The Eighth Day

by Thornton Wilder

  Lansing was aghast. Eustacia had drawn her handkerchief out of her sleeve. Eustacia was weeping! He put down his spoon. Almost shyly he placed his hand on hers. “Oh, you’re wrong, Stacey. You’re dead wrong. You’re the best mother in the world. . . . ? I’ll be better. I promise you.”

  Suddenly Eustacia burst out laughing. “Look at the mess I’ve made of my gruel. That’s what they give prisoners to eat—gruel and water! . . . ? And George—you’re right. He’s caused us a great deal of anxiety and mortification, hasn’t he? No wonder that you’ve been angry at him. But, Breck, I remember something you said once. You said that you Masons ‘stood behind one another.’”

  “We do.”

  “Don’t you think a father should do that with his boy? When a Mason makes a mistake you let him know that it’s a mistake, but you don’t talk about it everywhere. You don’t harp on it. You stand shoulder to shoulder letting the world see that you believe in him. . . . ? In seventeen years you’ve seldom said anything encouraging to George. George is very emotional.” She leaned forward, lowered her voice, and said very distinctly: “If you started standing behind him, he would love you as his best friend.”

  Lansing was holding his breath.

  “And Anne! I can understand that you don’t feel her affection as you used to. Do you know why that is? It’s because you continue to treat her like a little doll. You haven’t seen that she’s growing up very fast. She’s going to be a very intelligent young woman, and she wants to be treated so, now. My father made the same mistake with me. I was the youngest, too. He called me his little bird and made cooing noises all the time. I was very angry and I avoided him. He changed just in time—when he saw that I was capable in the store. Now we’re great friends. You’ve seen his letters. He misses me and I miss him.”

  “Stacey!”

  “You asked me if I’m happy sometimes. Oh, I’m happy often, because I have a husband and these three children. And I want you to be happy in the same way.”

  Lansing looked about him bewilderedly. He lowered his face toward his raised knees. “Oh, Stacey, I WANT TO GET WELL! I WANT TO GET WELL!”

  She rose and kissed his forehead. “You are better. Now let me move the lamp over to the sideboard. One sign that you’re really getting better will be that you can sleep at night. See if you can catch an hour or two of sleep now. I’ll be right here.”

  He slept until five o’clock, when he awoke and ate his four o’clock gruel, then he slept until seven-thirty. He awoke to new confidence.

  “Has George been over to the Ashleys’?”

  “Breck, I found a note on my dressing table this morning. George has gone off on some kind of a trip for a few days.”

  “There’s no train until eight-fifteen.”

  “I’m afraid he’s ridden on one of those freight trains.”

  “Where are the girls?”

  “They’re getting ready to go to Fort Barry to church on the eight-fifteen.”

  “Ask them to come to the door a minute before they go.”

  At a few minutes before eight, Félicité and Anne appeared at his door, young ladies dressed for church. He looked at them as though he had never seen them before. He could find nothing to say. They could find nothing to say. They stood, wide-eyed, waiting. They resembled the deer he had so often slain.

  Finally he said, “Well, have a good time.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “There’s a dollar bill on the dresser there. Put it on the collection plate for me.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Will you have time to stop at the Ashleys’ on the way to the station?” The girls nodded. “Ask Jack and Mrs. Ashley to come over about four-thirty this afternoon.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “You’re good girls. Papa’s proud of you.”

  The girls’ testimony was heavily stressed by the prosecution. They had conveyed the invitation to John Ashley, but had not mentioned firearms. The accused calmly testified that he had assumed that he had been invited to the customary Sunday-afternoon rifle practice. Whether that had been the original intention or not, Breckenridge Lansing, seeing the gun in his guest’s hand, had sent his wife into the house for his own rifle. The men tossed a coin and Ashley led off. Even in May twilight descended rapidly in Coaltown’s deep gorge. Lansing had begun to tire and the light to fail when he was killed on the third round.

  By the same hour the next afternoon Breckenridge’s brother Fisher, the best lawyer in northern Iowa, arrived to take charge of the “arrangements,” and very fine they were. The fraternal organizations marched into the Baptist Church in full regalia. The Odd Fellows’ Band, standing in the street outside, played the “Dead March from Saul.” John Ashley could hear it from his cell. Representatives of the mines’ directorate arrived from Pittsburgh and attended the service wearing silk hats. Two pews were reserved for the foremen from the “Bluebell” and the “Henrietta B. MacGregor.” The eulogies would have melted a heart of stone, but made no impression on Wilhelmina Thoms. Coaltown had never seen such a funeral.

  Fisher Lansing was engaged in some important trials of his own in Iowa, but he returned to Coaltown every other week to throw his weight into the Ashley Case. During the first weeks of the trial the majority of the citizens assumed that Lansing’s death would be found to have been an accident caused by a faulty mechanism in John Ashley’s gun. A deep antagonism against the accused man emerged only gradually. Fisher called on the first citizens in town. He held forth nightly in the bar of the Illinois Tavern. “I’ll see that that son-of-a-bitch gets his, if it’s the last thing I do. . . . ? He’d been trying to rook my brother out of his job for fifteen years; finally he had to shoot him, the damned skunk. . . . ? Jess Wilbraham and what’s-your-doctor’s-name, keep talking about a mechanical defect—tush and nonsense! We don’t talk such foolishness in Iowa. No, sir-ee, we don’t. No sir.”

  During the selection of the jury Eustacia found on her doorstep the first of a series of anonymous letters. She was grateful for them. They prepared her for her interrogation in court. She clearly but unemphatically deposed that her husband had never expressed any feeling that John Ashley bore him ill will. (“Thank you, Mrs. Lansing.”) On the afternoon of the accident Mr. Ashley, seeing that her husband was recovering from an indisposition, wished to postpone the rifle practice. It was her husband who insisted that they engage in a few rounds. (“Thank you, Mrs. Lansing.”)

  As executor of his brother’s will Fisher Lansing marched all over “St. Kitts” with an appraiser’s eye. The directorate of the mines had extended Eustacia’s right to live in the house rent free for five years. Much of the furniture belonged to her. In the Rainy Day House Fisher came upon some mechanical drawings: “The Ashley-Lansing Triple Drop Lock,” “The Ashley-Lansing Mercury Chamber Charger,” “The Ashley-Lansing Hexagon Tent.”

  “What are these, Stacey?”

  “They worked on inventions together.”

  “Anything to them?”

  “I don’t know, Fisher. If there is, it’s mostly John Ashley’s work.”

  “They’re damned good drawings. Breck couldn’t do that.—Are there any patents on them?”

  “No. They kept putting off sending them to the Patent Office.”

  “I’ll take them and show them to a friend of mine.”

  “But, Fisher, they’re John Ashley’s work.”

  “Listen, sister, you don’t have to tell me that. Breck didn’t have enough brains to invent a can opener. These drawings look smart. I’ll take them along. Maybe they’re a property—see what I mean?”

  “Fisher, they’re Mr. Ashley’s.”

  “Stacey! When we get through with John Ashley he’ll be dead. Convicts aren’t citizens. Alive or dead, they have no rights.”

  Fisher reverted often to Eustacia’s “properties.” They were considerable. Down the years she had persuaded her husband to buy here a town lot, there a meadow on the upland. It required a sharp business intelligence because C
oaltown was a shrinking community and Eustacia knew it. Moreover, she had persuaded Breckenridge to open a second account in a Fort Barry bank out of the reach of the devouring curiosity of Coaltown. This procedure, together with her varied and elegant clothes, nourished the assumption that she was a very rich woman indeed. Now she had insurance and pension.

  “Now, Stacey, there’s enough money for you and the girls to live very well. A little bit more from these inventions wouldn’t hurt. Why don’t you get out of Coaltown and enjoy yourself as soon as you can?”

  “I shall not leave Coaltown.”

  “Stay here? Stay here? In this God-forsaken town?”

  “I shall not leave Coaltown, Fisher, and I don’t want to hear another word from you about it.”

  “Where’s George?”

  “I don’t know where George is. He’s always had a way of disappearing for a week or two at times.”

  “George has always been a little bit crazy, if you ask me.”

  Eustacia looked at him—a long level gaze. A faint smile on her lips.

  Eustacia attended the trial only on the one occasion when she was called upon to testify. Olga Sergeievna called several times a week to report its progress to her. On the afternoon when the sentence was pronounced Olga Sergeievna arrived at “St. Kitts” carrying a rose. Eustacia met her at the door. No word was spoken. Olga Sergeievna crossed herself, laid the rose on the hall table and returned to the town. On the morning of Tuesday, June the twenty-second, Eustacia and her daughters arrived at the depot to take the train to Fort Barry, to their church. Mr. Killigrew beckoned her into his telegraph office.

  “Mrs. Lansing, I don’t know if you’ve heard the news.” He told her.

  “Was anyone hurt, Mr. Killigrew?”

  “No, ma’am. They’re searching the woods. I thought you’d be interested to know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Killigrew.”

  They continued their journey.

  Eustacia also received visits from the police. She knew from the anonymous letters that she was suspected of having paid thousands of dollars to her lover’s rescuers. These intruders were deferential at first, but became increasingly hard-spoken. She was a match for them. She enjoyed their visits. They afforded evidence that the great subject was still alive. There was more to come. There would be some revelation. That is what life is—an unfolding.

  She continued to be seen on the streets daily, dressed in the deep mourning that so became her. She tended her husband’s grave, preferring to visit it at hours when there were few to observe her. She learned from Olga Sergeievna of Sophia’s selling lemonade at the depot, of the opening of the boardinghouse. She sent her gifts by Porky. She expected to meet Beata momently until it dawned on her that Beata had resolved not to appear in the town. She encountered Sophia almost daily and greeted her affectionately. She invited her to supper at “St. Kitts.” Sophia thanked her, saying that she had to stay at home and help her mother. Eustacia did not open the gift shop and circulating library, but she bought Mr. Hicks’s abandoned hardware store and installed Miss Doubkov: “Fine Dressmaking.” Miss Doubkov was instructed to engage Lily Ashley as her assistant, but Mrs. Ashley replied that Lily was needed in the boardinghouse.

  Twenty months after George’s disappearance—in January, 1904—Eustacia received a postal card from him. It had been mailed in San Francisco and bore a picture of the sun, in mica, setting below the Pacific Ocean. “Dear Mother, Was sick. Am all well now. Will write soon. Have a good job. Chinese food is very good and cheap. Love to you and the girls. Jordi (Leonid). P.S. All you told us about the ocean is true. It’s great. Je t’embrasse mille fois.” That noon Miss Doubkov came hurrying to “St. Kitts.” She too had received a card. It was in Russian: “Honored lady, I was sick. I am all well now. I have come to know a Russian family here and we talk the language all the time—working people’s Russian. I thank you for all your great kindness. With profound respects, Leonid.” There was no return address. For Easter Eustacia received a rosary carved from walrus tusks, Félicité a brightly colored poster: “The Florella Thompson—Culloden Barnes Company presents The Girl Sheriff of Salmon Leap Falls, with Leonid Tellier as Jack Beverly.” Miss Doubkov and Anne were sent jade buttons.

  Finally Eustacia received a letter. He was fine. Everything was fine. He had done his recitations in English, French, and Russian for a theatrical manager and had been engaged at once. The plays were awful. They had titles like The King of the Opium Ring and Madge of the Klondike. He was very good. He had written a play and the manager had put it on. It was called The Boy Convict of La Guyenne. It was an awful play, but the best scenes were stolen from Les Misérables. He’d send an address when he’d settled down. He directed his mother to keep the window of his bedroom open half an inch, because he might return some night and surprise them. He sent love as big as the Pacific Ocean. It was signed “Jordi (Leonid Tellier).” “P.S. Please give my regards to Mr. Ashley and all the Ashleys.” Eustacia found more to disquiet than to rejoice her in this letter, but she showed no sign of it. We are as Providence made us.

  Toward the end of November, 1904, Félicité was greeted on the street by Joel Miller, George’s assistant sachem in the noble nation of the Mohicans. The encounter was conducted in whispers with a great air of secrecy.

  “Filly, I’ve got a letter for you. Act as though we were talking about ordinary things.”

  “What kind of a letter, Joel?”

  “It’s from George. He says to give it to you so your mother won’t know.”

  “Thank you, Joel. Thank you.”

  “Don’t tell anybody I gave it to you.”

  “I won’t, Joel.”

  She put the letter in her muff. She did not hurry her pace through the snowdrifts. She walked solemnly and with sinking heart. She foresaw that some ordeal lay before her.

  GEORGE to Félicité (San Francisco, November, 1904, to February, 1905):

  “Chère Zozo, I’m going to write you a lot of letters. I’m going to send them by Joel. I’ve sent him some money to rent a box in the post office. He can tell his people that it’s for letters he gets about his stamp collection. Don’t tell Maman I’m writing to you. If you tell her or Miss Doubkov or anybody else the things I’m going to tell you, I’ll never write you another word. I’ll erase you from my memory.

  “I’ve been through some rough times, but I’ll be all right from now on. I’ve got to talk to somebody and I’ve got to hear somebody talking to me—and that’s YOU. I’m going to tell you almost everything—good, bad, and worse. Maman’s had enough troubles. We know. As soon as you get this sit down and write me EVERYTHING. HOW is Maman? What’s she thinking about? Describe exactly what you do in the evenings. Do you have some good times? You don’t have to tell me about Père’s being dead. I read that in a newspaper. Père was always talking about his insurance. Did they pay up quick? How’s Mr. Ashley? Write me now because the company I’m acting in may be going to Sacramento or Portland, Oregon, soon. Je t’embrasse fort. Leonid Tellier, Gibbs Hotel, San Francisco. P.S. I tell everybody I had a Russian mother and a French father.”

  (Later):

  “This is what happened to me. I left Coaltown riding possum clancy. In the yards outside St. Louis the train stopped with a sudden jerk. I must have been half asleep, because I fell and hurt my head. I was arrested, but I don’t know any more until I woke up in an insane asylum. It wasn’t bad. There were lawns and flowers. I didn’t tell who I was because I didn’t know who I was. One day a lady came to sing to us loonies and she sung that song that Lily used to sing about ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ Suddenly I remembered everything. There was a priest that used to visit us. I asked him to help me get out of there. I wanted my clothes back and the money that was in the pockets. A lot of doctors talked to me. I showed them I wasn’t crazy, but just a little stupid. I told them I was a Russian orphan from Chicago. After a few weeks they let me out and gave me back my money. That was in September. In St. Louis I went to every theatre
and I got to know the actors. I tried to get a job acting. They said they didn’t have any parts that were my type. To save my money I got jobs working as a waiter in saloons. Three in the afternoon until three in the morning (no pay, just tips. The tips were in pennies). Like I’m going to write Maman, I don’t drink or smoke or use bad language. You don’t have to worry about me that way. I’ve got a worse weakness. Do you remember how Maman dreamed about going to San Francisco to see the ocean? All the time I had the idea that I wanted to go to San Francisco. Besides the actors said it was a fine theatre town. It is. Maybe I’ll get a letter from you tomorrow. Maybe I’ll never be happy one day in my life, but I don’t care. Other people will be happy.

  (The next weeks):

  “You wrote the greatest letter a fellow ever got. . . . ? I was very surprised about what you told me about Mr. Ashley. I don’t understand it at all. Even a baby would know that he didn’t do it. Where do people think he is? Maybe he’s right here in San Francisco.

  “. . . ? I’ll tell you what my weakness is. I get into fights. I can’t help it. It’s the way I’m made. If a man says anything to me sarcastic like I was just dirt, I boil over. I insult him. I ask him, ‘Did I hear you say your mother was a pig (or worse)?’ and I stand on his foot. Then there’s a terrible fight. I can’t help it. I never win a fight because when I start fighting I get one of my dizzy spells. They beat me up and throw me in the street. I’ve been put in jail three times. Once I woke up in a hospital. I must have been raving in Russian, because a nurse knew some Russians and a Russian family took me into their home. Miss Doubkov is right. Russians are the greatest people in the world.