The Eighth Day

by Thornton Wilder

  Anne was silent. George held his breath. Ashley took the chair by George and gestured to his mother, directing her to move away as far as possible. He spoke in a low voice.

  “I know about bad dreams, George. I know all about them.—You don’t like having your tonsils out tomorrow?”

  “No. I don’t care about that. It . . . ? isn’t that.”

  “Everybody laughs at dreams, but they can be very bad. And very real. I used to have them after I got this scar on my jaw. Can you see it? I got that from a pitchfork when I was haying. I was just about your age.—Can you remember your dream?”

  “Not . . . ? all of it.”

  “Nobody can hear us.”

  “He was chasing me.”

  “Who?”

  “It was like a giant. He had a round knife like they cut high grass with.”

  “A sickle or a scythe?”

  “It was like a sickle.”

  “Do you know who it was chasing you?”

  “No, it was like a giant. He was laughing like it was a game, but . . . ?”

  “You got away all right.”

  “I don’t want to go to sleep again. I turned around and I did something at him. And he . . . ? burst. It was awful, Mr. Ashley. It was all squashy under my feet, like maybe I killed him or something. I only wanted to stop him.”

  Here George turned his head to the wall and lay trembling.

  “I see. I see. Yes, it’s a bad dream you had. No wonder you’re shaken up. But in a way it’s a good dream, too. A man has to defend himself. It’s a growing-up dream, George.”

  “Will he be there again, if I go to sleep?”

  “Come to the window and look out. Look, the moon’s just come up. See the Soldiers’ Monument? See him there with his chin up? Men had to fight. They didn’t want to fight and they didn’t want to kill. Do you know any men who fought in the Civil War?”

  “Yes, I know lots, Mr. Ashley: Mr. Killigrew at the depot and Dan May’s grandfather, and, I think, Mr. Corcoran.”

  “Yes, he was a drummer boy. Think of what they went through, George; and yet see how quiet it is down there. Listen! . . . ? Take some deep breaths of that air before you get back in bed. It’s better than the air in Coaltown, I can tell you that!—One of the reasons you had a bad dream is because your throat’s clogged up. It’s a good thing that Dr. Hunter’s going to get rid of that tomorrow.—George, why don’t you ever work on a farm, summers, like my boy does? You’re strong already, but that kind of work makes a man really strong. You know it’s hard—hoeing and haying all day and milking and carrying middlings to the pigs. Now you’d better get back into bed.”

  “Papa doesn’t want me to. He says we’re rich enough so I don’t have to work.”

  “Your father’s just joking. Money has nothing to do with it. I’m your father’s best friend. I can make him see it’s a good thing. Mr. Bell says that in the summer he can use every hand he can get. You’re no scamooter, George. It’d be a lucky farmer that’d hire you.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Ashley.”

  “Does the sun go round the earth, George, or does the earth go round the sun?”

  “The earth goes round the sun, Mr. Ashley.”

  “And anything else?”

  “The moon, and . . . ? the planets, I think.”

  “And what’s the sun doing all that time?”

  “It’s going very fast.”

  “And carrying us with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s as though we were on a great ship moving through the skies.” Pause. “I often have that feeling just before I fall off to sleep. We’re going at that great speed and yet you saw how quiet it is down there in the square. It’s a wonderful fact, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wonderful fact!”

  Ashley walked to the window and looked out; then he returned to the chair beside the bed. “What do you want to be when you grow up, George?” George was silent. “Do you still want to go to Africa and save the lions?”

  “No. I . . . ?”

  “Have you an idea?”

  “I . . . ? If you put down your ear, Mr. Ashley. I don’t want anybody to hear it.—Did you ever see a show in a theayter, Mr. Ashley?”

  “Yes. Yes, I have. I’ve seen Edwin Booth play Hamlet.”

  “Did you? . . . ? Mama, Félicité, and I read Hamlet together.”

  “Did you?”

  “Edwin Booth’s brother killed President Lincoln, didn’t he?”

  “A high-strung family, I guess, George. Nervous.”

  “At one of the schools I went to they took us to see Uncle Tom’s Cabin. . . . ? I want to be one of them, Mr. Ashley.”

  When we are talking soberly to the young we are moving in evanescent landscapes, in corridors of dreams, abysses on either side. Ashley could not know who this was he was talking to—who it was in the fullest of time.

  “If you have the talent, George, and the will, you can be whatever you want to. I’ll tell you about Edwin Booth someday. But if that’s what you want to be, you’d better have those tonsils cleared up as soon as possible. There are no giants in the Farmer’s Hotel tonight, George. Shake hands. Now tell your mother you’re going to sleep so that she can get some rest, too.”

  Eustacia followed him to the door. She could barely find the breath to utter a word of thanks. She sat for an hour by the window, very conscious of the ship that was carrying her and her family. She rested her cheek on her hand, a faint unprompted smile upon her face. During that hour she ridded herself—she threw overboard—the last remnants of an unhappiness that had long tormented her—she ceased to envy Beata Ashley her marriage.

  Almost twenty years before—on her honeymoon in New York’s ice and snow—Eustacia had seen in a store window a hand-painted copy of Millet’s “The Angelus.” It had seemed to her the most beautiful painting that a human spirit could fashion, and that to own it would introduce an unfailing benison into one’s life. In an adjacent window stood an alabaster model of the Taj Mahal. She had never heard of that edifice, but a printed card told its story. It was an homage to conjugal love. Changing lights so played upon it that it seemed to be revealed now at dawn, then at noon, then in moonlight. She thought of the rich people who could afford to purchase such treasure. Slowly she had learned that beautiful things are not for our possession but for our contemplation. At “St. Kitts” she had overmastered anger. At Fort Barry she divested herself of the last pangs of envy.

  George’s other friend was Olga Sergeievna Doubkov. The seamstress had been a frequent visitor in the home during his early years and had remained so until that day when she had left it in indignation, denouncing Breckenridge Lansing for his treatment of his son. She had spent long hours with Eustacia and Félicité, revolving around a dressmaker’s dummy, babbling happily about gores and gussets and feuilletés and entrelacements. On occasional evenings when it was certain that the master of the house would not return, she could be persuaded to stay to supper. At first the younger children resented the presence of the “sewing lady,” but gradually they came to look forward to it. They found her conversation absorbing. In her home in Russia the Countesses Olga and Irena had been brought up by French, German, and English governesses. Their parents, before dressing for dinner, visited them in the nursery at the end of the day. Twice a month, however, the girls were invited, with much formality, to dine with their father and mother. The girls knew well that when their parents gave a ball, when neighbors came to dinner, when there were guests staying in the house, conversation was generally conducted in French. When they dined with their children the conversation was conducted in Russian. They never discussed the governesses, the neighbors, the daily life. Their mother talked about foreign countries and about famous painters and musicians. Their father talked about the achievements of great men—about Mr. Watts and his steam engine, Dr. Jenner and his inoculations, and about balloon ascensions. He talked about the wonders of nature—about comets and volcanoes and be
ehives. Above all they talked about Russia, its history, its greatness, its holiness, its future—that future that would astonish the world. No mention was made of things that might be improved in Russia. Their father was to talk of those later, after they had crossed the border.

  So it was that Miss Doubkov, seated at the supper table at “St. Kitts,” talked about foreign countries and great artists, and Mr. Edison’s lamp and talking machines, about what men had uncovered in the ashes at Pompeii. Moreover, Miss Doubkov found delicate ways of expressing her admiration for her hostess. It gave George great pride to hear his mother praised. His glance slid to her face to make sure that she heard these tributes. Miss Doubkov even spoke of Mr. Lansing’s popularity and his importance in the town. Finally the day came when she told them about Russia, its history, its greatness, its holiness, and its future—that future that would astonish the world. She told them of the great Tsar who had built his capital on a marsh, of another who had freed the serfs, of the glories of Pushkin, of the immensity and the beauty of the country.

  George asked, “Miss Doubkov, what language do they talk in Russia?”

  “The Russian language.”

  “Will you talk some Russian to me . . . ? please!”

  Miss Doubkov paused, looked gravely into his face and addressed him in Russian. He listened spellbound.

  “What did you say, Miss Doubkov?”

  “I said, ‘George, son of Breckenridge’—that’s the way grownups address one another—I said, ‘You are young. You are not happy now because you have not yet discovered the work to which you will give your life. Somewhere in the world there is a work for you to do, to which you will bring courage and honor and loyalty. For every man there is one great task that God has given him to do. I think that yours will demand a brave heart and some suffering; but you will triumph.’”

  There was a silence. George sat as one turned to stone. Anne looked at her brother as though she had never seen him before.

  “How do you know that, Miss Doubkov?” asked Anne.

  “Because George resembles my father.”

  Thus began the strange friendship between a boy not yet sixteen, the town’s “holy terror,” and a Russian spinster nearing fifty. It gathered strength quickly—at the supper table and after supper in the living room. It grew by fits and starts, for boys, like young animals, spasmodically tire even of the thing that most engages them; and because George was being sent away to one school after another. Perhaps he arranged to be expelled from them in order to return to these conversations.

  “My father escaped from Russia under the very eyes of the police who were hunting for him. He shaved his beard and moustache and his eyebrows. He disguised himself as an old woman crossing the country on a religious pilgrimage. We sang hymns and begged. We were covered with religious medals. I’ve shown some of them to Félicité.”

  “Yes.”

  “My mother was ill. We bought a two-wheeled cart and pulled her along with us. We had money hidden on us, but to avoid suspicion we begged and slept in monasteries.”

  “What did your father do that was bad?” asked Anne.

  “He had a secret printing press in the house. He printed pamphlets.”

  “What are pamphlets?”

  “Keep quiet!” said George.

  “He believed that the only hope for Russia was to overturn the government. He hoped to prepare the people for a revolution without violence. Already in every city and town there were men and women working with this same purpose in mind. Finally, however, my father no longer believed in his printing press and his pamphlets. People read them and did nothing. My father used to say that the Russian people talked to avoid decision. My father made other plans.”

  Her listeners waited. Suddenly Miss Doubkov made the gesture of hurling an object forcefully across the room.

  “Why did you do that, Miss Doubkov?” asked Anne.

  “Be quiet!” said George.

  Eustacia said faintly, “But, surely, there are better ways of arriving at good government than that!”

  “Than what, Mama?”

  “Hush, dear.”

  “Anne, I will tell you a story. Have you ever seen a muzzle on a dog?”

  “No. What’s a muzzle?”

  “It’s a band of leather bound around a dog’s nose. Sometimes it’s a little straw basket strapped to his nose.”

  “So he won’t bite anybody. But how can he eat, Miss Doubkov?”

  “The lion is the king of all beasts, Anne. He is the lord of the jungle. There is no limit to what he can do when he wishes. Once upon a time in Africa there was a great king Lion who put muzzles on all the other lions—and on the tigers and panthers, too. He put muzzles on all of them except on his family and his twenty cousins. These other animals could only open their mouths a little bit. When they were hungry they could only eat very small animals. But the great king and his family and his twenty cousins could eat all the deer they wanted—and all the antelope and gazelles. And they ate and ate. But some of those young lions found ways of loosening the muzzles on their noses, so the king thought up something else. He tied up their front paws with straps and bands so that they couldn’t run fast. There was a banquet every night in the king’s palace, but all those other lions went around limping, limping, with those shameful boxes on their noses. There was joy in the palace every night. Was there joy anywhere else?”

  “No,” cried the children.

  “Was there any joy when a new lion cub was born?”

  “No!—No!”

  “Children! Children! You mustn’t get so excited!”

  “So one day the other lions met together in a remote part of the jungle to talk about their wretched life. What could they do? It seemed to them that there was only one thing to do.”

  “I know,” said George, striking the sides of his chair. His face was white. Miss Doubkov went on as though she had not heard him.

  “The worst part about the whole situation, Anne—remember!—was that the lion is the noblest of all the animals in the forest. The Russian nation is the greatest nation that has ever lived on the face of the earth. No nation loves so deeply the land in which it lives. No nation is so brave in its own defense—as Napoleon discovered and lost a mighty army. No nation is so diligent and so long-enduring. The countries of Europe are decaying daily. I have seen them. They are in a race for wealth and pleasure. They have forgotten God. But the people of Russia bear God in their hearts, like a man carrying a lantern under his coat on a stormy night.” Here she paused and lowered her voice. “Russia is the Christ-bearing country. She is the Ark that will save the human race when the great floods come. Here in America you have not even a nation. Every man thinks of himself before he thinks of his country. That’s why it was shameful that one lion and a few cousins—one handful of unworthy lions—could reduce all the other lions to the level of starving dogs. And my father saw that there was only one thing to be done.”

  “To kill him! To kill him!” cried George, rising, and going to the wall he hammered it with his fists.

  “George!” called his mother.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” cried George, falling to his knees and pounding the floor.

  “George,” said his mother. “Come finish your supper and control yourself.”

  George rose, hurled some bombs through the windows and dashed out of the house. Félicité slipped out after him.

  “My children are so high strung, Olga. It’s their Creole blood.” She went to the front door, looked out, and returned with an anxious expression on her face. “My mother had a terrible temper.—And her father! Nobody could do anything with him.”

  “Maman, why did George get so excited?”

  “Sh, dear. We all get a little excited when we hear about injustice.”

  Félicité found her brother lying face downward on the croquet court. He was panting and exhausted. They had a long whispered conversation. Finally they returned to the dining room. George stood by the door.
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br />   “Miss Doubkov, will you teach me how to talk Russian?”

  Miss Doubkov looked at Eustacia, who looked at them both in turn. She could find nothing to say.

  “George,” said Anne, “you’re crazy. You couldn’t learn anything. You were the worst student in the whole school and you’ve been sent home from three other schools already.”

  “I can learn anything, if I want to learn it.”

  “But, George,” said his mother, “you’d have no opportunity to speak it, except to Miss Doubkov.”

  “I’ll have to speak it when I go to Russia.”

  “Finish your supper and we’ll think about it.”

  “I’ve thought about it already.”

  Breckenridge Lansing was not told about these lessons. They were conducted in the linen room under the Illinois Tavern or in the Rainy Day House. Eustacia insisted on paying for them and Miss Doubkov accepted half the price offered her. Miss Doubkov had no experience of teaching languages, but she suspected that her pupil’s progress was remarkable. He himself devised their form: he entered a hotel in St. Petersburg and engaged a room; he ordered a meal in a restaurant and, becoming a waiter, served it. In Moscow he bought a fur hat, a dog, a horse. He went to a theatre. He revisited the theatre by the “artists’ entrance.” He put questions to the leading actors. He went to church and even learned some of the liturgy in Old Slavonic. He went to taverns and fell into conversation with young men of his own age (twenty-three and twenty-four!). He discussed good and bad government with them. He reminded them that Russia was the greatest country the world had ever seen. His progress between lessons astonished his teacher. (In Russian: “Well, Olga Sergeievna, I take walks and I talk and I pretend I’m in Russia.”) Miss Doubkov gave him the dictionary that her father had bought in Constantinople thirty-five years ago. She lent him her New Testament, which he read with his mother’s French version. “Mama, it’s like a different book in Russian. It’s like it’s more a man’s book.” There came the day when he asked his teacher, in a low voice, to repeat those words which she had said to him in Russian—

  “Which words, George, son of Breckenridge?”