The Eighth Day

by Thornton Wilder

  Sly (soothing digressions from which he could suddenly stage a surprise attack): The way she ran that store in Basseterre! It beat the Dutch! Smartest little head in the Caribbean. Regular little Shylock! . . . ? All the officers from those foreign ships. Girls go crazy for a uniform . . . ? He wouldn’t be surprised. . . . ? Lot of little back rooms. . . . ? He’d been blind as a bat. He bet that she’d lied to him all his life. She’d gone to Fort Barry to church. Who’d she seen there?

  “Now, Breckenridge, I can’t stand your going on like this much longer. I’m tired. I’ve scarcely had what amounts to one night’s rest for five weeks. I’m going to ask Dr. Gillies to send Mrs. Hauserman over to sit with you. You’re simply trying to torment me. That’s bad for you. You don’t torment me, Breckenridge. You only injure yourself.”

  “Then give me one honest answer and we’ll drop the whole subject.”

  “If you don’t believe what I say, I’m no use to you. If you don’t respect twenty-four years of married life, send me out of the room.”

  “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”

  “Breckenridge, I’m going to lie down in the sitting room. If you really need me, ring the bell. But don’t call me in here to talk nonsense. I’ll bring you your gruel at four o’clock.”

  But it was precisely those twenty-four years of married life that did not permit any such gesture of independence. Leaving the room was the only retaliation in her power—the only punishment; but she was not there to punish him. He rang the bell furiously. She capitulated. She resumed her chair under the green translucent lampshade. The most painful aspect of this phase was the absence of any faint intimation from the realm of the spirit; but there, too, lay its deep interest. She never doubted that the spirit was struggling behind these manifestations. Cruelty and hypocrisy are interesting. She felt—she knew—that his insistent attack was a mask behind which lay his regret for his neglect of her, for his numerous cheerless infidelities. He was trying to goad her into denouncing and reproaching him; but that was too easy. He must confront the judge within him. “The devil spits hardest just before he has to go.” When self-justification is so impassioned, does contrition follow?

  Dr. Hunter had directed that he should have some nourishment every four hours.

  She brought him his gruel at four o’clock. Before this phase there had been moments of congeniality over the gruel. It was a game. She dusted it lightly with cinnamon or grated lemon peel. She hid two or three raisins in it. Three tears of sherry. The attentions that accompany feeding quicken both affection and repulsion. Now that game was over.

  “How do I know that you went to church in Fort Barry? How do I know you aren’t the talk of the county—you and Dr. Hunter?”

  Her eyes kept returning to the glass doors that opened on the lawn. She arose and went quickly into the hall. Félicité was sitting on the stairs.

  “Go to bed, Félicité. I don’t want you ever to listen to what your father says when he’s uncomfortable.”

  “I wasn’t listening, Maman. I was sitting here so that George wouldn’t listen. Sometimes he sits here for hours.”

  Eustacia burst out laughing. Her eyes swept the ceiling, distraught. “Va te coucher, cbérie.”

  She returned to the sickroom and stretched out on the sofa, covering her eyes with her hand. Her husband talked monotonously on. She made the slight interjections that were so necessary to him. “Well!”—“No!”—“Talk of something else!”

  Yes. She had loved another man. Her conscience did not trouble her. She had surmounted the longing and the anguish. That love was a crown she wore, a medal. She could not think of it without a smile. It came to her aid often, as now. Formerly she had tormentedly asked of herself and of the night sky if she was loved in return. That no longer mattered. His glance had met hers a thousand times. Love surrounds us in many ways: he loved her.

  Midnight (Saturday to Sunday, May 3 and 4):

  “Here’s your gruel.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “I’ll warm it up for you when you’re hungry.”

  Silence. Prolonged silence. Eustacia had learned that when he kept silent for some time it was “for effect.” He was preparing a scene. There was a large element of the play actor in him. During the year in Pittsburgh Eustacia had regularly attended Wednesday matinées in the theatre. She could find a seat in the top balcony for fifteen cents and had done so for many months until her pregnancy rendered her appearance on the street “indelicate.” She loved the theatre and despised it. It calculated its effects, just as Breckenridge was doing now. This view of him as trying to outwit her, outthink her, rendered him even more pitiable.

  She loved him. Yes, that’s what marriage had brought her to. She loved him as a creature. Like most completely bilingual persons she thought in both languages. About the more superficial machinery of life she thought in English. Her inner life presented itself to her in French. In both languages the word “creature” wears two aspects; in French the two are more drastically contrasted. Her favorite French authors, Pascal and Bossuet, constantly evoked the double sense: a créature is an abject living thing; it is also a living thing—generally a human being—fashioned by God. Her dear uncle in marrying her had predicted that they would become one flesh; he had been right. She loved this créature. She could not imagine him away. Just as she shrank with horror from any desire to have wished her life to have been other. It was these children—and no other imaginable children—that constituted her boundless ineffable thanks to God. That’s what destiny is. Our lives are a seamless robe. All was ordained, as the English language put it. She arrived at a position much like Dr. Gillies’s. We don’t live our lives. God lives us.

  This very week her love for him would stab her as she looked at him—unshaven, in torment, devising ways to wound her, pitiably dependent on her, himself desperately loving her.

  “Stacey!”

  “Yes, Breck.”

  “Do you notice that I’ve been quiet?”

  “Yes, dear. What have you been thinking about?”

  “That gruel.”

  The air was heavy with theatre. Fifteen cents’ worth.

  Suddenly he leaned forward and pointed a finger at her. “I’ve got it!”

  “What have you got?”

  “The man.”

  “Yes, dear, what man?”

  “The man you’ve been meeting in Fort Barry—it’s Jack Ashley!”

  She stared at him a moment. She burst into laughter—brief painful laughter. She was to be spared nothing.

  “To think that I couldn’t see it—all these years! Plain as the nose on your face. I’ve seen you throwing sheep’s eyes at one another. And stealing off to the Farmer’s Hotel in Fort Barry! Oh, Stacey! I’ve seen you sitting beside him at table hundreds of times, your ankles all wound up with one another.—What are you doing?”

  “I’m closing the doors. Go on, Breck, go on. Go on.”

  “Why are you closing the doors? It’s hot.”

  Eustacia was trembling. “I think someone may be listening. I think that some of your club members may come down and lie on the grass just to hear you talk—Mr. Bostwick of the Odd Fellows or Mr. Dobbs of the Masons. Or some of the girls from the saloons on the River Road—Hattie or Beryl. I wouldn’t be surprised if that Leyendecker bov—”

  “Well, they wouldn’t learn anything that they didn’t know already. You open those doors, Stacey!”

  She closed them firmly. She then crossed the dining room and looked into the hall and sitting room. Lansing picked up one object and then another and smashed the panes in the doors. She heard the noise. It seemed as though half Coaltown must have heard it. She stood in the hall and looked up the stairs. Something like exhilaration filled her. Yes, things must come to a head. Things must get worse before they can get better. She returned to the sickroom and looked at him long and gravely.

  “You and Jack have been deceiving me for years.—What are you doing now?”

  “I’m go
ing to lie down on the sofa and read. I’m putting cotton in my ears. Talk on, Breck. I hate to hear you saying nasty things.”

  He stared at her. Slowly she inserted the wads of cotton in her ears, lit the gaslight over the sofa, lay down, and opened a book.

  Almost at once she knew that she couldn’t do it. It was too cruel. You can’t separate that two-in-one. Besides, it was retaliatory. She glanced at him. He was still staring at her with furious bloodshot eyes. He looked like a stricken dog. With her eyes resting on him she slowly removed the cotton from her ears.

  “You and Jack have been deceiving me for years.”

  “Wait! Wait just one minute, Breck. A few weeks ago you said you loved me.”

  “I did! But I didn’t know then what I know now. I was blind. I bet Batey knows, too. I bet she hates you.”

  “Oh, Breck! You said you loved me.”

  “He loves you. Comfort yourself with that: Jack loves you.”

  Her eyes kept returning to the doors. Again he fell silent. The play actor was preparing another fine scene.

  He said quietly: “I’ll kill him.”

  “What? What’s that you’re saying?”

  “I’ll kill Jack Ashley, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Dear Breck, don’t say such things!”

  “Any jury in the country would acquit me. And do you know why? Do you? . . . ? Do you? . . . ? Do you? . . . ? Because you and he have been poisoning me. I’m not sick. I’m just poisoned!”

  “Oh, Breck!”

  “Cinnamon! Nutmeg and raisins!—Where are you going now?”

  “I’m going to call George.”

  “Why call George?”

  “I’m going to send him to Mrs. Hauserman’s. She’ll sit up with you all night after this. Tell her everything. She’ll make food for you that you won’t be afraid to eat. I’m no longer any use to you, Breck.”

  She left the room. As she mounted the stairs she heard him calling her name. She knocked at George’s door. There was no answer. She opened it. The room was empty. Continuing down the hall to the bathroom she bathed her forehead and wrists in cold water, murmuring, “It’s all over. I shall rest.” She sank to the floor, pressing her forehead on the linoleum. “Dieu! Dieu! Nous sommes de pauvres créatures. Aide-nous!”

  She descended the stairs. George was standing in the hall.

  “George! Did you overhear what your father said?”

  He made no reply. He looked over her shoulder.

  “Answer me!”

  “He broke the window. What did he throw at you?”

  “STACEY! WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?”

  “He didn’t throw anything at me. I wasn’t even in the room. He’s a very sick man. Don’t pay any attention to what he says.”

  “STACEY! ANSWER ME!”

  “I’m talking to George, Breck.”

  “Don’t you send him for Mrs. Hauserman.”

  She spoke softly and rapidly. “George, Félicité tells me you wish to go away for a short time. I think you should.” She drew a small brocade purse from her pocket and put it in his hand. “Here are forty dollars. Go tomorrow. Write me, dear George, write me. Tell me everything that happens to you.” She kissed him. “My dear treasure! My dear treasure!”

  The handbell was ringing furiously. “STACEY! I’ll eat this. Come back here. I’ll eat this. GEORGE!” Silence, “GEORGE!”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Come into the room.”

  George and Eustacia entered the sickroom.

  “Don’t you go and call Mrs. Hauserman. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “But I have one errand for you. Tomorrow morning early you run over to the Ashleys and ask Mr. Ashley to come here for rifle practice on Sunday afternoon—this afternoon. Tell him I feel better. Tell him I especially want him to come and bring the whole family.”

  “The children couldn’t come, Papa. There’s the Epworth League picnic in the park at five.’’

  “Well, tell him to bring Mrs. Ashley.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Are you and the girls going to the picnic, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re Cath’lics.”

  “Roger’s president. He and Lily invited us. Mama and Félicité have made a lot of sandwiches and cakes.”

  “Well, run along.”

  George did not move.

  “What’s the matter with you? I told you to go.”

  George had been watching his father with a closed remote expression on his face. He slowly moved to the table beside the bed, picked up the pewter bowl of gruel, and poured the contents down his throat. He left the room without raising his eyes again. Lansing stared after him in consternation. Eustacia conquered a wild impulse to laugh—to laugh for hours. Wednesday-afternoon matinée—two fifteen cents’ worth.

  “Why did he do that? Answer me, Stacey! What did he mean by that?”

  “You’ve said a great many foolish and cruel things tonight, Breck. I don’t want to hear any more. I want your permission to put some cotton in my ears. I’m going to sit here and read.”

  “But why did the boy do that?”

  “When you have intelligent children, you would best behave intelligently, Breckenridge Lansing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She waited a moment and pointed at the broken windows.

  “You mean he heard what we were saying?”

  “I think he heard you accusing me of being an adulteress and a murderer. Don’t you? Don’t you think that’s what he meant?”

  He looked at her resentfully.

  “He heard you threatening to kill John Ashley. John Ashley has been a very good friend to George when he needed one. Breck, why can’t you be silent for even a short time? It’s this talking all the time that gets you into trouble. I want your permission to put cotton in my ears for fifteen minutes. May I?”

  He was grumbling: “. . . ? eavesdropping . . . ? damned impertinence . . . ? ought to be horse-whipped . . . ?”

  “May I, Breck?”

  He growled an exasperated “Yes . . . ? Yes, do what you want.”

  She put the cotton in her ears and lay down on the sofa with her book. Oh, blessed silence! Oh, waves lapping on the shore! Oh, sunlight on Lord Nelson’s Bay.

  Ten minutes passed. She did not hear him repeating her name in a low voice. He got out of bed, crossed the room, and lightly touched her shoulder. She turned and looked at him. He sank to his knees and laid his forehead on her hand. She removed the cotton from her ears.

  “I’m hungry!” he said.

  She had forgotten his midnight gruel! She started to rise, but he restrained her. “I’ll call Félicité,” she said. He was weeping.

  “I’m sorry, Stacey. I’m sick. Don’t treat me like this, Stacey. Be kind to me. . . . ? I don’t mean those things. You’re the best thing that ever was in my life. . . . ? I hate being sick and that makes me angry at everything.” Again she tried to rise, but his forehead pinned her hand to the edge of the sofa. “I think I was brought up wrong. Everything I do is all mixed up. Say something kind to me, Stacey.”

  She looked down at that still honey-colored hair. She could not see the eyes of cornflower blue, now bloodshot. She raised his hand and kissed it. “Now get back into bed. You’ll feel better when you’ve had your gruel.”

  “Stay a minute. Don’t go yet. Put down your ear, Stacey. Maybe it’s best that things come to an end. I wouldn’t feel bad about it. It’s just like going to sleep. But I want you to pray for me, Stacey. I’ll bet most of your prayers are answered. Will you pray that I die without an awful lot of discomfort?” (“You’re hurting my hand, Breck!”) “And will you pray—Stacey, listen!—that the things I haven’t done right are gradually forgotten? That the children remember me . . . ? better? (“Breck, dear, you’re hurting my hand!”) “And, Stacey, STACEY, will you remember me . . . ? in a good way?”

  He released her hand. She stroked his head. In a low voi
ce she said: “All this is unnecessary, Breck. Of course, I pray for you. Of course, I always think of you with love. Now get back into bed. The doctor said you should eat every four hours and it’s now about two o’clock. You’ve been better these days and I want you to be especially well tomorrow so that the whole family can have a pleasant time in here before the children go off to the picnic.”

  Her heart was beating loudly. She drew the blanket over him and kissed his forehead. In the kitchen she slowly stirred the spoon in the barley. She returned to the sickroom with the pewter bowl.

  “Thank you, Stacey,” he said for the first time. She had brought a small saucer of gruel for herself.

  “Are you eating this stuff, too?”

  “Oh, I often steal a bit. It’s good for everybody.”

  They ate slowly in silence.

  “Are you happy sometimes, Stacey?”

  “Yes, often.”

  “What are you happy about?”

  “Just being a wife and a mother.”

  She caught his glance and laughed. She held his glance until he gave a low laugh in return.

  “Stacey, Stacey, you’re—”

  She interrupted him, putting her hand on his. She said, “Oh, Breck, you have something to be so proud of and you don’t know it.”

  “What?”

  “The children!”

  His face darkened. His eyes returned to his gruel.

  “The children. Do you know that Anne has led all her classes for two years? And that Mother Veronica said that Félicité was the best natural student she’d ever seen? Her Latin compositions won the prize in Chicago in the whole ‘Four States Contest.’”

  “You’re bright, Stacey. It’s you—”

  “Do you know what children are, Breck? They’re the continuation of ourselves. They carry out what we wanted to be.” Silence. “You’re in them like the grain is in wood. They have a whole series of admirable qualities that don’t come from my island people. They come from your Iowa ancestors. Sometimes I have to burst out laughing, they’re so foreign to me. For instance, we island people have no perseverance. We can’t concentrate on one thing for more than twenty minutes. I’m bright sometimes, but I’m only bright by fits and starts. But when Félicité sets out to accomplish something wild horses couldn’t stop her. That’s Iowa! That’s your people! A little while ago you said that Félicité was conceited. You couldn’t be more mistaken. . . . ? There’s just one thing she lacks. She lacks one degree of self-confidence and joyousness that a father’s love could give her. I’m no good for Félicité. I can’t help her. She needs you!”