The Eighth Day

by Thornton Wilder

  “. . . ? The reason I write you such long letters is that I can’t sleep at night until I see the sunlight coming in the window. When I sleep at night I have nightmares, almost never during the day. . . . ? Men in white masks come in through the keyhole. I jump out of the window and they chase me all over some mountains covered with snow. That’s Siberia. I make crosses with chalk all over the walls and the door. I guess there’s no hope for me. I’ll have to get used to it. As long as other people are happy, ishkabibble.

  “I know that I was born to be a very happy person, but then things happened. Sometimes, I’m so happy I could crush the whole universe in my arms for love. Doesn’t last. You and Maman and Anne—be happy for me. Oneself doesn’t count.

  “I hate the manager of our company, Culloden Barnes, and he hates me. He’s an old man, but until I came he played all the young heroes and he plays half of them now. He dyes his hair and wears rouge even on the street. He’s an awful actor. I say all my lines real and it makes him look foolish, shouting away and waving his arms about. My young parts are all idiotic, but I study them in my hotel room until I make them sound natural. I love to work. Florella Thompson’s his wife. I like her a lot. She’s a bad actress, but she tries. In some of our scenes we play very well and the audience knows it. She likes to work, too. She’s never too tired to come to the theatre at noon and we work. Then we have corned beef and cabbage brought in. She’s always hungry. I like to see women eat, not men. She tells me a lot about her life. Now listen: some actors who live in the room next to them at the hotel say that he treats her terribly. Like I always say. There are lots of crimes that there’s no law against. . . . ?

  “I’m a big success now, but he doesn’t pay me much because I miss performances every now and then and someone has to go on in my place. . . . ?

  “I got fired last Saturday night. You know why. He hates me. I got a job in a saloon again. But he came and hired me back. He couldn’t do without me. I’m too popular. . . . ?

  “No, I’m not going to be an actor. I just act to make money. Acting’s not serious. Maybe I’ll be a detective or a wandering story-teller or a jail breaker. Can you imagine that I can cure people? When I was in that crazyhouse in St. Louis I was curing so many patients that they were glad to let me go. I even cured a girl. The men’s garden or meadow or whatever you call it was separated from the women’s by a high wire fence. A girl sat under a tree by the fence every morning. A lady attendant said she wouldn’t talk because she thought she was a stone. I’d talk in a low voice without looking at her directly. I told her she wasn’t a stone, she was a tree. Three days later she told me she was a tree and she waved her fingers in the air. I pretended not to hear her. I told her she was a beautiful animal, maybe a deer, a doe. And in a few days she told me she was a deer and she moved around all over the field. At last she became a girl. The men patients would come up to me and say ‘When are we going to do “glory, hallelujah?”’ That’s the way to cure people, with dancing and singing. But I’m not going to be a healer. It gives me terrible headaches. A jail breaker is a profession I invented. It’s a man who puts prisons and jails in such confusion that all the prisoners can get out. I’ve thought of lots of ways to do it.

  “For every person who has enough to eat there are ten persons starving (maybe a hundred). For every girl and lady who goes down the street and their friends say pretty things to them, there’s a dozen girls and women who’ve had no chance. For every good hour that a family has in a home evenings, somebody is paying. Somebody they don’t even know. I don’t mean merely that there are a lot of poor people in the world. It’s deeper than that. Look at all the sick and crippled and ugly and damned. It’s the way God made the world. He can’t stop it now or change it. Some people are damned before they are born. You won’t like that, but I know. God doesn’t hate the damned. He needs them. They pay for the rest. Paryas hold up the floors of homes. Enough said.”

  FÉLICITÉ to George (January, 1905):

  “Oh, Jordi, let me beg you once again to permit me to show your letters to Maman. You’ve forgotten what Maman’s like; she’s strong. You say you want her to be happy. Jordi, you’re stupid. Nobody wants to be happy because they’re ignorant. The more Maman knows about anything real and serious and true, the happier she is. I beg you to give me permission. . . . ?

  “What do you mean about being a scapegoat and a pariah? Do you go to Confession and Mass? Oh, Jordi, are you sincere? What do you mean that you can never be happy? How do you know? Are you trying to make a picture of yourself as an interesting tragical person!!!! It’s hard to write you unless I’m certain that you’re sincere. Do you remember the sermons you used to preach me about sincerity being a habit? You said that the reason why Shakespeare and Pushkin were great writers was because from the time when they were boys they stood like policemen over their thoughts and didn’t allow one small insincerity to creep in. You used to say of a certain person that he was posing all the time. Do you remember how you hated that word. Go to church. Christians can’t pose.”

  GEORGE to his mother (Portland, Oregon, February):

  “Many thanks for your letter. I read in the paper about what happened to Père, but I didn’t know that about Mr. Ashley. It’s wonderful that somebody saved him. . . . ? Everything’s fine with me. Yes, I eat well and sleep well. Chère Maman, does Mr. Wills still come to Coaltown once a month to take photographs? I’d like more than anything in the world to have a picture of you and the girls. And a big one of you alone and one of Miss Doubkov. I’m putting a five-dollar bill in this envelope. . . . ? I didn’t write you last week because there was nothing new to say. Everything’s fine. Maybe I’m going to act Shylock and Richard III. Our company’s never done Shakespeare, but a Shakespeare company broke down here in Portland ten years ago. The costumes and scenery are in a warehouse and our manager can get them cheap. They’re probably full of holes. I’ve studied the parts and I know what I’d do every minute.”

  EUSTACIA to George (March 4):

  “Your sister and I are making costumes for your Shylock and Richard. We’ve studied all the illustrations we could find. Miss Doubkov is a great help, too. Give us an idea of Miss Thompson’s measurements and coloring. . . . ? Yes, dear boy, you should hear us laugh. . . . ? Do assure me that you are faithful in your duties as a Christian.”

  FLORELLA THOMPSON to Eustacia (Seattle, Washington, May 1):

  “Dear Mrs. Lansing, The dresses are the most beautiful that I’ve ever worn. I’ve grown a little stouter this spring. You very cleverly left those gussets and basted darts for alterations. They fit me perfectly now. Business has not been good in the north here and my dear husband has had to postpone the Shakespeare performances until the fall. . . . ? Your son Leo is a remarkable actor. You may be certain that he will go far. In addition he is such a genuine person. I can imagine what a comfort to you he must be. With many thanks from the bottom of my heart for the beautiful dresses and for having so gifted and understanding a son. Florella Thompson. P.S. I enclose a photograph of myself wearing one of the Portia dresses in Beryl’s Secret. Do you recognize your son? That is my husband at the left.”

  GEORGE to Félicité (Seattle, May 4):

  “Three years ago today it happened. As another actor said ‘Sic semper tyrannis’. . . . ? I’ve got a room a long way from the theatre. It’s over some rocks by the ocean. When I sleep by the ocean I don’t have bad dreams. I wish I could tell that to Maman. After the show it takes me two hours to walk to my room. I sing and shout. . . . ? I hate art. I hate painting and music, but I wish I could paint and write my art and music. Because the world is a thousand times more beautiful and mighty than most people can see. What they call art is not worth a bean unless it’s about what I sing about when I walk to the ocean. I know that because I’m on the outside. I’m a shut-out. And Mr. Ashley knows it, too—wherever he is.

  EUSTACIA to George (May 4):

  “I have just returned from your father’s grave. To us is given, a
s we grow older, the gift of understanding more fully and of loving more uncloudedly.

  “My dear Jordi, I have long noticed that people who talk to those closest to them only about what they eat, what they wear, the money they make, the trip they will or will not take next week—such people are of two sorts. They either have no inner life, or their inner life is painful to them, is beset with regret or fear. Bossuet believed that there are not two such kinds of person, but just one—that people of the world occupy themselves with external things in order to escape from thoughts of death, illness, solitude, and self-reproach.

  “I treasure your letters, but I miss in them any reflection of that inner life which has always been so intense and vivid and rich in you. How you used to argue—with your whole soul in your eyes and in your voice—about God and the creation and goodness and evil and justice and mercy and destiny and chance! You remember that well. At eleven o’clock I would cry out: ‘Children, children, you must go to bed! We cannot settle these matters tonight.’

  “Now I can only assume that you are carrying some burden that ‘closes your mouth.’ And I assume that that burden has to do with the events that took place here three springs ago.

  “Your father was often unjust toward you. His father was unjust toward him and toward his mother. I think it very likely that his grandfather was unjust toward his son. And each of these sons toward his father. Oh, do not add new links to that unhappy chain. Someday you will have sons. No man can be a good father until he has understood his own.

  “Try, my dear boy, to be just toward your father.

  “Justice rests upon understanding all the facts. God, who sees all, is Justice—Justice and Love.

  “When that happy day comes when I shall see you again (every night I make sure that the window in your room is raised a little) I shall tell you many things about your father. What I wish to tell you now is that during the last weeks of his life—during those nights that you so greatly misunderstood, when you thought he wished to do me harm—he saw his life with new eyes. He recognized his injustice toward you and toward all of us. In profound sincerity and deep emotion he looked forward to a new and different life.

  “Then the fatal accident took place.

  “Your father’s last words—and above all his last glance—would seem unimportant to a stranger, but they showed clearly the change that was going on in him.

  “You had left Coaltown the night before. On that Sunday afternoon, three years ago today, Mr. and Mrs. Ashley came over to the house as I have told you. You have probably forgotten that the Junior Epworth League of the Methodist Church was holding a picnic in Memorial Park across the hedge. The Ashley children had invited you and your sisters to be their guests. Just before the shot was fired that killed your father, the children began singing around the campfire. We all raised our heads and listened a moment.

  “Your father said, ‘Jack, will you thank your children for inviting ours to the picnic? You Ashleys have always been mighty good friends to us.’

  “Mrs. Ashley glanced at me quickly. Mr. Ashley looked surprised. It had not been your father’s habit to acknowledge kindness in anyone.

  “Mr. Ashley said, ‘Well, Breck, when anybody has children like your children, there’s no call to thank anybody for inviting them.’

  “While Mr. Ashley took his aim—you remember how serious and slow he was about it—your father looked across the lawn at me. There were tears in his eyes—tears of pride in you.

  “Forgive, George. Forgive and understand.

  “You will soon be playing Shylock. Think of your father when you hear Portia saying to you:

  ‘We do pray for mercy,

  And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

  The deeds of mercy.’

  “Your father died at the moment when his real self was beginning to find expression. But that real self is in us all from birth. It was that real self that I was aware of in your father throughout our long life together—which I loved and shall continue to love in eternity.

  “As I do you. As I shall you.”

  GEORGE to Félicité (Seattle, May 10):

  “Don’t expect letters from me for a while. Tomorrow I’m taking a boat to Alaska, maybe. But you write me. I’ve made arrangements so that your letters will be sent on to me. Do you remember the Roman candles on Fourth of July? Well, everything here went up in a blaze of flame and sparks. I got fired. I got arrested. I got ordered to leave Seattle. The only thing I’m sorry about is Florella Thompson. She’s pretty unhappy about it, I guess. I got into a fight on the stage, right in front of the audience. The fight was written in the play. Mr. Culloden Barnes is in the hospital, but he isn’t hurt. I learned one thing: when I fight in a play I don’t get dizzy. I win. The mayor and his wife came to see the shows often. They liked me. He’s getting me out of jail tomorrow. If I don’t take the boat to Alaska tomorrow, I can take one to San Francisco two days later. It had to be. I don’t regret anything except Florella’s being so unhappy. Yes, I do regret it, because what I did to him didn’t change anything.”

  FÉLICITÉ to George (May 18):

  “I beg you, Jordi, by all that’s precious to you, by Maman, by all that God has sent to St. Kitts, by Shakespeare and Pushkin: write once a week without fail. Put your hands over your eyes and imagine my unhappiness if I do not hear from you regularly. Jordi, my brother, I shall ask Maman for a hundred dollars and I shall come out to California. I shall go to all the places where you have been. I shall hunt for you everywhere. Don’t make me do that unless it is necessary. I would have to tell Maman that I was deeply anxious about you. She would insist on coming with me. Just one letter a week will prevent this desperation on our part. You and God are all we have.”

  GEORGE to his mother (San Francisco, June 4, 11, 18, 25, and so on into July and August):

  “Everything’s fine. . . . ? I’m working. . . . ? I’ve got a room way out by what they call the Seal Rocks. The seals bark all night. . . . ? I bought a new suit. . . . ? I’ve been twice to the Chinese theatre. I go with a Chinese friend and he explains it to me. I learn things. . . . ? I’m doing something very interesting that I’ll tell you soon . . . ? Yes, I sleep fine. . . . ?”

  GEORGE to Félicité (San Francisco, September 10):

  “Now I’m going to tell you what I’ve been doing. I went back to being a waiter in a saloon again. There are about forty saloons along the waterfront where I work. Ours is a fifth-rate one. Other saloons have girly shows or singing waiters or Irish or Jewish comedians. We just have old sailors and old miners who fall asleep on the tables and don’t leave any tips. Well, there’s an old comic actor here named Lew. He’s Greek and very good. Also, he’s a kind of saint. His health is just held together with a pin. I’ve been paying for his drinks. Well, we started a kind of act together. In a pawnshop I found one of those tall silk hats and a ratty old overcoat with a fur collar. He comes in as a rich customer and I wait on him. We have terrible quarrels. At first the customers (and the manager!) thought it was real; then we got to be popular. He talks in Greek and I talk in Russian. Soon there were fifty people at one o’clock and two o’clock and then more and more, standing up around the walls. Sometimes I’m a sad waiter telling him my troubles, sometimes I’m a dreamy waiter or a furious waiter. We practice mornings in a warehouse. We love to practice. We’re great. We’re wonderful. The manager of another bigger saloon offered us ten dollars a night for four shows. The signs say LEO AND LEW, THE GREATEST CLOWNS IN TOWN. Society people come now. The reason it’s funny is because we’ve practiced every little move and silence, and because people don’t understand the words. Lew is great. Now I know what I want to be. I want to be a comic actor. [October, 29]: Lew died. I held his hand. Everything I do falls to pieces for me, but I don’t care. I don’t live. I don’t really live. I never will. I don’t care as long as other people live. Lew told me I gave him three happy months. I heard that in India those street cleaners have to wear badges. I’m proud of mine.
Don’t you worry about me.”

  FÉLICITÉ to George (November 10):

  “Many times you have told me not to worry about you, but it has become clearer and clearer to me that you do want me to worry about you. That’s why you write me—you want me to join you in some deep trouble. I’m not charging you with lying to me; I’m saying that you are so unhappy about something that you do not think clearly. Last night I sat down in my room at ten o’clock and read through all your letters slowly. It was almost three o’clock when I finished.

  “In all those letters you mention Père only five times (his insurance, his boasting, his killing animals—twice—and his ‘bad education.’) Our father was murdered. You do not mention that once. As you used to say, that is a ‘very loud silence.’

  “Jordi, you have some very heavy burden on your heart. I think it is a self-reproach—a remorse of some kind. It is a secret. You want to tell it to me, but you do not. You almost tell it to me, then you run away. I know that you do not go to Confession and Mass, because you would have told me so. If I am the only person to whom you have thought of revealing this secret I am ready to hear it. Though there are many wiser than I, there is only one who loves you as much. Let me send you fifty dollars. Come! Do you remember how you used to make me read from Macbeth? You have not forgotten the lines:

  ‘Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff

  Which weighs upon the heart.’

  “Your unhappiness has somehow to do with Père. In some way you feel responsible for his death. That’s impossible. When you suffered that concussion of your head in St. Louis some fancy became tangled and twisted in your mind. Oh, write to me! Best of all, come and tell me everything.

  “Almost six years ago you came back from the New Year’s Eve gathering in the Illinois Tavern. You waited until Maman had turned out her light and you woke me. You told me at that time what Dr. Gillies had said about the history of the universe. He said that a new kind of human being was going to be born, the children of the Eighth Day. You said that you were a CHILD OF THE EIGHTH DAY. I understood that. Many people in town thought you something very different, but Maman and Miss Doubkov and I knew. We knew what your road had been.