He always, always wiped the floor with you. Never had an ounce of respect for you. HAPPY He’s always had respect for— BIFF What the hell do you know about it? HAPPY [surlily] Just don’t call him crazy! BIFF He’s got no character—Charley wouldn’t do this. Not in his own house— spewing out that vomit from his mind. HAPPY Charley never had to cope with what he’s got to. BIFF People are worse off than Willy Loman. Believe me, I’ve seen them! LINDA Then make Charley your father, Biff. You can’t do that, can you? I don’t say he’s a great man. Willy Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He’s not the finest character that ever lived. But he’s a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He’s not to be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must be finally paid to such a person. You called him crazy— BIFF I didn’t mean— BIFF

No, a lot of people think he’s lost his—balance. But you don’t have to be very smart to know what his trouble is. The man is exhausted. HAPPY Sure! LINDA

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1305

A small man can be just as exhausted as a great man. He works for a company thirtv-six years this March, opens up unheard-of territories to their trade¬ mark, and now in his old age they take his salary away. HAPPY [ indignantly] I didn’t know that, Mom. LINDA You never asked, my dear! Now that you get your spending money someplace else you don’t trouble your mind with him. HAPPY But I gave you money last— LINDA Christmas time, fifty dollars! To fix the hot water it cost ninety-seven fifty! For five weeks he’s been on straight commission, like a beginner, an un¬ LINDA

known! Those ungrateful bastards! LINDA Are they any worse than his sons? When he brought them business, when he was young, they were glad to see him. But now his old friends, the old buyers that loved him so and always found some order to hand him in a pinch they’re all dead, retired. He used to be able to make six, seven calls a day in Boston. Now he takes his valises out of die car and puts them back and takes them out again and he’s exhausted. Instead of walking he talks now. He drives seven hundred miles, and when he gets there no one knows him any more, no one welcomes him. And what goes through a man’s mind, driving seven hundred miles home without having earned a cent? Why shouldn’t he talk to himself? Why? When he has to go to Charley and borrow fifty dollars a week and pretend to me that it’s his pay? How long can that go on? How long? You see what I’m sitting here and waiting for? And you tell me he has no character? The man who nerer worked a day but for your benefit? When does he get the medal for diat ? Is this his reward—to turn around at the age of sixty-three and find his sons, who he BIFF

loved better than his life, one a philandering bum— HAPPY Mom! LINDA That’s all you are, my baby! [To BIFF] And you! What happened to the love you had for him? \ou were such pals! How you used to talk to him on the phone every night! How lonely he was till he could come home to you! biff All right, Mom. I’ll live here in my room, and I’ll get a job. I’ll keep away from him, that’s all. LINDA No, Biff. You can’t stay here and fight all the time. BIFF He threw me out of this house, remember that. LINDA Why did he do that? I never knew why. BIFF Because I know he’s a fake and he doesn’t like anybody around who knows! Why a fake? In what way? What do you mean? BIFF Just don’t lay it all at my feet. It’s between me and him that s all I have to say. I’ll chip in from now on. He’ll setde for half my pay check. He’ll be all right. LINDA

I’m going to bed. [He starts for the stairs.] LINDA He won’t be all right. BIFF [turning on the stairs, furiously) I hate this city and Ill stay here. Now what do you want? LINDA He’s dying, Biff. HAP Pi" turns quickly to her, shocked.

Why is he dying4? I Ie’s been trying to kill himself.

BIFF [after a pause] LINDA

1306

Plays for Further Reading

BIFF [ with great horror]

Act I

How?

I live from day to day. BIFF What’re you talking about? LINDA Remember I wrote you that he smashed up the car again? In February? BIFF Well? LINDA

The insurance inspector came. He said that they have evidence. That all these accidents in the last year—weren’t—weren’t—accidents. HAPPY How can they tell that? That’s a lie. LINDA It seems there’s a woman . . . [She takes a breath as] LINDA

I BIFF [sharply but contained] What woman? [ LINDA [simultaneously] . . . and this woman . t . LINDA What? BIFF Nothing. Go ahead. LINDA What did you say? BIFF Nothing. I just said what woman? HAPPY What about her? Well, it seems she was walking down the road and saw his car. She says that he wasn’t driving fast at all, and that he didn’t skid. She says he came to that little bridge, and then deliberately smashed into the railing, and it was only the shallowness of the water that saved him. BIFF Oh, no, he probably just fell asleep again. LINDA I don’t think he fell asleep. BIFF Why not? LINDA

Last month . . . [ With great difficulty] Oh, boys, it’s so hard to say a thing like this! He s just a big stupid man to you, but I tell you there’s more good in him than in many other people. [She chokes, wipes her eyes.] I was looking for a fuse. The lights blew out, and I went down the cellar. And behind the fuse box— it happened to fall out—was a length of rubber pipe—just short. HAPPY No kidding? LINDA

There’s a little attachment on the end of it. I knew right away. And sure enough, on the bottom of the water heater there’s a new little nipple on the gas pipe. HAPPY [angrily] That—jerk. BIFF Did you have it taken off? LINDA

I’m—I’m ashamed to. How can I mention it to him? Every day I go down and take away that litde rubber pipe. But, when he comes home, I put it back where it was. How can I insult him that way? I don’t know what to do. I live from day to day, boys. I tell you, I know every diought in his mind. It sounds so old-fashioned and silly, but I tell you he put his whole life into you and you’ve turned your backs on him. [She is bent over in the chair, weeping, her face in her hands.] Biff, I swear to God! Biff, his life is in your hands! HAPPY [to BIFF] How do you like that damned fool! BIFF [kissing her] All right, pal, all right. It’s all settled now. I’ve been remiss. I know that, Mom. But now I’ll stay, and I swear to you, I’ll apply myself. [Kneeling in front of her, in a fever of self-reproach.] It’s just—you see, Mom, I don’t ht in business. Not that I won’t try. I’ll try, and I’ll make good. HAPPY Sure you will. The trouble with you in business was you never tried to please people. BIFF I know, I— LINDA

HAPPY

Like when you worked for Harrison’s. Bob Harrison said you were

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1307

tops, and then you go and do some damn fool thing like whistling whole songs in the elevator like a comedian. BIFF [against HAPPY] So what? I like to whistle sometimes. HAPPY You don’t raise a guy to a responsible job who whistles in the elevator! LINDA Well, don’t argue about it now. HAPPY Like when you’d go off and swim in the middle of the day instead of taking the line around. BIFF [his resentment rising\

Well, don’t you run off? You take off sometimes,

don’t you? On a nice summer day? HAPPY Yeah, but I cover myself! LINDA Boys! HAPPY If I’m going to take a fade the boss can call any number where I’m supposed to be and they’ll swear to him that I just left. I’ll tell you something that I hate to say, Biff, but in the business world some of them think you’re crazy. BIFF [angered] Screw the business world! HAPPY All right, screw it! Great, but cover yourself! Hap, Hap! BIFF I don’t care what they think! They’ve laughed at Dad for years, and you know why? Because we don’t belong in this nuthouse of a city! W e should be mixing cement on some open plain, or—or carpenters. A carpenter is allowed to LINDA

whistle! WILLY walks in from the entrance of the house, at left.

Even your grandfather was better than a carpenter. [Pause. They watch him.] You never grew up. Bernard does not whistle in the elevator, I assure you. BIFF [as though to laugh WILLY out of it] Yeah, but you do, Pop. WILLY I never in my life whistled in an elevator! And who in the business WILLY

world thinks I’m crazy? BLFF I didn’t mean it like that, Pop. Now don’t make a whole thing out of it, will ya? WILLY

Go back to the West! Be a carpenter, a cowboy, enjoy yourself!

Willy, he was just saying— WILLY I heard what he said! HAPPY [trying to quiet WILLY] Hey, Pop, come on now . . . WILLY [continuing over HAPPYs line] They laugh at me, heh? Go to Filene’s, go to the Hub, go to Slattery’s, Boston. Call out the name Willy Loman and see LINDA

what happens! Big shot! BIFF All right, Pop. WILLY Big! BIFF All right! WILLY Why do you always insult me? BIFF I didn’t say a word. [ To LINDA] Did I say a word? LINDA He didn’t say anything, Willy. WILLY [going to the doorway of the living-room] All right, good night, good night. Willy, dear, he just decided . . . WILLY [to BIFF] If you get tired hanging around tomorrow, paint the ceiling I LINDA

put up in the living-room. BIFF Pin leaving early tomorrow.

1308

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

He’s going to see Bill Oliver, Pop. WILLY [interestedly] Oliver? For what? BIFF [with reserve, hut trying, trying] He always said he’d stake me. I’d like to go into business, so maybe I can take him up on it. LINDA Isn’t that wonderful? WILLY Don’t interrupt. What’s wonderful about it? There’s fifty men in the City of New York who’d stake him. [ To BLFF] Sporting goods? BIFF I guess so. I know something about it and— WILLY He knows something about it! You know sporting goods better than Spalding, for God’s sake! How much is he giving you? BIFF I don’t know, I didn’t even see him yet, bht— WILLY Then what’re you talkin’ about? BIFF [getting angry] Well, all I said was I’m gonna see him, that’s all! WILLY [turning away] Ah, you’re counting your chickens again. BIFF [starting left for the stairs] Oh, Jesus, I’m going to sleep! WILLY [calling after him] Don’t curse in this house! BLFF [ turning] Since when did you get so clean? HAPPY [ trying to stop them] Wait a . . . WILLY Don’t use that language to me! I won’t have it! HAPPY [grabbing BLFF, shouts] Wait a minute! I got an idea. I got a feasible idea. Come here, Biff, let’s talk this over now, let’s talk some sense here. When I was down in Florida last time, I thought of a great idea to sell sporting goods. It just came back to me. You and I, Biff—we have a line, the Loman Line. We train a couple of weeks, and put on a couple of exhibitions, see? WILLY That’s an idea! HAPPY

Wait! We form two basketball teams, see? Two waterpolo teams. We play each other. It’s a million dollars’ worth of publicity. Two brothers, see? The Loman Brothers. Displays in the Royal Palms—all the hotels. And banners over the ring and the basketball court: “Loman Brothers. ” Baby, we could sell sporting goods! HAPPY

That is a one-million-dollar idea! LINDA Marvelous! BIFF I’m in great shape as far as that’s concerned. HAPPY And the beauty of it is, Biff, it wouldn’t be like a business. We’d be out playin’ ball again . . . BIFF [enthused] Yeah, that’s . . . WILLY Million-dollar . . . WILLY

And you wouldn’t get fed up with it, Biff. It’d be the family again. There’d be the old honor, and comradeship, and if you wanted to go off for a swim or somethin’—well, you’d do it! Without some smart cooky gettin’ up ahead of you! HAPPY

WILLY

Lick the world! You guys together could absolutely lick the civilized

world. I’ll see Oliver tomorrow. Hap, if we could work that out. . . LINDA Maybe things are beginning to—

BIFF

WILLY [ wildly enthused, to LINDA]

Stop interrupting! [ To BLFF] But don’t wear sport jacket and slacks when you see Oliver. BLFF No, I’ll— WILLY BIFF

A business suit, and talk as little as possible, and don’t crack any jokes. He did like me. Always liked me.

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act I

1309

He loved you! WILLY [to LINDA] Will you stop! [To BEFF] Walk in very serious. You are not applying for a boy’s job. Money is to pass. Be quiet, fine, and serious. Everybody likes a kidder, but nobody lends him money. HAPPY I’ll try to get some myself, Biff. I’m sure I can. WILLY I see great things for you kids, I think your troubles are over. But remember, start big and you’ll end big. Ask for fifteen. How much you gonna ask LINDA

for? Gee, I don’t know— WELLY And don’t say “Gee. ” “Gee” is a boy’s word. A man walking in for fifteen thousand dollars does not say “Gee!” BEFF Ten, I think, would be top though. WELLY Don’t be so modest. You always started too low. Walk in with a big laugh. Don’t look worried. Start off with a couple of your good stories to lighten things up. It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it—because personality always BEFF

wins the day. LINDA Oliver always thought the highest of him— WELLY Will you let me talk? BIFF Don’t yell at her, Pop, will ya? WELLY [angrily] I was talking, wasn’t I? BEFF I don’t like you yelling at her all the time, and I’m tellin’ you, that’s all. WELLY What’re you, takin’ over this house? LINDA

Willy—

WILLY [turning on her] BEFF [ furiously]

Don’t take his side all the time, goddammit! Stop yelling at her!

WELLY [suddenly pulling on his cheek, beaten down, guilt ridden]

Give my

best to Bill Oliver—he may remember me. He exits through the living-room doorway. LINDA [ her voice subdued]

What’d you have to start that for? [ BEFF turns away. ] You see how sweet he was as soon as you talked hopefully? [She goes over to BEFF.] Come up and say good night to him. Don’t let him go to bed that way. HAPPY Come on, Biff, let’s buck him up. LINDA Please, dear. Just say good night. It takes so litde to make him happy. Come. [She goes through the living-room doorway, calling upstairs from within the living-room.] Your pajamas are hanging in the bathroom, Willy! HAPPY [ looking toward where LINDA went out] Wdiat a woman! They broke die mold when they made her. You know that, Biff? BEFF He’s off salary. My God, working on commission! HAPPY Well, let’s face it: he’s no hot-shot selling man. Except that sometimes, you have to admit, he’s a sweet personality. BIFF [deciding] Lend me ten bucks, will ya? I want to buy some new ties. HAPPY I’ll take you to a place I know. Beautiful stuff. W ear one of my striped shirts tomorrow. BEFF She got gray. Mom got awful old. Gee, I’m gonna go in to Oliver tomorrow and knock him for a— HAPPY Come on up. Tell that to Dad. Let’s give him a whirl. Come on. BIFF [steamed up ] You know, with ten diousand bucks, boy! HAPPY [as they go into the living-room] That’s the talk, Biff, that s the first

1310

Plays for Further Reading

Act I

time I’ve heard the old confidence out of you! [From within the living-room, fading off] You’re gonna live with me, kid, and any babe you want just say the word . . . [The last lines are hardly heard. They are mounting the stairs to their parents’ bedroom.] LINDA [entering her bedroom and addressing WILLY, who is in the bathroom.

She is straightening the bed for him.]

Can you do anything about the shower?

It drips. All of a sudden everything falls to pieces! Goddam plumbing, oughta be sued, those people. I hardly finished putting it in and the thing . . . [His words rumble off.] LINDA I’m just wondering if Oliver will remember him. You think he might? WILLY [coming out of the bathroom in his pajamas] Remember him? What’s the matter with you, you crazy? If he’d’ve stayed with Oliver he’d be on top by now! Wait’ll Oliver gets a look at him. You don’t know the average caliber any more. The average young man today—[He is getting into bed]—is got a caliber of zero. Greatest thing in the world for him was to bum around. WILLY [from the bathroom]

BIFF and HAPPY enter the bedroom. Slight pause. WILLY [stops short, looking at BIFF]

Glad to hear it, boy. HAPPY He wanted to say good night to you, sport. WILLY [to BIFF] Yeah. Knock him dead, boy. What’d you want to tell me? BIFF Just take it easy, Pop. Good night. [He turns to go.] WILLY [unable to resist] And if anything falls off the desk while you’re talking to him—like a package or something—don’t you pick it up. They have office boys for that. LINDA I’ll make a big breakfast— WILLY Will you let me finish? [To BIFF] Tell him you were in the business in the West. Not farm work. BIFF All right, Dad. LINDA I think everything— WILLY [going right through her speech]

And don’t undersell yourself. No less

than fifteen thousand dollars. Okay. Good night, Mom. [He starts moving.] WILLY Because you got a greatness in you, Biff, remember that. You got all kinds a greatness . . . [He lies back, exhausted.] Bn[unable to bear him]

BIFF walks out. LINDA [ calling after BIFF]

Sleep well, darling! HAPPY I’m gonna get married, Mom. I wanted to tell you. LINDA Go to sleep, dear. HAPPY [going] I just wanted to tell you. Keep up the good work. [HAPPY exits.} God . . . remember that Ebbets Field game? The championship of the city? LINDA Just rest. Should I sing to you? WILLY

\eah. Sing to me. [LINDA hums a soft lullaby.] When that team came out—he was the tallest, remember? LINDA Oh, yes. And in gold. WILIA

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

1311

BIFF enters the darkened kitchen, takes a cigarette, and leaves the house. He comes

downstage into a golden pool of light. He smokes, staring at the night.

Like a young god. Hercules—something like that. And the sun, the sun all around him. Remember how he waved to me? Right up from the field, with the representatives of three colleges standing by? And the buyers I brought, and the cheers when he came out—Loman, Loman, Loman! God Almighty, he’ll be great yet. A star like that, magnificent, can never really fade away! WILLY

The light on WILLY is fading. The gas heater begins to glow through the kitchen wall, near the stairs, a blue flame beneath red coils. . LINDA [ timidly] WILLY

Willy dear, what has he got against you? I’m so tired. Don’t talk any more.

BIFF slowly returns to the kitchen. He stops, stares toward the heater. LINDA WILLY

Will you ask Howard to let you work in New York? First thing in the morning. Everything’ll be all right.

BIFF reaches behind the heater and draws out a length of rubber tubing. He is

horrified and turns his head toward WILLY’s room, still dimly lit, from which the strains of LiNDA’s desperate but monotonous humming rise. WILLY [staring through the window into the moonlight]

Gee, look at the moon

moving between the buildings! BIFF wraps the tubing around his hand and quickly goes up the stairs.

Act II Music is heard, gay and bright. The curtain rises as the music fades away. WILLY, in shirt sleeves, is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, his hat in his lap. LINDA is filling his cup when she can.

Wonderful coffee. Meal in itself. LINDA Can I make you some eggs? WILLY No. Take a breath. LINDA You look so rested, dear. WILLY I slept like a dead one. First time in months. Imagine, sleeping till ten on a Tuesday morning. Boys left nice and early, heh? LINDA They were out of here by eight o’clock. WILLY Good work! LINDA It was so thrilling to see them leaving together. I can’t get over the WILLY

shaving lotion in this house! WLLLY [smiling] Mmm— LINDA Biff was very changed this morning. His whole attitude seemed to be hopeful. He couldn’t wait to get downtown to see Oliver. WFLLY He’s heading for a change. There’s no question, there simply are certain men that take longer to get—solidified. I low did he dress?

1312

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

His blue suit. He’s so handsome in that suit. He could be a—anything in that suit! LINDA

WILLY gets up from the table. LINDA holds his jacket for him.

There’s no question, no question at all. Gee, on the way home tonight I’d like to buy some seeds. LINDA [laughing] That’d be wonderful. But not enough sun gets back there. Nothing’ll grow any more. WILLY You wait, kid, before it’s all over we’re gonna get a little place out in the country, and I’ll raise some vegetables, a couple of'chickens . . . LINDA You’ll do it yet, dear. WILLY

WILLY walks out of his jacket. LINDA follows him.

And they’ll get married, and come for a weekend. I’d build a little guest house. ’Cause I got so many fine tools, all I’d need would be a little lumber and some peace of mind. LINDA \joyfully] I sewed the lining . . . WILLY I could build two guest houses, so they’d both come. Did he decide how much he’s going to ask Oliver for? LINDA [getting him into the jacket] He didn’t mention it, but I imagine ten or fifteen thousand. You going to talk to Howard today? WILLY Yeah. I’ll put it to him straight and simple. He’ll just have to take me off the road. WILLY

And Willy, don’t forget to ask for a litde advance, because we’ve got the insurance premium. It’s the grace period now. WILLY That’s a hundred . . . ? LINDA A hundred and eight, sixty-eight. Because we’re a litde short again. WILLY Why are we short? LINDA Well, you had the motor job on the car . . . WILLY That goddam Studebaker! LINDA And you got one more payment on the refrigerator . . . WILLY But it just broke again! LINDA Well, it’s old, dear. LINDA

I told you we should’ve bought a well-advertised machine. Charley bought a General Electric and it’s twenty years old and it’s still good, that son-ofa-bitch. LINDA But, Willy— WILLY

Whoever heard of a Hastings refrigerator? Once in my life I would like to own something outright before it’s broken! I’m always in a race with die junk¬ yard! I just finished paying for die car and it’s on its last legs. The refrigerator consumes belts like a goddam maniac. They time those tilings. They time them so when you finally paid for diem, they’re used up. LINDA [ buttoning up his jacket as he unbuttons it] All told, about two hundred dollars would carry us, dear. But that includes the last payment on the mortgage. After this payment, Willy, the house belongs to us. WILLY It’s twenty-five years! LINDA Biff was nine years old when we bought it. WILLY Well, that’s a great thing. To feather a twenty-five year mortgage is— WILLY

Act II

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

1313

It’s an accomplishment. WILLY All the cement, the lumber, the reconstruction I put in this house! There ain’t a crack to be found in it any more. LINDA Well, it served its purpose. WILLY What purpose? Some stranger’ll come along, move in, and that’s that. If only Biff would take this house, and raise a family . . . [He starts to go.] GoodLINDA

by, I’m late. LINDA [suddenly remembering]

Oh, I forgot! You’re supposed to meet them

for dinner. Me? LINDA At Frank’s Chop House on Forty-eighth near Sixth Avenue. WILLY Is that so! How about you? LINDA No, just the three of you. They’re gonna blow you to a big meal! WILLY Don’t sav! Who thought of that? LINDA Biff came to me this morning, Willy, and he said, “Tell Dad, we want to blow him to a big meal.” Be there sLx o’clock. You and your two boys are going WILLY

to have dinner. WILLY Gee whiz! That’s really somethin’. I’m gonna knock Howard for a loop, kid. I’ll get an advance, and I’ll come home with a New York job. Goddammit, now I’m gonna do it! LINDA Oh, that’s the spirit, Willy! WILLY

I will never get behind a wheel the rest of my life!

LINDA

It’s changing, Willy, I can feel it changing! Beyond a question. GTy, I’m late. [He starts to go again.]

WILLY

LINDA [calling after him as she runs to the kitchen table for a handkerchief]

You

got your glasses? Yeah, yeah, got my glasses. And a handkerchief.

WILLY [feels for them, then comes back in] LINDA [giving him the handkerchief] WILLY LINDA WILLY LINDA

Yeah, handkerchief. And your saccharine? Yeah, my saccharine. Be careful on die subway stairs.

She kisses him, and a silk stocking is seen hanging from her hand. WILLY notices it. WILLY

Will you stop mending stockings? At least while I’m in the house. It

gets me nervous. I can’t tell you. Please. LINDA hides the stocking in her hand as she follows WILLY across the forestage

in front of the house.

Remember, Frank’s Chop House. WILLY [passing the apron] Maybe beets would grow out there. LINDA f laughing] But you tried so many times. WILLY Yeah. Well, don’t work hard today. [He disappears around the right LINDA

corner of the house.] LINDA

Be careful!

As WILLY vanishes, LINDA waves to him. Suddenly the phone rings. She runs across the stage and into the kitchen and lifts it.

1314

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

Hello? Oh, Biff! I’m so glad you called, I just. . . Yes, sure, I just told him. Yes, he’ll be there for dinner at six o’clock, I didn’t forget Listen, I was just dying to tell you. You know that little rubber pipe 1 told you about? That he connected to the gas heater? I finally decided to go down the cellar this morning and take it away and destroy it. But it’s gone! .Imagine? He took it away himself, it isn’t there! [ She listens.] When? Oh, then you took it Oh—nothing, it’s just that I’d hoped he’d taken it away himself. Oh, I’m not worried, darling, because this morning he left in such high spirits, it was like the old days! I’m not afraid any more. Did Mr. Oliver see you? . . . Well, you wait there then. And make a nice impression on him, darling. Just don’t perspire too much before you see him. And have a nice time with Dad. He may have big news too! . . . That’s right, a New York job. And be sweet to him tonight, dear. Be loving to him. Because he’s only a little boat looking for a harbor. [She is trembling with sorrow and joy.\ Oh, that’s wonderful, Biff, you’ll save his life. Thanks, darling. Just put your arm around him when he comes into the restaurant. Give him a smile. That’s the boy . . . Good-by, dear. . . . You got your comb? . . . That’s fine. Good-by, Biff dear. LINDA

In the middle of her speech, HOWARD WAGNER, thirty-six, wheels on a small typewriter table on which is a wire-recording machine and proceeds to plug it in. This is on the left forestage. Light slowly fades on LINDA as it rises on HOWARD. HOWARD is intent on threading the machine and only glances over his shoulder

as WILLY appears.

Pst! Pst! HOWARD HeUo, Willy, come in. WILLY Like to have a little talk with you, Howard. LIOWARD Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll be with you in a minute. WILLY What’s that, Howard? HOWARD Didn’t you ever see one of these? Wire recorder. WILLY Oh. Can we talk a minute? HOWARD Records things. Just got delivery yesterday. Been driving me crazy, the most terrific machine I ever saw in my life. I was up all night with it. WILLY What do you do with it? HOWARD I bought it for dictation, but you can do anything with it. Listen to this. I had it home last night. Listen to what I picked up. The first, one is my daughter. Get this. [He flicks the switch and rrRoll out the Barrel” is heard being whistled.] Listen to that kid whistle. WILLY That is lifelike, isn’t it? HOWARD Seven years old. Get that tone. WILLY Ts, ts. Like to ask a little favor if you . . . WILLY

The whistling breaks off, and the voice of HOWARD'S DAUGHTER is heard.

“Now you, Daddy. ” HOWARD She’s crazy for me! [Again the same song is whistled.] That’s me! Ha! [He winks.] WILLY You’re very good! HIS DAUGHTER

The whistling breaks off again. The machine runs silent for a moment.

Act II

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

1315

Sh! Get this now, this is my son. HIS SON ‘The capital of Alabama is Montgomery; the capital of Arizona is Phoenix; the capital of Arkansas is Little Rock; the capital of California is Sacra¬ mento . . [And on, and on] HOWARD [holding up five fingers] Five years old, Willy! WILLY He’ll make an announcer some day! HIS SON [continuing] “The capital ...” HOWARD Get that—alphabetical order! [The machine breaks off suddenly.} Wait a minute. The maid kicked the plug out. WILLY It certainly is a— HOWARD Sh, for God’s sake! HIS SON “It’s nine o’clock, Bulova watch time. So I have to go to sleep. ” HOWARD

That really is— HOWARD Wait a minute! The next is my wife.

WILLY

They wait. HOWARD’S VOICE HIS WIFE

“Go on, say something.” [Pause] “Well, you gonna talk?”

“I can’t think of anything. ”

“Well, talk—it’s turning. ” HIS WIFE [shyly, beaten] “Hello.” [Silence] “Oh, Howard, I can’t talk into

HOWARD’S VOICE

this ...” That was my wife. WILLY That is a wonderful machine. Can we— HOWARD I tell you, Willy, I’m gonna take my camera, and my bandsaw, and all my hobbies, and out they go. This is the most fascinating relaxation I ever HOWARD [snapping the machine off]

found. I think I’ll get one myself. HOWARD Sure, they’re only a hundred and a half. You can’t do without it. Supposing you wanna hear Jack Benny, see? But you can’t be at home at that hour. So you tell the maid to turn the radio on when Jack Benny comes on, and WILLY

this automatically goes on with the radio . . . WILLY And when you come home you . . . HOWARD You can come home twelve o’clock, one o’clock, any time you like, and you get yourself a Coke and sit yourself down, throw the switch, and there’s Jack Benny’s program in the middle of the night! WILLY I’m definitely going to get one. Because lots of time I’m on the road, and I think to myself, what I must be missing on the radio! HOWARD Don’t you have a radio in the car? WILLY Yeah, but who ever thinks of turning it on? HOWARD Say, aren’t you supposed to be in Boston’? WILLY That’s what I want to talk to you about, Howard. You got a minute? He draws a chair in from the wing. HOWARD

What happened? What’re you doing here0

Well . . . HOWARD You didn’t crack up again, did you?

WILLY

WILLY

Oh, no. No . . .

1316

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

Geez, you had me worried there for a minute. What’s the trouble? WILLY Well, tell you the truth, Howard. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d rather not travel any more. HOWARD Not travel! Well, what’ll you do? WILLY Remember, Christmas time, when you had the party here? You said you’d try to think of some spot for me here in town. HOWARD With US? WILLY Well, sure. HOWARD

HOWARD

Oh, yeah, yeah. I remember. Well, I couldn’t think of anything for

you, Willy. I tell ya, Howard. The kids are all grown up, y’know. I don’t need much any more. If I could take home—well, sixty-five dollars a week, I could swing it HOWARD Yeah, but Willy, see I— WILLY I tell ya why, Howard. Speaking frankly and between the two of us, y’know—I’m just a little tired. WILLY

Oh, I could understand that, Willy. But you’re a road man, Willy, and we do a road business. We’ve only got a half-dozen salesmen on the floor here. HOWARD

God knows, Howard, I never asked a favor of any man. But I was with the firm when your father used to carry you up here in his arms. HOWARD I know that, Willy, but— WILLY Your father came to me the day you were bom and asked me what I thought of the name of Howard, may he rest in peace. HOWARD I appreciate that, Willy, but there just is no spot here for you. If I had a spot I’d slam you right in, but I just don’t have a single solitary spot. WILLY

He looks for his lighter. WILLY has picked it up and gives it to him. Pause.

WILLY [ with increasing anger]

Howard, all I need to set my table is fifty dollars

a week. But where am I going to put you, kid? WILLY Look, it isn’t a question of whether I can sell merchandise, is it? HOWARD No, but it’s a business, kid, and everybody’s gotta pull his own weight. HOWARD

Just let me tell you a store, Howard— HOWARD ’Cause you gotta admit, business is business. WILLY [ angrily ] Business is definitely business, but just listen for a minute, h ou don t understand this. When I was a boy—eighteen, nineteen—I was already on the road. And there was a question in my mind as to whether selling had a future for me. Because in those days I had a yearning to go to Alaska. See, there were three gold strikes in one month in Alaska, and I felt like going out. Just for the ride, you might say. HOWARD [barely interested] Don’t say. WILIY" [desperately]

Oh, yeah, my father lived many years in Alaska. He was an adventurous man. We ve got quite a little streak of self-reliance in our family. I thought I’d go out with my older brother and try to locate him, and maybe settle in the North with the old man. And I was almost decided to go, when I met a salesman in the Parker House. Plis name was Dave Singleman. And he was eighty-four years old, and he’d drummed merchandise in diirty-one states. And old Dave, he’d go up to WILLY

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

1317

his room, y’understand, put on his green velvet slippers—I’ll never forget—and pick up his phone and call the buyers, and without ever leaving his room, at the age of eighty-four, he made his living. And when I saw that, I realized drat selling was the greatest career a man could want. ’Cause what could be more satisfying than to be able to go, at the age of eighty-four, into twenty or thirty different cities, and pick up a phone, and be remembered and loved and helped by so many dif¬ ferent people? Do you know? when he died—and by the way he died the death of a salesman, in his green velvet slippers in the smoker of the New York, New Haven and Hartford, going into Boston—when he died, hundreds of salesmen and buyers were at his funeral. Things were sad on a lotta trains for months after that. [He stands up. HOWARD has not looked at him.] In those days there was person¬ ality in it, Howard. There was respect, and comradeship, and gratitude in it. Today, it’s .all cut and dried, and there’s no chance for bringing friendship to bear—or personality. You see what I mean? They don’t know me any more. HOWARD [ moving away, to the right] That’s just die thing, Willy. WILLY If I had forty dollars a week—that’s all I’d need. Forty dollars, Howard. HOWARD Kid, I can’t take blood from a stone, I— WILLY [desperation is on him now] Howard, the year A1 Smith was nominated, your father came to me and— I’ve got to see some people, kid. WILLY [stopping him] I’m talking about your fadier! There were promises made across this desk! You mustn’t tell me you’ve got people to see—I put diirty-four years into this firm, Howard, and now I can’t pay my insurance! You can’t eat the orange and throw the peel away—a man is not a piece of fruit! [After a pause] Now pay attention. Your father—in 1928 I had a big year. I averaged a hundred and seventy dollars a week in commissions. HOWARD [impatiently] Now, Willy, you never averaged— WILLY [ banging his hand on the desk] I averaged a hundred and seventy dollars a week in the year of 1928! And your father came to me—or rather, I was in the office here—it was right over this desk—and he put his hand on my shoulder— HOWARD [getting up] You’ll have to excuse me, Willy, I gotta see some people. Pull yourself together. [Going out] I’ll be back in a little while. HOWARD [starting to go off]

On Howard’s exit, the light on his chair grows very bright and strange.

Pull myself together! What the hell did I say to him? My God, I was yelling at him! How could I! [WILLY breaks off, staring at the light, which occupies the chair, animating it.] Frank, Frank, don’t you remember what you told me that time? How you put your hand on my shoulder, and Frank ... [He leans on the WILLY

desk and as he speaks the dead mans name he accidentally switches on the re¬ corder, and instantly]

“. . . of New York is Albany. The capital of Ohio is Cincinnati, the capital of Rhode Island is . . .” [The recitation continues.] WILLY [leaping way with fright, shouting] Ha! Howard! Howard! Howard! HOWARD [rushing in] What happened? HOWARD’S SON

WILLY [pointing at the machine, which continues nasally, childishly, with the

capital cites] Shut it off! Shut it off! HOWARD [pulling the plug out] Look, Willy . . . WILLY [pressing his hands to his eyes] I gotta get myself some coffee. Ill get

some coffee . . .

1318

Act II

Plays for Further Reading

WILLY starts to walk out. HOWARD stops him. HOWARD [rolling up the cord]

Willy, look . . .

I’ll go to Boston. HOWARD Willy, you can’t go to Boston for us. WILLY Why can’t I go? HOWARD I don’t want you to represent us. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time now. WILLY Howard, are you firing me? HOWARD I think you need a good long rest, Willy. WILLY Howard— HOWARD And when you feel better, come back, and we’ll see if we can work something out. WILLY But I gotta earn money, Howard. I’m in no position to— HOWARD Where are your sons? Why don’t your sons give you a hand? WILLY They’re working on a very big deal. HOWARD This is no time for false pride, Willy. You go to your sons and you tell them that you’re tired. You’ve got two great boys, haven’t you? WILLY Oh, no question, no question, but in the meantime . . . HOWARD Then that’s that, heh? WILLY All right, I’ll go to Boston tomorrow. HOWARD No, no. WILLY I can’t throw myself on my sons. I’m not a cripple! HOWARD Look, kid, I’m busy this morning. WILLY [grasping HOWARD’S arm] Howard, you’ve got to let me go to Boston! HOWARD [hard, keeping himself under control] I’ve got a line of people to see this morning. Sit down, take five minutes, and pull yourself together, and then go home, will ya? I need the office, Willy. [He starts to go, turns, remembering the recorder, starts to push off the table holding the recorder.] Oh, yeah. Whenever you can this week, stop by and drop off the samples. You’ll feel better, Willy, and then come back and we’ll talk. Pull yourself together, kid, there’s people outside. WILLY

HOWARD exits, pushing the table off left. WILLY stares into space, exhausted. Now

the music is heard—BEN’s music—first distantly, then closer. As WILLY speaks, BEN enters from the right. He carries valise and umbrella.

Oh, Ben, how did you do it? What is the answer? Did you wind up the Alaska deal already? WILLY

Doesn’t take much time if you know what you’re doing. Just a short business trip. Boarding ship in an hour. Wanted to say good-by. WILLY Ben, I’ve got to talk to you. BEN [glancing at his watch] Haven’t much time, William. WILLY [crossing the apron to BEN] Ben, nothing’s working out. I don’t know what to do. BEN

Now, look here, William. I’ve bought timberland in Alaska and I need a man to look after things for me. BEN

God, timberland! Me and my boys in those grand outdoors! BEN You’ve a new continent at your doorstep, William. Get out of these cities, they’re full of talk and time payments and courts of law. Screw on your fists and you can fight for a fortune up there. v\ WELLY

Act II

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

WILLY

1319

Yes, yes! Linda, Linda!

LIXDA enters as of old, with the wash.

Oh, you’re back? BEX I haven’t much time. WILLY Xo, wait! Linda, he’s got a proposition for me in Alaska. LIXDA But you’ve got—[To BEX] He’s got a beautiful job here. WILLY But in .Alaska, kid, I could— LIXDA You're doing well enough, Willy! BEX [to LIXDA] Enough for what, my dear? LIXDA [frightened of BEX and angry at him\ Don’t say those things to him! Enough to be happy right here, right now. [To WILLY, while BEX laughs\ Why must everybody conquer the world? You’re well liked, and the boys love you, and someday—[To BEX]—why old man Wagner told him just the other day that if he keeps it up he’ll be a member of the firm, didn’t he, Willy? WILLY Sure, sure. I am building something with this firm. Ben, and if a man is building something he must be on the right track, mustn’t he? BEX What are you building"? Lay your hand on it Where is it? WILLY [hesitantly] That's true, Linda, there’s nothing. LIXDA Why? [To BEX] There’s a man eighty-four years old— WILLY That’s right, Ben, that’s right When I look at that man I say, what is there to worry about? BEX Bah! WILLY It’s true, Ben. .All he has to do is go into any city, pick up the phone, and he’s making his living and you know why? BEX [picking up his valise] I’ve got to go. WILLY [holding BEX back] Look at this boy! LINDA

BIFF, in his high school sweater, enters carrying suitcase. HAPPY carries BlFF’s

shoulder guards, gold helmet, and football pants.

Without a penny to his name, three great universities are begging for him, and from there the skv s the limit, because it s not what you do, Ben. It s who you know and the smile on your face! It’s contacts, Ben, contacts! The whole wealth of .Alaska passes over the lunch table at the Commodore Hotel, and that’s the wonder, the wonder of this country, that a man can end w ith diamonds here on the basis of being liked! [He turns to BIFF] .And that’s why when you get out on that field today it’s important. Because thousands of people will be rooting for you and loving you. [To BEX, who has again begun to leave] And Ben! when he walks into a business office his name will sound out like a bell and all the doors will open to him! I’ve seen it, Ben, I’ve seen it a thousand times! You can’t feel it WILLY

with vour hand like timber, but it’s there! BEX Good-by, William. WILLY Ben, am I right? Don't you think I m right? I value your advice. BEX There’s a new continent at vour doorstep, William. \ou could walk out rich. Rich! [He is gone.] WILLY WYll do it here, Ben! You hear me? We’re gonna do it here! YOLNG BERXARD rushes in. The gay music of the Boys is heard. BERXARD

Oh, gee, I was afraid you left already1

1320

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

Why? What time is it? BERNARD It’s half-past one! WILLY Well, come on, everybody! Ebbets Field next stop! Where’s the pen¬ nants? [He rushes through the wall-line of the kitchen and out into the livingWILLY

room.] LINDA [ to BIFF]

Did you pack fresh underwear? BIFF [ who has been limbering up] I want to go! BERNARD Biff, I’m carrying your helmet, ain’t I? HAPPY No, I’m carrying the helmet. BERNARD Oh, Biff, you promised me. HAPPY I’m carrying the helmet. BERNARD I low am I going to get in the locker room? LINDA Let him carry die shoulder guards. [She puts her coat and hat on in the kitchen.] BERNARD

Can I, Biff? ’Cause I told everybody I’m going to be in the locker

room. In Ebbets Field it’s the clubhouse. BERNARD I meant the clubhouse. Biff! HAPPY Biff! BIFF [grandly, after a slight pause] Let him carry the shoulder guards. HAPPY [as he gives BERNARD the shoulder guards] Stay close to us now. HAPPY

WELLY rushes in with the pennants.

Everybody wave when Biff comes out on the field. [HAPPY and BERNARD run off.] You set now, boy? WILLY [handing them out]

The music has died away.

Ready to go, Pop. Every muscle is ready. WILLY [at the edge of the apron] You realize what this means? BIFF That’s right, Pop. BIFF

You’re cornin’ home this afternoon captain of the All-Scholastic Championship Team of the City of New York. BIFF I got it, Pop. And remember, pal, when I take off my helmet, that touch¬ down is for you. WILLY [feeling BHP’s muscles]

Let’s go! [He is starting out, with his arm around BIFF, when CHARLEY enters, as of old, in knickers.] I got no room for you, Charley. CHARLEY Room? For what? WILLY In the car. WILLY

You goin’ for a ride? I wanted to shoot some casino. WILLY (furiously] Casino! [Incredulously] Don’t you realize what today is? LINDA Oh, he knows, Willy. He’s just kidding you. WILLY That’s nothing to kid about! CHARLEY No, Linda, what’s goin’ on? LINDA He’s playing in Ebbets Field. CHARLEE Baseball in this weather? WILLY Don’t talk to him. Come on, come on! fHe is pushing them out.] CHARLEA"

Arthur Miller ■ Death of a Salesman

Act II

1321

Wait a minute, didn’t you hear the news? WILLY What? CHARLEY Don’t you listen to the radio? Ebbets Field just blew up. WILLY You go to hell! [CHARLEY laughs. Pushing them out.] Come on, come CHARLEY

on! We’re late. CHARLEY [as they go] Knock a homer, Biff, knock a homer! WILLY [ the last to leave, turning to CHARLEY] I don’t think that was funny, Charley. This is the greatest day of his life. CHARLEY Willy, when are you going to grow up? WILLY Yeah, heh? When this game is over, Charley, you’ll be laughing out the other side of your face. They’ll be calling him another Red Grange. Twenty-five thousand a year. CHARLEY" [kidding] Is that so? WILLY Yeah, that’s so. CHARLEA" Wrell, then, I’m sorry, W7illy. But tell me something. What? CHARLEY" Who is Red Grange? WILLA" Put up your hands. Goddam you, put up your hands!

WILLY

CHARLEA", chuckling, shakes his head and walks away, around the left corner of

the stage. WILLY follows him. The music rises to a mocking frenzy. Who the hell do you think you are, better than everybody else? \ou don’t know everything, you big, ignorant, stupid. . . . Put up your hands! WILLY

Light rises, on the right side of the forestage, on a small table in the reception room of CHARLEY’S office. Traffic sounds are heard. BERNARD, now mature, sits whistling to himself. A pair of tennis rackets and an overnight bag are on the floor beside him. WILLY [offstage]

What are you walking away for? Don’t walk away! If you re going to sav something say it to my face! I know you laugh at me behind my back. You’ll laugh out of the other side of your goddam face after this game. Touchdown! Touchdown! Eighty thousand people! Touchdown. Right between tire goal posts. BERNARD is a quiet, earnest, but self-assured young man. WILLY s voice is coming

from right upstage now. BERNARD lowers his feet off the table and listens. JENNY, his father’s secretary, enters. JENNA" [distressed]

Say, Bernard, will you go out in the hall? BERNARD What is that noise? Who is it? JENNA" Mr. Loman. lie just got off the elevator. BERNARD [getting up] Who’s he arguing with? JENNY Nobody. There’s nobody with him. I can’t deal with him any more, and your father gets all upset everytime he comes. I’ve got a lot of typing to do, and your father’s waiting to sign it W7ill you see him? WILLA" [entering] Touchdown! Touch—[He sees .JENNA".] Jenny, Jenny, good to see you. Ilow’re ya? Whrkin ? Or still honest? .JENNA" Fine. How’ve you been feeling1? WILLY Not much any more, Jenny. I la, ha! [He is surprised to see the jackets. ]

1322

Plays for Further Reading

BERNARD

Act II

Hello, Uncle Willy.

WILLY [almost shocked]

Bernard! Well, look who’s here! [He comes quickly, guiltily, to BERNARD and warmly shakes his hand.] BERNARD How are you? Good to see you. WILLY What are you doing here? BERNARD Oh, just stopped off to see Pop. Get off my feet till my train leaves. I’m going to Washington in a few minutes. WILLY Is he in? Yes, he’s in his office with the accountants. Sit down. WILLY [sitting down] What’re you going to do in Washington? BERNARD Oh, just a case I’ve got there, Willy. WILLY That so? [Indicating the rackets] You going to play tennis there? BERNARD I’m staying with a friend who’s got a court. WILLY Don’t say. His own tennis court. Must be fine people, I bet. BERNARD They are, very nice. Dad tells me Biffs in town. WILLY [with a big smile] Yeah, Biffs in. Working on a very big deal, Bernard. BERNARD What’s Biff doing? BERNARD

Well, he’s been doing very big things in the West. But he decided to establish himself here. Very big. We’re having dinner. Did I hear your wife had a boy? BERNARD That’s right. Our second. WILLY Two boys! What do you know! BERNARD What kind of a deal has Biff got? WILLY Well, Bill Oliver—yery big sporting-goods man—he wants Biff very badly. Called him in from the West. Long distance, carte blanche, special deliv¬ eries. Your friends have their own private tennis court? BERNARD You still with the old firm, Willy? WILLY [after a pause] I’m—I’m overjoyed to see how you made the grade, Bernard, oveijoyed. It’s an encouraging thing to see a young man really—really—Looks very good for Biff—very—[He breaks off, then] Bernard— [He is so full of emotion, he breaks off again.] BERNARD What is it, Willy? WILLY [small and alone] What—what’s the secret? BERNARD What secret? WILLY How—how did you? Why didn’t he ever catch on? BERNARD I wouldn’t know diat, Willy. WILLY [confidentially, desperately] You were his friend, his boyhood friend. There’s something I don’t understand about it. His life ended after that Ebbets Field game. From the age of seventeen nothing good ever happened to him. BERNARD He never trained himself for anything. WILLY But he did, he did. After high school he took so many correspondence courses. Radio mechanics; television; God knows what, and never made the slightest mark. BERNARD [taking off his glasses] Willy, do you want to talk candidly? WILLY [ rising, faces BERNARD ] I regard you as a very brilliant man, Bernard. I value your advice. BERNARD Oh, the hell with the advice, Willy. I- couldn’t advise you. There’s just one thing I’ve always wanted to ask you. When he was supposed to graduate, and the math teacher flunked him— WILLY Oh, that son-of-a-bitch ruined his life. WILLY

Act II

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

1323

Yeah, but, Willy, all he had to do was go to summer school and make up that subject. WILLY That’s right, that’s right. BERNARD Did you tell him not to go to summer school? WILLY Me? I begged him to go. I ordered him to go! BERNARD Then why wouldn’t he go? WILLY Why? Why! Bernard, that question has been trading me like a ghost for the last fifteen years. He flunked the subject, and laid down and died like a hammer hit him! BERNARD Take it easy, kid. WILLY Let me talk to you—I got nobody to talk to. Bernard, Bernard, was it my fault? Y’see? It keeps going around in my mind, maybe I did something to him. I got nothing to give him. BERNARD Don’t take it so hard. WILLY Why did he lay down? What is the story there? You were his friend! BERNARD Willy, I remember, it was June, and our grades came out. And he’d flunked math. WILLY That son-of-a-bitch! BERNARD No, it wasn’t right then. Biff just got very angry, I remember, and he was ready to enroll in summer school. WILLY [surprised] He was? BERNARD He wasn’t beaten by it at all. But then, Willy, he disappeared from the block for almost a month. And I got the idea that he’d gone up to New England to see you. Did he have a talk with you then? BERNARD

WILLY stares in silence.

Willy? WILLY [with a strong edge of resentment in his voice ] Yeah, he came to Boston. What about it? BERNARD Well, just that when he came back—I’ll never forget this, it always mystifies me. Because I’d thought so well of Biff, even though he’d always taken advantage of me. I loved him, Willy, v’know? And he came back after that month and took his sneakers—remember the sneakers with “University of Virginia” printed on them? He was so proud of those, wore them every day. And he took them down in the cellar, and burned them up in the furnace. We had a fist fight. It lasted at least half an hour. Just the two of us, punching each other down the cellar, and crying right through it. I’ve often thought of how strange it was that I knew he’d given up his life. What happened in Boston, Willy? BERNARD

WILLY looks at him as at an intruder.

I just bring it up because you asked me. WILLY [angrily] Nothing. What do you mean, “What happened?” What’s that got to do with anything4? BERNARD Well don’t get sore. WILLY What are you trying to do, blame it on me? If a boy lays down is that BERNARD

my fault? BERNARD

Now, Willy, don’t get—

13!&4

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

Well, don’t—don’t talk to me that way! What does that mean, “What happened?” WILLY

CHARLEY enters. He is in his vest, and he carries a bottle of bourbon.

Hey, you’re going to miss that train. [He waves the bottle.] BERNARD Yeah, I’m going. [He takes the bottle.] Thanks, Pop. [He picks up his rackets and bag. ] Good-by, Willy, and don’t worry about it. You know, “If at first you don’t succeed ...” WILLY Yes, I believe in that. BERNARD But sometimes, Willy, it’s better for a man just to walk away. WILLY Walk away? BERNARD That’s right. WILLY But if you can’t walk away? BERNARD [after a slight pause] I guess that’s when it’s tough. [Extending his hand] Good-by, Willy. WILLY [shaking BERNARD’S hand] Good-by, boy CHARLEY [an arm on BERNARD’S shoulder] How do you like this kid? Gonna argue a case in front of the Supreme Court. BERNARD [protesting] Pop! WILLY [genuinely shocked, pained, and happy] No! The Supreme Court! BERNARD I gotta run. ’By, Dad! CHARLEY Knock ’em dead, Bernard! CHARLEY

BERNARD goes off. WILLY [as CHARLEY takes out his wallet]

The Supreme Court! And he didn’t

even mention it! CHARLEY [counting out money on the desk]

He don’t have to—he’s gonna do

it. WILLY

And you never told him what to do, did you? You never took any interest

in him. My salvation is that I never took any interest in anything. There’s some money—fifty dollars. I got an accountant inside. WILLY Charley, look . . . [With difficulty] I got my insurance to pay. If you can manage it—I need a hundred and ten dollars. CHARLEY

CHARLEY doesn’t reply for a moment; merely stops moving.

I’d draw it from my bank but Linda would know, and I . . . CHARLEY Sit down, Willy. WILLY

WILLY [ moving toward the chair]

I’m keeping an account of everything, re¬ member. I’ll pay every penny back. [He shs.] CHARLEY Now listen to me, Willy. WILLY I want you to know I appreciate . . . CHARLEY [sitting down on the table] Willy, what’re you doin’? What the hell is goin’ on in your head? WILLY Why? I’m simply . . . I offered you a job. You can make fifty dollars a week. And I won’t send you on the road. CHARLEY

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

1325

IVe got a job. CHARLEY Without pay? What kind of a job is a job without pay? [He rises.] Now, look, kid, enough is enough. I’m no genius but I know when I’m being insulted. WILLY Insulted! CHARLEY Why don’t you want to work for me? WILLY What’s the matter with you? I’ve got a job. CHARLEY Then what’re you walkin’ in here every week for? WILLY [getting up] Well, if you don’t want me to walk in here— CHARLEY I am offering you a job. WILLY I don’t want your goddam job! CHARLEY When the hell are you going to grow up? WILLY [furiously] You big ignoramus, if you say that to me again I’ll rap you one! I don’t care how big you are! [He’s ready to fight.] willy

Pause. CHARLEY [kindly, going to him] WILLY

How much do you need, Willy? Charley, I’m strapped. I’m strapped. I don’t know what to do. I was just

fired. Howard fired you? WILLY That snotnose. Imagine that? I named him. I named him I loward. CHARLEY Willy, when’re you gonna realize that them things don’t mean any¬ thing? You named him Howard, but you can’t sell that. The only thing you got in this world is what you can sell. And the funny thing is that you’re a salesman, and you don’t know that. WILLY I’ve tried to think otherwise, I guess. I always felt that if a man was impressive, and well liked, that nothing— CHARLEY Why must everybody like you? Who liked J. P. Morgan? Was he impressive? In a Turkish bath he’d look like a butcher. But with his pockets on he was very well liked. Now listen, W illy, I know you don’t like me, and nobody can say I’m in love with you, but I’ll give you a job because—just for the hell of it, put it that way. Now what do you say? WILLY I—I just can’t work for you, Charley. CHARLEY What’re you, jealous of me? CHARLEY

WILLY

I can’t work for you, that’s all, don’t ask me why.

CHARLEY [angered, takes out more bills]

You been jealous of me all your life, you damned fool! Here, pay your insurance. [He puts the money in willy’s hand.] WILLY I’m keeping strict accounts. CHARLEY I’ve got some work to do. Take care of yourself. And pay your in¬ surance. WILLY [moving to the right]

Funny, y’know? After all the highways, and die trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive. CHARLEY

Wdlly, nobody’s worth nothin’ dead. [ After a slight pause] Did you

hear what I said? WILLY stands still, dreaming. CHARLEY

Willy!

1326

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

Apologize to Bernard for me when you see him. I didn’t mean to argue with him. He’s a fine boy. They’re all fine boys, and they’ll end up big—all of them. Someday they’ll all play tennis together. Wish me luck, Charley. He saw Bill Oliver today. WILLY

CHARLEY

Good luck.

WILLY [on the verge of tears]

Charley, you’re the only friend I got. Isn’t that a

remarkable thing? [He goes out.] CHARLEY Jesus! CHARLEY stares after him a moment and follows. All light blacks out. Suddenly

raucous music is heard, and a red glow rises behind the screen at right. STANLEY, a young waiter, appears, carrying a table, followed by HAPPY, who is carrying two chairs. STANLEY [putting the table down]

That’s all right, Mr. Loman, I can handle it myself. [He turns and takes the chairs from HAPPY and places them at the table.] HAPPY [glancing around] Oh, this is better. Sure, in the front there you’re in the middle of all kinds of noise. Whenever you got a party, Mr. Loman, you just tell me and I’ll put you back here. \ know, there’s a lotta people they don’t like it private, because when they go out they like to see a lotta action around them because they’re sick and tired to stay in the house by theirself. But I know you, you ain’t from Hackensack. You know what I mean? STANLEY

happy [sitting down]

So how’s it coming, Stanley? STANLEY Ah, it’s a dog’s life. I only wish during the war they’d a took me in the Army. I coulda been dead by now. HAPPY My brother’s back, Stanley. STANLEY Oh, he come back, heh? From the Far West. HAPPY Yeah, big cattle man, my brother, so treat him right. And my father’s coming too. STANLEY Oh, your father too! HAPPY You got a couple of nice lobsters? STANLEY Hundred per cent, big. HAPPY I want them with claws. Don’t worry, I don’t give you no mice. [HAPPY laughs.] How about some wine? It’ll put a head on the meal. STANLEY

No. You remember, Stanley, that recipe I brought you from overseas? With the champagne in it? HAPPY

Oh, yeah, sure. I still got it tacked up yet in the kitchen. But that’ll have to cost a buck apiece anyways. HAPPY That’s all right. STANLEY

What’d you, hit a number or somethin’? HAPPY No, it’s a little celebration. My brother is—I think he pulled off a big deal today. I think we’re going into business together. STANLEY

Great! That’s the best for you. Because a family business, you know what I mean?—that’s the best. happy That’s what I think. STANLEY

’Cause what’s the difference? Somebody steals? It’s in the family. Know what I mean? [Sotto voce] Like this bartender here. The boss is goin’ crazy what kinda leak he’s got in die cash register. You put it in but it don’t come out. STANLEY

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

HAPPY [raising his head]

1327

Sh!

What? HAPPY You notice I wasn’t lookin’ right or left, was I? STANLEY No. HAPPY And my eyes are closed. STANLEY So what’s the—? HAPPY Strudel’s cornin’. STANLEY \catching on, looks around\ Ah, no, there’s no— STANLEY

He breaks off as a furred, lavishly dressed GIRL enters and sits at the next table. Both follow her with their eyes. Geez, how’d ya know? HAPPY I got radar or something. [Staring directly at her profile] Oooooooo . . . Stanley. STANLEY I think that’s for you, Mr. Loman. HAPPY Look at that mouth. Oh God. And the binoculars. STANLEY Geez, you got a life, Mr. Loman. HAPPY Wait on her. STANLEY [going to the girl's table] Would you like a menu, ma’am? GIRL I’m expecting someone, but I’d like a— HAPPY Why don’t you bring her—excuse me, miss, do you mind? I sell cham¬ pagne, and I’d like you to try my brand. Bring her a champagne, Stanley. GIRL That’s awfully nice of you. HAPPY Don’t mention it. It’s all company money. [He laughs.] GIRL That’s a charming product to be selling, isn’t it? HAPPY Oh, gets to be like everything else. Selling is selling, y’know. STANLEY

GIRL

I suppose.

You don’t happen to sell, do you? GIRL No, I don’t sell. HAPPY Would you object to a compliment from a stranger? You ought to be on a magazine cover. GIRL [looking at him a little archly] I have been. HAPPY

STANLEY comes in with a glass of champagne.

What’d I say before, Stanley? You see? She’s a cover girl. STANLEY Oh, I could see, I could see. HAPPY [to the GIRL] What magazine? GIRL Oh, a lot of them. [SAe takes the drink.] Thank you. HAPPY You know what they say in France, don’t you? “Champagne is die drink of the complexion”—Ilya, Biff! HAPPY

BIFF has entered and sits with HAPPY.

Ilello, kid. Sorry I’m late. HAPPY I just got here. Uh, Miss—? GIRL Forsythe. HAPPY Miss Forsythe, this is my brother. BIFF Is Dad here? BIFF

1328

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

Plis name is Biff. Y ou might’ve heard of him. Great football player. GIRL Really? What team? HAPPY Are you familiar with football? GIRL No, I’m afraid I’m not. HAPPY Biff is quarterback with the New York Giants. GIRL Well, that is nice, isn’t it? [She drinks.] HAPPY Good health. GIRL I’m happy to meet you. IIAPPY

That’s my name. Hap. It’s really Harold, but at West Point they called

HAPPY

me Happy. GIRL [now really impressed]

Oh, I see. How do you do? [She turns her pro¬

file.] Isn’t Dad coming?

BIFF

HAPPY

You want her?

Oh, I could never make that.

BIFF

I remember the time that idea would never come into your head. Where’s the old confidence, Biff? BIFF I just saw Oliver— HAPPY

Wait a minute. I’ve got to see that old confidence again. Do you want her? She’s on call. HAPPY

BIFF

Oh, no. [He turns to look at the GIRL.]

I’m telling you. Watch this. [ Turning to the GIRL] Honey? [She turns to him] Are you busy? HAPPY

Well, I am . . . but I .could make a phone call. HAPPY Do that, will you, honey? And see if you can get a friend. We’ll be here for a while. Biff is one of the greatest football players in the country. GIRL [standing up] Well, I’m certainly happy to meet you. HAPPY Come back soon. GIRL I’ll try. HAPPY Don’t try, honey, try hard. GIRL

The GIRL exits. STANLEY follows, shaking his head in bewildered admiration. ffAPl Y Isn t that a shame now ? A beautiful girl like that? That’s whv I can’t get married. There’s not a good woman in a thousand. New York is loaded with them, kid! BIFF Hap, look— HAPPY I told you she was on call! BIFF [strangely unnerved] Cut it out, will ya? I want to say something to you. HAPPY Did you see Oliver?

I saw him all right. Now look, I want to tell Dad a couple of things and I want you to help me. BIIT

HAPPY

What? Is he going to back you?

Are you crazy? You’re out of your goddam head, you know that? HAPPY Why? What happened? BIFF

BIIT [ breathlessly ]

I did a terrible thing today, Hap. It’s been the strangest day I ever went through. I’m all numb, I swear. HAPPY You mean he wouldn’t see you? \\ ell, I wraited six hours for hint, see? All day. Kept sending my name in. h\ en tried to date his secretary so she’d get me to him, but no soap. BUT

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

1329

Because you’re not showin’ the old confidence, Biff. He remembered you,7 didn’t he? BIFF [stopping HAPPY with a gesture ] Finally, about five o’clock, he comes out. Didn’t remember who I was or anything. I felt like such an idiot, Hap. HAPPY Did you tell him my Florida idea? BIFF He walked away. I saw him for one minute. I got so mad I could’ve tom the walls down! How the hell did I ever get the idea I was a salesman diere? I even believed myself that I’d been a salesman for him! And then he gave me one look and—I realized what a ridiculous lie my whole life has been! We’ve been talking in a dream for fifteen years. I was a shipping clerk. HAPPY What’d you do? BIFF [with great tension and wonder] Well, he left, see. And the secretary went out. I was all alone in the waiting-room. I don’t know what came over me, Hap. The next thing I know I’m in his office—paneled walls, everything. I can’t explain it. I—Hap, I took his fountain pen. happy Geez, did he catch you? BIFF I ran out. I ran down all eleven flights. I ran and ran and ran. HAPPY That was an awful dumb—what’d you do that for? BIFF [ agonized] I don’t know, I just—wanted to take something, I don’t know. You gotta help me, Hap, I’m gonna tell Pop. HAPPY You crazy? What for? BIFF Hap, he’s got to understand that I’m not the man somebody lends that kind of money to. He thinks I’ve been spiting him all these years and it’s eating HAPPY

j

him up. HAPPY

That’s just it. You tell him something nice.

I can’t. HAPPY Say you got a lunch date with Oliver tomorrow. BIFF So what do I do tomorrow? HAPPY You leave the house tomorrow and come back at night and say Oliver is thinking it over. And he thinks it over for a couple of weeks, and gradually it BIFF

fades away and nobody’s the worse. BIFF Bpt it’ll go on forever! HAPPY Dad is never so happy as when he’s looking forward to something! WILLY enters. happy WILLY

Hejlo, scout! Gee, I haven’t been here in years!

STANLEY has followed WILLY in and sets a chair for him. STANLEY starts off but HAPPY stops him. HAPPY

Stanley!

STANLEY stands by, waiting for an order. BIFF [going to WILLY with guilt, as to an invalid]

drink? WILLY BIFF

Sure, I don’t mind. Let’s get a load on.

Sit down, Pop. You want a

1330

Plays for Further Reading

WILLY

Act II

You look worried.

N-no. [To STANLEY] Scotch all around. Make it doubles. STANLEY Doubles, right. [He goes.] WILLY You had a couple already, didn’t you? BIFF Just a couple, yeah. BIFF

Well, what happened, boy? [Nodding affirmatively, with a smile] Every¬ thing go all right? WILLY

BIFF [takes a breath, then reaches out and grasps WILLY’s hand]

Pal . . . [He

is smiling bravely, and WILLY is smiling too.] I had an experience today. HAPPY Terrific, Pop. WILLY That so? What happened? BIFF [high, slightly alcoholic, above the earth]

I’m going to tell you everything from first to last. It’s been a strange day. [Silence. He looks around, composes himself as best he can, but his breath keeps breaking the rhythm of his voice.] I had to wait quite a while for him, and— WILLY Oliver? Yeah, Oliver. All day, as a matter of cold fact. And a lot of—instances— facts, Pop, facts about my life came back to me. Who was it, Pop? Who ever said I was a salesman with Oliver? WILLY Well, you were. BIFF No, Dad, I was a shipping clerk. WILLY But you were practically— BIFF

BIFF [ with determination]

Dad, I don’t know who said it first, but I was never

a salesman for Bill Oliver. WILLY What’re you talking about? Tet s hold on to the facts tonight, Pop. We’re not going to get anywhere bullin’ around. I was a shipping clerk. WILLY [angrily] All right, now listen to me— BIFF Why don’t you let me finish? BIFF

I’m not interested in stories about the past or any crap of that kind because the woods are burning, boys, you understand? There’s a big blaze going on all around. I was fired today. BIFF [shocked] How could you be? WILLY

\\ ILLY I was fired, and I m looking for a little good news to tell your mother, because the woman has waited and the woman has suffered. The gist of it is that I haven’t got a stoiy left in my head, Biff. So don’t give me a lecture about facts and aspects. I am not interested. Now what’ve you got to say to me? STANLEY enters with three drinks. They wait until he leaves.

Did you see Oliver? biff Jesus, Dad! WILLY You mean you didn’t go up there? happy Sure he went up there. BIFF I did.—I saw him. How could they fire you? \\ ILLY [on the edge of his chair] What kind of a welcome did he give you? BIFF Pie won’t even let you work on commission? WILIA I m out! [Driving] So tell me, he gave you a warm welcome? HAPPY Sure, Pop, sure! vV BIFF [driven] Well, it was kind of— WILLY

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

1331

I was wondering if he’d remember you. [To HAPPY] Imagine, man doesn’t see him for ten, twelve years and gives him that kind of a welcome! HAPPY Damn right! BWF [trying to return to the offensive] Pop, look— WILLY You know why he remembered you, don’t you? Because you impressed him in those days. BIFF Let’s talk quietly and get this down to the facts, huh? WILLY [as though BIFF had been interrupting] Well, what happened? It’s great news, Biff. Did he take you into his office or’d you talk in the waiting-room? BIFF Well, he came in, see, and— WILLY [ with a big smile] What’d he say? Betcha he threw his arm around you. BIFF Well, he kinda— WILLY He’s a fine man. [To HAPPY] Very hard man to see, y’know. HAPPY [agreeing] Oh, I know. WILLY [to BIFF] Is that where you had the drinks? BIFF Yeah, he gave me a couple of—no, no! HAPPY [cutting in] He told him my Florida idea. WILLY Don’t interrupt. [To BIFF] Plow’d he react to the Florida idea? BIFF Dad, will you give me a minute to explain? WILLY I’ve been waiting for you to explain since I sat down here! What hap¬ pened? He took you into his office and what? BIFF Well—I talked. And—and he listened, see. WILLY Famous for the way he listens, y’know. What was his answer? BIFF His answer was—[He breaks off, suddenly angry.] Dad, you’re not letting WILLY

me tell you what I want to tell you! WILLY [accusing, angered] You didn’t see him, did you? I did see him! WILLY What’d you insult him or something? You insulted him, didn’t you? BIFF Listen, will you let me out of it, will you just let me out of it! BIFF

What the hell! WILLY Tell me what happened! BIFF [to HAPPY] I can’t talk to him! HAPPY

A single trumpet note jars the ear. The light of green leaves stains the house,

which holds the air of night and a dream. YOUNG BERNARD enters and knocks on the door of the house. YOUNG BERNARD [frantically]

Mrs. Loman, Mrs. Loman! HAPPY Tell him what happened! BIFF [ to HAPPY] Shut up and leave me alone! WILLY No, no! You had to go and flunk math! BIFF What math? What’re you talking about? YOUNG BERNARD Mrs. Loman, Mrs. Loman!

LINDA appears in the house, as of old. WILLY [ wildly]

Math, math, math! BIFF Take it easy, Pop! YOUNG BERNARD Mrs. Loman! WILLY [furiously] If you hadn’t flunked you’d’ve been set by now!

1332

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

Now, look, I’m gonna tell you what happened, and you’re going to listen

BIFF

to me. Mrs. Loman! BIFF I waited six hours— HAPPY What the hell are you saying? BIFF I kept sending in my name but he wouldn’t see me. So finally he . YOUNG BERNARD

He continues unheard as light fades low on the restaurant. YOUNG BERNARD LINDA

Biff flunked math!

No!

Bimbaum flunked him! They won’t graduate him! LINDA But they have to. He’s gotta go to the university. Where is he? Biff! Biff YOUNG BERNARD No, he left. He went to Grand Central. LINDA Grand—You mean he went to Boston! YOUNG BERNARD Is Uncle Willy in Boston? YOUNG BERNARD

LINDA

Oh, maybe Willy can talk to the teacher. Oh, the poor, poor boy!

Light on house area snaps out. BIFF [at the table, now audible, holding up a gold fountain pen]

. . .so I’m

washed up with Oliver, you understand? Are you listening to me? WILLY [ at a /oss] Yeah, sure. If you hadn’t flunked— BIFF Flunked what? What’re you talking about? Don’t blame everything on me! I didn’t flunk math—you did! What pen? HAPPY That was awful dumb, Biff, a pen like that is worth— WTLLY [seeing the pen for the first time] You took Oliver’s pen? BIFF [ weakening] Dad, I just explained it to you. WILLY You stole Bill Oliver’s fountain pen! WILLY

BIFF

I didn t exacdy steal it! That s just what I’ve been explaining to you!

He had it in his hand and just then Oliver walked in, so he got nervous and stuck it in his pocket! WILLY My God, Biff! BIFF I never intended to do it, Dad! OPERATOR’S VOICE Standish Arms, good evening! WILLY [shouting] I’m not in my room! FIAPiy

BIFF [frightened]

Dad, what’s the matter? [He and happy stand up.] OPERATOR Ringing Mr. Loman for you! WILLY I’m not there, stop it! BIFF [horrified, gets down on one knee before WILLY]

Dad, I’ll make good, I’ll make good. [WILLY tries to get to his feet. BIFF holds him down.] Sit down now. WTLLY No, you’re no good, you’re no good for anything. BIFF I am, Dad, I’ll find something else, you understand? Now don’t worry about anything. [He holds up WILLY s face.] Talk to me, Dad. OPERATOR Mr. Loman does not answer. Shall I page him ? WILIY [attempting to stand, as though to rush and silence the OPERATOR] No, no, no! HAPPY WTLLY

He’ll strike something, Bop. No, no . . . vv

BIFF [desperately, standing over WILLY]

Fop, listen! Listen to me! I’m telling

Act II

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

1333

you something good. Oliver talked to his partner about the Florida idea. You lis¬ tening? He—he talked to his partner, and he came to me . . . I’m going to be all right, you hear? Dad, listen to me, he said it was just a question of the amount! WILLY Then you . . . got it? HAPPY He’s gonna be terrific, Pop! WILLY [trying to stand] Then you got it, haven’t you? You got it! You got it! BIFF [agonized, holds WILLY down] No, no. Look, Pop. I’m supposed to have lunch with them tomorrow. I’m just telling you this so you’ll know that I can still make an impression, Pop. And I’ll make good somewhere, but I can’t go tomorrow, see? WILLY Why not? You simply— BIFF But the pen, Pop! WILLY You give it to him and tell him it was an oversight! HAPPY Sure, have lunch tomorrow! BIFF I can’t say that— WILLY You were doing a crossword puzzle and accidentally used his pen! BIFF Listen, kid, I took those balls years ago, now I walk in with his fountain pen? That clinches it, don’t you see? I can’t face him like that! I’ll try elsewhere. PAGE’S VOICE Paging Mr. Loman! WILLY Don’t you want to be anything? BIFF Pop, how can I go back? WELLY You don’t want to be anything, is that what’s behind it? BIFF [now angry at WILLY for not crediting his sympathy] Don’t take it that way! You think it was easy walking into that office after what I’d done to him? A team of horses couldn’t have dragged me back to Bill Oliver! WILLY Then why’d you go? BIFF Why did I go? Why did I go! Look at you! Look at what’s become of you! Off left, THE WOMAN laughs. Biff, you’re going to go to that lunch tomorrow, or— BIFF I can’t go. I’ve got no appointment! HAPPY Biff, for ... ! WELLY Are you spiting me? BIFF Don’t take it that way! Goddammit! WILLY [strikes BIFF and falters away from, the table] You rotten little louse! Are you spiting me? THE WOMAN Someone’s at the door, Willy! BIFF I’m no good, can’t you see what I am? HAPPY [separating them] Hey, you’re in a restaurant! Now cut it out, both of you! [ The girls enter.] Hello, girls, sit down. WILLY

THE WOMAN laughs, off left.

I guess we might as well This is Letta. THE WOMAN Willy, are you going to wake up? BIFF [ ignoring WILLY] How’re ya, miss, sit down. What do you drink? MISS FORSYTHE Letta might not be able to stay long. LETTA I gotta get up very early tomorrow. I got jury duty. I’m so excited! Were you fellows ever on a jury? MISS FORSYTHE

1334

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

No, but I been in front of them! [The girls laugh.] This is my father. LETTA Isn’t he cute? Sit down with us, Pop. HAPPY Sit him down, Biff! BIFF

BIFF [going to him]

Come on, slugger, drink us under the table. To hell with it! Come on, sit down, pal. On BlFF's last insistence, WILLY is about to sit. Hie WOMAN [now urgently]

Willy, are you going to answer the door!

THE WOMAN s call pulls WILLY back. He starts right, befuddled.

Hey, where are you going? WILLY Open the door. BIFF The door? BIFF

The washroom . . . the door . . . where’s the door? BiFF [leading WILLY to the left] Just go straight down. WILLY

willy moves left.

THE WOMAN

Willy, Willy, are you going to get up, get up, get up, get up?

WILLY exits left.

LETTA

I think it’s sweet you bring your daddy along.

MISS FORSYTHE

Oh, he isn’t really your father!

BIFF [at left, turning to her resentfully]

Miss Forsythe, you’ve just seen a prince walk by. A fine, troubled prince. A hard-working, unappreciated prince. A pal, you understand? A good companion. Always for his boys. LETTA That’s so sweet. Well, girls, what’s the program? We’re wasting time. Come on, Biff. Gather round. Where would you like to go? BIFF Why don’t you do something for him? HAPPY Me! HAPPY

Don’t you give a damn for him, Hap? HAPPY What’re you talking about? I’m the one who— BIFF

BIFF

I sense it, you don’t give a good goddam about him. [He takes the rolled-

up hose from his pocket and puts it on the table in front of happy.] Took what I found in the cellar, for Christ’s sake. How can you bear to let it go on? HAPPY Me? Who goes away? Who runs off and— Yeah, but he doesn’t mean anything to you. You could help him_I can’t! Don’t you understand what I’m talking about? He’s going to kill himself don’t you know that? HAPPY Don’t I know it! Me! BIFF

Hap, help him! Jesus . . . help him . . . Help me, help me, I can’t bear to look at his face! [Ready to weep, he hurries out, up right.] HAPPY [starting after him] Where are you going? MISS FORSYTHE What’s he so mad about? HAPPY Come on, girls, we’ll catch .up with him. BIFF

MISS FORSYTHE [ as HAPPY pushes her out]

Say, I don’t like that temper of his!

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

1335

He’s just a little overstrung, he’ll be all right! WILLY [off left, as THE WOMAN laughs] Don’t answer! Don’t answer! LETTA Don’t you want to tell your father— HAPPY No, that’s not my father. He’s just a guy. Come on, we’ll catch Biff, and, honey, we’re going to paint this town! Stanley, where’s the check! Hey, Stan¬ HAPPY

ley! They exit. STANLEY looks toward left. STANLEY [calling to HAPPY indignantly]

Mr. Loman! Mr. Loman!

STANLEY picks up a chair and follows them off. Knocking is heard off left. THE WOMAN enters, laughing. WELLY follows her. She is in a black slip; he is buttoning

his shirt. Raw, sensuous music accompanies their speech. Will you stop laughing? Will you stop? THE WOMAN Aren’t you going to answer the door? He’ll wake the whole hotel. WILLY I’m not expecting anybody. THE WOMAN Whyn’t you have another drink, honey, and stop being so damn self-centered? WILLY I’m so lonely. THE WOMAN You know you ruined me, Willy? From now on, whenever you come to the office, I’ll see that you go right through to the buyers. No waiting at my desk any more, Willy. You ruined me. WILLY That’s nice of you to say that. THE WOMAN Gee, you are self-centered! Why so sad? You are the saddest, selfcenteredest soul I ever did see-saw. [ She laughs.] [He kisses her. ] Come on inside, drummer boy. It’s silly to be dressing in the middle of the night. [As knocking is heard] Aren’t you going to answer the door? WILLY They’re knocking on the wrong door. THE WOMAN But I felt the knocking. And he heard us talking in here. Maybe WILLY

the hotel’s on fire! WILLY [/us terror rising] It’s a mistake. THE WOMAN Then tell him to go away! WILLY There’s nobody there. THE WOMAN It’s getting on my nerves, Willy. There’s somebody standing out there and it’s getting on my nerves! WILLY [pushing her away from him] All right, stay in the bathroom here, and don’t come out. I think there’s a law in Massachusetts about it, so don’t come out. It may be that new room clerk. He looked very mean. So don’t come out. It’s a mistake, there’s no fire. The knocking is heard again. He takes a few steps away from her, and she vanishes into the wing. The light follows him, and now he is facing YOUNG BIFF, who carries a suitcase. BIFF steps toward him. The music is gone. Why didn’t you answer? WILLY Biff! What are you doing in Boston? BIFF Why didn’t you answer? I’ve been knocking for five minutes, I called you BIFF

on the phone—

1336

Plays for Further Reading

WILLY

Act II

I just heard you. I was in the bathroom and had the door shut. Did

anything happen home? BIFF Dad—I let you down. WILLY What do you mean? BIFF Dad ... Biffo, what’s this about? [Putting his arm around BIFF] Come on, let’s go downstairs and get you a malted. BIFF Dad, I flunked math. WILLY Not for the term? WILLY

The term. I haven’t got enough credits to graduate. WILLY \ou mean to say Bernard wouldn’t give you the answers? BIFF He did, he tried, but I only got a sixty-one. WILLY And they wouldn’t give you four points? BIFF

Bimbaum refused absolutely. I begged him, Pop, but he won’t give me those points. You gotta talk to him before they close the school. Because if he saw the kind of man you are, and you just talked to him in your way, I’m sure he’d come through for me. The class came right before practice, see, and I didn’t go enough. Would you talk to him? He’d like you, Pop. You know the wav you could talk. BIFF

You’re on. We’ll drive right back. BIFF Oh, Dad, good work! I’m sure he’ll change it for you! WILLY Go downstairs and tell the clerk I’m checkin’ out. Go right down. BIFF des, sir! See, the reason he hates me, Pop—one day he was late for class so I got up at the blackboard and imitated him. I crossed my eyes and talked with a lithp. WILLY

WILLY [ laughing]

You did? The kids like it? BIFF They nearly died laughing! WILLY Yeah? What’d you do? " The thquare root of thixthy twee is . . . [WILLY hursts out laughing; BIFF joins him.] Amd in the middle of it he walked in! BiFF

WILLY laughs and THE WOMAN joins in offstage.

WILLY [without hesitation] Hurry downstairs and— BIFF Somebody in there? WILLY No, that was next door. BIFF Somebody got in your bathroom! THE WOMAN laughs offstage. WILLY

No, it’s the next room, there’s a party—

THE WOMAN [ enters, laughing. She lisps this]

Can I come in? There’s some¬

thing in the bathtub, Willy, and it’s moving! WILIA looks at BIFF, who is staring open-mouthed and horrified at THE WOMAN.

\\ ILLY Ah—you better go back to your room. They must be finished painting by now. They’re painting her room so I let her take a shower here. Go back, go back . . . [He pushes her.] ,\ THE woman [resisting]

But I’ve got to get dressed, Willy, I can’t—

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

1337

WILLY Get out of here! Go back, go back . . . [ Suddenly striving for the or¬ dinary] This is Miss Francis, Biff, she’s a buyer. They’re painting her room. Go back, Miss Francis, go back . . . THE WOMAN But my clothes, I can’t go out naked in the hall! WLLLY [pushing her offstage ] Get outa here! Go back, go back! BIFF slowly sits down on his suitcase as the argument continues offstage. THE WOMAN Where’s my stockings? You promised me stockings, Willy! WILLY I have no stockings here! THE WOMAN You had two boxes of size nine sheers for me, and I want them! WILLY Here, for God’s sake, will you get outa here! THE WOMAN [enters holding a box of stockings] I just hope there’s nobody in the hall. That’s all I hope. [ To BIFF] Are you football or baseball? BIFF Football. THE WOMAN [angry, humiliated] That’s me too. G’night. [She snatches her clothes from WILLY, and walks out.] WILLY [after a pause] Well, better get going. I want to get to the school first thing in the morning. Get my suits out of the closet. I’ll get my valise. [BIFF doesn't move.] What’s the matter? [BIFF remains motionless, tears falling] She’s a buyer. Buys for J. H. Simmons. She lives down the hall—they’re painting. You don’t imagine—[He breaks off. After a pause] Now listen, pal, she’s just a buyer. She sees merchandise in her room and they have to keep it looking just so . . . [Pause. Assuming command] All right, get my suits. [BIEF doesn't move.] Now stop crying and do as I say. I gave you an order. Biff, I gave you an order! Is that what you do when I give you an order? IIow dare you cry! [Putting his arm around BIFF] Now look, Biff, when you grow up you’ll understand about these things, bou mustn’t—you mustn’t overemphasize a thing like this. I’ll see Bimbaum first thing in the morning. BIFF Never mind. WILLY [getting down beside BIFF]

Never mind! lie’s going to give you those

points. I’ll see to it. BIFF He wouldn’t listen to you. WILL!" He certainly will listen to me. You need those points for the U. of Virginia. BIFF I’m not going there. WILLY Heh? If I can’t get him to change that mark you’ll make it up in summer school. You’ve got all summer to— BIFF [ his weeping breaking from him ] Dad . . . WILLY [ infected by it] Oh, my boy . . . BIFF Dad . . . WILLY She’s nothing to me, Biff. I was lonely, I was terribly lonely. BIFF You—you gave her Mama’s stockings! [His tears break through and he rises to go.] WILLY [grabbing for BIFF] I gave you an order! BIFF Don’t touch me, you—liar! WILLY Apologize for that! BHF You fake! You phony little fake! You fake! [ Overcome, he turns quickly and weeping fully goes out with his suitcase. WILLY is left on the floor on his knees.]

1338

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

I gave you an order! Biff, come back here or I’ll beat you! Come back here! I’ll whip you! WILLY

STANLEY comes quickly in from the right and stands in front of WILLY.

I gave you an order . . . STANLEY Hey, let’s pick it up, pick it up, Mr. Loman. [He helps WILLY to his feet] Your boys left with the chippies. They said they’ll see you home. WILLY [shouts at STANLEY]

A SECOND WAITER watches some distance away)

WILLY

But we were supposed to have dinner together.

Music is heard, willy's theme. STANLEY

Can you make it?

I’ll—sure, I can make it. [Suddenly concerned about his clothes] Do I— I look all right? WILLY

Sure, you look all right. [He flicks a speck off WlLLY’s lapel.] WILLY Here—here’s a dollar. STANLEY Oh, your son paid me. It’s all right. WILLY [putting it in STANLEY s hand] No, take it. You’re a good boy. STANLEY Oh, no, you don’t have to . . . STANLEY

WILLY Here—here’s some more, I don’t need it any more. [After a slight pause] Tell me—is there a seed store in the neighborhood? STANLEY" Seeds? You mean like to plant? As WILLY turns, STANLEY" slips the money back into his jacket pocket.

WILLY

Yes. Carrots, peas . . .

STANLEY"

Well, there’s hardware stores on Sixth Avenue, but it may be too late

now. WILLY [anxiously] Oh, Id better hurry. I’ve got to get some seeds. [He starts off to the right.] I’ve got to get some seeds, right away. Nothing’s planted. I don’t have a thing in the ground. WILLY hurries out as the light goes down. STANLEY" moves over to the right after

him, watches him off. The other waiter has been staring at WILLY". STANLEY [to the WAITER]

Well, whatta you looking at?

The WALTER picks up the chairs and moves off right. STANLEY takes the table and follows him. The light fades on this area. There is a long pause, the sound of the flute coming over. The light gradually rises on the kitchen, which is empty, happy appears at the door of the house, followed by BIFF. HAPPY is carrying a large bunch of long-stemmed roses. He enters the kitchen, looks around for LINDA. Not seeing her, he turns to BIFF, who is just outside the house door, and makes a gesture with his hands, indicating "Not here, I guess.” He looks into the living-room and freezes. Inside, LINDA, unseen, is seated, WlLLYs coat on her lap. She rises omi¬ nously and quietly and moves toward HAPPY, who backs up into the kitchen afraid.

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

1339

Hey, what’re you doing up? [LINDA says nothing hut moves toward him implacably.] Where’s Pop? [He keeps hacking to the right, and now LINDA is in full view in the doorway to the living-room.] Is he sleeping? LINDA Where were you? HAPPY [trying to laugh it off] We met two girls, Mom, very fine types. Here, we brought you some flowers. [Offering them to her] Put them in your room, Ma. HAPPY

She knocks them to the floor at BiFF’s feet. He has now come inside and closed the door behind him. She stares at BIFF, silent. HAPPY

Now what’d you do that for? Mom, I want you to have some flowers—

LINDA [cutting HAPPY off, violently to BIFF]

Don’t you care whether he lives

or dies? UAPYY [going to the stairs] Come upstairs, Biff. BIFF [with a flare of disgust, to HAPPY] Go away from me! [To LINDA] What do you mean, lives or dies? Nobody’s dying around here, pal. LINDA Get out of my sight! Get out of here! BIFF I wanna see the boss. LINDA You’re not going near him! BIFF Where is he? [He moves into the living-room and LINDA follows.] LINDA [shouting after BIFF] You invite him for dinner. He looks forward to it all day—[biff appears in his parents’ bedroom, looks around, and exits.]—and then you desert him there. There’s no stranger you’d do that to! HAPPY Why? He had a swell time with us. Listen, when I—[LINDA comes back into the kitchen.]—desert him I hope I don’t outlive the day! LINDA Get out of here! HAPPY Now look, Mom . . . LINDA Did you have to go to women tonight? You and your lousy rotten whores! BIFF re-enters the kitchen. HAPPY

Mom, all we did was follow Biff around trying to cheer him up! [ To

BIFF] Boy, what a night you gave me!

Get out of here, both of you, and don’t come back! I don’t want you tormenting him any more. Go on now, get your things together! [ To BIFF] You can sleep in his apartment. [She starts to pick up the flowers and stops herself.] Pick up this stuff, I’m not your maid any more. Pick it up, you bum, you! LINDA

HAPPY turns his back to her in refusal. BIFF slowly moves over and gets down on

his knees, picking up the flowers. You’re a pair of animals! Not one, not another living soul would have had the cruelty to walk out on that man in a restaurant! BIFF [ not looking at her] Is that what he said? LINDA He didn’t have to say anything. He was so humiliated he nearly limped LINDA

when he came in. HAPPY But, Mom, he had a great time with us— BIFF [cutting him off violently ] Shut up! Without another word, HAPPY goes upstairs.

1340

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

You! You didn’t even go in to see if he was all right! BIFF [still on the floor in front of LINDA, the flowers in his hand; with selfloathing] No. Didn’t. Didn’t do a damned thing. How do you like that, heh? Deft him babbling in a toilet. LINDA You louse. You . . . LINDA

Now you hit it on the nose! [He gets up, throws the flowers in the wastebasket.] The scum of the earth, and you’re looking at him! LINDA Get out of here! BIFF I gotta talk to the boss, Mom. Where is he? LINDA You’re not going near him. Get out of 'this house! BIFF [ with absolute assurance, determination] No. We’re gonna have an abrupt conversation, him and me. LINDA You’re not talking to him! BIFF

Hammering is heard from outside the house, off right. BIFF turns toward the noise. LINDA [suddenly pleading]

Will you please leave him alone? BIFF What’s he doing out there? LINDA He’s planting the garden! BIFF [quietly] Now? Oh, my God! BIFF moves outside, LINDA following. The light dies down on them and comes up

on the center of the apron as WILLY walks into it. He is carrying a flashlight, a hoe, and a handful of seed packets. He raps the top of the hoe sharply to fix it firmly, and then moves to the left, measuring off the distance with his foot. He holds the flashlight to look at the seed packets, reading off the instructions. He is in the blue of night. Carrots . . . quarter-inch apart. Rows . . . one-foot rows. [He measures it off.] One foot. [He puts down a package and measures off.] Beets. [He puts down another package and measures again. ] Lettuce. [He reads the package, puts it down.] One foot-^TTe breaks off as BEN appears at the right and moves slowly down to him.] What a proposition, ts, ts. Terrific, terrific. ’Cause she’s suffered, Ben, the woman has suffered. You understand me? A man can’t go out the way he came in, Ben, a man has got to add up to something. You can’t, you can’t— [BEN moves toward him as though to interrupt.] You gotta consider, now. Don’t answer so quick. Remember, it’s a guaranteed twenty-thousand-dollar proposition. Now look, Ben, I want you to go through the ins and outs of this thing with me. I’ve got nobody to talk to, Ben, and the woman has suffered, you hear me? BEN [standing still, considering] What’s the proposition? WILLY

WILLY It’s twenty thousand dollars on the barrelhead. Guaranteed, gilt-edged, you understand? BEN

\ ou don’t want to make a fool of yourself. They might not honor the

policy. How can they dare refuse? Didn’t I work like a coolie to meet every premium on the nose? And now they don’t pay off? Impossible! BEN It’s called a cowardly thing, William. WILLY

WILLY

a zero?

Why? Does it take more guts to stand here the rest of my life ringing up ^

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

1341

BEN [yielding]

That’s a point, William. [He moves, thinking, turns. ] And twenty thousand—that is something one can feel with the hand, it is there. WELLY [now assured, with rising power] Oh, Ben, that’s the whole beauty of it! I see it like a diamond, shining in the dark, hard and rough, that I can pick up and touch in my hand. Not like—like an appointment! This would not be another damned-fool appointment, Ben, and it changes all the aspects. Because he thinks I’m nothing, see, and so he spites me. But the funeral—[Straightening up] Ben, that funeral will be massive! They’ll come from Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire! All the old-timers with the strange license plates—that boy will be thunder-struck, Ben, because he never realized—I am known! Rhode Island, New York, New Jersey—I am known, Ben, and he’ll see it with his eyes once and for all. He’ll see what I am, Ben! He’s in for a shock, that boy! BEN [coming down to the edge of the garden] He’ll call you a coward. WILLY [suddenly fearful] No, that would be terrible. BEN Yes. And a damned fool. WILLY No, no, he mustn’t, I won’t have that! [He is broken and desperate.] BEN He’ll hate you, William. The gay music of the Boys is heard. Oh, Ben, how do we get back to all the great times? Used to be so full of light, and comradeship, the sleigh-riding in winter, and the ruddiness on his cheeks. And always some kind of good news coming up, always something nice coming up ahead. And never even let me carry the valises in the house, and simonizing, simonizing that little red car! Why, why can’t I give him something WILLY

and not have him hate me? BEN Let me think about it. [He glances at his watch.] I still have a little time. Remarkable proposition, but you’ve got to be sure you’re not making a fool of yourself. BEN drifts upstage and goes out of sight. BEFE comes down from the left. WILLY [suddenly conscious of BIFF, turns and looks up at him, then begins

picking up the packages of seeds in confusion] Where the hell is that seed? [In¬ dignantly] You can’t see nothing out here! They boxed in the whole goddam neighborhood! BIFF There are people all around here. Don’t you realize that? WILLY I’m busy. Don’t bother me. BIFF [ taking the hoe from WILLY] I’m saying good-by to you, Pop. [WILLY looks at him, silent, unable to move.] I’m not coming back any more. WILLY You’re not going to see Oliver tomorrow? BIFF I’ve got no appointment, Dad. WILLY He put his arm around you, and you’ve got no appointment? BIFF Pop, get this now, will you? Everytime I’ve left it’s been a fight that sent me out of here. Today I realized something about myself and I tried to explain it to you and I—I think I’m just not smart enough to make any sense out of it for you. To hell with whose fault it is or anything like diat. [He takes WILLY'S arm.] Let’s just wrap it up, heh? Come on in, we’ll tell Mom. [He gently tries to pull WILLY to left. ]

1342

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

WILLY [frozen, immobile, with guilt in his voice]

No, I don’t want to see her. BIFF Come on! [He pulls again, and WILLY tries to pull away.] WILLY [highly nervous] No, no, I don’t want to see her. BIFF [ tries to look into WlLLY’s face, as if to find the answer there] Why don’t you want to see her? WILLY [more harshly now]

Don’t bother me, will you? BIFF What do you mean, you don’t want to see her? You don’t want them calling you yellow, do you? This isn’t your fault; it’s me, I’m a bum. Now come inside! [WILLY strains to get away.] Did you hear what I said to you? WILLY pulls away and quickly goes by himself into the house. BIFF follows. LINDA [ to WILLY]

Did you plant, dear?

BIFF [at the door, to LINDA]

All right, we had it out. I’m going and I’m not

writing any more. LINDA [going to WILLY in the kitchen]

I think that’s the best way, dear. ’Cause there s no use drawing it out, you’ll just never get along. WILLY doesn’t respond.

People ask where I am and what I’m doing, you don’t know, and you don’t care. That way it’ll be off your mind and you can start brightening up again. All right? That clears it, doesn’t it? [WILLY is silent, and BIFF goes to him.] You gonna wish me luck, scout? [He extends his hand.] What do you say? LINDA Shake his hand, Willy. BIFF

WILLI [turning to her, seething with hurt]

There’s no necessity to mention

the pen at all, y’know. BIFF [gently]

I’ve got no appointment, Dad. WILLY [erupting fiercely] He put his arm around . . . ? BIFF Dad, you’re never going to see what I am, so what’s the use of arguing? If I strike oil I’ll send you a check. Meantime forget I’m alive. WILLY [to LINDA] Spite, see? BIFF Shake hands, Dad. WILLY Not my hand. BIFF I was hoping not to go this way. WILLY Well, this is the way you’re going. Good-by. BIFF looks at him a moment, then turns sharply and goes to the stairs. WILLY [stops him with] BIFF [ turning] WILLY

May you rot in hell if you leave this house! Exacdy what is it that you want from me?

I want you to know, on the train, in the mountains, in the valleys,

wherever you go, that you cut down your life for spite! BIFF No, no.

Spite, spite, is the word of your undoing! And when you’re down and out, remember what did it. When you’re rotting somewhere beside the railroad tracks, remember, and don’t you dare blame it on me! BIFF I’m not blaming it on you! WILIA

WILLY

I won’t take the rap for this, vou hear?

Act II

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

1343

HAPPY comes down the stairs and stands on the bottom step, watching.

That’s just what I’m telling you! WILLY [sinking into a chair at the table, with full accusation] You’re trying to put a knife in me—don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing! BIFF All right, phony! Then let’s lay it on the line. [He whips the rubber tube out of his pocket and puts it on the table.] HAPPY You crazy— LINDA Biff! [She moves to grab the hose, but BIFF holds it down with his hand.] BIFF Leave it there! Don’t move it! WILLY [ not looking at it] What is that? BIFF You know goddam well what that is. WILLY [caged, wanting to escape] I never saw that. BIFF You saw it. The mice didn’t bring it into the cellar! What is this supposed to do, make a hero out of you? This supposed to make me sorry for you? WILLY Never heard of it. BIFF There’ll be no pity for you, you hear it? No pity! WILLY [to LINDA] You hear the spite! BIFF No, you’re going to hear the truth—what you are and what I am! LINDA Stop it! WILLY Spite! HAPPY [coming down toward BIFF] You cut it now! BIFF [to HAPPY] The man don’t know who we are! The man is gonna know! [to WILLY] We never told the truth for ten minutes in this house! HAPPY We always told the truth! BIFF [turning on him] You big blow, are you the assistant buyer? You’re one of the two assistants to the assistant, aren’t you? HAPPY Well, I’m practically— BIFF You’re practically full of it! We all are! And I’m through with it. [To WILLY ] Now hear this, Willy, this is me. WILLY I know you! BIFF You know why I had no address for three months? I stole a suit in Kansas City and I was in jail. [To LINDA, who is sobbing] Stop crying. I’m through with BIFF

it. LINDA turns away from them, her hands covering her face. WILLY

I suppose that’s my fault!

I stole myself out of every good job since high school! WILLY And whose fault is that? BIFF And I never got anywhere because you blew me so full of hot air I could never stand taking orders from anybody! That’s whose fault it is! WILLY I hear that! LINDA Don’t, Biff! BIFF It’s goddam time you heard that! I had to be boss big shot in two weeks, BIFF

and I’m through with it! WILLY Than hang yourself! For spite, hang yourself! BIFF No! Nobody’s hanging himself, Willy! I ran down eleven flights with a pen in my hand today. And suddenly I stopped, you hear me? And in die middle of

1344

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

that office building, do you hear this? I stopped in the middle of that building and I saw—the sky. I saw the things that I love in this world. The work and the food and time to sit and smoke. And I looked at the pen and said to myself, what the hell am I grabbing this for? Why am I trying to become what I don’t want to be? What am I doing in an office, making a contemptuous, begging fool of myself, when all I want is out there, waiting for me the minute I say I know who I am! Why can’t I say that, Willy? He tries to make WILLY face him, but WILLY pulls away and moves to the left. v

willy [with hatred, threateningly.]

The door of your life is wide open! BIFF Pop! I’m a dime a dozen, and so are you! WILLY [turning on him now in an uncontrolled outburst] I am not a dime a dozen! I am Willy Loman, and you are Biff Roman! BIFF starts for WILLY, but is blocked by ILAPPY. In his fury, BIFF seems on the

verge of attacking his father. I am not a leader of men, Willy, and neither are you. You were never anything but a hard-working drummer who landed in the ash can like all the rest of them! I m one dollar an hour, Willy! I tried seven states and couldn’t raise it. A buck an hour! Do you gather my meaning? I’m not bringing home any prizes any more, and you’re going to stop waiting for me to bring them home! WILLY [directly to BIFF] You vengeful, spiteful mut! BIFF

BIFF breaks from HAPPY. WILLY, in fright, starts up the stairs. BIFF grabs him. BIFF [at the peak of his fury]

Pop, I’m nothing! I’m nothing, Pop. Can’t you understand that? There’s no spite in it any more. I’m just what I am, that’s all. BlFFs fury has spent itself, and he breaks down, sobbing, holding on to WILLY,

who dumbly fumbles for BEFF's face. WILLY [astonished] is he crying?

What’re you doing? What’re you doing? [To LINDA] Why

BIFF [crying, broken]

Will you let me go, for Christ’s sake? Will you take that phony dream and bum it before something happens? [Struggling to contain him¬ self, he pulls away and moves to the stairs.] I’ll go in the morning. Put him—put him to bed. [Exhausted, BIFF" moves up the stairs to his room.] AdLLY [after a long pause, astonished, elevated] Isn’t that—isn’t that remark¬ able? Biff—he likes me! LINDA He loves you, Willy! HAPPY [deeply moved] Always did, Pop. Oh, Biff! [Staring wildly] fie cried! Cried to me. [He is choking with his love, and now cries out his promise.] That boy—that boy is going to be mag¬ nificent! WILLY

BEN appears in the light just outside the kitchen. vV

BEN

Yes, outstanding, with twenty thousand behind him.

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Act II

LINDA \ sensing the racing of his mind, fearfully, carefully ]

1845

Now come to bed,

Willy. It’s all settled now. WILLY [ finding it difficult not to rush out of the house] Yes, we’ll sleep. Come on. Go to sleep, Hap. BEN And it does take a great kind of a man to crack the jungle. In accents of dread, BEN’s idyllic music starts up. HAPPY [his arm around LINDA]

I’m getting married, Pop, don’t forget it. I’m changing everything. I’m gonna run that department before the year is up. You’ll see, Mom. [He kisses her.] BEN The jungle is dark but full of diamonds, Willy. WILLY turns, moves, listening to BEN.

Be good. You’re both good boys, just act that way, that’s all. HAPPY ’Night, Pop. [He goes upstairs.] LINDA [to WILLY] Come, dear. BEN [with greater force] One must go in to fetch a diamond out. WILLY [to LINDA, as he moves slowly along the edge of the kitchen, toward the door] I just want to get settled down, Linda. Let me sit alone for a little. LINDA [almost uttering her fear] I want you upstairs. WILLY [taking her in his arms] In a few minutes, Linda. I couldn’t sleep right now. Go on, you look awful tired. [He kisses her.] BEN Not like an appointment at all. A diamond is rough and hard to the touch. WILLY Go on now. I’ll be right up. LINDA I think this is the only way, Willy. WILLY Sure, it’s the best thing. BEN Best thing! WILLY The only way. Everything is gonna be—go on, kid, get to bed. You look LINDA

so tired. LINDA WILLY

Come right up. Two minutes.

LINDA goes into the living-room, then reappears in her bedroom. WILLY moves just

outside the kitchen door. WILLY

Loves me. [wonderingly] Always loved me. Isn’t that a remarkable

thing? Ben, he’ll worship me for it! BEN [with promise] It’s dark there, but full of diamonds. WILLY Can you imagine that magnificence with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket? LINDA [calling from her room]

Willy! Come up! WILLY [calling into the kitchen ] Yes! Yes. Coming! It’s very smart, you realize that, don’t you, sweetheart? Even Ben sees it. I gotta go, baby. ’By! ’By! [Going over to BEN, almost dancing] Imagine? When the mail comes he’ll be ahead of Bernard again! BEN A perfect proposition all around. WILLY Did you see how he cried to me? Oh, if I could kiss him, Ben! BEN

Time, William, time!

1346

Plays for Further Reading

Act II

WILLY Oh, Ben, I always knew one way or another we were gonna make it, Biff and I! BEN [looking at his watch]

The boat. We’ll be late. [He moves slowly off into

the darkness.] WILLY [elegiacally, turning to the house]

Now when you kick off, boy, I want a seventy-yard boot, and get right down the held under the ball, and when you hit, hit low and hit hard, because it’s important, boy. [He swings around and faces the audience.] There’s all kinds of important people in the stands, and the first thing you know . . . [Suddenly realizing he is alone] Ben! Ben, where do I ... ? [He makes a sudden movement of search.] Ben, how do I ... ? LINDA [ calling] Willy, you coming up? WILLY [ uttering a gasp of fear, whirling about as if to quiet her ]

Sh! [He turns around as if to find his way; sounds, faces, voices, seem to be swarming in upon him and he flicks at them, crying] Sh! Sh! [Suddenly music, faint and high, stops him. It rises in intensity, almost to an unbearable scream. He goes up and down on his toes, and rushes off around the house.] Shhh! LINDA Willy? There is no answer. LINDA waits. BlFF^ete up off his bed. He is still in his clothes. HAPPY sits up. BIFF stands listening. LINDA [with real fear]

Willy, answer me! Willy!

There is the sound of a car starting and moving away at full speed. No! BIFF [rushing down the stairs] LINDA

Pop!

As the car speeds off, the music crashes down in a frenzy of sound, which becomes the soft pulsation of a single cello string. BIFF slowly returns to his bedroom. He and HAPPY gravely don their jackets. LINDA slowly walks out of her room. The music has developed into a dead march. The leaves of day are appearing over everything. CHARLEY and BERNARD, somberly dressed, appear and knock on the kitchen door. BIFF and HAPPY slowly descend the stairs to the kitchen as CHARLEY and BERNARD enter. All stop a moment when LINDA, in clothes of mourning, bearing a little bunch of roses, comes through the draped doorway into the kitchen. She goes to CHARLEY and takes his arm. Now all move toward the audience, through the wall-line of the kitchen. At the limit of the apron, LINDA lays down the flowers, kneels, and sits back on her heels. All stare down at the grave.

Requiem CHARLEY

It’s getting dark, Linda.

LINDA doesn’t react. She stares at the grave.

BIH7 How about it, Mom? Better get some rest, heh? They’ll be closing the gate soon. A

LINDA makes no move. Pause.

Arthur Miller • Death of a Salesman

Requiem

1347

HAPFY [deeply angered]

He had no right to do that. There was no necessity for it. We would’ve helped him. CHARLEY [grunting] Hmmm. BIFF Come along, Mom. LINDA Why didn’t anybody come? CHARLEY It was a very nice funeral. LINDA But where are all the people he knew? Maybe they blame him. CHARLEY Naa. It’s a rough world, Linda. They wouldn’t blame him. LINDA I can’t understand it. At this time especially. First time in thirty-five years we were just about free and clear. He only needed a little salary. He was even finished with the dentist CHARLEY No man only needs a litde salary. LINDA I can’t understand it. BIFF There were a lot of nice days. When he’d come home from a trip; or on Sundays, making the stoop; finishing the cellar; putting on the new porch; when he built the extra bathroom; and put up the garage. You know something, Charley, there’s more of him in that front stoop than in all the sales he ever made. CILYRLEY Yeah. He was a happy man with a batch of cement. LINDA He was so wonderful with his hands. BIFF He had all the wrong dreams. Adi, all, wrong. HAPFY [almost ready to fight BIFF] Don’t say that! BIFF He never knew who he was. CHARLEY [stopping happy's movement and reply. To BIFF] Nobody dast blame this man. You don’t understand. Willy was a salesman. And for a salesman, there is no rock bottom to the life. He don’t put a bolt to a nut, he don’t tell you the law or give you medicine. He’s a man way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back—that’s an earthquake. And then you get yourself a couple of spots on your hat, and you’re finished. Nobody dast blame this man. A salesman is got to dream, boy. It comes with die territory. BEFF Charley, the man didn’t know who he was. HAPPY [infuriated] Don’t say that! BIFF Why don’t you come with me, I Iappy? happy I’m not licked that easily. I’m staying right in diis city, and I’m gonna beat this racket! [He looks at BIFF, his chin set.] The Ionian Brothers! BIFF

I know who I am, kid.

All right, boy. I’m gonna show you and everybody else that W illy Loman did not die in vain. He had a good dream. It’s the only dream you can have—to come out number-one man. He fought it out here, and this is where I m gonna HAPPY

win it for him. BIFF [with a hopeless glance at ILYPFY, bends toward his mother]

Let’s go,

Mom. LINDA

I’ll be with you in a minute. Go on, Charley. \He hesitates] I want to,

just for a minute. I never had a chance to say good-by. CHARLEY moves away, followed by HAPFY. BIFF remains a slight distance up and

left of LINDA. She sits there, summoning herself. The flute begins, not far away, playing behind her speech. Forgive me, dear. I can’t cry. I don’t know what it is, but I can t cry. I don’t understand it. Why did you ever do that? Help me, Wdlly, I can’t cry. It LINDA

1348

Plays for Further Reading

seems to rne that you’re just on another trip. I keep expecting you. Willy, dear, I can’t cry. Why did you do it? I search and search and I search, and I can’t under¬ stand it, Willy. I made the last payment on the house today. Today, dear. And there’ll be nobody home. [A sob rises in her throat.] We’re free and clear. [Sobbing more fully, released] We’re free. [BIFF comes slowly toward her.1 We’re free We’re free . . . BIFF lifts her to her feet and moves out up right with her in his arms. LINDA sobs

quietly. BERNARD and CHARLEY come together and follow them, followed by HAPPY. Only the music of the flute is left on the darkening stage as over the house

the hard towers of the apartment buildings rise into sharp focus, and THE CURTAIN FALLS

Edward Albee and The Zoo Story Edward Albee (1928— ) is a leading American playwright of the generation after Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams. His work includes elements of the absurd—see pages 997-998—and elements that remind us of Ibsen’s realism. His most famous play, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf ? (1962), centers on a husband and wife who have learned to torture each other. His other plays include The Death of Bessie Smith (1960), The American Dream (1961), Tiny Alice (1965), A Delicate Balance (1966), All Over (1971), Seascape (1975), and The Lady from Dubuque (1980). The Zoo Story (1959) is Albee’s first play, a one-act confrontation between a character representing conventional life and a hectoring, fantastic, neurotic, sensitive antagonist.

Edward Albee

The Players PETER A man in his early forties, neither fat not gaunt, neither handsome nor homely.

He wears tweeds, smokes a pipe, carries horn-rimmed glasses. Although he is moving into middle age, his dress and his manner would suggest a man younger. .TERRY A man in his late thirties, not poorly dressed, but carelessly. What was once a trim and lightly muscled body has begun to go to fat; and while he is no longer handsome, it is evident that he once was. Ilis fall from physical grace should not suggest debauchery; he has, to come closest to it, a great weariness. THE SCENE It is Central Park; a Sunday afternoon in summer; the present. There are

two park benches, one toward either side of the stage; they both face the audience. Behind them: foliage, trees, sky. At the beginning, Peter is seated on one of the benches. As the curtain rises, PETER is seated on the bench stage-right. He is reading a book. He stops reading, cleans his glasses, goes back to reading. Jerry enters.

Edward Albee • The Zoo Story

JERRY

1349

IVe been to the zoo. [PETER doesn’t notice] I said, I’ve been to the zoo.

MISTER, I’VE BEEN TO THE ZOO! PETER

I Im? . . . What? . . . I’m Sony, were you talking to me?

JERRY

I went to the zoo, and then I walked until I came here. Have I been

walking north? PETER [puzzled]

North? Why . . . I . . . think so. Let me see.

JERRY [pointing past the audience)

Is that Fifth Avenue?

PETER

Why yes; yes, it is.

JERRY

And what is that cross street there; that one, to the right?

PETER

That? Oh, that’s Seventy-fourth Street.

JERRY

And the zoo is around Sixty-fifth Street; so, I've been walking north.

PETER [ anxious to get hack to his reading} JERRY

Good old north.

PETER [ lightly, by reflex ]

I la, ha.

JERRY [after a slight pause ] PETER

Yes, it would seem so.

But not due north.

I . . . well, no, not due north; but, we . . . call it north. It’s northerly.

JERRY [ watches as PETER, anxious to dismiss him, prepares his pipe]

Well,

boy; you’re not going to get lung cancer, are you? PETER [looks up a little annoyed; then smiles JERRY

j

No, sir. Not from this.

No, sir. What you’ll probably get is cancer of the mouth, and then you’ll

have to wear one of those things Freud wore after they took one whole side of his jaw away. What do they call those things? PETER [ uncomfortable) JERRY

A prosthesis?

The very thing! A prosthesis. You’re an educated man, aren’t you? Are

you a doctor? PETER

Oh, no; no. I read about it somewhere; Time magazine, I think. [He

turns to his book.] JERRY Well, Time magazine isn’t for blockheads. PETER

No, I suppose not.

JERRY [after a pause] PETER [ vaguely)

Boy, I’m glad that’s Fifth Avenue there.

Yes.

JERRY

I don’t like the west side of the park much.

PETER

Oh? [Then, slightly wary, but interested] Why?

■JERRY [ offhand ] PETER

I don’t know.

Oh. [He returns to his book. ]

JERRY [He stands for a few seconds, looking at PETElt, who finally looks up

again, puzzled. ] I)o you mind if we talk0 PETER [ obviously minding j Why . . . no, no. JERRY

Yes you do; you do.

PETER [puts his book down, his pipe out and away, smiling ]

No, really; I don’t

mind. jerry

Yes you do.

PETER [ finally decided] ■JERRY

No; I don’t mind at all, really.

It’s . . . it’s a nice day.

PETER [stares unnecessarily at the sky]

Yes. \es, it is; lovely.

,JEI*RY

I’ve been to the zoo.

PETER

Yes, I think you said so . . . didn’t you?

JERRY

You’ll read about it in the papers tomorrow, if you don’t sec il on your

TV tonight. You have I \ , haven’t you? PETER

Why yes, we have two; one for the children.

1350

Plays for Further Reading

JERRY

You’re married!

PETER \with pleased emphasis] Why, certainly. JERRY It isn’t a law, for God’s sake. PETER JERRY

No . . . no, of course not. And you have a wife.

PETER [ bewildered by the seeming lack of communication] JERRY And you have children. PETER Yes; two. .JERRY Boys? PETER

No, girls . . . both girls.

JERRY

But you wanted boys.

PETER

Well . . . naturally, every man wants a son, but .

Yes!

JERRY [lightly mocking] But that’s the way the cookie crumbles? PETER [annoyed] I wasn’t going to say that. .JERRY

And you’re not going to have any more kids, are you?

PETER [a bit distantly] No. No more. [Then back, and irksome] Why did you say that? How would you know about that? JERRY The way you cross your legs, perhaps; something in the voice. Or maybe I’m just guessing. Is it your wife? PEIER [furious]

Hiat s none of your business! [A silence] Do you understand?

[JERRY nods. PETER is quiet now.] Well, you’re right. We’ll have no more children. JERRY [ softly] That is the way the cookie crumbles. PETER [forgiving] Yes ... I guess so. JERRY" Well, now; what else? PETER see. . . ? JERRY PETER

What were you saying about the zoo . . . that I’d read about it

or

I’ll tell you about it, soon. Do you mind if I ask you questions? Oh, not really.

JERRY 111 tell you why I do it; I don’t talk to many people—except to say like: give me a beer, or where’s the john, or what time does the feature go on, or keep your hands to yourself, buddy. You know—things like that. I^ETEIt I must say I don’t . . . JERRY But every once in a while I like to talk to somebody, really talk; like to get to know somebody, know all about him. PETER [lightly laughing, still a little uncomfortable] for today? JEItRY

And am I the guinea pig

On a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon like this? Who better dian a nice

married man with two daughters and ... uh ... a dog? [PETER shakes his head, sadly.] Oh, that s a shame. But you look like an animal man. CATS? [PETER nods his head, ruefully.] Cats! But, that can’t be your idea. No, sir. Your wife and daughters? [PETER nods his head.] Is there anything else I should know? I ETERfHe has to clear his throat.] Fhere are . . . there are two parakeets. One . . . uh . . . one for each of my daughters. JERRY Birds. PETER JERRY" UTTER

My daughters keep them in a cage in dieir bedroom. Do diey carry disease? The birds. I don’t believe so.

JEIERY

fhafs too bad. If they did you could set them loose in the house and

the cats could eat them and die, maybe." f UTTER looks blank for a moment, then laughs. ] And what else? What do you do to support your enormous household?

Edward Albee • The Zoo Story

PETER

1351

I ... uh ... I have an executive position with a . . . small publishing

house. We . . . uh . . . we publish textbooks. JERRY

That sounds nice; very nice. What do you make?

PETER [still cheerful J JERRY PETER

Now look here!

Oh, come on. Well, I make around eighteen thousand a year, but I don’t carry more

than forty dollars at any one time . . . in case you’re a . . . holdup man . . . ha, ha, ha. .JERRY [ignoring the above]

Where do you live? [PETER is reluctant.] Oh, look;

I’m not going to rob you, and I’m not going to kidnap your parakeets, your cats, or your daughters. PETER [too loud]

I live between Lexington and Third Avenue, on Seventy-

fourth Street. JERRY That wasn’t so hard, was it? PETER I didn’t mean to seem . . . ah . . . it’s that you don’t really carry on a conversation; you just ask questions, and I’m . . . I’m normally . . . uh . . . reti¬ cent. Why do you just stand there? JERRY I’ll start walking around in a litde while, and eventually I’ll sit down. [Recalling] Wait until you see the expression on his face. PETER

What? Whose face? Look here; is this something about the zoo?

JERRY [distantly] PETER

The what?

The zoo; the zoo. Something about the zoo.

JERRY The zoo? PETER You’ve mentioned it several times. JERRY [still distant, but returning abruptly j

The zoo? Oh, yes; the zoo. I was

there before I came here. I told you that. Say, what’s the dividing line between upper-middle-middle-class and lower-upper-middle-class? PETER

My dear fellow, I . . .

.JERRY Don’t my dear fellow me. IJETER [ unhappily] Was I patronizing? I believe I was; I’m sorry. But, you see, your question about the classes bewildered me. .JEttRY And when you’re bewildered you become patronizing? PETER

I ... I don’t express myself too well, sometimes. [He attempts a joke

on himself. ] I’m in publishing, not writing. JERRY [amused, but not at the humor )

So be it. The truth is: I was being

patronizing. PETER Oh, now; you needn’t say that. It is at this point that JERRY may begin to move about the stage with slowly increasing determination and authority, but pacing himself, so that the long speech about the dog comes at the high point of the arc. JERRY

All right. Who are your favorite writers? Baudelaire and J. P. Mar-

quand? PETER [wary]

Well, I like a great many writers; I have a considerable . . .

catholicity of taste, if I may say so. Those two men are fine; each in his way. [Warming up ) Baudelaire, of course . . . uh ... is by far the finer of die two, but Marquand has a place ... in our . . . uh . . . national . . . .JERRP

Skip it.

I3ETER

I . . . sorry.

1352

Plays for Further Reading

JERRY Do you know what I did before I went to the zoo today? I walked all the way up Fifth Avenue from Washington Square; all the way. PETER

Oh; you live in the Village! [This seems to enlighten PETER.)

JERRY

No, I don’t. I took the subway down to the Village so I could walk all

the way up Fifth Avenue to the zoo. It’s one of those things a person has to do; sometimes a person has to go a very long distance out of his way to come back a short distance correctly. PETER [almost pouting] JERRY

Oh, I thought you lived in the Village.

What were you trying to do? Make sense out of things? Bring order?

The old pigeonhole bit? Well, that’s easy; I’ll tell you. I live in a four-story brownstone roominghouse on the upper West Side between Columbus Avenue and Cen¬ tral Park West. I live on the top floor; rear; west. It’s a laughably small room, and one of my walls is made of beaverboard; this beaverboard separates my room from another laughably small room, so I assume that the two rooms were once one room, a small room, but not necessarily laughable. The room beyond my beaver¬ board wall is occupied by a colored queen who always keeps his doOr open; well, not always, but always when lie’s plucking his eyebrows, which he does with Buddhist concentration. This colored queen has rotten teeth, which is rare, and he has a Japanese kimono, which is also pretty rare; and he wears this kimono to and from the John in the hall, which is pretty frequent. I mean, he goes to the john a lot. He never bothers me, and he never brings anyone up to his room. All he does is pluck his eyebrows, wear his kimono and go to the john. Now, the two front rooms on my floor are a little larger, I guess; but they’re pretty small, too. There’s a Puerto Rican family in one of them, a husband, a wife, and some kids; I don t know how many. These people entertain a lot. And in the other front room, there s somebody living there, but I don t know who it is. I’ve never seen who it is. Never. Never ever. PETER [embarrassed] Why . . . why do you live there? JERRY [from a distance again] I don’t know. PETER

It doesn’t sound like a very nice place . . . where you live.

JERRY

Well, no; it isn’t an apartment in the East Seventies. But, then again,

I don’t have one wife, two daughters, two cats and two parakeets. What I do have, I have toilet articles, a few clothes, a hot plate that I’m not supposed to have, a can opener, one that works with a key, you know; a knife, two forks, and two spoons, one small, one large; three plates, a cup, a saucer, a drinking glass, two picture frames, both empty, eight or nine books, a pack of pornographic playing cards, regular deck, an old Western Union typewriter that prints nothing but capital letters, and a small strongbox without a lock which has in it . .

what? Rocks!

Some rocks . . . sea-rounded rocks I picked up on the beach when I was a kid. Under which . . . weighed down . . . are some letters . . . please letters . . . please why don’t you do this, and please when will you do that letters. And when letters, too. When will you write? Wien will you come? Wien? These letters are from more recent years. PETER [ stares glumly at his shoes, then ] . . . ?

About those two empty picture frames

JERRY I don’t see why they need any explanation at all. Isn’t it clear? I don’t have pictures of anyone to put in them. PETER

Your parents . . . perhaps ... a girl friend . .

JERRY

J ou re a very sweet man, and you’re possessed of a truly enviable in¬

nocence. But good old Mom and good old Pop are dead . . . you know? . . . I’m

Edward Albee • The Zoo Story

1353

broken up about it, too ... I mean really. BUT. That particular vaudeville act is playing the cloud circuit now, so I don’t see how I can look at them, all neat and framed. Besides, or, rather, to be pointed about it, good old Mom walked out on good old Pop when I was ten and a half years old; she embarked on an adulterous turn of our southern states . . . a journey of a year’s duration . . . and her most constant companion . . . among others, among many others . . . was a Mr. Bar¬ leycorn. At least, that’s what good old Pop told me after he went down . . . came back . . . brought her body north. We’d received the news between ( lnistmas and New Year’s, you see, that good old Mom had parted with the ghost in some dump in Alabama. And, without the ghost. . . she was less welcome. I mean, what was she? A stiff... a northern stiff. At any rate, good old Pop celebrated the New Year for an even two weeks and then slapped into the front of a somewhat moving city omnibus, which sort of cleaned things out family-wise. Well no; then there was Mom’s sister, who was given neither to sin nor the consolations of the bottle. I moved in on her, and my memory of her is slight excepting I remember still that she did all things dourly: sleeping, eating, working, praying. She dropped dead on the stairs to her apartment, my apartment then, too, on the afternoon ol my high school graduation. A terribly middle-European joke, if you ask me. PETER JERRY

Oh, mv; oh, my. Oh, your what? But that was a long time ago, and I have no feeling

about any of it that I care to admit to myself. Perhaps you can see, though, why good old Mom and good old Pop are frameless. What’s your name? Your first name? PETER JERRY

I’m Peter. I’d forgotten to ask you. I’m Jerry.

PETER [ with a slight, nervous laugh] Hello, Jerry. .JERRY [nods his hello] And let’s see now; what’s the point of having a gills picture, especially in two frames? 1 have two picture frames, you remember. I never see the prettv little ladies more than once, and most of them wouldnt be caught in the same room with a camera. It’s odd, and I wonder if it s sad. PETER JERRY

The girls? No. I wonder if it’s sad that I never see the little ladies more than once.

I’ve never been able to have sex with, or, how is it put? . . . make love to anybody more than once. Once; that’s it . . . Oh, wait; foi a week and a half, when I was fifteen . . . and I hang my head in shame that puberty was late ... I was a h-o-mo-s-e-x-u-a-1. I mean, I was queer . . . [ very fast j . . . queer, queer, queer . . . with bells ringing, banners snapping in the wind. And for those eleven days, I met at least twice a day with the park superintendent’s son ... a Greek boy, whose birthday was the same as mine, except he was a year older. I think I was very much in love . . . maybe just with sex. But that was the jazz ol a very special hotel, wrasn’t it? And now'; oh, do 1 love the little ladies; really, I love them, boi about an hour. PETER Well, it seems perfectly simple to me. . . . {angry \ Look! Are vou going to tell me to get married and ha\c pai akeets? PETER \ angry himself ]

Forget the parakeets! And stay single if \ou want to.

It’s no business of mine. I didn’t start this conversation in the . . . .JERRY

All right, all right. I’m sorry. All right? You’re not angry0

PETER [laughing] No, I’m not angry. .JERRY {relieved] Good. [ Now back to his previous tone \ Interesting that you

1354

Plays for Further Reading

asked me about the picture frames. I would have thought that you would have asked me about the pornographic playing cards. PETER \ with a knowing smile] Oh, I’ve seen those cards. JERRY That’s not the point. [ Laughs] I suppose when you were a kid you and your pals passed them around, or you had a pack of your own. PETER Well, I guess a lot of us did. JERRY And you threw them away just before you got married. PETER Oh, now; look here. I didn’t need anything like that when I got older. JERRY No? v

PETER [embarrassed]

I’d rather not talk about these things. JERRY So? Don’t. Besides, I wasn’t trying to plumb your postadolescent sexual life and hard times; what I wanted to get at is the value difference between por¬ nographic playing cards when you’re a kid, and pornographic playing cards when you’re older. It’s that when you’re a kid you use the cards as a substitute for a real experience, and when you’re older you use real experience as a substitute for the fantasy. But I imagine you’d rather hear about what happened at the zoo. PETER [enthusiastic] Oh, yes; the zoo. [Then, awkward] That is . . . if you Let me tell you about why I went. . . well, let me tell you some things. I’ve told you about the fourth floor of the roominghouse where I live. I think the rooms are better as you go down, floor by floor. I guess they are; I don’t know. I don’t know any of the people on the third and second floors. Oh, wait! I do know that there s a lady Irving on the third floor, in the front. I know because she cries all the time. Whenever I go put or come back in, whenever I pass her door, I always hear her ciying, muffled, but. . . very determined. Veiy determined indeed. But the one I’m getting to, and all about the dog, is the landlady. I don’t like to use words that are too harsh in describing people. I don’t like to. But the landlady is a fat, ugly, mean, stupid, unwashed, misanthropic, cheap, drunken bag of gar¬ bage. And you may have noticed that I veiv seldom use profanity, so I can’t de¬ scribe her as well as I might. PETER You describe her . . . vividly. JERRY

Well, thanks. Anyway, she has a dog, and I will tell you about the dog, and she and her dog are the gatekeepers of my dwelling. The woman is bad enough; she leans around in the entrance hall, spying to see that I don’t bring in things or people, and when she’s had her midafternoon point of lemon-flavored gin she alw ays stops me in the hall, and grabs ahold of my coat or my arm, and she presses her disgusting body up against me to keep me in a corner so she can talk to me. The smell of her body and her breath . . . you can’t imagine it and somewhere, somewhere in the back of that pea-sized brain of hers, an organ de\ eloped just enough to let her eat, drink, and emit, she has some foul parody of sexual desire. And I, Peter, I am die object of her sweaty lust. PETER That’s disgusting. That’s . . . horrible. JERRY

But I have found a way to keep her off. Mien she talks to me, when she presses herself to my body and mumbles about her room and how I should come there, I merely sav: but, Love; wasn’t yesterday enough for you, and the day before? Then she puzzles, she makes slits of her tiny eves, she sways a little, and then, I eter . . . and it is at this moment that I think I might be doing some good in that tormented house ... a simple-minded smile begins to form on her un¬ thinkable face, and she giggles and groans as she thinks about yesterday and the day before; as she believes and relives what never happened. Then, she motions JERRY

Edward Albee • The Zoo Story

1355

to that black monster of a dog she has, and she goes back to her room. And I am safe until our next meeting. PETER It’s so . . . unthinkable. I find it hard to believe that people such as that really are. JERRY \lightly mocking]

It’s for reading about, isn’t it?

PETER [seriously] Yes. JERRY And fact is better left to fiction. You’re right, Peter. Well, what I have

been meaning to tell you about is the dog; I shall, now. PETER [nervously] Oh, yes; the dog. JERRY Don’t go. You’re not thinking of going, are you? PETER Well . . . no, I don’t think so. JERRY [as if to a child] Because after I tell you about the dog, do you know what then? Then . . . then I’ll tell you about what happened at the zoo. PETER [laughing faintly} You’re . . . you’re lull of stories, aren’t you? JERRY You don’t have to listen. Nobody is holding you here; remember that. Keep that in your mind. PETER [ irritably ] JERRY

I know that.

You do? Good.

The following long speech, it seems to me, should be done with a great deal of action, to achieve a hypnotic effect on PETER, and on the audience, too. Some specific actions have been suggested, but the director and the actor playing JERRY might best work it out for themselves.

.ALL RIGHT. [As if reading from a huge billboard] THE STORY OF JERRI AND THE DOG! [Natural again] What I am going to tell you has something to do with how sometimes it’s necessary to go a long distance out of the way in order to come back a short distance correctly; or, maybe I only think that it has some¬ thing to do with that. But, it’s why I went to the zoo today, and why I walked north . . . northerly, rafiier . . . until I came here. .All right. The dog, I think I told you, is a black monster of a beast: an oversized head, tiny, tiny ears, and eyes . bloodshot, infected, maybe; and a body you can sec the ribs through the skin. The dog is black, all black; all black except for the bloodshot eyes, and . . . yes and an open sore on its . . . right forepaw; that is ted, too. And, oh \cs, the poor monster, and I do believe it’s an old dog . . . it’s certainly a misused one almost always has an erection ... of sorts. Iliads red, too. And . . . what else? . . . oh, yes; there’s a grav-yellow-white color, too, when he bares his fangs. Like this: Grrrrrrr! Which is what he did when he saw me for the first time . . . the dav I moved in. I worried about that animal the very first minute I met him. Now, animals don’t take to me like Saint f rancis had finds hanging oil him all the time. What I mean is: animals are indifferent to me . . . like people [ he smiles slightly] . . . most of the time. But this dog wasn’t indifferent. From the very beginning he’d snarl and then go for me, to get one of my legs. Not like he was rabid, you know; he was sort of a stumbly dog, but he wasn’t half-assed, either. It was a good, stumbly run; but I always got away. He got a piece of my trouser leg, look, you can see right here, where it’s mended; he got that the second day I lived there; but, I kicked free and got upstairs fast, so that was that. ]Puzzles] I still don’t know to this day how the other roomers manage it, but you know what I think: I think it had to do only with me. Cozy. So. Anyway, this went on for over a week, whenever I came in; but never when I went out. That’s tunny. ()r,

1356

Plays for Further Reading

it was funny. I could pack up and live in the street for all the dog cared. Well, 1 thought about it up in my room one day, one of the times after I’d bolted upstairs, and I made up my mind. I decided: First, I’ll lull the dog with kindness, and if that doesn’t work . . . I’ll just lull him. [PETER winces.] Don’t react, Peter, just listen. So, the next day I went out and bought a bag of hamburgers, medium rare, no catsup, no onion; and on the way home I threw away all the rolls and kept just the meat. Action for the following, perhaps.

When I got back to the roominghouse the dog was waiting for me. I half opened the door that led into the entrance hall, and there he was; waiting for me. It figured. I went in, veiy cautiously, and I had the hamburgers, you remember; I opened die bag, and I set the meat down about twelve feet from where the dog was snarling at me. Like so! He snarled; stopped snarling; sniffed; moved slowly; then faster; dien faster toward the meat. Well, when he got to it he stopped, and he looked at me. I smiled; but tentatively, you understand. He turned his face back to the hamburgers, smelled, sniffed some more, and then . . . IH^RAAAAGGGGGHf IHFI, like that ... he tore into them. It was as if he had never eaten anything in his life before, except like garbage. Which might veiy well have been the truth. I don’t think the landlady ever eats anything but garbage. But. He ate all the hamburgers, almost all at once, making sounds in his throat like a woman. Then, when he’d finished the meat, the hamburger, and tried to eat the paper, too, he sat down and smiled. I think he smiled; I know cats do. It was a very gratifying few moments. Hien, BAM, he snailed and made for me again. He didn’t get me this time, eidier So, I got upstairs, and I lay down on my bed and started to think about the dog again. 1 o be truthful, I was offended, and I was damn mad, too. It was six perfectly good hamburgers with not enough pork in them to make it disgusting. I was offended. But, after a while, I decided to tiy it for a few more days. If you think about it, this dog had what amounted to an antipathy toward me; really. And, I wondered if I mightn’t overcome this antipathy. So, I tried it for five more days, but it was always the same: snarl, sniff; move; faster; stare; gobble; RAAGGGHHIi; smile; snail; BAM. Well, now; by this time Columbus Avenue was strewn with hamburger rolls and I was less offended than disgusted. So, 1 decided to lull the

PETKR raises a hand in protest.

()h, don’t be so alarmed, Peter; I didn’t succeed. The day I tried to lull the dog I bought only one hamburger and what I thought was a murderous portion of rat poison. When I bought the hamburger I asked the man not to bother with the roll, all I wanted was the meat. I expected some reaction from him, like: we don’t sell no hamburgers without rolls; or, wha’ d’ya wanna do, eat it out’a ya han’s? But no; he smiled benignly, wrapped up the hamburger in waxed paper, and said: A bite for ya pussy-cat? I wanted to sav: No, not really; it’s part of a plan to poison a dog I know. But, you can’t say “a dog I know” without sounding funny; so I said, a little too loud, I’m afraid, and too formally: YES, A BITE FOR MY PUSSYCAI. I eople looked up. It always happens when I try to simplify things; people look up. But that’s neither hither nor tliither. So. On my way back to the roominghouse, I kneaded the hamburger and the rat poison together between mv hands

Edward Albee • The Zoo Story

1357

at that point feeling as much sadness as disgust. I opened the door to the entrance hall, and there the monster was, waiting to take the offering and then jump me. Poor bastard; he never learned that the moment he took to smile before he went for me gave me time enough to get out of range. BUT, there he was; malevolence with an erection, waiting. I put the poison patty down, moved toward the stairs and watched. The poor animal gobbled the food down as usual, smiled, which made me almost sick, and then BAM. But, 1 sprinted up the stairs, as usual, and the dog didn’t get me, as usual. AND IT CAME 10 PASS IILAI IIIE BEAST WAS DEATHLY ILL. I knew this because he no longer attended me, and because the landlady sobered up. She stopped me in the hall the same evening of the attempted murder and confided the information that God had struck her puppv'dog a surely fatal blow. She had forgotten her bewildered lust, and her eyes were wide open "for the first time. They looked like the dog’s eyes. She sniveled and implored me to pray for the animal. I wanted to say to her: Madam, I have myself to pray for, die colored queen, the Puerto Rican family, the person in the front room whom I’ve never seen, die woman who cries deliberately behind her closed door, and the rest of the people in all roominghouses, everywhere; besides, Madam, I don’t understand how to pray. But... to simplify things ... I told her I would prav. She looked up. She said that I was a liar, and that I probably w anted the dog to die. I told her, and there was so much truth here, that I didn’t want the dog to die. I didn’t, and not just because I’d poisoned him. I’m afraid that I must tell you I wanted the dog to live so that I could see what our new relationship might come to. PETER indicates his increasing displeasure and slowly growing antagonism. Please understand, Peter; that sort of thing is important. You must believe me; it is important. We have to know the effect of our actions. [ Another deep sigh ] \\ ell, anyway; die dog recovered. I have no idea why, unless he was a descendant of die puppv diat guarded the gates of hell or some such resort. I m not up on my mythology. [He pronounces the word myth-o-\ogv. ] Are you? PETER sets to thinking, hut JERRY goes on.

At any rate, and you’ve missed the eiglit-thousand-dollai question, I eter; at any rate, the dog recovered his health and the landlady recovered her thirst, in no \\ ay altered by the bow-wow’s deliverance. When I came home from a mo\ ie that \\ as playing on Forty-second street, a movie I d seen, or one that was very much like one or several I’d seen, after the landlady told me puppykins was better, I was so hoping for the dog to be waiting for me. I was . . . well, how would you put it . enticed? . . . fascinated? . . . no, I don’t think so . . . heart-shatteringly anx¬ ious, that’s it; I was heart-shatteringly anxious to confront my friend again. PETER reacts scoffingly.

Yes, Peter; friend. That’s the only word for it. I was heart-shatteringly et cetera to confront my doggy friend again. I came in the door and advanced, unafraid, to the center of the entrance hall. The beast was there . . . looking at me. And, you know, he looked better for his scrape with the nevermind. I stopped; I looked at him; he looked at me. I think ... I think we stayed a long time that way . . . still,

1358

Plays for Further Reading

stone-statue . . . just looking at one another. I looked more into his face than he looked into mine. I mean, I can concentrate longer at looking into a dog’s face than a dog can concentrate at looking into mine, or into anybody else’s face, for that matter. But during that twenty seconds or two hours that we looked into each other’s face, we made contact. Now, here is what I had wanted to happen: I loved the dog now, and I wanted him to love me. I had tried to love, and I had tried to lull, and both had been unsuccessful by themselves. I hoped . . . and I don’t really know why i expected the dog to understand anything, much less my motivations ... I hoped that the dog would understand. PETER seems to be hypnotized. It’s just. . . it’s just that . . . [JERRY is abnormally tense, now.\ . . . it’s just that if you can’t deal with people, you have to make a start somewhere. WITH ANI¬ MATS. [ Much fastei now, and like a conspirator] Don’t you see"? A person has to have some way of dealing with SOMETHING. If not with people .'. . if not with people . . . SOMETHING. With a bed, with a cockroach, with a mirror . . . no, that’s too hard, that’s one of the last steps. With a cockroach, with a . . . with a carpet, a roll of toilet paper . . . no, not that, either . . . that’s a mirror, too; always check bleeding. You see how hard it is to find things? With a street corner, and too many lights, all colors reflecting on the oily-wet streets . . . with a wisp of smoke, a wisp ... of smoke . . . with . . . with pornographic playing cards, with a strongbox . . . WITHOUf A LOCK . . . with love, with vomiting, with crying, with lury because the pretty, little ladies aren’t pretty little ladies, with making money with your body which is an act of love and I could prove it, with howling because you’re alive; with God. How about that? WITH GOD WHO IS A COLORED QUEEN WHO WEARS A KIMONO AND PLUCKS HIS EYEBROWS WHO IS A WOMAN WHO CRIES WITH DETERMINATION BEHIND HER CLOSED DOOR . . . with God who, I’m told, turned his back on the whole thing . some time ago . . .with . . . some day, with people. [JERRY sighs the next word heavily. ] I eople. \\ ith an idea; a concept. And where better, where ever better in this humiliating excuse for a jail, where better to communicate one single, simpleminded idea than in an entrance hall? Where? It would be A START! Where better to make a beginning ... to understand and just possibly be understood ■ • • a beginning of an understanding, than with . Here JERRY seems to fall into almost grotesque fatigue.

• . . than with A DOG. Just that; a dog. Here there is a silence that might be prolonged for a moment or so; then ,JERRY wearily finishes his story.

A dog. It seemed like a perfectly sensible idea. Man is a dog’s best friend, remem¬ ber. So: the dog and I looked at each other. I longer than the dog. And what I saw then has been the same ever since. Wien ever the dog and I see each other we both stop where we are. We regard each other with a mixture of sadness and suspicion, and then we feign indifference. We walk past each other safely; we have an understanding. It’s very sad, but you 11 have to admit that it is an understanding. We had made many attempts at contact, and we had failed. The dog has returned

Edward Albee • The Zoo Story

1359

to garbage, and I to solitary7 but free passage. I have not returned. I mean to say, I have gained solitary free passage, if that much further loss can be said to be gain. I have learned that neither kindness nor cruelly7 by themselves, independent of each other, creates anyr effect beyond themselves; and I have learned that tire two combined, together, at the same time, are the teaching emotion. And what is gained is loss. And what has been the result: the dog and I have attained a com¬ promise-, more of a bargain, really. W e neither love nor hurt because we do not try to reach each other. And, was trying to feed the dog an act of love? And, perhaps, was the dog’s attempt to bite me not an act of love? If we can so misunderstand, well then, why have we invented the word love in the first place ? There is silence. JERRY moves to PETER’s bench and sits down beside him. This is first time JERRY has sat down during the play.

Hie Story of Jerry7 and the Dog: the end. PETER is silent.

Well, Peter? [JERRY is suddenly cheerful. | Well, Peter? Do you think I could sell that story to the Reader’s Digest and make a couple of hundred bucks for The Most Unforgettable Character I’ve Ever Met? I lull? JERRY is animated, but PETER is disturbed.

Oh, come on now, Peter, tell me what you think. PETER [numb] I ... I don’t understand what ... 1 don t think I . . . [Now, almost tearfully ] Why did you tell me all of this?

JERRY Why not? peter I DON’T UNDERSTAND! JERRY \ furious, but whispering] That’s a lie. PETER No. No, it’s not. JERRY [ quietly ] I tried to explain it to you as I went along. I went slowly; it all has to do with ... PETER I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY MORE. I don’t understand you, or your landlady, or her dog. ... JERRY Her dog! I thought it was my . . . No. No, you’re right. It is hci dog. [Looks at PETER intently, shaking his head] I don’t know what I was thinking about; of course you don’t understand. [In a monotone, wearily ] I don’t live in your block; I’m not married to two parakeets, or whatever your setup is. I am a 'permanent transient, and my home is the sickening roominghouses on the West Side of New York City, which is the greatest city in the world. Amen. PETER I’m . . .JERRY Forget PETER ( a joke] JERRY You’re

. I’m sorry7; I didn t mean to . . . it. I suppose you don’t quite know what to make ol me, eh. We get all kinds in publishing. | Chuckles | a funny man. | He forces a laugh. \ You know that? \ou re a very

... a richly comic person. PETER | modestly, but amused]

Oh, now, not icalh. [Still chuckling]

jerry Peter, do I annoy you, or confuse you: PETER [lightly] Well, I must confess that this wasn’t the kind of afternoon I’d anticipated.

1360

Plays for Further Reading

JERRY PETER

\ on mean, Fm not the gentleman yon were expecting. I wasn’t expecting anybody.

JERRY No, I don’t imagine you were. But I’m here, and I’m not leaving. PETER [consulting his watch] Well, you may not be, but I must be getting home soon. JERRY Oh, come on; stay a while longer. PETER I really should get home; you see . . . JERRY [tickles PETER'S ribs with his fingers] Oh, come on. PETER \he is veiy ticklish, as Jerry continues /o tickle hirn his voice becomes falsetto.] No, I . . . OHHHHH! Don’t do that Stop, stop. Ohhli, no, no. JERRY Oh, come on. Oh, hee, hee, hee. I must go. I . . . hee, hee, hee. After all, stop, stop, hee, hee, hee, after all, the parakeets will be getting dinner ready soon. Hee, hee. And the cats are setting the table. Stop, stop, and, and . . . [PETER is beside himself now.] . . . and we’ve having . . . hee, hee uh . . . ho, ho, ho. PETER [as JERRY tickles]

-JERRY stops tickling PETER, but the combination of the tickling and his own mad whimsy has PETER laughing almost hysterically. As his laughter continues, then subsides, JERR^ watches him; with a curious fixed smile. JERRY

Peter?

PETER JERRY

Oh, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. What? What? Listen, now.

PETER Oh, ho, ho. What . . . what is it, Jerry? Oh, my. -JERR\ [mysteriously] Peter, do you want to know what happened at the zoo? PETER Ah, ha, ha. The what? Oh, yes; the zoo. Oh, ho, ho. Well, I had my own zoo there for a moment with . . . hee, hee, the parakeets getting dinner ready, and the . . . ha, ha, whatever it was, the . . . JERR\ [ calmly ] \es, that was very funny, Peter. I wouldn’t have expected it. But do you want to hear about what happened at die zoo, or not? PETER Tes. Yes, by all means; tell me what happened at the zoo. Oh, my. I don’t know what happened to me. JEPLRY Now I’ll let you in on what happened at die zoo; but first, I should tell you why I went to the zoo. I went to the zoo to find out more about die way people exist with animals, and die way animals exist with each odier, and with people too. It probably wasn’t a fair test, what with everyone separated by bars from everyone else, the animals for the most part from each other, and always the people from the animals. But, if it’s a zoo, that’s the way it is. [He pokes PETER on the arm. ] Move over. PETER [friendly] I’m sorry, haven’t you enough room? [He shifts a little.} JERRJ [smiling slightlyJ Well, all the animals are there, and all die people are there, and it’s Sunday and all the children are there. [He pokes PETER again I Move over. J PETER [patiently, still friendly]

All right. *

He moves some more, and JERRY has all the room he might need.

-JERRY And it’s a hot day, so all the^stench is there, too, and all the balloon sellers, and all the ice cream sellers, ancl all die seals are barking, and all the birds are screaming. [Pokes PETER harder] Move over!

Edward Albee • The Zoo Story

1361

PETER [ beginning to be annoyed ]

Look here, you have more than enough room! [But he moves more, and is now fairly cramped at one end of the bench. ] JERRY And I am there, and it’s feeding time at the lions’ house, and the lion keeper comes into die lion cage, one of the lion cages, to feed one of the lions. [Punches PETER on the arm, hard] MOVE OVER! PETER [very annoyed ] I can’t move over any more, and stop hitting me. What s the matter with you? JERRY

Do you want to hear the story? [Punches PET PR s arm again ]

PETER [flabbergasted ]

I’m not so sure! I certainly don t want to be punched in

the arm. JERRY [punches PETERS arm againJ PETER JERRY PETER

jerry

Like that?

Stop it! What’s the matter with you? I’m crazy, you bastard. That isn’t funny. Listen to me, Peter. I want this bench, h on go sit on die bench over

there, and if you’re good I’ll tell you the rest of the story. PETER [flustered] Put. . . whatever for? What is the mattei with you. Pesides, I see no reason why I should give up this bench. I sit on this bench almost e\cr\ Sunday afternoon, in good weadier. It’s secluded here; there s ne\ ei anyone sitting here, so I have it all to myself. JERRY [softly] Get off this bench, Peter; I want it. PETER [almost whining] No. JERRY I said I want this bench, and I’m going to have it. Now get ovei there. PETER People can’t have everything they want You should know that; it’s a rule; people can have some of the diings they want, but they can t ha\e everything. JERRY [ laughs ]

Imbecile! You’re slow-witted!

Stop that! You’re a vegetable! Go lie down on die ground. PETER [intense] Now you listen to me. I’ve put up with you all afternoon.

PETER jerry

JERRY PETER

Not reallv.

LONG ENOUGH. I’ve put up with you long enough. I’ve listened to you because you seemed . . . well, because I thought you wanted to talk to some¬ body. You put diings well; economically, and, yet . . . oh, what is the won I want to put justice to your . . . JESUS, you make me sick ... get off here and JERRY

give me my bench. peter MY PENCE!! -JERRY [pushes PETER almost, but not quite, off the bench ] Get out of my sight. PETER [regaining his position] God da . . . nin you. Iliat s enough! I\e had enough of you. I will not give up this bench; you can’t have it, and that’s that. Now, go away. JERRY snorts but does not move.

Go away, I said. -JERRY does not move.

Get away from here. If you don’t move on . . . you’re a bum . . . that’s what you are. ... If you don’t move on, I’ll get a policeman here and make you go.

1362

Plays for Further Reading

JERRY

laughs, stays.

I warn you, I’ll call a policeman. JERRY [softly}

You won’t find a policeman around here; they’re all over on the west side of the park chasing fairies down from trees or out of the bushes. That’s all they do. That’s their function. So scream your head off; it won’t do you any good. POLICE! I warn you, I’ll have you arrested. POLICE! [Pause 1 I said POLICE! [Pause] I feel ridiculous. PETER

You look ridiculous: a grown man screaming for the police on a bright Sunday afternoon in die park with nobody harming you. If a policeman did fill his quota and come sludging over this way he’d probably take you in as a nut. I ETER [with disgust and impotence] Great God, I just came here to read, and now you want me to give up the bench. You’re mad. JERRY

Iley, I got news for you, as they say. I’m on your precious bench, and you re never going to have it for yourself again. JERRY

PETER [furiously]

Look, you; get off my bench. I don’t care if it makes any sense or not. I want this bench to myself; I want you OFF IT! JERRY [mockingly] Aw . . . look who’s mad. PETER GET OUT! JERRY No. PETER I WARN YOU! JERRY

Do you know how ridiculous you look now?

I ETER [fits fury and self-consciousness have possessed him]

It doesn’t matter.

[He is almost crying. J GET AWAY FROM MY" BENCH! Why? You have everything in the world you want; you’ve told me about your home, and your family, and your own lithe zoo. You have everything, and now you want this bench. Are these the things men fight for? Tell me, Peter, is this bench, this iron and this wood, is this your honor? Is this the diing in the world you’d fight for? Can you think of anything more absurd? .JERRY

Absurd? Look, I’m not going to talk to you about honor, or even try to explain it to you, Besides, it isn’t a question of honor; but even if it were, vou wouldn’t understand. PETER

JERRi [contemptuously]

You don’t even know what vou’re saying, do you? This is probably the first time in your life you’ve had anything more trying to face than changing your cats’ toUet box. Stupid! Don’t you have any idea, not even the slightest, what other people need? PETER JERRY

Oh, boy, listen to you; well, you don’t need this bench. Hiat’s for sure. Yes; yes, I do.

I’ve come here for years; I have hours of great pleasure, great satisfaction, right here. And that’s important to a man. I’m a responsible person, and I’m GROWNUP. This is my bench, and you have no right to take it away from me. PETER [quivering]

JERRY PETER JERRY

Fight for it, then. Defend yourself; defend your bench. You’ve pushed me to it. Get up and fight. ' Like a man?

PETER [still angry]

fies, like a man, if you insist on mocking me even further.

JERRY I’ll have to give you credit for one thing: you are a vegetable, and a slighdy nearsighted one, I think ... Vv PETER

THAT’S ENOUGH

Errata Sheet To Read Literature: Fiction, Poetry, Drama by Donald Hall In the first printing, the following lines were inadvertantly omitted from the end of The Zoo Story by Edward Albee. Please insert these pages after page 1363.

Edward Albee • The Zoo Story

JERKY

1363

. . . but, you know, as they say on TV all the time—you know—and I

mean this, Peter, you have a certain dignity; it surprises me. PETER STOP! iJERKi [ rises lazily] evenly matched.

Very well, Peter, we’ll battle for the bench, but we’re not

He takes out and clicks open an ugly-looking knife. PETER [suddenly awakening to the reality of the situation] stark raving mad! YOU’RE GOING TO KILL ME!

You are mad! You’re

But before PETER has time to think what to do, JERRY tosses the knife at PETERS feet. JERRY There you go. Pick it up. You have the knife and we’ll be more evenly matched. PETER [ horrified] No! JERRY [ rushes over to PETER, grabs him by the collar; PETER rises; their faces almost touch] Now you pick up that knife and you fight with me. You fight for your self-respect; you fight for that goddamned bench. PETER [struggling] No! Let. . . let go of me! He . . . Help! JERRY [ slaps PETER on each "fight”] You fight, you miserable bastard; fight for that bench; fight for your parakeets; fight for your cats, fight for your two daughters; fight for your wife; fight for your manhood, you pathetic litde vegetable. [Spits in PETER s face] You couldn’t even get your wife with a male child. PETER [breaks away, enraged] It’s a matter of genetics, not manhood, you . . . you monster. He darts down, picks up the knife and backs off a little; he is breathing heavily. I’ll give you one last chance; get out of here and leave me alone! He holds the knife with a firm arm, but far in front of him, not to attack, but to defend.

JERRY [sighs heavily]

So be it!

With a rush he charges PETER and impales himself on the knife. Tableau: For just a moment, complete silence, JERRY impaled on the knife at the end of PETER’s still firm arm. Then PETER screams, pulls away, leaving the knife in .JERRY. JERRY is motionless, on point. Then he, too, screams, and it must be the sound of an infuriated and fatally wounded animal. With the knife in him, he stumbles back to the bench that PETER had vacated. He crumbles there, sitting, facing PETER, his eyes wide in agony, his mouth open. PETER [ whispering] Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God . . . [He repeats these words many times, very rapidly.] JERRY [JERRY is dying, but now his expression seems to change. His features relax, and whde his voice varies, sometimes wrenched with pain, for the most part he seems removed from his dying. He smiles.] Thank you, Peter. I mean that, now; thank you very much. [Peters mouth drops open. He cannot move, he is trans¬ fixed.] Oh, Peter, I was so afraid I’d drive you away. [He laughs as best he can.] You don’t know how afraid I was you’d go away and leave me. And now Pll tell you \\ hat happened at the zoo. I think ... I think this is what happened at the zoo ... I think. I think that while I was at the zoo I decided that I would . . . would walk . . . north ... or, northerly, until I . . . until I found . . . you. Or . . . some¬ body. And . . . and I decided that I would talk to you ... I would tell you things . . . and things that I would tell you would. . . . Well, here we are. You see? Here we are. But... I don’t know . . . could I have planned all this? No ... I couldn’t have, but I think I did. And now you know what you’ll see in vour TV, and the face I told you about. . . you remember ... the face I told you about. . . my face, the face you see right now. Peter . . . Peter? . . . Peter . . . thank you. I came unto you [He laughs, so faintly.] and you have comforted me. Dear Peter. PETER [almost fainting] Oh my God! JERRY You’d better go now. Somebody might come by, and you don’t want to be here when anyone comes. PETER [does not move, but begins to weep] Oh my God, oh my God. JERRY [most faintly, now, he is very near death] And, Peter, I’ll tell you some¬ thing now; you re not really a vegetable; it’s all right, you’re an animal, too. But you d better hurry now, Peter. Hurry, you’d better go . . . see? [PETER slowly crosses. Jerry takes a handkerchief and with great effort and pain wipes the knife handle clean of fingerprints.] Hurry away, Peter. Wait. . . wait, Peter. Take your book . . . book. [PETER stops.] Right here . . . beside me ... on your bench . my bench, rather. Come . . . take your book. [PETER crosses to left of bench.] Hurry. . . Peter. [PETER gets book from JERRY’s hand. ] Very good, Peter. . . veiy good. Now . . . hurry away. [PETER hesitates for a moment, 'then flees, left.] Hurry away . . . [His eyes are closed now.] Hurry away, your parakeets are making the dinner . . . the cats . . . are setting the table. . . . PETER [crosses and exits] Oh my God, Oh my God. [Off A pitiful howl ] OH MY GOD! J .JERRY [his eyes stdl closed, he shakesKhis head and speaks, a combination of scornful mimicry and supplication] Oh .. my . . . God. [He is dead.] CURTAIN

Edward Albee • The Zoo Story

. . . but, you know, as they say on IT all the time—you know mean this, Peter, you have a certain dignity; it surprises me. . . . JERRY

PETER STOP! JERRY [rises lazily]

1363

and I

Very" well, Peter, we’ll battle for the bench, but we re not

evenly^ matched. He takes out and clicks open an ugly-looking knife. PETER [suddenly awakening to the reality of the situation]

ton are mad! \ou re

stark raving mad! YOU’RE GOING IO KILL ME! But before PETER has time to think what to do, JERRY tosses the knife at PETERS feet. JERRY

There you go. Pick it up. \ou have die knife and well be more e\enly

matched. PETER [ horrified] No! JERRY [rushes over to PETER, grabs him by the collar; PETER rises, their faces

almost touch]

Now you pick up that knife and you fight with me. You fight for

your self-respect; you fight for that goddamned bench. PETER [struggling] No! Let . . . let go of me! He . . . Help! JERRY [slaps PETER on each "fight"] You fight, you miserable bastard; fight for that bench; fight for your parakeets; fight for your cats, fight for your two daughters; fight for your wife; fight for your manhood, you pathetic little vegetable. [Spits in PETERS face] You couldn’t even get your wife with a male child. PETER [breaks away, enraged] It’s a matter of genetics, not manhood, you . . . you monster. He darts down, picks up the knife and backs off a little; he is breathing heavily. I’ll give you one last chance; get out of here and leave me alone! He holds the knife with a firm arm, but far in front of him, not to attack, but to defend. JERRY [sighs heavily]

So be it!

With a rush he charges PETER and impales himself on the knife. Tableau: For just a moment, complete silence, JERRY impaled on the knife at the end o/'PETER’s still firm arm. Then PETER screams, pulls away, leaving the knife in -JERRJ. JERRY is motionless, on point. Then he, too, screams, and it must be the sound of an infuriated and fatally wounded animal. With the knife in him, he stumbles back to the bench that PETER had vacated. He crumbles there, sitting, facing PETER, his eyes wide in agony, his mouth open.

Film and the stage Even a brief treatment of film as literature must begin by distinguishing cinema from drama. We need to distinguish these art forms—although we need not distinguish film from fiction or poetry—because they are superficially similar; each tells a story using actors’ speech and gesture. But film and drama are at least as different as painting and sculpture. When Leonardo da Vinci praised painting over sculpture, he praised its self-reliance: painting includes its own light and shadow and does not depend like sculpture on an external light source. On the other hand, when the contemporary English sculptor Henry Moore prefers sculpture to painting, he praises its present reality; painting’s light and painting’s volume are illusory, while sculpture is obdurate and three-dimensional. \\ e need not choose sides; we may take the dispute as suggestive: arts that are superficially similar may be profoundly different. Drama is more like sculpture and film more like painting. Film can create on its two-dimensional screen the illusion of anything: a thirty-foot shark, a gorilla towering over Manhattan, a galaxy exploding. But film remains illusion- its audience understands that it watches not real gorillas or galaxies but insub¬ stantial images of them. In contrast, drama employs actual bodies that occupy space, limited by physical reality, which also provides drama’s power. Drama’s audience is aware not only of the stage’s reality but of its own dynamic con¬ nection with living actors on the stage. In drama actors and audience make a community-interrelated, interactive, reciprocal. In films the audience is pas-

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sive to the huge images reeling above; the audience knows that the film un¬ winds as it will, whatever the audience’s response on this \\ ednesdav night or that Saturday afternoon. In remarking differences we should not reach a conclusion about superiority and inferiority. We compare the incomparable, like apples and oranges: after all, drama—like fiction and poetry—begins in prehistory; film is a product of modem technology. Because film depends more on spectacle and less on lan¬ guage, it is less literature than drama is. Yet, because it remains partly de¬ pendent on language, it remains literature at least partly. And because film derives in part from the stage play, the study of film reality grows out of the study of dramatic literature. Reading a film script, most Americans can construct a mental cinema more easily than they construct a mental theater when reading a play, because most of them have seen more movies than plays. Reading the script of Citizen Kane will recall the film for many of us, because this classic is frequently shown on American campuses and on television. But many of us, though experienced in watching film, lack the vocabulary to discuss what we have seen.

A note on television If most of us see more film than drama, it is equally true that most of us have seen more television than film. We need here to distinguish film from television, in order not to confuse them. Confusion is likely, of course, because much of the film we see we see on television. For the purposes of definition, let us define as film those moving pictures created for projection on a large screen before a large audience; let us define as television the visual materials created for small screens watched by small groups in domestic rooms. The difference between movie theater and living room is crucial. Watching a film in a theater, we become part of a community of watchers self-convened to see a movie; in many living rooms the television set is an extra, often ignored member of the family, a continually jabbering presence that laughs a lot, that alters when we ask it to, and that generally tries not to give offense. Film is public and communal, television familial and domestic, d ele\ ision has a poten tial for intimacy that has scarcely been exploited. The central image of television is the full face that looks directly at us and chats with us as if it were our cousin; television works best when the speaker seems to address a single per¬ son Yet there is a strange loneliness to the medium, an electronic community of two: Walter Cronkite addresses me. Paradoxically, this loneliness is most apparent in the laugh track, by which producers of situation comedies try to glue American living rooms together coast to coast. But the disembodied laugh track, as Aristotle might have put it, does not imitate nature. Yet at its best, television often does. Its size may limit its artistic range for dramatic expression (seeing a good film on the small set, we miss detail in scenes that include a broad image and we miss the power of the huge face m a close-up) but television finds its legitimate place in intimate objectivity, in

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Film

importing and documentary, in news and sports. Tense performances seem to enter the living room—and actuality becomes in turn a land of drama, as in the network cliche real-life drama.

The language of film Films are collaborative efforts, requiring many sldlls. A producer retains overall coordinating power, integrating financing and style, marketing, casting, and scheduling. A director is usually most important to the him, especially to its esthetic success or fahure. The director with assistants rehearses actors and contiols the shooting of the him. The original script is usually assembled bv a number of screenwriters. Then the cameraman contributes his expertise to produce the images the director requires. Other technicians handle makeup, costuming. One or more assistant directors may control second units, even third units, to photograph background scenery in Utah, whbe the director works indoors with actors on Hollywood sets constructed to look like Utah. The editor who assembles the him may be independent or assisted by the director—or may even be the director. The editing or assembly of the him is of central importance. A him is composed of thousands upon thousands of different shots, all spliced together in a particular organization. A shot may last a split second to fifteen seconds. In the long shot, the screen shows a wide sweep from a long distance. We may see a city from the air or a distant mountain; we may look toward a settle¬ ment from such a aistance that the houses are little bumps on the horizon; or we may look at a gathering and see thirty or forty people in a single image. Obviously in a long shot we can have much detail, much expanse, but little intimate imagery. In a medium shot, we move much closer to a main subject, perhaps isolating two or three people, or the detab of a house, or several objects in relation to each other. In a medium shot faces are large and memorable, but in a close-up an entire face can hll a huge screen. For that matter, we may isolate lips or one eye—or we may make a close-up of a flower or an insect or a bullet. The close-up makes use of the camera’s enormous abflity to alter scale, to turn the tiny into the huge. In all these shots of varying distances the camera determines our point of view; it can watch something from miles away or from half an inch. In the camera’s point of view we find an enormous distinction between film and staged drama. When we watch stage drama, our point of view is fixed—the seat our ticket gives us. Blocking and lighting can emphasize certain movements and even actor’s fiices, but neither blocking nor lighting can approach what the camera’s eye can do to isolate and emphasize bv altering size and scale. We have so far merely described shots in terms of their distance—or apparent distance—from the subject; there is also-the angle of vision to consider. We can shoot from near the ground, in a low-angle shot, from a child’s point of view, for instance. A single camera angle may express different feelings according to the director s intentions. A low-angle shot may impart a quality of menace, if the tall creature carries a guri; on the other hand, if the elongated character

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carries a Bible against a background of blue sky, the low-angle shot may express nobility or high purpose. Thus the shot’s angle is not its meaning, but the shot’s angle has connotations that can contribute an established context. A high-angle shot—say, a character seen from above—will often minimize that character, but not always: there is a famous shot in Citizen Kane, taken from above, in which Kane casts a shadow over his wife; the high-angle shot shows him dominating someone else. In a zoom shot an adjustable lens moves from any distance and proceeds to anv other, depending on the lens’s capabilities; for instance, a long shot can zoom close, even into a close-up, suddenly focusing attention on detail. And the camera itself can move, following action on a crane, in a crane shot; or it can swivel on its base in panorama, a pan shot, even turning full circle, in a western the camera may pan in a complete circle to reveal that the hero is surrounded. A tilt shot moves the camera vertically, up or down instead of side to side; thus the camera may express the height of a building, a tree, or a village by starting at dirt level and tilting up to the top. Or a camera may move on wheels toward or away from an object in a traveling shot. A cameraman may put gauze over the lens to cut down the wrinkles in an old actor s face, a recent, aging ingenue of Hollywood, in the gossip of the trade, was always “photographed through linoleum.” The kind of film, its emulsion, its method of development, may blur or mellow an image or create bright contrast, hard angles, and sharp edges. In an episode in Bonnie and Clyde, when the oudaws visit Bonnie’s mother in a Depression campsite, the softness of the image cieates a momentary relief, a brief relaxation in a generally hard and brittle film. Whatever the shots, from whatever camera angle, with whatever emulsion or lens, the cutting room brings them together into sequences and scenes. The manner of assemblage is at least as important as what is assembled. Russian filmmakers and theorists—Serge Eisenstein foremost as a director—assembled brief shots into what they called montage, quick sequences of image that could tell a story or embody a feeling or emphasize a thought, or all three. At its simplest, montage can juxtapose images for satiric effect: we watch a talkath c drunk become a braying donkey. Yet in a dense and resourceful sequence mon¬ tage can be eloquently expressive. In Eisenstein’s famous silent film Potemkin, a montage embodies the results of an anti-Tzarist mutiny. This montage is composed of manv brief images, among them a long shot of a crowd cheering the successful mutineers, a middle shot of the Tzar’s Cossacks shooting into the cheering multitude, another long shot of bodies littered and people fleeing the massacre, a close-up of a student-onlooker screaming, marching legs of the Cossacks, and the face of a crying mother who holds in her arms a dead baby. Technical terms describe transitions from one shot to another. A straight cut is the most common, simply replacing one image with another. An intercut usually moves from one place to another within a sequence where one shot relates to another or comments on it. Cross cuts play two actions against each other, through intercutting, toward an eventual convergence the fort is being attacked, the cavalry is coming! Either an intercut or a cross cut can be used

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for ironic commentary. A scene may end by a fade-in to another, as one image replaces another—a coin on a plate transforms into the sun rising the next morning. Such effects may be visual play, or they may be meaningful. In 2001, when a gorilla hurls up a bone he has used as a weapon and that bone turns into a space ship, we are watching a message. Sounds can also create transi¬ tions—as when an invalid’s moan at the end of one scene turns into the whistle of a train at the beginning of the next, a train bringing a doctor. If Aristotle were to write a Poetics of him, perhaps he would list plot first, but he would need to insist that plot in him is often narrated by spectacle. The best directors delight in telling storis without words, plot as a sequence of images. Sometimes the rapid sequence of image seems the essence of him, as when a movie earns its name by concluding with a typical chase scene. Char¬ acter, like plot, is revealed by image, as when we understand a character’s thought by observing a reaction shot in close-up; someone says or does some¬ thing, and without words we observe the effect. Of course language reveals character too; sometimes we hear a voice over a close-up, and soliloquy returns to our dramatic literature. Cut we are still more apt to see a character’s thoughts in a montage than to hear a sequence of spoken words. Sometimes we see flashback, as characters remember the past; sometimes we see a him strip of fantasy, as they imagine the future or a present which they cannot observe. Perhaps because of the size of the image, acting in films must be less obvious than stage acting. A flicker of an eyelash—maybe two yards across in a closeup makes a bigger gesture than a stage actor swooping both arms over his head. Classic screen actors and actresses seem to be themselves: if screen actors appear to be acting at all, they appear to overact. Actors who have ex¬ celled at appearing to be themselves include Garv Cooper, Spencer Tracv and Marilyn Monroe.

Orson Welles and Citizen Kane Orson Welles (1915) began his theatrical career as an actor and started directing at an early age. lie founded the Mercuiy Theater in 1937 and in 1938 began a series of innovative radio plays. (One of them, a hctitious account of Martians landing in New Jersey, frightened listeners who took it as fact.) He went to Hollywood in 1939 and made Citizen Kane in 1941. Ilis subsequent films have included The Magnificent Ambersons (1942), Macbeth (1947) The Lady from Shanghai (1948), Othello (1955), Touch of Evil (1958), and Falstaff (1967), but Welles never made another him as hne as Citizen Kane, for reasons that are chiefly the film industry’s fault. Citizen Kane was a lightly disguised attack upon the famous newspaper publisher William Randolph I learst, whose syndicated columnists subsequently set out to destroy Welles. Hollywood has never been known for its braveiy in the face of criticism. Welles not only directed and edited the him but also played the lead role of Kane, and played it magnihcently, revealing with compassion the cold, empty, loveless center of a rich and powerful character. Although the credits list Welles as co-author of this script, Pauline Kael has argued convincingly that the prin-

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cipal screenwriter was Herman J. Mankiewicz (1897—1953). Mankiewicz was a brilliant, witty New Yorker writer who went to Hollywood for the large salary, drank, gambled his money away, wrote excellent screenplays, and died too young. Welles is the center of Citizen Kane, as actor and director, and doubtless he contributed to the script and revised it during shooting. But Mankiewicz not only wrote the script—he suggested the subject. At least one other contributor needs special mention: cinematographer or cameraman Greg Toland created the stark and moving visual effects of the film, partly innovative, partly derived from German expressionist film. Earlier, we mentioned a particular high-angle shot, and many of Toland’s shots used ex¬ treme angles, low as well as high. Some shots emphasized shadowy, indistinct detail; many others were brightly lighted, which allowed Toland to use a high f-stop on his camera and achieve depth of field. A wide-angle lens also main¬ tained depth of field, and exaggerated distances in some shots. In turn, this depth of field allowed the audience to see, without distortion, something close to the camera at the same time as something far away: almost a close-up and a long shot in the same frame. Ideally, we should see the film, then read the script—and then see the film again. But even reading the dialogue and stage directions alone, with the help of a few still photographs, we can experience the literature of film, distinct from drama written for the stage. For those who would like to continue the investi¬ gation, many books and articles have been written about this film. The place to begin is The Citizen Kane Book by Pauline Kael, which includes lengthy essays on Welles and on Mankiewicz, as well as a narrative of the film s con¬ ception and execution and of its problems in distribution. When we read the text of this screenplay, the descriptions of camera shots and notes on the actors’ expressions help us make a mental cinema.

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Herman J. Mankiewicz Orson Welles

Citizen Kane Prologue Fade In 1 Ext. Xanadu—Faint Dawn—1940 (Miniature)

.

Window, very small in the distance, illuminated. All around this an almost totally black screen. Now, as the camera moves slowly towards this window, which is almost a postage stamp in the frame, other forms appear; barbed wire, cyclone fencing, and now, looming up against an early morning sky, enormous iron grillwork. Camera travels up what is now shown to be a gateway of gigantic proportions and holds on the top of it—a huge initial “K” showing darker and darker against the dawn skv. Through this and beyond we see the fairy-tale mountaintop of Xan¬ adu, the great castle a silhouette at its summit, the little window a distant accent in the darkness. Dissolve (A series of setups, each closer to the great window, all telling something of:)

2 The Literally Incredible Domain of Charles Foster Kane Its right flank resting for nearly forty miles on the Gulf Coast, it truly extends in all directions farther than the eye can see. Designed by nature to be almost com¬ pletely bare and flat—it was, as will develop, practically all marshland when Kane acquired and changed its face—it is now pleasantly uneven, with its fair share of rolling hills and one very good-sized mountain, all man-made. Almost all the land is improved, either through cultivation for farming purposes or through careful landscaping in the shape of parks and lakes. The casde itself, an enormous pile, compounded of several genuine castles, of European origin, of varying architec¬ ture—dominates the scene, from the very peak of the mountain. Dissolve 3 Golf Links (Miniature) Past which we move. The greens are straggly and overgrown, the fairways wild with tropical weeds, the links unused and not seriously tended for a long time. Dissolve Out Dissolve In 4 What Was Once a Good-Sized Zoo (Miniature) Of the Hagenbeck type. All diat now remains, with one exception, are the indi¬ vidual plots, surrounded by moats, on which the animals are kept, free and yet safe from each other and the landscape at large. (Signs on sc\eral of the plots indicate that here there were once tigers, lions, giraffes.) Dissolve

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Film

5 The Monkey Terrace (Miniature)

In the f. g.,1 a great obscene ape is outlined against the dawn murk. He is scratch¬ ing himself slowly, thoughtfully, looking out across the estates of Charles Foster Kane, to the distant light glowing in the castle on the hill. Dissolve 6 The Alligator Pit (Miniature) The idiot pile of sleepy dragons. Reflected in the muddy water—the lighted win¬ dow. 7 The Lagoon (Miniature)

The boat landing sags. An old newspaper floats on the surface of the water—a copy of the New York “Inquirer. ” As it moves across the frame, it discloses again the reflection of the window in the castle, closer than before. 8 The Great Swimming Pool (Miniature) It is empty. A newspaper blows across the cracked floor of the tank. Dissolve 9 The Cottages (Miniature) In the shadows, literally the shadows, of the castle. As we move by, we see that their doors and windows are boarded up and locked, with heavy bars as further protection and sealing. Dissolve Gut Dissolve In 10 A Drawbridge (Miniature) Over a wide moat, now stagnant and choked with weeds. We move across it and through a huge solid gateway into a formal garden, perhaps thirty yards wide and one hundred yards deep, which extends right up to the very wall of the castle. The landscaping surrounding it has been sloppy and casual for a long time, but this particular garden has been kept up in perfect shape. As the camera makes its way through it, towards the lighted window of the castle, there are revealed rare and exotic blooms of all kinds. The dominating note is one of almost exaggerated tropical lushness, hanging limp and despairing—Moss, moss, moss. Angkor Wat, the night the last king died. Dissolve 11 The Window (Miniature) Camera moves in until the frame of the window fills the frame of the screen. Suddenly the light within goes out. This stops the action of the camera and cuts the music which has been accompanying the sequence. In the glass panes of the window we see reflected the ripe, dreary landscape of Mr. Kane’s estate behind and the dawn sky. Dissolve 1 foreground

Herman -J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1373

12 Int.1 Kane’s Bedroom—Faint Dawn—1940 A very long shot of Kane’s enormous bed, silhouetted against the enormous win¬ dow. Dissolve 13 Int. Kane’s Bedroom—Faint Dawn—1940 A snow scene. An incredible one. Big impossible flakes of snow, a too picturesque farmhouse and a snowman. The jingling of sleigh bells in the musical score now makes an ironic reference to Indian temple bells—the music freezes— KANE’S OLD OLD VOICE

Rosebud!

The camera pulls back, showing the whole scene to be contained in one of those glass balls which are sold in novelty stores all over the world. A hand—Kane’s hand, which has been holding the ball, relaxes. The ball falls out of his hand and bounds down two carpeted steps leading to the bed, the camera following. The ball falls off the last step onto the marble floor where it breaks, the fragments glittering in the first ray of the morning sun. This ray cuts an angular pattern across the floor, suddenly crossed with a thousand bars of light as the blinds are pulled across the window. 14 The Foot of Kane’s Bed The camera very close. Outlined against the shuttered window, we can see a form—the form of a nurse, as she pulls the sheet up over his head. The camera follows this action up the length of the bed and arrives at the face after the sheet has covered it. Fade Out Fade In 15 Int. of a Motion Picture Projection Room On the screen as the camera moves in are the words: MAIN TITLE

Stirring brassy music is heard on the sound track (which, of course, sounds more like a sound track than ours). The screen in the projection room fills our screen as the second tide appears: CREDITS (NOTE: Here follows a typical news digest short, one of the regular monthly or

bimonthly features based on public events or personalities. These are distin¬ guished from ordinary newsreels and short subjects in that they have a fully de¬ veloped editorial or story line. Some of die more obvious characteristics of the “March of Time,” for example, as well as other documentary shorts, will be com¬ bined to give an authentic impression of this now familiar type of short subject. As is the accepted procedure in these short subjects, a narrator is used as well as explanatory titles.) Fade Out 1 Interior

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NARRATOR

U.S.A. Xanadu s Landlord Legendary was the Xanadu where Kubla

CHARLES FOSTER KANE

Khan decreed his stately pleasure dome

Opening shot of great desolate expanse of Florida coastline. (Day—1940)

(With quotes in his voice):

Dissolve

"Where twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round. ”

(Dropping the quotes) Today, almost as legendary is Florida’s Xanadu— world’s largest private pleasure ground. Here, on the deserts of the Gulf Coast, a private mountain was commis¬ sioned, successfully built for its land¬ lord. . . . Here for Xanadu’s landlord will be held 1940’s biggest, strangest funeral; here this week is laid to rest a potent figure of our century—Amer¬ ica’s Kubla Khan—Charles Foster Kane.

TITLE: TO FORTY-FOUR MILLION U.S. NEWSBUYERS, MORE NEWSWORTHY THAN THE NAMES IN HIS OWN HEADLINES WAS KANE HIMSELF, GREATEST NEWSPAPER TY¬ COON OF THIS OR ANY OTHER GENERA¬ TION.

Shot of a huge, screen-filling picture of Kane. Pull back to show that it is a picture on the front page of the “Inquirer,” sur¬ rounded by the reversed mles of mourn¬ ing, with masthead and headlines. (1940) Dissolve In journalism’s history other names are honored more than Charles Foster Kane’s, more justly revered. Among publishers, second only to James Gor¬ don Bennett the First: his dashing ex¬ patriate son; England’s Northcliffe and Beaverbrook; Chicago’s Patterson and McCormick;

Denver’s Bonfils and

Sommes; New York’s late great Jo¬ seph Pulitzer; America’s emperor of

A great number of headlines, set in dif¬ ferent types and different styles, ob¬ viously from different papers, all an¬ nouncing Kane’s death, all appearing over photographs of Kane himself. (Per¬ haps a fifth of the headlines are in foreign languages..) An important item in con¬ nection with the headlines is that many v of them—positively not all—reveal pas¬ sionately conflicting opinions about Kane.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

the news syndicate, another editorial¬ ist and landlord, the still mighty and once mightier Hearst. Great names all of them—but none of these so loved—

1375

Thus, they contain variously the words, “patriot,” “Democrat,” “pacifist,” “war¬ monger,” “traitor,” “idealist,” “Ameri¬ can,” etc.

hated—feared, so often spoken—as Charles Foster Kane. TITLE: 1895 TO 1940 ALL OF THESE YEARS HE COVERED, MANY OF THESE YEARS HE WAS.

The San Francisco earthquake. First with the news were the Kane Papers. First with relief of the sufferers, first with the news of their relief of the suf¬ ferers. Kane Papers scoop the world on the Armistice—publish, eight hours be¬ fore competitors, complete details of the Armistice terms granted the Ger¬

Newsreel Shots of San Francisco during and after the fire, followed by shots of special trains with large streamers: “Kane Relief Organization.” Over these shots superimpose the date—1906. Artist’s painting of Foch’s railroad car and peace negotiators, if actual newsreel shot unavailable. Over this shot super¬ impose the date—1918.

mans by Marshall Foch from his rail¬ road car in the Forest of Compiegne.

Shots with the date—1898—(to be sup¬ plied). Shots with the date—1910— (to be supplied). Shots with the date—1922—(to be sup¬ plied).

For forty years appeared in Kane newsprint no public issue on which

Headlines, cartoons, contemporary newsreels or stills of the following:

Kane Papers took no stand.

1. Woman suffrage. (The celebrated newsreel shot of about 1914.) 2. Prohibition. (Breaking up of a speak¬ easy and such.) 3. T.V.A. 4. Labor riots. No public man whom Kane himself did not support or denounce—often sup¬ port, then denounce.

Brief clips of old newsreel shots of Wil¬ liam Jennings Bryan, Theodore Roose¬ velt, Stalin, Walter P. Thatcher, A1 Smith, McKinley, Landon, Franklin D. Roose¬ velt and such. (Also recent newsreels of the elderly Kane with such Nazis as Hit¬ ler, Goering and England’s Chamberlain and Churchill.)

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Its humble beginnings a (K ing daily—

Shot of a ramshackle building with oldfashioned presses showing through plateglass windows and the name “Inquirer” in old-fashioned gold letters. (1892) Dissolve

Kane’s empire, in its glory, held do¬ minion over thirty-seven newspapers, thirteen magazines, a radio network. An empire upon an empire. The first of grocery stores, paper mills, apart¬ ment buildings, factories, forests, ocean liners—

An empire through which for filly years flowed, in an unending stream, the wealth of the earth’s third richest gold mine. . . .

The magnificent Inquirer Building of to¬ day. v

A map of the U.S.A., 1891-1911, cover¬ ing the entire screen, which an animated diagram shows the Kane publications spreading from city to city. Starting from New York, miniature newsboys speed madly to Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Washington, Atlanta, FI Paso, etc., screaming, “Wuxtry, Kane Papers, Wuxtry. ” Shot of a large mine going full blast, chimneys belching smoke, trains moving in and out, etc. A large sign reads “Col¬ orado Lode Mining Co.” (1940) Sign reading: “Little Salem, Colo., 25 Miles. ” Dissolve An old still shot of Little Salem as it was seventy years ago. ( Identified by copper¬ plate caption beneadi the still.) (1870)

Famed in American legend is the ori¬ gin of the Kane fortune. . . . How, to boarding-house-keeper Mary Kane, by a defaulting boarder, in 1868, was left the supposedly worthless deed to an

Shot of early tintype stills of Thomas Fos¬ ter Kane and his wife Mary on their wed¬ ding day. A similar picture of Mary Kane some four or five years later with her little boy, Charles Foster Kane.

abandoned mine shaft: the Colorado Lode.

Shot of Capitol in Washington, D. C. Fifty -seven years later, before a congressional investigation, Walter P. Thatcher, grand old man of Wall Street, for years chief target of Kane Papers’ attacks on “trusts,” recalls a journey he made as a youth. . . .

Shot of congressional investigating com¬ mittee. (Reproduction of existing J. P. Morgan newsreel.) This runs silent un¬ der narration. Walter P. Thatcher is on tlie stand. He is flanked by his son, Wal¬ ter P. Thatcher, Jr., and other partners. He is being questioned by some MerryAndrew congressmen. At this moment a baby alligator has just been placed in his lap, causing considerable confusion and embarrassment.

Herman J. Mankicwicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1377

Newsreel closeup of Thatcher, the sound track of which now fades in. THATCHER

. . . because of that trivial

incident . . .

It is a fact, however, is it not, that in 1870 you did go to Colorado?

INVESTIGATOR

THATCHER

I did.

In connection with the Kane affairs?

INVESTIGATOR

Yes. Mv firm had been ap¬ pointed trustee by Mrs. Kane for the fortune, which she had recently ac¬ quired. It was her wish that I should take charge of this boy, Charles Fos¬ ter Kane.

THATCHER

Is it not a fact that on that occasion the boy personally at¬ tacked you after striking you in the stomach with a sled?

INVESTIGATOR

Loud laughter and confusion Mr. Chairman, I will read to this committee a prepared statement I have brought with me—and I will then refuse to answer any further questions. Mr. Johnson, please!

THATCHER

A young assistant hands him a sheet of paper from a brief-case. THATCHER (reading it)

“With full awareness of the meaning of my words and the responsibility of what I am about to say, it is my considered belief that Mr. Charles Foster Kane, in every essence of his social beliefs and by the dangerous manner in which he has persistently attacked the American traditions of private property, initiative and opportunity for advancement, is—in fact—noth¬ ing more or less than a Communist.”

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NARRATOR

That same month in Union Square—

Newsreel of Union Square meeting, sec¬ tion of crowd carrying banners urging boycott of Kane Papers. A speaker is on the platform above the crowd. SPEAKER

(fading in on sound track)

. . . till the words “Charles Foster Kane” are a menace to every work¬ ingman in this land. He is today what he has always been and always will be—a Fascist! And yet another opinion—Kane’s own.

Silent newsreel on a windy platform, flagdraped, in front of the magnificent In¬ quirer Building. On platform, in full cer¬ emonial dress, is Charles Foster Kane. He orates silently. TITLE: “I AM, HAVE BEEN, AND WILL BE ONLY ONE THING—AN AMERICAN.” CHARLES FOSTER KANE

Same locale, Kane shaking hands out of frame. Deck of boat—Authentic newsreel inter¬ view on arrival in New York Harbor. Kane is posing for photographers (in his early seventies). REPORTER

This is a microphone, Mr.

Kane. I know it’s a microphone. You people still able to afford micro¬ phones with all that new income tax?

KANE

An embarrassed smile from the radio in¬ terviewer The transatlantic broadcast says you’re bringing back ten million dollars worth of art objects. Is that correct?

REPORTER

Don’t believe everything you hear on the radio. Read the “Inquirer”!

KANE

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1379

NARRATOR

How’d you find business conditions abroad, Mr. Kane?

REPORTER

How did I find business condi¬ tions, Mr. Bones? With great diffi¬ culty? (Laughs heartily)

KANE

REPORTER

Glad to be back, Mr. Kane?

I’m always glad to get back, young man. I’m an American. (Sharply) Anything else? Come, young man— when I was a reporter we asked them faster than that.

KANE

What do you think of the chances for a war in Europe?

REPORTER

Young man, there’ll be no war. I have talked with all the responsible leaders of the Great Powers, and I can assure you that England, France, Germany and Italy are too intelligent to embark upon a project that must mean the end of civilization as we now7 know7 it. There will be no war!

KANE

Dissolve

TITLE: FEW PRIVATE LIVES WERE MORE PUBLIC

Period still of Emily Norton. (1900) Dissolve

Twice married—twice divorced—first to a President’s niece, Emily Norton— who left him in 1916—died 1918 in a motor accident with their son.

Reconstruction of very old silent news¬ reel of wedding party7 on the back lawn of the White House. Many notables, includ¬ ing Kane, Emily, Thatcher Sr., "Thatcher Jr., and recognizably Bernstein, Leland, et ah, among the guests. Also seen in this group are period newspaper photog¬ raphers and new7sreel cameramen. (1900) Period still of Susan Alexander. Dissolve

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Film

NARRATOR

Two weeks after his divorce from Em¬ ily Norton, Kane married Susan Alex¬ ander, singer, at the town hall in Tren¬ ton, New Jersey.

Reconstructed silent newsreel. Kane, Susan and Bernstein emerging from side doorway of town hall into a ring of press photographers, reporters, etc. Kane looks startled, recoils for an instant, then charges down upon the photographers, laying about him with his stick, smash¬ ing whatever he can hit. (1917) v

For Wife Two, onetime opera-singing Susan Alexander, Kane built Chicago’s Municipal Opera House. Cost: Three million dollars.

Still of architect’s sketch with typically glorified “rendering” of the Chicago Mu¬ nicipal Opera House. (1919) Dissolve

Conceived for Susan Alexander Kane, half finished before she divorced him, the still unfinished Xanadu. Cost: No man can say.

A glamorous shot of the almost finished Xanadu, a magnificent fairy-tale estate built on a mountain. (1927—1929) Shots of its preparation. (1920—1929) Shots of truck after truck, train after train, flashing by with tremendous noise. Shots of vast dredges, steam shovels. Shot of ships standing offshore unloading into lighters.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

NARRATOR

One hundred thousand trees, twenty thousand tons of marble, are the in¬

1381

In quick succession shots follow each other, some reconstructed, some in min¬ iature, some real shots (maybe from the dam projects) of building, digging, pour¬ ing concrete, etc. More shots as before, only this time we see (in miniature) a large mountain—at different periods in its development—ris¬ ing out of the sands.

gredients of Xanadu’s mountain. Xanadu’s livestock: the fowl of the air, the fish of the sea, the beast of the field and jungle—two of each; the big¬

Shots of elephants, apes, zebras, etc., being herded, unloaded, shipped, etc. in various ways.

gest private zoo since Noah. Contents of Xanadu’s palace: paint¬ ings, pictures, statues, and more stat¬ ues, the very stones of many another palace, shipped to Florida from every corner of the earth. Enough for ten museums—The loot of the world.

Shots of packing cases being unloaded from ships, from trains, from trucks, with various kinds of lettering on them (Italian, Arabian, Chinese, etc.) but all consigned to Charles Foster Kane, Xan¬ adu, Florida. A reconstructed still of Xanadu—the main terrace. A group of persons in clothes of the period of 1929. In their midst, clearly recognizable, are Kane and Susan. TITLE: FROM XANADU, FOR THE PAST TWENTYFIVE YEARS, ALL KANE ENTERPRISES HAVE BEEN DIRECTED, MANY OF THE NA¬ TION’S DESTINIES SHAPED.

one war—

Shots of various authentically worded headlines of American papers since 1895.

—Opposed participation in another—

Spanish-American War shots. (1898)

Kane urged his country’s entry into

A graveyard in France of the world war and hundreds of crosses. (1919) —Swung the election to one American

Old newsreels of a political campaign.

President at least—so furiously at¬ tacked another as to be blamed for his death—called his assassin—burned in effigy.

Night shot of crowd burning Charles Fos-

1382

Film

ter Kane in effigy. The dummy bears a grotesque, comic resemblance to Kane. It is tossed into the flames, which burn up . . . and then down. . . . (1916)

NARRATOR

Fade Out TITLE: IN POLITICS—ALWAYS A BRIDESMAID, NEVER AVBRIDE

Kane, molder of mass opinion though

Newsreel shots of great crowds stream¬ ing into a building—Madison Square Gar¬ den—then

he was, in all his life was never granted elective office by the voters of his country. Few U. S. news publishers have been. Few, like one-time Con¬

Shots inside the vast auditorium, at one end of which is a huge picture of Kane. (1916)

gressman Hearst, have ever run for any office—most know better—con¬ clude with other political observ ers that no man’s press has power enough for himself. But Kane Papers were once strong indeed, and once the prize

Shot of box containing the first Mrs. Kane and young Charles Foster Kane aged nine and a half. They are acknowl¬ edging the cheers of the crowd. (Silent shot) (1916)

seemed almost his. In 1916, as inde¬ pendent candidate for governor, the best elements of the state behind him— the White House seemingly the next easy step in a lightning political ca¬ reer—

Newsreel shot of dignitaries on platform, with Kane alongside of speaker’s table, beaming, hand upraised to silence the crowd. (Silent shot) (1916) Newsreel shot—close-up of Kane deliv¬ ering speech. (1916)

Then, suddenly—less than one week before election—defeat! Shameful, ig¬ nominious—Defeat that set back for twenty years the cause of reform in the U.S., forever canceled political chances for Charles Foster Kane. Then in the third year of the Great

Fhe front page of a contemporary paper— a screaming headline—twin photos of Kane and Susan. (1916) Headline reads: CANDIDATE KANE CAUGHT IN LOVE NEST WITH “SINGER”

Printed tide about depression.

Depression ... as to all publishers it sometimes must—to Bennett, to Munsey and Hearst it did—a paper closes! For Kane, in four short years: col¬ lapse. Eleven Kane Papers, four Kane magazines scrapped—

merged,

more

Once more repeat die map of the U.S.A., 1932-1939. Suddenly the cartoon goes into reverse, the empire begins to shrink, illustrating the narrator’s words.

sold,

The door of a newspaper office with die xvsign: “Closed.”

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

Then four long years more—alone in

1383

Shots of Xanadu. (1940)

his never finished, already decaying, pleasure palace, aloof, seldom visited, never photographed, Charles Foster Kane continued to direct his failing empire . . . vainly attempted to sway, as he once did, the destinies of a na¬ tion that had ceased to listen to him . . . ceased to trust him. . . .

Series of shots, entirely modern, but rather jumpy and obviously bootlegged, showing Kane in a bath chair, swathed in steamer rugs, being perambulated through his rose garden, a desolate figure in the sunshine. (1935) Then, last week, as it must to all men, death came to Charles Foster Kane.

Ext.1 The new Inquirer Building, New York—night (1940) (Painting and Dou¬ ble Printing) A moving electric sign, similar to the one on the Times Building—spells out the words: CHARLES FOSTER KANE—DEAD

INSERT: Door with the sign PROJECTION ROOM on it.

16 Int. Projection Room—Day—1940

(A fairly large one, with a long throw to die screen.) It is dark. Present are the editors of a news digest short, and of the Rawlston magazines. Rawlston himself is also present. During this scene, nobody’s face is really seen. Sections of their bodies are picked out by a table light, a silhouette is thrown on the screen, and their faces and bodies are themselves thrown into silhouette against the brilliant slanting rays of light from the projection booth. THOMPSON

That’s it.

He rises, lighting a cigarette, and sits on corner of table. There is movement of men shifting in seats and lighting cigarettes FIRST MAN {into phone)

(Hangs up)

1 Exterior

Stand by. I’ll tell you if we want to run it again.

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Film

THOMPSON Well?—Iiow about it, Mr. Rawlston? RAWLSTON (has risen) How do you like it, boys? A short silence

Almost together

SECOND MAN Well . . . er . . . THIRD MAN Seventy years of a man’s life . . . FOURTH MAN ITiat’s a lot to try to get into a newsreel . . . i

Thompson turns on the table lamp

RAWLSTON (as he walks to Thompson) It’s a good short, Thompson, but what it needs is an angle—-All that picture tells us is that Charles Foster Kane is dead. I know that—I read the papers— Laughter greets this

RAWLSTON [Cont’d] What do you think, boys? RAWLSTON lCont’dJ (walks toward Thompson) I tell you, Thompson—a man’s dying words— SECOND MAN What were they? THOMPSON (to Second Man) You don’t read the papers. Laughter

RAWLSTON Wien Mr. Charles Foster Kane died he said just one word— THOMPSON Rosebud! Almost together

|FIRST MAN Is that what he said? Just Rosebud? [SECOND MAN Umhum—Rosebud—

LOURTII MAN Tough guy, huh? (Derisively) Dies calling for Rosebud! Laughter

RAWLSTON (riding over them) was she— SECOND MAN Or what was it?

Yes, Rosebud!—Just diat one word!—But who

Tittering

RAWLSTON Here’s a man who might have been President. He’s been loved and hated and talked about as much as any man in our time—-but when he comes to die, lie’s got something on his mind called Rosebud. What does that mean? THIRD MAN A race horse he bet on once, probably— FOURTH MAN Yeh—that didn’t come in— RAWLSTON All right—(Strides toward Third and Fourth Men) But what was the race? There is a short silence

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1385

Thompson! THOMPSON Yes, Mr. Rawlston. RAWLSTON Hold the picture up a week—two weeks if you have to— THOMPSON (feebly) Don’t you think, right after his death, if we release it now— it might be better than— RAWLSTON (decisively; cutting in on above speech) Find out about Rosebud!— Go after everybody that knew him—that manager of his—(Snaps fingers)— Bernstein—his second wife—she’s still living— THOMPSON Susan Alexander Kane— SECOND MAN She’s running a nightclub in Atlantic City— RAWLSTON (crosses to Thompson) See ’em all—all the people who worked for him—who loved him—who hated his guts—(Pause) I don’t mean go through RAWLSTON \ Cont’d]

the city directory, of course. The Third Man gives a hearty rrYes-man” laugh. Others titter

I’ll get to it right away, Mr. Rawlston. RAWLSTON (pats his arm) Good! Rosebud dead or alive! It’ll probably turn out

THOMPSON (rising)

to be a very simple thing. Fade Out

(NOTE: Now begins the story proper—the search by Thompson for the facts about Kane—his researches—his interviews with the people who knew Kane.) Fade In

17 Ext. Cheap Cabaret—rrEl Rancho”—Atlantic City—Rain—Night—1940 (Min¬ iature) The first image to register is a sign:

“ET RANCIIO” Floor Show Susan Alexander Kane Twice Nightly

These words, spelled out in neon, glow out of the darkness. Then there is lightning which reveals a squalid rooftop on which the sign stands. Camera moves close to the skylight. We see through the skylight down into the cabaret. Directly below at a table sits the lone figure of a woman, drinking by herself. Dissolve 18 Int. rEl Rancho” Cabaret—Night—1940

The lone figure at the table is Susan. She is fifty, trying to look much younger, cheaply blonded, in a cheap, enormously generous evening dress. Hie shadows of Thompson and the Captain are seen moving toward the table from direction of doorway. Hie Captain appears, crosses to Susan, and stands behind her. Thomp¬ son moves into the picture in close f. g., his back to camera.

1386

Film

CAPTAIN (to Susan) Miss Alexander—this is Mr. Thompson, Miss Alexander. SUSAJV (without looking up) I want another drink, John. Low thunder from outside Right away. Will you have something, Mr. Thompson? THOMPSON (starting to sit down) I’ll have a highball. SUSAN (looks at Thompson) Who told you you could sit down here? THOMPSON I thought maybe we could have a drink together. SUSAN Think again! CAPTAIN

There is an awkward pause SUSAN [ Cont d] Why don’t you people let me alone? I’m minding my own busi¬ ness. Arou mind yours. THOMPSON If you’d just let me talk to you for a little while, Miss Alexander. All I want to ask you— SUSAN Get out of here! (Almost hysterical) Get out! THOMPSON (rising) I’m sorry. SUSAN Get out. THOMPSON Maybe some other time— SUSAN Get out. Thompson looks up at the Captain. The Captain indicates the door with a slight jerk of his head, then walks away from the table toward a waiter who is leaning against the wall in front of the door. Thompson follows CAPTAIN Gino—get her another highball. (To Thompson as he passes them) She’s just not talking to anybody, Mr. Thompson. THOMPSON Okay. Walks to phone booth Another double? CAPTAIN Yeh—

WAITER

During above Thompson has dropped coin into phone slot and dialed long distance operator (112). The waiter exits for the drink THOMPSON (into phone)

Hello—I want New York City—Courtland 7-9970.

The Captain steps closer to the phone booth THOMPSON [Cont d] This is Adantic City 4-682/—All right—(Puts coins into slot, turns to Captain) I lev—do you think she ought to have another drink? CAPTAIN A eh. She 11 snap out of it. Why, until he died, she’d just as soon talk about Mr. Kane as about anybody. Sooner— ‘ THOMPSON (into phone) IleUo—this ^Thompson. Let me talk to the Chief, will you? (Closes booth door) Hello, Mr. Rawlston. She won’t talk—

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

138/

During above, waiter enters and sets highball in front of Susan. She drinks thirstily

Who—? THOMPSON The second Mrs. Kane—about Rosebud or anything else! I’m calling from Atlantic City. RAWLSTON’S VOICE Make her talk! THOMPSON All right—I’m going over to Philadelphia in the morning—to the Thatcher Library, to take a look at that diary of his—they’re expecting me. Then I’ve got an appointment in New York with Kane’s general manager— what’s his name—Bernstein. Then I’ll come back here. RAWLSTON’S VOICE See everybody. THOMPSON Yes, I’ll see everybody—that’s still alive. Good-bye, Mr. Rawlston. (Hangs up; opens door) Ilev—er— CAPTAIN John— THOMPSON John—you just might be able to help me. When she used to talk about Kane—did she ever happen to say anything—about Rosebud? CAPTAIN (looks over at Susan) Rosebud? RAWLSTON’S VOICE

Thompson slips him a bill

(pocketing it) Oh, thank you, Mr. Thompson. Hianks. As a matter of fact, just the other day, when all that stuff was in the papers—I asked her—she never heard of Rosebud.

CAPTAIN [Cont’d]

Fade Out Fade 19 Int. Thatcher Memorial Library—Day—1940

A noble interpretation of Mr. Thatcher himself, executed in expensive marble, his stone eyes hxed on the camera. Wre move down off of this, showing the pedestal on which the words “Walter Parks Thatcher” are engraved. Immediately below the inscription we encounter, in a medium shot, Bertha .Anderson, an elderly, man¬ nish spinster, seated behind her desk. Thompson, his hat in his hand, is standing before her. BERTHA (into a phone)

Yes. I’ll take him now. (Hangs up and looks at Thomp¬ son) The directors of the Thatcher Memorial Library have asked me to remind you again of the condition under which you may inspect certain portions of Mr. Thatcher’s unpublished memoirs. Under no circumstances are direct quo¬ tations from his manuscript to be used by you. THOMPSON That’s all right. BERTHA You may come with me. She rises and starts towards a distant door. Thompson follows Dissolve 20 Int. The Vault Room—Thatcher Memorial Library—Day—1940

1388

Film

A room with all the warmth and charm of Napoleon’s tomb. As we dissolve in, the door opens in and we see past Thompson’s shoulders the length of the room. The floor is marble. There is a gigantic, mahogany table in the center of everything. Beyond this is a safe from which a guard, with a revolver holster at his hip, is extracting the journal of Walter P. Thatcher. He brings it to Bertha. BERTHA (to the guard)

Pages eighty-three to one hundred and forty-two, Jen¬

nings. GUARD Yes, Miss Anderson.

v

BERTHA (to Thompson)

You will confine yourself, it is our understanding, to the chapter dealing with Mr. Kane. THOMPSON That’s all Pm interested in. BERTHA You will be required to leave this room at four-thirty promptly. She leaves. Thompson starts to light a cigarette. The guard shakes his head. With a sigh, Thompson bends over to read the manuscript. Camera moves down over his shoulder onto page of manuscript

INSERT: MANUSCRIPT, neatly and precisely written: CHARLES FOSTER KANE

When these lines appear in print, fifty years after my death, I am confident that the whole world will agree with my opinion of Charles Foster Kane, assuming that he is not then completely forgotten, which I regard as extremely likely. A good deal of nonsense has appeared about my first meeting with Kane, when he was six years old. . . The facts are simple. In the winter of 1870 . . . Dissolve 21 Ext. Mrs. Kane’s Boardinghouse—Day—1870

The white of a great field of snow. In the same position as the last word in above insert, appears the tiny figure of Charles Foster Kane, aged five. He throws a snowball at the camera. It sails toward us and out of scene. 22 Reverse Angle—on the house, featuring a large sign reading: MRS. KANE’S BOARDINGHOUSE HIGH CLASS MEALS AND LODGING INQUIRE WITHIN

Charles Kane’s snowball hits the sign. 23 Int. Parlor—Mrs. Kane’s Boardinghouse—Day—1870

Camera is angling through the window, but the window frame is not cut into scene. \\ e see only the field of snow again. Charles is manufacturing another snowball. Now— v\

Camera pulls back, the frame of the window appearing, and we are inside the

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1389

parlor of the boardinghouse. Mrs. Kane, aged about twenty-eight, is looking out towards her son. MRS. KAXE (calling out)

Be careful, Charles! THATCHER’S VOICE Mrs. Kane— MRS. KAXE (calling out the window) Pull your muffler around your neck, Charles— But Charles runs away. Mrs. Kane turns into camera and we see her face—a strong face, worn and kind THATCHER’S VOICE

I think we’ll have to tell him now—

Camera now pulls hack further, showing Thatcher standing hefoie a table on which is his stovepipe hat and documents. He is twenty-six and a very stuffy young man MRS. KAXE KANE SR.

I’ll sign those papers now, Mr. fliatcher. You people seem to forget diat I’m the boy’s father.

At the sound of Kane Sr’s, voice, both have turned to him and camera pulls back still further, taking him in It’s going to be done exacdv the way I’ve told Mr. Thatcher— j^YNE SR. If I want to, I can go to court. A father has die right to A boarder that beats his bill and leaves worthless stock behind—that property is just as much my property as anybody’s if it turns out to be valuable. I knew Fred Graves MRS. KANE

1390

Film

and if he’d had any idea this was going to happen—he’d have made out those certificates in both our names— THATCHER However, they were made out in Mrs. Kane’s name. KANE He owed the money for the board to both of us. Besides, I don’t hold with signing my boy away to any bank as guardeen just because— MRS. KANE (quietly) I want you to stop all this nonsense, Jim. THATCHER Hie bank’s decision in all matters concerning his education, his places of residence and similar subjects are to be final. KANE SR. Hie idea of a bank being the guardeen v . . Mrs. Kane has met his eye. Her triumph over him finds expression in his failure to finish his sentence MRS. KANE (even more quietly)

I want you to stop all this nonsense, Jim.

We will assume full management of the Colorado Bode—of which you, Mrs. Kane, I repeat, are the sole owner.

THATCHER

Kane Sr. opens his mouth once or twice, as if to say something, but chokes down his opinion Where do I sign, Mr. Thatcher? THATCHER Right here, Mrs. Kane. MRS. KANE

KANE SR. (sulkily)

Don’t say I didn’t warn you—Mary, I’m asking you for the last time—anyone’d think I hadn’t been a good husband and a—

Mrs. Kane looks at him slowly. He stops his speech Hie sum of fifty thousand dollars a year is to be paid to yourself and Mr. Kane as long as you both live, and thereafter the survivor—

THATCHER

Mrs. Kane signs Well, let’s hope it’s all for the best. MRS. KANE It is—Go on, Mr. Thatcher— KANE SR.

Mrs. Kane, listening to Thatcher, of course, has had her other ear bent in the direction of the boy s voice. Kane Sr. walks over to close the window 24 Ext. Mrs. Kane’s Boardinghouse—Day—1870 Kane Jr., seen from the window. He is advancing on the snowman, snowballs in his hands. He drops to one knee. If the rebels want a fight, boys, let’s give it to ’em! The terms are uncon¬ ditional surrender. Up and at ’em! The Union forever!

KANE

25 Int. Parlor—Mrs. Kane’s Boardinghouse—Day—1870 Kane Sr. closes the window.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1391

Everything else—the principal as well as all monies earned—is to be administered by the bank in trust for your son, Charles Foster Kane, until his twenty-fifth birthday, at which time he is to come into complete possession.

THATCHER

Mrs. Kane rises and goes to the window, opening it MRS. KANE

Go on, Mr. Thatcher.

26 Ext. Mrs. Kane’s Boardinghouse—Day—1870 Kane Jr. seen from the window. KANE

You can’t lick Andy Jackson! Old Hickory, that’s me!

He fires his snowball, well wide of the mark and falls flat on his stomach, starting to crawl carefully toward the snowman THATCHER’S VOICE

It’s nearly five, Mrs. Kane—don’t you think I’d better meet

the boy— 27 Int. Parlor—Mrs. Kane’s Boardinghouse—Day—1870 Mrs. Kane at the window. Thatcher is now standing at her side. MRS. KANE

I’ve got his trunk all packed—(She chokes a little) I’ve had it packed

for a couple of weeks— She can’t say any more. She starts for the hall door I’ve arranged for a tutor to meet us in Chicago. I’d have brought him along with me, but you were so anxious to keep evervdiing secret—

THATCHER

He stops. Mrs. Kane is already well into the hall. He looks at Kane Sr., tightens his lips, and follows Mrs. Kane. Kane follows him 28 Ext. Mrs. Kane’s Boardinghouse—Day—1870 Kane, in the snow-covered held. lie holds the sled in his hand. Hie Kane house, in the b.g.,1 is a dilapidated, shabby, two-story frame building, with a wooden outhouse. Kane looks up as he sees the procession, iMrs. Kane at its head, coming toward him. KANE H’ya, Mom. (Gesturing at the snowman) See, Mom? I took the pipe out of his mouth. If it keeps on snowin’, maybe I’ll make some teeth and— MRS. KANE You better come inside, son. \ on and I have got to get you all ready for—for— THATCHER Charles, my name is Mr. Thatcher-— MRS. KANE This is Mr. Thatcher, Charles.

background

1392

Film

How do you do, Charles. KANE SR. He comes from the East— KANE Hello. Hello, Pop. KANE SR. Hello, Charlie! THATCHER

Mr. Thatcher is going to take you on a trip with him tonight, Charles. You’ll be leaving on Number Ten. KANE SR. That’s the train with all the lights. KANE You goin’, Mom? MRS. KANE

Your mother won’t be going right away, Charles— KANE Where’m I going? THATCHER

You’re going to see Chicago and New York—and Washington, maybe . . . isn’t he, Mr. Thatcher?

KANE SR.

THATCHER (heartily)

He certainly is. I wish I were a little boy and going to make a trip like that for the first time. KANE Why aren’t you cornin’ with us, Mom? MRS. KANE We have to stay here, Charles. You’re going to live with Mr. Thatcher from now on, Charlie! You’re going to be rich. Your Ma figures—that is—er— she and I have decided that this isn’t the place for you to grow up in. You’ll probably be the richest man in America someday and you ought to— MRS. KANE You won’t be lonely, Charles . . . KANE SR.

THATCHER

We re going to have a lot of good times together, Charles . . . really

we are. Kane stares at him TITYTCHER [Cont d\

Come on, Charles. Let’s shake hands. (Kane continues to look at him) Now, now! I’m not as frightening as all diat! Let’s shake, what do you say?

He reaches out for Charles's hand. Without a word, Charles hits him in the stom¬ ach with the sled. Thatcher stumbles back a few feet, gasping THATCHER [Cont’d]

(with a sickly grin) You almost hurt me, Charles. Sleds aren t to hit people with. Sleds are to—to sleigh on. When we get to New \ ork, Charles, we’ll get you a sled that will—

He’s near enough to try to put a hand on Kanes shoulder. As he does, Kane kicks him in the ankle MRS. KANE

Charles!

He throws himself on her, his arms around her. Slowly Mrs. Kane puts her arms around him. KANE (frightened) MRS. KANE

Mom! Mom! It’s all right, Charles, it’s all right.

Sorry, Mr. Thatcher! What that kid needs is a good thrashing! MRS. KANE That’s what you think, is it, Jim? KANE SR. Yes. KAYE SR.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Wells • Citizen Kane

MRS. KANE (looks at Mr. Kane; slowly)

1393

That’s why lie’s going to be brought up

where you can’t get at him. Dissolve INSERT: (NIGHT—1870) (STOCK OR MINIATURE) OLD-FASHIONED RAILROAD WHEELS underneath a sleeper, spinning along the track.

Dissolve 29 Int. Train—Old-Fashioned Drawing Room—Night—1870 Thatcher, with a look of mingled exasperation, annoyance, sympathy and inability to handle the situation, is standing alongside a berth, looking at Kane. Kane, his face in the pillow, is crying with heartbreaking sobs. KANE

Mom! Mom! Dissolve

INSERT: THE THATCHER MANUSCRIPT, which fills the screen. It reads:

. . . nothing hut a lucky scoundrel, spoiled, unscrupulous, irresponsible. He acquired his first newspaper through a caprice. His whole attitude as a pub¬ lisher . . . Dissolve Out Dissolve In 30 Int. Kane’s Office—’Inquirer”—Day—1898 Close-up on printed headline, which reads: GALLEONS OF SPAIN OFF JERSEY COAST

Camera pulls back to reveal Thatcher, holding the “Inquirer” with its headline, standing in front of Kane’s desk. Kane is seated behind the desk. Is this really your idea of how to run a newspaper? I don’t know how to run a newspaper, Mr. Thatcher. I just try everything

THATCHER KANE

I can think of. THATCHER (reading the headline) Galleons of Spain off Jersey coast, h ou know you haven’t the slightest proof that this—this armada is off the Jersey coast. KANE

Can you prove that it isn’t?

Bernstein rushes in, a cable in his hand. He stops when he sees Thatchet KANE [Cont’d] (genially) BERNSTEIN

Mr. Bernstein, Mr. Thatcher. IIow are you, Mr. Thatcher?

Thatcher gives him the briefest of nods BERNSTEIN [Cont’d]

We just had a wire from ( uba, Mr. Kane.

He stops, embarrassed

1394

Film

KANE That s all right. We have no secrets from our readers. Mr. Thatcher is one of our most devoted readers, Mr. Bernstein. He knows what’s wrong with eveiy copy of the “Inquirer” since I took charge. Read the cable. BERNSTEIN (Reading) Food marvelous in Cuba—girls delightful stop could send you prose poems about scenery but don’t feel right spending your money stop there s no war in Cuba signed Wheeler. Any answer? 4es. Dear Wheeler—(Pauses a moment)—you provide the prose poems— I’ll provide the war. BERNSTEIN That’s hne, Mr. Kane. KANE

Thatcher, bursting with indignation, sits down. I kinda like it myself. Send it right away. BERNSTEIN Right away. KANE

Bernstein leaves. After a moment of indecision, Thatcher decides to make one last try Charles, I came to see you about this—campaign of yours . . . er . . . the Inquirer s campaign—against the Metropolitan Transfer Company. KANE Good. You got some material we can use against them? THATCHER You’re still a college boy, aren’t you, Charles? THATCHER

Oh, no, I was expelled from college—several colleges. Don’t you remem¬ ber?

KANE

Thatcher glares at him KANE \ Cont’d]

I remember. I think that's when I hrst lost my belief that you were omnipotent, Mr. Thatcher—when you told me that the dean’s decision at

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1395

Harvard, despite all your efforts, was irrevocable—{He thinks, and looks at Thatcher inquiringly)—irrevocable— Thatcher stares at him angrily, tight-lipped KANE [Cont’d]

I can’t tell you how often I’ve learned the correct pronunciation

of that word, but I always forget. THATCHER (not interested, coming out with it) I think I should remind you, Charles, of a fact you seem to have forgotten. You are yourself one of the company’s largest individual stockholders. KANE The trouble is, Mr. Thatcher, you don’t realize you’re talking to two people. As Charles Foster Kane, who has eighty-two thousand, six hundred and thirty-one shares of Metropolitan Transfer—you see, I do have a rough idea of my holdings—I sympathize with you. Charles Foster Kane is a dangerous scoundrel, his paper should be run out of town and a committee should be formed to boycott him. You may, if you can form such a committee, put me down for a contribution of one thousand dollars. THATCHER (angrily) Charles, my time is too valuable for me— KANE On the other hand—(His manner becomes serious) I am the publisher of the “Inquirer. ” As such, it is my duty—I’ll let you in on a little secret, it is also my pleasure—to see to it that the decent, hardworking people of this city are not robbed blind by a group of money-mad pirates because, God help them, they have no one to look after their interests! Thatcher has risen. He now puts on his hat and walks away KANE [Cont’d]

—I’ll let you in on another litde secret, Mr. Thatcher.

Thatcher stops. Kane walks up to him KANE [Cont’d]

I think I’m the man to do it. You see I have money and property. If I don’t defend the interests of the underprivileged, somebody else will— maybe somebody without any money or any property—and that would be too

bad. THATCHER {puts on his hat)

I happened to see your consolidated statement this morning, Charles. Don’t you think it’s rather unwise to continue this philan¬ thropic enterprise—this “Inquirer”—that’s costing you one million dollars a

year? You’re right. We did lose a million dollars last year. W e expect to lose a million next year, too. You know, Mr. Thatcher—at the rate of a million a year—we’ll have to close this place

in sixty years. Dissolve

31 Int. The Vault Room—Thatcher Memorial Library—Day THE MANUSCRIPT:

The ordinary decencies of human life were, I repeat, unknown to him. His in¬ credible vulgarity, his utter disregard . . . Before the audience has had a chance to read this, Thompson, with a gesture of

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annoyance, has closed the manuscript. He turns to confront Miss Anderson, who has come to shoo him out You have enjoyed a very rare privilege, young man. Did you find what you were looking for?

MISS ANDERSON THOMPSON

No. Tell me something, Miss Anderson. You’re not Rosebud, are

you? MISS ANDERSON THOMPSON

What?

I didn’t think you were. Well, thanks for the use of the hall.

He puts his hat on his head and starts out, lighting a cigarette as he goes. Miss Anderson, scandalized, watches him Dissolve 32 Int. Bernstein’s Office—Inquirer Skyscraper—Day—1940 Close-up of a still of Kane, aged about sixty-five. Camera pulls back, showing it is a framed photograph on the wall. Under it sits Bernstein, back of his desk. Bernstein, always an undersized Jew, now seems even smaller than in his youth. He is bald as an egg, spry, with remarkably intense eyes. As camera continues to travel back, the back of Thompson’s head and his shoulders come into the picture. BERNSTEIN {wryly)

Who’s a busy man? Me? I’m chairman of the board. I got nothing but time. . . . What do you want to know? THOMPSON Well, we thought maybe—(slowly) if we could find out what he meant by his last words—as he was dying— Hiat Rosebud, huh? (Thinks) Maybe some girl? There were a lot of them back in the early days and—

BERNSTEIN

THOMPSON (amused)

It’s hardly likely, Mr. Bernstein, that Mr. Kane could have met some girl casually and then, fifty years later, on his deathbed—

You’re pretty young, Mr .—{.Remembers the name)—Mr. Thompson. A fellow will remember things you wouldn’t think he’d remember. You take me. One day, back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersev on a ferry and as we pulled out there was another ferry pulling in—(Slowly)—and on it there \\ as a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on—and she was carrying a white parasol—and I only saw her for one second and she didn’t see me at all—but I’ll bet a month hasn’t gone by since that I haven’t thought of that girl. (Triumphantly) See what I mean? (Smiles) THOMPSON Yes. (A near sigh) But about Rosebud. I wonder— BERNSTEIN Who else you been to see? THOMPSON Well, I went down to Atlantic City— BERNSTEIN

Susie? I called her myself the day after he died. I thought maybe somebody ought to—(Sadly) She couldn’t even come to the phone. THOMPSON (ruefully) She wasn’t exactly in a condition to talk to me either. I’m going down to see her again in a couple of days. (Pauses) About Rosebud, Mr. Bernstein— BERNSTEIN

If I had any idea who it was, believe me, I’d tell you. THOMPSON If you’d land of just talk, Mr. Bernstein—about anything connected with Mr. Kane that you can remember—After ah, you were with him from the beginning. BERNSTEIN

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1397

From before tire beginning, young fellow—(Not too maudlinly) And now it’s after the end. (After a pause) Have you tried to see anybody else except Susie? THOMPSON I haven’t seen anybody else, but I’ve been through that stuff of Walter BERNSTEIN

Thatcher’s. That journal of his— BERNSTEIN Thatcher! That man was the biggest darned fool I ever met. THOMPSON He made an awful lot of money. BERNSTEIN It’s no trick to make a lot of money, if all you want is to make a lot of money. You take Mr. Kane—it wasn’t money he wanted. Mr. Thatcher never did figure him out. Sometimes, even, I couldn’t—(Suddenly) You know who you ought to talk to? Mr. Jed Leland. That is, if—he was Mr. Kane’s closest friend, you know. They went to school together. THOMPSON Harvard, wasn’t it? BERNSTEIN Harvard—Yale—Cornell—Princeton—Switzerland. Mr. Leland—he never had a nickel—one of those old families where the father is worth ten million, then one dav he shoots himself and it turns out there’s nothing but debts. (Reflectively) He was with Mr. Kane and me the first day Mr. Kane took over the “Inquirer. ” Dissolve 33 Ext. The Old Inquirer Building—Day—1890 (The same shot as in news digest but this is the real thing, not a still.) A hansom cab comes into the scene. In it are Kane and Leland. They are both dressed like New York dandies. It is a warm summer day. Kane jumps from the cab, as Leland follows more slowly. KANE (pointing with his stick)

Take a look at it, Jed. It’s going to look a lot

different one of these days. He is boisterously radiant. Jed agrees with a thoughtful smile. As they start across the sidewalk toward the building, which they then enter, a delivery wagon draws up and takes the place vacated by the cab. In its open back, almost buried by a bed, bedding, trunks, framed pictures, etc., is Bernstein, who climbs out with difficulty BERNSTEIN (to the driver)

Come on! I’ll give you a hand with this stuff. DRIVER There ain’t no bedrooms in this joint. That’s a newspaper building. BERNSTEIN You’re getting paid, mister, for opinions—or for hauling? Dissolve 34 Int. City Room—Inquirer Building—Day—1890 The front half of the second floor constitutes one large city room. Despite the brilliant sunshine outside, very little of it is actually getting into the room because the windows are small and narrow. There are about a dozen tables and desks, of the old-fashioned type, not flat, available for reporters. Two tables, on a raised platform at the end of the room, obviously serve the city room executives. To the left of the platform is an open door which leads into the sanctum.

1398

Film

As Kane and Leland enter the room an elderly, stout gent on the raised platform strikes a bell and the other eight occupants of the room—all men—rise and face the new arrivals. Carter, the elderly gent, in formal clothes, rises and starts toward them. Welcome, Mr. Kane, to the “Inquirer. ” I am Herbert Carter. KANE Thank you, Mr. Carter. This is Mr. heland. CARTER (bowing) How do you do, Mr. Leland? CARTER

Mr. Leland is your new dramatic critic, Mr. Carter. I hope I haven’t made a mistake, dedediali. It is dramatic critic you want to be, isn’t it? (Pointing to the reporters) Are they standing for me?

KANE

CARTER

I thought it would be a nice gesture—the new publisher—

KANE (grinning)

Ask them to sit down.

You may resume your work, gentlemen. (To Kane) I didn’t know your plans and so I was unable to make any preparations. KANE I don’t know my plans myself. As a matter of fact, I haven’t got any. Except to get out a newspaper. CARTER

There is a terrific crash at the doorway. They all turn to see Bernstein sprawled at the entrance. A roll of bedding, a suitcase and two framed pictures were too much for him KANE [ Cont d]

Oh, Mr. Bernstein! If you would come here a moment please, Mr.

Bernstein? Bernstein rises and comes over KANE \Cont d)

Mr. Carter, this is Mr. Bernstein. Mr. Bernstein is my general

manager. CARTER (frigidly)

How do you do, Mr. Bernstein? KANE You’ve got a private office here, haven’t you? The delivery-wagon driver has now appeared in the entrance with parts of the bedstead and other furniture My little sanctum is at your disposal. But I don’t think I understand— KANE I’m going to live right here. (Reflectively) As long as I have to. CARTER But a morning newspaper, Mr. Kane—After all, we’re practically closed for twelve hours a day—except for the business offices— KANE That’s one of the things I think must be changed, Mr. Carter. Hie news goes on for twenty-four hours a day. CARTER

Dissolve 35 Int. Kanes Office—Late Day—1890 Kane, in his shirt-sleeves, at a rolltop" desk, is working feverishly on copv and eating a veiy sizable meal at the same time. Carter, still formally coated, is seated alongside him. Leland, seated in a comer, is looking on, detached, amused. On a comer of the desk, Bernstein is writing down figures.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1399

I’m not criticizing, Mr. Carter, but here’s what I mean. There’s a front-page story in the “Chronicle” (Points to it) and a picture—of a woman in Brooklyn who is missing. Probably murdered. A Mrs. Harry Silverstone. Why didn’t the “Inquirer” have that this morning'? CARTER (stiffly) Because we’re running a newspaper, Mr. Kane, not a scandal

KANE

sheet. Kane has finished eating. He pushes away his plates I’m still hungry, Jed. LELAND We’ll go over to Rector’s later and get something decent. KANE (pointing to the "Chronicle”) The “Chronicle” has a two-column headline,

KANE

Mr. Carter. Why haven’t we? CARTER The news wasn’t big enough. KANE If the headline is big enough, it makes the news big enough. The murder of this Mrs. Harry Silverstone— CARTER There’s no proof that the woman was murdered—or even that she’s dead. KANE (smiling a hit) Hie “Chronicle” doesn’t say she’s murdered, Mr. Carter. It says she’s missing; the neighbors are getting suspicious. CARTER It’s not our function to report the gossip of housewives. If we were interested in that kind of thing, Mr. Kane, we could fill the paper twice over daily— KANE (gently) That’s the kind of thing we are going to be interested in from now on, Mr. Carter. I wish you’d send your best man up to see Mr. Silverstone. Have him tell Mr. Silverstone if he doesn’t produce his wife at once, the “Inquirer” will have him arrested. (Gets an idea) Have him tell Mr. Silverstone he’s a detective from the Central Office. If Mr. Silverstone asks to see his badge, your man is to get indignant and call Mr. Silverstone an anarchist. Loudly, so that the neighbors can hear. CARTER Really, Mr. Kane, I can’t see that the function of a respectable news¬ paper— KANE Mr. Carter, you’ve been most understanding. Good day. Carter leaves the room, closing the door behind him Poor Mr. Carter! KANE What makes these fellows think that a newspaper is something rigid, some¬ thing inflexible, that people are supposed to pay two cents for—

LELAND

Three cents. KANE (calmly) Two cents.

BERNSTEIN

Bernstein lifts his head and looks at Kane BERNSTEIN (tapping on the paper)

This is all figured at diree cents a copy. KANE Refigure it, Mr. Bernstein, at two cents. Ready for dinner, Jed? BERNSTEIN Mr. Leland, if Mr. Kane he should decide at dinner to cut the price to one cent, or maybe even he should make up his mind to give die paper away with a half-pound of tea— LELAND You people work too fast for me! I alk about new brooms!

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Film

Who said anything about brooms? KANE It’s a saying, Mr. Bernstein. A new broom sweeps clean. BERNSTEIN Oh! BERNSTEIN

Dissolve 36 Int. Primitive Composing and Pressroom—New York "Inquirer”—Night—1890

The ground floor with the windows on the street. It is almost midnight. Grouped around a laige table, on which are several locked forms of tvpe, are Kane and Leland in elegant evening clothes, Bernstein, unchanged from the afternoon, Carter and Smathers, the composing room foreman, nervous and harassed. Mr. Garter, front pages don’t look like this any more. Have you seen the “Chronicle”?

KANE

The “Inquirer” is not in competition with a rag like the “Chronicle.” BERNSTEIN W e should be publishing such a rag. The “Inquirer”—I wouldn’t wrap up the liver for the cat in the “Inquirer”— CARTER

Mr. Kane, I must ask you to see to it that this—this person learns to control his tongue. I don t think he’s ever been in a newspaper office before. KANE fioure right. Mr. Bernstein is in the wholesale jewelry business. CARTER

BERNSTEIN

Was in the wholesale jewelry business.

His talents seemed to be what I was looking for. CARTER (sputtering; he s really sore) I warn you, Mr. Kane, it would go against my grain to desert you when you need me so badly—but I would feel obliged to ask that my resignation be accepted. KANE

KANE It is accepted, Mr. Carter, with assurances of my deepest regret. CARTER But Mr. Kane, I meant— KANE (turning to Smathers; quietly)

Bet’s do these pages over again. SMATHERS (as though Kane were talking Greek) We can’t remake them, Mr. Kane. Remake? Is that the right word? SMATHERS We go to press in five minutes. KANE (quietly) W ell, let s remake these pages, Mr. Smathers. SMATHERS We go to press in five minutes, Mr. Kane. KANE We’ll have to publish half an hour late, that’s all. KANE

4 ou don’t understand, Mr. Kane. We go to press in five minutes. We can’t remake them, Mr. Kane.

SMA rilERS

Kane reaches out and shoves the forms onto the floor, where they scatter into hundreds of bits

You can remake them now, can’t you, Mr. Smathers? After the type’s been reset and the pages remade according to the way I told you before, Mr. Smath¬ ers, kindly have proofs pulled—is that right, Jed—proofs pulled?—and bring them to me. Hien, if I can’t find any way to improve them again—I suppose we’ll have to go to press.

KANE

He starts out of the room, followed by Leland

Herman ,J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

BERNSTEIN

1401

In case you don’t understand, Mr. Smathers—he’s a new broom. Dissolve Out

Dissolve In 37 Ext. New York Street—Very Early Dawn—1890 The picture is mainly occupied by the Inquirer Building, identified by sign. Over this newsboys are heard selling the “Chronicle. ” As the dissolve completes itself, camera moves toward the one lighted window—the window of Kane’s office. Dissolve 38 Int. Kanes Office—Very Early Dawn—1890 The newsboys are still heard from the street below. Kane, in his shirt-sleeves, stands at the open window looking out. On the bed is seated Bernstein. Leland is in a chair. NEWSBOYS’ VOICES

“Chronicle”!—“Chronicle”!—Il’ya—the “Chronicle”!—Get ya’

“Chronicle”!

Kane closes the window and turns to the others

LELAND

We’ll be on the street soon, Charlie—another ten minutes.

BERNSTEIN

It’s three hours and fifty minutes late—but we did it—

Leland rises from the chair, stretching painfully

Tired? LELAND It’s been a tough day. KANE

KANE

A wasted day.

BERNSTEIN

Wasted?

LELAND Charlie? BERNSTEIN You just made the paper over four times tonight, Mr. Kane—that s

all— KANE I’ve changed the front page a little, Mr. Bernstein, fhat’s not enough There’s something I’ve got to get into this paper besides pictures and print— I’ve got to make the New York “Inquirer” as important to New York as the gas in that light. LELAND What’re you going to do, Charlie? KANE My Declaration of Brinciples—don’t smile, Jed—(Getting the idea) lake dictation, Mr. Bernstein— BERNSTEIN I can’t write shorthand, Mr. Kane— KANE

I’ll write it myself.

Kane grabs a piece of rough paper and a grease crayon. Sitting down on the bed next to Bernstein, he starts to write

1402

Film

BERNSTEIN (looking over his shoulder)

You don’t wanta make any promises, Mr.

Kane, you don’t wanta keep. KANE (as he writes)

These’ll be kept. (Stops and reads what he has written) I’ll provide the people of this city with a. daily paper that will tell all the news honestly. (Starts to write again; reading as he writes) I will also provide them—

Fhat’s the second sentence you’ve started with “I”— KANE (looking up) People are going to know who’s responsible. And they’re going to get the news—the true news—quickly and simply and entertainingly. (With real conviction) And no special interests will'be allowed to interfere with the truth of that news. (Writes again; reading as he writes) I will also provide them with a fighting and tireless champion of their rights as citizens and human beings—Signed—Charles Foster Kane. LELAND Charlie— LELAND

Kane looks up LELAND [ConFd]

Can I have that? KANE I’m going to print it—(Calls) Mike! MIKE Yes, Mr. Kane. KANE

f Iere s an editorial. I want to run it in a box on the front page.

MIKE (very wearily)

Today’s front page, Mr. Kane?

That’s right. We’ll have to remake again—better go down and let them know.

KANE

MIKE

All right, Mr. Kane

He starts away

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1403

Mike turns LELAND

Just a minute, Mike.

LELAND [Cont’d]

When you’re done with that, I’d like to have it back.

Mike registers that this, in his opinion, is another screwball and leaves. Kane looks at Leland LELAND [ Cont’d]

—I’d just like to keep that particular piece of paper myself. I’ve got a hunch it might turn out to be one of the important papers—ol our time. (A little ashamed of his ardor) A document—like the Declaration of Inde¬ pendence—and the Constitution—and my first report card at school.

Kane smiles back at him, but they are both serious. The voices of the newsboys fill the air VOICES OF NEWSBOYS

“Chronicle”!—H’ya, the “Chronicle”! Get va’ “Chronicle”!—

the “Chronicle”! Dissolve Out Dissolve In 39 Ext. "Inquirer” Windows on Street Level—Day—1890 Close-up_front page of the “Inquirer” shows big boxed editorial with heading: MY PRINCIPLES—-A DECLARATION

By Charles Foster Kane Camera continues pulling back and shows newspaper to be on the top of a pile of newspapers. As we draw further back, we see four piles tlien six piles until v c see finally a big field of piles of “Inquirers. ” Hands come into the frame and start picking up the piles. Camera pans to glass window on the street level of the Inquirer. I ainted on die glass are the words NEW YORK DAILY INQUIRER-CIRCULATION 26,000this very prominent. Through the glass we can see Kane, Leland and Bernstein, leaning on the little velvet-draped rail at the back of the window, peering out through the glass to the street, where “Inquirer” newsboys are seen to be moving. During this, camera tightens on window until CIRCULATION 26,000 fills frame. Then— Dissolve 40 Ext. "Chronicle” Window—On Street Level—Day—1890 Close-up of sign which reads: CIRCULATION 495,000 Camera pulls back to show this is a similar window on the street level of the Chronicle Building. The words NEW YORK DAILY CHRONICLE are prominently

1404

Film

painted above this and through the glass we can see a framed photograph of some nine men. A sign over this reads: EDITORIAL AND EXECUTIVE STAFF OF THE NEW YORK CHRONICLE. A sign beneath it reads: GREATEST NEWSPAPER STAFF IN THE WORLD. Then camera continues pulling back to show Kane, Teland and Bernstein standing in front of the window, looking in. They look very tired and cold. KANE

I know you’re tired, gendemen, but I brought you here for a reason. I think

this litde pilgrimage will do us good. LELAND (wearily)

The “Chronicle” is a good newspaper. KANE It’s a good idea for a newspaper. Notice the circulation? BERNSTEIN (sullenly) Four hundred ninety-five thousand. KVNE Well, as the rooster said to his hens when they looked at the ostrich eggs_ I am not criticizing, ladies—I am merely trying to show you what is being done in the same line by your competitors. BERNSTEIN All, Mr. Kane—with them fellows on the “Chronicle”—{Indicates photograph) it’s no trick to get circulation. KANE You’re right, Mr. Bernstein. You know how long it took the “Chronicle” to get that staff together? Twenty years.

BERNSTEIN (sighs) KANE

I know.

Kane smiling, lights a cigarette, looking into the window. Camera moves in to hold on the photograph of the nine men Dissolve 41 Int. City Room—The rInquirer”—Night—1898

The same nine men, arrayed as in the photograph but with Kane in the center of the first row. Camera pulls back, revealing that they are being photographed in a comer of the room. It is 1:30 at night. Desks, etc., have been pushed against the wall. Running down the center of the room is a long banquet table. PHOTOGRAPHER

That’s all. Thank you.

The photographic subjects rise IyANE (a sudden thought)

Make up an extra copy and mail it to the “Chronicle.”

Kane makes his way to the head of the table KANE [Cont’d]

Gentlemen of the “Inquirer”! Eight years ago—eight long very busy years ago I stood in front of the “Chronicle” window and looked at a picture of the nine greatest newspapermen in the world. I felt like a kid in front of a candy shop. Tonight I got my candy. Welcome, gentlemen, to the Inquirer. It will make you happy to leam that our circulation this morning was the greatest in New York—six hundred and eighty-four thousand. BERNSTEIN Six hundred eighty-four thousand one hundred and thirty-two.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1405

General applause

All of you—new and old—you’re all getting the best salaries in town. Not one of you has been hired because of his loyalty. It’s your talent I’m interested in—I like talent. Talent has made the “Inquirer” the kind of paper I want— the best newspaper in the world.

KANE

Applause

Having thus welcomed you, perhaps you’ll forgive my rudeness in taking leave of you. I’m going abroad next week for a vacation.

KANE [Cont’d]

Murmurs KANE [Cont’d]

I have promised my doctor for some time that I would leave when I could. I now realize that I can. This decision is in every way the best compliment that I could pay you. Gratified murmurs KANE [ Cont’d]

I have promised Mr. Bernstein, and I herewith repeat that promise publicly, for the next three months to forget all about the new feature sec¬ tions—the Sunday supplement—and not to try to diink up any ideas for comic

sections—and not to— BERNSTEIN (interrupting) Say, Mr. Kane, so long as you’re promising—there’s a lot of statues in Europe you ain’t bought yet— KANE (interrupting) You can’t blame me, Mr. Bernstein. They’ve been making statues for two thousand years, and I’ve only been buying for five. BERNSTEIN Nine Venuses already we got, twenty-six \ irgins—two whole ware¬ houses full of stuff—promise me, Mr. Kane. KANE I promise you, Mr. Bernstein. BERNSTEIN Thank you. KANE Oh, Mr. Bernstein— BERNSTEIN Yes? KANE You don’t expect me to keep any of my promises, do you, Mr. Bernstein? Terrific laughter

Do you, Mr. Leland? Certainly not.

KANE [Cont’d] LELAND

Laughter and applause KANE

And now, gentlemen, your complete attention, please!

Kane puts his two fingers in his mouth and whistles. This is a signal. A band strikes up and enters in advance of a regiment of very magnificent maidens. As some of the girls are detached from the line and made into partners for individual dancing—

1406

Film

Isn’t it wonderful? Such a party! LELAND Yes. BERNSTEIN (to Leland) What’s the matter? BERNSTEIN

Bernstein, these men who are now with the “Inquirer”—who were with the “Chronicle” until yesterday—weren’t they just as devoted to the “Chronicle” kind of paper as they are now to—our land of paper? BERNSTEIN Sure. They’re like anybody else. They got work to do. They do it. (Proudly) Only they happen to be the best men in the business. LELAND (after a minute) Do we stand for the same things the “Chronicle” stands for, Bernstein? LELAND

BERNSTEIN (indignantly)

Certainly not. What of it? Mr. Kane he’ll have them changed to his kind of newspapermen in a week. LELAND There’s always a chance, of course, that they’ll change Mr. Kane—with¬ out his knowing it. KANE (lightly)

Well, gentlemen, are we going to declare war on Spain? LELAND The “Inquirer” already has. KANE You long-faced, overdressed anarchist. LELAND KANE

I am not overdressed.

You are, too. Look at that necktie, Mr. Bernstein.

Bernstein embarrassed, beams from one to the other Charlie, I wish— KANE Are you trying to be serious?

LELAND

LELAND (holding the look for~a minute and recognizing there isn’t a chance)

No. (Out of the corner of his mouth—almost as an afterthought) Only I’m not going to Cuba.

KANE (to Bernstein)

He drives me crazy. Mr. Bernstein, we get two hundred applications a day from newspapermen all over the country who want to go to Cuba—don’t we, Mr. Bernstein?

Bernstein is unable to answer LELAND

Bernstein, don’t you like my necktie?

KANE (ignoring him)

I offer him his own byline—{Pompously) By Jed Leland—

The “Inquirer’s” Special Correspondent at the Front—I guarantee him_ (Turns to Leland) Richard Harding Davis is doing all right. They just named a cigar after him. LELAND It’s hardly what you’d call a cigar. KANE A man of very high standards, Mr. Bernstein. LELAND And it’s hardly what you’d call a war either. KANE It’s the best I can do. (Looking up) Hello, Georgie. Georgie, a very handsome madam, has walked into the picture. She leans over and speaks quietly in his ear Hello, Charlo. LELAND You’re doing very well. GEORGIE Is everything the way you want it, dear? KANE (looking around) If everybody’s having fun, that’s the way I want it. GEORGIE

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1407

I’ve got some other little girls coming over— LELAND (interrupting) If you want to know what you’re doing—-you’re dragging your country into a war. Do you know what a war is, Charlie? KANE I’ve told you about Jed, Georgie. He needs to relax. LELAND There’s a condition in Cuba that needs to be remedied maybe—-but be¬ tween that and a war. KANE You know Georgie, Jed, don’t you? GEORGIE Glad to meet you, Jed. KANE Jed, how would the “Inquirer” look with no news about this nonexistent war with Pulitzer and Hearst devoting twenty columns a day to it. LELAND They only do it because you do. KANE And I only do it because they do it—and they only do it—it’s a vicious circle, isn’t it? (Rises) I’m going over to Georgie’s, Jed—You know Georgie, don’t you, Mr. Bernstein? GEORGES

Bernstein shakes hands with Georgie KANE

Georgie knows a young lady whom I’m sure you’d adore, Jed—-Wouldn’t

he, Georgie? LELAND The first paper that had the courage to tell the actual truth about Cuba— KANE

Why only the other evening I said to myself, if Jedediah were only here to

adore this young lady—this—(Snaps his fingers) What’s her name again? Dissolve Out Dissolve In 42 Int. Georgie s Place—Night—1898

Georgie is introducing a young lady to Teland. On sound track we hear piano music. GEORGIE (right on cue from preceding scene)

Ethel—this gentleman has been very anxious to meet you—Mr. Leland, this is Ethel.

ETHEL

Hello, Mr. Leland.

Camera pans to include Kane, seated at piano, with Bernstein and girls gathered around him

Charlie! Play the song about you. ANOTHER GULL Is there a song about Charlie? KANE You buy a bag of peanuts in this town and you get a song written about ONE OF THE GIRLS

you. Kane has broken into rrOh, Mr. Kane!” and he and the girls start to sing. Ethel leads the unhappy Leland over to the group. Kane, seeing Leland and taking his eye, motions to the professor who has been standing next to him to take over. The professor does so. The singing continues. Kane rises and crosses to Lei and. KANE [ Cont’d}

Say, Jed—you don’t have to go to Cuba if you don’t want to. You

1408

Film

don’t have to be a war correspondent if you don’t want to. I’d want to be a war correspondent. (Silence) I’ve got an idea. LELAND Pay close attention, Bernstein. The hand is quicker than the eye. KANE I mean I’ve got a job for you. LELAND (suspiciously) What is it? KANE The “Inquirer” is probably too one-sided about this Cuban thing—me being a warmonger and all. How’s about your writing a piece every day—while I’m away—saying exacdy what you think—(Ruefully) Just the way you say it to me, unless I see you coming. LELAND Do you mean that? Kane nods LELAND [ Cont’d]

No editing of my copy?

KANE {no one will ever be able to know what he means)

No-o.

Leland keeps looking at him with loving perplexity, knowing he will never solve the riddle of this face

We’ll talk some more about it at dinner tomorrow night. We’ve only about ten more nights before I go to Europe. Richard Carl’s opening in The Spring Chicken. I’ll get the girls. You get the tickets. A drama critic gets them free. LELAND Charlie— KANE It’s the best I can do. KANE [Cont d]

It doesn’t make any difference about me, but one of these days you’re going to find out that all this charm of yours won’t be enough— KANE You’re wrong. It does make a difference about you—Come to think of it, Mr. Bernstein, I don’t blame Mr. Leland for not wanting to be a war corre¬ spondent. It isn’t much of a war. Besides, they tell me there isn’t a decent restaurant on the whole island. LELAND (still smiling)

Dissolve 43 Int. Kane’s office—Day—1898

The shot begins on a close-up of a label. The words “From C. F. Kane, Paris, France, ” fill the screen. This registers as camera pulls back to show remainder of label in larger letters, which read: “To Charles Foster Kane, New York—HOLD FOR ARRIVAL.” Camera continues pulling back, showing the entire sanctum piled to the ceiling with packing boxes, crated statues and art objects. One-diird of the statues have been uncrated. Leland is in his shirt-sleeves; clearly he has been opening boxes, with claw hammer in one hand. Bernstein has come to the door. BERNSTEIN

I got here a cable from Mr. Kane—Mr. Leland, why didn’t you go to

Europe with him? He wanted you to. LELAND I wanted him to have fun—and with me along— This stops Bernstein. Bernstein looks at him LELAND [ Cont’d]

Bernstein, I wish you’d let me ask you a few questions—and answer me truthfully.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1409

Don’t I always? Most of the time? LELAND Bernstein, am I a stuffed shirt? Am I a horse-faced hypocrite? Am I a New England schoolmarm? BERNSTEIN Yes. BERNSTEIN

Leland is surprised

[ Cont’d] If you thought I’d answer you different from what Mr. Kane tells you—well, I wouldn’t.

BERNSTEIN

Pause as Bernstein looks around the room BERNSTEIN

\Cont’d\

Mr. Eeland, it’s good he promised not to send back any

statues. LELAND I don’t think you understand, Bernstein. This is one of the rarest Venuses in existence. BERNSTEIN (studying the statue carefully) Not so rare like you think, Mr. Leland. (.Handing cable to Leland) Here’s the cable from Mr. Kane. Leland takes it, reads it, smiles BERNSTEIN

[Cont’d] (as Leland reads cable)

He wants to buy the world’s biggest

diamond. LELAND I didn’t know Charles was collecting diamonds. BERNSTEIN He ain’t. He’s collecting somebody that’s collecting diamonds. Anyway—(Taking his eye) he ain’t only collecting statues. Dissolve 44 Int. City Room—Day—1898

Dissolve to elaborate loving cup on which is engraved: WELCOME HOME, MR. KANE—From

730 employees of the New York rf.Inquirer

As camera pulls back, it reveals that this cup is on a little table at the far end of the “Inquirer” city room. Next to the table stands Bernstein, rubbing his hands, Hillman and a few other executives. Throughout the entire city room, there is a feeling of cleanliness and anticipation. COPY BOY

(at stairway)

Here he comes!

Bernstein and Hillman start toward the door. All the others rise. Just as Bernstein gets to the door, it bursts open and Kane, an envelope in his hand, storms in KANE

Hello, Mr. Bernstein!

Kane continues at the same rate of speed with which he entered, Bernstein follow¬ ing behind him, at the head of a train which includes Hillman and others. The race stops a couple of steps beyond the society editors desk by Kane, who moves back to the desk, making something of a traffic jam. (A plaque on the desk which reads rrSociety Editor” is what caught Kanes eye)

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Film

[ Cont’d] Miss—

KANE

Excuse me, I’ve been away so long, I don’t know your routine.

(proudly) Miss Townsend, Mr. Charles Foster Kane! KANE Miss Townsend, I’d—(He’s pretty embarrassed by his audience) I—have a little social announcement here. {He puts it on the desk) I wish you wouldn’t treat this any differently than you would—you would—any other—anything else. BERNSTEIN

He looks around at the others with some embarrassment. At that moment, Hillman hands Bernstein the cup {holding the cup) “Inquirer”—

BERNSTEIN

Mr. Kane, on behalf of all the employees of the

(interrupting) Mr. Bernstein, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate—{He takes the cup and starts to take a few steps—realizes that he is being a little boorish—turns around and hands the cup back to Bernstein) Took, Mr. Bern¬ stein—everybody—I’m sony—I—I can’t take it now.

KANE

Murmurs KANE

[ Cont d \

I m busy. I mean—please—give it to me tomorrow.

He starts to run out. There is surprised confusion among the rest Say, he’s in an awful hurrv! COPY BOY {at window) Iley, everybody! Lookee out here!

BERNSTEIN SAME

The whole staff rushes to the window 45 Ext. Street in Front of Inquirer Building—Day—1898 Angle down from window—shot of Emily sitting in a barouche. 46 Ext. Window of "Inquirer” City Room—Day—1898 Up shot of faces in the window, reacting and grinning. 47 Int. City Room—Day—1898 Miss Townsend stands frozen at her desk. She is reading and rereading with trembling hands die piece of flimsy which Kane gave her. TOWNSEND

Mr. Bernstein!

Mr. Bernstein, at window, turns around BERNSTEIN

Tes, Miss Townsend.

This—-this announcement-—{She reads .shakily) Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Monroe Norton announce the engagement of their daughter, Emily Monroe Norton, to Mr. Charles Foster Kanb.

TOWNSEND

Bernstein reacts

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

TOWNSEND [Cont’d]

1411

Emily Monroe Norton—she’s the niece of the President of

the United States. Bernstein nods his head proudly and turns hack to look out the window 48 Ext. Street in Front of Inquirer Building—Day—1898 Down shot of Kane, crossing the curb to the barouche. He looks up in this shot, sees the people in the window, waves gaily, steps into the barouche. Emily looks at him smilingly. He kisses her full on the lips before he sits down. She acts a bit taken aback because of the public nature of the scene, but she isn’t really annoyed. Dissolve 49 Int. City Room—"Inquirer”—Day—1898 Bernstein and group at window. A girl like that, believe me, she’s lucky! President’s niece, huh! Say, before he’s through, she’ll be a President’s wife!

BERNSTEIN

Dissolve INSERT: FRONT PAGE “INQUIRER” (1898-1900)

Large picture of the young couple—Kane and Emily—occupying four columns— very happy. INSERT-. NEWSPAPER—KANE’S MARRIAGE TO EMILY WITH STILL OF GROUP ON WHITE HOUSE LAWN (1900)

(Same setup as early newsreel in news digest.) Dissolve 50 Int. Bernstein s Office—"Inquirer”—-Day—1940 Bernstein and Thompson. As the dissolve comes, Bernstein’s voice is heard. BERNSTEIN

The way things turned out, I don’t need to tell you—Miss Emily

Norton was no rosebud! THOMPSON It didn’t end very well, did it? BERNSTEIN It ended—-Then there was Susie—That ended too. (Shrugs, a pause) I guess he didn’t make her very happy—You know, I was thinking—that Rosebud you’re trying to find out about— THOMPSON Yes— BERNSTEIN Maybe that was something he lost. Mr. Kane was a man that lost

'Ei'nost everything he had. \ou ought to talk to Mr. Leland. Of course, he and Mr. Kane didn’t exactly see eye to eye. You take the Spanish-American War. I guess Mr. Leland was right. That was Mr. Kane’s war. We didn’t really have anything to fight about-—(Chuckles) But do you diink if it hadn’t been for that war of Mr. Kane’s, we’d have the Panama Canal? I wish I knew where Mr. Leland was—(Slowly) Maybe even he’s—a lot of the time now they don’t tell me those things—maybe even he’s dead.

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Film

In case you’d like to know, Mr. Bernstein, he’s at the Huntington Memorial Hospital on 180th Street. BERNSTEIN You don’t say! Why I had no idea— THOMPSON Nothing particular the matter with him, they tell me. Just— BERNSTEIN Just old age. (Smiles sadly) It’s the only disease, Mr. Thompson, you don’t look forward to being cured of. THOMPSON

Dissolve Out Dissolve In 51 Ext. Hospital Roof—Day—1940 Close shot—Thompson. He is tilted back in a chair, leaning against a chimney. Leland’s voice is heard for a few moments before Leland is seen. When you get to my age, young man, you don’t miss anything. Unless maybe it’s a good drink of bourbon. Even that doesn’t make much difference, if you remember there hasn’t been any good bourbon in this coun¬ try for twenty years.

LELAND’S VOICE

Camera has pulled back, revealing that Leland, wrapped in a blanket, is in a wheelchair, talking to Thompson. They are on the flat roof of a hospital THOMPSON

Mr. Leland, you were—

You don’t happen to have a cigar, do you? I’ve got a young physician who thinks I’m going to stop smoking. ... I changed the subject, didn’t I? Dear, dear! What a disagreeable old man I’ve become. You want to know what I diink of Charlie Kane?—Well—I suppose he had some private sort of great¬ ness. But he kept it to himself. (Grinning) fie never . . . gave himself away ... He never gave anything away. He just ... left you a tip. He had a gen¬ erous mind. I don’t suppose anybody ever had so many opinions. That was because he had the power to express them, and Charlie lived on power and the excitement of using it—But he didn’t believe in anything except Charlie Kane. He never had a conviction except Charlie Kane in his life. I guess he died without one—That must have been pretty unpleasant. Of course, a lot of us check out wTith no special conviction about death. But we do know what we’re leaving . . . we believe in something. (Looks sharply at Thompson) You’re absolutely sure you haven’t got a cigar? THOMPSON Sony, Mr. Leland. LELAND

Never mind—Bernstein told you about the first days at the office, didn’t he?—Well, Charlie was a bad newspaperman even then. He entertained his readers but he never told them the truth. THOMPSON Maybe you could remember something that— LELAND I can remember everything. That’s my curse, young man. It’s the greatest curse that’s ever been inflicted on the human race. Memory ... I was his oldest friend. (Slowly) As far as I jvas concerned, he behaved like a swine. Not that Charlie ever was brutal. He just did bmtal things. Maybe I wasn’t his friend. If I wasn’t, he never had one. Maybe I was what nowadays you call a stooge. LELAND

Mr. Leland, wffiat do you know about Rosebud? Rosebud? Oh! His dying words—Rosebud—Yeh. I saw that in the “In-

THOMPSON LELAND

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles ■ Citizen Kane

141 d

quirer.” Well, I’ve never believed anything I saw in the “Inquirer.” Anything else? Thompson is taken aback LELAND [Cont’d]

I’ll tell you about Emily. I used to go to dancing school with her. I was very graceful. Oh!—we were talking about die first Mrs. Kane— THOMPSON What was she like? LELAND She was like all the other girls I knew in dancing school. They were nice girls. Emilv was a little nicer. She did her best—Charlie did his best—well, after the first couple of months they never saw much of each other except at breakfast. It was a marriage just like any odier marriage. Dissolve (NOTE: The following scenes cover a period of nine years—are played in the same

set with onlv changes in lighting, special effects outside the window, and ward¬ robe. ) 52 Int. Kanes Home—Breakfast Room—Day—1901 Kane, in white tie and tails, and Emily formally attired. Kane is pouring a glass of milk for Emily out of a milk botde. As he finishes, he leans over and playfully nips the back of her neck. EMILY (flustered)

Charles! (She’s loving it) Go sit down where you belong. KANE (on the way to his own place) You’re beautiful. EMILY I can’t be. I’ve never been to six parties in one night before. I’ve never been up this late. KANE It’s just a matter of habit. EMILY What do you suppose the servants will think? KANE They’ll think we enjoyed ourselves. Didn’t we? EMILY (she gives him a purring smile. Then—) Dearest—I don’t see why you have to go straight off to die newspaper. KANE You never should have married a newspaperman. They’re worse than sail¬ ors. I absolutely love you. They look at each other Charles, even newspapermen have to sleep. KANE (still looking at her) I’ll call up Bernstein and tell him to put off my ap¬

EMILY

pointments till noon—What time is it? EMILY I don’t know—it’s late. KANE It’s early. Dissolve Out Dissolve In 53 Int. Kane’s

Home—Breakfast Room—Day—1902

Kane and Emily—different clothes—different food.

1414

Film

Do you know how long you kept me waiting while you went to the office last night for ten minutes? Really, Charles, we were dinner guests at the Boardman’s—we weren’t invited for the weekend. KANE You’re the nicest girl 1 ever married. EMILY Charles, if I didn’t trust you—What do you do on a newspaper in the middle of the night? EMILY

KANE

My dear, your only corespondent is the “Inquirer. ” Dissolve \

54 Int. Kan.e Home—Breakfast Room—1904

Kane and Emily—change of costume and food. Emily is dressed for the street. EMILY (kidding on the level)

Sometimes I think I’d prefer a rival of flesh and

blood. KANE All, Emily—I don’t spend that much time— EMILY It isn’t just time—it’s what you print—attacking the President— KANE You mean Uncle John. EMILY I mean the President of die United States. KANE He’s still Lhicle John, and he’s still a well-meaning fathead— EMILY (interrupting) Charles— KANE [continuing on top of her)—who’s letting a pack of high-pressure crooks run

his administration. This whole oil scandal— EMILY He happens to be the-President, Charles—not you. KANE That’s a mistake that will be corrected one of these days. Dissolve 55 Int. Kane’s Home—Breakfast Room—1905

Kane and Emily—change of costume and food. Charles, when people make a point of not having die “Inquirer” in ffieir homes—Margaret English says that the reading room at the Assembly already has more than forty names that have agreed to cancel the paper— KANE That s wonderful. Mr. Bernstein will be delighted. You see, Emily, when your friends cancel the paper, that just takes another name off our deadbeat list. You know, don’t you, it’s practically a point of honor among the rich not to pay the newsdealer. EMILY

Dissolve Out Dissolve In 56 Int. Kanes Home-Breakfast Room—1906

Kane and Emily—change of costume and food. \ our Mr. Bernstein sent Junior the most incredible atrocity yesterday. I simply can’t have it in the nursery. KANE Mr. Bernstein is apt to pay a visit to the nurserv now and then. EMIIA

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1415

Does he have to? KANE (shortly) Yes. EMILY

Dissolve 57 Int. Kane’s Home—Breakfast Room—1908 Kane and Emily—change of costume and food. Really, Charles—people have a right to expect— KANE What I care to give them.

EMILY

Dissolve 58 Int. Kanes Home—Breakfast Room—1909 Kane and Emily—change of costume and food. They are both silent, reading news¬ papers. Kane is reading his “Inquirer.” Emily is reading a copy of the “Chronicle.” Dissolve Out Dissolve In 59 Ext. Hospital Roof—Day—1940 Leland and Thompson Wasn’t he ever in love with her? LELAND He married for love—(A little laugh) That’s why he did eveiything. That’s why he went into politics. It seems we weren’t enough. He wanted all the voters to love him, too. All he really wanted out of life was love—That’s Charlie’s story—how he lost it. You see, he just didn’t have any to give. He loved Charlie Kane, of course, very dearly—and his mother, I guess he always

THOMPSON

loved her. THOMPSON I low about his second wife? LELAND Susan Alexander? {He chuckles) You know what Charlie called her?— The dav after he’d met her he told me about her—he said she was a crosssection of the American public—I guess he couldn’t help it—she must have had something for him. (With a smile) That first night, according to Charlie— all she had was a toothache. Dissolve Out Dissolve In 60 Ext. Corner Drugstore and Street on the West Side of New York—Night—1915 Susan, aged twenty-two, neatly but cheaply dressed, is leaving the drugstore. (It’s about eight o’clock at night.) With a large, man-sized handkerchief pressed to her cheek, she is in considerable pain. A carriage crosses in front of the camera— passes_Susan continues down the street—Camera following her—encounters Kane_very indignant, standing near die edge of the sidewalk, covered with mud. She looks at him and smiles. He glares at her. She starts on down the street; turns, looks at him again, and starts to laugh.

1416

Film

KANE (glowering)

It’s not funny. SUSAN I’m sony, mister—but you do look awful funny. Suddenly the pain returns and she claps her hand to her jaw SUSAN [Cont’d]

Ow! KANE What’s the matter with you? SUSAN Toothache. KANE I Immm! He has been rubbing his clothes with his handkerchief You’ve got some on your face. (Starts to laugh again) KANE What’s funny now? SUSAN You are. {The pain returns) Oh! KANE Ah ha! SUSAN

If you want to come in and wash your face—I can get you some hot water to get that dirt off your trousers— KANE Thanks. SUSAN

Susan starts, with Kane following her Dissolve 61 Int. Susan’s Room-Night—1915 Susan comes into the room, carrying a basin, with towels over her arm. Kane is waiting for her. She doesn’t close the door. SUSAN {by way of explanation)

My landlady prefers me to keep this door open when I have a gendeman caller. She’s a very decent woman. {Making a face) Ow!

Kane rushes to take the basin from her, putting it on the chiffonier. To do this, he has to shove the photograph to one side with the basin. Susan grabs the photograph as it is about to fall over SUSAN [ Cont’d]

Hey, you should be more careful. That’s my Ma and Pa. KANE I’m sorry. They live here too? SUSAN No. They’ve passed on. Again she puts her hand to her jaw. KANE

You poor kid, you are in pain, aren’t you?

Susan can t stand it any more and sits down in a chair, bent over, whimpering a bit KANE [ Cont’d J

Look at me. v\

She looks at him.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

KANE [Cont’d]

141/

Why don’t you laugh? I’m just as funny in here as I was on the

street. SUSAN I know, but you don’t like me to laugh at you. KANE I don’t like your tooth to hurt, either. SUSAN KANE SUSAN

I can’t help it.

Come on, laugh at me. I can’t—what are you doing?

I’m wiggling both my ears at the same time. {He does so) It took me two solid years at the finest boys’ school in the world to learn that trick. Ihe fellow who taught me is now president of Venezuela. {He wiggles his ears again)

KANE

Susan starts to smile KANE [Cont’d]

That’s it.

Susan smiles very broadly—then starts to laugh Dissolve 62 Int. Susan s Room—Night—1915 Close-up of a duck, camera pulls back, showing it to be a shadowgraph on die wall, made by Kane, who is now in his shirt-sleeves. SUSAN {hesitatingly)

A chicken? KANE No. But you’re close. SUSAN A rooster? KANE You’re getting further away all the time. It’s a duck. SUSAN A duck. You’re not a professional magician, are you? KANE No. I’ve told you. My name is Kane—Charles Foster Kane. SUSAN I know. Charles Foster Kane. Gee—I’m pretty ignorant, I guess you caught on to that— KANE You really don’t know who I am? SUSAN No. That is, I bet it turns out I’ve heard your name a million times, only you know how it is— KANE But you like me, don’t you? Even though you don’t know who I am? SUSAN You’ve been wonderful! I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here, I don t know many people and—{She stops) KANE And I know too many people. Obviously, we’re both lonely. {He smiles) Would you like to know where I was going tonight—when you ran into me and ruined my Sunday clothes? SUSAN I didn’t run into you and I bet they’re not your Sunday clothes. You’ve probably got a lot of clothes. KANE I was only joking! {Pauses) I was on my way to the Western Manhattan Warehouse—in search of my youth. Susan is bewildered KANE [ Cont’d}

You see, my mother died too—a long time ago. Iler things were put into storage out West because I had no place to put them then. I still haven’t. But now I’ve sent for diem just the same. And tonight I’d planned to make a sort of sentimental journey-—and now—

1418

Film

Kane doesn’t finish. He looks at Susan. Silence KANE \ Cont’d]

Who am I? Well, let’s see. Charles Foster Kane was bom in New Salem, Colorado, in eighteen six—(He stops on the word "sixty”—obviously a little embarrassed) I mn a couple of newspapers. How about you? SUSAN Me? KANE How old did you say you were? SUSAN (very bright) I didn’t say. KANE I didn’t think you did. If you had, I wouldn’t have asked you again, becau se I’d have remembered. How old? SUSAN Pretty old. I’ll be twenty-two in August. KANE That’s a ripe old age—What do you do? SUSAN I work at Seligman’s. KANE Is that what you want to do? SUSAN I wanted to be a singer. I mean, I didn’t. Mother did for me. KANE What happened to the singing? Mother always thought—she used to talk about grand opera for me. Imag¬ ine!—Anyway, my voice isn’t that kind. It’s just—you know what mothers are like. KANE Yes. SUSAN As a matter of fact, I do sing a little. KANE Would you sing for me? SUSAN Oh, you wouldn’t want to hear me sing. KANE Yes, I would. That’s why I asked. SUSAN Well, I— SUSAN

Don’t tell me your toothache is bothering you again? SUSAN Oh, no, that’s all gone. KANE Then you haven’t any alibi at all. Please sing. KANE

Susan, with a tiny ladylike hesitancy, goes to the piano and sings a polite song. Sweetly, nicely, she sings with a small, untrained voice. Kane listens. He is re¬ laxed, at ease with the world. Dissolve Out Dissolve In INSERT: “INQUIRER” HEADLINE. (1916) BOSS ROGERS PICKS DEMOCRATIC NOMINEE

Dissolve INSERT: “INQUIRER” HEADLINE (1916) BOSS ROGERS PICKS REPUBLICAN NOMINEE

Dissolve INSERT: FOUR COLUMN CARTOON ON BACK PAGE OF “INQUIRER.” (1916)

Hiis shows Boss Rogers, labeled as such, in convict stripes, dangling little mar¬ ionette figures- labeled Democratic Candidate and Republican Candidate—-from each hand. As camera pans to remainihg four columns it reveals box. This is headed:

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1419

Put this man in jail, people of New York. It is signed, in bold type, “Charles Foster Kane.” The text between headline and signature, little of which need be read, tells of the boss-ridden situation. Dissolve Out Dissolve In 63 Int. Madison Square Garden—Night—1916 The evening of the final great rally. Emily and Junior are to be seen in the front of a box. Emilv is tired and wears a forced smile on her face. Junior, now aged nine and a half, is eager, bright-eyed and excited. Kane is just finishing his speech. It is no secret that I entered upon this campaign with no thought that I could be elected governor of this state! It is no secret that my only purpose was to bring as wide publicity as I could to the domination of this state—of its every resource—of its every income—of literally the lives and deaths of its citizens by Boss Edward G. Rogers! It is now no secret that every straw vote, every independent poll, shows that I will be elected. And I repeat to you—my first official act as governor will be to appoint a special district attorney to arrange for the indictment, prosecution and conviction of Boss Edward G.

KAKE

Rogers! Terrific screaming and cheering from the audience Dissolve 65 Int. Madison Square Garden—Night—1916 The speaker’s platform. Numerous officials and civic leaders are crowding around Kane. Cameramen take flash photographs. Great speech, Mr. Kane. SECOND LEADER (pompous) One of the most notable public utterances ever made

FIRST CIVIC LEADER

by a candidate in this state— KANE Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you. He looks up and notices that the box in which Emily and Junior were sitting is now empty. He starts toward rear of the platform, through the press of people. Hillman approaches him HILLMAN

A wonderful speech, Mr. Kane.

Kane pats him on the shoulder as he walks along HILLMAN [ Cont’d ]

If the election were held today, you’d be elected by a hundred thousand votes—on an Independent ticket there’s never been anything like it!

Kane is very pleased. He continues with Hillman slowly through the crowd—a band playing off KANE

It does seem too good to be true.

1420

Film

Rogers isn’t even pretending. He isn’t just scared any more. Fle’s sick. Frank Norris told me last night he hasn’t known Rogers to be that worried in twenty-five years.

HILLMAN

I think it’s beginning to dawn on Mr. Rogers that I mean what I say. With

KANE

Mr. Rogers out of the way, Hillman, I think we may really begin to hope for a good government in this state. (Stopping) A WELL-WISHER Great speech, Mr. Kane! ANOTHER WELL-WISHER Wonderful, Mr. Kane! Ad libs from other well-wishers Dissolve Out Dissolve In 65 Ext. One of the Exits—Madison Square Garden—Night—1916 Emily and Junior are standing, waiting for Kane. JUNIOR

Is Pop governor yet, Mom?

Kane appears with Hillman and several other men. He rushes toward Emily and Junior. The men politely greet Emily Hello, Butch! Did you like your old man’s speech? JUNIOR I was in a box, Father. I could hear every word. KANE I saw you! Good night, gentlemen. KANE

There are good-nights. Kane’s car is at the curb and he starts to walk toward it with Junior and Emily EMILY I’m sending Junior home in the car, Charles—with Oliver— KANE But I’d arranged to go home with you myself. EMILY There’s a call I want you to make with me, Charles. KANE It can wait. EMILY No, it can’t. (Kisses Junior) Good night, darling. JUNIOR Good night, Mom. KANE (as car drives off)

What’s this all about, Emily? I’ve had a very tiring day

and— It may not be about anything at all. (Starting to a cab at curb) I intend to find out.

LMIIA

KANE EMILY

I insist on being told exactly what you have in mind.

I’m going to—(She looks at a slip of paper) 185 West 74th Street.

Kane s reaction indicates that the address definitely means something to him LMIIA [Cont d)

KANE (nods)

If you wish, you can come with me . .

I’ll come with you.

He opens the door and she enters the cat(. He follows her Dissolve

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1421

66 Int. Cab—Night—1916 Kane and Emily. He looks at her in search of some kind of enlightenment. Her face is set and impassive.

Dissolve Out Dissolve In 67 Ext. Susans Apartment House Door—Night—1916 Kane and Emily, in front of an apartment door. Emily is pressing the bell. KANE

I had no idea you had this flair for melodrama, Emily.

Emily does not answer. The door is opened by a maid, who recognizes Kane THE >LAID

Come in, Mr. Kane, come in.

She stands to one side for Kane and Emily to enter. This they start to do. Beyond them we see into the room 68 Int. Susan s Apartment—Night—1916 As Kane and Emily enter, Susan rises from a chair. The other person in the room—a big, heavyset man, a little past middle age—stays where he is, leaning back in his chair, regarding Kane intently. SUSAN

It wasn’t my fault, Charlie. He made me send your wife a note. He said

I’d_oh, he’s been saying the most terrible things, I didn’t know what to do . . . I—(She stops) ROGERS Good evening, Mr. Kane. (He rises) I don’t suppose anybody would introduce us. Mrs. Kane, I’m Edward Rogers. EMILY How do you do? ROGERS I made Miss—Miss Alexander send you the note. She was a little un¬

willing at first—(Smiles grimly) but she did it. SUSAN I can’t tell you the things he said, Charlie. 4 ou haven t got any idea KANE (turning on Rogers)

Rogers, I don’t think I will postpone doing something

about you until I’m elected. (Starts toward him) Io start with, 111 bieak \our neck. ROGERS (not giving way an inch)

Maybe you can do it and maybe you can t, Mr.

Kane. EMILY Charles! (He stops to look at her) Your—your breaking this man’s neck—

(She is clearly disgusted) would scarcely explain this note—(Glancing at the note) Serious consequences for ISIr. Kane—(Slowly) for myself, and foi my son. What does this note mean, Miss— SUSAN (stiffly) I’m Susan Alexander. (Pauses) I know what you think, Mrs. Kane, but— EMILY (ignoring this) What does this note mean, Miss Alexander. SUSAN It’s like this, Mrs. Kane. I happened to be studying singing—I always wanted to be an opera singer—and Mr. Kane happened helping me— EMILY What does this note mean, Miss Alexander?

I mean, he s been

1422

Film

She doesn’t know, Mrs. Kane. She just sent it—because I made her see it wouldn’t be smart for her not to send it.

ROGERS

In case you don’t know, Emily, this—this gentleman—is—

KANE

ROGERS

I’m not a gentleman, Mrs. Kane, and your husband is just trying to be

funny, calling me one. I don’t even know what a gentleman is. You see, my idea of a gentleman, Mrs. Kane—well, if I owned a newspaper and if I didn’t like the way somebody else was doing things—some politician, say—I’d fight diem with everything I had. Only I wouldn’t show him in a convict suit with stripes—so his children could see die picture in the paper. Or his mother. EMILY Oh!! You’re a cheap, crooked grafter—and your concern for your children and your mother—

KANE

ROGERS

Anything you say, Mr. Kane. Only we’re talking now about what you

are. Ihat’s what that note is about, Mrs. Kane. I’m going to lay all my cards on the table. I’m hghting for my life. Not just my political life. My life. If your husband is elected governor— I’m going to be elected governor. And the first thing I’m going to do— EMILY Let him finish, Charles. KANE

ROGERS

I’m protecting myself eveiy way I know how, Mrs. Kane. This last week,

I finally found out how I can stop your husband from being elected. If the people of this state learn what I found out this week, he wouldn’t have a chance to—he couldn’t be elected dog catcher. KANE

You can’t blackmail me, Rogers. You can’t—

SUSAN (excitedly) ROGERS

Charlie, he said, unless you withdrew your name—

That’s the chance I’m willing to give you, Mr. Kane. More of a chance

than you d give me. Unless you make up your mind by tomorrow that you’re so sick that you ve got to go away for a year or two—Monday morning every paper in this state—except yours—will carry the story I’m going to give them. EMILY What story, Mr. Rogers? ROGERS

The store about him and Miss Alexander, Mrs. .Kane.

Emily looks at Kane There is no story. It’s all lies. Mr. Kane is just—

SUSAN

ROGERS (to Susan)

Shut up! (To Kane) We’ve got evidence that would stand up

in any court of law. 4 ou want me to give you the evidence, Mr. Kane? KANE You do anything you want to do. Mrs. Kane, I’m not asking you to believe me. I’d like to show you_ I believe you, Mr. Rogers.

ROGERS EMILY

ROGERS

I’d rather Mr. Kane withdrew without having to get the story published.

Not that I care about him. But I’d be better off that way—and so would you, Mrs. Kane. AT at about me? (To Kane) He said my name’d be dragged through the mud. He said everywhere I’d go from now on—

SUSAN

ITere seems to me to be only one decision you can make, Charles. I’d say that it has been made for you.

EMIIA

Have you gone completely mad, Emily? You-don’t think I’m going to let this blackmailer intimidate me, do you?

KANE

I don’t see what else you can do" Charles. If he’s right—and the papers publish this story he has—

EMILY

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

KANE

1423

Oh, they’ll publish it all right. I’m not afraid of the story. You can’t tell me

that the voters of this state— EMILY I’m not interested in the voters of this state right now. I am interested in—well, Junior, for one thing. Charlie! If they publish this story— EMILY They won’t. Good night, Mr. Rogers. There’s nothing more to be said. Are SUSAN

you coming, Charles? KANE

No.

She looks at him. He starts to work himself into a rage KANE \ Cont’d]

There’s only one person in the world to decide what I’m going to

do—and that’s me. And if you think—if any of you think— EMILY You decided what you were going to do, Charles—some time ago. Come on, Charles. KANE Go on! Get out! I can hght this all alone! Get out! ROGERS You’re making a bigger fool of yourself than I thought you would, Mr. Kane. You’re licked. Why don’t you— KANE (turning on him) Get out! I’ve got nothing to talk to you about. If you want to see me, have the warden write me a letter.

Rogers nods, with a look that says rrSo you say” SUSAN (starting to cry) KANE

I know exactly what I’m doing. {He is screaming) Get out!

EMILY {quietly) KANE

Charlie, you’re just excited. Jou don’t realize—

Charles, if you don’t listen to reason, it may be too late—

Too late for what? Too late for you and this—this public thief to take the

love of the people of this state away from me? Well, you won’t do it, I tell you. You won’t do it! SUSAN Charlie, there are other things to think of. {A sly look comes into her eyes) Your son—you don’t want him to read in the papers— EMILY

It is too late now, Charles.

KANE {rushes to the door and opens it) SUSAN {rushes to him) KANE EMILY

Get out, both of you!

Charlie, please don’t—

What are you waiting for? Why don’t you go? Good night, Charles.

She walks out. Rogers stops directly in front of Kane ROGERS

You’re the greatest fool I’ve ever known, Kane. If it was anybody else,

I’d say what’s going to happen to you would be a lesson to you. Only you’re going to need more than one lesson. And you’re going to get more than one lesson. KANE Don’t worry about me. I’m Charles foster Kane. I m no cheap, crooked politician, trying to save himself from the consequences of his crimes—

69 Int. Apt. House Hallway—Night—1916 Camera angling toward Kane from other end of tire hall. Rogers and hmih are already down the hall, moving toward f.g. Kane in apartment doorway b.g.

14&4

Film

KANE

(screams louder)

I’m going to send you to Sing Sing, Rogers. Sing Sing!

Kane is trembling with rage as he shakes his fist at Rogers’s back. Susan, quieter now, has snuggled into the hollow of his shoulder as they stand in the doorway Dissolve The “Chronicle” front page with photograph (as in the news digest) re¬ vealing Kane s relations with Susan. Headline reads: INSERT:

CANDIDATE KANE FOUND IN LOVE NEST WITH “SINGER”

Dissolve 70 Int. Composing Room—’’Inquirer”—Night—1916 Camera angles down on enormous headline in type with proof on top. In back of this headline lies complete front page, except for headline. Headline reads: KANE GOVERNOR

Camera tilts up showing Bernstein, actually crying, standing with composing room foreman, Jenkins. BERNSTEIN (to foreman)

With a million majority already against him, and the

church counties still to be heard from—I’m afraid we got no choice. This one. Camera pans to where he is pointing; shows enormous headline, the proof of which in small type reads: KANE DEFEATED

and in large type screams: FRAUD AT POLLS! Dissolve Out Dissolve In 71 Int. Kanes Office—Inquirer”—Night—1916 Kane looks up from his desk as there is a knock on the door. KANE

Come in.

Leland enters KANE

(surprised)

I thought I heard somebody knock.

LELAND (a bit drunk)

I knocked. (He looks at him defiantly)

KANE (trying to laugh it off)

Oh! An official visit of state, eh? (Waves his hand)

Sit down, Jedediah. LELAND (sitting down angrily) KANE

Good! It’s high time—

I’m drunk.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1425

You don’t have to be amusing. KANE All right. Teh you what I’ll do. I’ll get drunk, too. LELAND (thinks this over) No. That wouldn’t help. Besides, you never get drunk.

LELAND

(Pauses) I want to talk to you—about—about—{He cant get it out) KANE (looks at him sharply a moment)

If you’ve got yourself drunk to talk to me

about Susan Alexander—I’m not interested. LELAND She’s not important. What’s much more important—{He keeps glaring at Kane) KANE (as if genuinely surprised)

Oh! (He gets up) I frankly didn’t think I’d have

to listen to that lecture from you. (Pauses) I’ve betrayed the sacred cause ol reform, is that it? I’ve set back the sacred cause of reform in this state twenty years. Don’t tell me, Jed, you— Despite his load, Leland manages to achieve a dignity about the silent contempt with which he looks at Kane. KANE (an outburst)

What makes the sacred cause of reform so sacred? Why does

the sacred cause of reform have to be exempt from all the other lacts of life ? Why do the laws of this state have to be executed by a man on a white charger? Leland lets the storm ride over his head KANE \Confd] (calming down)

But, if that’s the way diey want it—they’ve made

their choice. The people of this state obviously prefer Mr. Rogers to me. (His lips tighten) So be it. LELAND You talk about the people as though they belong to you. As long as I can remember you’ve talked about giving the people their rights as though you could make them a present of liberty—in reward for services rendered. You remember the workingman? 4 ou used to write an awful lot about the work¬ ingman. Well, he’s turning into something called organized labor, and you’re not going to like that a bit when you find out it means that he thinks he’s entided to something as his right and not your gift. {He pauses) And listen, Charles. When your precious underprivileged really do get together—that’s going to add up to something bigger—than your privilege—and then I don’t know what vou’ll do. Sail away to a desert island, probably, and lord it o\er the monkeys. KANE Don’t worry about it too much, Jed. There s sure to be a few of them there to tell me wdiere I’m w^rong. LELAND You mav not always be that lucky. (Pauses) ( harlie, wdiy cant you get to look at things less personally? Everything doesn’t have to be between you and—the personal note doesn’t always— KANE (violently) The personal note is all there is to it. Its all theie c\et is to it. It’s all there ever is to anything! Stupidity in our government-—crookedness— even just complacency and self-satisfaction and an unwillingness to belie\e that anything done by a certain class of people can be wrong—you can’t fight those things impersonally. They’re not impersonal crimes against the people. They’re being done by actual persons—-with actual names and positions and— the right of the American people to their own country is not an academic issue, Jed, that you debate—and then the judges retire to return a verdict— and the winners give a dinner for the losers.

1426

Film

LELAND

You almost convince me, almost The truth is, Charlie, you just don’t

care about anything except you. You just want to convince people that you love them so much that they should love you back. Only you want love on your own terms. It’s something to be played your way—according to your rules. And if anything goes wrong and you’re hurt—then the game stops, and you’ve got to be soothed and nursed, no matter what else is happening_and no matter who else is hurt! They look at each other v

KANE (trying to kid him into a better humor)

Hey, Jedediah!

Leland is not to be seduced Charlie, I wish you d let me work on the Chicago paper—you said your¬ self you were looking for someone to do dramatic criticism there_ KANE You’re more valuable here. LELAND

There is silence Well, Charlie, then I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do but to ask you to accept—

LELAND

KANE (harshly) LELAND

All right. You can go to Chicago.

Thank you.

There is an awkward pause. Kane opens a drawer of his desk and takes out a bottle and two glasses KANE

I guess I’d better try to get drunk, anyway.

Kane hands Jed a glass, which he makes no move to take KANE [Cont’d]

But I warn you, Jedediah, you’re not going to like it in Chicago.

The wind comes howling in off the lake, and the Lord only knows if they’ve ever heard of lobster Newburg. Will a week from Saturday be all right? KANE (wearily) Anytime you say. LELAND Thank you. LELAND

Kane looks at him intently and lifts the glass A toast, Jedediah—to love on my terms. Those are the only terms anybody knows—his own.

KANE

Dissolve 72 Ext. Town Hall in Trenton (as in News Digest)—Day_1917 Kane (as m news digest) is just emerging with Susan. He smashes one camera and before he begins on a second, a Cop removes a newsreel cameraman. He smashes a second camera, and is just about to start on a third.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

PHOTOGRAPHER

142/

Mr. Kane! Mr. Kane! It’s the “Inquirer”!

Kane sees the "Inquirer ’ painted on the side of the camera and stops REPORTER (quickly)

How about a statement, Mr. Kane? ANOTHER REPORTER On the level, Mr. Kane, are you through with politics'? KANE

I would say vice versa, young man. (Smiles) We’re going to be a great opera

star. REPORTER

Are you going to sing at the Metropolitan, Mrs. Kane?

We certainly are. SUSAN Charlie said if I didn’t, he’d build me an opera house.

KANE

KANE

That won’t be necessary.

Dissolve INSERT: FRONT PAGE CHICAGO “INQUIRER,” with photograph proclaiming that Su¬

san Alexander opens at new Chicago Opera House in Thais (as in news digest). (1919) On sound track during above we hear the big expectant murmur of an opening night audience and the noodling of the orchestra.

Dissolve 73 Int. Chicago Opera House—Night—Set for Thais—1919 The camera is just inside the curtain, angling upstage. We see the set for Thais— and in the center of all this, in an elaborate costume, looking very small and veiy lost, is Susan. She is almost hysterical with fright. Applause is heard, and the orchestra starts thunderously. The curtain starts to rise

the camera with it. Su¬

san squints and starts to sing. Camera continues on up w idi die curtain the full height of the proscenium arch and then on up into the gridiron. Susan’s voice still heard but faindy. Two typical stagehands fill the frame, looking down on the stage below. They look at each other. One of diem puts his hand to his nose.

Dissolve 74 Int. City Room—Chicago "Inquirer”—Night—1919 It is late. The room is almost empty. Nobody is at work at the desks. Bernstein is waiting anxiouslv with a litde group of Kane s hirelings, most of them in c\ ening dress with overcoats and hats. Everybody is tense and expectant. CITY EDITOR (turns to a young hireling; quietly)

What about Jed Eel and. Has

he got in his copy? Not yet. BERNSTEIN Go in and ask him to hurry. CITY EDITOR Well, why don’t you, Mr. Bernstein? Tou know Mr. Leland. HIRELING

BERNSTEIN (slowly)

I might make him nervous. Mr. Leland, he s writing it from

the dramatic angle? CITY EDITOR Yes, I thought it was a good idea. Weve covered it ftom the new s

end, of course. BERNSTEIN And the social. How about the music notice? You got that in°

1428

Film

CITY EDITOR BERNSTEIN

Oh, yes, it’s already made up. Our Mr. Mervin wrote a swell review. Enthusiastic? Yes, very! (Quietly) Naturally.

CITY EDITOR

Well, well—isn’t that nice?

BERNSTEIN

Mr. Bernstein—

KANE’S VOICE

Bernstein turns 74A Med. Long Shot of Kane He is in white tie, wearing his overcoat and carrying a folded opera hat. Hello, Mr. Kane.

BERNSTEIN

The hirelings rush, with Bernstein, to Kane’s side. Widespread half-suppressed sensation CITY EDITOR KANE

Mr. Kane, this is a surprise!

We’ve got a nice plant here.

Everybody falls silent. There isn’t anything to say Everything has been done exactly to your instructions, Mr. Kane. We’ve got two spreads of pictures and—

CITY EDITOR KANE

The music notice on the first page? Yes, Mr. Kane. (Hesitatingly) There’s still one notice to come. The

CITY EDITOR

dramatic. That’s Leland, isn’t it? CITY EDITOR Yes, Mr. Kane.

KANE

KANE

Has he said when he’ll finish?

CITY EDITOR

We haven’t heard from him.

He used to work fast—didn’t he, Mr. Bernstein? BERNSTEIN He sure did, Mr. Kane. KANE Where is he? KANE

ANOTHER HIRELING

Right in there, Mr. Kane.

The hireling indicates the closed glass door of a little office at the other end of the city room. Kane takes it in BERNSTEIN (helpless but very concerned) KANE

Mr. Kane_

That’s all right, Mr. Bernstein.

Kane crosses the length of the long city room to the glass door indicated before by the hireling. The city editor looks at Bernstein. Kane opens the door and goes into the office, closing the door behind him BERNSTEIN

Mr. Leland and Mr. Kane—they haven’t spoken together for four

years— CITY EDITOR

You don’t suppose—

v\

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1429

BERNSTEIN There’s nothing to suppose. (A long pause; finally . . .) Excuse me. (Starts toward the door) Dissolve Out Dissolve In 75 Int. Leland’s Office—Chicago "Inquirer”—Night—1919

Bernstein comes in. An empty bottle is standing on Leland’s desk. He lias fallen asleep over his typewriter, his face on the keys. A sheet of paper is in the machine. A paragraph has been typed. Kane is standing at the other side of the desk looking down at him. This is the first time we see murder in Kane’s face. Bernstein looks at Kane, then crosses to Leland. He shakes him. BERNSTEIN (straightens, looks at Kane; a pause) He ain’t been drinking before, Mr. Kane. Never. We would have heard. KANE (finally, after a pause) What does it say there? Bernstein stares at him

KANE [ Cont’d)

What’s he written?

Bernstein leans over near-sightedly, painfully reading the paragraph written on the page

BERNSTEIN (reading) “Miss Susan Alexander, a pretty but hopelessly incom¬ petent amateur—(Waits for a minute to catch his breath, doesn t like it) last night opened the new Chicago Opera House in a performance of—of—” (Looks up miserably) I still can’t pronounce that name, Mr. Kane. Kane doesn’t answer. Bernstein looks at Kane for a moment, then looks back, tortured BERNSTEIN [Cont’d] (Reading again) “Her singing, happily, is no concern of this department. Of her acting, it is absolutely impossible to—” (Continues to stare at the page) KANE (after a short silence) Go on! BERNSTEIN (without looking up) That’s all there is. Kane snatches the paper from the roller and reads it foi himself. Slowly a queer look comes into his face. Then he speaks, very quietly

Of her acting, it is absolutely impossible to say anything except that it represents in the opinion of this reviewer a new low—(Then sharply) Have you got that, Mr. Bernstein? In the opinion of this reviewer—

KANE

BERNSTEIN (miserably) I didn’t see that. KANE It isn’t there, Mr. Bernstein. I’m dictating it. BERNSTEIN But Mr. Kane, I can’t—I mean—I— KANE Get me a typewriter. I’ll finish this notice.

1430

Film

Bernstein retreats from the room Dissolve Out Dissolve In 76 Int. Leland’s Office—Chicago "Inquirer”—Night—1919 Long shot—of Kane in his shirt-sleeves, illuminated bv a desk light, typing furiously. As the camera starts to pull even further away from this .

Dissolve 77 Int. Leland’s Office—Chicago "Inquirer”—Night—1919 Leland, sprawled across his typewriter. He stirs and looks up drunkenlv, his eves encountering Bernstein, who stands beside him. BERNSTEIN

Hello, Mr. Leland.

LELAND Hello, Bernstein. Where is it—where’s my notice—I’ve got to finish it' BERNSTEIN (quietly) Mr. Kane is finishing it. LELAND

Kane?

Charlie?—(Painfully rises) Where is he?

During all this, the sound of a busy typewriter has been heard. Leland’s eyes follow the sound. Slowly he registers Kane out in the city room 78 Int. City Room—Chicago "Inquirer”—Night—1919 Kane, in white tie and shirt-sleeves, is typing away at a machine, his face, seen by the desk light before him, set in a strange half-smile. Leland stands in the door of his office, staring across at him.

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

LELAND

1431

I suppose he’s fixing it up—I knew I’d never get that through.

BERNSTEIN (moving to his side)

Mr. Kane is finishing your piece the way you

started it.

Leland turns incredulously to Bernstein BERNSTEIN [Cont’d]

He’s writing a bad notice like you wanted it to be—(Then

with a kind of quiet passion, rather than triumph) I guess that’ll show you. Leland picks his way across to Kanes side. Kane goes on typing, without looking up KANE (after pause) LELAND

Hello, Jedediah. Hello, Charlie—I didn’t know we were speaking.

Kane stops typing, hut doesn’t turn KANE

Sure, we’re speaking, Jed—-You’re fired.

He starts typing again, the expression on his face doesn’t change Dissolve 79 Ext. Hospital Roof—Day—1940 Thompson and Leland. It is getting late. The roof is now deserted. THOMPSON

Everybody knows that story, Mr. Leland, but—why did he do it?

How could he write a notice like that when— LELAND You just don’t know Charlie. He thought that by finishing that piece he could show me he was an honest man. He was always trying to prove some¬ thing. That whole filing about Susie being an opera singer—that was trying to prove something. Do you know what file headline was the day before the election? Candidate Kane found in love nest with quote singer unquote. He was going to take the quotes off the singer. (Pauses) Hey, nurse! Five years ago he wrote from that place of his down South—(As if trying to think) you know. Shangri-La? El Dorado? (Pauses) Sloppy Joe’s? What’s the name of that place? . . . All right. Xanadu. I knew what it was all file time. You caught on, didn’t you? THOMPSON Yes. LELAND I guess maybe I’m not as hard to see through as I think. Anyway, I never

even answered his letter. Maybe I should have. He must have been pretty lonely down there in that coliseum those last years. He hadn’t finished it when she left him—he never finished it—he never finished anything, except my notice. Of course, he built the joint for her. That must have been love. LELAND I don’t know. He was disappointed in the world. So he built one of his own—an absolute monarchy—It was something bigger than an opera house

THOMPSON

anyway-—(Calls) Nurse! (Lowers his voice) Say, I’ll tell you one thing you can do for me, young fellow. THOMPSON

Sure.

1432

Film

LELAND On your way out, stop at a cigar store, will you, and send me up a couple of cigars?

Sure, Mr. Leland. I’ll be glad to. Hey, nurse!

THOMPSON LELAND

A nurse has already appeared and stands behind him Yes, Mr. Leland.

NURSE LELAND

I’m ready to go in now. You know when I was a young man, there was

an impression around that nurses were pretty. It was no truer then than it is now. Here, let me take your arm, Mr. Leland.

NURSE

LELAND (testily)

All right, all right, hou won’t forget, will you, about the cigars?

And tell them to wrap them up to look like toothpaste, or something, or they’ll stop them at the desk. That young doctor I was telhng you about, he’s got an idea he wants to keep me alive. Fade Out Fade In 80 Ext. ”El Rancho” Cabaret in Atlantic City—Early Dawn—1940 Neon sign on the roof: “EL RANCHO”

Floor Show Susan Alexander Kane Twice Nightly Camera, as before, moves through the lights of the sign and down on the skylight, through which is seen Susan at her regular table, Thompson seated across from her. \ ery faindy during this, idle piano music playing. Dissolve 81 Int. ”El Rancho” Cabaret—Early Dawn—1940 Susan and Fhompson are facing each odier. The place is almost deserted. Susan is sober. On the other side of the room somebody is playing a piano. I d rather you just talked. Anything that comes into your mind—about yourself and Mr. Kane.

TIIOMI SON SUSAN

'i ou wouldn t want to hear a lot of what comes into my mind about myself

and Mr. Charlie Kane. {She tosses down a drink) You know—maybe I shouldn’t ever have sung for Charlie that hrst time. Hah!—I did a lot of singing aftei that. I o start with, I sang for teachers at a hundred bucks an hour. The teachers got that, I didn’t. What did you get? What do you mean?

THOMPSON SUSAN

Thompson doesn’t answer

vv

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

SUSAN [Cant’d]

1433

I didn’t get a tiling. Just the music lessons. That’s all there was

to it. He married you, didn’t he? SUSAN He never said anything about marriage until it all came out in the papers about us—and he lost the election and that Norton woman divorced him. What are you smiling about? I tell you he was really interested in my voice. (Sharply) What do you think he built that opera house for? I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to sing. It was his idea—everything was his idea—except my

THOMPSON

leaving him. Dissolve

82 Int. Living Room—Kane’s Home in New York—Day—1917-1918 Susan is singing. Matisti, her voice teacher, is playing the piano. Kane is seated nearby. Matisti stops. Impossible! Impossible! KANE It is not your job to give Mrs. Kane your opinion of her talents. Aou’re supposed to train her voice. Nothing more. MATISTI (sweating) But, it is impossible. I will be the laughing stock of the MATISTI

musical world! People will say— KANE If you’re interested in what people will say, Signor Matisti, I may be able to enlighten vou a bit. The newspapers, for instance. I m an authority on what the papers will sav, Signor Matisti, because I own eight of them between here and San Francisco. . . . It’s all right, dear. Signor Matisti is going to listen to reason. Aren’t you, maestro? MATISTI Mr. Kane, how can I persuade you— KANE

You can’t.

There is a silence. Matisti rises KANE [Cont’d]

I knew you’d see it my way. Dissolve

83 Int. Chicago Opera House—Night—1919 It is the same opening night—it is the same moment as before except that the camera is now upstage angling toward the audience. Hie curtain is dow n. W e see the same tableau as before. As the dissolve commences, there is the sound of applause and now, as the dissolve completes itself, the orchestra begins the stage is cleared—Susan is left alone. Ike curtain rises. Susan starts to sing. Beyond her, we see the prompter’s box, containing the anxious face of the prompter. Beyond that, an apprehensive conductor. 84 Close-up Kane’s face—he is seated in the audience—listening. A sudden but perfectly correct lull in the music reveals a voice from the audience—a few words from a sentence.

1434

Film

THE VOICE

—really pathetic.

Music crashes in and drowns out the rest of the sentence, but hundreds of people around the voice have heard it (as well as Kane) and there are titters which grow in volume. 85 Close-up Susan’s face—singing. i

86 Close-up Kane’s face—listening. There is the ghastly sound of three thousand people applauding as little as pos¬ sible. Kane still looks. Then, near the camera, there is the sound of about a dozen people applauding very, veiy loudly. Camera moves back, revealing Bernstein and Hillman and other Kane stooges, seated around him, beating their palms together. 87 The Stage from Kane’s Angle The curtain is down—Still the polite applause, dying fast. Nobody comes out for a bow. 88 Close-up Kane—breathing heavily. Suddenly he starts to applaud furiously. 89 The Stage from the Audience Again Susan appears for her bow. She can hardly walk. There is a little polite crescendo of applause, but it is sickly. 90 Close-up Kane—still applauding very, veiy hard, his eyes on Susan. 91 The Stage Again Susan, finishing her bow, goes out through the curtains. The light on the curtain goes out and the houselights go up. 92 Close-up Kane—still applauding very, very hard. Dissolve Out Dissolve In 93 Int. Hotel Room—Chicago—Day—1919 Kane—Susan in a negligee. The floor is littered with newspapers. SUSAN

Stop telling me he’s your friend" (She points at the paper) A friend don’t

Herman J. Mankicwicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1435

write that kind of an article. Anyway, not the kind of friends I know. Of course, I’m not high-class like you and I didn’t go to any swell schools— KANE That’s enough, Susan. A look at him convinces Susan that he really means it’s enough. There’s a knock at the door. SUSAN (screeching)

Come in!

A copy hoy enters Mr. Leland said I was to come right up—He was very anxious— KANE (interrupting) Thanks, son. COPY BOY

He shoves the kid out. He opens the envelope as Susan returns to the attack SUSAN

The idea of him trying to spoil my debut!

Kane has taken a folded piece of paper out of the envelope and is holding it— looking into the envelope He won’t spoil anything else, Susan. SUSAN And you—you ought to have your head examined! Sending him a letter he’s fired with a twenty-five thousand dollar check! What kind of firing do you call that? You did send him a twenty-five thousand dollar check, didn’t you? KANE (slowly tipping over the envelope as pieces of torn papers fall to the floor) Yes, I sent him a twenty-five thousand dollar check. KANE

Kane now unfolds the piece of paper and looks at it INSERT: Kane’s original grease pencil copy of his Declaration of Principles.

What’s that? KANE’S VOICE An antique. SUSAN’S VOICE

BACK TO SCENE:

You’re awful funny, aren’t you? Well, I can tell you one thing you re not going to keep on being funny about—my singing. I m through. I never wanted

SUSAN

to— KANE (without looking up) You are continuing your singing, Susan. {He starts tearing the paper) I’m not going to have myself made ridiculous. SUSAN You don’t propose to have yourself mode ridiculous? What about me? I’m die one that has to do the singing. I’m the one that gets the razzberries. Why can’t you— KANE (looking up—still tearing the paper)

My reasons satisfy me, Susan. \on seem to be unable to understand them. I will not tell them to you again. {He has started to walk menacingly toward her, tearing the paper as he walks)

You are to continue with your singing.

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Film

His eyes are relentlessly upon her. She sees something that frightens her. She nods slowly; indicating surrender

Dissolve INSERT: FRONT PAGE of the San Francisco “Inquirer” (1919) containing a large

portrait of Susan as Thais. It is announced that Susan will open an independent season in San Francisco in Thais. The picture remains constant but the names of the papers change from New York to St. Louis* to Los Angeles to Cleveland, to Denver to Philadelphia—all “Inquirers. ” During all this, on the sound track, Susan’s voice is heard singing her aria very faintly.

Dissolve 94 Int. Susans Bedroom—Kane’s N.Y. Home—Late Night—1920 Camera angles across the bed and Susan’s form towards the door, from the other side of which comes loud knocking and Kane’s voice calling Susan’s name. Then: KANE’S VOICE

Joseph!

JOSEPH’S VOICE KANE’S VOICE

Yes, sir.

Do you have the keys to Mrs. Kane’s bedroom?

No, Mr. Kane. They must be on the inside. KANE’S VOICE We’ll have to break down the door. JOSEPH’S VOICE Yes, sir. JOSEPH’S VOICE

The door crashes open. Light floods the room, revealing Susan, fully dressed, stretched out on the bed. She is breathing, but heavily. Kane rushes to her, kneels at the bed, and feels her forehead. Joseph has followed him in KANE

Get Dr. Corey.

Joseph rushes out Dissolve 95 Int. Susan’s Bedroom—Kane’s N.Y. Home—Late Night—1920 A little later. All the lights are lit. At start of scene, Dr. Corey removes his doctor’s bag from in front of camera lens, revealing Susan, in a nightgown, is in bed. She is breathing heavily. A nurse is bending over die bed, straightening die sheets. DR. COREY’S VOICE

She’ll be perfecdy all right in a day or two, Mr. Kane.

The nurse walks away from the bed toward b.g. We now see Kane, who was hidden by the nurse s body, seated beyond the bed. He is holding an empty medicine bottle. Dr. Corey walks to him KANE

I can t imagine how Mrs. Kane1 came to make such a foolish mistake.

(Susan turns her head away from Kane) The sedative Dr. Wagner gave her

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1437

is in a somewhat larger bottle—I suppose the strain of preparing for the new opera has excited and confused her. (Looks sharply up at Dr. Corey) DR. COREY

Yes, yes—I’m sure that’s it.

Dr. Corey turns and walks toward the nurse KANE

There are no objections to my staying here with her, are there?

DR. COREY

No—not at all. But I’d like the nurse to be here, too. Good night, Mr.

Kane.

Dr. Corey hurries out the door Dissolve 96 Int. Susan s Bedroom—Kane’s N.Y. Home—Very Early Dawn—1920 The lights are out. Camera pans from nurse, who is seated stiffly in a chair, toward Kane, seated beside the bed staring at Susan, to Susan who is asleep.

Dissolve 97 Int. Susan’s Bedroom—Kane’s N.Y. Home—Day—1920 Sunlight is streaming into the room. A hurdy-gurdy is heard. Kane is still seated beside the bed, looking at Susan, who is asleep. After a moment Susan gasps and opens her eyes. She looks toward the window, Kane leans toward her. She looks up at him, then away. SUSAN (painfully)

Charlie—I couldn’t make you see how I felt—I just couldn’t

go through with the singing again—You don’t know what it’s like to feel that people—that a whole audience doesn’t want you. KANE (angrily)

That’s when you’ve got to fight them!

She looks up at him silently with pathetic eyes KANE [Cont’d) (after a moment; gently)

All right. You won’t have to fight them

any more—It’s their loss.

She continues to look at him, hut now gratefully Dissolve 98 Ext. Establishing Shot of Xanadu—Half Built—1925 Dissolve 99 Int. Great Hall—Xanadu—1929 Close-up of an enormous jigsaw puzzle. A hand is putting in the last piece. Camera moves back to reveal jigsaw puzzle spread out on the floor. Susan is on the floor before her jigsaw puzzle. Kane is in an easy chair. Candelabra illuminates the scene.

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Film

SUSAN

What time is it?

There is no answer

Charlie! I said, what time is it? KANE (looks up—consults his watch) Eleven-thirty. SUSAN I mean in New York. (No answer) I said what time is it in New York! KANE Eleven-diirtv. SUSAN At night? SUSAN

[Cont’d]

j

Umhinm. The bulldog’s just gone to press." SUSAN (sarcastically) Hurray for the bulldog! (Sighs) Eleven-thirty! The shows’re just getting out. People are going to nightclubs and restaurants. Of course, we’re different because we live in a palace. KANE You always said you wanted to live in a palace. SUSAN A person could go nuts in this dump. KANE

Kane doesn’t answer SUSAN KANE

[ Cont’d] Susan—

Nobody to talk to—nobody to have any fun with.

Forty-nine thousand acres of nodiing but sceneiy and—statues. I’m lone¬ some.

SUSAN

I thought you were tired of house guests. Till yesterday morning, we’ve had no less than fifty of your friends at any one time. As a matter of fact, Susan, if you’ll look carefully in die west wing, you’ll probably find a dozen vacationists still in residence. SLTSAN You make a joke out of everything! Charlie, I want to go back to New \ork. Im tired of being a hostess. I wanta have fun. Please, Charlie, please! KANE Our home is here, Susan. I don’t care to visit New York. KANE

Dissolve 100 Another Picture Puzzle

Susan’s hands fitting in a missing piece. (1930) Dissolve 101 Another Picture Puzzle

Susan’s hands fitting in a missing piece. (1931) Dissolve 102 Int. Great Hall—Xanadu—Day—1932

Close-up of another jigsaw puzzle. Camera pulls back to show Kane and Susan in much the same positions as before, except that they are older. One thing Ive never been able to understand, Susan. How do you know that you haven’t done them before?

KANE

v\

Susan shoots him an angry glance. She isn’t amused

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1439

It makes a whole lot more sense than collecting Yenuses. KANE You may be right—I sometimes wonder—-but you get into the habit— SUSAN (snapping) It’s not a habit. I do it because I like it. KANE I was referring to myself. (Pauses) I thought we might have a picnic to¬ morrow—Invite everybody to go to the Everglades— SUSAN Invite everybody!—Order everybody, you mean, and make them sleep in tents! Who wants to sleep in tents when they have a nice room of their own— with their own bath, where they know where everything is? SUSAN

Kane has looked at her steadily, not hostilely

I thought we might invite eveiybodv to go on a picnic tomorrow. Stay at Everglades overnight.

KANE

Dissolve 103 Ext. Xanadu—Road—Day—1932

Tight two-shot—Kane and Susan seated in an automobile, silent, glum, staring before them. Camera pulls back revealing that there are twenty cars full of pic¬ nickers following them, on their way through the Xanadu estate. SUSAN

You never give me any tiling I really care about. Dissolve Out

Dissolve In 104 Ext. The Everglades Camp—Night—1932

Long shot—of a number of classy tents. Dissolve 105 Int. Large Tent—Everglades Camp—Night—1932

Two real beds have been set up on each side of the tent. A rather classy dressing table is in the rear, at which Susan is preparing for bed. Kane, in his shirt-sleeves, is in an easy chair, reading. Susan is very sullen. SUSAN

I’m not going to put up with it.

Kane turns to look at her SUSAN [Cont’d]

I mean it. Oh, I know I always say I mean it, and then I don’t— or you get me so I don’t do what I say I’m going to—but— KANE {interrupting) You’re in a tent, darling. You’re not at home. And I can hear you very well if you just talk in a normal tone of voice. SUSAN I’m not going to have my guests insulted, just because you—{In a rage) if people want to bring a drink or two along on a picnic, that’s their business. You’ve got no right— KANE (quickly) I’ve got more than a right as far as you’re concerned, Susan. SUSAN I’m sick and tired of your telling me what I mustn’t do! And what I—

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Film

We can discuss all this some other time, Susan. Right now— SUSAN I’ll discuss what’s on my mind when I want to. I’m sick of having you run my life the way you want it.

KANE

Susan, as far as you’re concerned, I’ve never wanted anything—I don’t want anything now—except what you want.

KANE

What you want me to want, you mean. What you’ve decided I ought to have—what you’d want if you were me. Never what I want— KANE Susan! SUSAN You’ve never given me anything that— KANE I reallv think— SUSAN

j

Oh sure, you give me things—that don’t mean anything to you—What’s the difference between giving me a bracelet or giving somebody else a hundred thousand dollars for a statue you’re going to keep crated up and never look at? It’s only money. KANE (he has risen) Susan, I want you to stop this. SUSAN I’m not going to stop it! KANE Right now! SUSAN

(screams) You never gave me anything in your life! You just tried to_to buy me into giving you something. You’re—it’s like you were bribing me! KANE Susan! SUSAN

That’s all you ever done—no matter how much it cost you—your time, your money—that’s all you’ve done with everybody. Tried to bribe them!

SUSAN

KANE

Susan!

She looks at him, with no lessening of her passion

KANE [ Cont’d} (quietly) Whatever I do—I do—because I love you. SUSAN You don’t love me! You just want me to love you—sure—I’m Charles Foster Kane. Whatever you want—just name it and it’s yours. But you gotta love me! Without a word, Kane slaps her across the face. He continues to look at her SUSAN SUSAN KANE

You’ll never get a chance to do that again. Don’t tell me you’re sorrv. I’m not sorry.

[Cont’d]

Dissolve 106 Int. Great Hall—Xanadu—Day—1932

Kane is at the window looleing out. lie turns as he hears Raymond enter. RAYMOND KANE

Mrs. Kane would like to see you, Mr. Kane.

All right.

Raymond waits as Kane hesitates

Is Mrs. Kane—{He can’t finish) Marie has been packing her bince morning, Mr. Kane.

KANE [Cont’d] RAYMOND

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1441

Kane impetuously walks past him out of the room 107 Int. Susan s Room—Xanadu—Day—1932 Packed suitcases are on the floor. Susan is completely dressed for traveling. Kane hursts into the room.

Tell Arnold I’m ready, Marie. He can get the bags. MARIE Yes, Mrs. Kane. SUSAN

She leaves. Kane closes the door behind her KANE

Have yon gone completely crazy?

Susan looks at him KANE [ Cont’d]

Don’t you realize that everybody here is going to know about this? That you’ve packed your bags and ordered the car and— SUSAN —-And left? Of course they’ll hear. I’m not saying good-bye—except to you—-but I never imagined that people wouldn’t know.

Kane is standing against the door as if physically barring her way KANE

I won’t let you go.

SUSAN (reaches out her hand) KANE (suddenly)

Good-bye, Charlie. Don’t go, Susan.

Susan just looks at him KANE [Cont’d]

Susan, don’t go! Susan, please!

He has lost all pride. Susan stops. She is affected by this

You mustn’t go, Susan. Everything’ll be exactly the way you want it. Not the way I think you want it—-but your way. Please, Susan—Susan!

KANE [Cont’d]

She is staring at him. She might weaken KANE [Cont’d]

Don’t go, Susan! You mustn’t go! (Almost blubbering) You—-you can’t do this to me, Susan—

It’s as if he had thrown ice water into her face. She freezes

I see—it’s you that this is being done to! It’s not me at all. Not how I feel. Not what it means to me. Not—(She laughs) I can’t do this to you! (She looks at him) Oh yes I can.

SUSAN

She walks out, past Kane, who turns to watch her go, like a very tired old man Dissolve

1442

Film

108 Int. ”El Rancho” Cabaret—Night—1940

Susan and Thompson at table. There is silence between them for a moment as she accepts a cigarette from Thompson and he lights it for her. In case you’ve never heard of how I lost all my money—and it was plenty, believe me— THOMPSON The last ten years have been tough on a lot of people— SUSAN Aw, they haven’t been tough on me. I just lost my money— (Takes a deep puff) So you’re going down to Xanadu. SUSAN

Monday, with some of the boys from the office. Mr. Rawlston wants the whole place photographed carefully—all that art stuff. We run a picture magazine, you know—

THOMPSON

Yeah, I know. If you’re smart, you’ll talk to Raymond—(Nervously douses out the cigarette) That’s the butler. You can learn a lot from him. He knows where the bodies are buried.

SUSAN

She grabs a glass and holds it tensely in both hands

You know, all the same I feel kind of sorry for Mr. Kane. SUSAN (Harshly) Don’t you think I do?

THOMPSON

She lifts the glass, and as she drinks it she notices the dawn light coming through the skylight. She shivers and pulls her coat over her shoulders SUSAN [CorcYd]

Well, what do you know? It’s morning already. (Looks at him for a moment) You must come around and tell me the story of your life sometime. Dissolve Out

Dissolve In 109 Ext. Xanadu—Late Dusk—1940

The distant castie on the hill, seen through the great iron “K” as in the opening shot of the picture. Several lights are on. Dissolve 110 Int. Great Hall—Xanadu—Late Dusk—1940

Camera is in close on Thompson and Raymond—will subsequently reveal sur¬ rounding scene. Rosebud? I’ll tell you about Rosebud—how much is it worth to you? A thousand dollars? THOMPSON Okay. RAYMOND

He was a litde gone in the head sometimes, you know. THOMPSON No, I didn’t. RAYMOND

He did crazy things sometimes—I’ve been working for him eleven years now—the last years of his life and I ought to know. Yes, sir, the old man wras kind of queer, but I knew how to handle him.

RAYMOND

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1443

Need a lot of service? RAYMOND Yeah. But I knew how to handle him.

THOMPSON

Dissolve Out Dissolve In 111 Int. Corridor and Telegraph Office—Xanadu—Night—1932

Raymond walking rapidly along corridor. He pushes open a door. At a desk sits a wireless operator. Near him at a telephone switchboard sits a female operator. RAYMOND (Reading)

Mr. Charles Foster Kane announced today that Mrs. Charles Foster Kane has left Xanadu, his Florida home, under the terms of a peaceful and friendly agreement with the intention of filing suit for divorce at an early date. Mrs. Kane said that she does not intend to return to the operatic career which she gave up a few years after her marriage, at Mr. Kane’s request. Signed, Charles Foster Kane.

Fred finishes typing and then looks up RAYMOND [Cont’d]

Exclusive for immediate transmission. Urgent priority all

Kane Papers. FRED Okay. There is the sound of the buzzer on the switchboard

Yes . . . Yes . . . Mrs. Tinsdall. Very well. (Turns to Raymond) It’s the housekeeper. RAYMOND Yes? KATHERINE She says there’s some sort of disturbance up in Miss Alexander’s room. She’s afraid to go in. KATHERINE

Dissolve Out 112 Int. Corridor Outside Susan’s Bedroom—Xanadu—Night—1932

The housekeeper, Mrs. Tinsdall, and a couple of maids are near the door but too afraid to be in front of it. From inside can be heard a terrible banging and crashing. Raymond hurries into scene, opens the door, and goes in. 113 Int. Susan s Bedroom—Xanadu—1932

Kane, in a truly terrible and absolutely silent rage, is literally breaking up the room—yanking pictures, hooks and all off the wall, smashing them to bits—ugly, gaudy pictures—Susie’s pictures in Susie’s bad taste, tiff of tabletops, off of dress¬ ing tables, occasional tables, bureaus, he sweeps Susie’s whorish accumulation of bric-a-brac. Raymond stands in the doorway watching him. Kane says nothing. I Ie contin¬ ues with tremendous speed and surprising strength, still wordlessly, tearing the room to bits. Hie curtains (too frilly—overly pretty) are pulled off the windows in a single gesture, and from the bookshelves he pulls down double armloads of

1444

Film

cheap novels—discovers a half-empty bottle of liquor and dashes it across the room. Finally he stops. Susie’s cozy little chamber is an incredible shambles all around him. He stands for a minute breathing heavily, and his eye lights on a hanging whatnot in a comer which had escaped his notice. Prominent on its center shelf is the litde glass ball with the snowstorm in it. He yanks it down. Something made of china breaks, but not the glass ball, It bounces on the carpet and rolls to his feet, the snow in a flurry. His eye follows it. He stoops to pick it up—can’t make it. Raymond picks it up for him; hands it to him. Kane takes it sheepishly— looks at it—moves painfully out of the room into the corridor. 114 Int. Corridor Outside Susan’s Bedroom—Xanadu—1932

Kane comes out of the door. Mrs. Tinsdall has been joined now by a fairly sizable turnout of servants. They move back away from Kane, staring at him. Raymond is in the doorway behind Kane. Kane still looks at the glass ball. KANE (without turning)

Close the door, Raymond.

Yes, sir. (Closes it) Lock it—and keep it locked.

RAYMOND KANE

Raymond locks the door and comes to his side. There is a long pause—servants staring in silence. Kane gives the glass ball a gentle shake and starts another snowstorm KANE (almost in a trance) RAYMOND

Rosebud.

What’s that, sir?

One of the younger servants giggles and is hushed up. Kane shakes the ball again. Another flurry of snow. He watches the flakes settle—then looks up. Finally, taking in the pack of servants and something of the situation, he puts the glass ball in his coat pocket. He speaks very quietly to Raymond, so quietly it only seems he’s talking to himself KANE

Keep it locked.

He slowly walks off down the corridor, the servants giving way to let him. pass, and watching him as he goes. The mirrors which line the hall reflect his image as he moves. He is an old, old man! Kane turns into a second corridor—sees himself reflected in the mirror—stops. His image is reflected again in the mirror behind him—multiplied again and again and again in long perspectives—Kane looks. We see a thousand Kanes Dissolve 115 Int. Great Hall—Xanadu—Night—1940

Thompson and Raymond. *

RAYMOND (callously)

That’s the whole works, right up to date. THOMPSON Sentimental fellow, aren’t you? RAATMOND Yes and no. a THOMPSON

And that’s what you know about Rosebud?

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1445

That’s more than anybody knows. I tell you, he was a little gone in the head—the last couple of years anyway—but I knew how to handle him. That Rosebud—I heard him say it that other time too. He just said Rosebud, then he dropped that glass ball and it broke on the floor. He didn’t say anything after that, so I knew he was dead. He said all kinds of things that didn’t mean anything. THOMPSON That isn’t worth anything. RAYMOND You can go on asking questions if you want to. THOMPSON (coldly) We’re leaving tonight. As soon as they’re through photo¬

RAYMOND

graphing the stuff— Thompson has risen. Raymond gets to his feet Allow yourself plenty of time. The train stops at the junction on sig¬ nal—but they don’t like to wait. Xot now. I can remember when they’d wait

RAYMOND

all day ... if Mr. Kane said so. Camera has pulled back to show long shot of the great hall, revealing the magnif¬ icent tapestries, candelabra, etc., are still there, but now several large packing cases are piled against the walls, some broken open, some shut, and a number of objects, great and small, are piled pell-mell all over the place. Furniture, statues, paintings, bric-a-brac—things of obviously enormous value are standing beside a kitchen stove, an old rocking chair and other junk, among which is also an old sled, the self-same story. In the center of the hall a photographer and his assistant are busy photographing the sundry objects. In addition there are a girl and two newspapermen—also Thompson and Raymond. The girl and the second man, who wears a hat, are dancing somewhere in the back of the hall to the music of a phonograph playing “Oh, Mr. Kane'” 116 Int. Great Hall—Xanadu—Night—1940 The photographer has just photographed a picture, obviously of great value, an Italian primitive. The assistant consults a label on the back of it. ASSISTANT

No. 9182.

The third newspaperman jots this information down ASSISTANT [Cont’d]

Nativity—attributed to Donatello, acquired Florence, 1921,

cost: 45,000 lire. Got that? THIRD NEWSPAPERMAN Yeh. PHOTOGRAPHER All right! Next! Better get that statue over there. ASSISTANT RAYMOND THOMPSON RAYMOND THOMPSON ASSISTANT

Got it?

Okay. What do you think all this is worth, Mr. Thompson? Millions—if anybody wants it. Hie banks are out of luck, eh? Oh, I don’t know. They’ll clear all right. Venus, fourth century. Acquired 1911. Cost: twenty-three thousand.

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Film

Okay. ASSISTANT {patting the statue on the fanny) That’s a lot of money to pay for a dame without a head. SECOND ASSISTANT {reading a label) No. 483. One desk from the estate of Maiy Kane, Little Salem, Colorado. Value: $6.00. We’re supposed to get everything. Tire junk as well as the art. THIRD NEWSPAPERMAN

Okay.

THIRD NEWSPAPERMAN

A flashlight bulb goes off. Thompson has opened a box and is idly playing with a handful of little pieces of cardboard THIRD NEWSPAPERMAN RAYMOND

It’s a jigsaw

[Cont’d]

What’s that?

puzzle.

We got a lot of those. There’s a Burmese temple and three Spanish ceilings down the hall.

THIRD NEWSPAPERMAN

Raymond laughs PHOTOGRAPHER

Yeh, all

crates. THIRD NEWSPAPERMAN There’s a part of a Scotch castle over there, but we haven’t bothered to unwrap it. PHOTOGRAPHER

I wonder how they put all those pieces together?

in

{reading a label) Iron stove. Estate of Maiy Kane. Value: 02.00. PHOTOGRAPHER Put it over by that statue. It’ll make a good setup. GI RE {calling out) Who is she anyway? SECOND NEWSPAPERMAN Venus. She always is. THIRD NEWSPAPERMAN lie sure liked to collect things, didn’t he? PHOTOGRAPHER Anything and everything—he was a regular crow. THIRD NEWSPAPERMAN I wonder—You put all this together—the palaces and the paintings and the toys and everything—what would it spell? ASSISTANT

Thompson has turned around. He is facing the camera for the first time Charles Foster Kane. PHOTOGRAPHER Or Rosebud? How about it, Jeny? THIRD NEWSPAPERMAN {to the dancers) Turn that thing off, will you? It’s driving me nuts!—What’s Rosebud? THOMPSON

Kane’s last words, aren’t they, Jerry? {To the third newspaper¬ man ) Fhat was Jerry’s angle, wasn’t it. Did you ever find out what it means? THOMPSON No, I didn’t. PHOTOGRAPHER

The music has stopped. The dancers have come over to Thompson SEC ONI) NEWSPAPERMAN THOMPSON

Say, what

did

you

find

out about him anvway?

Not much.

Well, what have you been doing? THOMPSON Playing with a jigsaw puzzle—I talked to a lot of people who knew him. A GIRL What do they say? SECOND NEWSPAPERMAN

Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles • Citizen Kane

1447

Well—it’s become a very clear picture. He was the most honest man who ever lived, with a streak of crookedness a yard wide. He was a liberal and a reactionary. He was a loving husband—and both his wives left him. He had a gift for friendship such as few men have—and he broke his oldest friend’s heart like you’d throw away a cigarette you were through with. Outside of that— THIRD NEWSPAPERMAN Okay, okay. GIRL If you could have found out what that Rosebud meant, I bet that would’ve explained everything. THOMPSON No, I don’t. Not much anyway. Charles Foster Kane was a man who got everything he wanted, and then lost it. Maybe Rosebud was something he couldn’t get or something he lost, but it wouldn’t have explained anything. I don’t think any word explains a man’s life. No—I guess Rosebud is just a piece in a jigsaw puzzle—a missing piece.

THOMPSON

He drops the jigsaw pieces back into the box, looking at his watch THOMPSON [Cont’d]

We’d better get along. We’ll miss the train.

He picks up his overcoat—it has been resting on Charles Foster Kane hit Thatcher with at the doesn’t close in on this. It just registers the sled up their clothes and equipment, move out of the

a little sled—the little sled young opening of the picture. Camera as the newspaper people, picking great hall Dissolve Out

Dissolve In 117 Int. Cellar—Xanadu—Night—1940 A large furnace, with an open door, dominates the scene. Two laborers, with shovels, are shoveling things into the furnace. Raymond is about ten feet away. RAYMOND

Throw diat junk in, too.

Camera travels to the pile that he has indicated. It is mostly bits of broken packing cases, excelsior, etc. The sled is on top of the pile. As camera comes close, it shows the faded rosebud and, through the letters are faded, unmistakably the word “Rosebud” across it. The laborer drops his shovel, takes the sled in his hand and throws it into the furnace. The flames start to devour it. 118 Ext. Xanadu—Night—1940 No lights are to be seen. Smoke is coming from a chimney. Camera reverses the path it took at the beginning of the picture, perhaps omitting some of the stages. It moves finally through the gates, which close behind it. As camera pauses for a moment, the letter “K” is prominent in the moonlight. Just before we fade out, there comes again into the picture the pattern of barbed wire and cyclone fencing. On the fence is a sign which reads: PRIVATE—NO TRESPASSING

Fade Out

1448

Film

Appendix: Writing on Writing

*

4

A

Writing on Writing

1. General advice One way to learn about anything is to write about it. Thus it is important in studying literature to test our experience of literature by writing essays that explain or argue or compare or describe or discover or evaluate. Writing a paper we clarify our ideas to ourselves, explain to ourselves how we arrive at judg¬ ment. If our goal in studying literature is to arrive at sound taste and just discrimination, the purpose of paper-writing is to examine and clarify the means by which we arrive at judgment. For general advice, there is none better at the start than use your intelligence. Many people beginning to write about literature feel that they should show themselves responding (“I cried when I finished this story” ) instead of applying their brains and looking closely at the words in front of them. Second, be forth¬ right in stating an opinion; we learn by making a thesis and defending it, even if later we discover that we have erred. A noncommital paper usually has less to say than a paper that is vigorous but mistaken. Third, while writing and revising a paper, continually question whether it serves the work written about. Do not digress into subjects that lead away from the work itself. Writing about Richard Wilbur’s short story “A Game of Catch,” one student departed from the story to talk about problems of growing up as a boy in the suburbs; writing about Moliere’s Tartuffe, another made a spirited defense of the church’s role in history; writing about Theodore Roethke’s poem “Orchids, ’ another dis¬ played only botanic research into the flower. None of these students served the literary work itself, but something else the work suggested. A. Ways of writing about writing 1. Concentration on the text Most teachers, when they assign papers, ask their students to concentrate on the texts themselves—not on the lives of the authors, or the authors’ his-

1451

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Appendix: Writing on Writing

torical eras, or the context of literary history or influence. Most assignments ask for an explication, an analysis, or a comparison and contrast. a. Explication Idle word explication originally means “unfolding. ” When we explicate a lit¬ erary work we unfold its intricate layers of theme and form, showing its con¬ struction as if we spread it out upon a table. We use the tool of explication to explain work that is dense and concentrated, taking it word by word or line by line. Some passages of fiction and drama lend therhselves to explication also: one speech of Hamlet may reflect in miniature the complexity of the whole play; or a paragraph of Flannery O’Connor may illuminate the author’s methods of characterization. Most often, we explicate a brief poem or a portion of a longer poem—literature at its most concentrated. Remember that the goal of explica¬ tion is not merely close paraphrase of theme or content. Pay attention not only to the meanings of words but also to rhythm, sound, tone, point of view, sym¬ bolism, and form. Explication’s goal is to lay out in critical prose everything that the author has done in a brief passage or short poem; the best explication goes the furthest toward that goal. Explication does not concern itself with the author’s life or times; it treats the work of art almost as if it were anonymous. The author’s historical period, however, may determine the definitions of words. If the work is a century or more old, some of its words will have changed in their meanings. Because the explicator’s task is to make explicit what the author may have put into the work—not assuming conscious intentions, but aware of possibilities_the ex¬ plicate* must keep in mind the time when the work was written and the altering definitions of words. Thus when an eighteenth-century writer like Alexander Pope speaks of “science,” we must notice that the word meant something like general knowledge and not that branch of knowledge we study as chemistry, physics, and biology. In order to determine the meaning of a word in a particular era, it is useful to consult the Oxford English Dictionary (see page 403). Use common sense when explicating. It is tempting to go too far, to follow particular words down rabbit holes into Wonderland, using ingenuity more than intelligence. One student explicated a couplet of Robert Frost: The old dog barks backward without getting up. I can remember when he was a pup.

Desperate to write four hundred words about two lines—having chosen the wrong poem to write four hundred words about—the student noticed that Frost had elsewhere written about Sirius the Dog Star, and that dog was “God” spelled backward, and wrote four hundred words to confuse astrology and theology into a pair of lines about aging and the passage of time. The general advice must govern the explicator as well as all other critics: write so that you make sense of the whole work considered; do not entertain fascinating improbabili¬ ties. .V

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1453

A student’s explication of a poem is printed in “Writing about Poems,” pages 1471—1473, and ‘To Read a Poem” begins with a chapter explicating poems by Robert Frost and William Carlos Williams. b. Analysis To analyze something is to separate it into parts in order to understand it. Explication deals exhaustively with something small; analysis deals with a part of something—perhaps the use of offstage noises throughout Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard or the repetition of certain phrases in D. H. Lawrence’s “The Rocking Ilorse Winner” or Robert Frost’s characterization in “The Death of the Hired Man. ” Attending to one part of a play, story, or poem, the analyst must relate that part to the work as a whole. In analysis we thus use summary or paraphrase to establish the whole of which we analyze a part. If an analysis fails to relate part to whole, the paper will seem poindess. We want to know not only that the poet repeats the word blue twenty-seven times in thirty-nine lines but as well what this repetition accomplishes in the poem. When we write about literary works of any length, analysis allows us to limit our topic. Never try to analyze a whole long work, any more than you would try to explicate a whole long work. Find ways to limit your topic by analysis—by the isolation of parts. No one can write a decent six-hundred-word theme on the whole of The Death of Ivan Ilych. Nor would an analysis of the character¬ ization in that short novel be possible unless we wrote several thousand words. Analysis discovers part within part. It would be possible to analyze the char¬ acterization oTGerasim and relate Gerasim’s character to the rest of the story. When we consider writing an analytical paper, we begin by thinking analyti¬ cally about what we have read. Perhaps we have read Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” and find ourselves fascinated and horrified by the character of The Misfit. Thinking analytically, we can separate the many ways in which we learned about The Misfit: we learn of him by his actions as reported by others; we learn of him by implication, through the responses of other people to him; we learn of him through his own speech; we learn of him by his actions as we watch him. As an example, we might find a disparity between our ex¬ pectations before we meet him and the character we meet. We might write a paper that analyzes “The Misfit: Rumor and Reality.” Looking at several poems by Robert Frost, fascinated by “Design” with its white flower that should have been blue, we might analyze “Color in Three Poems by Robert Frost.” For an analytical paper to hold together, it will assert and defend a thesis that can usually be reduced to a single sentence. A thesis is not the same as a topic. While the topic might be Gerasim’s characterization, the thesis would make a statement about it, generally summarizing the relationship of analyzed pari to story as a whole: “The character of Gerasim, as presented in his actions and dialogue by the author, relieves the dying Ivan Ilych by simple goodness.” “For Robert Frost, in fiiese poems, color disguises reality and suggests a malignancy of matter or maker.” “Showing The Misfit from afar and up close, Flannery O’Connor indicates the difference between a public terror and a private one. ”

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When beginning an analytic paper, we move from the general to the particular, then to the more particular, a series of concentric circles; the biggest circle is the work itself, The Death of Ivan Ilych; then the topic narrows but remains broad: characterization, and the relation of character to theme; then it narrows to Gerasim’s character and its function in the story. A student’s analysis appears in “A Paper from Start to Finish,” pages 1464-1468. c. Comparison and Contrast A third kind of paper is the comparison and contrast of two texts, usually in connection with a specific theme, a formal device, or a technical element of the genre. A teacher might invite a comparison of Shakespeare’s use of the sonnet form with Robert Frosts, for instance. (When we compare two objects, we make notes of likeness and unlikeness; henceforth we will speak only of com¬ paring, implying contrast.) Or a teacher might ask for a comparison of two short stories in their symbolism, or of two plays in their use of flashback. The process of comparison requires analysis of each work, with notice of similarities and differences in the matters analyzed. Structure can be a problem in writing comparison and contrast. Here is a passage from a student’s draft: In the sonnet by Shakespeare eveiv four lines is a whole separate idea, then the last two lines is another unit that is complete to itself. In Milton’s the first part is eight lines and the second is six, without further subdivision. Shakespeare’s rhym¬ ing separates the parts, not just the ideas. Milton’s rhyming is more difficult, using just tw o rhymes in the octave (ABBAABBA) but therefore making the eight lines a smooth whole. Shakespeare . . .

These rapid oscillations are nervous; the reader’s head snaps back and forth, as if watching a ping-pong game; after a while we forget which poet is which, and who has the serve. To be subjects for comparison and contrast, two works must share common ground. We would lack the basis to compare, say, a Keats poem with a Tolstoy novel, or a play with a sonnet sequence. Usually we compare works within the same genre, of similar length and quality. There are exceptions: sometimes we compare two works by one author in different genres, perhaps a play and a short story by Chekhov. Sometimes we compare good and bad to illuminate criteria for judgment. Sometimes we compare long and short, or genre with genre, to reveal strengths and weaknesses of different shapes and genres. Mosdy, we find the differences between two works with obvious similarities: the two sonnets are each fourteen lines long, each within iambic pentameter, each rhymed throughout—and then the differences begin: structure of thought, rh\me, rhythm, metaphor, diction. One paper might end by asserting that de¬ spite all the differences between them these two sonnets will share many qual¬ ities. Another might with equal justice argue that the differences outweighed the similarities. The conclusions will supply the writers’ theses

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1455

In a short paper of comparison, a writer may be able to write a paragraph or two of similarities, a paragraph or two of dissimilarities, and reach a conclusion in the final paragraph. But such simplicity of structure is rare. More likely, we will need to make a structure something like this: 1. 2.

Statement of comparability First similarity Work A « Work B 3. Second similarity Work A Work B 4. First dissimilarity Work A Work B 5. Second dissimilarity Work A Work B 6. Conclusion based on evidence: thesis Sometimes the grammar of the complex sentence can avoid the ping-pong mo¬ notony of compounds that flick our heads and back and forth on our necks. Instead of saying “Work A is seven chapters which makes 110 pages and Work B is nine chapters which makes 131 pages,” we can sound more various: “While Work A compacts its seven chapters into 110 pages, Work B finds 131 pages sufficient for its nine.” A different structure takes a topic and then looks at each work two wavs: First item (like the use of a symbolic protagonist) Similarities between Works A and B Dissimilarities between Works A and B Second item (like the means used for indicating symbolism) Similarities between Works A and B Dissimilarities between Works A and B The material we collect for a paper determines its best form. Always decide on a thesis before writing. If we start writing in the sweet hope that a thesis will solidify from the air of our prose, we write a disorganized paper. ^3. Concentration on Context Sometimes in studying literature, and in writing papers about it, we concen¬ trate not so much on the text as on the context of the work of art the historical, personal, or literarv backgrounds out of which the work came. Diis kind of criticism usually suggests cause and effect. We argue that the work has char¬ acteristics that derive from causes or sources in the author’s society, personal life, or reading, fo establish these characteristics the critic must usually anahze

1456

Appendix: Writing on Writing

or explicate; but then, having described these characteristics, the writer will shift emphasis from text to context. a. History and Society Whatever we do, we express the times we live in. When authors write, they reflect their own era by deploring it, by celebrating it, or even by writing to escape it. Social criticism sometimes supports philosophical positions. Some critics find literary form and content dominated and determined by economics; this criticism draws a line of causation from economic force to literary result Other social criticism relates literature to theories of nationality and national history. Often the social or historical critic tries to illuminate meaning by un¬ derstanding the social and historical conditions under which older work was written, helping the modem reader to understand how it seemed to its contem¬ poraries. When we read ancient literature, we would be ignorant if we identified a queen as a hgure resembling Queen Elizabeth II. Historical information can supply us with some notion of what it meant for Oedipus to be a king and for the somewhat different thing it meant for Hamlet’s father and Hamlet’s uncle to be kings. Because this sort of criticism requires historical knowledge, a student writing about the historical sources of a text must do research. In the library we can find what critics and historians have discovered about the relationship of Greek society to Greek drama or of Elizabethan culture to the sonnet se¬ quence. Often we can find books that give backgrounds to different literary periods, setting forth the dominating philosophical, political, and religious ideas of an era. Basil W illy s Eighteenth Century Background is an example. We need not write about remote times when we write social or historical papers. Donald Barthelme’s “The Indian Uprising” appeared at the height of the Vietnam war; a paper could investigate and illuminate the connection be¬ tween Barthelme s fantasy and the war itself. Or, receding just a little further in time, a student could connect some poems by William Butler Yeats with the political situation of Yeats’s Ireland by reading in the history of modem Ireland. b. Biography If a work of art cannot help but reflect its era, equally it cannot help but reflect the life of the man or woman who wrote it. This statement is easy enough to make, but it is often difficult to demonstrate the connection between life and work. Things are subder than they seem. For instance, a poet may speak of himself overtly—Yeats wrote the line T, the poet William Teats . . .’’—yet make statements that are not historically true. If we take the poet s word, we are often deceived. Writers frequently make up a self to speak from, and make great literature out of this fabrication. Walt Whitman constructed a character called “Walt Whitman” who was rough, manly, vigorous brave, noisy; apparently the man himself was shy, and when he read his poems aloud spoke so softly that no one could hear him past the first row. On the other hand, T. S. Eliot proclaimed the impersonality of the artist, said that

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1457

literature was a flight from personality, and proclaimed these doctrines when he had written ‘The Waste Land,” which critics have begun to understand as the most personal of poems. By noticing disparities between the poets’ procla¬ mations and realities we begin to investigate the biographical context. The student who undertakes biographical criticism should therefore take warning. Perhaps no other approach to literature requires more sophistication. Like historical criticism it requires research as well as subtlety, psychological acumen, and modesty. The last quality may be the most urgent; we may suspect a biographical connection and suggest it by inference, but we seldom know. We know only the obvious: reading a biography of Joseph Conrad, we can derive his writing about the sea from his experience as a sailor; but if we derive his ideas of evil from a childhood experience, we must be very careful. c. The Literary History If a literary work is a big river, we know the names of many of the tributaries that go to form it. There is the language an author grows up among, the common speech; there are the politics, economics, and social structure of an author’s historical period and social class; there are an author’s personal psyche, up¬ bringing, relationships with parents and siblings, even inheritance of charac¬ teristics. Another large tributary is the literature that the author has learned from. Everything a writer has read—like everything that has happened in the life— can contribute to the work done. As athletes learn their moves from watching other athletes, as a guitar player learns chords from another musician, writers learn their craft from observing, analyzing, and loving earlier literary work. For this reason literature has a history, a sequence if not a progress. Progress would imply that literature was getting better all the time, a proposition difficult to support. To write a paper in literary history, the critic must know earlier literature. Reading Conan Doyle’s short stories about Sherlock Holmes, we may look for the influence of Edgar Allan Poe, who in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” and other stories invented the modern detective story. Looking at Shaw s Saint Joan, hearing Shaw described as a follower of Ibsen, we may try to discover what the younger playwright learned from the elder. Sometimes we do the same thing in reverse; focusing on Ibsen, we write about his influence on playwrights who followed him. Although we have separated these approaches to literature’s context in order to describe them, they are not mutually exclusive. To write about influence on Keats, we read his letters and consult his biographers. We need to use expli¬ cation and analysis, within the historical or biographical or literary methods, to establish claims about the text discussed. It is most important to know what we are doing when we are doing it, and not to confuse our methods. 3. Common Pitfalls in Writing about Literature A few common errors of method occur again and again.

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Appendix: Writing on Writing

a. The Personal Error Many of the pitfalls that threaten us when we write about literature take one shape: we do not regard the work itself or its context, but some irrelevant matter from the outside. One of the most frequent irrelevancies is our personal his¬ tories and beliefs. To write a theme about one’s personal experience can be a fine thing, but such a theme is not about literature. Perhaps because it seems easier to write out of personal experience, many people fall into the personal error. Taking the subject of D. Id. Lawrence’s “The Rocking Horse Winner,” they tell about their own experience as a child with a rocking horse. Writing about Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, ” they confide that they respond to this poem with special pleasure because they are are so fond of horses. Writing about Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, they describe their experience of acting Hamlet in high school and what the local newspaper said in its review. Even without personal narrative, there is danger of sanctifying personal re¬ sponse. It is a commonly held notion in the modem world that one person’s opinion is as good as anybody else’s. The defense of misreading is usually a smug “That is how I see it, and everyone is entitled to their own opinion. ” Democratic and egalitarian as the idea appears, it is an idea we hold to only so long as it conveniences us. The same student who holds that his opinion of Plato is as worthy as his philosophy professor’s is unlikely to consider his professor’s opinion of automobile repair as good as his own. Although there are many possible ways to understand a piece of literature, it is demonstrable that some interpretations are wrong; the text denies them. No one should go to jail for having a wrong opinion—-but opinions can be wrong. Literature is not a series of cloud shapes into which we can imagine all sorts of castles. Be gov¬ erned by the text. Learn to submit to the text, to test all ideas and interpretations to the scmtiny of the text, and discard ideas that do not fit. This attitude re¬ quires humility before the fact of literature and expels or denies that conceit which says “Whatever I discover in the text is right for me.” There is more of I/me in such reading than there is of literature. b. The Historical Error A less egotistical fallacy equally an impediment to good reading is the bio¬ graphical and historical error that looks past an imaginaiy work to find events m the author’s life or times of which the work is a representation or to which it responds. This error uses the text as a pretext for discourse, not about the w ork of art but about history or biography. I do not mean to attack die good criticism that legitimately connects the work and the life, and the work to the times. Too often, readers pick on some portion of a story or a poem or a play, trust it as a piece of reality, and mn away from literature to speak of history or biography. Yeats’s poem “The Second Coming” (page 603) speaks of a time of chaos and turbulence, when “the center does not hold. / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. . . .” One student, noticing Yeats’s dates (1865-1939 ) decided that A eats was referring to the Great War of 1914-1918, and wrote:

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1459

As Yeats predicted, the great empires came apart, the German and especially the Austro-Hungarian, but really it was not “mere anarchy” because out of parts of these empires Czechoslovakia was created, and the Treaty of Versailles which followed the war determined exactly who had authority over what territory. It is true that the League of Nations . . .

Here the historical error has run away with the paper, and the student has taken a few lines from the poem as a text for a summary of world history. Information is used not to illuminate the poem but to escape from it. As a matter of fact, this poem was written after World War I at the time of the Civil War in Ireland. A similar error, biographical rather than historical, hurt a student’s paper on Tillie Olsen’s “I Stand Here Ironing.” In the story, a mother ruminates about a daughter, the mother a single parent who had lived through the Depression of the thirties. In a biographical note before the story, the student learned that Tillie Olsen was of an age to live through the thirties, that she had children, that she had been divorced. The student wrote: Tillie Olsen thinks these thoughts as she is ironing, remembering how her hus¬ band left her and she brought up her daughter and other kids by herself. Probably the sad experiences led her to becoming a writer, because she had so much to say about single parenting . . .

This student confuses the I of the short story with the author who wrote it, confuses the art of hction with the facts of biography. It is tempting to make such a mishmash, when what we know of an author fits with the author’s work—but we must avoid it. Our uninformed guesses are as likely to be wrong as right. When a writer undertakes a work, some of the material doubtless comes from the author’s experience and observation, as true as a photograph or a verbatim account; and doubdess some of the material is imagined, made up in the services of a truth-telling broader than representation. For the most part, we cannot determine what is imagined and what reported, and it does not matter. Our job as readers is not to determine the one from die other but to read the whole as a work of art. c. The Error of Induence The error of induence blights some papers in literary history. There is a logical fadacy for which there is a Latin phrase, post hoc ergo propter hoc: “ader the fact, therefore on account of the fact,” describing the human tendency to mistake sequence for cause and effect. Many poor themes assume an induence on tenuous evidence. But even when the induence is genuine, it is not always important. It may be useful to notice that I lemingway’s prose style derives from earlier authors, or to claim that without Ibsen’s realistic theater we would not have the different, realistic theater of George Bernard Shaw. In each case the causes are clear and the effects significant. But it does not follow that c\eiy literary phenomenon can usefully be discussed in terms of literary genealogy. Walt Whitman’s style was a shock to the literary world it assaulted. We have

1460

Appendix: Writing on Writing

learned that it derives pardy from old Hebrew poetry translated by the scholars of the King James version of the Bible. Yet for the most part Whitman’s style remains Whitman’s invention. Anyone asserting literary influence ought to ask the question: If what I assert is true, what, of it? It seems true enough, for instance, that the style of D. H. Lawrence’s poetry altered after he had read Walt Whitman ... but what of it? One student, noticing not only the influence but the background suggested by Whitman’s style, came up with a notion of connection: i

Lawrence’s rhythm and his use of parallel constructions changed only after he had studied Whitman in order to write his celebrated essay upon him. Such a fact, true enough, is merely a detail of influence. Whitman’s rhythms apparently unleashed something in Lawrence, but what did they unleash? I want to suggest a connection which I cannot demonstrate. We know that much of Whitman’s grammar, and therefore rhythm, came from the translations ot Hebrew poetry, in its parallel syntactic structures, as rendered by the King James translators of the seventeenth centuy. We know from Lawrence’s fiction and essays that he grew up listening to Bible readings and biblical oratory. Especially in his late work about the Book of Revelation, he reveals how essential to his emotional youth were the accents of prophecy. I suggest that Whitman affected Lawrence’s poetry by way of the Bible. Whitman’s rhythms showed Lawrence how to tap a source of feeling in himself.

Notice that this student takes a subject which has a factual base, and that he uses biographical information and inference. We know that Lawrence read Whitman with great attention because Lawrence wrote a famous essay about him. Sometimes, influence-hunters have argued the influence of X on Y where it has been virtually certain that A was wholly unaware of X, or could not possibly have read more than a story or two. Even more embarrassing, on occasion a critic has described the influence of A on B—when B died before A was bom. 4. Reading the Critics If students are asked to write about history, biography, or literary influence, they are expected to use the library, to read historians, biographers, critics, and scholars. Here we must address a question: If we explicate or analyze only_not re¬ quiring background information—how much do we use the library, how much do we refer to critics who have published analyses and explications of the works we write about? Some teachers find it useful to ask their students to check out the critics, to test their own notions against the published work of professionals. Other teacheis ask their students not to consult critics; some even forbid the practice. Many teachers feel that reading professional criticism inhibits their students and keeps them from developing their own ideas, from making mistakes and learning to correct their mistakes, from finding their own ways to evaluate and interpret. With an exaggerated respect for the printed word, these teachers argue, students become passive when they read critics; they assume that pub-

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1461

lished work must be correct and parrot it back in their own papers. On the other hand, students doing their own work without help or interference from professional critics, knowing that fellow students also work alone, do their best work. B. Writing the theme 1. Before Writing: Getting Ideas Whether the topic is assigned or free, we need to gather ideas as the first stage of the paper-writing process, long before beginning a first draft. Generally we will know which works we are to write about. If we have a choice, we should pick the work that fascinates us most, even if we feel we do not understand it thoroughly. It is a deadly mistake to pick something uninter¬ esting because we think it is simple or easy. If we are not interested we will never write well about it. The story, poem, or play chosen, we must then undertake a series of thorough readings, pencil in hand. If the book is our own, we can write in the margins or underline. (If the book belongs to a library or someone else, do not make a mark on it.) Some notes will spill over the page, and we should keep a notebook beside the chair we read in. At first, we should not look for anything in particular, but take note of everything that st rikes us— a pun, a piece of wit, a gesture that makes character, a rhyme, an ambiguity, a curious tone, a word to look up, a striking image, a puzzling repetition. We should make note not only of what we enjoy but of what puzzles or annoys us. We should read aggressively, demanding of each word or sentence that it reveal its function and usefulness. We should note big and note litde, note outside and inside. If a short story occurs entirely in dialogue, or without dialogue, we should not neglect the fact. If a poem is fourteen lines long, we should remem¬ ber that it can be embarrassing to write five pages on a brief poem without having mentioned that it is a sonnet. We should read, taking notes, for one long session, then put the theme out of our minds for a day before we return to read again. It is astonishing how much thinking we do when we do not know we are thinking. The next stage is to assemble notes toward a conclusion. If we are writing an explication, we may use all the notes that continue to look sensible, that contribute to understanding and elucidating the meaning and form of the text. If we are writing analvsis, we will need to narrow the topic, which will probably mean discarding many notes. Took for a topic large enough to be worth the time and effort, small enough to be handled in the space assigned. Analyzing the use of games in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, we can discard many notes on characterization, on the use of names, on parallels and di\ ei gences from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. 2. Writing and Revising Notes make a blueprint for constructing the paper. It helps to make an in¬ formal outline, a recognition of what needs to follow^ what in order to demon¬ strate a thesis. These notes can be numbered in a notebook, or transferred to

1462

Appendix: Writing on Writing

three-by-five-inch cards and stacked in order, or cut from long sheets and piled in appropriate piles. Probably many notes will refer to pages and lines of the text, for the heart of literary criticism is intelligent quotation. No amount of good argument—about characterization in Chekhov, or dialogue in Katherine Anne Porter—will persuade the reader so much as the brief, accurate example. Any paper will need to assert a thesis, list occasions, and exemplify. We should always try to spend at least one day away from our paper, between a draft and a revision. Revising, we should check for good, complete sentences, fresh language, logic, accurate quotation, and correct spelling. Revising, we should try for conciseness. We all use too many adjectives, and for that matter we may find that we can drop a whole paragraph here and there. If we leave big margins in typing a first draft, or type it triple-space, we will be grateful for the correcting space. Revising, we fill out paragraphs that remain thin; we find more reasons, more examples, and bolster our points. We examine the order of ideas, arguments, and examples. 3. Manuscript Form Teachers sometimes require particular form for papers. In the absence of other directions, the notes that follow should serve in most circumstances. a. Paper, Margins, etc. Use 8VUby-11 -inch-paper. ^APe if you can, double space, “Avoid erasible typing paper, which smudges. If you write by hand, use paper with deep lines, or write every other line on narrow-lined paper. Use only one side of a piece of paper. Put your name, your teacher s name, class and section number, and date in the upper right-hand comer of your paper. Leave margins of 114 inches at top, bottom, and sides. Always make a copy_ a carbon or a photocopy—before you hand your paper in. Number your pages. Staple your pages together in the upper left-hand comer. b. Titles Underline the tides of books and plays (The Old Man and the Sea. Hamlet). Put quotation marks around tides of short stories (“A Worn Path”) and poems shorter than book length (“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”). A booklength poem’s tide is underlined (The Iliad). Note that tides underlined in pa¬ pers will be italicized in print. c. Quotations Use quotation marks around excerpts from literature that you quote within sentence and paragraph: *

When William Carlos Williams looked at a primitive, piece of farm machinery, he saw something which he made important through the power of his seeing; he saw it “glazed with rain / water ...” He saw It “beside the white / chickens .’. .” But seeing was not die only sense the doctor .

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1463

(We use a / , when quoting a poem, to indicate a line break.) But when we separate a quotation from sentence and paragraph—indenting it and typing it single space—we do not use quotation marks because we have indicated quo¬ tation by the spacings of the typography: When William Carlos Williams looked at a primitive piece of farm machinery, he saw something important because of the power of his seeing: glazed with rain water beside the white chickens But seeing was not the only sense that the doctor employed in making his poems. . . .

These two ways of quoting are appropriate to different lengths of quotation. When we are quoting only a few words, we include the quotation within the paragraph, and put quotation marks around it. When we quote more than a few words, we indent the quotation, single-space it, and omit quotation marks— except when the quoted passage itself has already used quotation marks. d. Footnotes When we clearly quote from the text under discussion, as in an explication, there is no point in footnoting. Often we can note the source of a quotation, without a footnote, in the text of the paper: “About halfway through the fourth scene, Guildenstem says to Rosencrantz ...” Or: “Not until the fifth line does Frost use an image of sight ...” When we find it awkward to include such information in the flow of sen¬ tences, a parenthesis can be used: “Early in Hamlet (I, ii, 14-19), we discover that ...” Sometimes it is easiest, if there is likely to be any confusion, simply to footnote a reference. Always be certain that the reader knows what he is reading. When we quote or paraphrase from a critic, scholar, biographer, or histo¬ rian_or even from the Encyclopaedia Britannica—we must always footnote our sources. If we take full notes when we read and remain scrupulous in noting the sources of our ideas or words, no one will ever accuse us of plagiarism; plagiarism is stealing, borrowing, or otherwise appropriating other people’s ideas or sentences. To quote from a book, copy the quotation accurately, put quotation marks around it, and put a number slightly higher than the line of words:1. Number sequentially throughout your paper; i. e., do not begin a new series of numbers on each page. Footnoting from a book, give this information in this order: author’s name, book’s tide, edition number if any, city and publisher, date, and the number of the page quoted from. Here is one example:

JX. J. Kennedy, Literature, 2nded. (Boston: Little, Brown, 1979), pp. 1386-1387.

1464

Appendix: Writing on Writing

When quoting from a magazine article, use the volume number and date in place of the edition number, city, publisher, and date. Here is an example: u Howard Norman, “Diy Tomb,” Westigan Review, vol. 3, no. 4 (Fall 1978), 10.

When we refer again, later in the paper, to a source quoted earlier, we can shorten the reference to the writer s name and give the different page number: Kennedy, 1385.

But if we refer to two different books by Kennedy, or poems by Norman, we would need to use full footnote form, and in further references distinguish between the two sources by quoting title as well as author. e. Bibliography When we have consulted books or magazines in order to write a paper, we should list everything consulted on a separate sheet at the end of the paper, in a bibliography. We should list material consulted even if we have not footnoted the source as a quote or a paraphrase. Arrange the list alphabetically by the author’s last name. We list anonymous works alphabetically by title, using the first words after an article. A book: Newman, Edwin. Strictly Speaking. New York: Warner Books, 1975.

An article in a book: Hamm, Pete. “The Language of the New Politics.” In Language in America. Ed. Neil Postman, Charles Weingartner, and Terence P. Moran. New York- Pegasus 1969. ‘ * ’

An article in a magazine: Middleton, Christopher. “Notes on a Viking Prow,” PN Review, 10, Vol 6 No

2, 6-8. An anonymous article from an encyclopedia: “Geisha.” The Columbia Encyclopedia. 1963.

C. A paper from start to finish In a course introducing literature, an instructor assigned a paper on fiction asking students to write on one of three stories: James Baldwin’s “This Morn¬ ing, This Evening, So Soon,” Carson McCullers’ “A Tree, A Rock, A Cloud,” or Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. ’s “Harrison Bergeron. ” A student named Ralph Giannello chose to write about “Harrison Bergeron. ” The assignment called for an anal¬ ysis m five hundred words: find a topic, elaborate it into a thesis, and prove the thesis.

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1465

Ralph liked the story, but at first had no notion of what to say about it. I Ie reread the story, making checks in the margin when something caught his attention, not searching for a particular topic. Then he read it again, more slowly, and took notes in his notebook naming the points of interest. Here is the first page of notes he took: unusual name? Harrison President of U.S.? (Two)—Bergeron? 2081—sig. to date? “finally equal” first sentence starts theme of story? “equal” in first three sentences Handicapper—look up brains equal unfair advantage buzzer ballerinas with weights—horses—“handicap” milk bottle/hammer Diana Moon Glompers—?name gunfire 47 lbs bird shot all talk is cliches siren ANTI-UTOPIA Harrison’s “handicaps,” appearance auto-collision “I am the Emperor”? crazy? dance/mu sic/art law-land/gravity suspended in air? fantasy? sadness/“forget sad things” rivetting gun say that again—old joke

When Ralph looked up “handicap,” he confirmed his suspicion that the word meant first a forced or assumed disadvantage, as in a horse race; the dictionary listed “physical disability”—a meaning with which Ralph was more familiar— as secondary. In a horse race, he read, a horse may be handicapped by weights added to its saddle, making it equal to horses normally less swift. Looking over his list, thinking of the story, Ralph decided that the author’s topic was equality. “But”—he wrote in a note—“it’s not equality like people being bom with equal rights before the law. It’s a kind of equality which makes everybody exacdy the same. Not equal but average ability and achievement Bright and beautiful handicapped down to average brains and average looks.” lie had noted that Vonnegut’s story was an “anti-utopia,” set in a future which exaggerated a social idea into a horrid reality. Trying to formulate a thesis, Ralph wrote at the bottom of his notes, “Vonnegut imagines a future where everybody is forced to be average regardless of ability.” Trite enough, he thought, but this thesis was obvious, uninteresting, and omitted much of the story. He tried again: “George and Helen Bergeron have a genius son named Harrison, driven crazy by . . .’’He stopped, reminding himself that a thesis was not a plot summary.

1466

Appendix: Writing on Writing

He looked back over bis notes. He drew lines through some of them, because they led nowhere, and put additional question marks where he was unsure. Then he put letters beside items that seemed to go together. -unusual name? Harrison President of U.S.? (Two)—Bergeron? 0081—sig. to date?

A

“Finally equal” first sentence starts theme of story?

A

“equal” in first three sentences

C

Iiandicapper—look up

A

brains equal unfair advantage

B

buzzer

C

ballerinas with weights—horses—“handicap”

B

milk botde/hammer

C

Diana Moon Glompers—?name

B

gunfire

C

47 lbs bird shot

D

all talk is cliches

B

siren

!!!

ANTI-UTOPIA

C

Harrison’s “handicaps,” appearance

B

auto-collision

“E

“I am the Emperor”? crazv? -dance/music/art—

A? law-land/gravity T—suspended in air? fantasy?

D

sadness/“forget sad things”

B

rivetting gun

D

say that again—old joke

Then he noticed something about the notes he had labeled B. All of the noises that entered George’s head are noises that we live with today; we needn’t wait until 2081 for diem. Ralph had heard the phrase “noise pollution” to describe the racket of daily life in cities and highways, shopping centers and college campuses. George s intelligence and concentration span is limited by things that we all live with: buzzers, hammerings gunfire, sirens, collisions, and riveting guns. This anti-utopia, Ralph saw, was not just Vonnegut’s vision of a bad future; it was also his satire of a bad present.

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1467

This notion added something to his thesis: “Although Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.’s science-fiction story ‘Harrison Bergeron’ is an anti-utopia attacking the idea that equality means being the same, it is also a satire of present conditions which prevent individuals from exercising their brains and talents. ” It was too long a thesis sentence, he decided, but he used it tentatively, as a map, when he read the story again, underlining and making check marks. He wrote a draft, let it sit overnight, and rewrote it; he omitted a discussion of whether HaiVison was crazy or pretending to be crazy when he declared himself emperor, and whether he really floated in the air or the author exag¬ gerated to show how graceful the dancing was. These speculations did not advance his thesis, nor was it essential to deal with them in order to construct his paper. (If he had talked about everything he thought of, his paper would have lacked focus.) He expanded his remarks on the nature of the handicap¬ ping, which he felt was needed for his critical argument. He rewrote the paper, corrected it again for spelling, paragraphing, and sentence structure, typed a fresh copy, and handed it in. The last thing he thought of was a title. Ralph Giannello English 102, sect. 4 Dr. Carmichael February 10, 1980. The Future Now Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.’s “Harrison Bergeron” is science fiction because it is set in the future, but it is not a future of space travel, time warps, or little people with green brains. It is a future of political oppression, in the name of equality, enforced by gadgets. The story’s theme is philosophical or political, and by making an antiutopia in the future Vonnegut criticizes present-day society. In the world of 2081 which Vonnegut imagines, the United States has made it illegal, by “the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution,” to be anvthing but average. Being average is called being equal. The author makes his premise clear at the very beginning of the story, when he writes that now . everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law, they were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking them anybody else. The author shows us how the government enforces equality by means of handi¬ caps. The strong carry weights, like a fast horse handicapped in a race to make it average in strength and speed. Beauty is disguised to look ordinary, and brains are befuddled by the constant interruption of noise. The story’s events hold up to ridicule this idea of equality as sameness. We watch graceful dancers made to dance badly, and musicians prevented from mak¬ ing beautiful music. Because he shows us good things prevented, the author clearly indicates that he disagrees with an interpretation of equality which hinders excellence. When the author says, in the passage quoted, “They weren’t only equal before God and the law,” I think that he shows us the true ideal of equality, the ideal from the old Constitution before these amendments.

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Appendix: Writing on Writing

At the story’s end the author gives us no hope for the future. The revolution attempted by Harrison Bergeron, seven-foot genius and son of the story’s main characters, fails when he is killed by the United States Handicapper General, who is in charge of enforcing equality-as-averageness. But I feel that the story is not so much a prediction of the future as a criticism of the present world. First, George and Hazel Bergeron talk exactly like ordinary people right now. Hazel talks in cliches and bad grammar that make her sound like a character in a television show. “You been so tired lately—kind of wore out. ” “He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. ” The story ends with Hazel repeating one of the oldest jokes in the world. George says, “You can say that again,” and so she says it again. Either she repeats an old joke or she is dumb enough to think he actually wants her to repeat herself. George talks in cliches too, and seems to believe in enforced mediocrity, but Vonnegut shows him struggling more than Hazel does. George keeps starting to have a thought, but his chief handicap-gadget is a radio in his ear which keeps blasting noise in his ear so that he cannot think consistently. As Vonnegut tells it, George’s attention span is destroyed, not by futuristic noises of 2081, but by things which blast our eardrums every day right now—by the noises of a buzzer, for instance, or of an automobile collision, or of a rivetting gun. Vonnegut shows us that his dreaded world of the future, where noise pollution prevents us from thinking consecutive thoughts, is already here—or at least beginning. He suggests that noise pollution has the effect of making us all average in our brains, and suggests tliat maybe some people like it that way.

II. Writing on each of the genres The nature of each genre suggests special advice, to which the first part of this appendix is a general prologue. A. Writing about fiction 1. Explicating Fiction Because explication is line-by-line explanation, it would take us too long to explicate a whole work of fiction. Sometimes, however, we explicate a paragraph or a few lines of a work of fiction, relating it to the whole. In teaching James Joyce’s huge novel Ulysses, some teachers have found it useful to assign one paragraph, asking students to explain everything in it and relate it to the rest of the novel. In a less demanding version of that assignment, a teacher may assign explication of one significant passage from a short story. Sometimes a passage of description or setting may relate to a protagonist’s character, the way Faulkner’s description of the town’s architecture in “A Rose for Emily” applies to Miss Emily herself. Or a writer may explicate the last few lines of a story—including perhaps dialogue, narrative, and description—word by word, and reveal the whole story by explaining its conclusion. »

2. Analyzing Fiction In the analysis of fiction, we separate it into parts and examine one part. In analyzing “Harrison Bergeron,” Ralph isolated elements of theme. For a re¬ minder of the elements of fiction, look again at the chapter headings of ‘To

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1469

Read a Story”—plot, character, setting, and the rest. Remember that not every story contains all elements; many stories, for instance, do not deal in symbols. For an analysis of plot, look at the first chapter of ‘To Read a Story,” where several pages about “A Rose for Emily” analyze Faulkner’s manipulation of plot. Because these pages intend to describe the story as a whole, they also include remarks on characterization, setting, and other elements. Analyzing plot in particular, the writer will want to understand the plot function of everything reported; if an episode seems out of place, what in fact is its use to the story, and why does it seem out of place? If sequence is other than chronological—if there is a flashback, for instance—what purpose does the sequence serve? Does the plot’s action surprise? How? And why? Is there foreshadowing? What is the climax and the denouement? In analyzing any element of fiction, the writer will do well to reread the chapter about the element he analyzes before writing the paper. Often a useful subject for analysis in fiction is the characterization of one important character. Writing an analysis of characterization, the student should try to note everything in the story that gives an impression of the character chosen. Such impressions may derive from the character’s major actions, from minor gestures of hands and eyebrows, from the character’s speech or dialogue and other characters’ response to it, from others’ speech and actions in the character’s absence, from the setting if it is described to suggest something about the character, sometimes from the author’s outright statements, from tone and from point of view. Point of view is itself subject to analysis, especially when it undergoes subde change as it does in Chekhov’s “Gooseberries,” or when it is especially impor¬ tant to theme. Any of fiction’s elements may be subject to analysis. 3. Comparison and Contrast in Writing about Fiction When we use comparison and contrast for papers in fiction, we are often comparing thematic matters, usually not the entire theme of stories but parts of themes. For instance, Eudora Welty in “A Worn Path” and Flannery O’Connor in “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” write about old women. A com¬ parison and contrast might be “The Aging of Opposites.” Or a theme about two sorts of female endurance might combine “A Worn Path” with Tillie Olsen’s “I Stand Here Ironing.” On the other hand, comparisons and contrasts of fiction’s technical elements can provide excellent subjects. Compare, for instance, the use of the first-per¬ son narrator in “I Stand Here Ironing” and John Cheever’s “The Chaste Clar¬ issa.” Compare the use of setting in Mary Eavin’s “The Green Grave and the Black Grave” and Joseph Conrad’s Arouth.” 4. Things to Avoid when Writing about Fiction A pitfall in writing about fiction is plot summary. We have all grown up listening to friends make forty-five-minute summaries of thirty-minute televi¬ sion shows. Unless instructed otherwise, assume that the reader knows what happens in the story, and refer only to those events that are germane to the

1470

Appendix: Writing on Writing

thesis of the paper. Do not summarize except in the service of explanation. Anything else is padding. Remember as well to avoid both the personal and the biographical errors. If we write about stories by Joyce or Lavin, it is irrelevant that our grandfather is Irish, or that we spent a summer in Dublin. If we write about Barthelme’s “The Indian Uprising,” it is irrelevant to speak of an uncle’s protest against the Vietnam war. Of course if we are assigned contextual analysis, the history of the war protests would not be irrelevant. We must never drift unconsciously from one kind of criticism to another.

B. Writing about poetry At first glance, it may seem easier or harder to write about poems than about stories—easier because poems tend to be shorter, harder because poems have the reputation of being difficult to understand. Although they are usually short, poems are complex and require a dense and attentive reading. Yet if we write about a poem that we respond to, that pleases us in its sound and its wisdom, we can fmd writing about it a pleasure as compact and shapely as the poem itself. With a short poem, we can have the pleasure of saying eveiything we know about it, as we cannot do with a story or a play. Writing about poems tests our ability, most of all, to respond to the words writers use, to their associations and connections, to their connotations and denotations, to their rhythms and their sounds.

1. Explicating Poems For an example of explication, look again at the poems explained in the first chapter of ning

Do Read a Poem —Frosts ^Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Eve¬

and Williams’s “so much depends.” These explications are longer and

more detailed than most teachers will expect from students beginning a study of literature, but they give notions of method and range. Remember that when we explain a poem or a passage in poetry, we should attend to form as well as to content; we must not simply indicate intellectual understanding bv para¬ phrase, but account for the shape and sound of a poem as well as its paraphrasable content. Paraphrase is a necessary part of explication; it is not the whole thing. Many critics beginning an explication find it useful to summarize the action and theme of the poem as a prelude, giving a brief account of the whole before concen¬ trating on the parts. This summary is like the beginning of a speech in a debate, which tells us the general conclusion the argument will lead to. With explication as with argument, the proof is in the pudding. The step-by-step explanation of the use and function of particular words is the pudding of explication. I o write a paper of explication, we should always pick a poem which pleases us and which we find fascinating. It will not serve to choose something we do not respond to, or something about which we find little intriguing. It is all right (it is possibly even good tactics) if something in the poem either displeases us 01 remains puzzling. When we have chosen a poem to write about, or narrowed choice down to a few, we should read and reread and reread. Read with a pencil

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1471

or pen in hand, taking notes both of observations about the poem and about puzzlements. After many readings, with note-taking, it is wise to refresh the mind about the elements of poetry and reread again to notice matters possibly ignored. Everyone is naturally more sensitive to certain elements than to oth¬ ers. Perhaps we find ourselves sensitive to the poem’s structure as argument, if it is a poem that structures an argument. Perhaps we need to look harder to pick up the poem’s images and their connections. Use the elements of poetry, as noted in the chapters of this text, as a checklist suggesting what to look for. Not all poems will satisfy all items on the checklist of chapters. But it is our task as explicators to make ourselves aware of everything that is there. Here is a paper by a student named Mary Lois Goldberg, who picked a short poem by Robert Frost for explication. Mistaking Snow Only eight lines long, Robert Frost’s “A Patch of Old Snow” appears as slight as it is brief Close reading of the poem, however, reveals that its off-hand manner or tone conceals something more serious than first appears. In this disparity be¬ tween appearance and reality, between apparent lightness and real seriousness, we see a poem typical of Frost. The title gives us no problem, because the poem’s primary subject is simply “a patch of old snow.” Somebody might try to work something out of the dictionary definition of “patch” as a “piece of material ... to conceal or reinforce. . P’1 Per¬ haps the poem in its playful tone acts as a concealment of its own seriousness— but really I don’t think the title expresses an idea of hiding. The snow is “a patch” because it is smaller than the earth it lies on. One of the first things I noticed about this poem was its rhyme, which is really good! They are rhymes which you would never expect. First, a verb with a -ed ending—“guessed,” which we pronounce the same as “guest” really—is rhymed with the noun “rest. ” Just because they are spelled differendy, and maybe because they are different parts of speech, they seem as if they should not go together, but they do. Then the second rhyme is a rhyme of two syllables, which is unusual in itself: “overspread it” and “read it.” Although the parts of speech are the same— a verb followed by a pronoun object—the first of the verbs has three syllables and the second has one. This difference contributes to the surprise of the rhyme, and the surprise gives part of the poem’s pleasure. The poem is written not only in rhyme but in meter. The first and third fines of each stanza have three feet and the second and fourth have two. (Trimeter and dimeter). Some of the feet are three-syllable ) and some are two-syllable (w). I don’t know whether to call the meter anapestic or iambic. Here is my scansion:

1 American Heritage Dictionary, William Morris, ed., American Heritage Publishing Co. Inc. & Houghton Mifflin Co.: Boston, 1969.

1472

Appendix: Writing on Writing

'w1

W'

/

^

f

W

W'w'/W

There’s a patch | of old snow | in a comer w

w

/

f

w

That I should | have guessed Was a blow | away pap | er the rain \J

f

w

/

Had brought | to rest. It is speck | led with grime | as if w

f

w w

/

w

Small print | overspread it w1

f

w

w

/

w

w

/

w

The news | of a day | I’ve forgotten— If I ev | er read it.

Thirteen of the twenty feet are anapestic and seven are iambic; maybe we should call the meter anapestic with iambic tendencies. Of the eight lines, half have feminine endings, including the last line of the poem. Having written all this about meter, I am not sure what to say about it. I wonder if the tentativeness or uncertainty of the meter—all those extra syllables, or all those syllables cut away—might combine with the surprise of the rhyme to pull you along feeling that you are not just sure where you are going. But with the direct (if surprising) rhyme, and the foot-numbers staying the same, when you come to the end you know that this is the only place you could have come to. Each stanza is composed of one sentence, and each sentence also seems ten¬ tative or uncertain at first, and finally conclusive. Frost built the sentences so that they stick together (which is like the direct rhyme and count of feet) but so that it’s hard to see how they stick together (which is like the witty rhymes and mixed feet). The “I should have guessed” in the second line is an interruption to “that • • • was”—except that without the interruption the sentence would not make any sense because it would mix present and past tenses. Therefore the sentence looks at first as if it were careless or off-hand, but when you put it together, you see that all the parts fit and are necessaiy. Finally I want to talk about the meaning or theme in the poem, and I come to it only now because I think that the poem needs its own sound-shape and sen¬ tence-shape to say what it has to say. The statement of die poem is easy enough to paraphrase: I see a piece of snow and at first I think it is a piece of newspaper because it looks like one, but it is a small matter anyhow. But the poem seems to me to imply something more. There are two things I want to notice, one in each stanza. First is “paper,” which could be wrapping paper or waxpaper but turns out to be newspaper. I think that the delay in discovering the kind of paper is a teasing which is like the surprise of the rhymes. Then in the second stanza, “speckled with grime” is an accurate image for old snow—and when I notice this I suddenly realize that this poem about something visible has hardly any images in it. The tide, “A Patch of Old Snow,” is an image, but not a vivid one. If this poem does not end in description, then what does it end in? > I think this poem is about a casual, unremarkable visual mistake—and then it says, “So what; it doesn’t matter. ” At first the poet reports that, he “would have guessed that a clump of old snow was a piece of paper. We give easy assent to the comparison: yes, in April a piece of dirty snow does look like a newspaper. Hien in the second stanza frost explains that grime is speckled on snow as print

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1473

overspreads paper, almost as if he needs to say: look; this mistake was easy to make! Then, as if he felt that he had protested too much, he says that the news¬ paper (which does not exist except as a mental error) probably did not have any news important to him anyway, because he would have forgotten it. As his with¬ drawal seems complete, he withdraws further: “If I ever read it. ” He has made a mistake and explained, and then said it’s not worth worrying about, but at the same time he has shown himself worrying about it—a lot!

Another student in the same class decided that patch was a key word, that it implied diminishment, concealment, and repair in the poem—and wrote a good paper to defend her ideas. 2. Analyzing Poems Analysis of a poem isolates a part, identifies it, and relates part to whole. Where explication unfolds a whole poem or passage, analysis deals with one element, usually in a longer poem or part of a poem. In the text of “To Read a Poem,” many poems or passages are analyzed for one element—for the use of language, imagery, metaphor, for allusion, symbolism, rhythm, assonance and alliteration, and meter. For examples, look at the metaphorical analysis of a Shakespearean sonnet on pages 422—423, or the analysis of allusion in Louise Bogan’s epigram on pages 439—440. Students writing analytical papers often limit their topics by concentrating on one part of an element. Theodore Roethke’s “The Meadow Mouse” (pages 533—534) includes so many images that “Imagery in The Meadow Mouse’ ” would make a long paper; we could narrow it to “ ‘My Thumb of a Child’: Images of Infancy in Roethke’s ‘Meadow Mouse.’ ” Writing about Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” a student might analyze “The Tone of Frost’s Speaker,” or “Frost’s Smart Horse in ‘Stopping by Woods . . . ,’ ” or “Images of Cold and Comfort. ” Dealing with a longer poem, a writer might isolate one character: “The Characterization of the Hired Man in Frost’s ‘Death of the Hired Man’ or analyze a part of theme: “Definitions of‘Home’ in Frost’s ‘Death of the Hired Man.’ ” Writing analysis, we remain aware that everything is related to everything else. If we speak of images, it is hard not to mention metaphor, because many images make metaphors. Discussing the metaphorical structure of a sonnet, we will notice that some of the linkage among metaphors is accomplished by images. Sometimes we can lose track of our topic by noticing too closely the interrelationships of many elements. We need, sometimes, to mention a rhyme when we are discussing characterization, if the rhyme makes a point of char¬ acter. But we should not be sidetracked into a discussion of rhyme just because the subject comes up. We must keep watch of ourselves, as we write, that we do not lose track. A clear thesis can be the North Star to guide us through the wilderness of analysis. In making a thesis, it is best to look for an element that has relevance to the whole poem. Sometimes we can fall into an analysis which records accurately some facts about a poem but stops short of showing the relevance of these facts. A formal analysis of a sonnet that only disclosed the existence of sonnet

1474

Appendix: Writing on Writing

form would be trivial, too elementaiy for the name of analysis. However, a good analytical paper could be written which showed how sonnet form reflected itself in the poem’s shapely argument, sorting itself out into the quatrains (if the sonnet is Shakespearean) and into octave and sestet. 3. Comparison and Contrast in Writing about Poems We illustrate analyzed elements of poems by comparing and contrasting them. Sometimes we find within one poet’s work a habit of writing or thinking: “Emily Dickinson’s Imagery of Animals. ” Such a paper might compare and contrast parts of three or four Dickinson poems to investigate her use of animal images. Not only images, but structural devices, recurrent symbols, and themes may provide material for comparative analysis. On the other hand, sometimes we contrast two or more poets. “Poets and Flowers: Two Strategies in Roethke and Frost” compares Frost’s “Design” with Roethke’s “Orchids. ” Any comparison and contrast, within one poet’s work or among different poets, will require separate analyses or small explications, and judgment on likeness or difference. Note the remarks on the structure of such papers, pages 1452—1454. 4. Things to Avoid when Writing about Poems In writing about poetry, we frequently fail by becoming too personal, by em¬ phasizing our response or our connections with the poet’s subject matter. For some reason, we tend to commit this kind of error more often in writing about poems than in writing about the other genres. Do not confuse the speaker of the poem with the poet in his own skin. Stick to your thesis. Do not let the interrelatedness of a poem’s elements lead you into a disorganized paper. C. Writing about drama Usually we are asked to write about a play we have read rather than a per¬ formance which we have witnessed. Reviewing a performance is different; for notes on reviewing, see page 1476. Writing about modem plays, remember that the author provides stage direc¬ tions, and often interpretations of characters’ feelings; these indicators are as much the play as the dialogue is, and help us to stage our mental theater. In older plays we supply the scene and understand the characters from the spoken words of dialogue, sometimes with the help of modern editors and commentators. Because the historical context of older dramas supplies the limits of mental theater, even in the shape of the physical stages, we should consult background information while studying the play we write about. 1. Explicating Drama Explication of a whole play, or even of an act, is out of the question. We might explicate a brief scene, no longer than a page, or better still a key speech by a key character. Writing about a sufficiently important speech, however, the student is apt to feel that in order to explain it thoroughly everything in the play

Appendix: Writing on Writing

1475

must be accounted for. As with fiction, we must be careful to stick to our topic, and to avoid plot summary. Refer to other acts and scenes by using a Roman numeral capital for the act, lower-case Roman numerals for the scene: II, iii or V, iv. 2. Analyzing Drama Analysis is our most common method in writing about drama. By analysis we limit our topic. Noticing the importance of stage business in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, we may be tempted to isolate this element as “Stage Directions in The Cherry Orchardbut unless we are called upon for a long term paper, we need to narrow our topic. “Fiers’s Business: The Servant on Chekhov’s Stage” would make a manageable topic. We would need to spend most of our time seeing what Chekhov’s stage directions tell Fiers to do, and deciding what we can learn of Fiers’s physical actions from dialogue. Then as part of our topic we would briefly relate Fiers’s business to the play as a whole. The theme of a play is too large a subject, but we may analyze theme into parts. Defining all the uses to which the play puts the cherry orchard would be too much; we could define the orchard’s meaning to one or two characters. By analyzing the use of trains in that play (references in dialogue, offstage whistles) we could touch on the play’s structure and the play’s theme. Whatever element attracts us, as we reread the play with an eye to writing about it, we must be alert to subdivide it into smaller parts for analysis. Many of the elements discussed when we read fiction or poetry can sustain analysis in writing about drama, if we narrow them sufhciendv; plot, character, setting, tone, symbolism, imagery, metaphor. Aristode’s six elements provide another way to look at a play’s components. It might be wise to glance again at the headings of CfcTo Read a Play.” 3. Comparison and Contrast in Writing about Drama Different playwrights may be contrasted for any elements, for construction and characterization and dialogue. But focus must narrow. Do not attempt to compare and contrast the characters of Hamlet and Oedipus. It would be pos¬ sible, nevertheless, to compare and contrast recognition scenes in which each protagonist recognizes an inevitable horror. It is possible to contrast scenes of comic and tragic unmasking. In this book, the most rewarding pair of works for comparison and contrast is Hamlet and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. The richness of these contrasts makes it difficult to narrow the topic, but it can be done. 4. A Paper on Staging Another land of paper, which some instructors assign, asks the student to write imagining how to stage a small segment of a play. Taking one scene of Hamlet, for instance, a student might stage it as it might have been played at Shakespeare’s Globe Theater, using the possibilities and limitations of the Elizabethan stage, indicating props, blocking, and the use of different areas of the stage. On the other hand, a student might write an account of the same

1476

Appendix: Writing on Writing

scene produced on a modem stage. Such a paper, depending on the instructor’s wishes, may include indications of spectacle from lighting to make-up to cos¬ tuming, down to the director’s indications for actors’ interpretation. 5. Reviewing a Performance When we review a new performance of an old play, we should reread the play’s text before attending the performance, establishing in our minds a range of possibilities for production. We should be ready to be surprised by a director’s original, valid interpretation. We should be ready'as well to indicate in our review the nature of that interpretation, to estimate its validity, and to evaluate specifics of the production. It helps if we have seen other productions of the same play, to make comparison and contrast. When we review a new play, we set ourselves the considerable task of making an intellectual separation between the play’s text, which we have experienced only as a performance, and the performance of that text. We want to report on the value of the play at the same time we evaluate the jobs done by director, scene designer, costumer, and actors. In practice such a separation may prove more than difficult, but we should attempt it. It will help to consult some reviews of recent openings, usually in New York, in the pages of The New York Times, The New Yorker, Time, Newsweek, and other publications. Often critics attempt this separation, telling us that a new play is thin and trite, but that one or two superb performances almost save the evening; or that despite a prom¬ ising script, miscasting or poor direction has left the performance a shambles. Reviewing sounds like an impossible task; it is not an easy one. However, writing a play review is an excellent exercise in trying to investigate the com¬ plexities of theater, the play itself as well as the variable particulars of perform¬ ance. Writing a review, we must keep our readers in mind. If we write for a news¬ paper, we may need to summarize the play’s plot even if it is Hamlet, to teach readers whom we cannot assume to have read the text. We must account for the play’s text, and for the director’s interpretation. We must list actors by name, and report on their competence; we must judge stage design, and even costuming and lighting if they are remarkable. 6. Things to Avoid when Writing about Drama When we write about drama, we need especially to concentrate on narrowing our focus, because the length and variety of good drama tempt us to wander, to lose track, to write diffusely. Beware of plot summary except when it is essential to the particulars of statement. Hiis ad\ ice and these rules of thumb—-whether they apply to a four-line poem or a five-act tragedy should serve one purpose: to clarify our thinking about literature in the act of writing about it.

Acknowledgments

Edward Albee. The Zoo Story by Edward Albee, copyright © 1960 by Edward Albee. Reprinted by permission of Coward, McCann & Geoghegan, Inc. The Zoo Story is the sole property of the author and is fully protected by copyright. It may not be acted by either professionals or amateurs without written consent. Public readings, radio and television broadcasts are likewise forbidden. All inquiries concerning these rights should be addressed to the William Morris Agency, 1350 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10019. Woody Allen. “The Whore ofMensa” from Without Feathers by Woody Allen, copyright © 1974 by Woody .Allen, is reprinted by permission of Random I louse, Inc. This story first appeared in The New Yorker. A. R. .Ammons. “Working with Tools” from Briefings: Poems Small and Easy by A. R. Ammons is reprinted by permission ofW. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Copyright © 1971 by A. R. Ammons. Max Apple. “The Changing of America” from The O ranging of America by Max Apple; copyright © 1974, 1975, 1976 by Max Apple. Reprinted by permission ofViking Penguin Inc. John Ashbery. “Rivers and Mountains” from Rivers and Mountains by John Ashbery; copyright © 1962, 1963, 1964, 1966 by John Ashbery. Reprinted by permission of Georges Borchardt, Inc. W. H. Auden. “In Memory of W. B. Yeats” and “Musee des Beaux Arts” from W. H. Auden: Collected Poems by W'. H. Auden, edited by Edward Mendelson; copyright 1940 and renewed 1968 by W. H. Auden; reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc., and from Collected Shorter Poems 1927-1957 by W. II. Auden, reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Limited. Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones). “Watergate” and “Careers” from Selected Poetry of Amiri Baraka/ LeRoi Jones; copyright © 1979 by Imamu Amiri Baraka. Reprinted by permission of William Mor¬ row & Company. Donald Barthleme. “Indian Uprising” from Unspeakable Practices, Unnatural Acts by Donald Barthleme; copyright © 1965 by Donald Barthleme. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. This story originally appeared in The New Yorker. Stephen Berg and Diskin Clay. Oedipus the King by Sophocles, translated by Stephen Berg and Diskin Clay; copyright © 1978 by Stephen Berg and Diskin Clay. Reprinted by permission of Oxford University Press, Inc. Wendell Berry. “Tire Wild Geese” from The Country of Marriage by Wendell Berry; copyright © 1971 by Wendell Bern1. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. John Berryman. “Dream Song #14,” “Dream Song #16,” and “Dream Song #312,” from The Dream Songs by John Berryman; copyright© 1959, 1962, 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966, 196/, 1968, 1969 by John Berryman. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Elizabeth Bishop. “Tire Pink Dog” by Elizabeth Bishop; copyright © 1979 by Alice Mcthfessel, Executrix of the Estate of Elizabeth Bishop. This poem originally appeared in The New Yorker. “The Monument” from Complete Poems by Elizabeth Bishop; copyright © 1939, 1969 by Elizabeth Bishop, copyright renewed © 1967 by Elizabeth Bishop. Both reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Robert Blv. “Taking the Hands . . . ,” “Hunting Pheasants in a Cornfield,” and “A Man Writes to a Part of Himself’ from Silence in the Snowy Fields, Wesleyan University Press, Middletown, Conn., 1962; copyright © 1960, 1961, 1962 by Robert Bly and reprinted with his permission. “The Dead Seal Near McClure’s Beach” from The Morning Glory by Robert Bly; copyright © 1975 by Robert Bly and reprinted with his permission.

1477

1478

Acknowledgments

Louise Bogan. “Cartography” and “To An Artist, to Take Heart” from The Blue Estuaries by Louise Bogan; copyright © 1964, 1965 by Louise Bogan. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Jorge Luis Borges. “The Secret Miracle” from Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges, translated by Harriet de Onis; copyright © 1962 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by per¬ mission of New Directions. Gwendolyn Brooks. “The Bean Eaters” and “We Real Cool. The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel” from The World of Gwendolyn Brooks by Gwendolyn Brooks; copyright © 1959 by Gwendolyn Brooks. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Row, Publishers. Raymond Carver. “The Father” from Will You Please Be Quiet Please by Raymond Carver. Reprinted by permission of McGraw-Hill Book Company. John Cheever. “The Chaste Clarissa” from The Stories of John Cheever by John Cheever; copyright 1952 by John Cheever. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Anton Chekhov. “Gooseberries” from The Portable Chekhov, edited by Avrahm Yarmolinsky; copyright © 1947 by the Viking Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Viking Penguin Inc. Tom Clark. “Stones” from Stones; © Tom Clark. Reprinted by permission of the author. Joseph Conrad. “Youth” by Joseph Conrad; reprinted by permission of the Trustees of the Joseph Conrad Estate. Gregory Corso. “Marriage” from The Happy Birthday of Death by Gregory Corso; copyright © 1960 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of New Directions. Hart Crane. ‘Voyages, I and II” and lines from “The Bridge” from The Complete Poems and Selected Prose and Poetry of Hart Crane; copyright 1933, 1958, 1966 by Liveright Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation. Robert Creeley. “The Rain” and “The Hill” from For Love: Poems 1950-1960 by Robert Creeley; copyright © 1962 by Robert Creeley. “For My Mother: Genevieve Jules Creeley” from Selected Poems by Robert Creeley; copyright © 1976 by Robert Creeley. Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons. E. E. Cummings. “l(a” from Complete Poems 1913-1962 by E. E. Cummings; copyright © 1958 byE. E. Cummings. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. “next to of course god america i” and “Poem, or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal” from IS 5, poems by E. E. Cummings; copyright 1926 by Boni & Liveright; copyright renewed 1953 by E. E. Cummings. Reprinted by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation. J. V. Cunningham. Two epigrams by J. V. Cunningham, reprinted by permission of the Ohio University Press. H. D. “Heat” and “The Sea Rose” from Selected Poems by Hilda Doolittle; copyright © 1925, 1953, 1957 by Norman Holmes Pearson. Reprinted by permission of New Directions. James Dickey. “The Heaven of Animals” from Poems 1957-1967; copyright © 1961 by James Dickey. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press. “The Heaven of Animals” first appeared in The New Yorker. Emily Dickinson. “After great pain, a formal feeling comes—,” “The first Day’s Night had come—,” “Me from Myself—to banish—,” “My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun—,” “The Province of the Saved,” and “A still—Volcano—Life—” from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson. Reprinted by permission of Little, Brown and Companv. “Because I could not stop for Death—,” “I cannot live with You—,” “I’m ceded—I’ve stopped being Theirs—,” “I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—,” “He fumbles at your Soul,” “I heard a Fly buzz—when I died—,” “Much Madness is divinest Sense—,” “A narrow Fellow in the Grass,” “He put a Belt around my life—,” “Severer Service of myself—,” “The Soul has Bandaged moments,” and “I would not paint—a picture—” reprinted by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from The Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas II. Johnson, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press; copyright © 1951, 1955 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Edward Dorn. the author.

On the Debt My Mother Owed to Sears Roebuck”; reprinted by permission of

Acknowledgments

1479

Robert Duncan. “Poetry, A Natural Thing” from The Opening of the Field by Robert Duncan; copyright © 1960 by Robert Duncan. Reprinted by permission of New Directions. Richard Eberhart. “The Groundhog” from Collected Poems 1930-1976 by Richard Eberhart; copyright © 1960, 1976 by Richard Eberhart. Reprinted by permission of Oxford University Press, Inc. and of Chatto & Windus Ltd. Russell Edson. “Bringing a Dead Man Back to Life” from The Intuitive Journey and Other Works by Russell Edson; copyright © 1976 by Russell Edson. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Row, Publishers. T. S. Eliot. “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and “Journey of the Magi” from Collected Poems 1909-1962 by T. S. Eliot; copyright 1936 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.; copyright © 1963, 1964 by T. S. Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich and of Faber and Faber Limited. Ralph Ellison. “Battle Royal” from Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison; copyright 1952 by Ralph Ellison. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc. William Empson. “Villanelle” from Collected Poems of William Empson-, copyright 1949, 1977 by William Empson. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. and of Chatto & Windus Ltd. William Faulkner. “A Rose for Emily” from Collected Stories of William Faulkner by William Faulkner; copyright 1930 and renewed 1958 by William Faulkner. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc. Ian Hamilton Finlay. “Homage to Malevich” from Poems to Hear and See by Ian Hamilton Finlay; copyright © 1971 by Ian Hamilton Finlay. Reprinted by permission of Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc. Robert Francis. “Hogwash,” copyright © 1965 by Robert Francis, and “Three Woodchoppers,” copyright © 1944, 1972 by Robert Francis, from Robert Francis: Collected Poems, 1936-1976, University of Massachusetts Press, 1976. Robert Frost. “Acquainted with the Night,” “After Apple-Picking,” “Birches,” “Come In,” “Desert Places,” “Design,” “The Draft Horse,” ‘To Earthward,” “Ends,” “The Gift Outright,” “Home Bur¬ ial,” “The Most of It,” “Mowing,” “The Need of Being Versed in Country Things,” “Neither Out Far Nor In Deep,” “Once by the Pacific,” “Out, Out—,” “The Pasture,” “The Road Not Taken,” “The Silken Tent,” and “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” from The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright 1916, 1923, 1928, 1930, 1934, 1939, © 1967, 1969 by Holt, Rinehart and Winston; copyright 1936, 1942, 1944, 1951, © 1956, 1958, 1962 by Robert Frost; copyright © 1964, 1967, 1970 by Lesley Frost Ballantine. Reprinted by permission of Holt, Rinehart and Winston. “In White” from The Dimensions of Robert Frost by Reginald L. Cook; copyright © 1958 by Reginald L. Cook. Reprinted by permission of Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Allen Ginsberg. “America,” copyright © 1956, 1959 by Allen Ginsberg, and “First Party at Ken Kesey’s with Hell’s Angels,” copyright © 1968 by Allen Ginsberg. Reprinted by permission of City Lights Books. Louise Gluck. “Gratitude” from The House on the Marshland by Louise Gluck; copyright © 1975 by Louise Gluck. Reprinted by permission of The Ecco Press. Edward Gorey. Excerpt from “The Listing Attic” from Amphigory by Edward Corey; copyright © 1954, 1972 by Edward Gorey. Reprinted by permission of Candida Donadio & Associates, Inc. “The Listing Attic” was first published by Duell, Sloan, & Pearce-Little, Brown. Robert Graves. “In Broken Images” from Poems 1929, copyright 1929 by Robert Craves, pub¬ lished by the Seizin Press, and ‘To Juan at the Winter Solstice” from Poems 1938—1945, copyright 1945 by Robert Graves, published by Cassell and Company, Ltd. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd., and from Collected Poems by permission of A. P. Watt Ltd. Edgar A. Guest. “The Rough Little Rascal” from Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest, copyright 1934. Reprinted by permission of Contemporary Books, Inc., ( hicago. Thom Gunn. “On the Move” from The Sense of Movement by Thom Gunn. Reprinted by per¬ mission of Faber and Faber Ltd.

1480

Acknowledgments

John Haines. “To Turn Back” from Winter News by John Haines; copyright © 1964 by John Haines. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press. Thomas Hardy. “During Wind and Rain,” “Epitaph on a Pessimist,” “The Man He Killed,” “The Oxen,” “The Ruined Maid,” and ‘Transformations” from Collected Poems of Thomas Hardy, pub¬ lished by the Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., New York, 1953. Robert Hayden. “Middle Passage” from Angle of Ascent, New and Selected Poems by Robert Hayden; copyright© 1975, 1972, 1970 by Robert Hayden. Reprinted by permission ofLiveright Publishing Corporation . Anthony Hecht. “The Dover Bitch,” copyright © 1960 by Anthony E. Hecht, and “Samuel Sewall” from The Hard Hours by Anthony Hecht, copyright 1954 by Anthony E. Hecht. Reprinted by permission of Atheneum Publishers. Ernest Hemingway.

In Another Country

from Men Without Women by Ernest Hemingway;

copyright 1927 Charles Scribner’s Sons; renewed copyright © 1955 Ernest Hemingway. Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons. Geoffrey Hill. Merlin” and “Orpheus and Eurvdice” from Somewhere Is Such a Kingdom by Geoftey Hill; copyright © 1975 by Geoffrey Hill. Reprinted by pennission of Houghton Mifflin Company. Spencer Holst. “The Case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra” from Spencer Holst Stories by Spencer Holst; copyright © 1976. Reprinted by permission of Horizon Press. A. E. Housman. “To an Athlete Dying Young” from A Shropshire Lad, Authorized Edition, from The Collected Poems of A. E. Housman by A. E. Housman; copyright 1939, 1940, © 1965 by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Copyright © 196/, 1968 by Robert E. Symons. “Eight O’Clock” from The Collected Poems of A. E. Housman by A. E. Housman; copyright 1922 by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Copyright 1950 by Barclays Bank Ltd. Reprinted by permission of Holt, Rinehart and Winston; The Society of Authors as the Hteraiy representative of A. E. Housman; and Jonathan Cape Ltd., publishers of A. E. Housman’s Collected Poems. Langston Hughes.

Bad Luck Card” from Selected Poems of Langston Hughes by Langston

Hughes; copyright 1927 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. renewed 1955 by Langston Hughes. “Homecom¬ ing” from Selected Poems of Langston Hughes by Langston Hughes; copyright © 1959 by Langston Hughes. “Hope” from Selected Poems of Langston Hughes by Langston Hughes; copyright 1942 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., renewed 1970 by Ama Bontemps and George Houston Bass. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. “On the Road” by Langston Hughes; copyright © 1934, 1952, 1962 by Langston Hughes. Reprinted by permission of Harold Ober Associates. “On the Road” first appeared in Esquire magazine. Ted Hughes. “Thrushes” from Selected Poems by Ted Hughes; copyright © 1959 by Ted Hughes Reprinted by permission of Harper & Row, Publishers. David Ignatow.

Rescue the Dead” from Rescue the Dead by David Ignatow; copyright © 1966

by David Ignatow. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press. “Rescue the Dead” first appeared in Poetry. Randall Jarrell. “Eighth Air Force” from The Complete Poems by Randall Jarrell; copyright © 1947 by Mrs. Randall Jarrell; copyright © 1969 by Mrs. Randall Jarrell. Robinson Jeffers. “Hurt Hawks” from The Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers by Robinson Jeffers; copyright 1928 and renewed 1956 by Robinson Jeffers. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc. Gayl Jones. “White Rat” from White Rat: Short Stories by Gayl Jones; copyright © 1977 by Gayl Jones. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc. James Joyce. “Counterparts” from Dubliners by James Joyce; copyright © 1967 by the Estate of James Joyce. Originally published by B. W. Iluebsch in 1916. Reprinted by permission of Viking Penguin Inc. 6 Donald Justice Counting the Mad” from The Supimer Anniversaries by Donald Justice; copy¬ right © 1957 by Donald Justice. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press. Franz Kafka. “A I lunger Artist” from The Penal Colony by Franz Kafka; copyright © 1948 by

Acknowledgments

1481

Schocken Books Inc., renewed © 1975 by Schocken Books Inc. Reprinted by permission of Schocken Books Inc. X. J. Kennedy. “In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One Day” by X. J. Kennedy. Published by Doubleday & Company, Inc. Galway Kinnell. “The Bear” from Body Rags by Galway Kinnell; copyright © 1967 by Galway Kinnell. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. Etheridge Knight. “Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane” and “2 Poems for Black Relocation Centers” from Poems from Prison by Etheridge Knight; copyright © 1968 by Etheridge Knight; Broadside/Crummell Press, Detroit, Michigan. Reprinted by permis¬ sion of the publisher. Philip Larkin. “Aubade” reprinted by permission of the author. “Mr. Bleanev” from The Whitsun Weddings by Philip Larkin, reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd. Mary Lavin. “The Green Grave and the Black Grave” from Collected Stories by Mary bavin; copy¬ right © 1971 by Mary Lavin. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. D. H. Lawrence. “The Song of a Man Who Has Come Through” and “Bavarian Gentians” from The Complete Poems ofD. H. Lawrence, collected and edited by Vivian de Sola Pinto and F. Warren Roberts; copyright © 1964, 1971 by Angelo Ravagh and C. Montague Weekley, Executors of the Estate of Frieda Lawrence Ravagh. Reprinted by permission of Viking Penguin Inc. “The Rocking Horse Winner” from The Complete Stories of D. H. Lawrence; copyright © 1934 by Frieda Law¬ rence, © renewed 1962 by Angelo Ravagh and C. Montague Weekley, Executors of the Estate of Frieda Lawrence Ravagh. Reprinted by permission of Viking Penguin Inc. Stanislaw Lem. “How Erg the Self-Inducting Slew a Paleface” from Mortal Engines by Stanislaw Lem. English translation copyright © 1977 by The Seaburv Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. Denise Levertov. “October” from O Taste and See by Denise Levertov; copyright © 1964 by Denise Levertov Goodman. Reprinted by permission of New Directions. “The World Outside” from The Jacob’s Ladder; copyright © 1961 by Denise Levertov Goodman. Reprinted by permission of New Directions. Philip Levine. “Salami” from They Feed They Lion by Philip Levine; copyright © 1968, 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972 by Philip Levine. Reprinted by permission of Atheneum Pubhshers. Vachel Lindsay. “The Flower-Fed Buffaloes” from Going to the Stars by Vachel Lindsay; copy¬ right © 1926, renewed 1954 by Elizabeth C. Lindsay. Reprinted by permission of Hawthorn Books, Inc. All rights reserved. John Logan. “Picnic” from Ghosts of the Heart by John Logan, University of Chicago Press, 1960. Reprinted by permission of the author. Robert Low ell. “After the Surprising Conversions” and “New Year’s Day” from Lord Weary’s Castle by Robert Lowell; copyright 1946, 1974 by Robert Lowell. Reprinted by permission of Plarcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. “For the Union Dead” from For the Union Dead by Robert Lowell; copyright © 1960 by Robert Lowell. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Rod McKuen. “One” from Listen to the Warm by Rod McKuen; copyright 1967 by Rod McKuen and Anita Kerr. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc. Archibald MacLeish. “You, Andrew Marvell” from New and Collected Poems, 1917-1976 by Archibald MacLeish; copyright © 1976 by Archibald MacLeish. Reprinted by permission of Hough¬ ton Mifflin Company. Louis MacNeice. “The Sunlight in the Garden” from The Collected Poems of Louis MacNeice. Reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd. Bernard Malamud. “The Magic Barrel” from The Magic Barrel by Bernard Malamud; copyright © 1954, 1958 by Bernard Malamud. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles. Script of Citizen Kane. From The Citizen Kane Book by Pauline Kael and The Shooting Script by Herman J. Mankiewicz and Orson Welles. Copyright © 1971 by Bantam Books, Inc. Reprinted by arrangement with the publishers. All rights reserved.

1482

Acknowledgments

James Merrill. “After Greece” from Water Street by James Merrill; copyright © 1960 by James Merrill. Reprinted by permission of Atheneum Publishers. Originally appeared in The New Yorker. W. S. Merwin. “Something I’ve Not Done” from Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment by W. S. Merwin; copyright © 1970 by W. S. Merwin. Reprinted by permission of Atheneum Pub¬ lishers. Originally appeared in Poetry. Arthur Miller. Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller; copyright © 1949 by Arthur Miller, © renewed 1977 by Arthur Miller. Reprinted by permission of Viking Penguin Inc. This play in its printed form is designed for the reading public only. All dramatic rights in it are fully protected by copyright, and no public or private performance—professional or amateur—may be given without the written permission of the author and the payment of royalty. As the courts have also ruled that the public reading of a play constitutes a public performance, no such reading may be given except under the conditions stated above. Communication should be addressed to the author’s represent¬ ative, International Creative Management, Inc., 40 W. 57th St., New York, NY 10019. Marianne Moore. “A Grave” and “Silence” from Collected Poems by Marianne Moore; copyright 1935 by Marianne Moore, renewed 1963 by Marianne Moore and T. S. Eliot. Reprinted by per¬ mission of Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc. Edwin Muir. “The Plorses” from Collected Poems by Edwin Muir; copyright © 1960 by Willa Muir. Reprinted by permission of Oxford University Press, Inc. and Faber and Faber Ltd. Howard Nemerov. “Brainstorm” from The Collected Poems of Howard Nemerov, University of Chicago Press, 1977. Copyright by Howard Nemerov. Pablo Neruda. “Burial in the East” and “Ode to My Socks” from Neruda and Vallejo: Selected Poems, Beacon Press, 19/4. Copyright © by Robert Bly 1972 and 1974 and reprinted with his permission. Flannery O’Connor. “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” from A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Stories by Flannery O’Connor; copyright 1953 by Flannery O’Connor. Reprinted by permis¬ sion of Ilarcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. Frank O’Hara. “The Day Lady Died” from Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara; copyright © 1964 by Frank O’Hara. Reprinted by permission of City Lights Books. “Why I Am Not a Painter” from The Selected Poems of Frank O’Hara by Frank O’Hara, edited by Donald Allen; copyright © 1958 by Maureen Granville-Smith, Administratrix of the Estate of Frank O’Hara. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Joyce Carol Oates. “How I Contemplated the World from the Detroit House of Correction and Began My Life Over Again” from The Wheel of Love by Joyce Carol Oates; copyright © 1970, 1969, 1968, 1967, 1966, 1965 by Joyce Carol Oates. Reprinted by permission of Vanguard Press, Inc. Tillie Olsen. “I Stand Here Ironing” from Tell Me a Riddle by Tillie Olsen; copyright © 1965 by Tillie Olsen. Reprinted by permission of Delacourt Press/Seymour Lawrence. Charles Olson. “Maximus, to Gloucester, Sunday July 19” from The Maximus Poems by Charles Olson; copyright © 1960 by Charles Olson. Reprinted by permission of Corinth Books, Inc. Iona and Peter Ople. “Rumpel-Stilts-Kin” from The Classic Fairy Tales by Iona and Peter Opie; copyright © Iona and Peter Opie, 1974. Reprinted by permission of Oxford University Press. Gregory Orr. “All Morning” and “The Sweater” from Gathering the Bones Together by Gregory Orr; copyright © 1975 by Gregory Orr. “Washing My Face” from Burning the Empty Nests by Gregory Orr; copyright © 1973 by Gregory Orr. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Row, Pub¬ lishers. Wilfred Owen. “Dulce et Decorum Est” from Collected Poems, edited by C. Day Lewis; copyright © 1946, 1963 by Chatto & Windus. Reprinted by permission of New Directions and Hie Owen Estate and Chatto & Windus Ltd. Joyce Peseroff. ‘The Hardness Scale” from The Hardness Scale by Joyce Peseroff; copyright © 1977 by Joyce Peseroff. Reprinted by permission of Alice James Poetry Cooperative, Inc. Sylvia Plath. “Death & Co.,” “Lady Lazarus,” and “Poppies in October” from Ariel by Sylvia Plath; copyright © 1963 by Ted Hughes. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Row, Publishers. Also from Ariel by Sylvia Plath; copyright © 1965 by Ted Hughes, published by Faber and Faber.

Acknowledgments

1483

Reprinted by permission of Olwyn Hughes. “Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams” from Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams by Sylvia Plath; copyright © 1958 by Sylvia Plath, copyright © 1979 bv Ted Hughes. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Row, Publishers. Katherine Anne Porter. “Rope” from Flowering Judas and Other Stories by Katherine Anne Porter; copyright © 1930, 1958 by Katherine Anne Porter. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. Ezra Pound. “Hugh Selwvn Mauberly IV,” “Hugh Selwyn Mauberlv V,” “In a Station of the Metro,” “The Bath Tub,” “The Return,” and “The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter” from Personae; copyright 1926 by Ezra Pound. Reprinted by permission of New Directions. John Crowe Ransom. “Captain Carpenter” from Selected Poems, Third Edition, revised and enlarged, by John Crowe Ransom; copyright © 1924 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., and renewed 1952 by* John Crowe Ransom. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Kenneth Rexroth. “Proust’s Madeleine” from Collected Shorter Poems by Kenneth Rexroth; copyright © 1963, 1966 by Kenneth Rexroth. “The Signature of Ml Things” from Collected Shorter Poems by Kenneth Rexroth; copyright © 1949 by Kenneth Rexroth. Reprinted by permission of New Directions. Charles Reznikoff. “A Deserter” from By the Well of Living and Seeing by Charles Reznikoff. Reprinted by permission of Black Sparrow Press. Adrienne Rich. “From an Old House in America” from Poems, Selected and New, 1950-1974 by Adrienne Rich; copyright © 1975, 1974, 1973, 1971, 1969, 1966 by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Copyright© 1967, 1963, 1962, 1961, 1960, 1959, 1958, 195/, 1956, 1955, 1954, 1953, 1952, 1951 by Adrienne Rich. Reprinted by permission ofW. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Edwin Arlington Robinson. “Eros Turannos” from Collected Poems by Edwin Arlington Robin¬ son; copyright 1916 by Edwin Arlington Robinson, renewed 1944 by Ruth Nivison. Reprinted by permission of Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc. Theodore Roethke. “Cuttings,” copyright 1948 by Theodore Roethke; “Big Wind,” copyright 1947 by The United Chapter of Phi Beta Kappa; “Dolor,” copyright 1943 by Modem Poetry As¬ sociation, Inc.; “Elegy for Jane,” copyright 1950 by Theodore Roethke; “I Knew a Woman,” copy¬ right 1954 by Theodore Roethke; “Journey to the Interior, ’ copyright © 1961 by Beatrice Roethke as Administratrix of the Estate of Theodore Roethke; “The Lost Son,’ copyright 194/ by Theodore Roethke; “The Meadow Mouse,” copyright © 1963 by Beatrice Roethke as Administratrix of the Estate of Theodore Roethke; “My Papa’s Waltz,” copyright 1942 by Hearst Magazines, Inc.; “Orchids,” copyright 1948 by Theodore Roethke; “The Rose,” copyright © 1963 by Beatrice Roethke as Administratrix of the Estate of Theodore Roethke; “The Sloth,” copyright 1950 by Theodore Roethke; “The Visitant,” copyright 1950 by Theodore Roethke. All from The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke. Reprinted by permission of Doubleday & Company, Inc. Milton Rugoff. “Paul Bunyan’s Big Griddle” from A Harvest of World Folk Tales, edited by Milton Rugoff; copyright 1949 by The Viking Press, Inc., © renewed 1977 by The Viking Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Viking Penguin Inc. Carl Sandberg. “Chicago” from Chicago Poems by Carl Sandberg; copyright 1916 by Holt, Rine¬ hart and Winston; copyright 1944 by Carl Sandberg. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. Delmore Schwartz. “In the Naked Bed, in Plato’s Cave” from Selected Poems: Summer Knowl¬ edge by Delmore Schwartz; copyright 1938 by New Directions. Reprinted by permission of New Directions. Mine Sexton. “Wanting to Die” from Live or Die by Anne Sexton; copyright © 1966 by Anne Sexton. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. William Shakespeare. The Tragedy of Hamlet by William Shakespeare, edited by Edward Ilubler, copyright © 1963 by Edward Ilubler, and The Tragedy of Othello by William Shakespeare, edited by Mvin Keman, copyright © 1963 by Mvin Neman. Reprinted by permission of The New American Library, Inc. George Bernard Shaw. Saint Joan by George Bernard Shaw; copyright 1924, 1930, by George

1484

Acknowledgments

Bernard Shaw. Copyright 1951, 1957, The Public Trustee as Executor of the Estate of George Bernard Shaw. Copyright © 1973, The Trustees of the British Museum, The Governors and Guard¬ ians of the National Gallery of Ireland and Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Reprinted by permission of Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. and The Society of Authors for The Public Trustee as Executor of the Estate of George Bernard Shaw. Charles Simic. “Fork” from Dismantling the Silence by Charles Simic. Reprinted by permission of George Braziller, Inc. Louis Simpson. “Early in the Morning” from The Good News of Death and Other Poems by Louis Simpson; copyright 1950, 1951, 1952, 1953, 1954, 1955 by Louis Simpson. Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons. Isaac Bashevis Singer. “Gimpel the Fool” from A Treasury of Yiddish Stories, edited by Irving Howe and Eliezer Greenberg; copyright © 1953 by Isaac Bashevis Singer. Reprinted by permission of Viking Penguin Inc. W. D. Snodgrass. “April Inventory” from Heart’s Needle by W. D. Snodgrass; copyright © 1957 by W. D. Snodgrass. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. “Lobster in the Window” from After Experience by W. D. Snodgrass; copyright © 1963 by W. D. Snodgrass.. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Row, Publishers. Originally appeared in The New Yorker. Gary Snyder. “Above Pate Valley” and “Hay for the Horses” by Gary Snyder. Reprinted by permission of the author. Gary Soto. “Field,” “Wind,” “Stars,” “Rain,” and “Fog” from ‘The Elements of San Joaquin” by Gary Soto; copyright © 1977 by Gary Soto, reprinted by permission of the author, the University of Pittsburgh Press, and Poetry. These poems first appeared in Poetry. Stephen Spender. “What I Expected, Was” from Collected Poems 1928-1953 by Stephen Spender; copyright 1934 and renewed 1962 by Stephen Spender. Reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd. and Random House, Inc. William Stafford. “Returned to Say” from Stories That Could Be True by William Stafford; copyright 1962. ‘Traveling through the Dark” by William Stafford; copyright 1960 by William Staf¬ ford. Reprinted by permission of Harper & Row, Publishers. John Steinbeck. The Crysanthemums

from The Long Valley by John Steinbeck; copyright

1938 by John Steinbeck, © renewed 1966 by John Steinbeck. Reprinted by permission of Viking Penguin Inc. Wallace Stevens. “Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock,” ‘The Emperor of Ice-Cream,” “The Snow Man, and Sunday Morning from The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens; copyright 1923 and renewed 1951 by Wallace Stevens. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. T°m Stoppard. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard; copvright © 1967 by Tom Stoppard. Reprinted by peimission of Grove Press, Inc. Mark Strand. “Pot Roast” from The Late Hour by Mark Strand; copyright © 1973, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978 by Mark Strand. Reprinted by permission of Atheneum Publishers. Originallv published in The New Yorker. Peter Taylor. “A Spinster’s Tale” from The Collected Stories of Peter Taylor by Peter Taylor; copyright© 1940, 1969 by Peter Taylor, renewed© 1968 by Peter Taylor. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. u Thomas. “And Death Shall Have No Dominion,” ‘This Bread I Break,” “Fern Hill,” and “A Refusal to Mourn ...” from The Poems by Dylan Thomas; copyright 1939, 1943, 1946 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Also published by J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd. Reprinted by per¬ mission of New Directions and David Iiigham Associates Limited. Edward Thomas. “The Owl” from Collected Poems by Edward Thomas; first American edition published 1974 by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Also published by Faber and Faber Ltd. Re¬ printed by permission of W. W. Norton & Company and of Myfanwy Thomas. James riiurber.

The Catbird Seat” from The Thurber Carnival bv James Thurber; copyright

© 1945 by James Thurber, © 1973 by Helen W. Thurber and Rosemary Thurber Sauers. Published by harper & Row. Originally printed in The New Yorker. Reprinted by permission of Mrs. James Thurber.

Acknowledgments

1485

Leo Tolstoy. “The Death of Ivan Ilvch” from The Death of Ivan Ilych and Other Stories by Leo Tolstoy, translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude (1935). Reprinted by permission of Oxford Uni¬ versity Press. Charles Tomlinson. “Paring the Apple”; reprinted by permission of the author. Jean Toomer. “Reapers” from Cane by Jean Toomer; copyright 1923 by Boni & Liveright, renewed 1951 by Jean Toomer. Reprinted by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation. John Updike. “Ace in the Hole” from The Same Door by John Updike; copyright 1955 by John Updike. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. First appeared in The New Yorker. Kurt Yonnegut, Jr. “Harrison Bergeron” from Welcome to the Monkey House by Kurt Yonnegut, Jr.; copyright © 1961 by Kurt Yonnegut, Jr. Reprinted by permission ofDelacorte Press/Seymour Lawrence. Originally appeared in Fantasy and Science Fiction. Eudora Welty. “A Worn Path” from A Curtain of Green and Other Stories by Eudora Wellycopyright 1941, 1969 by Eudora Welty. Reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. Richard Wilbur. “Museum Piece” and “Still, Citizen Sparrow” from Ceremony and Other Poems by Richard Wilbur; copyright 1950, 1978 by Richard Wilbur. “Mind” from Things of This World by Richard Wilbur; copyright 1956 by Richard Wilbur. ‘Tywater” from The Beautiful Changes and Other Poems by Richard Wilbur; copyright 1947, 1975 by Richard Wilbur. Reprinted by permission of Ilarcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. “A Game of Catch” reprinted by permission of the author. Tartuffe by Moliere, translated by Richard Wilbur, copyright © 1961, 1962, 1963 by Richard Wilbur. Reprinted by permission of Ilarcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. Caution: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that this translation of Tartuffe, being fully protected under the copy¬ right laws of the United States of America, the British Empire, including the Dominion of Canada, and all other countries which are signatories to the Universal Copyright Convention and the Inter¬ national Copyright Union, is subject to royalty. All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, and television, are strictly reserved. Inquiries on professional and amateur rights should be addressed to -Mr. Gilbert Parker, ( urtis Brown, Ltd., 575 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10022; inquiries on translation rights should be addressed to Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 757 Third Avenue, New \ ork. New i ork 10017. William Carlos Williams. “Nantucket,” “Poem,” “The Red Wheelbarrow,” “Spring and All,” and ‘This Is Just to Say” from Collected Earlier Poems by William Carlos Williams; copyright 1938 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of New Directions. Virginia Woolf. “A I launted I louse” from A Haunted House and Other Stories by Virginia Woolf; copyright 1944, 1972 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the publisher. Charles Wright. “Virgo Descending” from Bloodlines by Charles Wright; copyright © 1975 by Charles Wright. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press. James Wright. “The First Days” from To a Blossoming Pear Tree by James Wright; copyright © 1974, 1979 by James Wright. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. “A Blessing” and “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota” from Collected Poems by James Wright; copyright © 1961 by James Wright. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press. “A Blessing” first appeared in Poetry. William Butler Yeats. The following poems from Collected Poems by William Butler Yeats are reprinted bv permission of Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., A. I . Watt Ltd., Ihc Macmillan ( ompany of Canada, and Michael and .Anne Yeats: “Among School Children,” “Leda and the Swan,” “Sailing to Byzantium” (copyright 1928 by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., renewed 1956 by Geor¬ gia Yeats); “The Apparitions” (copyright 1940 by Georgia Yeats, renewed 1968 by Bertha Georgia Yeats, Michael Butler Yeats, and Anne Yeats); “Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop” (copyright 1933 by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., renewed 1961 by Bertha Georgia Yeats); “The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner,” two lines from “When You Are Old,” “Who Goes With Fergus?”, four lines from the fourth version of “Cradle Song” (copyright 1906 by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., renewed 1934 by William Butler Yeats); “The Magi” (copyright 1916 by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., renewed 1944 by Bertha Georgia Yeats); “The Second Coming” (copyright 1924by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., renewed 1952 by Bertha Georgia Yeats); 1890 text of 'The Old Pensioner’

1486

Acknowledgments

and \ ersions 2 and 3 of the last stanza of “Cradle Song” from The Variorum Edition of the Poems ofW.B. Yeats, edited by Peter Allt and Russell K. Alspach (copyright 1957 by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc.). The Cat and the Moon from Collected Plays by W. B. Yeats; copyright 1934, 1952 by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc. Reprinted by permission of Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., A. P. Watt Ltd., Michael and Anne Yeats, and Macmillan London Limited. ^ Stark Young- The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov, translated from the Russian by Stark Young. Louis Zukofsky. “In Arizona” from Collected Short Poems, 1923-1964 by Louis Zukofsky; co¬ pyright © 1971, 1966, 1965 by Louis Zukofsky. Reprinted by ^permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.

Photo Credits The Bettmann Archive: pages 4, 221, 500, 509, 804, 956, 1280 Chris Corpus: page 335 The Citizen Kane Book: pages 1370, 1380, 1389, 1394, 1402, 1430, 1448 Dimitrios Harissiadis: page 748 Jay: Leviton-Atlanta: page 35 Gloria Karlson/Portogallo Photographic Services: pages 1, 383 Wendell Kilmer: page 801; courtesy The Folger Shakespeare Libraiy and John Cranford Adams The New York Times: page 958 James O. Sneddon: page 520; from Roethke, Selected Letters, University of Washington Press Brett Weston/Photo Researchers: page 731 Marilynn K. Y eel The New York Times: page 57

v\

Index

Index

Page numbers in italic type show location of biographical information

A A cloud moved close. The bulk of the wind shifted, 528 ‘A cold coming we had of it, 628

“After Greece” (Merrill), 688—689 After the Fall (Miller), 1281 “After the Surprising Conversions” (Lowell), 665—666

A dented spider like a snowdrop white, 489

Again and then again . . . the year is bom,

A falling petal, 472

453 Albee, Edward, 998

A line in long array where they wind betwixt green islands, 596 “A narrow Fellow in the Grass” (Dickinson), 508-509 A siren sang, and Europe turned away, 465

The Zoo Story, 1348-1363 Alcestis (Euripides), 902 Alchemist, The (Jonson), 801 Alexandrine, 460, 903—904

A smudge on his nose and a smear on his

Alice s Adventures in Wonderland (Carroll),

cheek, 398 “A still—-Volcano—Life—” (Dickinson),

157 “All Morning” (Orr), 420, 421

504—505 A sudden blow: the great wings beating still,

All morning the dream lingers, 420, 421

604

All My Sons (Miller), 1280 All night the sound had, 682

A sweet disorder in the dress, 547

Allegory, 140—141

About suffering they were never wrong, 645 “Above Pate Valley” (Snyder), 716

Allen, Woody, 173 “The Whore of Mensa,” 173—177

Absurd literature, 158

Alliteration, 391, 452—453

Accent, 458-M59 “Ace in the Hole” (Updike), 118-124

Allusion, 439

“Acquainted with the Night” (Frost), 517

Although I shelter from the rain, 487

Act, 735

Ambivalence, 390, 428

Action

“America” (Ginsberg), 686—688

characterization by, 48 falling, 737

symbols and, 436--445

America I’ve given you all and now I’m noth¬ ing, 686

rsing, 28, 737 Actor Prepares, An (Stanislavsky), /40

Ammons, A. R., 681

“Adam Lay I-Bowndyn,” 536—537

“Among School Children” (Yeats), 605—606

“Adieu! Farewell Earth’s Bliss!” (Nashe),

Anapest, 459, 471 And did those feet in ancient time, 567

543-544 Aeneid (Vergil), 478 Aeschylus, 748 Aesop, 18—19, 21 “After Apple-Picking” (Frost), 513-514 “After great pain, a formal feeling comes—’ (Dickinson), 501

“Working with Tools.” 681

And here face down beneath the sun, 631 and they stopped before that bad sculpture of a fisherman, 649 “And When the Green Man Comes” (Ilaines), 448-M49 And yet this great wink of eternity, 638

1489

1490

Index

Anecdote, 12, 48

“Bath Tub, The” (Pound), 480

Anonymous

“Batter My Heart” (Donne), 546

“Adam Lay I-Bowndyn,” 536-537

“Battle Royal” (Ellison), 335—345

“Edward,” 475-476

Baudelaire, Charles, 902

limericks, 472

“Bavarian Gentians” (Lawrence), 618—619

“Lord Randal,” 536 Antagonist, 28, 739

“Bean Eaters, The” (Brooks), 664—665 “Bear, The” (Kinnell), 695—687

Anticlimax, 737

“Beast in the Jungle, The” (James), 94

Antihero, 998

“Because I could not stop for Death—”

Antony and Cleopatra (Shakespeare), 450-451 “Apparitions, The” (Yeats), 444 Apple, Max, 158, 163, 173 “The Changing of America,” 163-172 “April Inventory” (Snodgrass), 691-692 Archer, William, 1151 Arena stage, 743 Aristophanes, 997 Aristotle, 735, 741, 742, 746, 748,

(Dickinson), 506—507 Because there is safety in derision, 444 Beckett, Samuel, 158, 741, 744, 998 Bedroom farce, 902 “Belle Dame sans Merci, La” (Keats), 476-477, 489 Bellitt, Ben (trans.) “Burial in the East,” 494 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 632

750-753, 900, 903, 998, 1368 Arms and the Man (Shaw), 1207

Berg, Stephen 754

Arnold, Matthew, 596 “Dover Beach,” 596—597

Berry, Wendell, 724

As a bathtub lined with white porcelain, 480 As I came to the edge of the woods, 519 As I in hoary winter’s night stood shivering in the snow, 539 As you lay in sleep, 637 As You Like It (Shakespeare), 901 Ashbery, John, 693

Bergson, Henri, 902 “The Wild Geese,” 724-725 Berry man, John, 658 from The Dream Songs, 658—659 Bible, 3, 17-18, 439 from The Gospel According to Mark, 18 Twenty-third Psalm, 491-493 “Big Wind” (Roethke), 521 “Birches” (Frost), 514G515

“Rivers and Mountains,” 693-695 Aside, 803, 955

Bishop, Elizabeth, 651

Aspects of the Novel (Forster), 48 Association, 402

“The Monument,” 442—444 Black comedy, 158

Assonance, 389, 395, 452-453

Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones, 635

“Astrophel and Stella” (Sidney), 538 At Woodlawn I heard the dead cry, 522 “Aubade” (Larkin ), 673—674 Auden, W. H., 645, 648

“The Fish,” 651-653, 666

Blackout, 745, 802 Blake, William, 437-439, 488, 565

“In Memory of W. B. Yeats,” 646—647

“The Garden of Love,” 566 “The Lamb,” 565

“Musee des Beaux Arts,” 645

“London,” 566-567

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones, 474

from “Milton,” 567 “Mock On, Mock On, Voltaire, Rousseau,” 567 “The Sick Rose,” 437

B

“The Tvger,” 565—566 Blank verse, 466, 471, 801

Backdrop, 743 “Bad Luck Card” (Hughes), 640 Bad poems, 390, 398—400 Ballad, 474—477, 536 Barely a twelvemonth after, 623 Barthelme, Donald, 158 “The Indian Uprising,” 158—162 Bartleby the Scrivener (Melville), 196—219

“Blessing, A” (Wright) 416 Blocking, 746 Bly, Robert, 417-419, 482, 483, 660, 681, 693 “A Man Writes to a Part of Himself,” 682 vV “Funeral in the East” (trans.), 495-496 “Hunting Pheasants in a Cornfield,” 681-682

Index

Bly, Robert (continued) “Taking the hands of someone you love,” 441

1491

“Cartography” (Bogan), 637 Carver, Raymond, 376 “The Father,” 92, 376-377

“The Dead Seal near McClure’s Beach,” 483

“Case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, Hie” (Holst), 177—180

Bogan, Louise, 439—440, 637 “Cartography,” 637 “To an Artist, to Take Heart,” 439 Bonnie and Clyde, 1367 Borges, Jorge Luis, 311 “The Secret Miracle,” 311-315 Bradbury, Ray, 181 '“Brainstorm” (Nemerov), 670—671

“Castaway, Hie” (Cowper), 563—565 Cat and the Moon, The (Yeats), 741, 744, 1274, 1275-1280 “Catbird Seat, The” (Thurber), 29-34, 49, 64, 93, 173 Catharsis, 751, 753 Cause you don’t love me, 640 “Cavalry Crossing a Ford” (Whitman), 596

Brand (Ibsen), 1150

Certain branches cut, 676

Brave New World (Huxley), 181

Character, 3, 12, 13-14, 21, 47-49,

Brecht, Bertolt, 745

738-741

“Bridge, The” (Crane), 637—638

Character sketch, 23

Bridges, Robert, 600

“Chaste Clarissa, Hie” (Cheever), 91—92,

“Bringing a Dead Man Back into Life” (Edson), 484 Bronte, Emily, 590 “No Coward Soul Is Mine,” 590—591 Brooks, Gwendolyn, 664, 721 “The Bean Eaters,” 664-665 “We Real Cool,” 665 Browning, Robert, 478, 589, 596 “My Last Duchess,” 589—590 Bunyan, Paul, 21—23 Burbage, Richard, 804

95-101 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 478, 535, 553 from The Canterbury Tales, 535—536 Cheever, John, 91—92, 95 “The Chaste Clarissa,” 95—101 Chekhov, Anton, 108, 130, 140, 141, 437, 741, 742, 902, 956, 95^958 “Gooseberries,” 108—114 The Cherry Orchard, 958—995 Cherry Orchard, The (Chekhov), 741, 742, 746, 956—957, 958—995

“Burning Babe, The” (Southwell), 539

“Chicago” (Sandburg), 611—612

Bums, Robert, 568

Choreographer, 746

“Green Grow the Rashes, O,” 568 “John Anderson My Jo,” 568—569 By the road to the contagious hospital, 617 Byron, George Gordon, Lord, 576, 57 /

Chorus, 748 Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock, 468 “Chrysanthemums, The” (Steinbeck), 318-325

“So We’ll Go No More A-Roving,” 576

“Church Monuments” (Herbert), 548

“Stanzas,” 577

“Cinderella,” 19 Cinema: see Film Citizen Kane (Mankiewicz and Welles), 736,

C

742, 1365, 1367-1369, 1370-1448

Caesar and Cleopatra (Shaw), 1207

“City in the Sea, Hie” (Poe), 585-586

Caesura, 450, 459, 460, 463

Clare, John, 579

Call the roller of big cigars, 613 Campion, Thomas, 542 “Rose-Cheeked Laura,” 542—543

“I Am,” 579 Clark, Tom, 727 “Poem,” 727-728

Camus, Albert, 158, 997

Classic Fairy Tales, The (Opic), 20—21

Candida (Shaw), 207 “Canonization, The” (Donne), 42/, 544-545

Cliche, 49, 140, 399, 400, 423, 429, 436,

Canterbury Tales, The (Chaucer), 4/8,

Cliche rhyme, 467

535—536 “Captain Carpenter” (Ransom), 627—631

Climax, 28

“Careers” (Jones), 723-/24 “Carrion Comfort” (Hopkins), 601

Close-up, 1366

Carroll, Lewis, 157, 597 “Jabberwocky,” 597—598

467, 738

Closet drama, 734 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 569, 574 “Kubla Khan,” 575—576 “Come In” (Frost), 519

1492

Index

Come live with me and be my love, 539

Dance, 746

Comedy, 900-903, 997, 998 Comedy, black, 158

Dante, Alighieri, 478 Dare to Love (Wilde), 24—25

Comic relief, 902

“Dead Crow” is an ol ugly, 723

Comic story, 173

Dead metaphor, 400, 423—424

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late, 614 Conclusion, 737

“Dead Seal near McClure’s Beach, The” (Bly), 483

Concrete poetry, 481, 482

“Death & Co.” (Plath), 720-721

Conflict, 15, 23, 27, 28, 195, 389-390, 736

“Death, Be Not Proud” (Donne), 545-546 Death of a Salesman (Miller), 736, 741,

Connotations, 118, 402—403, 415 Conrad, Joseph, 92, 280 ‘Youth,” 280-299

955, 1280, 1281-1348 Death of Ivan Ilych, The (Tolstoy), 221—257 “Death of the Hired Man” (Frost) 463-464

Conventional symbols, 140, 436, 437

Death of Sir Nihil, book the nth, 469

Conventions, theatrical, 740, 955

Deliberately, long ago, 705

Cool black night thru redwoods, 410 Coover, Robert, 158

“Delight in Disorder” (Herrick), 547 Denotations, 118, 402—403

Corneille, Pierre, 902

Denouement, 28, 737

Corso, Gregory, 713

“Desert Places” (Frost), 518

“Marriage,” 713-715 Costume, 744

“Deserter, A” (Reznikoff), 634—635 “Design” (Frost), 490

Costume designer, 744

Designer

“Counterparts” (Joyce), 49-56, 93, 94, 130-132

costume, 744 scenic, 743

“Counting the Mad” (Justice), 680

Devil’s Disciple, The (Shaw), 1207

Cowper, William, 563

Diamonds are forever so I gave you quartz, 729

“The Castaway,” 563—565 “Cradle Song” (Yeats), 486-487 Crane, Hart, 637 from “The Bridge,” 637-638 from ‘Yoyages,” 638—639 Crane shot, 1367 “Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop” (Yeats), 606-607 Greeley, Robert, 682, 693, 702 “For My Mother: Genevieve Jules Creeley,” 683—686 “The Hill,” 426 “The Rain,” 682-683 Cromwell, Oliver, 549, 801 Cross cut, 1367 Crucible, The (Miller), 1281 Cues, light, 745 Cummings, E. E., 427, 481, 633 “next to of course god america i, ” 634 “Poem, or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal,” 427-428, 633-634 Cunningham, J. V., 480 “Cuttings” (Roethke), 520-521 Cyclorama, 745

Dickens, Charles, 24, 47, 49, 173 Dickey, James, 674 “The Heaven of Animals,” 674-675 Dickinson, Emily, 466-467, 500, 591 “A narrow Fellow in the Grass,” 508-509 “A still—Volcano—Life—,” 504—505 “After great pain, a formal feeling comes—,” 501 “Because I could not stop for Death—,” 506—507 “He fumbles at your Soul,” 501 “He put the Belt around mv life—,” 500-501 “I cannot live with You—,” 467, 505-506 “I felt a Cleaving in my mind,” 508 “I heard a Fly buzz—when I died—,” 502 “I would not paint—a picture—,” 503 “I’m ceded—I’ve stopped being Theirs— ” 503 “Me from Myself—to banish,” 506 “Much Madness is divinest Sense—,” 502 “My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun—,” * 507 “Severer Service of myself,” 508

U

“The first Day’s Night had come—,” vV 501-502 “The Province of the Saved,” 504

Dactyl, 459 “Dalliance of Eagles, The” (Whitman), 455

“The Silence condescended—,” 466 “The Soul has Bandaged moments—,” 504

Index

Diction, 117

1493

Edson, Russell, 483

Didactic drama, 741—742

“Bringing a Dead Man Back into Life,” 484

Dimeter, 460

“Edward” (ballad), 475-476

Dionysia, 748, 753

“Eight O’Clock” (Housman), 601

Dionysus, 748, 752, 900

“Eighth Air Force” (Jarrell), 660—661

Diphthong, 453

Eisenstein, Serge, 1367

Direct rhyme, 466

“Elegy for Jane” (Roethke), 526—527

Director, 739, 1366

Eliot, T. S., 430, 43(4-437, 625, 999

“Disillusion of Ten O’Clock” (Stevens), 396-397, 427 Diskin, Clay, 754 Divine Comedy (Dante), 478 Do not think I am not grateful for your small,

“Journey of the Magi,” 628—629 ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” 436-437, 625-628 Elizabeth I, 407, 800 Elizabethan drama, 800—803 Ellison, Ralxrh, 335

728 Doctor in Spite of Himself, The (Moliere), 903 Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Stevenson),

“Battle Royal,” 335-345 Empathy", 738 “Emperor of Ice-Cream, The” (Stevens), 613

181 Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge: see Carroll

Empson, William, 644

Doll’s House, A (Ibsen), 1150

Encyclopaedia Britannica, 424

“Dolor” (Roethke), 521-522

Endgame (Beckett), 998

Donne, John, 427, 472, 544

Ending, feminine, 463

“Villanelle,” 644-645

“Batter My Heart,” 546

End-stopping, 447, 449

“Death, Be Not Proud,” 545-546

“Ends” (Frost), 435

“The Canonization,” 427, 544—545

Enemy of the People, An (Ibsen), 1150

Doolittle, Hilda: see H. D.

Energy, 401—403

Dorn, Edward, 702 “On the Debt My Mother Owed to Sears

English sonnet, 473

Roebuck,” 702—703

Enjambment, 447 “Entierro en el Este” (Neruda), 493-496

“Dover Beach” (Arnold), 596—597

Epics, 3, 21, 477^178

“Dover Bitch, The” (Hecht), 675—676

Epidaurus, theater at, 749

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not

Epigram, 439, 479—480

starved, 612

Epigraph, 480

“Draft Horse, The” (Frost), 441^142

Epiphanies, 131—132

Dramatic irony, 93, 752

Episodic plot, 736

Dramatic question, 737 Dream Songs, The (Berryman), 658—659

Epitaph, 480 “Epitaph on a Pessimist” (Hardy), 480

Dryden, John, 440, 553

Equus (Shaffer), 746 “Eros Turannos” (Robinson), 607—608

“To the Memory of Mr. Oldham,” 553—554 “Dulce et Decorum Est” (Owen), 632

“Essay on Criticism, An” (Pope), 554—562

Duncan, Robert, 669

Etymology, 403—104

“Poetr\% a Natural Thing,” 669—670 “During Wind and Rain” (Hardy), 402—404, 423, 452 Dynamic character, 49

Euripides, 902 Evans, Maurice, 740 “Eve of St. Agnes, The” (Keats), 460, 463 Even such is time, that takes in trust, 538 Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts, 718

E

Everyman, 141 Exaggeration, 901; see also Hyperbole Excellence

Each night Father fills me with dread, 471

in fiction, 24—26

“Eagle, The” (Tennyson), 589

in poetry", 390, 429

“Early in the Morning” (Simpson), 467-468 “Easter Wings” (Herbert), 481 Eberhart, Richard, 641 “The Groundhog,” 641—642

Existentialism, 997 Explication, 385—392, 401, 446 Exposition, 27, 28, 47—48, /37 Extra syllables, 464

1494

Index

F

“For My Mother: Genevieve Jules Creeley” (Creeley), 683—686

Fable, 18-19, 23, 64

“For the Union Dead” (Lowell), 668—669

Fade-in, 1368

Foreshadowing, 28, 737

Fairytale, 19—21

Forestage, 743

“Rumpelstiltskin,” 19—20

“Fork” (Simic), 727

“Fall of the House of Usher, The” (Poe), 64-65

Form, 390

Falling action, 737

Frame, fictional, 28

Fantasy, 181

Francis, Robert, 04, 639

Fantasy fiction, 157—158 Farce, 901—902 Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy, 408

Forster, E. M., 48

“Hogwash,” 404 “Three Woodchoppers,” 639—640 Frankenstein (Shelley), 181

Farewell, too little and too lately known, 553

Free verse, 393, 488, 449, 458, 466, 471, 480

“Farm Picture, A” (Whitman), 596

Freud, Sigmund, 902

“Father, The” (Carver), 92, 376-377

Frisar, Ingram, 539

Faulkner, William, 4, 12-15, 26, 64, 94, 116-117, 173

“From an Old House in America” (Rich), 705-712

“A Rose for Emily,” 4—10

Frost, Robert, 385-393, 396, 398, 407,

Feminine ending, 463—464

411, 421-423, 429, 430, 432, 453,

Feminine rhyme, 466—467

462-464, 474, 489-491, 509, 509-520, 612

“Fern Hill” (Thomas), 663—664 Fiction, excellence in, 24—26

“Acquainted with the Night,” 517

Figures of speech, 420—425

“After Apple-Picking,” 513—514

Film, 3, 24, 28, 48, 742, 1364-1369

“Birches,” 514—515 “Come In,” 519

and the stage, 1364—1365 language of, 1366-1368 Finally, to forgo love is to lass a leaf, 660 Finlay, Ian Hamilton, 482 “Homage to Malevich,” 482 “First Days, The” (Wright), 699

“Desert Places,” 518 “Design,” 490 “Ends,” 435 “Home Burial,” 510—513 “In White,” 489-490 “Mowing,” 510

“First Party at Ken Kesey’s with Hell’s An¬ gels” (Ginsberg), 410-411

“Neither Out Far Nor In Deep,” 518

First, you think they are dead, 692

“Once by the Pacific,” 517

“Fish, The” (Bishop), 651—653

“ ‘Out, out—,’ ” 478-479

Fitzgerald, Edward, 584

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” 385-392

from “Hie Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam,” 584-585 Fixity, 401-402

‘The Draft Horse,” 441—442

Flashback, 28, 1368

“The Most of It,” 519—520

Flores, Angel (trans.)

“The Need of Being Versed in Country Things,” 516—517

“Burial in the East,” 495

‘Hie Gift Outright,” 407

“Flower-Fed Buffaloes, The” (Tindsay), 612-613

“The Road Not Taken,” 514

Flowers through the window, 411

“The Silken Tent,” 518—519

Flunkum couldn’t stand the strain . . . , 722 Folktales, 21—23

‘To Earthward,” 515—516

“Paul Bunyan’s Big Griddle,” 22—23 Follow spots, 745

“The Pasture,” 510

G

Foot, poetic, 459—460

“Game of Catch, A” (Wilbur), 137-139

Footlights, 743

“Garden, Hie” (Marvell), 549-551

For Godsake hold your tongue and let me love!, 427, 544

Harden of Love, Hie” (Blake), 566 Ghosts (Ibsen), 1150

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffiy, 562

“Gift Outright, Hie” (Frost), 407

Index

Gilgamesh, 477 “Gimpel the Fool” (Singer), 326—335 Ginsberg, Allen, 410—411, 413, 686 “America,” 686—688 “First Party at Ken Kesev’s with I lelTs An¬ gels,” 410-411 Globe Playhouse, 801, 802 Gluck, Louise, 728 “Gratitude,” 728 Good and great God! can I not think of Thee, 546 “Good Man Is Hard to Find, A” (O’Connor), 35-45, 47, 49, 64, 93-94, 117, 131 “Gooseberries” (Chekhov), 108—114, 130, 131, 140, 141, 437, 956 Gorey, Edward, 471 Gorki, Maxim, 956 Gorse, Edmund, 1151 “Gratitude” (Gluck), 728 “Grave, A” (Moore), 623 Graves, Robert, 635, 697 “In Broken Images,” 635—636 “To Juan at the Winter Solstice,” 636—637 Greek drama, 748—754, 800, 802, 803, 902 Greek theater, 749, 900 “Green Grave and the Black Grave, The” (Lavin), 65—74 “Green Grow the Rashes, O” (Bums), 568 Greene, Robert, 801 Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm, 19 “Groundhog, The” (Eberhart), 641-642 Guest, Edgar A,, 98—399 “The Rough Little Rascal,” 398—400 Gulliver’s Travels (Swift), 157 Gunn, Thom, 703 “On the Move,” 703—704 H “Had he and I but met,” 598 Had we but world enough, and time, 551 Haiku, 472 Haines, John, 448—449, 45 /, 680 “And When the Green Man Comes,” 448-449 ‘To Turn Back,” 680 Hamlet (Shakespeare), 736, 738—740, 742, 743, 745, 746, 751, 802, 805-897, 901, 903, 955, 998, 999 paraphrase of, 496-497 “Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hos¬ pital for the Criminal Insane” (Knight), 721-722 Hard Rock was “known not to take no shit,” 721

1495

“Hardness Scale, The” (Peseroff), 729-730 Hardy, Thomas, 403, 404, 423, 430-433, 452, 468, 479-480, 598 “During Wind and Rain,” 404 “Epitaph on a Pessimist,” 480 “The Man He Killed,” 598-599 “The Oxen,” 468-469 “The Ruined Maid,” 599 ‘Transformations,” 430—431 “Harrison Bergeron” (Vonnegut), 182—186 Hathaway, Anne, 804 “Haunted House, A” (Woolf), 299-300 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 141 “Young Goodman Brown,” 141—150 “Hay for the Horses” (Snyder), 434 Hayden, Robert, 653 “Middle Passage,” 653—657 ITazlitt, William, 580 H. D., 409-411, 414, 621 “Heat,” 409 “Sea Rose,” 621 He clasps the crag with crooked hands, 589 He disappeared in the dead of winter, 646 “He fumbles at your Soul” (Dickinson), 501 He had driven half the night, 434 I Ie is quick, thinking in clear images, 635 “He put the Belt around my life—” (Dickin¬ son ), 500—501 He stood, and heard the steeple, 601 He thought he kept the universe alone, 519-520 “Heat” (H.D.), 409, 411, 414 “Heaven of Animals, The” (Dickey), 674— 675 Hecht, Anthony, 675 “The Dover Bitch: A Criticism of Life,” 675- 676 “Samuel Sewall,” 470 Hedda Gabler (Ibsen), 736, 746, 956, 1150, 1151-1207 Heidegger, Martin, 997 Hemingway, Ernest, 23, 91, 116, 117, 125 “In Another Country,” 125—128 sketch, 23 Henry V (Shakespeare), 802 Herbert, George, 480, 547, 552 “Church Monuments,” 548 “Easter Wings,” 481 “The Pulley,” 547-548 I lere they are. The soft eyes open, 6 / 4 Heroic couplet, 553 Herrick, Robert, 410, 413, 547 “Delight in Disorder,” 547 “Upon Julia’s Clothes,’ 410 Hexameter, 460

1496

Index

High comedy, 901 High-angle shot, 1367

“I cannot live with You—” (Dickinson), 505-506

Hill, Geoffrey, 717

I caught a tremendous fish, 651

“Merlin,” 717

I caught this morning’s minion . . . , 600

“Orpheus and Eurvdice,” 717

“I felt a Cleaving in my Mind” (Dickinson), 508

“Hill, The” (Creeley), 426 “Hillcrest” (Robinson), 609—611 “Hogwash” (Francis), 404

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, 490 I gaze upon a roast, 725

Holst, Spencer, 177

I had a chair at every hearth, 487

“The Case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra,” 177-180 “‘Homage to Malevich” (Finlay), 482

I have been one acquainted with the night, 517

“Home Burial” (Frost), 510—513

I have done it again, 718 I have eaten, 617

“Homecoming” (Hughes), 640 Homer, 17, 477, 478

I have known the inexorable sadness of pen¬ cils, 521-522

“Hope” (Hughes), 640

“I heard a Fly buzz—-when I died—” (Dickin¬ son), 502

Hopkins, Gerard Manley, 454, 600 “Carrion Comfort,” 601

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones, 527-528

“I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark,” 454 “Spring and Fall,” 600

I make a simple assertion, 681

“The Windhover,” 600

I met the Bishop on the road, 606

Horseback on Sunday Morning, 724 “Horses, The” (Muir), 623—624 Housman, A. E., 601 “Eight O’Clock,” 601 “To an Athlete Dying Young,” 601—602 “How Erg the Self-Inducting Slew a Paleface” (Lem), 186—194 “How I Contemplated the World ...” (Oates), 366—376 How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest, 637 How vainly men themselves amaze, 549 Howard, Henry, 473 “Hugh Selwyn Manberley” (Pound), 620-621 Hughes, Langston, 315, 640 “Bad Luck Card,” 640 “Homecoming,” 640 “Hope,” 640 “On the Road,” 315-318 Hughes, Ted, 715, 718 “Thrushes,” 715-716 Humours, 901

I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils, 526 I saw Eternity the other night, 552 “I Stand Here Ironing” (Olsen), 91, 102-107 “I Strove with None” (Landor), 576 I strove with none, for none was worth my strife, 480, 576 “I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark” (Hopkins), 454 I walk through the long schoolroom ques¬ tioning, 605 I wander thro’ each chartered street, 566 I wrent back in the alley, 640 I went to the Garden of Love, 566 I will consider the outnumbering dead, 717 I will lose you. It is written, 728 I work all dav, and get half drunk at night, 673 “I would not paint—a picture—” (Dickinson), 503 Iambic foot, 459 Iambic pentameter, 459, 460, 466, 473

“Hunger Artist, A” (Kafka), 150-156 Hunt, Leigh, 580

Ibsen, Henrik, 737, 956, 1150, 1207, 1274 Hedda Gabler, 1151—1207

“Hurt Hawks” (Jeffers), 622

If all the world and love were young, 540

Huxley, Aldous, 181

If, in an odd angle of the hutment, 660 Ignatow, David, 660

Hyperbole, 424; see also Exaggeration

“Rescue the Dead,” 660 Iliad (Homer), 477

I “I Am” (Clare), 579 I am not a painter, I am a poet, 690

“I’m ceded—I’ve stopped being Theirs—” v\ (Dickinson), 503 I’m going out to clean the pasture spring, 510

Index

I’m Smith of Stoke, aged sixty-six, 480 Image, 387-389, 393, 394, 409-419 Imagery, 401 Imaginary Invalid, The (Moliere), 903 Imagist poets, 410

1497

Jarrell, Randall, 660, 665 “Eighth Air Force,” 660—661 Jarry, Alfred, 997—998 Jeffers, Robinson, 622 “Hurt Hawks,” 622

“Careers,” 723-724

Jesus, 17—18 “John Anderson My Jo” (Bums), 568—569

“Watergate,” 723

John Gabriel Borkman (Ibsen), 1150

Imamu .Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones), 723

Implications, 388, 390—391 “In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One Day” (Kennedy), 704—705 In a shoe box stuffed in an old nylon stock¬ ing, 533 “In Another Country” (Hemingway), 125-128 “In Arizona” (Zukovskv), 642 “In Broken Images” (Graves), 635—636 In June, amid the golden fields, 641 In June the sun is a bonnet of light, 412 In late winter, 695 “In Memory of W. B. Yeats” (Auden), 646—647 In moving-slow he has no Peer, 527 In Our Time (Hemingway), 23 In the long journey out of the self, 528 “In the Naked Bed, in Plato’s Cave” (Schwartz), 657—658

“Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams’ (Plath), 356-366 Johnson, Samuel, 562 Jokes, 21 Jones, Gayl, 377 “White Rat,” 377-382 Jones, LeRoi; see Imamu Amiri Baraka Jonson, Ben, 407—408, 541, 546, 547, 553, 801 “On My First Son,” 408 ‘To Heaven,” 546—547 “Journey of the Magi” (Eliot), 628—629 “Journey to the Interior” (Roethke), 528-530 Joyce, James, 26, 49, 93, 94, 11 /, 130, * 131, 173, 999 “Counterparts,” 49—56 “Jubilate Agno” (Smart), 562-563 Julius Caesar (Shakespeare), 804

“In the Suburbs” (Simpson), 679

Juno and the Pay cock (O’Casey), / 46

“In White” (Frost), 489^190

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minne¬

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, 575 Incident at Vichy (Miller), 1281 “Indian Uprising, The” (Barthelme), 158—162

sota, 416 Justice, Donald, 680 “Counting the Mad,” 680

Indirect rhyme, 466—467 Ingenue, 738

K

Initial inversion, 462 Intention, reversal of, 752

Kael, Pauline, 1368—1369

Intentions, 429-433

Kafka, Franz, 150 “A Hunger Artist,” 150—156

Intercut, 1367 Interludes, 801 Interpretation of poetry, 391—392 Inversion, 462—463 Ionesco, Eugene, 998 Irony, 93—94, 131, 42/—429, /52, 803 “It Is a Beauteous Evening” (Wordsworth), 574 It is sometime since I have been, 426

Keats, John, 411, 446, 450, 4o2—453, 460-463, 474, 489, 577, 580 “La Belle Dame sans Merci,” 476—477, 489 “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” 582—583 “Ode to a Nightingale,” 580—582 “This Living Hand,” 583—584 ‘To Autumn,” 447^48, 455^56

It is the pain, it is the pain, endures, 644

Kennedy, John F., 407

It is the picnic with Ruth in the spring, 6 / /

Kennedy, X. J., 704 “In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday, 689 It litfie profits that an idle king, 58 / Italian sonnet, 473

Day,” 704-705 Kierkegaard, Sdren, 997 King Lear (Shakespeare), 804

J “Jabberwocky” (Carroll), 597—598 James, Henry, 47, 94

Kinnell, Galway, 695, 697 “The Bear,” 695-697 Kiss Me Deadly (Spillane), 25—26

1498

Index

Knight, Etheridge, 721 “Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane,” 721- 722 2 Poems for Black Relocation Centers,” 722- 723

Limerick, 471—472 Limited omniscience; 90—92 Lindsay, Yachel, 612 “The Flower-Fed Buffaloes,” 612—613 Line length, 468, 471, terms for, 460

Krapp’s Last Tape (Beckett), 741, 998

Linear plot, 736

“Kubla Khan” (Coleridge), 575—576 Kyd, Thomas, 801

Linebreak, rhythm and, 447—450 “Listen to the Warm” (McKuen), 399-400 Literary symbols, 140—141, 436—439 Little Lamb, who made thee?, 565

L “Lady Lazarus” (Plath), 718-720 “Lamarck Elaborated” (Wilbur), 403-404 “Lamb, The” (Blake), 565

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne, 585 “Lobsters in the Window” (Snodgrass), 692-693 Logan, John, 677 “The Picnic,” 677-678

“Lamentation of the Old Pensioner, The” (Yeats), 487-488

“London” (Blake), 488-489, 566-567 Long shot, 1366

Landor, Walter Savage, 480, 576

Lord of the Rings (Tolkien), 157

“I Strove with None,” 476 Language in drama, 741 “Lapis Lazuli” (Yeats), 753 Larkin, Philip, 672

“Lord Randall,” 536 Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, 481 “Lost Son, The” (Roethke), 522-526

“Aubade,” 673-674

Loud talk in the overheated house, 435

“Mr. Bleaney,” 672—673

Love at the lips was touch, 515—516

Last night’s dreams disappear, 414 Lavin, Mary, 65 “The Green Grave and the Black Grave,” 65-74 Lawrence, D. H., 301, 618

“Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, The” (Eliot), 436-437, 625-628

Love’s Labour’s Lost (Shakespeare), 479, 804, 901 Low comedy, 901

“Bavarian Gentians,” 618—619

Low-angle shot, 1366

“The Rocking-Horse Winner,” 301-310 “The Song of a Man Who Has Come Through,” 618

Lowell, Robert, 660, 665, 691

“Leda and the Swan” (Yeats), 604-605 Lem, Stanislaw, 186 “How Erg the Self-Inducting Slew a Pale¬ face,” 186-194 “Let me not to the marriage of true minds” (Shakespeare), 473—474

“After the Surprising Conversions,” 665-666 “For the Union Dead,” 668—669 “New Year’s Day,” 453—454 “Skunk Hour,” 666—667 “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota” (Wright), 414

Let us go then, you and I, 436, 625

Lyly, John, 801

Let s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, 464

Lyric poetry, 479

Lettrism, 482 Levertov, Denise, 676 “October,” 676 “The World Outside,” 413 Levine, Philip, 699 “Salami,” 699—701 Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so, 658 Light cues, 745 Light into the olive entered, 688 Lighting, stage, 745 Like musical instruments, 727

M

Macbeth (Shakespeare), 462, 751, 804, 902 paraphrase of, 498 MacDowell, Marian Nevins, 609 Machinery, stage, 743 MacLeish, Archibald, 631 ‘You, Andrew Marvell,” 631-632 MacNeice, Louis, 648 “The Sunlight on the Garden,” 648 “Magi, The” (Yeats), 603

Index

“Magic Barrel, The” (Malamud), 345—356 Major Barbara (Shaw), 1207 Makeup, 744—745 Malamud, Bernard, 345 ‘The Magic Barrel,” 345-356

1499

Miller, Arthur, 1280 Death of a Salesman, 1281—1348 “Milton” (Blake), 567 Milton, John, 429, 440, 446, 447, 450, 457, 461, 462, 471-473, 478, 549

Man and Superman (Shaw), 1207

“On His Blindness,” 549 “On the Late Massacre in Piedmont,” 474

“Man He Killed, The” (Hardy), 598-599

Paradise Lost, 446

Mallarme, Stephane, 141, 438

Man looking into the sea, 623

Mime theater, 741

“Man Writes to a Part of Himself, A” (Bly),

Mimesis, 750 “Mind” (Wilbur), 672

682 Mankiewicz, Herman J., 1369 Citizen Kane, 1370—1448

Mind in its purest play is like some bat, 672

Marceau, Marcel, 741

Misanthrope, The (Moliere), 903

Margaret, are you grieving, 600

Miser, The (Moliere), 903

Marlowe, Christopher, 539, 801

“Mock On, Mock On, Voltaire, Rousseau”

“The Passionate Shepherd to His Love,” 539-540 “Marriage” (Corso), 713—715

(Blake), 567 Moliere, 741, 753, 901, 903, 903-904 Tartuffe, 905—953

Maru Mori brought me, 417

Monologue, dramatic, 478

Marv ell, Andrew, 549

Monometer, 460

“The Garden,” 549-551 ‘To His Coy Mistress,” 551—552 Master Builder, The (Ibsen), 1150 “Maximus, to Gloucester, Sunday, July 19” (Olson), 649—651 McKuen, Rod, 99-MOO “Listen to the Warm,” 399-400

Montage, 1367 “Monument, Tire” (Bishop), 442-444: Moore, Marianne, 406, 623 “A Grave,” 623 “Silence,” 406 Moritaki haiku, 472

“Me from Myself—to banish—” (Dickinson),

“Most of It, The” (Frost), 519-520

506 “Meadow Mouse, The” (Roethke), 533—534

“Mowing” (Frost), 510

Meaning, 390—393, 395 Meanings, 403 Measure for Measure (Shakespeare), 804, 902, 1070 Medium shot, 1366 Melodrama, 735, 745 Melville, Herman, 196 Bartleby the Scrivener, 196—219

“Mr. Bleaney” (Larkin), 672—673 “Mr. Flood’s Party” (Robinson), 608—609 Mrs. Warrens Profession (Shaw), 1207 “Much Madness is divinest Sense—” (Dick¬ inson), 502 Muir, Edwin, 623 “The Horses,” 623-624 Muir, Willa, 623 “Murders in the Rue Morgue, The” (Poe),

“Merlin” (Hill), 717

131, 258-280 “Musee des Beaux Aits” (Auden), 645

Merrill, James, 688

“Museum Piece” (Wilbur), 433

Meredith, George, 902

“After Greece,” 688—689 Merwin, W. S., 697 “Funeral in the East,” 494—495 “Something I’ve Not Done,” 69/—698 Metaphor, 14, 118, 400, 403, 420—425, 428

Music and sound in drama, 746 Musicals, 735, 745 My Fair Lady, 1207 My father used to say, 406 My head and shoulders, and my book, 642 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness

dead, 400 Meter, 387, 393, 448, 457-464, 478

pains, 580 “My Last Duchess” (Browning), 589—590

Metonomv, 424—425 Metrical variations, 462—464

“My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun—” (Dick¬

“Middle Passage” (Hayden), 653—657 Midsummer Night’s Dream, A (Shakespeare), 736-/3/, 804

inson), 507 My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking tlirough a tree, 513—514 “My Papa’s Waltz” (Roethke), 463, 522

1500

Index

Mystery stories, 12

O

Myth of Sisyphus, The (Camus), 997 O rose, thou art sick!, 437 N

“O where hae ye been, Lord Randall, my son?, 536

“Nantucket” (Williams), 411—412

O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn ’s being, 577

Narrative poems, 477—479

O wind, rend open the heart, 409

Narrator, 14-15, 91, 92, 94 Nash, Ogden, 467

Oates, Joyce Carol, 366

Naked I came, naked I leave the scene, 480

Nashe, Thomas, 543 “Adieu! Farewell Earth’s Bliss!,” 543—544 Natural rhyme, 468—469

“How I Contemplated the World . . . 366-376 Objective point of view, 91, 92 Obscurest night involved the sky, 563 O’Casey, Sean, 746

Natural symbols, 140, 436-437 Naturalism, 956

O’Connor, Flannery, 26, 35, 93, 117

Nautilus Island’s hermit, 666 Necrophilia, 12, 15, 16

“A Good Man Is Hard to Find, ” 35—45 Octave, 423

“Need of Being Versed in Country Things,

“October” (Lavertov), 676

The” (Frost), 516-517 Neither on horseback nor seated, 678

“Ode: Intimations of Immortality ...” (Wordsworth), 569—574

Neither our rices nor our virtues, 669

“Ode on a Grecian Urn” (Keats), 582-583

“Neither Out Far Nor In Deep” (Frost), 518 Nemeroy, Howard, 670

“Ode to a Nightingale” (Keats), 452—453, 580-582

“Brainstorm,” 670—671 Neoclassicism, 902—903 Neruda, Pablo, 417 “Entierro en el Este,” 493—496 “Ode to My Socks,” 417-419 Never until the mankind making, 663

“Ode to My Socks” (Nemda), 417—419 “Ode to the West Wind” (Shelley), 577-579 Odyssey (Homer), 3, 17, 477, 999 Oedipus the King (Sophocles), 736, 737, 739, 742, 743, 748, 750-753, 754—798, 802, 901, 903, 955

“New Year’s Day” (Lowell), 453-454 New Yorker, The, 28

Of all the Causes which conspire to blind, 554

“next to of course god america i” (Cum¬ mings), 634

Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit, 446, 447

1984 (Orwell), 181

Off-rhyme, 466—467

“No Coward Soul Is Mine” (Bronte), 590-591

Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 476 O’Hara, Frank, 689, 693

No sound of any storm that shakes, 609

“The Day Lady Died,” 689—690

Nonrealistic modem drama, 997-999

“Why I Am Not a Painter,” 690

Not every man has gentians in his house, 618

Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night 608

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!, 618

Olivier, Lawrence, 740 Olsen, Tillie, 91, 102, 117

Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee, 601

“I Stand Here Ironing,” 102—107 Olson, Charles, 649, 702

“Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul” (Shakespeare), 541-542

Maximus, to Gloucester, Sunday, July 19,” 649-651

Now as at all times I can see the mind’s eye 603

“O’Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!,” 599

Now as I was young and easy under the ap¬ ple boughs, 663

Omniscience, 90—92

Now can you see the monument? It is of wood, 442 “Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd, The” (Ral¬ egh), 540

On a cold night I came through the cold rain 480 “On His Blindness” (Milton), 549 “On My First Son” (Jonson), 408 On the Debt My Mother Owed to Sears Roebuck” '(Dorn), 702-703

Index

On the kitchen wall a flash, 413

“Paul Bunvan’s Big Griddle,” 22—23

“On the Late Massacre in Piedmont” (Mil-

Peele, George, 801

ton), 474

Peer Gynt (Ibsen), 1150

“On the Move” (Gunn), 703-704

Pentameter, 459, 460

“On the Road” (Hughes), 315-318

Personification, 421 PeserofF, Joyce, 729

On the secret map the assassins, 693 “Once by the Pacific” (Frost), 517

“The Hardness Scale,” 729—730

One must have a mind of winter, 613

Petrarchan sonnet, 473

One-actor play, 741

“Picnic, The” (Logan), 677—678

Ono, Yoko, 482

Picture stage, 743

Onomatopoeia, 389

Pillars of Society (Ibsen), 1150

Opie, Iona and Peter, 20—21

Pinter, Harold, 998

Oral tradition, 17, 21, 477

Pirandello, Luigi, 997

“Oranging of America, The” (Apple),

Plath, Sylvia, 356, 715, 718

.

163-172, 173

Orchestra pit, 743 Orchestron, 749

1501

“Death & Co.,” 720-721 “Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams,” 356-366

“Orchids” (Roethke), 425—426

“Lady Lazarus,” 718—720

Orestia (Aeschylus), 748

“Poppies in October,” 718

Original rhyme, 467—468

Plato, 751, 753

“Orpheus and Eurvdice” (Hill), 717

Plautus, 800

Orr, Gregory, 414, 420—421, 728

Playwright, 733

“All Morning,” 420-421

Plot, 3, 12-14, 27-28, 47, 130, 195,

“The Sweater,” 728

735-737, 750 Poe, Edgar Allan, 64—65, 131, 157, 258,

“Washing My Face,” 414 Orwell, George, 181 Othello, The Moor of Venice (Shakespeare), 804, 1070, 1071-1150 Our Town (Wilder), 737 “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking” (Whit¬ man), 591—596 “ ‘Out, Out—5 ” (Frost), 478-479 Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly, 414 Owen, Wilfred, 632 “Dulce et Decorum Est,” 632

585 “The City in the Sea,” 585—586 “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” 258-280 “Poem” (Clark), 727-728 “Poem, or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal” (Cum¬ mings), 427—128, 633-634 Poetic forms, 471—174 Poetics (Aristotle), 735, 741, /50—/53, 903, 1368 “Poetry, a Natural Tiling” (Duncan), 669—670

“Owl, The” (Thomas), 612

Poetry, concrete, 482

“Oxen, The” (Hardy), 468-469

Poetry, sound of, 446—456

Oxford English Dictionary, 403

Point of Hew, 3, 12, 14—15, 21, 90—93 Pope, Alexander, 403, 440, 553, 554 from “An Essay on Criticism,” 554—562

P

“Poppies in October” (Plath), 718

Pan shot, 1367

Poquelin, Jean-Baptiste; see Moliere

Parable, 3, 17—18, 23 Paradise Lost (Milton), 429, 446, 447, 461,

Porter, Katherine Anne, 117, 132

478, 549 Paraphrase, 385, 386, 389, 393, 401, 404,

Portion of this yew, 430

431 of Shakespeare, 496—498

“Rope,” 132-136 “Pot Roast” (Strand), 725—726 Potemkim (Eisenstein), 1367 Pound, Ezra, 617, 619, 621, 642, 999

“Paring the Apple” (Tomlinson), 698

from “Hugh Selwyn Mauberley,” 620—621

“Passionate Shepherd to His Love, The”

“The Bath Tub,” 480

(Marlowe), 539—540 “Pasture, The” (Frost), 510 Patmore, Coventry, 600

“The Return,” 445 “The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter," 619-620

1502

Index

Predictability, 25 Price, The (Miller), 1281 Probability, 751

Rhyme, 386-388, 448, 453, 466-469, 471 478 cliche, 467

Producer, 1366

direct, 466

Prologue, 737

feminine, 466

Propaganda story, 131 Props, 744, 802

indirect, 466—467

Proscenium stage, 743

original, 467—468

Prose poems, 482—484 Protagonist, 28, 739, 751 “Proust’s Madeleine” (Rexroth), 440—441 “Pulley, The” (Herbert ), 547-548 Punctuation, 387-388, 391, 450, 459, 463 Pygmalion (Shaw), 1207

natural, 468—469 Rhyme-scheme, 469, 471, 473 Rhymed stanzas, 469 Rhythm, 387, 390, 393, 401, 446, 457-460, 462 and linebreak, 447—450 Rich, Adrienne, 693, 705 “From an Old House in Mnerica,” 705-712

Q Quem Quaeritis, 800 Question, dramatic, 737

Richard II (Shakespeare), 464—465 Rising action, 28, 737 “River-Merchant’s Wife, The” (Pound), 619-620 “Rivers and Mountains” (Ashberv), 693-695 “Road Not Taken, The” (Frost), 514 Robin Hood, 800

R

Robinson, Edwin .Arlington, 403, 607 “Eros Turannos,” 607—608

Racine, Jean Baptiste, 902—903 “Rain, The” (Creeley), 682-683 Ralegh, Walter, 538, 540 “The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd,” 540 “Verses Written the Night Before His Exe¬ cution,” 538 Ransom, John Crowe, 629, 660, 665, 699 “Captain Carpenter,” 629—631 Reaction shot, 1368 Realism, 955—956 “Reapers” (Toomer), 635

“Hillcrest,” 609—611 “Mr. Flood’s Party,” 608—609 “Rocking-Horse Winner, The” (Lawrence), 301-310 Roethke, Theodore, 438, 463, 520, 520-534 “Big Wind,” 521 “Cuttings,” 520—521 “Dolor,” 521-522 “Elegy for Jane,” 526-527 “I Knew a Woman,” 527—528

Recognition, 752

“Journey to the Interior,” 528-530 “My Papa’s Waltz,” 522

Reference in poetry, 436, 437

“Orchids,” 425—426

“Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a

“The Lost Son,” 522-526

Child in London, A” (Thomas), 663 Relative stress, 458—461

“The Meadow Mouse,” 533—534 “The Rose,” 530-533

“Rescue the Dead” (Ignatow), 660 Resolution, 737

“The Sloth,” 527

Responses, stock, 399

“The Visitant,” 528 Roman drama, 902

“Return, The” (Pound), 445

Roman theater, 800

“Returned to Say” (Stafford), 662

Romantic comedy, 901

Reversal of intention, 752

“Rope” (Porter), 132—136

Revisions, poets’, 485-491

“Rose for Emily, A” (Faulkner), 3-16,

Revolving stage, 744

26-28, 48, 49, 64, 91, 92 Rose, harsh rose, 621

Rexroth, Kenneth, 642 “Proust’s Madeleine,” 440—441

“Rose, The” (Roethke), 438, 530-533

“The Signature of Ml Tilings,” 642—644

“Rose-Cheeked Laura” (Campion), 542-543

Reznikoff, Charles, 425, 438-439, 634 “A Deserter,” 634—635

Rosenberg, David, 493

Index

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (Stoppard), 998, 999—1067

1503

Sexton, Anne, 701 “Wanting to Die,” 701—702

Rosmersholm (Ibsen), 1150

Shaffer, Peter, 746

Roth, Philip, 158

Shakespeare, William, 24, 157, 173, 391,

“Rough Little Rascal, The” (Guest), 398-399

407, 422-M25, 436, 439, 440, 450-452, 462-465, 472, 473, 541,

Rourke, Constance, 21

541—542, 738, 741-743, 753, 801,

“Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam, The,”

802, 804, 901-903

584-585 “Ruined Maid, The” (Hardy), 599 “Rumpelstiltskin,” 19—21, 23

Hamlet, 805-897 “Let me not to the marriage of true minds,” 473-474 “Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul,” 541-542

S

and Othello, 1070 Othello, The Moor of Venice, 1071—1150

“Sailing to Byzantium” (Yeats), 603—604

in paraphrase, 496—498

Sails flashing to the wind like weapons, 653

R ichard II, 464 465 “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day4?,”

Saint Joan (Shaw), 736, 737, 739, 742, 745, 956, 1208-1274

422

“Salami” (Levine), 669—701

“That time of year thou mayst in me be¬

“Samuel Sewall” (Hecht), 470

hold,” 425 “They that have power to hurt and will do

Samuel Sewall, in a world of wigs, 470 Sandburg, Carl, 611 “Chicago,” 611-612 Saroyan, Aram, 482 Sartre, Jean Paul, 997 Satiric comedy, 901 Scansion, 459—461 Scene, 735 Scenery, 743—744, 802 Scenic designer, 743 School for Wives, The (Moliere), 903 Schwartz, Delmore, 657 “In the Naked Bed, in Plato’s Cave,” 657—658 Science fiction, 157, 180—181 Scribe, Eugene, 737 Scrim, 745

none,” 541 from Twelfth Night, 542 “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,” 541 “Winter,” 479 Shakespearean sonnet, 473 “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” (Shakespeare), 422 Shaw, George Bernard, 737, 739, 741, 742, 956, 1207 Saint Joan, 1208—1274 She fears him and will always ask, 60 / She is as in a field a silken tent, 518—519 Shelley, Mary, 181 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 577, 580 “Ode to the West Wind,” 577—579

Script, 733 Sea Gull, The (Chekhov), 956

Short novel, 195 Should I get married? Should I be good?,

“Sea Rose” (H.D.), 621 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 455

713 “Sick Rose, The” (Blake), 437-439

“Second Coming, The” (Yeats), 603

Sidney, Philip, 538

Second Shepherds’ Play, 800 “Secret Miracle, The” (Borges), 311—315 See, they return; ah, see the tentative, 445

“Astrophel and Stella,” 538 “Signature of All Tilings, The” (Rexroth), 642-644

Sentimentality, 398, 399 September twenty-second, Sir: today, 665

“Silence” (Moore), 406 “Silken Tent, The” (Frost), 518—519

Sestet, 423

Simic, Charles, 737

Set, 743 unit, 744 Set designer, 743 Setting, 12, 15, 21, 64—65 Seven Against Thebes (Aeschylus), 748 “Severer Sendee of myself’ (Dickinson), 508

“Fork,” 727 Simile, 420, 421 Simpson, Louis, 449, 678 “Early in the Morning,” 467—4-68 “In the Suburbs,” 679 ‘To the Western World,” 465

1504

Index

Simpson, Louis (continued) “Walt Whitman at Bear Mountain,” 678-679

Spenser, Edmund, 473, 538 Spenserian sonnet, 473 Spillane, Mickey, 25—26

Since you ask, most days I cannot remem¬ ber, 701

“Spinster’s Tale, A” (Taylor), 75-89, 117, 131, 132

Singer, Isaac Bashevis, 326

Sportsman’s Sketches, A (Turgenev), 23 Spotlights, follow, 745

“Gimpel the Fool,” 326—335 Situational irony, 93

“Spring and Ail” (Williams), 617-618

Skene, 749

“Spring and Fall” (Hopkins), 600

Sketch, 23, 28

Stafford, William, 661

Skirting the river road, (my forenoon walk, my rest,), 455 “Skunk Hour” (Lowell), 666—677 Slapstick, 902 Slipping in blood, by his own hand, through pride, 439

“Returned to Say, ” 662 “Travelling Through the Dark,” 661 Stage, arena, 743 Stage, him and, 1364—1365 Stage, picture, 743

“Sloth, The” (Roethke), 527

Stage, proscenium, 743 Stage, revolving, 744

Smart, Christopher, 562

Stage, thrust, 743

from “Jubilate Agno,” 562—563 Snodgrass, W. D., 691

Stage business, 739 Stage curtain, 743

“April Inventory,” 691—692

Stage directions, 739

“Lobsters in the Window,” 692—693

Stage front, 743

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast, 518 “Snow Man, The” (Stevens), 613—614 Snyder, Gary, 716, 724 “Above Pate Valley,” 716 “Hay for the Horses,” 434

Stage machinery, 743 Stage rear, 743 Staging French neoclassic, 903 Greek, 749

“so much depends” (Williams), 393-395

Stanislavsky, Konstantin, 740, 956 “Stanzas” (Byron), 577

So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl, 675

Stanzas, rhymed, 469 Static character, 49

“So Well Go No More A-Roving” (Byron), 576

Stein, Gertrude, 439

Soliloquy, 803, 902 Somebody has given my, 440

“The Chrysanthemums,” 318—325 Stereotypes, 49, 738, 740, 901

“Something I’ve Not Done” (Merwin), 697-698

Stevens, Wallace, 396-397, 427, 452, 613, 698

Steinbeck, John, 318

Sometimes when I’m lonely, 640

“Disillusion of Ten O’Clock,” 396

“Song of a Man Who Has Come Through, The” (Lawrence), 618

“Sunday Morning,” 614—616

“Song of Myself’ (Whitman), 449-450 Songs, 479, 542 anonymous, 536—537

“Tire Emperor of Ice-Cream,” 613 “The Snow Man,” 613—614 Stevenson, Robert Louis, 181 “Still, Citizen Sparrow” (Wilbur), 671—672

Sonnet, 422-423, 471, 537, 541-542, 549, 574

Stock responses, 399, 423, 436-437 Stomach of goat, crushed, 699

Sophocles, 741-743, 748, 753-754, 802 Oedipus the King, 754—798 Soto, Gary, 414

Stoppard, Tom, 998-999

“Sun,” 412 Sound and the Fury, The (Faulkner), 94 Sound of poetry, 446-456 Southwell, Robert, 539 “The Burning Bake,” 539 Spectacle, 743—746 Spender, Stephen, 648 “What I Expected, Was,” 648—650

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, 999-1067 Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” (Frost), 385-392, 398, 411, 429 Straight cut, 1367 Strand, Mark, 725 “Pot Roast,” 725-726 Stranger, The (Camus), 158 Stream of consciousness, 93, 117 Stress, relative, 458-459, 460, 461

Index

1505

Strindberg, August, 956

The Child is father of the Man, 569

Style, 116-118

'The first Day’s Night had come—” (Dickin¬

Subplot, 736—737

son), 501—502

Summary, 386, 431

The first thing I saw in the morning, 699

Summer was dry, dry the garden, 702

The flower-fed buffaloes of spring, 612

“Sun” (Soto), 412

The friends that have I do it wrong, 485

“Sunday Morning” (Stevens), 614—616

The good grey guardians of art, 433

“Sunlight on the Garden, Tire” (MacNeice),

The grass people bow, 680 The green catalpa tree has turned, 691

648 Suspense, 28, 736

The house had gone to bring again, 516

“Sweater, The” (Orr), 728

The house was shaken by a rising wind, 670

Swift, Jonathan, 157

The houses are haunted, 396

Symbolism, 16, 140—141

The land was ours before we were the land’s,

Symbols, 16, 140, 390, 436

407 The old South Boston Aquarium stands, 668

and allusions, 436—445 Symmetrical plot, 736

The people along the sand, 518

Synechdoche, 424

“The Province of the Saved” (Dickinson), 504

Syntax, 117

The sea is calm tonight, 596 T

The shattered water made a misty din, 517 The Silence condescended—, 467

take it from me kiddo, 428, 633

“The Soul has Bandaged moments” (Dickin¬

“Taking the hands of someone you love”

son), 504 The time you won your town the race, 601

(Bly), 441 Taming of the Shrew, The (Shakespeare), 804 1 Tartuffe (Moliere), 736, 741, 742, 752, 901, 903, 904, 905-953 Taylor, Peter, 75, 117, 118, 660 “A Spinster’s Tale,” 75-89

The tongue that mothered such a metaphor, 404 The whiskey on your breath, 522 The world is too much with us, 574 Theater, Greek, 748—753 Theater in the round, 743

“Tears, Idle Tears” (Tennyson), 588—589

Theater of the absurd, 997—999

Television, 3, 24, 48, 49, 1365—1366

Theatrical conventions, 740

Tempest, The (Shakespeare), 157, 541, 804

Their new landlord was a handsome man

Tender, semi-, 683 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 398, 474, 587, 596

. . . , 634 Theme, 15-16, 25, 26, 130-132 There are portraits and still-lifes, 698

“Tears, Idle Tears,” 588-589

There are those to whom place is unimpor¬

“The Eagle,” 589

tant, 530 There is one story and one story only, 636

“Ulysses,” 587-588 Tension, 736 Terence, 800 Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn, 715

There was never a sound beside the wood but one, 510 There’s no way out, 679 These fought in any case, 620

Tetrameter, 460 That is no country for old men. The young,

Thespis, 748 They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair,

603 “That time of year thou mavst in me behold”

664 “They Flee from Me” (Wyatt), 537

(Shakespeare), 425 1'hat.’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

They flee from me, that sometimes did me seek, 537

589 The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows,

They lean over the path, 425

703 The broken pillar of the wing jags from the

“They that have power to hurt and will do

clotted shoulder, 622 The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard, 478

They sing their dearest songs, 405 none” (Shakespeare), 541 “This Bread I Break” (Thomas), 662 “This Is Just to Say” (Williams), 617 This is the way it was, 399

1506

Index

‘This Living Hand” (Keats), 583-584

Tragicomedy, 902, 997, 998

This one was put in a jacket, 680

‘Transformations” (Hardy), 430—433 Translations, 485, 491—497

This strange thing must have crept, 727 This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks, 520 “This was Mr. Bleaney’s room . . . Thomas, Dylan, 662

672

Traveling shot, 1367 ‘Travelling Through the Dark” (Stafford), 661 Trilogy, 748

“A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London,” 663

Trimeter, 460 Trochaic foot, 459

“Fern Hill,” 663-664

Tupper, Martin, 398

“This Bread I Break,” 662

Turgenev, Ivan, 23

Thomas, Edward, 612 “The Owl,” 612

Turning and turning in the widening gyre, 603

Thou still unravished bride of quietness, 582 Hiough there are wild dogs, 717

Twain, Mark, 173

Thought in drama, 741—742

Twelfth Night (Shakespeare), 542, 804

Three Sisters, The (Chekhov), 957

Twenty-third Psalm, 491—493

“Three Woodchoppers” (Francis). 639-640 Through the ample open door of the peaceful country bam, 596

Two, of course, there are two, 720

Through the viridian (and black of the burnt match), 726

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, 514 ‘Tyger, The” (Blake), 565-566

“Thrushes” (Hughes), 715-716 Thrust stage, 743

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, 565

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, 597

“2 Poems for Black Relocation Centers” (Knight), 722—723

Types, poetic, 474—484

Thurber, James, 29, 49, 64, 173

ballad, 474-477

“The Catbird Seat,” 29—34 Tilt shot, 1367

dramatic poetry, 477-478

‘To an Artist, to Take Heart” (Bogan), 439

epigrams, 479—480 lyric, 479

‘To an Athlete Dying Young” (Housman), 601-602 ‘To Autumn” (Keats), 446-447, 455-456 ‘To Earthward” (Frost), 421-422, 515-516 ‘To Heaven” (Jonson), 546—547

epic poetry, 477-478

prose poems, 482—484 songs, 479 visual poetry, 480—482 ‘Tywater” (Wilbur), 469—470

‘To His Coy Mistress” (Marvell), 551-552 ‘To Juan at the Winter Solstice” (Graves), 636-637

U

‘To the Memory of Mrs. Oldham” (Dryden), 553-554

Ulysses (Joyce), 93, 999

‘To the Western World” (Simpson), 465

“Ulysses” (Tennyson), 587—588

‘To Turn Back” (Haines), 680 Toland, Greg, 1369

Uncle Vanya (Chekhov), 957 Unified plot, 736

Tolkien, J. R. R., 157, 158

Unit set, 744

Tolstoy, Leo, 221

Unities, dramatic, 903

The Death of Ivan Ilych, 221—257

Uhu Roi (Jarry), 998

Tomlinson, Charles, 698

Unlimited omniscience, 90, 92 Updike, John, 118

“Paring the Apple,” 698

“Ace in the Hole,” 118—124

Tone, 117-118, 387, 427 Toomer, Jean, 635 “Reapers,” 635

“Upon Julia’s Clothes” (Herrick), 410, 413-414 Utopia, 181

Traditional symbols, 436, 437 Tragedy, 748, 750-753, 900-903, 997, 998 Tragic flaw, 751 Tragic irony, 752 Tragical History of Doctor Faustus, The (Marlowe), 801

V Validity of interpretation, 391, 392 Vaughan, Henry, 552 “The World,” 552-553

Index

1507

Verbal irony, 93

Whenas in silks my Julia goes, 410

Vergil, 478

Where were the greenhouses going, 521

“Verses Written the Night Before His Execu¬

While my hair was still cut straight across

tion” (Ralegh), 538 Versions, poets’ differing, 485—498 View from the Bridge, A (Miller), 1281

my forehead, 619 While that my soul repairs to her devotion, 548

‘Villanelle” (Empson), 644—645

“White Rat” (Jones), 377—382

‘Virgo Descending” (Wright), 726—727

Whitman, Walt, 392, 449-450, 457, 591

‘Visitant, The” (Roethke), 528

“A Farm Picture,” 596

Visual poetry, 480—482

“Cavalry Crossing a Ford,” 596

Voice-over, 1368

“Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking,”

Volpone (Jonson), 801 Voltaire, 903 Vormegut, Kurt, Jr., 181, 182 “Harrison Bergeron,” 182—186 ‘Voyages” (Crane), 638—639

591-596 “Song of Myself,” 449-450 “The Dalliance of Eagles,” 455 “Who Goes with Fergus?” (Yeats), 602—603 Who will go drive with Fergus now, 602 “Whore of Mensa, The” (Allen), 173—177

W

Whose woods these are I think I know, 385, 392

Waiting for Godot (Beckett), 744, 998

Why dois your brand sae drap wi bluid, 475

Wake! for the Sun, who scattered into flight,

“Why I Am Not a Painter” (O’Hara), 690

584 “Walt Whitman at Bear Mountain” (Simpson), 677—678

Widower’s Houses (Shaw), 1207 Wilbur, Richard, 137, 403-404, 433, 671, 904

“Wanting to Die” (Sexton), 701—702

“A Game of Catch,” 137—139

“Washing My Face” (Orr), 414

“Lamarck Elaborated,” 403—404

“Waste Land, The” (Eliot), 430

“Mind,” 672

“Watergate” (Jones), 723

“Museum Piece,” 433

We finished cleaning the last, 716

“Still, Citizen Sparrow,” 672—672

“We Real Cool” (Brooks), 665

Tartuffe (trans.), 905—953

Welles, Orson, 1368-1369

‘Tywater, ” 469—470

Citizen Kane, 1370—1448

Wild Duck, The (Ibsen), 1150

Well-made play, 737

“Wild Geese, The” (Berry), 724—725

Welty, Eudora, 57, 117, 173

Wrilde, Jennifer, 24—26

“A Worn Path,” 57-63 Whan that Aprill with his shoures soate, 535 What cave are you in, hiding, rained on?, 682

Whde, Oscar, 997, 999 Wilder, Thornton, 737 Williams, William Carlos, 93—396, 398, 414, 446, 451-452, 617, 621

“What I Expected, Was” (Spender), 648

“Nantucket,” 411-412

What is so strange about a tree alone in an

“so much depends,” 393—395

open field?, 681 What is the life, 723 When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, 577

“Spring and All,” 617-618 “This Is Just to Say,” 617 “Windhover, The” (Hopkins), 600 “Winter” (Shakespeare), 479

When God at first made Man, 547—548

With a lantern that wouldn’t bum, 441

When I consider how my light is spent, 549

Whh how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb’st

When I face north a lost Cree, 662 When I see birches bend to left and right, 514 When icicles hang by the wall, 479 “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes” (Shakespeare), 541 When that I was and a little tiny boy, 542 When We Dead Awaken {Ibsen), 1150 “When You Are Old” (Yeats), 486

the skies!, 538 Whllstonecraft, Mary, 577 Whod, John, 904 W oolf, Virginia, 299 “A Haunted House,” 299—300 Word order, 386 Words in poetry, 4014104, 457 Wordsworth, William, 72—474, 569, 574 “It Is a Beauteous Evening,” 574

1508

Index

Wordsworth, William (continued)

“Among School Children,” 605—606

“Ode: Intimations of Immortality . . . 569-574

“Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop,” 606-607

‘The World Is Too Much with Us,” 574

“Leda and the Swan,” 604—605

“Working with Tools” (Ammons), 681

“Sailing to Byzantium,” 603—604

“World, The” (Vaughan), 552—553 “World Is Too Much with Us, The” (Words¬ worth), 574

“The Apparitions,” 444

“World Outside, The” (Lavertov), 413, 414 “Worn Path, A” (Welty), 57-63, 64, 117, 141 Would-Be Gentleman, The (Moliere), 903 Wright, Charles, 726 “Virgo Descending,” 726—727 Wright, James, 414-416, 417, 699 “A Blessing,” 416

The Cat and the Moon, 1275—1280 “The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner,” 487-488 “The Magi,” 603 “The Second Coming,” 603 “Who Goes with Fergus?,” 602—603 ‘You, Andrew Marvell,” (MacLeish), 631-632 ‘Young Goodman Brown” (Hawthorne), 141-150

“Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s

Young, Stark, 958

Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota,” 414 “The First Days,” 699

‘Youth” (Conrad), 280—299

Wyatt, Thomas, 472, 537 “They Flee from Me,” 537 Z Y Yarmolinsky, Avrahm, 108

Zoo Story, The (Albee), 1348-1363 Zoom shot, 1367

Yeats, William Butler, 452, 485-188, 602,

ZukoYsky, Louis, 642

738, 741, 744, 753, 1274

“In Arizona,” 642

*

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4

\

A Guide to Literary Terms These are basic literary terms and important words from the genres of fiction, poetry, drama, and film. The page numbers will guide you quickly to definitions. To find these words elsewhere in the text, check the index. When more than two citations appear, the term is used in connection with more than one sort of literature: conflict, for example, is discussed in relation to fiction on page 27 and to drama on page 786.

accent, 458 act, 785 allegory, 140 alliteration, 391 allusion, 439 anapest, 471 antagonist, 739 anticlimax, 737 antihero, 998 arena stage, 743 aside, 803 assonance, 389

■

■ : \

-

backdrop, 748 bedroom farce, 902 black comedy, 158 blackout, 745 blank verse, 466 blocking, 746 caesura, 450 catharsis, 751 character, 47, 738 character sketch, 23 characterization by action, 48 choreographer, 746 chorus, 748 cliche, 400 cliche rhyme, 467 climax, 28 closet drama, 734 close-up, 1366 concrete poetry, 482 conflict, 27, 736 comic relief, 902 conclusion, 737 connotations, 118, 402 conventional symbols, 140, 436 costume designer, 744 crane shot, 1367 cross cut, 1367 cyclorama, 745

mmsk >_

dead metaphor, 400 denotations, 118, 402 denouement, 28, 737 diction, 117

,;y i&gp

didactic drama, 741-472 Dionysia, 748 diphthong, 453 direct rhyme, 466 director, 739, 1366 drama, 733 dramatic irony, 752 dramatic question, 737 dynamic character, 49 empathy, 738 end-stopped line, 447 English sonnet, 473 enjambment, 447 epigram, 489 epigraph, 480 epiphanies, 131 episodic plot, 736 epitaph, 480 etymology, 403 existentialism, 997 explication, 385 exposition, 27, 737 exposition of character, 47 fable, 18 fade-in, 1368 falling action, 737 fantasy, 157 farce, 901-902 feminine ending, 463 feminine rhyme, 466 figures of speech, 420 film, 1365 flashback, 28, 1368 follow spot, 745 footlights, 743 foreshadowing, 28, 737 forestage, 743 frame, 28 free verse, 393 haiku, 472 high comedy, 901 high-angle shot, 1367 humours, 901 hyberpole, 424

iambic foot, 459 iambic pentameter, 459 image, 409 indirect rhyme, 466 ingenue, 738 initial inversion, 462 intercut, 1367 irony, 93, 427 Italian sonnet, 473 light cues, 745 limited omniscience, 90 linear plot, 736 literary symbols, 140, 436 long shot, 1366 low comedy, 901 low-angle shot, 1367 lyric, 479 medial inversion, 463 medium shot, 1366 melodrama, 735 metaphor, 420 meter, 387 metonomy, 424 mime theater, 741 montage, 1367 natural symbols, 140, 436 naturalism, 956 neoclassic drama, 902 objective point of view, 91 octave, 423 off-rhyme, 466 one-actor play, 741 onomatopoeia, 389 orchestra pit, 743 paraphrase, 386 personification, 421 Petrarchan sonnet, 473 picture stage, 743 playwright, 733 plot, 27, 735-736 poetic forms, 471 point of view, 14 producer, 1366 prologue, 737 props, 744 proscenium stage, 743 protagonist, 739 reaction shot, 1368 realism, 955 recognition, 752 reference, 437 resolution, 737 reversal of intention, 752 revolving stage, 744 rhyme-scheme, 469 rhythm, 387 rising action, 28, 737 romantic comedy, 901

scene, 735 scenic designer, 743 science fiction, 180 scrim, 745 script, 733 sestet, 423 set, 743 set designer, 743 setting, 64 Shakespearean sonnet, 473 simile, 420 situational irony, 93 sketch, 23 slapstick, 902 soliloquy, 803 sonnet, 422 spectacle, 743 Spenserian sonnet, 473 stage business, 739 stage curtain, 743 stage directions, 739 stage front, 743 stage machinery, 743 stage rear, 743 stanza, 469 static character, 49 stereotype, 49, 738 stock responses, 399 straight cut, 1367 stream of consciousness, 93 style, 116 subplot, 736*737 summary, 386 suspense, 28, 736 symbol, 16, 390 symmetrical plot, 736 synecdoche, 424 syntax, 117 television, 1365 tension, 736 theater of the absurd, 997 theater in the round, 743 theatrical conventions, 740 theme, 130 thrust stage, 743 tilt shot, 1367 tone, 117, 427 tragic irony, 752 traveling shot, 1367 trilogy, 748 unified plot, 736 unit set, 744 unities, 903 unlimited omniscience, 90 verbal irony, 93 voice-over, 1368 well-made play, 737 zoom shot, 1367

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