Poets at Play : An Anthology of Modernist Drama [1 ed.] 9781575911441, 9781575911281

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Poets at Play

Poets at Play An Anthology of Modernist Drama

Edited by Sarah Bay-Cheng and Barbara Cole

Selinsgrove: Susquehanna University Press

© 2010 by Rosemont Publishing & Printing Corp. All rights reserved. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use, or the internal or personal use of specific clients, is granted by the copyright owner, provided that a base fee of $10.00, plus eight cents per page, per copy is paid directly to the Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, Massachusetts 01923. [978-1-57591-128-1/10 $10.00 + 8¢ pp, pc.]

Associated University Presses 2010 Eastpark Boulevard Cranbury, NJ 08512

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1984. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Poets at play : an anthology of modernist drama / edited by Sarah Bay-Cheng and Barbara Cole. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-57591-128-1 (alk. paper) 1. American drama—20th century. I. Bay-Cheng, Sarah. II. Cole, Barbara, 1974– PS634.P618 2010 812′.508—dc22 2009033295

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To Laina

Contents Acknowledgments

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Modernist Poetic Drama: A Critical Introduction

13

Wallace Stevens Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise (1916)

28

Edna St. Vincent Millay Aria da Capo: A Play in One Act (1919)

45

H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) Hippolytus Temporizes (1927)

64

E. E. Cummings Him (1927)

157

Marita Bonner The Purple Flower (1928)

198

William Carlos Williams Many Loves: Trial Horse No. 1 (1942)

213

Gertrude Stein The Mother of Us All (1945–1946)

267

Ezra Pound Sophokles: Women of Trachis (1954)

299

Notes

335

Select Bibliography

341

Index

345

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Acknowledgments THIS COLLECTION WAS MADE POSSIBLE BY FUNDING FROM THE JULIAN Park Publication Fund at the University at Buffalo, State University of New York and the junior faculty research leave through the Dean’s Office in the College of Arts and Sciences at UB. The editors would also like to thank the estates and editors listed below for permission to reprint plays in this collection. We are particularly grateful to Reshma Melwani, Dennis O. Palmore, Stanford G. Gann, Jr., Elizabeth Clementson, and Nicci Cloke for their assistance in securing permission to reprint, and to Sarah Bailey of Susquehanna University Press, and Julien Yoseloff and Christine A. Retz of Associated University Presses for their work in publishing this volume. Many thanks, too, to colleagues who expressed interest in this work, including David Chinitz, Debra Rae Cohen, Amy Feinstein, Amy Strahler Holzapfel, Heidi Bean, Michael Coyle, Mike Webster, Julie Perini, Eric Allina, Robert Knopf, Roy Roussel, Ruth Bereson, Cristanne Miller, and Charles Bernstein. Thanks also to colleagues in the Departments of Theatre & Dance, Media Study, and English at the University of Buffalo. Finally, we thank our closest collaborators, Laina Bay-Cheng and Steven Miller, for their support, encouragement, and patience.

o Plays not held in the public domain are gratefully reprinted by the following permissions: “Hippolytus Temporizes” By HD (Hilda Doolittle), from COLLECTED POEMS, 1912–1944, copyright © 1982 by The Estate of Hilda Doolittle. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp. (U.S., Canadian) and by Carcanet Press Limited (UK/Commonwealth). “The Purple Flower”, from Frye Street & Environs: The Collected Works of Marita Bonner by Joyce Flynn. Copyright © 1987 by Joyce Flynn and Joyce Occomy Stricklin. Reprinted by permission of Beacon Press, Boston.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

From HIM by E. E. Cummings. Copyright 1927, © 1955 by the Trustees for the E. E. Cummings Trust. Used by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation. NOTE: No performance or public reading of this play may be given without proper authorization. For professional production, permission must be obtained from the publisher. “Many Loves” By William Carlos Williams, from MANY LOVES AND OTHER PLAYS, copyright © 1942 by William Carlos Williams. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp. “The Mother of Us All” by Gertrude Stein. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Gertrude Stein, through its Literary Executor, Mr. Stanford Gann, Jr. of Levin & Gann, P.A. “Women of Trachis” By Ezra Pound, from SOPHOKLES/WOMEN OF TRACHIS, copyright © 1957 by Ezra Pound. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp. (U.S., Canadian) and Faber and Faber Limited (UK/COMMONWEALTH).

Poets at Play

Modernist Poetic Drama: A Critical Introduction No one knows what poetry should be today. It should be the audience itself, come out of itself and standing in its own eyes, leaning within the opening of its own ears, hearing itself breathe, seeing itself in the action—lifted by poetry to a world it never knew, a world it has always longed for and may enter for a few precious moments never to be known in prose. The audience is the play. —William Carlos Williams, Many Loves (1942) Then there was the element of poetry. Poetry connected with a play was livelier poetry than poetry unconnected with a play. —Gertrude Stein, “Plays” (1934)

IN THE 1989 FILM THE DEAD POETS’ SOCIETY, A CHARISMATIC POETRY teacher, John Keating (played by Robin Williams), instructs his class to rip out the introduction to their textbook anthology, Understanding Poetry, by the fictional Dr. J. Evans Pritchard, PhD. “Rip it out!” Keating exhorts his students, “I want to hear nothing but the sounds of ripping!” Not content with mere close reading, the pupils of Keating’s class spend almost two minutes of screen time literally tearing apart the three-page introduction. Pritchard’s introduction, a fictional parody of New Criticism, offers a systematic method of analysis by which the “greatness” of a poem can be calculated as the total area of “how artfully the objective of the poem has been rendered” multiplied by “how important is that objective.” Keating’s objections to Pritchard are precisely this systematic, analytical (dare we say boring?) approach, which he attacks as the work of “armies of academics going forward measuring poetry.” Like his Romantic-poet namesake John Keats, Keating espouses the importance of feeling; but unlike the Romantics, the cinematic Mr. Keating replaces poetry with performance. Although its lead characters espouse the virtues of language, the film itself demon13

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strates that the excitement of poetry can be found not in the reading of great poetry—what high modernism praised as “absorption”—but in its performance; the bodily enactment of language that leads Keating’s students to chant poetry in caves, recite verse while kicking soccer balls, and to perform Shakespeare in imitations of Marlon Brando and John Wayne. Though it purports to celebrate the wonders of poetry and verse, the film actually conveys the rebellious potential of physical expression. Running replaces reading; performance replaces poetry. Modernist poetic drama attempts to resolve the basic division between poetry as literature and theater as performance. Seemingly at odds with the principles of high modernism, modernist poetic drama has been largely overlooked both within modernist studies, and in studies of literature and theater of the period. The purpose of this anthology is to reconsider modernist poetic drama not as a literary anomaly, but rather as an essential component of American modernism and a distinctive departure from the representational American theater of the prewar period. Conforming neither to the conventions of realism nor the antirealist stance of the avantgarde, modernist poetic drama provides a crucial, though often overlooked link between fin de siècle realism and experimental performance in postwar America.

THEATER IN MODERNISM The dichotomy between poetry as a literary text and performance as embodied action has come to define much of what we think about modernist literature. Indeed, modernism itself has been defined often in opposition to performance, especially in the theater. As Christopher Innes notes in his overview of modernism and drama, “in the various critical studies of the [modernist] movement published over the last half-century, drama has been conspicuous by its absence; and where mentioned at all, it is generally dismissed as following a different—even anti-modernist—agenda.”1 Recent considerations of modernist drama have been marked by what Martin Puchner calls the “anti-theatrical tendency operative within the period of modernism.”2 In his reading of modernist drama, Puchner cites Stéphane Mallarmé, James Joyce, and Gertrude Stein as key examples of modernist drama that resists theatricality. According to Puchner, these writers aspired to a form of drama that rejected the public sphere of theatrical performance and instead preferred the solitary act of reading and thinking about a text to watching a play as it was performed. The modernist ambivalence toward the theater is based on a skepticism, perhaps even anxiety, toward the performing stage as a public space. Formulating his analysis of modern drama between two orientations, Puchner distinguishes between a “modernist

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anti-theatricalism and an avant-garde theatricalism.”3 In this juxtaposition, the avant-garde, specifically the aggressive antics of Dada, embraces the theater as the means to assault its audience and the social and cultural institutions they represent. The theater as a public space is thus necessary to the avant-garde, at least in part, because it relies on the common physical space of embodied performance. Conversely, modernist drama was based on the “high modernist values of engulfment and solitary reading, an aesthetics that is directly opposed to the distracting and interruptive nature of the theater as it was systematically celebrated by the avant-garde.”4 Puchner is not alone in this formulation. As Anne-Britt Gran succinctly puts it, “modern self-perception understands ‘the modern’ as non-theatrical, while postmodern self-perception views ‘the postmodern’ through theatrical metaphors.”5 These assessments are crucial to the formation of drama in modernism. Early twentieth-century critics often defined modernist art by its elite sensibilities, and for many subsequent scholars, the defining line between modernism and postmodernism is the latter’s inclusion of popular culture. For example, in his influential After the Great Divide, Andreas Huyssen contends that, “Modernism constituted itself through a conscious strategy of exclusion, an anxiety of contamination by its other: an increasingly consuming and engulfing mass culture.”6 In such a context, the theater with its inherent crowds would clearly reside outside the vital interests of modernism. Certainly, the audience was a source of anxiety for modernist poetplaywrights. Despite his work as both an actor and playwright, William Carlos Williams confessed that, “I always had the feeling that they [the audience] were only listening out of a cynical curiosity.”7 More vehemently, William Butler Yeats, an early proponent of poetic drama and a major influence on American poetic dramatists, wrote that, “not knowing how to escape the chance of sitting behind the wrong people, I have begun to shrink from sending my muses where they are but half-welcome.”8 And yet, this rejection of the theater was ambivalent. Yeats also acknowledged that “I need a theater. I believe myself to be a dramatist,”9 and poets like Wallace Stevens embraced modern poetry itself as theatrical, a poem “of the mind” in action. Although Stevens claimed that productions of his early plays gave him the “horrors,” he continued to use the theater as a metaphor for modernism. For example, in “Of Modern Poetry” (1940), Stevens declares that the modern poem “has / To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage / And, like the insatiable actor, slowly and / With meditation, speak words in the ear, / In the delicatest ear of the mind.”10 Though ambivalent, even hostile, toward mass culture, American poets not only addressed theater in poetry, but also approached the theatrical stage as the means to create a new literary world and perhaps paradoxically to expand the audience for their verse. In an attempt to entice this audience without

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becoming “contaminated” by the mass consumer culture (as Huyssen suggests), American poets embraced a hybrid structure: poetic drama. Because of poetic drama’s emphasis on literature within a dramatic framework, plays by modernist poets have been regularly dismissed in theater history as either historical anomalies or simply bad plays. At first glance, we might be inclined to agree with Ruby Cohn’s assessment that, “poets seem to write plays with their left hand.”11 Certainly, the emphasis on performance in American theater since the 1960s, including the conceptual widening of performance studies and the decline of plays as popular reading, contributes to this perspective that the theater is most fully understood as an experience, an event beyond simply the text itself. In spite of Shakespeare’s exceptional appeal as a verse playwright, it has been widely, if tacitly, acknowledged that poetry in dramatic form is for reading and not the popular stage.12 However, although it has since been overshadowed by the dominant trends of realism and naturalism, American poetic drama briefly appeared poised to enter the popular theater. Coinciding with the rise of modernist literature and independent publications like the Little Review, poetic drama emerged with vigor on the American stage. New American verse plays appeared on Broadway, young poets such as Percy MacKaye were hailed as the future of American theater, and newspaper editorials debated the future of poetic dramatic form.13 How then should we consider poetic drama? As poetry? Closet drama? An American avant-garde? Some poets like Stevens and Hilda Doolittle (H.D.) appear to follow the antitheatrical example of French symbolism and classical poetry by writing closet dramas, elaborate literary works that complicate the conditions of the material stage. Stevens’s Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise, for example, draws explicit attention to the literary qualities of its characters through elaborate stage directions and lyrical descriptions of the environment that could be realized only superficially in production. Others, such as Edna St. Vincent Millay and E. E. Cummings, rejected the closed representation of closet drama by drawing instead on popular performances such as vaudeville and film comedies. These references to other performance genres made the theatrics of the plays visible within the text, often in the form of physical humor and visual gags. Millay’s Aria da Capo, for instance, exploits the physical antics of commedia dell’arte figures, and Cummings saturates his play with popular music, cinema, melodrama, and minstrel performance. It is this blending of the literary with the theatrical that distinguishes modernist poetic drama from the earlier Romantic closet dramas by poets such as Percy Shelley and Lord Byron. Even writers such as Stevens, H.D., and Pound enmesh theatricality within the form of poetic drama. Although the generic boundaries are permeable, it is the contention here that the plays written by American modernist poets were written largely to engage the

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theatrical stage as a foil for poetry. Rather than positioning poetry and performance as mutually exclusive—the private, sometimes difficult reading of poetry versus the public, embodied stage—the poets included here viewed the theater as a metaphor for modernity. In this conception of modernity, it is the poetry, often lurking beneath the surface of the play, that represents the fundamental tension of the modern age. Poetic drama thus codes itself as modern life, in which the formal experimentation of the poetry can resist and subvert the apparent reality of the theater. In another sense, the play becomes the enactment of the radical poetics of language. As Roland Barthes wrote of modern poetry, it “destroys the spontaneously functional nature of language, and leaves standing only its lexical base.”14 Since the theatrical performance is ontologically mimetic, it tends toward the realistic depiction of life as it exists outside the theater, particularly through the bodies of the actors. In the theater, the actors must represent themselves as human beings. As Puchner observes, this was a fundamental pillar in the modernist opposition to the performing stage. “What they tend to object to,” he writes, “is a particular form of mimesis at work in the theater, a mimesis caused by the theater’s uneasy position between the performing and the mimetic arts. As a performing art like music or ballet, the theater depends on the artistry of live human performers on stage. As a mimetic art like painting or cinema, however, it must use these human performers as signifying material in the service of a mimetic project.”15 Poetry, appearing theatrically as unrealistic and unnatural utterances, can actively subvert, even attack this representational function of the actor. Although the body of the actor is not radically distorted as it was in the formal attacks by the European avant-garde, the language the actor speaks can and does work against mimetic representation. This in no small part explains the ubiquity of poetic and verse drama in modernism, appearing in the oeuvres of most poets, including writers from the Harlem Renaissance (such as Marita Bonner, included here) to expatriates in Paris such as Gertrude Stein, from high modernists like Pound to an aspiring actress like Millay. Poetic drama, an often misunderstood term, includes plays written in all forms of verse, such as iambic pentameter, alexandrine, blank verse, and vers libre (free verse without either strict meter or rhyme). As such, poetic drama is not limited to the rhymed couplets and meter that distinguished the verse drama of twentieth-century verse dramatists, such as Christopher Isherwood and Christopher Fry. As a broad definition, poetic drama distinguishes drama written with explicit attention to the individual line structure and to the aesthetic properties of language, often interrupting or repeating the structure of the line without regard for the so-called natural rhythms of speech. In the context of modernism, we may define poetic drama as those plays that draw attention to themselves as literary creations

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that are never subsumed into the apparent reality of the play. Thus, the textual form of poetic drama is always self-consciously evident, even in performance. The form of poetic drama reflects the ambivalence of its author, allowing both the literary and the performative to remain visible in the play, with neither subsumed by the other. In order to prevent the play from becoming fully integrated into the mimesis of the performing stage, poetic drama foregrounds language and line structure as the key principles of dramatic composition.

MODERNISTS IN THE THEATER Though seemingly at odds with the theorized antitheatricality, English and American modernist poets intended many, though not all, of their verse for performance.16 Despite the apparent elitism of poetic form—what one critic called “its unhappy divorce from the common throng”17—such poets believed that poetic drama could more fruitfully engage the audience than the commercial theater. When Yeats declared that he needed a theater, he was not alone. British novelists like Joseph Conrad, James Joyce, Thomas Hardy, and Virginia Woolf all tried their hands at writing plays, and enthusiasm for theater was even stronger across the Atlantic. In the first half of the twentieth century, American poets virtually flocked to the stage, both as playwrights and performers. Inspired by the new “modern art” coming to New York in the 1910s,18 and traveling productions of European art theaters like Yeats’s Abbey Theatre performances in 1911, American poets became integral parts of such theater groups as the Theatre Guild, the Chicago Little Theatre, and the foundational Provincetown Players, an experimental theater group established as an alternative to commercial theater in the 1910s. Half of the poets anthologized here—Wallace Stevens, Edna St. Vincent Millay, E. E. Cummings, and William Carlos Williams— wrote for and performed with the Provincetown Players. The effects of their work were not without continuity in the later half of the twentieth century. Williams, for instance, became an early supporter for the 1950s experimental performance group, the Living Theatre, even when the group moved from their early literary theater experiments (including plays by Stein and Eliot) to their more radical, participatory performances in the 1960s. Noted American theater and performance artists, such as John Cage, Richard Foreman, and Robert Wilson, cited the influence of modernist literary figures in their work.19 As recently as 1952, cultural historian Raymond Williams openly wondered if poetic drama would become a significant modern genre. If it does not, he wrote, it would not be because the theater has rejected poetry, but rather because poetic drama “has been absorbed by the theater.”20 Distinct from the European avant-garde as-

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saults on the audience, American poets attempted to exploit the communal aspects of the theater to engage a new audience for poetry. Following the verse recitation movement in England and the rise of literary magazines, American poetic drama attempts to bring poetry into the public sphere. Thus, despite its ambivalence toward the mass audience, modern poetic drama was not simply a verbose pastime of socially disengaged poets. Although the plays by American poets vary considerably in subject matter, style, and theatrical intent, nearly all attempt to use poetry as the means to connect and comment upon modernity itself. Using the mimetic conventions of the stage, poet-playwrights could juxtapose the illusory facade of modern life against the ephemeral reality lurking beneath the surface. The structure of verse could suggest a duality of vision, the revelation of two worlds at once. Such doubleness became a critical tool for commenting on the social, cultural, and even political contexts of modernism. Although modernist poets were rarely known for their political engagements, poets like Marita Bonner and Edna St. Vincent Millay readily used the stage as a forum not only for political ideas, but also as the context for political action.21 Rather than rejecting or writing against the performing stage, modernists often used the material stage itself as the context for their poetry. Rejecting Jean Cocteau’s famous preference for poetry of the theater, American modernists readily embraced poetry in the theater. Responding to cultural pressures outside the theater, poetry in the theater could simultaneously enact and subvert dominant cultural roles. This is most clearly evident in the extensive use of metatheater and explicit role-playing in modern poetic drama, notably in plays like Cummings’s Him and Millay’s Aria da Capo, and in the self-consciously literary translations/adaptations of H.D. and Pound. Poets seized on theater’s mimetic representation of the modern world to represent both the potential for social change and the danger of cultural reification. Within the hoary material of the performing stage, American modernists wrote drama as the means of cultural resistance and political engagement. In his introduction to The Fall of the City, poet, playwright, and theater critic Alfred Kreymborg reflects the kind of social optimism that characterized much of the poetic drama in the first half of twentieth-century America. He describes poetic drama as “an instrument susceptible of endless creative adventure” appealing to “an audience sufficiently large to receive new forms of the drama and clamor for more.”22 This is not to say that such poets-turned-playwrights uniformly rejected the principles of solitary absorption and notions of difficulty typical of high modernism, nor that American modernist theater was unequivocal in its pursuit of the stage. As previously noted, Stevens disowned his plays, and H.D. insisted that her Greek-inspired drama, Hippolytus Temporizes (1927), was a poem, not a play. When asked to explain her drama, Stein insisted that she never attended the theater. However, the plays themselves

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belie their admittedly ambivalent embrace of the audience. While the mass crowd must remain outside, individual spectators might be included. As Susan B. Anthony (per Stein) asserts in The Mother of Us All, “a crowd is never allowed but each one of you can come in.”

POETRY IN DRAMA This ambivalence underlies the hybridity of poetic drama and its unique position in theater history. Poetic drama is neither a dramatic style nor genre, such as we might define realism, nor does it represent a theme within a given period, as in the theater of the absurd. Verse plays are ubiquitous throughout theater history, arguably the dominant dramatic form until the emergence of dramatic prose in French domestic tragedies in the mid-eighteenth century. It is not until the late nineteenth century that poetry and drama appear as incompatible forms, but the break—not coincidentally occurring with modernism itself—was severe. With the emergence of realism and naturalism, poetry became antithetical to the interests of drama. As Henrik Ibsen wrote in 1883, “Verse has been most injurous to dramatic art . . . the aims of the dramatists of the future are almost certain to be incompatible with it.”23 By the late nineteenth century, the realists’ principles of exclusion were firmly in place and would remain so throughout most of the twentieth century. Given this context, it is tempting to consider poetic drama as not only antitheatrical, but also antirealist. Surprisingly, however, poetic drama actually thrived in the midst of realism well into the twentieth century. Just as Eugene O’Neill drew his plays from the so-called literary tradition of drama, modernist poets borrowed freely from the theatrical conventions of realism. Cummings’s Him (1927), for example, uses a realist setting to contrast the anarchic humor of the characters, as they continually perform for and comment on the audience. W. B. Worthen in his Modern Drama and the Rhetoric of Theater (1992) reads the use of verse in modern drama as an explicit challenge to the realist stage: “Poetic drama exposes a ‘deeper consistency,’ not only through its verbal design, but also in the way it presses the performance to evade the scenic priorities of stage realism.”24 Poetic drama was not antirealist, but often transrealist, attempting to articulate the social and moral complexities of modernism by undermining the empirical foundation of dramatic realism. Or, as William James once wrote of Stein, it was “a fine new kind of realism.”25 What you saw was not always what you got. A leading exponent of poetic drama in the first half of the twentieth century, Allardyce Nicoll speculated in 1936 that verse drama in the twentieth century would succeed where nineteenth-century verse had failed: “The at-

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tempts at poetic drama in the nineteenth century failed for various reasons, and among those perhaps the greatest was the fact that the current lyric measures were unfitted for the stage. Now vanished are those measures, and new rhythms, born of travail and soul’s exploration, have taken their place.”26 According to Nicoll, by embracing new forms, notably free verse, modern poetic drama could engage the audience currently under the thrall of realism. His juxtaposition of “travail”—painful work—against the “soul’s exploration” suggests that modern poetic drama encompassed more than the scientific positivism of realism. Rather than opposing such realistic theater, however, modernist poets saw in performance the opportunity to create a tangible (if imaginary) reality from which their poetry might grow through its effect on the audience. American modernist drama thus appealed to a broad, popular, and ultimately integral audience that could see through the trappings of the theater to the poetry beneath. In this context, poetry could protect against the potentially harmful effects of the mimetic stage. Modernist poetic drama thus joins a long tradition in theater and literary history of theorists using poetry to mitigate the potential corruption of the mimetic stage. As Friedrich Schiller wrote in 1792, it was poetry that could ennoble the spectator’s pleasure in the theater.27 Although some treated the theater as an ideal medium for poetry, most modernist poets used poetry in the theater as a counterweight to the performance itself. Critic Charles Altieri, for example, writes that in a poem “the play of absorption and antiabsorption becomes our means of positioning the text not as object but as interface between selves and worlds.”28 When presented in dramatic form, poetry takes on a second purpose—to mediate the experience of the actors and the spectators. Poetic drama balances the theatrical engagement of the audience against the audience’s ability to see through the physical performance to the structure of the language underneath. In nonpoetic drama, language operates as a transparent referent; but in poetic drama, the audience is made aware of the language itself. It is precisely this use of the dramatic text as what Altieri calls “interface”—its implied doubleness—that defines American poetic drama and makes theater tolerable to the modern poet.

DOUBLENESS: METATHEATER AND THE METAPHYSICAL Unique among other forms of verse plays, modern poetic drama attempted to make the poetry visible as the hallmark of truth within the theatrical illusion of realism. The exemplary theorist of this poetic tension was the American-born-cum-British subject, poet, and playwright, T. S. Eliot. Eliot wrote extensively on drama throughout his career, and his commentaries

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on poetic drama remain some of the most comprehensive considerations of the genre. Indeed, his theoretical writings have largely eclipsed his own poetic plays, though they were highly successful when they first appeared. For example, his play The Cocktail Party won the 1950 Tony Award for best play. As both critic and playwright, Eliot concentrated his interest in drama not only in the poetic text, but also in performance and popular culture.29 He changed the title of his own 1949 play from the esoteric “Upadhammam Samuppada” to The Cocktail Party in order to, in his words, “entice the public,”30 and he recommended in a letter to novelist and poet Djuna Barnes that she rewrite her plays based on observations in rehearsal. In his essay “The Possibility of a Poetic Drama,” Eliot further argued that poetic drama could (and should) again become the popular entertainment it had been in Shakespeare’s time: “The Elizabethan drama was aimed at a public which wanted entertainment of a crude sort, but would stand a good deal of poetry; our problem should be to take a form of entertainment, and subject it to the process which would leave it a form of art” (emphasis in original).31 Unlike Yeats, whom he greatly admired, Eliot was not afraid of the common theatergoing audience. Though he certainly believed in the influence of an aesthetic elite, Eliot also had faith in the collective power of theater to uplift a popular audience to “see through the ordinary classified emotions of our active life into a world of emotion and feeling beyond.”32 For Eliot, poetry had an effect beyond the intellectual comprehension of its audience. Closely akin to mystical incantation (something Eliot repeatedly used in his own plays), poetry in the theater could affect its audience metaphysically, though not necessarily intellectually. For Eliot, modernist poetic drama always appeared in double vision: It is possible that what distinguishes poetic drama from prosaic drama is a kind of doubleness in the action, as if it took place on two planes at once. In this it is different from allegory, in which the abstraction is something conceived, not something differently felt, and from symbolism (as in the plays of Maeterlinck) in which the tangible world is greatly diminished—both symbolism and allegory being operations of the conscious planning mind. In poetic drama a certain apparent irrelevance may be the symptom of this doubleness; the drama has an under-pattern, less manifest than the theatrical one.33

As the attempt to articulate this under-pattern, the theater itself became the thematic focus for many poetic plays. Metatheater—performance that selfconsciously makes the theater the subject of the performance—became a prominent technique for highlighting the poetic underside of the drama.34 For example, William Carlos Williams’s Many Loves (1942) uses a play rehearsal to parody realism. Set in the rehearsal hall for a poetic drama, Williams’s play articulates the scenes of his “poetic drama” in prose, while the reality of the characters outside the play is rendered entirely in verse.

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Millay’s Aria da Capo (1919) appropriates commedia dell’arte characters to articulate the absurdity of war. Indeed, many of the plays of American modernism use the stage itself as a metaphor for an emerging worldview in the wake of profound cultural shifts.35 Bonner’s Purple Flower uses the stage techniques of surrealism and expressionism to criticize the social conditions of African Americans, and Stein appropriates the structure of the public pageant to stage her feminist-poetic critique of American history. Stevens introduces his central characters as they get into costume onstage. Following the example of the Greek plays they adapted, both H.D. and Pound situate their characters’ moments of self-awareness as instances of theatrical revelation, often using such moments to reflect upon the events of their own lives. By turning to the theater, playing both in and against the dominant realism of the early twentieth century, modernist poets wielded their verse—sometimes representative of spiritual awareness, sometimes as the facade of daily life—against the realist techniques prominent in the American theater of the early twentieth century, and more importantly against the culture such realism reflected. The second technique of modernist doubleness emerges in poetic drama’s use of metaphysical references. Traces of the occult, mysticism, and spirituality haunt the plays of American modernism and often positioned the audience on the border between the material world and metaphysical spirituality. Certainly, poetic drama took as its models theatrical forms in which the lines between the real and the metaphysical were permeable, most notably the ancient Greek theater and Japanese Noh drama. In modern poetic drama the stage comes to represent the “the ordinary classified emotions of our active life,” while the poetry beckons to a deeper, metaphysical understanding. The physical stage exists, in part, as an illusion for the audience to see through. The relation of poetry to theatrical performance is a bifurcated vision in which the audience sees two worlds at once. On the surface, one sees the physicality of performance: the actors’ bodies; the material sets, costumes, and properties of the performance; and even the physical space of the theater itself, including architecture, fellow spectators, and the tangible division between the audience and the performers. Beneath this physical reality—expressed onstage as realism—lies the poetry of the drama to be realized by the audience. Viewed from such a perspective, poetic drama is neither antirealist nor antitheatrical. To the contrary, the theater is necessarily constructed as a deliberate illusion to be collectively undone by the audience. Poetic drama relies as much upon the material theater as it does on poetry. This notion of theatrical double vision resonates throughout critical accounts of modernist theater. To cite only one recent example, Elin Diamond describes August Strindberg’s drama as possessing a “double optic,” in which the audience responds “simultaneously to the play on the stage and

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to the modernity bleeding through the play.”36 Similarly, contemporary theories of modernism seem inevitably caught in duality, contradiction, and doubleness. In her expansive consideration of terms, definitions, and arguments with modernism and modernist studies in general, Susan Stanford Friedman concludes that “the oppositional meanings of modern/modernity/modernism point to the contradictory dialogic running through the historical and expressive formations of the phenomena to which the terms allude” (emphasis in original).37 These contradictions exist within the texts themselves. As Peter Nicholls describes modernism, it is a “palimpsest, in which ideally one text might overlay another without effacing it.”38 In poetic drama it is the theater, seemingly so at odds with modernism, that is laid over poetry, so that poetry can become the stuff of revelation or, as Eliot put it, the under-pattern.

AMERICAN POETS AT PLAY More than just a collection of plays by poets, then, this anthology demonstrates the theatrical double vision and collective ambition (and perhaps also ambivalence) of poetic drama in American modernism. The plays collected here include adaptations from Greek drama, the influence of Japanese Noh theater, experiments in expressionism, Dada, and surrealism, verse drama, blank verse, vers libre, and transcendental verse.39 Balanced between male and female poets, the list of plays strives to represent the range of trends, influences, and styles that comprised American poetic drama within a concise framework. In an attempt to situate poetic drama within a discourse of modernism, this anthology collects plays by playwrights mostly well known to readers of modern American poetry, and the plays are largely restricted to the interwar period as the height of poetic drama. Plays by Robert Lowell, Kenneth Koch, Robinson Jeffers, Paul Goodman, and New York School poets from the 1950s and 1960s therefore fall outside the boundaries of this anthology.40 Although these are significant exclusions, they are justified by the compelling stylistic and cultural break in American drama at the end of World War II, and with the emergence of the United States in a new global context.41 Only two post–World War II plays appear here—Ezra Pound’s Women of Trachis and Gertrude Stein’s The Mother of Us All—both of which continued earlier poetic experiments and represent fitting codas to American theatrical modernism, noticeably at odds with the emerging cultural landscape in the mid-1940s and 1950s. It is no coincidence, too, that both Stein and Pound were physically alienated from American culture while writing these two plays: when composing The Mother of Us All in 1945, Stein had only recently returned to liberated Paris from the French countryside, and Pound wrote Women of Trachis while in-

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carcerated at St. Elizabeths Hospital in Washington, D.C. Following his release in 1958, he returned to Italy and remained there until his death. These criteria for inclusion, while yielding a varied and distinctive collection, including both well-known plays and those rarely anthologized and out of print, also necessarily exclude several noteworthy examples of poetic drama. Among those excluded are Maxwell Anderson’s Winterset (1935) and Archibald MacLeish’s J.B. (1956), both of which represent not only significant poetic drama, but also unusual commercial success. And yet, neither writer was predominantly known as a poet. In contrast to other modernists who wrote plays as tangential to their primary poetic aims, both Anderson and MacLeish were primarily playwrights who wrote some minor poetry. Although significant in their dramatic achievements in their time, these plays also reside outside the primary concerns of this volume. Eliot’s absence from this anthology may appear to be the most glaring omission, especially given the centrality of his theory of poetry in the theater, and his close connection to many of the works included. However, his role as an American dramatist is a complicated one. Though he had given up his U.S. citizenship by 1950, it was to an American audience that he delivered his famous address, “Poetry and the Drama” that year, and he closely followed the progress of his plays in the United States. Still, his primary theatrical collaborator was the London-based E. Martin Browne, and Eliot’s own plays were set in colloquial British contexts, from Canterbury in The Murder in the Cathedral to the English drawing room in The Cocktail Party. As such, his ideas remain prominent in this volume, though not his plays. Among these ideas is Eliot’s potentially surprising statement that the text was merely “a shorthand . . . a very abbreviated shorthand indeed, for the acted and felt play, which is always the real thing.”42 Following Eliot’s belief that the performance is the “real thing” for any play, the dramas selected here have been chosen with theatrical performances in mind. Reading through the plays, one may find it surprising that they were produced at all, and the language may continually strike one as hopelessly archaic. However, such a sense of displacement and estrangement from the text was often the intended effect, one that would be mediated by the performance itself. Although it has become a widespread cliché to suggest that the plays as texts are only completed in the theater, this axiom is integral to understanding modernist poetic drama. This is perhaps why poets like Williams and Cummings considered the physical presence of the audience so important. Unlike European closet drama, American poetic drama attempted to engage its audience in the physical space of the theater. It is necessary, therefore, to keep in mind the physical production and the role of the audience. As Williams writes in his play Many Loves, it is the audience—not the playwright—that is the po-

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etry of the future, although they also represent a distinct challenge for the poet. As the twenty-first-century witnesses increasingly integrated and interactive viewing experiences—in films, games, and new media—it is worth recognizing that the concept of audience participation and collective engagement was once the essential aim of poetic drama. Alfred Kreymborg expressed in 1941, “If there was ever a common art—an art in which authors, interpreter, and audience meet at the same performance—it is the drama, and especially poetic drama.”43 Certainly there were glimmers of poetic drama’s effect on the audience. Millay’s plays were performed by the Provincetown Players, and Stein’s collaboration with Virgil Thomson, Four Saints in Three Acts, in 1934 became both a critical and popular success. In spite of the dominant modernist ambivalence toward the masses, American poets sought to restore the audience within a social theater, equally engaged in the rituals and realizations of the modernist stage. In its seemingly antimodernist approach to the audience, modernist poetic drama marks a connection between the fin de siècle realism and the theatrical experiments in the later half of the twentieth century. As many have remarked, American poetic drama became most effective when realized as the poetics of performance rather than printed dialogue in verse. Robert Wilson, Richard Foreman, and the Wooster Group are only a few of the theater artists who would reclaim, rework, and reproduce poetry in new theatrical forms that replaced the literary aspects of modernism with a postmodern pastiche of modernist source material. Indeed, by the 1970s, “poetic” became a common critical term to describe the work of artists such as Sam Shepard and Adrienne Kennedy, among others. Robert Brustein, for example, described these writers as “a few representative . . . Americans who scorn verisimilitude, preferring interior poetry and metaphysical themes to factual narrative based on realistic representation.”44 But the new “poetry” of the theater was not in the language per se, but in the stage performance itself. Only a few years after Brustein, Bonnie Marranca wrote that the late twentieth-century Theatre of Images would “exclude dialogue or use words minimally in favor of aural, visual and verbal imagery that calls for alternative modes of perception on the part of the audience.” Writing in 1977, Marranca argued that the “break from a theatrical structure founded on dialogue marks a watershed in the history of American theater, a rite de passage.”45 However, the aims of Wilson’s trancelike performances are perhaps not so different in their intent than Eliot’s attempts to spiritually enlighten his audience. Richard Foreman’s dense theatrical antics, his blend of high and popular culture, and omniscient voice of the author find a close parallel in Cummings’s Him, which similarly uses a wide range of techniques from popular entertainment and prominently features an omniscient authorial voice. The distorted reflections in Adrienne Kennedy’s dramatic rumina-

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tions on racial identity echo Marita Bonner’s expressionistic experiments, and the Wooster Group has found much in modernist literature, particularly Stein, to animate their productions into the twenty-first century. The list of correlations and connections between poetic modernist drama and postmodern performance could go on extensively. The prevalence of such connections suggests that rather than reading poetic drama as an anomaly in American theater, we might usefully consider the heyday of modernist drama as a transition between realist drama at the turn of the twentieth century and the experimental performance that would proliferate in the second half of the century. Perhaps Raymond Williams was right when he wrote that the decline of poetic drama would be the result of theater’s absorption of poetry. Much of the experimental American theater in the later half of the twentieth century does appear to absorb, rework, and revise modernist poetics, as in the plays of Anna Deveare Smith and Mac Wellman, to name only a few. To better understand the connections between modern poetry and contemporary theater, between early twentieth-century realism and late twentieth-century experimentation, we must return to modernist poetic drama, where the modernist poets first confronted these extremes intertwined. This volume is constructed chronologically, although the plays may be read singularly with individual introductions to each poet and play. Rather than follow a formula or template for these introductions, each one enters the play at a slightly different place, engaging at times biography, history, or textual analysis more emphatically depending on the play. Throughout the introductions, we attempt to trace a larger context of modernism and poetic drama, highlighting the relevant events and discourses surrounding the poets and their verse. The reader will quickly note the exchanges and intersections among the poets and the layered references in their work. Not surprisingly, Ezra Pound figures prominently throughout the volume, and one can trace more than one reference to the Armory Show of 1913 from the perspective of both a young enthusiastic Cummings and an older, less sanguine Stevens. Every anthology, of course, has its omissions and regrets, and this volume is no different. Regrettably, Cummings’s Him is represented by only its third act, and introductions could be much more expansive. Thus, further readings are provided for the continued engagement with the works of modernist drama—a genre too long ignored. Our hope is that these plays will encourage a broader interest in the genre far beyond the limits of any single collection.

Wallace Stevens (1879–1955) THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE (WRITTEN 1916; PRODUCED 1920) WAS the first and most successful of Wallace Stevens’s three plays. It received the inaugural prize for drama from Poetry magazine in 1916 and was produced by the Provincetown Players in 1920. Introducing the play, Poetry editor Harriet Monroe announced Stevens’s play as “a formative moment in our poetic drama” and “a strange and fantastic work of original genius, which whatever its dramatic value, and however diverting or repelling its story, has extraordinary poetic beauty, and presents symbolically a profound truth of our mysterious earthly existence.”1 At the time of the announcement, Stevens was already a frequent poetic contributor to Poetry but an untested playwright. After the success of Three Travelers, he completed only two more plays, one of which was left in draft form. In 1918, following what he considered a disastrous production of his second play, Carlos Among the Candles (1917), Stevens abandoned drama completely. Although Three Travelers was not the watershed event that Monroe predicted, Stevens’s first play nevertheless introduced poetic drama to American audiences, offering a unique synthesis of theatrical traditions within Stevens’s own developing poetic style. Following his own imperative, “It must be abstract,” Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise presented a radical alternative to the burgeoning realist trend in commercial theater of the 1910s and a significant new genre of American poetic drama. In retrospect, Stevens was an unlikely choice to blaze new trails in American poetic drama. Although he was among the young poets at Harvard during his studies from 1897–1900, he soon left verse writing for law, graduating from New York University Law School in 1903. Stevens worked for various law firms until he left New York in 1916 to work for the Hartford Accident and Insurance Company in Connecticut. He became the vice president of the company in 1934 and remained in Hartford for the rest of his life with his wife, Elise, and their daughter, Holly. Stevens’s departure from New York proved, paradoxically, the beginning of his literary career, though Stevens himself never regarded poetry and the law as incompatible pursuits. As he wrote to Ronald Lane Latimer, “I didn’t like the idea of being bedeviled all the time about money and I didn’t for a moment like the idea of poverty, so I went to work like anybody else and kept at it for a good many years.”2 28

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Despite this rather conventional intention, however, Stevens soon found himself at the center of an emerging American avant-garde. One of his closest friends from Harvard, Walter Conrad Arensberg, published Stevens’s first book of poetry, Poems, in 1914 and in 1915 cofounded the literary magazine Others: A Magazine of the New Verse, with free verse and poetic drama enthusiast Alfred Kreymborg. Arensberg was also an art collector who was enamored by the infamous Armory Show in 1913. The Armory Show, featuring modern art from Europe and the United States, created a scandal in New York due in no small part to the introduction of cubism as seen in Marcel Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase (1912). Although Stevens never wrote about his own reaction to the art show, he did note in a letter to his wife that it meant more to Arensberg than to anyone else he knew. It is unclear (though likely) that Stevens attended the show, but he readily participated in Arensberg’s Armory-inspired salons, where modern artists and writers—perhaps most prominently Duchamp himself— gathered regularly. Following both the Armory Show of 1913 and the outbreak of World War I in 1914, European artists fled the ravages of Europe for New York. Inspiring what became known as New York Dada, French artists like Duchamp and Francis Picabia and American writers such as Carl Van Vechten gathered in Arensberg’s apartment. An admitted Francophile and developing modernist, Stevens readily left his Connecticut home to join them. As a member of this group, Stevens would have been aware of the rising interest in poetic drama through fellow attendee Kreymborg who, in addition to cofounding Others, was developing his own style of new drama. Through Arensberg’s salon, Stevens became a friend of Kreymborg, contributing several of his early poems to the magazine. It was during this time that Stevens began developing his theories of poetry in relation to the imagination and reality, notably, his notion that poetry is an “act of the mind.” Given that Stevens wrote of poetry as “the life that is lived in the scene it composes,” poetic drama may have seemed an ideal form to express the relations between subjective human feeling and the material environment.3 Certainly this was the editorial position at Monroe’s Poetry, which called for “a new order of poetic playwrights,” who could bring the “complete fusion of realism and poetic imagination” to the American theater.4 Closely following positivist developments in science and their influence in European realism, American playwrights in the 1910s based their drama on an objective, empirical study of environment and the characters within it. When Poetry called for a new poetic drama, it articulated a shared longing for the richly detailed environment freed from scientific determinism. Poetic theatrical realism would densely layer the material stage, but such layers would reflect not just the concrete and observable elements within it, but also metaphysical sensation among them.

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Stevens no doubt knew the editorial position of Poetry in the year leading up to the playwriting contest, and his play perhaps deliberately reflects the “fusion” between poetry and realism described. Like his poetry, which has often been called “difficult” and “cryptic,” Stevens’s play is an evocative emotional scene set in a delicately detailed environment. For all his attention to the physical context of the stage, other aspects of his stagecraft appear at first barren. His characters are contradictory and obscure; his plot is bare. As he wrote in 1917, “A theatre without action or characters ought to be within the range of human interests. Not as a new thing—a source of new sensations, purposely, only; but naturally, normally. Why not?”5 To this end, Stevens strips away the usual trapping of plot by replacing a clear sequence of events, a buildup of expectation and suspense, and clear characters with abstract ruminations on seemingly small and trivial details of the environment. Three Travelers certainly lives up to Stevens’s ideal of a theater with little characterization. The Three Chinese of the title are identified only by their numbered positions: first, second, and third. They enter the stage ruminating on poetry and conversing about the recent elopement of an Italian and his lover, who is identified primarily as “Girl.” Two “Negroes” also emerge onstage, moving in and out of the darkened predawn forest and saying almost nothing. The play remains static until the sun slowly rises to reveal the figure of the Italian hanging from a tree in the distance. In place of characterization, Stevens articulates aural detail—most notably in a creaking tree branch—and a visual environment that suggests unseen forces at work. His purpose, according to his letters to Monroe as he revised the play for publication, was to create a theater of sensation and poetic feeling rather than plot and action. To this end, Stevens drew from the past for theatrical influences, in particular blending elements from French symbolism and Japanese Noh drama, which he confusingly conflates with Chinese characters. The result is a display of loosely configured Asian imagery as the articulation of both otherness and a deeper sensitivity to the unseen mysteries of the world. Although somewhat uncomfortably casual in his conflation of the Chinese characters and Japanese tradition, he nevertheless remains faithful to stylistic elements of both symbolism and Noh drama. Although they are utterly distinct theatrical traditions, symbolist and Noh drama share a mutual fixation with the supernatural onstage. Emerging in the fourteenth century, Noh focuses its canon of texts on interactions between supernatural beings, ghosts, and mortals. An essential component of the Noh stage is the bridge (hashigukari) that connects the material and the spirit worlds. Similarly, French symbolism resists the positivist observation of realism by suggesting a realm below the surface of tangible reality, existing dramaturgically at the boundaries of the physical stage. Both

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traditions appeared in modernist poetic drama, particularly in Ezra Pound’s Noh translations with Ernst Fenollosa and the plays of prominent Irish poet and playwright, William Butler Yeats. Yeats was among the first to synthesize elements of symbolism and Noh in his own poetic drama, notably in his Green Helmet (1910) and his later series, Four Plays for Dancers (1921). Stevens knew Yeats’s poetry and drama, and he attempts in his first play to explore the unseen reality beyond the limits of the play itself. From the beginning of Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise, Stevens emphasizes the abstract sensations of poetry over the material reality of the world. The opening lines of the play reinforce this point. Second Chinese asserts that “All you need, / To find poetry, / Is to look for it with a lantern,” to which Third Chinese responds, “I could find it without, / On an August night, / If I saw no more / Than the dew on the barns.” In these opening lines, Stevens implies that poetry can be intuited from the environment without overt perception, a view that contradicts realism’s reliance on empirical study. For Stevens, this lack of direct observation—evoked in Third Chinese’s description of “the seclusion of sunrise, / Before it shines on any house”—is the true source of imagination and beauty. Like the French symbolist Maurice Maeterlinck’s slow, meditative dramas, Stevens’s play drains the plot of almost all suspense, allowing his characters to ruminate on their own subjective response to the world around them. As Third Chinese says, “nothing is beautiful / except with reference to ourselves, / Nor ugly, / Nor high, / Nor low. / No: not even sunrise.” Thus, the world of Stevens’s play does not exist outside poetic perception. Only those sensitive enough to the ethereal feeling of the play can truly see the world. To articulate this in performance, Stevens accentuates the formal construction of the drama over the events of the play itself. Although the Three Chinese recall the symbolist drama of Maeterlinck and Yeats, Stevens also constructs these characters as theatrical artifice reminiscent of Noh’s convention of the mask. The Three Chinese enter dressed in “European clothes,” but they begin the play by putting on colorful silk costumes in full view of the audience as if to accentuate their roles as theatrical, and perhaps also racial, creations. Unlike symbolist drama in which characters remain locked within the fiction of the play, the characters here acknowledge their status as aesthetic creations. For example, Second Chinese suggests that perhaps they are unreal, only “three figures / Painted on porcelain / As we sit here, / That we are painted on this very bottle.” These characters, though poetic abstractions, are also self-consciously artistic creations. The use of abstraction extends throughout the play. In addition to the self-conscious theatricality of his characters, Stevens expresses his plot in ways that echo the formal fragmentation of cubist painting. Stevens’s choice of a bottle, for example, links his dramatic aesthetic to cubism by echoing

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such works as Pablo Picasso’s Bottle of Vieux Marc, Glass, Guitar and Newspaper (1913). In his own musings on the play, Stevens wrote in a letter to Monroe that the meaning could be found in its last sentence: “Sunrise is multiplied, / Like the earth on which it shines, / By the eyes that open on it, / Even dead eyes, / As red is multiplied by the leaves of the trees.” Perhaps referring to cubism’s multiple and simultaneous perspectives, Stevens suggests a thoroughly formal reading of his subjective poetic drama. The play—like the sunrise—exists only through “eyes that open on it.” Just as cubism’s fragmentation of an object requires the viewer to assemble the visual components of the image either as movement (as in Duchamp’s Nude painting), or as multiple perspectives (as in Picasso’s Bottle), so, too, Stevens’s play suggests the fluid vision of reality within the artifice of the theater. Through their collective vision of red multiplied through the leaves of the tree, the audience subjectively creates the “reality” of the play. Stevens layers his invocation of symbolism and cubism within the trope of primitivism, juxtaposing the philosophical orientalism of the Three Chinese (borrowed from Yeats and found also in Pound’s later translation of Noh drama) against the two mute “Negroes” of the play. At first glance, the two black characters seem unnecessary, even outside the simple plot as it unfolds. They are obliquely described as servants—“Here comes our black man”—but they do little within the play itself. As Brenda Murphy and others have argued, the two black characters connect the self-contained ruminations of the Chinese to the outside world, dimly represented through the woods. It is only through their silent reactions that the suicide of the Italian—expressed first as the sound of a creaking tree branch—enters the play. As the first witnesses to the lynched figure in the distance (visible only toward the end of the play, after dawn has broken), the two black characters are the first to see the “invasion of humanity” into the realm of pure beauty and, arguably, the only characters who grasp its full meaning. As Second Chinese states early in the play, “When the court knew beauty only, / And in seclusion, / It had neither love nor wisdom. / These came through poverty / And wretchedness, / Through suffering and pity. / . . . It is the invasion of humanity / That counts.” Even though this invasion “counts,” the Travelers watching the sunrise are not direct witnesses to it. It is the Second Negro who first sees the figure of the Italian, and who appears to realize most fully the unseen world offstage. At the conclusion of the play, he is left alone onstage, playing an instrument that the Chinese have left behind. After several moments of “striking” the instrument, the crack of a whip is heard in the distance, and the final image of the play is the Second Negro standing alone as the “curtain falls slowly.” The character’s movement, which indicates awareness, articulates knowledge of the sound that

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is unheard by other characters and unseen by the audience. Such aural sensitivity suggests that the black characters know the subtle tones of the world differently than either the absent Chinese characters or the presumably white audience members. While the specter of lynching and racial violence hangs over this final image, Stevens never fully connects his black characters to the social reality outside the play. Rather than providing any kind of social critique, the black characters of the play function as intermediaries between the transcendent Chinese and the “invasion of humanity” represented by the Italian’s death. Like the primitivist masks referred to in paintings by Picasso (notably, Les Demoiselles D’Avignon (The Women of Avignon), 1907) and in plays by Raymond Roussel, Stevens’s black characters are constructed as if to suggest an intuitive, physical connection to the natural world. Continually moving in and out of the forest, First and Second Negro are closely aligned with nature and appear at various times to demonstrate a sensitivity to the physical world of the play. In keeping with themes in modernist primitivism, this sensitivity is often coupled with intellectual and cultural ignorance. For example, the Second Negro plays the Chinese’s instrument listening to the sound but does not produce recognizable music. He “strikes” the instrument to the accompaniment of forest sounds: “One or two birds twitter.” As an echo of minstrelsy—a nineteenth-century performance style in which black characters were portrayed as degrading and demeaning lampoons of themselves—this final image draws on images of African American figures widely popular throughout modernist literature and art. This is in stark contrast to the Chinese characters who rhetorically situate themselves above the material world in favor of the transcendent. Thus, the black characters of the play uniquely comprehend the natural world while the Chinese characters understand only the cultural artifice. Although the play foreshadowed prevalent trends in American poetic drama—including its racialist imagery, the influence of symbolism and cubism, and its emphasis on transcendence of the material world—the eventual premiere was, at best, a limited success. Produced by the Provincetown Players, Stevens’s play represented a new direction for the group, which turned from its emphasis on representational realism to the new modernist drama as advocated by Kreymborg. Throughout his career, Kreymborg would remain poetic drama’s most enthusiastic supporter, and it was his own play, Lima Beans (starring Mina Loy and William Carlos Williams in 1917) that first introduced experimental poetic drama to the Provincetown Players. Appearing with plays by Kreymborg and Lawrence Langner, respectively, Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise opened without Stevens in the audience. In response to an earlier production of his second play, Carlos

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Among the Candles, in 1917, Stevens declined to attend the performance. Harriet Monroe, who had first admired the play, did attend the performance, and she later announced in the pages of Poetry that “there, in Wallace Stevens’ play, was the Poetic Drama.”6 Although she expressed some regret for the crude execution of the design elements and the acting of Kathleen Millay (Edna St. Vincent Millay’s younger sister), Monroe wrote that Stevens’s play had fulfilled the promise of poetic drama. Stevens clearly disagreed. But, despite his misgivings for the stage itself, the theater and its performers would remain as powerful images in his poetry to follow. The actors he so distrusted with his verse in their mouths continually appeared in the mouth of his verse. Toward the end of his career, he claimed that, “authors are actors, books are theaters.”7 In “Of Modern Poetry,” he elaborated the analogy, stating that poetry must, construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and With meditation, speak words that in the ear, In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat, Exactly, that which it wants to hear . . .8

Indeed, his mature poetry appears to pick up where his drama left off. In his poem “As at a Theatre” (1950), Stevens begins as he ended his first play. Whereas Three Travelers ends with the sunrise, this poem opens with the line, “Another sunlight might make another world.”9 Read consecutively, the juxtaposition of these two works implies that the coming sunrise from his first play might finally, through its reemergence in poetry, transform the imaginative world around him. Although it was not the formative moment that Monroe predicted in 1916, Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise remains significant not only in Stevens’s own oeuvre but also in the development of American modernist drama. Its orientalist fascination, cubist form, primitivism, and poetic musings on the relation between imagination and reality set the stage for the modernist drama still to come. Lacking the extreme formal innovation of poet-playwrights like Stein and Pound, Stevens nevertheless captures the major trends of modernism in his first play and attempts, however briefly, to create a new kind of meditative theater.

FURTHER READING Churchill, Suzanne. The Little Magazine Others and the Renovation of Modern American Poetry. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2006. Ford, Sara J. Gertrude Stein and Wallace Stevens: The Performance of Consciousness, 67– 90. New York: Routledge, 2002.

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Harrison, Ruth M. “Wallace Stevens and the Noh Tradition.” Wallace Stevens Journal: A Publication of the Wallace Stevens Society 27, no. 2 (Fall 2003): 198–204. Litz, A. Walton. Introspective Voyager: The Poetic Development of Wallace Stevens, 54–60. New York: Oxford University Press, 1972. MacLeod, Glen G. Wallace Stevens and Company: The Harmonium Years, 1913–1923. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1983. Murphy, Brenda. The Provincetown Players and the Culture of Modernity, 131–39. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005.

Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise (1916) by Wallace Stevens

The characters are three Chinese, two negroes and a girl. The scene represents a forest of heavy trees on a hilltop in eastern Pennsylvania. To the right is a road, obscured by bushes. It is about four o’clock of a morning in August, at the present time. When the curtain rises, the stage is dark. The limb of a tree creaks. A negro carrying a lantern passes along the road. The sound is repeated. The negro comes through the bushes, raises his lantern and looks through the trees. Discerning a dark object among the branches, he shrinks back, crosses stage, and goes out through the woods to the left. A second negro comes through the bushes to the right. He carries two large baskets, which he places on the ground just inside of the bushes. Enter THREE CHINESE, one of whom carries a lantern. They pause on the road. Second Chinese. All you need, To find poetry, Is to look for it with a lantern. (The CHINESE laugh.) Third Chinese. I could find it without, On an August night, If I saw no more Than the dew on the barns. The SECOND NEGRO makes a sound to attract their attention. The THREE CHINESE come through the bushes. The first is short, fat, quizzical, and of middle age. The second is of middle height, thin and turning gray; a man of sense and sympathy. The third is a young man, intent, detached. They wear European clothes. Second Chinese. (Glancing at the baskets) Dew is water to see, Not water to drink: We have forgotten water to drink. Yet I am content Just to see sunrise again. I have not seen it

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Since the day we left Pekin. It filled my doorway, Like whispering women. First Chinese. And I have never seen it. If we have no water, Do find a melon for me In the baskets. The SECOND NEGRO, who has been opening the baskets, hands the FIRST CHINESE a melon. First Chinese. Is there no spring? The NEGRO takes a water bottle of red porcelain from one of the baskets and places it near the THIRD CHINESE. Second Chinese. (To THIRD CHINESE) Your porcelain water bottle. One of the baskets contains costumes of silk, red, blue and green. During the following speeches, the Chinese put on these costumes, with the assistance of the NEGRO, and seat themselves on the ground. Third Chinese. This fetches its own water. Takes the bottle and places it on the ground in the center of the stage. I drink from it, dry as it is, As you from maxims, (To SECOND CHINESE) Or you from melons. (To FIRST CHINESE) First Chinese. Not as I, from melons. Be sure of that. Second Chinese. Well, it is true of maxims. He finds a book in the pocket of his costume, and reads from it. “The court had known poverty and wretchedness; humanity had invaded its seclusion, with its suffering and its pity.” The limb of the tree creaks. Yes: it is true of maxims, Just as it is true of poets, Or wise men, or nobles, Or jade. First Chinese. Drink from wise men? From jade? Is there no spring? the sun shines on the earth, Turning to the NEGRO, who has taken a jug from one of the baskets. Fill it and return. The NEGRO removes a large candle from one of the baskets and hands it to the FIRST CHINESE; then takes the jug and the lantern and enters the trees to the left. The FIRST CHINESE lights the candle and places it on the ground near the water bottle. Third Chinese. There is a seclusion of porcelain That humanity never invades. First Chinese. (With sarcasm) Porcelain! Third Chinese. It is like the seclusion of sunrise, Before it shines on any house.

38 First Chinese. Second Chinese.

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Pooh! This candle is the sun; This bottle is earth: It is an illustration Used by generations of hermits. The point of difference from reality Is this: That, in this illustration, The earth remains of one color— It remains red, It remains what it is. But when the sun shines on the earth, In reality It does not shine on a thing that remains What it was yesterday. The sun rises On whatever the earth happens to be. Third Chinese. And there are indeterminate moments Before it rises, Like this, (With a backward gesture) Before one can tell What the bottle is going to be— Porcelain, Venetian glass, Egyptian . . . Well, there are moments When the candle, sputtering up, Finds itself in seclusion, (He raises the candle in the air.) And shines, perhaps, for the beauty of shining. That is the seclusion of sunrise Before it shines on any house. (Replacing the candle) First Chinese. (Wagging his head) As abstract as porcelain. Second Chinese. Such seclusion knows beauty As the court knew it. The court woke In its windless pavilions, And gazed on chosen mornings, As it gazed On chosen porcelain. What the court saw was always of the same color, And well shaped, And seen in a clear light. (He points to the candle.) It never woke to see, And never knew, The flawed jars, The weak colors, The contorted glass.

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It never knew The poor lights. (He opens his book significantly.) When the court knew beauty only, And in seclusion, It had neither love nor wisdom. These came through poverty And wretchedness, Through suffering and pity. (He pauses.) It is the invasion of humanity That counts. The limb of the tree creaks. The FIRST CHINESE turns, for a moment, in the direction of the sound. First Chinese. (Thoughtfully) The light of the most tranquil candle Would shudder on a bloody salver. Second Chinese. (With a gesture of disregard) It is the invasion That counts. If it be supposed that we are three figures Painted on porcelain As we sit here, That we painted on this very bottle, The hermit of the place, Holding this candle to us, Would wonder; But if it be supposed That we are painted as warriors, The candle would tremble in his hands; Or if it be supposed, for example, That we are painted as three dead men, He could not see the steadiest light, For sorrow. It would be true If an emperor himself Held the candle. He would forget the porcelain For the figures painted on it. Third Chinese. (Shrugging his shoulders) Let the candle shine for the beauty of shining. I dislike the invasion And long for the windless pavilions. And yet it may be true That nothing is beautiful Except with reference to ourselves, Nor ugly, Nor high, (Pointing to the sky) Nor low. (Pointing to the candle)

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No: not even sunrise. Can you play of this (Mockingly to FIRST CHINESE) For us? (He stands up.) First Chinese. (Hesitatingly) I have a song Called Mistress and Maid. It is of no interest to hermits Or emperors, Yet it has a bearing; For if we affect sunrise, We affect all things. Third Chinese. It is a pity it is of women. Sing it. He takes an instrument from one of the baskets and hands it to the FIRST CHINESE, who sings the following song, accompanying himself, somewhat tunelessly, on the instrument. The THIRD CHINESE takes various things out of the basket for tea. He arranges fruit. The FIRST CHINESE watches him while he plays. The SECOND CHINESE gazes at the ground. The sky shows the first signs of morning. First Chinese. The mistress says, in a harsh voice, “He will be thinking in strange countries Of the white stones near my door, And I—I am tired of him.” She says sharply, to her maid, “Sing to yourself no more.” Then the maid says, to herself, “He will be thinking in strange countries Of the white stones near her door; But it is me he will see At the window, as before.” “He will be thinking in strange countries Of the green gown I wore. He was saying good-by to her.” The maid drops her eyes and says to her mistress, “I shall sing to myself no more.” Third Chinese. That affects the white stones, To be sure. (They laugh.) First Chinese. And it affects the green gown. Second Chinese. Here comes our black man. The SECOND NEGRO returns, somewhat agitated, with water but without his lantern. He hands the jug to the THIRD CHINESE. The FIRST CHINESE from time to time strikes the instrument. The THIRD CHINESE, who faces the left, peers in the direction from which the NEGRO has come. Third Chinese. You have left your lantern behind you. It shines, among the trees, Like evening Venus in a cloud-top. The SECOND NEGRO grins but makes no explanation. He seats himself behind the CHINESE to the right.

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First Chinese.

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Or like a ripe strawberry Among its leaves. (They laugh.) I heard tonight That they are searching the hill For an Italian. He disappeared with his neighbor’s daughter. Second Chinese. (Confidingly) I am sure you heard The first eloping footfall, And the drum Of pursuing feet. First Chinese. (Amusedly) It was not an elopement. The young gentleman was seen To climb the hill, In the manner of a tragedian Who sweats. Such things happen in the evening. He was Un misérable. Second Chinese. Reach the lady quickly. The FIRST CHINESE strikes the instrument twice as a prelude to his narrative. First Chinese. There are as many points of view From which to regard her As there are sides to a round bottle. (Pointing to the water bottle) She was represented to me As beautiful. They laugh. The FIRST CHINESE strikes the instrument, and looks at the THIRD CHINESE, who yawns. First Chinese. (Reciting) She was as beautiful as a porcelain water bottle. He strikes the instrument in an insinuating manner. First Chinese. She was represented to me As young. Therefore my song should go Of the color of blood. He strikes the instrument. The limb of the tree creaks. The FIRST CHINESE notices it and puts his hand on the knee of the SECOND CHINESE, who is seated between him and the THIRD CHINESE, to call attention to the sound. They are all seated so that they do not face the spot from which the sound comes. A dark object, hanging to the limb of the tree, becomes a dim silhouette. The sky grows constantly brighter. No color is to be seen until the end of the play. Second Chinese. (To FIRST CHINESE) It is only a tree Creaking in the night wind. Third Chinese. (Shrugging his shoulders) There would be no creaking. In the windless pavilions. First Chinese. (Resuming) So far the lady of the present ballad Would have been studied By the hermit and his candle

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With much philosophy; And possibly the emperor would have cried, “More light!” But it is a way with ballads That the more pleasing they are The worse end they come to; For here it was also represented That the lady was poor— The hermit’s candle would have thrown Alarming shadows, And the emperor would have held The porcelain in one hand . . . She was represented as clinging To that sweaty tragedian, And weeping up the hill. Second Chinese. (With a grimace) It does not sound like an elopement. First Chinese. It is a doleful ballad, Fit for keyholes. Third Chinese. Shall we hear more? Second Chinese. Why not? Third Chinese. We came for isolation, To rest in sunrise. Second Chinese. (Raising his book slightly) But this will be a part of sunrise, And can you tell how it will end?— Venetian, Egyptian, Contorted glass . . . He turns toward the light in the sky to the right, darkening the candle with his hands. In the meantime, the candle shines, (Indicating the sunrise) As you say, (To the THIRD CHINESE) For the beauty of shining. First Chinese. (Sympathetically) Oh! it will end badly. The lady’s father Came clapping behind them To the foot of the hill. He came crying, “Anna, Anna!” (Imitating) He was alone without her, Just as the young gentleman Was alone without her: Three beggars, you see, Begging for one another. The FIRST NEGRO, carrying two lanterns, approaches cautiously through the trees. At the sight of him, the SECOND NEGRO, seated near the CHINESE, jumps to his feet. The CHINESE get up in alarm. The SECOND NEGRO goes around the CHINESE toward the FIRST NEGRO. All see the body of a man hanging to the limb of the tree. They gather together, keeping their eyes fixed on it. The FIRST

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NEGRO comes out of the trees and places the lanterns on the ground. He looks at the group and then at the body. First Chinese. (Moved) The young gentleman of the ballad. Third Chinese. (Slowly, approaching the body) And the end of the ballad. Take away the bushes. The NEGROES commence to pull away the bushes. Second Chinese. Death, the hermit, Needs no candle In his hermitage. The SECOND CHINESE snuffs out the candle. The FIRST CHINESE puts out the lanterns. As the bushes are pulled away, the figure of a girl, sitting half stupefied under the tree, suddenly becomes apparent to the SECOND CHINESE and then to the THIRD CHINESE. They step back. The NEGROES move to the left. When the FIRST CHINESE sees the girl, the instrument slips from his hands and falls noisily to the ground. The GIRL stirs. Second Chinese. (To the GIRL) Is that you, Anna? The GIRL starts. She raises her head, looks around slowly, leaps to her feet and screams. Second Chinese. (Gently) Is that you, Anna? She turns quickly toward the body, looks at it fixedly and totters up the stage. Anna. (Bitterly) Go. Tell my father: He is dead. The SECOND and THIRD CHINESE support her. The FIRST NEGRO whispers to the FIRST CHINESE, then takes the lanterns and goes through the opening to the road, where he disappears in the direction of the valley. First Chinese. (To SECOND NEGRO) Bring us fresh water From the spring. The SECOND NEGRO takes the jug and enters the trees to the left. The GIRL comes gradually to herself. She looks at the CHINESE and at the sky. She turns her back toward the body, shuddering, and does not look at it again. Anna. It will soon be sunrise. Second Chinese. One candle replaces Another. The FIRST CHINESE walks toward the bushes to the right. He stands by the roadside, as if to attract the attention of anyone passing. Anna. (Simply) When he was in his fields, I worked in ours— Wore purple to see; And when I was in his garden I wore gold ear-rings. Last evening I met him on the road. He asked me to walk with him To the top of the hill. I felt the evil, But he wanted nothing. He hanged himself in front of me.

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She looks for support. The SECOND and THIRD CHINESE help her toward the road. At the roadside, the FIRST CHINESE takes the place of the THIRD CHINESE. The GIRL and the two CHINESE go through the bushes and disappear down the road. The stage is empty except for the THIRD CHINESE. He walks slowly across the stage, pushing the instrument out of his way with his foot. It reverberates. He looks at the water bottle. Third Chinese. Of the color of blood . . . Seclusion of porcelain . . . Seclusion of sunrise . . . He picks up the water bottle. The candle of the sun Will shine soon On this hermit earth. (Indicating the bottle) It will shine soon Upon the trees, And find a new thing (Indicating the body) Painted on this porcelain, (Indicating the trees) But not on this. (Indicating the bottle) He places the bottle on the ground. A narrow cloud over the valley becomes red. He turns toward it, then walks to the right. He finds the book of the SECOND CHINESE lying on the ground, picks it up and turns over the leaves. Red is not only The color of blood, Or (Indicating the body) Of a man’s eyes, Or (Pointedly) Of a girl’s. And as the red of the sun Is one thing to me And one thing to another, So it is the green of one tree (Indicating) And the green of another, Which without it would all be black. Sunrise is multiplied, Like the earth on which it shines, By the eyes that open on it, Even dead eyes, As red is multiplied by the leaves of trees. Toward the end of this speech, the SECOND NEGRO comes from the trees to the left, without being seen. The THIRD CHINESE, whose back is turned toward the NEGRO, walks through the bushes to the right and disappears on the road. The NEGRO looks around at the objects on the stage. He sees the instrument, seats himself before it and strikes it several times, listening to the sound. One or two birds twitter. A voice, urging a horse, is heard at a distance. There is the crack of a whip. The NEGRO stands up, walks to the right and remains at the side of the road. The curtain falls slowly.

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950) UNLIKE MANY OF HER FELLOW POET-PLAYWRIGHTS WHO VIEWED THE theater primarily as a venue for literature, Edna St. Vincent Millay’s engagement with the stage began as an actress. Although she was admitted to Vassar and granted a generous scholarship on the basis of her prize-winning poem, “Renascence,” Millay left Poughkeepsie for New York with aspirations not for writing but for acting. In a 1917 letter to her mother, Millay explained: “Norma [her sister] and I are to be seeking our fortunes in some hall bedroom way down town in New York—Norma trying to get a millinery job . . . and I a theatrical engagement or work on a magazine.”1 The theatrical impulse remained throughout her career. Even though she worked only occasionally as a professional actress, Millay often performed in her own plays, and critics repeatedly referred to her as “dramatic” and “theatrical.” Known among her fellow modernists as much for her looks and dynamic personality as for her poetry, Millay seemed uniquely suited to the theater. As her lifelong friend, literary critic Edmund Wilson reflected, “One cannot really write about Edna Millay without bringing into the foreground of the picture her intoxicating effect on people, because this so much created the atmosphere in which she lived and composed.”2 Millay was not alone in creating this atmosphere. Indeed, the blossoming modernist culture of Greenwich Village in the 1910s had become its own performing arts center. Village performances were rarely as neatly ordered as those of its Broadway counterparts; costume balls, political pageants, parades, poetry readings, and festivals were among the many theatrical events that the “villagers” attended. Above all, politics and the ideologies of the moment saturated the art and performances below 14th Street. Mabel Dodge Luhan, a wealthy patron of the arts, organized artistic and political readings into a series of “Evenings” that included poetry readings, political speeches, and Harlem-based dancers invited by Carl Van Vechten. At the same time that Luhan was establishing her salons, socialist and fellow Greenwich Village resident John Reed was organizing the strikers from the Paterson, New Jersey, silk companies into a massive political production, The Pageant of the Paterson Strike. Produced in 1913 by the International Workers of the World (IWW) with a cast of more than five hundred people and designed by a young Robert Edmond Jones, the performance drew sold-out crowds to Madison Square Garden. According to 45

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at least one historian, more than fifteen thousand people crowded inside to witness the performance. The time had come, as Wilson would later write, “to put away childish things and to walk the stage as poets do.”3 This stage became a new American theater with the formation of the New York–based Provincetown Players, a group influenced by the political extravaganza of the IWW pageant and composed in large part by members of Greenwich Village’s Liberal Club. Claiming to be “A Meeting Place for Those Interested in New Ideas,” the Liberal Club was formed primarily as a salon, but quickly evolved into an alternative theater space as well. To launch the opening of the club, Floyd Dell wrote the play St. George in Greenwich Village (revised from St. George of the Minute, 1913), and the group followed with other productions. By the end of 1914, many of the Liberal Club’s actors and writers formed the Provincetown Players with performances beginning the following July, in a summer cottage in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Disillusioned with both the Broadway commercial theater and the village-based Washington Players’ emphasis on European playwrights, the Provincetown Players determined that they would create a new, specifically American theater for a growing alternative culture. For the next two years, the group’s members—including George Cram Cook, Susan Glaspell, and Eugene O’Neill among others—worked to establish the little theater with summer productions and a continued season through the winter in Greenwich Village. Millay’s arrival in Greenwich Village in November 1917 coincided with the Players’ return to New York. Her first apartment at 30 W. 9th Street was only a few blocks from the site where the Players were establishing a theater in a rented space at 139 Macdougal Street. It was an invigorating time for Millay. Less than a month after her arrival, she auditioned and was cast in Dell’s play The Angel Intrudes, and she continued to perform with the Players for the next few years. Throughout 1917 and 1918, Millay became well known for her poetry and performances as well as for her romantic affairs in the Village circles. Noted for her unusual voice and vibrant red hair, Millay was at first more valued by the Players for her work as an actress than for her plays. As early Provincetown member William Zorach remembers, “We put on a school-girlish play by Edna St. Vincent Millay, Two Slatterns and a King [in 1917]. We had to do this in order to get Edna to act in Jack’s House.”4 However, Millay would soon find her voice not only in poetry readings and the roles of others but also in her own remarkable play. Aria da Capo was composed in 1919 in the midst of one of Millay’s most productive writing years. She began the year by opening the Players’ third season in New York with her own play, The Princess Marries the Page, which she also directed and performed in the lead role of the princess. More than just an ingenue in the company, Millay was ambitiously developing

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her own dramatic voice. Displaying both her skill with language as well as her intimate knowledge of the theater, Aria da Capo synthesizes the aesthetic and political concerns circulating among Greenwich Village intellectuals at the end of World War I. Similar to other modernist dramatists, Millay reworked several older literary and musical forms to articulate an original perspective on modern literature. The play’s title, for instance, reverses the term da capo aria, a three-part Baroque musical form in which the second part contrasts with the first, and the third section returns to the beginning to repeat the first part in full. Literally, da capo means “from the beginning” in Italian, and Millay uses the musical form to create an absurdly circular plot structure for her cultural critique. Though she writes a decidedly antiwar play, Millay couches the play in the rhythms and language of farce, satirizing not only the absurdity of war and its origins but also the futility of a “little” theater that would attempt to embody the magnitude of these concerns. The play begins, for instance, not with the warring factions but with the self-interested theatrical characters of Pierrot and Columbine of the Italian commedia dell’arte. Earlier in the year, Millay had played the role of Columbine in the Theatre Guild production of Bonds of Interest. From both her theatrical performances and her collegiate studies, Millay was familiar with the traditional figures of the commedia and their Italian street theater improvisations that toured Europe throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. She may also have known of Paul Marguerittes’s Pierrot: Assassin of His Wife (1881) and Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s Death and the Fool (1893), both of which used the commedia characters as metatheatrical devices. Whatever the sources, Millay states that Pierrot and Columbine are “dressed according to tradition,” and they exhibit the traits of their Italian predecessors. For example, Pierrot—historically the embodiment of childishness, as evidenced by his ill-fitting, oversized sleeves and collection of small sentimental objects in his pockets—is rendered childlike in Millay’s dialogue, expressing his detachment from the world and concerned more with eating than anything else. As he tells his presumed lover Columbine, “I always lied about the moon and you. / Food is my only lust.” Columbine, similarly lower class in the hierarchy of commedia, is also enamored of food; she begins the play crooning, “Pierrot, a macaroon! I cannot live without a macaroon!” By drawing on the humorous margins of the commedia characters, Millay begins her play as a celebration of outsider culture and, to her immediate audience at least, a tribute to the passionate, playful experiments of the Players themselves. Indeed, the distinction that the Italian performers drew between themselves as dell’arte (i.e., professional) and the commedia erudita (academic comedy performed for wealthy, private patrons) can be equated with the Provincetown Players’ attempt to form a serious alternative to the commercial theater.

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Throughout much of the first scene, Millay appears to be poking fun at her contemporaries, mocking their political ideologies as in Pierrot’s declaration, “I am become a socialist. I love / Humanity; but I hate people,” and their class tastes, as in Columbine’s plea that she is “tired of caviar / And peacocks’ livers. Isn’t there something else / That people eat?— some humble vegetable.” She parodies modern art in Pierrot’s intention to paint “six orange bull’s-eyes, four green pinwheels, / And one magenta jelly-roll” and music in his intention to create a new scale “Without tonality.” Even the intrusion of the second act into the performance of the first plays to the amusement of the rehearsing Players—for whom simultaneous rehearsals were a common occurrence—while also poking fun at those European avant-garde plays in which scenes were frequently interrupted, cut off, and otherwise disturbed by intruding characters, texts, and audiences. It is also possible that Millay constructs the modernist love scenes from a more personal perspective. Certainly Millay could and did play a kind of Columbine who, according to her notes for the first published version of the play, “believes men prefer women to be useless and extravagant; if left to herself she would be a domestic and capable person.”5 Millay was a capable woman but she was rarely left to herself. Though fiercely independent, she also relied on the generosity of male lovers, particularly early in her career. By exaggerating Columbine’s feminine wiles in the play, Millay suggests that femininity (perhaps her own) is always a performance constructed for a particular audience. If Columbine echoes aspects of Millay, the theatrical ingenue is not who Millay believed herself to be but rather the woman that Millay’s infatuated lovers often wished her to be. Whereas Millay had actively taken charge of her career since college, Columbine is content to demur to Pierrot, who will “become / [Her] manager.” Though many men offered the same services to Millay, she typically refused to be under the control of any one. One such figure, the Nicaraguan poet and expert in the Italian Renaissance, Salmón de la Selva, even signed his letters to Millay as “Pierrot” in recognition of their one-sided romance. The figures of Columbine—the dependent, silly, would-be actress—and Pierrot— the self-interested, controlling lover—thus personify Millay’s critique of a modernist sexual double standard. In only a few short pages, this opening scene manages to satirize almost every aspect of bohemian life in Greenwich Village—its art, music, theater, politics, and sexual relations. Interrupting this modernist satire is the heart of the play: a war parody drawn in an absurd style that Eugene Ionesco and Samuel Beckett would develop decades later. Self-consciously theatrical, the classical figure of Cothurnus banishes the commedia characters in favor of Corydon and Thyrsis, announcing simply, “I am tired of waiting.” Perhaps punningly named for the exaggerated footwear of Greek and Roman actors, Cothur-

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nus literally gives his fellow actors the boot. The scene that follows is adapted from Book VII of Virgil’s The Eclogues in which two herders— also named Corydon and Thyrsis—engage in a singing competition. Virgil wrote pastorals, like those in The Eclogues, as tributes to nature, but Millay disrupts this peaceful scene with the creation of a wall mandated by Cothurnus. Like their classical namesakes, Millay’s Corydon and Thyrsis engage in a competition, but they do not sing. Instead, they jealously converse from opposite sides of the wall, escalating taunts and envy until eventually they poison each other. Unlike Virgil’s pastoral, however, in this verbal competition, there is no clear winner—a condition of modern warfare that would have been readily understood by Millay’s post–World War I audience. At the conclusion of the scene, Corydon attempts to return to Virgil’s pastoral by suggesting to the dead Thyrsis, “let’s make a little song / About a lamb,” but his efforts are in vain. Like the modernists who felt the world irrevocably changed by the mechanized warfare of World War I, Corydon cannot return to the idyll of the past. His final revelation emerges both as the darkest moment of the play as well as its central truth in expressing the quintessence of theatrical illusion. Manipulated into battle by the theater dictator Cothurnus, Corydon realizes as he creeps toward Thyrsis’s dead body that “There isn’t any wall, I think.” As if to drive home this revelation—that the rationale for modern warfare is as manufactured and false as any play—Millay concludes the scene with Cothurnus’s order to “Strike the scene!” and his kicking — again, the boot—the bodies of the dead shepherds under the table where they remain during the concluding scene between Pierrot and Columbine. One might wonder at the juxtaposition of the dark futility in this central scene with the lighthearted opening jokes, chillingly repeated at the conclusion of the play. The third and final scene features the commedia characters at first discomfited by the presence of dead bodies on the set but finally reenacting their dialogue from the first scene. Pierrot and Columbine object to the presence of the bodies claiming, “The audience wouldn’t stand for it!” to which Cothurnus simply replies, “What makes you think so?” By hiding the dead from view, Cothurnus asserts, “The audience will forget.” Thus, Millay’s playful jabs at her fellow modernists in the first scene of the play evolve into serious indictments of her audience’s moral character by the end. By no means immune to Greenwich Village frivolity, Millay suggests in the final moments of the play that the jokes, masks, and costumes of modernism are poor covers for the destruction wrought by modernity itself. One might laugh at Columbine’s initial plea for a macaroon at the top of the play but this same trivial insistence, delivered over the bodies of the dead at the end, resounds as an indictment of self-interested and willful ignorance. For Millay, the modernist theater thus resides in disquieting closeness to the horrors of the First World War.

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Despite this indictment of the audience, Millay sufficiently couched the dark marrow of the play in playful verse that both audiences and critics enjoyed. New York reviewers responded favorably to the little play, which had a substantial run and even broke box office records. Three decades later, the play was still enjoying multiple productions each year. Although she wrote few plays after Aria da Capo—notably The Lamp and the Bell, commissioned for Vassar while she was living in Paris—Millay did not abandon her political perspective. In the midst of the next world war, Millay deployed her poetic skills in far more blatant propaganda. Her support of the Allied war effort in World War II, in fact, cost her credibility among literary critics. Though her war poetry had its supporters—her critique of isolation entitled, “Lines Written in Passion and in Deep Concern for England, France, and My Own Country” (1940) was called the first important poem of the war—she fought unsuccessfully for its inclusion in Oxford University Press’s Book of American Verse (1950). For many, Millay’s propaganda poems were out of step with her earlier work in which the flamboyant modernist exhibited the budding tensions between the modernist aesthetic and the articulation of moral outrage. It is perhaps ironic that whereas the devastation of World War II propelled playwrights like Ionesco to absurdity, the same war turned Millay from an early absurdist into a passionate patriot. Nonetheless, the voice of these complicated times still resounds in the radical critique of modernity, war, and art in Millay’s first and finest play.

FURTHER READING Atkins, Elizabeth. Edna St. Vincent Millay and Her Times, 77–92. New York: Russell and Russell, 1964. Black, Cheryl. The Women of Provincetown, 1915–1922. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2002. McKee, Mary J. “Millay’s Aria da Capo: Form and Meaning.” Modern Drama 9 (1966): 165–69. Milford, Nancy. Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Random House, 2001. Murphy, Brenda. The Provincetown Players and the Culture of Modernity, 143–50. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Ozieblo, Barbara. “Avant-Garde and Modernist Women Dramatists of the Provincetown Players: Bryant, Davies and Millay.” Journal of American Drama and Theatre 16, no. 2 (Spring 2004): 1–16.

Aria Da Capo A Play in One Act (1919) by Edna St. Vincent Millay PERSONS Pierrot Columbine Cothurnus, Masque of Tragedy Shepherds Thyrsis Corydon Scene A Stage The curtain rises on a stage set for a Harlequinade, a merry black and white interior. Directly behind the footlights, and running parallel with them, is a long table, covered with a gay black and white cloth, on which is spread a banquet. At the opposite ends of this table, seated on delicate thin-legged chairs with high backs, are PIERROT and COLUMBINE, dressed according to tradition, excepting that PIERROT is in lilac, and COLUMBINE in pink. They are dining. Columbine. Pierrot, a macaroon! I cannot live without a macaroon! Pierrot. My only love, You are so intense! . . . Is it Tuesday, Columbine?— I’ll kiss you if it’s Tuesday. Columbine. It is Wednesday, If you must know. . . . Is this my artichoke, Or yours? Pierrot. Ah, Columbine,—as if it mattered! Wednesday. . . . Will it be Tuesday, then, to-morrow, By any chance? Columbine. To-morrow will be—Pierrot, That isn’t funny! Pierrot. I thought it rather nice. Well, let us drink some wine and lose our heads And love each other. Columbine. Pierrot, don’t you love Me now? Pierrot. La, what a woman!—how should I know?

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52 Columbine. Pierrot.

Columbine.

Pierrot. Columbine. Pierrot.

Columbine. Pierrot.

Columbine. Pierrot.

Columbine. Pierrot. Columbine. Pierrot.

Columbine.

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Pour me some wine: I’ll tell you presently. Pierrot, do you know, I think you drink too much. Yes, I dare say I do. . . . Or else too little. It’s hard to tell. You see, I am always wanting A little more than what I have,—or else A little less. There’s something wrong. My dear, How many fingers have you? La, indeed, How should I know?—It always takes me one hand To count the other with. It’s too confusing. Why? Why?—I am a student, Columbine; And search into all matters. La, indeed?— Count them yourself, then! No. Or, rather, nay. ’Tis of no consequence. . . . I am become A painter, suddenly,—and you impress me— Ah, yes!—six orange bull’s-eyes, four green pin-wheels, And one magenta jelly-roll,—the title As follows: Woman Taking in Cheese from Fire-Escape. Well, I like that! So that is all I’ve meant To you! Hush! All at once I am become A pianist. I will image you in sound. . . . On a new scale. . . . Without tonality. . . . Vivace senza tempo senza tutto. . . . Title: Uptown Express at Six o’Clock. Pour me a drink. Pierrot, you work too hard. You need a rest. Come on out into the garden, And sing me something sad. Don’t stand so near me! I am become a socialist. I love Humanity; but I hate people. Columbine, Put on your mittens, child; your hands are cold. My hands are not cold! Oh, I am sure they are. And you must have a shawl to wrap about you, And sit by the fire. Why, I’ll do no such thing! I’m hot as a spoon in a teacup! Columbine, I’m a philanthropist. I know I am, Because I feel so restless. Do not scream, Or it will be the worse for you! Pierrot,

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Pierrot.

Columbine. Pierrot.

Columbine. Pierrot.

Columbine. Pierrot. Columbine.

Pierrot. Columbine. Pierrot.

Columbine. Pierrot. Columbine. Pierrot. Columbine. Pierrot.

My vinaigrette! I cannot live without My vinaigrette! My only love, you are So fundamental! . . . How would you like to be An actress, Columbine?—I am become Your manager. Why, Pierrot, I can’t act. Can’t act! Can’t act! La, listen to the woman! What’s that to do with the price of furs?—You’re blonde, Are you not?—you have no education, have you?— Can’t act! You underrate yourself, my dear! Yes, I suppose I do. As for the rest, I’ll teach you how to cry, and how to die, And other little tricks; and the house will love you. You’ll be a star by five o’clock . . . that is, If you will let me pay for your apartment. Let you?—well, that’s a good one! Ha! Ha! Ha! But why? But why?—well, as to that, my dear, I cannot say. It’s just a matter of form. Pierrot, I’m getting tired of caviar And peacocks’ livers. Isn’t there something else That people eat?—some humble vegetable, That grows in the ground? Well, there are mushrooms. Mushrooms! That’s so! I had forgotten . . . mushrooms . . . mushrooms. . . . I cannot live with . . . How do you like this gown? Not much. I’m tired of gowns that have the waist-line About the waist, and the hem around the bottom,— And women with their breasts in front of them!— Zut and ehè! Where does one go from here! Here’s a persimmon, love. You always liked them. I am become a critic; there is nothing I can enjoy. . . . However, set it aside; I’ll eat it between meals. Pierrot, do you know, Sometimes I think you’re making fun of me. My love, by yon black moon, you wrong us both. There isn’t a sign of a moon, Pierrot. Of course not. There never was. “Moon’s” just a word to swear by. “Mutton!”—now there’s a thing you can lay the hands on, And set the tooth in! Listen, Columbine: I always lied about the moon and you.

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54 Columbine. Pierrot.

POETS AT PLAY

Food is my only lust. Well, eat it, then, For Heaven’s sake, and stop your silly noise! I haven’t heard the clock tick for an hour. It’s ticking all the same. If you were a fly, You would be dead by now. And if I were a parrot, I could be talking for a thousand years!

Enter COTHURNUS. Pierrot. Hello, what’s this, for God’s sake?— What’s the matter? Say, whadda you mean?—get off the stage, my friend, And pinch yourself,—you’re walking in your sleep! Cothurnus. I never sleep. Pierrot. Well, anyhow, clear out. You don’t belong on here. Wait for your own scene! Whadda you think this is,—a dress-rehearsal? Cothurnus. Sir, I am tired of waiting. I will wait No longer. Pierrot. Well, but whadda you going to do? The scene is set for me! Cothurnus. True, sir; yet I Can play the scene. Pierrot. Your scene is down for later! Cothurnus. That, too, is true, sir; but I play it now. Pierrot. Oh, very well!—Anyway, I am tired Of black and white. At least, I think I am. Exit COLUMBINE. Yes, I am sure I am. I know what I’ll do!— I’ll go and strum the moon, that’s what I’ll do. . . . Unless, perhaps . . . you never can tell . . . I may be, You know, tired of the moon. Well, anyway, I’ll go find Columbine. . . . And when I find her, I will address her thus: “Ehè, Pierrette!”— There’s something in that. Exit PIERROT. Cothurnus. You, Thyrsis! Corydon! Where are you? Thyrsis. (Offstage) Sir, we are in our dressing-room! Cothurnus. Come out and do the scene. Corydon. (Offstage) You are mocking us!— The scene is down for later. Cothurnus. That is true; But we will play it now. I am the scene.

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY: ARIA DA CAPO

55

Seats himself on high place in back of stage. Enter CORYDON and THYRSIS. Corydon. Sir, we are counting on this little hour. We said, “Here is an hour,—in which to think A mighty thought, and sing a trifling song, And look at nothing.”—And, behold! the hour, Even as we spoke, was over, and the act begun, Under our feet! Thyrsis. Sir, we are not in the fancy To play the play. We had thought to play it later. Corydon. Besides, this is the setting for a farce. Our scene requires a wall; we cannot build A wall of tissue-paper! Thyrsis. We cannot act A tragedy with comic properties! Cothurnus. Try it and see. I think you’ll find you can. One wall is like another. And regarding The matter of your insufficient mood, The important thing is that you speak the lines And make the gestures. Wherefore I shall remain Throughout, and hold the prompt-book. Are you ready? Corydon-Thyrsis. (Sorrowfully) Sir, we are always ready. Cothurnus. Play the play! CORYDON and THYRSIS move the table and chairs to one side out of the way, and seat themselves in a half-reclining position on the floor. Thyrsis. How gently in the silence, Corydon, Our sheep go up the bank. They crop a grass That’s yellow where the sun is out, and black Where the clouds drag their shadows. Have you noticed How steadily, yet with what a slanting eye They graze? Corydon. As if they thought of other things. What say you, Thyrsis, do they only question Where next to pull?—Or do their far minds draw them Thus vaguely north of west and south of east? Thyrsis. One cannot say. . . . The black lamb wears its burdocks As if they were a garland,—have you noticed? Purple and white—and drinks the bitten grass As if it were a wine. Corydon. I’ve noticed that. What say you, Thyrsis, shall we make a song About a lamb that thought himself a shepherd? Thyrsis. Why, yes!—that is why,—no. (I have forgotten my line.) Cothurnus. (Prompting) “I know a game worth two of that!” Thyrsis. Oh, yes. . . . I know a game worth two of that! Let’s gather rocks, and build a wall between us; And say that over there belongs to me,

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And over here to you! Why,—very well. And say you may not come upon my side Unless I say you may! Thyrsis. Nor you on mine! And if you should, ’twould be the worse for you! They weave a wall of colored crêpe paper ribbons from the center front to the center back of the stage, fastening the ends to COLUMBINE’S chair in front and to PIERROT’S chair in the back. Corydon. Now there’s a wall a man may see across, But not attempt to scale. Thyrsis. An excellent wall. Corydon. Come, let us separate, and sit alone A little while, and lay a plot whereby We may outdo each other. They seat themselves on opposite sides of the wall. Pierrot. (Offstage) Ehè, Pierrette! Columbine. (Offstage) My name is Columbine! Leave me alone! Thyrsis. (Coming up to the wall) Corydon, after all, and in spite of the fact I started it myself, I do not like this So very much. What is the sense of saying I do not want you on my side the wall? It is a silly game. I’d much prefer Making the little song you spoke of making, About the lamb, you know, that thought himself A shepherd!—what do you say? Corydon.

(Pause) Corydon. (At wall) I have forgotten the line. Cothurnus. (Prompting) “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”— Corydon. Oh, yes. . . . How do I know this isn’t a trick To get upon my land? Thyrsis. Oh, Corydon, You know it’s not a trick. I do not like The game, that’s all. Come over here, or let me Come over there. Corydon. It is a clever trick To get upon my land. (Seats himself as before.) Thyrsis. Oh, very well! (Seats himself as before.) To himself) I think I never knew a sillier game. Corydon. (Coming to wall) Oh, Thyrsis, just a minute!—all the water Is on your side of the wall, and the sheep are thirsty. I hadn’t thought of that. Thyrsis. Oh, hadn’t you? Corydon. Why, what do you mean?

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY: ARIA DA CAPO

Thyrsis.

What do I mean?—I mean That I can play a game as well as you can. And if the pool is on my side, it’s on My side, that’s all. Corydon. You mean you’d let the sheep Go thirsty? Thyrsis. Well, they’re not my sheep. My sheep Have water enough. Corydon. Your sheep! You are mad, to call them Yours—mine—they are all one flock! Thyrsis, you can’t mean To keep the water from them, just because They happened to be grazing over here Instead of over there, when we set the wall up? Thyrsis. Oh, can’t I?—wait and see!—and if you try To lead them over here, you’ll wish you hadn’t! Corydon. I wonder how it happens all the water Is on your side. . . . I’ll say you had an eye out For lots of little things, my innocent friend, When I said, “Let us make a song,” and you said, “I know a game worth two of that!” Columbine. (Offstage) Pierrot, D’you know, I think you must be getting old, Or fat, or something,—stupid, anyway!— Can’t you put on some other kind of collar? Thyrsis. You know as well as I do, Corydon, I never thought anything of the kind. Don’t you? Corydon. I do not. Thyrsis. Don’t you? Corydon. Oh, I suppose so. Thyrsis, let’s drop this,—what do you say?—it’s only A game, you know . . . we seem to be forgetting It’s only a game . . . a pretty serious game It’s getting to be, when one of us is willing To let the sheep go thirsty for the sake of it. Thyrsis. I know it, Corydon. They reach out their arms to each other across the wall. Cothurnus. (Prompting) “But how do I know—” Thyrsis. Oh, yes. . . . But how do I know this isn’t a trick To water your sheep, and get the laugh on me? Corydon. You can’t know, that’s the difficult thing about it, Of course,—you can’t be sure. You have to take My word for it. And I know just how you feel. But one of us has to take a risk, or else, Why, don’t you see?—the game goes on forever! . . . It’s terrible, when you stop to think of it. . . . Oh, Thyrsis, now for the first time I feel

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Thyrsis.

Corydon.

POETS AT PLAY

This wall is actually a wall, a thing Come up between us, shutting you away From me. . . . I do not know you any more! No, don’t say that! Oh, Corydon, I’m willing To drop it all, if you will! Come on over And water your sheep! It is an ugly game. I hated it from the first. . . . How did it start? I do not know . . . I do not know . . . I think I am afraid of you!—you are a stranger! I never set eyes on you before! “Come over And water my sheep,” indeed!—They’ll be more thirsty Than they are now before I bring them over Into your land, and have you mixing them up With yours, and calling them yours, and trying to keep them!

Enter COLUMBINE Columbine. (To COTHURNUS) Glummy, I want my hat. Thyrsis. Take it, and go. Columbine. Take it and go, indeed. Is it my hat, Or isn’t it? Is this my scene, or not? Take it and go! Really, you know, you two Are awfully funny! Exit COLUMBINE Thyrsis. Corydon, my friend, I’m going to leave you now, and whittle me A pipe, or sing a song, or go to sleep. When you have come to your senses, let me know. Goes back to where he has been sitting, lies down and sleeps. CORYDON, in going back to where he has been sitting, stumbles over bowl of colored confetti and colored paper ribbons. Corydon. Why, what is this?—Red stones—and purple stones— And stones stuck full of gold!—The ground is full Of gold and colored stones! . . . I’m glad the wall Was up before I found them!—Otherwise, I should have had to share them. As it is, They all belong to me. . . . Unless— (He goes to wall and digs up and down the length of it, to see if there are jewels on the other side.) None here— None here—none here—They all belong to me! (Sits) Thyrsis. (Awakening) How curious! I thought the little black lamb Came up and licked my hair; I saw the wool About its neck as plain as anything! It must have been a dream. The little black lamb Is on the other side of the wall, I’m sure. (Goes to wall and looks over. COYRDON is seated on the ground, tossing the confetti up

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY: ARIA DA CAPO

into the air and catching it.) Hello, what’s that you’ve got there, Corydon? Corydon. Jewels. Thyrsis. Jewels?—And where did you ever get them? Corydon. Oh, over here. Thyrsis. You mean to say you found them, By digging around in the ground for them? Corydon. (Unpleasantly) No, Thyrsis, By digging down for water for my sheep. Thyrsis. Corydon, come to the wall a minute, will you? I want to talk to you. Corydon. I haven’t time. I’m making me a necklace of red stones. Thyrsis. I’ll give you all the water that you want, For one of those red stones,—if it’s a good one. Corydon. Water?—what for?—what do I want of water? Thyrsis. Why, for your sheep! Corydon. My sheep?—I’m not a shepherd! Thyrsis. Your sheep are dying of thirst. Corydon. Man, haven’t I told you I can’t be bothered with a few untidy Brown sheep all full of burdocks?—I’m a merchant. That’s what I am!—And if I set my mind to it I dare say I could be an emperor! (To himself) Wouldn’t I be a fool to spend my time Watching a flock of sheep go up a hill, When I have these to play with?—when I have these To think about?—I can’t make up my mind Whether to buy a city, and have a thousand Beautiful girls to bathe me, and be happy Until I die, or build a bridge, and name it The Bridge of Corydon,—and be remembered After I’m dead. Thyrsis. Corydon, come to the wall, Won’t you?—I want to tell you something. Corydon. Hush! Be off! Be off! Go finish your nap, I tell you! Thyrsis. Corydon, listen: if you don’t want your sheep, Give them to me. Corydon. Be off! Go finish your nap. A red one—and a blue one—and a red one— And a purple one—give you my sheep, did you say?— Come, come! What do you take me for, a fool? I’ve a lot of thinking to do,—and while I’m thinking, The sheep might just as well be over here As over there. . . . A blue one—and a red one—

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60 Thyrsis. Corydon.

POETS AT PLAY

But they will die! And a green one—and a couple Of white ones, for a change. Thyrsis. Maybe I have Some jewels on my side. Corydon. And another green one— Maybe, but I don’t think so. You see, this rock Isn’t so very wide. It stops before It gets to the wall. It seems to go quite deep, However. Thyrsis. (With hatred) I see. Columbine. (Offstage) Look, Pierrot, there’s the moon. Pierrot. (Offstage) Nonsense! Thyrsis. I see. Columbine. (Offstage) Sing me an old song, Pierrot,— Something I can remember. Pierrot. (Offstage) Columbine, Your mind is made of crumbs,—like an escallop Of oysters,—first a layer of crumbs, and then An oystery taste, and then a layer of crumbs. Thyrsis. (Searching) I find no jewels . . . but I wonder what The root of this black weed would do to a man If he should taste it. . . . I have seen a sheep die, With half the stalk still drooling from its mouth. ’Twould be a speedy remedy, I should think, For a festered pride and a feverish ambition. It has a curious root. I think I’ll hack it In little pieces. . . . First I’ll get me a drink; And then I’ll hack that root in little pieces As small as dust, and see what the color is Inside. (Goes to bowl on floor) The pool is very clear. I see A shepherd standing on the brink, with a red cloak About him, and a black weed in his hand. . . . ’Tis I. (Kneels and drinks) Corydon. (Coming to wall) Hello, what are you doing, Thyrsis? Thyrsis. Digging for gold. Corydon. I’ll give you all the gold You want, if you’ll give me a bowl of water. If you don’t want too much, that is to say. Thyrsis. Ho, so you’ve changed your mind?—It’s different, Isn’t it, when you want a drink yourself? Corydon. Of course it is. Thyrsis. Well, let me see . . . a bowl Of water,—come back in an hour, Corydon. I’m busy now. Corydon. Oh, Thyrsis, give me a bowl

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Of water!—and I’ll fill the bowl with jewels, And bring it back! Thyrsis. Be off, I’m busy now. (He catches sight of the weed, picks it up and looks at it, unseen by CORYDON.) Wait!—Pick me out the finest stones you have . . . I’ll bring you a drink of water presently. Corydon. (Goes back and sits down, with the jewels before him) A bowl of jewels is a lot of jewels. Thyrsis. (Chopping up the weed) I wonder if it has a bitter taste. Corydon. There’s sure to be a stone or two among them I have grown fond of, pouring them from one hand Into the other. Thyrsis. I hope it doesn’t taste Too bitter, just at first. Corydon. A bowl of jewels Is far too many jewels to give away And not get back again. Thyrsis. I don’t believe He’ll notice. He’s too thirsty. He’ll gulp it down And never notice. Corydon. There ought to be some way To get them back again. . . . I could give him a necklace, And snatch it back, after I’d drunk the water, I suppose. . . . Why, as for that, of course a necklace. . . . He puts two or three of the colored tapes together and tries their strength by pulling them, after which he puts them around his neck and pulls them, gently, nodding to himself. He gets up and goes to the wall, with the colored tapes in his hands. THYRSIS in the meantime has poured the powdered root—black confetti—into the pot which contained the flower and filled it up with wine from the punch-bowl on the floor. He comes to the wall at the same time, holding the bowl of poison. Thyrsis. Come, get your bowl of water, Corydon. Corydon. Ah, very good!—and for such a gift as that I’ll give you more than a bowl of unset stones. I’ll give you three long necklaces, my friend. Come closer. Here they are. (Puts the ribbons about THYRSIS’ neck) Thyrsis. (Putting bowl to CORYDON’S mouth) I’ll hold the bowl Until you’ve drunk it all. Corydon. Then hold it steady. For every drop you spill I’ll have a stone back Out of this chain. Thyrsis. I shall not spill a drop. (CORYDON drinks, meanwhile beginning to strangle THYRSIS.) Thyrsis. Don’t pull the string so tight. Corydon. You’re spilling the water. Thyrsis. You’ve had enough—you’ve had enough—stop pulling

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The string so tight! Why, that’s not tight at all . . . How’s this? Thyrsis. (Drops bowl) You’re strangling me! Oh, Corydon! It’s only a game!—and you are strangling me! Corydon. It’s only a game, is it?—Yet I believe You’ve poisoned me in earnest! (Writhes and pulls the strings tighter, winding them about THYRSIS’ neck) Thyrsis. Corydon! (Dies) Corydon. You’ve poisoned me in earnest. . . . I feel so cold. . . . So cold . . . this is a very silly game. . . . Why do we play it?—let’s not play this game A minute more . . . let’s make a little song About a lamb. . . . I’m coming over the wall, No matter what you say,—I want to be near you. . . . (Groping his way, with arms wide before him, he strides through the frail papers of the wall without knowing it, and continues seeking for the wall straight across the stage.) Where is the wall? (Gropes his way back, and stands very near THYRSIS without seeing him; he speaks slowly.) There isn’t any wall, I think. (Takes a step forward, his foot touches THYRSIS’ body, and he falls down beside him.) Thyrsis, where is your cloak?—just give me A little bit of your cloak! . . . (Draws corner of THYRSIS’ cloak over his shoulders, falls across THYRSIS’ body, and dies) COTHURNUS closes the prompt-book with a bang, arises matter-of-factly, comes downstage, and places the table over the two bodies, drawing down the cover so that they are hidden from any actors on the stage, but visible to the audience, pushing in their feet and hands with his boot. He then turns his back to the audience, and claps his hands twice. Cothurnus. Strike the scene! Corydon.

Exit COTHURNUS. Enter PIERROT and COLUMBINE. Pierrot. Don’t puff so, Columbine! Columbine. Lord, what a mess This set is in! If there’s one thing I hate Above everything else,—even more than getting my feet wet— It’s clutter!—He might at least have left the scene The way he found it . . . don’t you say so, Pierrot? She picks up punch-bowl. They arrange chairs as before at ends of table. Pierrot. Well, I don’t know. I think it rather diverting The way it is. (Yawns, picks up confetti bowl) Shall we begin? Columbine. (Screams) My God! What’s that there under the table?

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY: ARIA DA CAPO

Pierrot.

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It is the bodies Of the two shepherds from the other play. Columbine. (Slowly) How curious to strangle him like that, With colored paper ribbons. Pierrot. Yes, and yet I dare say he is just as dead. (Pauses. Calls) Cothurnus! Come drag these bodies out of here! We can’t Sit down and eat with two dead bodies lying Under the table! . . . The audience wouldn’t stand for it! Cothurnus. (Offstage) What makes you think so?— Pull down the tablecloth On the other side, and hide them from the house, And play the farce. The audience will forget. Pierrot. That’s so. Give me a hand there, Columbine. PIERROT and COLUMBINE pull down the table cover in such a way that the two bodies are hidden from the house, then merrily set their bowls back on the table, draw up their chairs, and begin the play exactly as before. Columbine. Pierrot, a macaroon,—I cannot live without a macaroon! Pierrot. My only love, You are so intense! . . . Is it Tuesday, Columbine?— I’ll kiss you if it’s Tuesday. (Curtains begin to close slowly.) Columbine. It is Wednesday, If you must know. . . . Is this my artichoke Or yours? Pierrot. Ah, Columbine, as if it mattered! Wednesday. . . . Will it be Tuesday, then, to-morrow, By any chance? . . . Curtain

H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) (1886–1961) ALTHOUGH THE POET FIRST KNOWN AS “H.D., IMAGISTE” WROTE ONLY TWO

plays during her prolific and varied career, there is a distinct current of theatricality in her work. Appropriating Greek drama to contemporary situations, H.D. translated the experiences of modern life into classical poetic theater: life disguised as performance. It was the same technique Ezra Pound used many years later in his own dramatic translation of Sophocles’ Women of Trachis, when he implicitly compared his incarceration after World War II to the trials of Herakles. Both H.D. and Pound used the conceits of Greek drama as the means to reflect and refract the contemporary world. To this end, H.D. not only appropriated Greek drama as source material but also engaged distinctly theatrical elements: disguises, masks, and self-conscious performances appear throughout her writing. In fact, critical treatments of H.D.’s work often characterize her verse as a kind of mask, described in phrases such as “male masking,” “poetic masks,” “mythological masks,” and “prose masks,” to cite only a few examples. Through such disguises and rhetorical masks, her characters become like actors in their perception of themselves and their actions. The Afterword to H.D.’s novel Hedylus (1928), for example, describes the characters as “extreme in selfconsciousness, theatrical in a word” (emphasis in original).1 The plays reflected H.D.’s own self-consciousness. Her Greek translations, especially her first play, Hippolytus Temporizes (begun 1920; published 1927), combine the direct imagist verse for which H.D. first became known with her later experiments in film. The resulting poetic drama combines the artifice of the Greek stage with modern cinema, the “long poem” with performance. Published after her early imagist poems and coinciding with her first cinematic experiments, Hippolytus Temporizes represents a critical bridge in H.D.’s oeuvre—a poetic and performative fusion that would allow her to synthesize her life and her art. This fusion of poetry and Greek drama can be traced to H.D.’s earliest writing. Born in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, and raised outside of Philadelphia, H.D. met Ezra Pound in 1902 while still attending Friends Central High School. Following graduation, she attended Bryn Mawr College only to leave after two years. Throughout her early career, she was deeply engaged in the emerging techniques of modernist poetry, forming associations not only with Pound but also William Carlos Williams (who was 64

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studying medicine at the University of Pennsylvania) and Marianne Moore (a member of H.D.’s class at Bryn Mawr). Despite these connections with other writers, her strongest early influence was Pound, both in her poetry and her life. Affectionately calling her his “Dryad” after the Greek woodnymph, Pound presented her with translations of Theocritus’s third-century BCE bucolic poems and, in doing so, inspired her lifelong love of Greek language and literature. In return, H.D. based her first published poems on Pound’s translations (although the poems themselves were written for her first female love, Frances Josepha Gregg). While still engaged to Pound, H.D. pursued a simultaneous relationship with Gregg throughout 1910–11, only to discover that Gregg and Pound engaged in a secret liaison. This complicated turn of events eventually became material for her novel HERmione—an autobiographical tendency that she repeated in other works, including her plays. After Pound broke off their engagement, H.D. left on what was intended to be a short trip to Europe with Frances Gregg and Gregg’s mother. Nonetheless, after parting with Gregg, H.D. remained in Europe for nearly all of her adult life. There, in London, H.D. began her writing career in earnest with Pound now functioning as editor and promoter of her poems under the movement he termed “Imagism.” It was Pound who suggested shortening her name from Hilda Doolittle to her initials—itself a kind of mask disguising her gender and her ironically unambitious surname. In 1912, he famously edited and submitted her poems to Harriet Monroe’s journal, Poetry, with the signature line, “H.D., Imagiste.” Imagism, as a poetic movement, emerged with H.D. at its center. The principles of imagist poetry prioritized clarity and precision; the first tenet laid out by Pound was the “Direct treatment of the ‘thing,’ whether subjective or objective.”2 Elsewhere he expounded, “Objective—no slither; direct—no excess of adjectives, no metaphors that won’t permit examination. It’s all straight talk, straight as the Greek!”3 Coined, in part, to define H.D.’s verse, Pound’s Imagism reflected not only her form but her subject matter as well. The poem, “Helen” (1924), for example, draws from Greek mythology but converts the character of Helen into a poetic icon, rendering her appearance almost as if it were a mask itself: “All Greece hates / the still eyes in the white face, / the luster as of olives / where she stands, / and the white hands.”4 In so doing, H.D. integrated the core poetic principles of imagism while returning to Greek sources to make them new. Although she might have begun as Pound’s muse, H.D. rapidly emerged as an artist in her own right. By 1916 H.D. had published her first book of poems, Sea Garden, and had also become an assistant editor at the Egoist. It was an exciting time for H.D., one that she would reflect in both her poetry and in autobiographically inspired novels such as Bid Me to Live (1933) and Palimpsest (1926).

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If H.D.’s poetry was, in Pound’s terms, “straight as the Greek,” her personal life was often blurred, obscure, and difficult. Much has been written about the personal tragedies in H.D.’s life that erupted amid World War I: her miscarriage in 1915; the sudden death of her brother, Gilbert, in the war, followed by the loss of her father, who suffered a stroke upon hearing the news; her failing marriage to poet Richard Aldington who, returning from the war traumatized, flaunted his sexual infidelities. These devastating experiences eventually became the inspiration for several works, most explicitly her novel Bid Me to Live. In 1919, H.D. gave birth to a daughter, Francis Perdita, fathered not by Aldington but by the painter Cecil Gray. The following year, H.D. left for Greece with Bryher, the companion who remained with her for the rest of H.D.’s life. In a November 1919 letter to Bryher, H.D. characterizes this period of her life in theatrical terms: “Perhaps I have played my part in this play and it is your cue to enter . . . You and I are like people in a play.” If they were not already, they soon would be; it was during this trip to Greece that H.D. wrote the poem, “Hippolytus Temporizes,” which ultimately gave rise to the full-length play by the same name. Even before going to Greece, H.D. published “Choruses from the Iphigenia at Aulis and the Hippolytus of Euripides” in a 1919 issue of the Egoist. While in Greece, she wrote a series of poems related to the Hippolytus myth, including “Phædra,” “She Rebukes Hippolyta,” and “She Contrasts Herself with Hippolyta.” At the core of the myth and Euripides’ play is Phædra’s unrequited love for her stepson, Hippolytus, who himself seeks only the goddess Artemis as a kind of surrogate for his lost mother, Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons. When Hippolytus rejects Phædra’s advances, she disguises herself as Artemis and seduces the unwitting Hippolytus. Despite her initial disdain for his admiration, Artemis is angered by what she perceives as Hippolytus’s betrayal and consequently arranges his demise in the nearby waves. Although H.D. adheres to the general outline of the play, she does not simply translate Euripides’ verse. Instead, H.D. radically revises portions of the play, putting greater emphasis on Artemis and introducing ambiguity throughout the play. For example, Aphrodite, Eros, and Theseus—prominent characters in Euripides’ version—never appear onstage. H.D. allows Phædra to successfully seduce Hippolytus, but rather than focus on her desire or despair, Phædra’s suicide occurs quickly offstage in a stage direction, “Lapse of time indicated by darkness or curtain. It is day. The little pavilion or tent has been removed.” In Euripides’ play, Hippolytus violently rejects Phædra; her desire prompts him to declare his hatred for all women. Consider, his response to Phædra in a 1936 translation: Zeus! Why did you let women settle in this world of light, a curse and a snare to men? If you wished to propagate the human race you should have arranged it

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without women . . . Curse you! Let people say I am always harping on the same theme. Still I shall never tire of hating women. For that matter, they never tire of wickedness. Either teach them to be chaste or leave me to assail them always.5

Compare this passage to Hippolytus’s response in H.D.’s version: Call me my steeds, is there a mortal yet arises after resting with a goddess, other than wild and passionate and glad, bring me my steeds, my champing one, my chariot.

Far from expressing a hatred of Zeus in the original, H.D.’s chaste Hippolytus remains blissfully unaware of his transgression; he is only “wild and passionate and glad.” Hippolytus thus temporizes; that is, he adapts his action to the present moment but he does not recognize that he has done so. Only Artemis sees the full extent of his actions, witnessing both Phædra’s suicide as well as Hippolytus’s death. She blames Aphrodite for these events (“All, all is broken / by her treachery”) but she is equally disappointed with Hippolytus’ ignorance: “Paeon, / O see, / his mind I changed with rapture, / this is not / the Hippolytus / of old.” Unlike most adaptations of the play, such as Racine’s Phaedra (1677) or Sarah Kane’s contemporary poetic version, Phaedra’s Love (1996), which focus on Phædra’s unrequited love and jealousy, H.D.’s revisions shift the emphasis of the play from Phædra’s condition to Artemis’s. It is the goddess who speaks the first word and the last word in the play; so, too, it could be argued, it is Artemis who most changes over the course of the play. Although Hippolytus may be the title character, he never deviates from his blind devotion to Artemis, neither hearing her admonishments in the opening of the play nor believing it was anyone but her in the tent. This lack of realization limits his dramatic range. Artemis exists as a fuller character articulating an ambivalence not seen in Euripides’ version. She longs to be free of mortal men, to “lose my shape, / become immortal, evanescent, / essence of wood-things / and no more a goddess” but she is trapped by Hippolytus’s devotion. “I must retain the god-like attribute / when such as you appeal; / ah, you, you most, / you trap, you trick, you take—.” Significantly, Artemis’s anxiety stems from the role she is forced to play. Unwillingly trapped in her role as a goddess, both tempting and rejecting her male suitors, Artemis is refashioned as an ambivalent femme fatale—the desirable woman who nevertheless destroys the men she seduces.

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This characterization reflects yet another major influence of the period: H.D.’s work in film criticism and production. In the late 1920s, H.D., Bryher, and her sometimes lover (later Bryher’s husband), film director Kenneth Macpherson, moved to the Swiss town of Territet near the German border. Together the three cofounded the film journal Close-Up (1927–30) and produced a series of experimental films including Borderline (1930) with H.D. and Paul Robeson. H.D. was fond of films by G. W. Pabst whose detailed mise-en-scène and female characterizations often reminded her of Greek drama. In “The Mask and the Movietone” (1927), H.D. compared the phenomenon of the movie theater to the masked drama: “The mask originally presented life but so crudely that it became a part of some supernormal or some sub-normal layer of consciousness. Into this layer of self, blurred over by hypnotic darkness or cross-beams of light, emotion and idea entered fresh from the primitive beginning.”6 Precisely because the mask is a crude copy of reality, it could communicate the hidden elements of the self. By comparing the mask to the movie theater, here presented as “hypnotic darkness or cross-beams of light,” H.D. suggests that the obscuring of reality through art—specifically the artificiality of performance —can become the means by which to see the self that is hidden by daily conscious experience. Later, H.D. went on to explore her own “primitive beginnings” in analysis with Sigmund Freud from 1933 to 1934, but in 1927 she filtered her experiences through Greek drama and the modern screen. One may wonder why in the midst of her work in film H.D. turned to drama instead of cinema. Perhaps it was the doubleness of character suggested by the physical (if only imagined) presence of the actor. As seen in other modernist poet-playwrights, the inherent duality of the actor/character in performance was a potent symbol in modernist thinking, an accessible facade for deeper truths to be revealed. Like Eliot, who remarked on the inherent duality of poetic drama, H.D. similarly noted that art functioned as “two streams of consciousness, running along together (the timeelement and the dream or ideal element) but in separate channels.”7 Arguably, it is in the theatrical body of the actor that these separate channels could function simultaneously, the time-element expressed in the body and the dream or ideal in the poetic spoken text. This element of embodiment in poetic drama has been largely overlooked in H.D.’s plays, in part because she herself called them long poems. However, there is evidence that H.D. was interested not only in drama on the page but also as an embodied experience. “You cannot learn Greek,” she wrote, “only, with a dictionary. You can learn it with your hands and your feet and especially with your lungs.”8 Given that films in 1927 Europe were still silent (the first talking films emerged in the United States with The Jazz Singer in 1927 and would not be available in Europe for several more years), the modern cin-

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ema would have offered little opportunity to learn Greek with the lungs. H.D.’s poetic drama, then, may be understood as an attempt to fuse her early Imagist poems—as evidenced in the poetic lines themselves—with the experimental cinema of the 1920s. Returning to Greek tragedy and articulating characters as fractured, cinematic beings, H.D. could imaginatively play out the events of her life in both poetic and performative ways. Whatever H.D.’s intentions, Hippolytus Temporizes was a play never performed. H.D. showed little interest in bringing the drama to the stage and completed only one other play, Ion, in 1937. Opinions of Hippolytus Temporizes vary with recent considerations describing the play as an “artistic work of transcendence” and a work of feminist resistence.9 Most often, the play is regarded as a poem, a formal experiment that allowed H.D. to compose the dramatic monologues that she excelled at writing and, perhaps, to project herself into multiple characters simultaneously. It may have been too intimate an association. While other so-called closet and poetic dramas were performed throughout the twentieth century, H.D.’s work never saw the stage, perhaps in part because H.D. herself paid little attention to theatrical performance. Years later, however, H.D. would reflect on her missed performance career. In her unpublished memoir, Compassionate Friendship, she recalled reading her collection, Helen in Egypt, for radio in 1955: “It seemed that I had missed my vocation. This is what I would like to have done always—always and always. It wasn’t singing, it wasn’t acting but it was both.”10 Perhaps that is the best way to think about Hippolytus Temporizes: it wasn’t poetry, it wasn’t drama, but it was both.

FURTHER READING Fox, Maria Stadter. The Troubling Play of Gender: The Phædra Dramas of Tsvetaeva, Yourcenar, and H.D., 108–45. Selinsgrove, PA: Susquehanna University Press, 2001. Gelpi, Albert. “H.D. in Bethlehem, Hilda in Egypt.” In A Coherent Splendor: The American Poetic Renaissance, 1910–1950. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Gregory, Eileen. “Virginity and Erotic Liminality: H.D.’s ‘Hippolytus Temporizes.’” Contemporary Literature 31, no. 2 (Summer 1990): 133–60. Laity, Cassandra. H.D. and the Victorian Fin de Siècle: Gender, Modernism, Decadence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Lyon, Melvin E. H.D.’s Hippolytus Temporizes: Text and Context. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Studies, 1991.

Hippolytus Temporizes (1927) by H.D. (Hilda Doolittle)

PEOPLE OF THE PLAY Hippolytus, son of Theseus and Hippolyta. Hyperides, courtier of Athens. Leader of the Huntsmen. Band of Huntsmen. Boy, from a wrecked Cyprian vessel. Phædra, wife of Theseus, King of Athens. Myrrhina, serving-lady to Phædra. Nurse, to Phædra. Band of serving-women. Servants, musicians, etc. Artemis. Helios. The Argument This is the familiar story of Theseus of Athens. Hippolytus, his son and the child of Hippolyta, inflames a later wife, the Cretan princess, Phædra, in her palace outside Trœzen in Attica. Theseus, King of Athens, finds his rival in his own son, the step-son of his foreign queen. How Hippolytus returns the affection so secretly and tragically bestowed has become a legend, the prototype of unrequited passion for many centuries. Hippolytus is his mother again, frozen lover of the forest which maintains personal form for him in the ever-present vision, yea, even the bodily presence of the goddess Artemis. Phædra by a trick (as we see in the second act of this play) gains the passion of the youth. The boy, as tradition has always maintained, in a frenzied drive along an infuriated seacoast, is broken and mercilessly battered by the waves. The consequence of his death to two of the Olympians is here set forth in the final act of this tragedy, Hippolytus Temporizes. Act I Below Trœzen. A wild gorge or ravine cuts through the trees on to a flat, sandy beach.

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Artemis.

I heard the intolerable rhythm and sound of prayer, so I have hidden where no mortals are, no sycophant of priest to mar my ease, climbing impassible stairs of rock and forest shale and barriers of trees: someone will come after I shun this place and set a circle, blunt end up, of stones, flattened and hewn, and pile an altar, but I shall have gone further toward loftier barrier, mightier trees; bear, wolf and pard I will entice with me, that eyes’ black fire or yellow flatter, conjure, feed desire, conspire, lead me yet further to some loftier shelf, untrodden; unappeased, I will disport at ease and wait; I will engage in thought and plot with earth how we may best efface from Elæa and all stony Peloponnese, from wild Arcadia and the Isthmian straits, from Thrace and Locrian hills, (as isles are sunk in overwhelming seas), all Grecian cities

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with the wild arbutus and the luminous trees. Enter HIPPOLYTUS, stumbling forward, uncertain in the half-light. Hippolytus. Here in the night, here in the salt-whipped air, you hide; but where, where, where, O mistress of the tide-line of the sea, of the deep-sea self and the implacable tide? Artemis. Again, again, intolerable prayer. Hippolytus. I found trace of you on the mountain stair, within a fern-lined crevice, for the snare set for a wild bird showed who had been there, the trap was sprung and the wild bird was free; queen of the peaked hills, I have followed three ecstatic linnets who bewitched must bear bright wings aloft to turn and whirr and fall, having no motive but to whirr and whirr, to circle and to chatter and to care for nothing further than to scream and call, so I have learned their bird-notes and so follow like a wild linnet, Artemis, Artemis— Artemis. O madness of wood-speech— Hippolytus. I have implored the adder and the bear, the lynx, the pard, the panther for some prayer, some charm, some peril to entrap your feet; I have intrigued for many days

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

to meet some kindly serpent who might name your name, so I might lay in wait to lure, to hiss like a wood-creature, Artemis, Artemis— He would betray— Wild, wild, wild, wild, O fair, I have cajoled, implored, seared the bright air with your bright name that like an arrow tears my heart to speak it; I have imperilled, shamed the very stars with brighter shaft, with more imperious flame of blinding light and fervour, Artemis— Again. Artemis, Artemis, Artemis, are you near? O listen, pause and hear, bright queen and phantom— He bends and touches the inviolate sand— O wild, wild, wild, O sweet, is this the shape and pattern of your feet or some bright flower blown here from other lands? is this some blossom,

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Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

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wafted from your hands, or the white trail of phosphorescent sea? is this flower shaken from some woodland tree or have the stars trailed down to brush the land? The broken weed, the scattered broken shell— Wild, wild, wild, wild, O dear, I have inflamed and torn the dispassionate air with sound of flute and note of song and metre— I fear— There, there, there, there I see— Ah me There, there, there, there, O star, queen of the sea-cliff and the mountainous air that stings and burns and lightens us like wine, O queen and mistress— Beware— Wondrous, O fair, like some tall supple sapling or some rare young warrior with his glittering arms and spear, call, call your silver wolf-hounds, dart your spear, and fling your arrows, can they rend and tear and wound me as the arrows of your hair that flame and burn

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Artemis.

Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis.

Hippolytus.

as if some travelling meteor had dropped its mantle where the laurels burn? do I—I fear? nay goddess, exquisite and dear— O turn— I must be off, Hippolytus, you have crossed my path too often— Witness each copse and glen, where every time I found you, I set up a lesser goddess, silver-cold and wrought by the most exquisite craftsmen— No craftsman may imprison my swift feet— Nay, wild and sweet, but song may yet entrap you, fire and rhythm may yet contain the ecstasy and the heat cold like white lightning— O what, what, what, Hippolytus, do you seek? I seek as a wood-lover, O wild heart, the very pulse and passion of your feet, I scale the height for wild deer but I ask of every stone upturned, of the moss print, of scattered shells and broken acorn cups, of every grass blade trodden and the earth sprinkled with unaccustomed silver drift of sand and delicate seed-pearls from the east, Artemis, Artemis, Artemis,

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Artemis.

Hippolytus.

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has she passed? You waste your life in shadowing Artemis. Can any waste his life in fervid worship? What of the city, the demands of kingship? My city is the forest, I, its high priest— There is a goddess and a priest who frowns— You have no rival in the windless towns— The streets are fervid, the town squares are rife— With what, O mistress, that concerns our life? The streets are rabid with small talk and dire— What talk, O queen, intolerate, white like fire? I stand intolerate with disgust, not hate— What tale has reached you, of what wicked thing? A tale of Athens’ queen, of Athens’ king— Alas, my dotard sire, my captured father— Beware the capturer who may snare another— You speak, O queen, an impotent phrase and shame me who but praise your beauty O white flower, O passionate maid— How do I mock? speak, should I share detachment, chastity and fervid thought with her? What pointless question— tell me if you dare what day has passed

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Artemis.

Hippolytus. Artemis.

and witnessed my neglect, what altar has been empty or what fair white statue of what distant fane accosts you, to complain that its bright throat was bare of any wild flower? Alas, no day has witnessed lack of prayer, alas, no statue ever has been bare of mountain lily or wild-lily chaplet; alas, the very forests bend and sway, bearing aloft frail incense from the fires that you have lit on every altar base; alas, no place is empty of you and your perilous fervour— Then stay, stay, stay— Alas, alas, alas, I would escape, myself escape from all men’s songs and praying; I can not breathe, I can not rest nor sleep; ever and ever as the wild trees, soft, bend over to embrace and breathe me back, back to the very substance of the forest, at just that moment as I loose my shape, become immortal, evanescent, essence of wood-things and no more a goddess, at just that moment when I would attain immortal sustenance

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Hippolytus. Artemis.

Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis.

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and gain my rest, some prayer arises dimming tree and forest and I must answer those who pray the goddess, a goddess rise and help or slay or heal or bless; I must retain the god-like attribute when such as you appeal; ah, you, you most, you trap, you trick, you take— I traced this runnel from the farthest hills to this sea-shelter, this remote sea-cove, lonely, immanent, where peril I thought had made all safe, but you, you like a bird, Hippolytus, must follow— O fair— Have I no peace, no quiet anywhere? you trick, you trap, Hippolytus, a goddess in your snare. Say rather you have trapped, have stricken me— I have not lured you here nor anywhere— There is a lure more potent than mere prayer— What lure, what lure, Hippolytus— but beware The lure of frenzied feet, of webbed gold hair— I am not woman nor of womankind— To such, O mistress, I am blind, blind, blind— What of this rumour that provokes the streets— Rumour of bees, of wasps, of unclean tame beasts— Rumour of bees and wasps and of dishonour—

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Hippolytus.

O queen, O mistress, speak not of that fever Artemis. Yea, I am told charms call you to her favour Hippolytus. Not I—not I—I am no wanton’s lover— Artemis. This wanton holds a place besides a king— Hippolytus. A king of cities, of no spirit-bride— Artemis. But go—but go they say her lust invokes— Hippolytus. Nothing, I say nothing my fire provokes— Artemis. I do not stay to rival anyone— Voices. (distant) Never in porch or corridor can love come, never to us who died young, long ago, long ago. Hippolytus. What are these voices? Artemis. These are my maidens who are wroth to see me loitering with a mortal. Hippolytus. I am no mortal. Artemis. Boastful and hot as ever. Hippolytus. Hot on the trail, hot, hot, in my desire to trace you in the forest, in the brake, in tangle of the wild larch, through the stretch of pine and poplar where the intoxicant scent reels and transports me of the flowering wild grapes— Artemis. The grapes give stronger wine in Trœzen town— Hippolytus. No wine can tempt me from the blossoming wood— Artemis. Red roses burn away the flowering tree— Hippolytus. Nay, let me share your solitude by the sea— Artemis. Share, share the mind

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with fierce companion mind, poetic frenzy with another blind with rapturous fire of the enchanter’s harp, share, share the mind or love with any lover, but beware: the rapture of my loneliest crags none share— Hippolytus. But I— but I— following the staggering wild deer and fleet hind, breaking the wood-branch, struggling with the vine that falls and swings and tangles as it sways, I follow and I share abandonment with Artemis. Artemis. None share but womankind. Voices. (distant) Never in porch or corridor can love come, never to us who died young, long ago, long ago. Hippolytus. What curious echo. Artemis. My maidens; go, go, —go— Hippolytus. Where can I go for you are everywhere— Artemis. Not where the Cyprian weaves her perilous snare. Hippolytus. You lie— this is no place to speak her name— Artemis. Her name is everywhere, her ways are dire— Hippolytus. Do you, white goddess, slander spirit-fire? Artemis. Spirit of lust you mean, the dangerous mother— Hippolytus. Mistress of danger, aye, and luminous aether— Artemis. You mean the cruel one, the Cytherian?

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis.

Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus.

You, you are cruel; no, I mean another— What spirit, speak, and who is this I slander? You do belittle a most gracious name— What name, what spirit, devot of what fane? Her fane the forest is, and I her lover— I say our paths part and our ways forever— Nay, nay, we meet in deep love for another— What love, what love may bind our hearts together? Love of Hippolyta, my loveliest mother. You had the hills, the willows, white ash, poplar blent into one form, true, lithe tree-boughs for a mother. Hippolyta, the very name a rill, a river or a faun, and evil for a father. Theseus is great. You speak, O queen, impotent phrase and mock the sting, the pain, you, you alone of all the gods who take unfailing worship from me. No mortal measures stature with a spirit. But spirits grieve and grow like mortals, desperate. My spirit, rapturous, scales Olympos’ height. Not thine, not thine, not thine,

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Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis.

Hippolytus.

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O Artemis, it haunts the wood-path, desolate even as mine. You desecrate. You shun Olympos, Artemis, and its shale holds nothing for you sweeter than the forest, no ecstasy holier than the vine’s cold scent, the fragrance of the larch and the wild pine, no tenderness can keep you in God’s palace from whelps that wander desolate at night. You are no whelp of mine. As she was yours, so I—I am your own— No; Athens claims you and the Athenian throne— I would not rule, O I would only rest, forgetting everything in this cold place. You are half mortal, and a mortal’s heart is never wholly god-like, still and cold. No, no, I am not mortal; only think how my great mother shaped me to her will; I was her heart within her and her steel; O she was proud and valiant, swift to kill, relentless and impartial, warrior still, giving no space to woman vagaries and all the woman weakness and wan ill, valiant and resolute and untamed until she bore me

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis.

Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

for a lance, a sword, a spear. Rashly; too late repented and so died— O say it not, impartial, hard with pride; you could have saved her had you had the heart, one grain, one seed of human kindly love, how is it you who seek in wind and wet the ferret as she writhes, the smallest fox, the deer in pain, could not have saved Hippolyta with arrow-swift white lightning for her beauty? Gods may not cut athwart a mortal’s fate. Then are the gods no greater than mere men? Sometimes less great. You mock, cryptic and cold, hard and imperious, you might have saved (who save the tiniest fox), my mother. I will not stay and argue with a man, for you are that, for all your fragile and imperious length, your pale set features and your woman’s grace. A woman’s grace? I who have conquered all this perilous cliff and climbed the shale— And she, did our alert Hippolyta less? O mock me not, mock not my bitterness; I know, I kneel,

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Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis.

Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

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her white soul is my strength, let me stay with you as she stayed, let me hunt with you, rest by your white side, take me, a servant. Hippolyta had rare grace and holiness; she was a woman. But I, but I, her white soul lives in me, Hippolyta lives in me, in my taut brain, in all these thoughts you say temper my prayers, Hippolyta is my arrow-point, my spear, she listens now in every bright and evanescent leaf, she hears. Hippolyta, my friend, chaste queen and ally, valiant and fervid amazon is dead. O if she were, how simple, O how meet, for I would walk in Athens like a man, or like a prince, I’d stroll through Trœzen’s street, not like a mad man or a simple youth, struck down with some implacable malady of dream or frenzy or mere impotence, O if Hippolyta were only dead in me, then I would sit in front of all the throng, as Theseus bids me in the banquet hall, smiling and suave, all of the courtier, great Theseus as you call him, bids me be; O if Hippolyta were dead in me. You weep— Yea, all the woman’s wit and woman’s grace

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis.

you taunt me with, lives though my mother died; and you it was, who tend the merest mole, let her slip from me, even as I lay, a weakling and an infant in her arms, gone marble; not my weight, nor all my just-born heat could comfort her, and you, you, you, goddess, the first, the great, let her so perish, who protect the gull, the swallow, the wild owl, the tern. Peace, child. Yes, let me rest, you are the mother, you the nearest; you are a spirit, spirit even as she, somewhere not here, you, you are somewhere else, not here, I know; I am not here while thus I talk with you. Seek not too far— Or seek, seek, seek only a little further. Tempt not the gods— Are gods then weak like mortals? can we tempt? Too well. Mother. Nay, nay, you are no son, no child of mine,

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in you yet lives the strong and valiant soul of Theseus of Athens; should I cherish here, this prince of Athens, bid him to betray his kingship and the kings that after him may sway all Attica, then were the gods, Zeus, Pallas and Another wroth with me. She bends back her head, seeming to search the air above her. Do you not sense nor see this fluttering of bright garments and bright wings? the woods are mine but not the hearts of kings. Hallowing from a distance. The whole of the forest becomes blurred in a curious white mist. As the mist gradually disperses, HIPPOLYTUS is seen wandering as if struck blind or with fear of blindness. HYPERIDES enters, wandering across the sand, not perceiving the prince. Hyperides. Religion is all very well I say, yea, let religion have its place, and prayer in temple and in temple corridor, lay the white-grape in the sun-smitten porch, the knot of fish upon Poseidon’s floor, the wild-grape on the threshold of the king of frenzy to Iacchos—it is well; let tall Athene have the broken spear, give Helios the harp and the harp string; yea, worship is a thing that’s well enough in its own place, in porch and corridor; what I object to is this wilfulness that frets that rages that inhibits mirth,

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this boy infatuation for a wraith; a wraith? what sound? only the merest thrush or summer owl; yea, even this wild-wood worship has its place, (Louder) Yea, I have said even the wilderness should have its share, an altar here, a heap of round stones there; (He shouts.) Yea, I have said even the wilderness should have its share of praise. He shudders suddenly and starts as he half discerns the wraith-form of HIPPOLYTUS. Queen, goddess, sorceress, HIPPOLYTUS appears as in a maze. He gropes forward. Hyperides. Gods, I am growing murky with white sweat, what trick, what game, why do you torture us? Hippolytus. Who are you? Hyperides. O prince have done with all this murky game, come out, come forth, demand your place in life, your share in power and social intercourse; what is it? why this taut and stiffened frame, these eyes fixed like the wild cat? you are the victim of some evil charm or devil magic. Hippolytus. No, no, Hyperides, I see you well,

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Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus.

Hyperides.

POETS AT PLAY

I know you, you are just like all the rest; your eyes are round and full yet dark with fright, your limbs are firm and carved of some dark bronze, your head is set like some young Pythian god; you are a statue in the halls of kings— but leave me. Part of my duty, part of my content, my fate, indeed my greatest happiness is to be servant of a mighty prince, son of great Theseus, Athens’ potentate. Your Theseus, your Athens make me sick. It charms you to be wilful. I hate you and your courtier-like suave face. Are you (I ask in all solicitude), so much then, the superior of us all? Ask of the wrestling field, the track of Limnas. Your steeds are swifter, your white arm most fit, but of your mind? My mind is well enough in solitude. Prince, I too would enjoy to hunt still further in the forest, but the king, Theseus commands— Tell to your king, your Theseus, that his son seeks in the hills, the valleys, in the plains, the rivers, to recall the trace of one long since forgotten. Far better

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Hippolytus.

Hyperides.

Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus.

for your own inheritance as son and prince, than that late Amazon— Ah speak—speak on— how gladly will this place be joyous witness of blood-sacrifice. Prince, peace, I do assure you I but sought, when all the other courtiers took fright, the wild-wood for you; and I followed straight the upright vertical steep cliff then down again vertical even though I fell. I tell you you are fit to stand within the halls of kings in bronze, the perfect servant of the imperfect prince. Then come. Why do you urge me; I am well enough. Come back. Where? Home. That palace with its incense and its love-rites? Surely the palace is a gracious place, and the set palace garden with its terrace, its fountains, its impenetrable grove of sweet myrtle, its beds of hidden violets. That woman with her various tricks and magic? The queen? Queen of your sort, queen of the weakling king, Theseus of Athens. My Lord— Yes, tell the king

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his son has jeered at him, shout to the woods that he has gained no love with all his senile Greek urbanities; tell Theseus of Athens he begot when once in all his life he showed his strength (and that ignobly), a spear, a shaft, of lightning for a son, and that son loves in all the world no queen of spice and perfume but the immortal flower bred in the storm, sister of ice and wind, queen only of the soul, white Artemis. The members of the band of hunters have entered gradually and grouped themselves about the two. Hyperides. He rages still. Huntsman. Let him rage on, the fiercer, soonest over. Hippolytus. Rage, rage, rage, rage O wonder of wild, wild feet, O glistening of bright hair— The boy from a wrecked Cyprian vessel steps forward. Boy. But where? Hippolytus. O here, O there, O here and there and nowhere— now she is here, and now she has dismayed my very eye-balls, played some trick upon me, burning with vivid brilliance but to mock with greater darkness and so disappear. Boy. The sun climbs o’er the hill. Hippolytus. Then is it day? Hyperides. Alas, you do display a curious humour— Hippolytus. Hyperides

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whose name might fire and blaze and gleam a trail like moon-stones upon quiet water— but a fool— Hyperides. My lord— Hippolytus. Go, go, go, go you tool of indolent Theseus, with your friendly hirelings, sycophant, panderer, go, for you are not worthy even to kneel on this white sand nor feel anything of the wonder of this land— Hyperides. My prince, we find the sunrise beautiful— Hippolytus. Poor ignorant knave— Boy. What, prince, has driven you wild? Hippolytus. Who are you, child? Boy. I am a stranger from a broken keel, our boat foundered— Hippolytus. But you kneel— Boy. To you, who have such passion in your eyes, I am reminded of the drowning men— Hippolytus. I drown in forest waves of green and foam— Hyperides. Come then, come home— Hippolytus. Hyperides, Hyperides, be off— Hyperides. O prince, be reasonable— Hippolytus. O obstinate fool— what is your reason to this wild unrest? Hyperides. Would you have music then? Hippolytus. Music? Hyperides. I sent back for the band of singing men when we first found you— Hippolytus. Music? Hyperides. (to the musicians) Begin. The musicians form in usual, conventional dance form. They chant or sing as if before some imaginary altar.

92 Hippolytus.

Hyperides.

Hippolytus.

Hyperides.

Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus.

POETS AT PLAY

O tear the strings, have done with mockery of set and stated time of word and metre; have done with all that tune, throw the lyre down; what word, what word can tell the sudden rhythm of her white feet that even as a bird wing fled? Patience, O prince, the form is well enough, we patterned that on the iambics brought but late, by way of Cos to Attica. What island impudence; O well enough to frame a slight song that some singing lad proclaims within the hall of some Demeter stately and still, or in a festival, beats out to modulate the dancing feet of country choristers. What is song then, but measure to beat out the tune for feet to move by? Feet, feet, feet, feet, what of the head, the heart, the frenzy that swims up like sudden tide of full storm-sea at sun-down? You cannot catch the sea within a song. What is song for, what use is song at all, if it cannot imprison all the sea, if it cannot beat down in avalanche of fervor even the wind, if it cannot drown out

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus.

our human terror? Song is a thing, fitted to time and measure. Like our Hyperides’ subtle mind’s bright treasure— O prince, this peevish fit is juvenile, song has been set by your great ancestors, by singing muses, by the priest that sings before your father’s palace even now, in his own temple up in Trœzen yonder, come back prince, to the temple and the altar. Can you not see or feel? My prince, we feel the beauty of this sunrise— You feel nothing at all, and are a blatant hypocrite who think to humour a mad prince— We see the—ah— splendor—yea— of wood and tree— Be off, be gone, your very presence is an insult to this stately wood-land and the holy shore, you pandering nobleman, you courtly bore and sycophant. Worse, worse and more— More and much worse will come if you delay, O go, begone tiresome young idiot— And fool— Fool if you will, and gaping flattering tool of impotent Theseus— Impotent? If he were powerful and real

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in his pretended fervor, then Phædra— Hyperides. Hist— take care— Hippolytus. Take care of nothing, not of gaping layers of men, if they are men at all, who neither see, nor think, nor hear nor feel— Hyperides. Come, come— Hippolytus. You’d best be gone— say to the king that prince Hippolytus is safe, for I—I know you follow me to spy. Hyperides. Nay king— Hippolytus. Yes, all of you begone, I would remain alone— Hyperides. Prince, I must stay— Hippolytus. Not you, Not you, you are the worst of all, if you must have a reason, then go say that prince Hippolytus sent you back to fetch the statue by the hedge of flowering bay, the garden statue for this lonely sand— Hyperides. Will the king understand? Hippolytus. Have I not always given command to place statues by running waters and in each rare place I hunted? Hyperides. Yes, this is true. Hippolytus. Go, go then all of you, make a procession, bringing flowers and say, “Hippolytus waits, Hippolytus waits alone until we come.” Hyperides. (to the musicians) Prepare the way make festival and rite of this, we go.

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Exit HYPERIDES, huntsmen and musicians. Hippolytus. I am alone— Boy. O queen, who saved us gracious from the sea, we pray— Hippolytus. Do you delay? Boy. I could not go and leave you here, so wild, with eyes so lit with frenzy and so prone to sudden feverish trembling; do you see then, this lady in the bush and tree? Hippolytus. I do not see my queen; O I am tired and weary in the day, the night was long but reft with light and spray like blossoming foam. Boy. Will you not lie along this pelt and rest? The BOY unfastens his cloak and lays it upon the sand. The breath of fields is in it and of loam. HIPPOLYTUS flings himself downward on the cloak. Hippolytus. I hear her voice, I clasp her luminous knees— Boy. It seems his lady is like mine at home— Hippolytus. I breathe the fragrance of her hands like wine— Boy. Yes, she is much, is very much like mine— Hippolytus. I pray, I pray, I pray that you but come— Boy. She will come for they always do with prayer— Hippolytus. I feel her breath, intoxicant, clear air— Boy. They say her breath is the white violet flower— Hippolytus. You, you are right, white violets for her hair— Boy. Her knees are lustrous, her white forehead shines—

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Hippolytus.

Shines in the mist, bound with its luminous band— Boy. Her crown is plaited myrtle and rose-stem— Hippolytus. I do not hear your words, your voice is song— Boy. Sleep drowns him now, poor prince, see he is gone— Hippolytus. Not gone—not gone— watch for me, lest she come— Boy. Prince, I will wait, they go to fetch her now— Hippolytus. Her statue—but herself— make prayer for me— Boy. I will entreat the wild-wood and the sea— Hippolytus. Sing, sing, sing, sing, your song may bring her here— Boy. I sing, I watch, I wait with fervid prayer. The BOY stoops over HIPPOLYTUS to fold the cloak about him. He sleeps. Voices. (far distant) Never in porch or corridor did love come, never to us who died young long ago, long ago. Act II Evening (the same strip of seacoast. The statue of ARTEMIS has been set up). Phædra.

O how I hate, radiant, cold and drear, Greece with its headlands, Greece with icy fervour, Greece with its high enchantment and endeavour, Greece and Greek cities for their arrogance, each with particular grace, each claiming god for some peculiar ardour, differing each from each, yet each complete, spirit, mind, arrogance of small material wealth,

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Myrrhina.

Phædra.

Myrrhina.

each soul unto itself; is there no merging, no hint of the east? no carelessness nor impetuousness of speech? can no one greet my south! O glorious, sweet, red, wild pomegranate-mouth? O my heart breaks and burns, yet can not conquer, can not merge with this, this world of radiance and rock and ice and shale and peace. Cease, Cretan lady, queen of the red sands and the imperious peak of Ida where Zeus reigns. O how I hate this world, this west, this power that strives to reach through river, town or flower, the god or spirit that inhabits it; O, is it not enough to greet the red-rose for the red, red sweet of it? must we encounter with each separate flower, some god, some goddess? must each peculiar hour, dawn, day or night, take its particular prayer? why must we pause and bear not only beauty of each beautiful thing, but suffer more, more, more; the associated spirit with its power? this tyranny of spirit that is Greece; speak, my Myrrhina, must I long endure this swarm of alien gods and this cold shore? O lady, lady, lady,

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Phædra.

Myrrhina.

Phædra.

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luminous more than any spray of myrtle or white flower of the enchanted flowering citron-tree that flowers and fruits and each gleam separately, the wax-sweet petal by the fruit’s rare gold, listen nor count as cold a land where purple decks your smallest ways, where a king follows, courting through long days. What is the dotard love of a dull king, Myrrhina? I know what love might have been. O lady, lady, lady, luminous more than golden spray of orange or white flower of pearl and fire, the citron and its leaf, O glorious beyond belief, Phædra, endure, have strength a little more; we shall prevail, we will outrule this pallid shore and sail back to bright Crete, its sun-lit slopes, its vales of orange, citron, its bright tree of myrtle; we will escape, radiant in all our power; listen, endure, O golden lily-flower. We all think, every one, sometime our power is broken, our fame gone, our beauty stricken, and our graciousness, fit only for some dark and barren place, where old, old women croak about the loom

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Myrrhina.

Phædra.

Myrrhina.

Phædra.

or pace and chatter graceless in the sun. Come, come, my lady, myrrh-trees bend to bless in Crete, the very foot-fall where you pass. The tall myrrh-forest of my distant land has nothing now of loveliness, its sand white and pure gold that drifts beneath the steps of the king’s built-up summer palaces, holds no more marvellous glint, nor any magic lures me with old enchantments and old songs O Crete shows dead and pallid by the flame and beauty that has given Greece its fame. Escape? escape? for me there is no place can hide his fervour, fervour of flame-lit face, beauty as of the god that flees the sun. Dearest, my lady, do not speak of this, O do not breathe however faint that name, peace, O my princess, think of your great fame, remember Crete and all those palaces, remember all the glitter of your dead, recall the mighty pleasaunce of the king, your father, and the blue, blue, of its walls, remember Phædra is above all, all, a queen. Ah, friend, Myrrhina, once I might have been proud with gold head-dress like a flame-lit flower

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or candle set in some bright altar-niche; now I am stricken like a flame-struck bough. Enter NURSE. Nurse. Hist, hist my lady, mistress, fosterling— Phædra. What is it nurse, what is the news you bring? Nurse. Your lord, your very lord, the infatuate king— Phædra. Permits? Nurse. —will countenance, says you may do this thing. Phædra. O grace of wild, wild things, O swallow fair, O fair sea-swallow, flitting here and there, O swallow, beating with insatiate wing, the very pulse and centre of the air, O swallow, swallow, listening everywhere— Myrrhina. What is this fever, this impassioned prayer? Phædra. —you took, you severed with blue wing and fire, the very salt wind, to deliver there, back in bright Crete, my message and my prayer. Myrrhina. Whom do you call, O mistress, by this shrine? Phædra. I cry, I call again to her who makes the birds her message-bearer, to her who yokes the swallows to her ear. Myrrhina. She seems distraught— what message gave the king? Nurse. He only granted after importunate prayer, that Phædra sleep by the cold water here. Myrrhina. What— rest without the palace of her lord? Nurse. Aye,

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Myrrhina. Nurse. Phædra.

in a tent built up of cedar-wood, hung over and around with canopies. What madness prompted these strange fantasies? Only despair, fever and lassitude. O nurse, O nurse, prepare, swiftly, the bedding, pillows, stuffed with rare plumes of the cygnet and the eider-duck; O nurse, O nurse, with care, spread the low couch with softest coverings, strip fair embroidery from the palace wall, get awnings and a carpet of soft fleece; spread cyclamen colour on this icy sand, hang curtains vying with the purple-fish; make up the tent straightway; bring the musicians, all the singing band of girls to stand about my tent and keep fever away; at last, at last, I’ll sleep.

Exit NURSE. Myrrhina. Have pity, Artemis. Phædra. O queen who rises regent from the sea, I know at last

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102 Myrrhina.

Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina.

Phædra.

Myrrhina. Phædra.

Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra.

POETS AT PLAY

that you have answered me. O queen who watches loyal by the coast, tender to all the host of desperate wandering sea-men, lost at night, goddess of hope and light, guardian of vessels broken by the storm, see that our stricken Phædra takes no harm. You call then to this pallid Delphic queen? Lady, in fear, in pain— Think not of her, Myrrhina, there’s another— Mistress— —of lovers— —take care, is not this strip of sand holy and delicate, and all the reaches of this forest-land, her precinct? There is no place where my queen dare not come, tall, beautiful, of city and high wall. You dare affront this chosen sanctity? I’d build as often, restless, ill at ease, a small pavilion of bright stuffs and woven tapestries, such as I’ve often slept in, safe at home. That was the garden of the king your father. And this the pleasaunce of the prince my lover. You underestimate this lady’s strength— As you this other—

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Myrrhina.

Phædra.

Myrrhina. Phædra.

Myrrhina. Phædra.

Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina.

O think of all her infallible strength and pride, queen of the deep-sea and the implacable tide. And you, of all her body frail and slender, the grace that binds narcissus-white, her knees, think friend, and ponder on her loveliness— what, what are these, cold and deliberate, to her who owns the beaked vermilion hulls, to her, powerful bright guardian of the eastern sails? I tell you, we are broken and undone. Nay, my Myrrhina; I felt should Theseus grant this little whim, then all were clear, and my prayer melted him. You will betray? O when I see that pattern of heart’s fervour and his father, I ache with some old savagery to turn within the heavy leaden heart of Theseus, some simple, fragile thing, omnipotent, single metal with no flaw; I’d turn and turn and turn that little steel; then, Theseus, would you feel? What good were that, to murder Athens’ King? It would give me some pleasure. O lady, turn from this dire pondering, look deeper, deeper,

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conjure holier reasoning, call up your soul to shun this evil thing; O turn in prayer to some enchanted portal, some intimate temple set with corridor; think how pure colour tints those sainted walls, washed in and through and over with ripe flowers, think of the gold of saintliest lily-bud, of lilies open like a scented cup; O lady, think, pause, pray and conjure up with deep emotion and with holiest thought, that shell of marble, delicate temple wall; breathe in your heart the holiest scent of orange that blows at noon through those cool corridors, some breath of citron wafted over-seas, imagine we were back again in Crete. Phædra. We are, we are, Myrrhina loveliest, hear that voice that answers honey-clear, your prayer. Boy. (sings) Where is the nightingale, in what myrrh-wood and dim? O let the night come black for we would conjure back all that enchanted him, all that enchanted him. Phædra. You see, you see, promise and prophecy. Boy. (sings) Where is the bird of fire, in what packed hedge of rose? in what roofed ledge of flower? no other creature knows what magic lurks within, what magic lurks within.

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Phædra.

Eros speaks here, Love’s child and child of fire. Boy. (sings) Bird, bird, bird, bird we cry, hear, pity us in pain, hearts break in the sunlight, hearts break in daylight rain, only night heals again, only night heals again. Phædra. Bird, bird, bird, bird we cry— Enter BOY. Myrrhina. Peace, lady, lady— child, what do you here? Boy. I made a song, for the king bade me sing. Myrrhina. But of cold mountains, of the water-fall, of lilies cold and tall— Boy. He bade me praise the queen, his lady’s rare still beauty. Phædra. Aye, she is fair, and here, here, here she stands. Boy. To guide the sea-men to this little harbour— Phædra. Nay more— Myrrhina. Lady beware— Phædra. —a prince. Myrrhina. No— Phædra. My waiting-lady, my companion here, is jealous for my safety, for my power. Myrrhina. Say rather, for the duty of a queen. Phædra. A queen, a queen, a queen,

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Myrrhina. Phædra.

Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra. Boy. Phædra.

Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra.

POETS AT PLAY

O I have been too long the mistress of the stream and forest— Take care— She fears for my high sanctity, my holy pride, she always watches, always loiters near, she and her sisters hide about the forest, they never leave me— Lies, lies, lies. You see, I never meet Hippolytus for these— Perfidious— —who watch to hear and spy. O piteous wretch. See, she maligns me, she will tell you next— What? This— that I am not, never could be— Hi—st— —Artemis. O lies, O wretchedness. But you, you, you, I pray, I ask you this: am I, or am I not, the beauteous mistress of the haunted grot of innermost forest, queen of light and shade that flickers gold on gold, light merged with flower,

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flower merged with splendour of the sun’s pure flame, answer and speak my name, am I the mistress and the innermost power of the pure glade! Boy. I am afraid. Phædra. Aye, for you see, you know that I am god, you know that I am no mortal like this other, who shrinks and fears before Love’s holiest altar, you, you confess that I am Artemis. Boy. I never yet saw, nay, nor met a goddess. Phædra. But you have worshipped? Boy. Aye, afar. Phædra. Where? Boy. —in Cyprus. Phædra. In Cyprus, that might almost be in Crete. Myrrhina. (to the statue) O wild, O fair, O sweet, turn back, turn back, beware, evil lurks here, evil and traitorous pleasure. Phædra. Say rather, we have built here in our thought, the very temple that you would entreat. Myrrhina. (to the statue) Lovely, O restless feet, where do you wander? where, where do you lurk? lovely, O loveliest look,

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look down, come soon. Phædra. It is no use, she wanders with her brother Helios in some other world, distant and far from us— she wanders far with Helios her brother. Myrrhina. Nay, nay but rather, lurks very near, lurks very near— Phædra. O have no fear, Myrrhina, she’ll not hear. Myrrhina. Ah, but this other— Phædra. Has heard; heard, answered like a mystic bird, flying straight, giving spoken word— Myrrhina. Word? Phædra. The very song the boy has sung to us— is he not Eros? Myrrhina. O madness, madness: cease. Phædra. Nay, peace, assuredly no call escapes our lady, beautiful of high wall, of fortress and of every tributary— Myrrhina. Not Delphi, not the isle Delos. Phædra. Delphi is far, Delos is but a name. Myrrhina. Beware— Phædra. So sing, lad, sing again. Boy. (sings) Bring myrrh and myrtle-bud, bell of the snowy head of the first asphodel;

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frost of the citron flower, petal on petal, white wax of faint love-delight; flower, flower and little head of tiny meadow-floret, white, where no bee has fed; full of its honey yet spilling its scented sweet, spread them before her feet; white citron, whitest rose, (myrrh-leaves, myrrh-leaves enclose) and the white violet. Myrrhina. O wicked, wicked princess. Phædra. You see, she still demurs, is jealous— Myrrhina. O subtle, curious lady, desperate queen— Phædra. Ah, once I might have been desperate, flayed and hurt— Myrrhina. (to the statue) Maid who enchants the host of maidens, flower of Delos, O white, white lily floating in the tide of some still inland river, frail and silver, chastity undefiled, innermost heart of sainted purity— Phædra. Is there a thing, however white and clear, purer than fire? Myrrhina. O mistress, mocking with your subtle tongue, be done. Phædra. Tell to your king, your prince Hippolytus, that I am done, done with my pride, my haughty mockery, tell him

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my pleasure in this little thing, this tiny statue that I found at dawn, roused me from my old poignant lethargy, nostalgia for green things, tree and forest, (that witchery of wood-land to enfold me), that threatens to include and draw me back, back from holocaust of human beauty, tell to your king, the prince Hippolytus, that human frailty and mortal commerce tempt me now, more than any tree or forest or any cataract or mountain-torrent; tell to your lord, your prince Hippolytus that Artemis chooses actually as a goddess, love, love, love, love that mocks the lure of forests, love that enchants the sea-fowl and the beast; say, is she least, least of the creatures that command her love? is Artemis less, than mole or foraging ferret? less than the panther than the gull or owl? O it were ill and I were ill-advised thus to continue lost, alone, no mate; is it too late? go ask your king, pray piteous with my voice, moreover—touch his soul with singing, sing— Boy. (sings) Bring myrrh and myrtle-bud, bell of the snowy head of the first asphodel—

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Phædra.

Ah that, that answers well, and any other; O make most piteous prayer, lure him with flowers— Boy. Lady, I will. Phædra. Aye, let him question you, say I am tall and lovely, frail, tender, and yet bold, speak of my eyes, my hands, my hair’s strange, flexible texture and its gold. Boy. Yes, I was always told the goddess had a head-band and a dress falling in curious folds like this, and curious ear-rings and gold bracelets. Phædra. Aye, it is this, this that includes me in the list of spirits, only the high-born or Olympic race are tall and gold— Boy. (sings) Frost of the citron-flower, petal on petal, white wax of faint love-delight. Phædra. Aye, you are sure, you know me, but beware, come secretly, let him keep secret all this meeting-place, lest it be imminent death. Myrrhina. Aye, death were imminent— Phædra. Let him seek out this statue,

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this still place, just as Orion’s belt shines on the water. Boy. He shall be here. Phædra. (raises her arms in prayer toward the sea) O queen, O bird, O star. Lapse of time indicated by darkness or curtain. It is night just before dawn. The little pavilion or tent has been built up. Voices.

Where is the nightingale, in what myrrh-wood and dim? Music continues distant. Myrrhina. Say rather, where the hymn, the chant of maidens standing still and tall, inviolate maidens of chaste mien and all, all white and golden, like white lily flowers; where is the nightingale? nay ask, where, where the host and the enchanted dance? Voices. Where is the bird of fire, in what packed hedge of rose? Continues distant. Myrrhina. Nay rather, where, where, where, perfection of those lilies, tall and slim, each perfect separate yet joined again beautiful, as separate pearls make one whole beauty of a diadem; O where the wonder of that dance, magic of sea and wind? Voices. Bird, bird, bird, bird we cry, hear, pity us in pain—

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Distant. Myrrhina.

And I, I cry again, where, where, where is that most sainted tread of holy feet? where is the dance and the enchanted beat that mocks the waves’ enchanted rise and fall? where, where are all the maidens, tenuous, slim, like wild white lilies, rising on tall stems? A chorus of maidens has appeared, ghosts about the statue’s plinth. O rare perfection, O fair, O wild, infinite loveliness, O grace and beauty. Chorus. O love, peace, never in any porch or portico can love come, never to us, eternal, tenuous, who died young, long ago, long ago. Myrrhina. O beauty, O infinite grace, so does she come, so does she answer us, praying for peace. Chorus. O love cease, never to us at home, guiding the lowly loom, never to us afar, gathering early bloom of earthly maiden-flower, did love come. Myrrhina. She speaks; the holy lily-flower, stripped of all passion,

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114 Chorus.

POETS AT PLAY

tells of passion fairer— We are the answer, message-bearers, we answer prayer, ah let the night come black, for we have conjured back, her, her, her.

The ghosts fade away. The nightingale song dies down. Enter PHÆDRA from tent. Phædra. Ah, it was sweet. Myrrhina. O lady, swift, prepare, prepare to flee this shore, this sanctity. Phædra. Nay, I have made it mine, have made it Love’s. Myrrhina. Not hers, not hers, not hers. Phædra. I say that I have pledged this place to fair infinite Aphrodite. Myrrhina. Lady, I pray come home. Phædra. Home? Myrrhina. Back to the palace— Phædra. Of whom? Myrrhina. —the king. Phædra. My king rests here. Myrrhina. Queen, queen, beware, I have seen curious things. Phædra. And I have felt the actual touch of wings, hers, soft, and Eros’ feathers. Enter HIPPOLYTUS from tent. Hippolytus. (to the statue) Pardon, my thought was dark,

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

I had forgotten quite, Latinos, your fairest hill; I had forsworn all joy, how could a man forget tale of your shepherd boy? in slight Endymion’s name, turn, turn and love again for young Endymion’s sake; by cliff, by wood and lake, by elder-grove and thicket, I sought and sought your face;

Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Myrrhina. Phædra.

how could a mortal know (love’s meanest neophite), that love was always near? Yes, I am here. What do you by this shore? I come like you, Hippolytus, for prayer. Say rather, to defile a sanctity. Hippolytus— O what a snare, a cheat— Hippolytus— To creep to the goddess’ sanctity, to spy. Hippolytus— I cry to all the holy mountain-side— Hippolytus— —hear, help me to avenge this blasphemy. Lady, O come away. Hippolytus, Hippolytus, I say, I love you more, more,

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116

Hippolytus.

Phædra. Hippolytus.

Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Myrrhina. Phædra.

Myrrhina. Phædra.

Hippolytus. Phædra.

Hippolytus.

POETS AT PLAY

more (yet, is it possible?) than before. O peace, no more of all that palace-rite, that cult of incense and of tropic flowers, I say no more, no more— Last night— Aye, aye, aye, aye, last night— —I lay— —sweetly— from dusk almost till day— with Artemis. O do not speak, do not speak, mistress— Myrrhina, have no fear, I know, I know that he lay here— —with Artemis. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I know, ’twas Artemis. No more her favour, she is gone— No, no, no, no, no, no— I know that she is gone, I know that I will never meet her further, save in the storm and in the icy river.

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Phædra.

Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus.

Phædra. Hippolytus. Myrrhina. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Myrrhina.

No, no, no, no, say rather in some other arms, you’ll feel her shape, that in some other form, count her heart-beat, so, many and many and many a one has found— Found infamy— Nay, but a goddess in a woman’s arms. Away, and tempt me not, for I am tired of all this old and worn-out play, this thread-bare plot of love and mischief. Hippolytus— Cease, go to the king, my father. As I entreat her. She is worn out and mad— Nay only sad, sad, sad— Sadness of vile humanity; humanity and sadness of its kind have no place by this holy driven sea— Ah me— Humanity and stale and perilous lust have no place by this coast— All me— Phædra— My child— Not thine, not of thy king— Your father— And your lover— Pity me— O blind, infatuate— —’tis so with womenkind, and I was happy for a little while. O grief, O guile of love.

117

118 Phædra.

Hippolytus.

Phædra.

Hippolytus.

Phædra. Myrrhina.

POETS AT PLAY

For many and many and many a desolate night, I lay and tossed, ill, wan, home-sick and desperate, having foul dreams, ill thought of no good portent, O I was hopeless, lonely in the palace, bereft of friendship and love’s loveliest solace, last night, last night, (O night, luminous with phosphorescence and more bright than day-star climbing heaven’s stair at noon), I slept. Lady, I know your dream, I feel your thought, pardon my own impetuous boorishness, last night, last night, I too, lay bathed in phosphorescence like white dew. Last night, last night, I slept, soul, body, spirit and thought. Last night, last night, it seems, peace came and dreams. You will, I trust, so sleep for many and many another beauteous night. Not many, Theseus’ son. You are wan, pale and blown ceaseless, lady, by this wind, by this sea-wind and chill,

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra.

Myrrhina.

Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra. Myrrhina. Phædra.

Myrrhina.

scattering foam, white in the dawn. Fasten my scarf, straighten my comb— Ah, you are ill— —for she and I have won. Won? In a contest for a prince— with death. Not death, not death— Did I say love? did I accomplish it? Too well— I know how well, for she, she, she has come. Lady, O lady, who? and where, where, where? There where the elder-blossom flecks the tide. It is sea-foam that drifts and scatters wide. She stands in lily-blossoms to her knees. Nay, it is froth and spindrift of the seas. She stands with wood-flowers wound about her head, bound with bright silver, and a silver band clasps all her kirtle, showing innocent thighs, and all her lovely features mock at me, and O her eyes, her eyes, her eyes, her eyes— O lady,

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120

Phædra.

Myrrhina. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus.

Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra. Hippolytus. Phædra.

Hippolytus. Phædra.

POETS AT PLAY

lady, lady— —speak (for her tongue disdains), “queen, pitiful small queen and Cretan lady, what, what to mine is your small stricken disenchanted beauty?” Come, come away. No, no, I’ll stay forever and forever here. Lady, I was unjust and cruel I fear— Child of a king— Forgive me, I was wild with ecstasy. I will forgive if you make prayer for me. To whom, poor queen? what, lady, shall I say? Pray, pray, the first— She? Ah, is she ever uppermost in your thought? What would you? Ask another— There is no other when this one is near. Your mother. Hippolyta? For the stark beauty of the name she bore, like a bright crown or an enchanter’s mitre— Hippolyta— —make some authentic prayer.

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Hippolytus.

I will entreat the water and the dawn.

Exit PHÆDRA into tent. Myrrhina. The stars are almost gone. Hippolytus. O stars drop, one, one, one by one, into the frozen rivers or the sea, O stars cease intimate dance, woven with minstrelsy, cease, cease your song; the day is almost come; O stars, so pale, after your night of joy and ecstasy. Myrrhina. The dawn— Hippolytus. O dawn arise, leave your low couch and shine across the world, give every Grecian city light, invoke on each tall hill the tallest ash or pine, shine, and resplendent cast the stars into the water; have you need of gems after a night so luminous with dreams? Myrrhina. She comes— Hippolytus. And now, wandering o’er the cliff, her shoes take fire, her sandals, sewn with pearl, cold in the dew, are riven and inset with fire-opal; O dawn,

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POETS AT PLAY

now you have come, you bring a message; in your hands a phial of distilled dew of healing, in your wings, fragrance and light of rose and alabaster. O dawn, pour peace of holy healing, rain your power across the islands and the Grecian water. Myrrhina. (to the statue) And you, lady, O lady of this loveliest sand, pity and understand. Silence and short pause. MYRRHINA looks around in sudden apprehension. Phædra. (from within tent) Aye, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye, pity me, pity me, pity me, and draw near. Lapse of time indicated by darkness or curtain. It is day. The little pavilion or tent has been removed. Enter HYPERIDES. Hyperides. What do you here? Hippolytus. I offer in this dazzling day, fresh prayer. Hyperides. Prayer? Hippolytus. For that sick lady there. Hyperides. Lady— to whom then, do your words refer? Hippolytus. For Phædra who lies ill there, in the tent. Hyperides. Gods, are you mad?

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus.

you meant— Meant? Prayer for the Cretan princess, Athens’ queen, Phædra, no more an exile on this shore. Dead? Were you then so intent upon your prayer, your worship of this chaste and distant lady that you did not see that other, broken, in her death so still, that body wan and white as scattered foam, they draped in purple and took reverently— Where? Back to her lord, Theseus, veiled and slight, wan as a bride within her bridal chamber. Ah, I remember. Come, come, my prince, surely— Yea, I remember, she was white and fair, and I, I rested with my lady there— Hi—st— In a bright tent, built up of fragrant cedar. Not here? Aye, but it’s gone, the whole thing was a dream; so gods are wont to show on earth

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124

Hyperides.

Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides.

POETS AT PLAY

their splendour, stooping to mortals, and so disappear— My lord Hippolytus, attend— you are struck mad, blinded with your old fever, the king allowed last night, by some bad error, the queen to sleep here by this frozen shore; the servants of the queen built up a tent, circled it with rare flowering bush of myrtle; her girls sang here. No, no, no, no, no, no, that was a dream. A dream? The tent, the flowering plants, the myrrh in baskets, the myrtle-trees that stood there. My prince, it was a very plausible fact, only the king regrets— Regrets? That he gave in to that strange fantasy of Phædra. Fantasy? That she should rest afar out of the palace, aye, even from the garden and her favourite fountain and sleep here. Hyperides you jest— I jest?

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus.

Hyperides.

Unspeakable untimely jeer— Ah, if it were— Myself, Hyperides, I lay within this tent, myself, I slept, held close— Tell not this thing— To you, to you, I tell how secretly, how exquisitely I was favoured— No more— —of her. Alas, alas, ’twas Phædra. No, no, no, no, you err. Prince, you are mad and Phædra is your mother— Aye, like Hippolyta and this one, this other— You fool. Fool? She worked on you with diabolic power, offered mayhap some cup, engendered with those Cretan serving-girls, some charm, something, some evil from her perilous east, and harm. There was no charm, no diabolic cup, only the peace and favour of the goddess. Come, come and summon all your memory, come prince and king,

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126

Hippolytus.

Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides.

POETS AT PLAY

arise from this dark sloth, wake up. I am awake, stark and alert, and O, her hands were cool. Listen, my pitiful friend— The end was beautiful. You are distraught by Phædra’s death. How died she then? O, a most pitiful end. Speak on. The silken tassels of her girdle swung from the tent-pole, there Phædra hung awhile and cried most piteously, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye, aye, pity me, pity me, pity me, and draw near. How did you hear this thing? From her nurse and Myrrhina— Then it is really over? Phædra lies covered with myrtle flowers and the death purple. How was it that I missed all this? you see obviously your tale is crass invention and you lie. Nay, king, you were intent, they say, embraced the white plinth of the goddess here, deep, deep in intimate prayer. I slept, perhaps. Yes,

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus.

Hyperides.

Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus.

mercifully bereft of knowledge of this strange and hideous end. By this white sand. Yes, by the goddess’ shrine. But she, how came that amorous queen to choose this place? They say, stricken with fever, hot and hot and hot, she sought the cleansing tide and prayed the goddess. Ah, you have lied. Lied? You say the queen was hot, again was stricken, burnt and burning away, but I, I say that thing that held me was a broken bird, with arms cold like a sea-gull from the sea, I say (and I repeat) those hands were cold, and O, the white was luminous and not mortal, and no mortal gold was that gold lock that slid across my eyes. Listen, my prince, all my intent to save were traitorous toward Athens’ king, I must speak out, speak truth for your sake, for the sake of that lost queen, tell no one, no one, no one of this thing— One does not speak save to an intimate— Speak to no intimate even, speak to none— Yes, it were wrong, for that love

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POETS AT PLAY

was no evanescent thing, nor that a mortal. O cold, O listless wing— she lay as a bird broken by wind strength, and had no power to raise a head that faltered like a broken flower; she had no power to lift a head gone listless on its flower stalk; she could not move nor walk; O goddess, child-like and so pitiful, you, all so swift and wild and beautiful, you all so strong, so fearless, never tired of following the wild things on the hill, how could you lie so still? How could I tell, tell anyone of this, this goddess swept here, like a wind-swept gull?

Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus. Hyperides. Hippolytus.

Call me my steeds, is there a mortal yet arises after resting with a goddess, other than wild and passionate and glad, bring me my steeds, my champing ones, my chariot. King, you are over-wrought and wild and see the wind howls ominously. Aye, after such a night of star and gold, the wind drives cold. See how the spray is sweeping from the sea— As snow blown from the peak of some tall tree— Hear how the wind is whipping up the sand— As silver and as white as her head-band— Hear how the tide moans perilously along— As low, as soft, as ominous as her song. Call me my chariot,

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

129

I would flout the waves and still my gladness, lest I tell this thing to all the Athenians, shouting riotous. Act III The same strip of seacoast. HIPPOLYTUS lies where he has been flung from his chariot, at the base of the statue. Enter HELIOS. Helios.

Hippolytus.

Helios.

I, I who lead the sea-men on the ship, telling my will by dolphin or bright gull, sending the softest wind to waft ashore those who implore my guidance and my piloting at night, I, I who sent aright but lately one bright sail to Syracuse, returning to this shore to turn about another floundering, and to waft another beyond pro-pontis into quiet water, I, while I stilled the gale and kept the sea silent with my enchantment, heard even while I loitered by this salty reef, this, (that sundered all my will from sail and shoal), Artemis, Artemis, Artemis, Artemis. Artemis, Artemis, Artemis, Artemis. She is the help of huntsmen who invoke

130

Hippolytus.

Helios.

POETS AT PLAY

her aid in searching out the pleasant lair of the hill-lion fathering his whelps, of fox and lynx and panther and wild bear; she is the friend of huntsmen who implore her aid in snaring snipe or water-fowl, she answers when the lowliest fisher calls, seeking her help to net the clumsy school of leaping wrasse or blue-fish or white tunny; she knows the haunt even of the finny tribe who leap the wave-crest silently or seek in the cave depth their shelter, or else hide under the lee-side of the weedy rock, she knows the shell-fish burrowing in the sand, seeking the wash and shelter of the tide. Artemis, Artemis, Artemis, Artemis. So, since none hide, since none escape her eyes, vigilant huntress, pilot and ships’ guide, since none, none, none escape her luminous feet, since no bird falters that she does not seek either to shelter, loosening from the trap,

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Hippolytus.

Helios.

or to grant sudden, painless and swift death, how, since her feet run to untrap the fowl, taken too soon, with birdlets left to die, does she whose eyes penetrate lair and hollow, the sea-crest and the hill-crest and the shallow gold and white streamlet hastening to the bay, how, how does she delay, while this faint breath even while it falters, summons Artemis? Artemis, Artemis, Artemis, Artemis. O white, O luminous maid, have the wild hills provoked a blame so sure, a shame so perilous? for how could you ignore one made so piteous, broken by your snare? following your beauty he was dazed and fell down the precipitous shelf, or some beast tore this huntsman lying broken on the shore; lady, O turn, I, I, I, I implore; shall base men desecrate Delphi? shall Delos’ mart

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132

Hippolytus.

Helios.

Hippolytus.

Helios.

Hippolytus.

POETS AT PLAY

excel its fane and the merchant the old temple worshipper? Artemis, Artemis, Artemis, Artemis. O pause, pause, pause and press your own white glaive into that snow of breast, teach us who doubt that you have god-like veins, that you too beat to joy and ecstasy, O must I think that you are some cold sprite, some demon of ill nature and small spite? must I then say you are not beautiful? what high enchantment of the mountain shale teaches that man is less, less than the sea-swept rock or windy cliff? Artemis, Artemis, Artemis, Artemis— O turn, O turn and bless this stricken form, these whitest hands that yearn, yearn upwards toward your snow-encrusted thickets, O turn, turn, hesitate, place cold snow on this fevered brow and limbs, burnt with despair; O beautiful, stark, glittering, spirit of light and air, have you no pity, no heart anywhere? Artemis, Artemis,

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Artemis, Artemis— Enter ARTEMIS. Helios. O Delian lady, pillaging afar the slopes of Pelion for the spotted deer, how can you be so fair? how can you be so wild and beautiful and yet so heartless? how, how could you bear to track the red-fox to his cavernous lair? how could you follow the lynx, the wild-cat and the lordlier panther, spurning this stricken prey, calling you here? Hippolytus. Artemis, Artemis, Artemis— Helios. O, O thou heartless, O thou passionless maid, O you should fly as some insidious plague the tyrannous green-wood and its poisonous shade that works like some still poison in the blood, until men turn and hate the city portal and the city gate, until they shun as ill all, all man’s wisdom, all art’s subtleties, and worship and call good only the haunted shade of the dark wood. Hippolytus. Artemis, Artemis— Artemis. Silence then both of you with your indictments and your tyrannies,

133

134

Helios.

Artemis.

POETS AT PLAY

how can you judge the true, the upright, righteous or the holy man? how can you know what hindered, what prevented or what span of severing sea divided? am I a mortal or some fickle maid that you must rail, must summon, must acclaim me cruel? what do you know, what feel? O but speak not, I know from long and bitter intimacy what you, O king, will say. What can I speak, what is there left to say, O Delian lady, clambering the height of mountains, searching levels of the shore, following the sea-tide with the glimmering fish, guardian of sea-men, present help to guide the fisher struggling with the shoal and tide, O Delphian, ever present help, saviour and guardian, what, what can I say, what can I ask, but how, how missed you this? O Delphian, high enchanter and arch-mage, O prophet, O harp-player, O most sage

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Helios.

giver of wisdom, maker of the seven most potent sayings that the ears of men (not yet initiate to godly rite), may hear, may speak, may ponder, yet retain sanity, even their mortality, nor break, stricken and riven by your holy flame, O king, O great, whose name the distant Lydians and near isles acclaim, judge me and hate. O Delian, O most beautiful, most fleet, O words that fly like winged things, flying late back to the sand and sand-dunes of the south, O chaste, O scornful mouth, O heaven’s beauty, holy maidenhood, O fair and good, O Delian, white like flame, what is it? what acclaim is lacking? tell me what altar lacks its altar-cake? tell me what temple has neglected you, and I shall rise, (whether it be far Scythia or near isle), and I shall plague that people with dire plague

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136

Artemis. Helios. Artemis. Helios. Artemis. Helios. Artemis. Helios. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Helios. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Helios. Artemis. Helios.

POETS AT PLAY

of fire or dearth of water. Most imminent pest— naught can dispel that plague. What rends you, what distresses you, proud maid? A plague has entered, taken of my best. Speak, tell me what affliction, I will heal. Not even you, Pæon, can cleanse this ill. Spirit of Delos, you ignore my fame. But none, none, none dare flaunt that spirited name. Speak, speak that name and I will cope with it. Artemis, Delian Artemis, your kiss— Beware, beware words, subtle and so far— I breathe in pain, in pain, with little breath— Words deadly, deadly as the viper’s kiss— Your kiss, Artemis, Artemis, your kiss— In this, this place inviolate and blest? Love makes more sure, more sacred, holy things— O cruel, bitter, cruel, insatiate queen— Who is this queen, cruel and insatiable? Invidious and helpless with white doves— Fair—fair—her doves drew here her fiery car— Silence—no more—no more— no more—no more— Speak one of you, explain this curious thing— Treachery unspeakable and perjury— I will be fair,

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Artemis. Helios. Hippolytus. Helios. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus. Helios.

I will sift wrong from right— There is no right where all is basely done— Your desperate plight—say lad, what caused it then? Love sank a moment, listless after flight— Love seized and like a ravaging hawk, tore outright— Love hovered till his wings brushed all my soul— Love took rapacious and devoured whole— Love reconciled the cold hills to the stars— Love scorched the thickets and destroyed the flowers— Love stood and with his sandals trod like wine— He fouled and trampled all my fair white shrine— —my heart, till ecstasy and intoxicant— —and blasphemed all this holy shore of mine— —filled with its fervour my enchanted spirit— —till it is threatened and no more my own— —and all my soul was lifted as with wine— —but desperate that shone so fair and pure— —and all my spirit and my soul were joined— —and the wild beauty now is gone from here— —forever and forever with my veins— —and all the sanctity and holiest grace— —my flesh, my hands, my feet— all, all was spirit— O god and mortal cease.

Enter BOY, not perceiving the group. Boy. There is no town in Greece

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138

Artemis. Boy.

Helios. Boy.

POETS AT PLAY

ignores his fame, there is no fane in island or the furtherest sands but chants his name, there is no temple, but red-hyacinth and cyclamen frame a crown on the white altar; no man stands with comfortless hands; none pray him but he sends answer, none turn away with empty hands. O destiny— There is no star that may ignore his fire, no altar burns but he claims share of every hecatomb; he knows the blinding desert and the strands, pale in the noon-day, parched and comfortless, he heals all thirst; he knows the lands that claim the northern crown and none go down into the avid sea but he accounts, saves, yea and spares. O ecstasy— There are no tears that his fire does not heal, no fears driving the herdsman gathering his sheep, the sailor with the stars, the merchant in the desert, but he hears, none, none may pray too late, for he even at the last remains, when all the gods are silent and forsake altar and worshippers.

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

He turns. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Boy. Helios. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Boy. Artemis.

What do you here? I come after night’s ecstasy, for prayer. Do you not know? did you not hear? I heard the linnets in the woods above. Did you not hear the treachery of Love? I heard the plover following the gull. Do you not see Death hovering for this soul? Alas—alas— my prince—Hippolytus— He lies here shattered by his broken car— O loveliest—Athens’ loveliest lost star— O body stricken, heart and soul undone— O being whole, now finished and made one— One, one in body, broken in his soul— His soul is welded in ecstatic heat— His hands are broken and those beauteous feet— His heart is taken and his soul is gone— His hands and side blossom with holy wound— His soul and body are broken and defamed— His soul is beautiful in Love’s great name— His body pallid, wan and without fame— His body bright with red and luminous blood— His body is disgraced by treacherous love— His body blossoms as Adonis did— He has no place now

139

140 Boy. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Helios. Artemis. Helios. Artemis. Helios. Artemis. Helios. Artemis. Helios. Boy. Helios. Boy. Helios. Artemis. Boy. Artemis. Boy.

POETS AT PLAY

in my sacred grove— He shows more holy for the stain of love— No host of lilies by the Delian tree— He has a place, fair in infinity— He has no place where any god may come— He has his home forever, in white song— I speak and cast away all claim of his— You are less strong, O Delian, than love— O desecration and unhappiness— O exquisite consummation and sheer bliss— Song, song, song, song it is that shatters all— Song, song, song baffles the fears of death— Then is all, all forgiven in song’s name— All, all lost beauty shelters in its fane— He dies, he falls, fainting with little breath— Hippolytus, O fair, O beauteous name— He calls, O lady, hear Hippolytus— O evil fate, O dire O hapless deed— O evil deed, O dire, O hapless fate— Speak, comfort him, he calls—he calls— —too late. Alas, alas, I go, I haste to bring the Trœzians who may yet prevent this thing

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Exit BOY. Hippolytus. (stands) O beauty of the marble altar base, O land I must forsake, Athens— Artemis. He calls now to the city of his birth— Hippolytus. O halls and haunts of mirth, O citizens laughing and with quiet hands, bring one and all, all to this citadel— Helios. Befriend him lest he fall— Hippolytus. —the violets of her beauty, and all, all the lilies brightening the fields in all, all Attica, in every deme— Artemis. For whom? who then? Hippolytus. For her who stands beside the fountains with her brother— Artemis. For us— for us— Hippolytus. —and from all, all the distant other-lands, roses in pious hands. HIPPOLYTUS falls forward. Artemis. Now he has taken what my flame would spare; white crystal of pure water has more power than blinding golden fire, yet he has taken, winnowing the air, polluted what was fair. Helios. None may affront his name, not one of us, ah cruel Eros, none may dispel the gloom that his name tells, all, all must fail, thou, I and luminous God; Eros is still man’s tyrant and god’s king;

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Artemis. .

Helios.

Artemis.

O queen of Delphi, O white powerful flame, has he then spoken, has he said your name? has he, the least, O very greatest one, affronted you and shamed? No, no, O king, O prophet, O harp-player, mage and the first giver of wisdom, Love has not vanquished, has not stricken me, Love has not stayed my wild feet from the hills nor made me shudder, glad and white and still, no song of his lured me with poignant note; no shrill song-note of mine responded to his piercing flute; no, I was mute. Then sister, O beloved, O most fair, why do you shiver? why, why rend the air with such a face, uplifted and so white? no god has yet seen nay nor borne so bright a diadem, wrought with so clear a gem, no, no god wears so white a circlet as that bright one there, that stark pain that your stricken forehead bears. O bright, O gold,

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O king of mysteries and mystic rite, O Delphic ruler of high-priest and white wan and forsaken Pythian, you, you who know the mysteries beyond death and before, speak, is there one, one that is more more tyrannous, more treacherous than life? Helios. O white enchantress, O white lily-bud, O head so golden, none such holy brood did ever white swan breed beside a river, nor has God ever begotten near his throne-room in high heaven such, such— even the seven Pleiads, all, all seven shine like you, sternly proud; O virgin, bright, unbroken, what, what has threatened if it is not Love? The chorus of maidens appears, ghosts encircling the body of HIPPOLYTUS. They dance about the plinth of the statue. Chorus. O love cease, never in porch or corridor does love come, never to us, eternal, tenuous, who died young, long ago long ago. Artemis. O peace, O slow and stately posture, O pure fire, thus, thus do my attendants come,

144 Chorus.

Helios.

Chorus.

Helios.

Chorus.

Helios.

Chorus.

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seeking the soul. Never to us, never to us, did love come, never to us who strove, threading the loom, never to us who sought dawn and noon, flame of white flower whose fire is purer than love. O stately pause, O royal diadem, no queen has ever known so proud, so stainless and so rare a crown as this fair ring, your maidens who attend you and who sing. Never to us apart did love thwart body and soul and mind with poisonous dart, searing our happiness, marring content, tearing the heart. True, you are right, there is an ecstasy in hope, in these still forms, in this stern dance, in pious feet. Never, O never roam, naming her sweet, never invoke, never entreat her the dark passion-flower treading the foam. Yet is it just? so dear a body lost? so fair, so young, is he yet gone? Come,

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

come to Delos, follow us home, arise, arise, let us over the foam, sing and give answer, for life is done. Helios. Who says that life is done? who names the soul’s going? who times the coming of the soul but she? Chorus. Never, O never, wandering from home, ask of another, “how did love come? what is love, sister? what has he done?” peace, O my dear ones, questioning none. Helios. Nay, nay, be gone, I feel the web, the ecstasy, the lure of peace, the power that negates life, be off, I see, I see the snare. Chorus. Soul, soul, O deathless, soul, soul, O come, come, come to Delos, rest and be done, done with all passion pure and alone. Helios. None, none is pure, and none, none is alone, be off, be gone— The CHORUS fades away. Artemis. King, king, what have you done? Helios. Am I, I,

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Artemis. Helios. Artemis.

Helios.

Artemis.

Helios.

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Pæon in vain? None may thwart death— But one— But see, his face is white, deep-purple rims his eyes, his pain is gone, his hands are quiet, all his beauty dies like a parched hyacinth. Do all the isles acclaim me? am I master, lord, magician, sage? tell, tell me, you are tranced and still though you must know I am more powerful than heaven’s will and death must pause and death must stand amazed even at the life, the strength my hands distil, the spark electric that bids sick arise and dead men falter groping toward the tomb, peace sister, come, have faith in my great mastery, be strong. O king, king cease, he is already dead and gone to Death, my soul, my soul, my soul and all the blest host of immortals must acclaim him now; he is gone white, his brow glazed over like some restless pool when ice glazes a surface that has beat the shore, gone restful now and clear. Then, is my fame

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Artemis. Helios.

so small a thing that all the altars burn from Didymus even to the foaming straits? am I the king of Delphi and the isle that shines like one white petal on the sea, Delos, and of the distant tributary of golden Asia and of India’s lore? tell me, am I the lord of far rare herbs that heal, fair branch and bark, precious from Syria? am I, I lord of healing, Pæon, more—master of spirit, king of the white fire that summons mortals even beyond Styx? what do you fear? How can I know if it be love or death? Shall death spoil and shall love spoil, and we stand and gape here speechless as at naught at all? are we then slaves? where is your kingdom, where your fire? Death has insulted our divinity and Love has stolen: shall we stand speechless, impotent nor move? nay, nay O good and queenly lady; no tears fall but bitter pain sears all your stricken beauty: men may stand by and look and say half pitiful, “a goddess grieves,” not I,

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Helios.

Artemis.

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not I, not I— We are not always powerful, O king of heaven; once, once in Sparta an iron-disc was driven straight by the wind against an innocent brow, and now that name flowers by the water, blooms upon the shelves, its passionate letters flame beneath our feet, crying aie, aie forever, its scented bells wave and distil pure incense like white dew, so cold, so sweet, so new, and yet so old, so old and comfortless. O maid so blest, what is it you reveal? peace, peace, what would you tell? my heart is stricken by that flower-name, that name is spoken and I am a flame, blown heedless in the wind, I move and breathe sparsely, my own heart, god-like and so bold, fails in its beat, it beats uncertainly, my pulse fails, I grow cold; what do you hint? why, why recall this thing? As that one flames immortal on the hills, let this one still

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Helios.

Artemis.

Helios.

stand by each harbour, by each estuary where ships beach by the tiny wharf or quay, a symbol of my love, an emissary of faith and friendship between god and man. Nay, I embraced a flower and it was chill, and it was cold, and O no bitterness can equal that keen sorrow that I had; ah piteous lad, I will spare you that grandeur of the hills, that purity and nullity of flowers, arise and stand. And I would keep him sacred and apart, and I would have him chill against my heart, I, I would cherish, I would shelter him turned to a spirit, holy in my court, I, I would set him against Delian marble, whiter than all, all the white pillars of that corridor. But I, I will another thing, I cry to all the old dark magic of the seas, to alter-conjurations beneath waves, to palace and to blinding corridor in Egypt, further, to most distant Asia, to tributaries where my kingship fills the heart of priest

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and devote with white fire so that they burn desiring death, knowing there is no help, no escape other from my white passion, my magician’s fire; by all that know me, all that hold my name for what it is, love, god’s most passionate flame, Anax, immortal, come, call, call to Pæon, power beyond man’s thought or gods’ imagining, listen, invoke, ye priests and citizens initiate to my rite, myself again, myself, distant, intense dispassionate flame. Come, Pæon, Pæon, Power, myself but beyond shape of god or man, come then Myself abstraction, mystic fire, lift up, lift up, as a sun-ray may lift from a dank marsh, a broken flower. HIPPOLYTUS stirs. ARTEMIS kneels supporting him. Hippolytus. Love, you have changed your dress— Artemis. Child, child— Hippolytus. This is so white; where is the hem of little budding flowers, the purple stitches

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus.

and the tiny gems, sewn in the girdle? Is this not beautiful? You always were, but not so kind as now, just now how was it all, all the roses of all other lands lost colour, all, all the strands that bound your head-band were of purple, dark purple threads that bound the darker purple of Adonis-flowers, wound in a chaplet; all, all the roses of all other lands lost colour; and the sands burnt where you trod— O treacherous god— Nay, nay, my sweet, he was not treacherous, he found me, led me, brought me to your feet— Not mine, not mine, not mine. Then whose? but why so shine, why shine so white, so cold, so luminous, who were but now so soft, so covered with small flowers— Nay, peace— Your wings were beating all the perilous night, I heard Death come but I did not take fright, your feet were fire and cyclamen your clothes,

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Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis. Hippolytus.

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your robe was purple, your bright diadem rose, your feet were luminous as a riven flame, Goddess, O deathless name— O flame, perfidious— Nay, sweet, nay, cold and fair, all, all the air, acclaimed you, all the stars hung silent as we passed; you held me close; I breathed the breath of rose; I could not see your eyes, so sweet, so kind, I feared to face you openly in the wind that tossed about us, beating to drive us back, beating to suffocate and vanquish us; not that—not that— no evil Boreas, no fickle west wind, nay nor south could check your beautiful will, we soared up like a cloud and fell— Fell where? Far from this coast. He is thrice-lost. O Love, Love, Love afar, no mountain shelter blossoming with wild-flower, with lily splendour, with the summer elder, no mountain path, no peak that breaks the azure as some tall pillar slung across with colour, embroidered with bright gold of fir-branch or the slender

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

Artemis. Hippolytus.

Artemis.

Hippolytus.

Artemis. Hippolytus. Artemis.

limb of the birch with under-leaf of silver, no peak, no mountain and no icier shale beyond, edged with wild crocus, not the glacial splendour forgets, is lost, exists without Love’s altar. All, all is broken by her treachery. Where is the nightingale? I know for I have seen his very ledge of fire, have dared desire, am broken by his flame; where is the bird of fire? I know— a far palace, in an orange glade. Pæon, O see, his mind is changed with rapture, this is not the Hippolytus of old. Gold, gold, gold, gold her feet, her hands are ivory and sweet, sweet, sweet her breath, the orange and the quince invented it, rare, rare her feet, her hands equable and cool, her body tall, tall, tall, only a slight smooth sapling which a fall of snow has bent and conquering, left. I am bereft. Cold, cold her exquisite feet— Whom does he call, O king,

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whom does he seek? Cold, cold, cold, cold and wild, and no lost child could cling to my arms, and no broken nestling find shelter as she found. Artemis. Now he is lost and I am comfortless. Hippolytus. Tide nears the full— rose-laurel trees throw purple shadow— Artemis. Tell me, O where, where, where? Hippolytus. In Cyprus. Artemis. See, he is gone, is lost, has thwarted us. Hippolytus. Goddess, my queen, a kiss. ARTEMIS kisses him. Artemis. Let him go back to death. Hippolytus.

Enter BOY, followed by HYPERIDES and the huntsmen. Boy. Here, here he lies. Hyperides. Alas, torn by the chariot, broken by the tide. Exit with the dead body of HIPPOLYTUS. Helios. Again I fail, Again I fail to prove my absolute, my passionate love for her who walks as star-dust, Phosphoros, blown at night, across high perilous frontiers of the north, who treads as sea-foam, even the perilous seas, splendour of Erymanthus and its light, O queen of Delos,

HILDA DOOLITTLE: HIPPOLYTUS TEMPORIZES

queen of my high towers even at Delphi, hail, hail and farewell. Exit HELIOS. Artemis. I heard the intolerable rhythm and sound of prayer, I must be hidden where no mortals are, no sycophant of priest to mar my ease; climbing impassible stairs of rock and forest shale and barriers of trees: someone will come after I shun each place and set a circle, blunt end up, of stones, and pile an altar, but I shall have gone further, toward loftier barrier, mightier trees; bear, wolf and pard I will entice with me, that eyes’ black fire or yellow, flatter, conjure, feed desire, conspire, lead me yet further to some loftier shelf, untrodden; unappeased, I will disport at ease and wait; I will engage in thought and plot with earth how we may best efface from Elæa and all stony Peloponnese, from wild Arcadia,

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from the Isthmian straits, from Thrace and Locrian hills, (as isles are sunk in overwhelming seas), all Grecian cities with the wild arbutus and the luminous trees. THE END

E. E. Cummings (1894–1965) EDWARD ESTLIN (E. E.) CUMMINGS IS PERHAPS MOST OFTEN REMEMBERED as the writer who radically altered typography in modern American poetry. His unusual textual arrangements, including writing his own name as “e.e. cummings,” distinguished his poetry and drama among even his most experimental contemporaries. Born to a Unitarian minister and educated in Greek and English at Harvard, Cummings’s poetry combined elements from traditional verse forms, such as sonnets and lyric poetry, with formal experiments influenced by new movements in art, music, and literature. A unique combination of the irreverent and the sublime, the sexual and the spiritual persisted throughout Cummings’s poetry and greatly influenced his drama. Composed in direct opposition to the realist tendencies of early twentieth-century American playwrights such as Eugene O’Neill, Cummings’s plays vacillate between high and low culture both in terms of their theme and structure. Thoroughly schooled in classical literary forms, Cummings nevertheless embraced popular entertainment as his preferred mode of theater, even as he aspired to articulate artistic and spiritual transcendence. One of his most daring plays, Him (published 1927; produced 1928) explores themes of love, devotion, and betrayal amid a carnivalesque medley of circus performers, freaks, and other elements from both the popular and avant-garde theaters. Cummings’s interest in the European avant-garde began well before his first dramatic experiments. Like many among Harvard’s burgeoning modernist circle—including classmates such as poet John Dos Passos—Cummings believed that the “new art,” as he witnessed it at the Armory Show in 1913, could provide new forms of expression and the “purely personal Feeling” that conventional literature lacked. Addressing his graduating class in 1915, Cummings declared, “The New Art, maligned though it may be by fakirs and fanatics, will appear in its essential spirit to the unprejudiced critic as a courageous and genuine exploration of untrodden ways.”1 These “untrodden ways” were to become for Cummings not only the avenue to new forms of artistic expression but also his primary means of selfexploration and expression. His first and only full-length play, Him follows Cummings’s early poetic experiments by juxtaposing absurd language and surreal fantasies with deeply felt personal ruminations on the nature of romantic love. Indeed, for 157

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all its ambiguities and high theatrical style, the play is fundamentally a reflection of Cummings’s divided sensibilities regarding his personal relationships and his art. At once fantastic and intimate, sensual and ridiculous, Cummings’s Him uses incongruous grammar and a range of theatrical styles to articulate the absurdity of love and art. Set within an intimate domestic scene, the play traces the decline of romantic love through the characters of Him and Me, often thought to echo Cummings’s tumultuous affair and marriage with Elaine Thayer. By the time he started the play in 1925, Cummings already had met his second wife, Anne Barton (to whom the play is dedicated), and he was engaged in a bitter custody battle with Elaine for his daughter, Nancy Thayer. At the same time, Cummings had recently returned from Paris—note the Parisian restaurant Pères Tranquilles in act III—where he visited with Dada poet Louis Aragon and attended Jean Cocteau’s surrealist play, Wedding on the Eiffel Tower (1924). French surrealism had a great effect on Cummings’s work, and its reliance on dreamlike narratives and the expression of dark, often sexual desires, clearly resonated with the young American. Begun shortly after Cummings’s return from Paris, Him echoes the non sequitur plot construction and psychosexual fantasies expressed in surrealist plays like Guillaume Apollinaire’s The Breasts of Tiresias (1917) and Roger Vitrac’s Mysteries of Love (written 1924, produced 1927). Although Vitrac’s play was produced after Cummings returned to New York, his notes on Mysteries of Love from the 1948 Gallimard edition echo Cummings’s own theatrical techniques. In his explanation for the play, Vitrac noted that drama should articulate a tension between fear and desire, attraction and revulsion, in which characters could live as if in a dream. This perspective undoubtedly appealed to Cummings whose early poetry had often combined sexual humor with suggestions of violence, perhaps most notably in his “she being Brand / -new” (1925). Cummings was increasingly interested in Sigmund Freud’s theories of psychosexual development, which he saw as the key to self-awareness. As he wrote to his sister in 1922, “when I see you I shall expect you to be conversant with two books: The Interpretation of Dreams, and WIT and the Unconscious. Both are by FREUD.≡! GET WISE TO YOURSELF!!≡”2 Freud’s articulation of the dual sex and death drives in the psyche appealed both to the French surrealists—who drew on the unconscious mind and sexual desire for their stage material—and to American modernists like Cummings who construed Freud’s writings on dreams, desire, and the unconscious as the means to reject bourgeois sexual morality. Given these interests in European avant-garde drama and Freud, it is not surprising that upon his return to New York in 1925 Cummings focused his attention on the theater, especially burlesque. By the mid-1920s, as he was writing his own play, Cummings became something of a theater critic, if

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an adamantly unconventional one (he often refused to sign his reviews). Between 1925 and 1926, Cummings published a series of essays—first in Vanity Fair and then in the Dial—on a variety of genres, including not only films and plays, but also burlesque shows. It was the later performances that Cummings clearly preferred. In a commentary on the theater for the Dial in 1926, Cummings argued that the clown named Scratch, performing at the National Winter Garden Burlesk, was “worth the struttings of a hundred thousand Barrymores,” and that the future of the theater was the circus and amusement parks like Coney Island.3 For Cummings, such popular events possessed “the virtue of being intensely alive; whereas the productions of the conventional theater, like academic sculpture and painting and music, are thoroughly dead,” and he delighted in the violation of the realistic stage, which he described as the “pennyintheslot peep show parlour.”4 Cummings’s “peep show” is likely a reference to the film parlors common in most cities by the 1910s. For a penny, a single viewer could watch a short one-reel film (about one minute long) usually of an unremarkable daily occurrence, such as a crowd at the beach or, more scandalously, a woman undressing. For Cummings, the realistic theater, like these cinematic slices of life, were voyeuristic but nothing more. For him, the theater needed to become a place of revelation, not simply observation. If the mainstream theater wanted to make pretense that looked like real life, then Cummings’s theater would expose reality as merely pretense. The timing of these key events in Cummings’s life—the decline of his first marriage, his fascination with Freud and surrealism, and his passionate interest in popular culture—emerge powerfully in Him. In fact, critics of the play tended to read the play autobiographically, interpreting the decline of the central relationship and the protagonist’s clear ambivalence toward marriage and family as indicative of Cummings’s own marital strife. More significant than the biographical elements, however, are the techniques of the variety theater and the surrealist dream play that become the preferred language for articulating the connection between modern love and modern art. Him is by no means the only modernist play to grapple with the tension between art and love, but Cummings cast the struggle in his own unique theatrical terms. Relying primarily on so-called “low culture” performance—circus, burlesque, popular music, and cinema—for his dramatic structure, Cummings envisioned a decaying relationship not as a battle of the sexes, but as a carnival of deviance. For example, Me’s nine months of pregnancy (perhaps imagined) are represented by nine circus freaks, and a doctor (who may be preparing to perform an abortion) appears both as a carnival barker and a soapbox orator. Like the popular variety theater and French surrealist drama, the structure of the play moves between short, abrupt scenes that often have little causal or thematic connection to each other. Following the examples in burlesque theater, the play contains

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broad physical comedy often interrupted by overt sexuality. Vacillating between desire and disdain, Cummings surrounds a romantic relationship of the characters, named Him and Me, in the theatrical style of circus, continually accentuating the grotesque and the perverse as the context for their love. The first scene in act II suggests that the carnival performances to follow are a kind of echo, or mirror, of Him and Me’s marriage. The Voice of Him announces, “This is the Other Play” written by Mr. O. Him the Man in the Mirror. It is from this mirror play that the characters derive their names, both of which are articulated from Me’s perspective. Looking in an invisible mirror (on the other side of which sits the audience), she sees the reflection of her husband, and identifies the image as “O. Him” and he identifies her as the “beautiful mistress” of O. Him, “Me.” Through the imagined frame of the invisible mirror, Him and Me see themselves in an unreal circus world that Him, the playwright, works diligently to create. It is through the frame of the mirror that the audience witnesses both the imaginings of the characters and their more realistic domestic conflicts. For both themselves and the audience—acknowledged by Me at the conclusion of the play—the relationship between Him and Me is constructed in the space of the mirror, which Cummings associated with a state between waking and dreaming. As he notes on the jacket copy for the published copy of the play, while some see living and dreaming as separate, “others have discovered (in a mirror surrounded by mirrors), something harder than silence but softer than falling; the third voice of ‘life,’ which believes itself and cannot mean because it is.” For Cummings, the mirror is not mere reflection, nor even representation, but ironically an essential truth, what is. In the mirror Him and Me see not only the visual image of themselves, but also their “true” selves cast amid the chaos of the burlesque. The variety theater is an appropriate context for the decay of modern love, since the mid-1920s marked not only the end of Cummings’s first marriage, but also the decline of the popular theater styles included in the play. No longer the dominant popular entertainment it was during the nineteenth century, variety theater—including burlesque and vaudeville—had been largely replaced by the mass media of film and radio of the 1920s. Both media drew heavily from the theaters they replaced, appropriating plots, characters, and attracting performers from the theatrical stage. By 1908 nickelodeons (the first permanent movie theaters, which charged a nickel) had moved into recently vacated vaudeville houses, carrying stars like Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton from the stage onto the screen. This transition was widely visible and became the topic of some anxiety among American and European modernists, not the least of which was fellow-Harvard graduate and poet-playwright T. S. Eliot. Only a few years before Cummings’s Him, Eliot bemoaned the death of English music-hall actress Marie

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Lloyd as a metaphorical casualty of the cinema, and, more ominously, a harbinger of the decline of society: “With the decay of the music-hall, with the encroachment of the cheap and rapid-breeding cinema, the lower classes will tend to drop into the same state of protoplasm as the bourgeoisie.”5 Cummings seems to share this view of middle-class culture, since he laces his play with numerous references to popular culture and items of mass consumption, mostly in disparaging contexts. For example, an unwieldy hippopotamus in the first scene is named “It’s Toasted,” the advertising line from Lucky Strike cigarettes, and in act I, scene iv, Him refers to a king named “King C. Y. Didn’t Gillette Meknow,” a punning reference to King C. Gillette, the founder of the Gillette Safety Razor Company. In the scene, Him mocks the “king” for possessing a prehensile tail, reiterating his earlier attack on poets who follow dull tradition. The image of the dull razor as a substitute for the unimaginative artist appeared earlier in his satiric poem “Poem, Or Beauty Hurts Mr.Vinal” (1923), in which Cummings writes, “i would / suggest that certain ideas gesture / rhymes, like Gillette Razor Blades / having been used and reused / to the mystical moment of dullness emphatically are / Not To Be Resharpened . . .”6 In addition to his attack on advertising as the unimaginative poetry of the middle-class, Cummings portrays middle-class values as grotesque consumption. Elsewhere in act II, three bourgeois men, described as “corpulent,” take the stage in search of a tennis match. The scene becomes a grotesque satire in which the three men are clearly drunk—one says, “Doan sult thoffcer Fred”—but intent on pursuing their leisure at any cost. Mass-marketing is further equated with death, as in Him’s idea to mass-produce and market “radioleum,” or radium, the toxic substance that poisoned mostly female workers when it was used in watch factories in the mid-1920s.7 Act II, scene iii features a soapbox orator attempting to sell radioleum as a cure for the deadly disease “cinderella.” The reference to Cinderella (repeated in act III) echoes Him’s address to his mistress and, like other surrealist techniques, reflects Cummings’s sexual ambivalence. On the surface, Him is torn between his sexual desire for his mistress Me and his attempt for artistic transcendence. Cummings clearly sees sexual desire as a deadly obstacle. When Me tells Him she’s in love in act I, he calls her “Cinderella Van Winkle,” referring both to the “deadly disease” in act II, and the long sleep of the fairy-tale character, Rip van Winkle, who reemerges in act III. Following Freud and the Brothers Grimm, Cummings consistently conflates sexual desire with images of death. In addition to the mass-marketed radium “cure,” Him threatens both himself and Me with a pistol in act I, scene iv. Attached to this sex and death theme are images of sexual deviance. For example, in act II, Cummings portrays Italian dictator Mussolini surrounded by four female impersonators (“fairies”) holding lightning rods. In a letter to Charles Norman, Cum-

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mings explained that this scene was created as a pun on the word Savoy, deriving both from the Fascist slogan, sempre avanti Savoia—“forever onward (& upward with) the house of Savoy”—and the homosexual comedian and female impersonator Bert Savoy, who was killed by lightning. Cummings was a fan of Bert Savoy despite his strong dislike for homosexuals and his claim that “enthusiastic advocates of any form of totalitarianism are inclined to be nothing-if-not-queer.”8 Like Me’s sexual appeal, Savoy’s queerness (in part because of its juxtaposition with Mussolini’s Fascism) represents for Cummings a conflated image of both titillation and revulsion. This tension between desire and disgust culminates in the play’s final act. In act III, scene i, Me awakens after a kind of metaphorical death at the hands of Him, who silences her in the darkened theater with the line, “now I lay you down to not sleep.” After she awakens, Him seems to fall into his own kind of death, describing his life as one of “Limbo,” “made of glass,” and “Eheu fugaces,” a reference to Horace’s Odes II.14: “Ah, Postumus, Postumus, how fleeting / the swift years—prayer cannot delay / the furrows of imminent old-age / nor hold off unconquerable death.” By the end of the play, Him has resigned himself to his distance from Me, and the death of their love, if not also their lives. Describing his child as a mistake, and their relationship as a dream, Him declares, “Into the mirror with it, we’ll throw it away!” This seems a fitting end to the play, and yet Cummings includes two more scenes: the parade of freaks, culminating in Him’s terrified look at Me’s (possibly fictional) maternity; and the final scene in which Me recognizes the audience for the first time. The penultimate scene is the essential scene of the play. Here Cummings reverses common perception by positioning a series of circus freaks as desirable, while Me, draped in white and lovingly holding her child causes the crowd to recoil and Him to utter “a cry of terror.” As he wrote in several letters on the play, this scene is the key to the work as a whole since it most fully represents the fundamental anxiety that marriage, love, and family would rob the artist of his transcendental possibility. (His illustration for the cover of the play reflects an abstract figure reaching skyward.) But again, though a seemingly suitable ending, Cummings includes yet one more scene, a coda that returns the play to the original domestic setting and the dissolution of the mirror. Him’s illusion of Me may be shattered but his illusory existence within the world of the play remains intact. Unlike Me, he does not see the audience through the fourth wall of the stage. As the artist, Him belongs wholly, if ambivalently, to the grotesque world of the play, which he elsewhere calls “the fourth dimension.” The pretense for both the audience and Me is shattered, leaving Him alone in his world of imagination, unable or unwilling to engage the audience. While this lack of engagement intrigued some critics (Edmund Wilson called it “marvelous eloquence”), most of the re-

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viewers who saw the Experimental Theatre, Inc. production in 1928 dismissed the play as, in one reviewer’s words, “utter guff.” Cummings probably didn’t mind. He himself warned audiences in a program note that, “this PLAY isn’t ‘about,’ it simply is . . . DON’T TRY TO UNDERSTAND IT, LET IT TRY TO UNDERSTAND YOU.”9 For Cummings, understanding such theater would destroy it. Like surrealism and the circus that preceded him, Cummings’s intention was to create experience more than comprehension. By overwhelming the senses of the audience and capturing their sense of titillation and revulsion, Cummings wanted to create an avenue to artistic transcendence. He wanted the audience to follow Him.

FURTHER READING Cummings, E. E. A Miscellany Revised. Ed. George J. Firmage. New York: October House, 1965. Kennedy, Richard S. “Anne and Him.” In Dreams in the Mirror: A Biography of E. E. Cummings, 281–303. New York: Liveright, 1980. Maurer, Robert E. “E. E. Cummings’ Him.” In E. E. Cummings: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Norman Friedman. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1972. Norman, Charles. E. E. Cummings: The Magic Maker. New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1964. Smeltsor, Marjorie. “‘Damn Everything but the Circus’: Popular Art in the Twenties and Him.” Modern Drama 17 (1974): 43–55. Wagner-Martin, Linda. “Cummings’ Him—and Me.” Spring 1 (1992): 28–36. Webster, Michael. “Notes on Him.” Spring: Journal of the E. E. Cummings Society Home Page. 2006. http://www.gvsu.edu/english/cummings/Him.htm.

Him (1927) by E. E. Cummings

Act Three Scene I Scene. The room of Act One, further revolved so that the fourth or invisible wall is the door wall. The wall to the audience’s right (corresponding to the floor wall of Act I, Scene 4) is the solid wall. The middle wall is the mirror wall. The window wall is to the audience’s left. HIM’S hat lies on the centre of the table where the automatic [pistol] was lying at the end of Act One Scene 4. ME and HIM are seated at opposite ends of the sofa which is against the solid wall to the audience’s right. Me. Him. Me. Him. Me. Him. Me. Him. Me. (To herself) Him. Me. (As before) Him.

Me. (As before) Him.

Where I am I think it must be getting dark: I feel that everything is moving and mixing, with everything else. I feel that it’s very dark. Do you—feel? Terribly dark. Are you a little afraid of the dark? I’ve always been. (The room darkens rapidly.) May I sit beside you? If you don’t very much mind. (He does so.) A hand. Accurate and incredible. The dark is so many corners— Here life is, moves; faintly. A wrist. The faint throb of blood, precise, miraculous. —so many dolls, who move— Curve. And they talk of dying! The blood delicately descending and ascending: making an arm. Being an arm. The warm flesh, the dim slender flesh filled with life, slenderer than a miracle, frailer. —by Themselves. These are the shoulders through which fell the world. The dangerous shoulders of Eve, in god’s entire garden newly strolling. How young they are! They are shy, shyest, birdlike. Not shoulders, but young alert birds. (The figures of ME and HIM are almost invisible.)

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Me. (Almost inaudibly) Darker. Him. A distinct throat. Which breathes. A head: small, smaller than a flower. With eyes and with lips. Lips more slender than light; a smile how carefully and slowly made, a smile made entirely of dream. Eyes deeper than Spring. Eyes darker than Spring, more new. Me. (To herself) We must go very carefully . . . Him. These, these are the further miracles— Me. (Almost inaudibly) . . . gradually . . . Him. —the breasts. Thighs. The All which is beyond comprehension —the All which is perpetually discovered, yet undiscovered: sexual, sweet. Alive! Me. (Faintly) . . . until light. (Complete darkness. After a few moments her voice whispers with a sort of terror.) Voice of Me. What are you saying. Voice of Him. (Subdued, intense, trembling) Not saying: praying . . . (The voice hardens.) . . . now I lay you down to not sleep—. (Silence. Then a scream: the room suddenly opens into total visibility. ME stands—tense erect panting—beside the sofa on which HIM sprawls.) Me. No! Him. (Slowly collecting himself rises slowly) Are you sure? Are you terribly, wonderfully sure? Me. Sure. Yes. (A pause. She walks upstage to the mirror. He crosses the room to the table; takes and lights a cigarette.) Him. (Standing at the window, laughs briefly) Mademoiselle d’Autrefois, purveyor of mental meanderings and bodily bliss to Ahsh E. M. His Imperial Majesty, the Man in the Mirror! Me. (At the mirror) What do you mean. Him. I mean—. (Twirls the match out) —That you have been the mistress of someone. Me. Are you terribly, wonderfully sure? Him. Of that? Yes. I am sure. Me. I gave him everything, you mean? Him. I mean just that. Once upon a time. Me. How extraordinary—and who were you, once upon a time? Him. (Flicks the ash) Why do you ask? Me. Because—shall I tell you? Him. If you wish. Me. The more I remember, the more I am sure it never happened. Him. (Simply) Dead. Me. (Turning from the mirror, walks toward him slowly) And now everything changes. And I can distinguish between things. O, I begin to see things very clearly. —You are just as you were. Him. I understand less and less. Do you? It’s clear now—can’t you see? Me. Him. My eyes are very bad today as the blind man said.

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That’s what he said. (Stands before him) And this is what you say: “May I kiss you?” Him. I say that to whom? . . . Excuse me; will you have a cigarette? Me. (Refuses with a curt gesture) You simply say it. Him. I am very dull. . . . May I kiss you? Me. No. Because I’m not, any more—this isn’t me. But somewhere me is, and it would be jealous if you kissed somebody else. Him. (Cutting a laugh in two) “Jealous!” Why not the truth? Me. You are making a mistake. Him. Probably. Me. There’s nobody else. Really: so far as I know. Him. I should prefer that you did not lie to me. Me. Yes? Him. I should. Me. (She looks entirely at him.) I’m not lying. Him. (Looking intently at her) No, you’re not lying. Me. (Quietly) The snow did it, or it was the rain—Something outside of me and you: and we may as well let Something alone. (She walks toward the sofa.) Him. That would be pleasant to believe. Me. (To herself) Which moves quietly, when everything is asleep; folding hands . . . I don’t know. Shutting flowers I guess, putting toys away. (She sits, in one corner of the sofa.) Him. This is the end? Me. Do you like to call it that? Him. Tell me, what is it, if it isn’t the end? Me. This might be where we begin. Him. To begin hurts. (A pause) Do you think that this folding and shutting Person, who moves, can take memories away? Me. No. (A pause. She smiles.) —I feel as if we’d never lived: everything is so sure, so queer. (Another pause) Him. Everything will be queerer perhaps. Me. Do you think? Him. When everything has stopped. Me. Stopped? Him. When I and you are—so to speak—folded, with all our curves and gestures. Me. —In the earth? Him. (Strolls toward the sofa) Anywhere. Me. Somewhere, in the Spring, you and I lying . . . together. . . . Him. And so exceedingly still. Me. (Smiles, shaking her head) No: there’ll be things. Him. (Sitting opposite her) Things? Me. Trees pushing. And little creatures wandering busily in the ground, because everywhere it’s Spring. (Smiles) They will go wandering into me and into you, I expect—roots and creatures and things—but I shan’t mind.

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Him. No. Me. (In a low voice) If I’m with you. Him. (In a low voice) It will all be gone then; then it will be too late. Think. Me. . . . I don’t want to think. Him. Lips, which touched—at first how lightly! What were lips distinctly slowly coming against more than lips; mouths, firmly living upon each other: the focussed Ourselves (alive proud deep bewildered) approaching gradually. Nearing, exquisitely and scarcely. Touching. And then—heartily announced by miles, by years, of strutting light—the minute instant, the enormous Now. . . . (Pauses; smiles) Only think, dear, of you and of me gone, like two kites when the string breaks, positively into nowhere. Shut like umbrellas. Folded like napkins. Me. (Looking at him and away, speaks softly) Only think, dear, that you and I have never been really in love. Think that I am not a bit the sort of person you think. Think that you fell in love with someone you invented—someone who wasn’t me at all. Now you are trying to feel things; but that doesn’t work, because the nicest things happen by themselves. You can’t make them happen. I can’t either, but I don’t want to. And when you try to make them happen, you don’t really fool yourself and certainly you don’t fool me. That’s one thing about me. I’m not clever and I don’t try to make things happen. —Well, you made a mistake about me and I know that. But the fact is, you know you made a mistake. Everybody knows it. . . . Think what is: think that you are now talking very beautifully through your hat. Him. (His glance travels to the table and returns to her.) You are a very remarkable person—among other reasons, because you can make me afraid. Me. I’m not, and I don’t want to be, remarkable. What you really think about me—and won’t admit that you think—is true. Him. Don’t you understand— Me. I don’t. I feel. That’s my way and there’s nothing remarkable about it: all women are like that. Him. Noone is like you. Me. Pooh. I don’t flatter myself—not very much. I know perfectly well it’s foolish of you to waste your time with me, when there are people who will understand you. And I know I can’t, because things were left out of me.—What’s the use of being tragic? You know you aren’t sad, really. You know what you really are, and really you’re always sure of yourself: whereas I’m never sure. —If anybody were going to be tragic it ought to be me. I know that perfectly well. I’ve never done anything and I don’t believe I ever will. But you can do things. Noone can make you unsure of yourself. You know you will go on, and all your life you’ve known. Him. (Trembling, looks at his hands) May I tell you a great secret?

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A secret? All my life I’ve wondered if I am any good. If my head and my heart are made out of something firmer or more living than what I see everywhere covering itself with hats and with linen. —If all the capable and little and disgusting minds which, somehow, are responsible for the cities and the countries in which I exist, have not perhaps also manufactured this thing— this bundle of wishes—which I like to call “myself.” If my arms dreams hands exist with an intensity differing from or beyond the intensity of any other arms dreams hands. . . . You cannot imagine how disagreeable it is to wonder—to look about you, at the eyes and the gestures which promenade themselves in streets and in houses, and to be afraid. To think: “Am I also one of these, a doll, living in a doll world, doomed to be undressed, dressed, spanked, kissed, put to bed?” (Trembling, wipes carefully with his handkerchief a sweating forehead) You can’t imagine how disagreeable it is. Suppose that you spent your life buying a dress. Suppose that at last you found the precise and wonderful dress which you had dreamed of, and suppose that you bought it and put it on and walked in it everywhere and everywhere you saw thousands of people all of whom were wearing your dress. Me. You mean I’m like everybody else. Him. (Fiercely) I mean that you have something which I supremely envy. That you are something which I supremely would like to discover: knowing that it exists in itself as I do not exist and as I never have existed. How do I know this? Because through you I have come to understand that whatever I may have been or may have done is mediocre. (Bitterly) You have made me realize that in the course of living I have created several less or more interesting people—none of whom was myself. Me. (With a brief gesture) O dear. Am I like that? Him. Like nothing. Me. Please don’t talk to me this way. I really don’t understand. And I think you don’t understand me, very well . . . nothing is sure. Him. (Rising, smiles) Limbo, the without pain and joyless unworld, lady. In one act: or, my life is made of glass. Me. (Rising, moves; stands beside him) Your—what? Him. (Carefully looking into her helpless lifted eyes, speaks carefully) I mean a clock ticking. Words which were never written. Cries heard through a shut window. Forgotten. Winter. Flies hanging mindless to walls and ceiling around a stove. Laughter of angels. Eheu fugaces. Glass flowers. (He walks to the table and picks up his hat. Turning, makes for the invisible door. ME steps in front of him quickly.) Me. I have no mind. I know that. I know that I’m not intelligent, and that you liked me for something else. There isn’t any sense

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in my asking—I ask merely because I want to. I know I haven’t any brains and really I don’t care. I’ve seen women with brains and they’re miserable, or anyway they look so—I don’t know; it might be nice to have a mind sometimes. Please don’t think I’m unhappy, because I’m not, and I’m not trying to make you unhappy. I know what I’m really like and what’s more I know that you know—we’re not fooling ourselves. But what you’re really like I don’t know; and that doesn’t make me unhappy either: I don’t care. I know part of you and I’m glad. As a matter of fact I’m rather proud. I think I know a great deal—for instance, if I ask you something you won’t mind. And if my asking hurt you, I wouldn’t care—I’m like that; it’s me. I’m glad everything’s over: because I’ve loved you very much, I’m glad there’ll be nothing except memories. . . . You know what I liked best about you, what I will always like and will always remember. It’s your hands—you know that and I tell you. Tell me something. Because it doesn’t matter and you’re going, tell me one thing. Tell me (as if I was dead and you were talking to someone else with your hands on her breasts) what there was, once, about me. Him. (After a short pause) I hoped that I had—perhaps—told you. Me. Listen. (Earnestly, staring with entire seriousness into his eyes, almost whispers) It’s snowing: think. Just think of people everywhere and houses and rivers and trees and the mountains and oceans. Then think of fingers—millions—out of somewhere quietly and quickly coming, hurrying very carefully. . . . Think of everywhere fingers touching; fingers, skillfully gently everything—O think of the snow coming down beautifully and beautifully frightening ourselves and turning dying and love and the world and me and you into five toys. . . . Touch me a little. (Taking his right wrist, she puts its hand against her dress.) It will be so pleasant to dream of your hands. For a hundred years. Him. (Whispers) Dreams don’t live a hundred years. Me. Don’t they? (Smiles. Lets his wrist, hand, drop) Perhaps mine does. (Strolling to the table, opens the box; taking, lights a cigarette; quickly blows out the match) It’s very late, I think. (His shutting face whitens—putting on his hat, he goes out through the invisible door; stands, facing the audience. ME unsteadily crosses the room to the sofa. Darkness.) Voice of Me. If I had a mind, every morning I’d jump out of bed and hurry to a sort of secret drawer, where I kept my mind because someone might steal it. Then I’d open the drawer with a key and find my mind safe. But to make sure, I’d take it out of the box where it lived—because if I had a mind I’d be very careful of it for fear it might break—and I’d go to the window with this little mind of mine, and holding it very carefully I’d look through

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the window out over the roofs (with smoke coming up out of all the chimneys slowly and maybe a street where people moved carefully in the sunlight, in the morning). Scene II Scene. The three rocking knitting FIGURES, facing the picture with their backs to the audience. Both heads are in the picture and the WOMAN’S eyes are closed. First Figure. Second. Third. First. Second. Third. First. Second. First. Second. Third. First. Second. Third. First. Second. First. Third. Second. First. Third. Second.

I held my husband up to the light yesterday and saw through him. What did you see? Your Hole appearance depends upon your hair. I saw father eating a piece of asparagus. Your husband’s a landscape gardener? It’s off because it’s out. Not exactly. He does something in the interests of science. Really?—What does he do? I’m not quite sure . . . something about guineapigs I think. About guineapigs? How fascinating. Happiness in every box. Yes I think he does something to them so they’ll have children— Not really! A pure breath is good manners. —because you see he wants them to have children in the interests of science. How remarkable. I didn’t suppose guineapigs COULD have children. I didn’t either when I married him, but George says he doesn’t see why guineapigs can’t have children if children can have guineapigs. A clean tooth never decays. DO children have guineapigs? O yes, more’s the pity. Mine often have it. Your nails show your refinement. Badly?

Scene III Scene. Au Père Tranquille (Les Halles). Whores asleep. Music asleep. A waiter asleep. Two customers, a BLOND GONZESSE and the GENTLEMAN of Act Two, Scene 9, sit side by each at a corner table on which are two whiskies and an ashreceiver. A bell rings violently and a HEADWAITER rushes into the room. Headwaiter.

PSST! (Exit. The whores yawn, roll off their chairs and begin dancing with one another half asleep. The pianist, starting to a sitting position, bangs out chords—the violinist, reaming his eyes, breaks into tune—the drummer, shoving back his hair,

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swats the cymbals. Awakened by this racket, the waiter gets up and adjusts his tie in a mirror: turning, moves glasses aimlessly here and there on tables. TWO FEMALE VOICES are heard in the vicinity of the doorway.) First Female Voice. Of course I know him. He’s the man from whom Belasco steals his ideas. Second Female Voice. Steals whose ideas? First Female Voice. Belasco’s. (The owners of the voices, a FAIRLY YOUNG WOMAN and an OLDER WOMAN, enter, followed by the obsequiously ushering HEADWAITER.) Headwaiter. (Making, unnoticed by the new arrivals, a sign of negation to music and whores) Bon soir mesdames. Par ici mesdames? (He guides his prey to a table in the centre of the room. The whores and music cease their activities and resume their slumbers.) Older. Boan swaah. Headwaiter. (Ostentatiously presenting menus, as the new arrivals seat themselves) Voici mesdames. (Placing himself at the OLDER’S elbow, he obsequiously threatens.) Qu’est-ce que c’est mesdames? (Both women pick up menus. Both study their menus attentively.) Older. (Absentmindedly) Let me see. . . . (She adjusts a lorgnette.) Y-e-s. (Looking up) Donny mwah un omb. Headwaiter. (Feigning pleasure) Un homme. Trés bien. Et pour madame? Fairly Young. (Flustered) What you having Sally? Older. (Laying down menu and lowering lorgnette) An omb, dear, as usual. Fairly Young. That’s not a bad idea. (Engagingly) I’ll have the same. Older. (Interpreting) Ong kore un omb. Headwaiter. (As before) Ca fait deux hommes; bien mesdames. (To OLDER) Et comment madame désire-t-elle son homme? Older. (Without hesitation) Stewed, seal voo play. Headwaiter. (To FAIRLY YOUNG) Et madame? Fairly Young. What does he want to know? Older. He says how do you want your omb. Fairly Young. (Puzzled and embarrassed) My, what? Older. Your omb, your man. Fairly Young. O—my man—yes . . . how are you having yours? I’m having mine stewed because I like them that way, I think Older. they’re nicest when they’re stewed. Fairly Young. (Doubtfully) I think they’re nice that way too. Older. Have yours any way you like, dear. Fairly Young. Yes . . . let me see. (Pause) I think I’ll have mine boiled. Older. (Interpreting) Voo donny ray poor mwah un omb stewed, a, poor moan ammy, un omb boiled. Headwaiter. (As before) Bien madame. Et comme boisson, madame? Older. What do you want to drink, dear? Headwaiter. (Interpolating) Une bonne bouteille de champagne, n’es-ce pas, madame?

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Fairly Young. I don’t care. Older. A voo donny ray, avek sellah, oon bootay der Ay-vyon. Headwaiter. (Almost bursting with rage) Merci mesdames. (Turning to the waiting WAITER) Bring two men immediately for these ladies and have one of the men boiled and the other stewed. Waiter. (Saluting) Benissimo, sehr gut. (He vanishes.) Older. (Produces and opens a cigarettecase: offers it) Will you have a cigarette? Fairly Young. (Hastily, producing ditto) Try one of mine. They’re camels. Older. Thank you, I think I prefer lucky strikes. (Each lights her own cigarette.) Well, dear. How do you like Paris? Fairly Young. I think Paris is darling. I’ve met so many people from New York. Older. Yes, Paris is certainly cosmopolitan. Fairly Young. O, very. Older. (After a pause) Have you been here long? Fairly Young. Only a few days. Dick and I arrived last—when was it—let me see: today is . . . Thursday. . . . Older. Today is Tuesday. Fairly Young. Is today really Tuesday? Older. Today must be Tuesday, because Monday was yesterday. I know, because yesterday I had a fitting on a dress I bought at Poiret’s. You should see it— Fairly Young. O dear, then I missed an appointment at the hairdresser’s if today is Tuesday. Well, I’ll go tomorrow. . . . What were we talking about? I didn’t mean to interrupt. Older. Let me see . . . O I asked you if you’d been here long, that was it. Fairly Young. O yes, of course.—Why no, Dick and I arrived . . . last Friday, I guess it was—on the Aquitania. Older. I came on the Olympic myself. Fairly Young. Really. Older. Did you have a pleasant trip? Fairly Young. (Enthusiastically) Simply glorious. Dick was sick all of the time. Older. How silly of him. (A pause) I suppose you’ve been about a great deal since you arrived? Fairly Young. O yes. I’ve seen everything there is to see. Older. (Dreamily) Have you seen that old church, such a beautiful old ruin, over somewhere to the East is it? Fairly Young. (Promptly) Which bank? Older. I’m talking about a church, it’s very famous, very old— Fairly Young. I meant which bank of the Sane is it on? Older. (Unabashed) O, I don’t know, but I think it was on the further one, if I remember rightly. The interesting one where the students live? Fairly Young. Older. You know what I mean, the car tea a lat tan, and all that. Fairly Young. I think I know the one you mean.

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It’s the right, isn’t it? I’m always getting them mixed. I never can keep them straight either. Well, anyway—it’s the loveliest old thing—you must have seen it. (Pause) Fairly Young. If it’s very old, I must have. Older. O—it’s very old! (The women smoke. The whores and music snore. A pause) There was something I wanted to tell you, and it’s completely gone out of my head. I can’t think what . . . O, yes: this dress I just bought. It’s such a LOVELY dress. Fairly Young. (Insincerely) I should SO like to see it. Older. We’ll go around there tomorrow after lunch. —it’s black satin, very simple, but the loveliest lines you ever saw in your life, and just oceans of real Brussels lace. (She makes an oceanic gesture.) Fairly Young. How wonderful. Did it cost much? Older. I should say so—from Poiret, you know: terribly expensive . . . as I remember it, let me see: why I think I paid three of those very big notes; you know, the brown ones. Fairly Young. I thought the brown ones were fifty. Older. The small brown ones are, but these were the big brown ones. (A pause) Fairly Young. The yellow ones with the pictures are a hundred, aren’t they? Older. Yes, the pictures are a hundred, and then there’s a five hundred. The ones I was thinking of are the thousand, I guess—unless there’s a ten thousand franc note. . . . I always get confused whenever I try to figure out anything which has to do with money. Fairly Young. So do I, here. American money is so much more sensible, I should think they’d adopt it everywhere. Older. Well, I suppose it would cause some difficulties. Fairly Young. You’d think they’d adopt it here, though. The French are supposed to be so intelligent. Older. (Confidentially) O but they’re not—really. Why, only today, I tried to make a taxidriver understand where I wanted to go: it was perfectly simple, song karawnt sank roo der lay twahl, and I said it over THREE times, and even then he couldn’t seem to understand— Fairly Young. Yes. I know. Older. —so—finally I had to say it in English. And then he understood! Fairly Young. They seem to understand English better than French nearly everywhere in Paris, now. Older. Well, I suppose it’s the war, don’t you think so? Fairly Young. Dick thinks so. Older. Dick—? Fairly Young. My husband. He was in Paris during the war.

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O. Was he. Yes. He started in by being a major, but he soon got promoted to colonel. Older. How interesting. —I wonder if you know a man named Seward. Fairly Young. (Eagerly) Jim Seward or Jack Seward? I know them both well. I’m crazy about Jack. He came over on the boat with me. Older. I think this one’s name was Tom, or something like that. I can’t quite remember. . . . Fairly Young. (As before) Is he blond and wonderful looking? Older. No, he’s rather dark, and very UNattractive: in fact, quite ugly. Fairly Young. O. (A pause) Older. Tom Seward, yes that was his name. His father was a prominent banker or something. Fairly Young. I don’t think I ever met him. (A pause) Why? Older. O I just wondered. (A long pause) Fairly Young. (Glancing about her for the first time) It’s quiet here, isn’t it. I expected it to be lively. Older. Did you? —I thought just the opposite. The name is so quiet: Pare Trank Eel. It means Tranquil Father, you know. (A pause) Fairly Young. I never heard of it. Is it well known? Older. Only to those who KNOW. (A pause) Fairly Young. I was just thinking it looked very exclusive. (The bell rings with terrific violence. Whores and music leap into consciousness. A MAN’S VOICE, cheerfully patronising, is heard in the vicinity of the doorway.) Man’s Voice. Here we are! (In the doorway appear two WOMEN, one ELDERLY, one YOUTHFUL, attired in the last wail of fashion.) Elderly. (Pushing YOUTHFUL) You go first, Alice. Youthful. (Entering with a slouchy saunter which is intended to convey the impression that she is blasée, speaks in a flat Middlewestern voice.) So this is Paris. (Stares about her, standing awkwardly and flatfootedly. The ELDERLY WOMAN follows, drawing herself up and using her lorgnette. Two men, alikelooking in evening dress, block the doorway.) Owner of Man’s Voice Beforementioned. Go ahead, Will. Man Addressed. You know the ropes, Bill. (He sidesteps. BILL bursts into the room, followed by the HEADWAITER.) Headwaiter. Would you like a nice table Sir, over here sir—. (Salaaming, he rushes to a table in the corner opposite the GENTLEMAN and the BLOND GONZESSE. Pulls out chairs) Bill. This all right for ever-body? Elderly Woman. (Having completed her inspection of the room, smiles mysteriously) I think this will be all right. Bill. Siddown ever-body. (A CHASSEUR enters, taking off his cap, and approaches WILL.) Elderly Woman. I’ll sit here.

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Bill. Thass right Lucy—where’s Will? Youthful Woman. Where do I go? Elderly Woman. You sit here, Marjorie, where you can see everything. Will. (Who is standing, facing the CHASSEUR with an expression at once vague and mistrustful) How much do I give this feller, Bill? Youthful Woman. There doesn’t seem to be much to see. Bill. Give ’im five francs. (WILL, pulling out a wad of twenty, fifty and hundred franc notes from his trouser pocket, gives a fifty to the CHASSEUR.) Chasseur. (Bowing briefly) Merci msieur. (Putting on his cap he hurries out in search of new victims.) Elderly Woman. Come here Will, and sit by me. (A VESTIAIRE hurries in.) Headwaiter. (To the WAITER, who has been hiding respectfully behind his superior) Allez vite: cherchez-moi la carte. (The WAITER sprints to a neighboring table, grabs a menu, returning hands it to the HEADWAITER. The VESTIAIRE comes up.) Vestiaire. (Insinuatingly) Voulez-vous vous débarasser msieurs mdames? Bill. She wants our hats ’n’ coats. (He gives her his derby.) Elderly Woman. I’ll keep mine, it’s rather chilly here. Bill. Alice? Youthful Woman. No thanks. Bill. (To VESTIAIRE) Say too. (The VESTIAIRE regretfully turns. WILL seizes her by the sleeve.) Will. Hay. (Whispers) Where’s thuh. (He gestures occultly, winking ponderously.) Vestiaire. (Removing WILL’S derby from his hand) Par ici, msieur. (She beckons: WILL follows her through the doorway.) Headwaiter. (Bending over BILL and holding the menu so that BILL cannot quite see it, speaks caressingly) Will you have a little soup sir, and some nice oysters— Bill. Wait a minute. ’Re we all here? Where’s— Headwaiter. (Apologetically, in a low voice) The gentleman’ll be right in sir. Bill. I getcha. (Loudly) Well now, what’d you girls like to eat? Elderly Woman. You do the ordering, Billie dear, you know we can’t read it. Headwaiter. (Suggestingly) Oysters are very nice sir, or a nice steak— Youthful Woman. (Impatiently) I’ll take anything. Bill. (Importantly) Lessee. (He takes the menu, studies it.) Headwaiter. (Coaxingly, almost playfully) A little soup to begin with sir— Bill. Yas. Soup ahl un yon poor toolah mond. Headwaiter. Bien msieur. Elderly Woman. (To YOUTHFUL WOMAN) Did you see those . . . (She nods toward the whores.) Youthful Woman. Uhhuh. (She turns her dull gaze upon the BLOND GONZESSE. The BLOND GONZESSE fixes her with a glassy eye.) Bill. ’M ordering soup for Will. Elderly Woman. (Quickly) That’s right. Headwaiter. Et après. . . . Bill. Ap ray, donny mwah daze weet.

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Headwaiter. (Approvingly) Des huitres, bien msieur. Quatre douzaines, n’es-ce pas msieur? (WILL, hands in pockets, enters vaguely.) Elderly Woman. (Beckoning anxiously) Over here, Will! Will. (Overhereing) Hullo everybody. Bill. (Looks up) Siddown Will. Thought you fell overboard. Elderly Woman. We ordered you some soup. (WILL sits heavily beside her.) Headwaiter. Une douzaine chacun? Bill. He wants to know how many—. (Desperately to HEADWAITER) We. Headwaiter. (Radiating approbation) Et pour la suite msieur—un bon rumstek —un chateau—un veau sauté—? Will. (Ponderously, growls) Thought I was lost out there. Elderly Woman. Yes? Bill. We we, kom voo voo lay. (The HEADWAITER, beaming, writes down a great many things hurriedly on a pad.) Et ensuite—un peu de fromage—un dessert—you wish strawberries? Will. Got some pretty slick girls out there. One of ’em tried to get my watch. Bill. Will you have strawberries? Youthful Woman. All right, all right anything at all. Headwaiter. Strawberries very fresh. Bill. Strawberries poor toola mond. Wutabout something to drink? Headwaiter. Il n’y a que champagne msieur. Bill. We we, sham pain. Headwaiter. (Tears sheet from pad and hands it to WAITER, who mercurially disappears) Bien messieurs mesdames. (Turning, beckons vehemently to the music, which has stopped but which immediately recommences with redoubled vigor) Older Woman. (To FAIRLY YOUNG) I’ll ask him. —May truh dough tell. (The HEADWAITER wheels.) Seal voo play—(He comes to her table.) Voo parlay onglay? Headwaiter. (Irritated) Yes, I speak English. Older Woman. (Indicating WILL and BILL, whispers) Are those our ombs? Headwaiter. Yes madame. But they are not quite ready yet—a little patience, madame. Older Woman. O, I see. All right. Thank you, may truh dough tell. (The HEADWAITER hurries off. The OLDER whispers the news to the FAIRLY YOUNG, who stares seductively at the ombs. Enter HIM, walking too straight, carrying in his left hand a cabbage. He walks too straight up to the table where the BLOND GONZESSE and the GENTLEMAN are sitting and bows interrogatively to the GENTLEMAN, indicating an imaginary third place with a majestic wave of his right hand.) Him. Permettez, monsieur? Blond Gonzesse. (Immediately) Oui monsieur. (She giggles.) Gentleman. Sit down. (HIM draws up a chair. Sits, with the cabbage in his lap) Waiter!

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Waiter. Msieur? Him. (To WAITER) Trois whi-sky et une assiette. Waiter. Une assiette msieur-comment—? Une assiette anglaise? Him. (Sternly) Non. Une assiette nature, pour le choux. Waiter. Ah—pour le choux. Bien msieur. (Exit) Gentleman. I never forget faces. Him. Really? Gentleman. Your face is familiar. Him. Yes? Gentleman. I’ve seen you somewhere before. Him. Possibly. (A pause) Gentleman. Were you ever in a city where the money is called “poo”? Him. I may have been. Gentleman. I think you were, and I think that’s where I met you. Him. The world’s not so big, after all. (The BLOND GONZESSE giggles.) Gentleman. (To BLOND GONZESSE) Pardon—meet my friend Mr.— Him. (Promptly) John Brown. (Bows) Blond Gonzesse. Enchantée, monsieur. Gentleman. Have a cigar. (Producing two) The lady prefers cigarettes. Him. (Taking one) Thanks. (He and the GENTLEMAN bite off and spit out the tips of their cigars. HIM strikes a match: lights the GENTLEMAN’S and his own.) Gentleman. (Smoking) Did I understand you to say you were John Brown? Him. (Smoking) Correct. Gentleman. In that case let me ask you something: does your body lie mouldering in the grave? (Leaning across the table) Because mine does. Him. Yes? Gentleman. But that isn’t all of it. (Drawing himself up, remarks smilelessly) My soul goes marching on. (HIM inspects the cabbage gravely. The BLOND GONZESSE giggles.) The lady doesn’t believe me. She doesn’t know who I am. I just met her. Him. Who are you? Gentleman. I am the unpublished photograph of George Washington crossing the Susquehanna in a breechesbuoy. Who are you. Him. I live here. Gentleman. In that case, let me ask you something: are you one of those God, damned, artists? (The whiskies and a large plate arrive.) Waiter. (To HIM) Voici msieur, l’assiette nature. (The BLOND GONZESSE giggles.) Him. (Carefully transferring the cabbage from his lap to the empty plate and lifting carefully his whisky, answers) No. That is, not exactly: I earn money by taming jellyfish. Gentleman. (Picking up his whisky) The lady doesn’t believe you. The lady doesn’t believe anything. Him. The lady is a wise lady—à votre santé madame. (Gravely bows

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to the BLOND GONZESSE) Ashes to ashes. (Bows gravely to the GENTLEMAN) Gentleman. Ally upp. (HIM and the GENTLEMAN drink their whiskies.) Youthful Woman. (Angrily repulsing BILL’S half-hearted attempt to embrace her, and gazing rapturously at HIM who does not see her) Don’t! Fairly Young Woman. (Excitedly whispers to OLDER, indicating BILL) I think mine’s almost ready. A Whore. (Yawning, to a yawning whore) Rien à faire ce soir. Will. (Pouring himself his fourth glass of champagne and staring fixedly at the OLDER WOMAN) Some. Baby. Elderly Woman. (To WILL, while desperately ogling the unnoticing GENTLEMAN) Give ME a little champagne, please. Gentleman. (To HIM) How much. Him. How much what? Gentleman. How much do you make? Him. O—thirty cents a jellyfish. Gentleman. What do you do with them, when they’re tame? Him. I sell them to millionaires. (He turns amorously to the BLOND GONZESSE.) Il fait chaud, n’est-ce pas, mademoiselle? Blond Gonzesse. (Amorously) Trés chaud, monsieur. Gentleman. (To HIM) Been over here long? Him. Not very. (He points to the cabbage.) I was born day before yesterday. Gentleman. In that case, you probably know a show I went to last night: foliz burshare. (The BLOND GONZESSE giggles.) Him. Never heard of them. Gentleman. The lady doesn’t believe I’ve been.—Waiter! Waiter. (Who has just placed a third bottle of champagne on WILL’S table and a second bottle of Evian on the OLDER WOMAN’S) Msieur. Gentleman. (To HIM) The same? (HIM nods.) Ong kore. Waiter. La même chose—bien msieur. (He sprints.) Older Woman. (To FAIRLY YOUNG, pouring water in her glass) I don’t remember ever being so thirsty. Gentleman. (To HIM) Are you married? Him. Sometimes. Gentleman. You ought to go to that show. Him. Good? Gentleman. Rotten. A bunch of amateurs and some handpainted scenery. They don’t know how to put on a show over here. Little Old New York is the only place where the theatre’s any good. (Two whiskies arrive.) One more whisky for the lady. Blond Gonzesse. (Protestingly) Non, merci. Him. The lady’s got one. (Indicates an untouched glass) Gentleman. Give the lady a drink, waiter. Ong kore. Waiter. Encore un wis-kee—bien msieur. (Sprints) Gentleman. As for the women, they’re fat and they’re clumsy and they’re

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naked and they don’t know they’re alive. (He drinks his whisky.) I can hand Paris only one thing: the Scotch is sure death. What are you doing with that cabbage? Taming it? Waiter. Un wis-kee—voici msieur. (Places another whisky on the table) Gentleman. (To WAITER) How much is all this? Waiter. Ca vous fait. . . . Gentleman. Kom be an. Waiter. Ca fait—quatre cent francs juste, msieur. (The BLOND GONZESSE giggles.) Gentleman. The lady doesn’t think I can pay for it. (He produces a wallet and pulls out a five hundred franc note.) Sang song frong: keep the change. (He puts back the wallet.) Waiter. (Turning white with pleasure) Merci msieur. (He and the BLOND GONZESSE exchange significant glances.) Bill. (Totally disregarding the anguish of the ELDERLY WOMAN who has been helping herself freely to champagne and is now swaying dangerously against him, lifts his glass to the FAIRLY YOUNG WOMAN) Pyjama pyjama. Him. (Drinking his whisky, addresses the GENTLEMAN) Going back? Gentleman. Back? Him. Back to the dear old U.S.A.? Gentleman. (Drunkenly shaking his head) Can’t do it. Him. No? Gentleman. (All of him leaning across the table speaks distinctly.) Let me tell you something: I had a son. And he’s a drunkard. And I had a daughter: and she’s a whore. And my son is a member of all the best clubs in New York City. And my daughter married thirteen million dollars. And I’m a member of the God, damned, bourgeoisie. (He passes out cold.) Him. (Solemnly, to the collapsed GENTLEMAN) Admitting that these dolls of because are dissimilar, since one goes up when the other comes down, and assuming a somewhat hypothetical sawhorse symmetrically situated with reference to the extremities of the strictly conjectural seesaw, god is the candlestick or answer. (Arising, waves majestically to the music which immediately strikes up Yes, We have No Bananas—turning, bows to the BLOND GONZESSE who has just appropriated the GENTLEMAN’S wallet) In that case, let me ask you something: shall we dance the I Touch? (The ELDERLY WOMAN vomits copiously into BILL’S lap.) Scene IV Scene. The three knitting rocking figures facing the picture with their backs to the audience. The DOCTOR’S head has disappeared from the picture, leaving a black hole. The WOMAN’S head is in the picture; her eyes are closed. First Figure.

Terribly. Especially in summer.

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Second. Third.

How simply frightful! All over them? Drowsiness rumblings sour risings heartburn waterbrash and the feeling of being stuffed. First. That depends: sometimes. Second. Is it very painful? Third. Ask the man who owns one. First. Not very. Like falling down stairs, and you apply the same remedy—one stick of dynamite in a tumbler of ink before meals. Third. Ask dad he knows. Second. I understand the dynamite but what does the ink do? Third. Comes out like a ribbon lies flat on the brush. First. Why the ink dissolves the guineapigs and makes them nervous. Second. And what do they do after that? Third. Look for the union label on every garment. First. They? Who? Second. The guineapigs. First. O! They let go of the children. Second. How time flies—you never know what to expect, do you. (The WOMAN’S head stirs in the picture: her eyes open slowly.) First. Yes life is a mystery at best. Third. If it isn’t an Eastman it isn’t a Kodak. Second. And we have so many things to be thankful for, haven’t we. (The DOCTOR’S head appears in the picture.) First. I should say so: why my husband and I were married fifty years ago come day before yesterday and we’ve never had a single cross word—now what do you think of that? Doctor’s Head. (Harshly, from the picture) If you wore your garters around your neck you’d change them oftener. Scene V Scene. The room, still further revolved so that the fourth or invisible wall is the solid wall. The wall to the audience’s right (corresponding to the solid wall of Scene I) is the mirror wall. The middle wall is the window wall. The door wall is to the audience’s left. On the centre of the table, where HIM’S hat was lying at the beginning of Scene I, there is a vase of flowers. ME and HIM sit, back to (or facing the same way as) the audience, at opposite ends of the sofa which is against the invisible wall. Me. Him.

Me.

I imagine, myself, it was very nice. I remember morning. Silence. Houses in the river—April: the green Seine filled with houses, filled with windows out of which people look. And everything is upside down. . . . Then there comes a least breeze. And the people in the windows and the windows themselves and all the houses gradually aren’t. I remember standing, thinking, in sunlight; and saying to myself “dying should be like this.” Dying?

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Him.

181

—To feel like one of the upsidedown people in one of the wrongsideup windows when a breeze comes. Me. (After a pause) It must be a nice place, Paris, for a man. Him. I happened to be a dream there. Me. But you’re not any more. (Suddenly) Tell me, do I look very old? Him. (Smiles) How did you get that idea? Me. Women don’t get it, they’re born with it. Besides—you told me, the first time I saw you again, that I’d changed. Him. I don’t remember saying anything. Me. You didn’t know me—which is worse. Him. But that’s asking too much of a dream. Me. I expect I have changed (Shudders slightly) Him. Have I? Me. Changed?—A little. Him. I ask because, if you remember, you once said you had changed but that I was the same. Me. O—yes, I remember saying that. . . . Him. You were right about memories. Me. Was I? Him. Wonderfully right. Me. Isn’t it queer. I feel as if we’d—as if you hadn’t gone. . . . Do you feel that? Him. I can’t believe that we’re together. Me. With me it’s just the other way. Him. When one has been a dream, it takes some time to—. (He gestures smoothly.) —So to speak, renovate oneself. Me. (Almost to herself) Let’s not talk about dreams any more. Him. (Looking at her) I shall try not to. Me. (Taking his hand, smiles) Such a queer day, when I saw you again and you didn’t recognize me—and I didn’t care. (A pause) Him. It was raining. Me. Terribly hard. When I saw you I was running, because I’d forgotten to take my umbrella. Then I stopped— Him. In the rain. Me. —in front of you. Him. We looked at each other, probably. Me. We never said anything. Him. (To himself ) I seem to remember very well, looking. Me. . . . Then you offered me your umbrella. Him. Did I? Me. We walked along together under your umbrella. We walked quite a distance; and most of it, people were laughing. Him. Were people laughing? —Until we stood before the door. . . . Then I spoke to you. Do Me. you remember what I said?—I said “it isn’t raining.” It hadn’t been for some time and I knew; but I didn’t say anything. Him. I didn’t know.

182 Me. Him. Me. Him. Me. Him.

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You must have been a little happy? Yes. Then—do you know what you did? No. Well, you shut the umbrella. The key squeaked in the lock more than I expected. The floor creaked more than I remembered its creaking. Me. Yes, I was going to use mine when you stopped me and took out yours. Him. You had forgotten giving me that key, once upon a time. Me. I never dreamed you’d kept it. Him. (To himself ) I couldn’t go carefully enough. Me. You frightened me a little when you shut the door. You shut it so very very gently. I remember how you walked to the sofa and how you sat down. Him. Perhaps I was afraid of breaking someone. (A pause) Me. We sat for a long time, where we’re sitting now. Him. A long time? Me. Nearly an hour, I guess. Until you got up suddenly and looked out the window. Him. Outside, someone was putting away pieces of sky which looked remarkably like toys. Me. (In a low voice) And always you stood, looking —. Your hands . . . folding, shutting. Finally (just as it was getting very dark)—“I think,” you said “my hands have been asleep.” Very gently you said that and went out, shutting the door carefully. I heard your feet going down the stairs. I sat, hearing for a long time in the rain your feet, in the dark. Walking. (A pause) Tell me—when you left, without your umbrella, where did you go? Him. “Go”? Me. It’s silly of me to ask—I ask because I want to. Did you go to a park . . . like the big one with the animals, or the little park where the harbor is? Him. Harbor—how did you guess? (To himself) Queer that I should have done that; avoiding the animals? Me. Ships go out sometimes; maybe you were thinking of ships. Him. And sometimes come in. And there I met a man with green eyes . . . Me. A man—? What was he doing? Him. Doing? Doing nothing, I think. Let me see: a man came and sat down beside me on a bench. Because it was raining. Me. Or because he guessed you were lonely? Him. . . . and a crumpled hat; who said, I remember, that he had only just returned from Paris. O—and he didn’t wear spats. Me. Did he talk to you much? Him. I suppose so. Me. What did he talk about—Paris?

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Him. Probably. Me. Didn’t you talk to him? Him. I don’t think I did. O yes—no I didn’t talk to him, Me. Why? Him. Because I killed him. Me. (Starting violently) —The man? Him. Himself. Me. —You didn’t— Him. Kill him? Me. —him— Him. O, him. (Easily) Of course I didn’t. (Smiles) —Just the other way ’round. Me. (Earnestly) What do you mean? Him. It’s clear now—can’t you see? (Gently) He killed me. Me. Please, dear, I’m—so nervous. (Taking his other hand) Don’t. Him. —Frighten you? All right, sorry. He didn’t kill me. Me. Of course not! Him. On the contrary—instead, what did the wretch do? Me. Never mind. Let’s— Him. Why as sure as you live and as cool as you please producing from the vicinity of his exaggerated omphalos an automatic, he asked me to shoot himself; or perhaps I asked me to shoot himself, I can’t quite remember which. . . . Me. Why are you like this? Him. Or as I said to the man in the green hat with crumpled eyes: why in the name of Heaven should a gentleman recently returned from Paris ask him to kill myself? And do you know what the rascal replied to that? Me. I don’t want to know; let’s talk about something else; the play. Him. —Sir, said he, the reason I ask me to kill yourself is that gentleman also returned from Paris— Me. The one you were working on when. The one, you know. Him. —from Paris, mind, has recently penetrated God’s country by fast freight with the express purpose of— Me. With the negroes in it. Him. —committing the pardonable sin with my ex . . . Libido, I think was the accurate and incredible word which he employed. (Relaxing, looks upward) Then the ocean, filled with trillions of nonillions of able-bodied seamen and only-half-human mermaids and thousands upon hundreds of whales, came up everywhere over the earth—up everywhere over the world—and up up up to the bench where we were sitting. And the mermaids’ bellies were full of little slippery fish, and the frolicking great whales were swaying and playing upon harps of gold, and the seamen were sailing before the mast, and the ocean . . . the ocean rose and stood solemnly beside us, resting its chin in its hand and looking at the recently returned gentleman from

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Paris. Whereupon the recently returned gentleman from Paris invited the ocean to sit down. Me. You— Him. But You never said anything. You was much too busy, eyeing the mermaids and counting the seamen and admiring the golden harps of the most enormous of all mammals— Me. —didn’t— Him. —until suddenly You looked. (He smiles.) The ocean had gone: and away off—ever so many thousands of hundreds of billions of millions of years away—You heard a sound. It was the sound of the mermaids, with bellies full of gooey fish and with long hair, chasing the seamen everywhere and snatching the golden harps from the hands of the resplendent whales. And all this sound went away slowly. Finally You looked all about You: and You was alone, holding in You’s hand—. (He laughs.) —A papyrus from Harun-al-Rashid inviting us all to petit déjeuner in the most excellent Arabic at twenty-three hours on January thirty-second, seven thousand one hundred and seventeen Columbus crossed the ocean blue. (A pause) Me. (Quietly) Is that all? Him. I put it in my pocket—the ocean green. But You didn’t care a continental damn. Me. That’s all? Him. (Nodding in the direction of the table, upstage) I see flowers. Me. Yes, thank you. (A pause) Do you know something? Him. I understand less and less. Me. You HAVE changed. Him. Much? Me. Quite a lot: your eyes . . . or maybe it’s the light. Did you— Him. Aren’t my eyes green? Me. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it; since you—. (Timidly) Please tell me. Am I different . . . very much? Him. “Different”? Me. Olderlooking. Him. (Smiles) You seem to me a little younger, just a little younger. Me. You’re joking. I know I look older. (Shudders) Him. I’m not joking, seriously. —So my eyes have changed. Probably you’re right. Like Rip Van Winkle they’ve been asleep. Me. You mean that when your eyes see me they know they’ve been asleep. Him. I really mean that they don’t have people like you, up there. Me. Where? Him. Up in the mountains where they play a game with thunder. Anywhere. Nowhere. Where for a hundred years I fell asleep. Me. O—those mountains. Him. Those. Me. (After a pause) Are you quite sure you’re not sorry that you’re awake?

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Him.

185

Wonderfully sure—you see, Rip’s story and my story are . . . different. Me. (Laughing) Because you haven’t a beard?—O but I’m glad you haven’t a beard. You know I can’s stand men with beards. Or spats. Him. Not because I haven’t a beard, but because when I woke up and came down out of those mountains, you were younger than before. Me. How do you know that I. Maybe I’m married, and have ever so many . . . didn’t his? Him. His? Me. Rip Van Winkle’s girl; or was it his wife? I thought she’d forgotten all about him in the meantime and married someone else. Him. (Thoughtfully) I only seem to remember that she was dead. Me. O. . . . Him. (Vaguely) I was thinking . . . so am I. I suppose nobody, including his children, really believed him when he told them. Me. When he told them—about the mountains? Him. About the mountains and about being asleep. Me. Do you think? O dear; I’m sorry, but this is getting too complicated for me. Him. (Earnestly) Please be happy. Why should I talk about myself? I’d much rather talk about you. Me. Me? (Bitterly) There’s nothing to talk about. Him. Isn’t there? I’m very sorry. We all make mistakes. Me. (Looks at him) I know. I make them. Him. You? Stop. Me. Listen. Suppose— Him. Don’t suppose. Me. (Bravely) —suppose I made a mistake; and it was the mistake of my life. And suppose: O suppose—I’m making it! Him. (Steadily) You’re wrong, quite wrong. It’s the mistake of my life. Me. (Whispers) Is it? Him. (Quietly) Yes. Me. (Looking at him) It may take two people to make a really beautiful mistake. Him. (Expressionlessly) The nicest things happen by themselves. —Which reminds me: I had a dream only the other day. A very queer dream: may I tell it to you? (A pause) Me. Do you want to very much? Him. If you don’t very much mind. Me. (Hesitantly) If it’s not too queer. Him. Will you promise to interrupt me if it’s too queer? Me. All right. Him. (Leaning forward, looks at nothing) You were with me in a sort of room. I was standing beside you and you seemed to be telling me something. But I was only tremendously glad to feel you so near. . . .

186 Me. Him.

Me. Him.

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Go on. That was beautiful to me. —Then you took my left hand and you led me somewhere else in this room—and through the roomshaped dark softness I tiptoed wadingly. You paused and I stood next you: next your blood, your hair, hands, breathing. I felt that you were smiling a little. You pointed to something. And stooping carefully I could not quite see—but through this dark softness I seemed to feel—another person, lying very quietly with an entire quietness that queerly frightened me. . . . May I go on? Go on. When I could see, this other person’s eyes and my eyes were looking at each other. Hers were big and new in the darkness. They seemed to be looking at me as if we had known each other somewhere else. They were very close—so close that my breath almost touched them: so close that my mind almost touched what looked at me from them . . . I can’t describe it— a shyness, more shy than you can ever imagine, a shyness inhabiting very easily and very skilfully everything which is profoundly fragile and everything, which we really are and everything which we never quite live. But—just as I almost touched this shyness—it suddenly seemed to touch me; and, touching, to believe me and all from which I had come and into which I was changing with every least thought or with each carefully hurrying instant. I felt a slight inexplicable gesture— nearer than anything, nearer than my own body—an inscrutable timidity, capturing the mere present in a perfect dream or wish or Now . . . a peering frailness, perfectly curious about me; curiously and perfectly created out of my own hope and out of my own fear. . . . I did not see any more, then. (Pauses; smiling, resumes) Then I stooped a little lower and kissed her hair with my lips and with the trembling lips of my mind I kissed her head, herself, her silence. But as I kissed her, she seemed to me to be made out of silence by whatever is most perfectly silent; so that, to find out if she were perhaps real, I spoke to her—and her voice answered as if perhaps not speaking to me at all, or as if it felt embarrassed because it knew that it was doing something which it should not do; and yet, I remember her voice was glad to feel, close by it, the unreal someone whom I had been.—Then the darkness seemed to open: I know what I saw then: it was a piece of myself, a child in a crib, lying very quietly with her head in the middle of a biggish pillow, with her hands out of the blankets and crossing very quietly and with a doll in the keeping fingers of each hand. . . . So you and I together went out of this opened darkness where a part of ourselves somehow seemed to be lying—where something which had happened to us lay awake and in the softness

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held a girl doll and a boy doll. Perhaps you closed the door, gently . . . but I remember nothing about coming into the light. (His eyes search the face of ME and find a different nothing.) That is my dream. (Rises)—Into the mirror with it, we’ll throw it away! (Strides to the mirror, makes a quick futile gesture and stands facing the mirror. A short pause. ME rises and goes to HIM slowly: stands, simply, sorrowfully. Turning from the mirror to ME, HIM speaks slowly.) Hark. That was my dream which just fell into my soul and broke. Me. (Touches his arm pityingly, slightly) I guess it took so long to fall because it was made of nothing. (She returns to the sofa and sits down.) Him. You have a bright idea. (Returning to the sofa, sits opposite her. A pause) Shall we smoke a cigarette—or two perhaps? (Fumbles in pockets, finds matches and a package of cigarettes: offers cigarettes to ME who does not see them) Then I will; unless you— Me. I don’t mind. Him. (Lights carefully his cigarette: pockets the matchbox. Presently remarks to himself) But there was a dog, named something or other. (Short silence) Me. A dog. Him. I used to take him to bed with me. In fact we travelled everywhere together. God spelled backwards. Me. What sort of a dog? Him. The name being Gipsy. It didn’t last long because it was a cloth dog. Tell me something. Me. What. Him. (Quietly) Tell me you used to have a cloth dog too. Me. I didn’t . . . at least I don’t think so. Him. Didn’t you? Not ever? There was a battleship, which wound up, with invisible wheels that made it move along the floor: it was very fragile. They called it The Renown. —Did you have dolls? Me. I guess so, I don’t remember. Him. I perfectly remember that I had a great many dolls, but that I only loved one—a wax doll named Bellissima who melted in front of the fire. (Getting up, strolls to the table) Me. (Half to herself) I suppose you cried. Him. On the contrary, I asked for a cup of tea. (He takes from the table an imaginary cup and saucer; drops into the imaginary cup an imaginary piece of sugar.) —But you have given me symbols. Look: I see my life melting as what you call Winter. . . . The edges are fading: gradually, very gradually, it diminishes. (Takes an imaginary sip) But notice: there there is a purpose in the accident, I mean there is someone beyond and outside what happens—someone who is thirsty and tired. Someone, to whom the disappearance of my being sweetens

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unbeing as, let us say, this dissolving cube of sugar—pardon: God would like a slice of lemon. (Takes an imaginary slice) Thank you. We are all of us just a trifle crazy, aren’t we? Like Archimedes with his mirrors and like old Mr. Benjamin F. who flew kites in a thunderstorm, which reminds me—I never told you that I was flying a kite. And it pulled and rose: wonderfully reaching out and steadily climbing, climbing over the whole world until you’d never believe anything in your life could be so awfully far and bright—until you almost thought it had found some spot where Spring is all the time. . . . But suddenly my foolish hands were full of common twine string. Me. (Looking straight before her, speaks to herself after a moment) It’s snowing. Him. Gay may change, but all my thoughts are in the wash and I haven’t a clean thing to put on. —After all, thoughts are like anything else you wear, they must be sent to the crazy laundry once in a while and the crazy laundry wears out more crazy thoughts than ever a crazy man did. Hypnos and Thanatos, a couple of Greek boys who made a fortune overnight, the laundry of the Awake, Incorporated: having mangled our lives with memories it rinses them in nightmare. (A drum sounds faintly. ME starts.) I think I hear nothing. (Puts imaginary tea carefully on table; turns, slowly walks to the middle of the room and stands facing the audience) But if I ask you something, now, will you promise to answer truthfully? (She shakes her head.) Because you can’t? —Tell me; why can’t you answer me truthfully, now? Me. (Rising) Now you want—truth? Him. With all my life: yes! Me. (Advancing toward him slowly) You wanted beauty once. Him. (Brokenly) I believed that they were the same. Me. You don’t think so any longer? Him. I shall never believe that again. Me. (Pauses, standing before him) What will you believe? Him. (Bitterly) That beauty has shut me from truth; that beauty has walls—is like this room, in which we are together for the last time, whose walls shut us from everything outside. Me. If what you are looking for is not here, why don’t you go where it is? (The drumsound heightens.) Him. In all directions I cannot move. Through you I have made a discovery: you have shown me something . . . something about which I am doubtful deep in my heart. I cannot feel that everything has been a mistake—that I have inhabited an illusion with you merely to escape from reality and the knowledge of ourselves. (To himself) How should what is desirable shut us entirely from what is? No! That must be not quite all: I will not think that the tragedy can be so simple. There must be something else: I believe that there IS something else: and my heart

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tells me that unless I discover this now I will never discover it. —Am I wrong? You were talking about dolls. You see, I think sometimes, Are you thinking, now? Now—yes. (Total darkness. The drumsound drowns in a whirling nearness of mingling voices out of which juts suddenly ONE VOICE.) Ladies un genlmun right dis way step dis way evrybudy tuh duh Princess Anankay tuh duh Tatood Man tuh duh Huemun Needl tuh duh Missin Link tuh duh Queen uv Soipunts tuh duh Nine Foot Giun tuh duh Eighteen Inch Lady tuh duh Six Hundud Pouns uv Passionut Pullcrytood tuh duh Kink uv Borneo dut eats ee-lectrick light bulbs!

Scene VI Scene. The stage has become a semicircular piece of depth crowded with jabbering and gesticulating people, viz. HIM (hatted), the other participants in Act 2 with the exception of those characters which were played by the DOCTOR, and the three Miss WEIRDS minus their chairs and knitting. The circumference of the semicircle is punctuated at equal intervals by nine similar platforms. The fifth platform (counting, from either extremity of the circumference, inward) supports a diminutive room or booth whose front wall is a curtain. On each of the other eight platforms sits lollingly a freak. Beginning with the outermost platform to the audience’s left and following the circumference of the semicircle inward we have: NINE FOOT GIANT, QUEEN OF SERPENTS, HUMAN NEEDLE, MISSING LINK and the fifth or inmost platform with its mysterious booth. Continuing, outward, we have: TATTOOED MAN, SIX HUNDRED POUNDS OF PASSIONATE PULCHRITUDE, KING OF BORNEO and, on the outermost platform to the audience’s right, EIGHTEEN INCH LADY. Miss Stop Weird. (To MISS LOOK) I don’t suppose he really eats them. (To MISS LISTEN) Do you? (All three WEIRDS shake their maskfaces skeptically.) Him. (Bowing and removing his battered hat) Excuse me, ladies—. (Indicates the DOCTOR, who, disguised as a hunchback BARKER, has just appeared on the platform of the GIANT) —Who is that little creature? Miss Stop. A harmless magician with whom we are only slightly acquainted. Miss Look. A master of illusion. Miss Listen. A person of no importance, his name is Nascitur. Him. (Bows and replaces his battered hat on his head looking about him, speaks to himself) Barnum, thou shouldst be Darwin at this hour. Barker. (Beckons fervently from the platform of the rising NINE FOOT GIANT, toward whom the crowd swirls) Make it quick goils kummun fellurs foist we have, Dick duh Giunt. I begs tuh call duh

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undievieded attention uv all lilypewshuns here presun tuh dis unparrallul phenomenun uv our own day un time duh leas skepticul may be pardun fur nut believin wut I states us duh incon-tro-voitubl troot dut dis extraordinury freak uv nachure wen standin in his stockin feet describes uh longitoodinul trajectury uv one hundun un eight inches no more no less in duh gigantic palm uv his colussul han he easily supports his lidil frien Madame Petite while ut duh same time consultin uh twentytwo carut gole timepiece made tuh ordur by uh famous Swiss consoin duh diul uv wich measures fourteen inches in dieametur un is protected by windowglass one quartur uv un inch in tickness upun duh summit uv his ee-normous head he wears uh speciully constructed strawhat weighin five pouns un fourteen ounces duh amount uv clawt require fur uh single pair uv dis poison’s elephantine pants would make six blokes like youse un me two un one half suits apiece his mammut neddur extremities fur wich numbur twenty-six shoes has been created bohs toiteen toes all in poific condition duh smalles biggur dun my wrist expoits have decided upun investigation dut in duh course uv one loonur day his garganchoon appetite consumes un duh average frum toitytwo tuh fortyfive ordinary beefsteaks ur duh protein ee-quivalunt it is estimated by duh managemunt uv dis exhibit dut twelve normul poisuns could exis fur fiftyfour hours twentytree minutes nine un sevuneights secuns un wut dis monstur communly annihilates fur breakfust alone I will merely add dut in ordur tuh facilitate inspection uv oit’s mohs vas biped uh sixteen hundud candlepowur rubburtire telescope is placed ut duh disposition uv duh genrul public fur wich no extruh charge will be made walk right up un bring duh chilrun. (He steps down and disappears in the crowd. The GIANT displays his watch, converses, offers photographs of himself. Many grasp the opportunity to observe him through the telescope. The BARKER, reappearing on the platform of the EIGHTEEN INCH LADY, beckons fervently.) Dis way gents step dis way ladies—. (The crowd swirls in his direction.)— Nex we have, Madame Suzette Yvonne Hortense Jacqueline Heloise Petite duh eighteen inch Parisiun doll un uncompromisin opticul inspection uv dis lidl lady will prove tuh duh satisfaction uv all cosoin dut dis lidl lady is un poificly form pocket edition uv sheek femininity born undur duh shadow uv duh Eyfl Towur in Paris were she buys all her close spiks floounly nineteen languages excloosive uv her native tongue is toityone years old in duh course uv her adventurous career has visited each un evry country uv duh civilised un uncivilise globe incloodin Soviet Russiuh were subsequunt tuh bein arrested by duh Checkur us uh spy she wus kidnapped un kep fur sevuntytwo hours widout food ur drink in duh inside ovurcoat

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pocket uv uh membur uv duh Secret Soivice havin escape by cuttin her way out wid uh pair uv nailscissurs she fell tuh duh frozun ground in uh dead faint in wich she wuz discovur by uh faitful moocheek who fled wid her across duh steps uv Siberiuh pursood by wolves un suckseeded in deliverin her tuh duh French consul ut duh Polish frun-teer receivin us uh reward fur his valur frum duh French guvurnmunt duh crorduhgair wid two palms un frum duh Polish ortorities duh cross uv Sain Graballsky wile duh lidl lady hoiself presented her rescoor wid un autograph photo in spite uv her wellestablish Parisiun origin Madame Petite is passionutly fond uv duh home wus in fac sevun times married tuh various internationully famous specimuns uv duh uppercrust uv duh pigmy woild such us Purfessur Tom Tumb un has divorced ur outlived all her husbans us uh mewzishun Madame is equully voisitil purfurrin especially duh French horn trombone xylophone violin granpieannur youkuhlayly un jewshap un wich insturmunts she has had duh honur tuh purform before duh crown heads uv five nations un tree continunts duh genrul public will be gratife tuh loin dut Madame Suzette Yvonne Hortense Jaqueline Heloise Petite has recunly completed duh only autentic story uv her life wich undur duh significunt title Minyuh-choors uv Ro-mance ur Many Abelards has already sold out four editions uv one hundud tousund copies each un is ut presun in duh process uv bein translated intuh twenty languages indoodin Arabic un Eskimo Madame Petite will be glad tuh answur any un all questions un give advice tuh duh best uv her ability un all un any subjecs tuh whoever cares tuh unboidun her ur his troubles male un female step right up. Miss Look Weird. (Suspiciously) What was she doing among the Bolsheviki? Barker. I will answur dut unnecessury question Madame Petite wus un uh mission uv moicy havin been delegated by duh French Red Cross tuh assis duh Salvation Army in its uplif woik among starvin Armeniun chilrun nooly rescood frum duh Toiks in West Centrul Youkraniuh. Miss Look Weird. (Satisfied) Thank you. (The EIGHTEEN INCH LADY converses and offers copies of her book and photographs of herself. THE BARKER disappears, only to reappear on the QUEEN OF SERPENT’S, platform.) Barker. (Beckoning fervently to the crowd) Dis way ladies ovur here gents—. (The crowd swirls in the direction of the QUEEN OF SERPENTS, who rises.)—Get uh knockdown tuh Herpo chawms duh lawges specimuns uv duh reptillyun genus each un evry one alive dis way fellurs take uh good squint ut Herpo hanuls duh deadlies becaws mohs poisunous uv all snakes duh cobruh duh capello like youse boys would hanul yur bes goil ovur here evrybudy see duh only livin boaconstrictur in captivity lengt

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toitynine feet sevun un nine toitysecunds inches swollud five indigenes ten cartridgebelts six Winchestur rifles forty-two rouns uv amyounition un uh Stetson hat ut one gulp subsequunly capchoord wile fast asleep by Capn Frank Mac Dermot D.S.C. etceteruh un shipped F.O.B. un twelve freightcars fur twentyone days tuh duh mowt uv duh Amazon rivur nevur woked up till fiftyfour hours out tuh sea wen duh en-tire crew incloodin duh capn took toins settin un duh heavily-padlock covur uv duh fortyfive foot bamboo box boun wid steel hoops in wich duh monstur wus tempurrurrilly imprisoned in spite uv wich precaution he trashed about so much duh S.O.L. passengers wus all seasick till duh ship reached Hamburg were sevun uv um died see duh mammut rep-tile wine hisself lovinly toiteen times aroun Herpo wile she drinks un ice-cream soduh un smokes Virginiuh cigarettes dis way ladies un gents dis way. (Steps down and disappears in the crowd. The QUEEN OF SERPENTS takes out of a box, wraps around her and puts back in the box, four ancient and decrepit snakes, each larger than the other.) Virgo of Act Two, Scene 2. (Fascinated) I hate snakes—ugh! Queen of Serpents. (Calmly, through her gum) Dat’s because youse cawn’t chawm dum dearie. (Laughter) Barker. (Reappearing on the platform of the KING OF BORNEO, who rises) Evrybudy dis way—. (He gestures fervently. The crowd swirls toward the KING OF BORNEO.)—Nex we comes tuh one uv duh principul kyouriosities uv dis ur any epock sometimes frivolously allooded tuh by ignorun poisuns us Duh Huemun Ostrich I refois propurly speakin tuh His Impeereel Majusty Kakos Kalos duh ex-Kink uv Borneo duh lad wid duh unpunkshooruble stumick speciully engaged ut ee-normous expense fur duh benefit uv duh Great Americun Public durin uh recen revolooshun in purhaps duh mohs primitive uv all semicivilise commyounities Kink Kakos Kalos nut only los his trone but had duh additionul misforchoon tuh be trode by his noomerous enemies intuh uh dun-john ur hole tuh use duh vulgur woid approximutly ninety six feet in dept un twotoids full uv rainwatur frum wich he wus pulled aftur fourteen days un nights un forcibly fed nails tincans broken glass barbwire un uddur dangerous objecs ovur uh period uv toitysix hours ut duh end uv wich time duh revolooshunuries lef dier victim fur dead but nix kid fur tanks tuh duh kink’s younique un unparllul constitution wich us any uv youse is ut liburty tuh ascertain can assimilut wid ease such hidertoo erroneously considured indiegestubl substunces us carpettacks knittinneedles safetyrazorblades pins jackknives un dynamite he live tuh tell uh tale so incredible us tuh outrivul duh imaginury experiunces uv duh Barun Munchchowsun hisself but whose vuracity is prove be-

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yon duh shadow uv uh doubt by duh fac dut it bein now five tuh five ur teatime in one two tree four five minutes Kink Kakos Kalos may be seen by all presun in duh intimut act uv swallurin un ee-lectrick light bulb step right up ladies un gents Duh Huemun Ostrich is in duh tent duh Kink’s waitin fur youse KRK KRK KRK he champchomps sharp un brittle chews bright prickly glass. (Disappears in the crowd. The KING OF BORNEO holds up a huge electric light bulb, points to it, points to his mouth and winks solemnly to the spectators.) First Fairy of Act Two, Scene 8. (Soprano) How unpleasant. Second Fairy of Ditto. (Alto) Positively repellent. Third Fairy of Ditto. Perfectly disgusting, Fourth Fairy of Ditto. Makes one absolutely nauseated—ugh! King of Borneo. (Furiously) Sempre abasso Savoia putana madonna viva Lenine! (He crams the electric light bulb far into his mouth— chews noisily. The FOURTH FAIRY faints and is carried off by the other three FAIRIES.) Barker. (Reappearing on the platform of the HUMAN NEEDLE) Right dis way evrybudy—. (He beckons fervently. The crowd swirls toward the HUMAN NEEDLE, who rises.) —Nex we have, Adamus Jones fumilyully known tuh his many friens us Duh Huemun Needl dis young man is twentytree years old un still lookin fur uh wife summuh youse ladies in duh same interestin condition bettur tink twice before toinin down his —— statistics reinforce wid copious affidavits tens tuh show dut Mr. Jones who is uh native uv Melbourne Australiuh is sevunty un tree quarters inches in height un sevun un one eight inches in widt no more no less highly illoominatin story is us follows ut duh age uv toiteen years Mr. Jones weighed approximutly tree hundud pouns un wus un acute suffrur frum many uv duh besknown ailmunts such us noomoniuh gout acne tootache indiegestion pulmunnurry tooburcyoulosi un dat mohs obscoor uv all huemun diseases cindurulluh in considuration uv wich fact uh council made up uv mohs uv duh notuble soigeons un speciulis frum duh Younighted Kinkdumb requested duh suffrur tuh place hisself upun uh carefully selected gastrunomic progrum compose chiefly uv watur radishes stringbeans un wustursheer sauce upun wich he has subsisted evur since ut duh presun writin Mr. Jones tips duh beam ut precisely sixtynine pouns un says he nevur felt bettur in his life wears day un night un his left ankle chust above duh knee un ordnury size sealring inscribe wid duh initiuls A. J. un presunted tuh duh wearur un duh fort uv Chooleye nineteen hundud un five by duh Inturnationul An-tie-hippo-fajic Association in tribute tuh his undenieubl poisyveerunce loyulty un courage dis way evrybudy step dis way. (Disappears. The HUMAN NEEDLE converses, offers photographs of himself and displays his anklering.)

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Miss Look Weird. (To MISS LISTEN) Think of a man starving himself to avoid honest labour! (MISS LISTEN shakes her maskface disgustedly.) Barker. (From the platform of the rising SIX HUNDRED POUNDS OF PASSIONATE PULCHRITUDE, gestures fervently) All right boys un goils right ovur here un make it snappy—. (The crowd swirls toward him.) —Nex we have, upun uh speciully design reinforce concrete platform wich travels wid her werever she goes duh knee plus ultry uv affectionut obesity duh indolunt acmy uv amorous adiposity duh mountain uv libidinous eequilibrium Miss Eva Smith bettur known tuh legion uv admirurs us Lidl Eva built like uh big bright bunch uv B. U. tiful bulloons takes one minute un sevunteen secuns fur all uv um tuh sit down two minutes un fiftytwo secuns fur all uv um tuh stand up un frum half uh day tuh twentyfour hours fur duh onsombul tuh rise from uh recumbunt position unassisted by duh stopwatch ladies un genlmun tuh contumplate dis climax uv frankly female corpulanse is tuh agree wid duh celubrated preachur who wus hoid tuh remark diereckly aftur makin Lidl Eva’s acquaintunce dut if duh o-riginul Eve had been like her duh price uv figleaves would have tripled in duh Gawdn uv Eden step right up close evrybudy youse nevur seen nutn like Eva caws Eva doan begin un Eva doan end un Eva‘s chust one chin aftur unuddur dis way ladies blow yur eyes tuh uh good time wid duh livin illustration uv duh famous maxim Eat Un Grow Tin I wishes tuh announce in duh case uv Miss Smith dut duh managemunt inkois no responsubility fur feyenanciul un uddur losses occasion tuh poisuns nut already acquainted wid duh fac dut youse can lose uh five dollur bill in duh smalles wrinkle uv her eyelid step right up glimpse duh six hundud pouns of poisunully conducted pullcrytood dut makes uh billiardball look like uh cookie dis way tuh duh fort diemension. (The SIX HUNDRED POUNDS OF PASSIONATE PULCHRITUDE converses and offers photographs of herself as the BARKER disappears in the crowd) Miss Listen Weird. (To MISS LOOK) You’d think people would have a little shame, wouldn’t you. (MISS LOOK shakes her maskface disgustedly.) Barker. (From the MISSING LINK’S platform) Ladies un genlmun—. (The crowd swirls toward his fervent beckonings: the MISSING LINK does not move.)—Gimme duh honur uv yur attention nex we have, Ge Ge duh mystury uv duh ages duh missin link in duh chain uv evulooshun frum prehistoric times tuh now du huemun inturrogationpoint duh secrut uv our hairy ancesturs nut tuh be confuse wid manifole mendacities fakes counterfeit ur spyourious imitations uv duh o-riginul wich wus discovered in nineteen hundud un one in duh jungles uv Darkest Africuh by un expedition compriesin toiteen memburs uv duh Royul

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Darwiniun Society see It pounce upun Its meat like summuh youse fellurs seen uh swell skoit pounce on uh T. totully transparunt bargain ut duh lonjuhray countur eminun speciulis frum all ovur dese Younighted States un purfessurs uv sighkology uv our foremost universities havin toroughly examine Ge Ge by evry intimut means known tuh duh corporeel un mentul sciences incloodin syntetic bloodtests telepatic waves cerebrul photogruphy postprandiul iodic injections testicullur hypnotism rhapsodic vaginul ee-lectrolysis decalcomaniuh un X ray have purnounce Him ur Her posolutely younique un absitively jenyouwine five hundud dollurs reward will be paid tuh duh man womun ur chile dut can solve Ge Ge’s mystury step dis way evrybudy. (Disappears, as the MISSING LINK jumps about uttering uncouth cries and pointing happily to ITSELF) Will and Bill of Act Two, Scene 4. (In unison, to the MISSING LINK) Who are you? Missing Link. (Interrupting Its antics, haughtily retorts in excellent English) I am. (It resumes Its crying and jumping.) Barker. Right ovur here ladies dis way gents step right up evrybudy— (The crowd swirls toward the platform of the TATTOOED MAN, who rises.)—Ladies un genlmun nex we have, E. I. Dolon duh Tatood Man born in duh city uv Boston un duh twelft day uv Augus eighteen hundud un ninetyeight shipped us cabinboy un duh skoonur Muddur Mucree chust off duh coast uv Timbucktoo duh vcssul hit uh cyclone un sunk in midocean all hans bein lost excep duh heroic cabinboy who swum fur sevun days un six nights landin in uh state uv complete spirichool un physicul exhustion only tuh fine hisself surrounded by uh tribe uv two hunded headhuntin maneatin canibuls all poligamous starknaked un yellin bloody moidur wus ovurpowured in spite uv un heroic defence un put in duh fatninpen fur Sunday dinnur in wich pitiful condition he nevurduhless suckseeded in attractin duh notice uv duh favorite wife uv duh canibul kink who had him released un made uh member uv duh tribe un condition dut his en-tire body widout exception should be adorned embellished un uddurwise ornamented wid emblums mottos pickshurs un similar insigniuh symbolic uv duh occasion prefurin decoration tuh det duh heroic seamun ak Y. essed wid duh trooly icredibul results wich fur duh fois time it is duh privilege uv duh genrul public tuh behold incloodin un soitn more intimut parts uv Mr. Dolon’s unatumy portraits uv his toityfive B. U. tiful wives all between duh ages uv twelve un sixteen step right up ladies un gents. Miss Stop Weird. (Skeptically) May I ask how long this person lived among the savages? Barker. Youse may lady fur ten years durin wich time E. I. Dolon convoited duh en-tire tribe tuh Christianity un in addition established un tuh speak milely flourishing branch uv duh Y.M.C.A.

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Miss Stop Weird. (Convinced) That was very noble of him. (The BARKER steps down from the TATTOOED MAN’S platform and disappears into the crowd. The TATTOOED MAN revolves slowly.) Englishman of Act Two, Scene 6. I say old egg, you carry a bally picture-gallery on your back—what? Tattooed Man. (Insultedly) Dat ain no picher gallry, buddie. Englishman. Indeed? I rather supposed it was. Tattoed Man. (Indignantly) Soitnly no. Dat’s Awt, dat is. Barker. (Reappearing beside the fifth platform, gestures fervently and shouts) Evrybudy dis way please—. (The crowd swirls toward the fifth platform with its mysterious curtained booth.)—Now we comes tuh duh cornbeefuncaviare uv duh hole shibang duh boin my close I’m in Heavun duh now youse sees it un now youse tinks youse sees it duh jenyouwine P.S. duh resistunce duh undielooted o-riginul milkshake uv duh ages Princess Anankay duh woil’s foist un foremohs exponunt uv yaki-hooluh-hiki-dooluh udderwise known us duh Royal Umbilicul Bengul Cakewalk comes frum duh lan were duh goils bade in nachurl shampain tree times uh day un doan wear nutn between duh knees un duh neck evrybudy wise up tuh dis face duh managemunt is incloodin Princess Anankay’s soopurspectaclur ac widout extruh charge tuh nobody get dat ladies un gents youse see her strut her stuff fur duh o-riginul price uv admission no more no less namely un to wit two bits two five jits five makin fiveuntwenty ur twentyfive cents duh fort part uv uh silvur dollur all youse bohs guys bums ginks un nuts wut are treaded fur uh —— step dis way duh Princess Anankay is about tuh purform fur duh benefit uv duh Oreye-entul Ee-lectrickully Lighted Orphunts’ Home un duh boys in genrul uh hiddurto stickly sacred Oo-peelah ur Spasmwriggle diereck frum duh temple uv You You walk right up gents duh Princess wears so lidl youse can stick her full uv looks like she wus uh pincushion O dut ticklish dut magnifisunt HuemunFormDivine—. (Shouts, pointing at HIM who stands on the outskirts of the crowd)—Crawl right up un all fives fellur give duh Princess uh fiftyfifty chawnce wid youse kiddo she’ll boost yur splendifurous bowlegged blueeyed exterior out uv duh peagreen interior uv pinkpoiple soopur-consciousness fourteen million astrul miles intuh duh prehensile presinks uv predetoimine prehistoric preturnachurl nutn! (With a vivid gesture, he pulls aside the curtain. A woman’s figure— completely draped in white and holding in its arms a newborn babe at whom it looks fondly—stands, motionless, in the centre of the diminutive room. The crowd recoils.) Three Miss Weirds. (Disgustedly, in unison) It’s all done with mirrors! (The woman’s figure proudly and gradually lifts its head: revealing the face of ME. HIM utters a cry of terror. Total darkness—confused ejaculations of rage dwindle swirlingly to entire silence.)

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Scene VII Scene. The room as it first appeared (Act One, Scene 2) but without HIM’S hat on the sofa and with the flowers on the table. ME and HIM occupy the same positions with respect to each other and to the room itself as when Scene 5 of Act Three was interrupted by darkness. Me. I am thinking. Him. And may I ask what you are thinking?—Anything everything nothing or something: which is it? Me. The last. Him. Something? Me. Something. Him. (After a pause) Is it something about the window? Me. No. Him. About the door? Me. No. Him. About what’s behind you? Me. Not exactly. No. Him. But you’re thinking something about this room, aren’t you? Me. Yes, I’m thinking something about this room. Him. I’m afraid that you’ll have to tell me what you are thinking. Me. Can’t you guess? I’ll give you time. Him. Time is the because with which some dolls are stuffed. No, I can’t guess. Me. (Quietly) It has only three walls. Him. (Looks about him in astonishment) Behind you—that’s a wall, isn’t it? Me. That’s one. Him. One—and what’s there? (Pointing to the door wall) Me. A wall. Him. Two—and there? (Pointing over his shoulder to the window wall behind him) Me. Three. Him. Three—and what do you see there? (Indicating the invisible wall) Me. People. Him. (Starts) What sort of people? Me. Real people. And do you know what they’re doing? Him. (Stares at her) What are they doing? Me. (Walking slowly upstage toward the door) They’re pretending that this room and you and I are real. (At the door, turning, faces the audience) Him. (Standing in the middle of the room, whispers) I wish I could believe this. Me. (Smiles, shaking her head) You can’t. Him. (Staring at the invisible wall) Why? Me. Because this is true. Curtain

Marita Bonner (1898–1971) MARITA BONNER’S PLAYS OCCUPY AN ODD PLACE IN AMERICAN POETIC drama: she never considered herself a poet, she did not publish collections of poems, and the bulk of her work—mostly short stories—tended toward realism, offering gritty visions of life in race-segregated America. And, yet, Bonner suffused her dramatic and essay writing with verse. In place of theatrical realism, Bonner created stanzas within narrative prose and transformed her dialogue into elegant sonic ruminations. She often opposed prose with poetry in her writing, as if the two were locked in an ongoing battle. When characters moved, they moved with prose, but when obstacles thwarted their actions, their frustration appeared in verse. Raised and educated in Boston, Bonner studied comparative literature and English at Radcliffe, where she also participated in the school’s music clubs. Influenced by her extensive study of literature, particularly German, Bonner often structured her texts poetically, breaking narrative sentences into fragmented lines that resound as verse and, in this way, work against the causal development of the narrative. In the conclusion to her early essay, “On Being Young—a Woman—and Colored” (1925), Bonner describes herself in a state of suspended animation expressed as poetry. Her visual presentation of the lines, addressing her reader in the second person, amplifies Bonner’s contention in the essay that “being a woman—you can wait”: Motionless on the outside. But on the inside? Silent. Still . . . “Perhaps Buddha is a woman.” So you too. Still; quiet; with a smile ever so slight, at the eyes so that Life will flow into and not by you. And you can gather, as it passes, the essences, the overtones, the tints, the shadows; draw understanding to yourself. And then you can, when Time is ripe, swoop to your feet—at your full height —at a single gesture. Ready to go where? Why . . . Wherever God motions.1

Suspended in hanging, unresolved verse, the narrator and the reader exist poetically within the narrative, waiting for the burst of language that translates into the moment before movement is realized, before you “swoop to your feet—at your full height—at a single gesture.” Bonner’s use of verse within 198

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the progression of the story amplifies this moment of anticipation, waiting for an unrealized moment of release. Bonner’s poetry is not the language of spiritual rumination or transcendence but an obstacle to these things. Within her text, poetry is not a genre; it is an impediment to the speech itself. Bonner’s unusual engagement with poetic verse as linguistic obstacle may explain why she never embraced the genre of poetry, as if verse implied inaction and frustration. It was certainly not due to a lack of familiarity. Bonner was well read in a wide range of poetic styles and techniques, and she was among the few students selected for Charles T. Copeland’s coveted writing seminar. While still an undergraduate, Bonner began teaching English at Cambridge High School and continued teaching in Washington, D.C., after completing her degree. At this time, Bonner met Georgia Douglas Johnson and participated in her literary salon. Formed in 1925 after the death of her husband, Johnson’s salon quickly became the central gathering place for “New Negro” writers in Washington, D.C. Like Mabel Dodge Luhan’s gatherings in Greenwich Village, New York, and Gertrude Stein’s soirées in Paris, Johnson’s literary salon fueled the Washington, D.C., arts and theater scene of the burgeoning Harlem Renaissance. Every Saturday, Johnson welcomed to her home locals such as Alain Locke, Jean Toomer, Anne Weldon Johnson, and Willis Richardson, as well as visitors from New York such as Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and W. E. B. Du Bois. The readings at Johnson’s salon tended to be primarily poetry and drama, and the plays evoked a distinctly literary tradition. Bonner’s own tastes and interests coincided with the group, and through it she became an increasingly active member of the Harlem Renaissance, particularly its theater. The Harlem Renaissance may best be understood as a period of African American history occurring from approximately 1910 through the 1930s and extending to the end of World War II. According to many critics, the Harlem Renaissance appeared to reach its literary and artistic peak in the 1920s—the time when Bonner began producing her most ambitious work. The articulation of an African American identity, often expressed as the “New Negro,” is central to both African American writing of this period in general and Bonner’s drama in particular. This new social, political, and cultural identity—defined almost exclusively as an urban phenomenon— emerged in the wake of the so-called Great Migration, a mass movement of African Americans from the rural South to more northern cities. Although not exclusive to the New York City neighborhood whose name it bore, the Harlem Renaissance drew influence, energy, and aesthetics from the emergence of black cultural and artistic society in the upper region of Manhattan, increasingly seen as a site where identity and social space converged. Within this larger cultural movement, the Harlem little theater movement emerged as a dynamic but struggling counterpart to the bohemian ex-

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perimentation of Greenwich Village. This movement—also referred to as the black little theater movement—extended beyond New York, establishing theaters in other cities such as the National Ethiopian Art Theatre of Chicago, the Maud Coney Hare Players of Boston, and W. E. B. Du Bois’ Krigwa Theatre in Washington, D.C. While writing her drama, Bonner was closely associated with Du Bois, who published The Purple Flower in his journal, Crisis, in 1928. The purpose of these theaters was not only to create an alternative to the commercial theater—the goal of numerous other little theaters in the 1920s—but also to combat the racist stage representations of African Americans that still lingered since nineteenth-century minstrel shows. Those working in the Harlem little theatres aspired to revise the existing stage depictions of black America while simultaneously cultivating new audiences for black theater. Mirroring its modernist counterparts in the Village and Chicago, the little theaters of the Harlem Renaissance relied on unconventional avenues to performance and informal networks of support to sustain both the artists and audience. Unlike Harlem itself, which was increasingly viewed as the center of clubs, jazz, and musical theater, Washington drama tended toward literary theater, explicitly rejecting work that might reflect or continue the tradition of degrading minstrel performance. The literary theater forged by those in Johnson’s salon was not simply an echo of the work being produced simultaneously in other American little theaters. Rather, it aspired to forge a new form of African American theater through the creation of what Alain Locke called the “folk play,” which would invigorate not only African American artists but audiences as well. Given her background and the historical contexts in which she worked, it should come as no surprise that Bonner favored literary drama over the realism that increasingly dominated Broadway’s commercial theaters. Indeed, she subtitled her first play, The Pot Maker, “A Play to Be Read,” and she followed the conventions of her most antitheatrical fellow modernists. For example, Bonner begins The Purple Flower with a rhetorical “argument,” a technique also used by H.D. among other poet-playwrights. Critics of the play have remarked upon its fantastic, even impossible staging. Although The Purple Flower attained literary success—it won Crisis magazine’s award for Literary Art and Expression in 1928—it remained unperformed in Bonner’s lifetime. And yet, despite the apparent antitheatricalism of the play’s text, Bonner looked to the experimental European theater for inspiration. In particular, she adapted the techniques of German expressionism—an early twentieth-century movement in art, literature, theater, and cinema marked by its extreme portrayals of emotions and visual distortions. In expressionism, the inner feelings and sensations of the characters affect their physical environment, distorting both the appearance of the environment and the people in it. Fluent in German, Bonner was not

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only familiar with the German expressionist theater, but also may have followed American expressionist experiments such as Elmer Rice’s The Adding Machine (1923). Borrowing elements from both expressionism and surrealism—the enactment of dreams and fantasies—The Purple Flower suggests an alternate depiction of reality. Characters talk in metaphors, express themselves in dreams, and invoke biblical stories as mandates for action. Little actually happens in the play, but at the symbolic center is the image of the purple flower, carefully protected at the top of a hill. Described in the opening “argument” of the play, the flower of the title is hyperbolically identified as the purple “Flower-of-Life-at-Its-Fullest,” the singular object of desire for characters in the play. These characters are themselves defined unambiguously as the White Devils and Black Us’s. As in other expressionist works, the individual character names—Average, Cornerstone, and Finest Blood —reflect their internal states and social status. Bonner similarly draws on expressionist painting by infusing her dramatic world with symbolic color, including not only the purple of the flower but also the Man of the Gold Bags and descriptions of red and yellow blood. In her contest between White and Black, Bonner appears to cast race conflicts of 1920s America in the model not only of German drama but also German cinema by using chiaroscuro clashes of black and white to emphasize the magnitude of conflict in films like The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919). Cast as a hue between the high contrasts of German expressionism, the color purple evokes an inbetween space filled with anxiety and conflict. Like T. S. Eliot’s “the violet hour” in The Waste Land (1922), the purple of the play creates a moment of insight. In Eliot’s poem, the violet hour is the liminal time when the blind prophet, Tiresias, sees; in Bonner’s poetic drama, the purple flower similarly exists in “The Middle-of-Things-as-They-are,” which she identifies as the beginning for some and the end for others. Just as Du Bois claimed that those behind the veil knew more of society than those without, so, too, Bonner suggests that the ironic indeterminacy of purple can bring greater clarity than those who see in bright light. Despite the blurring color of purple, the contrasts between the White Devils and the Black Us’s remain so stark that some scholars have defined “The Purple Flower” as a morality play—a form of European drama in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries in which good opposed evil for the purpose of religious and moral education. The moral contrasts in the play are unmistakable. Similar to characterizations in early modern morality plays, Bonner’s characters and their actions are informed deeply by religious scripture. In the opening scene, for instance, “the evening sun is shining bravely on the valley and hillside alike” echoing the verse from Matthew 5:15: “for He makes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the just and the unjust.” Similarly, at the conclusion to the play, when

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Finest Blood offers himself in Christ-like sacrifice, the Old Man suggests a divine intervention, quoting Genesis 2:22 when God stopped Abraham from sacrificing his son. Juxtaposed against this moral certainty, Bonner’s play presents modernist anxiety of unknowing. Eliot’s violet hour might give sight to the blind, but for Bonner, the path for the Black Us’s is not always clear. In keeping with other modernist playwrights such as Wallace Stevens, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and Gertrude Stein, Bonner simultaneously invokes both a modern and classical context for her conflict. Like the dueling shepherds from Aria da Capo, the Three Chinese in Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise, and the myriad historical figures in The Mother of Us All, the Black Us’s live suspended between the intolerable past and an uncertain future. In addition to its multiple literary and dramatic references, the play also reflects the writing of W. E. B. Du Bois, particularly his landmark work, The Souls of Black Folk (1903). Readily drawing upon wide-ranging sources, including classical texts, modern literature, and the Bible, Du Bois presents a series of essays on the topic of the “color-line,” which he defines from the beginning as “the problem of the Twentieth Century.” Like Du Bois, Bonner layers her work with classic and modern literature in service to a particular political philosophy. For all of its poetic style, The Purple Flower is, at its center, a deeply political play. Although the Black Us’s desire for equality and access may be symbolically represented in the image of a flower (perhaps also an echo of sixteenth-century lyric poetry’s equation of the flower with a feminine ideal), the methods for reaching that goal are presented unambiguously in the text. Indeed, they agree with Du Bois’ own political writings. At the beginning of the play, for example, Old Lady rejects the suggestion that the best way to reach the flower is simply to follow the leaders who say work harder and better: “‘Work,’ [the Leader] said. ‘Show them you know how.’ As if two hundred years of slavery had not showed them!” The “Leader” is a reference to Booker T. Washington, a black political leader of the late nineteenth century who advocated self-reliance and patience as the means to gradual assimilation and equality. Du Bois opposed Washington’s position utterly, writing instead that African Americans ought to fight for their political rights, including the right to vote, civil equality, and the right to education based on merit. Bonner’s play takes up Du Bois’ argument, attacking the unnamed “Leader” as ineffectual and concluding the play with the determination not to accommodate the White Devils but to attack them. As the Old Man intones at the end of the play, “The Us toiled to give dust for the body, books to guide the body, gold to clothe the body. Now they need blood for birth so the New Man can live. You have taken blood. You must give blood.” Although these final lines of the play do not break into distinct lines of verse, the internal repetition within each line of the Old Man’s monologue

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echoes Bonner’s earlier use of poetry within prose as the marker of frustration and tension. Like the narrative persona of her essay “On Being Young —a Woman—and Colored,” the Old Man’s repetitions suggest a tense waiting. The poetry from the opening of the play—the White Devils chanting down the hill, “stay—stay—stay,” is reversed at the end with the chant of blood going up the hill. Working metaphorically throughout, the play thus becomes an allegory for the sociological and historical perspective of Du Bois’ Souls of Black Folk. Drawing on similar sources, Bonner renders a vision of a civil rights movement in vivid hyperbole with all of the modernist anxiety of the time. The play is, at least in part, a revenge fantasy that ends, as Nancy Chick notes, with the purple flower stained red by the bloodshed it has initiated. The poetry of the play—expressed predominantly in the symbolic environment and abstract characters—merges the radical experiments in form with the radical politics of the play. Critics have pointed to Bonner’s experimental style as the reason her plays were not produced in her lifetime. However, it is also possible that her suggestion of violent means to resolve racial injustice may have prevented the play’s production. Whatever the reason, it is a potent, dense play, one that integrates modernist uncertainties with moral conviction.

FURTHER READING Berg, Allison, and Meredith Taylor. “Enacting Difference: Marita Bonner’s ‘Purple Flower’ and the Ambiguities of Race.” African American Review 32, no. 3 (Fall 1998): 469–80. Chick, Nancy. “Marita Bonner’s Revolutionary Purple Flowers: Challenging the Symbol of White Womanhood.” Langston Hughes Review 13, no. 1 (1995): 21–35. Flynn, Joyce, and Joyce Occomy Stricklin. Frye Street and Environs: The Collected Works of Marita Bonner. Boston: Beacon Press, 1987. Hill, Errol. “The Revolutionary Tradition in Black Drama.” Theatre Journal 38 (1986): 408–26. Krasner, David. A Beautiful Pageant: African American Theatre, Drama, and Performance in the Harlem Renaissance, 1910–1927. New York: Palgrave, 2002. McKay, Nellie. “‘What Were They Saying?’: Black Women Playwrights of the Harlem Renaissance.” In The Harlem Renaissance Re-examined, ed. Victor A. Kramer, 129–46. New York: AMS, 1987. Richardson, Willis. Plays and Pageants from the Life of the Negro. Washington, DC: Associated, 1930.

The Purple Flower (1928) by Marita Bonner

Time The Middle-of-Things-as-They-are. (Which means the End-of-Things for some of the characters and the Beginning-of-Things for others.) Place Might be here, there or anywhere—or even nowhere. CHARACTERS Sundry White Devils. (They must be artful little things with soft wide eyes such as you would expect to find in an angel. Soft hair that flops around their horns. Their horns glow red all the time—now with blood—now with eternal fire—now with deceit—now with unholy desire. They have bones tied carefully across their tails to make them seem less like tails and more like mere decorations. They are artful little things full of artful movements and artful tricks. They are artful dancers too. You are amazed at their adroitness. Their steps are intricate. You almost lose your head following them. Sometimes they dance as if they were men—with dignity— erect. Sometimes they dance as if they were snakes. They are artful dancers on the Thin-Skin-of-Civilization.) The Us’s. (They can be as white as the WHITE DEVILS, as brown as the earth, as black as the center of a poppy. They may look as if they were something or nothing.) Setting The stage is divided horizontally into two sections, upper and lower, by a thin board. The main action takes place on the upper stage. The light is never quite clear on the lower stage; but it is bright enough for you to perceive that sometimes the action that takes place on the upper stage is duplicated on the lower. Sometimes the actors on the upper stage get too vociferous—too violent—and they crack through the boards and they lie twisted and curled in mounds. There are any number of mounds there, all twisted and broken. You look at them and you are not quite sure whether you see something or nothing; but you see by a curve that there might lie a human body. There is thrust out a white hand—a yellow one—one brown—a black. The Skin-of-Civilization must be very thin. A thought can drop you through it.

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Scene An open plain. It is bounded distantly on one side by Nowhere and faced by a high hill—Somewhere. Argument The WHITE DEVILS live on the side of the hill. Somewhere. On top of the hill grows the purple Flower-of-Life-at-Its-Fullest. This flower is as tall as a pine and stands alone on top of the hill. The US’S live in the valley that lies between Nowhere and Somewhere and spend their time trying to devise means of getting up the hill. The WHITE DEVILS live all over the sides of the hill and try every trick, known and unknown, to keep the US’S from getting to the hill. For if the US’S get up the hill, the Flower-of-Life-at-Its-Fullest will shed some of its perfume and then and there they will be Somewhere with the WHITE DEVILS. The US’S started out by merely asking permission to go up. They tilled the valley, they cultivated it and made it as beautiful as it is. They built roads and houses even for the WHITE DEVILS. They let them build the houses and then they were knocked back down into the valley. Scene When the curtain rises, the evening sun is shining bravely on the valley and hillside alike. The US’S are having a siesta beside a brook that runs down the Middle of the valley. As usual they rest with their backs toward Nowhere and their faces toward Somewhere. The WHITE DEVILS are seen in the distance on the hillside. As you see them, a song is borne faintly to your ears from the hillside. The WHITE DEVILS are saying: You stay where you are! We don’t want you up here! If you come you’ll be on par With all we hold dear. So stay—stay—stay— Yes stay where you are! The song rolls full across the valley. A Little Runty Us. Hear that, don’t you? Another Us. (lolling over on his back and chewing a piece of grass) I ain’t studying ’bout them devils. When I get ready to go up that hill— I’m going! (He rolls over on his side and exposes a slender brown body to the sun.) Right now, I’m going to sleep. (And he forthwith snores.) Old Lady. (An old dark brown lady who has been lying down rises suddenly to her knees in the foreground. She gazes toward the hillside) I’ll never live to see the face of that flower! God knows I worked hard to get Somewhere though. I’ve washed the shirt off of every one of them White Devils’ backs!

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And you got a slap in the face for doing it. But that’s what the Leader told us to do. “Work,” he said. “Show them you know how.” As if two hundred years of slavery had not showed them! Another Young Us. Work doesn’t do it. The Us who work for the White Devils get pushed in the face—down off of Somewhere every night. They don’t even sleep up there. Old Lady. Something’s got to be done though! The Us ain’t got no business to sleep while the sun is shining. They’d ought to be up and working before the White Devils get to some other tricks. Young Us. You just said work did not do you any good! What’s the need of working if it doesn’t get you anywhere? What’s the use of boring around in the same hole like a worm? Making the hole bigger to stay in? (There comes up the road a clatter of feet and four figures, a middle-aged wellbrowned man, a lighter-browned middle-aged woman, a medium light brown girl, beautiful as a browned peach and a slender, tall, bronzy brown youth who walks with his head high. He touches the ground with his feet as if it were a velvet rug and not sunbaked, jagged rocks.) Old Lady. (addressing the OLDER MAN) Evenin’, Average. I was just saying we ain’t never going to make that hill. Average. The Us will if they get the right leaders. The Middle-Aged Woman—Cornerstone. Leaders! Leaders! They’ve had good ones looks like to me. Average. But they ain’t led us anywhere! Cornerstone. But that is not their fault! If one of them gets up and says, “Do this,” one of the Us will sneak up behind him and knock him down and stand up and holler, “Do that,” and then he himself gets knocked down and we still sit in the valley and knock down and drag out! A Young Us. (aside) Yeah! Drag Us out, but not White Devils. Old Lady. It’s the truth Cornerstone. They say they going to meet this evening to talk about what we ought to do. Average. What is the need of so much talking? Cornerstone. Better than not talking! Somebody might say something after while. The Young Girl—Sweet. (who just came up) I want to talk too! Average. What can you talk about? Sweet. Things! Something, father! The Young Man—Finest Blood. I’ll speak too. Average. Oh you all make me tired! Talk—talk—talk—talk! And the flower is still up on the hillside! Old Lady. Yes and the White Devils are still talking about keeping the Us away from it, too. (A drum begins to beat in the distance. All the Us stand up and shake off their sleep. The drummer, a short, black, determined looking Us, appears around the bushes

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beating the drum with strong, vigorous jabs that make the whole valley echo and re-echo with rhythm. Some of the Us begin to dance in time to the music.) Average. Look at that! Dancing!! The Us will never learn to be sensible! Cornerstone. They dance well! Well!! (The Us all congregate at the center front. Almost naturally, the Young Us range on one side, the Old Us on the other. Cornerstone sits her plump brown self comfortably in the center of the stage. An Old Us tottering with age and blind comes toward her.) Old Us. What’s it this time, chillun? Is it day yet? Can you see the road to that flower? Average. Oh you know we ain’t going to get up there! No use worrying! Cornerstone. No it’s not day! It is still dark. It is night. (For the sun has gone and purple blackness has lain across the Valley. Somehow, though, you can see the shape of the flower on top of Somewhere. Lights twinkle on the hill.) Old Us. (speaking as if to himself) I’m blind from working—building for the White Devils in the heat of the noon-day sun and I’m weary! Cornerstone. Lean against me so they won’t crowd you. (An old man rises in the back of the ranks; his beard reaches down to his knees but he springs upright. He speaks.) Old Man. I want to tell you all something! The Us can’t get up the road unless we work! We want to hew and dig and toil! A Young Us. You had better sit down before someone knocks you down! They told us that when your beard was sprouting. Cornerstone. (to Youth) Do not be so stupid! Speak as if you had respect for that beard! Another Young Us. We have! But we get tired of hearing “you must work” when we know the Old Us built practically every inch of that hill and are yet Nowhere. First Young Us. Yes, all they got was a rush down the hill—not a chance to take a step up! Cornerstone. It was not time then. Old Man. (on the back row) Here comes a Young Us who has been reading in the books! Here comes a Young Us who has been reading in the books! He’ll tell us what the books say about getting Somewhere. (A Young Man pushes through the crowd. As soon as he reaches the center front, he throws a bundle of books.) Young Man. I’m through! I do not need these things! They’re no good! Old Man. (pushes up from the back and stands beside him) You’re through! Ain’t you been reading in the books how to get Somewhere? Why don’t you tell us how to get there? Young Man. I’m through I tell you! There isn’t anything in one of these books that tells Black Us how to get around White Devils. Old Man. (softly—sadly) I thought the books would tell us how!

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No! The White Devils wrote the books themselves. You know they aren’t going to put anything like that in there! Yet Another Old Man. (throwing back his head and calling into the air) Lord! Why don’t you come by here and tell us how to get Somewhere? A Young Man. (who had been idly chewing grass) Aw, you ought to know by now that isn’t the way to talk to God! Old Man. It ain’t! It ain’t! It ain’t! It ain’t! Ain’t I been talking to God just like that for seventy years? Three score and ten years— Amen! The Grass Chewer. Yes! Three score and ten years you been telling God to tell you what to do. Telling Him! And three score and ten years you been wearing your spine double sitting on the rocks in the valley too. Old Us. He is all powerful! He will move in his own time! Young Us. Well, if he is all powerful, God does not need you to tell Him what to do. Old Us. Well what’s the need of me talkin’ to Him then? Young Us. Don’t talk so much to Him! Give Him a chance! He might want to talk to you but you do so much yelling in His ears that He can’t tell you anything. (There is a commotion in the back stage. Sweet comes running to Cornerstone crying.) Sweet. Oh—oo—! Cornerstone. What is it, Sweet? Sweet. There’s a White Devil sitting in the bushes in the dark over there! There’s a White Devil sitting in the bushes over in the dark! And when I walked by—he pinched me! Finest Blood. (catching a rock) Where is he, sister? (He starts toward the bushes.) Cornerstone. (screaming) Don’t go after him son! They will kill you if you hurt him! Finest Blood. I don’t care if they do. Let them. I’d be out of this hole then! Average. Listen to that young fool! Better stay safe and sound where he is! At least he got somewhere to eat and somewhere to lay his head. Finest Blood. Yes I can lay my head on the rocks of Nowhere. (Up the center of the stage toils a new figure of a square set middle-aged Us. He walks heavily for in each hand he carries a heavy bag. As soon as he reaches the center front he throws the bags down groaning as he does so.) An Old Man. ’Smatter with you! Ain’t them bags full of gold? The Newcomer. Yes, they are full of gold! Old Man. Well, why ain’t you smiling then? Them White Devils can’t have anything no better! The Newcomer. Yes they have! They have Somewhere! I tried to do what they said. I brought them money, but when I brought it to them they would not sell me even a spoonful of dirt from Somewhere! I’m through!

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Cornerstone. Don’t be through. The gold counts for something. It must! (An Old Woman cries aloud in a quavering voice from the back.) Old Lady. Last night I had a dream. A Young Us. Dreams? Excuse me! I know I’m going now! Dreams!! Old Lady. I dreamed that I saw a White Devil cut in six pieces—head here (pointing), body here—one leg here—one there—an arm here—an arm there. An Old Man. Thank God! It’s time then! Average. Time for what? Time to eat? Sure ain’t time to get Somewhere! Old Man. (walking forward) It’s time! It’s time! Bring me an iron pot! Young Us. Aw don’t try any conjuring! Old Man. (louder) Bring me a pot of iron. Get the pot from the fire in the valley. Cornerstone. Give him the pot! (Someone brings it up immediately.) Old Man. (walking toward pot slowly) Old Us! Do you hear me. Old Us that are here do you hear me? All the Old Us. (cry in chorus) Yes, Lord! We hear you! We hear you! Old Man. (crying louder and louder) Old Us! Old Us! Old Us that are gone, Old Us that are dust do you hear me? (His voice sounds strangely through the valley. Somewhere you think you hear—as if mouthed by ten million mouths through rocks and dust— “Yes!—Lord!—We hear you! We hear you!”) Old Man. And you hear me—give me a handful of dust! Give me a handful of dust! Dig down to the depths of the things you have made! The things you formed with your hands and give me a handful of dust! (An Old Woman tottering with the weakness of old age crosses the stage and going to the pot, throws a handful of dust in. Just before she sits down again she throws back her head and shakes her cane in the air and laughs so that the entire valley echoes.) A Young Us. What’s the trouble? Choking on the dust? Old Woman. No child! Rejoicing! Young Us. Rejoicing over a handful of dust? Old Woman. Yes. A handful of dust! Thanking God I could do something if it was nothing but make a handful of dust! Young Us. Well, dust isn’t much! Old Man. (at the pot) Yes, it isn’t much! You are dust yourself; but so is she. Like everything else, though, dust can be little or much, according to where it is. (The Young Us who spoke subsides. He subsides so completely that he crashes through the Thin-Skin-of-Civilization. Several of his group go too. They were thinking.) Old Man. (at the pot) Bring me books! Bring me books! Young Us. (who threw books down) Here! Take all these! I’ll light the fire with them. Old Man. No, put them in the pot. (Young Us does so.) Bring me gold!

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The Man of the Gold Bags. Here take this! It is just as well. Stew it up and make teething rings!! (He pours it into the pot.) Old Man. Now bring me blood! Blood from the eyes, the ears, the whole body! Drain it off and bring me blood! (No one speaks or moves.) Now bring me blood! Blood from the eyes, the ears, the whole body! Drain it off! Bring me blood! (No one speaks or moves.) Ah hah, hah! I knew it! Not one of you willing to pour his blood in the pot! Young Us. (facetiously) How you going to pour your own blood in there? You got to be pretty far gone to let your blood run in there. Somebody else would have to do the pouring. Old Man. I mean red blood. Not yellow blood, thank you. Finest Blood. (suddenly) Take my blood! (He walks toward the pot.) Cornerstone. O no! Not my boy! Take me instead! Old Man. Cornerstone we cannot stand without you! An Old Woman. What you need blood for? What you doing anyhow? You ain’t told us nothing yet. What’s going on in that pot? Old Man. I’m doing as I was told to do. A Young Us. Who told you to do anything? Old Man. God. I’m His servant. Young Us. (who spoke before) God? I haven’t heard God tell you anything. Old Man. You couldn’t hear. He told it to me alone. Old Woman. I believe you. Don’t pay any attention to that simpleton! What God told you to do? Old Man. He told me take a handful of dust—dust from which all things came and put it in a hard iron pot. Put it in a hard iron pot. Things shape best in hard molds!! Put in books that Men learn by. Gold that Men live by. Blood that lets Men live. Young Us. What you suppose to be shaping? A man? Old Us. I’m the servant. I can do nothing. If I do this, God will shape a new man Himself. Young Man. What’s the things in the pot for? Old Man. To show I can do what I’m told. Old Woman. Why does He want blood? Old Man. You got to give blood! Blood has to be let for births, to give life. Old Woman. So the dust wasn’t just nothing? Thank God! Youth. Then the books were not just paper leaves? Thank God! The Man of the Gold Bags. Can the gold mean something? Old Man. Now I need the blood. Finest Blood. I told you you could take mine. Old Man. Yours! Finest Blood. Where else could you get it? The New Man must be born. The night is already dark. We cannot stay here forever. Where else could blood come from? Old Man. Think child. When God asked a faithful servant once to do

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sacrifice, even his only child, where did God put the real meat for sacrifice when the servant had the knife upon the son’s throat? Old Us. (in a chorus) In the bushes, Lord! In the bushes, Lord! Jehovah put the ram In the bushes! Cornerstone. I understand! Finest Blood. What do you mean? Cornerstone. Where were you going a little while ago? Where were you going when your sister cried out? Finest Blood. To the bushes! You want me to get the White Devil? (He seizes the piece of rock and stands to his feet.) Old Man. No! No! Not that way. The White Devils are full of tricks. You must go differently. Bring him gifts and offer them to him. Finest Blood. What have I to give for a gift? Old Man. There are the pipes of Pan that every Us is born with. Play on that. Soothe him—lure him—make him yearn for the pipe. Even a White Devil will soften at music. He’ll come out, and he only comes to try to get the pipe from you. Finest Blood. And when he comes out, I’m to kill him in the dark before he sees me? That’s a White Devil trick! Old Man. An Old Us will never tell you to play White Devil’s games! No! Do not kill him in the dark. Get him out of the bushes and say to him: “White Devil, God is using me for His instrument. You think that it is I who play on this pipe! You think that is I who play upon this pipe so that you cannot stay in your bushes. So that you must come out of your bushes. But it is not I who play. It is not I, it is God who plays through me— to you. Will you hear what He says? Will you hear? He says it is almost day, White Devil. The night is far gone. A New Man must be born for the New Day. Blood is needed for birth. Blood is needed for the birth. Come out, White Devil. It may be your blood—it may be mine—but blood must be taken during the night to be given at the birth. It may be my blood— it may be your blood—but everything has been given. The Us toiled to give dust for the body, books to guide the body, gold to clothe the body. Now they need blood for birth so the New Man can live. You have taken blood. You must give blood. Come out! Give it.” And then fight him! Finest Blood. I’ll go! And if I kill him? Old Man. Blood will be given! Finest Blood. And if he kills me? Old Man. Blood will be given! Finest Blood. Can there be no other way—cannot this cup pass?

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No other way. It cannot pass. They always take blood. They built up half their land on our bones. They ripened crops of cotton, watering them with our blood. Finest Blood, this is God’s decree: “You take blood—you give blood. Full measure—flooding full—over—over!” I’ll go. (He goes quickly into the shadow. Far off soon you can hear him—his voice lifted, young, sweet, brave and strong.) White Devil! God speaks to you through me!—Hear Him!—Him! You have taken blood; there can be no other way. You will have to give blood! Blood!

(All the Us listen. All the valley listens. Nowhere listens. All the WHITE DEVILS listen. Somewhere listens. Let the curtain close leaving all the US, the WHITE DEVILS, Nowhere, Somewhere, listening, listening. Is it time?) Curtain

William Carlos Williams (1883–1963) IT IS NOT OFTEN THAT HORSE RACING AND BOXING INTERSECT POETIC drama, but such nonliterary pursuits had a significant effect on William Carlos Williams’s play Many Loves. Williams originally titled the play Trial Horse No. 1 in 1940. Although Williams changed the name, he retained Trial Horse No. 1 as the subtitle for the published version in 1942. Rarely, if ever, mentioned in analyses of the play, this subtitle reveals much about Williams’s interest in the theater and, in particular, his somewhat vexed relationship to the audience. Originally a term used in horse racing and dog training, a “trial horse” refers to any competition for an established champion. The term caught on in boxing in the early twentieth century and is used today to refer to a good-but-lesser fighter employed to train and test an established champion in legitimate fights rather than in safer sparring matches. Born and raised in the then-rural town of Rutherford, New Jersey, Williams likely knew the term in its equestrian context, though he may also have known boxing through his friend Arthur Craven, a Dada poet and occasional boxer. Whatever the exact source, this subtitle suggests a darker side to the play’s seemingly sentimental title Many Loves and reveals Williams’s approach both to theater and its audience. Evident first in the subtitle, and then in the content of the play, Williams presents his verse as an antagonistic, even combative test of his audience. As one character remarks, “The theater is a trial, / truly. It’s not a plaything.” Williams may have taken this combative attitude from the European avant-garde theater, which took its name from the military term for an elite fighting force. Perhaps following such militaristic origins, Williams’s Many Loves is an aggressive work that attacks the sentimentality of realist drama as a facade for sexual power and exploitation. Moving between a metatheatrical frame story—that is, a play about a play—and “three completely unrelated” scenes, Williams adopts the conventions of the realist stage only to turn these conventions against his middle-class audience. Raised in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood, to which he returned for his medical practice, Williams hardly appeared the typical revolutionary. As he writes in the foreword to his Autobiography (1948), “as both writer and physician I have served sixty-eight years of a more or less uneventful existence, not more than half a mile from where I happen to have been born.”1 Such statements belie the extent of Williams’s radicalism, particu213

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larly his poetic experiments. The son of two immigrants—his father was from England; his mother from Puerto Rico—Williams spent his literary career in search of a unique American language, one that would reinvent or even recreate language itself. As he writes in the notes to his epic poem, Paterson, “I shall never be satisfied until I have / destroyed the whole of poetry as it has / been in the past.”2 Living a kind of double life between his suburban medical practice and the American avant-garde brewing in New York, Williams repeatedly used the language of destruction and (often sexual) violence as metaphors for the creation of this new language. A follower of Ezra Pound’s dictate “make it new,” Williams devised his own variation: “Nothing is good save the new.”3 He was friends with many modernist poets and painters in New York and Paris, especially Pound and Hilda Doolittle (H.D.), both of whom he met at the University of Pennsylvania while attending medical school from 1902–6. A lifelong friend to both (he visited Pound during his incarceration at St. Elizabeths), Williams believed in Pound’s principles of Imagism and, later, the movement of objectivism, which rejected sentimentality in favor of direct treatment of the “thing,” whether subjective or objective. Williams embraced Gertrude Stein’s writing, which he believed elevated writing to an art, “not seeking to be science, philosophy, history, the humanities, or anything else it has been made to carry in the past,” but articulated language for its own sake, without the burden of representation.4 The treatment of words as things was something Williams resolutely followed throughout his career. As he succinctly wrote in Spring and All (1923), “poetry: new form dealt with as a reality in itself.”5 Is it any wonder that the theater Williams sought to create began by attempting to destroy the theater as it was? In his opinion, the conventions of realism dominant in the theater of the 1930s and 1940s needed to be undermined to articulate a new American theater. Williams concluded, “destruction and creation / are simultaneous.”6 Well versed in the techniques and ideas of the avant-garde, Williams believed that the new American modern theater could emerge only if it could reinvent both dramatic language and, more importantly, the experience of the audience. His notes for Many Loves (published in 1961) provide some insight into this approach: “The audience is the play: the play is to be written looking from the stage, not at it, into the minds of the audience where it is really taking place. That is the thing to represent on stage as it occurs.”7 Thus, the audience is not merely the target of the play but its primary subject. If Williams’s poetry could treat words as objects, his theater would turn them into weapons. From the opening of the play, it is clear that the audience is implicated in the stage pretense. Williams begins Many Loves with precise stage directions dictating the audience’s role in the performance. He describes the behind-the-scenes work of the play already in rehearsal as the audience en-

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ters, and he informs us that the spectator should be made to feel as if “a friend of some member of the company,” who sees “an illusion of the theater more profound than an audience is ever allowed to see.” Intentionally blurring the boundary between performance and reality, Williams invites the audience to see itself as part of the production and he never lets them out. Throughout the frame story, woven around three preexisting one-acts, or “playlets” as Williams calls them, the audience and their response to poetic drama is constantly debated by the two lead characters. In thinly veiled terms, Williams attacks the sensibilities of his audience, calling them (us?) tired, bored, and bitter. To cite only one exchange, the young, idealistic playwright, Hubert, asserts that the audience can be “lifted by poetry to a world it never knew, a world it has always longed for,” while the older, jaded producer, Peter, knows that an “audience is made up of boredom— those that have money enough to pay for tickets.” Such depictions of the audience may have in part reflected Williams’s own experiences. In his Autobiography, he writes, “Floss [his wife] had always told me, I kept fighting my audiences. But why not? I always had the feeling they were only listening out of a cynical curiosity.”8 More than any personal experience, however, Williams considered the attack on the audience and its presumed sentimentality essential to the new art he was trying to create. As he wrote in response to the avant-garde ballet, “Salade,” which he saw in Paris, “That’s what the contest between new works of art and an alert haut monde means: The fight that goes on between the stage and the audience.”9 Although Williams appears to adopt the conventions of the popular theater in his later plays (according to his letters, he modeled Many Loves on Noel Coward’s successful Broadway production, Tonight at 8:30 [1936]), he uses these theatrical conventions as a kind of facade to be undermined by the verse rhythms and poetic reality beneath the theatrical illusion. Williams’s medical practice influences this illusion as much as his involvement in modernism. The subject matter of the play—including doctors and the sexual threat of the body—comes from his lifelong work as a physician. In fact, his notes to the play reveal that the central character, Peter, was largely based on a man Williams met as a young resident in Philadelphia. In his Autobiography, Williams describes the circumstances that inspired Peter, most likely based on an unnamed wealthy man who comes to pay for a cross-dressing workman’s medical care. As Williams describes the dandy benefactor, he was “so dressed that everyone about him looked like a lackey.” Ever the doctor, Williams similarly dissects this emergency room patient, guiding his reader from the exterior appearance of the injured laborer—“a big guy, a plump specimen in bloody clothes”— to the interior revelation that “he had on a woman’s silk chemise with little ribbons at his nipples; that his chest and finally his legs were shaved;

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that he wore women’s panties and long silk stockings.”10 Williams thus easily stereotypes the dandy—equating a refined appearance with hidden degeneracy—but his attack is less against the homosexual as social or sexual outsider than it is against the theatrical sensibilities that align the audience with the somewhat foppish Peter. After all, it is the homosexual Peter —more interested in Hubert’s affections than his writing—who articulates objections to the verse of the play and who appears to speak on behalf of the audience. Who then is perverse? Through a process of revelation not unlike the surgeon’s, Williams’s dramatic structure attempts to uncover the sexual secrets underneath realism’s “many loves.” Indeed, sexuality—what Williams called “aberrant”—combines with avant-garde dramatic structure to undermine the middle-class sensibilities and structure of theatrical realism in the 1940s. The frame story, for example, appears to represent the reality outside the theater. Williams works against this realistic environment, however, by writing the frame dialogue in verse and by allowing his characters to communicate not so much in dialogue as in self-contained speeches on their dramatic theories. Similarly, the interior scenes, or playlets, attack the moral sensibilities by depicting “aberrant” sexuality—homosexuality, bisexuality, adultery, rape—in naturalistic language. Despite the verbal naturalism, Williams disrupts the realist structure of these playlets by abruptly ending scenes and inserting the frame characters into the pretense of the play. Like European playwrights Luigi Pirandello and Jean Cocteau before him, Williams’s metatheatricality attacks representational realism. Scenes come to ambiguous endings, and dialogue often falls flat, as if a satirical comment on realistic prose. Note the mundane quality of the dramatized lines “I have no family. You might as well know it. I’m alone. And I want a small place in the country for my personal use. The usual things, and I don’t want to pay too much for it. I’m told you can help me.” Williams mocks the audience’s perceived need for plot, cogent character, and naturalistic dialogue, thereby suggesting that such expectations reveal perverse desire. By playing dramatic poetry against naturalistic prose, Williams reduces the entire play to layers of facade. The only reality—and indeed the only real action in the play—is the brutality with which the characters interact. Even the final wedding scene (à la Shakespeare) is a sham staged only to appease the gullible playwright, Hubert. Contrary to the play’s title, characters are not interested in love but rather sexual exploitation, not in verse but rather perversion. Perhaps not surprisingly, then, it would take more than a decade after its publication for the play to be produced by the Living Theatre in 1959. In retrospect, it may seem odd that the group performed both Williams’s poetic drama and Jack Gelber’s infamous heroin play, The Connection, in the same year. And yet, the plays are not so dissimilar. Both plays explore the

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ambiguities of reality and theatrical realism—were Gelber’s actors really doing drugs onstage?—with language designed to attack the sensibilities of their audiences. By the mid-1960s, the Living Theatre would move away from literary plays by Stein, Williams, and Pound in favor of increasingly ritualistic performances. In this sense, their collaboration with Williams serves as a kind of transitional work, one that was at least marginally successful given that the play ran for more than two hundred performances. While still very much devoted to experimental language, Williams’s Many Loves ambitiously strives for a deeper audience experience than the commercial theater can provide. Not content to let the “water run hot” as Peter realistically advises, Williams attempts to commune with his audience, an impulse that the Living Theatre would explore to great effect in their own audience-centered Paradise Now (1968). Williams’s radical poetics of the 1940s thus foreshadows the radical performances of the 1960s that would dismantle the theater physically, just as Williams attempted to dismantle it linguistically. Written in their own kind of chanting verse, the Living Theatre’s later productions ultimately achieved what Williams envisioned in his “Writer’s Prologue to a Play in Verse” (1950): Or would you prefer not to enter? Perhaps so. Sorry to say there is a distorting mirror which, with your permission, must be broken at this place—we beg your tolerance if we break it— called, a stage.11

FURTHER READING Altieri, Charles. “The New Realism in Modernist Poetry: Pound and Williams.” In The Art of American Poetry: Modernism and After. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006. Beach, Christopher. “William Carlos Williams and the Modernist American Scene.” In The Cambridge Introduction to Twentieth-Century American Poetry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Fedo, David A. “The William Carlos Williams–Julian Beck Correspondence and the Production of Many Loves.” William Carlos Williams Newsletter 3, no. 2 (1977): 12–17. Wagner, Linda W. “The Outrage of Many Loves.” Sagetrieb: A Journal Devoted to Poets in the Pound-H.D.-Williams Tradition 3, no. 2 (Fall 1984): 63–70.

Many Loves Trial Horse No. 1 (1942) by William Carlos Williams

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments . . .” CHARACTERS Peter, A man of considerable wealth. In his middle 50’s. Hubert, A poet—and dramatist in the making. In his late 20’s. Alise, A young actress. The leading lady for Hubert’s play. In the first Playlet Serafina, The wife of a factory worker. A Man, Serafina’s husband. Laddie, A young factory worker. The Boyfriend A Waiter A Woman A Girl In the second Playlet Pete Thompson, A farmer. Mattie, His wife. Ann, their teen-age daughter. Fred, their son. A year older than Ann. George, Pete’s uncle. Owner of the farm. Aunt Kate, George’s sister. Horace, Ann’s boyfriend. Lil, A friend of Ann. A fat girl. Min, Another friend. A Real Estate Agent Agnes Breen, a young business woman. In the third Playlet Doc, A physician. Not so young any more. Clara, A young suburban housewife.

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A Child, Clara’s daughter. About 5 years old. Kelly, A stagehand. A Minister, Episcopalian. A Groton graduate. Stagehands, Electricians. Friends of the actors. The roles of ALISE, SERAFINA, AGNES BREEN and CLARA are to be played by the same actress. Other roles in the playlets may be doubled at the discretion of the director. SYNOPSIS The play is made up of three completely unrelated sequences, written in prose— one forming the substance of each act—and a counter-plot, in modern verse, which binds them together. The theme of each “playlet,” and of the counter-play, is love of a sort. In the first sequence, a young man loves an older, married woman. In the second, a young man and young woman of high school age—comparable to the lovers of Romance—are assailed by the girl’s father. In the third of these prose playlets, an older man and a younger woman engage in a mild intrigue. In the counter-play, the love is between two men, an elder and another, younger one. Here the dramatic action hinges on the necessity for the younger, who is the author of the three short pieces, to get the older man, his presumptive backer, to finance the production of his play—but without concessions. For the poet-playwright is in love with and about to marry his leading lady, a fact which he tries to keep secret from his enamored backer. The discovery of this love by the backer supplies the climax and catastrophe of the play. Act I Scene 1 The curtain is already raised and the stage lighted when the audience enters the theater. The scene is the stage-set for a play which is being prepared for production. Actors and actresses, stagehands and electricians are going about their preparations as they would at any early rehearsal in an empty theater. It is as if the spectator had come into the theater as might a friend of some member of the company, and what confronts him is an illusion of the theater more profound than an audience is ever allowed to see. Mysterious figures engaged in the practical matters of arranging props, memorizing lines, painting out a bole in a flat, putting a light to its proper angle, hammering a stretcher solid, move like officers and seamen over the deck and into the rigging of a ship being fitted for a voyage of highest adventure—of inevitable disaster unless each smallest detail is readied for the strain that will be brought to bear on each significant flimsiness. As the audience is consistently ignored by the people busy on stage—and begins to feel that it may be asked to leave by a side door if it doesn’t keep quiet—it finds itself in a darkening, menaced space, included in what is going on up there on the

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stage. The stage manager is organizing the disposal of flats, actors and props for the three separate one-act plays which are to be presented, while HUBERT, the author-director, is working with an electrician to get the lighting he wants in one of his scenes—ALISE, his leading lady, is running through her role as CLARA in the third playlet: she is ironing clothes at an ironing board set up in her kitchen. HUBERT is trying for a special effect of some sort which has to do with factors not present in the flesh. He calls appropriate technical directions to the man on the lights, but this does not interrupt the monologue of the woman at the ironing board who is running lines—out of context, but belonging to the ironing board episode of Act III. Her voice rises and falls, stumbles, repeats itself, tries for a different inflection—completely absorbed in its own sound, while she maintains a fixed pose for the lights to play upon. On other parts of the stage—quite oblivious to the general confusion—other members of the company are practicing their lines. The girl who plays ANN in the second act, but dressed now in rehearsal get-up of sweater and blue-jeans, is running through her climactic speech, flaming out terrifyingly with: “I’ll do it! I’ll do it!”— then tapering softly into the tone she will use for more quiet interludes. There is another oral focus at the center of the stage where the young man who is LADDIE in the first act is being cued by the fat girl who plays LIL in Act II. She sits on the stage, reading the cues from a script, while LADDIE stands above her, going through his gestures with the lines. He is having a good deal of trouble with them and they keep running it over and over like a ground base, sometimes high and shocking—when the voices of ALISE and ANN are lowered—sometimes almost unheard, when one of the others is raised. The director must control these shifts of oral focus so that the whole effect is natural—an atmosphere of confusion and excitement, yet not so confused that the audience cannot register on the different elements in turn. As the lighting is brought under control and the stage begins to come together, LADDIE and ANN become silent, though they do not leave the scene, and attention focuses on the woman ironing, who suddenly takes over in full projection with the lines: “Listen, I didn’t finish telling you about the swimming instructor . . .” Her sexual intensity seems to draw a new figure to the stage—PETER, who comes down the center aisle through the audience, climbs to the stage by steps at the left and stands watching HUBERT, who, in turn, is watching ALISE at the ironing board. PETER, who is in the middle fifties, is the obvious well-to-do socialite. But there is something unusual about him that gives the eye rather a jog: his clothes seem too big for him—just slightly too big, as if he wanted to appear bulkier than should be the case. Otherwise he is extremely well-dressed. Close silver-gray curls cover his well-shaped cranium, clustering about his temples attractively. His nose is aristocratic and his hands long and well-disciplined. His look is straightforward, completely unabashed. Speaking with a cultured voice, as might be expected, his tones assume on occasion, especially when directed toward HUBERT, a genuine tenderness. But when crossed, the man is transformed as by a fever. Then his voice

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coarsens and he thrashes his shoulders about as if they alone must express the intensity of his feeling. At such moments his insolence is likely to be flagrant. HUBERT is, of course, much younger than his friend, and though somewhat on the stout side, by no means an indifferent figure. The stabbing glances of his dark eyes are seldom directed long toward anyone except ALISE, resting even there only for a moment, as if not wishing the glance to be observed. He wears his clothes indifferently and makes a good many nervous gestures of the hands without purpose, but can, when pressed, assume control of himself and speak positively—though seeming, as he does so, to be afraid of his own voice, which is emotional and deep. Restless and nervous, lacking composure, he will always be a man out of place even in his own world. HUBERT does not at first see PETER when he comes onto the stage. He is talking to KELLY, one of the stagehands. Hubert. Peter. Hubert. Peter. Hubert. Peter.

Hubert.

Peter. Hubert. Peter.

Have you got this for the book, Kelly? Be sure you don’t leave . . . (As he turns to call to KELLY, he catches sight of PETER. He is completely surprised, almost dumbstruck.) Peter . . . Peter! In the flesh—what I might refer to on a stage as the too, too solid . . . (HUBERT glances quickly toward ALISE, then comes to PETER, holding out his hand.) But Peter—you’re in the Virgin Islands. (Instead of taking the offered hand, PETER puts his own hand on HUBERT’S shoulder, leaning there easily as he stares into his face.) The rumor is exaggerated—the islands are no longer virgin. But I thought . . . Oh, Hubert! You thought . . . you always think, Hubert . . . when you should feel—(With a slight tilt of his head he indicates ALISE.) —though I must say that sounded rather nice. Or if not nice . . . (Their eyes lock for a moment.) What is it? What are you up to here? (He turns away, surveying the stage and everyone on it; then, good humoredly.) Is this really a production—something you seriously intend to open in a week? . . . Tell me about it, Hubert. I’d rather you saw it when it’s all prepared—all polished. That’s when it’s for you, Peter. You’ve come into the garage—the hood’s up . . . these are the odd parts lying around, the mechanics, the grease . . . Why don’t you want to talk about it, Hubert? You’ve never been the least reluctant to talk about anything. Of course, and it’s wonderful you’re back, but . . . (impatiently) Be practical, Peter. Be patient. This is rehearsal. Right now there’s no time . . . —and time is money. Delicacy might forbid reference to my drab connection with the arts. Nevertheless, with the delicacy of a West Side madam may I ask just what the customers are going to get for their money?

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You have no! . . . Oh yes I have! The backer, too, has rights—and I’m asking pointblank what I’m getting for my money. (HUBERT stops abruptly and pulls himself together, trying to think clearly and deeply.) Hubert. Where do I begin with it? What do I say first? (He looks around the stage as if hunting for an idea.) It’s a complex thing, Peter, like a ship going to sea—like a woman with child—like . . . Peter. (cutting in sharply) Must it be so very complex? . . . to be so very fine? Hubert. Yes. If it’s to be new, it must be complex. If it’s to be novel—virginal . . . Peter. —and with child . . . complex virgins, virgin complexes . . . must it be all that, too? Can it be? Hubert. Yes it can—believe me! And it must be all that, to come alive at all! There’s nothing virginal, nothing completely novel left for us other than in complexities. But some one must first have seen the complex simple, simple as water flowing . . . that was ice, and made it flow, so that it appears an easy matter: to give the word a metaphorical twist by the position it assumes, the elevation it induces—without pictorial effects— by the force of its meaning; a similarity to daily speech, the miracle being it sounds so, but by the awakening experienced is proven otherwise, charged to raise the spirit to a full enjoyment. Alise. My dear, how beautiful! Peter. Who is this woman? No introductions, please. One of your actresses. Thank you very much. The trouble with you, Hubert? You’re too much a student of the play and not, I’m afraid, of romance—that’s all. You’ve always been that way. So you talk and think up problems. My boy, once for all, you’ve got to put your hind legs into it. You’ve got to let yourself go. Hubert. Right, of course. Only a man may, I would object, reserve for himself the choice of when he shall let himself go, as you say, and for whom and for what purpose. He may maneuver a lifetime for that moment . . . Peter. Don’t

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talk such rot! You haven’t got a lifetime to maneuver in. Alise. He’s quite right, I’m a woman and I know what he means. Peter. And I’m a man and I say, rot! This is the professional stage. When the faucet is turned on, the water must run hot or cold as they want it. Hubert. No doubt. But when I shall write the play I have in mind . . . Then . . . Peter. What’s that? Am I to understand this is not the play? Hubert. Alise, will you explain? I have to leave you for a moment. (HUBERT leaves the stage.) Alise. I hope you’ll be patient with him. He needs us all so much. He says he’s written these for me to speak. He says I have an ear. These, of course, are just preliminary to the major work. He says that when he’s finished with what now he has in mind he’ll revolutionize the theater . . . Peter. May I tell you something, my dear young lady, whoever you are? Anything you have to say is not of the slightest interest to me. (HUBERT returns.) Alise. Hubert, who is this person? (PETER puts his finger to his lips.) Hubert. who is this person?A friend . . . I met him in the subway. (He motions for her to go.) Alise. Very well, Hubert. (She goes to the actor who is still reading his paper.) Peter. Explain yourself. I understand this is not the play you gave me to believe it was. Hubert. Not yet. Peter. Hubert, this is very disappointing. Hubert. Three short sketches on a general theme, of which each is a facet casting its own aspect of the light. Peter. Oh my God! Hubert. (calling) Alise!

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Hubert, I’ve asked you never to do a thing like this to me. Are they written in this new verse of yours? Hubert. Not these. Peter. Not these! Hubert. Alise, please come here. (ALISE approaches deliberately.) Peter. Hubert, are you in love? You don’t love her, do you, Hubert? Hubert. I am passionate about her voice. A marvelous facility for modern meters, completely unspoiled by English. Alise, please come here for me a moment, will you? (He rushes off.) Alise. What does he say? Peter. The man’s in love with you. Alise. I doubt it very much. Peter. Oh, but he is! And you with him. Poor thing. I’m so sorry for you when he finds you out. “This is she,” he said. What a mind! What a body! What legs! What a voice! What discretion! Her youth! What abandon! What perfection! Except, I might have said, her morals. Phew! Get out! Alise. You silly bitch! (HUBERT returns.) Hubert. Have you explained our plans to him? Alise. Oh yes, we understand each other perfectly. Peter. She’s much too mild. Not the one for you, Hubert. There’d be no contrast in your lives. Hubert. She’s a very clever actress. I wanted someone to do the complicated innocent. I don’t know anyone to equal her, to give the signature, the peculiar emphasis which, after all, is I—and what I want to do. Peter. Ah yes, what you want to do. That’s it. What we all want to do. That’s it, isn’t it, my dear? What we all want to do

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Alise. Peter. Alise. Peter.

Hubert. Peter.

Hubert. Peter. Hubert.

Peter.

Hubert. Peter. Hubert.

Peter. Hubert. Peter. Hubert. Peter. Hubert.

I understand. So glad you do. You like these . . . things we’re going to see tonight? Oh yes, of course. Well, that’s not too reassuring. But what is your plan? What? You haven’t given me your plan. What are you trying to do? I have one objective and only one in this. A bad start, Hubert, because when you begin that way I know it’s going to cost me money. As angel, it’s my privilege to be above all that— not yours. My purpose is to write for the stage such verse as never has been written heretofore. I thought so. Better than the Bard of Avon? No, not better. Not at least the same—diluted down. A new conception, more suited to ourselves, our times— which wants to use its brains. What a charming and extravagant idea. You haven’t aged a day, Hubert, since last I saw you. Who wants to use his brains? —those who would think rather in their own terms than borrowed ones . . . No one. —and in the same terms celebrate our achievements—but elevated to a distinction which, with genius, may be invented to astonish them. By you, the genius. Yes, of course. After all, no one believed the crazy rack would fly. You mean the airplane? Yes. Why don’t you say so then? And newspapers are printed now on paper made of wood. Because we have accepted

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complex associations simply does not make them simple. So that we should not be dismayed by a difficult approach. Complex derivations are, for all that, fully possible— once the taboo is lifted. We don’t like verse in plays. Peter. No, we don’t. Hubert. I know that. But I know more. There is no verse, no new verse to write a play in. That’s why. Invent it. Peter. And you’ll invent it. This is the usual avant-garde décor, isn’t it, Hubert? So far in front it’s dragging at tomorrow’s tail. Hubert. No. You’ll see. Alise. (To HUBERT) I could spit in his face. Peter. I wish you all success, my dear. Alise. I hope you like it. (They go down into the theater, leaving ALISE and one of the young actors on the stage.) Scene 2 Serafina A street in the poorer section of an Eastern mill town. A blond young man of Polish or Russian descent, bareheaded, with his topcoat collar turned up and wearing heavy glasses, is leaning against the wall near the door of a small apartment house. He is reading a folded newspaper. He is dressed as any poor college student might be. His name is Ladislaw but the name he goes by is LADDIE. There are several childish scrawls in colored chalk along the apartment wall, among them “Annie loves Joe” prominently figured. From time to time LADDIE looks down the street, first one way, then the other. A factory worker returning from his job comes along, a man of forty or so. Man. Laddie. Man. Laddie. Man. Laddie. Man. Laddie. Man. Laddie. Man.

Hello, Laddie. You still hanging around? That’s right. Thought you were going down to camp this week. Thought so too. What’s the matter—holes in your lungs? Sure. You look it. Seen that God-damned woman hanging around anywhere this afternoon? Who? My wife, Serafina. No. Maybe she’s upstairs for a change. I’m gonna knock her block off

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one of these days if she don’t get back here evenings before I do. Take care of yourself. (A woman comes out the door of the apartment and almost falls over LADDIE’S foot as he leans there.) Woman. Excuse me. (She goes on.) (A pretty young girl comes in, from the left, and stops to talk to LADDIE.) Girl. I thought you . . . Laddie. You thought! How? Girl. Oh. (She gives him a quick grin and goes into the house. LADDIE remains leaning against the wall, reading his paper.) Detail 2 A barroom waiter, in vest, shirtsleeves and short apron, shifts a screen at the left, moving it forward to shut off a space where he places a small iron table and two chairs. He dusts them off with his towel as SERAFINA and her BOYFRIEND come in and sit down. He waits for their order. Boyfriend. Serafina! A hell of a name. Serafina. You know where you can put it. Boyfriend. What are you having? Serafina. The same. Boyfriend. (To the WAITER) Box cars. Make it two. (The WAITER goes out.) Serafina. Let’s have a tune. (The BOYFRIEND goes out a moment. As he returns, a jukebox offstage begins to play: “Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you!”) Serafina. Oh boy! Boyfriend. Geezus, I’d have to pick that one. Serafina. What’d you find out? Boyfriend. What’d yuh mean, what did I find out? Serafina. Did you get me pregnant? Boyfriend. Hey listen, take it easy. Don’t pick on me. Serafina. No? Boyfriend. No. (The WAITER returns with their drinks and a bowl of pretzels, then goes ou again.) Serafina. You probably never even gave it to the doc after me damn near standing on my head to get the stuff for you. Boyfriend. I gave it to him. Five bucks it cost me. Serafina. Did you want me to pay for it? Boyfriend. How ’bout the rest of the gang? Serafina. What’d he say? Boyfriend. The test was a flop. Serafina. What do you mean, a flop? He took the five bucks, didn’t he? Boyfriend. Sure, he took it all right. Serafina. So what? No good. (She merely looks at him.) He says it didn’t work out on Boyfriend. account of the God-damned rabbit was a queer.

228 Serafina. Boyfriend. Serafina. Boyfriend.

Serafina. Boyfriend. Serafina. Boyfriend.

Serafina. Boyfriend. Serafina. Boyfriend. Serafina. Boyfriend. Serafina. Boyfriend. Serafina. Boyfriend. Serafina. Boyfriend. Serafina. Boyfriend. Serafina. Boyfriend. Serafina. Boyfriend.

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Huh? Sure, the doc says it was a hermaphrodite. A what? He says he thought it was a she when he shot the stuff into its ear, but when he come to open it up and examine it to see if you was pregnant it turned out to be her boyfriend—that hadn’t come of age yet. Jesus God! Is that what he said? What was that again? He says we got to send him another specimen. To hell with it. I’m in the army. What’d he say? Tell me again. He said it’s one case in ten thousand. Picked the wrong rabbit outa the hat. Said the girl that does the work in the laboratory was scared as hell, didn’t know what the hell she’d found. A lousy hermaphrodite. Wouldn’t that get you? So that’s what they did to me. Yeah. I don’t get it. You gotta tell me again. You see, what happens, the doc says, is you take a young female rabbit that’s never come around yet and you shoot the stuff out of you into a vein in its ear. Is that right? Into a vein. So they pick the rabbit. It’s got to be a young she—you know, a virgin—and that’s what they thought they had, and they shoot the stuff outa the bottle into it. In the ear. Then they wait two days and kill it and examine it. And if the stuff brings it around then you’re caught. Is that right? So when they did it to this one they found it had come around all right because you couldn’t tell what the hell it was but it wasn’t a she. Can you believe it? You gotta believe it. And he kept the five bucks? Sure, he’s a professional man. Said to send him up another specimen and he’d do it for nothin’. Are you gonna do it? Aw, tell your old man. I’m leavin’ for Georgia tomorrow. To hell with it. (She begins to laugh hysterically.) What the hell you laughing at? The way that poor rabbit got showed up. Thought she was a lady and by God they ripped her open after me giving it to her in the ear and they found out she was a man. (She laughs foolishly.) You’re nuts. Hey, waiter! Here. (The WAITER comes and the BOYFRIEND gives him a bill. The WAITER makes change.)

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Keep it. So long, kid. (She pays no attention to him.) You’ll be all right. (He waits a moment.) So long. I’ll send you a post card. (He goes out.) (After the BOYFRIEND has left, SERAFINA gradually stops laughing. She fusses in her bag for a coin, goes out a moment and returns immediately. As she sits making herself up the jukebox plays again: “Let me call you sweetheart.” She finishes her makeup, gathers up various small bundles she has placed on a free chair— maybe takes another drink—and leaves. The WAITER clears everything away— chairs, table and screen.) Detail 3 LADDIE is alone at the door, still reading his paper. The WOMAN who came out of the house a short time earlier returns now and again falls over his foot. Woman. Excuse me. (She goes into the house.) (Someone begins playing a violin, rather well, somewhere in the street—fairly complicated runs and fast passages, but all incomplete, broken off and started again irregularly. SERAFINA comes in from the left, carrying her parcels. She stops short on seeing LADDIE. He does not appear to have noticed her. She is about to pass him and go into the house but then stops.) Serafina. What are you doing here? Laddie. Oh. Just . . . waiting. Serafina. Waiting? I thought you’d left. Laddie. No. Serafina. Who are you waiting for? Laddie. A drunk. (He just looks at her.) Serafina. You’re nuts. When are you leaving for camp? Laddie. They turned me down. Serafina. What do you know! Got a match? (He looks at her, takes a pack of matches out of his pocket and prepares to light one. To find her cigarettes she has put her packages down at the door. She takes out a cigarette.) Laddie. Your old man went upstairs about twenty minutes ago. Serafina. To hell with him. (LADDIE lights her cigarette for her.) You don’t smoke, do you? Laddie. No. Serafina. You don’t do anything, do you? Laddie. (after a pause) I’ve been waiting to see you—the last half hour. Serafina. (gasping) Me! (Tobacco smoke comes out of her eyes and nose—she coughs.) Laddie. Yes, you. I want to talk to you, Serafina. Serafina. You got a nerve calling me by my first name. Laddie. Look! You think I’m a silly kid, don’t you? Imagine! I was born on this block. Can you imagine it? I grew up here. I went to high school four blocks over. I’ve been sticking around here long enough. But what am I goin’ to do with my mother?

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You asking me? And what am I going to do with that son of a bitch upstairs? (She makes a face.) Laddie. You’ve been drinking this afternoon? Serafina. What’s it to you? Laddie. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Serafina. What? Laddie. I want you to stop drinking. Serafina. You what? I’ll slap your face, you damn kid. (He rubs his hand over his hair.) What do you mean saying a thing like that to me? Laddie. I don’t know what I mean. I’m telling you. You’re the only one around here, next to my mother, that I think anything about. Serafina. You know too much. Laddie. Not half what I want to know. But I’m going where it is and I’m going to get it. Serafina. Tough luck. (She looks down at her feet.) Laddie. And I just wanted to tell you before I left, that you and I have got something in common. Serafina. We have, huh. What? Laddie. I don’t know. Just something . . . and I wanted to tell you about it. I don’t get much chance. Serafina. What’s the matter with you? Laddie. Nothing, God damn it—nothing! For once in my life I’m going to say what I have on my mind to say. (Suddenly changing) Nuts. Serafina. Yeah, you poor kid. What do you know? (A WOMAN comes up with a baby carriage and takes out an infant, carrying it into the house.) Laddie. Look—maybe I’m crazy but I know this much. I know if I’m ever going to get anywhere I got to get out of this place. I thought I was going to be drafted. Well, they turned me down. That gave me the idea. I got work to do. Serafina. Yeah, that’s right. Laddie. I can raise a couple of hundred bucks. I don’t know how I’m going to do it . . . but I’m going to do it. Serafina. Do what? Laddie. I’m going to be a writer. Serafina. Laddie, honest—are you? That’s marvelous. Write books—you mean like Hemingway and all that? (An auto horn plays la-do-dee-da.) Laddie. Yes, but I’ve got to work. I’ll get a job on a newspaper. I’ve got to do it mostly at night. I don’t know where—but somewhere. And do you know why? Serafina. No. Laddie. Because I’m so damn sick crazy in love with you that . . . (He loses his nerve.) Serafina. What? (She is drunkenly serious.) Laddie. I don’t know whether it’s love. Maybe I’m just sorry for you. Serafina. You’ve got a crust.

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Laddie. Serafina.

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Don’t talk to me that way, Serafina. You’re drunk. What do you mean, I’m drunk? I had a couple of drinks but I’m not drunk. Laddie. I don’t know what I mean. Good-bye. Serafina. Wait. Darling, wait! (He stops, amazed.) Why haven’t you told me about this before? Laddie. I guess I didn’t . . . think of it. I don’t know what difference it would have made anyway. I don’t mean that. Serafina. You poor kid. Why do you suppose I took a drink today? Laddie. (looking at her) How should I know? Serafina. You! Laddie. Liar! Serafina. No. I’m not a liar . . . funny, ain’t it? I didn’t know what it was. I’ll tell you the truth. But just now I know. It was because you’re going away. That’s why. I just found it out. Laddie. You can’t pull a rabbit out of the hat on me that way. Serafina. What? (She laughs wildly.) A rabbit? Laddie. (going to her) What’s the matter? Serafina. Get out. Go on. Keep away from me, you damned kid. (A man’s voice calls from above.) Male Voice. For Christ’s sake, what the hell you two doing down there? Come on up here! I been wondering where the hell you were with my supper. (SERAFINA picks up her bundles.) Serafina. Good-bye, sucker! (She goes in.) (Someone throws a bunch of stale flowers down at LADDIE’S feet. Before the curtain can descend HUBERT steps forward with his hand raised.) Hubert. Hold it! We’ll cut out the business of the flowers. Just “Good-bye, sucker!” and a slow curtain. Pick it up from “For Christ’s sake . . .” (SERAFINA comes back to the stage. She and LADDIE get into their positions for the repeat.) Male Voice. For Christ’s sake, what the hell you two doing down there? Come on up here! I been wondering where the hell you were with my supper. (SERAFINA picks up her bundles.) Serafina. Good-bye, sucker! (She goes in.) (PETER comes up from behind. The curtain slowly closes leaving HUBERT and PETER, continuing their dialogue, before it. HUBERT stands at the break in the curtain, on the left; PETER stands to the right of the break.) Peter. Um! Really, Hubert! Rather, ah . . . isn’t it? Hubert. Well? Do you like it? Peter. Ummm . . . I don’t know. Probably not. Hubert. Why not? I can’t see the point. Is it related to something I should know about? Peter. Hubert. You mean, for yourself? Peter. Yes. Hubert. No.

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(HUBERT draws the curtain back for PETER to step through. PETER does not move.) Peter. There’s more been going on here than meets the eye, my friend. Let it pass. (He pushes back the other edge of the curtain for HUBERT to precede him.) Go on. (HUBERT yields and goes through the curtain, as PETER watches him and then abruptly follows, letting the curtain fall back into place as the house lights come up.) Act II Scene 1 To follow after the last without too great delay, the previous set having merely to be lifted to show this one standing behind it: the front porch of a small white wooden farmhouse. There is no railing. Two or three steps lead down in the center from the front door. It is a Sunday afternoon in midsummer. When the curtain rises the setting is complete—except that a mechanism to move the whole porch forward five or six feet is being tried out. The stagehands move it back and forth once or twice while the introductory scene is in progress. HUBERT and PETER are standing on one side. As they talk, the actors come on stage and prepare for the action as they would if the curtain were still lowered—gestures and silent conversation, arranging the porch furniture, looking at the newspaper, etc. Peter. Hubert. Peter. Hubert.

Peter.

Hubert.

Peter. Hubert.

Get rid of that woman, will you? I can’t do it. Why not? I’ve told you. I’m schooling her gradually to speak as I wish her to—a verse form that’ll be modern and expressive. I must myself first learn how. It’s difficult. She is most important to me . . . Then get rid of the verse. Why must you write in verse? What in God’s name do you want to write in verse for? Because that is the basis of everything I want to do. That is what says what I am saying beyond the words. There can never be a play worth listening to except in verse. But look, in this next act I’m trying out a device which has certain possibilities— various scenes on the same scene simultaneously . . . Let’s first agree that there’ll be no more verse. And that she’ll go . . . If she goes, I go.

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Peter. Hubert.

Peter. Hubert.

Peter. Hubert.

Peter. Hubert. Peter.

Are you serious? What do you mean, am I serious? I have already told you, now I repeat it. There is only one thing that I intend to do—it is to learn to write a play in verse. There’s nothing else that in the least concerns me, neither to eat, nor drink, nor sleep—either alone or with a woman—or anything. I’m going to put this over . . . You need to, my boy. The words must carry a special meaning, a special dramatic structure of their own. What is the dramatic structure as it occurs in words? Verse. That is the drama of words—words in love, hot words, copulating, drinking, running, bleeding! There’s still this woman. You see, no one knows what it is. They’ve never heard invention on the stage. No one knows what poetry should be today. It should be the audience itself, come out of itself and standing in its own eyes, leaning within the opening of its own ears, hearing itself breathe, seeing itself in the action—lifted by poetry to a world it never knew, a world it has always longed for and may enter for a few precious moments never to be known in prose. The audience is the play. And it is pure poetry—unless one fails to imagine it and lift it beyond the dirty boards into the empyrean. Can prose do that? Can you do that? Have I done it—to you? A little? It’s dazzling, I acknowledge, but I’m a special case. You’re impractical, Hubert. Do you know, really, what an audience is? An audience is made up of boredom—those that have money enough to pay for tickets in the commercial theater— a belly full of supper. Poetry? To them? Something like—a handkerchief, to blow your

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nose on. They smell. They talk during the pauses. During key speeches they cough. They’re not people. They’re not even representative. You can’t imagine an audience. They don’t exist. They merely have tickets. That’s all they are. And you’d better entertain them. They don’t come here to be elevated—by the imagination or otherwise. They’re tired—you’ve heard it. This isn’t an affair of state—or taste. This is the modern commercial theater. If the play isn’t interesting, they leave. Hubert. That’s the challenge. But if their curiosity can be excited, you can insult them, cheat them, make them pay for what they never get, and generally show them up as idiots to their complete satisfaction. Excite their curiosity and you can do anything you please with them. Peter. That’s a fine attitude for a young playwright to take. So, by God, you’re going to make them swallow poetry— for your amusement. You won’t get away with it, Hubert. Besides I don’t believe you. Hubert. How do you mean? Peter. Is this another one in prose? Hubert. Yes. A picture I saw one day last summer driving up through Jersey. A Sunday afternoon. Just some farm people sitting on a porch. It seemed full of malignant tension—and I conceived the play. I had already passed and had to stop and back up a distance to make my notes on it. Something suggestive of the Greek theater. Peter. Well, I’ll listen through this one but if my suspicions are confirmed, good-bye, Hubert. Hubert. Don’t say that. (HUBERT glances quickly at PETER, hesitates, then turns to the players.) If you’re ready, begin.

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(He goes to the left side of the stage, followed by PETER, and gets two chairs from the wings. He places them far forward, out of the way, sits down and motions for PETER to join him. They remain there throughout the scene, watching the actionand occasionally commenting on it in asides.) Scene 2 The Funnies The actors are now in position. On the right side of the porch, stretched out full length on an old horsehair couch—from which the stuffing is coming out—lies GEORGE, a heavy-set, bald-headed man of about seventy. He is reading the funny sheet of the paper. He is wearing suspenders over a white shirt, open at the collar. Next to him toward the center sits PETE, his nephew, who runs the farm. PETE is a rather lean, tough-looking individual with a sour face. He is lame and wears a corrective shoe. He wears a hat on the back of his head, no tie and a colored sport shirt. PETE’S wife, MATTIE, sits next to him, with a part of the paper in her hand. Farthest to the left sits their daughter ANN, a pretty dark-haired girl of seventeen, neatly though simply dressed in her good clothes. AUNT KATE, a stout old woman who is patiently fanning herself with a cardboard advertising fan, sits in a rocking chair in the foreground as if—if the size of the stage permits—she were under a tree on the lawn below the porch. MATTIE and she are dressed in loose cotton print dresses, making no pretense of style. PETE and his daughter ANN are looking straight out in front of them. PETE lights a cigarette, takes a couple of draws, rubs it on the porch, grinding it under his foot, gets up and stretches. He looks as though he were going to say something to GEORGE, then changes his mind and goes to sit on the edge of the steps. Mattie. (looking up from her paper) Why don’t you go out and take a walk around, Pete? Pete. Why don’t you mind your own business? Mattie. You get yourself all stirred up this way so none of us can’t have any rest. Pete. Yeah, I heard you. (He turns toward GEORGE without getting up.) Looka here, George. (GEORGE has not heard him. He is reading the funnies, chuckling to himself.) George. By guy! She wants to duck the baby in a tub of icewater to cure the hiccoughs. Then she starts hiccoughing herself! So what does Popeye do—he grabs her around the neck with one fist and . . . oh boy. Ann. Mother! George. Huh? Mattie. (shouting) How much longer you going to be with that funny sheet, George? Ann. He doesn’t even hear you.

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Mattie. Well, just be patient. (She goes on reading.) Ann. Oh, mother! (PETE gets up and goes into the house.) Kate. (from her chair) What’s the matter, Annie? Ann. Nothing! Absolutely nothing. (There is a pause. PETE comes out of the house, carrying a wooden sign about a foot and a half square. He leans against the doorjamb looking at the sign.) Mattie. Why don’t you quit it, Pete? Pete. Because I don’t intend to. (shouting) Hey, George! George. What do you want? Pete. I want to put up a sign. George. Let’s see it. (PETE, without moving, carelessly turns the sign around so GEORGE can see it.) George. No! (He goes on reading.) (PETE takes GEORGE by the shoulder and pulls him up until he is sitting on the edge of the couch. He shouts in his ear.) Pete. What do you mean, no? (shaking him violently) I say, yes! George. You take your hands off me, Pete Thompson. You ain’t a gonna put no sign on this house. Pete. (shoving GEORGE back on the couch) You damned old fool. George. (struggling to sit up) Who’s a damned old fool? Pete. You are! (GEORGE subsides on his back.) And for two cents I’d knock your teeth down your dirty throat. Mattie. You’re like to do him an injury, Pete, shoving a man of his age around thata way. Stop it! You’ll be driving him into a stroke if you ain’t careful. Pete. (still beside himself) No luck. I wish I knew what’d do it. (He brandishes the sign in his hand.) Kate. You don’t wish nothing of the sort, Pete. Now go on, put that piece of wood down before you do something you’re sorry for. (GEORGE has finally gotten himself up into a sitting position.) George. Looka here, Pete Thompson, you don’t own this place. Pete. Agh! (He threatens GEORGE with the wooden sign in his hand. GEORGE cowers down on the couch again.) Mattie. Now remember what I said, Pete. You ain’t got no right to treat George that way. He’s much too old for that. (to GEORGE, handing him the funnies which he has dropped) Here, George, look at your paper and don’t pay no attention to him. Go on, lie down and read your paper. Pete don’t mean half of what he says. Kate. (from her chair) Let’s see the sign, Pete. (PETE shows it, sullenly. The sign reads) FOR SALE INQUIRE WITHIN Mattie. It ain’t very big, Kate. It won’t show much from the road. Kate. It ain’t how big it is, it’s what it says on it makes George mad. Pete. Well, as far as I’m concerned he can go to hell. I’m through. Kate. You ain’t through, Pete. You got a living here, ain’t you?

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You call it a living? And you and Mattie’ll get the whole place after we’re gone. You and Annie here. Pete. That slut. Kate. Now, Pete, that’s no way to talk. Pete. By Christ, Kate. I’m sick of working for nothing and waiting the rest of my life for an old cripple like him to croak and leave me the farm. What the hell, he’ll probably live longer than I do anyway. Then where’ll I be? George. (suddenly coming to life) Somebody want to buy the place, Pete? Pete. No! George. ’s what I thought. (He yawns, holding the paper in one hand.) Pete. (continuing, to the others) I tell you I’m pulling out tomorrow, and to hell with the whole pack of you. (He takes the sign into the house. There is a pause.) Ann. And I have to sit here all afternoon listening to a lot of disgusting people quarrelling over an old house. You won’t even let me see the funny paper. Mattie. Be careful, Annie, don’t anger your father no more than he’s angered right now. Lower your voice, child, lower your voice. Ann. Him! Pete. (to his daughter, from the house door) Yeah? And you’re another. Mattie. Didn’t I tell you? Pete. If you don’t like it here you know what you can do. Nobody’s keeping you. Mattie. Leave her alone, Pete. It’s Sunday and you said enough to her already. Pete. I’ll leave her alone when she learns to shut her yap when I talk to her. Ann. Who’s saying anything to you? Kate. Don’t pay no attention to her, Pete. (to ANN) Your father’s got a right to tell you what to do. Ann. Yes, if he treats me like a lady he has, but not the way he talks. (KATE makes a gesture of despair and buries herself in her paper.) Pete. What’s the matter with the way I talk? Not good enough for you, huh? Well, I’m the only one around here that tells you what you are, to your face. Damn fool kids—sneaking around at night like a lot of rats. Ann. Where do you want me to go? You let them take the car. Pete. So that’s what’s eating you? You got legs—walk. Yeah, you got legs, plenty! Ann. I resent that! Pete. Go ahead, you ought to. There’s lots of things you ought to resent—only you don’t pick the right guy to resent them from. You don’t like that, do you? Mattie. Don’t raise your voice, Pete. People’ll hear you. Pete. To hell with them.

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Now Annie, don’t answer him back . . . takes two to make a quarrel. You just listen to Aunt Kate. Just don’t answer him back. Ann. (sarcastically) We’re not quarreling. We’re just talking pleasantly together. Pete. You got too much lip, that’s what’s the matter with you. (There is a pause. GEORGE rolls over on his side and puts the paper over his head to keep off the flies.) Mattie. Listen to this. (reading) “Would-be Runaways Please Read This Item.” That’s the headline. Then it says. “Harold Gramlich, 11, Jersey City, ran away from his home with a 15-year-old companion to find adventure. His father, John Gramlich, 57, died of a heart attack while coming here on a bus to get him.” Pete. What put you up to reading that? Mattie. I don’t know. It just struck me, that’s all. Pete. Well, for God’s sake. (There is silence for a moment.) Mattie. (putting down her paper) Anybody want a glass of lemonade? (No one replies. MATTIE gets up and goes into the house.) Ann. I wish you’d turn on the radio when you’re in there, Ma. Pete. Leave it alone. (He picks up part of the paper from the porch floor and puts it down again. Then he takes out a cigarette . . . and puts it back in the pack. He hangs his head low between his knees and looks down at the ground. The radio in the house begins playing a dance number, not too loud.) You would. Kate. Go on in the house, Annie, and turn off that music. (ANN doesn’t stir.) Now, Ann, you go do what I tell you. We was all worried about you last night. You shouldn’t a done it. You know that. Keeping us up till all hours worrying about you, thinking you’d been in an accident maybe. You can’t blame your Pa for getting mad coming in at five o’clock in the morning that way. Now go in and turn off that radio, like a good girl. (There is no answer.) Pete. No use, Kate—no use talking to the little bitch. Kate. Now Peter, you’re a grown man and what’s more, you’re her father. You oughtn’t to carry on like that. Ann. No more than I expect of him. Pete. (really angry) I’ll warm you good one of these days, young lady, big as you are. I’ll take ’em down for you in a way you ain’t used to. Mattie. (in the door) Pete! Pete. (continuing) Right here where they can see from the road. I’ll show ’em what you are. Just keep it up a little while and see what happens to you. Peter. (from the side) Well! After all, Hubert! Hubert. Sh! Please! (PETE gets up, goes into the house and turns off the music. MATTIE comes out with a tray and glasses of lemonade. She puts it down on the floor of the porch and takes a glass to KATE. She looks at GEORGE, but sees he is sleeping and passes him by.)

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Detail 2 Independently of the family group on the porch, and without any interval or change of the set, a second group of actors enter and go into action at one side of the stage. They are four picnickers—two young men and two girls, one of them rather chubby. They come in from the right and put their things down on a crude table and bench which the boys drag in. Hot from walking, they spread themselves around on the grass. They are FRED, ANN’S brother; MIN, a sharp-faced girl; LIL, the stout one; and HORACE, the one who had kept ANN out the night before and because of whom she was punished. The boys are about nineteen or twenty, the girls a little younger. The two groups ignore each other. PETER and HUBERT are still seated at the left side of the stage. Peter. Hubert. Peter. Hubert. Peter. Hubert. Lil.

What’s this? Picnickers at a public park in the neighborhood. What! On the same scene? The mind’s the scene. Whose mind? Let them continue. Whoof! Am I hot. I thought we’d never get here over that path. (looking off to the right) Ain’t the view grand? Fred. What’ll you have, girls? Min. Just a glass of water. Fred. Come on. Come on. How about it? Ginger ale. Coke. What’ll it be? Horace. Don’t ask ’em. Just get something. Go on. Beat it. Min. I’ll have a glass of water. Fred. Three cokes and a glass of water. Right? Lil. I’d rather have an ice-cream soda. Fred. O.K., Kate Smith. Lil. Strawberry. Fred. Oh boy! Lil. You said it. Peter. (to HUBERT) I’m sure you’re trying to insult me. (FRED goes out. The other boy is sullen, moody.) Lil. Come on, Horace . . . smile! Come on, smile. Show your dimples. Look who’s here. Little me. I can’t help it because your girl wouldn’t come with you. Peter. And take my cash at the same time. Horace. She’d have come all right if she could have got away. Peter. And yet . . . Min. Don’t pay any attention to him, Lil. Peter. I rather admire you for it . . . Horace. That thick-head of an old man she has. I’d like to wipe his nose for him.

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Peter. Min.

Against my will. You’re disgusting. What do you want him to do? You bring his little girl home at five in the morning—with the reputation you got. And you want him to meet you with a brass band, I suppose, and a bunch of flowers. Horace. He can’t do this to me. I’ll lay him low. Min. (laughing scornfully) I can just see you. He’ll knock your block off if he catches you within a mile of the place. Horace. Like hell he will. I’ll let him have it. Fred. (bringing the drinks) Let who have what? Min. He’s going to clip your Dad, Fred. Him—Sir Lancelot! And rescue little Annie from her irate parent. Lil. Isn’t he wonderful? My hero! Peter. I’m still the best friend you have. Fred. Yeah, he’s dumb enough to try it. Come out of it, you dope. Where do you think you’ll land? In the hoosegow. Peter. You need me more than you realize. Horace. You think so. Well, wait and see. Lil. Are you really, Horace? Come on, cutie, forget it—just for this afternoon. You asked me to come and I came with you. Now you can’t say I wasn’t generous—knowing what I know. Horace. What do you know? Lil. Well, anyway we ain’t having any fun at all, just because of you. I’m going home. Horace. Go on, walk off some of that fat. Lil. (laughing) Ain’t he cute? I just love him. Min. Maybe you think so. After all, mister, I didn’t come here this afternoon just to have a fresh guy like you show off his bad temper. I’m through with you. Peter. I wonder how you can draw them as you do, your women—vulgar to a degree. (Someone in the wings whispers to HUBERT, who then tries to induce PETER to retire off stage with him. Instead, PETER walks straight across to the right side of the stage, his chair in hand, and seats himself there, smiling. HUBERT follows him and remains standing beside him.) Lil. Say, where’s my ice-cream soda? Fred. You’ll have to take a coke, Lil, they didn’t have any. (They open their cokes and put straws into them.) Detail 3 Ann. (pointing to GEORGE) Look at him! He’s gone to sleep with it over his head now. Mattie. Well, leave it alone. You can look at it later after he’s had his nap. Ann. Oh, I wish I was dead.

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Detail 4 LIL has been making up to HORACE, leaning against him. Horace. Lean off me, will you. Ain’t it hot enough here without you making it worse? Go on. (shoving her) Pull up your socks. Peter. Very pretty. Detail 5 A REAL ESTATE AGENT, a middle-aged man, comes in with AGNES BREEN, a young business woman. She is well but rather severely dressed in a tailored suit. The AGENT brings over two chairs from the left, one of them with an arm rest on which he may write. He places the chairs as if they were in his office. A STAGEHAND puts a telephone on the floor beside his chair. This action takes place at the other side of the stage from where the young people are having their picnic and in front of the family group on the farmhouse porch. Agent. Miss Breen. Peter. Agent. Peter. Miss Breen.

Won’t you come over here, Mrs. . . . uh . . . Thank you. Breen is the name. Agnes Breen. She looks like a man! Oh. Mrs. . . . or . . . Hubert! What is this? Miss. I’m a business woman. I have no family. You might as well know it. I’m alone. And I want a small place in the country for my personal use. The usual things and I don’t want to pay too much for it. I’m told you can help me. Agent. Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes! (She sits down and they talk. He takes notes and shows her various papers and photographs.) Peter. But you are trying to insult me, Hubert. Hubert. I can’t talk to you, Peter, when you act this way. Peter. I’ll be quiet. Ann.

Peter.

Detail 6 I’ll do it! I’ll do it! No matter what anybody says. (There is a pause.) Poor thing, he didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t mean it. But if he was lying, if he was lying! . . . I’ll never show my face again around here. I don’t believe it. I’ve got to see him tonight. I don’t care what they say, I’ll get out of here tonight—and I mean it. Nobody’s going to stop me. I will get out . . . and he’d better be waiting. Oh Hubert, Hubert, Hubert! You poor baby.

Detail 7 Horace. (to LIL) I told you to lean off me. Lil. Aw, come on, be a sport. The whole afternoon’s almost gone and we haven’t done anything but sit here.

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Horace. Aw, go feed the squirrels. Lil. There ain’t any around here. Min. I wouldn’t stand for it. Horace. How much money you got on you, Fred? Fred. What’s the idea? Horace. How much? Fred. A couple of bucks. But I need it—for gasoline. Horace. (to LIL) How much you got, Fatty? Lil. What’s it to you? Horace. I got to have it. Come on, open up. How much? I’ll give it back to you. Lil. I’ll say you will. How much you want? Horace. Ten bucks. Are you game? Lil. Ten dollars! What do you think I am? Horace. Listen, Lil. If you ever wanted to be my friend, this is your chance. It’s up to you. Lil. Oh, is that so? Peter. I find I have very little power over you any longer, Hubert. Min. Come on, Lil, don’t listen to him. Horace. You keep out of this. Come on, Lil, what do you say? Hubert. I can’t go on with you, Peter. You confuse me and I don’t want to be confused. I want to think straight . . . straight. Without consideration. Lil. What do you want it for? Horace. I can’t tell you now, Lil, but I got to have it right away. Peter. I’ve been away much too long. Min. He’s going to elope, darling. Think of what you’re missing. Come on, Fred, I won’t listen to such stuff any more. Horace. What do you say? I’ll give it back to you next Saturday. Lil. You promise? Min. Oh my God, she’s going to let him have it! (LIL opens up her handbag and takes out several small bills.) Lil. (holding the bills) Well. But just try and find anybody else would do a thing like this for you. Peter. The little idiot! (LIL gives HORACE the money which he counts quickly and puts in his pocket. He looks at his wrist watch and then up at the sky.) (PETER yawns and goes off into the wings, followed by HUBERT.) Horace. Thanks, Lil, you’re tops. I’ll never forget this. Lil. I’ll say you won’t. What I can’t understand is . . . Fred. (interrupting) Come on, let’s go down to the pool. Horace. Not me. Min. Come on, Lil. Let’s go down and see them feed the bears. We don’t need him.

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Lil. He’s nothing but a big bear himself. Min. A teddy bear. Horace. Oh yeah? I’ll show you. (LIL, MIN and FRED go off. HORACE remains and during what follows takes out his pocket knife and carves into the picnic table before him.) Detail 8 GEORGE is still sleeping with the paper over his head. The other members of the family are lolling about as before. Kate. (to ANN) So they went away and left you. Where were they going, baby? (The girl does not hear her, so intense is her reverie.) Mattie. (answering for ANN) Over to Mountainside Park, Kate. Her brother had it all arranged, so he had to go. Pete. Can’t she answer for herself when Kate talks to her? Mattie. Now, Pete. Ann. Did somebody say something to me? Pete. (continuing) And let me tell you this, you. Don’t you try to pull a fast one around here tonight. Because by Jesus Christ I’ll break your back for you, if you try it. I know what’s going through your head. You can’t kid me. But you’re not getting away with it. Remember. Mattie. She ain’t thinking nothing, Pete. Pete. No, that’s right, she ain’t thinking nothing. O.K. That makes everything perfectly all right. She ain’t thinking nothing. Kate. Takes after her father, Pete. You’ll never get nowhere that a way. Just make her more stubborn. Ann. (to her father) I hate you. Pete. That’s all right with me, sweetheart. I only hope it ain’t too late. Detail 9 MISS BREEN stands up. The AGENT gets up more slowly. PETER, followed by HUBERT, reappears at the right. They stand there, watching and listening. Miss Breen. Thank you very much. You’ve been quite helpful. Agent. It’s only about a mile and a half from here, down the old Blauvelt Road. Take us two minutes in the car. Miss Breen. No, not today. I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to the city. Agent. I think you ought to see it. A colonial house, not too big. Beautiful location. Possibilities for a nice garden. You can do anything you want with it. Miss Breen. (laughing) Very poetic. And a wonderful buy! I suppose at, shall we say, twenty thousand dollars? Agent. Oh no, I wouldn’t say that. Miss Breen. How much? Agent. —Well, it’s never been listed. Miss Breen. I see. Is it vacant? Agent. No, the same family is living there that’s owned it for the past hundred and fifty years. The Thompsons.

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Miss Breen. Agent.

Any young people? A boy and a young girl just out of high school last year. But they aren’t interested. Miss Breen. Oh! Peter. This from you! Since when have you become so courageous, my little sparrow? You amaze me! You used to eat out of my hand . . . (PETER confronts HUBERT, who is confused and turns away, leaving the stage. PETER seats himself again, defiantly.) Miss Breen. Why do they want to sell? Agent. That’s the catch. They don’t. But I think I can get it for you. Shall we go down and take a look? Miss Breen. Well, I’ll look at it. Agent. Good. I’ll see if I can get them. (He picks up the phone.) 154 ring 3 (He waits.) Busy signal. I think I ought to try to get him first. Pete’s anxious to sell but he don’t own the place. The old people own it. We got to play this right. Miss Breen. Do you think this girl you were speaking of might be interested in secretarial work? Agent. Why not? (He tries the phone again.) Still busy. Peter. Huh! (He looks around and not seeing HUBERT, gets up and goes out.) Detail 10 For God’s sake, mother. I know what it’s all about. I know I’m a poor girl. I know what my chances are. (PETE comes to the door of the house and leans, unobserved by his daughter, in the doorway, listening.) What is there in the world for me? I’ve got to get out of this place. I know. I’ve been to high school. So what? I don’t want to teach. I don’t want to be a nurse. I don’t want to work in an office. Pete. Then for God’s sake what do you want to do, be a night club hostess? Ann. I wish I were clever enough, or good-looking enough to be worthy of such a job. Pete. Well, you picked the right way to start out after it. Ann. What do you mean by that? Pete. You know damn well what I mean. Ann. Well, you’re wrong. Pete. Look me in the eye and say that again. Tell me what you were doing in that car last night. Or do you want me to tell you? Go ahead—how far did he get with you? Ann. None of your business. Pete. That far, huh? You haven’t got the guts to come out clean with it. Ann. (bitterly) All right then. I’m probably going to have a baby! (There are various exclamations of amazement from the members of the family.) Ann.

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Ann.

It’s what you’ve all been saying. It’s what you’ve been trying to pin on me right along all day—all day long with your dirty minds. Wouldn’t you like to believe it? (She sobs hysterically.) (The telephone rings in the house. PETE hesitates, then gets up slowly and goes to answer it.)

Detail 11 Agent. (holding the telephone) Hello, Pete. Pete. (from inside the house) Hi, Elmer, what’s on your mind? Agent. Going to be around the place a little while? Got a client here wants to talk to you about buying the farm. Pete. Who is it? Agent. A professional woman from New York. Pete. Not interested. Like hell I’m not! Sure I’ll sell it. I’ll give it away. How much is she offering? Agent. We’ll talk about that later, Pete. Coming right over. Pete. How much is she willing to pay? Agent. Don’t know yet, Pete. How much you asking? Pete. Ten thousand dollars—for the whole business. Twenty acres, house, barn, garage—the works. Agent. Too much, Pete. Wait a minute. (He puts his hand over the mouthpiece. To MISS BREEN.) Ten thousand. Miss Breen. (shaking her head) No! Agent. Offer you five. See you in a few minutes. Think it over. Cash down—five thousand dollars. Pete. Wasting your time, Elmer. George won’t let you have it anyhow, so save yourself the trouble. Agent. See you in a few minutes. (He hangs up.) Let’s go. (They go off to the left.) Detail 12 Pete. (coming out onto the porch) Somebody wants to buy the house. Now how’d that happen? Mattie. It ain’t yours to sell, Pete. You know that. Pete. By God I’ll sell it. George! Mattie. Don’t wake him now. They coming over? Kate. But what are you going to do with us, Pete? Pete. We can get an apartment somewhere. All right, let him sleep. It’s a woman. Hey, Mattie, go on in the house and fix things up so we won’t have to be ashamed of the place. Maybe when we get somebody here with real jack we can talk to the old bastard. (PETE and MATTIE go into the house.) Detail 13 Lil. (from offstage) Hor-ace! (PETER appears on the right side of the stage.)

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Peter. Lil.

What’s she bellowing about? Hor-ace! (She comes in from the left.) Why don’t you answer me? Come on. You just wanted to make me climb up all those steps. We’re going home. Horace. O.K. (He gathers up the picnic things and goes off with LIL to the right.) (HUBERT joins PETER and they stand looking curiously about.) Hubert. I believed that you would look beyond self-interest. Peter. Oh you did, did you? Hubert. And not for merely personal reasons obstruct me. Peter. He, ho! So that’s the tune! When you heard that I had come back you thought to take advantage of me. Deliberately! And yet you have the crust to say . . . Hubert. It was an opportunity I couldn’t afford to pass up. I . . . Peter. You counted on my continued affection. Hubert. I counted on your help and understanding. Detail 14 ANN and AUNT KATE are alone now on the porch except for the still-sleeping GEORGE. ANN goes over to GEORGE and tries to take the funnies. He has hold of the paper and won’t let go. ANN looks at him closely and turns to KATE. Ann. Kate! There’s something funny about George. He don’t seem to be breathing right. Peter. Why don’t they stick a pin in him? Kate. Oh, leave him alone. Been that way when he’s asleep for the last forty years. Come on. Sit down here on the step by your old auntie and lemme talk to you. You need it bad. Ann. Kate, do you think we’re going to sell the house? Didn’t Pete say it was a woman? What kind of a woman do you suppose she is, Kate? Do you suppose it’s someone like Helen Hayes—some woman like that? Because if she is, Kate, you never can tell what might happen. Do you think it is, Kate? Oh, that would be marvelous. You believe in me, don’t you, Kate? You know I wouldn’t do anything wrong. Kate. Well, I guess we don’t need to worry too much about that. Don’t do no good anyhow. Ann. Look, they’re coming. (The AGENT and AGNES BREEN enter from the left and stand for a moment looking at the house.) Agent. Hello, Annie! This is the young lady I told you about, Miss Breen. Annie, this is Miss Agnes Breen. We’ve come to look at the farm.

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Miss Breen. Really charming. How are you, Ann? Ann. (eagerly) Oh, I’m all right. Agent. (to KATE) I’m sorry—this is a young woman from New York who’s interested in looking at the farm. (KATE struggles to get out of her chair.) Miss Breen. (going to her) Please don’t get up. So sorry we had to disturb you. Kate. Not at all. Very nice of Elmer here to bring you around. Miss Breen. (to the AGENT) Yes, I like this! Ann. Do you! Miss Breen. Yes, dear, I do. I wish I owned it. Really a charming place. (MATTIE comes out of the house, followed by PETE.) Agent. Oh, there you are, Pete. Pete. How do you do? Agent. Miss Breen, this is Mr. Thompson. Excuse me, and Mrs. Thompson, Miss Breen. Miss Breen is interested in looking the place over, Pete. Do you mind if we look around? Mattie. No, not at all. Come right in. Agent. George taking a little snooze over there? Pete. Yeah, he’s been asleep most of the afternoon. Miss Breen. Don’t bother him. Poor man, he’s probably tired. Pete. Yeah. Shall I show you around? Maybe you’d like to go inside first. Nothing’s fixed up much but you’re welcome to see what we got. Miss Breen. Yes, of course. (She goes in through the front door, followed by MATTIE, PETE and the AGENT. ANN, KATE and UNCLE GEORGE, still asleep, remain on the porch.) Ann. Oh, Kate, do you think I could ever get to be like that, so lovely, so thoughtful—and so clever. She must be clever. I feel different just to be near her. Oh, if you only knew what this means to me. (HORACE comes in resolutely from the right. ANN retreats instinctively to the porch before him.) Horace. Ann! Ann. What do you want? Go away from here before my father sees you. I’ll meet you tonight. Horace. Ann, I got to talk to you. Now! Ann. No! Horace. What? You know what you said last night. Come on—I got a car waiting down the road. Ann. I won’t do it. Not now. You got to wait. Horace. Say, what’s going on here? What’s that big car out there on the road? Ann. Somebody wants to buy the house. Horace. To hell with that. Here’s our chance. Ann. No. I’m not sneaking off with anybody. Not now or any time. I’m fed up with you. Right up to here. (She puts her hand to her neck.) I was crazy last night. I don’t know what I said. I don’t remem-

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ber. All I know is I’m not leaving now. Go on, get out of here before my father comes back and you make it all the worse for me. Horace. O.K. Is that all you got to say, Ann? Ann. Darling, I don’t mean it that way. I’ll meet you tonight, the way I said. I’ll promise you. Horace. I don’t know, kid. Maybe you will. But maybe I’ll just wait here and see what happens. I ain’t kidding about this. Not this time. Ann. Oh! (MISS BREEN, PETE, MATTIE and the AGENT come out of the door.) Mattie. She has a brother, in California, that’s rich. He promised to send her to college after she finished high school—but we ain’t never heard from him since. Ann. Oh, mother. (They all stop and look at her. PETE sees HORACE for the first time.) Pete. (to HORACE) What are you doing here? Agent. (to his client) Well, how do you like it? Miss Breen. It’s exactly what I want. If we can agree on a price, I’ll buy it. (There is an awkward pause. The family all turn and look at GEORGE where he is sleeping without a move.) Pete. Well, let’s wake him up. Go on, Ann. Take the paper off his head. (ANN refuses and instead goes over and stands behind MISS BREEN.) Miss Breen. Why, what’s the matter, dear? Pete. (to KATE) Anything the matter with George, Kate? Kate. No, I don’t think so. (PETE goes over and slowly takes the paper off GEORGE’S head.) Pete. Hey, George. (He puts his hand on GEORGE’S shoulder and shakes him.) George! (PETE turns around and looks at the others a moment, not knowing what to do next. Finally his eye lights on HORACE.) Horace! Horace. Yes, sir. Pete. Go get Doc Smith. (HORACE runs out.) Kate. I told you you shouldn’t ought to have fought him that a way, Pete. He must be dead! Miss Breen. (taking ANN in her arms) It’s all right, darling. I’ll take care of you. (ANN clings to her.) Curtain Act III Scene 1 Talk The scene is the kitchen of a small, modern house in the suburbs. It is two days after Christmas. CLARA, a well-built, athletic-looking young woman, is furiously ironing a pile of pink and white table napkins. Her dress is open at the neck—she hasn’t much on.

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By her movements she shows herself to be of a tense, nervous disposition. Occasionally she stops to drink from a tumbler containing an amber-colored liquid. The doorbell chimes sound. CLARA stops ironing, tilts her electric iron up on the board and disappears through the door which leads to the front of the house. The action takes place at high speed throughout. Clara. (from the other room) Come on in. Put your things anywhere. Everything’s upset here. What do you know? She’s asleep. Doc. (from the other room) Well, let her sleep then. Clara. (appearing at the door) Come in here. Want a glass of wine? (The DOCTOR comes in. He is a man of fifty or more. He is rubbing his hands and blowing on them.) Doc. A glass of wine? No, thanks. I’ve got to get home for lunch. Clara. Come on. Doc. (changing his mind) Oh well, all right. Clara. (intensely) Fine! (From under the kitchen table she drags out a gallon jug, half gone, opens it and pours the wine into two large glasses. She nearly fills DOC’S glass.) Doc. Hey! Take it easy. What is this? Clara. Nothing good. One dollar eighty-nine cents at the A & P. California Tokay. It won’t hurt you. (She picks up her glass and drinks it lustily. Everything she does and says is jerky and overemphasized.) Doc. (tasting and shivering) Terrible! How can you down such stuff? Clara. It’s cheap. Doc. It’ll ruin your stomach. Clara. I don’t think so. (She begins to iron again furiously.) Don’t mind if I finish these. We only have one decent cloth and these napkins go with it. This holiday business, having the family and guests in, dinner, cards . . . I go crazy! And of course, today . . . (She makes a despairing gesture toward the ceiling.) (DOC jams himself into a chair in the space between the kitchen table and the wall.) Doc. What’s going on upstairs? Clara. Oh, that child of mine! She’s coughing again. Have a cigarette? (She offers him her pack.) Doc. No, thanks. (He gets up and strikes a light for her.) Clara. (smoking furiously) She drives me to the verge of insanity. Whenever we want to go out—of course that’s the very moment she picks to throw a fit. But this time I’m really worried. You ought to hear her. (imitating) A-shoop! A-whoop! I’ve been listening to that for three days now. It scares me nearly to death. Doc. Three days. Any difficult breathing? Clara. No, only when she coughs. It’s been going on for a week, really. But I’ve been putting it off from day to day, hoping she’d be better —and I thought she was. But an hour ago I took her temperature and it was over a hundred. Doc. Mouth?

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Yes. So I decided I’d waited long enough. Besides I want to go out this afternoon—it’s my club and we have six people for supper—but I don’t know whether to leave her or not. I’ve got a little girl that comes in, but she’s no good and if the child’s going to be sick, I want to know it. Will it do her any harm if I bundle her up and take her over to my mother’s? I don’t want to give her pneumonia. (She drinks from her glass.) Don’t you like it? Doc. Not much. Clara. What do you think? Doc. I’ll have to see her first. Shall we go up? Clara. Do you want to wake her? She hasn’t had a decent sleep for three nights. Doc. It’s up to you. Clara. I just want to feel that I’m doing the right thing. Doc. Oh, I see. (He laughs, then picks up his satchel and rises.) Come on, let’s go up. Clara. (ironing furiously) I’ll be through in a minute. (She burns herself.) Ouch! Doc. Did you burn yourself? Clara. That’s nothing. I’m always doing that. Doc. I’m sorry. (He sits down again and takes up his glass.) Clara. I think if we let her sleep, when she wakes a little later maybe she won’t have any fever. I don’t think we’d better wake her. I’m sure she’ll be all right now. I was just nervous. Doc. That’s fine. (He gets up to go.) Clara. No, I think we ought to wake her. Stick around a while, won’t you? Doc. For the love of Pete, woman, make up your mind and don’t wait until tonight to call me again. I’m here now but I’ll be damned if I’m going to come out again after office hours tonight to please anybody. Clara. Look, Doc . . . I’ve been taking some iron medicine from my own doctor. You’re just for children, aren’t you? Doc. Practically, yes. Clara. I don’t want to have to go to his office this afternoon. Would you give it to me? I’ve got the stuff. Doc. Where? Clara. Right here, in the hip. Do you mind? I’ve just had a bath. Doc. (laughing heartily) All right, get it. Clara. Let me finish these things. (She goes on ironing.) Help yourself to a cigarette. Oh no, you don’t smoke. Haven’t you any bad habits? Doc. Sure. I eat too much and waste too much time talking to too many silly women. But I seem to like it. So what? Clara. Have some more wine. Doc. I shouldn’t. It makes me amorous and low. (He picks up his glass and eyes it a while.) Clara. Not this stuff.

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Doc. (still eying his glass) What do you get out of it? Clara. Me? I love it. Keeps me going. I can work twice as fast when I have a little drink in me. I never take too much. Doc. Smart woman. Well. (He drinks half his glass down and makes a face.) How do you do it? Clara. I know. Just like my mother—you think I’m weak in the head. Doc. I shouldn’t say so. Clara. Oh yes, you would. Everybody says the same thing, even my husband. Sometimes my head does bother me, as if the brains were too big for my skull. But if I keep moving, I feel all right. Doc. With this assistance. Clara. Just so long as I keep going. It’s natural to me. I’ve been like this all my life, I guess. Never stop. Can’t be happy any other way. Oh, I don’t mean that I’m really happy, if you know what I want to say. And if I’m not doing something, I’m talking my fool head off. Everybody says I never stop talking. I know it. They probably get sick and tired of listening to me—hearing me, I mean— because they never listen. I can’t—that’s why I talk. I just go on and on. Half the time I don’t know what I’m saying. Why do people do that? Doc. Oh, there are lots of things worse than talking too much. I enjoy talk. A good talker can be delightful. Clara. I don’t talk that way. I just talk. Doc. Don’t we all. Clara. Whew! (She sits on the edge of the table to rest, smoking, and then takes her glass up to drink.) Anything to quiet the nerves when I get this way. Shhh! (listening) I thought I heard her. (She drinks deeply.) Doc. Will you do me one favor? Please stop swallowing that vile stuff the way you’re doing—it makes me nervous. Clara. It’s good. I need it. Doc. You don’t need it. There are a lot of things you may need but you don’t need that. Clara. I don’t, eh? You’d be surprised. Say, you were born in this town, weren’t you? Doc. Yes, in the dim past. Clara. Then how come you don’t know about me, or do you? Doc. It’s not important. I came here to see your child. Clara. It is important. It’s the most important thing in the world. You’re a doctor—tell me what’s the matter with me. Nobody else seems to help me. Maybe you got some ideas. Doc. I don’t want to know about your case. Clara. Oh, but you must. I’m in a bad way. (He is still holding his glass.) Would you rather have a little Scotch? Doc. No, I’ll just finish this. Clara. You know what? Doc. No.

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I’m going to tell you something. Believe it or not! I haven’t got an ounce of mother love in my whole carcass. What do you suppose is the matter with me? I just haven’t got it. You know what kind of a reputation I have in this town. I’m the original black sheep. I don’t care. (emphasizing each word) I don’t love children. Shocked? Doc. Shocked? I’m practically in love with you already. Clara. Wouldn’t do you any good. I mean it. I’m not shy and I’m not timid. I’m no blushing violet. I tell you just as I’d tell anybody else—I’m trying to do my job as a sweet mother and it’s killing me. I’m telling you—killing me. If I quit the whole mess of this having children and sent it to hell and gone out of my sight, I’d be a better woman—and that’s the truth. Doc. Amazing! Clara. What is? And that’s why I’ve been married twice, I suppose, to find that out. (CLARA gets up, takes the jug from under the table and fills both their glasses again. DOC does not protest.) Doc. So what? Clara. Why don’t somebody tell us how to bring up our children right? I don’t think anybody knows. Everything they ever did to me was stupid, as far as I remember. The food they gave me even must have been tainted. I think I must have been allergic to cow’s milk. Do you know the first thing I remember? My father was cutting down a tree and I laughed like a fool. I must have been about a year old. Doc. Oh, come, come! That’s a bit strong. You don’t remember that. Clara. Anyhow, maybe someone told me. But what I do remember is my father drunk and perfectly marvelous. He let me stand with my feet right on top of his head, with my regular shoes on. Maybe he’d just been to the circus. And I fell off. He tried to catch me, the poor fool, but I landed on the dog, really. You wouldn’t believe the impossible things that have happened to me in my life. The poor mutt. Probably saved me from an injury, or maybe he didn’t. My brains have been curdled ever since, Mac says. I fell down a well once but they dragged me out. I fell out of a tree once, too, trying to get horse chestnuts. I don’t know what for. My brother was way up in the top of it shaking the branches, so I had to follow him. Stupid. Doc. And you remember all these things. Clara. I hated school. What should I learn all that stuff? Nobody ever took me and talked to me as if I had any intelligence. Maybe I didn’t. I never could see any sense to it. Do you know what I wanted to do? Play with the boys. There was a patch of woods— you know where we lived. Do you remember Martha Van Cleve? Well, I was just a little kid but I knew all about it, too. Only I was too small, I guess. All those things. I used to watch the boys be-

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hind the back fence. I didn’t care. I wasn’t even interested but I used to like to follow them around—sometimes the bushes were way over my head. I can still remember it. I wasn’t afraid. I ran away once . . . I didn’t run away . . . I just started to walk and pretty soon I came to the river. There were those catkins that fall off the poplar trees in the Spring lying all over the path and I thought they were worms. I must have been barefoot. I was terrified. I didn’t want to step on them—so I turned around and went home again. I was just going to remind you . . . Oh, let me talk! I’m just getting to what I wanted to say. Do you remember me when I was a little girl? No, you wouldn’t. You were one of the older boys. I used to hear about you, how wonderful you were. I knew your brother. It doesn’t matter. Just a lot of kids. What did we want? Did you ever know? What were we all so excited about? I used to wonder about others. I still do. I remember how I wanted a bicycle. I don’t think I ever wanted anything in my entire life as much as that. But I didn’t get it. The only reason I wanted it, I guess, was because somebody else had one. Anything we hadn’t seen before . . . Isn’t that what it was? School! So stupid. I used to vomit my breakfast so I wouldn’t have to go. (She reaches under the table for the jug.) Have a little more of this? Sure. Why not? Like it now? Not too bad, after you get by the taste of it. Imagine me a student. Honestly, what good is knowledge? If it doesn’t make you happier or better it’s a drug on the market. The happiest people I know are those that simply don’t know nothin’. Some of these girls that went to college. Pfoof! Of all the Goddamndest people! Honestly, don’t you hate some people? So I got married—to the first man that proposed to me. Poor Ed. I knew him ever since we were kids. I wasn’t excited about him, but he was a nice boy—I used to think. And I still think so. But I couldn’t see why I should have a baby right away. This isn’t a hundred and fifty years ago. These are modern times—people don’t have babies like that any more. Isn’t that what causes wars, too many babies? Go on! (He drinks.) Anyhow, that wasn’t what I got married for. We fought every minute. Boy, what battles! You could have heard us a mile, especially when we were drunk. I often had to laugh at what the neighbors must have thought of us—right here in this town. To hell with them. What do I care? Do I have to be a God-damned fool just to please the neighbors? Not me. Let ’em move away if they don’t like it. Do you know the best time I can remember? It was

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when we were breaking up. I thought I was in love with a swimming instructor . . . Let me tell you some of my own little weaknesses. Women! They fascinate me. All kinds of women. I’m an absolute fool for them. Sex, huh? I admire them profoundly. What a marvelous job they do with the equipment they have. Mentally concave, physically inferior . . . I always think of women in terms of the old Roman gladiatorial contests—as the retiarii—the netmen. Remember? Who, me? There were the fellows with the short swords and the broadbrimmed bronze helmets and a fish for a crest, the mirmillones. Shin guards, a girdle of some sort—and that, I think, was all. The others, unprotected, completely nude in fact, if I’m not mistaken, carried a trident in one hand and a small fishnet in the other. It must have been a fairly light net at that so it could be handled. These two fought together. (He sips his drink. She does not interrupt him.) It must have been pretty much of a stand-off since those duels seem to have been a regular fixture on the old programs. The net against the short sword. The swordsmen attacked and the retiarii tricked them with their nets—as a matador does a bull with his red cape. More or less, that’s the way a woman has to play it. Odd, it never occurred to me before that the matador plays the part of a woman! Say, what is this? I thought I was talking. You were. We get slapped alongside the face, we become salesmen, walking up and down, tossing in our beds—at the wrong time. Even turn on the gas—and worse. Purely a matter of the uniqueness of experience—the old sow has only the one milk to offer them no matter which tit they take it from . . . Listen! I didn’t finish telling you about the swimming instructor I thought I was in love with, in one of these club pools. I guess it was just the relief I felt at getting unmarried again. But I thought it was love. I never did like to wear clothes. I’d never put on a dress if I didn’t have to. Too lazy, I suppose. I got a pretty good build—too much down here maybe, but not so bad. I guess he thought I was a hot chicken, getting divorced and all that. Poor guy. But I liked it—while it lasted. I’d lie out in the sun on the hot boards. Gee! But sometimes they’re too hot. And put my head on his knees and he’d fool around with my hair, comb it out and massage my scalp by the hour. Right there in the open. I suppose some of the club members didn’t like it. Do you know the thing I enjoy better than anything else in the world? No. To have my back scratched. Now look here, young woman.

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We had some good times together—he had an old jalopy. But I didn’t want to marry him. We went out a few nights and he fooled around. That was enough. So finally I got married again, to a real guy. Poor Mac, he didn’t get much. I’m funny. If he doesn’t come home on time for supper sometimes, I’m heartbroken. I cry like a fool. Then when he does come finally, I’m completely satisfied. That’s the trouble. Isn’t that nuts? Completely. But he says he can’t sleep if I don’t sleep with him. Well, I can’t sleep that way and I’ve got to get my sleep. So . . . He sleeps alone. Look here . . . The first time I was married I refused to have a baby and let the whole town know about it. I didn’t want one. All right, now I’m married again and I have one. Poor kid, I was right the first time. I remember when I was a youngster . . . I want to do the right thing—but you have to be such a liar. Good. I don’t think I’m capable of love. What is love anyway? I don’t know. Like the cats, do they mean? Not me. Never. Do you know what I think of myself? Cigarettes, drinks, cards. That’s me. If it weren’t for them I’d go crazy. (She drinks.) What makes me that way? Lack of iron, apparently, according to your doctor. Did anybody ever try to rape you? No, why? When I was a kid once, I planned to seduce a little girl of the neighborhood. I wonder if it was you? How could it be? I wasn’t even born then. Unimportant. I plotted the assault with great care, I assure you. She was considerably younger than myself and used to pass our house regularly every weekday toward sundown. I can’t have been very young, after all, since my objective was rape. She was a somewhat plump but alluring little animal, always alone, always on time—I wonder if she didn’t have a music roll in her hand—always coming up the street at that strange hour when no one else was about. With great secrecy and almost devilish ingenuity I arranged every detail of the plan, to the last stroke, in my fevered brain. Is this true? Of course it’s true. It took me a week or more to lay the thing out. The abduction was to take place in front of the Episcopal Church, just across the street from where we lived. Behind the church, between its rear wall and a shrub-hidden iron fence, was a narrow space—as well known to me as my own bed—where the passionate deed was to be completed, on the bare ground. Lest she struggle and cry out I had prepared pegs and cords to which her

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arms and feet were to be bound and a gag for her mouth. Under pretense that we were playing a game of cops and robbers I had my father show me just how he thought a proper gag should be made. Mother stitched it up for me out of an old piece of sheeting. I cut and notched the stakes myself and several times made trips back of the church to pick the exact spot. Yes, I figured the proper distances and drove the wooden stakes into the ground securely against the time of my arrival with the victim. Huh? My plan was, of course, to try first to induce her to come willingly for after all I had no desire to harm the child but merely to enjoy her and to endow upon her those things which I had so abundantly to give. But if she would not yield, then I would carry her off, come what may. What are you talking about? Women! With their small heads and big lustrous eyes. All my life I have never been able to escape them. But what happened? What do you mean? To the little girl. Oh, that. Nothing. Just talk. She probably had been waiting weeks for me to speak to her. We were both excited. When she smiled and said hello as I stopped her—that ended it for me, completely. I remember, a week later, coming on the stakes I had driven into the ground and looking at them in amazement—that I ever could have even thought of such a thing. Is that all? (She has had the glass of wine in her hand all this time. She puts it down.) Aren’t you drinking? No. Go on, you’re doing things to me. Go on, talk some more. Talk, talk, talk! Everything runs out finally into talk. Doesn’t it though—and isn’t it restful. And pretty soon we’ll all be dead forever and never have opened our eyes wide once—wide, that is, to see what actually . . . starved as we live, because we never, never, never, never took a chance among the five or six thousand or million people of our small personal world to know them actually and individually . . . what actually the creature in the next bin is doing or feeling. And all the shyness and all the prudery and all the moral carpings are no more than so much heartburn from our chronic emptiness. Shall we go upstairs now? No. Talk some more. I love it. No. Let’s get out of this. God! I haven’t felt so relaxed in months. It’s marvelous to find someone you can say anything to—anything at all, and he’ll understand it. I can’t open my mouth except to a couple of girls—

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and I can’t tell them everything, I can’t tell my mother, I can’t tell my husband . . . Doc. And I’m not interested. (PETER starts to come impetuously out onto the stage at the right, but is drawn back, persuasively, by HUBERT. As this happens PETER cries out, “Mama!” in a childish, falsetto voice, imitating a child. DOC picks up his satchel and starts to go. CLARA grabs his arm as he passes her.) Clara. Hey, come here. (He turns.) Do you love me? Doc. How ridiculous. No. Clara. Don’t you want to kiss me? (She puts her arms about his neck and plants a long kiss on his mouth as, at first, he struggles to avoid her. Without relinquishing her hold, she lays her head on his shoulder, relaxed. Just at this moment, CLARA’S CHILD, a little girl of about five, comes in. She is wearing a sleeping suit and carries a white rabbit doll with pink ears—almost as big as herself.) The Child. Daddy! (DOC has seen the CHILD before CLARA and, breaking loose, goes to the little girl, picks her up and sits her on the ironing board. CLARA puts her hand up to her mouth, aghast. There is no curtain as this scene runs, without break, into the next.) Scene 2 The sound of PETER’S voice simulating the crying of the child has been heard a moment earlier. Now there is a commotion at the side of the stage and PETER comes forward, laughing derisively, followed by HUBERT, who hangs his head. CLARA and DOC stand back, disapproving and disturbed. Peter. (laughing) No, no, no, no, no, no! I told you at the beginning—no. Hubert. Well done, Alise! And you, George. I wish only that I had written something worthier of you. (Following the interruption by PETER and HUBERT, others also come on the stage from various directions—well-wishers, friends of the actors, members of the stage crew and theater staff, both men and women. They gather around ALISE and DOC, talking to them, or wait to say a word to HUBERT, whom PETER is monopolizing—ignoring everyone else.) Peter. Yes, you did very well, both of you. But, Hubert, you’re the one at fault. Can’t you see it? It’s unresolved, floating, too silly. The old goat gets nowhere. Hubert. Does it matter? Peter. Does it matter! What’s wrong with you? (ALISE now abandons her role as CLARA and comes forward—as herself.)

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Can’t you understand? Hubert has told you twenty times. (She thinks better of her impetuousness.) I beg your pardon. I’m sorry. Peter. You should be. Hubert! With your ability! What is there here? No heat, no lifting of the scene, no tension—no romance! Here, in the third act, when the business should be primed and waiting, you leave both these miserable characters flapping their wings like wounded birds. It’s stylized, well-worked and I like it—in a sense. But what’s that? It won’t stand up. Stand up, you understand. Kick and yell and drive in as it should—as any proper scene nearing the catastrophe must do. I say this, Hubert, for you. You yourself, I mean. Have you ever been in love? I doubt it. That anguish, that insistence, that mad fatalistic plunge! The arrow! That’s it. Where in all this will you find that likeness of an arrow, insistent, unrelenting, an arrow that seeks its mark through all obstructions? Alise. Darling, shall I laugh or cry? Hubert. Please! Peter. Cry, you’d do it so extremely well. Hubert. But you are angry? Peter. Hurt rather, that you should think me so obtuse. Hubert. And there’s nothing here? I thought you at least . . . Peter. Oh well, if you say, nothing! But for you, Hubert! What I want for you is something different, something that grips a man in his sinful heart and tortures him, unrolled like a red carpet at a Polish wedding— down to the footlights! And over them, until he sees it as if it were blood creeping to his feet. I’ve imagined

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many things for you, young man, but you seem to have a knack to avoid coming face to face, whether with yourself—or me. Hubert. Come, come, Peter. Peter. You’re slick as a dance floor, my friend. You know, sometimes I despise the shoes you walk in. Have I hurt you, Hubert? Hubert. Not at all. Alise. (to Hubert) Darling, what’s the matter? Hubert. I wanted to write a play . . . Peter. It won’t do. Let some idiot—in the usual arty fashion—make a book of it. But don’t seek to produce it. Hubert. It can be done successfully— trial and error. Peter. No, my boy. Trial, yes. The theater is a trial, truly. It’s not a plaything. But in the theater to kill you’ve got to kill! With a hammer if need be . . . Or they’ll walk out on you. I don’t know but that I should walk out myself at this point and call it quits. Hubert. Don’t do that, Peter. Peter. If you weren’t so able, I’d do it without a thought. Alise. I’m sure we don’t need you. Hubert. (to Alise) Go in and get dressed, won’t you, Alise? We’ll be leaving in a moment—when we can continue this discussion elsewhere. Shall we, Peter? Peter. This is no discussion. (The STAGEHANDS have been standing around anxious to clean up, waiting for an opportunity to take down the set. HUBERT motions for them to go ahead with it—which they proceed to do. ALISE does not leave. PETER watches her. Seeing that both are determined to stick it out, HUBERT resigns himself to the circumstances.) Hubert. Let’s understand each other, Peter. Peter. Well, out with it. Hubert. No, I’ve nothing more to say. Alise. Of course you have. Peter. Come on. Hubert. I have a play, mature

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enough to suit you, which has been sketched scene for scene, act for act. But lacking experience, as you know, I have adopted this method of a trial-horse to approach it. And were it not for the bitterness which . . . Go on, Hubert. I say: when we see, on the stage, what we expect to see— I’m not speaking of circuses but something to turn our minds a little to the light—it should project above the coarseness of the materials . . . something else, in the words themselves, tragic without vulgarity. Seen— in the mind! The mind itself . . . today, without firearms and other claptrap, in its own tragic situation. We can’t do this at once but must restudy the means. If I wish to present love, dramatically, today . . . Yes. Yes. I might do it—with a coalscuttle. How? By spitting in it. Darling! You mustn’t talk that way. Puh! Don’t let that beast dishearten you. Young woman, let me ask you a direct question. Please, Peter! Speak to her. I hope you’re not going to make a scene, Peter. Don’t be grotesque. You never have known what you’re talking about and I’m afraid you never will. (to ALISE) We understand each other. Do you love this person? Hubert! What can I do? Splendid! Then let me tell you this: when I first knew Hubert he was a very beautiful young man . . . Oh!

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(Up to this point the others on the stage have been moving about somewhat embarrassed, interested, amused at the completely brazen indifference shown to them by PETER. Now they become more attentive, trying to hear as much as possible of what he is saying. HUBERT, seeing that both ALISE and PETER are determined to fight it to a finish, turns to one of the stagehands.) Hubert. What do you think of it, Kelly? Has it got a chance? Kelly. Beyond me, sir. Peter. Don’t be a sentimental jackass, Hubert. Alise. Leave him alone! Hubert. Please, my dear. Let’s get out of this. Peter. Not on your life! Alise. You’re worse than a dog in heat. Hubert. Don’t be vulgar, Alise. Peter. She’s a woman. (At this point one of the scene-shifters who has been trying, carefully, to remove part of the set and listen at the same time to what is being said, allows the flat he has been moving to fall to the boards.) Hubert. Peter! Peter. What is it? Hubert. That’s enough. I might as well tell you, first as last—Alise and I are to be married. (Some have heard, others have not. HUBERT goes toward ALISE, or attempts to, but PETER takes his hand, detaining him. A profound change in attitude is simulated by PETER toward HUBERT and ALISE.) Hubert. (To ALISE) Let’s go now. Peter. (gaily) Do you hear that, people? We’re going to have a wedding amongst us. Alise, why didn’t you tell me? Of course, this alters everything. Alise. (To HUBERT) Take me home. Peter. Don’t let her go. But Hubert, are you all set? Have you had the blood tests? And the license? Everything? Hubert. In my pocket. Peter. Kelly! Where are you? Hubert. What are you doing, Peter? (KELLY has come up to PETER, who gives him a fistful of bills.) Peter. Have a couple of the boys go out and buy some decorations—you understand.

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Some flowers too. It’s rather late, sir. The best there is and plenty. You have the money. Hubert. What is this? (PETER takes a small notebook from his pocket.) Peter. And Kelly! Kelly. Yes, sir. Peter. Have one of the girls ring this number for me, quickly! And call me when she gets it. (He pats ALISE on the shoulder.) This, Hubert, is too precious to be wasted. We haven’t got much time, we must improvise. Why didn’t one of you come out with it? Hubert. What are you up to? Peter. The wedding! We’ll have it here! Tonight! Hubert. You can’t do that, Peter. Peter. Who says I can’t? I can do anything— except one! Alise, what do you say? Come on. You’re a woman. Tell him what it’s all about. This play shall be my wedding present to you babies. What a fool I’ve been. (A YOUNG WOMAN comes in to PETER.) Girl. I’ve got your number for you, sir. Peter. It’s the “archbishop.” He’s just around the corner. (PETER goes out. HUBERT goes to ALISE, who is standing somewhat aside. The others respect their desire to talk privately. PETER’S voice is heard loudly from outside.) Alise. Let’s get away from here, Hubert. Quickly. Hubert. What for? Alise. Oh, don’t ask me. Come! Hubert. Your clothes. Alise. We’ll take a taxi. Hubert. Run away? Alise. Oh, I’m afraid. Come on. Hubert. We can’t do that, my darling. Alise. Can’t you see? Hubert. My dear baby! Let him have his way. We’ll Kelly. Peter.

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be married and . . . Alise.

No, Hubert! He’s too strong for you. Hubert. What do you mean? Alise. Don’t ask me. Only . . . Come . . . now! Hubert. But the play. Alise. Oh, damn the play! I know what I’m talking about. Now. At once. If you love me, Hubert. Hubert. Very well. Alise. (seeing his face) No. You poor boy. (PETER returns, triumphantly.) Peter. He was a tough one, but I threw him. And he’ll be here, as the leopard flies! (He sees them.) Oh, there you are. (ALISE starts away.) Hubert. (to ALISE) What is it, my dear? Alise. I’m cold. Hubert. Can’t I fetch you a wrap? Alise. I’m going to my dressing room. Peter. Let her go, Hubert. She’ll be back. There must be a piano somewhere. One of you girls look about. We should have confetti and white doves to release! Someone tear up a telephone directory . . . Don’t sulk, Hubert. Look—this is my last evening. I claim it. After the ceremony is over we’ll take Alise and pack her into her little bed— so she can get her beauty rest against tomorrow evening. (ALISE returns at this point, wearing a loose wrap.) She’ll agree, and you and I shall steal away . . . It is my privilege! Le Droit du Seigneur! For just this one night! We two, together. Marvelous. Don’t you think so, Alise? Alise. I didn’t hear you. Peter. That’s the spirit. (shouting) Bring us some champagne, Kelly! Where is that man?

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Then it’s agreed! Come on, everybody. Let’s fix things up a little before the Church in all its fury bursts in upon us. (Much of the scenery has been taken down. The whole place is more or less a shambles. Everybody turns and an altar-like platform is set up in the center of the stage.) Hubert. (to ALISE) Is everything all right? Alise. Quite perfect, darling. (ALISE is clinging to HUBERT’S side, looking at him with great concern in her eyes. PETER takes the center of the stage.) Peter. Before this wedding takes place, kind people, let me tell you the bitter truth of it. (There is some laughter.) As a husband, this man isn’t worth a woman’s hairpin—completely wasted. I’d like to break his neck rather than see him do it. Alise. (to HUBERT) I’m going to shoot him. (Her right hand is hidden under her wrap.) Hubert. Alise! (She moves away from him, but he follows her.) Peter. So I have warned her. He may say, I love you. Don’t believe him. There is something in this man—as in any man—not to be benefited by a marriage. And he knows it thoroughly. This thing that you see here, that you, Alise, imagine is your lover, this complexity about whom you will never in your entire life learn anything to the purpose, this man, as you are a woman, will remain . . . (The company is amused and laughing at PETER’S mock heroics.) as cold as ice in his heart—toward you, as toward every other feeling thing about him, completely cold . . . except—as interpretable to him through his writing! Do you think he loves you? Don’t make me laugh. He doesn’t even love himself. He is as specialized as a foxhound. He waits only to be loosed by his writing. That aside, he is a prisoner, dim-witted, furious, raging at his prison no matter how smooth the waters may seem to ripple

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under your shining sun. He has only one ambition—to get out! Out from within himself, where he is freezing. There is only one door. Writing! Stop him and he’ll destroy you —or himself, with as much indifference as he’d eat a potato. Marry him and become his jailor—you’ll find him thoroughly contemptible, not even human. This is the way it is—and you shall have, tomorrow, no part whatever in his life. Hubert. Heroic nonsense, Peter. Just the relief I needed. Very funny. Peter. Oh, but I’m serious! And I warn all women. Leave men like this alone. Dear Alise! She should have taken my warning. I say, whatever he does you may be sure when you flatter yourself that he’s deceiving you, or slighting you, running here and there, it’s nothing of the sort. You’d be fortunate if he had that much feeling in him for you. He has none. It is only the machine grinding toward its end. To break the walls and let him out. To escape, to write, to realize, to come through the obscurity of his surroundings to the flame— of himself, not you—a light he, poor fellow, thinks he sees. Keep out of his way in such moments, if you wish to hold him . . . A Voice. (from outside) Here’s the minister. Peter. Hurrah! (singing) Strike up the band! Here comes the sailor! (As they all turn to look for the MINISTER, HUBERT, who has been watching ALISE, rushes over to her.) Hubert. Alise! (She evades him and goes over to PETER.) Alise. Peter, take this—I don’t want Hubert to have it. Peter. What is it? Alise. A pistol. I was going to shoot you. Peter. Oh. It’s loaded!

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(PETER takes the pistol and puts it in his pocket. As he does so the MINISTER enters. He is a man of PETER’S age, his classmate at Groton where he was known as “The Archbishop.” He is wearing a dark suit with clerical collar.) Minister. This is preposterous. Peter. Oh, shut up, Tommy, we’re not at Groton. Of course it’s preposterous. These young people want you to marry them. Come on, gather round, everybody! Minister. But who are they? At this hour! Alise. And I’m going to have a baby. Minister. Yes, yes, of course, my dear, what else is marriage for? (KELLY comes in with champagne and glasses, and two assistants carrying flowers.) Several Voices. Kelly, Kelly! Here he is! (Someone begins to play the piano. There is general excitement. PETER shows the pistol to the MINISTER. The women are talking gaily, congratulating HUBERT and ALISE.) Curtain

Gertrude Stein (1874–1946) LOOKING DOWN ON AMERICA FROM AN AIRPLANE IN 1934, GERTRUDE STEIN reflected, “I did want to write a play about the States the way I did about the Saints”.1 The parallel was apt. After living more than three decades as an expatriate in Paris, Stein had as little connection to the United States as to the baroque Catholic saints that inspired her Four Saints in Three Acts (written 1927; produced 1934). Born in 1874 to German-Jewish émigrés in Allegheny, Pennsylvania (now part of metropolitan Pittsburgh), Stein lived briefly in Vienna, Austria, until her parents relocated in 1879 to Oakland, California, of which she famously remarked “there is no there there.” As a young adult, Stein followed her older brother Leo first to Harvard (she attended the women’s college Radcliffe), then to Johns Hopkins Medical School, and finally to France in 1903. Financially secure from the investments of her eldest brother, Michael, Stein lived nearly her entire adult life writing in France, becoming one of the many modern artists who called Paris home during the early decades of the twentieth century. In Paris, Stein became legendary for her collection of modern art—she was among the first to collect works by Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, and Georges Braque, among others—and for her cultural salons, hosted first with her brother and later with her romantic partner, Alice B. Toklas. Her gatherings with modernist artists and authors at 27 Rue de Fleurus became internationally renowned, and younger American writers, artists, and composers, including Virgil Thomson, sought her company and approval. During this legendary time in Paris, Stein developed the distinctive writing style that would make her both the object of ridicule and an enduring literary figure. In Stein’s poetry words do not necessarily refer to objects or realities outside themselves. No doubt, the most famous example is the enigmatic “A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose” from Sacred Emily (1913). Often printed in a never-ending circle (Stein used the image on her personal stationery), the poem is a meditation not only on the object of a rose but also on the word itself freed from its representational function. The repetition, Stein claimed, compels readers to become aware of language in new ways such that the “rose is red for the first time in English poetry for a hundred years.”2 Stein wanted her audience to confront words anew, so she divorced the individual words from their usual representative function. In 267

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recognizing that the name rose is read like the flower is red, one can begin to understand how Stein’s use of repetition and heightened attention to language destabilized the common associations of everyday words. This strategy in many ways paralleled the avant-garde painting and performance that resonated throughout Paris in the early decades of the twentieth century. As fellow poet and playwright Edith Sitwell wrote of Stein, “We have long been accustomed to abstract patterns in the pictorial art, and to the idea that music is an abstract art, but nobody to my knowledge has ever gone so far in making abstract patterns in words as the modernist poet has.”3 Like the visual structure of cubist painting, Stein used the pieces of language to construct a fragmented vision of the modern world. Fragmentation itself appeared as the subject of her plays, which she began in 1913 with the short What Happened. A Play (1913) and continued to great critical and surprising commercial success in Four Saints in Three Acts (1934). In much of her drama, Stein eschewed formal dramatic constructs, such as character, plot, and action, instead focusing on the construction of language as a dramatic device. Take, for instance, Stein’s description of the character of St. Therese in Four Saints. Saint Therese. Who settles a private life. Saint Therese. Who settles a private life. Saint Therese. Who settles a private life. Saint Therese. Who settles a private life.4

Like the rose in Sacred Emily, Stein’s Saint Therese focuses the reader’s attention on the words and their construction through the use of repetition. Stein does not describe the saint (i.e., Saint Therese was a person who settled for a private life), nor does she describe a dramatic character actively doing something on the stage (i.e., Saint Therese says, “Who settles a private life”). Instead, Stein creates a character who exists as language. As she says in her essay “Plays,” “in my early plays I tried to tell what happened without telling stories so that the essence of what happened would be like the essence of the portraits, what made what happened be what it was.”5 Thus, Stein creates a character neither through narrative nor through dramatic action—what happened—but as the essence of that character, the condition perhaps of the dramatic character. The Mother of Us All (1945–46) is thus a surprising, though fitting, coda to Stein’s long literary career. While in many respects more conventional than her other drama—with its clearly defined characters, mostly coherent plot, and discernible dialogue—Stein retains the repetitions, puns, and other manipulations of language that marked her earlier poetry and plays. Even more surprising, however, is that despite Stein’s long-term separation from America, this rumination on her homeland is perhaps her most per-

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sonal play. Though not literal autobiography, Stein clearly aligns herself with the title character: famed suffragette, Susan B. Anthony. Within the play, both Stein and Anthony have fathers named Daniel, and Stein gives Anthony a female companion (lover?) not unlike Toklas. Written during the last two years of her life, The Mother of Us All reflects Stein’s own thinking about her career, her legacy, and, most importantly, the radical potential of speech. Explicitly written as a libretto for her collaborator, Virgil Thomson, Stein’s final play directly appeals to a theatrical audience, even as it simultaneously questions the potential for that audience to affect political change in America. Though less well-known than Four Saints, The Mother of Us All reflects Stein’s attempt to write for a popular audience, with the specific purpose of uniting radical poetics with revolutionary politics. In particular, she synthesizes experimental language—made famous in poems like “Tender Buttons” (1914)—with astute political awareness and an engagement with the audience previously absent from her plays. Rare among her drama, Stein’s The Mother of Us All is constructed with careful attention to the principles of performance. Stein’s coherent characters, plot, and dialogue accentuate her political emphasis and establish a new connection between poetics and the modern world. Stein’s view of the modern world maintains that language has profoundly changed. The Mother of Us All demonstrates a fragmentation of language common to most of her work in dialogue replete with repetitions, disjointed typography, and non sequitur dialogue. Unlike most of her other plays, however, Stein’s manipulations of language in this play reflect not only the instabilities of language itself but also the power inherent in all communication and the futility of modern speech. Her fragmentation of dialogue makes us aware of the words themselves as well as the political and social reality experienced by the person who speaks them. The mother of the title is an ironic designation for the feminist suffragette Susan B. Anthony, who attempts to birth a movement through her own poetics. Her repeated plea, in common with another Stein play, is “listen to me.” Linguistic repetitions in the play are used not only to draw attention to language itself, but also to emphasize the revolutionary potential of radical language. Stein explicitly weds radical form to revolutionary politics, but it is an exercise fraught with struggle. Note, for example, how Anthony reacts after one of her public speeches: Will they remember that it is true that neither they that neither you, will they marry will they carry, aloud, the right to know that even if they love them so, they are alone to live and die, they are alone to sink and swim they

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are alone to have what they own, to have no idea but that they are here, to struggle and thirst to do everything first, because until it is done there is no other one.

Stein’s language, with its circular structure, repetitive rhythm, and use of rhyme accentuates Anthony’s anxiety about the ignorance of her audience— especially women. She worries that they will not recognize their isolation in marriage (“even if they love them so, they are alone”) and that they will not prioritize the right to vote over their daily tasks. The repetition creates a rhythm of struggle, in part because it appears that nothing is actually happening, and it connects Anthony’s unusual language to her unique political insight. She speaks differently because she sees the world differently, and Anthony’s language moves in circles (the title of another Stein play), just as her political agenda remains stymied, though not stationary. Both in form and content, Stein’s language articulates political frustration and inertia as communication limitations. Even as she uses language to radicalize the crowd, Stein simultaneously isolates and alienates characters linguistically. In most scenes, characters appear not to hear each other, multiple conversations happen simultaneously, and it can be difficult to follow any particular line of argument or discussion. Stein’s text gradually becomes less a rumination on language itself than the articulation of the futility of public speech by those without power. When the white, powerful men of the play, referred to as “V.I.Ps,” speak, even their most nonsensical language is treated as valuable. As Thaddeus S. observes, “It is not necessary to have any meaning I am he, he is me I am a V.I.P.” Such language, Stein suggests, has the ability to oppress and restrict the expression of others. In the most obvious example, the V.I.P.s react to Anthony’s quest for the right of women to vote by inserting the word “male” into the Constitution, an action that Anthony rightly interprets as the linguistic power of the law on those without speech. Having only her words to further her agenda, Susan B. Anthony herself represents the political potential of radical speech, and she repeatedly looks for those who will “listen to me.” Stein thus positions the play as the struggle to be heard, for herself to be understood as an artist, and for radical language to affect political change. Just as Susan B. Anthony’s speech uses erratic and repetitive phrases—like any good protestor—to undermine the conventional, patriarchal language in documents like the Constitution, so, too, does the play’s structure undermine the familiar progression of a historical pageant. The play at first appears to be an episodic history, but it is not a linear retrospective. Instead of a plot that sequentially recounts the events in either Anthony’s life or the suffrage movement at large, Stein situates the suffragette in a series of con-

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frontational scenes in which Anthony must confront not only her immediate contemporaries but also figures from more than one hundred years of American history. Hence, the rumination on biological fathers in the opening of the play portends this confrontation with America’s founding fathers, and political genealogy is further confused for the “mother” of modern America. Rather than moving through a series of events that reflect a historical record, Stein plays the scenes against each other, offering little causal connection between them. The structure here is dialectical rather than causal, and history itself is telescoped into scenes in which characters from different periods in American history interact with each other. Stein articulates Susan B. Anthony’s struggle for recognition and equality as timeless if not universal. Following the perspective that modernity represented a fundamental rupture with the past, Stein tears history and people from the past, placing them anachronistically into her own constructed present. By eliminating a sense of history as linear and progressive, Stein suggests that history, like her poetry, can be read as the “continuous present,” in which all the events are happening in a single moment, played over and over again. The effect of this onstage is to present a history without progression. This articulation of history conflates the struggles of the past with the problems of the future, implying the futility of any action. Stein suggests pessimistically that history is not merely repeating itself but is stuck in time. As Susan B. Anthony says in the final scene, “We cannot retrace our steps, going forward may be the same as going backwards.” This sense of history almost certainly relates to Stein’s own political and personal perspective while writing the play in 1945. Although anxiety toward the modern age was endemic to modernist literature in the wake of the Industrial Revolution and the devastation of World War I, Stein’s worldview in 1944–45 was particularly bleak. In 1944, Stein and Toklas returned to Paris from Bilignin, France, where they lived during World War II. Stein was already sick with the cancer that would end her life in 1946 and the war years had been physically and psychologically draining. In a particularly poignant moment from her memoir, Wars I Have Seen (1945), Stein recalls hearing the children outside playing at war, though the sounds of the German bombs had barely receded in the distance. This historical reenactment—far worse than any linguistic repetition Stein could ever muster —echoes in the despair at the conclusion of Mother of Us All, particularly when Susan B. observes that her laws for women will not matter if women are to become “like men.” Perhaps a reflection of Stein’s own sense of isolation at the end of her life, The Mother of Us All ends with a profound sense of despair, as if to suggest that both Anthony’s and Stein’s attempts at language have ultimately failed to affect lasting change. Although Susan

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B. Anthony returns from the dead at the end of the play to witness women’s right to vote, she cannot embrace her life as success. The final lines, punctuated by silences, become poignant examples of Anthony’s doubts in the very last lines of the play. As she contemplates her “long long life,” she plaintively asks the audience, “Do you know because I tell you so, or do you know, do you know.” There is no clear answer within the play itself, but we can see Stein contemplating her own career and perhaps wondering if anyone would ever understand what she had been saying. Sadly, Stein would not live to see the completed opera performed in 1947. She died of cancer in July 1946 before Thomson had even begun composing the music. Nonetheless, the opera would have a lively history in the twentieth century. Commissioned by Columbia University, its Brander Matthew Theater premiered the opera in 1947 and broadcast the performance simultaneously on WNYC. Virgil Thomson continued to conduct the opera in the years following its premiere, including a concert version for the Cleveland orchestra in 1949, and a full production for the Phoenix Theatre in New York in 1956. Though not as popular as Four Saints, The Mother of Us All received regular production by groups like the American Opera Society at Carnegie Hall (1964), the Guthrie Theater (1967), the Chicago Opera Theater (1976), and Lincoln Center (1987). The first major recording of the opera was made from the production at the Santa Fe Opera in 1992 and the New York City Opera added The Mother of Us All to its repertoire with a stunning production in 1998. The most recent production by the San Francisco Opera Company in 2003 demonstrates the inherent theatricality of Stein’s play of politics and language. In the finished text, enhanced by Thomson’s music and the movement of characters, one sees Anthony’s desperate frustrations as an outsider woman trying to be heard over the din of parades, boisterous songs, and the distractions of daily life. The orchestra—sometimes drowning out the pleading Anthony—and the multitude of the crowd amplify the difficulty of truly hearing new, revolutionary language. Watching the opera, one is struck by the eternal difficulty of hearing thoughtful discourse amid the distracting spectacle of political performance, whether in the nineteenth century or the present media age. Though she returned to the United States only once in her adult life, Stein’s perspective on American political theater remains an insightful commentary, even more than sixty years later.

FURTHER READING Bay-Cheng, Sarah. Mama Dada: Gertrude Stein’s Avant-Garde Theater. New York: Routledge, 2005. Bowers, Jane. “They Watch Me as They Watch This”: Gertrude Stein’s Metadrama. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991.

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Davis, Phoebe Stein. “Even Cake Get to Have Another Meeting: History, Narrative, and Daily Living in Stein’s WWII Writings.” Modern Fiction Studies 44, no. 3 (1998): 568– 607. Durham, Leslie. Staging Gertrude Stein: Absence, Culture, and the Landscape of Alternative American Theatre. New York: Palgrave, 2005. Robinson, Marc. “Gertrude Stein.” In The Other American Drama. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994.

The Mother of Us All (1945–46) by Gertrude Stein

Act I (Prologue sung by Virgil T.)

Virgil T.

Pity the poor persecutor. Why, If money is money isn’t money money, Why, Pity the poor persecutor, Why, Is money money or isn’t money money. Why. Pity the poor persecutor. Pity the poor persecutor because the poor persecutor always gets to be poor Why, Because the persecutor gets persecuted Because is money money or isn’t money money, That’s why, When the poor persecutor is persecuted he has to cry, Why, Because the persecutor always ends by being persecuted, That is the reason why. (Virgil T. after he has sung his prelude begins to sit) Begin to sit. Begins to sit. He begins to sit. That’s why. Begins to sit. He begins to sit. And that is the reason why.

Act I Scene I Daniel Webster. He digged a pit, he digged it deep he digged it for his brother.

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All the Characters. Jo the Loiterer. Chris the Citizen. All the Characters. G.S.

Daniel Webster.

Indiana Elliot. Susan B. Anthony.

Indiana Elliot. Susan B. Anthony. G.S. All the Characters. Jo the Loiterer. Chris a Citizen. Susan B. Anthony. Indiana Elliot. Daniel Webster.

Into the pit he did fall in the pit he digged for tother. Daniel was my father’s name, My father’s name was Daniel. Not Daniel. Not Daniel in the lion’s den. My father’s name was Daniel. My father’s name was Daniel, Daniel and a bear, a bearded Daniel, not Daniel in the lion’s den not Daniel, yes Daniel my father had a beard my father’s name was Daniel, He digged a pit he digged it deep he digged it for his brother, Into the pit he did fall in the pit he digged for tother. Choose a name. Susan B. Anthony is my name to choose a name is feeble, Susan B. Anthony is my name, a name can only be a name my name can only be my name, I have a name, Susan B. Anthony is my name, to choose a name is feeble. Yes that’s easy, Susan B. Anthony is that kind of a name but my name Indiana Elliot. What’s in a name. Everything. My father’s name was Daniel he had a black beard he was not tall not at all tall, he had a black beard his name was Daniel. My father had a name his name was Daniel. Not Daniel Not Daniel not Daniel in the lion’s den not Daniel. I had a father, Daniel was not his name. I had no father no father. He digged a pit he digged it deep he digged it for his brother, into the pit he did fall in the pit he digged for tother. Act I Scene II

Jo the Loiterer. Chris the Citizen. Jo the Loiterer. Chris the Citizen. Jo the Loiterer. Chris the Citizen. Jo the Loiterer. Chris the Citizen.

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I want to tell Very well I want to tell oh hell. Oh very well. I want to tell oh hell I want to tell about my wife. And have you got one. No not one. Two then.

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No not two. How many then I haven’t got one. I want to tell oh hell about my wife I haven’t got one. Chris the Citizen. Well. Jo the Loiterer. My wife, she had a garden. Chris the Citizen. Yes Jo the Loiterer. And I bought one. Chris the Citizen. A wife. No said Jo I was poor and I bought a garden. And then said Chris. She said, said Jo, she said my wife said one tree in my garden was her tree in her garden. And said Chris, Was it. Jo, We quarreled about it. And then said Chris. And then said Jo, we took a train and we went where we went. And then said Chris. She gave me a little package said Jo. And was it a tree said Chris. No it was money said Jo. And was she your wife said Chris, yes said Jo when she was funny. How funny said Chris. Very funny said Jo. Very funny said Jo. To be funny you have to take everything in the kitchen and put it on the floor, you have to take all your money and all your jewels and put them near the door you have to go to bed then and leave the door ajar. That is the way you do when you are funny. Chris the Citizen. Was she funny. Jo the Loiterer. Yes she was funny. (Chris and Jo put their arms around each other) Angel More. Not any more I am not a martyr any more, not any more. Be a martyr said Chris. Angel More. Not any more. I am not a martyr any more. Surrounded by sweet smelling flowers I fell asleep three times. Darn and wash and patch, darn and wash and patch, darn and wash and patch darn and wash and patch. Jo the Loiterer. Anybody can be accused of loitering. Chris Blake a Citizen. Any loiterer can be accused of loitering. Henrietta M. Daniel Webster needs an artichoke. Angel More. Susan B. is cold in wet weather. Henry B. She swore an oath she’d quickly come to any one to any one. Anthony Comstock. Caution and curiosity, oil and obligation, wheels and appurtenances, in the way of means. Virgil T. What means. John Adams. I wish to say I also wish to stay,

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I also wish to go away, I also wish I endeavor to also wish. Angel More. I wept on a wish. John Adams. Whenever I hear any one say of course, do I deny it, yes I do deny it whenever I hear any one say of course I deny it, I do deny it. Thaddeus S. Be mean. Daniel Webster. Be there. Henrietta M. Be where Constance Fletcher. I do and I do not declare that roses and wreaths, wreaths and roses around and around, blind as a bat, curled as a hat and a plume, be mine when I die, farewell to a thought, he left all alone, be firm in despair dear dear never share, dear dear, dear dear, I Constance Fletcher dear dear, I am a dear, I am dear dear I am a dear, here there everywhere. I bow myself out. Indiana Elliot. Anybody else would be sorry. Susan B. Anthony. Hush, I hush, you hush, they hush, we hush. Hush. Gloster Heming and We, hush, dear as we are, we are very dear to us and to you Isabel Wentworth. we we hush you say hush, dear hush. Hush dear. Anna Hope. I open any door, that is the way that any day is to-day, any day is to-day I open any door every door a door. Lillian Russell. Thank you. Anthony Comstock. Quilts are not crazy, they are kind. Jenny Reefer. My goodness gracious me. Ulysses S. Grant. He knew that his name was not Eisenhower. Yes he knew it. He did know it. Herman Atlan. He asked me to come he did ask me. Donald Gallup. I chose a long time, a very long time, four horn are a very long time, I chose, I took a very long time, I took a very long time. Yes I took a very long time to choose, yes I did. T.T. and A.A. They missed the boat yes they did they missed the boat. Jo the Loiterer. I came again but not when I was expected, but yes when I was expected because they did expect me. Chris the Citizen. I came to dinner. (They all sit down) Curtain Act I Scene III (Susan B. Anthony and Daniel Webster seated in two straight-backed chairs not too near each other. Jo the Loiterer comes in) Jo the Loiterer. I don’t know where a mouse is I don’t know what a mouse is. What is a mouse. Angel More. I am a mouse

278 Jo the Loiterer. Angel More. Jo the Loiterer. Angel More. Jo the Loiterer. Angel More. Jo the Loiterer.

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Well Yes Well All right well. Well what is a mouse I am a mouse Well if you are what is a mouse You know what a mouse is, I am a mouse. Yes well, And she. (Susan B. dressed like a Quakeress turns around) Susan B. I hear a sound. Jo the Loiterer. Yes well Daniel Webster. I do not hear a sound. When I am told. Susan B. Anthony. Silence. (Everybody is silent) Susan B. Anthony. Youth is young, I am not old. Daniel Webster. When the mariner has been tossed for many days, in thick weather, and on an unknown sea, he naturally avails himself of the first pause in the storm. Susan B. Anthony. For instance. They should always fight. They should be martyrs. Some should be martyrs. Will they. They will. Daniel Webster. We have thus heard sir what a resolution is. Susan B. Anthony. I am resolved. Daniel Webster. When this debate sir was to be resumed on Thursday it so happened that it would have been convenient for me to be elsewhere. Susan B. I am here, ready to be here. Ready to be where. Ready to be here. It is my habit. Daniel Webster. The honorable member complained that I had slept on his speech. Susan B. The right to sleep is given to no woman. Daniel Webster. I did sleep on the gentleman’s speech; and slept soundly. Susan B. I too have slept soundly when I have slept, yes when I have slept I too have slept soundly. Daniel Webster. Matches and over matches. Susan B. I understand you undertake to overthrow my undertaking. Daniel Webster. I can tell the honorable member once for all that he is greatly mistaken, and that he is dealing with one of whose temper and character he has yet much to learn. Susan B. I have declared that patience is never more than patient. I too have declared, that I who am not patient am patient. Daniel Webster. What interest asks he has South Carolina in a canal in Ohio. Susan B. What interest have they in me, what interest have I in them, who holds the head of whom, who can bite their lips to avoid a swoon. Daniel Webster. The harvest of neutrality had been great, but we had gathered it all. Susan B. Near hours are made not by shade not by heat not by joy, I always know that not now rather not now, yes and I do not

GERTRUDE STEIN: THE MOTHER OF US ALL

Daniel Webster. Susan B. Daniel Webster. Susan B.

Daniel Webster. Susan B. Daniel Webster. Susan B. Daniel Webster. Susan B. Jo the Loiterer. Angel More. Jo the Loiterer. Angel More. Jo the Loiterer.

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stamp but I know that now yes now is now. I have never asked any one to forgive me. On yet another point I was still more unaccountably misunderstood. Do we do what we have to do or do we have to do what we do. I answer. Mr. President I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachusetts she need none. There she is behold her and judge for yourselves. I enter into a tabernacle I was born a believer in peace, I say fight for the right, be a martyr and live, be a coward and die, and why, because they, yes they, sooner or later go away. They leave us here. They come again. Don’t forget, they come again. So sir I understand the gentleman and am happy to find I did not misunderstand him. I should believe, what they ask, but they know, they know. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social and personal happiness. Shall I protest, not while I live and breathe, I shall protest, shall I protest, shall I protest while I live and breathe. When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven. Yes. I like a mouse I hate mice. I am not talking about mice, I am talking about a mouse. I like a mouse. I hate a mouse. Now do you. Curtain Interlude (Susan B. A Short Story)

Yes I was said Susan. You mean you are, said Anne. No said Susan no. When this you see remember me said Susan B. I do said Anne. After a while there was education. Who is educated said Anne. Susan began to follow, she began to follow herself. I am not tired said Susan. No not said Anne. No I am not said Susan. This was the beginning. They began to travel not to travel you know but to go from one place to another place. In each place Susan B. said here I am I am here. Well said Anne. Do not let it trouble you said Susan politely. By the time she was there she was polite. She often thought about politeness. She said politeness was so agreeable. Is it said Anne. Yes said

280

POETS AT PLAY

Susan yes I think so that is to say politeness is agreeable that is to say it could be agreeable if everybody were polite but when it is only me, ah me, said Susan B. Anne was reproachful why do you not speak louder she said to Susan B. I speak as loudly as I can said Susan B. I even speak louder I even speak louder than I can. Do you really said Anne. Yes I really do said Susan B. it was dark and as it was dark it was necessary to speak louder or very softly, very softly. Dear me said Susan B., if it was not so early I would be sleepy. I myself said Anne never like to look at a newspaper. You are entirely right said Susan B. only I disagree with you. You do said Anne. You know very well I do said Susan B. Men said Susan B. are so conservative, so selfish, so boresome and said Susan B. they are so ugly, and said Susan B. they are gullible, anybody can convince them, listen said Susan B. they listen to me. Well said Anne anybody would. I know said Susan B. I know anybody would I know that. Once upon a time any day was full of occupation. You were never tired said Anne. No I was never tired said Susan B. And now, said Anne. Now I am never tired said Susan B. Let us said Anne let us think about everything. No said Susan B. no, no no, I know, I know said Susan B. no, said Susan B. No. But said Anne. But me no buts said Susan B. I know, now you like every one, every one and you each one and you they all do, they all listen to me, utterly unnecessary to deny, why deny, they themselves will they deny that they listen to me but let them deny it, all the same they do they do listen to me all the men do, see them said Susan B., do see them, see them, why not, said Susan B., they are men, and men, well of course they know that they cannot either see or hear unless I tell them so, poor things said Susan B. I do not pity them. Poor things. Yes said Anne they are poor things. Yes said Susan B. they are poor things. They are poor things said Susan B. men are poor things. Yes they are said Anne. Yes they are said Susan B. and nobody pities them. No said Anne no, nobody pities them. Very likely said Susan B. More than likely, said Anne. Yes said Susan B. yes. It was not easy to go away but Susan B. did go away. She kept on going away and every time she went away she went away again. Oh my said Susan B. why do I go away, I go away because if I did not go away I would stay. Yes of course said Anne yes of course, if you did not go away you would stay. Yes of course said Susan B. Now said Susan B., let us not forget that in each place men are the same just the same, they are conservative, they are selfish and they listen to me. Yes they do said Anne. Yes they do said Susan B. Susan B. was right, she said she was right and she was right. Susan B. was right. She was right because she was right. It is easy to be right, everybody else is wrong so it is easy to be right, and Susan B. was right, of course she was right, it is easy to be right, everybody else is wrong it is easy to be right. And said Susan B., in a way yes in a way yes really in a way, in a way really it is useful to be right. It does what it does, it does do what it does, if you are right, it does do what it does. It is very remarkable said Anne. Not very remarkable said Susan B. not very remarkable, no not very remarkable. It is not very remarkable really not very remarkable said Anne. No said Susan B. no not very remarkable. And said Susan B. that is what I mean by not very remarkable. Susan B. said she would not leave home. No said Susan B. I will not leave home. Why not said Anne. Why not said Susan B. all right I will I always have I always

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281

will. Yes you always will said Anne. Yes I always will said Susan B. In a little while anything began again and Susan B. said she did not mind. Really and truly said Susan B. really and truly I do not mind. No said Anne you do not mind, no said Susan B. no really and truly truly and really I do not mind. It was very necessary never to be cautious said Susan B. Yes said Anne it is very necessary. In a little while they found everything very mixed. It is not really mixed said Susan B. How can anything be really mixed when men are conservative, dull, monotonous, deceived, stupid, unchanging and bullies, how said Susan B. how when men are men can they be mixed. Yes said Anne, yes men are men, how can they when men are men how can they be mixed yes how can they. Well said Susan B. let us go on they always listen to me. Yes said Anne yes they always listen to you. Yes said Susan B. yes they always listen to me. Act II It is cold weather. In winter. Wherever I am (Thaddeus S. comes in singing a song) Thaddeus S. I believe in public school education, I do not believe in free masons I believe in public school education, I do not believe that every one can do whatever he likes because (a pause) I have not always done what I liked, but, I would, if I could, and so I will, I will do what I will, I will have my will, and they, when the they, where are they, beside a poll, Gallup the poll. It is remarkable that there could be any nice person by the name of Gallup, but there is, yes there is, that is my decision. Andrew J. Bother your decision, I tell you it is cold weather. Henrietta M. In winter. Andrew J. Wherever I am. Constance Fletcher. Antagonises is a pleasant name, antagonises is a pleasant word, antagonises has occurred, bless you all and one. John Adams. Dear Miss Constance Fletcher, it is a great pleasure that I kneel at your feet, but I am Adams, I kneel at the feet of none, not any one, dear Miss Constance Fletcher dear dear Miss Constance Fletcher I kneel at your feet, you would have ruined my father if I had had one but I have had one and you had ruined him, dear Miss Constance Fletcher if I had not been an Adams I would have kneeled at your feet. Constance Fletcher. And kissed my hand. J. Adams. (shuddering) And kissed your hand. Constance Fletcher. What a pity, no not what a pity it is better so, but what a pity what a pity it is what a pity. J. Adams. Do not pity me kind beautiful lovely Miss Constance Fletcher do not pity me, no do not pity me, I am an Adams and not pitiable. Constance Fletcher. Dear dear me if he had not been an Adams he would have Andrew J. Henrietta M. Andrew J.

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kneeled at my feet and he would have kissed my hand. Do you mean that you would have kissed my hand or my hands, dear Mr. Adams. J. Adams. I mean that I would have first kneeled at your feet and then I would have kissed one of your hands and then I would still kneeling have kissed both of your hands, if I had not been an Adams. Constance Fletcher. Dear me Mr. Adams dear me. All the Characters. If he had not been an Adams he would have kneeled at her feet and he would have kissed one of her hands, and then still kneeling he would have kissed both of her hands still kneeling if he had not been an Adams. Andrew J. It is cold weather. Henrietta M. In winter. Andrew J. Wherever I am. Thaddeus S. When I look at him I fly, I mean when he looks at me he can cry. Lillian Russell. It is very naughty for men to quarrel so. Herman Atlan. They do quarrel so. Lillian Russell. It is very naughty of them very naughty. (Jenny Reefer begins to waltz with Herman Atlan) A Slow Chorus. Naughty men, they quarrel so Quarrel about what. About how late the moon can rise. About how soon the earth can turn. About how naked are the stars. About how black are blacker men. About how pink are pinks in spring. About what corn is best to pop. About how many feet the ocean has dropped. Naughty men naughty men, they are always always quarreling. Jenny Reefer. Ulysses S. Grant was not the most earnest nor the most noble of men, but he was not always quarreling. Donald Gallup. No he was not. Jo the Loiterer. Has everybody forgotten Isabel Wentworth. I just want to say has everybody forgotten Isabel Wentworth. Chris the Citizen. Why shouldn’t everybody forget Isabel Wentworth. Jo the Loiterer. Well that is just what I want to know I just want to know if everybody has forgotten Isabel Wentworth. That is all I want to know I just want to know if everybody has forgotten Isabel Wentworth.

Susan B.

Act II Scene II Shall I regret having been born, will I regret having been born, shall and will, will and shall, I regret having been born.

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Anne. Susan B.

283

Is Henrietta M. a sister of Angel More. No, I used to feel that sisters should be sisters, and that sisters prefer sisters, and I. Anne. Is Angel More the sister of Henrietta M. It is important that I know important. Susan B. Yes important. Anne. An Indiana Elliot are there any other Elliots beside Indiana Elliot. It is important that I should know, very important. Susan B. Should one work up excitement, or should one turn it low so that it will explode louder, should one work up excitement should one. Anne. Are there any other Elliots beside Indiana Elliot, had she sisters or even cousins, it is very important that I should know, very important. Susan B. A life is never given for a life, when a life is given a life is gone, if no life is gone there is no room for more life, life and strife, I give my life, that is to say, I live my life every day. Anne. And Isabel Wentworth, is she older or younger than she was it is very important very important that I should know just how old she is. I must have a list I must of how old every one is, it is very important. Susan B. I am ready. Anne. We have forgotten we have forgotten Jenny Reefer, I don’t know even who she is, it is very important that I know who Jenny Reefer is very important. Susan B. And perhaps it is important to know who Lillian Russell is, perhaps it is important. Anne. It is not important to know who Lillian Russell is. Susan B. Then you do know. Anne. It is not important for me to know who Lillian Russell is. Susan B. I must choose I do choose, men and women women and men I do choose. I must choose colored or white white or colored I must choose, I must choose, weak or strong, strong or weak I must choose. (All the men coming forward together) Susan B. I must choose Jo the Loiterer. Fight fight fight, between the nigger and the white. Chris the Citizen. And the women. Andrew J. I wish to say that little men are bigger than big men, that they know how to drink and to get drunk. They say I was a little man next to that big man, nobody can say what they do say nobody can. Chorus of all the Men. No nobody can, we feel that way too, no nobody can. Andrew Johnson. Begin to be drunk when you can so be a bigger man than a big man, you can. Chorus of Men. You can.

284 Andrew J.

POETS AT PLAY

I often think, I am a bigger man than a bigger man. I often think I am. (Andrew J. moves around and as he moves around he sees himself in a mirror) Nobody can say little as I am I am not bigger than anybody bigger bigger bigger (and then in a low whisper) bigger than him bigger than him. Jo the Loiterer. Fight fight between the big and the big never between the little and the big. Chris the Citizen. They don’t fight. (Virgil T. makes them all gather around him) Virgil T. Hear me he says hear me in every way I have satisfaction, I sit I stand I walk around and I am grand, and you all know it. Chorus of Men. Yes we all know it. That’s that. And Said Virgil T. I will call you up one by one and then you will know which one is which, I know, then you will be known. Very well, Henry B. Henry B. comes forward. —I almost thought that I was Tommy I almost did I almost thought I was Tommy W. but if I were Tommy W. I would never come again, not if I could do better no not if I could do better. Virgil T. Useless. John Adams. (John Adams advances) Tell me are you the real John Adams you know I sometimes doubt it not really doubt it you know but doubt it. John Adams. If you were silent I would speak. Jo the Loiterer. Fight fight fight between day and night. Chris the Citizen. Which is day and which is night. Jo the Loiterer. Hush, which. John Adams. I ask you Virgil T. do you love women, I do. I love women but I am never subdued by them never. Virgil T. He is no good. Andrew J. and Thaddeus S. better come together. Jo the Loiterer. He wants to fight fight fight between. Chris. Between what. Jo the Loiterer. Between the dead. Andrew J. I tell you I am bigger bigger is not biggest is not bigger. I am bigger and just to the last minute, I stick, it’s better to stick than to die, it’s better to itch than to cry, I have tried them all. Virgil T. You bet you have. Thaddeus S. I can be carried in dying but I will never quit trying. Jo the Loiterer. Oh go to bed when all is said oh go to bed, everybody, let’s hear the women. Chris the Citizen. Fight fight between the nigger and the white and the women. (Andrew J. and Thaddeus S. begin to quarrel violently)

GERTRUDE STEIN: THE MOTHER OF US ALL

Daniel.

285

Tell me said Virgil T. tell me I am from Missouri. (Everybody suddenly stricken dumb) (Daniel advances holding Henrietta M. by the hand) Ladies and gentlemen let me present you let me present to you Henrietta M. it is rare in this troubled world to find a woman without a last name rare delicious and troubling, ladies and gentlemen let me present Henrietta M. Curtain

Act II Scene III Susan B. I do not know whether I am asleep or awake, awake or asleep, asleep or awake. Do I know. Jo the Loiterer. I know, you are awake Susan B. (A snowy landscape. a negro man and a negro woman) Susan B. Negro man would you vote if you only can and not she. Negro Man. You bet. Susan B. I fought for you that you could vote would you vote if they would not let me. Negro Man. Holy gee. Susan B. moving down in the snow. If I believe that I am right and I am right if they believe that they are right and they are not in the right, might, might, might there be what might be. Negro Man and Woman following her. All right Susan B. all right. Susan B. How then can we entertain a hope that they will act differently, we may pretend to go in good faith but there will be no faith in us. Donald Gallup. Let me help you Susan B. Susan B. And if you do and I annoy you what will you do. Donald Gallup. But I will help you Susan B. Susan B. I tell you if you do and I annoy you what will you do. Donald Gallup. I wonder if I can help you Susan B. Susan B. I wonder. (Andrew G., Thaddeus and Daniel Webster come in together) We are the chorus of the V.I.P. Very important persons to every one who can hear and see, we are the chorus of the V.I.P. Susan B. Yes, so they are. I am important but not that way, not that way. The Three V.I.P.’s. We you see we V.I.P. very important to any one who can hear or you can see, just we three, of course lots of others but just we three, just we three we are the chorus of V.I.P. Very important persons to any one who can hear or can see.

286 Susan B. The Chorus of V.I.P. Daniel Webster. Thaddeus S. Andrew J. Daniel Webster. Thaddeus S. The Three.

Jo the Loiterer.

Chris the Citizen. Jo the Loiterer. Susan B.

Jo the Loiterer. Susan B.

POETS AT PLAY

My constantly recurring thought and prayer now are that no word or act of mine may lessen the might of this country in the scale of truth and right. When they all listen to me. When they all listen to me. When they all listen to him, by him I mean me. By him I mean me. It is not necessary to have any meaning I am he, he is me I am a V.I.P. We are the V.I.P. the very important persons, we have special rights, they ask us first and they wait for us last and wherever we are well there we are everybody knows we are there, we are the V.I.P. Very important persons for everybody to see. I wished that I knew the difference between rich and poor, I used to think I was poor, now I think I am rich and I am rich, quite rich not very rich quite rich, I wish I knew the difference between rich and poor. Ask her, ask Susan B. I always ask, I find they like it and I like it, and if I like it, and if they like it, I am not rich and I am not poor, just like that Jo just like that. Susan B. listen to me, what is the difference between rich and poor poor and rich no use to ask the V.I.P., they never answer me but you Susan B. you answer, answer me. Rich, to be rich, is to be so rich that when they are rich they have it to be that they do not listen and when they do they do not hear, and to be poor to be poor, is to be so poor they listen and listen and what they hear well what do they hear, they hear that they listen, they listen to hear, that is what it is to be poor, but I, I Susan B., there is no wealth nor poverty, there is no wealth, what is wealth, there is no poverty, what is poverty, has a pen ink, has it. I had a pen that was to have ink for a year and it only lasted six weeks. Yes I know Jo. I know. Curtain Act II Scene IV

A Meeting. Susan B. On the Platform Ladies there is no neutral position for us to assume. If we say we love the cause and then sit down at our ease, surely does our action speak the lie. And now will Daniel Webster take the platform as never before.

GERTRUDE STEIN: THE MOTHER OF US ALL

Daniel Webster.

287

Coming and coming alone, no man is alone when he comes, when he comes when he is coming he is not alone and now ladies and gentlemen I have done, remember that remember me remember each one. Susan B. And now Virgil T. Virgil T. will bow and speak and when it is necessary they will know that he is he. Virgil T. I make what I make, I make a noise, there is a poise in making a noise. (An interruption at the door) Jo the Loiterer. I have behind me a crowd, are we allowed. Susan B. A crowd is never allowed but each one of you can come in. Chris the Citizen. But if we are allowed then we are a crowd. Susan B. No, this is the cause, and a cause is a pause. Pause before you come in. Jo the Loiterer. Yes ma’am. (All the characters crowd in. Constance Fletcher and Indiana Elliot leading) Daniel Webster. I resist it to-day and always. Who ever falters or whoever flies I continue the contest. Constance Fletcher and Indiana Elliot bowing low say. Dear man, he can make us glad that we have had so great so dear a man here with us now and now we bow before him here, this dear this dear great man. Susan B. Hush, this is slush. Hush. John Adams. I cannot be still when still and until I see Constance Fletcher dear Constance Fletcher noble Constance Fletcher and I spill I spill over like a thrill and a trill, dear Constance Fletcher there is no cause in her presence, how can there be a cause. Women what are women. There is Constance Fletcher, men what are men, there is Constance Fletcher, Adams, yes, Adams, I am John Adams, there is Constance Fletcher, when this you see listen to me, Constance, no I cannot call her Constance I can only call her Constance Fletcher. Indiana Elliot. And how about me. Jo the Loiterer. Whist shut up I have just had an awful letter from home, shut up. Indiana Elliot. What did they say. Jo the Loiterer. They said I must come home and not marry you. Indiana. Who ever said we were going to marry. Jo the Loiterer. Believe me I never did. Indiana. Disgrace to the cause of women, out. And she shoves him out. Jo the Loiterer. Help Susan B. help me. Susan B. I know that we suffer, and as we suffer we grow strong, I know that we wait and as we wait we are bold, I know that we are beaten and as we are beaten we win, I know that men know that this is not so but it is so, I know, yes I know.

288

POETS AT PLAY

Jo the Loiterer.

There didn’t I tell you she knew best, you just give me a kiss and let me alone. Daniel Webster. I who was once old am now young, I who was once weak am now strong, I who have left every one behind am now overtaken. Susan B. I undertake to overthrow your undertaking. Jo the Loiterer. You bet. Chis the Citizen. I always repeat everything I hear. Jo the Loiterer. You sure do. (While all this is going on, all the characters are crowding up on the platform) They Say. Now we are all here there is nobody down there to hear, now if it is we’re always like that there would be no reason why anybody should cry, because very likely if at all it would be so nice to be the head, we are the head we have all the bread. Jo the Loiterer. And the butter too. Chris the Citizen. And Kalamazoo. Susan B. advancing. I speak to those below who are not there who are not there who are not there. I speak to those below to those below who are not there to those below who are not there. Curtain Act II Scene V Susan B. Will they remember that it is true that neither they that neither you, will they marry will they carry, aloud, the right to know that even if they love them so, they are alone to live and die, they are alone to sink and swim they are alone to have what they own, to have no idea but that they are here, to struggle and thirst to do everything first, because until it is done there is no other one. (Jo the Loiterer leads in Indiana Elliot in wedding attire, followed by John Adams and Constance Fletcher and followed by Daniel Webster and Angel More. All the other characters follow after. Anne and Jenny Reefer come and stand by Susan B. Ulysses S. Grant sits down in a chair right behind the procession) Anne. Marriage. Jenny Reefer. Marry marriage. Susan B. I know I know and I have told you so, but if no one marries how can there be women to tell men, women to tell men. Anne. What Jenny Reefer. Women should not tell men. Susan B. Men can not count, they do not know that two and two make four if women do not tell them so. There is a devil creeps into men when their hands are strengthened. Men want to be half slave half free. Women want to be all slave or all free, therefore men govern and women know, and yet. Anne. Yet. Jenny Reefer. There is no yet in paradise.

GERTRUDE STEIN: THE MOTHER OF US ALL

Susan B.

289

Let them marry. (The marrying commences) Jo the Loiterer. I tell her if she marries me do I marry her. Indiana Elliot. Listen to what he says so you can answer, have you the ring. Jo the Loiterer. You did not like the ring and mine is too large. Indiana Elliot. Hush. Jo the Loiterer. I wish my name was Adams. Indiana Elliot. Hush. John Adams. I never marry I have been twice divorced but I have never married, fair Constance Fletcher fair Constance Fletcher do you not admire me that I never can married be. I who have been twice divorced. Dear Constance Fletcher dear dear Constance Fletcher do you not admire me. Constance Fletcher. So beautiful. It is so beautiful to meet you here, so beautiful, so beautiful to meet you here dear, dear John Adams, so beautiful to meet you here. Daniel Webster. When I have joined and not having joined have separated and not having separated have led, and not having led have thundered, when I having thundered have provoked and having provoked have dominated, may I dear Angel More not kneel at your feet because I cannot kneel my knees are not kneeling knees but dear Angel More be my Angel More for evermore. Angel More. I join the choir that is visible, because the choir that is visible is as visible. Daniel Webster. As what Angel More. Angel More. As visible as visible, do you not hear me, as visible. Daniel Webster. You do not and I do not. Angel More. What. Daniel Webster. Separate marriage from marriage. Angel More. And why not. Daniel Webster. And. (Just at this moment Ulysses S. Grant makes his chair pound on the floor) Ulysses S. Grant. As long as I sit I am sitting, silence again as you were, you were all silent, as long as I sit I am sitting. All Together. We are silent, as we were. Susan B. We are all here to celebrate the civil and religious marriage of Jo the Loiterer and Indiana Elliot. Jo the Loiterer. Who is civil and who is religious. Anne. Who is, listen to Susan B. She knows. The Brother of Indiana Elliot rushes in. Nobody knows who I am but I forbid the marriage, do we know whether Jo the Loiterer is a bigamist or a grandfather or an uncle or a refugee. Do we know, no we do not know and I forbid the marriage, I forbid it, I am Indiana Elliot’s brother and I forbid it, I am known as Herman Atlan and I forbid it, I am known as Anthony Comstock and I forbid it, I am Indiana Elliot’s brother and I forbid it.

290 Jo the Loiterer.

POETS AT PLAY

Well well well, I knew that ring of mine was too large. It could not fall off on account of my joints but I knew it was too large. Indiana Elliot. I renounce my brother. Jo the Loiterer. That’s right my dear that’s all right. Susan B. What is marriage, is marriage protection or religion, is marriage renunciation or abundance, is marriage a steppingstone or an end. What is marriage. Anne. I will never marry. Jenny Reefer. If I marry I will divorce but I will not marry because if I did marry, I would be married. (Ulysses S. Grant pounds his chair) Ulysses S. Grant. Didn’t I say I do not like noise, I do not like cannon balls, I do not like storms, I do not like talking, I do not like noise. I like everything and everybody to be silent and what I like I have. Everybody be silent. Jo the Loiterer. I know I was silent, everybody can tell just by listening to me just how silent I am, dear General, dear General Ulysses, dear General Ulysses Simpson dear General Ulysses Simpson Grant, dear dear sir, am I not a perfect example of what you like, am I not silent. (Ulysses S. Grant’s chair pounds and he is silent) Susan B. I am not married and the reason why is that I have had to do what I have had to do, I have had to be what I have had to be, I could never be one of two I could never be two in one as married couples do and can, I am but one all one, one and all one, and so I have never been married to any one. Anne. But I I have been, I have been married to what you have been to that one. Susan B. No no, no, you may be married to the past one, the one that is not the present one, no one can be married to the present one, the one, the one, the present one. Jenny Reefer. I understand you undertake to overthrow their undertaking. Susan B. I love the sound of these, one over two, two under one, three under four, four over more. Anne. Dear Susan B. Anthony thank you. John Adams. All this time I have been lost in my thoughts in my thoughts of thee beautiful thee, Constance Fletcher, do you see, I have been lost in my thoughts of thee. Constance Fletcher. I am blind and therefore I dream. Daniel Webster. Dear Angel More, dear Angel More, there have been men who have stammered and stuttered but not, not I. Angel More. Speak louder. Daniel Webster. Not I. The Chorus. Why the hell don’t you all get married, why don’t you, we want to go home, why don’t you. Jo the Loiterer. Why don’t you. Indiana Elliot. Why don’t you.

GERTRUDE STEIN: THE MOTHER OF US ALL

Indiana Elliot’s Brother.

Why don’t you because I am here. (The crowd remove him forcibly)

Susan B. Anthony suddenly.

Enter Anne. Susan B. Anne. Susan B. Jenny Reefer comes in. Susan B. Anne. Susan B. Jenny Reefer. Susan B.

Jo the Loiterer at the window.

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They are married all married and their children women as well as men will have the vote, they will they will, they will have the vote. Curtain

Act II Scene VI (Susan B. doing her housework in her house) Susan B. they want you. Do they Yes. You must go. No. Oh yes they want to know if you are here. Yes still alive. Painters paint and writers write and soldiers drink and fight and I I am still alive. They want you. And when they have me. Then they will want you again. Yes I know, they love me so, they tell me so and they tell me so, but I, I do not tell them so because I know, they will not do what they could do and I I will be left alone to die but they will not have done what I need to have done to make it right that I live lived my life and fight.

Indiana Elliot wants to come in, she will not take my name she says it is not all the same, she says that she is Indiana Elliot and that I am Jo, and that she will not take my name and that she will always tell me so. Oh yes she is right of course she is right it is not all the same Indiana Elliot is her name, she is only married to me, but there is no difference that I can see, but all the same there she is and she will not change her name, yes it is all the same. Susan B. Let her in. Indiana Elliot. Oh Susan B. they want you they have to have you, can I tell them you are coming I have not changed my name can I tell them you are coming and that you will do everything. Susan B. No but there is no use in telling them so, they won’t vote my laws, there is always a clause, there is always a pause, they won’t vote my laws. (Andrew Johnson puts his head in at the door) Andrew Johnson. Will the good lady come right along. Thaddeus Stevens We are waiting, will the good lady not keep us waiting, will behind him. the good lady not keep us waiting.

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You you know so well that you will not vote my laws. Dear lady remember humanity comes first. You mean men come first, women, you will not vote my laws, how can you dare when you do not care, how can you dare, there is no humanity in humans, there is only law, and you will not because you know so well that there is no humanity there are only laws, you know it so well that you will not you will not vote my laws. (Susan B. goes back to her housework. All the characters crowd in) Chorus. Do come Susan B. Anthony do come nobody no nobody can make them come the way you make them come, do come do come Susan B. Anthony, it is your duty, Susan B. Anthony, you know you know your duty, you come, do come, come. Susan B. Anthony. I suppose I will be coming, is it because you flatter me, is it because if I do not come you will forget me and never vote my laws, you will never vote my laws even if I do come but if I do not come you will never vote my laws, come or not come it always comes to the same thing it comes to their not voting my laws, not voting my laws, tell me all you men tell me you know you will never vote my laws. All the Men. Dear kind lady we count on you, and as we count on you so can you count on us. Susan B. Anthony. Yes but I work for you I do, I say never again, never again, never never, and yet I know I do say no but I do not mean no, I know I always hope that if I go that if I go and go and go, perhaps then you men will vote my laws but I know how well I know, a little this way a little that way you steal away, you steal a piece away you steal yourselves away, you do not intend to stay and vote my laws, and still when you call I go, I go, I go, I say no, no, no, and I go, but no, this time no, this time you have to do more than promise, you must write it down that you will vote my laws, but no, you will pay no attention to what is written, well then swear by my hearth, as you hope to have a home and hearth, swear after I work for you swear that you will vote my laws, but no, no oaths, no thoughts, no decisions, no intentions, no gratitude, no convictions, no nothing will make you pass my laws. Tell me can any of you be honest now, and say you will not pass my laws. Jo the Loiterer. I can I can be honest I can say I will not pass your laws, because you see I have no vote, no loiterer has a vote so it is easy Susan B. Anthony easy for one man among all these men to be honest and to say I will not pass your laws. Anyway Susan B. Anthony what are your laws. Would it really be all right to pass them, if you say so it is all right with me. I have no vote myself but I’ll make them as long as I don’t

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T. Stevens.

Susan B. Chorus. Susan B. Anthony. Chorus. Susan B. Anthony. Churus. Susan B. Anthony.

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have to change my name don’t have to don’t have to change my name. Thanks dear Susan B. Anthony, thanks we all know that whatever happens we all can depend upon you to do your best for any cause which is a cause, and any cause is a cause and because any cause is a cause therefore you will always do your best for any cause, and now you will be doing your best for this cause our cause the cause. Because. Very well is it snowing. Not just now. Is it cold. A little. I am not well But you look so well and once started it will be all right. All right Curtain

Act II Scene VII (Susan B. Anthony busy with her housework) Anne comes in. Oh it was wonderful, wonderful, they listen to nobody the way they listen to you. Susan B. Yes it is wonderful as the result of my work for the first time the word male has been written into the constitution of the United States concerning suffrage. Yes it is wonderful. Anne. But Susan B. Yes but, what is man, what are men, what are they. I do not say that they haven’t kind hearts, if I fall down in a faint, they will rush to pick me up, if my house is on fire, they will rush in to put the fire out and help me, yes they have kind hearts but they are afraid, afraid, they are afraid, they are afraid. They fear women, they fear each other, they fear their neighbor, they fear other countries and then they hearten themselves in their fear by crowding together and following each other, and when they crowd together and follow each other they are brutes, like animals who stampede, and so they have written in the name male into the United States constitution, because they are afraid of black men because they are afraid of women, because they are afraid afraid. Men are afraid. Anne timidly. And women. Susan B. Ah women often have not any sense of danger, after all a hen screams pitifully when she sees an eagle but she is only afraid for her children, men are afraid for themselves, that is the real difference between men and women. Anne. But Susan B. why do you not say these things out loud. Susan B. Why not, because if I did they would not listen they not alone would not listen they would revenge themselves. Men have

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kind hearts when they are not afraid but they are afraid afraid afraid. I say they are afraid, but if I were to tell them so their kindness would turn to hate. Yes the Quakers are right, they are not afraid because they do not fight, they do not fight. Anne. But Susan B. you fight and you are not afraid. Susan B. I fight and I am not afraid, I fight but I am not afraid. Anne. And you will win. Susan B. Win what, win what. Anne. Win the vote for women. Susan B. Yes some day some day the women will vote and by that time. Anne. By that time oh wonderful time. Susan B. By that time it will do them no good because having the vote they will become like men, they will be afraid, having the vote will make them afraid, oh I know it, but I will fight for the right, for the right to vote for them even though they become like men, become afraid like men, become like men. (Anne bursts into tears. Jenny Reefer rushes in) Jenny Reefer. I have just converted Lillian Russell to the cause of woman’s suffrage, I have converted her, she will give all herself and all she earns oh wonderful day I know you will say, here she comes isn’t she beautiful. (Lillian Russell comes in followed by all the women in the chorus. Women crowding around, Constance Fletcher in the background) Lillian Russell. Dear friends, it is so beautiful to meet you all, so beautiful, so beautiful to meet you all. (John Adams comes in and sees Constance Fletcher) John Adams. Dear friend beautiful friend, there is no beauty where you are not. Constance Fletcher. Yes dear friend but look look at real beauty look at Lillian Russell look at real beauty. John Adams. Real beauty real beauty is all there is of beauty and why should my eye wander where no eye can look without having looked before. Dear friend I kneel to you because dear friend each time I see you I have never looked before, dear friend you are an open door. (Daniel Webster strides in, the women separate) Daniel Webster. What what is it, what is it, what is the false and the true and I say to you you Susan B. Anthony, you know the false from the true and yet you will not wait you will not wait, I say you will you will wait. When my eyes, and I have eyes when my eyes, beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil, why should you want what you have chosen, when mine eyes, why do you want that the curtain may rise, why when mine eyes, why should the vision be opened to what lies behind, why, Susan B. Anthony fight the fight that is the fight, that any fight may be a fight for the right. I hear that you say that the word male should not be written into the constitution of the

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United States of America, but I say, I say, that so long that the gorgeous ensign of the republic, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original luster not a stripe erased or polluted not a single star obscured. Jo the Loiterer. She has decided to change her name. Indiana Elliot. Not because it is his name but it is such a pretty name, Indiana Loiterer is such a pretty name I think all the same he will have to change his name, he must be Jo Elliot, yes he must, it is what he has to do, he has to be Jo Elliot and I am going to be Indiana Loiterer, dear friends, all friends is it not a lovely name, Indiana Loiterer all the same. Jo the Loiterer. All right I never fight, nobody will know it’s men, but what can I do, if I am not she and I am not me, what can I do, if a name is not true, what can I do but do as she tells me. All the Chorus. She is quite right, Indiana Loiterer is so harmonious, so harmonious, Indiana Loiterer is so harmonious. All the Men Come In. What did she say. Jo. I was talking not she but nobody no nobody ever wants to listen to me. All the Chorus Men and Women. Susan B. Anthony was very successful we are all very grateful to Susan B. Anthony because she was so successful, she worked for the votes for women and she worked for the vote for colored men and she was so successful, they wrote the word male into the constitution of the United States of America, dear Susan B. Anthony. Dear Susan B., whenever she wants to be and she always wants to be she is always so successful so very successful. Susan B. So successful. Curtain Act II Scene VIII (The Congressional Hall, the replica of the statue of Susan B. Anthony and her comrades in the suffrage fight) Anne alone in front of the statuary. The Vote. Women have the vote. They have it each and every one, it is glorious glorious glorious. Susan B. Anthony behind the statue. Yes women have the vote, all my long life of strength and strife, all my long life, women have it, they can vote, every man and every woman have the vote, the word male is not there any more, that is to say, that is to say. (Silence. Virgil T. comes in very nicely, he looks around and sees Anne) Virgil T. Very well indeed, very well indeed, you are looking very well indeed, have you a chair anywhere, very well indeed, as we sit, we sit, some day very soon some day they will vote sitting and that will be a very successful day any day, every day.

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(Henry B. comes in. He looks all around at the statue and then he sighs) Henry B. Does it really mean that women are as white and cold as marble does it really mean that. (Angel More comes in and bows gracefully to the sculptured group ) Angel More. I can always think of dear Daniel Webster daily. (John Adams comes in and looks around, and then carefully examines the statue) John Adams. I think that they might have added dear delicate Constance Fletcher I do think they might have added her wonderful profile, I do think they might have, I do, I really do. (Andrew Johnson shuffles in) Andrew Johnson. I have no hope in black or white in white or black in black or black or white or white, no hope. (Thaddeus Stevens comes in, he does not address anybody, he stands before the statue and frowns) Thaddeus S. Rob the cradle, rob it, rob the robber, rob him, rob whatever there is to be taken, rob, rob the cradle, rob it. Daniel Webster (he sees nothing else). Angel More, more more Angel More, did you hear me, can you hear shall you hear me, when they come and they do come, when they go and they do go, Angel More can you will you shall you may you might you would you hear me, when they have lost and won, when they have won and lost, when words are bitter and snow is white, Angel More come to me and we will leave together. Angel More. Dear sir, not leave, stay. Henrietta M. I have never been mentioned again. (She curtseys) Constance Fletcher. Here I am, I am almost blind but here I am, dear dear here I am, I cannot see what is so white, here I am. John Adams (kissing her hand). Here you are, blind as a bat and beautiful as a bird, here you are, white and cold as marble, beautiful as marble, yes that is marble but you you are the living marble dear Constance Fletcher, you are. Constance Fletcher. Thank you yes I am here, blind as a bat, I am here. Indiana Elliot. I am sorry to interrupt so sorry to interrupt but I have a great deal to say about marriage, either one or the other married must be economical, either one or the other, if either one or the other of a married couple are economical then a marriage is successful, if not not, I have a great deal to say about marriage, and dear Susan B. Anthony was never married, how wonderful it is to be never married how wonderful. I have a great deal to say about marriage. Susan B. Anthony voice from behind the statue. It is a puzzle, I am not puzzled but it is a puzzle, if there are no children there are no men and women, and if there are men and women, it is rather horrible, and if it is rather hor-

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rible, then there are children, I am not puzzled but it is very puzzling, women and men vote and children, I am not puzzled but it is very puzzling. Gloster Heming. I have only been a man who has a very fine name, and it must be said I made it up yes I did, so many do why not I, so many do, so many do, and why not two, when anybody might, and you can vote and you can dote with any name. Thank you. Isabel Wentworth. They looked for me and they found me, I like to talk about it. It is very nearly necessary not to be noisy not to be noisy and hope, hope and hop, no use in enjoying men and women no use, I wonder why we are all happy, yes. Annie Hope. There is another Anne and she believes, I am hopey hope and I do not believe I have been I in California and Kalamazoo, and I do not believe I burst into tears and I do not believe. (They all crowd closer together and Lillian Russell who comes in stands quite alone) Lillian Russell. I can act so drunk that I never drink, I can drink so drunk that I never act, I have a curl I was a girl and I am old and fat but very handsome for all that. (Anthony Comstock comes in and glares at her) Anthony Comstock. I have heard that they have thought that they would wish that one like you could vote a vote and help to let the ones who want do what they like, I have heard that even you, and I am through, I cannot hope that there is dope, oh yes a horrid word. I have never heard, short. Jenny Reefer. I have hope and faith, not charity no not charity, I have hope and faith, no not, not charity, no not charity. Ulysses S. Grant. Women are women, soldiers are soldiers, men are not men, lies are not lies, do, and then a dog barks, listen to him and then a dog barks, a dog barks a dog barks any dog barks, listen to him any dog barks. (he sits down) Herman Atlan. I am not loved any more, I was loved oh yes I was loved but I am not loved any more, I am not, was I not, I knew I would refuse what a woman would choose and so I am not loved any more, not loved any more. Donald Gallup. Last but not least, first and not best, I am tall as a man, I am firm as a clam, and I never change, from day to day. (Jo the Loiterer and Chris a Citizen) Jo the Loiterer. Let us dance and sing, Chrissy Chris, wet and not in debt, I am a married man and I know how I show I am a married man. She votes, she changes her name and she votes. (They all crowd together in front of the statue, there is a moment of silence and then a chorus) Chorus. To vote the vote, the vote we vote, can vote do vote will vote could vote, the vote the vote. Jo the Loiterer. I am the only one who cannot vote, no loiterer can vote.

298 Indiana Elliot. Jo the Loiterer. Chorus. Lillian Russell. Ulysses S. Grant.

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I am a loiterer Indiana Loiterer and I can vote. You only have the name, you have not got the game. The vote the vote we will have the vote. It is so beautiful to meet you all here so beautiful. Vote the vote, the army does not vote, the general generals, there is no vote, bah vote. The Chorus. The vote we vote we note the vote. (They all bow and smile to the statue. Suddenly Susan B.’s voice is heard) Susan B.’s voice. We cannot retrace our steps, going forward may be the same as going backwards. We cannot retrace our steps, retrace our steps. All my long life, all my life, we do not retrace our steps, all my long life, but. (A silence a long silence) But—we do not retrace our steps, all my long life, and here, here we are here, in marble and gold, did I say gold, yes I said gold, in marble and gold and where— (A silence) Where is where. In my long life of effort and strife, dear life, life is strife, in my long life, it will not come and go, I tell you so, it will stay it will pay but (A long silence) But do I want what we have got, has it not gone, what made it live, has it not gone because now it is had, in my long life in my long life (Silence) Life is strife, I was a martyr all my life not to what I won but to what was done. (Silence) Do you know because I tell you so, or do you know, do you know. (Silence) My long life, my long life. Curtain

Ezra Pound (1885–1972) ALTHOUGH NEVER AN ACTOR, EZRA POUND GAINED NOTORIETY AND INfamy delivering speeches. His radio addresses during World War II would forever change not only his reception as a modernist poet but also the direction of his later creative work as evident in his Sophocles (or Sophokles) translations: Elektra (translated 1949; published 1989) and Women of Trachis (1954). During the war, Pound had been an outspoken critic of the Allied forces and expressed sympathies with the Italian Fascists in regular radio addresses. These speeches were also marked by anti-Semitic rants and broad philosophical and moral attacks on the United States and Britain. Since 1941 the FBI recorded Pound’s speeches, which were later used as evidence by the U.S. government against Pound in court. Following the Allied claim of Italy in 1945, Pound was arrested by military personnel and imprisoned in a U.S. Disciplinary Training Center. There he was held for several weeks in an outdoor steel cage, until his health drastically deteriorated. The U.S. government later transported Pound to America where he was declared mentally unfit to stand trial and eventually transferred to St. Elizabeths Hospital, a mental institution outside of Washington, D.C. Pound spent thirteen years in the mental hospital before returning to Italy where he died in 1972. Given the intensity of his experiences from his arrest in 1945 until his eventual release in 1958, it is impossible to view Pound’s writings from this time independently from his incarceration. In many ways, his later works— especially his drama—can be read as Pound filtering his experiences through his writing. In this light, these works become increasingly revelatory. As he wrote in Canto 74 of his long poem, The Cantos, “the drama is wholly subjective.” The subjective form of drama—in which all voices and characters speak from the first person—appealed to Pound, and it comes as no surprise that he casts his experiences after World War II as that of a fallen Greek hero. After all, Pound was a giant of early twentieth-century literature and a champion of modernist writers. Pound discovered and promoted numerous writers and literary movements, including his onetime fiancée H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) and Imagism and vorticism with Wyndham Lewis and their short-lived journal Blast (1914–15), not to mention his skillful editing of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922), which prompted Eliot’s nickname for Pound, il miglior fabbro (roughly, “the better maker”). Pound 299

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served as the foreign correspondent for Harriet Monroe’s Poetry Magazine in the early years of the journal and worked with W. B. Yeats as Yeats attempted to redefine the modern theater. He was a relentless critic, poet, and composer—he wrote two operas for radio—and The Cantos remains a masterpiece of literary modernism. In 1971, Hugh Kenner’s critical history of modernism, The Pound Era, placed Pound at the center of the movement, suggesting that his vast influence and extensive writing defined the period. It was thus a stunning, perhaps even tragic, fall for Pound after his arrest, and he would soon translate this experience into Greek tragedy. He had earlier indicated an interest in Sophocles (as noted by T. S. Eliot in his introduction to Pound’s Literary Essays), and Pound had even advised Eliot to translate Aeschylus’s Agamemnon in 1938. It is, nevertheless, striking that in the midst of his imprisonment, Pound turned to dramatic structure— both Greek plays and Japanese Noh drama—and produced two of his finest dramatic translations from inside St. Elizabeths’ walls. Although he complained to fellow poet-playwright Archibald MacLeish in 1955 that his incarceration “can and surely will, with me I’m afraid, end with complete artistic impotence,” his dramatic work, done fitfully throughout his career, reached its peak behind bars.1 Written both as autobiographical reflections and embodied expressions of his isolation, Pound’s plays in the mid-1950s represent some of the strongest and, ironically, most theatrical examples of American verse drama. Amid a prison life marked by extreme inaction, Pound transformed his poetic emphasis on terse imagistic language into two remarkable verse plays full of bristling energy. Drawing on American vernacular and onomatopoeic lines, Pound transformed the decline of the Greek hero Heracles (also known as Hercules or Herakles in Pound’s translation) into a personal lament, one that echoed his own sense of torture and abandonment. As Kenner observed, “The best talk in St Liz was the monologue.”2 Although he turned to the dramatic form with renewed interest in St. Elizabeths, Pound was no stranger to either drama or the theater. He wrote the essay “The Quality of Lope de Vega” in 1910 following his graduate work in Spanish drama at the University of Pennsylvania, and by 1913 he was employed as the part-time secretary to William Butler Yeats, who was developing his own ideas about drama. By the mid-1910s, Pound was focusing not only on poetry but also on the art of poetic translation, particularly translations of Japanese Noh drama. He also attempted his own dramas modeled on the Noh and hoped to have them included in a private 1916 production with Yeats’s Plays for Dancers; as it turns out, they were not. Both Pound and Yeats aspired to a theater that would be a contemplative, elite, private experience. In his introduction to Pound’s and Ernest Fenollosa’s Certain Noble Plays of Japan (1916), Yeats described “a form of drama, distinguished, indirect and symbolic, and having no need of mob

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or press to pay its way—an aristocratic form.”3 Written only a few years after Wallace Stevens’s Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise (1913), Pound’s first dramatic translations continued the early trend in poetic drama away from the public stage through reinterpretations of “Eastern” drama, broadly defined to include (and often conflate) Chinese and Japanese forms. Following these limited dramatic attempts, Pound turned to writing dramatic criticism for both the Outlook and the Athenaeum in 1919 and 1920, respectively. His work in this area was similarly brief: he was fired from the Outlook after only two weeks, and he rarely signed his own name to reviews. Perhaps it was because he disliked nearly everything he saw onstage; moreover, he hated theater audiences. As he wrote in a review of James Joyce’s published play The Exiles (1918), “He has not, to my mind, a sufficient sense either of the public dullness or of the limitations of the play-house.”4 In a similar review for the Outlook in 1919, signed as M. D. Adkins, Pound commented that the “English are an uncritical people, and the author who keeps them gurgling from curtain to curtain . . . may count himself a success.”5 In the subsequent years, Pound said little about the theater itself, though he continued to praise and admire the work of the Greek tragedians and the classical Noh theater of Japan. Pound became a prominent poet, critic, and editor, but largely eschewed drama. And yet, for all of his professed disappointment in theater and his apparent rejection of the stage, Pound seemed to believe that an art theater was possible. In the Athenaeum (1920) he praised, however faintly, the Russian matinees at the Duke of York’s as evidence that “an art theater has been started, under auspices other than imbecile.”6 Though not arguing in favor of poetic drama revival, Pound also claimed that all drama required “poetic speech”: “the necessity of a simple prose speech written in a rhythm which permits emotional utterance.”7 It was this belief in the “emotional utterance” of poetic speech that inspired his work in two subsequent radio operas—The Testament of François Villon (broadcast 1931) and Cavalcanti (completed 1933; never broadcast)—and may have spurred his Greek dramatic translations as hope for a Greek “revival” with poetic language to be “sung.”8 Pound did not oppose the theater entirely, but rather an ignorant audience. This sense of audience may have triggered his renewed interest in theater in the late 1940s. Indeed, Pound saw the challenge of writing for the theater as a Herculean task. In a 1940 letter to Ronald Duncan, Pound complained about the corrupting influence of radio: “if you’re writin for styge or teeyater up to date, you gotter measure it all merely against cinema, but much more against the personae now poked into every bleedin’ ’ome and smearing the mind of the peapull. If anyone is a purrfekk HERRRRkules, he may survive, and may clarify his style in resistance to the devil box [radio]” (emphasis in original).9 Pound’s hostility to the radio is at odds

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with his earlier interest in radio opera and with his later radio speeches, but it is perhaps still in keeping with his approach to the theater. Theatrical writing must be approached as combat—defensively and aggressively. It was this position that Pound adopted in his translation of Heracles in 1954. Women of Trachis is an odd choice of play to adapt, even with its obvious parallels between a betrayed Greek hero and Pound’s own sense of exploitation. Like other plays, such as Antigone, the heroic center of the play is ambiguous. The most sympathetic character is the wife, Deianeira (Daysair in Pound’s version), the jealous wife of Heracles whose attempt to keep her husband faithful causes him great pain. But like Antigone, Deianeira disappears early in the play, before the entrance of the hero, Heracles. Heracles enters late, already clothed in the blood-soaked shirt that will cause him such agony that he begs his son, Hyllus (Hyllos), to burn him to death. We do not see the fall of Heracles onstage, only witness his agony and his appeal to his son to end his life. Tellingly, the play is not named for either character, but for the chorus of women (Khoros), friends of Deianeira who witness the consequences of the events. In other words, it is a play not only about the fall of a hero nor the jealousy and treachery of love but also the audience who witnesses it. The parallels between Pound’s life after the war and the Heracles myth are visible, if not definitive. It is possible that Pound saw himself as the returning hero who is mistakenly undermined by those he loves best. Certainly Pound felt betrayed by his country and his government, and he often expressed his position as one of exploitation. He believed in the righteousness of his opinions during the war and he exaggerated both his power and influence; as he boasted to a reporter in 1945, if only he could meet with President Truman or Premier Stalin, he could solve the problems in the postwar Western world. If looking for other parallels, Pound believed his work during World War II equivalent to Heracles’ labors, and the irremoveable painful shirt echoed Pound’s confinement. This must have been particularly true at St. Elizabeths where he was often held in isolation, and where he expressed his sense of having a burden thrust upon him—accusations of treason, the diagnosis of mental disorder—that he felt he neither deserved nor could endure. Other critics have noted that, like Heracles, Pound was not faithful to one wife (indeed, he maintained two families through most of his adult life), but there are other characters in the myth that resonate with Pound as well. The well-meaning wife who falls prey to the calculating centaur, for example, might be read akin to Pound’s claims that he was merely exercising his freedom of speech in blaming U.S. policy for the agonies of the Second World War. Perhaps retrospective reflection played a role in triggering Pound’s desire to tell the story of a great hero brought low and the tragic consequences of being fooled into betraying one’s beloved.

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It appears, then, that in any number of ways Pound conflated his earlier sense of the theatrical audience with his perception of his post-1945 governmental audience. For Pound, neither group was able to understand the nuances of his material. In a sense, both were “bad” audiences for Pound’s performances. His approach to Greek drama echoes the political context of its ancient democratic origins, placed side by side with current political actions. For example, near the end of the play, as Heracles begs his son Hyllos to burn him alive, he recalls the promise that he would be free from death because “no living man should kill me.” In his moments of pain, Heracles acknowledges his pride and his blindness to the vulnerability from those not living (i.e., the centaur who created the poison for the shirt): “I thought it meant life in comfort. / It doesn’t. It means that I die. / For amid the dead there is no work in service. / Come at it that way, my boy, what / SPLENDOUR, / IT ALL COHERES.” These last lines—taken from Pound’s earlier translation of Elektra—are identified by him as “the key phrase” of the play, and in a footnote he adds the line “Tutto quello che è accaduto, dovena accadere.” Translated in Canto 86 as “All, that has been, is as it should have been” and in Canto 87 as “What has been, should have,” Pound takes this line from Mussolini’s memoir. Thus, the climax of the play becomes a layered reflection on politics, theater, and the untrustworthy audience. For Pound, his political beliefs, his poetic career, and his personal ambition culminate in the evisceration of a hero’s betrayal. In contrast to the modernist poetic fragmentation he practiced nearly all of his life, in this final moment of downfall, “it all coheres.” Pound’s unusual approach to translation, his drastic reduction of core passages, and his use of language such as “Ezackly” and “WHIZZ!” outraged even ardent proponents of poetic drama. William Arrowsmith, who had lauded earlier modernist verse drama, called Pound’s play “unworthy of Sophocles,” noting also that “I am not riding Pound (for whom, I confess, I have very little liking) but am giving you my honest opinion, both editorially and professionally.”10 Nevertheless, the play was performed immediately following its publication in the Hudson Review in 1954 and the BBC aired it on April 25, 1954. Soon after, Howard Sackler directed a dramatic reading featuring Eli Wallach and Anne Jackson at the New School. Once again, Pound the drama critic rose to the fore. In response to proposals for productions at Yale and Oberlin, he wrote, “EP loathes treating a serious work as mere academic exercise” adding, “Do they ask TSE [T. S. Eliot] for amateur performances?”11 Despite these initial productions and academic interest, Pound’s play failed to attract the critical attention showered on Eliot’s own Heracles-themed play, The Cocktail Party (1950). At least in part because of the charges of treason brought against Pound, Women of Trachis received little critical attention and few professional productions. The most notable of these, the Living Theatre’s 1960 version, was

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a box office failure, and many years later, in 1987, Carey Perloff’s Classic Stage Company chose to produce Pound’s Elektra instead. Since its publication more than fifty years ago, Women of Trachis has appeared almost exclusively on university stages. Pound’s play was perhaps the last serious attempt at poetic drama in American modernism. Although he met with Judith Malina regarding the 1960 production and appreciated her attempts to stage the play, Women of Trachis proved Pound’s final dramatic translation. Despite his belief that the proper kind of play could create an ideal audience, such a group never materialized. Pound abandoned all other dramatic efforts, as did most of his fellow poets. In their wake, playwrights took up poetic license, as in Tennessee Williams’s attempts at poetic realism, but even these efforts quickly shifted into the physical theater of the 1960s (in which the Living Theatre, among others, abandoned its earlier interest in verse) and eventually transformed modernist poetics into a postmodern theater of “poetic images,” as director-designer Robert Wilson later called it. If, as Pound noted, to write for the theater was to play Heracles, then perhaps it was the death of the hero that appropriately marked the death of the genre.

FURTHER READING Adams, Stephen. “Pound in the Theatre: The Background of Pound’s Operas.” In Literary Modernism and the Occult Tradition, ed. Leon Surette and Demetres Tryphonopoulos. Orono, ME: National Poetry Foundation, 1996. Fisher, Margaret. Ezra Pound’s Radio Dramas: The BBC Experiments, 1931–1933. Cambridge, MA: MIT, 2002. Kenner, Hugh. The Pound Era. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971. Nadel, Ira B. The Cambridge Companion to Ezra Pound. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Olcott, Marianina. “Metre and Translation in Pound’s Women of Trachis.” San Jose Studies 12, no. 3 (Fall 1986): 111–18. Syros, Christine. “Beyond Language: Ezra Pound’s Translation of the Sophoclean Elektra.” Paideuma: A Journal Devoted to Ezra Pound Scholarship 23, nos. 2–3 (Fall–Winter 1994): 107–39.

Sophokles: Women of Trachis (1954) A version by Ezra Pound

The Trachiniae presents the highest peak of Greek sensibility registered in any of the plays that have come down to us, and is, at the same time, nearest the original form of the God-Dance. A version for KITASONO KATUE, hoping he will use it on my dear old friend Miscio Ito, or take it to the Minoru if they can be persuaded to add to their repertoire. PERSONAE The Day’s Air, Daianeira, daughter of Oinieus. HERAKLES ZEUSON, the Solar vitality. AKHELOÖS, a river, symbol of the power of damp and darkness, triform as water, cloud and rain. HYLLOS, son of Herakles and Daysair. LIKHAS, a herald. A messenger. A nurse, or housekeeper, old and tottery, physically smaller than Daysair. IOLE, Tomorrow, daughter of Eurytus, a King. Captive women. Girls of Trachis. Daysair.

“No man knows his luck ’til he’s dead.” They’ve been saying that for a long time but it’s not true in my case. Mine’s soggy. Don’t have to go to hell to find that out. I had a worse scare about getting married than any girl in Pleuron, my father’s place in Aetolia. First came a three-twisted rive, Akheloös, part bullheaded cloud, he looked like, part like a slicky snake with scales on it shining, then it would look like a bullheaded man with water dripping out of his whiskers, black ones. Bed with that! I ask you!

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And Herakles Zeuson got me out of it somehow, I don’t know how he managed with that wet horror, you might find out from some impartial witness who could watch without being terrorized. Looks are my trouble. And that wasn’t the end of trouble. Herakles never gets sight of his children, like a farmer who sows a crop and doesn’t look at it again till harvest. Always away on one assignment or another one terror after another, always for someone else. We been outlawed ever since he kill’d lphitz, living here in Trachis with a foreigner, and nobody knows where he is. Bitter ache of separation brought on me, ten months then five, and no news, bitter childbirth in separation worried for some awful calamity. Black trouble may be connected with this memo he left me.

Nurse.

Daysair. Hyllos. Daysair. Hyllos. Daysair. Hyllos. Daysair. Hyllos.

I keep praying it doesn’t mean something horrible, If a slave be permitted, milady? I’ve heard you worrying time and again about Herakles . . . If I’m not speaking out of my turn, ma’am, you got a fine lot of sons here, why not Hyllos go look for his father? He’s coming now. There, hurrying! If you felt like to tell him, if. . . . See here, son, this slave talks sense, more than some free folks. What’s she say? Lemme hear. No credit to you, that you haven’t gone to look for your father. I’ve just heard . . . if it’s true. Heard what? That he’s sitting around somewhere or other. Farmed out last year to a woman in Lydia. He’s capable of anything, if . . . Oh, I hear he’s got out of that.

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Daysair. Hyllos. Daysair. Hyllos. Daysair.

Do they say he’s alive or dead? They say he’s in Eubœa, besieging Eurytusville or on the way to it. You know he left some sort of forecast having to do with that country? No, I didn’t know that. That would be the end of him, or that when he got through with the job, he would live happy ever after.

It’s on the turn of the wheel. Don’t you want to go and work with him? If he wins we’re saved, if he doesn’t we’re done for. Hyllos. Of course I’ll go. I’d have gone before now if I had known. I’ve never worried very much about him one way or the other. Luck being with him. But now I’ll go get the facts. Daysair. Well, get going. A bit late, but a good job’s worth a bonus. Khoros. (accompaniment strings, mainly cellos) Str. 1 PHOEBUS, Phoebus, ere thou slay and lay flaked Night upon her blazing pyre, Say, ere the last star-shimmer is run: Where lies Alkmene’s son, apart from me? Aye, thou art keen, as is the lightning blaze, Land way, sea ways, in these some slit hath he found to escape thy scrutiny? Ant. 1

DAYSAIR is left alone, so sorry a bird, For whom, afore, so many suitors tried. And shall I ask what thing is heart’s desire, Or how love fall to sleep with tearless eye, So worn by fear away, of dangerous road, A manless bride to mourn in vacant room, Expecting ever the worse, of dooms to come?

Str. 2

NORTH WIND or South, so bloweth tireless wave over wave to flood. Cretan of Cadmus’ blood, Orcus’ shafts err not. What home hast ’ou now, an some God stir not?

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PARDON if I reprove thee, Lady, To save thee false hopes delayed. Thinkst thou that man who dies, Shall from King Chronos take unvaried happiness? Nor yet’s all pain. (drums, quietly added to music) The shifty Night delays not, Nor fates of men, nor yet rich goods and spoil. Be swift to enjoy, what thou art swift to lose. Let not the Queen choose despair. Hath Zeus no eye (who saith it?) watching his progeny? Daysair. You’ve found out, I suppose, and want to help me stop worrying. Hope you’ll never go through enough to understand how. One grows up, gets fed. “Don’t get sun-burnt.” “Don’t get wet in the rain. Keep out of draughts,” that’s a girl’s life till she’s married. Gets her assignment at night: something to think about, that is: worry about her man and the children. You’ve seen my load, while it’s been going on. Well, here’s another to wail about: before King Herakles rushed off the last time, he left an old slab of wood with sign writing on it. Never could get a word out of him about it before, for all the rough jobs he went out on, he just couldn’t bear to speak of it, talked as if he were going to work, not to his funeral. Now? not a bit of it: all about my marriage property, what land each of the children was to get from the entail. Time to work out in three months, either he would be dead, or come back and spend the rest of his life without trouble, all fixed by the gods, end of Herakles’ labours, as stated under an old beech-tree in Dodona where a pair of doves tell you. Time up, see how much truth was in it. I started from a sound sleep, shaking, in terror I should have to live on robbed of the best man ever born. Khoros. Hush. Here comes a man with a wreath on.

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Messenger.

Daysair. Messenger. Daysair. Messenger.

Daysair. Messenger.

Daysair.

Khoros.

That means good news. Queen Daysair, let me be the first to calm your anxiety. Alkemene’s son is alive, and has won, and is carrying the spoils to the gods of our country. What are you talking about? You’ll soon see him, the man you want, crowned with Victory. He’s looking splendid. You get this from some local bloke, or a foreigner? There in the summer pastures Likhas the herald is telling a whole crowd of people I came on ahead, thought I might get a tip for the news. Why doesn’t he come himself, if there’s anything to it? He can’t for the crowd, ma’am. They’re all jammed round him wanting the details. He can’t move a step. They want it. But you’ll see him here pretty soon. Zeus in the long grass of Oeta, joy hast Thou given me with its season. Tune up, you there, you women, inside and out here. I had given up hope. Never thought I would see it. Let’s sing and be happy. APOLLO and Artemis, analolu Artemis, Analolu, Sun-bright Apollo, Saviour Apollo Analolu, Artemis, Sylvan Artemis, Swift-arrowed Artemis, analolu By the hearth-stone brides to be Shout in male company: APOLLO EUPHARETRON. Sylvan Artemis, torch-lit Artemis With thy Ortygian girls, Analolu Artemis, Io Zagreus,

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Join now, join with us

Daysair.

Likhas. Daysair. Likhas. Daysair. Likhas. Daysair. Likhas. Daysair. Likhas. Daysair. Likhas.

when the great stag is slain, Lord of hearts, Artemis, Ivied Zagreus, Analolu, Dancing maid and man, Lady or Bacchanal dancing toe to toe By night, By light shall show analolu Paian. Yes, my dear girls, I make out the crowd and finally and at last and at leisure the herald, to be received, and, if his news is good, welcomed. That it is, Milady, and worth hearing, and paying for. Is Herakles alive? Sound in wind and limb, mind and body. Where? In Greece or in some damn foreign desert? On the cliff of Eubœa, setting up altars to Zeus Kaenean. A vow, or to stave off evil? A vow, made when he went to conquer these women’s country. Good God! What are these poor devils? Where do they come from? These are the ones he picked for the gods (and himself) when he sacked Eurytus. And he’s been waiting all this time to conquer a city? No, most of the time he was in Lydia, that’s what he says, sold into bondage, and you can’t blame it on anyone except Zeus. Says he was in servitude to the barbarian Omphale (that’s what he says). So disgusted he swore to get back at the man who’d double-crossed him; chuck him and his whole house into slavery, wife, child and the lot of ’em. Swore in foreign troops and went to Eurytus’ place as he blamed it all on Eurytus. Well, he was drunk, and he killed a man,

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Khoros. Daysair.

threw him off a cliff, and was punished. Zeus wouldn’t stand it, and Herakles blamed it on ’Rytus who had insulted him and had him thrown out of the dining hall, which was how he came to be on the cliff up at Tirunth when Iphytz was there hunting lost horses, and he killed him, and so on, and Zeus wouldn’t stand it. So when he’d done his time, he got a gang together and sacked ’Rytus’ city. These are the captives. That’s what comes of big talk. Said Herakles couldn’t shoot as well as his kids, ’Rytus’s. Hell’s full of big talkers. He’ll be along as soon as he’s finished the celebration. All very fine— Sacrifice captives. C’est trés beau. Yes, isn’t it, Your Majesty. Everything will now be all right. If it lasts, yes. Looks all right, why can’t I feel easy about it? My luck runs with his. I wonder. I’m sorry for those poor girls, in a strange country, orphans, slaves, I hope no child of mine ever— or that I don’t live to see it.

(to IOLE) You look as if you were taking it worse than any of the others. Girl, wife, young; no, you can’t have been married yet. And good family. Who is she, Likhas? I’m sorrier for her than for the rest of them. She seems to feel it. Likhas. How do I know? She might be top drawer, why ask me? Daysair. Royal? Had Eurytus a daughter? Likhas. I dunno. I haven’t asked her. Daysair. Didn’t anyone tell you? Likhas. I had plenty else to do, without asking that kind of question. Daysair. (to IOLE) Well then, you tell me. What’s happened? Who are you? Likhas. It’ll be a change if she does, hasn’t uttered a pip-squeak

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since she came down from the windy country. Tears, tears, tears, but it’s excusable, she’s had pretty bad luck. Daysair. Let her alone, let her go in, I don’t want to add to her troubles, she’s had enough. Everybody in! Have to hurry to get things in order. (Exeunt LIKHAS and captives.) Messenger. ’Arf a mo’, Ma’am! Better find out what you’re taking in there. I know a bit more about that. Daysair. What’s this? What are you stopping me for? Messenger. Jus’ lis’en a bit, if what I told you before was worth hearing . . . Daysair. Shall I call ’em back? Messenger. We’re enough. There’s enough of us here. Daysair. They’re all gone. Don’t talk riddles. Messenger. That fellow was lying, one time or the other, one heck of a messenger! Daysair. Put it on the line, what do you know? Get it out clearly. Messenger. All started when he had a letch for the girl, and when her pro-eh-Genitor ’Rytus wouldn’t let him put her to bed on the Q.T. Wasn’t about Iphytz or Omphale he sacked the town, and killed ’Rytus to get her. He’s not bringing her here as a slave. Too het up. So I thought I would be telling Your Majesty, this is what Likhas was saying, and plenty of Trachinians heard him. I’m sorry to worry you. But the facts . . . Daysair. What have I done, what have I done! Just a nobody, and he took oath that she was. What a mess. Messenger. She’s somebody, all right, all right. Name’s Iole, and ’Rytus her father. And Likhas hadn’t found that out ’cause he hadn’t troubled to ask her. Khoros. To hell with all double-crossers, they are the last of all dirtiness. Daysair. What shall . . . what shall . . . my dear girls, what, what. . . . Messenger. You might start by questioning Likhas, scare the lights out of him, and he might tell you.

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Daysair. Messenger. Daysair. Likhas. Daysair. Likhas. Daysair. Likhas. Daysair. Likhas. Messenger. Likhas. Messenger. Likhas. Messenger. Likhas. Messenger. Likhas. Messenger. Likhas. Messenger. Likhas. Messenger. Likhas. Messenger. Likhas. Messenger. Likhas. Messenger. Likhas. Messenger.

I’ll do that. You’re talking sense. Want me to go, or . . . ? You stay here. There he comes, without being asked. What do you want me to tell Herakles, Madam? I’m leaving. Not in quite such a hurry. You were in no hurry to get here. Let’s have a little conversation. Yours to command, Ma’am. Have you any respect for the truth? So help me God. Nothing but . . . Who was the woman you brought here? I don’t know about her family, she comes from Eubœa. Look at here. You know who this is? Who are you? Don’t mind that. Answer my question, if you’ve got sense enough. Her most Gracious Majesty, Queen of Herakles, Daughter of Oineus, Daysair. Right for once! She’s your Queen. To whom my most faithful service . . . Service, duty, yes duty, my dicky-bird and if you don’t . . . What’s this screw-ball? If I don’t . . . Do your duty, do you get that? It sounds fairly clear. Silly to stop for this nonsense, I’m off. One little question. Get on with it. Not the quiet type, are you? That girl, you know which one, you took into the house? What about her? Don’t know her by sight, eh, you don’t? and you said she was ’Rytus’s daughter, the Princess Iole. Nobody ever heard me say anything of the sort. Oh yes they did. Plenty of us, us Trachinians, a whole agora heard it. Just talk, a mere rumour. Just an opinion? eh? rumour? eh? And you swore pink they were bringing her to be Herakles’ wife. Wife? Good God, Your dear Majesty, who is this outsider? Just somebody heard you talking.

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Not the Lydian army, and its queen. He sacked a whole town cause he liked the look in her eyes. Took a fancy. Beg to differ, Your Majesty. No use bothering with this screw-ball. THUNDER of God! By the black vale of Oeta, don’t weasel to me. And besides you’re not going to tell it to a bad woman, or to one that doesn’t know that men just naturally don’t want the same thing all the time. How’s any slugger going to stop Love with his hands? That’s a nice way to think of it? He starts off the gods, as he fancies. Me, am I going to win at it? Be perfectly silly to blame the man while he’s crazy, or the girl they’re blaming. No shame to me . . . no harm. It’s not that at all. BUT. . . . if he taught you to lie, the lesson you learned is not a nice one. And if you taught yourself to lie, thinking some good would come of it, you saw cross-eyed. You come out with the truth, the whole truth. Now. It’s no compliment to call a free man a liar, when a free man is called a liar it’s no pretty compliment, and it’ll all come out anyhow, how are you going to hide it? Plenty of people heard you, and will certainly tell me. And if you think . . . not nice to be in terror of me . . . not to find out, would pain me, mightn’t it? And what’s so awful to know? That man Herakles! hasn’t he had plenty of others on me? Ever driven me to nag him, or blame him? And if he was overflowing with passion for her, will I but pity her greatly, and the more. Her looks have ruin’d her life, and ruin’d the land of her fathers, not knowing, wretched, didn’t know what it was all about. All this gone under the wind.

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Khoros. Likhas.

Daysair.

Khoros. Str.

Ant.

I’m telling you: do dirt to others but . . . Don’t weasel to me. Better do as she says. She won’t blame you, in the long run, and I will be grateful. Oh Majesty, Your Dear Majesty, I see you understand that human beings are human, I’ll tell the truth, I won’t hold back on you. It’s as that chap there says it was. Herakles was hit by a tremendous passion, it swept over him, and he seized all Oechalia and gave it over to pillage, her fatherland, but I’ll say this much for him, he never denied it, or told me to conceal it. It was me, your Majesty, who was afraid it would pain you, me who did wrong, eh, if, eh, you think it was wrong of me, and now you know all of it, for his sake and for your sake, both your sakes together, do put up with the girl. He beat all the champions into subjection and now Eros throws him down with all his inferiors. Yes, We think that’s what’s to be done and just that way. This imported trouble won’t be got rid of by a losing fight versus the gods. Let’s go in, and I’ll get you something for Herakles and a note to take with it. Got to send him something suitable in return. Wouldn’t be right for you to go back without something, having come with all this. KUPRIS bears trophies away. Kronos’ Son, Dis and Poseidon, There is no one shaker unshaken. Into dust they go all. Neath Her they must give way. TWO gods fought for a girl, Battle and dust! Might of a River with horns crashing. Four bulls together Shall no man tether,

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Akheloös neither, lashing through Oneudai As bow is bent The Theban Cub, Bacchus’ own, spiked is his club, HE is God’s Son. Hurled to one bed, Might of waters like a charge of bulls crashing. Get a dowsing rod. Kupris decides To whom brides fall. ROCK and wrack, Horns into back, Slug, grunt and groan, Grip through to bone. Crash and thud Bows against blood Grip and grind Bull’s head and horn. BUT the wide-eyed girl on the hill, Out of it all, frail, Who shall have her? To stave her and prove her, Cowless calf lost, Hurtled away, prized for a day? (Music in this Khoros fifes, kettle drums, oboes, etc., with flute solo or clarinet) Daysair. (re-enters) Well, my dears, while that outsider is inside chatting with the little victims of bow and spear before he pushes off, let’s figure out how we are to manage this cohabitation with this virgin who isn’t one any longer, ’cause she’s been yoked. Too much cargo, contraband, but keep my mind afloat somehow. “Double yoke Under one cloak”, and I said he was so kind and dependable.

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What I get for keeping house all this time. But I can’t stay mad at him long, I know what’s got into him, And yet . . . the two of us, My husband, her man, the new girl’s man. and she’s young. And: “E’en from fond eyes, olde flowers are cast away.” And it’s not nice for a woman to be too crotchety, the ones with nice minds are not peevish. And may be there’s a way out. Nessus, that old ruffian with hair on his chest, long ago, I was a green girl then, and he gave me a little present which I’ve kept stored away in a brass pot all this time. He was dying from loss of blood there at the ferry over Evenus where it’s too deep to ford. And he had me up on his shoulders in mid passage and got too fresh with his hands. I let out a shriek, and: WHIZZ!! as he turned Zeuson had an arrow into his lung up to the feathers. Before he passed out he said: “As you’re old Oineus’ daughter, I’ll give you what I’ve earned by all this ferrying. Scrape the drying blood from my wound where the Hydra’s blood tipped that arrow, Lernaean Hydra, and you’ll have a love charm so strong that Herakles will never look at another woman or want her more than you.” Well, my dears, I been thinking ’bout that, I’ve kept the stuff since his death carefully in a cool dark place, and I’ve swobbed this jacket with it,

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just as the Centaur told me, not like a philtre, I don’t believe it’s too great a risk.

Khoros. Daysair. Khoros. Daysair.

Likhas. Daysair.

Likhas.

Daysair. Likhas. Daysair.

Deal with that young woman somehow, unless you think I am foolish. Don’t seem a bad idea, if you think it will work. No absolute guarantee, of course, but you’ll never tell till you try. Nope, no proof without data, no proof without experiment. There he is. Be gone soon, keep quiet about this for a bit, what they don’t know won’t hurt us. You can get away with a good deal in the dark. I have considerably overstayed my leave, Madame d’Oineus. Tell me, please, just what I’ve got to do. While you’ve been in there talking to the girls, I’ve wrapped up this present for Herakles, a jacket I made him myself, nobody else is to put it on first, he’s not to leave it in the sun or near the fire inside the holy hedge until he stands before the gods at the altar for killing the bulls. I vowed that if I should ever see him safe home, or hear he had come, I would make him a proper chiton to wear when he sacrificed in the god’s presence. The packet is sealed with my signet which he will recognize. Now you may go, and remember a messenger’s first job is to do what he’s told, not more, not less, but just what he is told. Do that, and we’ll both be grateful. Properly trained in Hermes’ messenger-service, Ma’am, say I’m not, if I slip up on this or don’t take him the box, as is, and your message exactly. Then go. You know how things are going inside. Yes. I’ll say: everything under control. And that I’m being nice to the visitor,

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you’ve seen that. And I was most awfully surprised and cheered by it. Daysair. (réveuse) Anything more? No. Likhas.

Khoros. Str. 1

Mustn’t say how much I want him until I know he’s going to want me. SAFE the port, rocky the narrows, streams warm to a glaze on Oeta’s hill, Malis’ pool and Dian’s beach Neath her golden-shafted arrows Ye who live here and disdeign All greek towns less than the Pelean,

(fifes, flute & grosse caisse) Ant. 1 SOON shall hear the skirl and din Of flutes’ loud cackle shrill return, Dear to Holy Muses as Phoebus’ lyre ever was. From the valours of his wars Comes now the God, Alkemene’s son Bearing battle booty home. (clarinette, bassoon) Str. 2 TWELVE moons passing, night long, and day. Exile, exile Knowing never, to come? to stay? Tears, tears, till grief Hath wrecked her heart away, Ere mad Mars should end him his working day. (cello, low register) Ant. 1 TO PORT, to port. Boat is still now; The many oars move not. By island shrine ere he come to the town Day long, day long If the charm of the gown prove not? ’Tis dipped, aye in the unguent drenched through it, in every fold. Told, told, in all as she had been told. (DAYSAIR enters now in the tragic mask.) Daysair. Something’s gone wrong, my dears, awfully, terribly wrong, and I’m scared. Khoros. Why, Daysair Oineus, what do you mean?

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I don’t know, I dunno, I hoped and I don’t hope. Something awful will come of it. You don’t mean your present to Herakles? Exactly. People oughtn’t to rush into what they don’t understand. Tell us what you’re afraid of. Something too creepy’s just happened. That thick wad of white sheep’s wool that I used to daub the jacket, just disappeared. Nobody touched it. Seemed to corrode of itself. Ate itself up, there on the floor-stones. When that brute of a Centaur was in agony from the arrow in his lung, he told me—and I can remember it as if it were engraved on a brass plate— and I did just what he told me: kept it cool, away from the fire and sunlight, in a cupboard until time to use it, which I did inside, and nobody saw me take it out of the kettle with wool I’d pulled out of a fleece from our own sheep and put it inside the box that you saw. But just now, something you wouldn’t believe, perfectly inexplicable, I found it all flaming there in the sunlight. It had got warm and just crumbled away, like sawdust where somebody had been sawing a board, but mixed up with bubbles like the fat scum that slops over from the wine-press. I’m out of my mind with worry and misery. I’ve done something awful. Why should that dying brute want to do me a favour? He was dying on my account. Wanted to hit back at his killer. And I’ve found out what he was up to, and it’s too late. I’m to murder him, damn it, fate. I know that arrow hurt even Chiron and he was a demigod— black blood from the death arrow, would kill any wild animal. If he dies, if he’s caught, I’ll die too. No decent woman would live after that horror.

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Khoros. Daysair. Khoros. Daysair. Khoros. Hyllos. Daysair. Hyllos. Daysair. Hyllos. Daysair. Hyllos. Daysair. Hyllos.

Don’t give up yet. There’s danger. But it mayn’t necessarily happen. There’s no hope for those who have done wrong. But if you didn’t mean it, they won’t blame you as much as all that. Talk that way if you’re not involved, not if you’ve got the weight of it on you. Better wait to hear what your son’s got to say. There he is to tell you, himself; he went to look for his father. Damn you, I wish you were dead, or no mother, anyhow, or at any rate not mine. What’s got into you, son, why do . . . You’ve murdered your man, my father, and you did it today. What a thing to say. Oh, oh. Well you’ve done it, and finished it, and what’s done can’t be undone. How can you say this! Me! The most loathsome crime known? I saw it myself, the way he suffered. This is no idle rumour. Where did you find him? You were with him? You’ll hear it. You’ve got to hear all of it. He sacked Eurytus’ city, you’ve heard of that place, and was coming home with the spoils, at the top headland of Eubœa where the sea swashes in on both sides, at Kenaion, facing the North. He orientated the altars, to the gods, our own. Fixed the lay-out, cutting the leaves. And I was glad to get the first sight of him starting to kill all those bulls. Then along comes Likhas the family herald with that present, that marvellous peplon. And he put it on, like as you’d said, and started on the first dozen bulls, going on to kill the whole hundred, hecatomb. And the poor devil, at the start, was so cheerful about it, seemed pleased with his vestments. Made the prayer, but as the flame went up from the Holy Orgy, bloody and from the fat oak logs,

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sweat broke from his skin, the shirt stuck to him, like it was glued, shrinking in on all of his joints as if made by someone who knew how to do it. Gnawing into his bones, it seemed to be, dirty snake poison gave him convulsions, seemed like it was biting with hate. And he howled for the miserable Likhas who wasn’t guilty. You were. To know who’d hatched the shirt trick. And Likhas said he had brought it as it was fixed up and given him. Then the stuff got another worse grip on him and he grabbed Likhas by the foot, twisting his ankle, and threw him out off onto a boulder that stuck up out of the breakers. Hair! Brains came out of the skull mixed with blood. The whole crowd groaned: one dead, another stark raving. Nobody dared to come near him. There he was on the ground roaring, or groaning when he reared part way up, and the rocks echoing from Locris to Eubœa, between the crags and the sea-cliffs. Till he was clean worn out, writhing on the ground, moaning, and cursing his marriage bed, cursing you, and that he’d been fool enough to get you from Oineus to ruin his life. The one woman. Then with his eyes screwed up from the smoke that came out of him and tears running down, he caught sight of me and called for me: “Don’t try to keep out of this, even if you have to die with me. Get me out of here to somewhere, anywhere, where no one can see me. Get me out of here, quick. I don’t want to die here.” That’s what he told me. So we put him into the hollow of the boat and brought him to the mainland,

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hardly any more noise coming out of him but still in convulsions. You’ll see him pretty soon, living or dead. That, my dear mother, is what you have thought up to do to my father, Hell take you, and the Furies, and do you right. Justice, eh, Justice, if . . . lot of justice you had for me! You spewed it out when you killed the best man on earth what you see henceforth will be of a different kind. (DAYSAIR exit.) Khoros.

Why does she go so quietly? Has she no answer? Hyllos. Let her go. And a nice wind take her far enough . . . out of sight, and another label to keep up her maternal swank, fine mother she is, let her de-part in peace . . . and get some of the pleasure she has given my father. Khoros. (low cello merely sustaining the voice) Str. 1 OYEZ: Things foretold and forecast: Toil and moil. God’s Son from turmoil shall —when twelve seed-crops be past— be loosed with the last, his own. Twining together, godword found good, Spoken of old, as the wind blew, truth’s in the flood. We and his brood see in swift combine, here and at last that: Amid the dead is no servitude nor do they labour. (contrabassi & drums muffled) Ant 1. LO, beneath deadly cloud Fate and the Centaur’s curse, black venom spread, Dank Hydra’s blood Boils now through every vein, goad after goad from spotted snake to pierce the holy side, nor shall he last to see a new day’s light,

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Black shaggy night descends as Nessus bade. Str. 2

Ant. 2

WHAT MOURNFUL case who feared great ills to come, New haste in mating threatening her home, Who hark’d to reason in a foreign voice Entangling her in ravage out of choice. Tears green the cheek with bright dews pouring down; Who mourns apart, alone Oncoming swiftness in o’erlowering fate To show what wreck is nested in deceit.

LET the tears flow. Ne’er had bright Herakles in his shining Need of pity till now whom fell disease burns out. How swift on Oechal’s height to take a bride. Black pointed shaft that shielded her in flight, Attest That Kupris stood by and never said a word, Who now flares here the contriver manifest . . . and indifferent. (The dea ex machina, hidden behind a grey gauze in her niche, is lit up strongly so that the gauze is transparent. The apparition is fairly sudden, the fade-out slightly slower: the audience is almost in doubt that she has appeared.) Half Khoros. Am I cracked, or did I hear someone weeping? In the hall? Did you hear it? 2nd Half Khoros. Not a muttering, but someone in trouble, wailing, started again inside there. (Enter NURSE.) Half Khoros. Look, look at the old woman’s face. Something awful, it’s all twisted up. Nurse. Children, children, no end to the troubles from sending that present to Herakles. Khoros. More, you mean more? Nurse. She’s gone . . . . . . . . . . . Daysair, The last road of all roads

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Khoros. Nurse. Khoros. Nurse. Khoros. Nurse. Khoros. Nurse. Khoros. Nurse. Khoros. Nurse. Khoros. Nurse. Khoros. Nurse. Khoros. Nurse. Khoros. Nurse.

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. . .without walking. What! Dead? That’s all. You heard me. You mean the poor girl is dead? Yes, for the second time. Yes. Poor thing. How awful. But how . . . How is she dead? In the most violent But how, say how, woman. How did it happen? Did it herself, ripped herself open. But she crazy? What did she do it with? How did she do it all by herself? Dying one after another. Got hold of a sword, a roaring big sword. And a sharp one. But did you see it, you fool, see this outrage? Saw it. I wasn’t far off. What? How? Go on and tell us. Did it herself. With her hands. But what do you mean? Plain fact. What you can see for yourself. That new girl’s doin’ it. I’ll say she’s effective. Bride is she, and a fury. Holy Erinyes! And then some. You’d feel it more if you’d seen it near to. But has a woman got the strength in her hands? And to stand it? Terrible, You can believe me. She came in alone and saw the boy in the hall preparing the hearse-litter to fetch back his father. She hid herself down back of the altar, sank down there groaning because her brood had deserted her. Then pitifully stroking* the thing she had used before, went wandering through the best rooms— didn’t know I could see her, from a sort of kink in the wall— drawing her hands over the things she was used to. Then came on one of the maids whom she liked, and with the look of doom on her

*2,000 years later the Minoru had developed a technique which permitted the direct presentation of such shades by symbolic gesture. In Sophokles’ time it had to be left to narration.

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cried to her daemon, that she was more childless than any woman. Then stopped. And of a sudden ran into Herakles’ bed room, and threw her cloak on to Herakles’ bed, spread it out like a coverpane, then threw herself on to it and lay there quiet for a moment as if asleep. Choking with tears, then: “Bride’s-bed, good-bye my bride’s-bed, never again folded together!” And she ripped the dress all off her left side and the gold clasp with it. I ran for Hyllos, but she was too quick, she had jammed a sword side-ways through her liver into the heart, when we got there, two-edged. The boy screamed and blamed himself for having driven her to it. Father, mother, all in one day. He’d found out that she’d only done what that animal told her, hadn’t meant any harm. Too pitiful he was. Sobbing and holding her in his arms. You can’t count on anything for tomorrow, got to wait till today is over. Khoros. (declaimed) TORN between griefs, which grief shall I lament, Str. 1 which first? Which last, in heavy argument? One wretchedness to me in double load. Ant. 1 (sung) Str. 2

Ant. 2

DEATH’S in the house, and death comes by the road. THAT WIND might bear away my grief and me, Sprung from the hearth-stone, let it bear me away. God’s Son is dead, that was so brave and strong, And I am craven to behold such death Swift on the eye, Pain hard to uproot, and this so vast A splendour of ruin. THAT NOW is here.

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As Progne shrill upon the weeping air, ’tis no great sound. These strangers lift him home, with shuffling feet, and love that keeps them still. The great weight silent for no man can say If sleep but feign or Death reign instantly. Herakles. (in the mask of divine agony) Holy Kanea, where they build holy altars, done yourself proud, you have, nice return for a sacrifice: messing me up. I could have done without these advantages And the spectacle of madness in flower, incurable, oh yes. Get some one to make a song for it, Or some chiropractor to cure it. A dirty pest, take God a’mighty to cure it and I’d be surprised to see Him coming this far . . . (to the others) Ahj! Get away, let me lie quiet, for the last time aaah. What you doin’ trying to turn me over, let me alone. Blast it. Bloody crime to start it again, sticks to me. It’s coming back. You greeks are the dirtiest, damn you, if you are greeks at all, where do you come from? What I’ve done on sea, and clearing out thickets, killing wild animals. And now I’m in torture, no one to finish it off with fire, or with a knife, or do ANYthing useful, or even let me alone.

Old Man.

If only someone would lop my head off and get me out of this loathsome existence, Aaahj. Here, you’re his son, and I ain’t strong enough to lift him.

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Hyllos.

Herakles.

POETS AT PLAY

Give a hand, You could do more for him than I can. Right, but he’s passed out from pain. Inside or out here, he’s dying on me. God’s will. Boy, where are you? Hoist me up and hang on. What rotten luck! It keeps jumping. This beastly pain, taken all the fight out of me. I can’t get at it.

Pallas Athene! there goes that ache again. Oooh boy, have some pity on the father that made you, pull out something with an edge on it, and get it in here (with gesture; the exact spot) (low cellos, contrabassi, muffled drum in gaps between the phrases) and get it in here under my collar bone. Your mother’s to blame for this. Damn’d atheist, that’s what she is. And, I wish her the same. (pause, then sotto voce) Brother of God, Sweet Hell, be decent. Let me lie down and rest. Swift-feathered Death, that art the end of shame. Khoros. Scares me to hear him. And when you think what he was. Herakles. Many and hot, and that’s not just talking, my own hands, and my own back doing the dirty work. But God’s bitch never put one like this over on me, nor that grump Rustheus either. And now Miss Oineus with her pretty little shifty eyes m’la calata, has done me to beat all the furies, got me into a snarl, clamped this net on to me and she wove it. It sticks to my sides and has gnawed through to my furtherest in’nards. And now it’s stopped the green blood, got into the lungs and dries up the tubes along with them, tears up all the rest of me. Holds me down, like in fetters. I can’t explain it. No gang of plainsman with spears,

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no army of giants come up out of the earth, no wild beast was strong enough. Nor Greeks, nor foreigners whose countries I had cleaned up, but a piddling female did it, not even a man with balls. Alone and without a sword. Boy, you start showing whose son you are. I.e. mine, and as for the highly revered title to motherhood, you get that producer out of her house and hand her over to me. We’ll see whether you feel worse watching me rot or seeing her cut up and brought to justice. Go, pick up your courage. Get going and have mercy on me or pity, that’s it: pity. Me blubbering like a flapper, no man ever saw me taken like this before or said I groaned over my troubles, now I find out I’m a sissy. Come here. Nearer, see what your father is brought to. (he throws off the sheet covering him) Without the wrappings, look at it, all of you, ever see a body in this condition? Gosh! That’s a death-rattle again. Disgraceful. Got me here on the side again, eating through me. Can’t seem to get rid of it. Lord of Hell, take me. Thundering Lord God, if you’ve got a crash-rattle, throw it. God our father of Thunder. There it is gnawing again. budding, blossoming. OH my hand, my hands, back, chest, my lovely arms, what you used to be. That lion that was killing off the Nemean cattle-men, the Hydra in Lerna and those unsociable bardots, half man and half horse, the whole gang of them all together arrogant, lawless, surpassing strong, and the Eurymanthian animal, and that three-headed pup from Hell down under, the Echidna’s nursling brought up by an out-size viper, and the dragon-guard of the golden apples at the end of the world.

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And a great lot of other work, and nobody took any prizes away from me. No joints, no strength in ’em, all torn to pieces. This blind calamity, and my mother was a notable woman and my father in heaven, Zeus, mid the stars. That’s what they say.

Khoros. Hyllos.

Herakles. Hyllos. Herakles.

Hyllos. Herakles. Hyllos. Herakles. Hyllos. Herakles. Hyllos. Herakles. Hyllos. Herakles. Hyllos. Herakles. Hyllos. Herakles. Hyllos.

But I tell you this much. I can’t even crawl, but bring her here and I’ll learn her, I’ll make her a lesson: Alive or dead how I pay people for dirty work. Poor Greece, you can see troubles coming if you let such a man down. You seem to expect me to answer. You’re quiet, as if expecting an answer. Now if I may ask you for justice, and tell you how useless it is to want to break her. Say what you’ve got to say, and get it over with. I’m too sick to be pestered with double-talk and nuances. It’s about mother’s mistake. What’s happened. She didn’t mean it. Well of all the dirtiest . . . Your bloody murdering mother and you dare to mention her in my earshot! It’s about mother’s mistake. No, I dare say past crimes ought to be— And you’ll mention what’s happened today. Speak up. But be careful, it won’t show your breeding. Well, she’s dead. Just been killed. By whom? That’s a bad sign. She did it. And cheated me out of the chance. If you knew all the facts, you’d quit being angry. Thazza good tough start. Give. She just didn’t mean any harm. She meant well. You louse! Meant well by killing your father? An aphrodisiac. Thought it would get you back, and went wrong, when she saw the new wife in the house. The Trachinians got witch-doctors that good? Nessus told her a long time ago

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331

that the philtre would start that sort of letch. Misery. I’m going out and my light’s gone. The black out! I understand perfectly well where things have got to . . . Go, son, call all my seed and their kindred, and Alkmene, ill-starred for the empty name of the Godhead, my mother, so they can get my last report of the oracles, as I know them. Hyllos. Your mother is at Tiryns out of reach and took some of the children with her. Others are in Thebes-burg, I’ll round up the near ones, if that’s O.K., and they’ll do what you tell them. Herakles. Listen first, and show what you’re made of, my stock. My father told me long ago that no living man should kill me, but that someone from hell would, and that brute of a Centaur has done it. The dead beast kills the living me. and that fits another odd forecast breathed out at the Selloi’s oak— Those fellows rough it, sleep on the ground, up in the hills there. I heard it and wrote it down under my Father’s tree. Time lives, and it’s going on now. I am released from trouble. I thought it meant life in comfort. It doesn’t. It means that I die. For amid the dead there is no work in service. Come at it that way, my boy, what SPLENDOUR, IT ALL COHERES.* (He turns his face from the audience, then sits erect, facing them without the mask of agony; the revealed make-up is that of solar serenity. The hair golden and as electrified as possible.) Herakles.

*This is the key phrase for which the play exists, as in the Elektra: “Need we add cowardice to all the rest of these ills?” Or the “T’as inventé la justice” in Cocteau’s Antigone. And, later: “Tutto quello che è accaduto, doveva accadere.” At least one sensitive hellenist who has shown great care for Sophokles’ words, has failed to grasp the main form of the play, either here or in the first chorus, and how snugly each segment of the work fits into its box.

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But you must help me and don’t make me lose my temper, don’t dither, and don’t ask me why. This is the great rule: Filial Obedience. Hyllos. I will obey. Herakles. (extending his hand) Put her there. Hyllos. I’ll do it. I don’t need to swear. Herakles. Put it there. Hyllos. (complying) What am I swearing to? Herakles. Repeat: “By the head of Zeus,” you will do what I tell you to. Hyllos. I swear, so help me God. Herakles. “And God damn all perjurers.” Hyllos. I’ll keep it anyhow. (adds after almost imperceptible pause) And God DAMN all perjurers. Herakles. You know the highest peak of Zeus’ hill in Oeta? Hyllos. Sacrificed there quite often. Herakles. You must get this carcass up there, by hand, with as many friends as you like. And cut a lot of wood from deep-rooted oaks and from wild olive (male trees) lopped off the same way. Get it going with the bright flame of a pine torch. And put me onto the pyre. Don’t blubber. Show that you are my son or you’ll have my ghost heavy on you from below there, forever. Hyllos. But father . . . have I got all this straight? Herakles. Got your orders. Do ’em, or change your name. Hyllos. Good lord, you want me to be a murderer and a parricide? Herakles. No, a physician, the only one who can heal. Hyllos. But how come, if I burn it? Herakles. If you are afraid of that, do the rest. Hyllos. I don’t mind carrying you up there. Herakles. And build the pyre? As I tell you to do? Hyllos. So long as I don’t have to light it with my own hands, I’ll do my bit. Herakles. And another little job that won’t take long

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after the big one. I don’t care what size it is. It’ll get done. You know that kid of Eurytus’s? Iole? I guess you mean Iole. Ezakly. When I am dead, if you revere your agreement, remember it and marry the girl. Don’t disobey me. She has lain beside me. No other man but you is to have her. You agree to the greater, don’t jib at the less. Hyllos. But I’d have to be possessed of a devil to do it. Better die with you. She caused mother’s death and your torture. She’s our worst enemy. Herakles. The fellow doesn’t seem to want to carry out his dad’s last request. God’s worst curse falls on a disobedient son. Hyllos. The delirium’s coming back. Herakles. Yes, because you’re stirring it up. Hyllos. What am I to do, in this mess? Herakles. Start by hearing straight. What I’m telling you, the dad that made you. Hyllos. Have you got to teach me crime? Herakles. It is no crime to gladden a father’s heart. Hyllos. If you order me to, is that legal? Perfectly all right? Herakles. I call the gods to witness. Hyllos. Then I’ll go ahead. If it’s set before the gods that way, I can’t be blamed for obeying you. Herakles. Fine. At last, and get going. Get me onto that fire, before this pain starts again. Hey, you there, hoist me up for the last trouble. The last rest. Hyllos. Nothing to stop us now. You’re the driver. Herakles. Come ere the pain awake, O stubborn mind. (catches sight of HYLLOS’S face and breaks off with) And put some cement in your face, reinforced concrete, make a cheerful finish even if you don’t want to. Hyllos. Hoist him up, fellows. And for me a great tolerance, matching the gods’ great unreason. They see the things being done, calamities looked at, Hyllos. Herakles. Hyllos. Herakles.

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sons to honour their fathers, and what is to come, nothing is seen. Gods! Our present miseries, their shame. And of all men none has so borne, nor ever shall again. And now ladies, let you go home. Today we have seen strange deaths, wrecks many, such as have not been suffered before. And all of this is from Zeus. (Exeunt: The girls left, HYLLOS and bearers right.)

Notes A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION 1. Christopher Innes, “Modernism in Drama,” in The Cambridge Companion to Modernism, ed. by Michael Levenson, 130 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). See also, John Fletcher and James McFarlane, “Modernist Drama,” in Modernism: A Guide to European Literature, 1890–1930, ed. Malcolm Bradbury and James McFarlane, 497–570 (New York: Penguin, 1976), for a thorough discussion of modernism and metatheater. 2. Martin Puchner, Stage Fright: Modernism, Anti-Theatricality and Drama (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), 4. For more on antitheatricality in modernist drama, see Against Theatre: Creative Destructions on the Modernist Stage, ed. Martin Puchner and Alan Ackerman (New York: Palgrave, 2006). 3. Puchner, Stage Fright, 7. For a consideration of antitheatricality in contemporary poetry and drama, see W. B. Worthen, Print and the Poetics of Modern Drama (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 4. Puchner, Stage Fright, 103. 5. Anne-Britt Gran, “The Fall of Theatricality in the Age of Modernity,” Substance 98/99, no. 31 (2002): 252–53. There are notable exceptions to this formulation, most coming from theatre studies. For recent considerations of modernism and theater, see Brenda Murphy, The Provincetown Players and the Culture of Modernity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); Stephen Watts, “Modern American Drama,” in The Cambridge Companion to American Modernism, ed. Walter Kalaidjian (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); and J. Ellen Gainor, Susan Glaspell in Context: American Theatre, Culture and Politics, 1914–1948 (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2001). 6. Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), vii. 7. William Carlos Williams, Autobiography (New York: New Directions, 1951), 341. 8. Eric Bentley, Playwright as Thinker (New York: Meridian, 1955), 188. 9. Ibid., 726. 10. Wallace Stevens, “Of Modern Poetry,” in The Palm at the End of the Mind: Selected Poems and a Play by Wallace Stevens, ed. Holly Stevens (New York: Vintage Books, 1972), 175. 11. Ruby Cohn, Dialogue in American Drama (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1971), 226. 12. It is worth noting that David Hirson’s La Bête (1991), a contemporary play written entirely in rhyming couplets, was a dismal failure with audiences and critics alike when it premiered on Broadway. Despite the enthusiasm of New York theater luminaries, such as Harold Prince and Jerome Robbins, the show closed after twenty-four performances. 13. In the case of MacKaye, Thomas H. Dickinson in 1925 called him a theatrical “pioneer,” placing him before Eugene O’Neill in his Playwrights of the New American Theater (New York: Macmillan, 1925), 1. Similarly, the New York Times on May 5, 1907, openly debated poetry and drama in response to comments by the British ambassador to the United

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States James Bryce. Opinions varied, but one playwright argued for the ubiquity of poetry in drama as a defense of American drama: “There are many poetic elements in contemporary plays—many scenes that reproduce the poetry of life—and I think that this is quite as great as the versified poetry.” 14. Roland Barthes, Writing Ground Zero, trans. Annette Levers and Colin Smith (New York: Hill and Wang, 1968), 38. 15. Puchner, Stage Fright, 5. 16. Puchner refers to this as the “second tradition” of modernism, the “(pro)theatricalism” in Stage Fright, 2. 17. Alfred Kreymborg, Poetic Drama: An Anthology of Plays in Verse from the Ancient Greek to the Modern American (New York: Modern Age, 1941), 726. 18. The most well-known exhibition was the New York Armory Show in 1913. For more on the cultural intersections of modern art in America, see also 1915, The Cultural Moment: The New Politics, the New Woman, the New Psychology, the New Art, and the New Theatre, ed. Adele Heller and Lois Rudnick (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1991) and Peter Nicholls, “Modernity and the ‘Men of 1914,’” in Modernisms: A Literary Guide (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). 19. In his overview, American Avant-Garde Theatre: A History (London: Routledge, 2000), Arnold Aronson notes the fundamental influence of Gertrude Stein in particular as a key figure among the American theater experiments in the last decades of the twentieth century. 20. Raymond Williams, Drama From Ibsen to Eliot (London: Chatto and Windus, 1965), 277. 21. Recent scholarship has revisited earlier notions of the apolitical context for modernist poetry, most significantly in considerations of anti-Semitism, particularly in the work of Eliot and Pound. The journal Modernism/Modernity, for instance, devoted two special issues in 2003 to the debate regarding T. S. Eliot and anti-Semitism. 22. Kreymborg, Poetic Drama, 832. 23. Letter dated May 25, 1883, in The Correspondence of Henrik Ibsen, trans. Mary Morison (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1905), 367. Quoted in Denis Donoghue, The Third Voice: Modern British and American Verse Drama (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1959), 12. 24. W. B. Worthen, Modern Drama and the Rhetoric of Theater (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 101. 25. The Flowers of Friendship: Letters Written to Gertrude Stein, ed. Donald Gallup (New York: Octagon, 1979), 50. 26. Allardyce Nicoll, “The Lyric Drama,” New York Times, February 16, 1936. 27. Friedrich Schiller, “On the Tragic Art,” in Dramatic Theory and Criticism: Greeks to Growtowski, ed. Bernard Dukore (1972; New York: Harcourt Brace, 1974), 448–58. 28. Charles Altieri, “Some Problems about Agency in the Theories of Radical Poetics,” Postmodernisms Now: Essays on Contemporaneity in the Arts (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1988), 189. 29. See David Chinitz, T. S. Eliot and the Cultural Divide (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003). 30. Letter to Djuna Barnes, August 19, 1949, Djuna Barnes Papers, Archives and Manuscripts, University of Maryland. 31. T. S. Eliot, “The Possibility of a Poetic Drama,” in The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism (London: Methuen, 1920), 63. 32. A. David Moody, Thomas Stearns Eliot: Poet, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 164.

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33. T. S. Eliot, “John Marston,” in Essays on Elizabethan Drama (1934; New York: Harcourt Brace, 1956), 173. 34. For more on metatheater, see Lionel Abel, Metatheatre: A New View of Dramatic Form (New York: Hill and Wang, 1963), reprinted as Tragedy and Metatheatre, ed. and intro. Martin Puchner (New York: Holmes and Meier, 2003). 35. See Penny Farfan’s reading of Virginia Woolf’s Between the Acts (1941) as an example of the theater as modernist metaphor in her Women, Modernism, and Performance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 89–101. 36. Elin Diamond, “Modern Drama/Modernity’s Drama,” Modern Drama 44, no. 1 (Spring 2001): 11. 37. Susan Stanford Friedman, “Definitional Excursions: The Meanings of Modern/ Modernity/Modernism,” Modernism/Modernity 8, no. 3 (2001): 493–513. 38. Peter Nicholls, Modernisms: A Literary Guide (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 179. 39. For more on the avant-garde in American modern drama, see Julia Walker, Expressionism and Modernism in the American Theatre: Bodies, Voices, Words (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); Sarah Bay-Cheng, Mama Dada: Gertrude Stein’s AvantGarde Theater (New York: Routledge, 2005); and Steven Watson, Strange Bedfellows: The First American Avant-Garde (New York: Abbeville, 1991). 40. For more on the New York school poets, see Philip Auslander, The New York School Poets as Playwrights: O’Hara, Ashbery, Koch, Schuyler, and the Visual Arts (New York: P. Lang, 1989). 41. In considering American theater history, this is a common, if not universal, period break. See Christopher Bigsby, Twentieth-Century American Drama, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982) and David Krasner’s recent A Short Introduction to American Drama, 1945–2000 (Blackwell, 2006). It is also worth noting that in 1945, the new designation, “existential drama,” appeared in the monthly magazine Horizon (May 1945). The magazine issue included excerpts from Jean-Paul Sartre and triggered a discussion of philosophy and drama that would largely eclipse previous efforts in poetic drama. 42. T. S. Eliot, “Seneca in Elizabethan Tradition,” in Essays on Elizabethan Drama (1927; New York: Harcourt Brace, 1956), 7. 43. Kreymborg, Poetic Drama, 1. 44. Robert Brustein, “Or Just ‘Conscientious Naturalism’?” New York Times, March 18, 1973, 127. 45. Bonnie Marranca, Theatre Writings (New York: Performing Arts Journal, 1984), 78.

WALLACE STEVENS 1. Harriet Monroe, “Prize Announcement,” Poetry: A Magazine for Verse 8, no. 3 (June 1916): 160. 2. Wallace Stevens, Letters of Wallace Stevens, selected and ed. Holly Stevens (New York: Knopf, 1966), 320. 3. Wallace Stevens, “The Noble Rider and the Sound of Words,” in The Necessary Angel: Essays on Reality and Imagination (New York: Random House, 1951), 25. 4. Alice Corbin Henderson, “Poetic Drama,” Poetry: A Magazine for Verse 7 (Oct.– Mar. 1915–16): 33. 5. Stevens, Letters, 203. 6. Harriet Monroe, “Mr. Yeats and the Poetic Drama,” Poetry: A Magazine for Verse 16, no. 1 (April 1920): 34.

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7. Wallace Stevens, “Adagia,” in Opus Posthumous, ed. Samuel French Morse (New York: Knopf, 1957), 184. 8. Stevens, The Palm at the End of the Mind, 175. 9. Stevens, Opus Posthumous, 118.

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY 1. Edna St. Vincent Millay, Letters, ed. Allan Ross Macdougall (New York: Harper, 1952), 68. 2. Edmund Wilson, Shores of Light: A Literary Chronicle of the Twenties and Thirties (New York: Farrar, Straus and Young, 1952), 751. 3. Wilson, Shores of Light, 144. 4. William Zorach, Art is My Life: The Autobiography of William Zorach (Cleveland, OH: World, 1967), 46. 5. Edna St. Vincent Millay, Aria da Capo: A Play in One Act (New York: M. Kennerley, 1921), 47.

HILDA DOOLITTLE (H.D.) 1. H.D., Hedylus (Redding Ridge, CT: Black Swan Books, 1980), 147. 2. Ezra Pound, “A Retrospect,” in Literary Essays of Ezra Pound, ed. T. S. Eliot (London: Faber and Faber, 1960), 3. 3. Ezra Pound, The Letters of Ezra Pound: 1907–1941, ed. D. D. Paige (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1950), 11. 4. H.D., “Helen,” in Selected Poems, ed. Louis L. Martz (New York: New Directions, 1988), 48. 5. Moses Hadas and John McLean, eds., “Hippolytus,” in Ten Plays by Euripides (Toronto, Canada: Bantam Books, 1981), 80–81. 6. H.D., “The Mask and the Movietone,” in Close-Up, 1927–1933: Cinema and Modernism, ed. James Donald, Anne Freidberg, and Laura Marcus, 116 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998). 7. H.D., “H.D. by Delia Alton [Notes on Recent Writing],” Iowa Review 16, no. 3 (Fall 1986): 221. 8. Quoted in Carol Camper, introduction to Hippolytus Temporizes and Ion: Adaptations of Two Plays by Euripides by H.D., ed. Carol Camper (New York: New Directions, 2003), 12. 9. Melvin Lyon, H.D.’s Hippolytus Temporizes: Text and Context (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Studies, 1991), 57. 10. H.D., Compassionate Friendship, 1955, H.D. Papers, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library.

E. E. CUMMINGS 1. E. E. Cummings, E.E. Cummings: A Miscellany Revised, ed. George J. Firmage (New York: October House, 1965), 10–11.

NOTES

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2. E. E. Cummings, Selected Letters of E. E. Cummings, ed. F. W. Dupee and George Stade (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1969), 86. 3. Cummings, A Miscellany Revised, 144. 4. Ibid., 129. 5. T. S. Eliot, “Marie Lloyd,” in Selected Prose of T. S. Eliot, ed. Frank Kermode (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1975), 174. 6. E. E. Cummings, Selected Poems, ed. Richard S. Kennedy (New York: Norton, 1994), 152. 7. E. E. Cummings, Him (New York: Liveright, 1927), 37. 8. Charles Norman, E. E. Cummings: A Biography (New York: Dutton, 1967), 166. 9. Quoted in Robert E. Maurer, in E. E. Cummings: A Collection of Critical Essays (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1972), 135.

MARITA BONNER 1. Joyce Flynn and Joyce Occomy Stricklin, Frye Street and Environs: The Collected Works of Marita Bonner (Boston: Beacon Street Press, 1987), 7–8.

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS 1. William Carlos Williams, Autobiography (New York: Random House, 1951), xii. 2. William Carlos Williams, Paterson Manuscript, the Poetry Collection, University at Buffalo, Buffalo, New York. 3. Williams, Autobiography, n.p. 4. William Carlos Williams, Imaginations, ed. Webster Schott (New York: New Directions, 1970), 353. 5. Williams, Imaginations, 133. 6. Ibid., 127. 7. William Carlos Williams, notes to Many Loves, William Carlos Williams Papers, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library. 8. Williams, Autobiography, 323. 9. Ibid., 216. 10. Ibid., 82. 11. William Carlos Williams, The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, ed. A. Walton Litz and Christopher MacGowan (New York: New Directions, 1986), 12.

GERTRUDE STEIN 1. Gertrude Stein, Everybody’s Autobiography (1937; repr., Cambridge, MA: Exact Change, 1993), 198. 2. Gertrude Stein, Four in America, intro. Thornton Wilder (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1947), iv. 3. Edith Sitwell, “The Work of Gertrude Stein,” Vogue (London), Oct. 1925, 81. 4. Gertrude Stein, Last Operas and Plays, ed. Carl Van Vechten (New York: Random House, 1975), 456. 5. Gertrude Stein, Lectures in America (New York: Random House, 1935), 122.

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EZRA POUND 1. Achiblad MacLeish papers, Manuscript Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. 2. Hugh Kenner, The Pound Era (Berkeley: University of California, 1971), 528. 3. William Butler Yeats, introduction to The Classic Noh Theatre of Japan, ed. Ezra Pound and Ernest Fenollosa, 151 (1916; repr. of Certain Noble Plays of Japan, Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1977). 4. Ezra Pound, “Books Current,” in Ezra Pound’s Poetry and Prose: Contributions to Periodicals, prefaced and arranged by Lea Baechler, A. Walton Litz, and James Longenbach (New York: Garland, 1991), 3:216. 5. Pound [M. D. Adkins, pseud.], “The Drama: Gilbert and Sullivan,” in Ezra Pound’s Poetry and Prose, 3:341. 6. Pound [T. J. V., pseud.], “The Drama: In Their Degree,” in Ezra Pound’s Poetry and Prose, 4:30. 7. Pound, “The Drama: Gilbert and Sullivan,” in Ezra Pound’s Poetry and Prose, 3:341. 8. Ezra Pound, “Hellenists: Typescript,” Ezra Pound Papers, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library. 9. Ezra Pound, The Letters of Ezra Pound: 1907–1941, ed. D. D. Paige (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1950), 343. 10. William Arrowsmith, letter to Frederick Morgan, quoted in Mark Jarman, “Your Anonymous Correspondent: Ezra Pound and The Hudson Review,” The Hudson Review 59, no. 3 (Autumn 2006): 366. 11. Ezra Pound, letter to Frederick Morgan, quoted in Jarman, “Your Anonymous Correspondent,” 367.

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Index Plays listed in italic page numbers. Abbey Theatre, 18 Abel, Lionel, 337 n. 34 absorption, 14, 19, 21, 27 abstract art, 268; in relation to poetry, 31 absurd, 48, 50, 157, 158 Ackerman, Alan, 335 n. 2 Adding Machine, The (Rice), 201 Agamemnon (Aeschylus), 300 Aldington, Richard, 66 alexandrine verse, 17 allegory, 22, 203 Altieri, Charles, 21, 336 n. 28 American Opera Society, 272 Anderson, Maxwell, 25 Angel Intrudes, The (Dell), 46 Anthony, Susan B., 20, 269, 270–72 Antigone (Sophocles), 302 antirealism, 14, 20, 23. See also realism; transrealism anti-Semitism, 336 n. 21 antitheatricality, 18, 20, 23, 200, 335 nn. 2 and 3 Apollinaire, Guillaume, 158 Aragon, Louis, 158 Arensberg, Walter Conrad, 29 Aria da Capo (Millay), 51–63, 338 n. 5; as absurdist, 23, 48; as adaptation of Virgil’s Eclogues, 49; as autobiographical, 48; as commedia dell’arte, 16, 23, 47, 48, 49; as compared to The Purple Flower, 202; critical response to, 50; as indictment of audience, 49, 50; as political, 19, 47, 48; potential sources of, 47–49; in response to World War I, 47, 49 Armory Show of 1913, 27, 29, 157, 336 n. 18 Arrowsmith, William, 303, 340 n. 10 artifice, 31, 32, 33, 64 Athenaeum, 301

Audience: anxiety towards, 15, 19–20, 213–16, 301; Cummings’s views on, 25, 160, 162, 163; in Many Loves (Williams), 213–17; participation of, 26; Pound’s views on, 301; in Stein’s works, 267, 269, 270 Autobiography (Williams), 213, 215, 335 n. 7, 339 nn. 1, 3, 8, 9 and 10 avant-garde, the: and antirealism, 14; American, 29, 214; in American modern drama, 16, 29, 216, 337 n. 39; European, 17, 157; European as influence on Cummings, 157, 158; European as influence on Williams, 213, 216; in painting, 268; relation to audience, 15, 18–19; in theater, 15 Baechler, Lea, 340 n. 4 ballet, 17 Barnes, Djuna, 22, 336 n. 30 Barthes, Roland, 17, 336 n. 14 Barton, Anne, 158 Bay-Cheng, Sarah, 337 n. 39 Beckett, Samuel, 48 Bentley, Eric, 335 nn. 8 and 9 Bid Me to Live (Doolittle), 65, 66 Bigsby, Christopher, 337 n. 41 Black little theater movement. See Harlem little theater movement blank verse, 17, 24 Blast, 299 Bonds of Interest (Benavente), 47 Bonner, Marita: in American drama studies, 198; antitheatrical works of, 200; biography of, 198–99; collected works of, 339 n. 1; and W.E.B. DuBois, 200, 201, 202, 203; and German expressionism, 200–201; and Harlem little theater movement, 199–200; and Harlem Renaissance, 17, 199; influence

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INDEX

Bonner, Marita (continued) of, 27; and Millay, 202; as modernist, 202, 203; and politics, 19; and Stein, 202; and Stevens, 202; use of poetry, 198–99 —Works of: “On Being Young—a Woman—and Colored,” 198, 203; The Pot Maker, 200; The Purple Flower, 204–12; and cinema, 201; Judeo Christian influence in, 201–2; as influenced by DuBois, 201–3; as influenced by expressionism, 23, 200–201; as morality play, 201; racial conflict in, 23, 201–3; as revenge fantasy, 203; staging of, 200, 203; as surrealist, 23, 201; symbol of, 201 Borderline, 68 bourgeoisie, 161 Brander Matthew Theater, 272 Brando, Marlon, 14 Braque, Georges, 267 Breasts of Tiresias, The (Apollinaire), 158 Broadway, 16, 45, 46, 200, 215, 385 n. 12 Browne, E. Martin, 25 Brustein, Robert, 26, 337 n. 44 Bryce, James, 335–36 n. 13 Bryher, 66, 68 burlesque, 158–60 Byron, Lord, 16, 23 Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, The, 201 Cage, John, 18 Camper, Carol, 338 n. 8 (Doolittle) Cantos, The, 299, 303 Carlos Among the Candles (Stevens), 28, 33–34 Carnegie Hall, 272 carnival, 157, 159–60 Cavalcanti (Pound), 301 Certain Noble Plays of Japan (Pound and Fenollosa), 300. See also The Classic Noh Theatre of Japan Chaplin, Charlie, 160 Chicago Little Theatre, 18 Chicago Opera Theater, 272 Chick, Nancy, 203 Chinitz, David, 336 n. 29 cinema, 16, 17, 68–69, 159, 160–61, 200 Civil Rights Movement, 203 Classic Noh Theatre of Japan, The (Pound and Fenollosa), 340 n. 3

Classic Stage Company, 304 Cleveland Orchestra, 272 closet drama, 16, 25 Close-Up, 68, 338 n. 6 Cocktail Party, The (Eliot), 22, 25, 303 Cocteau, Jean, 19, 158, 216 Cohn, Ruby, 16, 335 n. 11 Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, The (Williams), 339 n. 11 collective engagement, 26 commedia dell’arte, 16, 23, 47 Compassionate Friendship (Doolittle), 69, 338 n. 10 Coney Island, 159 Connection, The (Gelber), 216–17 Conrad, Joseph, 18 Cook, George Cram, 46 Copeland, Charles T., 199 Coward, Noel, 215 Craven, Arthur, 213 Crisis, 200 cubism, 29, 31–34, 268 Cummings, E.E.: 338 n. 1; and Armory Show of 1913, 157; on audience, 25, 160, 162, 163; and avant-garde, 157, 158; biography of, 339 n. 8; and cinema, 160; critical essays on, 339 n. 9; and French surrealism, 158, 159, 163; on Freud, 158, 161; influences on, 158; as influenced by vaudeville, 16; letters of, 339 n. 2; use of metatheater, 19; and popular culture, 161; and Provincetown Players, 18; and realism, 157, 159; sexuality in, 162; sexual violence in, 158, 161; as theater critic, 158–59; and typography, 157 —Works of: Him, 19, 26, 27, 164–97, 339 n. 7; as antirealist, 20, 158; as autobiographical, 159; as carnivalesque, 157, 159–60; criticisms of 162–63; cultural references in, 161; mirror as symbol in, 160; as surrealist, 159, 161; themes of, 157; A Miscellany Revised, 339 nn. 3 and 4; “Poem, Or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal,” 161; Selected Poems, 339 n. 6; “she being Brand / -new,” 158 Da capo aria, 47 dada, 15, 24, 29, 213 Dead Poets’ Society, 13 Death and the Fool (Hofmannsthal), 47

INDEX

Dell, Floyd, 46 Dial, 159 Diamond, Elin, 23, 337 n. 36 Dickinson, Thomas H., 335 n. 13 Donald, James, 338 n. 6 Donoghue, Denis, 336 n. 23 Doolittle, Hilda (H.D.), 16, 200, 338 n. 7; biography of, 64, 65, 66, 68, 69, 214; and cinema, 68–69; critical treatments of, 64; embodiment in works of, 68; and Freud, 68; and Imagism, 65, 299; influences of, 65; as influenced by Euripides, 66–67; as influenced by Greek drama, 19, 23, 64–66, 68, 69; views on poetic drama, 19; and Pound, 64, 299 —Works of: Bid Me to Live, 65, 66; “Choruses from the Iphigenia at Aulis and the Hippolytus of Euripides,” 66; Compassionate Friendship, 69, 338 n. 10; Hedylus, 64, 338 n. 1; “Helen,” 65, 338 n. 4; Helen in Egypt, 69; HERmione, 65; “Hippolytus Temporizes,” 66; Hippolytus Temporizes, 70–156, 338 n. 9; as compared to Euripides’s play, 66–67; as compared to other plays about Phaedra, 67; as critical to oeuvre, 64; as influenced by Greek drama, 19; introduction to, 338 n. 8; as never performed, 69; relationship to poetry, 64, 69; “The Mask and the Movietone,” 68, 338 n. 6; Palimpsest, 65; “Phædra,” 66; Sea Garden, 65; “She Contrasts Herself with Hippolyta,” 66; “She Rebukes Hippolyta,” 66 Dos Passos, John, 157 double vision. See doubleness doubleness, 21–24 DuBois, W.E.B., 199–203 Duchamp, Marcel, 29, 32 Duncan, Ronald, 301 Dupee, F. W., 339 n. 2 (Cummings) Eclogues, The (Virgil), 49 Egoist, 65, 66 Elektra (Pound), 299, 303, 304 Eliot, T.S.: and audience, 26; on cinema, 160–61; and H.D., 68; and the Living Theatre, 18; on the middle class, 160–61; on performance, 25; political views of, 336 n. 21; selected prose of,

347

339 n. 5 (Cummings); as theorist of poetic drama, 21–22, 24, 68 —Works of: The Cocktail Party, 22, 25, 303; “John Marston,” 337 n. 33; “Marie Lloyd,” 339 n. 5 (Cummings); The Murder in the Cathedral, 25; mystical incantation, 22; “Poetry and the Drama”, 25; “The Possibility of a Poetic Drama,” 22, 336 n. 31; “Seneca in Elizabethan Tradition,” 337 n. 42; The Waste Land, 201, 299; as compared to The Purple Flower (Bonner), 201–2 Elizabethan drama, 22 Euripides, 66–67, 338 n. 5 (Doolittle) Everybody’s Autobiography (Stein), 339 n. 1 Exiles, The (Joyce), 301 existential drama, 337 n. 41 Experimental Theatre, Inc., 163 expressionism, 24, 200–201 Farfan, Penny, 337 n. 35 femme fatale, 67 Fenollosa, Ernest, 31, 300, 340 n. 3 Firmage, George J., 338 n. 1 (Cummings) Fletcher, John, 335 n. 1 Flynn, Joyce, 339 n. 1 (Bonner) folk play, 200 Foreman, Richard, 18, 26 Four in America (Stein), 339 n. 2 Four Plays for Dancers (Yeats), 31, 300 fragmentation, 268, 269 free verse 17, 21. See also vers libre Freidberg, Anne, 338 n. 6 Freud, Sigmund, 68, 158, 159, 161 Friedman, Susan Stanford, 24, 337 n. 37 Fry, Christopher, 17 Gainor, J. Ellen, 335 n. 5 Gallup, Donald, 336 n. 25 Gelber, Jack, 216–17 Genesis, Book of, 202 Gilbert and Sullivan, 340 n. 5 Glaspell, Susan, 46 Goodman, Paul, 24 Gran, Anne-Britt, 15, 335 n. 5 Gray, Cecil, 66 Great Migration, 199 Greek drama, 23, 24, 64, 300, 301, 303 Green Helmet, The (Yeats), 31 Greenwich Village, 45–49, 199, 200

348

INDEX

Gregg, Frances Josepha, 65 Guthrie Theater, 272 H.D. See Hilda Doolittle Hadas, Moses, 338 n. 5 (Doolittle) Hardy, Thomas, 18 Harlem little theater movement, 199–200 Harlem Renaissance, 17, 199–200 Hedylus (Doolittle), 64, 338 n. 1 Helen in Egypt (Doolittle), 69 Heller, Adele, 336 n. 18 Henderson, Alice Corbin, 337 n. 4 HERmione (Doolittle), 65 high modernism, 14. See also modernism Him (Cummings), 19, 26, 27, 164–97, 339 n. 7; as antirealist, 20, 158; as autobiographical, 159; as carnival, 157, 159–60; criticisms of 162–63; cultural references in, 161; mirror as symbol in, 160; as surrealist, 159, 161; themes in, 157 Hippolytus Temporizes (Doolittle), 70–156, 338 n. 9; as compared to Euripides’s play, 66–67; as compared to other plays about Phaedra, 67; as critical to oeuvre, 64; as influenced by Greek drama, 19; introduction to, 338 n. 8; as never performed, 69; relationship to poetry, 64, 69 Hirson, David, 335 n. 12 Hofmannsthal, Hugo von, 47 homosexuality, 162, 216 Horace, 162 Horizon, 337 n. 41 Hudson Review, 303, 340 n. 10 Hughes, Langston, 199 Hurston, Zora Neale, 199 Huyssen, Andreas, 15, 16, 335 n. 6 hybridity, 20 iambic pentameter, 17 Ibsen, Henrik, 20, 336 n. 23 Imaginations (Williams), 339 nn. 4, 5, and 6 imagism, 64, 65, 69, 214, 299 indeterminacy, 201 Innes, Christopher, 14 interface, 21 International Workers of the World (IWW), 45, 46 Ionesco, Eugene, 48, 50 Isherwood, Christopher, 17, 335 n. 1

Jackson, Anne, 303 James, Williams, 20 Japanese Noh Theatre. See Noh drama, Japanese Jarman, Mark, 340 nn. 10–11 Jazz Singer, The, 68 Jeffers, Robinson, 24 Johnson, Anne Weldon, 199 Johnson, Georgia Douglas, 199, 200 Jones, Robert Edmond, 45 Joyce, James, 14, 18, 301 Kane, Sarah, 67 Keaton, Buster, 160 Keats, John, 13 Kennedy, Adrienne, 26 Kennedy, Richard S., 339 n. 6 (Cummings) Kenner, Hugh, 300, 340 n. 2 Kermode, Frank, 339 n. 5 (Cummings) Koch, Kenneth, 24 Krasner, David, 337–41 Kreymborg, Alfred, 19, 26, 29, 33, 336 nn. 17 and 22, 337 n. 43; Lima Beans, 33 Krigwa Theatre, 200 Lamp and the Bell, The (Millay), 50 Langner, Lawrence, 33 language: bodily enactment of, 14; in Bonner’s poetry, 198–99; as experimental, 217, 269; in poetic drama, 18, 21; poetics of, 13, 17; in relation to performance, 13–14, 26; Stein’s attention to, 268–270, 272; Williams’s search for, 214 Last Operas and Plays (Stein), 339 n. 4 Latimer, Ronald Lane, 28 Lectures in America (Stein), 339 n. 5 Lewis, Wyndham, 299 Liberal Club, 46 Lima Beans (Kreymborg), 33 Lincoln Center, 272 line structure, 18 Literary Essays (Pound), 300 Little Review, 16 Litz, A. Walton, 340 n. 4 Living Theatre, the, 18, 216, 217, 303, 304 Lloyd, Marie, 160–61 Locke, Alain, 199, 200 Longenbach, James, 340 n. 4 Lowell, Robert, 24 Loy, Mina, 33

INDEX

Luhan, Mabel Dodge, 45, 199 Lyon, Melvin, 338 n. 9 (Doolittle) Macdougall, Allan Ross, 338 n. 1 (Millay) MacKaye, Percy, 16, 335 n. 13 MacLeish, Archibald, 25, 300, 340 n. 1 Macpherson, Kenneth, 68 Madison Square Garden, 45 Maeterlinck, Maurice, 22, 31 Malina, Judith, 304 Mallarmé, Stéphane 14 Many Loves: Trial Horse No. 1 (Williams), 218–66; as antirealist, 22, 213–16; as autobiographical, 215–16; boxing in, 213; importance of audience in, 13, 25; notes to, 339 n. 7; perversion in, 216; productions of 216–17; staging of, 214–15 Marcus, Laura, 338 n. 6 Margueritte, Paul, 47; Pierrot, Assassin of His Wife, 47 Marranca, Bonnie, 26, 337 n. 45 Matisse, Henri, 267 Maud Coney Hare Players, 200 Maurer, Robert E., 339 n. 9 (Cummings) McFarlane, James, 335 n. 1 McLean, John, 338 n. 5 (Doolittle) melodrama, 16 metatheater, 19, 22, 216, 335 n. 1, 337 n. 34 Millay, Edna St. Vincent: as actress, 45, 46; biography of, 45–48, 50; as compared to Bonner, 202; as influenced by performance genres, 16, 47; in Greenwich Village, 45–49; letters of, 338 n. 1; and poetic drama, 17; political ideas of, 19, 47, 50; and Provincetown Players, 18, 26, 46, 47; and sister, Kathleen, 34 —Works of: Aria da Capo, 51–63, 338 n. 5; as absurdist, 23, 48; as adaptation of Virgil’s Eclogues, 49; as autobiographical, 48; as commedia dell’arte, 16, 23, 47–49; as compared to The Purple Flower, 202; critical response to, 50; as indictment of audience, 49, 50; as political, 19, 47, 48; potential sources of, 47–49; in response to World War I, 47, 49; The Lamp and the Bell, 50; “Lines Written in Passion and in Deep Concern for England, France, and My Own Country,” 50; The

349

Princess Marries the Page, 46; Two Slatterns and a King, 46 Millay, Kathleen, 34 mimesis, 17, 18; mimetic representation of modern world, 19; mimetic stage, 21 minstrel performance, 16, 33, 121, 200 Miscellany Revised, A (Cummings), 339 nn. 3 and 4 modern art, 18, 48, 267 modern drama, 19, 20, 21. See also poetic drama modern love, 160 modernism: as antitheatrical, 14–15, 17– 19; definitions of, 14, 15, 24; as distinct from modern and modernity, 24; duality of actor and character in, 68; influence of, 18, 215; and performance, 14; political contexts of, 19, 23, 203, 269; and popular culture, 161; as distinct from postmodernism, 15; poetic drama in, 14, 17, 18, 24; and realism, 14; rupture with the past, 271; and sexual politics, 48, 160–62, 215–16; in relation to to World War I, 49, 271; in relation to World War II, 24, 50, 271, 299 Modernism/Modernity, 336 n. 21 modernist studies, 14 modernity: theater as metaphor for, 17, 19 Monroe, Harriet, 28, 30, 32, 34, 65, 300; “Mr. Yeats and the Poetic Drama,” 337 n. 6; “Prize Announcement,” 337 n. 1 Moody, A. David, 336 n. 32 Moore, Marianne, 65 morality play, 201 Morgan, Frederick, 340 nn. 10 and 11 Mother of Us All, The (Stein), 274–98; as autobiographical, 269, 272; as coda to modernism, 24, 263; as feminist critique, 23; historical figures in, 202, 269, 270, 271; as pageant, 23; productions of 272; as response to World War II, 271 Murder in the Cathedral, The (Eliot), 25 Murphy, Brenda, 32, 335 n. 5 Mussolini, Benito, 161, 303 Mysteries of Love (Vitrac), 158 National Ethiopian Art Theatre, 200 naturalism, 16, 20 New Criticism, 13

350

INDEX

New Negro, 199 New School, The, 303 New York Armory Show. See Armory Show of 1913 New York City Opera, 272 New York School poets, 24, 337 n. 40 Nicoll, Allardyce, 20–21, 336 n. 26 Nicolls, Peter, 24, 336 n. 18, 337 n. 38 Noh drama, Japanese, 23, 24, 30–32, 300, 301 Norman, Charles, 161, 339 n. 8 (Cummings) O’Neill, Eugene, 20, 46, 157, 335 n. 13 objectivism, 214 Odes (Horace), 162 Opus Posthumous (Stevens), 338 nn. 7 and 9 orientalism, 32, 34 Others, A Magazine of the New Verse, 29 Outlook, 301 Pabst, G.W., 68 Pageant of the Paterson Strike, The, 45 Paige, D.D., 338 n. 3 (Doolittle) palimpsest, 24 Palimpsest (Doolittle), 65 Palm at the End of the Mind, The (Stevens), 338 n. 8 Paradise Now (The Living Theatre), 217 Paterson (Williams), 214, 339 n. 2 Performance: artificiality of, 68; artists, 18; as avant-garde, 268; Eliot’s views on, 25, 26; and poetic drama, 17–18, 23, 26, 64; poetics of, 26; in politics, 272; popular forms of, 16; as postmodern, 26–27; and reality, 215; in relation to audience, 21, 25, 215; in relation to poetry, 13–14, 17–18, 23; in Stein’s Mother of Us All, 269 Perloff, Carey, 304 Phaedra (Racine), 67 Phaedra’s Love (Kane), 67 Picabia, Francis, 29 Picasso, Pablo, 32, 33, 267 Pierrot, Assassin of His Wife (Margueritte), 47 Pirandello, Luigi, 216 Poems (Stevens), 29 poetic drama: as antirealist, 17, 20; as antitheatrical, 20; and audience, 19–20,

21, 215; and cinema, 69; in context of modernism, 14, 15, 17–18; definitions of, 17, 21, 337 nn. 4 and 6; embodiment in, 68; as existential drama, 337 n. 41; as genre, 18; use of metaphysical references in, 23, 26, 29; as modern life, 17; and performance, 16–18; as theorized by Eliot, 21–22; and works of Bonner, 198; and works of H.D., 69; and works of Stevens, 34; and works of Williams, 213, 215. See also verse drama Poetry magazine, 28, 29, 65, 300, 337 nn. 1, 4, and 6 postmodernism, 15, 26, 304 Pot Maker, The (Bonner), 200 Pound Era, The (Kenner), 300, 340 n. 2 Pound, Ezra, 17, 27; biography of, 64–65, 214, 299–302, 304; and Eliot, 299, 300; and Fenollosa, 301, 300, 340 n. 3; as influenced by Greek drama, 23, 64, 65, 299, 300, 301, 302, 303; and H.D., 64–66, 299; and The Hudson Review, 303, 340 nn. 10 and 11; and Imagism, 65, 214, 299; as innovator, 34, 300, 303; letters of, 301, 338 n. 3 (Doolittle), 340 n. 9; and the Living Theatre, 217, 303–4; as influenced by Noh drama, 31, 32, 300; political views of, 299, 302, 303, 336 n. 21; in relation to audience, 301, 303, 304; and Stevens, 34, 301; as theater critic, 300, 301, 303; translations of, 19, 31, 32; and Williams, 214, and Yeats, 300 —Works of: “Books Current,” 340 n. 14, The Cantos, 299, 303; Cavalcanti, 301; Certain Noble Plays of Japan (with Ernest Fenollosa), 300; Classic Noh Theatre of Japan, The (Pound and Fenollosa), 340 n. 3; “The Drama: Gilbert and Sullivan,” 340 nn. 5 and 7; “The Drama: In Their Degree,” 340 n. 6; Elektra, 299, 303, 304; Ezra Pound’s Poetry and Prose, 340 nn. 4, 5, 6, and 7; “Hellenists: Typescript,” 340 n. 8; Literary Essays, 300; “The Quality of Lope de Vega”, 300; “A Retrospect,” 338 n. 2 (Doolittle); Sophokles: Women of Trachis, 302, 305–34; as autobiographical, 64, 300, 302, 304; as coda to modernism, 24, 304; performances of,

INDEX

303–4; as response to World War II, 64, 302; Testament of François Villon, 301 primitivism, 33, 34 Prince, Harold, 335 n. 12 Princess Marries the Page, The (Millay), 46 propaganda, 50 Provincetown Players, 18, 26, 28, 33, 46–48 Puchner, Martin, 14–15, 17, 335 nn. 2, 3, and 4, 336 nn. 15 and 16, 337 n. 34 Purple Flower, The (Bonner), 204–12; and cinema, 201; Judeo Christian influence in, 201–2; as influenced by DuBois, 201–3; as influenced by expressionism, 23, 200–201; as morality play, 201; racial conflict in, 23, 201, 202, 203; as revenge fantasy, 203; staging of, 200, 203; as surrealist, 23, 201; symbol of, 201 queerness, 162, 216 Racine, Jean, 67 realism, 14, 21; and Bonner, 198, 200; and Cummings, 157, 159; as genre, 20; as modern trend, 23, 26, 27, 157, 214; and naturalism, 16, 20; and poetry, 29, 30; and Stein, 20; and Stevens, 29; theater as realistic, 17, 29, 159, 217; and Williams, 22, 213, 214, 216, 217. See also antirealism; transrealism Reed, John, 45 Rice, Elmer, 201 Richardson, Willis, 199 Robbins, Jerome, 335 n. 12 Robeson, Paul, 68 romantics, 13 Roussel, Raymond, 33 Rudnick, Lois, 336 n. 18 Sackler, Howard, 303 Sacred Emily (Stein), 267, 268 San Francisco Opera Company, 272 Santa Fe Opera, 272 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 337 n. 41 Savoy, Bert, 162 Schiller, Friedrich, 21, 336 n. 27 Sea Garden (Doolittle), 65 Selected Poems (Cummings), 339 n. 6 Selva, Salmón de la, 48

351

Shakespeare, William, 14, 16, 22, 216 Shelley, Percy, 16 Shepard, Sam, 26 Sitwell, Edith, 268, 339 n. 3 (Stein) Smith, Anna Deveare, 27 Sophocles, 299, 300, 303 Sophokles: Women of Trachis (Pound), 302, 305–34; as autobiographical, 64, 300, 302, 304; as coda to modernism, 24, 304; performances of, 303–4; as response to World War II, 64, 302 Souls of Black Folk, The (DuBois), 202, 203 Spring and All (Williams), 214 St. Elizabeths Hospital, 25, 214, 299, 300, 302 St. George in Greenwich Village (Dell), 46 Stade, George, 339 n. 2 (Cummings) Stalin, Joseph, 302 Stein, Gertrude, 17, 18, 23; as akin to Bonner, 202; antitheatrical, 14, 19, 268, 271; on audience, 20, 267, 269, 270; biography of, 267, 269, 271, 272; classical influences, 202; in collaboration with Virgil Thomson, 26, 269, 272; as expatriate, 267; as figure in American Theater experiments, 34, 336 n. 19; as inspiring Wooster Group, 27; and language, 214, 267–71; letters written to, 336 n. 25; and the Living Theatre, 217; as modernist, 202; as political, 269–72; and soirées of, 199; response to World War II, 271; use of repetition, 267–70; and Williams, 21 —Works of: Four in America, 339 n. 2; Four Saints in Three Acts, 26, 267–69, 272; Everybody’s Autobiography, 339 n. 1; Last Operas and Plays, 339 n. 4; Lectures in America, 339 n. 5; The Mother of Us All, 274–98; as autobiographical, 269, 272; as coda to modernism, 24, 263; as feminist critique, 23; historical figures in, 202, 269, 270, 271; as pageant, 23; productions of 272; as response to World War II, 271; “Plays,” 13, 268; “Tender Buttons,” 269 Stein, Michael, 267 Stevens, Wallace, 19; as akin to Bonner, 202; as antirealist, 30, 32; as antitheatrical, 16, 19; and Armory Show of

352

INDEX

Stevens, Wallace (continued) 1913, 27, 29; as avant-garde, 29; biography of, 28, 29, 33–34; influences on, 30–31; and Kreymborg, 29, 33; letters of, 337 nn. 2 and 5; and poetic drama, 16, 34, 301; views on theater, 15 —Works of: “As at a Theatre,” 34; Carlos Among the Candles, 28, 33–34; “Of Modern Poetry,” 34, 335 n. 10; “The Noble Rider and the Sound of Words,” 337 n. 3; Opus Posthumous, 338 nn. 7 and 9; The Palm at the End of the Mind, 338 n. 8; Poems, 29; Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise, 36–44; as antirealist, 28, 32; critical response, 28; influence of cubism in, 31–32; influence of Noh drama in, 30–32; influence of symbolism in, 31, 32; and Pound, 301; productions of 28, 33; racial violence in, 33; significance of, 34; staging of, 16, 23, 30, 34 Stricklin, Joyce Occomy, 339 n. 1 Strindberg, August, 23 surrealism, 24; as influence on Cummings, 158, 159, 161, 163 symbolism, 16, 22, 30–33 Testament of François Villon (Pound), 301 Thayer, Elaine, 158 Thayer, Nancy, 158 theater, 14–18; history of, 337 n. 41; as metaphor for modernity, 17, 337 n. 35; in Modernist studies, 14; as public space, 15 Theatre Guild, 18, 47 Theatre of Images, 26 theatricality, 14–15, 64, 272, 300. See also antitheatricality Thomson, Virgil, 26, 267, 269, 272 Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise (Stevens), 36–44; as antirealist, 28, 32; critical response, 28; influence of cubism in, 31–32; influence of Noh drama in, 30–31, 32; influence of symbolism in, 31, 32; and Pound, 301; productions of 28, 33; racial violence in, 33; significance of, 34; staging of, 16, 23, 30, 34 Toklas, Alice B., 267, 269, 271 Tonight at 8:30 (Coward), 215 Tony Award, 22 Toomer, Jean, 199

transcendental verse, 24 transrealism, 20. See also realism, antirealism Truman, Harry S., 302 Two Slatterns and a King (Millay), 46 Van Vechten, Carl, 29, 45, 339 n. 4 (Stein) Vanity Fair, 159 variety theater, 160 vaudeville, 16, 160 verisimilitude, 26 vers libre, 24. See also free verse verse drama, 17, 20, 24. See also poetic drama Virgil, 49 Vitrac, Roger, 158 vorticism, 299 Walker, Julia, 337 n. 39 Wallach, Eli, 303 Wars I Have Seen (Stein), 271 Washington, Booker T., 202 Washington Players, 46 Waste Land, The (Eliot), 201, 299 Watson, Steven, 337 n. 39 Watts, Stephen, 335 n. 5 Wayne, John, 14 Wedding on the Eiffel Tower (Cocteau), 158 Wellman, Mac, 27 What Happened. A Play (Stein), 268 Wilder, Thornton, 339 n. 2 (Stein) Williams, Raymond, 18, 27, 336 n. 20 Williams, Tennessee, 304 Williams, William Carlos: on audience, 13, 15, 25, 213, 214–15, 217; and avantgarde, 214, 215; biography of, 213–14, 215; and H.D., 64–65, 214; and Kreymborg, 33; and Pound, 214; and Provincetown Players, 18, 33; in search of American language, 214, 217; and Stein, 214 —Works of: Autobiography, 213, 215, 335 n. 7, 339 nn. 1, 3, 8, 9, and 10; The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, 339 n. 11; Imaginations, 339 nn. 4, 5, and 6; Many Loves: Trial Horse No. 1, 218–66; as antirealist, 22, 213–16; as autobiographical, 215–16; boxing in, 213; importance of audience in, 13, 25; notes to, 339 n. 7; perversion in, 216; productions of 216–17; staging

INDEX

of, 214–15; Paterson, 214; Spring and All, 214; “Writer’s Prologue to a Play in Verse,” 217 Wilson, Edmund, 45, 46, 162 Wilson, Robert, 18, 26, 304 Woolf, Virginia, 18, 337 n. 35 Wooster Group, 26, 27 Worthen, W.B., 20, 335 n. 3, 336 n. 24

353

Yeats, William Butler, 15, 18, 22, 31, 32, 300; and poetic drama, 337 n. 6 —Works of: Four Plays for Dancers, 31, 300; The Green Helmet, 31; “Introduction,” Certain Noble Plays of Japan, 300, 340 n. 3 Zorach, William, 46, 338 n. 4 (Millay)