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CHAPTER 25

UNDERSTANDING DRAMA

The distinctive appearance of a script, with its divisions into acts and scenes, identi�es drama as a unique form of literature. A play is written to be per- formed in front of an audience by actors who take on the roles of the charac- ters and who present the story through dialogue and action. (An exception is a closet drama, which is meant to be read, not performed.) In fact, the term theater comes from the Greek word theasthai, which means “to view” or “to see.” Thus, drama is different from novels and short stories, which are meant to be read.

The Ancient Greek Theater

The dramatic presentations of ancient Greece developed out of religious rites performed to honor gods or to mark the coming of spring. Play- wrights such as Aeschylus (525–456 b.c.), Sophocles (496–406 b.c.), and Euripides (480?–406 b.c.) wrote plays to be performed and judged at com- petitions held during the yearly Dionysian festivals. Works were chosen by a selection board and evaluated by a panel of judges. To compete in the contest, writers had to submit three tragedies, which could be either based on a common theme or unrelated, and one comedy. Unfortunately, very few of these ancient Greek plays survive today.

The open-air, semicircular ancient Greek theater, built into the side of a hill, looked much like a primitive version of a modern sports stadium. Some Greek theaters, such as the Athenian theater, could seat almost seventeen thousand spectators. Sitting in tiered seats, the audience would look down on the orchestra, or “dancing place,” occupied by the chorus—originally a group of men (led by an individual called the choragos) who danced and chanted and later a group of onlookers who commented on the drama.

Dramatic Literature

Origins of Modern Drama

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Raised a few steps above the orchestra was a platform on which the actors performed. Behind this platform was a skene, or building, that origi- nally served as a resting place or dressing room. (The modern word scene is derived from the Greek skene.) Behind the skene was a line of pillars called a colonnade, which was covered by a roof. Actors used the skene for entrances and exits; beginning with the plays of Sophocles, painted back- drops were hung there. These backdrops, however, were most likely more decorative than realistic. Historians believe that realistic props and scenery were probably absent from the ancient Greek theater. Instead, the setting was suggested by the play’s dialogue, and the audience had to imagine the physical details of a scene.

Two mechanical devices were used. One, a rolling cart or platform, was sometimes employed to introduce action that had occurred offstage. For example, actors frozen in position could be rolled onto the roof of the skene to illustrate an event such as the killing of Oedipus’s father, which occurred before the play began. Another mechanical device, a small crane, was used to show gods ascending to or descending from heaven. Such devices enabled playwrights to dramatize the myths that were celebrated at the Dionysian festivals.

The ancient Greek theater was designed to enhance acoustics. The �at stone wall of the skene re�ected the sound from the orchestra and the stage, and the curved shape of the amphitheater captured the sound,

Grand Theater at Ephesus (3rd century B.C.), a Greek settlement in what is now Turkey Da v e G . Ho u s e r/Do c u m e n ta ry Va l u e /Co rb i s

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enabling the audience to hear the lines spoken by the actors. Each actor wore a stylized mask, or persona, to convey to the audience the personal- ity traits of the particular character being portrayed—a king, a soldier, a wise old man, a young girl (female roles were played by men). The mouths of these masks were probably constructed so they ampli�ed the voice and projected it into the audience. In addition, the actors wore kothorni, high shoes that elevated them above the stage, perhaps also helping to project their voices. Due to the excellent acoustics, audiences who see plays per- formed in these ancient theaters today can hear clearly without the aid of microphones or speaker systems.

Because actors wore masks and because males played the parts of women and gods as well as men, acting methods in the ancient Greek theater were probably not realistic. In their masks, high shoes, and full-length tunics (called chiton), actors could not hope to appear natural or to mimic the atti- tudes of everyday life. Instead, they probably recited their lines while stand- ing in stylized poses, with emotions conveyed more by gesture and tone than by action. Typically, three actors had all the speaking roles. One actor—the protagonist—would play the central role and have the largest speaking part. Two other actors would divide the remaining lines between them. Although other characters would come on and off the stage, they would usually not have speaking roles.

Ancient Greek tragedies were typically divided into �ve parts. The �rst part was the prologos, or prologue, in which an actor gave the background or explanations that the audience needed to follow the rest of the drama. Then came the párodos, in which the chorus entered and commented on the events presented in the prologue. Following this were several episo- dia, or episodes, in which characters spoke to one another on the stage and developed the central con ict of the play. Alternating with episodes were stasimon (choral odes), in which the chorus commented on the exchanges that had taken place during the preceding episode. Frequently, the choral odes were divided into strophes, or stanzas, which were recited or sung as the chorus moved across the orchestra in one direction, and antistrophes, which were recited as it moved in the opposite direction. (Interestingly, the chorus stood between the audience and the actors, often functioning as an additional audience, expressing the political, social, and moral views of the community.) The �fth part was the exodos, the last scene of the play, during which the con ict was resolved and the actors left the stage.

Using music, dance, and verse—as well as a variety of architectural and technical innovations—the ancient Greek theater was able to convey the traditional themes of tragedy. Thus, the Greek theater powerfully expressed ideas that were central to the religious festivals in which they �rst appeared: the reverence for the cycles of life and death, the unavoidable dictates of the gods, and the inscrutable workings of fate.

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The Elizabethan Theater

The Elizabethan theater, in uenced by the classical traditions of Roman and Greek dramatists, traces its roots back to local religious pageants performed at medieval festivals during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Town guilds—organizations of craftsmen who worked in the same profession— reenacted Old and New Testament stories: the fall of man, Noah and the ood, David and Goliath, and the cruci�xion of Christ, for example. Church fathers encouraged these plays because they brought the Bible to a largely illiterate audience. Sometimes these spectacles, called mystery plays, were presented in the market square or on the church steps, and at other times actors appeared on movable stages or wagons called pageants, which could be wheeled to a given location. (Some of these wagons were quite elaborate, with trapdoors and pulleys and an upper tier that simulated heaven.) As mys- tery plays became more popular, they were performed in series over several days, presenting an entire cycle of a holiday—the cruci�xion and resurrec- tion of Christ during Easter, for example.

Performance of a mystery play Art Resource

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Related to mystery plays are morality plays, which developed in the four- teenth and �fteenth centuries. Unlike mystery plays, which depict scenes from the Bible, morality plays allegorize the Christian way of life. Typically, characters representing various virtues and vices struggle or debate over the soul of man. Everyman (1500), the best known of these plays, dramatizes the good and bad qualities of Everyman and shows his struggle to determine what is of value to him as he journeys toward death.

By the middle of the sixteenth century, mystery and morality plays had lost ground to a new secular drama. One reason for this decline was that mys- tery and morality plays were associated with Catholicism and consequently discouraged by the Anglican clergy. In addition, newly discovered plays of ancient Greece and Rome introduced a dramatic tradition that supplanted the traditions of religious drama. English plays that followed the classic model were sensational and bombastic, often dealing with murder, revenge, and blood retribution. Appealing to privileged classes and commoners alike, these plays were extremely popular. (One source estimates that in London, between 20,000 and 25,000 people attended performances each week.)

In spite of the popularity of the theater, actors and playwrights encoun- tered a number of dif�culties. First, they faced opposition from city of�cials who were averse to theatrical presentations because they thought that the crowds attending these performances spread disease. Puritans opposed the theater because they thought plays were immoral and sinful. Finally, some people attached to the royal court opposed the theater because they thought that the playwrights undermined the authority of Queen Elizabeth by spread- ing seditious ideas. As a result, during Elizabeth’s reign, performances were placed under the strict control of the Master of Revels, a public of�cial who had the power to censor plays (and did so with great regularity) and to grant licenses for performances.

Acting companies that wanted to put on a performance had to obtain a license—possible only with the patronage of a powerful nobleman—and to perform the play in an area designated by the queen. Despite these dif�culties, a number of actors and playwrights gained a measure of �nancial independence by joining together and forming acting companies. These com- panies of professional actors performed works such as Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlaine and Thomas Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy in tavern courtyards and then eventually in permanent theaters. According to scholars, the structures of the Elizabethan theater evolved from these tavern courtyards.

William Shakespeare’s plays were performed at the Globe Theatre (a corner of which was unearthed in December 1988). Although scholars do not know the exact design of the original Globe, drawings from the period provide a good idea of its physical features. The major difference between the Globe and today’s theaters is the multiple stages on which action could be performed. The Globe consisted of a large main stage that extended out

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into the open-air yard where the groundlings, or common people, stood. Spectators who paid more sat on small stools in two or three levels of galleries that extended in front of and around the stage. (The theater could probably seat almost two thousand people at a performance.) Most of the play’s action occurred on the stage, which had no curtain and could be seen from three sides. Beneath the stage was a space called the hell, which could be reached when the oorboards were removed. This space enabled actors to “disappear” or descend into a hole or grave when the play called for such action. Above the stage was a roof called the heavens, which protected the actors from the weather and contained ropes and pulleys used to lower props or to create special effects.

At the rear of the stage was a narrow alcove covered by a curtain that could be open or closed. This curtain, often painted, functioned as a decora- tive rather than a realistic backdrop. The main function of this alcove was to enable actors to hide or disappear when the script called for them to do so. Some Elizabethan theaters contained a rear stage instead of an alcove. Because the rear stage was concealed by a curtain, props could be arranged on it ahead of time. When the action on the rear stage was �nished, the curtain would be closed and the action would continue on the front stage.

On either side of the rear stage was a door through which the actors could enter and exit the front stage. Above the rear stage was a curtained stage called the chamber, which functioned as a balcony or as any other setting located above the action taking place on the stage below. On either side of the chamber were casement windows, which actors could use when a play called for a conversation with someone leaning out a window or standing on a balcony. Above the chamber was the music gallery, a balcony that housed the musicians who provided musical interludes throughout the play (and that doubled as a stage if the play required it). The huts, windows located above the music gallery, could be used by characters playing lookouts or sen- tries. Because of the many acting sites, more than one action could take place simultaneously. For example, lookouts could stand in the towers of Hamlet’s castle while Hamlet and Horatio walked the walls below.

During Shakespeare’s time, the theater had many limitations that chal- lenged the audience’s imagination. First, young boys—usually between the ages of ten and twelve—played all the women’s parts. In addition, there was no arti�cial lighting, so plays had to be performed in daylight. Rain, wind, or clouds could disrupt a performance or ruin an image—such as “the morn in russet mantle clad”—that the audience was asked to imagine. Finally, because few sets and props were used, the audience often had to visualize the high walls of a castle or the trees of a forest. The plays were performed without intermission, except for musical interludes that occurred at various points. Thus, the experience of seeing one of Shakespeare’s plays staged in the Elizabethan theater was different from seeing it staged in a modern theater.

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The Globe Playhouse, 1599–1613; a conjectural reconstruction. From C. Walter Hodges The Globe Restored: A Study of the Elizabethan Theatre. New York: Norton, 1973. Source: C .W . Hodges . Conjectural Reconstruction of the Globe Playhouse, 1965 . Pen & ink .

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Today, a reconstruction of the Globe Theatre (above) stands on the south bank of the Thames River in London. In the 1940s, the American actor Sam Wanamaker visited London and was shocked to �nd nothing that commemorated the site of the original Globe. He eventually decided to try to raise enough money to reconstruct the Globe in its original location. The Globe Playhouse Trust was founded in the 1970s, but the actual con- struction of the new theater did not begin until the 1980s. After a number of setbacks—for example, the Trust ran out of funds after the construction of a large underground “diaphragm” wall needed to keep out the river water—the project was �nally completed. The �rst performance at the reconstructed Globe was given on June 14, 1996, which would have been the late Sam Wanamaker’s 77th birthday.

The Modern Theater

Unlike the theaters of ancient Greece and Elizabethan England, seventeenth- and eighteenth-century theaters—such as the Palais Royal, where the great French playwright Molière presented many of his plays— were covered by a roof, beautifully decorated, and illuminated by candles so that plays could be performed at night. The theater remained brightly lit

Aerial view of the reconstructed Globe Theatre in London Source: ©Jason Hawkes/Corbis

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even during performances, partly because there was no easy way to extin- guish hundreds of candles and partly because people went to the theater as much to see each other as to see the play.

A curtain opened and closed between acts, and the audience of about five hundred spectators sat in a long room and viewed the play on a picture-frame stage. This type of stage, which resembles the stages on which plays are performed today, contained the action within a prosce- nium arch that surrounded the opening through which the audience viewed the performance. Thus, the action seemed to take place in an adjoining room with one of its walls cut away. Painted scenery (some of it quite elaborate), intricately detailed costumes, and stage makeup were commonplace, and for the �rst time women performed female roles. In addition, a complicated series of ropes, pulleys, and cranks enabled stage- hands to change scenery quickly, and sound-effects machines could give audiences the impression that they were hearing a galloping horse or a rag- ing thunderstorm. Because the theaters were small, audiences were rela- tively close to the stage, so actors could use subtle movements and facial expressions to enhance their performances.

Many of the �rst innovations in the theater were quite basic. For example, the �rst stage lighting was produced by candles lining the front of the stage. This method of lighting was not only ineffective—actors were lit from below and had to step forward to be fully illuminated—but also dan- gerous. Costumes and even entire theaters could (and did) catch �re. Later, covered lanterns with re ectors provided better and safer lighting. In the nineteenth century, a device that used an oxyhydrogen ame directed on a cylinder of lime created extremely bright illumination that could, with the aid of a lens, be concentrated into a spotlight. (It is from this method of stage lighting that we get the expression to be in the limelight.)

Eventually, in the twentieth century, electric lights provided a depend- able and safe way of lighting the stage. Electric spotlights, footlights, and ceiling light bars made the actors clearly visible and enabled playwrights to create special effects. In Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman (p. 960), for example, lighting focuses attention on action in certain areas of the stage while other areas are left in complete darkness.

Along with electric lighting came other innovations, such as electronic ampli�cation. Microphones made it possible for actors to speak conversation- ally and to avoid using unnaturally loud “stage diction” to project their voices to the rear of the theater. Microphones placed at various points around the stage enabled actors and actresses to interact naturally and to deliver their lines audibly even without facing the audience. More recently, small wireless microphones have eliminated the unwieldy wires and the “dead spaces” left between upright or hanging microphones, allowing characters to move freely around the stage.

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The true revolutions in staging came with the advent of realism in the middle of the nineteenth century. Until this time, scenery had been painted on canvas backdrops that trembled visibly, especially when they were inter- sected by doors through which actors and actresses entered. With realism came settings that were accurate down to the smallest detail. (Improved lighting, which revealed the inadequacies of painted backdrops, made such realistic stage settings necessary.) Backdrops were replaced by the box set, three at panels arranged to form connected walls, with the fourth wall removed to give the audience the illusion of looking into a room. The room itself was decorated with real furniture, plants, and pictures on the walls; the door of one room might connect to another completely furnished room, or a window might open to a garden �lled with realistic foliage. In addition, new methods of changing scenery were employed. Elevator stages, hydraulic lifts, and moving platforms enabled directors to make complicated changes in scenery out of the audience’s view.

During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, however, some playwrights reacted against what they saw as the excesses of realism. They introduced surrealistic stage settings, in which color and scenery mirrored the uncontrolled images of dreams, and expressionistic stage

Thrust-Stage Theater. Rendering of the thrust stage at the Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis. With seats on three sides of the stage area, the thrust stage and its background can assume many forms. Entrances can be made from the aisles, from the sides, through the stage floor, and from the back. Source: Alvis Upitis/Getty Images

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settings, in which costumes and scenery were exaggerated and distorted to re ect the workings of a troubled, even unbalanced mind. In addition, playwrights used lighting to create areas of light, shadow, and color that reinforced the themes of the play or re ected the emotions of the protago- nist. Eugene O’Neill’s 1920 play The Emperor Jones, for example, used a series of expressionistic scenes to show the deteriorating mental state of the terri�ed protagonist.

Sets in contemporary plays run the gamut from realistic to fantastic, from a detailed re-creation of a room in a production of Tennessee Wil- liams’s The Glass Menagerie (1945) to dreamlike sets for Eugene O’Neill’s The Emperor Jones (1920) and Edward Albee’s The Sandbox (1959). Motor- ized devices, such as revolving turntables, and wagons—scenery mounted on wheels—make possible rapid changes of scenery. The Broadway musical Les Misérables, for example, required scores of elaborate sets—Parisian slums, barricades, walled gardens—to be shifted as the audience watched. A gigan- tic barricade constructed on stage at one point in the play was later rotated to show the carnage that had taken place on both sides of a battle. Light, sound, and smoke were used to heighten the impact of the scene.

Today, as dramatists attempt to break down the barriers that separate audiences from the action they are viewing, plays are not limited to the picture-frame stage; in fact, they are performed on many different kinds of stages. Some plays take place on a thrust stage (pictured on the previous page), which has an area that projects out into the audience. Other plays are performed on an arena stage, with the audience surrounding the actors. (This kind of performance is often called theater in the round.) In addi- tion, experiments have been done with environmental staging, in which the stage surrounds the audience or several stages are situated at various locations throughout the audience. Plays may also be performed outdoors, in settings ranging from parks to city streets.

Some playwrights even try to blur the line that divides the audience from the stage by having actors move through or sit in the audience— or even by eliminating the stage entirely. For example, Tony ’n Tina’s Wedding, a participatory drama created in 1988 by the theater group Arti- �cial Intelligence, takes place not in a theater but at a church where a wedding is performed and then at a catering hall where the wedding recep- tion is held. Throughout the play, the members of the audience function as guests, joining in the wedding celebration and mingling with the actors, who improvise freely.

A more recent example of participatory drama is Sleep No More, which takes place in a block of warehouses (which has been transformed into the McKittrick Hotel) in the Chelsea neighborhood of New York City. The play is a wordless production of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Audience members, who must wear white Venetian carnival masks and remain silent at all times, are

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taken by elevator to various oors of the “hotel.” Once deposited, they are free to follow any of the actors, who appear and disappear at will, or to explore the hotel’s many rooms. The action can be intense, with audience members chas- ing actors down dark, narrow hallways or up and down stairs to other oors of the hotel, and at times, being pulled into the action of the play.

Arena-Stage Theater. The arena theater at the Riverside Community Players in Riverside, California. The audience surrounds the stage area, which may or may not be raised. Use of scenery is limited—perhaps to a single piece of scenery standing alone in the middle of the stage. Source: Courtesy The Arena Theatre, Riverside Community Players, Riverside, CA

Scene from the participatory drama Sleep No More Credit: Lucas Jackson/Reuters/Corbis

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ANTON CHEKHOV (1860–1904) is an important nineteenth-century CHEKHOV (1860–1904) is an important nineteenth-century CHEKHOV Russian playwright and short story writer . He became a doctor and, as a young adult, supported the rest of his family after his father’s bankruptcy . After his early adult years in Moscow, Chekhov spent the rest of his life in the country, moving to Yalta, a resort town in Crimea, for his health (he suffered from tuberculosis) . He continued to write plays, mostly for the Moscow Art Theatre, although he could not supervise their production as he would have wished . His plays include The Seagull (1896),The Seagull (1896),The Seagull Uncle Vanya (1898), Uncle Vanya (1898), Uncle Vanya The Three Sisters (1901), and The Three Sisters (1901), and The Three Sisters The Cherry Orchard (1904)The Cherry Orchard (1904)The Cherry Orchard .

Today, no single architectural form de�nes the theater. The modern stage is a exible space suited to the many varieties of contemporary theatrical production.

Dramatic works differ from other prose works in a number of fairly obvious ways. For one thing, plays look different on the page: generally, they are divided into acts and scenes; they include stage directions that specify char- acters’ entrances and exits and describe what settings look like and how char- acters look and act; and they consist primarily of dialogue, lines spoken by the characters. And, of course, plays are different from other prose works in that they are written not to be read but to be performed in front of an audience.

Unlike novels and short stories, plays do not usually have narrators to tell the audience what a character is thinking or what happened in the past; for the most part, the audience knows only what characters reveal. To compensate for the absence of a narrator, playwrights can use monologues (extended speeches by one character), soliloquies (monologues in which a character expresses private thoughts while alone on stage), or asides (brief comments by a character who reveals thoughts by speaking directly to the audience without being heard by the other characters). In addition to these dramatic techniques, a play can also use costumes, scenery, props, music, lighting, and other techniques to enhance its impact on the audience.

The play that follows, Anton Chekhov’s The Brute (1888), is typical of modern drama in many respects. A one-act play translated from Russian, it is essentially a struggle of wills between two headstrong characters, a man and a woman, with action escalating through the characters’ increasingly heated exchanges of dialogue. Stage directions brie y describe the setting— “the drawing room of a country house”—and announce the appearance of various props. They also describe the major characters’ appearances as well as their actions, gestures, and emotions. Because the play is a farce, it features broad physical comedy, asides, wild dramatic gestures, and elaborate �gures of speech, all designed to enhance its comic effect.

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SUSAN GLASPELL (1882–1948) was born in Davenport, Iowa, and graduated from Drake University in 1899 . First a reporter and then a freelance writer, she lived in Chicago (where she was part of the Chicago renaissance that included poet Carl Sandburg and novelist Theodore Dreiser) and later in Greenwich Village . Her works include two plays in addition to Trifles, The Verge (1921) and The Verge (1921) and The Verge Alison’s House (1930), and several novels, including Fidelity (1915) and Fidelity (1915) and Fidelity The Morning Is Near Us (1939) . With her husband, George The Morning Is Near Us (1939) . With her husband, George The Morning Is Near Us Cram Cook, she founded the Provincetown Players, which became the staging ground for innovative plays by Eugene O’Neill, among others .

Glaspell herself wrote plays for the Provincetown Players, beginning with Trifles, which she created for the 1916 season although she had never previously written a drama . The play opened on August 8, 1916, with Glaspell and her husband in the cast . Glaspell said she wrote Trifles in one afternoon, sitting in the empty theater and looking at the bare stage: “After a time, the stage became a kitchen—a kitchen there all by itself .” She remembered a murder trial she had covered in Iowa in her days as a reporter, and the story began to play itself out on the stage as she gazed . Throughout her revisions, she said, she returned to look at the stage to see whether the events she was recording came to life on it . Although Glaspell later rewrote Trifles as a short Trifles as a short Trifles story called “A Jury of Her Peers,” the play remains her most successful and memorable work .

Cultural Context One of the main themes of this play is the contrast between the sexes in terms of their roles, rights, and responsibilities . In 1916, when Trifles was first produced, Trifles was first produced, Trifles women were not allowed to serve on juries in most states . This circumstance was in accor- dance with other rights denied to women, including the right to vote, which was not ratified in all states until 1920 . Unable to participate in the most basic civic functions, women largely discussed politics only among themselves and were relegated to positions of lesser status in their personal and professional lives .

Tri�es (1916) CHARACTERS

George Henderson, county attorney Mrs. Peters Henry Peters, sheriff Mrs. Hale

Lewis Hale, a neighboring farmer

SCENE

The kitchen in the now abandoned farmhouse of John Wright, a gloomy kitchen, and left without having been put in order—unwashed pans under the sink, a loaf of bread outside the breadbox, a dish towel on the table—other signs of incom- pleted work. At the rear the outer door opens and the Sheriff comes in followed

A P

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by the County Attorney and Hale. The Sheriff and Hale are men in middle life, the County Attorney is a young man; all are much bundled up and go at once to the stove. They are followed by two women—the Sheriff’s wife �rst; she is a slight wiry woman, a thin nervous face. Mrs. Hale is larger and would ordinarily be called more comfortable looking, but she is disturbed now and looks fearfully about as she enters. The women have come in slowly, and stand close together near the door.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (rubbing his hands) This feels good. Come up to the �re, ladies.

MRS. PETERS: (after taking a step forward) I’m not—cold. SHERIFF: (unbuttoning his overcoat and stepping away from the stove as if to

mark the beginning of of�cial business) Now, Mr. Hale, before we move things about, you explain to Mr. Henderson just what you saw when you came here yesterday morning.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: By the way, has anything been moved? Are things just as you left them yesterday?

SHERIFF: (looking about) It’s just the same. When it dropped below zero last night I thought I’d better send Frank out this morning to make a �re for us—no use getting pneumonia with a big case on, but I told him not to touch anything except the stove—and you know Frank.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Somebody should have been left here yesterday.

In this scene from the Provincetown Players’ 1917 production of Susan Glaspell’s Trifles, the Trifles, the Trifles three men discuss the crime while Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Hale look on. Source: ©Billy Rose Theatre Collection, New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, Astor, Lenox & Tilden Foundations

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SHERIFF: Oh—yesterday. When I had to send Frank to Morris Center for that man who went crazy—I want you to know I had my hands full yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by today and as long as I went over everything here myself—

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Well, Mr. Hale, tell just what happened when you came here yesterday morning.

HALE: Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes. We came along the road from my place and as I got here I said, “I’m going to see if I can’t get John Wright to go in with me on a party telephone.” I spoke to Wright about it once before and he put me off, saying folks talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet—I guess you know about how much he talked himself; but I thought maybe if I went to the house and talked about it before his wife, though I said to Harry that I didn’t know as what his wife wanted made much differ- ence to John—

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Let’s talk about that later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about that, but tell now just what happened when you got to the house.

HALE: I didn’t hear or see anything; I knocked at the door, and still it was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up, it was past eight o’clock. So I knocked again, and I thought I heard somebody say, “Come in.” I wasn’t sure, I’m not sure yet, but I opened the door—this door (indicating the door by which the two women are still standing) and there in that rocker—(pointing to it) sat Mrs. Wright.

They all look at the rocker.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: What—was she doing? HALE: She was rockin’ back and forth. She had her apron in her hand and

was kind of—pleating it. COUNTY ATTORNEY: And how did she—look? HALE: Well, she looked queer. COUNTY ATTORNEY: How do you mean—queer? HALE: Well, as if she didn’t know what she was going to do next. And

kind of done up. COUNTY ATTORNEY: How did she seem to feel about your coming? HALE: Why, I don’t think she minded—one way or other. She didn’t pay

much attention. I said, “How do, Mrs. Wright, it’s cold, ain’t it?” And she said, “Is it?”—and went on kind of pleating at her apron. Well, I was surprised; she didn’t ask me to come up to the stove, or to set down, but just sat there, not even looking at me, so I said, “I want to see John.” And then she—laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh. I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said a little sharp: “Can’t I see John?” “No,” she says, kind o’ dull like. “Ain’t he home?” says I. “Yes,” says she, “he’s home.” “Then why can’t I see him?” I asked her,

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out of patience. “’Cause he’s dead,” says she. “Dead?” says I. She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin’ back and forth. “Why—where is he?” says I, not knowing what to say. She just pointed upstairs—like that. (Himself pointing to the room above.) I got up, with the idea of going up there. I walked from there to here—then I says, “Why, what did he die of?” “He died of a rope round his neck,” says she, and just went on pleatin’ at her apron. Well, I went out and called Harry. I thought I might—need help. We went upstairs and there he was lyin’—

COUNTY ATTORNEY: I think I’d rather have you go into that upstairs, where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of the story.

HALE: Well, my �rst thought was to get that rope off. It looked . . . (stops, his face twitches) . . . but Harry, he went up to him, and he said, “No, he’s dead all right, and we’d better not touch anything.” So we went back down stairs. She was still sitting that same way. “Has anybody been noti�ed?” I asked. “No,” says she, unconcerned. “Who did this, Mrs. Wright?” said Harry. He said it businesslike—and she stopped pleatin’ of her apron. “I don’t know,” she says. “You don’t know?” says Harry. “No,” says she. “Weren’t you sleepin’ in the bed with him?” says Harry. “Yes,” says she, “but I was on the inside.” “Somebody slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him and you didn’t wake up?” says Harry. “I didn’t wake up,” she said after him. We must ’a looked as if we didn’t see how that could be, for after a minute she said, “I sleep sound.” Harry was going to ask her more questions but I said maybe we ought to let her tell her story �rst to the coroner, or the sheriff, so Harry went fast as he could to Rivers’ place, where there’s a telephone.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: And what did Mrs. Wright do when she knew that you had gone for the coroner?

HALE: She moved from that chair to this one over here (pointing to a small chair in the corner) and just sat there with her hands held together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a telephone, and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked at me—scared. (The County Attorney, who has had his notebook out, makes a note.) I dunno, maybe it wasn’t scared. I wouldn’t like to say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr. Peters, and so I guess that’s all I know that you don’t.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (looking around) I guess we’ll go upstairs �rst—and then out to the barn and around there. (To the Sheriff.) You’re con- vinced that there was nothing important here—nothing that would point to any motive.

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SHERIFF: Nothing here but kitchen things.

The County Attorney, after again looking around the kitchen, opens the door of a cupboard closet. He gets up on a chair and looks on a shelf. Pulls his hand away, sticky.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Here’s a nice mess.

The women draw nearer.

MRS. PETERS: (to the other woman) Oh, her fruit; it did freeze. (To the County Attorney.) She worried about that when it turned so cold. She said the �re’d go out and her jars would break.

SHERIFF: Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder and worryin’ about her preserves.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: I guess before we’re through she may have something more serious than preserves to worry about.

HALE: Well, women are used to worrying over tri�es.

The two women move a little closer together.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (with the gallantry of a young politician) And yet, for all their worries, what would we do without the ladies? (The women do not unbend. He goes to the sink, takes a dipperful of water from the pail and pouring it into a basin, washes his hands. Starts to wipe them on the roller towel, turns it for a cleaner place.) Dirty towels! (Kicks his foot against the pans under the sink.) Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies?

MRS. HALE: (stif�y) There’s a great deal of work to be done on a farm. COUNTY ATTORNEY: To be sure. And yet (with a little bow to her) I know

there are some Dickson county farmhouses which do not have such roller towels.

He gives it a pull to expose its full length again.

MRS. HALE: Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men’s hands aren’t always as clean as they might be.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Ah, loyal to your sex, I see. But you and Mrs. Wright were neighbors. I suppose you were friends, too.

MRS. HALE: (shaking her head) I’ve not seen much of her of late years. I’ve not been in this house—it’s more than a year.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: And why was that? You didn’t like her? MRS. HALE: I liked her all well enough. Farmers’ wives have their hands

full, Mr. Henderson. And then— COUNTY ATTORNEY: Yes—? MRS. HALE: (looking about) It never seemed a very cheerful place. COUNTY ATTORNEY: No—it’s not cheerful. I shouldn’t say she had the

homemaking instinct.

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MRS. HALE: Well, I don’t know as Wright had, either. COUNTY ATTORNEY: You mean that they didn’t get on very well? MRS. HALE: No, I don’t mean anything. But I don’t think a place’d be any

cheerfuller for John Wright’s being in it. COUNTY ATTORNEY: I’d like to talk more of that a little later. I want to get

the lay of things upstairs now.

He goes to the left, where three steps lead to a stair door.

SHERIFF: I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does’ll be all right. She was to take in some clothes for her, you know, and a few little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Yes, but I would like to see what you take, Mrs. Peters, and keep an eye out for anything that might be of use to us.

MRS. PETERS: Yes, Mr. Henderson.

The women listen to the men’s steps on the stairs, then look about the kitchen.

MRS. HALE: I’d hate to have men coming into my kitchen, snooping around and criticizing.

She arranges the pans under sink which the County Attorney had shoved out of place.

MRS. PETERS: Of course it’s no more than their duty. MRS. HALE: Duty’s all right, but I guess that deputy sheriff that came out

to make the �re might have got a little of this on. (Gives the roller towel a pull.) Wish I’d thought of that sooner. Seems mean to talk about her for not having things slicked up when she had to come away in such a hurry.

MRS. PETERS: (who has gone to a small table in the left rear corner of the room, and lifted one end of a towel that covers a pan) She had bread set.

Stands still.

MRS. HALE: (eyes �xed on a loaf of bread beside the breadbox, which is on a low shelf at the other side of the room. Moves slowly toward it.) She was going to put this in there. (Picks up loaf, then abruptly drops it. In a manner of returning to familiar things.) It’s a shame about her fruit. I wonder if it’s all gone. (Gets up on the chair and looks.) I think there’s some here that’s all right, Mrs. Peters. Yes—here; (holding it toward the window) this is cherries, too. (Looking again.) I declare I believe that’s the only one. (Gets down, bottle in her hand. Goes to the sink and wipes it off on the outside.) She’ll feel awful bad after all her hard work in the hot weather. I remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last summer.

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She puts the bottle on the big kitchen table, center of the room. With a sigh, is about to sit down in the rocking-chair. Before she is seated realizes what chair it is; with a slow look at it, steps back. The chair which she has touched rocks back and forth.

MRS. PETERS: Well, I must get those things from the front room closet. (She goes to the door at the right, but after looking into the other room, steps back.) You coming with me, Mrs. Hale? You could help me carry them.

They go in the other room; reappear, Mrs. Peters carrying a dress and skirt, Mrs. Hale following with a pair of shoes.

MRS. PETERS: My, it’s cold in there.

She puts the clothes on the big table, and hurries to the stove.

MRS. HALE: (examining her skirt) Wright was close. I think maybe that’s why she kept so much to herself. She didn’t even belong to the Ladies Aid. I suppose she felt she couldn’t do her part, and then you don’t enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty clothes and be lively, when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls singing in the choir. But that—oh, that was thirty years ago. This all you was to take in?

MRS. PETERS: She said she wanted an apron. Funny thing to want, for there isn’t much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I suppose just to make her feel more natural. She said they was in the top drawer in this cupboard. Yes, here. And then her little shawl that always hung behind the door. (Opens stair door and looks.) Yes, here it is.

Quickly shuts door leading upstairs.

MRS. HALE: (abruptly moving toward her) Mrs. Peters? MRS. PETERS: Yes, Mrs. Hale? MRS. HALE: Do you think she did it? MRS. PETERS: (in a frightened voice) Oh, I don’t know. MRS. HALE: Well, I don’t think she did. Asking for an apron and her little

shawl. Worrying about her fruit. MRS. PETERS: (starts to speak, glances up, where footsteps are heard in the

room above. In a low voice.) Mr. Peters says it looks bad for her. Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in a speech and he’ll make fun of her sayin’ she didn’t wake up.

MRS. HALE: Well, I guess John Wright didn’t wake when they was slipping that rope under his neck.

MRS. PETERS: No, it’s strange. It must have been done awful crafty and still. They say it was such a—funny way to kill a man, rigging it all up like that.

MRS. HALE: That’s just what Mr. Hale said. There was a gun in the house. He says that’s what he can’t understand.

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MRS. PETERS: Mr. Henderson said coming out that what was needed for the case was a motive; something to show anger, or—sudden feeling.

MRS. HALE: (who is standing by the table) Well, I don’t see any signs of anger around here. (She puts her hand on the dish towel which lies on the table, stands looking down at table, one half of which is clean, the other half messy.) It’s wiped to here. (Makes a move as if to �nish work, then turns and looks at loaf of bread outside the breadbox. Drops towel. In that voice of coming back to familiar things.) Wonder how they are �nding things upstairs. I hope she had it a little more red-up1 up there. You know, it seems kind of sneaking. Locking her up in town and then coming out here and trying to get her own house to turn against her!

MRS. PETERS: But Mrs. Hale, the law is the law. MRS. HALE: I s’pose ’tis. (Unbuttoning her coat.) Better loosen up your

things, Mrs. Peters. You won’t feel them when you go out.

Mrs. Peters takes off her fur tippet, goes to hang it on hook at back of room, stands looking at the under part of the small corner table.

MRS. PETERS: She was piecing a quilt.

She brings the large sewing basket and they look at the bright pieces.

MRS. HALE: It’s log cabin pattern. Pretty, isn’t it? I wonder if she was goin’ to quilt it or just knot it?

Footsteps have been heard coming down the stairs. The Sheriff enters followed by Hale and the County Attorney.

SHERIFF: They wonder if she was going to quilt it or just knot it!

The men laugh; the women look abashed.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (rubbing his hands over the stove) Frank’s �re didn’t do much up there, did it? Well, let’s go out to the barn and get that cleared up.

The men go outside.

MRS. HALE: (resentfully) I don’t know as there’s anything so strange, our takin’ up our time with little things while we’re waiting for them to get the evidence. (She sits down at the big table smoothing out a block with decision.) I don’t see as it’s anything to laugh about.

MRS. PETERS: (apologetically) Of course they’ve got awful important things on their minds.

●●

1red-up: Spruced-up (slang) .red-up: Spruced-up (slang) .red-up:

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Pulls up a chair and joins Mrs. Hale at the table.

MRS. HALE: (examining another block) Mrs. Peters, look at this one. Here, this is the one she was working on, and look at the sewing! All the rest of it has been so nice and even. And look at this! It’s all over the place! Why, it looks as if she didn’t know what she was about!

After she has said this they look at each other, then start to glance back at the door. After an instant Mrs. Hale has pulled at a knot and ripped the sewing.

MRS. PETERS: Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale? MRS. HALE: (mildly) Just pulling out a stitch or two that’s not sewed very

good. (Threading a needle.) Bad sewing always made me �dgety. MRS. PETERS: (nervously) I don’t think we ought to touch things. MRS. HALE: I’ll just �nish up this end. (Suddenly stopping and leaning

forward.) Mrs. Peters? MRS. PETERS: Yes, Mrs. Hale? MRS. HALE: What do you suppose she was so nervous about? MRS. PETERS: Oh—I don’t know. I don’t know as she was nervous.

I sometimes sew awful queer when I’m just tired. (Mrs. Hale starts to say something, looks at Mrs. Peters, then goes on sewing.) Well, I must get these things wrapped up. They may be through sooner than we think. (Putting apron and other things together.) I wonder where I can �nd a piece of paper, and string.

MRS. HALE: In that cupboard, maybe. MRS. PETERS: (looking in cupboard) Why, here’s a birdcage. (Holds it up.)

Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale? MRS. HALE: Why, I don’t know whether she did or not—I’ve not been

here for so long. There was a man around last year selling canaries cheap, but I don’t know as she took one; maybe she did. She used to sing real pretty herself.

MRS. PETERS: (glancing around) Seems funny to think of a bird here. But she must have had one, or why would she have a cage? I wonder what happened to it.

MRS. HALE: I s’pose maybe the cat got it. MRS. PETERS: No, she didn’t have a cat. She’s got that feeling some people

have about cats—being afraid of them. My cat got in her room and she was real upset and asked me to take it out.

MRS. HALE: My sister Bessie was like that. Queer, ain’t it? MRS. PETERS: (examining the cage) Why, look at this door. It’s broke. One

hinge is pulled apart. MRS. HALE: (looking too) Looks as if someone must have been rough

with it. MRS. PETERS: Why, yes.

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She brings the cage forward and puts it on the table.

MRS. HALE: I wish if they’re going to �nd any evidence they’d be about it. I don’t like this place.

MRS. PETERS: But I’m awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale. It would be lonesome for me sitting here alone.

MRS. HALE: It would, wouldn’t it? (Dropping her sewing.) But I tell you what I do wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over sometimes when she was here. I—(looking around the room)—wish I had.

MRS. PETERS: But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale—your house and your children.

MRS. HALE: I could’ve come. I stayed away because it weren’t cheerful— and that’s why I ought to have come. I—I’ve never liked this place. Maybe because it’s down in a hollow and you don’t see the road. I dunno what it is but it’s a lonesome place and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now—

Shakes her head.

MRS. PETERS: Well, you mustn’t reproach yourself, Mrs. Hale. Somehow we just don’t see how it is with other folks until—something comes up.

MRS. HALE: Not having children makes less work—but it makes a quiet house, and Wright out to work all day, and no company when he did come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?

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MRS. PETERS: Not to know him; I’ve seen him in town. They say he was a good man.

MRS. HALE: Yes—good; he didn’t drink, and kept his word as well as most, I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. Just to pass the time of day with him—(Shivers.) Like a raw wind that gets to the bone. (Pauses, her eye falling on the cage.) I should think she would ’a wanted a bird. But what do you suppose went with it?

MRS. PETERS: I don’t know, unless it got sick and died.

She reaches over and swings the broken door, swings it again. Both women watch it.

MRS. HALE: You weren’t raised round here, were you? (Mrs. Peters shakes her head.) You didn’t know—her?

MRS. PETERS: Not till they brought her yesterday. MRS. HALE: She—come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself—

real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and—�uttery. How—she— did—change. (Silence; then as if struck by a happy thought and relieved to get back to everyday things.) Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don’t you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind.

MRS. PETERS: Why, I think that’s a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale. There couldn’t possibly be any objection to it, could there? Now, just what would I take? I wonder if her patches are in here—and her things.

They look in the sewing basket.

MRS. HALE: Here’s some red. I expect this has got sewing things in it. (Brings out a fancy box.) What a pretty box. Looks like something somebody would give you. Maybe her scissors are in here. (Opens box. Suddenly puts her hand to her nose.) Why—(Mrs. Peters bends nearer, then turns her face away.) There’s something wrapped up in this piece of silk.

MRS. PETERS: Why, this isn’t her scissors. MRS. HALE: (lifting the silk) Oh, Mrs. Peters—it’s—

Mrs. Peters bends closer.

MRS. PETERS: It’s the bird. MRS. HALE: (jumping up) But, Mrs. Peters—look at it! Its neck! Look at its

neck! It’s all—other side to. MRS. PETERS: Somebody—wrung—its—neck.

Their eyes meet. A look of growing comprehension, of horror. Steps are heard outside. Mrs. Hale slips the box under quilt pieces, and sinks into her chair. Enter Sheriff and County Attorney. Mrs. Peters rises.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (as one turning from serious things to little pleasantries) Well, ladies, have you decided whether she was going to quilt it or knot it?

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MRS. PETERS: We think she was going to—knot it. COUNTY ATTORNEY: Well, that’s interesting, I’m sure. (Seeing the birdcage.)

Has the bird �own? MRS. HALE: (putting more quilt pieces over the box) We think the—cat got it. COUNTY ATTORNEY: (preoccupied) Is there a cat?

Mrs. Hale glances in a quick covert way at Mrs. Peters.

MRS. PETERS: Well, not now. They’re superstitious, you know. They leave. COUNTY ATTORNEY: (to Sheriff Peters, continuing an interrupted conversa-

tion) No sign at all of anyone having come from the outside. Their own rope. Now let’s go up again and go over it piece by piece. (They start upstairs.) It would have to have been someone who knew just the—

Mrs. Peters sits down. The two women sit there not looking at one another, but as if peering into something and at the same time holding back. When they talk now it is in the manner of feeling their way over strange ground, as if afraid of what they are saying, but as if they can not help saying it.

MRS. HALE: She liked the bird. She was going to bury it in that pretty box. MRS. PETERS: (in a whisper) When I was a girl—my kitten—there was

a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes—and before I could get there—(Covers her face an instant.) If they hadn’t held me back I would have—(catches herself, looks upstairs where steps are heard, falters weakly)—hurt him.

MRS. HALE: (with a slow look around her) I wonder how it would seem never to have had any children around. (Pause.) No, Wright wouldn’t like the bird—a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that, too.

MRS. PETERS: (moving uneasily) We don’t know who killed the bird. MRS. HALE: I knew John Wright. MRS. PETERS: It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, Mrs.

Hale. Killing a man while he slept, slipping a rope around his neck that choked the life out of him.

MRS. HALE: His neck. Choked the life out of him.

Her hand goes out and rests on the birdcage.

MRS. PETERS: (with rising voice) We don’t know who killed him. We don’t know.

MRS. HALE: (her own feeling not interrupted) If there’d been years and years of nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful—still, after the bird was still.

MRS. PETERS: (something within her speaking) I know what stillness is. When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my �rst baby died—after he was two years old, and me with no other then—

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MRS. HALE: (moving) How soon do you suppose they’ll be through, looking for the evidence?

MRS. PETERS: I know what stillness is. (Pulling herself back.) The law has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale.

MRS. HALE: (not as if answering that) I wish you’d seen Minnie Foster when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons and stood up there in the choir and sang. (A look around the room.) Oh, I wish I’d come over here once in a while! That was a crime! That was a crime! Who’s going to punish that?

MRS. PETERS: (looking upstairs) We mustn’t—take on. MRS. HALE: I might have known she needed help! I know how things

can be—for women. I tell you, it’s queer, Mrs. Peters. We live close together and we live far apart. We all go through the same things—it’s all just a different kind of the same thing. (Brushes her eyes; noticing the bottle of fruit, reaches out for it.) If I was you I wouldn’t tell her her fruit was gone. Tell her it ain’t. Tell her it’s all right. Take this in to prove it to her. She—she may never know whether it was broke or not.

MRS. PETERS: (takes the bottle, looks about for something to wrap it in; takes petticoat from the clothes brought from the other room, very nervously begins winding this around the bottle. In a false voice) My, it’s a good thing the men couldn’t hear us. Wouldn’t they just laugh! Getting all stirred up over a little thing like a—dead canary. As if that could have anything to do with—with—wouldn’t they laugh!

The men are heard coming down stairs.

MRS. HALE: (under her breath) Maybe they would—maybe they wouldn’t. COUNTY ATTORNEY: No, Peters, it’s all perfectly clear except a reason for

doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was some de�nite thing. Something to show—something to make a story about—a thing that would connect up with this strange way of doing it—

The women’s eyes meet for an instant. Enter Hale from outer door.

HALE: Well, I’ve got the team around. Pretty cold out there. COUNTY ATTORNEY: I’m going to stay here a while by myself. (To the Sher-

iff.) You can send Frank out for me, can’t you? I want to go over every- thing. I’m not satis�ed that we can’t do better.

SHERIFF: Do you want to see what Mrs. Peters is going to take in?

The County Attorney goes to the table, picks up the apron, laughs.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Oh, I guess they’re not very dangerous things the ladies have picked out. (Moves a few things about, disturbing the quilt pieces which cover the box. Steps back.) No, Mrs. Peters doesn’t need

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supervising. For that matter, a sheriff’s wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS: Not—just that way. SHERIFF: (chuckling) Married to the law. (Moves toward the other room.) I

just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (scof�ngly) Oh, windows! SHERIFF: We’ll be right out, Mr. Hale.

Hale goes outside. The Sheriff follows the County Attorney into the other room. Then Mrs. Hale rises, hands tight together, looking intensely at Mrs. Peters, whose eyes make a slow turn, �nally meeting Mrs. Hale’s. A moment Mrs. Hale holds her, then her own eyes point the way to where the box is concealed. Sud- denly Mrs. Peters throws back quilt pieces and tries to put the box in the bag she is wearing. It is too big. She opens box, starts to take bird out, cannot touch it, goes to pieces, stands there helpless. Sound of a knob turning in the other room. Mrs. Hale snatches the box and puts it in the pocket of her big coat. Enter County Attorney and Sheriff.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (facetiously) Well, Henry, at least we found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to—what is it you call it, ladies?

MRS. HALE: (her hand against her pocket) We call it—knot it, Mr. Henderson.

* * *

Reading and Reacting 1. What key events have occurred before the start of the play? Why do you

suppose these events are not presented in the play itself? 2. What are the “tri�es” to which the title refers? How do these “tri�es”

advance the play’s plot? 3. Glaspell’s short story version of Tri�es is called “A Jury of Her Peers.”

Who are Mrs. Wright’s peers? What do you suppose the verdict would be if she were tried for her crime in 1916, when only men were permit- ted to serve on juries? If the trial were held today, do you think a jury might reach a different verdict? What would your own verdict be? Do you think Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters do the right thing by concealing the evidence?

4. Tri�es is a one-act play, and all its action occurs in the Wrights’ kitchen. What do you see as the advantages and disadvantages of this con�ned setting?

5. All background information about Mrs. Wright is provided by Mrs. Hale. Do you consider her to be a reliable source of information? Explain.

6. Mr. Hale’s summary of his conversation with Mrs. Wright is the reader’s only chance to hear her version of events. How might the play be differ- ent if Mrs. Wright appeared as a character?

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7. How does each of the following events advance the play’s action: the men’s departure from the kitchen, the discovery of the quilt pieces, the discovery of the dead bird?

8. What assumptions about women do the male characters make? In what ways do the female characters support or challenge these assumptions?

9. JOURNAL ENTRY In what sense is the process of making a quilt an appropriNTRY In what sense is the process of making a quilt an appropriNTRY - ate metaphor for the plot of Tri�es?

10. CRITICAL PERSPECTIVE In American Drama from the Colonial Period through World War I, Gary A. Richardson says that in Tri�es, Glaspell developed a new structure for her action:

While action in the traditional sense is minimal, Glaspell is nevertheless able to rivet attention on the two women, wed the audience to their perspective, and make a compelling case for the fairness of their actions. Existing on the margins of their society, Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Hale become emotional sur- rogates for the jailed Minnie Wright, effectively exonerating her action as “justi�able homicide.”

Tri�es is carefully crafted to match Glaspell’s subject matter—the action meanders, without a clearly delineated beginning, middle, or end. . . .

Exactly how does Glaspell “rivet attention on” Mrs. Hale and Mrs. Peters? In what sense is the play’s “meandering” structure “carefully crafted to match Glaspell’s subject matter”?

Related Works: “I Stand Here Ironing” (p. 217), “Everyday Use” (p. 344), “The Yellow Wallpaper” (p. 434), “Harlem” (p. 577), “Daddy” (p. 589), A Doll House (p. 881)

HENRIK IBSEN (1828–1906), Norway’s foremost dramatist, was born into a prosperous family; however, his father lost his fortune when Ibsen was six . When Ibsen was fifteen, he was apprenticed to an apothecary away from home and was per- manently estranged from his family . During his apprenticeship, he studied to enter the university and wrote plays . Although he did not pass the university entrance exam, his second play, The Warrior’s Barrow (1850), was produced by the The Warrior’s Barrow (1850), was produced by the The Warrior’s Barrow Christiania Theatre in 1850 . He began a life in the theater, writing plays and serving as artistic director of a theatrical

company . Disillusioned by the public’s lack of interest in theater, he left Norway, living with his wife and son in Italy and Germany between 1864 and 1891 . By the time he returned to Norway, he was famous and revered . Ibsen’s most notable plays include Brand (1865), Brand (1865), Brand Peer Gynt (1867), Peer Gynt (1867), Peer Gynt A Doll House (1879), A Doll House (1879), A Doll House Ghosts (1881), Ghosts (1881), Ghosts An Enemy of the People (1882), An Enemy of the People (1882), An Enemy of the People The Wild Duck (1884), The Wild Duck (1884), The Wild Duck Hedda Gabler (1890), and Hedda Gabler (1890), and Hedda Gabler When We Dead Awaken (1899) .When We Dead Awaken (1899) .When We Dead Awaken

A Doll House marks the beginning of Ibsen’s successful realist period, during which he A Doll House marks the beginning of Ibsen’s successful realist period, during which he A Doll House explored the ordinary lives of small-town people—in this case, writing what he called “a

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modern tragedy .” Ibsen based the play on a true story, which closely paralleled the main events of the play: a wife borrows money to finance a trip for an ailing husband, repayment is de- manded, she forges a check and is discovered . (In the real-life story, however, the husband demanded a divorce, and the wife had a nervous breakdown and was committed to a mental institution .) The issue in A Doll House, he said, is that there are “two kinds of moral law, . . . one in man and a completely different one in woman . They do not understand each other . . . .” Nora and Helmer’s marriage is destroyed because they cannot comprehend or accept their dif- ferences . The play begins conventionally but does not fulfill the audience’s expectations for a tidy resolution; as a result, it was not a success when it was first performed . Nevertheless, the publication of A Doll House made Ibsen internationally famous .A Doll House made Ibsen internationally famous .A Doll House

Cultural Context During the nineteenth century, the law treated women only a little better than it treated children . Women could not vote, and they were not considered able to handle their own financial affairs . A woman could not borrow money in her own name, and when she married, her finances were placed under the control of her husband . Moreover, working outside the home was out of the question for a middle-class woman . So, if a woman were to leave her husband, she was not likely to have any way of supporting herself, and she would lose the custody of her children . At the time when A Doll House was first performed, most A Doll House was first performed, most A Doll House viewers were offended by the way Nora spoke to her husband, and Ibsen was considered an anarchist for suggesting that a woman could leave her family in search of herself . However, Ibsen argued that he was merely asking people to look at, and think about, the social structure they supported .

A Doll House (1879) Translated by Rolf Fjelde

CHARACTERS

Torvald Helmer, a lawyer Nils Krogstad, a bank clerk Nora, his wife The Helmers’ three small children

Dr. Rank Anne-Marie, their nurse Mrs. Linde Helene, a maid

A Delivery Boy

The action takes place in Helmer’s residence.

ACT 1 A comfortable room, tastefully but not expensively furnished. A door to the right in the back wall leads to the entryway; another to the left leads to Helmer’s study. Between these doors, a piano. Midway in the left-hand wall a door, and further back a window. Near the window a round table with an armchair and a small sofa. In the right-hand wall, toward the rear, a door, and nearer the foreground a porcelain stove with two armchairs and a rocking chair beside it. Between the stove and the side door, a small table. Engravings on the walls. An étagère with china �gures and other small art objects; a small bookcase with richly bound books; the �oor carpeted; a �re burning in the stove. It is a winter day.

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A bell rings in the entryway; shortly after we hear the door being unlocked. Nora comes into the room, humming happily to herself; she is wearing street clothes and carries an armload of packages, which she puts down on the table to the right. She has left the hall door open; and through it a Delivery Boy is seen, holding a Christmas tree and a basket, which he gives to the Maid who let them in.

NORA: Hide the tree well, Helene. The children mustn’t get a glimpse of it till this evening, after it’s trimmed. (To the Delivery Boy, taking out her purse.) How much?

DELIVERY BOY: Fifty, ma’am. NORA: There’s a crown. No, keep the change. (The Boy thanks her and

leaves. Nora shuts the door. She laughs softly to herself while taking off her street things. Drawing a bag of macaroons from her pocket, she eats a couple, then steals over and listens at her husband’s study door.) Yes, he’s home. (Hums again as she moves to the table right.)

HELMER: (from the study) Is that my little lark twittering out there? NORA: (busy opening some packages) Yes, it is. HELMER: Is that my squirrel rummaging around? NORA: Yes! HELMER: When did my squirrel get in? NORA: Just now. (Putting the macaroon bag in her pocket and wiping her

mouth.) Do come in, Torvald, and see what I’ve bought. HELMER: Can’t be disturbed. (After a moment he opens the door and peers in,

pen in hand.) Bought, you say? All that there? Has the little spendthrift been out throwing money around again?

NORA: Oh, but Torvald, this year we really should let ourselves go a bit. It’s the �rst Christmas we haven’t had to economize.

HELMER: But you know we can’t go squandering. NORA: Oh yes, Torvald, we can squander a little now. Can’t we? Just a

tiny, wee bit. Now that you’ve got a big salary and are going to make piles and piles of money.

HELMER: Yes—starting New Year’s. But then it’s a full three months till the raise comes through.

NORA: Pooh! We can borrow that long. HELMER: Nora! (Goes over and playfully takes her by the ear.) Are your scat-

terbrains off again? What if today I borrowed a thousand crowns, and you squandered them over Christmas week, and then on New Year’s Eve a roof tile fell on my head, and I lay there—

NORA: (putting her hand on his mouth) Oh! Don’t say such things! HELMER: Yes, but what if it happened—then what? NORA: If anything so awful happened, then it just wouldn’t matter if I had

debts or not. HELMER: Well, but the people I’d borrowed from? NORA: Them? Who cares about them! They’re strangers.

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HELMER: Nora, Nora, how like a woman! No, but seriously, Nora, you know what I think about that. No debts! Never borrow! Something of free- dom’s lost—and something of beauty, too—from a home that’s founded on borrowing and debt. We’ve made a brave stand up to now, the two of us; and we’ll go right on like that the little while we have to.

NORA: (going toward the stove) Yes, whatever you say, Torvald. HELMER: (following her) Now, now, the little lark’s wings mustn’t droop.

Come on, don’t be a sulky squirrel. (Taking out his wallet.) Nora, guess what I have here.

NORA: (turning quickly) Money! HELMER: There, see. (Hands her some notes.) Good grief, I know how costs

go up in a house at Christmastime. NORA: Ten—twenty—thirty—forty. Oh, thank you, Torvald; I can man-

age no end on this. HELMER: You really will have to. NORA: Oh yes, I promise I will! But come here so I can show you every-

thing I bought. And so cheap! Look, new clothes for Ivar here—and a

Scene from A Doll House with Toby Stephens (as Torvald A Doll House with Toby Stephens (as Torvald A Doll House Helmer) and Gillian Anderson (as Nora) at The Donmar Warehouse, London, UK in May 2009 Source: Nigel Norrington/ArenaPal/TopFoto/The Image Works

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sword. Here a horse and a trumpet for Bob. And a doll and a doll’s bed here for Emmy; they’re nothing much, but she’ll tear them to bits in no time anyway. And here I have dress material and handkerchiefs for the maids. Old Anne-Marie really deserves something more.

HELMER: And what’s in that package there? NORA: (with a cry) Torvald, no! You can’t see that till tonight! HELMER: I see. But tell me now, you little prodigal, what have you thought

of for yourself? NORA: For myself? Oh, I don’t want anything at all. HELMER: Of course you do. Tell me just what—within reason—you’d most

like to have. NORA: I honestly don’t know. Oh, listen, Torvald— HELMER: Well? NORA: (fumbling at his coat buttons, without looking at him) If you want to

give me something, then maybe you could—you could— HELMER: Come on, out with it. NORA: (hurriedly) You could give me money, Torvald. No more than

you think you can spare; then one of these days I’ll buy something with it.

HELMER: But Nora— NORA: Oh, please, Torvald darling, do that! I beg you, please. Then

I could hang the bills in pretty gilt paper on the Christmas tree. Wouldn’t that be fun?

HELMER: What are those little birds called that always �y through their fortunes?

NORA: Oh yes, spendthrifts; I know all that. But let’s do as I say, Torvald; then I’ll have time to decide what I really need most. That’s very sen- sible, isn’t it?

HELMER: (smiling) Yes, very—that is, if you actually hung onto the money I give you, and you actually used it to buy yourself something. But it goes for the house and for all sorts of foolish things, and then I only have to lay out some more.

NORA: Oh, but Torvald— HELMER: Don’t deny it, my dear little Nora. (Putting his arm around her

waist.) Spendthrifts are sweet, but they use up a frightful amount of money. It’s incredible what it costs a man to feed such birds.

NORA: Oh, how can you say that! Really, I save everything I can. HELMER: (laughing) Yes, that’s the truth. Everything you can. But that’s

nothing at all. NORA: (humming, with a smile of quiet satisfaction) Hm, if you only knew

what expenses we larks and squirrels have, Torvald. HELMER: You’re an odd little one. Exactly the way your father was. You’re

never at a loss for scaring up money; but the moment you have it, it

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runs right out through your �ngers; you never know what you’ve done with it. Well, one takes you as you are. It’s deep in your blood. Yes, these things are hereditary, Nora.

NORA: Ah, I could wish I’d inherited many of Papa’s qualities. HELMER: And I couldn’t wish you anything but just what you are, my sweet

little lark. But wait; it seems to me you have a very—what should I call it?—a very suspicious look today—

NORA: I do? HELMER: You certainly do. Look me straight in the eye. NORA: (looking at him) Well? HELMER: (shaking an admonitory �nger) Surely my sweet tooth hasn’t been

running riot in town today, has she? NORA: No. Why do you imagine that? HELMER: My sweet tooth really didn’t make a little detour through the

confectioner’s? NORA: No, I assure you, Torvald— HELMER: Hasn’t nibbled some pastry? NORA: No, not at all. HELMER: Nor even munched a macaroon or two? NORA: No, Torvald, I assure you, really— HELMER: There, there now. Of course I’m only joking. NORA: (going to the table, right) You know I could never think of going

against you. HELMERHELMERH : No, I understand that; and you have given me your word. (Going

over to her.) Well, you keep your little Christmas secrets to yourself, Nora darling. I expect they’ll come to light this evening, when the tree is lit.

NORA: Did you remember to ask Dr. Rank? HELMER: No. But there’s no need for that; it’s assumed he’ll be dining with

us. All the same, I’ll ask him when he stops by here this morning. I’ve ordered some �ne wine. Nora, you can’t imagine how I’m looking for- ward to this evening.

NORA: So am I. And what fun for the children, Torvald! HELMER: Ah, it’s so gratifying to know that one’s gotten a safe, secure job,

and with a comfortable salary. It’s a great satisfaction, isn’t it? NORA: Oh, it’s wonderful! HELMER: Remember last Christmas? Three whole weeks before, you shut

yourself in every evening till long after midnight, making �owers for the Christmas tree, and all the other decorations to surprise us. Ugh, that was the dullest time I’ve ever lived through.

NORA: It wasn’t at all dull for me. HELMER: (smiling) But the outcome was pretty sorry, Nora. NORA: Oh, don’t tease me with that again. How could I help it that the

cat came in and tore everything to shreds.

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HELMER: No, poor thing, you certainly couldn’t. You wanted so much to please us all, and that’s what counts. But it’s just as well that the hard times are past.

NORA: Yes, it’s really wonderful. HELMER: Now I don’t have to sit here alone, boring myself, and you don’t

have to tire your precious eyes and your fair little delicate hands— NORA: (clapping her hands) No, is it really true, Torvald, I don’t have to?

Oh, how wonderfully lovely to hear! (Taking his arm.) Now I’ll tell you just how I’ve thought we should plan things. Right after Christmas— (The doorbell rings.) Oh, the bell. (Straightening the room up a bit.) Somebody would have to come. What a bore!

HELMER: I’m not at home to visitors, don’t forget. MAID: (from the hall doorway) Ma’am, a lady to see you— NORA: All right, let her come in. MAID: (to Helmer) And the doctor’s just come too. HELMER: Did he go right to my study? MAID: Yes, he did.

Helmer goes into his room. The Maid shows in Mrs. Linde, dressed in traveling clothes, and shuts the door after her.

MRS. LINDE: (in a dispirited and somewhat hesitant voice) Hello, Nora. NORA: (uncertain) Hello— MRS. LINDE: You don’t recognize me. NORA: No, I don’t know—but wait, I think—(Exclaiming.) What!

Kristine! Is it really you? MRS. LINDE: Yes, it’s me. NORA: Kristine! To think I didn’t recognize you. But then, how could I?

(More quietly.) How you’ve changed, Kristine! MRS. LINDE: Yes, no doubt I have. In nine—ten long years. NORA: Is it so long since we met! Yes, it’s all of that. Oh, these last eight

years have been a happy time, believe me. And so now you’ve come in to town, too. Made the long trip in the winter. That took courage.

MRS. LINDE: I just got here by ship this morning. NORA: To enjoy yourself over Christmas, of course. Oh, how lovely! Yes,

enjoy ourselves, we’ll do that. But take your coat off. You’re not still cold? (Helping her.) There now, let’s get cozy here by the stove. No, the easy chair there! I’ll take the rocker here. (Seizing her hands.) Yes, now you have your old look again; it was only in that �rst moment. You’re a bit more pale, Kristine—and maybe a bit thinner.

MRS. LINDE: And much, much older, Nora. NORA: Yes, perhaps a bit older; a tiny, tiny bit; not much at all. (Stopping

short; suddenly serious.) Oh, but thoughtless me, to sit here, chattering away. Sweet, good Kristine, can you forgive me?

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MRS. LINDE: What do you mean, Nora? NORA: (softly) Poor Kristine, you’ve become a widow. MRS. LINDE: Yes, three years ago. NORA: Oh, I knew it, of course: I read it in the papers. Oh, Kristine, you

must believe me; I often thought of writing you then, but I kept post- poning it, and something always interfered.

MRS. LINDE: Nora dear, I understand completely. NORA: No, it was awful of me, Kristine. You poor thing, how much you

must have gone through. And he left you nothing? MRS. LINDE: No. NORA: And no children? MRS. LINDE: No. NORA: Nothing at all, then? MRS. LINDE: Not even a sense of loss to feed on. NORA: (looking incredulously at her) But Kristine, how could that be? MRS. LINDE: (smiling wearily and smoothing her hair) Oh, sometimes it

happens, Nora. NORA: So completely alone. How terribly hard that must be for you. I have

three lovely children. You can’t see them now; they’re out with the maid. But now you must tell me everything—

MRS. LINDE: No, no, no, tell me about yourself. NORA: No, you begin. Today I don’t want to be sel�sh. I want to think

only of you today. But there is something I must tell you. Did you hear of the wonderful luck we had recently?

MRS. LINDE: No, what’s that? NORA: My husband’s been made manager in the bank, just think! MRS. LINDE: Your husband? How marvelous! NORA: Isn’t it? Being a lawyer is such an uncertain living, you know, espe-

cially if one won’t touch any cases that aren’t clean and decent. And of course Torvald would never do that, and I’m with him completely there. Oh, we’re simply delighted, believe me! He’ll join the bank right after New Year’s and start getting a huge salary and lots of commis- sions. From now on we can live quite differently—just as we want. Oh, Kristine, I feel so light and happy! Won’t it be lovely to have stacks of money and not a care in the world?

MRS. LINDE: Well, anyway, it would be lovely to have enough for necessities.

NORA: No, not just for necessities, but stacks and stacks of money! MRS. LINDE: (smiling) Nora, Nora, aren’t you sensible yet? Back in school

you were such a free spender. NORA: (with a quiet laugh) Yes, that’s what Torvald still says. (Shaking her

�nger.) But “Nora, Nora” isn’t as silly as you all think. Really, we’ve been in no position for me to go squandering. We’ve had to work, both of us.

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MRS. LINDE: You too? NORA: Yes, at odd jobs—needlework, crocheting, embroidery, and such—

(casually) and other things too. You remember that Torvald left the department when we were married? There was no chance of promotion in his of�ce, and of course he needed to earn more money. But that �rst year he drove himself terribly. He took on all kinds of extra work that kept him going morning and night. It wore him down, and then he fell deathly ill. The doctors said it was essential for him to travel south.

MRS. LINDE: Yes, didn’t you spend a whole year in Italy? NORA: That’s right. It wasn’t easy to get away, you know. Ivar had just

been born. But of course we had to go. Oh, that was a beautiful trip, and it saved Torvald’s life. But it cost a frightful sum, Kristine.

MRS. LINDE: I can well imagine. NORA: Four thousand, eight hundred crowns it cost. That’s really a lot of

money. MRS. LINDE: But it’s lucky you had it when you needed it. NORA: Well, as it was, we got it from Papa. MRS. LINDE: I see. It was just about the time your father died. NORA: Yes, just about then. And, you know, I couldn’t make that trip out

to nurse him. I had to stay here, expecting Ivar any moment, and with my poor sick Torvald to care for. Dearest Papa, I never saw him again, Kristine. Oh, that was the worst time I’ve known in all my marriage.

MRS. LINDE: I know how you loved him. And then you went off to Italy? NORA: Yes. We had the means now, and the doctors urged us. So we left a

month after. MRS. LINDE: And your husband came back completely cured? NORA: Sound as a drum! MRS. LINDE: But—the doctor? NORA: Who? MRS. LINDE: I thought the maid said he was a doctor, the man who came

in with me. NORA: Yes, that was Dr. Rank—but he’s not making a sick call. He’s our

closest friend, and he stops by at least once a day. No, Torvald hasn’t had a sick moment since, and the children are �t and strong, and I am, too. (Jumping up and clapping her hands.) Oh, dear God, Kristine, what a lovely thing to live and be happy! But how disgusting of me—I’m talking of nothing but my own affairs. (Sits on a stool close by Kristine, arms resting across her knees.) Oh, don’t be angry with me! Tell me, is it really true that you weren’t in love with your husband? Why did you marry him, then?

MRS. LINDE: My mother was still alive, but bedridden and helpless—and I had my two younger brothers to look after. In all conscience, I didn’t think I could turn him down.

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NORA: No, you were right there. But was he rich at the time? MRS. LINDE: He was very well off, I’d say. But the business was shaky,

Nora. When he died, it all fell apart, and nothing was left. NORA: And then—? MRS. LINDE: Yes, so I had to scrape up a living with a little shop and a

little teaching and whatever else I could �nd. The last three years have been like one endless workday without a rest for me. Now it’s over, Nora. My poor mother doesn’t need me, for she’s passed on. Nor the boys, either; they’re working now and can take care of themselves.

NORA: How free you must feel— MRS. LINDE: No—only unspeakably empty. Nothing to live for now.

(Standing up anxiously.) That’s why I couldn’t take it any longer out in that desolate hole. Maybe here it’ll be easier to �nd something to do and keep my mind occupied. If I could only be lucky enough to get a steady job, some of�ce work—

NORA: Oh, but Kristine, that’s so dreadfully tiring, and you already look so tired. It would be much better for you if you could go off to a bathing resort.

MRS. LINDE: (going toward the window) I have no father to give me travel money, Nora.

NORA: (rising) Oh, don’t be angry with me. MRS. LINDE: (going to her) Nora dear, don’t you be angry with me. The

worst of my kind of situation is all the bitterness that’s stored away. No one to work for, and yet you’re always having to snap up your oppor- tunities. You have to live; and so you grow sel�sh. When you told me the happy change in your lot, do you know I was delighted less for your sakes than for mine?

NORA: How so? Oh, I see. You think Torvald could do something for you. MRS. LINDE: Yes, that’s what I thought. NORA: And he will, Kristine! Just leave it to me; I’ll bring it up so

delicately—�nd something attractive to humor him with. Oh, I’m so eager to help you.

MRS. LINDE: How very kind of you, Nora, to be so concerned over me— doubly kind, considering you really know so little of life’s burdens yourself.

NORA: I—? I know so little—? MRS. LINDE: (smiling) Well my heavens—a little needlework and such—

Nora, you’re just a child. NORA: (tossing her head and pacing the �oor) You don’t have to act so

superior. MRS. LINDE: Oh? NORA: You’re just like the others. You all think I’m incapable of anything

serious—

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MRS. LINDE: Come now— NORA: That I’ve never had to face the raw world. MRS. LINDE: Nora dear, you’ve just been telling me all your troubles. NORA: Hm! Trivial! (Quietly.) I haven’t told you the big thing. MRS. LINDE: Big thing? What do you mean? NORA: You look down on me so, Kristine, but you shouldn’t. You’re proud

that you worked so long and hard for your mother. MRS. LINDE: I don’t look down on a soul. But it is true: I’m proud—and

happy, too—to think it was given to me to make my mother’s last days almost free of care.

NORA: And you’re also proud thinking of what you’ve done for your brothers.

MRS. LINDE: I feel I’ve a right to be. NORA: I agree. But listen to this, Kristine—I’ve also got something to be

proud and happy for. MRS. LINDE: I don’t doubt it. But whatever do you mean? NORA: Not so loud. What if Torvald heard! He mustn’t, not for anything

in the world. Nobody must know, Kristine. No one but you. MRS. LINDE: But what is it, then? NORA: Come here. (Drawing her down beside her on the sofa.) It’s true—I’ve

also got something to be proud and happy for. I’m the one who saved Torvald’s life.

MRS. LINDE: Saved—? Saved how? NORA: I told you about the trip to Italy. Torvald never would have lived if

he hadn’t gone south— MRS. LINDE: Of course; your father gave you the means— NORA: (smiling) That’s what Torvald and all the rest think, but— MRS. LINDE: But—? NORA: Papa didn’t give us a pin. I was the one who raised the money. MRS. LINDE: You? That whole amount? NORA: Four thousand, eight hundred crowns. What do you say to that? MRS. LINDE: But Nora, how was it possible? Did you win the lottery? NORA: (disdainfully) The lottery? Pooh! No art to that. MRS. LINDE: But where did you get it from then? NORA: (humming, with a mysterious smile) Hmm, tra-la-la-la. MRS. LINDE: Because you couldn’t have borrowed it. NORA: No? Why not? MRS. LINDE: A wife can’t borrow without her husband’s consent. NORA: (tossing her head) Oh, but a wife with a little business sense, a wife

who knows how to manage— MRS. LINDE: Nora, I simply don’t understand— NORA: You don’t have to. Whoever said I borrowed the money? I could

have gotten it other ways. (Throwing herself back on the sofa.) I could

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have gotten it from some admirer or other. After all, a girl with my ravishing appeal—

MRS. LINDE: You lunatic. NORA: I’ll bet you’re eaten up with curiosity, Kristine. MRS. LINDE: Now listen here, Nora—you haven’t done something

indiscreet? NORA: (sitting up again) Is it indiscreet to save your husband’s life? MRS. LINDE: I think it’s indiscreet that without his knowledge you— NORA: But that’s the point: he mustn’t know! My Lord, can’t you under-

stand? He mustn’t ever know the close call he had. It was to me the doctors came to say his life was in danger—that nothing could save him but a stay in the south. Didn’t I try strategy then! I began talking about how lovely it would be for me to travel abroad like other young wives; I begged and I cried; I told him please to remember my condition, to be kind and indulge me; and then I dropped a hint that he could easily take out a loan. But at that, Kristine, he nearly exploded. He said I was frivolous, and it was his duty as man of the house not to indulge me in whims and fancies—as I think he called them. Aha, I thought, now you’ll just have to be saved—and that’s when I saw my chance.

MRS. LINDE: And your father never told Torvald the money wasn’t from him?

NORA: No, never. Papa died right about then. I’d considered bringing him into my secret and begging him never to tell. But he was too sick at the time—and then, sadly, it didn’t matter.

MRS. LINDE: And you’ve never con�ded in your husband since? NORA: For heaven’s sake, no! Are you serious? He’s so strict on that sub-

ject. Besides—Torvald, with all his masculine pride—how painfully humiliating for him if he ever found out he was in debt to me. That would just ruin our relationship. Our beautiful, happy home would never be the same.

MRS. LINDE: Won’t you ever tell him? NORA: (thoughtfully, half smiling) Yes—maybe sometime, years from now,

when I’m no longer so attractive. Don’t laugh! I only mean when Torvald loves me less than now, when he stops enjoying my dancing and dressing up and reciting for him. Then it might be wise to have something in reserve—(Breaking off.) How ridiculous! That’ll never happen—Well, Kristine, what do you think of my big secret? I’m capable of something too, hm? You can imagine, of course, how this thing hangs over me. It really hasn’t been easy meeting the payments on time. In the business world there’s what they call quarterly interest and what they call amortization, and these are always so terribly hard to manage. I’ve had to skimp a little here and there, wherever I could, you know. I could hardly spare anything from my house allowance,

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because Torvald has to live well. I couldn’t let the children go poorly dressed; whatever I got for them, I felt I had to use up completely— the darlings!

MRS. LINDE: Poor Nora, so it had to come out of your own budget, then? NORA: Yes, of course. But I was the one most responsible, too. Every time

Torvald gave me money for new clothes and such, I never used more than half; always bought the simplest, cheapest out�ts. It was a god- send that everything looks so well on me that Torvald never noticed. But it did weigh me down at times, Kristine. It is such a joy to wear �ne things. You understand.

MRS. LINDE: Oh, of course. NORA: And then I found other ways of making money. Last winter I was

lucky enough to get a lot of copying to do. I locked myself in and sat writing every evening till late in the night. Ah, I was tired so often, dead tired. But still it was wonderful fun, sitting and working like that, earning money. It was almost like being a man.

MRS. LINDE: But how much have you paid off this way so far? NORA: That’s hard to say, exactly. These accounts, you know, aren’t easy to

�gure. I only know that I’ve paid out all I could scrape together. Time and again I haven’t known where to turn. (Smiling.) Then I’d sit here dreaming of a rich old gentleman who had fallen in love with me—

MRS. LINDE: What! Who is he? NORA: Oh, really! And that he’d died, and when his will was opened,

there in big letters it said, “All my fortune shall be paid over in cash, immediately, to that enchanting Mrs. Nora Helmer.”

MRS. LINDE: But Nora dear—who was this gentleman? NORA: Good grief, can’t you understand? The old man never existed; that

was only something I’d dream up time and again whenever I was at my wits’ end for money. But it makes no difference now; the old fossil can go where he pleases for all I care; I don’t need him or his will— because now I’m free. (Jumping up.) Oh, how lovely to think of that, Kristine! Carefree! To know you’re carefree, utterly carefree; to be able to romp and play with the children, and to keep up a beautiful, charming home—everything just the way Torvald likes it! And think, spring is coming, with big blue skies. Maybe we can travel a little then. Maybe I’ll see the ocean again. Oh yes, it is so marvelous to live and be happy!

The front doorbell rings.

MRS. LINDE: (rising) There’s the bell. It’s probably best that I go. NORA: No, stay. No one’s expected. It must be for Torvald. MAID: (from the hall doorway) Excuse me, ma’am—there’s a gentleman here

to see Mr. Helmer, but I didn’t know—since the doctor’s with him—

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NORA: Who is the gentleman? KROGSTAD: (from the doorway) It’s me, Mrs. Helmer.

Mrs. Linde starts and turns away toward the window.

NORA: (stepping toward him, tense, her voice a whisper) You? What is it? Why do you want to speak to my husband?

KROGSTAD: Bank business—after a fashion. I have a small job in the investment bank, and I hear now your husband is going to be our chief—

NORA: In other words, it’s— KROGSTAD: Just dry business, Mrs. Helmer. Nothing but that. NORA: Yes, then please be good enough to step into the study. (She nods

indifferently as she sees him out by the hall door, then returns and begins stirring up the stove.)

MRS. LINDE: Nora—who was that man? NORA: That was a Mr. Krogstad—a lawyer. MRS. LINDE: Then it really was him. NORA: Do you know that person? MRS. LINDE: I did once—many years ago. For a time he was a law clerk in

our town. NORA: Yes, he’s been that. MRS. LINDE: How he’s changed. NORA: I understand he had a very unhappy marriage. MRS. LINDE: He’s a widower now. NORA: With a number of children. There now, it’s burning. (She closes the

stove door and moves the rocker a bit to one side.) MRS. LINDE: They say he has a hand in all kinds of business. NORA: Oh? That may be true: I wouldn’t know. But let’s not think about

business. It’s so dull.

Dr. Rank enters from Helmer’s study.

RANK: (still in the doorway) No, no, really—I don’t want to intrude, I’d just as soon talk a little while with your wife. (Shuts the door, then notices Mrs. Linde.) Oh, beg pardon. I’m intruding here too.

NORA: No, not at all. (Introducing him.) Dr. Rank, Mrs. Linde. RANK: Well now, that’s a name much heard in this house. I believe I

passed the lady on the stairs as I came. MRS. LINDE: Yes, I take the stairs very slowly. They’re rather hard on me. RANK: Uh-hm, some touch of internal weakness? MRS. LINDE: More overexertion, I’d say. RANK: Nothing else? Then you’re probably here in town to rest up in a

round of parties? MRS. LINDE: I’m here to look for work.

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RANK: Is that the best cure for overexertion? MRS. LINDE: One has to live, Doctor. RANK: Yes, there’s a common prejudice to that effect. NORA: Oh, come on, Dr. Rank—you really do want to live yourself. RANK: Yes, I really do. Wretched as I am, I’ll gladly prolong my torment

inde�nitely. All my patients feel like that. And it’s quite the same, too, with the morally sick. Right at this moment there’s one of those moral invalids in there with Helmer—

MRS. LINDE: (softly) Ah! NORA: Who do you mean? RANK: Oh, it’s a lawyer, Krogstad, a type you wouldn’t know. His character

is rotten to the root—but even he began chattering all-importantly about how he had to live.

NORA: Oh? What did he want to talk to Torvald about? RANK: I really don’t know. I only heard something about the bank. NORA: I didn’t know that Krog—that this man Krogstad had anything to

do with the bank. RANK: Yes, he’s gotten some kind of berth down there. (To Mrs. Linde.)

I don’t know if you also have, in your neck of the woods, a type of person who scuttles about breathlessly, snif�ng out hints of moral cor- ruption, and then maneuvers his victim into some sort of key position where he can keep an eye on him. It’s the healthy these days that are out in the cold.

MRS. LINDE: All the same, it’s the sick who most need to be taken in. RANK: (with a shrug) Yes, there we have it. That’s the concept that’s

turning society into a sanatorium.

Nora, lost in her thoughts, breaks out into quiet laughter and claps her hands.

RANK: Why do you laugh at that? Do you have any real idea of what society is?

NORA: What do I care about dreary old society? I was laughing at something quite different—something terribly funny. Tell me, Doctor—is everyone who works in the bank dependent now on Torvald?

RANK: Is that what you �nd so terribly funny? NORA: (smiling and humming) Never mind, never mind! (Pacing the �oor.)

Yes, that’s really immensely amusing: that we—that Torvald has so much power now over all those people. (Taking the bag out of her pocket.) Dr. Rank, a little macaroon on that?

RANK: See here, macaroons! I thought they were contraband here. NORA: Yes, but these are some that Kristine gave me. MRS. LINDE: What? I—? NORA: Now, now, don’t be afraid. You couldn’t possibly know that

Torvald had forbidden them. You see, he’s worried they’ll ruin my

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teeth. But hmp! Just this once! Isn’t that so, Dr. Rank? Help yourself! (Puts a macaroon in his mouth.) And you too, Kristine. And I’ll also have one, only a little one—or two, at the most. (Walking about again.) Now I’m really tremendously happy. Now there’s just one last thing in the world that I have an enormous desire to do.

RANK: Well! And what’s that? NORA: It’s something I have such a consuming desire to say so Torvald

could hear. RANK: And why can’t you say it? NORA: I don’t dare. It’s quite shocking. MRS. LINDE: Shocking? RANK: Well, then it isn’t advisable. But in front of us you certainly can.

What do you have such a desire to say so Torvald could hear? NORA: I have such a huge desire to say—to hell and be damned! RANK: Are you crazy? MRS. LINDE: My goodness, Nora! RANK: Go on, say it. Here he is. NORA: (hiding the macaroon bag) Shh, shh, shh!

Helmer comes in from his study, hat in hand, overcoat over his arm.

NORA: (going toward him) Well, Torvald dear, are you through with him? HELMER: Yes, he just left. NORA: Let me introduce you—this is Kristine, who’s arrived here in town. HELMER: Kristine—? I’m sorry, but I don’t know— NORA: Mrs. Linde, Torvald dear. Mrs. Kristine Linde. HELMER: Of course. A childhood friend of my wife’s, no doubt? MRS. LINDE: Yes, we knew each other in those days. NORA: And just think, she made the long trip down here in order to talk

with you. HELMER: What’s this? MRS. LINDE: Well, not exactly— NORA: You see, Kristine is remarkably clever in of�ce work, and so she’s

terribly eager to come under a capable man’s supervision and add more to what she already knows—

HELMER: Very wise, Mrs. Linde. NORA: And then when she heard that you’d become a bank manager—

the story was wired out to the papers—then she came in as fast as she could and—Really, Torvald, for my sake you can do a little something for Kristine, can’t you?

HELMER: Yes, it’s not at all impossible. Mrs. Linde, I suppose you’re a widow?

MRS. LINDE: Yes. HELMER: Any experience in of�ce work?

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MRS. LINDE: Yes, a good deal. HELMER: Well, it’s quite likely that I can make an opening for you— NORA: (clapping her hands) You see, you see! HELMER: You’ve come at a lucky moment, Mrs. Linde. MRS. LINDE: Oh, how can I thank you? HELMER: Not necessary. (Putting his overcoat on.) But today you’ll have to

excuse me— RANK: Wait, I’ll go with you. (He fetches his coat from the hall and warms it

at the stove.) NORA: Don’t stay out long, dear. HELMER: An hour; no more. NORA: Are you going too, Kristine? MRS. LINDE: (putting on her winter garments) Yes, I have to see about a

room now. HELMER: Then perhaps we can all walk together. NORA: (helping her) What a shame we’re so cramped here, but it’s quite

impossible for us to— MRS. LINDE: Oh, don’t even think of it! Good-bye, Nora dear, and thanks

for everything. NORA: Good-bye for now. Of course you’ll be back this evening. And you

too, Dr. Rank. What? If you’re well enough? Oh, you’ve got to be! Wrap up tight now.

In a ripple of small talk the company moves out into the hall; children’s voices are heard outside on the steps.

NORA: There they are! There they are! (She runs to open the door. The chil- dren come in with their nurse, Anne-Marie.) Come in, come in! (Bends down and kisses them.) Oh, you darlings—! Look at them, Kristine. Aren’t they lovely!

RANK: No loitering in the draft here. HELMER: Come, Mrs. Linde—this place is unbearable now for anyone but

mothers.

Dr. Rank, Helmer, and Mrs. Linde go down the stairs. Anne-Marie goes into the living room with the children. Nora follows, after closing the hall door.

NORA: How fresh and strong you look. Oh, such red cheeks you have! Like apples and roses. (The children interrupt her throughout the following.) And it was so much fun? That’s wonderful. Really? You pulled both Emmy and Bob on the sled? Imagine, all together! Yes, you’re a clever boy, Ivar. Oh, let me hold her a bit, Anne-Marie. My sweet little doll baby! (Takes the smallest from the nurse and dances with her.) Yes, yes, Mama will dance with Bob as well. What? Did you throw snowballs? Oh, if I’d only been there! No, don’t bother, Anne-Marie—I’ll undress

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them myself. Oh yes, let me. It’s such fun. Go in and rest; you look half frozen. There’s hot coffee waiting for you on the stove. (The nurse goes into the room to the left. Nora takes the children’s winter things off, throw- ing them about, while the children talk to her all at once.) Is that so? A big dog chased you? But it didn’t bite? No, dogs never bite little, lovely doll babies. Don’t peek in the packages, Ivar! What is it? Yes, wouldn’t you like to know. No, no, it’s an ugly something. Well? Shall we play? What shall we play? Hide-and-seek? Yes, let’s play hide-and-seek. Bob must hide �rst. I must? Yes, let me hide �rst. (Laughing and shouting, she and the children play in and out of the living room and the adjoining room to the right. At last Nora hides under the table. The children come storming in, search, but cannot �nd her, then hear her muf�ed laughter, dash over to the table, lift the cloth up and �nd her. Wild shouting. She creeps forward as if to scare them. More shouts. Meanwhile, a knock at the hall door; no one has noticed it. Now the door half opens, and Krogstad appears. He waits a moment; the game goes on.)

KROGSTAD: Beg pardon, Mrs. Helmer— NORA: (with a strangled cry, turning and scrambling to her knees) Oh! What

do you want? KROGSTAD: Excuse me. The outer door was ajar; it must be someone forgot

to shut it— NORA: (rising) My husband isn’t home, Mr. Krogstad. KROGSTAD: I know that. NORA: Yes—then what do you want here? KROGSTAD: A word with you. NORA: With—? (To the children, quietly.) Go in to Anne-Marie. What?

No, the strange man won’t hurt Mama. When he’s gone, we’ll play some more. (She leads the children into the room to the left and shuts the door after them. Then, tense and nervous.) You want to speak to me?

KROGSTAD: Yes, I want to. NORA: Today? But it’s not yet the �rst of the month— KROGSTAD: No, it’s Christmas Eve. It’s going to be up to you how merry a

Christmas you have. NORA: What is it you want? Today I absolutely can’t— KROGSTAD: We won’t talk about that till later. This is something else. You

do have a moment to spare, I suppose? NORA: Oh yes, of course—I do, except— KROGSTAD: Good. I was sitting over at Olsen’s Restaurant when I saw your

husband go down the street— NORA: Yes? KROGSTAD: With a lady. NORA: Yes. So? KROGSTAD: If you’ll pardon my asking: wasn’t that lady a Mrs. Linde?

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NORA: Yes. KROGSTAD: Just now come into town? NORA: Yes, today. KROGSTAD: She’s a good friend of yours? NORA: Yes, she is. But I don’t see— KROGSTAD: I also knew her once. NORA: I’m aware of that. KROGSTAD: Oh? You know all about it. I thought so. Well, then let me ask

you short and sweet: is Mrs. Linde getting a job in the bank? NORA: What makes you think you can cross-examine me, Mr. Krogstad—

you, one of my husband’s employees? But since you ask, you might as well know—yes, Mrs. Linde’s going to be taken on at the bank. And I’m the one who spoke for her, Mr. Krogstad. Now you know.

KROGSTAD: So I guessed right. NORA: (pacing up and down) Oh, one does have a tiny bit of in�uence,

I should hope. Just because I am a woman, don’t think it means that— When one has a subordinate position, Mr. Krogstad, one really ought to be careful about pushing somebody who—hm—

KROGSTAD: Who has in�uence? NORA: That’s right. KROGSTAD: (in a different tone) Mrs. Helmer, would you be good enough to

use your in�uence on my behalf? NORA: What? What do you mean? KROGSTAD: Would you please make sure that I keep my subordinate posi-

tion in the bank? NORA: What does that mean? Who’s thinking of taking away your position? KROGSTAD: Oh, don’t play the innocent with me. I’m quite aware that

your friend would hardly relish the chance of running into me again; and I’m also aware now whom I can thank for being turned out.

NORA: But I promise you— KROGSTAD: Yes, yes, yes, to the point: there’s still time, and I’m advising

you to use your in�uence to prevent it. NORA: But Mr. Krogstad, I have absolutely no in�uence. KROGSTAD: You haven’t? I thought you were just saying— NORA: You shouldn’t take me so literally. I! How can you believe that

I have any such in�uence over my husband? KROGSTAD: Oh, I’ve known your husband from our student days. I don’t

think the great bank manager’s more steadfast than any other married man.

NORA: You speak insolently about my husband, and I’ll show you the door. KROGSTAD: The lady has spirit. NORA: I’m not afraid of you any longer. After New Year’s, I’ll soon be done

with the whole business.

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KROGSTAD: (restraining himself) Now listen to me, Mrs. Helmer. If neces- sary, I’ll �ght for my little job in the bank as if it were life itself.

NORA: Yes, so it seems. KROGSTAD: It’s not just a matter of income; that’s the least of it. It’s some-

thing else—All right, out with it! Look, this is the thing. You know, just like all the others, of course, that once, a good many years ago, I did something rather rash.

NORA: I’ve heard rumors to that effect. KROGKROGK STAD: The case never got into court; but all the same, every door was

closed in my face from then on. So I took up those various activities you know about. I had to grab hold somewhere; and I dare say I haven’t been among the worst. But now I want to drop all that. My boys are growing up. For their sakes, I’ll have to win back as much respect as possible here in town. That job in the bank was like the �rst rung in my ladder. And now your husband wants to kick me right back down in the mud again.

NORA: But for heaven’s sake, Mr. Krogstad, it’s simply not in my power to help you.

KROGSTAD: That’s because you haven’t the will to—but I have the means to make you.

NORA: You certainly won’t tell my husband that I owe you money? KROGSTAD: Hm—what if I told him that? NORA: That would be shameful of you. (Nearly in tears.) This secret—my

joy and my pride—that he should learn it in such a crude and disgust- ing way—learn it from you. You’d expose me to the most horrible unpleasantness—

KROGSTAD: Only unpleasantness? NORA: (vehemently) But go on and try. It’ll turn out the worse for you,

because then my husband will really see what a crook you are, and then you’ll never be able to hold your job.

KROGKROGK STAD: I asked if it was just domestic unpleasantness you were afraid of. NORA: If my husband �nds out, then of course he’ll pay what I owe at

once, and then we’d be through with you for good. KROGSTAD: (a step closer) Listen, Mrs. Helmer—you’ve either got a very

bad memory, or else no head at all for business. I’d better put you a little more in touch with the facts.

NORA: What do you mean? KROGSTAD: When your husband was sick, you came to me for a loan of

four thousand, eight hundred crowns. NORA: Where else could I go? KROGSTAD: I promised to get you that sum— NORA: And you got it. KROGSTAD: I promised to get you that sum, on certain conditions. You

were so involved in your husband’s illness, and so eager to �nance your

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trip, that I guess you didn’t think out all the details. It might just be a good idea to remind you. I promised you the money on the strength of a note I drew up.

NORA: Yes, and that I signed. KROGSTAD: Right. But at the bottom I added some lines for your father to

guarantee the loan. He was supposed to sign down there. NORA: Supposed to? He did sign. KROGSTAD: I left the date blank. In other words, your father would have

dated his signature himself. Do you remember that? NORA: Yes, I think— KROGSTAD: Then I gave you the note for you to mail to your father. Isn’t

that so? NORA: Yes. KROGSTAD: And naturally you sent it at once—because only some �ve, six

days later you brought me the note, properly signed. And with that, the money was yours.

NORA: Well, then; I’ve made my payments regularly, haven’t I? KROGSTAD: More or less. But—getting back to the point—those were hard

times for you then, Mrs. Helmer. NORA: Yes, they were. KROGSTAD: Your father was very ill, I believe. NORA: He was near the end. KROGSTAD: He died soon after? NORA: Yes. KROGSTAD: Tell me, Mrs. Helmer, do you happen to recall the date of your

father’s death? The day of the month, I mean. NORA: Papa died the twenty-ninth of September. KROGSTAD: That’s quite correct; I’ve already looked into that. And now

we come to a curious thing—(taking out a paper) which I simply cannot comprehend.

NORA: Curious thing? I don’t know— KROGSTAD: This is the curious thing: that your father co-signed the note

for your loan three days after his death. NORA: How—? I don’t understand. KROGSTAD: Your father died the twenty-ninth of September. But look.

Here your father dated his signature October second. Isn’t that curi- ous, Mrs. Helmer? (Nora is silent.) Can you explain it to me? (Nora re- mains silent.) It’s also remarkable that the words “October second” and the year aren’t written in your father’s hand, but rather in one that I think I know. Well, it’s easy to understand. Your father forgot perhaps to date his signature, and then someone or other added it, a bit slop- pily, before anyone knew of his death. There’s nothing wrong in that. It all comes down to the signature. And there’s no question about that,

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Mrs. Helmer. It really was your father who signed his own name here, wasn’t it?

NORA: (after a short silence, throwing her head back and looking squarely at him) No, it wasn’t. I signed Papa’s name.

KROGSTAD: Wait, now—are you fully aware that this is a dangerous confession?

NORA: Why? You’ll soon get your money. KROGSTAD: Let me ask you a question—why didn’t you send the paper to

your father? NORA: That was impossible. Papa was so sick. If I’d asked him for his sig-

nature, I also would have had to tell him what the money was for. But I couldn’t tell him, sick as he was, that my husband’s life was in danger. That was just impossible.

KROGSTAD: Then it would have been better if you’d given up the trip abroad.

NORA: I couldn’t possibly. The trip was to save my husband’s life. I couldn’t give that up.

KROGSTAD: But didn’t you ever consider that this was a fraud against me? NORA: I couldn’t let myself be bothered by that. You weren’t any concern

of mine. I couldn’t stand you, with all those cold complications you made, even though you knew how badly off my husband was.

KROGKROGK STAD: Mrs. Helmer, obviously you haven’t the vaguest idea of what you’ve involved yourself in. But I can tell you this: it was nothing more and nothing worse than I once did—and it wrecked my whole reputation.

NORA: You? Do you expect me to believe that you ever acted bravely to save your wife’s life?

KROGSTAD: Laws don’t inquire into motives. NORA: Then they must be very poor laws. KROGSTAD: Poor or not—if I introduce this paper in court, you’ll be judged

according to law. NORA: This I refuse to believe. A daughter hasn’t a right to protect her

dying father from anxiety and care? A wife hasn’t a right to save her husband’s life? I don’t know much about laws, but I’m sure that somewhere in the books these things are allowed. And you don’t know anything about it—you who practice the law? You must be an awful lawyer, Mr. Krogstad.

KROGSTAD: Could be. But business—the kind of business we two mixed up in—don’t you think I know about that? All right. Do what you want now. But I’m telling you this: if I get shoved down a second time, you’re going to keep me company. (He bows and goes out through the hall.)

NORA: (pensive for a moment, then tossing her head) Oh, really! Trying to frighten me! I’m not so silly as all that. (Begins gathering up the children’s

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clothes, but soon stops.) But—? No, but that’s impossible! I did it out of love.

THE CHILDREN: (in the doorway, left) Mama, that strange man’s gone out the door.

NORA: Yes, yes, I know it. But don’t tell anyone about the strange man. Do you hear? Not even Papa!

THE CHILDREN: No, Mama. But now will you play again? NORA: No, not now. THE CHILDREN: Oh, but Mama, you promised. NORA: Yes, but I can’t now. Go inside; I have too much to do. Go in, go

in, my sweet darlings. (She herds them gently back in the room and shuts the door after them. Settling on the sofa, she takes up a piece of embroidery and makes some stitches, but soon stops abruptly.) No! (Throws the work aside, rises, goes to the hall door and calls out.) Helene! Let me have the tree in here. (Goes to the table, left, opens the table drawer, and stops again.) No, but that’s utterly impossible!

MAID: (with the Christmas tree) Where should I put it, ma’am? NORA: There. The middle of the �oor. MAID: Should I bring anything else? NORA: No, thanks. I have what I need.

The Maid, who has set the tree down, goes out.

NORA: (absorbed in trimming the tree) Candles here—and �owers here. That terrible creature! Talk, talk, talk! There’s nothing to it at all. The tree’s going to be lovely. I’ll do anything to please you, Torvald. I’ll sing for you, dance for you—

Helmer comes in from the hall, with a sheaf of papers under his arm.

NORA: Oh! You’re back so soon? HELMER: Yes. Has anyone been here? NORA: Here? No. HELMER: That’s odd. I saw Krogstad leaving the front door. NORA: So? Oh yes, that’s true. Krogstad was here a moment. HELMER: Nora, I can see by your face that he’s been here, begging you to

put in a good word for him. NORA: Yes. HELMER: And it was supposed to seem like your own idea? You were to

hide it from me that he’d been here. He asked you that, too, didn’t he? NORA: Yes, Torvald, but— HELMER: Nora, Nora, and you could fall for that? Talk with that sort of

person and promise him anything? And then in the bargain, tell me an untruth.

NORA: An untruth—?

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HELMER: Didn’t you say that no one had been here? (Wagging his �nger.) My little songbird must never do that again. A songbird needs a clean beak to warble with. No false notes. (Putting his arm about her waist.) That’s the way it should be, isn’t it? Yes, I’m sure of it. (Releasing her.) And so, enough of that. (Sitting by the stove.) Ah, how snug and cozy it is here. (Lea�ng among his papers.)

NORA: (busy with the tree, after a short pause) Torvald! HELMER: Yes. NORA: I’m so much looking forward to the Stenborgs’ costume party, day

after tomorrow. HELMER: And I can’t wait to see what you’ll surprise me with. NORA: Oh, that stupid business! HELMER: What? NORA: I can’t �nd anything that’s right. Everything seems so ridiculous, so

inane. HELMER: So my little Nora’s come to that recognition? NORA: (going behind his chair, her arms resting on its back) Are you very busy,

Torvald? HELMER: Oh— NORA: What papers are those? HELMER: Bank matters. NORA: Already? HELMER: I’ve gotten full authority from the retiring management to make

all necessary changes in personnel and procedure. I’ll need Christmas week for that. I want to have everything in order by New Year’s.

NORA: So that was the reason this poor Krogstad— HELMER: Hm. NORA: (still leaning on the chair and slowly stroking the nape of his neck) If you

weren’t so very busy, I would have asked you an enormous favor, Torvald. HELMER: Let’s hear. What is it? NORA: You know, there isn’t anyone who has your good taste—and I want

so much to look well at the costume party. Torvald, couldn’t you take over and decide what I should be and plan my costume?

HELMER: Ah, is my stubborn little creature calling for a lifeguard? NORA: Yes, Torvald, I can’t get anywhere without your help. HELMER: All right—I’ll think it over. We’ll hit on something. NORA: Oh, how sweet of you. (Goes to the tree again. Pause.) Aren’t the

red �owers pretty—? But tell me, was it really such a crime that this Krogstad committed?

HELMER: Forgery. Do you have any idea what that means? NORA: Couldn’t he have done it out of need? HELMER: Yes, or thoughtlessness, like so many others. I’m not so heartless

that I’d condemn a man categorically for just one mistake.

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NORA: No, of course not, Torvald! HELMER: Plenty of men have redeemed themselves by openly confessing

their crimes and taking their punishment. NORA: Punishment—? HELMER: But now Krogstad didn’t go that way. He got himself out by sharp

practices, and that’s the real cause of his moral breakdown. NORA: Do you really think that would—? HELMER: Just imagine how a man with that sort of guilt in him has to lie

and cheat and deceive on all sides, has to wear a mask even with the nearest and dearest he has, even with his own wife and children. And with the children, Nora—that’s where it’s most horrible.

NORA: Why? HELMER: Because that kind of atmosphere of lies infects the whole life of

a home. Every breath the children take in is �lled with the germs of something degenerate.

NORA: (coming closer behind him) Are you sure of that? HELMER: Oh, I’ve seen it often enough as a lawyer. Almost everyone who

goes bad early in life has a mother who’s a chronic liar. NORA: Why just—the mother? HELMER: It’s usually the mother’s in�uence that’s dominant, but the

father’s works in the same way, of course. Every lawyer is quite famil- iar with it. And still this Krogstad’s been going home year in, year out, poisoning his own children with lies and pretense; that’s why I call him morally lost. (Reaching his hands out toward her.) So my sweet little Nora must promise me never to plead his cause. Your hand on it. Come, come, what’s this? Give me your hand. There, now. All settled. I can tell you it’d be impossible for me to work alongside of him. I liter- ally feel physically revolted when I’m anywhere near such a person.

NORA: (withdraws her hand and goes to the other side of the Christmas tree) How hot it is here! And I’ve got so much to do.

HELMER: (getting up and gathering his papers) Yes, and I have to think about getting some of these read through before dinner. I’ll think about your costume, too. And something to hang on the tree in gilt paper, I may even see about that. (Putting his hand on her head.) Oh you, my darling little songbird. (He goes into his study and closes the door after him.)

NORA: (softly, after a silence) Oh, really! It isn’t so. It’s impossible. It must be impossible.

ANNE-MARIE: (in the doorway, left) The children are begging so hard to come in to Mama.

NORA: No, no, no, don’t let them in to me! You stay with them, Anne- Marie.

ANNE-MARIE: Of course, ma’am. (Closes the door.)

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NORA: (pale with terror) Hurt my children—! Poison my home? (A moment’s pause; then she tosses her head.) That’s not true. Never. Never in all the world.

ACT 2 Same room. Beside the piano the Christmas tree now stands stripped of ornaments, burned-down candle stubs on its ragged branches. Nora’s street clothes lie on the sofa. Nora, alone in the room, moves restlessly about; at last she stops at the sofa and picks up her coat.

NORA: (dropping the coat again) Someone’s coming! (Goes toward the door, listens.) No—there’s no one. Of course—nobody’s coming today, Christmas Day—or tomorrow, either. But maybe—(Opens the door and looks out.) No, nothing in the mailbox. Quite empty. (Coming forward.) What nonsense! He won’t do anything serious. Nothing terrible could happen. It’s impossible. Why, I have three small children.

Anne-Marie, with a large carton, comes in from the room to the left.

ANNE-MARIE: Well, at last I found the box with the masquerade clothes. NORA: Thanks. Put it on the table. ANNE-MARIE: (does so) But they’re all pretty much of a mess. NORA: Ahh! I’d love to rip them in a million pieces! ANNE-MARIE: Oh, mercy, they can be �xed right up. Just a little patience. NORA: Yes, I’ll go get Mrs. Linde to help me. ANNE-MARIE: Out again now? In this nasty weather? Miss Nora will catch

cold—get sick. NORA: Oh, worse things could happen—How are the children? ANNE-MARIE: The poor mites are playing with their Christmas presents,

but— NORA: Do they ask for me much? ANNE-MARIE: They’re so used to having Mama around, you know. NORA: Yes. But Anne-Marie, I can’t be together with them as much as I was.can’t be together with them as much as I was.can’t ANNE-MARIE: Well, small children get used to anything. NORA: You think so? Do you think they’d forget their mother if she was

gone for good? ANNE-MARIE: Oh, mercy—gone for good! NORA: Wait, tell me, Anne-Marie—I’ve wondered so often—how could

you ever have the heart to give your child over to strangers? ANNE-MARIE: But I had to, you know, to become little Nora’s nurse. NORA: Yes, but how could you do it? ANNE-MARIE: When I could get such a good place? A girl who’s poor and

who’s gotten in trouble is glad enough for that. Because that slippery �sh, he didn’t do a thing for me, you know.

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NORA: But your daughter’s surely forgotten you. ANNE-MARIE: Oh, she certainly has not. She’s written to me, both when

she was con�rmed and when she was married. NORA: (clasping her about the neck) You old Anne-Marie, you were a good

mother for me when I was little. ANNE-MARIE: Poor little Nora, with no other mother but me. NORA: And if the babies didn’t have one, then I know that you’d—What

silly talk! (Opening the carton.) Go in to them. Now I’ll have to— Tomorrow you can see how lovely I’ll look.

ANNE-MARIE: Oh, there won’t be anyone at the party as lovely as Miss Nora. (She goes off into the room, left.)

NORA: (begins unpacking the box, but soon throws it aside) Oh, if I dared to go out. If only nobody would come. If only nothing would hap- pen here while I’m out. What craziness—nobody’s coming. Just don’t think. This muff—needs a brushing. Beautiful gloves, beautiful gloves. Let it go. Let it go! One, two, three, four, �ve, six—(With a cry.) Oh, there they are! (Poises to move toward the door, but remains irresolutely standing. Mrs. Linde enters from the hall, where she has removed her street clothes.)

NORA: Oh, it’s you, Kristine. There’s no one else out there? How good that you’ve come.

MRS. LINDE: I hear you were up asking for me. NORA: Yes, I just stopped by. There’s something you really can help me

with. Let’s get settled on the sofa. Look, there’s going to be a costume party tomorrow evening at the Stenborgs’ right above us, and now Torvald wants me to go as a Neapolitan peasant girl and dance the tar- antella that I learned in Capri.

MRS. LINDE: Really, are you giving a whole performance? NORA: Torvald says yes, I should. See, here’s the dress. Torvald had it

made for me down there; but now it’s all so tattered that I just don’t know—

MRS. LINDE: Oh, we’ll �x that up in no time. It’s nothing more than the trimmings—they’re a bit loose here and there. Needle and thread? Good, now we have what we need.

NORA: Oh, how sweet of you! MRS. LINDE: (sewing) So you’ll be in disguise tomorrow, Nora. You know

what? I’ll stop by then for a moment and have a look at you all dressed up. But listen, I’ve absolutely forgotten to thank you for that pleasant evening yesterday.

NORA: (getting up and walking about) I don’t think it was as pleasant as usual yesterday. You should have come to town a bit sooner, Kristine—Yes, Torvald really knows how to give a home elegance and charm.

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MRS. LINDE: And you do, too, if you ask me. You’re not your father’s daughter for nothing. But tell me, is Dr. Rank always so down in the mouth as yesterday?

NORA: No, that was quite an exception. But he goes around critically ill all the time—tuberculosis of the spine, poor man. You know, his father was a disgusting thing who kept mistresses and so on—and that’s why the son’s been sickly from birth.

MRS. LINDE: (lets her sewing fall to her lap) But my dearest Nora, how do you know about such things?

NORA: (walking more jauntily) Hmp! When you’ve had three children, then you’ve had a few visits from—from women who know something of medicine, and they tell you this and that.

MRS. LINDE: (resumes sewing; a short pause) Does Dr. Rank come here every day?

NORA: Every blessed day. He’s Torvald’s best friend from childhood, and my good friend, too. Dr. Rank almost belongs to this house.

MRS. LINDE: But tell me—is he quite sincere? I mean, doesn’t he rather enjoy �attering people?

NORA: Just the opposite. Why do you think that? MRS. LINDE: When you introduced us yesterday, he was proclaiming that

he’d often heard my name in this house; but later I noticed that your husband hadn’t the slightest idea who I really was. So how could Dr. Rank—?

NORA: But it’s all true, Kristine. You see, Torvald loves me beyond words, and, as he puts it, he’d like to keep me all to himself. For a long time he’d almost be jealous if I even mentioned any of my old friends back home. So of course I dropped that. But with Dr. Rank I talk a lot about such things, because he likes hearing about them.

MRS. LINDE: Now listen, Nora; in many ways you’re still like a child. I’m a good deal older than you, with a little more experience. I’ll tell you something: you ought to put an end to all this with Dr. Rank.

NORA: What should I put an end to? MRS. LINDE: Both parts of it, I think. Yesterday you said something about a

rich admirer who’d provide you with money— NORA: Yes, one who doesn’t exist—worse luck. So? MRS. LINDE: Is Dr. Rank well off? NORA: Yes, he is. MRS. LINDE: With no dependents? NORA: No, no one. But— MRS. LINDE: And he’s over here every day? NORA: Yes, I told you that. MRS. LINDE: How can a man of such re�nement be so grasping? NORA: I don’t follow you at all.

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MRS. LINDE: Now don’t try to hide it, Nora. You think I can’t guess who loaned you the forty-eight hundred crowns?

NORA: Are you out of your mind? How could you think such a thing! A friend of ours, who comes here every single day. What an intolerable situation that would have been!

MRS. LINDE: Then it really wasn’t him. NORA: No, absolutely not. It never even crossed my mind for a

moment—And he had nothing to lend in those days; his inheritance came later.

MRS. LINDE: Well, I think that was a stroke of luck for you, Nora dear. NORA: No, it never would have occurred to me to ask Dr. Rank—Still, I’m

quite sure that if I had asked him— MRS. LINDE: Which you won’t, of course. NORA: No, of course not. I can’t see that I’d ever need to. But I’m quite

positive that if I talked to Dr. Rank— MRS. LINDE: Behind your husband’s back? NORA: I’ve got to clear up this other thing; that’s also behind his back. I’ve

got to clear it all up. MRS. LINDE: Yes, I was saying that yesterday, but— NORA: (pacing up and down) A man handles these problems so much better

than a woman— MRS. LINDE: One’s husband does, yes. NORA: Nonsense. (Stopping.) When you pay everything you owe, then you

get your note back, right? MRS. LINDE: Yes, naturally. NORA: And can rip it into a million pieces and burn it up—that �lthy

scrap of paper! MRS. LINDE: (looking hard at her, laying her sewing aside, and rising slowly)

Nora, you’re hiding something from me. NORA: You can see it in my face? MRS. LINDE: Something’s happened to you since yesterday morning. Nora,

what is it? NORA: (hurrying toward her) Kristine! (Listening.) Shh! Torvald’s home.

Look, go in with the children a while. Torvald can’t bear all this snip- ping and stitching. Let Anne-Marie help you.

MRS. LINDE: (gathering up some of the things) All right, but I’m not leaving here until we’ve talked this out. (She disappears into the room, left, as Torvald enters from the hall.)

NORA: Oh, how I’ve been waiting for you, Torvald dear. HELMER: Was that the dressmaker? NORA: No, that was Kristine. She’s helping me �x up my costume. You

know, it’s going to be quite attractive. HELMER: Yes, wasn’t that a bright idea I had?

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NORA: Brilliant! But then wasn’t I good as well to give in to you? HELMER: Good—because you give in to your husband’s judgment? All

right, you little goose, I know you didn’t mean it like that. But I won’t disturb you. You’ll want to have a �tting, I suppose.

NORA: And you’ll be working? HELMER: Yes. (Indicating a bundle of papers.) See. I’ve been down to the

bank. (Starts toward his study.) NORA: Torvald. HELMER: (stops) Yes. NORA: If your little squirrel begged you, with all her heart and soul, for

something—? HELMER: What’s that? NORA: Then would you do it? HELMER: First, naturally, I’d have to know what it was. NORA: Your squirrel would scamper about and do tricks, if you’d only be

sweet and give in. HELMER: Out with it. NORA: Your lark would be singing high and low in every room— HELMER: Come on, she does that anyway. NORA: I’d be a wood nymph and dance for you in the moonlight. HELMER: Nora—don’t tell me it’s that same business from this morning? NORA: (coming closer) Yes, Torvald, I beg you, please! HELMER: And you actually have the nerve to drag that up again? NORA: Yes, yes, you’ve got to give in to me; you have to let Krogstad keep

his job in the bank. HELMER: My dear Nora, I’ve slated his job for Mrs. Linde. NORA: That’s awfully kind of you. But you could just �re another clerk

instead of Krogstad. HELMER: This is the most incredible stubbornness! Because you go and

give an impulsive promise to speak up for him, I’m expected to— NORA: That’s not the reason, Torvald. It’s for your own sake. That man

does writing for the worst papers; you said it yourself. He could do you any amount of harm. I’m scared to death of him—

HELMER: Ah, I understand. It’s the old memories haunting you. NORA: What do you mean by that? HELMER: Of course, you’re thinking about your father. NORA: Yes, all right. Just remember how those nasty gossips wrote in the

papers about Papa and slandered him so cruelly. I think they’d have had him dismissed if the department hadn’t sent you up to investigate, and if you hadn’t been so kind and open-minded toward him.

HELMER: My dear Nora, there’s a notable difference between your father and me. Your father’s of�cial career was hardly above reproach. But mine is; and I hope it’ll stay that way as long as I hold my position.

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NORA: Oh, who can ever tell what vicious minds can invent? We could be so snug and happy now in our quiet, carefree home—you and I and the children, Torvald! That’s why I’m pleading with you so—

HELMER: And just by pleading for him you make it impossible for me to keep him on. It’s already known at the bank that I’m �ring Krogstad. What if it’s rumored around now that the new bank manager was vetoed by his wife—

NORA: Yes, what then—? HELMER: Oh yes—as long as our little bundle of stubbornness gets her

way—! I should go and make myself ridiculous in front of the whole of�ce—give people the idea I can be swayed by all kinds of outside pressure. Oh, you can bet I’d feel the effects of that soon enough! Besides—there’s something that rules Krogstad right out at the bank as long as I’m the manager.

NORA: What’s that? HELMER: His moral failings I could maybe overlook if I had to— NORA: Yes, Torvald, why not? HELMER: And I hear he’s quite ef�cient on the job. But he was a crony

of mine back in my teens—one of those rash friendships that crop up again and again to embarrass you later in life. Well, I might as well say it straight out: we’re on a �rst-name basis. And that tactless fool makes no effort at all to hide it in front of others. Quite the contrary—he thinks that entitles him to take a familiar air around me, and so every other second he comes booming out with his “Yes, Torvald!” and “Sure thing, Torvald!” I tell you, it’s been excruciating for me. He’s out to make my place in the bank unbearable.

NORA: Torvald, you can’t be serious about all this. HELMER: Oh no? Why not? NORA: Because these are such petty considerations. HELMER: What are you saying? Petty? You think I’m petty! NORA: No, just the opposite, Torvald dear. That’s exactly why— HELMER: Never mind. You call my motives petty; then I might as well be

just that. Petty! All right! We’ll put a stop to this for good. (Goes to the hall door and calls.) Helene!

NORA: What do you want? HELMER: (searching among his papers) A decision. (The Maid comes in.)

Look here; take this letter; go out with it at once. Get hold of a mes- senger and have him deliver it. Quick now. It’s already addressed. Wait, here’s some money.

MAID: Yes, sir. (She leaves with the letter.) HELMER: (straightening his papers) There, now, little Miss Willful. NORA: (breathlessly) Torvald, what was that letter? HELMER: Krogstad’s notice.

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NORA: Call it back, Torvald! There’s still time. Oh, Torvald, call it back! Do it for my sake—for your sake, for the children’s sake! Do you hear, Torvald; do it! You don’t know how this can harm us.

HELMER: Too late. NORA: Yes, too late. HELMER: Nora dear, I can forgive you this panic, even though basically

you’re insulting me. Yes, you are! Or isn’t it an insult to think that I should be afraid of a courtroom hack’s revenge? But I forgive you any- way, because this shows so beautifully how much you love me. (Takes her in his arms.) This is the way it should be, my darling Nora. What- ever comes, you’ll see: when it really counts, I have strength and cour- age enough as a man to take on the whole weight myself.

NORA: (terri�ed) What do you mean by that? HELMER: The whole weight, I said. NORA: (resolutely) No, never in all the world. HELMER: Good. So we’ll share it, Nora, as man and wife. That’s as

it should be. (Fondling her.) Are you happy now? There, there, there—not these frightened dove’s eyes. It’s nothing at all but empty fantasies—Now you should run through your tarantella and practice your tambourine. I’ll go to the inner of�ce and shut both doors, so I won’t hear a thing; you can make all the noise you like. (Turning in the doorway.) And when Rank comes, just tell him where he can �nd me. (He nods to her and goes with his papers into the study, closing the door.)

NORA: (standing as though rooted, dazed with fright, in a whisper) He really could do it. He will do it. He’ll do it in spite of everything. No, not that, never, never! Anything but that! Escape! A way out—(The door- bell rings.) Dr. Rank! Anything but that! Anything, whatever it is! (Her hands pass over her face, smoothing it; she pulls herself together, goes over and opens the hall door. Dr. Rank stands outside, hanging his fur coat up. During the following scene, it begins getting dark.)

NORA: Hello, Dr. Rank. I recognized your ring. But you mustn’t go in to Torvald yet; I believe he’s working.

RANK: And you? NORA: For you, I always have an hour to spare—you know that. (He has

entered, and she shuts the door after him.) RANK: Many thanks. I’ll make use of these hours while I can. NORA: What do you mean by that? While you can? RANK: Does that disturb you? NORA: Well, it’s such an odd phrase. Is anything going to happen? RANK: What’s going to happen is what I’ve been expecting so long—but I

honestly didn’t think it would come so soon. NORA: (gripping his arm) What is it you’ve found out? Dr. Rank, you have

to tell me!

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RANK: (sitting by the stove) It’s all over with me. There’s nothing to be done about it.

NORA: (breathing easier) Is it you—then—? RANK: Who else? There’s no point in lying to one’s self. I’m the most mis-

erable of all my patients, Mrs. Helmer. These past few days I’ve been auditing my internal accounts. Bankrupt! Within a month I’ll probably be laid out and rotting in the churchyard.

NORA: Oh, what a horrible thing to say. RANK: The thing itself is horrible. But the worst of it is all the other hor-

ror before it’s over. There’s only one �nal examination left; when I’m �nished with that, I’ll know about when my disintegration will begin. There’s something I want to say. Helmer with his sensitivity has such a sharp distaste for anything ugly. I don’t want him near my sickroom.

NORA: Oh, but Dr. Rank— RANK: I won’t have him in there. Under no condition. I’ll lock my door

to him—As soon as I’m completely sure of the worst, I’ll send you my calling card marked with a black cross, and you’ll know then the wreck has started to come apart.

NORA: No, today you’re completely unreasonable. And I wanted you so much to be in a really good humor.

RANK: With death up my sleeve? And then to suffer this way for somebody else’s sins. Is there any justice in that? And in every single family, in some way or another, this inevitable retribution of nature goes on—

NORA: (her hands pressed over her ears) Oh, stuff! Cheer up! Please—be gay! RANK: Yes, I’d just as soon laugh at it all. My poor, innocent spine, serving

time for my father’s gay army days. NORA: (by the table, left) He was so infatuated with asparagus tips and pâté

de foie gras, wasn’t that it? RANK: Yes—and with truf�es. NORA: Truf�es, yes. And then with oysters, I suppose? RANK: Yes, tons of oysters, naturally. NORA: And then the port and champagne to go with it. It’s so sad that all

these delectable things have to strike at our bones. RANK: Especially when they strike at the unhappy bones that never shared

in the fun. NORA: Ah, that’s the saddest of all. RANK: (looks searchingly at her) Hm. NORA: (after a moment) Why did you smile? RANK: No, it was you who laughed. NORA: No, it was you who smiled, Dr. Rank! RANK: (getting up) You’re even a bigger tease than I’d thought. NORA: I’m full of wild ideas today. RANK: That’s obvious.

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NORA: (putting both hands on his shoulders) Dear, dear Dr. Rank, you’ll never die for Torvald and me.

RANK: Oh, that loss you’ll easily get over. Those who go away are soon forgotten.

NORA: (looks fearfully at him) You believe that? RANK: One makes new connections, and then— NORA: Who makes new connections? RANK: Both you and Torvald will when I’m gone. I’d say you’re well under

way already. What was that Mrs. Linde doing here last evening? NORA: Oh, come—you can’t be jealous of poor Kristine? RANK: Oh yes, I am. She’ll be my successor here in the house. When I’m

down under, that woman will probably— NORA: Shh! Not so loud. She’s right in there. RANK: Today as well. So you see. NORA: Only to sew on my dress. Good gracious, how unreasonable you

are. (Sitting on the sofa.) Be nice now, Dr. Rank. Tomorrow you’ll see how beautifully I’ll dance; and you can imagine then that I’m dancing only for you—yes, and of course for Torvald, too—that’s understood. (Takes various items out of the carton.) Dr. Rank, sit over here and I’ll show you something.

RANK: (sitting) What’s that? NORA: Look here. Look. RANK: Silk stockings. NORA: Flesh-colored. Aren’t they lovely? Now it’s so dark here, but

tomorrow—No, no, no, just look at the feet. Oh well, you might as well look at the rest.

RANK: Hm— NORA: Why do you look so critical? Don’t you believe they’ll �t? RANK: I’ve never had any chance to form an opinion on that. NORA: (glancing at him a moment) Shame on you. (Hits him lightly on the ear

with the stockings.) That’s for you. (Puts them away again.) RANK: And what other splendors am I going to see now? NORA: Not the least bit more, because you’ve been naughty. (She hums a

little and rummages among her things.) RANK: (after a short silence) When I sit here together with you like

this, completely easy and open, then I don’t know—I simply can’t imagine—whatever would have become of me if I’d never come into this house.

NORA: (smiling) Yes, I really think you feel completely at ease with us. RANK: (more quietly, staring straight ahead) And then to have to go away

from it all— NORA: Nonsense, you’re not going away.

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RANK: (his voice unchanged)—and not even be able to leave some poor show of gratitude behind, scarcely a �eeting regret—no more than a vacant place that anyone can �ll.

NORA: And if I asked you now for—? No— RANK: For what? NORA: For a great proof of your friendship— RANK: Yes, yes? NORA: No, I mean—for an exceptionally big favor— RANK: Would you really, for once, make me so happy? NORA: Oh, you haven’t the vaguest idea what it is. RANK: All right, then tell me. NORA: No, but I can’t, Dr. Rank—it’s all out of reason. It’s advice and

help, too—and a favor— RANK: So much the better. I can’t fathom what you’re hinting at. Just

speak out. Don’t you trust me? NORA: Of course. More than anyone else. You’re my best and truest friend,

I’m sure. That’s why I want to talk to you. All right, then, Dr. Rank: there’s something you can help me prevent. You know how deeply, how inexpressibly dearly Torvald loves me; he’d never hesitate a sec- ond to give up his life for me.

RANK: (leaning close to her) Nora—do you think he’s the only one— NORA: (with a slight start) Who—? RANK: Who’d gladly give up his life for you. NORA: (heavily) I see. RANK: I swore to myself you should know this before I’m gone. I’ll never

�nd a better chance. Yes, Nora, now you know. And also you know now that you can trust me beyond anyone else.

NORA: (rising, natural and calm) Let me by. RANK: (making room for her, but still sitting) Nora— NORA: (in the hall doorway) Helene, bring the lamp in. (Goes over to the

stove.) Ah, dear Dr. Rank, that was really mean of you. RANK: (getting up) That I’ve loved you just as deeply as somebody else?

Was that mean? NORA: No, but that you came out and told me. That was quite

unnecessary— RANK: What do you mean? Have you known—?

The Maid comes in with the lamp, sets it on the table, and goes out again.

RANK: Nora—Mrs. Helmer—I’m asking you: have you known about it? NORA: Oh, how can I tell what I know or don’t know? Really, I don’t

know what to say—Why did you have to be so clumsy, Dr. Rank! Everything was so good.

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RANK: Well, in any case, you now have the knowledge that my body and soul are at your command. So won’t you speak out?

NORA: (looking at him) After that? RANK: Please, just let me know what it is. NORA: You can’t know anything now. RANK: I have to. You mustn’t punish me like this. Give me the chance to

do whatever is humanly possible for you. NORA: Now there’s nothing you can do for me. Besides, actually, I don’t

need any help. You’ll see—it’s only my fantasies. That’s what it is. Of course! (Sits in the rocker, looks at him, and smiles.) What a nice one you are, Dr. Rank. Aren’t you a little bit ashamed, now that the lamp is here?

RANK: No, not exactly. But perhaps I’d better go—for good? NORA: No, you certainly can’t do that. You must come here just as you

always have. You know Torvald can’t do without you. RANK: Yes, but you? NORA: You know how much I enjoy it when you’re here. RANK: That’s precisely what threw me off. You’re a mystery to me. So

many times I’ve felt you’d almost rather be with me than with Helmer. NORA: Yes—you see, there are some people that one loves most and other

people that one would almost prefer being with. RANK: Yes, there’s something to that. NORA: When I was back home, of course I loved Papa most. But I always

thought it was so much fun when I could sneak down to the maids’ quarters, because they never tried to improve me, and it was always so amusing, the way they talked to each other.

RANK: Aha, so it’s their place that I’ve �lled. NORA: (jumping up and going to him) Oh, dear, sweet Dr. Rank, that’s not

what I mean at all. But you can understand that with Torvald it’s just the same as with Papa—

The Maid enters from the hall.

MAID: Ma’am—please! (She whispers to Nora and hands her a calling card.) NORA: (glancing at the card) Ah! (Slips it into her pocket.) RANK: Anything wrong? NORA: No, no, not at all. It’s only some—it’s my new dress— RANK: Really? But—there’s your dress. NORA: Oh, that. But this is another one—I ordered it—Torvald mustn’t

know— RANK: Ah, now we have the big secret. NORA: That’s right. Just go in with him—he’s back in the inner study.

Keep him there as long as— RANK: Don’t worry. He won’t get away. (Goes into the study.)

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NORA: (to the Maid) And he’s standing waiting in the kitchen? MAID: Yes, he came up by the back stairs. NORA: But didn’t you tell him somebody was here? MAID: Yes, but that didn’t do any good. NORA: He won’t leave? MAID: No, he won’t go till he’s talked with you, ma’am. NORA: Let him come in, then—but quietly. Helene, don’t breathe a word

about this. It’s a surprise for my husband. MAID: Yes, yes, I understand—(Goes out.) NORA: This horror—it’s going to happen. No, no, no, it can’t happen, it

mustn’t. (She goes and bolts Helmer’s door. The Maid opens the hall door for Krogstad and shuts it behind him. He is dressed for travel in a fur coat, boots, and a fur cap.)

NORA: (going toward him) Talk softly. My husband’s home. KROGSTAD: Well, good for him. NORA: What do you want? KROGSTAD: Some information. NORA: Hurry up, then. What is it? KROGSTAD: You know, of course, that I got my notice. NORA: I couldn’t prevent it, Mr. Krogstad. I fought for you to the bitter

end, but nothing worked. KROGSTAD: Does your husband’s love for you run so thin? He knows every-

thing I can expose you to, and all the same he dares to— NORA: How can you imagine he knows anything about this? KROGSTAD: Ah, no—I can’t imagine it either, now. It’s not at all like my

�ne Torvald Helmer to have so much guts— NORA: Mr. Krogstad, I demand respect for my husband! KROGSTAD: Why, of course—all due respect. But since the lady’s keeping

it so carefully hidden, may I presume to ask if you’re also a bit better informed than yesterday about what you’ve actually done?

NORA: More than you ever could teach me. KROGSTAD: Yes, I am such an awful lawyer. NORA: What is it you want from me? KROGSTAD: Just a glimpse of how you are, Mrs. Helmer. I’ve been thinking

about you all day long. A cashier, a night-court scribbler, a—well, a type like me also has a little of what they call a heart, you know.

NORA: Then show it. Think of my children. KROGSTAD: Did you or your husband ever think of mine? But never mind.

I simply wanted to tell you that you don’t need to take this thing too seriously. For the present, I’m not proceeding with any action.

NORA: Oh no, really! Well—I knew that. KROGSTAD: Everything can be settled in a friendly spirit. It doesn’t have to

get around town at all; it can stay just among us three.

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NORA: My husband must never know anything of this. KROGSTAD: How can you manage that? Perhaps you can pay me the

balance? NORA: No, not right now. KROGSTAD: Or you know some way of raising the money in a day or two? NORA: No way that I’m willing to use. KROGSTAD: Well, it wouldn’t have done you any good, anyway. If you

stood in front of me with a �stful of bills, you still couldn’t buy your signature back.

NORA: Then tell me what you’re going to do with it. KROGSTAD: I’ll just hold onto it—keep it on �le. There’s no outsider who’ll

even get wind of it. So if you’ve been thinking of taking some desper- ate step—

NORA: I have. KROGSTAD: Been thinking of running away from home— NORA: I have! KROGSTAD: Or even of something worse— NORA: How could you guess that? KROGSTAD: You can drop those thoughts. NORA: How could you guess I was thinking of that? KROGSTAD: Most of us think about that at �rst. I thought about it too, but

I discovered I hadn’t the courage— NORA: (lifelessly) I don’t either. KROGSTAD: (relieved) That’s true, you haven’t the courage? You too? NORA: I don’t have it—I don’t have it. KROGSTAD: It would be terribly stupid, anyway. After that �rst storm at

home blows out, why, then—I have here in my pocket a letter for your husband—

NORA: Telling everything? KROGSTAD: As charitably as possible. NORA: (quickly) He mustn’t ever get that letter. Tear it up. I’ll �nd some

way to get money. KROGSTAD: Beg pardon, Mrs. Helmer, but I think I just told you— NORA: Oh, I don’t mean the money I owe you. Let me know how much

you want from my husband, and I’ll manage it. KROGSTAD: I don’t want any money from your husband. NORA: What do you want, then? KROGSTAD: I’ll tell you what. I want to recoup, Mrs. Helmer; I want to get

on in the world—and there’s where your husband can help me. For a year and a half I’ve kept myself clean of anything disreputable—all that time struggling with the worst conditions; but I was satis�ed, working my way up step by step. Now I’ve been written right off, and I’m just not in the mood to come crawling back. I tell you, I want to

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move on. I want to get back in the bank—in a better position. Your husband can set up a job for me—

NORA: He’ll never do that! KROGSTAD: He’ll do it. I know him. He won’t dare breathe a word of

protest. And once I’m in there together with him, you just wait and see! Inside of a year, I’ll be the manager’s right-hand man. It’ll be Nils Krogstad, not Torvald Helmer, who runs the bank.

NORA: You’ll never see the day! KROGSTAD: Maybe you think you can— NORA: I have the courage now—for that. KROGSTAD: Oh, you don’t scare me. A smart, spoiled lady like you— NORA: You’ll see; you’ll see! KROGSTAD: Under the ice, maybe? Down in the freezing, coal-black water?

There, till you �oat up in the spring, ugly, unrecognizable, with your hair falling out—

NORA: You don’t frighten me. KROGSTAD: Nor do you frighten me. One doesn’t do these things, Mrs.

Helmer. Besides, what good would it be? I’d still have him safe in my pocket.

NORA: Afterwards? When I’m no longer—? KROGSTAD: Are you forgetting that I’ll be in control then over your �nal

reputation? (Nora stands speechless, staring at him.) Good; now I’ve warned you. Don’t do anything stupid. When Helmer’s read my letter, I’ll be waiting for his reply. And bear in mind that it’s your husband himself who’s forced me back to my old ways. I’ll never forgive him for that. Good-bye, Mrs. Helmer. (He goes out through the hall.)

NORA: (goes to the hall door, opens it a crack, and listens) He’s gone. Didn’t leave the letter. Oh no, no, that’s impossible too! (Opening the door more and more.) What’s that? He’s standing outside—not going down- stairs. He’s thinking it over? Maybe he’ll—? (A letter falls in the mailbox; then Krogstad’s footsteps are heard, dying away down a �ight of stairs. Nora gives a muf�ed cry and runs over toward the sofa table. A short pause.) In the mailbox. (Slips warily over to the hall door.) It’s lying there. Torvald, Torvald—now we’re lost!

MRS. LINDE: (entering with the costume from the room, left) There now, I can’t see anything else to mend. Perhaps you’d like to try—

NORA: (in a hoarse whisper) Kristine, come here. MRS. LINDE: (tossing the dress on the sofa) What’s wrong? You look upset. NORA: Come here. See that letter? There! Look—through the glass in the

mailbox. MRS. LINDE: Yes, yes, I see it. NORA: That letter’s from Krogstad— MRS. LINDE: Nora—it’s Krogstad who loaned you the money!

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NORA: Yes, and now Torvald will �nd out everything. MRS. LINDE: Believe me, Nora, it’s best for both of you. NORA: There’s more you don’t know. I forged a name. MRS. LINDE: But for heaven’s sake—? NORA: I only want to tell you that, Kristine, so that you can be my witness. MRS. LINDE: Witness? Why should I—? NORA: If I should go out of my mind—it could easily happen— MRS. LINDE: Nora! NORA: Or anything else occurred—so I couldn’t be present here— MRS. LINDE: Nora, Nora, you aren’t yourself at all! NORA: And someone should try to take on the whole weight, all of the

guilt, you follow me— MRS. LINDE: Yes, of course, but why do you think—? NORA: Then you’re the witness that it isn’t true, Kristine. I’m very much

myself; my mind right now is perfectly clear; and I’m telling you: nobody else has known about this; I alone did everything. Remember that.

MRS. LINDE: I will. But I don’t understand all this. NORA: Oh, how could you ever understand it? It’s the miracle now that’s

going to take place. MRS. LINDE: The miracle? NORA: Yes, the miracle. But it’s so awful, Kristine. It mustn’t take place,

not for anything in the world. MRS. LINDE: I’m going right over and talk with Krogstad. NORA: Don’t go near him; he’ll do you some terrible harm! MRS. LINDE: There was a time once when he’d gladly have done anything

for me. NORA: He? MRS. LINDE: Where does he live? NORA: Oh, how do I know? Yes. (Searches in her pocket.) Here’s his card.

But the letter, the letter—! HELMER: (from the study, knocking on the door) Nora! NORA: (with a cry of fear) Oh! What is it? What do you want? HELMER: Now, now, don’t be so frightened. We’re not coming in. You

locked the door—are you trying on the dress? NORA: Yes, I’m trying it. I’ll look just beautiful, Torvald. MRS. LINDE: (who has read the card) He’s living right around the corner. NORA: Yes, but what’s the use? We’re lost. The letter’s in the box. MRS. LINDE: And your husband has the key? NORA: Yes, always. MRS. LINDE: Krogstad can ask for his letter back unread; he can �nd some

excuse— NORA: But it’s just this time that Torvald usually—

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MRS. LINDE: Stall him. Keep him in there. I’ll be back as quick as I can. (She hurries out through the hall entrance.)

NORA: (goes to Helmer’s door, opens it, and peers in) Torvald! HELMER: (from the inner study) Well—does one dare set foot in one’s own

living room at last? Come on, Rank, now we’ll get a look—(In the door- way.) But what’s this?

NORA: What, Torvald dear? HELMER: Rank had me expecting some grand masquerade. RANK: (in the doorway) That was my impression, but I must have been

wrong. NORA: No one can admire me in my splendor—not till tomorrow. HELMER: But Nora dear, you look so exhausted. Have you practiced too

hard? NORA: No, I haven’t practiced at all yet. HELMER: You know, it’s necessary— NORA: Oh, it’s absolutely necessary, Torvald. But I can’t get anywhere

without your help. I’ve forgotten the whole thing completely. HELMER: Ah, we’ll soon take care of that. NORA: Yes, take care of me, Torvald, please! Promise me that? Oh, I’m so

nervous. That big party—You must give up everything this evening for me. No business—don’t even touch your pen. Yes? Dear Torvald, promise?

HELMER: It’s a promise. Tonight I’m totally at your service—you little helpless thing. Hm—but �rst there’s one thing I want to—(Goes toward the hall door.)

NORA: What are you looking for? HELMER: Just to see if there’s any mail. NORA: No, no, don’t do that, Torvald! HELMER: Now what? NORA: Torvald, please. There isn’t any. HELMER: Let me look, though. (Starts out. Nora, at the piano, strikes the �rst

notes of the tarantella. Helmer, at the door, stops.) Aha! NORA: I can’t dance tomorrow if I don’t practice with you. HELMER: (going over to her) Nora dear, are you really so frightened? NORA: Yes, so terribly frightened. Let me practice right now; there’s still

time before dinner. Oh, sit down and play for me, Torvald. Direct me. Teach me, the way you always have.

HELMER: Gladly, if it’s what you want. (Sits at the piano.) NORA: (snatches the tambourine up from the box, then a long, varicolored

shawl, which she throws around herself, whereupon she springs forward and cries out) Play for me now! Now I’ll dance!

Helmer plays and Nora dances. Rank stands behind Helmer at the piano and looks on.

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HELMER: (as he plays) Slower. Slow down. NORA: Can’t change it. HELMER: Not so violent, Nora! NORA: Has to be just like this. HELMER: (stopping) No, no, that won’t do at all. NORA: (laughing and swinging her tambourine) Isn’t that what I told you? RANK: Let me play for her. HELMER: (getting up) Yes, go on. I can teach her more easily then.

Rank sits at the piano and plays; Nora dances more and more wildly. Helmer has stationed himself by the stove and repeatedly gives her directions; she seems not to hear them; her hair loosens and falls over her shoulders; she does not notice, but goes on dancing. Mrs. Linde enters.

MRS. LINDE: (standing dumbfounded at the door) Ah—! NORA: (still dancing) See what fun, Kristine! HELMER: But Nora darling, you dance as if your life were at stake. NORA: And it is. HELMER: Rank, stop! This is pure madness. Stop it, I say!

Rank breaks off playing, and Nora halts abruptly.

HELMER: (going over to her) I never would have believed it. You’ve forgot- ten everything I taught you.

NORA: (throwing away the tambourine) You see for yourself. HELMER: Well, there’s certainly room for instruction here. NORA: Yes, you see how important it is. You’ve got to teach me to the very

last minute. Promise me that, Torvald? HELMER: You can bet on it. NORA: You mustn’t, either today or tomorrow, think about anything else

but me; you mustn’t open any letters—or the mailbox— HELMER: Ah, it’s still the fear of that man— NORA: Oh yes, yes, that too. HELMER: Nora, it’s written all over you—there’s already a letter from him

out there. NORA: I don’t know. I guess so. But you mustn’t read such things now;

there mustn’t be anything ugly between us before it’s all over. RANK: (quietly to Helmer) You shouldn’t deny her. HELMER: (putting his arm around her) The child can have her way. But

tomorrow night, after you’ve danced— NORA: Then you’ll be free. MAID: (in the doorway, right) Ma’am, dinner is served. NORA: We’ll be wanting champagne, Helene. MAID: Very good, ma’am. (Goes out.) HELMER: So—a regular banquet, hm?

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NORA: Yes, a banquet—champagne till daybreak! (Calling out.) And some macaroons, Helene. Heaps of them—just this once.

HELMER: (taking her hands) Now, now, now—no hysterics. Be my own little lark again.

NORA: Oh, I will soon enough. But go on in—and you, Dr. Rank. Kristine, help me put up my hair.

RANK: (whispering, as they go) There’s nothing wrong—really wrong, is there?

HELMER: Oh, of course not. It’s nothing more than this childish anxiety I was telling you about. (They go out, right.)

NORA: Well? MRS. LINDE: Left town. NORA: I could see by your face. MRS. LINDE: He’ll be home tomorrow evening. I wrote him a note. NORA: You shouldn’t have. Don’t try to stop anything now. After all, it’s a

wonderful joy, this waiting here for the miracle. MRS. LINDE: What is it you’re waiting for? NORA: Oh, you can’t understand that. Go in to them: I’ll be along in a

moment.

Mrs. Linde goes into the dining room. Nora stands a short while as if composing herself; then she looks at her watch.

NORA: Five. Seven hours to midnight. Twenty-four hours to the midnight after, and then the tarantella’s done. Seven and twenty-four? Thirty- one hours to live.

HELMER: (in the doorway, right) What’s become of the little lark? NORA: (going toward him with open arms) Here’s your lark!

ACT 3 Same scene. The table, with chairs around it, has been moved to the center of the room. A lamp on the table is lit. The hall door stands open. Dance music drifts down from the �oor above. Mrs. Linde sits at the table, absently paging through a book, trying to read, but apparently unable to focus her thoughts. Once or twice she pauses, tensely listening for a sound at the outer entrance.

MRS. LINDE: (glancing at her watch) Not yet—and there’s hardly any time left. If only he’s not—(Listening again.) Ah, there he is. (She goes out in the hall and cautiously opens the outer door. Quiet footsteps are heard on the stairs. She whispers:) Come in. Nobody’s here.

KROGSTAD: (in the doorway) I found a note from you at home. What’s back of all this?

MRS. LINDE: I just had to talk to you. KROGSTAD: Oh? And it just had to be here in this house?

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MRS. LINDE: At my place it was impossible; my room hasn’t a private entrance. Come in; we’re all alone. The maid’s asleep, and the Helmers are at the dance upstairs.

KROGSTAD: (entering the room) Well, well, the Helmers are dancing to- night? Really?

MRS. LINDE: Yes, why not? KROGSTAD: How true—why not? MRS. LINDE: All right, Krogstad, let’s talk. KROGSTAD: Do we two have anything more to talk about? MRS. LINDE: We have a great deal to talk about. KROGSTAD: I wouldn’t have thought so. MRS. LINDE: No, because you’ve never understood me, really. KROGSTAD: Was there anything more to understand—except what’s all too

common in life? A calculating woman throws over a man the moment a better catch comes by.

MRS. LINDE: You think I’m so thoroughly calculating? You think I broke it off lightly?

KROGSTAD: Didn’t you? MRS. LINDE: Nils—is that what you really thought? KROGSTAD: If you cared, then why did you write me the way you did? MRS. LINDE: What else could I do? If I had to break off with you, then it

was my job as well to root out everything you felt for me. KROGSTAD: (wringing his hands) So that was it. And this—all this, simply

for money! MRMRM S. LINDE: Don’t forget I had a helpless mother and two small brothers. We

couldn’t wait for you, Nils; you had such a long road ahead of you then. KROGSTAD: That may be; but you still hadn’t the right to abandon me for

somebody else’s sake. MRS. LINDE: Yes—I don’t know. So many, many times I’ve asked myself if

I did have that right. KROGSTAD: (more softly) When I lost you, it was as if all the solid ground

dissolved from under my feet. Look at me; I’m a half-drowned man now, hanging onto a wreck.

MRS. LINDE: Help may be near. KROGSTAD: It was near—but then you came and blocked it off. MRS. LINDE: Without my knowing it, Nils. Today for the �rst time

I learned that it’s you I’m replacing at the bank. KROGSTAD: All right—I believe you. But now that you know, will you step

aside? MRS. LINDE: No, because that wouldn’t bene�t you in the slightest. KROGSTAD: Not “bene�t” me, hm! I’d step aside anyway. MRS. LINDE: I’ve learned to be realistic. Life and hard, bitter necessity

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KROGSTAD: And life’s taught me never to trust �ne phrases. MRS. LINDE: Then life’s taught you a very sound thing. But you do have to

trust in actions, don’t you? KROGSTAD: What does that mean? MRS. LINDE: You said you were hanging on like a half-drowned man to a

wreck. KROGSTAD: I’ve good reason to say that. MRS. LINDE: I’m also like a half-drowned woman on a wreck. No one to

suffer with; no one to care for. KROGSTAD: You made your choice. MRS. LINDE: There wasn’t any choice then. KROGSTAD: So—what of it? MRS. LINDE: Nils, if only we two shipwrecked people could reach across to

each other. KROGSTAD: What are you saying? MRS. LINDE: Two on one wreck are at least better off than each on his

own. KROGSTAD: Kristine! MRS. LINDE: Why do you think I came into town? KROGSTAD: Did you really have some thought of me? MRS. LINDE: I have to work to go on living. All my born days, as long as

I can remember, I’ve worked, and it’s been my best and my only joy. But now I’m completely alone in the world; it frightens me to be so empty and lost. To work for yourself—there’s no joy in that. Nils, give me something—someone to work for.

KROGSTAD: I don’t believe all this. It’s just some hysterical feminine urge to go out and make a noble sacri�ce.

MRS. LINDE: Have you ever found me to be hysterical? KROGSTAD: Can you honestly mean this? Tell me—do you know every-

thing about my past? MRS. LINDE: Yes. KROGSTAD: And you know what they think I’m worth around here. MRS. LINDE: From what you were saying before, it would seem that with

me you could have been another person. KROGSTAD: I’m positive of that. MRS. LINDE: Couldn’t it happen still? KROGSTAD: Kristine—you’re saying this in all seriousness? Yes, you are!

I can see it in you. And do you really have the courage, then—? MRS. LINDE: I need to have someone to care for; and your children need a

mother. We both need each other. Nils, I have faith that you’re good at heart—I’ll risk everything together with you.

KROGSTAD: (gripping her hands) Kristine, thank you, thank you—Now I know I can win back a place in their eyes. Yes—but I forgot—

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MRS. LINDE: (listening) Shh! The tarantella. Go now! Go on! KROGSTAD: Why? What is it? MRS. LINDE: Hear the dance up there? When that’s over, they’ll be coming

down. KROGSTAD: Oh, then I’ll go. But—it’s all pointless. Of course, you don’t

know the move I made against the Helmers. MRS. LINDE: Yes, Nils, I know. KROGSTAD: And all the same, you have the courage to—? MRS. LINDE: I know how far despair can drive a man like you. KROGSTAD: Oh, if I only could take it all back. MRS. LINDE: You easily could—your letter’s still lying in the mailbox. KROGSTAD: Are you sure of that? MRS. LINDE: Positive. But— KROGSTAD: (looks at her searchingly) Is that the meaning of it, then? You’ll

save your friend at any price. Tell me straight out. Is that it? MRS. LINDE: Nils—anyone who’s sold herself for somebody else once isn’t

going to do it again. KROGSTAD: I’ll demand my letter back. MRS. LINDE: No, no. KROGSTAD: Yes, of course. I’ll stay here till Helmer comes down; I’ll tell

him to give me my letter again—that it only involves my dismissal— that he shouldn’t read it—

MRS. LINDE: No, Nils, don’t call the letter back. KROGSTAD: But wasn’t that exactly why you wrote me to come here? MRS. LINDE: Yes, in that �rst panic. But it’s been a whole day and night

since then, and in that time I’ve seen such incredible things in this house. Helmer’s got to learn everything; this dreadful secret has to be aired; those two have to come to a full understanding; all these lies and evasions can’t go on.

KROGSTAD: Well, then, if you want to chance it. But at least there’s one thing I can do, and do right away—

MRS. LINDE: (listening) Go now, go, quick! The dance is over. We’re not safe another second.

KROGSTAD: I’ll wait for you downstairs. MRS. LINDE: Yes, please do; take me home. KROGSTAD: I can’t believe it; I’ve never been so happy. (He leaves by way

of the outer door; the door between the room and the hall stays open.) MRS. LINDE: (straightening up a bit and getting together her street clothes) How

different now! How different! Someone to work for, to live for—a home to build. Well, it is worth the try! Oh, if they’d only come! (Lis- tening.) Ah, there they are. Bundle up. (She picks up her hat and coat. Nora’s and Helmer’s voices can be heard outside; a key turns in the lock, and Helmer brings Nora into the hall almost by force. She is wearing the

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Italian costume with a large black shawl about her; he has on evening dress, with a black domino open over it.)

NORA: (struggling in the doorway) No, no, no, not inside! I’m going up again. I don’t want to leave so soon.

HELMER: But Nora dear— NORA: Oh, I beg you, please, Torvald. From the bottom of my heart,

please—only an hour more! HELMER: Not a single minute, Nora darling. You know our agreement.

Come on, in we go; you’ll catch cold out here. (In spite of her resistance, he gently draws her into the room.)

MRS. LINDE: Good evening. NORA: Kristine! HELMER: Why, Mrs. Linde—are you here so late? MRS. LINDE: Yes, I’m sorry, but I did want to see Nora in costume. NORA: Have you been sitting here, waiting for me? MRS. LINDE: Yes. I didn’t come early enough; you were all upstairs; and

then I thought I really couldn’t leave without seeing you. HELMER: (removing Nora’s shawl) Yes, take a good look. She’s worth look-

ing at, I can tell you that, Mrs. Linde. Isn’t she lovely? MRS. LINDE: Yes, I should say— HELMER: A dream of loveliness, isn’t she? That’s what everyone thought

at the party, too. But she’s horribly stubborn—this sweet little thing. What’s to be done with her? Can you imagine, I almost had to use force to pry her away.

NORA: Oh, Torvald, you’re going to regret you didn’t indulge me, even for just a half hour more.

HELMER: There, you see. She danced her tarantella and got a tumultuous hand—which was well earned, although the performance may have been a bit too naturalistic—I mean it rather overstepped the propri- eties of art. But never mind—what’s important is, she made a success, an overwhelming success. You think I could let her stay on after that and spoil the effect? Oh no; I took my lovely little Capri girl—my capricious little Capri girl, I should say—took her under my arm; one quick tour of the ballroom, a curtsy to every side, and then—as they say in novels—the beautiful vision disappeared. An exit should always be effective, Mrs. Linde, but that’s what I can’t get Nora to grasp. Phew, it’s hot in here. (Flings the domino on a chair and opens the door to his room.) Why’s it dark in here? Oh yes, of course. Excuse me. (He goes in and lights a couple of candles.)

NORA: (in a sharp, breathless whisper) So? MRS. LINDE: (quietly) I talked with him. NORA: And—? MRS. LINDE: Nora—you must tell your husband everything.

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NORA: (dully) I knew it. MRS. LINDE: You’ve got nothing to fear from Krogstad, but you have to

speak out. NORA: I won’t tell. MRS. LINDE: Then the letter will. NORA: Thanks, Kristine. I know now what’s to be done. Shh! HELMER: (reentering) Well, then, Mrs. Linde—have you admired her? MRS. LINDE: Yes, and now I’ll say good night. HELMER: Oh, come, so soon? Is this yours, this knitting? MRS. LINDE: Yes, thanks. I nearly forgot it. HELMER: Do you knit, then? MRS. LINDE: Oh yes. HELMER: You know what? You should embroider instead. MRS. LINDE: Really? Why? HELMER: Yes, because it’s a lot prettier. See here, one holds the embroidery

so, in the left hand, and then one guides the needle with the right— so—in an easy, sweeping curve—right?

MRS. LINDE: Yes, I guess that’s— HELMER: But, on the other hand, knitting—it can never be anything but

ugly. Look, see here, the arms tucked in, the knitting needles going up and down—there’s something Chinese about it. Ah, that was really a glorious champagne they served.

MRS. LINDE: Yes, good night, Nora, and don’t be stubborn any more. HELMER: Well put, Mrs. Linde! MRS. LINDE: Good night, Mr. Helmer. HELMER: (accompanying her to the door) Good night, good night. I hope

you get home all right. I’d be very happy to—but you don’t have far to go. Good night, good night. (She leaves. He shuts the door after her and returns.) There, now, at last we got her out the door. She’s a deadly bore, that creature.

NORA: Aren’t you pretty tired, Torvald? HELMER: No, not a bit. NORA: You’re not sleepy? HELMER: Not at all. On the contrary, I’m feeling quite exhilarated. But

you? Yes, you really look tired and sleepy. NORA: Yes, I’m very tired. Soon now I’ll sleep. HELMER: See! You see! I was right all along that we shouldn’t stay longer. NORA: Whatever you do is always right. HELMER: (kissing her brow) Now my little lark talks sense. Say, did you

notice what a time Rank was having tonight? NORA: Oh, was he? I didn’t get to speak with him. HELMER: I scarcely did either, but it’s a long time since I’ve seen him in

such high spirits. (Gazes at her a moment, then comes nearer her.) Hm—

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it’s marvelous, though, to be back home again—to be completely alone with you. Oh, you bewitchingly lovely young woman!

NORA: Torvald, don’t look at me like that! HELMER: Can’t I look at my richest treasure? At all that beauty that’s

mine, mine alone—completely and utterly. NORA: (moving around to the other side of the table) You mustn’t talk to me

that way tonight. HELMER: (following her) The tarantella is still in your blood, I can see—and

it makes you even more enticing. Listen. The guests are beginning to go. (Dropping his voice.) Nora—it’ll soon be quiet through this whole house.

NORA: Yes, I hope so. HELMER: You do, don’t you, my love? Do you realize—when I’m out at a

party like this with you—do you know why I talk to you so little, and keep such a distance away; just send you a stolen look now and then— you know why I do it? It’s because I’m imagining then that you’re my secret darling, my secret young bride-to-be, and that no one suspects there’s anything between us.

NORA: Yes, yes; oh, yes, I know you’re always thinking of me. HELMER: And then when we leave and I place the shawl over those �ne

young rounded shoulders—over that wonderful curving neck—then I pretend that you’re my young bride, that we’re just coming from the wedding, that for the �rst time I’m bringing you into my house—that for the �rst time I’m alone with you—completely alone with you, your trembling young beauty! All this evening I’ve longed for nothing but you. When I saw you turn and sway in the tarantella—my blood was pounding till I couldn’t stand it—that’s why I brought you down here so early—

NORA: Go away, Torvald! Leave me alone. I don’t want all this. HELMER: What do you mean? Nora, you’re teasing me. You will, won’t

you? Aren’t I your husband—?

A knock at the outside door.

NORA: (startled) What’s that? HELMER: (going toward the hall) Who is it? RANK: (outside) It’s me. May I come in a moment? HELMER: (with quiet irritation) Oh, what does he want now? (Aloud.) Hold

on. (Goes and opens the door.) Oh, how nice that you didn’t just pass us by!

RANK: I thought I heard your voice, and then I wanted so badly to have a look in. (Lightly glancing about.) Ah, me, these old familiar haunts. You have it snug and cozy in here, you two.

HELMER: You seemed to be having it pretty cozy upstairs, too.

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RANK: Absolutely. Why shouldn’t I? Why not take in everything in life? As much as you can, anyway, and as long as you can. The wine was superb—

HELMER: The champagne especially. RANK: You noticed that too? It’s amazing how much I could guzzle down. NORA: Torvald also drank a lot of champagne this evening. RANK: Oh? NORA: Yes, and that always makes him so entertaining. RANK: Well, why shouldn’t one have a pleasant evening after a well spent

day? HELMER: Well spent? I’m afraid I can’t claim that. RANK: (slapping him on the back) But I can, you see! NORA: Dr. Rank, you must have done some scienti�c research today. RANK: Quite so. HELMER: Come now—little Nora talking about scienti�c research! NORA: And can I congratulate you on the results? RANK: Indeed you may. NORA: Then they were good? RANK: The best possible for both doctor and patient—certainty. NORA: (quickly and searchingly) Certainty? RANK: Complete certainty. So don’t I owe myself a gay evening afterwards? NORA: Yes, you’re right, Dr. Rank. HELMER: I’m with you—just so long as you don’t have to suffer for it in the

morning. RANK: Well, one never gets something for nothing in life. NORA: Dr. Rank—are you very fond of masquerade parties? RANK: Yes, if there’s a good array of odd disguises— NORA: Tell me, what should we two go as at the next masquerade? HELMER: You little featherhead—already thinking of the next! RANK: We two? I’ll tell you what: you must go as Charmed Life— HELMER: Yes, but �nd a costume for that! RANK: Your wife can appear just as she looks every day. HELMER: That was nicely put. But don’t you know what you’re going to be? RANK: Yes, Helmer, I’ve made up my mind. HELMER: Well? RANK: At the next masquerade I’m going to be invisible. HELMER: That’s a funny idea. RANK: They say there’s a hat—black, huge—have you never heard of the

hat that makes you invisible? You put it on, and then no one on earth can see you.

HELMER: (suppressing a smile) Ah, of course. RANK: But I’m quite forgetting what I came for. Helmer, give me a cigar,

one of the dark Havanas.

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HELMER: With the greatest of pleasure. (Holds out his case.) RANK: Thanks. (Takes one and cuts off the tip.) NORA: (striking a match) Let me give you a light. RANK: Thank you. (She holds the match for him; he lights the cigar.) And now

good-bye. HELMER: Good-bye, good-bye, old friend. NORA: Sleep well, Doctor. RANK: Thanks for that wish. NORA: Wish me the same. RANK: You? All right, if you like—Sleep well. And thanks for the light.

(He nods to them both and leaves.) HELMER: (his voice subdued) He’s been drinking heavily. NORA: (absently) Could be. (Helmer takes his keys from his pocket and goes

out in the hall.) Torvald—what are you after? HELMER: Got to empty the mailbox; it’s nearly full. There won’t be room

for the morning papers. NORA: Are you working tonight? HELMER: You know I’m not. Why—what’s this? Someone’s been at the

lock. NORA: At the lock—? HELMER: Yes, I’m positive. What do you suppose—? I can’t imagine one of

the maids—? Here’s a broken hairpin. Nora, it’s yours— NORA: (quickly) Then it must be the children— HELMER: You’d better break them of that. Hm, hm—well, opened it after

all. (Takes the contents out and calls into the kitchen.) Helene! Helene, would you put out the lamp in the hall. (He returns to the room, shutting the hall door, then displays the handful of mail.) Look how it’s piled up. (Sorting through them.) Now what’s this?

NORA: (at the window) The letter! Oh, Torvald, no! HELMER: Two calling cards—from Rank. NORA: From Dr. Rank? HELMER: (examining them) “Dr. Rank, Consulting Physician.” They were

on top. He must have dropped them in as he left. NORA: Is there anything on them? HELMER: There’s a black cross over the name. See? That’s a gruesome

notion. He could almost be announcing his own death. NORA: That’s just what he’s doing. HELMER: What! You’ve heard something? Something he’s told you? NORA: Yes. That when those cards came, he’d be taking his leave of us.

He’ll shut himself in now and die. HELMER: Ah, my poor friend! Of course I knew he wouldn’t be here much

longer. But so soon—And then to hide himself away like a wounded animal.

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NORA: If it has to happen, then it’s best it happens in silence—don’t you think so, Torvald?

HELMER: (pacing up and down) He’d grown right into our lives. I simply can’t imagine him gone. He with his suffering and loneliness—like a dark cloud setting off our sunlit happiness. Well, maybe it’s best this way. For him, at least. (Standing still.) And maybe for us too, Nora. Now we’re thrown back on each other, completely. (Embracing her.) Oh you, my darling wife, how can I hold you close enough? You know what, Nora—time and again I’ve wished you were in some terrible danger, just so I could stake my life and soul and everything, for your sake.

NORA: (tearing herself away, her voice �rm and decisive) Now you must read your mail, Torvald.

HELMER: No, no, not tonight. I want to stay with you, dearest. NORA: With a dying friend on your mind? HELMER: You’re right. We’ve both had a shock. There’s ugliness between

us—these thoughts of death and corruption. We’ll have to get free of them �rst. Until then—we’ll stay apart.

NORA: (clinging about his neck) Torvald—good night! Good night! HELMER: (kissing her on the cheek) Good night, little songbird. Sleep well,

Nora. I’ll be reading my mail now. (He takes the letters into his room and shuts the door after him.)

NORA: (with bewildered glances, groping about, seizing Helmer’s domino, throwing it around her, and speaking in short, hoarse, broken whispers) Never see him again. Never, never. (Putting her shawl over her head.) Never see the children either—them, too. Never, never. Oh, the freez- ing black water! The depths—down—Oh, I wish it were over—He has it now; he’s reading it—now. Oh no, no, not yet. Torvald, good-bye, you and the children—(She starts for the hall; as she does, Helmer throws open his door and stands with an open letter in his hand.)

HELMER: Nora! NORA: (screams) Oh—! HELMER: What is this? You know what’s in this letter? NORA: Yes, I know. Let me go! Let me out! HELMER: (holding her back) Where are you going? NORA: (struggling to break loose) You can’t save me, Torvald! HELMER: (slumping back) True! Then it’s true what he writes? How hor-

rible! No, no, it’s impossible—it can’t be true. NORA: It is true. I’ve loved you more than all this world. HELMER: Ah, none of your slippery tricks. NORA: (taking one step toward him) Torvald—! HELMER: What is this you’ve blundered into! NORA: Just let me loose. You’re not going to suffer for my sake. You’re not

going to take on my guilt.

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HELMER: No more playacting. (Locks the hall door.) You stay right here and give me a reckoning. You understand what you’ve done? Answer! You understand?

NORA: (looking squarely at him, her face hardening) Yes. I’m beginning to understand everything now.

HELMER: (striding about) Oh, what an awful awakening! In all these eight years—she who was my pride and joy—a hypocrite, a liar—worse, worse—a criminal! How in�nitely disgusting it all is! The shame! (Nora says nothing and goes on looking straight at him. He stops in front of her.) I should have suspected something of the kind. I should have known. All your father’s �imsy values—Be still! All your father’s �imsy values have come out in you. No religion, no morals, no sense of duty—Oh, how I’m punished for letting him off! I did it for your sake, and you repay me like this.

NORA: Yes, like this. HELMER: Now you’ve wrecked all my happiness—ruined my whole future.

Oh, it’s awful to think of. I’m in a cheap little grafter’s hands; he can do anything he wants with me, ask for anything, play with me like a puppet—and I can’t breathe a word. I’ll be swept down miserably into the depths on account of a featherbrained woman.

NORA: When I’m gone from this world, you’ll be free. HELMER: Oh, quit posing. Your father had a mess of those speeches too.

What good would that ever do me if you were gone from this world, as you say? Not the slightest. He can still make the whole thing known; and if he does, I could be falsely suspected as your accomplice. They might even think that I was behind it—that I put you up to it. And all that I can thank you for—you that I’ve coddled the whole of our marriage. Can you see now what you’ve done to me?

NORA: (icily calm) Yes. HELMER: It’s so incredible, I just can’t grasp it. But we’ll have to patch

up whatever we can. Take off the shawl. I said, take if off! I’ve got to appease him somehow or other. The thing has to be hushed up at any cost. And as for you and me, it’s got to seem like everything between us is just as it was—to the outside world, that is. You’ll go right on living in this house, of course. But you can’t be allowed to bring up the children; I don’t dare trust you with them—Oh, to have to say this to someone I’ve loved so much! Well, that’s done with. From now on happiness doesn’t matter; all that matters is saving the bits and pieces, the appearance—(The doorbell rings. Helmer starts.) What’s that? And so late. Maybe the worst—? You think he’d—? Hide, Nora! Say you’re sick. (Nora remains standing motionless. Helmer goes and opens the door.)

MAID: (half dressed, in the hall) A letter for Mrs. Helmer.

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HELMER: I’ll take it. (Snatches the letter and shuts the door.) Yes, it’s from him. You don’t get it; I’m reading it myself.

NORA: Then read it. HELMER: (by the lamp) I hardly dare. We may be ruined, you and I. But—

I’ve got to know. (Rips open the letter, skims through a few lines, glances at an enclosure, then cries out joyfully.) Nora! (Nora looks inquiringly at him.) Nora! Wait—better check it again—Yes, yes, it’s true. I’m saved. Nora, I’m saved!

NORA: And I? HELMER: You too, of course. We’re both saved, both of us. Look. He’s sent

back your note. He says he’s sorry and ashamed—that a happy devel- opment in his life—oh, who cares what he says! Nora, we’re saved! No one can hurt you. Oh, Nora, Nora—but �rst, this ugliness all has to go. Let me see—(Takes a look at the note.) No, I don’t want to see it; I want the whole thing to fade like a dream. (Tears the note and both letters to pieces, throws them into the stove and watches them burn.) There—now there’s nothing left—He wrote that since Christmas Eve you—Oh, they must have been three terrible days for you, Nora.

NORA: I fought a hard �ght. HELMERHELMERH : And suffered pain and saw no escape but—No, we’re not going

to dwell on anything unpleasant. We’ll just be grateful and keep on repeating: it’s over now, it’s over! You hear me, Nora? You don’t seem to realize—it’s over. What’s it mean—that frozen look? Oh, poor little Nora, I understand. You can’t believe I’ve forgiven you. But I have, Nora; I swear I have. I know that what you did, you did out of love for me.

NORA: That’s true. HELMER: You loved me the way a wife ought to love her husband. It’s

simply the means that you couldn’t judge. But you think I love you any the less for not knowing how to handle your affairs? No, no—just lean on me; I’ll guide you and teach you. I wouldn’t be a man if this feminine helplessness didn’t make you twice as attractive to me. You mustn’t mind those sharp words I said—that was all in the �rst confu- sion of thinking my world had collapsed. I’ve forgiven you, Nora; I swear I’ve forgiven you.

NORA: My thanks for your forgiveness. (She goes out through the door, right.) HELMER: No, wait—(Peers in.) What are you doing in there? NORA: (inside) Getting out of my costume. HELMER: (by the open door) Yes, do that. Try to calm yourself and collect

your thoughts again, my frightened little songbird. You can rest easy now; I’ve got wide wings to shelter you with. (Walking about close by the door.) How snug and nice our home is, Nora. You’re safe here; I’ll keep you like a hunted dove I’ve rescued out of a hawk’s claws. I’ll bring peace to your poor, shuddering heart. Gradually it’ll happen, Nora;

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you’ll see. Tomorrow all this will look different to you; then everything will be as it was. I won’t have to go on repeating I forgive you; you’ll feel it for yourself. How can you imagine I’d ever conceivably want to disown you—or even blame you in any way? Ah, you don’t know a man’s heart, Nora. For a man there’s something indescribably sweet and satisfying in knowing he’s forgiven his wife—and forgiven her out of a full and open heart. It’s as if she belongs to him in two ways now: in a sense he’s given her fresh into the world again, and she’s become his wife and his child as well. From now on that’s what you’ll be to me—you little, bewildered, helpless thing. Don’t be afraid of anything, Nora; just open your heart to me, and I’ll be conscience and will to you both—(Nora enters in her regular clothes.) What’s this? Not in bed? You’ve changed your dress?

NORA: Yes, Torvald, I’ve changed my dress. HELMER: But why now, so late? NORA: Tonight I’m not sleeping. HELMER: But Nora dear— NORA: (looking at her watch) It’s still not so very late. Sit down, Torvald;

we have a lot to talk over. (She sits at one side of the table.) HELMER: Nora—what is this? That hard expression— NORA: Sit down. This’ll take some time. I have a lot to say. HELMER: (sitting at the table directly opposite her) You worry me, Nora. And I

don’t understand you. NORA: No, that’s exactly it. You don’t understand me. And I’ve never

understood you either—until tonight. No, don’t interrupt. You can just listen to what I say. We’re closing out accounts, Torvald.

HELMER: How do you mean that? NORA: (after a short pause) Doesn’t anything strike you about our sitting

here like this? HELMER: What’s that? NORA: We’ve been married now eight years. Doesn’t it occur to you that

this is the �rst time we two, you and I, man and wife, have ever talked seriously together?

HELMER: What do you mean—seriously? NORA: In eight whole years—longer even—right from our �rst acquain-

tance, we’ve never exchanged a serious word on any serious thing. HELMER: You mean I should constantly go and involve you in problems

you couldn’t possibly help me with? NORA: I’m not talking of problems. I’m saying that we’ve never sat down

seriously together and tried to get to the bottom of anything. HELMER: But dearest, what good would that ever do you? NORA: That’s the point right there: you’ve never understood me. I’ve been

wronged greatly, Torvald—�rst by Papa, and then by you.

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HELMER: What! By us—the two people who’ve loved you more than any- one else?

NORA: (shaking her head) You never loved me. You’ve thought it fun to be in love with me, that’s all.

HELMER: Nora, what a thing to say! NORA: Yes, it’s true now, Torvald. When I lived at home with Papa, he

told me all his opinions, so I had the same ones too; or if they were different I hid them, since he wouldn’t have cared for that. He used to call me his doll-child, and he played with me the way I played with my dolls. Then I came into your house—

HELMER: How can you speak of our marriage like that? NORA: (unperturbed) I mean, then I went from Papa’s hands into yours.

You arranged everything to your own taste, and so I got the same taste as you—or I pretended to; I can’t remember. I guess a little of both, �rst one, then the other. Now when I look back, it seems as if I’d lived here like a beggar—just from hand to mouth. I’ve lived by doing tricks for you, Torvald. But that’s the way you wanted it. It’s a great sin what you and Papa did to me. You’re to blame that nothing’s become of me.

HELMER: Nora, how unfair and ungrateful you are! Haven’t you been happy here?

NORA: No, never. I thought so—but I never have. HELMER: Not—not happy! NORA: No, only lighthearted. And you’ve always been so kind to me. But our

home’s been nothing but a playpen. I’ve been your doll-wife here, just as at home I was Papa’s doll-child. And in turn the children have been my dolls. I thought it was fun when you played with me, just as they thought it fun when I played with them. That’s been our marriage, Torvald.

HELMER: There’s some truth in what you’re saying—under all the raving exaggeration. But it’ll all be different after this. Playtime’s over; now for the schooling.

NORA: Whose schooling—mine or the children’s? HELMER: Both yours and the children’s, dearest. NORA: Oh, Torvald, you’re not the man to teach me to be a good wife to

you. HELMER: And you can say that? NORA: And I—how am I equipped to bring up children? HELMER: Nora! NORA: Didn’t you say a moment ago that that was no job to trust me with? HELMER: In a �are of temper! Why fasten on that? NORA: Yes, but you were so very right. I’m not up to the job. There’s another

job I have to do �rst. I have to try to educate myself. You can’t help me with that. I’ve got to do it alone. And that’s why I’m leaving you now.

HELMER: (jumping up) What’s that?

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NORA: I have to stand completely alone, if I’m ever going to discover myself and the world out there. So I can’t go on living with you.

HELMER: Nora, Nora! NORA: I want to leave right away. Kristine should put me up for the

night— HELMER: You’re insane! You’ve no right! I forbid you! NORA: From here on, there’s no use forbidding me anything. I’ll take with

me whatever is mine. I don’t want a thing from you, either now or later. HELMER: What kind of madness is this! NORA: Tomorrow I’m going home—I mean, home where I came from. It’ll

be easier up there to �nd something to do. HELMER: Oh, you blind, incompetent child! NORA: I must learn to be competent, Torvald. HELMER: Abandon your home, your husband, your children! And you’re

not even thinking what people will say. NORA: I can’t be concerned about that. I only know how essential this is. HELMER: Oh, it’s outrageous. So you’ll run out like this on your most

sacred vows. NORA: What do you think are my most sacred vows? HELMER: And I have to tell you that! Aren’t they your duties to your

husband and children? NORA: I have other duties equally sacred. HELMER: That isn’t true. What duties are they? NORA: Duties to myself. HELMER: Before all else, you’re a wife and a mother. NORA: I don’t believe in that any more. I believe that, before all else, I’m

a human being, no less than you—or anyway, I ought to try to become one. I know the majority thinks you’re right, Torvald, and plenty of books agree with you, too. But I can’t go on believing what the major- ity says, or what’s written in books. I have to think over these things myself and try to understand them.

HELMER: Why can’t you understand your place in your own home? On a point like that, isn’t there one everlasting guide you can turn to? Where’s your religion?

NORA: Oh, Torvald, I’m really not sure what religion is. HELMER: What—? NORA: I only know what the minister said when I was con�rmed. He told

me religion was this thing and that. When I get clear and away by my- self, I’ll go into that problem too. I’ll see if what the minister said was right, or, in any case, if it’s right for me.

HELMER: A young woman your age shouldn’t talk like that. If religion can’t move you, I can try to rouse your conscience. You do have some moral feeling? Or, tell me—has that gone too?

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NORA: It’s not easy to answer that, Torvald. I simply don’t know. I’m all confused about these things. I just know I see them so differently from you. I �nd out, for one thing, that the law’s not at all what I’d thought—but I can’t get it through my head that the law is fair. A woman hasn’t a right to protect her dying father or save her husband’s life! I can’t believe that.

HELMER: You talk like a child. You don’t know anything of the world you live in.

NORA: No, I don’t. But now I’ll begin to learn for myself. I’ll try to dis- cover who’s right, the world or I.

HELMER: Nora, you’re sick; you’ve got a fever. I almost think you’re out of your head.

NORA: I’ve never felt more clearheaded and sure in my life. HELMER: And—clearheaded and sure—you’re leaving your husband and

children? NORA: Yes. HELMER: Then there’s only one possible reason. NORA: What? HELMER: You no longer love me. NORA: No. That’s exactly it. HELMER: Nora! You can’t be serious! NORA: Oh, this is so hard, Torvald—you’ve been so kind to me always.

But I can’t help it. I don’t love you any more. HELMER: (struggling for composure) Are you also clearheaded and sure about

that? NORA: Yes, completely. That’s why I can’t go on staying here. HELMER: Can you tell me what I did to lose your love? NORA: Yes, I can tell you. It was this evening when the miraculous thing

didn’t come—then I knew you weren’t the man I’d imagined. HELMER: Be more explicit; I don’t follow you. NORA: I’ve waited now so patiently eight long years—for, my Lord, I know

miracles don’t come every day. Then this crisis broke over me, and such a certainty �lled me: now the miraculous event would occur. While Krogstad’s letter was lying out there, I never for an instant dreamed that you could give in to his terms. I was so utterly sure you’d say to him: go on, tell your tale to the whole wide world. And when he’d done that—

HELMER: Yes, what then? When I’d delivered my own wife into shame and disgrace—!

NORA: When he’d done that, I was so utterly sure that you’d step forward, take the blame on yourself and say: I am the guilty one.

HELMER: Nora—! NORA: You’re thinking I’d never accept such a sacri�ce from you? No, of

course not. But what good would my protests be against you? That was

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the miracle I was waiting for, in terror and hope. And to stave that off, I would have taken my life.

HELMER: I’d gladly work for you day and night, Nora—and take on pain and deprivation. But there’s no one who gives up honor for love.

NORA: Millions of women have done just that. HELMER: Oh, you think and talk like a silly child. NORA: Perhaps. But you neither think nor talk like the man I could join

myself to. When your big fright was over—and it wasn’t from any threat against me, only for what might damage you—when all the danger was past, for you it was just as if nothing had happened. I was exactly the same, your little lark, your doll, that you’d have to handle with double care now that I’d turned out so brittle and frail. (Gets up.) Torvald—in that instant it dawned on me that for eight years I’ve been living here with a stranger, and that I’d even conceived three chil- dren—oh, I can’t stand the thought of it! I could tear myself to bits.

HELMER: (heavily) I see. There’s a gulf that’s opened between us—that’s clear. Oh, but Nora, can’t we bridge it somehow?

NORA: The way I am now, I’m no wife for you. HELMER: I have the strength to make myself over. NORA: Maybe—if your doll gets taken away. HELMER: But to part! To part from you! No, Nora, no—I can’t imagine it. NORA: (going out, right) All the more reason why it has to be. (She reenters

with her coat and a small overnight bag, which she puts on a chair by the table.) HELMER: Nora, Nora, not now! Wait till tomorrow. NORA: I can’t spend the night in a strange man’s room. HELMER: But couldn’t we live here like brother and sister— NORA: You know very well how long that would last. (Throws her shawl

about her.) Good-bye, Torvald. I won’t look in on the children. I know they’re in better hands than mine. The way I am now, I’m no use to them.

HELMER: But someday, Nora—someday—? NORA: How can I tell? I haven’t the least idea what’ll become of me. HELMER: But you’re my wife, now and wherever you go. NORA: Listen, Torvald—I’ve heard that when a wife deserts her husband’s

house just as I’m doing, then the law frees him from all responsibility. In any case, I’m freeing you from being responsible. Don’t feel yourself bound, any more than I will. There has to be absolute freedom for us both. Here, take your ring back. Give me mine.

HELMER: That too? NORA: That too. HELMER: There it is. NORA: Good. Well, now it’s all over. I’m putting the keys here. The maids

know all about keeping up the house—better than I do. Tomorrow,

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after I’ve left town, Kristine will stop by to pack up everything that’s mine from home. I’d like those things shipped up to me.

HELMER: Over! All over! Nora, won’t you ever think about me? NORA: I’m sure I’ll think of you often, and about the children and the

house here. HELMER: May I write you? NORA: No—never. You’re not to do that. HELMER: Oh, but let me send you— NORA: Nothing. Nothing. HELMER: Or help you if you need it. NORA: No. I accept nothing from strangers. HELMER: Nora—can I never be more than a stranger to you? NORA: (picking up the overnight bag) Ah, Torvald—it would take the

greatest miracle of all— HELMER: Tell me the greatest miracle! NORA: You and I both would have to transform ourselves to the point

that—Oh, Torvald, I’ve stopped believing in miracles. HELMER: But I’ll believe. Tell me! Transform ourselves to the point

that—? NORA: That our living together could be a true marriage. (She goes out

down the hall.) HELMER: (sinks down on a chair by the door, face buried in his hands) Nora!

Nora! (Looking about and rising.) Empty. She’s gone. (A sudden hope leaps in him.) The greatest miracle—?

From below, the sound of a door slamming shut.

* * *

Reading and Reacting 1. What is your attitude toward Nora at the beginning of the play? How

does your attitude toward her change as the play progresses? What ac- tions and lines of dialogue change your assessment of her?

2. List the key events that occurred before the start of the play. How do we learn of each event?

3. Explain the role of each of the following in advancing the play’s action: the Christmas tree, the locked mailbox, the telegram Dr. Rank receives, Dr. Rank’s calling cards.

4. In act 2, Torvald says, “Whatever comes, you’ll see: when it really counts, I have strength and courage enough as a man to take on the whole weight myself.” How does this statement in�uence Nora’s subsequent actions?

5. Explain how each of the following foreshadows events that will occur later in the play: Torvald’s comments about Krogstad’s children (act 1);

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Arthur Miller AP Images Arthur Miller

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William Shakespeare Bettmann/Corbis William Shakespeare

In Tennessee Williams’s 1945 play The Glass Menagerie, the protagonist, Tom Wing�eld, functions as the play’s narrator. Stepping out of his role as a character and speaking directly to the audience, he directs the play’s action, music, lighting, and other elements. In addition, he summarizes characters’ actions, explains what motivates them, and discusses the signi�cance of their behavior in the context of the play—commenting on his own character’s actions as well. As narrator, Tom also presents useful background informa- tion about the characters. For instance, when he introduces his coworker, Jim, he prepares the audience for Jim’s entrance and helps them to under- stand his subsequent actions:

In high school Jim was a hero. He had tremendous Irish good nature and vitality with the scrubbed and polished look of white chinaware. He seemed to move in a continual spotlight. . . . But Jim apparently ran into more interference after his graduation. . . . His speed had de�nitely slowed.

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Six years after he left high school he was holding a job that wasn’t much better than mine. (scene 6)

Most plays, however, do not include narrators who present background. Instead, the audience learns about characters from their own words and from comments by others about them, as well as from the characters’ actions. When reading a play, we learn about the characters from the play- wright’s stage directions; when watching a performance, we gain insight into characters from the way actors interpret them.

Characters in plays, like characters in novels and short stories, may be round or �at, static or dynamic. Generally speaking, major characters are likely to be round, whereas minor characters are likely to be �at. Through the language and the actions of the characters, audiences learn whether the characters are multidimensional, skimpily developed, or perhaps merely foils: players whose main purpose is to shed light on more important characters. Audiences also learn about the emotions, attitudes, and values that help to shape the characters—their hopes and fears: their strengths and weaknesses. In addition, by comparing characters’ early words and actions with later ones, audiences learn whether characters grow and change emotionally.

Characters’ words reveal the most about their attitudes, feelings, beliefs, and values. Sometimes information is communicated (to other characters as well as to the audience) in a monologue—an extended speech by one character. A soliloquy—a monologue revealing a character’s thoughts and feelings, directed at the audience and presumed not to be heard by other characters—can also convey information about a character. For example, Hamlet’s well-known soliloquy that begins “To be or not to be” eloquently communicates his distraught mental state—his resentment of his mother and uncle, his confusion about what course of action to take, and his sui- cidal thoughts. Finally, dialogue—an exchange of words between two characters—can reveal misunderstanding or con�ict between them, or it can show their agreement, mutual support, or similar beliefs.

In Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll House (p. 881), dialogue reveals a good deal about the characters. Nora Helmer, the spoiled young wife, has broken the law and kept her crime secret from her husband. Through her words, we learn about her motivation, her values, her emotions, and her reactions to other characters and to her potentially dangerous situation. We learn, for instance, that she is �irtatious: “If your little squirrel begged you, with all her heart and soul . . .” We also see that she is childishly unrealistic about the consequences of her actions. When her husband, Torvald, asks what she would do if he was seriously injured, leaving her in debt, she says, “If anything so awful happened, then it just wouldn’t matter if I had debts

Characters’ Words

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or not.” When Torvald presses, “Well, but the people I’d borrowed from?” she dismisses them: “Them? Who cares about them! They’re strangers.” As the play progresses, Nora’s lack of understanding of the power of the law becomes more and more signi�cant as she struggles with her moral and ethical dilemma.

The inability of both Nora and Torvald to confront ugly truths is also revealed through their words. When, in act 1, Nora tells Krogstad, her black- mailer, that his revealing her secret could expose her to “the most horrible unpleasantness,” he responds, “Only unpleasantness?” Yet later on, in act 3, Torvald echoes her language, fastidiously dismissing the horror with, “No, we’re not going to dwell on anything unpleasant.”

The ease with which Torvald is able to dismiss his dying friend Dr. Rank in act 3 (“He with his suffering and loneliness—like a dark cloud setting off our sunlit happiness. Well, maybe it’s best this way.”) foreshadows the lack of support he will give Nora immediately thereafter. Especially revealing is his use of I and my and me, which convey his self-centeredness:

Now you’ve wrecked all my happiness—ruined my whole future. Oh, it’s awful to think of. I’m in a cheap little grafter’s hands; he can do anything he wants with me, ask for anything, play with me like a puppet—and I can’t breathe a word. I’ll be swept down miserably into the depths on account of a featherbrained woman.

Just as Torvald’s words reveal that he has not been changed by the play’s events, Nora’s words show that she has changed signi�cantly. Her dialogue near the end of act 3 shows that she has become a responsible, determined woman—one who understands her situation and her options and is no lon- ger blithely oblivious to her duties. When she says, “I’ve never felt more clearheaded and sure in my life,” she is calm and decisive. When she says, “Our home’s been nothing but a playpen. I’ve been your doll-wife here, just as at home I was Papa’s doll-child,” she reveals a new self-awareness. And, when she confronts her husband, she displays—perhaps for the �rst time in their relationship—complete honesty.

Sometimes what other characters say to (or about) a character can reveal more to an audience than the character’s own words. For instance, in A Doll House, when the dying Dr. Rank says, apparently without malice, “[Torvald] Helmer with his sensitivity has such a sharp distaste for anything ugly,” the audience not only thinks ill of the man who is too “sensitive” to visit his sick friend but also questions his ability to withstand situations that may be emotionally or morally “ugly” as well.

When a character is offstage for much (or even all) of the action, the audience must rely on other characters’ assessments of the absent character. In Susan Glaspell’s Tri�es (p. 867), the play’s focus is on an absent charac- ter, Minnie Wright, who is described solely through other characters’ com- ments. The evidence suggests that Mrs. Wright killed her husband, and only

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Mrs. Hale’s and Mrs. Peters’s comments about Mrs. Wright’s dreary life can delineate her character and suggest a likely motive for the murder. Although Mrs. Wright never appears on stage, we learn essential information from the other women about her: that as a young girl she liked to sing and that more recently she was so distraught about the lack of beauty in her life that even her sewing revealed her distress.

Whether a character’s words are in the form of a monologue, a soliloquy, or dialogue—and whether they reveal information about the character who is speaking or about someone else—words are always revealing. Explicitly or implicitly, they convey a character’s nature, attitudes, and relationships with other characters.

Keep in mind that the kind of language characters use can vary widely. A character may, for instance, use learned words, foreign words, elaborate �gures of speech, irony or sarcasm, regionalisms, slang, jargon, clichés, or profanity. Words can also be used to indicate tone—for example, to express irony. Any of these uses of language may communicate vital information to the audience about a character’s background, attitudes, and motivation. And, of course, a character’s language may change as a play progresses, and this change too may be revealing.

Formal and Informal Language

The level of diction a character uses can give audiences a good deal of infor- mation. One character in a dramatic work may speak very formally, using absolutely correct grammar, a learned vocabulary, and long, complex sen- tences; another may speak in an informal style, using conversational speech, colloquialisms, and slang. At times, two characters with different levels of language may be set in opposition for dramatic effect, as they are in Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw’s classic play Pygmalion (1912), which updates the ancient Greek myth of a sculptor who creates (and falls in love with) a statue of a woman. In Shaw’s version, a linguistics professor sets out to teach “proper” speech and manners to a woman who sells �owers on the street. Throughout the play, the contrasting language of Henry Higgins, the professor, and Eliza Doolittle, the �ower seller, reveals their differing social standing. The following exchange illustrates this contrast:

LIZA: I ain’t got no mother. Her that turned me out was my sixth step- mother. But I done without them. And I’m a good girl, I am.

HIGGINS: Very well, then, what on earth is all this fuss about?

A character’s accent or dialect may also be signi�cant. In comedies of manners, for instance, rustic or provincial characters, identi�ed by their speech, are often objects of humor. In Pygmalion, Eliza Doolittle uses cockney dialect, the dialect spoken in the East End of London. At �rst, her colorful,

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distinctive language (complete with expressions like Nah-ow, garn, and ah- ah-ah-ow-ow-ow-oo) and her nonstandard grammatical constructions make her an object of ridicule; later, the transformation of her speech reveals the dramatic changes in her character.

Plain and Elaborate Language

A character’s speech may be simple and straightforward or complex and convoluted; it may be plain and unadorned or embellished with elaborate �gures of speech. The relative complexity or lack of complexity of a char- acter’s speech may have different effects on the audience. For example, a character whose language is simple and unsophisticated may seem to be unintelligent, unenlightened, gullible, or naive—especially if he or she also uses slang, dialect, or colloquial expressions. Conversely, a character’s plain, down-to-earth language may convey common sense or intelligence. Plain language may also be quite emotionally powerful. For example, Willy Loman’s speech in act 2 of Death of a Salesman (p. 960), about an eighty- four-year-old salesman named Dave Singleman, moves the audience with its sincerity and directness:

Do you know? When he died—and by the way he died the death of a salesman, in his green velvet slippers in the smoker of the New York, New Haven and Hartford, going into Boston—when he died, hundreds of salesmen and buyers were at his funeral. Things were sad on a lotta trains for months after that.

Like plain speech, elaborate language may have different effects in differ- ent contexts. Sometimes, use of �gures of speech can make a character seem to have depth and insight and analytical skills absent in other characters. In the following excerpt from a soliloquy in act 1 scene 2 of Hamlet, for example, complex language reveals the depth of Hamlet’s anguished self-analysis:

In these lines, Hamlet compares the world to a garden gone to seed. His use of imagery and �gures of speech vividly communicates his feelings about the world and his internal struggle against the temptation to commit suicide.

Sometimes, however, elaborate language may make a character seem aloof, pompous, or even untrustworthy. In the following passages from

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Shakespeare’s King Lear, Goneril and Regan, the deceitful daughters, use complicated verbal constructions to conceal their true feelings from their father, King Lear. In contrast, Cordelia—the loyal, loving daughter—uses simple, straightforward language that suggests her sincerity and lack of arti- �ce. Compare the three speeches:

GONERIL: Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter; Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty; Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; As much as child e’er lov’d, or father found; A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable. Beyond all manner of so much I love you. . . .

REGAN: Sir, I am made Of the selfsame metal that my sister is, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I �nd she names my very deed of love; Only she comes too short, that I profess Myself an enemy to all other joys Which the most precious square of sense possesses, And �nd I am alone felicitate In your dear Highness’ love. . . .

CORDELIA: Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty According to my bond; no more no less. . . .

Cordelia’s unwillingness, even when she is prodded by Lear, to exaggerate her feelings or misrepresent her love through in�ated language shows the audience her honesty and nobility. The contrast between her language and that of her sisters makes their very different motives clear.

Tone

Tone reveals a character’s mood or attitude. Tone can be �at or emotional, bitter or accepting, affectionate or aloof, anxious or calm. Contrasts in tone can indicate differences in outlook or emotional state between two characters; changes in tone from one point in a play to another can sug- gest corresponding changes within a character. At the end of A Doll House, for instance, Nora is resigned to what she must do, and her language is appropriately controlled. Her husband, however, is desperate to change her mind, and his language re�ects this desperation. The following exchanges of dialogue from the end of act 3 illustrate the two characters’ contrasting emotional states:

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HELMER: But to part! To part from you! No, Nora, no—I can’t imagine it. NORA: (going out, right) All the more reason why it has to be.

HELMER: Over! All over! Nora, won’t you ever think about me? NORA: I’m sure I’ll think of you often, and about the children and the

house here.

In earlier scenes between the two characters, Nora is emotional—at times, hysterical—and her husband is considerably more controlled. As the exchanges above indicate, both Nora and Torvald Helmer change drasti- cally during the course of the play.

Irony

Irony, a contradiction or discrepancy between two levels of meaning, can reveal a great deal about character. Verbal irony—a contradiction between what a character says and what he or she means—is very impor- tant in drama, where the verbal interplay between characters may carry the weight of the play. For example, when Nora and Dr. Rank discuss the latest news about his health in A Doll House, there is deep irony in his use of the phrase “complete certainty.” Although the phrase usually sug- gests reassuring news, here it is meant to suggest death, and both Nora and Dr. Rank understand this.

Dramatic irony depends on the audience’s knowing something that a character has not yet realized, or on one character’s knowing something that other characters do not know. In some cases, dramatic irony is cre- ated by an audience’s awareness of historical background or events of which characters are unaware. Familiar with the story of Oedipus, for instance, the audience knows that the man who has caused all the problems in Thebes— the man Oedipus vows to �nd and take revenge on—is Oedipus himself. In other cases, dramatic irony emerges when the audience learns something— something the characters do not yet know or comprehend—from a play’s unfolding action. The central irony in A Doll House, for example, is that the family’s “happy home” rests on a foundation of secrets, lies, and deception. Torvald does not know about the secrets, and Nora does not understand how they have poisoned her marriage. The audience, however, quickly becomes aware of the atmosphere of deceit—and aware of how it threatens the family’s happiness.

Dramatic irony may also be conveyed through dialogue. Typically, dramatic irony is revealed when a character says something that gives the audience information that other characters, offstage at the time, do not know. In A Doll House, the audience knows—because Nora has explained her situation to Kristine—that Nora spent the previous Christ- mas season hard at work, earning money to pay her secret debt. Torvald,

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however, remains unaware of her activities and believes her story that she was using the time to make holiday decorations, which the cat destroyed. This belief is consistent with his impression of Nora as an irre- sponsible child, yet the audience has quite a different impression of her. This discrepancy, one of many contradictions between the audience’s view of Nora and Torvald’s view of her, helps to create dramatic tension in the play.

Finally, asides (comments to the audience that other characters do not hear) can create dramatic irony by undercutting dialogue, providing ironic contrast between what the characters on stage know and what the audi- ence knows. In Anton Chekhov’s The Brute (p. 814), for example, the audience knows that Mr. Smirnov is succumbing to Mrs. Popov’s charms because he says, in an aside, “My God, what eyes she has! They’re setting me on �re.” Mrs. Popov, however, is not yet aware of his infatuation. The discrepancy between the audience’s awareness and the character’s adds to the play’s humor.

Through their actions, characters convey their values and attitudes to the audience. Actions also reveal aspects of a character’s personality. For exam- ple, when Nora in A Doll House plays hide-and-seek with her children, eats forbidden macaroons, and takes childish joy in Christmas, her immaturity is apparent.

Audiences also learn about characters from what they do not do. Thus, Nora’s failure to remain in touch with her friend Kristine, who has had a hard life, reveals her sel�shness, and the decision by Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Hale in Tri�es not to give their evidence to the sheriff indicates their de�ant support for Mrs. Wright and their understanding of what motivated her to take such drastic action.

Finally, audiences learn a good deal about characters by observing how they interact with other characters. In William Shakespeare’s Othello, Iago is the embodiment of evil, and as the play’s action unfolds, we discover his true nature. He reveals the secret marriage of Othello and Desdemona to her father; he schemes to arouse Othello’s jealousy, making him believe Desde- mona has been unfaithful with his lieutenant, Cassio; he persuades Cassio to ask Desdemona to plead his case with Othello, knowing this act will further arouse Othello’s suspicions; he encourages Othello to be suspicious of Des- demona’s defense of Cassio; he plants Desdemona’s handkerchief in Cassio’s room; and, �nally, he persuades Othello to kill Desdemona and then kills his own wife, Emilia, to prevent her from exposing his role in the intrigue. As the play progresses, then, Iago’s dealings with others consistently reveal him to be evil and corrupt.

Characters’ Actions

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When we read a play (rather than see it performed), we also read the play- wright’s italicized stage directions, the notes that concern staging—the scenery, props, lighting, music, sound effects, costumes, and other elements that contribute to the way the play looks and sounds to an audience (see Chapter 29). In addition to commenting on staging, stage directions may supply physical details about the characters, suggesting their age, appearance, movements, gestures, and facial expressions. These details may in turn con- vey additional information about characters: appearance may reveal social position or economic status, expressions may reveal attitudes, and so on. Stage directions may also indicate the manner in which a line of dialogue is to be delivered—con�dently or hesitantly, for instance. The way a line is spo- ken may reveal a character to be excited, upset, angry, shy, or disappointed. Finally, stage directions may indicate changes in characters—for instance, a character whose speech is described as timid in early scenes may deliver lines emphatically and forcefully later on in the play.

Some stage directions provide a good deal of detail about character; others do little more than list characters’ names. Arthur Miller is one play- wright who often provides detailed information about character through stage directions. In Death of a Salesman, for instance, Miller’s stage direc- tions at the beginning of act 1 characterize Willy Loman immediately and speci�cally:

He is past sixty years of age, dressed quietly. Even as he crosses the stage to the doorway of the house, his exhaustion is apparent. He unlocks the door, comes into the kitchen, and thankfully lets his burden down, feeling the soreness of his palms. A word-sigh escapes his lips . . .

Subsequent stage directions indicate how lines are to be spoken. For exam- ple, in the play’s opening lines, Willy’s wife Linda calls out to him “with some trepidation”; Linda speaks “very carefully, delicately,” and Willy speaks “with casual irritation.” These instructions to readers (and actors) are meant to sug- gest the strained relationship between the two characters.

George Bernard Shaw is well known for the full character description in his stage directions. In these directions—seen by readers of the play but of course not heard by audiences—he communicates complex information about characters’ attitudes and values, motivation and reactions, and rela- tionships with other characters. In doing so, Shaw himself functions as a kind of narrator, explicitly communicating his own attitudes toward various characters. (The voice in Shaw’s stage directions is not the voice of a char- acter in the play; it is the voice of the playwright.) Shaw’s stage directions for Pygmalion initially describe Eliza Doolittle as follows:

She is not at all an attractive person. She is perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty, hardly older. She wears a little sailor hat of black straw that has long been

Stage Directions

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exposed to the dust and soot of London and has seldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needs washing rather badly; its mousy color can hardly be natural. She wears a shoddy black coat that reaches nearly to her knees and is shaped to her waist. She has a brown skirt with a coarse apron. Her boots are much the worse for wear. She is no doubt as clean as she can afford to be; but compared to the ladies she is very dirty. Her features are no worse than theirs; but their condition leaves something to be desired; and she needs the services of a dentist.

Rather than providing an objective summary of the character’s most nota- ble physical attributes, Shaw injects subjective comments (“seldom if ever brushed”; “color can hardly be natural”; “no doubt as clean as she can afford to be”) that reveal his attitude toward Eliza. This initially supercilious attitude, which he has in common with Professor Higgins, is tempered considerably by the end of the play, helping to make Eliza’s transformation more obvious to readers than it would be if measured by her words and actions alone. By act 5, the tone of the stage directions characterizing Eliza has changed to admiration: “Eliza enters, sunny, self-possessed, and giving a staggeringly con- vincing exhibition of ease of manner.”

Stage directions in most other plays are not nearly as comprehensive. In Hamlet, for example, characters are introduced with only the barest iden- tifying tags: “Claudius, King of Denmark”; “Hamlet, Son to the former, and nephew to the present King”; “Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, mother to Hamlet.” Most of the play’s stage directions do little more than chronicle the various characters’ entrances and exits or specify particular physical actions: “Enter Ghost”; “Spreads his arms”; “Ghost beckons Hamlet”; “He kneels”; “Sheathes his sword”; “Leaps in the grave.” Occasionally, stage directions specify a prop (“Puts down the skull”); a sound effect (“A noise within”); or a costume (“Enter the ghost in his night-gown”). Such brevity is typical of Shakespeare’s plays, in which characters are delineated almost solely by their words—and, not inci- dentally, by the way actors have interpreted the characters over the years. In fact, because Shakespeare’s stage directions only suggest characters’ gestures, physical reactions, movements, and facial expressions, actors have been left quite free to experiment, reading various interpretations into Shakespeare’s characters.

When we see a play performed, we gain insight into a character not merely through what the character says and does or how other characters react but also through the way an actor interprets the role. If a playwright does not specify a character’s mannerisms, gestures, or movements, or does not indi- cate how a line is to be delivered, an actor is free to interpret the role as he or she believes it should be played. Even when a playwright does specify such actions, the actor has a good deal of freedom to decide which gestures or expressions will convey a particular emotion.

Actors’ Interpretations

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In “Some Thoughts on Playwriting” (1941), American dramatist Thorn- ton Wilder argues that “the theatre is an art which reposes upon the work of many collaborators” rather than on “one governing selecting will.” Citing examples from Shakespeare and Ibsen, Wilder illustrates the great degree of “intervention” that may occur in dramatic productions. For instance, Wilder observes, Shakespeare’s Shylock (a character in The Merchant of Venice) has been portrayed by two different actors as “noble, wronged and indig- nant” and as “a vengeful and hysterical buffoon”—and both performances were considered plausible interpretations. As noted earlier, the absence of detailed stage directions in Shakespeare’s plays makes possible (and perhaps even encourages) such widely divergent interpretations. However, as Wilder points out, even when playing roles created by a dramatist such as Ibsen, whose stage directions are typically quite speci�c, actors and directors have a good deal of leeway. Thus, actress Janet McTeer, who played the part of Ibsen’s Nora in the 1997 London production of A Doll House, saw Nora and Torvald, despite their many problems, as “the perfect couple,” deeply in love and involved in a passionate marriage. “You have to make that marriage sexually credible,” McTeer told the New York Times, “to imagine they have a wonderful time in bed, so there becomes something to lose. If you play them as already past it or no longer attracted to each other, then there is no play.” This interpretation is not inconsistent with the play, but it does go beyond what Ibsen actually wrote.

Similarly, the role of Catherine in David Auburn’s 2001 play Proof has been played by several actresses—among them Mary-Louise Parker, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Anne Heche, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Lea Salonga— and each actress has interpreted this complex character in a different way. As New York Times theater critic John Rockwell observes, “Catherine can be loopy-ethereal-sexy (Ms. Parker), earthy and even a little bitter (Ms. Leigh), or adorable-needy-fragile (Ms. Heche), and Mr. Auburn’s structure and characters and ideas still work.”

Irish playwright Samuel Beckett devotes a good deal of attention to indi- cating actors’ movements and gestures and their physical reactions to one another. In his 1952 play Waiting for Godot, for example, Beckett’s stage direc- tions seem to choreograph every gesture, every emotion, every intention:

• (he looks at them ostentatiously in turn to make it clear they are both meant) • Vladimir seizes Lucky’s hat. Silence of Lucky. He falls. Silence. Panting of

the victors. • Estragon hands him the boot. Vladimir inspects it, throws it down angrily. • Estragon pulls, stumbles, falls. Long silence. • He goes feverishly to and fro, halts �nally at extreme left, broods.

Beckett provides full and obviously carefully thought-out stage directions and, in so doing, attempts to retain a good deal of control over his characters. Still, in a 1988 production of Godot, director Mike Nichols and comic actors

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Robin Williams and Steve Martin felt free to improvise, adding gestures and movements not speci�ed or even hinted at—and most critics believed that this production remained true to the tragicomic spirit of Beckett’s existen- tialist play. In a sense, then, the playwright’s words on the page are just the beginning of the characters’ lives on the stage.

CHECKLIST Writing about Character

■ Does any character serve as a narrator? If so, what information does this narrator supply about the other characters? How reliable is the narrator?

■ Who are the major characters? What do we know about them?

■ Do the major characters change and grow during the course of the play, or do they remain essentially unchanged?

■ What do the minor characters contribute to the play?

■ Does the play include monologues or soliloquies? What do these extended speeches reveal about the characters?

■ What is revealed about the characters through dialogue?

■ Do characters use foreign words, regionalisms, slang, jargon, clichés, or profanity? What does such use of language reveal about the characters? about the play’s theme?

■ Is the characters’ language formal or informal?

■ Do characters speak in dialect? Do they have accents?

■ Is the characters’ language plain or elaborate?

■ Do different characters use different kinds of language? What is the significance of these differences?

■ How does language reveal characters’ emotional states?

■ Does the tone of any character’s language change significantly as the play progresses? What does this change reveal?

■ Does the play include verbal irony? dramatic irony? How is irony conveyed? What purpose does irony achieve?

■ What is revealed about the characters through what others say about them?

■ What is revealed about characters through their actions?

✔✔

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9. Do the two characters grow and change over the years? Does their rela- tionship grow and change? Explain.

10. Why is the reference to needing milk repeated over and over again? Is this an effective use of repetition, or does it become annoying? Explain.

11. JOURNAL ENTRY Write a series of text messages between this play’s two characters, using shorthand and abbreviations as needed. (If you like, you can “translate” some of the play’s Post-it messages into text mes- sages.) Does the change of format change the nature of the conversa- tion? If so, how?

12. CRITICAL PERSPECTIVE Savanna Dooley, a screenwriter who is also Dooley and Holzman’s daughter, describes Holzman’s book for the musical Wicked as follows: “It is rich with her trademarks: a story about an out- sider, fully realized characters, and some subversive political commen- tary.” Does Post-its also demonstrate Holzman’s “trademarks” as described by Dooley?

Related Works: “Hills Like White Elephants” (p. 74), “Love and Other Catastrophes: A Mix Tape” (p. 84), “The Story of an Hour” (p. 127), “Meeting at Night” (p. 719), “Parting at Morning” (p. 719), “How Do I Love Thee?” (p. 719), The Brute (p. 814)

ARTHUR MILLER (1915–2005) was born in New York City and graduated in 1938 from the University of Michigan, where he began to write plays. His first big success, which won the New York Drama Critics Circle Award, was All My Sons (1947), about a man who has knowingly manufactured faulty airplane parts during World War II. Other significant plays are The Crucible (1953), based on the Salem witch trials of 1692, The Crucible (1953), based on the Salem witch trials of 1692, The Crucible which Miller saw as parallel to contemporary investigations of suspected Communists by the House Un-American Activities Committee; A View from the Bridge (1955); and A View from the Bridge (1955); and A View from the Bridge After the Fall

(1955). He was married for a time to actress Marilyn Monroe and wrote the screenplay for her movie The Misfits (1961). His play The Misfits (1961). His play The Misfits The Last Yankee opened off-Broadway in 1993, The Last Yankee opened off-Broadway in 1993, The Last Yankee Broken Glass was both published and performed in 1994, and Glass was both published and performed in 1994, and Glass Mr. Peter’s Connection was published Mr. Peter’s Connection was published Mr. Peter’s Connection in 1998. In 2001, Miller was awarded an NEH fellowship and the John H. Finney Award for Exemplary Service to New York City.

Death of a Salesman is Miller’s most significant work, a play that quickly became an Death of a Salesman is Miller’s most significant work, a play that quickly became an Death of a Salesman American classic. Miller said he was very much influenced by the structure of Greek tragedy, and in his play he shows that a tragedy can also be the story of an ordinary person told in realistic terms. The play is frequently produced, and each production interprets it a bit differ- ently. When Miller directed Death of a Salesman in China in 1983, audiences perceived it as Death of a Salesman in China in 1983, audiences perceived it as Death of a Salesman primarily the story of the mother. In the 1983 Broadway production, Miller himself realized “at a certain point that it was far more the story of Biff, the son, than it was of Willy Loman, the salesman of the title.”

A P

Im ag

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Cultural Context At the time Death of a Salesman was written in 1949, the United States Death of a Salesman was written in 1949, the United States Death of a Salesman was experiencing the largest economic expansion in its history. After World War II, soldiers returned home, women left the factory jobs they had held while men were at war, and more and more consumer goods were developed and manufactured. As companies expanded and were consolidated, large, impersonal corporations began to replace the mom-and-pop businesses that had dominated the American scene before the war. The foot soldiers of these corporations were the traveling salesmen (today often called “manufacturers’ representatives”) who moved from town to town and covered large territories in a relentless effort to sign up clients and generate sales. During the same period, the American suburbs began to appear, with a mass movement of population from older urban neighborhoods to massive housing developments such as those constructed in Levittown, Long Island, in 1946. It is against this background that the events of Death of a Salesman unfold.Death of a Salesman unfold.Death of a Salesman

Death of a Salesman (1949)

CHARACTERS Willy Loman The Woman

Linda, his wife Howard Wagner Biff

his sons Happy

Jenny Stanley

Uncle Ben Miss Forsythe Charley Letta Bernard

The action takes place in Willy Loman’s house and yard and in various places he visits in the New York and Boston of today.

Throughout the play, in the stage directions, left and right mean stage left and stage right.

ACT 1 A melody is heard, played upon a �ute. It is small and �ne, telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain rises.

Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home. An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out of reality. The kitchen at center seems actual enough, for there is a kitchen table with three chairs, and a refrigerator. But no other �xtures are seen. At the back of the kitchen there is a draped entrance, which leads to the living room. To the right of the kitchen, on a level raised two feet, is a bedroom furnished only with a brass bedstead and a straight chair. On a shelf over the bed a silver athletic trophy stands. A window opens onto the apartment house at the side.

} Biff } Biff

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Behind the kitchen, on a level raised six and a half feet, is the boys’ bedroom, at present barely visible. Two beds are dimly seen, and at the back of the room a dormer window. (This bedroom is above the unseen living room.) At the left a stairway curves up to it from the kitchen.

Lee J. Cobb, Mildred Dunnock, Arthur Kennedy, and Cameron Michael in original Broadway production directed by Elia Kazan (1949–50) © Photofest

The entire setting is wholly or, in some places, partially transparent. The roo�ine of the house is one-dimensional; under and over it we see the apartment buildings. Before the house lies an apron, curving beyond the forestage into the or- chestra. This forward area serves as the back yard as well as the locale of all Willy’s imaginings and of his city scenes. Whenever the action is in the present the actors observe the imaginary wall-lines, entering the house only through the door at the left. But in the scenes of the past these boundaries are broken, and characters enter or leave a room by stepping “through” a wall onto the forestage.

From the right, Willy Loman, the Salesman, enters, carrying two large sample cases. The �ute plays on. He hears but is not aware of it. He is past sixty years of

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age, dressed quietly. Even as he crosses the stage to the doorway of the house, his exhaustion is apparent. He unlocks the door, comes into the kitchen, and thank- fully lets his burden down, feeling the soreness of his palms. A word-sigh escapes his lips—it might be “Oh, boy, oh, boy.” He closes the door, then carries his cases out into the living room, through the draped kitchen doorway.

Linda, his wife, has stirred in her bed at the right. She gets out and puts on a robe, listening. Most often jovial, she has developed an iron repression of her excep- tions to Willy’s behavior—she more than loves him, she admires him, as though his mercurial nature, his temper, his massive dreams and little cruelties, served her only as sharp reminders of the turbulent longings within him, longings which she shares but lacks the temperament to utter and follow to their end.

LINDA: (hearing Willy outside the bedroom, calls with some trepidation) Willy! WILLY: It’s all right. I came back. LINDA: Why? What happened? (Slight pause.) Did something happen,

Willy? WILLY: No, nothing happened. LINDA: You didn’t smash the car, did you? WILLY: (with casual irritation) I said nothing happened. Didn’t you hear me? LINDA: Don’t you feel well? WILLY: I am tired to the death. (The �ute has faded away. He sits on the

bed beside her, a little numb.) I couldn’t make it. I just couldn’t make it, Linda.

LINDA: (very carefully, delicately) Where were you all day? You look terrible.

WILLY: I got as far as a little above Yonkers. I stopped for a cup of coffee. Maybe it was the coffee.

LINDA: What? WILLY: (after a pause) I suddenly couldn’t drive any more. The car kept

going onto the shoulder, y’know? LINDA: (helpfully) Oh. Maybe it was the steering again. I don’t think

Angelo knows the Studebaker. WILLY: No, it’s me, it’s me. Suddenly I realize I’m goin’ sixty miles an

hour and I don’t remember the last �ve minutes. I’m—I can’t seem to—keep my mind to it.

LINDA: Maybe it’s your glasses. You never went for your new glasses. WILLY: No, I see everything. I came back ten miles an hour. It took me

nearly four hours from Yonkers. LINDA: (resigned) Well, you’ll just have to take a rest, Willy, you can’t

continue this way. WILLY: I just got back from Florida. LINDA: But you didn’t rest your mind. Your mind is overactive, and the

mind is what counts, dear.

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WILLY: I’ll start out in the morning. Maybe I’ll feel better in the morn- ing. (She is taking off his shoes.) These goddam arch supports are killing me.

LINDA: Take an aspirin. Should I get you an aspirin? It’ll soothe you. WILLY: (with wonder) I was driving along, you understand? And I was

�ne. I was even observing the scenery. You can imagine, me looking at scenery, on the road every week of my life. But it’s so beautiful up there, Linda, the trees are so thick, and the sun is warm. I opened the windshield and just let the warm air bathe over me. And then all of a sudden I’m goin’ off the road! I’m tellin’ ya, I absolutely forgot I was driving. If I’d’ve gone the other way over the white line I might’ve killed somebody. So I went on again—and �ve minutes later I’m dreamin’ again, and I nearly—(He presses two �ngers against his eyes.) I have such thoughts, I have such strange thoughts.

LINDA: Willy, dear. Talk to them again. There’s no reason why you can’t work in New York.

WILLY: They don’t need me in New York. I’m the New England man. I’m vital in New England.

LINDA: But you’re sixty years old. They can’t expect you to keep travel- ing every week.

WILLY: I’ll have to send a wire to Portland. I’m supposed to see Brown and Morrison tomorrow morning at ten o’clock to show the line. Goddammit, I could sell them! (He starts putting on his jacket.)

LINDA: (taking the jacket from him) Why don’t you go down to the place tomorrow and tell Howard you’ve simply got to work in New York? You’re too accommodating, dear.

WILLY: If old man Wagner was alive I’d a been in charge of New York now! That man was a prince, he was a masterful man. But that boy of his, that Howard, he don’t appreciate. When I went north the �rst time, the Wagner Company didn’t know where New England was!

LINDA: Why don’t you tell those things to Howard, dear? WILLY: (encouraged) I will, I de�nitely will. Is there any cheese? LINDA: I’ll make you a sandwich. WILLY: No, go to sleep. I’ll take some milk. I’ll be up right away. The

boys in? LINDA: They’re sleeping. Happy took Biff on a date tonight. WILLY: (interested) That so? LINDA: It was so nice to see them shaving together, one behind the

other, in the bathroom. And going out together. You notice? The whole house smells of shaving lotion.

WILLY: Figure it out. Work a lifetime to pay off a house. You �nally own it, and there’s nobody to live in it.

LINDA: Well, dear, life is a casting off. It’s always that way.

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WILLY: No, no, some people—some people accomplish something. Did Biff say anything after I went this morning?

LINDA: You shouldn’t have criticized him, Willy, especially after he just got off the train. You mustn’t lose your temper with him.

WILLY: When the hell did I lose my temper? I simply asked him if he was making any money. Is that a criticism?

LINDA: But, dear, how could he make any money? WILLY: (worried and angered) There’s such an undercurrent in him. He

became a moody man. Did he apologize when I left this morning? LINDA: He was crestfallen, Willy. You know how he admires you. I

think if he �nds himself, then you’ll both be happier and not �ght any more.

WILLY: How can he �nd himself on a farm? Is that a life? A farmhand? In the beginning, when he was young, I thought, well, a young man, it’s good for him to tramp around, take a lot of different jobs. But it’s more than ten years now and he has yet to make thirty-�ve dollars a week!

LINDA: He’s �nding himself, Willy. WILLY: Not �nding yourself at the age of thirty-four is a disgrace! LINDA: Shh! WILLY: The trouble is he’s lazy, goddammit! LINDA: Willy, please! WILLY: Biff is a lazy bum! LINDA: They’re sleeping. Get something to eat. Go on down. WILLY: Why did he come home? I would like to know what brought

him home. LINDA: I don’t know. I think he’s still lost, Willy. I think he’s very lost. WILLY: Biff Loman is lost. In the greatest country in the world a young

man with such—personal attractiveness, gets lost. And such a hard worker. There’s one thing about Biff—he’s not lazy.

LINDA: Never. WILLY: (with pity and resolve) I’ll see him in the morning; I’ll have a nice

talk with him. I’ll get him a job selling. He could be big in no time. My God! Remember how they used to follow him around in high school? When he smiled at one of them their faces lit up. When he walked down the street . . . (He loses himself in reminiscences.)

LINDA: (trying to bring him out of it) Willy, dear, I got a new kind of American-type cheese today. It’s whipped.

WILLY: Why do you get American when I like Swiss? LINDA: I just thought you’d like a change— WILLY: I don’t want a change! I want Swiss cheese. Why am I always

being contradicted? LINDA: (with a covering laugh) I thought it would be a surprise.

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WILLY: Why don’t you open a window in here, for God’s sake? LINDA: (with in�nite patience) They’re all open, dear. WILLY: The way they boxed us in here. Bricks and windows, windows

and bricks. LINDA: We should’ve bought the land next door. WILLY: The street is lined with cars. There’s not a breath of fresh air in

the neighborhood. The grass don’t grow any more, you can’t raise a carrot in the back yard. They should’ve had a law against apartment houses. Remember those two beautiful elm trees out there? When I and Biff hung the swing between them?

LINDA: Yeah, like being a million miles from the city. WILLY: They should’ve arrested the builder for cutting those down.

They massacred the neighborhood. (Lost.) More and more I think of those days, Linda. This time of year it was lilac and wisteria. And then the peonies would come out, and the daffodils. What fragrance in this room!

LINDA: Well, after all, people had to move somewhere. WILLY: No, there’s more people now. LINDA: I don’t think there’s more people. I think— WILLY: There’s more people! That’s what’s ruining this country! Popu-

lation is getting out of control. The competition is maddening! Smell the stink from that apartment house! And another on the other side . . . How can they whip cheese?

On Willy’s last line, Biff and Happy raise themselves up in their beds, listening.

LINDA: Go down, try it. And be quiet. WILLY: (turning to Linda, guiltily) You’re not worried about me, are you,

sweetheart? BIFF: What’s the matter? HAPPY: Listen! LINDA: You’ve got too much on the ball to worry about. WILLY: You’re my foundation and my support, Linda. LINDA: Just try to relax, dear. You make mountains out of molehills. WILLY: I won’t �ght with him any more. If he wants to go back to

Texas, let him go. LINDA: He’ll �nd his way. WILLY: Sure. Certain men just don’t get started till later in life. Like

Thomas Edison, I think. Or B. F. Goodrich. One of them was deaf. (He starts for the bedroom doorway.) I’ll put my money on Biff.

LINDA: And Willy—if it’s warm Sunday we’ll drive in the country. And we’ll open the windshield, and take lunch.

WILLY: No, the windshields don’t open on the new cars. LINDA: But you opened it today.

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WILLY: Me? I didn’t. (He stops.) Now isn’t that peculiar! Isn’t that remarkable— (He breaks off in amazement and fright as the �ute is heard distantly.)

LINDA: What, darling? WILLY: That is the most remarkable thing. LINDA: What, dear? WILLY: I was thinking of the Chevvy. (Slight pause.) Nineteen twenty-

eight . . . when I had that red Chevvy—(Breaks off.) That funny? I coulda sworn I was driving that Chevvy today.

LINDA: Well, that’s nothing. Something must’ve reminded you. WILLY: Remarkable. Ts. Remember those days? The way Biff used to

simonize that car? The dealer refused to believe there was eighty thousand miles on it. (He shakes his head.) Heh! (To Linda.) Close your eyes, I’ll be right up. (He walks out of the bedroom.)

HAPPY: (to Biff) Jesus, maybe he smashed up the car again! LINDA: (calling after Willy) Be careful on the stairs, dear! The cheese is

on the middle shelf! (She turns, goes over to the bed, takes his jacket, and goes out of the bedroom.)

Light has risen on the boys’ room. Unseen, Willy is heard talking to himself, “Eighty thousand miles,” and a little laugh. Biff gets out of bed, comes down- stage a bit, and stands attentively. Biff is two years older than his brother Happy, well built, but in these days bears a worn air and seems less self-assured. He has succeeded less, and his dreams are stronger and less acceptable than Happy’s. Happy is tall, powerfully made. Sexuality is like a visible color on him, or a scent that many women have discovered. He, like his brother, is lost, but in a different way, for he has never allowed himself to turn his face toward defeat and is thus more confused and hard-skinned, although seemingly more content.

HAPPY: (getting out of bed) He’s going to get his license taken away if he keeps that up. I’m getting nervous about him, y’know, Biff?

BIFF: His eyes are going. HAPPY: No, I’ve driven with him. He sees all right. He just doesn’t keep

his mind on it. I drove into the city with him last week. He stops at a green light and then it turns red and he goes. (He laughs.)

BIFF: Maybe he’s color-blind. HAPPY: Pop? Why he’s got the �nest eye for color in the business. You

know that. BIFF: (sitting down on his bed) I’m going to sleep. HAPPY: You’re not still sour on Dad, are you, Biff? BIFF: He’s all right, I guess. WILLY: (underneath them, in the living room) Yes, sir, eighty thousand

miles—eighty-two thousand! BIFF: You smoking?

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HAPPY: (holding out a pack of cigarettes) Want one? BIFF: (taking a cigarette) I can never sleep when I smell it. WILLY: What a simonizing job, heh! HAPPY: (with deep sentiment) Funny, Biff, y’know? Us sleeping in here

again? The old beds. (He pats his bed affectionately.) All the talk that went across those two beds, huh? Our whole lives.

BIFF: Yeah. Lotta dreams and plans. HAPPY: (with a deep and masculine laugh) About �ve hundred women

would like to know what was said in this room.

They share a soft laugh.

BIFF: Remember that big Betsy something—what the hell was her name—over on Bushwick Avenue?

HAPPY: (combing his hair) With the collie dog! BIFF: That’s the one. I got you in there, remember? HAPPY: Yeah, that was my �rst time—I think. Boy, there was a pig!

(They laugh, almost crudely.) You taught me everything I know about women. Don’t forget that.

BIFF: I bet you forgot how bashful you used to be. Especially with girls. HAPPY: Oh, I still am, Biff. BIFF: Oh, go on. HAPPY: I just control it, that’s all. I think I got less bashful and you got

more so. What happened, Biff? Where’s the old humor, the old con- �dence? (He shakes Biff’s knee. Biff gets up and moves restlessly about the room.) What’s the matter?

BIFF: Why does Dad mock me all the time? HAPPY: He’s not mocking you, he— BIFF: Everything I say there’s a twist of mockery on his face. I can’t get

near him. HAPPY: He just wants you to make good, that’s all. I wanted to talk to

you about Dad for a long time, Biff. Something’s—happening to him. He—talks to himself.

BIFF: I noticed that this morning. But he always mumbled. HAPPY: But not so noticeable. It got so embarrassing I sent him to Flor-

ida. And you know something? Most of the time he’s talking to you. BIFF: What’s he say about me? HAPPY: I can’t make it out. BIFF: What’s he say about me? HAPPY: I think the fact that you’re not settled, that you’re still kind of

up in the air . . . BIFF: There’s one or two other things depressing him, Happy. HAPPY: What do you mean? BIFF: Never mind. Just don’t lay it all to me.

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HAPPY: But I think if you just got started—I mean—is there any future for you out there?

BIFF: I tell ya, Hap, I don’t know what the future is. I don’t know— what I’m supposed to want.

HAPPY: What do you mean? BIFF: Well, I spent six or seven years after high school trying to work

myself up. Shipping clerk, salesman, business of one kind or another. And it’s a measly manner of existence. To get on that sub- way on the hot mornings in summer. To devote your whole life to keeping stock, or making phone calls, or selling or buying. To suffer �fty weeks of the year for the sake of a two-week vacation, when all you really desire is to be outdoors, with your shirt off. And always to have to get ahead of the next fella. And still—that’s how you build a future.

HAPPY: Well, you really enjoy it on a farm? Are you content out there? BIFF: (with rising agitation) Hap, I’ve had twenty or thirty different kinds

of jobs since I left home before the war, and it always turns out the same. I just realized it lately. In Nebraska when I herded cattle, and the Dakotas, and Arizona, and now in Texas. It’s why I came home now, I guess, because I realized it. This farm I work on, it’s spring there now, see? And they’ve got about �fteen new colts. There’s nothing more inspiring or—beautiful than the sight of a mare and a new colt. And it’s cool there now, see? Texas is cool now, and it’s spring. And whenever spring comes to where I am, I suddenly get the feeling, my God, I’m not gettin’ anywhere! What the hell am I doing, playing around with horses, twenty-eight dollars a week! I’m thirty-four years old, I oughta be makin’ my future. That’s when I come running home. And now, I get here, and I don’t know what to do with myself. (After a pause.) I’ve always made a point of not wasting my life, and every time I come back here I know that all I’ve done is to waste my life.

HAPPY: You’re a poet, you know that, Biff? You’re a—you’re an idealist! BIFF: No, I’m mixed up very bad. Maybe I oughta get married. Maybe I

oughta get stuck into something. Maybe that’s my trouble. I’m like a boy. I’m not married, I’m not in business, I just—I’m like a boy. Are you content, Hap? You’re a success, aren’t you? Are you content?

HAPPY: Hell, no! BIFF: Why? You’re making money, aren’t you? HAPPY: (moving about with energy, expressiveness) All I can do now is

wait for the merchandise manager to die. And suppose I get to be merchandise manager? He’s a good friend of mine, and he just built a terri�c estate on Long Island. And he lived there about two months and sold it, and now he’s building another one. He can’t

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enjoy it once it’s �nished. And I know that’s just what I would do. I don’t know what the hell I’m workin’ for. Sometimes I sit in my apartment—all alone. And I think of the rent I’m paying. And it’s crazy. But then, it’s what I always wanted. My own apartment, a car, and plenty of women. And still, goddammit, I’m lonely.

BIFF: (with enthusiasm) Listen, why don’t you come out West with me? HAPPY: You and I, heh? BIFF: Sure, maybe we could buy a ranch. Raise cattle, use our muscles.

Men built like we are should be working out in the open. HAPPY: (avidly) The Loman Brothers, heh? BIFF: (with vast affection) Sure, we’d be known all over the counties! HAPPY: (enthralled) That’s what I dream about, Biff. Sometimes I want

to just rip my clothes off in the middle of the store and outbox that goddam merchandise manager. I mean I can outbox, outrun, and outlift anybody in that store, and I have to take orders from those common, petty sons-of-bitches till I can’t stand it any more.

BIFF: I’m telln’ you, kid, if you were with me I’d be happy out there. HAPPY: (enthused) See, Biff, everybody around me is so false that I’m

constantly lowering my ideals . . . BIFF: Baby, together we’d stand up for one another, we’d have someone

to trust. HAPPY: If I were around you— BIFF: Hap, the trouble is we weren’t brought up to grub for money. I

don’t know how to do it. HAPPY: Neither can I! BIFF: Then let’s go! HAPPY: The only thing is—what can you make out there? BIFF: But look at your friend. Builds an estate and then hasn’t the peace

of mind to live in it. HAPPY: Yeah, but when he walks into the store the waves part in front

of him. That’s �fty-two thousand dollars a year coming through the revolving door, and I got more in my pinky �nger than he’s got in his head.

BIFF: Yeah, but you just said— HAPPY: I gotta show some of those pompous, self-important executives

over there that Hap Loman can make the grade. I want to walk into the store the way he walks in. Then I’ll go with you, Biff. We’ll be together yet, I swear. But take those two we had tonight. Now weren’t they gorgeous creatures?

BIFF: Yeah, yeah, most gorgeous I’ve had in years. HAPPY: I get that any time I want, Biff. Whenever I feel disgusted.

The only trouble is, it gets like bowling or something. I just keep knockin’ them over and it doesn’t mean anything. You still run around a lot?

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BIFF: Naa. I’d like to �nd a girl—steady, somebody with substance. HAPPY: That’s what I long for. BIFF: Go on! You’d never come home. HAPPY: I would! Somebody with character, with resistance! Like Mom,

y’know? You’re gonna call me a bastard when I tell you this. That girl Charlotte I was with tonight is engaged to be married in �ve weeks. (He tries on his new hat.)

BIFF: No kiddin’! HAPPY: Sure, the guy’s in line for the vice-presidency of the store. I

don’t know what gets into me, maybe I just have an overdeveloped sense of competition or something, but I went and ruined her, and furthermore I can’t get rid of her. And he’s the third executive I’ve done that to. Isn’t that a crummy characteristic? And to top it all, I go to their weddings! (Indignantly, but laughing.) Like I’m not sup- posed to take bribes. Manufacturers offer me a hundred-dollar bill now and then to throw an order their way. You know how honest I am, but it’s like this girl, see. I hate myself for it. Because I don’t want the girl, and, still, I take it and—I love it!

BIFF: Let’s go to sleep. HAPPY: I guess we didn’t settle anything, heh? BIFF: I just got one idea that I think I’m going to try. HAPPY: What’s that? BIFF: Remember Bill Oliver? HAPPY: Sure, Oliver is very big now. You want to work for him again? BIFF: No, but when I quit he said something to me. He put his arm on

my shoulder, and he said, “Biff, if you ever need anything, come to me.”

HAPPY: I remember that. That sounds good. BIFF: I think I’ll go to see him. If I could get ten thousand or even seven

or eight thousand dollars I could buy a beautiful ranch. HAPPY: I bet he’d back you. ’Cause he thought highly of you, Biff, I

mean, they all do. You’re well liked, Biff. That’s why I say to come back here, and we both have the apartment. And I’m telln’ you, Biff, any babe you want . . .

BIFF: No, with a ranch I could do the work I like and still be something. I just wonder though. I wonder if Oliver still thinks I stole that car- ton of basketballs.

HAPPY: Oh, he probably forgot that long ago. It’s almost ten years. You’re too sensitive. Anyway, he didn’t really �re you.

BIFF: Well, I think he was going to. I think that’s why I quit. I was never sure whether he knew or not. I know he thought the world of me, though. I was the only one he’d let lock up the place.

WILLY: (below) You gonna wash the engine, Biff? HAPPY: Shh!

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Biff looks at Happy, who is gazing down, listening. Willy is mumbling in the parlor.

HAPPY: You hear that?

They listen. Willy laughs warmly.

BIFF: (growing angry) Doesn’t he know Mom can hear that? WILLY: Don’t get your sweater dirty, Biff!

A look of pain crosses Biff’s face.

HAPPY: Isn’t that terrible? Don’t leave again, will you? You’ll �nd a job here. You gotta stick around. I don’t know what to do about him, it’s getting embarrassing.

WILLY: What a simonizing job! BIFF: Mom’s hearing that! WILLY: No kiddin’, Biff, you got a date? Wonderful! HAPPY: Go on to sleep. But talk to him in the morning, will you? BIFF: (reluctantly getting into bed) With her in the house. Brother! HAPPY: (getting into bed) I wish you’d have a good talk with him.

The light on their room begins to fade.

BIFF: (to himself in bed) That sel�sh, stupid . . . HAPPY: Sh . . . Sleep, Biff.

Their light is out. Well before they have �nished speaking, Willy’s form is dimly seen below in the darkened kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, searches in there, and takes out a bottle of milk. The apartment houses are fading out, and the entire house and surroundings become covered with leaves. Music insinuates itself as the leaves appear.

WILLY: Just wanna be careful with those girls, Biff, that’s all. Don’t make any promises. No promises of any kind. Because a girl, y’know, they always believe what you tell’em, and you’re very young, Biff, you’re too young to be talking seriously to girls.

Light rises on the kitchen. Willy, talking, shuts the refrigerator door and comes downstage to the kitchen table. He pours milk into a glass. He is totally immersed in himself, smiling faintly.

WILLY: Too young entirely, Biff. You want to watch your schooling �rst. Then when you’re all set, there’ll be plenty of girls for a boy like you. (He smiles broadly at a kitchen chair.) That so? The girls pay for you? (He laughs.) Boy, you must really be makin’ a hit.

Willy is gradually addressing—physically—a point offstage, speaking through the wall of the kitchen, and his voice has been rising in volume to that of a normal conversation.

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WILLY: I been wondering why you polish the car so careful. Ha! Don’t leave the hubcaps, boys. Get the chamois to the hubcaps. Happy, use newspaper on the windows, it’s the easiest thing. Show him how to do it, Biff! You see, Happy? Pad it up, use it like a pad. That’s it, that’s it, good work. You’re doin’ all right, Hap. (He pauses, then nods in approbation for a few seconds, then looks upward.) Biff, �rst thing we gotta do when we get time is clip that big branch over the house. Afraid it’s gonna fall in a storm and hit the roof. Tell you what. We get a rope and sling her around, and then we climb up there with a couple of saws and take her down. Soon as you �nish the car, boys, I wanna see ya. I got a surprise for you, boys.

BIFF: (offstage) Whatta ya got, Dad? WILLY: No, you �nish �rst. Never leave a job till you’re �nished—

remember that. (Looking toward the “big trees.”) Biff, up in Albany I saw a beautiful hammock. I think I’ll buy it next trip, and we’ll hang it right between those two elms. Wouldn’t that be something? Just swingin’ there under those branches. Boy, that would be . . .

Young Biff and Young Happy appear from the direction Willy was addressing. Happy carries rags and a pail of water. Biff, wearing a sweater with a block “S,” carries a football.

BIFF: (pointing in the direction of the car offstage) How’s that, Pop, profes- sional?

WILLY: Terri�c. Terri�c job, boys. Good work, Biff. HAPPY: Where’s the surprise, Pop? WILLY: In the back seat of the car. HAPPY: Boy! (He runs off.) BIFF: What is it, Dad? Tell me, what’d you buy? WILLY: (laughing, cuffs him) Never mind, something I want you to have. BIFF: (turns and starts off) What is it, Hap? HAPPY: (offstage) It’s a punching bag! BIFF: Oh, Pop! WILLY: It’s got Gene Tunney’s1 signature on it!

Happy runs onstage with a punching bag.

BIFF: Gee, how’d you know we wanted a punching bag? WILLY: Well, it’s the �nest thing for the timing. HAPPY: (lies down on his back and pedals with his feet) I’m losing weight,

you notice, Pop?

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1Gene Tunney’s: James Joseph (“Gene”) Tunney (1897–1978)—American boxer, world heavyweight Gene Tunney’s: James Joseph (“Gene”) Tunney (1897–1978)—American boxer, world heavyweight Gene Tunney’s: champion from his defeat of Jack Dempsey in 1926 until his retirement in 1928.

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WILLY: (to Happy) Jumping rope is good too. BIFF: Did you see the new football I got? WILLY: (examining the ball) Where’d you get a new ball? BIFF: The coach told me to practice my passing. WILLY: That so? And he gave you the ball, heh? BIFF: Well, I borrowed it from the locker room. (He laughs con�dentially.) WILLY: (laughing with him at the theft) I want you to return that. HAPPY: I told you he wouldn’t like it! BIFF: (angrily) Well, I’m bringing it back! WILLY: (stopping the incipient argument, to Happy) Sure, he’s gotta prac-

tice with a regulation ball, doesn’t he? (To Biff.) Coach’ll probably congratulate you on your initiative!

BIFF: Oh, he keeps congratulating my initiative all the time, Pop. WILLY: That’s because he likes you. If somebody else took that ball

there’d be an uproar. So what’s the report, boys, what’s the report? BIFF: Where’d you go this time, Dad? Gee we were lonesome for you. WILLY: (pleased, puts an arm around each boy and they come down to the

apron) Lonesome, heh? BIFF: Missed you every minute. WILLY: Don’t say? Tell you a secret, boys. Don’t breathe it to a soul.

Someday I’ll have my own business, and I’ll never have to leave home any more.

HAPPY: Like Uncle Charley, heh? WILLY: Bigger than Uncle Charley! Because Charley is not—liked. He’s

liked, but he’s not—well liked. BIFF: Where’d you go this time, Dad? WILLY: Well, I got on the road, and I went north to Providence. Met

the Mayor. BIFF: The Mayor of Providence! WILLY: He was sitting in the hotel lobby. BIFF: What’d he say? WILLY: He said, “Morning!” And I said, “You’ve got a �ne city here,

Mayor.” And then he had coffee with me. And then I went to Waterbury. Waterbury is a �ne city. Big clock city, the famous Waterbury clock. Sold a nice bill there. And then Boston—Boston is the cradle of the Revolution. A �ne city. And a couple of other towns in Mass., and on to Portland and Bangor and straight home!

BIFF: Gee, I’d love to go with you sometime, Dad. WILLY: Soon as summer comes. HAPPY: Promise? WILLY: You and Hap and I, and I’ll show you all the towns. America is

full of beautiful towns and �ne, upstanding people. And they know me, boys, they know me up and down New England. The �nest

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people. And when I bring you fellas up, there’ll be open sesame for all of us, ’cause one thing, boys: I have friends. I can park my car in any street in New England, and the cops protect it like their own. This summer, heh?

BIFF AND HAPPY: (together) Yeah! You bet! WILLY: We’ll take our bathing suits. HAPPY: We’ll carry your bags, Pop! WILLY: Oh, won’t that be something! Me comin’ into the Boston store

with you boys carryin’ my bags. What a sensation!

Biff is prancing around, practicing passing the ball.

WILLY: You nervous, Biff, about the game? BIFF: Not if you’re gonna be there. WILLY: What do they say about you in school, now that they made you

captain? HAPPY: There’s a crowd of girls behind him everytime the classes

change. BIFF: (taking Willy’s hand) This Saturday, Pop, this Saturday—just for

you, I’m going to break through for a touchdown. HAPPY: You’re supposed to pass. BIFF: I’m takin’ one play for Pop. You watch me, Pop, and when I take

off my helmet, that means I’m breakin’ out. Then you watch me crash through that line!

WILLY: (kisses Biff) Oh, wait’ll I tell this in Boston!

Bernard enters in knickers. He is younger than Biff, earnest and loyal, a wor- ried boy.

BERNARD: Biff, where are you? You’re supposed to study with me today. WILLY: Hey, looka Bernard. What’re you lookin’ so anemic about,

Bernard? BERNARD: He’s gotta study, Uncle Willy. He’s got Regents next week. HAPPY: (tauntingly, spinning Bernard around) Let’s box, Bernard! BERNARD: Biff! (He gets away from Happy.) Listen, Biff, I heard Mr.

Birnbaum say that if you don’t start studyin’ math he’s gonna �unk you, and you won’t graduate. I heard him!

WILLY: You better study with him, Biff. Go ahead now. BERNARD: I heard him! BIFF: Oh, Pop, you didn’t see my sneakers! (He holds up a foot for Willy

to look at.) WILLY: Hey, that’s a beautiful job of printing! BERNARD: (wiping his glasses) Just because he printed University of

Virginia on his sneakers doesn’t mean they’ve got to graduate him, Uncle Willy!

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WILLY: (angrily) What’re you talking about? With scholarships to three universities they’re gonna �unk him?

BERNARD: But I heard Mr. Birnbaum say— WILLY: Don’t be a pest, Bernard! (To his boys.) What an anemic! BERNARD: Okay, I’m waiting for you in my house, Biff.

Bernard goes off. The Lomans laugh.

WILLY: Bernard is not well liked, is he? BIFF: He’s liked, but he’s not well liked. HAPPY: That’s right, Pop. WILLY: That’s just what I mean. Bernard can get the best marks in

school, y’understand, but when he gets out in the business world, y’understand, you are going to be �ve times ahead of him. That’s why I thank Almighty God you’re both built like Adonises. Because the man who makes an appearance in the business world, the man who creates personal interest, is the man who gets ahead. Be liked and you will never want. You take me, for instance. I never have to wait in line to see a buyer. “Willy Loman is here!” That’s all they have to know, and I go right through.

BIFF: Did you knock them dead, Pop? WILLY: Knocked ’em cold in Providence, slaughtered ’em in Boston. HAPPY: (on his back, pedaling again) I’m losing weight, you notice, Pop?

Linda enters, as of old, a ribbon in her hair, carrying a basket of washing.

LINDA: (with youthful energy) Hello, dear! WILLY: Sweetheart! LINDA: How’d the Chevvy run? WILLY: Chevrolet, Linda, is the greatest car ever built. (To the boys.)

Since when do you let your mother carry wash up the stairs? BIFF: Grab hold there, boy! HAPPY: Where to, Mom? LINDA: Hang them up on the line. And you better go down to your

friends, Biff. The cellar is full of boys. They don’t know what to do with themselves.

BIFF: Ah, when Pop comes home they can wait! WILLY: (laughs appreciatively) You better go down and tell them what

to do, Biff. BIFF: I think I’ll have them sweep out the furnace room. WILLY: Good work, Biff. BIFF: (goes through wall-line of kitchen to doorway at back and calls

down) Fellas! Everybody sweep out the furnace room! I’ll be right down!

VOICES: All right! Okay, Biff.

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BIFF: George and Sam and Frank, come out back! We’re hangin’ up the wash! Come on, Hap, on the double! (He and Happy carry out the basket.)

LINDA: The way they obey him! WILLY: Well, that’s training, the training. I’m tellin’ you, I was sellin’

thousands and thousands, but I had to come home. LINDA: Oh, the whole block’ll be at that game. Did you sell anything? WILLY: I did �ve hundred gross in Providence and seven hundred gross

in Boston. LINDA: No! Wait a minute, I’ve got a pencil. (She pulls pencil and paper

out of her apron pocket.) That makes your commission . . . Two hun- dred—my God! Two hundred and twelve dollars!

WILLY: Well, I didn’t �gure it yet, but . . . LINDA: How much did you do? WILLY: Well, I—I did—about a hundred and eighty gross in Provi-

dence. Well, no—it came to—roughly two hundred gross on the whole trip.

LINDA: (without hesitation) Two hundred gross. That’s . . . (She �gures.) WILLY: The trouble was that three of the stores were half closed for

inventory in Boston. Otherwise I woulda broke records. LINDA: Well, it makes seventy dollars and some pennies. That’s very good. WILLY: What do we owe? LINDA: Well, on the �rst there’s sixteen dollars on the refrigerator— WILLY: Why sixteen? LINDA: Well, the fan belt broke, so it was a dollar eighty. WILLY: But it’s brand new. LINDA: Well, the man said that’s the way it is. Till they work them-

selves in, y’know.

They move through the wall-line into the kitchen.

WILLY: I hope we didn’t get stuck on that machine. LINDA: They got the biggest ads of any of them! WILLY: I know, it’s a �ne machine. What else? LINDA: Well, there’s nine-sixty for the washing machine. And for the

vacuum cleaner there’s three and a half due on the �fteenth. Then the roof, you got twenty-one dollars remaining.

WILLY: It don’t leak, does it? LINDA: No, they did a wonderful job. Then you owe Frank for the

carburetor. WILLY: I’m not going to pay that man! That goddam Chevrolet, they

ought to prohibit the manufacture of that car! LINDA: Well, you owe him three and a half. And odds and ends, comes

to around a hundred and twenty dollars by the �fteenth.

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WILLY: A hundred and twenty dollars! My God, if business don’t pick up I don’t know what I’m gonna do!

LINDA: Well, next week you’ll do better. WILLY: Oh, I’ll knock them dead next week. I’ll go to Hartford. I’m

very well liked in Hartford. You know, the trouble is, Linda, people don’t seem to take to me.

They move onto the forestage.

LINDA: Oh, don’t be foolish. WILLY: I know it when I walk in. They seem to laugh at me. LINDA: Why? Why would they laugh at you? Don’t talk that way, Willy.

Willy moves to the edge of the stage. Linda goes into the kitchen and starts to darn stockings.

WILLY: I don’t know the reason for it, but they just pass me by. I’m not noticed.

LINDA: But you’re doing wonderful, dear. You’re making seventy to a hundred dollars a week.

WILLY: But I gotta be at it ten, twelve hours a day. Other men—I don’t know—they do it easier. I don’t know why—I can’t stop myself—I talk too much. A man oughta come in with a few words. One thing about Charley. He’s a man of few words, and they respect him.

LINDA: You don’t talk too much, you’re just lively. WILLY: (smiling) Well, I �gure, what the hell, life is short, a couple of

jokes. (To himself.) I joke too much! (The smile goes.) LINDA: Why? You’re— WILLY: I’m fat. I’m very—foolish to look at, Linda. I didn’t tell you, but

Christmas time I happened to be calling on F. H. Stewarts, and a salesman I know, as I was going in to see the buyer, I heard him say something about—walrus. And I—I cracked him right across the face. I won’t take that. I simply will not take that. But they do laugh at me. I know that.

LINDA: Darling . . . WILLY: I gotta overcome it. I know I gotta overcome it. I’m not dressing

to advantage, maybe. LINDA: Willy, darling, you’re the handsomest man in the world— WILLY: Oh, no, Linda. LINDA: To me you are. (Slight pause.) The handsomest.

From the darkness is heard the laughter of a woman. Willy doesn’t turn to it, but it continues through Linda’s lines.

LINDA: And the boys, Willy. Few men are idolized by their children the way you are.

Music is heard as behind a scrim, to the left of the house. The Woman, dimly seen, is dressing.

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WILLY: (with great feeling) You’re the best there is, Linda, you’re a pal, you know that? On the road—on the road I want to grab you some- times and just kiss the life outa you.

The laughter is loud now, and he moves into a brightening area at the left, where The Woman has come from behind the scrim and is standing, putting on her hat, looking into a “mirror” and laughing.

WILLY: ’Cause I get so lonely—especially when business is bad and there’s nobody to talk to. I get the feeling that I’ll never sell anything again, that I won’t make a living for you, or a business, a business for the boys. (He talks through The Woman’s subsiding laughter; The Woman primps at the “mirror.”) There’s so much I want to make for—

THE WOMAN: Me? You didn’t make me, Willy. I picked you. WILLY: (pleased) You picked me? THE WOMAN: (who is quite proper-looking, Willy’s age) I did. I’ve been

sitting at that desk watching all the salesmen go by, day in, day out. But you’ve got such a sense of humor, and we do have such a good time together, don’t we?

WILLY: Sure, sure. (He takes her in his arms.) Why do you have to go now? THE WOMAN: It’s two o’clock . . . WILLY: No, come on in! (He pulls her.) THE WOMAN: . . . my sisters’ll be scandalized. When’ll you be back? WILLY: Oh, two weeks about. Will you come up again? THE WOMAN: Sure thing. You do make me laugh. It’s good for me. (She

squeezes his arm, kisses him.) And I think you’re a wonderful man. WILLY: You picked me, heh? THE WOMAN: Sure. Because you’re so sweet. And such a kidder. WILLY: Well, I’ll see you next time I’m in Boston. THE WOMAN: I’ll put you right through to the buyers. WILLY: (slapping her bottom) Right. Well, bottoms up! THE WOMAN: (slaps him gently and laughs) You just kill me, Willy. (He

suddenly grabs her and kisses her roughly.) You kill me. And thanks for the stockings. I love a lot of stockings. Well, good night.

WILLY: Good night. And keep your pores open! THE WOMAN: Oh, Willy!

The Woman bursts out laughing, and Linda’s laughter blends in. The Woman disappears into the dark. Now the area at the kitchen table brightens. Linda is sitting where she was at the kitchen table, but now is mending a pair of silk stockings.

LINDA: You are, Willy. The handsomest man. You’ve got no reason to feel that—

WILLY: (coming out of The Woman’s dimming area and going over to Linda) I’ll make it all up to you, Linda, I’ll—

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LINDA: There’s nothing to make up, dear. You’re doing �ne, better than—

WILLY: (noticing her mending) What’s that? LINDA: Just mending my stockings. They’re so expensive— WILLY: (angrily, taking them from her) I won’t have you mending stock-

ings in this house! Now throw them out!

Linda puts the stockings in her pocket.

BERNARD: (entering on the run) Where is he? If he doesn’t study! WILLY: (moving to the forestage, with great agitation) You’ll give him

the answers! BERNARD: I do, but I can’t on a Regents! That’s a state exam! They’re

liable to arrest me! WILLY: Where is he? I’ll whip him, I’ll whip him! LINDA: And he’d better give back that football, Willy, it’s not nice. WILLY: Biff! Where is he? Why is he taking everything? LINDA: He’s too tough with the girls, Willy. All the mothers are afraid

of him! WILLY: I’ll whip him! BERNARD: He’s driving the car without a license!

The Woman’s laugh is heard.

WILLY: Shut up! LINDA: All the mothers— WILLY: Shut up! BERNARD: (backing quietly away and out) Mr. Birnbaum says he’s

stuck up. WILLY: Get outa here! BERNARD: If he doesn’t buckle down he’ll �unk math! (He goes off.) LINDA: He’s right, Willy, you’ve gotta— WILLY: (exploding at her) There’s nothing the matter with him! You

want him to be a worm like Bernard? He’s got spirit, personality . . .

As he speaks, Linda, almost in tears, exits into the living room. Willy is alone in the kitchen, wilting and staring. The leaves are gone. It is night again, and the apartment houses look down from behind.

WILLY: Loaded with it. Loaded! What is he stealing? He’s giving it back, isn’t he? Why is he stealing? What did I tell him? I never in my life told him anything but decent things.

Happy in pajamas has come down the stairs; Willy suddenly becomes aware of Happy’s presence.

HAPPY: Let’s go now, come on.

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WILLY: (sitting down at the kitchen table) Huh! Why did she have to wax the �oors herself? Everytime she waxes the �oors she keels over. She knows that!

HAPPY: Shh! Take it easy. What brought you back tonight? WILLY: I got an awful scare. Nearly hit a kid in Yonkers. God! Why

didn’t I go to Alaska with my brother Ben that time! Ben! That man was a genius, that man was success incarnate! What a mistake! He begged me to go.

HAPPY: Well, there’s no use in— WILLY: You guys! There was a man started with the clothes on his back

and ended up with diamond mines! HAPPY: Boy, someday I’d like to know how he did it. WILLY: What’s the mystery? The man knew what he wanted and went

out and got it! Walked into a jungle, and comes out, the age of twenty-one, and he’s rich! The world is an oyster, but you don’t crack it open on a mattress!

HAPPY: Pop, I told you I’m gonna retire you for life. WILLY: You’ll retire me for life on seventy goddam dollars a week? And

your women and your car and your apartment, and you’ll retire me for life! Christ’s sake, I couldn’t get past Yonkers today! Where are you guys, where are you? The woods are burning! I can’t drive a car!

Charley has appeared in the doorway. He is a large man, slow of speech, laconic, immovable. In all he says, despite what he says, there is pity, and now, trepida- tion. He has a robe over his pajamas, slippers on his feet. He enters the kitchen.

CHARLEY: Everything all right? HAPPY: Yeah, Charley, everything’s . . . WILLY: What’s the matter? CHARLEY: I heard some noise. I thought something happened. Can’t we

do something about the walls? You sneeze in here, and in my house hats blow off.

HAPPY: Let’s go to bed, Dad. Come on.

Charley signals to Happy to go.

WILLY: You go ahead, I’m not tired at the moment. HAPPY: (to Willy) Take it easy, huh? (He exits.) WILLY: What’re you doin’ up? CHARLEY: (sitting down at the kitchen table opposite Willy) Couldn’t sleep

good. I had a heartburn. WILLY: Well, you don’t know how to eat. CHARLEY: I eat with my mouth. WILLY: No, you’re ignorant. You gotta know about vitamins and things

like that.

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CHARLEY: Come on, let’s shoot. Tire you out a little. WILLY: (hesitantly) All right. You got cards? CHARLEY: (taking a deck from his pocket) Yeah, I got them. Someplace.

What is it with those vitamins? WILLY: (dealing) They build up your bones. Chemistry. CHARLEY: Yeah, but there’s no bones in a heartburn. WILLY: What are you talkin’ about? Do you know the �rst thing about it? CHARLEY: Don’t get insulted. WILLY: Don’t talk about something you don’t know anything about.

They are playing. Pause.

CHARLEY: What’re you doin’ home? WILLY: A little trouble with the car. CHARLEY: Oh. (Pause.) I’d like to take a trip to California. WILLY: Don’t say. CHARLEY: You want a job? WILLY: I got a job, I told you that. (After a slight pause.) What the hell

are you offering me a job for? CHARLEY: Don’t get insulted. WILLY: Don’t insult me. CHARLEY: I don’t see no sense in it. You don’t have to go on this way. WILLY: I got a good job. (Slight pause.) What do you keep comin’ in

here for? CHARLEY: You want me to go? WILLY: (after a pause, withering) I can’t understand it. He’s going back

to Texas again. What the hell is that? CHARLEY: Let him go. WILLY: I got nothin’ to give him, Charley, I’m clean, I’m clean. CHARLEY: He won’t starve. None a them starve. Forget about him. WILLY: Then what have I got to remember? CHARLEY: You take it too hard. To hell with it. When a deposit bottle

is broken you don’t get your nickel back. WILLY: That’s easy enough for you to say. CHARLEY: That ain’t easy for me to say. WILLY: Did you see the ceiling I put up in the living room? CHARLEY: Yeah, that’s a piece of work. To put up a ceiling is a mystery

to me. How do you do it? WILLY: What’s the difference? CHARLEY: Well, talk about it. WILLY: You gonna put up a ceiling? CHARLEY: How could I put up a ceiling? WILLY: Then what the hell are you bothering me for? CHARLEY: You’re insulted again.

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WILLY: A man who can’t handle tools is not a man. You’re disgusting. CHARLEY: Don’t call me disgusting, Willy.

Uncle Ben, carrying a valise and an umbrella, enters the forestage from around the right corner of the house. He is a stolid man, in his sixties, with a mustache and an authoritative air. He is utterly certain of his destiny, and there is an aura of far places about him. He enters exactly as Willy speaks.

WILLY: I’m getting awfully tired, Ben.

Ben’s music is heard. Ben looks around at everything.

CHARLEY: Good, keep playing; you’ll sleep better. Did you call me Ben?

Ben looks at his watch.

WILLY: That’s funny. For a second there you reminded me of my brother Ben.

BEN: I have only a few minutes. (He strolls, inspecting the place. Willy and Charley continue playing.)

CHARLEY: You never heard from him again, heh? Since that time? WILLY: Didn’t Linda tell you? Couple of weeks ago we got a letter from

his wife in Africa. He died. CHARLEY: That so. BEN: (chuckling) So this is Brooklyn, eh? CHARLEY: Maybe you’re in for some of his money. WILLY: Naa, he had seven sons. There’s just one opportunity I had with

that man . . . BEN: I must make a train, William. There are several properties I’m

looking at in Alaska. WILLY: Sure, sure! If I’d gone with him to Alaska that time, everything

would’ve been totally different. CHARLEY: Go on, you’d froze to death up there. WILLY: What’re you talking about? BEN: Opportunity is tremendous in Alaska, William. Surprised you’re

not up there. WILLY: Sure, tremendous. CHARLEY: Heh? WILLY: There was the only man I ever met who knew the answers. CHARLEY: Who? BEN: How are you all? WILLY: (taking a pot, smiling) Fine, �ne. CHARLEY: Pretty sharp tonight. BEN: Is Mother living with you? WILLY: No, she died a long time ago. CHARLEY: Who?

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BEN: That’s too bad. Fine specimen of a lady, Mother. WILLY: (to Charley) Heh? BEN: I’d hoped to see the old girl. CHARLEY: Who died? BEN: Heard anything from Father, have you? WILLY: (unnerved) What do you mean, who died? CHARLEY: (taking a pot) What’re you talkin’ about? BEN: (looking at his watch) William, it’s half-past eight! WILLY: (as though to dispel his confusion he angrily stops Charley’s hand)

That’s my build! CHARLEY: I put the ace— WILLY: If you don’t know how to play the game I’m not gonna throw

my money away on you! CHARLEY: (rising) It was my ace, for God’s sake! WILLY: I’m through, I’m through! BEN: When did Mother die? WILLY: Long ago. Since the beginning you never knew how to play

cards. CHARLEY: (picks up the cards and goes to the door) All right! Next time

I’ll bring a deck with �ve aces. WILLY: I don’t play that kind of game! CHARLEY: (turning to him) You should be ashamed of yourself! WILLY: Yeah? CHARLEY: Yeah! (He goes out.) WILLY: (slamming the door after him) Ignoramus! BEN: (as Willy comes toward him through the wall-line of the kitchen) So

you’re William. WILLY: (shaking Ben’s hand) Ben! I’ve been waiting for you so long!

What’s the answer? How did you do it? BEN: Oh, there’s a story in that.

Linda enters the forestage, as of old, carrying the wash basket.

LINDA: Is this Ben? BEN: (gallantly) How do you do, my dear. LINDA: Where’ve you been all these years? Willy’s always wondered

why you— WILLY: (pulling Ben away from her impatiently) Where is Dad? Didn’t you

follow him? How did you get started? BEN: Well, I don’t know how much you remember. WILLY: Well, I was just a baby, of course, only three or four years old— BEN: Three years and eleven months. WILLY: What a memory, Ben! BEN: I have many enterprises, William, and I have never kept books.

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WILLY: I remember I was sitting under the wagon in—was it Nebraska? BEN: It was South Dakota, and I gave you a bunch of wild �owers. WILLY: I remember you walking away down some open road. BEN: (laughing) I was going to �nd Father in Alaska. WILLY: Where is he? BEN: At that age I had a very faulty view of geography, William. I dis-

covered after a few days that I was heading due south, so instead of Alaska, I ended up in Africa.

LINDA: Africa! WILLY: The Gold Coast! BEN: Principally, diamond mines. LINDA: Diamond mines! BEN: Yes, my dear. But I’ve only a few minutes— WILLY: No! Boys! Boys! (Young Biff and Happy appear.) Listen to this.

This is your Uncle Ben, a great man! Tell my boys, Ben! BEN: Why, boys, when I was seventeen I walked into the jungle, and

when I was twenty-one I walked out. (He laughs.) And by God I was rich.

WILLY: (to the boys) You see what I been talking about? The greatest things can happen!

BEN: (glancing at his watch) I have an appointment in Ketchikan Tuesday week.

WILLY: No, Ben! Please tell about Dad. I want my boys to hear. I want them to know the kind of stock they spring from. All I remember is a man with a big beard, and I was in Mamma’s lap, sitting around a �re, and some kind of high music.

BEN: His �ute. He played the �ute. WILLY: Sure, the �ute, that’s right!

New music is heard, a high, rollicking tune.

BEN: Father was a very great and a very wild-hearted man. We would start in Boston, and he’d toss the whole family into the wagon, and then he’d drive the team right across the country; through Ohio, and Indiana, Michigan, Illinois, and all the Western states. And we’d stop in the towns and sell the �utes that he’d made on the way. Great inventor, Father. With one gadget he made more in a week than a man like you could make in a lifetime.

WILLY: That’s just the way I’m bringing them up, Ben—rugged, well liked, all-around.

BEN: Yeah? (To Biff.) Hit that, boy—hard as you can. (He pounds his stomach.)

BIFF: Oh, no, sir! BEN: (taking boxing stance) Come on, get to me! (He laughs.)

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WILLY: Go to it, Biff! Go ahead, show him! BIFF: Okay! (He cocks his �st and starts in.) LINDA: (to Willy) Why must he �ght, dear? BEN: (sparring with Biff) Good boy! Good boy! WILLY: How’s that, Ben, heh? HAPPY: Give him the left, Biff! LINDA: Why are you �ghting? BEN: Good boy! (Suddenly comes in, trips Biff, and stands over him, the

point of his umbrella poised over Biff’s eye.) LINDA: Look out, Biff! BIFF: Gee! BEN: (patting Biff’s knee) Never �ght fair with a stranger, boy. You’ll

never get out of the jungle that way. (Taking Linda’s hand and bowing.) It was an honor and a pleasure to meet you, Linda.

LINDA: (withdrawing her hand coldly, frightened) Have a nice—trip. BEN: (to Willy) And good luck with your—what do you do? WILLY: Selling. BEN: Yes. Well . . . (He raises his hand in farewell to all.) WILLY: No, Ben, I don’t want you to think . . . (He takes Ben’s arm to

show him.) It’s Brooklyn, I know, but we hunt too. BEN: Really, now. WILLY: Oh, sure, there’s snakes and rabbits and—that’s why I moved

out here. Why, Biff can fell any one of these trees in no time! Boys! Go right over to where they’re building the apartment house and get some sand. We’re gonna rebuild the entire front stoop right now! Watch this, Ben!

BIFF: Yes, sir! On the double, Hap! HAPPY: (as he and Biff run off) I lost weight, Pop, you notice?

Charley enters in knickers, even before the boys are gone.

CHARLEY: Listen, if they steal any more from that building the watchman’ll put the cops on them!

LINDA: (to Willy) Don’t let Biff . . .

Ben laughs lustily.

WILLY: You shoulda seen the lumber they brought home last week. At least a dozen six-by-tens worth all kinds of money.

CHARLEY: Listen, if that watchman— WILLY: I gave them hell, understand. But I got a couple of fearless char-

acters there. CHARLEY: Willy, the jails are full of fearless characters. BEN: (clapping Willy on the back, with a laugh at Charley) And the stock

exchange, friend! WILLY: (joining in Ben’s laughter) Where are the rest of your pants?

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CHARLEY: My wife bought them. WILLY: Now all you need is a golf club and you can go upstairs and go

to sleep. (To Ben.) Great athlete! Between him and his son Bernard they can’t hammer a nail!

BERNARD: (rushing in) The watchman’s chasing Biff! WILLY: (angrily) Shut up! He’s not stealing anything! LINDA: (alarmed, hurrying off left) Where is he? Biff, dear! (She exits.) WILLY: (moving toward the left, away from Ben) There’s nothing wrong.

What’s the matter with you? BEN: Nervy boy. Good! WILLY: (laughing) Oh, nerves of iron, that Biff! CHARLEY: Don’t know what it is. My New England man comes back

and he’s bleedin’, they murdered him up there. WILLY: It’s contacts, Charley, I got important contacts! CHARLEY: (sarcastically) Glad to hear it, Willy. Come in later, we’ll

shoot a little casino. I’ll take some of your Portland money. (He laughs at Willy and exits.)

WILLY: (turning to Ben) Business is bad, it’s murderous. But not for me, of course.

BEN: I’ll stop by on my way back to Africa. WILLY: (longingly) Can’t you stay a few days? You’re just what I need,

Ben, because I—I have a �ne position here, but I—well, Dad left when I was such a baby and I never had a chance to talk to him and I still feel—kind of temporary about myself.

BEN: I’ll be late for my train.

They are at opposite ends of the stage.

WILLY: Ben, my boys—can’t we talk? They’d go into the jaws of hell for me, see, but I—

BEN: William, you’re being �rst-rate with your boys. Outstanding, manly chaps!

WILLY: (hanging on to his words) Oh, Ben, that’s good to hear! Because sometimes I’m afraid that I’m not teaching them the right kind of— Ben, how should I teach them?

BEN: (giving great weight to each word, and with a certain vicious audacity) William, when I walked into the jungle, I was seventeen. When I walked out I was twenty-one. And, by God, I was rich! (He goes off into darkness around the right corner of the house.)

WILLY: . . . was rich! That’s just the spirit I want to imbue them with! To walk into a jungle! I was right! I was right! I was right!

Ben is gone, but Willy is still speaking to him as Linda, in nightgown and robe, enters the kitchen, glances around for Willy, then goes to the door of the house, looks out and sees him. Comes down to his left. He looks at her.

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LINDA: Willy, dear? Willy? WILLY: I was right! LINDA: Did you have some cheese? (He can’t answer.) It’s very late, dar-

ling. Come to bed, heh? WILLY: (looking straight up) Gotta break your neck to see a star in this

yard. LINDA: You coming in? WILLY: What ever happened to that diamond watch fob? Remember?

When Ben came from Africa that time? Didn’t he give me a watch fob with a diamond in it?

LINDA: You pawned it, dear. Twelve, thirteen years ago. For Biff’s radio correspondence course.

WILLY: Gee, that was a beautiful thing. I’ll take a walk. LINDA: But you’re in your slippers. WILLY: (starting to go around the house at the left) I was right! I was! (Half

to Linda, as he goes, shaking his head.) What a man! There was a man worth talking to. I was right!

LINDA: (calling after Willy) But in your slippers, Willy!

Willy is almost gone when Biff, in his pajamas, comes down the stairs and enters the kitchen.

BIFF: What is he doing out there? LINDA: Sh! BIFF: God Almighty, Mom, how long has he been doing this? LINDA: Don’t, he’ll hear you. BIFF: What the hell is the matter with him? LINDA: It’ll pass by morning. BIFF: Shouldn’t we do anything? LINDA: Oh, my dear, you should do a lot of things, but there’s nothing

to do, so go to sleep.

Happy comes down the stairs and sits on the steps.

HAPPY: I never heard him so loud, Mom. LINDA: Well, come around more often; you’ll hear him. (She sits down at

the table and mends the lining of Willy’s jacket.) BIFF: Why didn’t you ever write me about this, Mom? LINDA: How would I write to you? For over three months you had no

address. BIFF: I was on the move. But you know I thought of you all the time.

You know that, don’t you, pal? LINDA: I know, dear, I know. But he likes to have a letter. Just to know

that there’s still a possibility for better things. BIFF: He’s not like this all the time, is he?

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LINDA: It’s when you come home he’s always the worst. BIFF: When I come home? LINDA: When you write you’re coming, he’s all smiles, and talks about

the future, and—he’s just wonderful. And then the closer you seem to come, the more shaky he gets, and then, by the time you get here, he’s arguing, and he seems angry at you. I think it’s just that maybe he can’t bring himself to—to open up to you. Why are you so hateful to each other? Why is that?

BIFF: (evasively) I’m not hateful, Mom. LINDA: But you no sooner come in the door than you’re �ghting! BIFF: I don’t know why. I mean to change. I’m tryin’, Mom, you under-

stand? LINDA: Are you home to stay now? BIFF: I don’t know. I want to look around, see what’s doin’. LINDA: Biff, you can’t look around all your life, can you? BIFF: I just can’t take hold, Mom. I can’t take hold of some kind of a

life. LINDA: Biff, a man is not a bird, to come and go with the springtime. BIFF: Your hair . . . (He touches her hair.) Your hair got so gray. LINDA: Oh, it’s been gray since you were in high school. I just stopped

dyeing it, that’s all. BIFF: Dye it again, will ya? I don’t want my pal looking old. (He smiles.) LINDA: You’re such a boy! You think you can go away for a year

and . . . You’ve got to get it into your head now that one day you’ll knock on this door and there’ll be strange people here—

BIFF: What are you talking about? You’re not even sixty, Mom. LINDA: But what about your father? BIFF: (lamely) Well, I meant him too. HAPPY: He admires Pop. LINDA: Biff, dear, if you don’t have any feeling for him, then you can’t

have any feeling for me. BIFF: Sure I can, Mom. LINDA: No. You can’t just come to see me, because I love him. (With a

threat, but only a threat, of tears.) He’s the dearest man in the world to me, and I won’t have anyone making him feel unwanted and low and blue. You’ve got to make up your mind now, darling, there’s no leeway any more. Either he’s your father and you pay him that respect, or else you’re not to come here. I know he’s not easy to get along with—nobody knows that better than me—but . . .

WILLY: (from the left, with a laugh) Hey, hey, Biffo! BIFF: (starting to go out after Willy) What the hell is the matter with

him? (Happy stops him.) LINDA: Don’t—don’t go near him!

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BIFF: Stop making excuses for him! He always, always wiped the �oor with you. Never had an ounce of respect for you.

HAPPY: He’s always had respect for— BIFF: What the hell do you know about it? HAPPY: (surlily) Just don’t call him crazy! BIFF: He’s got no character—Charley wouldn’t do this. Not in his own

house—spewing out that vomit from his mind. HAPPY: Charley never had to cope with what he’s got to. BIFF: People are worse off than Willy Loman. Believe me, I’ve seen

them! LINDA: Then make Charley your father, Biff. You can’t do that, can

you? I don’t say he’s a great man. Willy Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He’s not the �nest char- acter that ever lived. But he’s a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He’s not to be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must be �nally paid to such a person. You called him crazy—

BIFF: I didn’t mean— LINDA: No, a lot of people think he’s lost his—balance. But you don’t

have to be very smart to know what his trouble is. The man is exhausted.

HAPPY: Sure! LINDA: A small man can be just as exhausted as a great man. He works

for a company thirty-six years this March, opens up unheard-of ter- ritories to their trademark, and now in his old age they take his sal- ary away.

HAPPY: (indignantly) I didn’t know that, Mom. LINDA: You never asked, my dear! Now that you get your spending

money someplace else you don’t trouble your mind with him. HAPPY: But I gave you money last— LINDA: Christmas time, �fty dollars! To �x the hot water it cost ninety-

seven �fty! For �ve weeks he’s been on straight commission, like a beginner, an unknown!

BIFF: Those ungrateful bastards! LINDA: Are they any worse than his sons? When he brought them busi-

ness, when he was young, they were glad to see him. But now his old friends, the old buyers that loved him so and always found some order to hand him in a pinch—they’re all dead, retired. He used to be able to make six, seven calls a day in Boston. Now he takes his valises out of the car and puts them back and takes them out again and he’s exhausted. Instead of walking he talks now. He drives seven hundred miles, and when he gets there no one knows him any more, no one welcomes him. And what goes through a man’s

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mind, driving seven hundred miles home without having earned a cent? Why shouldn’t he talk to himself? Why? When he has to go to Charley and borrow �fty dollars a week and pretend to me that it’s his pay? How long can that go on? How long? You see what I’m sitting here and waiting for? And you tell me he has no character? The man who never worked a day but for your bene�t? When does he get the medal for that? Is this his reward—to turn around at the age of sixty-three and �nd his sons, who he loved better than his life, one a philandering bum—

HAPPY: Mom! LINDA: That’s all you are, my baby! (To Biff.) And you! What hap-

pened to the love you had for him? You were such pals! How you used to talk to him on the phone every night! How lonely he was till he could come home to you!

BIFF: All right, Mom. I’ll live here in my room, and I’ll get a job. I’ll keep away from him, that’s all.

LINDA: No, Biff. You can’t stay here and �ght all the time. BIFF: He threw me out of this house, remember that. LINDA: Why did he do that? I never knew why. BIFF: Because I know he’s a fake and he doesn’t like anybody around

who knows! LINDA: Why a fake? In what way? What do you mean? BIFF: Just don’t lay it all at my feet. It’s between me and him—that’s all

I have to say. I’ll chip in from now on. He’ll settle for half my pay check. He’ll be all right. I’m going to bed. (He starts for the stairs.)

LINDA: He won’t be all right. BIFF: (turning on the stairs, furiously) I hate this city and I’ll stay here.

Now what do you want? LINDA: He’s dying, Biff.

Happy turns quickly to her, shocked.

BIFF: (after a pause) Why is he dying? LINDA: He’s been trying to kill himself. BIFF: (with great horror) How? LINDA: I live from day to day. BIFF: What’re you talking about? LINDA: Remember I wrote you that he smashed up the car again? In

February? BIFF: Well? LINDA: The insurance inspector came. He said that they have evidence.

That all these accidents in the last year—weren’t—weren’t— accidents.

HAPPY: How can they tell that? That’s a lie.

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LINDA: It seems there’s a woman . . . (She takes a breath as—) BIFF: (sharply but contained) What woman? LINDA: (simultaneously) . . . and this woman . . . LINDA: What? BIFF: Nothing. Go ahead. LINDA: What did you say? BIFF: Nothing. I just said what woman? HAPPY: What about her? LINDA: Well, it seems she was walking down the road and saw his

car. She says that he wasn’t driving fast at all, and that he didn’t skid. She says he came to that little bridge, and then deliberately smashed into the railing, and it was only the shallowness of the water that saved him.

BIFF: Oh, no, he probably just fell asleep again. LINDA: I don’t think he fell asleep. BIFF: Why not? LINDA: Last month . . . (With great dif�culty.) Oh, boys, it’s so hard to

say a thing like this! He’s just a big stupid man to you, but I tell you there’s more good in him than in many other people. (She chokes, wipes her eyes.) I was looking for a fuse. The lights blew out, and I went down the cellar. And behind the fuse box—it happened to fall out—was a length of rubber pipe—just short.

HAPPY: No kidding? LINDA: There’s a little attachment on the end of it. I knew right away.

And sure enough, on the bottom of the water heater there’s a new little nipple on the gas pipe.

HAPPY: (angrily) That—jerk. BIFF: Did you have it taken off? LINDA: I’m—I’m ashamed to. How can I mention it to him? Every day

I go down and take away that little rubber pipe. But, when he comes home, I put it back where it was. How can I insult him that way? I don’t know what to do. I live from day to day, boys. I tell you, I know every thought in his mind. It sounds so old-fashioned and silly, but I tell you he put his whole life into you and you’ve turned your backs on him. (She is bent over in the chair, weeping, her face in her hands.) Biff, I swear to God! Biff, his life is in your hands!

HAPPY: (to Biff) How do you like that damned fool! BIFF: (kissing her) All right, pal, all right. It’s all settled now. I’ve been

remiss. I know that, Mom, but now I’ll stay, and I swear to you, I’ll apply myself. (Kneeling in front of her, in a fever of self-reproach.) It’s just—you see, Mom, I don’t �t in business. Not that I won’t try. I’ll try, and I’ll make good.

HAPPY: Sure you will. The trouble with you in business was you never tried to please people.

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BIFF: I know, I— HAPPY: Like when you worked for Harrison’s. Bob Harrison said you

were tops, and then you go and do some damn fool thing like whistling whole songs in the elevator like a comedian.

BIFF: (against Happy) So what? I like to whistle sometimes. HAPPY: You don’t raise a guy to a responsible job who whistles in the

elevator! LINDA: Well, don’t argue about it now. HAPPY: Like when you’d go off and swim in the middle of the day

instead of taking the line around. BIFF: (his resentment rising) Well, don’t you run off? You take off some-

times, don’t you? On a nice summer day? HAPPY: Yeah, but I cover myself! LINDA: Boys! HAPPY: If I’m going to take a fade the boss can call any number where

I’m supposed to be and they’ll swear to him that I just left. I’ll tell you something that I hate to say, Biff, but in the business world some of them think you’re crazy.

BIFF: (angered) Screw the business world! HAPPY: All right, screw it! Great, but cover yourself! LINDA: Hap, Hap! BIFF: I don’t care what they think! They’ve laughed at Dad for years,

and you know why? Because we don’t belong in this nut-house of a city! We should be mixing cement on some open plain, or—or car- penters. A carpenter is allowed to whistle!

Willy walks in from the entrance of the house, at left.

WILLY: Even your grandfather was better than a carpenter. (Pause. They watch him.) You never grew up. Bernard does not whistle in the elevator, I assure you.

BIFF: (as though to laugh Willy out of it) Yeah, but you do, Pop. WILLY: I never in my life whistled in an elevator! And who in the busi-

ness world thinks I’m crazy? BIFF: I didn’t mean it like that, Pop. Now don’t make a whole thing out

of it, will ya? WILLY: Go back to the West! Be a carpenter, a cowboy, enjoy yourself! LINDA: Willy, he was just saying — WILLY: I heard what he said! HAPPY: (trying to quiet Willy) Hey, Pop, come on now . . . WILLY: (continuing over Happy’s line) They laugh at me, heh? Go to

Filene’s, go to the Hub, go to Slattery’s, Boston. Call out the name Willy Loman and see what happens! Big shot!

BIFF: All right, Pop. WILLY: Big!

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BIFF: All right! WILLY: Why do you always insult me? BIFF: I didn’t say a word. (To Linda.) Did I say a word? LINDA: He didn’t say anything, Willy. WILLY: (going to the doorway of the living room) All right, good night,

good night. LINDA: Willy, dear, he just decided . . . WILLY: (to Biff) If you get tired hanging around tomorrow, paint the

ceiling I put up in the living room. BIFF: I’m leaving early tomorrow. HAPPY: He’s going to see Bill Oliver, Pop. WILLY: (interestedly) Oliver? For what? BIFF: (with reserve, but trying, trying) He always said he’d stake me. I’d

like to go into business, so maybe I can take him up on it. LINDA: Isn’t that wonderful? WILLY: Don’t interrupt. What’s wonderful about it? There’s �fty men in

the City of New York who’d stake him. (To Biff.) Sporting goods? BIFF: I guess so. I know something about it and— WILLY: He knows something about it! You know sporting goods better

than Spalding, for God’s sake! How much is he giving you? BIFF: I don’t know, I didn’t even see him yet, but— WILLY: Then what’re you talkin’ about? BIFF: (getting angry) Well, all I said was I’m gonna see him, that’s all! WILLY: (turning away) Ah, you’re counting your chickens again. BIFF: (starting left for the stairs) Oh, Jesus, I’m going to sleep! WILLY: (calling after him) Don’t curse in this house! BIFF: (turning) Since when did you get so clean! HAPPY: (trying to stop them) Wait a . . . WILLY: Don’t use that language to me! I won’t have it! HAPPY: (grabbing Biff, shouts) Wait a minute! I got an idea. I got a fea-

sible idea. Come here, Biff, let’s talk this over now, let’s talk some sense here. When I was down in Florida last time, I thought of a great idea to sell sporting goods. It just came back to me. You and I, Biff—we have a line, the Loman Line. We train a couple of weeks, and put on a couple of exhibitions, see?

WILLY: That’s an idea! HAPPY: Wait! We form two basketball teams, see? Two water-polo

teams. We play each other. It’s a million dollars’ worth of publicity. Two brothers, see? The Loman Brothers. Displays in the Royal Palms—all the hotels. And banners over the ring and the basketball court: “Loman Brothers.” Baby, we could sell sporting goods!

WILLY: That is a one-million-dollar idea. LINDA: Marvelous!

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BIFF: I’m in great shape as far as that’s concerned. HAPPY: And the beauty of it is, Biff, it wouldn’t be like a business. We’d

be out playin’ ball again . . . BIFF: (enthused) Yeah, that’s . . . WILLY: Million-dollar . . . HAPPY: And you wouldn’t get fed up with it, Biff. It’d be the fam-

ily again. There’d be the old honor, and comradeship, and if you wanted to go off for a swim or somethin’—well, you’d do it! With- out some smart cooky gettin’ up ahead of you!

WILLY: Lick the world! You guys together could absolutely lick the civi- lized world.

BIFF: I’ll see Oliver tomorrow. Hap, if we could work that out . . . LINDA: Maybe things are beginning to— WILLY: (wildly enthused, to Linda) Stop interrupting! (To Biff.) But

don’t wear sport jacket and slacks when you see Oliver. BIFF: No, I’ll— WILLY: A business suit, and talk as little as possible, and don’t crack any

jokes. BIFF: He did like me. Always liked me. LINDA: He loved you! WILLY: (to Linda) Will you stop! (To Biff.) Walk in very serious. You

are not applying for a boy’s job. Money is to pass. Be quiet, �ne, and serious. Everybody likes a kidder, but nobody lends him money.

HAPPY: I’ll try to get some myself, Biff. I’m sure I can. WILLY: I can see great things for you, kids, I think your troubles are

over. But remember, start big and you’ll end big. Ask for �fteen. How much you gonna ask for?

BIFF: Gee, I don’t know— WILLY: And don’t say “Gee.” “Gee” is a boy’s word. A man walking in

for �fteen thousand dollars does not say “Gee!” BIFF: Ten, I think, would be top though. WILLY: Don’t be so modest. You always started too low. Walk in with a

big laugh. Don’t look worried. Start off with a couple of your good stories to lighten things up. It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it—because personality always wins the day.

LINDA: Oliver always thought the highest of him— WILLY: Will you let me talk? BIFF: Don’t yell at her, Pop, will ya? WILLY: (angrily) I was talking, wasn’t I! BIFF: I don’t like you yelling at her all the time, and I’m tellin’ you,

that’s all. WILLY: What’re you, takin’ over this house? LINDA: Willy—

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WILLY: (turning on her) Don’t take his side all the time, goddammit! BIFF: (furiously) Stop yelling at her! WILLY: (suddenly pulling on his cheek, beaten down, guilt ridden) Give my

best to Bill Oliver—he may remember me. (He exits through the living room doorway.)

LINDA: (her voice subdued) What’d you have to start that for? (Biff turns away.) You see how sweet he was as soon as you talked hopefully? (She goes over to Biff.) Come up and say good night to him. Don’t let him go to bed that way.

HAPPY: Come on, Biff, let’s buck him up. LINDA: Please, dear. Just say good night. It takes so little to make him

happy. Come. (She goes through the living room doorway, calling upstairs from within the living room.) Your pajamas are hanging in the bathroom. Willy!

HAPPY: (looking toward where Linda went out) What a woman! They broke the mold when they made her. You know that, Biff?

BIFF: He’s off salary. My God, working on commission! HAPPY: Well, let’s face it: he’s no hot-shot selling man. Except that

sometimes, you have to admit, he’s a sweet personality. BIFF: (deciding) Lend me ten bucks, will ya? I want to buy some new ties. HAPPY: I’ll take you to a place I know. Beautiful stuff. Wear one of my

striped shirts tomorrow. BIFF: She got gray. Mom got awful old. Gee, I’m gonna go in to Oliver

tomorrow and knock him for a— HAPPY: Come on up. Tell that to Dad. Let’s give him a whirl. Come on. BIFF: (steamed up) You know, with ten thousand bucks, boy! HAPPY: (as they go into the living room) That’s the talk, Biff, that’s the

�rst time I’ve heard the old con�dence out of you! (From within the living room, fading off.) You’re gonna live with me, kid, and any babe you want you just say the word . . . (The last lines are hardly heard. They are mounting the stairs to their parents’ bedroom.)

LINDA: (entering her bedroom and addressing Willy, who is in the bathroom. She is straightening the bed for him) Can you do anything about the shower? It drips.

WILLY: (from the bathroom) All of a sudden everything falls to pieces! Goddam plumbing, oughta be sued, those people. I hardly �nished putting it in and the thing . . . (His words rumble off.)

LINDA: I’m just wondering if Oliver will remember him. You think he might?

WILLY: (coming out of the bathroom in his pajamas) Remember him? What’s the matter with you, you crazy? If he’d’ve stayed with Oli- ver he’d be on top by now! Wait’ll Oliver gets a look at him. You don’t know the average caliber any more. The average young man

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today—(he is getting into bed)—is got a caliber of zero. Greatest thing in the world for him was to bum around.

Biff and Happy enter the bedroom. Slight pause.

WILLY: (stops short, looking at Biff) Glad to hear it, boy. HAPPY: He wanted to say good night to you, sport. WILLY: (to Biff) Yeah. Knock him dead, boy. What’d you want to tell me? BIFF: Just take it easy, Pop. Good night. (He turns to go.) WILLY: (unable to resist) And if anything falls off the desk while you’re

talking to him—like a package or something—don’t you pick it up. They have of�ce boys for that.

LINDA: I’ll make a big breakfast— WILLY: Will you let me �nish? (To Biff.) Tell him you were in the busi-

ness in the West. Not farm work. BIFF: All right, Dad. LINDA: I think everything— WILLY: (going right through her speech) And don’t undersell yourself. No

less than �fteen thousand dollars. BIFF: (unable to bear him) Okay. Good night, Mom. (He starts moving.) WILLY: Because you got a greatness in you, Biff, remember that. You got

all kinds a greatness . . . (He lies back, exhausted. Biff walks out.) LINDA: (calling after Biff) Sleep well, darling! HAPPY: I’m gonna get married, Mom. I wanted to tell you. LINDA: Go to sleep, dear. HAPPY: (going) I just wanted to tell you. WILLY: Keep up the good work. (Happy exits.) God . . . remember that

Ebbets Field game? The championship of the city? LINDA: Just rest. Should I sing to you? WILLY: Yeah. Sing to me. (Linda hums a soft lullaby.) When that team

came out—he was the tallest, remember? LINDA: Oh, yes. And in gold.

Biff enters the darkened kitchen, takes a cigarette, and leaves the house. He comes downstage into a golden pool of light. He smokes, staring at the night.

WILLY: Like a young god. Hercules—something like that. And the sun, the sun all around him. Remember how he waved to me? Right up from the �eld, with the representatives of three colleges standing by? And the buyers I brought, and the cheers when he came out— Loman, Loman, Loman! God Almighty, he’ll be great yet. A star like that, magni�cent, can never really fade away!

The light on Willy is fading. The gas heater begins to glow through the kitchen wall, near the stairs, a blue �ame beneath red coils.

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LINDA: (timidly) Willy, dear, what has he got against you? WILLY: I’m so tired. Don’t talk any more.

Biff slowly returns to the kitchen. He stops, stares toward the heater.

LINDA: Will you ask Howard to let you work in New York? WILLY: First thing in the morning. Everything’ll be all right.

Biff reaches behind the heater and draws out a length of rubber tubing. He is horri�ed and turns his head toward Willy’s room, still dimly lit, from which the strains of Linda’s desperate but monotonous humming rise.

WILLY: (staring through the window into the moonlight) Gee, look at the moon moving between the buildings!

Biff wraps the tubing around his hand and quickly goes up the stairs. Curtain.

ACT 2 Music is heard, gay and bright. The curtain rises as the music fades away. Willy, in shirt sleeves, is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, his hat in his lap. Linda is �lling his cup when she can.

WILLY: Wonderful coffee. Meal in itself. LINDA: Can I make you some eggs? WILLY: No. Take a breath. LINDA: You look so rested, dear. WILLY: I slept like a dead one. First time in months. Imagine, sleeping

till ten on a Tuesday morning. Boys left nice and early, heh? LINDA: They were out of here by eight o’clock. WILLY: Good work! LINDA: It was so thrilling to see them leaving together. I can’t get over

the shaving lotion in this house. WILLY: (smiling) Mmm— LINDA: Biff was very changed this morning. His whole attitude seemed

to be hopeful. He couldn’t wait to get downtown to see Oliver. WILLY: He’s heading for a change. There’s no question, there simply are

certain men that take longer to get—solidi�ed. How did he dress? LINDA: His blue suit. He’s so handsome in that suit. He could be a—

anything in that suit!

Willy gets up from the table. Linda holds his jacket for him.

WILLY: There’s no question, no question at all. Gee, on the way home tonight I’d like to buy some seeds.

LINDA: (laughing) That’d be wonderful. But not enough sun gets back there. Nothing’ll grow any more.

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WILLY: You wait, kid, before it’s all over we’re gonna get a little place out in the country, and I’ll raise some vegetables, a couple of chickens . . .

LINDA: You’ll do it yet, dear.

Willy walks out of his jacket. Linda follows him.

WILLY: And they’ll get married, and come for a weekend. I’d build a little guest house. ’Cause I got so many �ne tools, all I’d need would be a little lumber and some peace of mind.

LINDA: (joyfully) I sewed the lining . . . WILLY: I could build two guest houses, so they’d both come. Did he

decide how much he’s going to ask Oliver for? LINDA: (getting him into the jacket) He didn’t mention it, but I imagine

ten or �fteen thousand. You going to talk to Howard today? WILLY: Yeah. I’ll put it to him straight and simple. He’ll just have to

take me off the road. LINDA: And Willy, don’t forget to ask for a little advance, because

we’ve got the insurance premium. It’s the grace period now. WILLY: That’s a hundred . . .? LINDA: A hundred and eight, sixty-eight. Because we’re a little short

again. WILLY: Why are we short? LINDA: Well, you had the motor job on the car . . . WILLY: That goddam Studebaker! LINDA: And you got one more payment on the refrigerator . . . WILLY: But it just broke again! LINDA: Well, it’s old, dear. WILLY: I told you we should’ve bought a well-advertised machine.

Charley bought a General Electric and it’s twenty years old and it’s still good, that son-of-a-bitch.

LINDA: But, Willy— WILLY: Whoever heard of a Hastings refrigerator? Once in my life I

would like to own something outright before it’s broken! I’m always in a race with the junkyard! I just �nished paying for the car and it’s on its last legs. The refrigerator consumes belts like a goddam maniac. They time those things. They time them so when you �nally paid for them, they’re used up.

LINDA: (buttoning up his jacket as he unbuttons it) All told, about two hundred dollars would carry us, dear. But that includes the last payment on the mortgage. After this payment, Willy, the house belongs to us.

WILLY: It’s twenty-�ve years! LINDA: Biff was nine years old when we bought it.

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WILLY: Well, that’s a great thing. To weather a twenty-�ve year mort- gage is—

LINDA: It’s an accomplishment. WILLY: All the cement, the lumber, the reconstruction I put in this

house! There ain’t a crack to be found in it any more. LINDA: Well, it served its purpose. WILLY: What purpose? Some stranger’ll come along, move in, and that’s

that. If only Biff would take this house, and raise a family . . . (He starts to go.) Good-by, I’m late.

LINDA: (suddenly remembering) Oh, I forgot! You’re supposed to meet them for dinner.

WILLY: Me? LINDA: At Frank’s Chop House on Forty-eighth near Sixth Avenue. WILLY: Is that so! How about you? LINDA: No, just the three of you. They’re gonna blow you to a big meal! WILLY: Don’t say! Who thought of that? LINDA: Biff came to me this morning, Willy, and he said, “Tell Dad, we

want to blow him to a big meal.” Be there six o’clock. You and your two boys are going to have dinner.

WILLY: Gee whiz! That’s really somethin’. I’m gonna knock Howard for a loop, kid. I’ll get an advance, and I’ll come home with a New York job. Goddammit, now I’m gonna do it!

LINDA: Oh, that’s the spirit, Willy! WILLY: I will never get behind a wheel the rest of my life! LINDA: It’s changing, Willy, I can feel it changing! WILLY: Beyond a question. G’by, I’m late. (He starts to go again.) LINDA: (calling after him as she runs to the kitchen table for a handkerchief)

You got your glasses? WILLY: (feels for them, then comes back in) Yeah, yeah, got my glasses. LINDA: (giving him the handkerchief) And a handkerchief. WILLY: Yeah, handkerchief. LINDA: And your saccharine? WILLY: Yeah, my saccharine. LINDA: Be careful on the subway stairs.

She kisses him, and a silk stocking is seen hanging from her hand. Willy notices it.

WILLY: Will you stop mending stockings? At least while I’m in the house. It gets me nervous. I can’t tell you. Please.

Linda hides the stocking in her hand as she follows Willy across the forestage in front of the house.

LINDA: Remember, Frank’s Chop House. WILLY: (passing the apron) Maybe beets would grow out there.

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LINDA: (laughing) But you tried so many times. WILLY: Yeah. Well, don’t work hard today. (He disappears around the

right corner of the house.) LINDA: Be careful!

As Willy vanishes, Linda waves to him. Suddenly the phone rings. She runs across the stage and into the kitchen and lifts it.

LINDA: Hello? Oh, Biff! I’m so glad you called, I just . . . Yes, sure, I just told him. Yes, he’ll be there for dinner at six o’clock, I didn’t forget. Listen, I was just dying to tell you. You know that little rub- ber pipe I told you about? That he connected to the gas heater? I �nally decided to go down the cellar this morning and take it away and destroy it. But it’s gone! Imagine? He took it away himself, it isn’t there! (She listens.) When? Oh, then you took it. Oh—nothing, it’s just that I’d hoped he’d taken it away himself. Oh, I’m not wor- ried, darling, because this morning he left in such high spirits, it was like the old days! I’m not afraid any more. Did Mr. Oliver see you? . . . Well, you wait there then. And make a nice impression on him, darling. Just don’t perspire too much before you see him. And have a nice time with Dad. He may have big news too! . . . That’s right, a New York job. And be sweet to him tonight, dear. Be loving to him. Because he’s only a little boat looking for a harbor. (She is trembling with sorrow and joy.) Oh, that’s wonderful, Biff, you’ll save his life. Thanks, darling. Just put your arm around him when he comes into the restaurant. Give him a smile. That’s the boy . . . Good-by, dear. . . . You got your comb? . . . That’s �ne. Good-by, Biff dear.

In the middle of her speech, Howard Wagner, thirty-six, wheels in a small typewriter table on which is a wire-recording machine and proceeds to plug it in. This is on the left forestage. Light slowly fades on Linda as it rises on Howard. Howard is intent on threading the machine and only glances over his shoulder as Willy appears.

WILLY: Pst! Pst! HOWARD: Hello, Willy, come in. WILLY: Like to have a little talk with you, Howard. HOWARD: Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll be with you in a minute. WILLY: What’s that, Howard? HOWARD: Didn’t you ever see one of these? Wire recorder. WILLY: Oh. Can we talk a minute? HOWARD: Records things. Just got delivery yesterday. Been driving me

crazy, the most terri�c machine I ever saw in my life. I was up all night with it.

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WILLY: What do you do with it? HOWARD: I bought it for dictation, but you can do anything with it. Lis-

ten to this. I had it home last night. Listen to what I picked up. The �rst one is my daughter. Get this. (He �icks the switch and “Roll out the Barrel” is heard being whistled.) Listen to that kid whistle.

WILLY: That is lifelike, isn’t it? HOWARD: Seven years old. Get that tone. WILLY: Ts, ts. Like to ask a little favor if you . . .

The whistling breaks off, and the voice of Howard’s Daughter is heard.

HIS DAUGHTER: “Now you, Daddy.” HOWARD: She’s crazy for me! (Again the same song is whistled.) That’s

me! Ha! (He winks.) WILLY: You’re very good!

The whistling breaks off again. The machine runs silent for a moment.

HOWARD: Sh! Get this now, this is my son. HIS SON: “The capital of Alabama is Montgomery; the capital of Ari-

zona is Phoenix; the capital of Arkansas is Little Rock; the capital of California is Sacramento . . .” (And on, and on.)

HOWARD: (holding up �ve �ngers) Five years old, Willy! WILLY: He’ll make an announcer some day! HIS SON: (continuing) “The capital . . .” HOWARD: Get that—alphabetical order! (The machine breaks off sud-

denly.) Wait a minute. The maid kicked the plug out. WILLY: It certainly is a— HOWARD: Sh, for God’s sake! HIS SON: “It’s nine o’clock, Bulova watch time. So I have to go to sleep.” WILLY: That really is— HOWARD: Wait a minute! The next is my wife.

They wait.

HOWARD’S VOICE: “Go on, say something.” (Pause.) “Well, you gonna talk?”

HIS WIFE: “I can’t think of anything.” HOWARD’S VOICE: “Well, talk—it’s turning.” HIS WIFE: (shyly, beaten) “Hello.” (Silence.) “Oh, Howard, I can’t talk

into this . . .” HOWARD: (snapping the machine off) That was my wife. WILLY: That is a wonderful machine. Can we— HOWARD: I tell you, Willy, I’m gonna take my camera, and my bandsaw,

and all my hobbies, and out they go. This is the most fascinating relaxation I ever found.

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WILLY: I think I’ll get one myself. HOWARD: Sure, they’re only a hundred and a half. You can’t do with-

out it. Supposing you wanna hear Jack Benny, see? But you can’t be at home at that hour. So you tell the maid to turn the radio on when Jack Benny comes on, and this automatically goes on with the radio . . .

WILLY: And when you come home you . . . HOWARD: You can come home twelve o’clock, one o’clock, any time you

like, and you get yourself a Coke and sit yourself down, throw the switch, and there’s Jack Benny’s program in the middle of the night!

WILLY: I’m de�nitely going to get one. Because lots of time I’m on the road, and I think to myself, what I must be missing on the radio!

HOWARD: Don’t you have a radio in the car? WILLY: Well, yeah, but who ever thinks of turning it on? HOWARD: Say, aren’t you supposed to be in Boston? WILLY: That’s what I want to talk to you about, Howard. You got a

minute?

He draws a chair in from the wing.

HOWARD: What happened? What’re you doing here? WILLY: Well . . . HOWARD: You didn’t crack up again, did you? WILLY: Oh, no. No . . . HOWARD: Geez, you had me worried there for a minute. What’s the

trouble? WILLY: Well, to tell you the truth, Howard, I’ve come to the decision

that I’d rather not travel any more. HOWARD: Not travel! Well, what’ll you do? WILLY: Remember, Christmas time, when you had the party here? You

said you’d try to think of some spot for me here in town. HOWARD: With us? WILLY: Well, sure. HOWARD: Oh, yeah, yeah. I remember. Well, I couldn’t think of any-

thing for you, Willy. WILLY: I tell ya, Howard. The kids are all grown up, y’know. I don’t

need much any more. If I could take home—well, sixty-�ve dollars a week, I could swing it.

HOWARD: Yeah, but Willy, see I— WILLY: I tell ya why, Howard. Speaking frankly and between the two of

us, y’know—I’m just a little tired. HOWARD: Oh, I could understand that, Willy. But you’re a road man,

Willy, and we do a road business. We’ve only got a half-dozen sales- men on the �oor here.

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WILLY: God knows, Howard, I never asked a favor of any man. But I was with the �rm when your father used to carry you in here in his arms.

HOWARD: I know that, Willy, but— WILLY: Your father came to me the day you were born and asked me

what I thought of the name of Howard, may he rest in peace. HOWARD: I appreciate that, Willy, but there just is no spot here for you.

If I had a spot I’d slam you right in, but I just don’t have a single, solitary spot.

He looks for his lighter. Willy has picked it up and gives it to him. Pause.

WILLY: (with increasing anger) Howard, all I need to set my table is �fty dollars a week.

HOWARD: But where am I going to put you, kid? WILLY: Look, it isn’t a question of whether I can sell merchandise, is it? HOWARD: No, but it’s a business, kid, and everybody’s gotta pull his

own weight. WILLY: (desperately) Just let me tell you a story, Howard— HOWARD: ’Cause you gotta admit, business is business. WILLY: (angrily) Business is de�nitely business, but just listen for a

minute. You don’t understand this. When I was a boy—eighteen, nineteen—I was already on the road. And there was a question in my mind as to whether selling had a future for me. Because in those days I had a yearning to go to Alaska. See, there were three gold strikes in one month in Alaska, and I felt like going out. Just for the ride, you might say.

HOWARD: (barely interested) Don’t say. WILLY: Oh, yeah, my father lived many years in Alaska. He was an

adventurous man. We’ve got quite a little streak of self-reliance in our family. I thought I’d go out with my older brother and try to locate him, and maybe settle in the North with the old man. And I was almost decided to go, when I met a salesman in the Parker House. His name was Dave Singleman. And he was eighty-four years old, and he’d drummed merchandise in thirty-one states. And old Dave, he’d go up to his room, y’understand, put on his green velvet slippers— I’ll never forget—and pick up his phone and call the buyers, and without ever leaving his room, at the age of eighty- four, he made his living. And when I saw that, I realized that sell- ing was the greatest career a man could want. ’Cause what could be more satisfying than to be able to go, at the age of eighty-four, into twenty or thirty different cities, and pick up a phone, and be remembered and loved and helped by so many different people? Do you know? when he died—and by the way he died the death of

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a salesman, in his green velvet slippers in the smoker of the New York, New Haven and Hartford, going into Boston—when he died, hundreds of salesmen and buyers were at his funeral. Things were sad on a lotta trains for months after that. (He stands up. Howard has not looked at him.) In those days there was personality in it, Howard. There was respect, and comradeship, and gratitude in it. Today, it’s all cut and dried, and there’s no chance for bringing friendship to bear—or personality. You see what I mean? They don’t know me any more.

HOWARD: (moving away, to the right) That’s just the thing, Willy. WILLY: If I had forty dollars a week—that’s all I’d need. Forty dollars,

Howard. HOWARD: Kid, I can’t take blood from a stone, I— WILLY: (desperation is on him now) Howard, the year Al Smith was

nominated, your father came to me and— HOWARD: (starting to go off) I’ve got to see some people, kid. WILLY: (stopping him) I’m talking about your father! There were prom-

ises made across this desk! You mustn’t tell me you’ve got people to see—I put thirty-four years into this �rm, Howard, and now I can’t pay my insurance! You can’t eat the orange and throw the peel away—a man is not a piece of fruit! (After a pause.) Now pay atten- tion. Your father—in 1928 I had a big year. I averaged a hundred and seventy dollars a week in commissions.

HOWARD: (impatiently) Now, Willy, you never averaged— WILLY: (banging his hand on the desk) I averaged a hundred and seventy

dollars a week in the year of 1928! And your father came to me—or rather, I was in the of�ce here—it was right over this desk—and he put his hand on my shoulder—

HOWARD: (getting up) You’ll have to excuse me, Willy, I gotta see some people. Pull yourself together. (Going out.) I’ll be back in a little while.

On Howard’s exit, the light on his chair grows very bright and strange.

WILLY: Pull myself together! What the hell did I say to him? My God, I was yelling at him! How could I! (Willy breaks off, staring at the light, which occupies the chair, animating it. He approaches this chair, stand- ing across the desk from it.) Frank, Frank, don’t you remember what you told me that time? How you put your hand on my shoulder, and Frank . . . (He leans on the desk and as he speaks the dead man’s name he accidentally switches on the recorder, and instantly—)

HOWARD’S SON: “. . . of New York is Albany. The capital of Ohio is Cincinnati, the capital of Rhode Island is . . .” (The recitation continues.)

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WILLY: (leaping away with fright, shouting) Ha! Howard! Howard! Howard! HOWARD: (rushing in) What happened? WILLY: (pointing at the machine, which continues nasally, childishly, with

the capital cities) Shut it off! Shut it off! HOWARD: (pulling the plug out) Look, Willy . . . WILLY: (pressing his hands to his eyes) I gotta get myself some coffee. I’ll

get some coffee . . .

Willy starts to walk out. Howard stops him.

HOWARD: (rolling up the cord) Willy, look . . . WILLY: I’ll go to Boston. HOWARD: Willy, you can’t go to Boston for us. WILLY: Why can’t I go? HOWARD: I don’t want you to represent us. I’ve been meaning to tell

you for a long time now. WILLY: Howard, are you �ring me? HOWARD: I think you need a good long rest, Willy. WILLY: Howard— HOWARD: And when you feel better, come back, and we’ll see if we can

work something out. WILLY: But I gotta earn money, Howard. I’m in no position— HOWARD: Where are your sons? Why don’t your sons give you a hand? WILLY: They’re working on a very big deal. HOWARD: This is no time for false pride, Willy. You go to your sons and

tell them that you’re tired. You’ve got two great boys, haven’t you? WILLY: Oh, no question, no question, but in the meantime . . . HOWARD: Then that’s that, heh? WILLY: All right, I’ll go to Boston tomorrow. HOWARD: No, no. WILLY: I can’t throw myself on my sons. I’m not a cripple! HOWARD: Look, kid, I’m busy this morning. WILLY: (grasping Howard’s arm) Howard, you’ve got to let me go to Boston! HOWARD: (hard, keeping himself under control) I’ve got a line of people

to see this morning. Sit down, take �ve minutes, and pull yourself together, and then go home, will ya? I need the of�ce, Willy. (He starts to go, turns, remembering the recorder, starts to push off the table holding the recorder.) Oh, yeah. Whenever you can this week, stop by and drop off the samples. You’ll feel better, Willy, and then come back and we’ll talk. Pull yourself together, kid, there’s people outside.

Howard exits, pushing the table off left. Willy stares into space, exhausted. Now the music is heard—Ben’s music— �rst distantly, then closer, closer. As Willy speaks, Ben enters from the right. He carries valise and umbrella.

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WILLY: Oh, Ben, how did you do it? What is the answer? Did you wind up the Alaska deal already?

BEN: Doesn’t take much time if you know what you’re doing. Just a short business trip. Boarding ship in an hour. Wanted to say good-by.

WILLY: Ben, I’ve got to talk to you. BEN: (glancing at his watch) Haven’t the time, William. WILLY: (crossing the apron to Ben) Ben, nothing’s working out. I don’t

know what to do. BEN: Now, look here, William. I’ve bought timberland in Alaska and

I need a man to look after things for me. WILLY: God, timberland! Me and my boys in those grand outdoors! BEN: You’ve a new continent at your doorstep, William. Get out of

these cities, they’re full of talk and time payments and courts of law. Screw on your �sts and you can �ght for a fortune up there.

WILLY: Yes, yes! Linda! Linda!

Linda enters as of old, with the wash.

LINDA: Oh, you’re back? BEN: I haven’t much time. WILLY: No, wait! Linda, he’s got a proposition for me in Alaska. LINDA: But you’ve got— (To Ben.) He’s got a beautiful job here. WILLY: But in Alaska, kid, I could— LINDA: You’re doing well enough, Willy! BEN: (to Linda) Enough for what, my dear? LINDA: (frightened of Ben and angry at him) Don’t say those things to

him! Enough to be happy right here, right now. (To Willy, while Ben laughs.) Why must everybody conquer the world? You’re well liked, and the boys love you, and someday—(to Ben)—why, old man Wagner told him just the other day that if he keeps it up he’ll be a member of the �rm, didn’t he, Willy?

WILLY: Sure, sure. I am building something with this �rm, Ben, and if a man is building something he must be on the right track, mustn’t he?

BEN: What are you building? Lay your hand on it. Where is it? WILLY: (hesitantly) That’s true, Linda, there’s nothing. LINDA: Why? (To Ben.) There’s a man eighty-four years old— WILLY: That’s right, Ben, that’s right. When I look at that man I say,

what is there to worry about? BEN: Bah! WILLY: It’s true, Ben. All he has to do is go into any city, pick up the

phone, and he’s making his living and you know why? BEN: (picking up his valise) I’ve got to go. WILLY: (holding Ben back) Look at this boy!

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Biff, in his high school sweater, enters carrying suitcase. Happy carries Biff’s shoulder guards, gold helmet, and football pants.

WILLY: Without a penny to his name, three great universities are beg- ging for him, and from there the sky’s the limit, because it’s not what you do, Ben. It’s who you know and the smile on your face! It’s contacts, Ben, contacts! The whole wealth of Alaska passes over the lunch table at the Commodore Hotel, and that’s the wonder, the wonder of this country, that a man can end with diamonds here on the basis of being liked! (He turns to Biff.) And that’s why when you get out on that �eld today it’s important. Because thousands of people will be rooting for you and loving you. (To Ben, who has again begun to leave.) And Ben! when he walks into a business of�ce his name will sound out like a bell and all the doors will open to him! I’ve seen it, Ben, I’ve seen it a thousand times! You can’t feel it with your hand like timber, but it’s there!

BEN: Good-by, William. WILLY: Ben, am I right? Don’t you think I’m right? I value your advice. BEN: There’s a new continent at your doorstep, William. You could

walk out rich. Rich. (He is gone.) WILLY: We’ll do it here, Ben! You hear me? We’re gonna do it here!

Young Bernard rushes in. The gay music of the boys is heard.

BERNARD: Oh, gee, I was afraid you left already! WILLY: Why? What time is it? BERNARD: It’s half-past one! WILLY: Well, come on, everybody! Ebbets Field1 next stop! Where’s the

pennants? (He rushes through the wall-line of the kitchen and out into the living room.)

LINDA: (to Biff) Did you pack fresh underwear? BIFF: (who has been limbering up) I want to go! BERNARD: Biff, I’m carrying your helmet, ain’t I? HAPPY: No, I’m carrying the helmet. BERNARD: Oh, Biff, you promised me. HAPPY: I’m carrying the helmet. BERNARD: How am I going to get in the locker room? LINDA: Let him carry the shoulder guards. (She puts her coat and hat on in

the kitchen.) BERNARD: Can I, Biff? ’Cause I told everybody I’m going to be in the

locker room.

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1Ebbets Field: The home park of the Brooklyn Dodgers.Ebbets Field: The home park of the Brooklyn Dodgers.Ebbets Field:

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HAPPY: In Ebbets Field it’s the clubhouse. BERNARD: I meant the clubhouse. Biff! HAPPY: Biff! BIFF: (grandly, after a slight pause) Let him carry the shoulder guards. HAPPY: (as he gives Bernard the shoulder guards) Stay close to us now.

Willy rushes in with the pennants.

WILLY: (handing them out) Everybody wave when Biff comes out on the �eld. (Happy and Bernard run off.) You set now, boy?

The music has died away.

BIFF: Ready to go, Pop. Every muscle is ready. WILLY: (at the edge of the apron) You realize what this means? BIFF: That’s right, Pop. WILLY: (feeling Biff’s muscles) You’re comin’ home this afternoon

captain of the All-Scholastic Championship Team of the City of New York.

BIFF: I got it, Pop. And remember, pal, when I take off my helmet, that touchdown is for you.

WILLY: Let’s go! (He is starting out, with his arm around Biff, when Charley enters, as of old, in knickers.) I got no room for you, Charley.

CHARLEY: Room? For what? WILLY: In the car. CHARLEY: You goin’ for a ride? I wanted to shoot some casino. WILLY: (furiously) Casino! (Incredulously.) Don’t you realize what

today is? LINDA: Oh, he knows, Willy. He’s just kidding you. WILLY: That’s nothing to kid about! CHARLEY: No, Linda, what’s goin’ on? LINDA: He’s playing in Ebbets Field. CHARLEY: Baseball in this weather? WILLY: Don’t talk to him. Come on, come on! (He is pushing them

out.) CHARLEY: Wait a minute, didn’t you hear the news? WILLY: What? CHARLEY: Don’t you listen to the radio? Ebbets Field just blew up. WILLY: You go to hell! (Charley laughs. Pushing them out.) Come on,

come on! We’re late. CHARLEY: (as they go) Knock a homer, Biff, knock a homer! WILLY: (the last to leave, turning to Charley) I don’t think that was funny,

Charley. This is the greatest day of his life. CHARLEY: Willy, when are you going to grow up?

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WILLY: Yeah, heh? When this game is over, Charley, you’ll be laughing out of the other side of your face. They’ll be calling him another Red Grange.2 Twenty-�ve thousand a year.

CHARLEY: (kidding) Is that so? WILLY: Yeah, that’s so. CHARLEY: Well, then, I’m sorry, Willy. But tell me something. WILLY: What? CHARLEY: Who is Red Grange? WILLY: Put up your hands. Goddam you, put up your hands!

Charley, chuckling, shakes his head and walks away, around the left corner of the stage. Willy follows him. The music rises to a mocking frenzy.

WILLY: Who the hell do you think you are, better than everybody else? You don’t know everything, you big, ignorant, stupid . . . Put up your hands!

Light rises, on the right side of the forestage, on a small table in the reception room of Charley’s of�ce. Traf�c sounds are heard. Bernard, now mature, sits whistling to himself. A pair of tennis rackets and an overnight bag are on the �oor beside him.

WILLY: (offstage) What are you walking away for? Don’t walk away! If you’re going to say something say it to my face! I know you laugh at me behind my back. You’ll laugh out of the other side of your god- dam face after this game. Touchdown! Touchdown! Eighty thou- sand people! Touchdown! Right between the goal posts.

Bernard is a quiet, earnest, but self-assured young man. Willy’s voice is coming from right upstage now. Bernard lowers his feet off the table and listens. Jenny, his father’s secretary, enters.

JENNY: (distressed) Say, Bernard, will you go out in the hall? BERNARD: What is that noise? Who is it? JENNY: Mr. Loman. He just got off the elevator. BERNARD: (getting up) Who’s he arguing with? JENNY: Nobody. There’s nobody with him. I can’t deal with him any

more, and your father gets all upset everytime he comes. I’ve got a lot of typing to do, and your father’s waiting to sign it. Will you see him?

WILLY: (entering) Touchdown! Touch—(He sees Jenny.) Jenny, Jenny, good to see you. How’re ya? Workin’? Or still honest?

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2Red Grange: Harold Edward (“Red”) Grange (1903–1991)—American football player. A running back Red Grange: Harold Edward (“Red”) Grange (1903–1991)—American football player. A running back Red Grange: for the New York Giants football team and the Chicago Bears, Grange was elected to the Football Hall of Fame in 1963.

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JENNY: Fine. How’ve you been feeling? WILLY: Not much any more, Jenny. Ha, ha! (He is surprised to see the

rackets.) BERNARD: Hello, Uncle Willy. WILLY: (almost shocked) Bernard! Well, look who’s here! (He comes

quickly, guiltily, to Bernard and warmly shakes his hand.) BERNARD: How are you? Good to see you. WILLY: What are you doing here? BERNARD: Oh, just stopped by to see Pop. Get off my feet till my train

leaves. I’m going to Washington in a few minutes. WILLY: Is he in? BERNARD: Yes, he’s in his of�ce with the accountant. Sit down. WILLY: (sitting down) What’re you going to do in Washington? BERNARD: Oh, just a case I’ve got there, Willy. WILLY: That so? (indicating the rackets) You going to play tennis there? BERNARD: I’m staying with a friend who’s got a court. WILLY: Don’t say. His own tennis court. Must be �ne people, I bet. BERNARD: They are, very nice. Dad tells me Biff’s in town. WILLY: (with a big smile) Yeah, Biff’s in. Working on a very big deal,

Bernard. BERNARD: What’s Biff doing? WILLY: Well, he’s been doing very big things in the West. But he

decided to establish himself here. Very big. We’re having dinner. Did I hear your wife had a boy?

BERNARD: That’s right. Our second. WILLY: Two boys! What do you know! BERNARD: What kind of a deal has Biff got? WILLY: Well, Bill Oliver—very big sporting-goods man—he wants

Biff very badly. Called him in from the West. Long distance, carte blanche, special deliveries. Your friends have their own private tennis court?

BERNARD: You still with the old �rm, Willy? WILLY: (after a pause) I’m—I’m overjoyed to see how you made the

grade, Bernard, overjoyed. It’s an encouraging thing to see a young man really—really—Looks very good for Biff—very—(He breaks off, then.) Bernard—(He is so full of emotion, he breaks off again.)

BERNARD: What is it, Willy? WILLY: (small and alone) What—what’s the secret? BERNARD: What secret? WILLY: How—how did you? Why didn’t he ever catch on? BERNARD: I wouldn’t know that, Willy. WILLY: (con�dentially, desperately) You were his friend, his boyhood

friend. There’s something I don’t understand about it. His life ended

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after that Ebbets Field game. From the age of seventeen nothing good ever happened to him.

BERNARD: He never trained himself for anything. WILLY: But he did, he did. After high school he took so many corre-

spondence courses. Radio mechanics; television; God knows what, and never made the slightest mark.

BERNARD: (taking off his glasses) Willy, do you want to talk candidly? WILLY: (rising, faces Bernard) I regard you as a very brilliant man,

Bernard. I value your advice. BERNARD: Oh, the hell with the advice, Willy. I couldn’t advise you.

There’s just one thing I’ve always wanted to ask you. When he was supposed to graduate, and the math teacher �unked him—

WILLY: Oh, that son-of-a-bitch ruined his life. BERNARD: Yeah, but, Willy, all he had to do was go to summer school

and make up that subject. WILLY: That’s right, that’s right. BERNARD: Did you tell him not to go to summer school? WILLY: Me? I begged him to go. I ordered him to go! BERNARD: Then why wouldn’t he go? WILLY: Why? Why! Bernard, that question has been trailing me like

a ghost for the last �fteen years. He �unked the subject, and laid down and died like a hammer hit him!

BERNARD: Take it easy, kid. WILLY: Let me talk to you—I got nobody to talk to. Bernard, Bernard,

was it my fault? Y’see? It keeps going around in my mind, maybe I did something to him. I got nothing to give him.

BERNARD: Don’t take it so hard. WILLY: Why did he lay down? What is the story there? You were his

friend! BERNARD: Willy, I remember, it was June, and our grades came out.

And he’d �unked math. WILLY: That son-of-a-bitch! BERNARD: No, it wasn’t right then. Biff just got very angry, I remember,

and he was ready to enroll in summer school. WILLY: (surprised) He was? BERNARD: He wasn’t beaten by it at all. But then, Willy, he disappeared

from the block for almost a month. And I got the idea that he’d gone up to New England to see you. Did he have a talk with you then?

Willy stares in silence.

BERNARD: Willy? WILLY: (with a strong edge of resentment in his voice) Yeah, he came to

Boston. What about it?

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BERNARD: Well, just that when he came back—I’ll never forget this, it always mysti�es me. Because I’d thought so well of Biff, even though he’d always taken advantage of me. I loved him, Willy, y’know? And he came back after that month and took his sneakers—remember those sneakers with “University of Virginia” printed on them? He was so proud of those, wore them every day. And he took them down in the cellar, and burned them up in the furnace. We had a �st �ght. It lasted at least half an hour. Just the two of us, punching each other down the cellar, and crying right through it. I’ve often thought of how strange it was that I knew he’d given up his life. What happened in Boston, Willy?

Willy looks at him as at an intruder.

BERNARD: I just bring it up because you asked me. WILLY: (angrily) Nothing. What do you mean, “What happened?”

What’s that got to do with anything? BERNARD: Well, don’t get sore. WILLY: What are you trying to do, blame it on me? If a boy lays down is

that my fault? BERNARD: Now, Willy, don’t get— WILLY: Well, don’t—don’t talk to me that way! What does that mean,

“What happened?”

Charley enters. He is in his vest, and he carries a bottle of bourbon.

CHARLEY: Hey, you’re going to miss that train. (He waves the bottle.) BERNARD: Yeah, I’m going. (He takes the bottle.) Thanks, Pop. (He picks

up his rackets and bag.) Good-by, Willy, and don’t worry about it. You know, “If at �rst you don’t succeed . . .”

WILLY: Yes, I believe in that. BERNARD: But sometimes, Willy, it’s better for a man just to walk

away. WILLY: Walk away? BERNARD: That’s right. WILLY: But if you can’t walk away? BERNARD: (after a slight pause) I guess that’s when it’s tough. (Extending

his hand.) Good-by, Willy. WILLY: (shaking Bernard’s hand) Good-by, boy. CHARLEY: (an arm on Bernard’s shoulder) How do you like this kid?

Gonna argue a case in front of the Supreme Court. BERNARD: (protesting) Pop! WILLY: (genuinely shocked, pained, and happy) No! The Supreme Court! BERNARD: I gotta run, ’By, Dad! CHARLEY: Knock ’em dead, Bernard!

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Bernard goes off.

WILLY: (as Charley takes out his wallet) The Supreme Court! And he didn’t even mention it!

CHARLEY: (counting out money on the desk) He don’t have to—he’s gonna do it.

WILLY: And you never told him what to do, did you? You never took any interest in him.

CHARLEY: My salvation is that I never took any interest in anything. There’s some money— �fty dollars. I got an accountant inside.

WILLY: Charley, look . . . (With dif�culty.) I got my insurance to pay. If you can manage it—I need a hundred and ten dollars.

Charley doesn’t reply for a moment; merely stops moving.

WILLY: I’d draw it from my bank but Linda would know, and I . . . CHARLEY: Sit down, Willy. WILLY: (moving toward the chair) I’m keeping an account of everything,

remember. I’ll pay every penny back. (He sits.) CHARLEY: Now listen to me, Willy. WILLY: I want you to know I appreciate . . . CHARLEY: (sitting down on the table) Willy, what’re you doin’? What the

hell is goin’ on in your head? WILLY: Why? I’m simply . . . CHARLEY: I offered you a job. You can make �fty dollars a week. And

I won’t send you on the road. WILLY: I’ve got a job. CHARLEY: Without pay? What kind of a job is a job without pay? (He

rises.) Now, look, kid, enough is enough. I’m no genius but I know when I’m being insulted.

WILLY: Insulted! CHARLEY: Why don’t you want to work for me? WILLY: What’s the matter with you? I’ve got a job. CHARLEY: Then what’re you walkin’ in here every week for? WILLY: (getting up) Well, if you don’t want me to walk in here— CHARLEY: I am offering you a job. WILLY: I don’t want your goddam job! CHARLEY: When the hell are you going to grow up? WILLY: (furiously) You big ignoramus, if you say that to me again I’ll rap

you one! I don’t care how big you are! (He’s ready to �ght.)

Pause.

CHARLEY: (kindly, going to him) How much do you need, Willy? WILLY: Charley, I’m strapped. I’m strapped. I don’t know what to do.

I was just �red.

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CHARLEY: Howard �red you? WILLY: That snotnose. Imagine that? I named him. I named him

Howard. CHARLEY: Willy, when’re you gonna realize that them things don’t

mean anything? You named him Howard, but you can’t sell that. The only thing you got in this world is what you can sell. And the funny thing is that you’re a salesman, and you don’t know that.

WILLY: I’ve always tried to think otherwise, I guess. I always felt that if a man was impressive, and well liked, that nothing—

CHARLEY: Why must everybody like you? Who liked J. P. Morgan?3 Was he impressive? In a Turkish bath he’d look like a butcher. But with his pockets on he was very well liked. Now listen, Willy, I know you don’t like me, and nobody can say I’m in love with you, but I’ll give you a job because—just for the hell of it, put it that way. Now what do you say?

WILLY: I—I just can’t work for you, Charley. CHARLEY: What’re you, jealous of me? WILLY: I can’t work for you, that’s all, don’t ask me why. CHARLEY: (angered, takes out more bills) You been jealous of me all your

life, you damned fool! Here, pay your insurance. (He puts the money in Willy’s hand.)

WILLY: I’m keeping strict accounts. CHARLEY: I’ve got some work to do. Take care of yourself. And pay your

insurance. WILLY: (moving to the right) Funny, y’know? After all the highways, and

the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive.

CHARLEY: Willy, nobody’s worth nothin’ dead. (After a slight pause.) Did you hear what I said?

Willy stands still, dreaming.

CHARLEY: Willy! WILLY: Apologize to Bernard for me when you see him. I didn’t mean

to argue with him. He’s a �ne boy. They’re all �ne boys, and they’ll end up big—all of them. Someday they’ll all play tennis together. Wish me luck, Charley. He saw Bill Oliver today.

CHARLEY: Good luck. WILLY: (on the verge of tears) Charley, you’re the only friend I got. Isn’t

that a remarkable thing? (He goes out.) CHARLEY: Jesus!

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3J. P. Morgan: John Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913)—American financier.J. P. Morgan: John Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913)—American financier.J. P. Morgan:

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Charley stares after him a moment and follows. All light blacks out. Suddenly raucous music is heard, and a red glow rises behind the screen at right. Stanley, a young waiter, appears, carrying a table, followed by Happy, who is carrying two chairs.

STANLEY: (putting the table down) That’s all right, Mr. Loman, I can handle it myself. (He turns and takes the chairs from Happy and places them at the table.)

HAPPY: (glancing around) Oh, this is better. STANLEY: Sure, in the front there you’re in the middle of all kinds a

noise. Whenever you got a party, Mr. Loman, you just tell me and I’ll put you back here. Y’know, there’s a lotta people they don’t like it private, because when they go out they like to see a lotta action around them because they’re sick and tired to stay in the house by theirself. But I know you, you ain’t from Hackensack. You know what I mean?

HAPPY: (sitting down) So, how’s it coming, Stanley? STANLEY: Ah, it’s a dog’s life. I only wish during the war they’d a took

me in the Army. I coulda been dead by now. HAPPY: My brother’s back, Stanley. STANLEY: Oh, he come back, heh? From the Far West. HAPPY: Yeah, big cattle man, my brother, so treat him right. And my

father’s coming too. STANLEY: Oh, your father too! HAPPY: You got a couple of nice lobsters? STANLEY: Hundred per cent, big. HAPPY: I want them with the claws. STANLEY: Don’t worry, I don’t give you no mice. (Happy laughs.) How

about some wine? It’ll put a head on the meal. HAPPY: No. You remember, Stanley, that recipe I brought you from

overseas? With the champagne in it? STANLEY: Oh, yeah, sure. I still got it tacked up yet in the kitchen. But

that’ll have to cost a buck apiece anyways. HAPPY: That’s all right. STANLEY: What’d you, hit a number or somethin’? HAPPY: No, it’s a little celebration. My brother is—I think he pulled off

a big deal today. I think we’re going into business together. STANLEY: Great! That’s the best for you. Because a family business, you

know what I mean?—that’s the best. HAPPY: That’s what I think. STANLEY: ’Cause what’s the difference? Somebody steals? It’s in the

family. Know what I mean? (Sotto voce.) Like this bartender here. The boss is goin’ crazy what kinda leak he’s got in the cash register. You put it in but it don’t come out.

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HAPPY: (raising his head) Sh! STANLEY: What? HAPPY: You notice I wasn’t lookin’ right or left, was I? STANLEY: No. HAPPY: And my eyes are closed. STANLEY: So what’s the— HAPPY: Strudel’s comin’. STANLEY: (catching on, looks around) Ah, no, there’s no—

He breaks off as a furred, lavishly dressed Girl enters and sits at the next table. Both follow her with their eyes.

STANLEY: Geez, how’d ya know? HAPPY: I got radar or something. (Staring directly at her pro�le.)

Oooooooo . . . Stanley. STANLEY: I think that’s for you, Mr. Loman. HAPPY: Look at that mouth. Oh, God. And the binoculars. STANLEY: Geez, you got a life, Mr. Loman. HAPPY: Wait on her. STANLEY: (going to The Girl’s table) Would you like a menu, ma’am? GIRL: I’m expecting someone, but I’d like a— HAPPY: Why don’t you bring her—excuse me, miss, do you mind? I sell

champagne, and I’d like you to try my brand. Bring her a cham- pagne, Stanley.

GIRL: That’s awfully nice of you. HAPPY: Don’t mention it. It’s all company money. (He laughs.) GIRL: That’s a charming product to be selling, isn’t it? HAPPY: Oh, gets to be like everything else. Selling is selling, y’know. GIRL: I suppose. HAPPY: You don’t happen to sell, do you? GIRL: No, I don’t sell. HAPPY: Would you object to a compliment from a stranger? You ought

to be on a magazine cover. GIRL: (looking at him a little archly) I have been.

Stanley comes in with a glass of champagne.

HAPPY: What’d I say before, Stanley? You see? She’s a cover girl. STANLEY: Oh, I could see, I could see. HAPPY: (to The Girl) What magazine? GIRL: Oh, a lot of them. (She takes the drink.) Thank you. HAPPY: You know what they say in France, don’t you? “Champagne is

the drink of the complexion” —Hya, Biff!

Biff has entered and sits with Happy.

BIFF: Hello, kid. Sorry I’m late.

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HAPPY: I just got here. Uh, Miss—? GIRL: Forsythe. HAPPY: Miss Forsythe, this is my brother. BIFF: Is Dad here? HAPPY: His name is Biff. You might’ve heard of him. Great football

player. GIRL: Really? What team? HAPPY: Are you familiar with football? GIRL: No, I’m afraid I’m not. HAPPY: Biff is quarterback with the New York Giants. GIRL: Well, that is nice, isn’t it? (She drinks.) HAPPY: Good health. GIRL: I’m happy to meet you. HAPPY: That’s my name. Hap. It’s really Harold, but at West Point they

called me Happy. GIRL: (now really impressed) Oh, I see. How do you do? (She turns her

pro�le.) BIFF: Isn’t Dad coming? HAPPY: You want her? BIFF: Oh, I could never make that. HAPPY: I remember the time that idea would never come into your

head. Where’s the old con�dence, Biff? BIFF: I just saw Oliver— HAPPY: Wait a minute. I’ve got to see that old con�dence again. Do you

want her? She’s on call. BIFF: Oh, no. (He turns to look at The Girl.) HAPPY: I’m telling you. Watch this. (Turning to The Girl.) Honey? (She

turns to him.) Are you busy? GIRL: Well, I am . . . but I could make a phone call. HAPPY: Do that, will you, honey? And see if you can get a friend. We’ll

be here for a while. Biff is one of the greatest football players in the country.

GIRL: (standing up) Well, I’m certainly happy to meet you. HAPPY: Come back soon. GIRL: I’ll try. HAPPY: Don’t try, honey, try hard.

The Girl exits. Stanley follows, shaking his head in bewildered admiration.

HAPPY: Isn’t that a shame now? A beautiful girl like that? That’s why I can’t get married. There’s not a good woman in a thousand. New York is loaded with them, kid!

BIFF: Hap, look — HAPPY: I told you she was on call!

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BIFF: (strangely unnerved) Cut it out, will ya? I want to say something to you.

HAPPY: Did you see Oliver? BIFF: I saw him all right. Now look, I want to tell Dad a couple of things

and I want you to help me. HAPPY: What? Is he going to back you? BIFF: Are you crazy? You’re out of your goddam head, you know that? HAPPY: Why? What happened? BIFF: (breathlessly) I did a terrible thing today, Hap. It’s been the strang-

est day I ever went through. I’m all numb, I swear. HAPPY: You mean he wouldn’t see you? BIFF: Well, I waited six hours for him, see? All day. Kept sending my

name in. Even tried to date his secretary so she’d get me to him, but no soap.

HAPPY: Because you’re not showin’ the old con�dence, Biff. He remem- bered you, didn’t he?

BIFF: (stopping Happy with a gesture) Finally, about �ve o’clock, he comes out. Didn’t remember who I was or anything. I felt like such an idiot, Hap.

HAPPY: Did you tell him my Florida idea? BIFF: He walked away. I saw him for one minute. I got so mad I could’ve

torn the walls down! How the hell did I ever get the idea I was a salesman there? I even believed myself that I’d been a salesman for him! And then he gave me one look and—I realized what a ridicu- lous lie my whole life has been! We’ve been talking in a dream for �fteen years. I was a shipping clerk.

HAPPY: What’d you do? BIFF: (with great tension and wonder) Well, he left, see. And the secretary

went out. I was all alone in the waiting-room. I don’t know what came over me, Hap. The next thing I know I’m in his of�ce— paneled walls, everything. I can’t explain it. I—Hap, I took his fountain pen.

HAPPY: Geez, did he catch you? BIFF: I ran out. I ran down all eleven �ights. I ran and ran and ran. HAPPY: That was an awful dumb—what’d you do that for? BIFF: (agonized) I don’t know, I just—wanted to take something, I don’t

know. You gotta help me, Hap. I’m gonna tell Pop. HAPPY: You crazy? What for? BIFF: Hap, he’s got to understand that I’m not the man somebody lends

that kind of money to. He thinks I’ve been spiting him all these years and it’s eating him up.

HAPPY: That’s just it. You tell him something nice. BIFF: I can’t.

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HAPPY: Say you got a lunch date with Oliver tomorrow. BIFF: So what do I do tomorrow? HAPPY: You leave the house tomorrow and come back at night and

say Oliver is thinking it over. And he thinks it over for a couple of weeks, and gradually it fades away and nobody’s the worse.

BIFF: But it’ll go on forever! HAPPY: Dad is never so happy as when he’s looking forward to some-

thing!

Willy enters.

HAPPY: Hello, scout! WILLY: Gee, I haven’t been here in years!

Stanley has followed Willy in and sets a chair for him. Stanley starts off but Happy stops him.

HAPPY: Stanley!

Stanley stands by, waiting for an order.

BIFF: (going to Willy with guilt, as to an invalid) Sit down, Pop. You want a drink?

WILLY: Sure, I don’t mind. BIFF: Let’s get a load on. WILLY: You look worried. BIFF: N-no. (To Stanley.) Scotch all around. Make it doubles. STANLEY: Doubles, right. (He goes.) WILLY: You had a couple already, didn’t you? BIFF: Just a couple, yeah. WILLY: Well, what happened, boy? (Nodding af�rmatively, with a smile.)

Everything go all right? BIFF: (takes a breath, then reaches out and grasps Willy’s hand) Pal . . . (He

is smiling bravely, and Willy is smiling too.) I had an experience today. HAPPY: Terri�c, Pop. WILLY: That so? What happened? BIFF: (high, slightly alcoholic, above the earth) I’m going to tell you every-

thing from �rst to last. It’s been a strange day. (Silence. He looks around, composes himself as best he can, but his breath keeps breaking the rhythm of his voice.) I had to wait quite a while for him, and—

WILLY: Oliver? BIFF: Yeah, Oliver. All day, as a matter of cold fact. And a lot of—

instances—facts, Pop, facts about my life came back to me. Who was it, Pop? Who ever said I was a salesman with Oliver?

WILLY: Well, you were. BIFF: No, Dad, I was a shipping clerk.

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WILLY: But you were practically— BIFF: (with determination) Dad, I don’t know who said it �rst, but I was

never a salesman for Bill Oliver. WILLY: What’re you talking about? BIFF: Let’s hold on to the facts tonight, Pop. We’re not going to get

anywhere bullin’ around. I was a shipping clerk. WILLY: (angrily) All right, now listen to me— BIFF: Why don’t you let me �nish? WILLY: I’m not interested in stories about the past or any crap of that

kind because the woods are burning, boys, you understand? There’s a big blaze going on all around. I was �red today.

BIFF: (shocked) How could you be? WILLY: I was �red, and I’m looking for a little good news to tell your

mother, because the woman has waited and the woman has suffered. The gist of it is that I haven’t got a story left in my head, Biff. So don’t give me a lecture about facts and aspects. I am not interested. Now what’ve you got to say to me?

Stanley enters with three drinks. They wait until he leaves.

WILLY: Did you see Oliver? BIFF: Jesus, Dad! WILLY: You mean you didn’t go up there? HAPPY: Sure he went up there. BIFF: I did. I—saw him. How could they �re you? WILLY: (on the edge of his chair) What kind of a welcome did he give

you? BIFF: He won’t even let you work on commission? WILLY: I’m out! (Driving.) So tell me, he gave you a warm welcome? HAPPY: Sure, Pop, sure! BIFF: (driven) Well, it was kind of— WILLY: I was wondering if he’d remember you. (To Happy.) Imagine,

man doesn’t see him for ten, twelve years and gives him that kind of a welcome!

HAPPY: Damn right! BIFF: (trying to return to the offensive) Pop, look— WILLY: You know why he remembered you, don’t you? Because you

impressed him in those days. BIFF: Let’s talk quietly and get this down to the facts, huh? WILLY: (as though Biff had been interrupting) Well, what happened? It’s

great news, Biff. Did he take you into his of�ce or’d you talk in the waiting-room?

BIFF: Well, he came in, see, and—

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WILLY: (with a big smile) What’d he say? Betcha he threw his arm around you.

BIFF: Well, he kinda— WILLY: He’s a �ne man. (To Happy.) Very hard man to see, y’know. HAPPY: (agreeing) Oh, I know. WILLY: (to Biff) Is that where you had the drinks? BIFF: Yeah, he gave me a couple of—no, no! HAPPY: (cutting in) He told him my Florida idea. WILLY: Don’t interrupt. (To Biff.) How’d he react to the Florida idea? BIFF: Dad, will you give me a minute to explain? WILLY: I’ve been waiting for you to explain since I sat down here! What

happened? He took you into his of�ce and what? BIFF: Well—I talked. And—and he listened, see. WILLY: Famous for the way he listens, y’know. What was his answer? BIFF: His answer was— (He breaks off, suddenly angry.) Dad, you’re not

letting me tell you what I want to tell you! WILLY: (accusing, angered) You didn’t see him, did you? BIFF: I did see him! WILLY: What’d you insult him or something? You insulted him, didn’t

you? BIFF: Listen, will you let me out of it, will you just let me out of it! HAPPY: What the hell! WILLY: Tell me what happened! BIFF: (to Happy) I can’t talk to him!

A single trumpet note jars the ear. The light of green leaves stains the house, which holds the air of night and a dream. Young Bernard enters and knocks on the door of the house.

YOUNG BERNARD: (frantically) Mrs. Loman, Mrs. Loman! HAPPY: Tell him what happened! BIFF: (to Happy) Shut up and leave me alone! WILLY: No, no! You had to go and �unk math! BIFF: What math? What’re you talking about? YOUNG BERNARD: Mrs. Loman, Mrs. Loman!

Linda appears in the house, as of old.

WILLY: (wildly) Math, math, math! BIFF: Take it easy, Pop! YOUNG BERNARD: Mrs. Loman! WILLY: (furiously) If you hadn’t �unked you’d’ve been set by now! BIFF: Now, look, I’m gonna tell you what happened, and you’re going to

listen to me. YOUNG BERNARD: Mrs. Loman!

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BIFF: I waited six hours— HAPPY: What the hell are you saying? BIFF: I kept sending in my name but he wouldn’t see me. So �nally

he . . . (He continues unheard as light fades low on the restaurant.) YOUNG BERNARD: Biff �unked math! LINDA: No! YOUNG BERNARD: Birnbaum �unked him! They won’t graduate him! LINDA: But they have to. He’s gotta go to the university. Where is he?

Biff! Biff! YOUNG BERNARD: No, he left. He went to Grand Central. LINDA: Grand—You mean he went to Boston! YOUNG BERNARD: Is Uncle Willy in Boston? LINDA: Oh, maybe Willy can talk to the teacher. Oh, the poor, poor

boy!

Light on house area snaps out.

BIFF: (at the table, now audible, holding up a gold fountain pen) . . . so I’m washed up with Oliver, you understand? Are you listening to me?

WILLY: (at a loss) Yeah, sure. If you hadn’t �unked— BIFF: Flunked what? What’re you talking about? WILLY: Don’t blame everything on me! I didn’t �unk math—you did!

What pen? HAPPY: That was awful dumb, Biff, a pen like that is worth— WILLY: (seeing the pen for the �rst time) You took Oliver’s pen? BIFF: (weakening) Dad, I just explained it to you. WILLY: You stole Bill Oliver’s fountain pen! BIFF: I didn’t exactly steal it! That’s just what I’ve been explaining

to you! HAPPY: He had it in his hand and just then Oliver walked in, so he got

nervous and stuck it in his pocket! WILLY: My God, Biff! BIFF: I never intended to do it, Dad! OPERATOR’S VOICE: Standish Arms, good evening! WILLY: (shouting) I’m not in my room! BIFF: (frightened) Dad, what’s the matter? (He and Happy stand up.) OPERATOR: Ringing Mr. Loman for you! WILLY: I’m not there, stop it! BIFF: (horri�ed, gets down on one knee before Willy) Dad, I’ll make good,

I’ll make good. (Willy tries to get to his feet. Biff holds him down.) Sit down now.

WILLY: No, you’re no good, you’re no good for anything. BIFF: I am, Dad, I’ll �nd something else, you understand? Now don’t

worry about anything. (He holds up Willy’s face.) Talk to me, Dad.

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OPERATOR: Mr. Loman does not answer. Shall I page him? WILLY: (attempting to stand, as though to rush and silence the Operator)

No, no, no! HAPPY: He’ll strike something, Pop. WILLY: No, no . . . BIFF: (desperately, standing over Willy) Pop, listen! Listen to me! I’m

telling you something good. Oliver talked to his partner about the Florida idea. You listening? He—he talked to his partner, and he came to me . . . I’m going to be all right, you hear? Dad, listen to me, he said it was just a question of the amount!

WILLY: Then you . . . got it? HAPPY: He’s gonna be terri�c, Pop! WILLY: (trying to stand) Then you got it, haven’t you? You got it! You

got it! BIFF: (agonized, holds Willy down) No, no. Look, Pop. I’m supposed to

have lunch with them tomorrow. I’m just telling you this so you’ll know that I can still make an impression, Pop. And I’ll make good somewhere, but I can’t go tomorrow, see?

WILLY: Why not? You simply— BIFF: But the pen, Pop! WILLY: You give it to him and tell him it was an oversight! HAPPY: Sure, have lunch tomorrow! BIFF: I can’t say that— WILLY: You were doing a crossword puzzle and accidentally used his

pen! BIFF: Listen, kid, I took those balls years ago, now I walk in with his

fountain pen? That clinches it, don’t you see? I can’t face him like that! I’ll try elsewhere.

PAGE’S VOICE: Paging Mr. Loman! WILLY: Don’t you want to be anything? BIFF: Pop, how can I go back? WILLY: You don’t want to be anything, is that what’s behind it? BIFF: (now angry at Willy for not crediting his sympathy) Don’t take it that

way! You think it was easy walking into that of�ce after what I’d done to him? A team of horses couldn’t have dragged me back to Bill Oliver!

WILLY: Then why’d you go? BIFF: Why did I go? Why did I go? Look at you! Look at what’s become

of you!

Off left, The Woman laughs.

WILLY: Biff, you’re going to go to that lunch tomorrow, or— BIFF: I can’t go. I’ve got no appointment!

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HAPPY: Biff, for . . .! WILLY: Are you spiting me? BIFF: Don’t take it that way! Goddammit! WILLY: (strikes Biff and falters away from the table) You rotten little

louse! Are you spiting me? THE WOMAN: Someone’s at the door, Willy! BIFF: I’m no good, can’t you see what I am? HAPPY: (separating them) Hey, you’re in a restaurant! Now cut it out,

both of you! (The Girls enter.) Hello, girls, sit down.

The Woman laughs, off left.

MISS FORSYTHE: I guess we might as well. This is Letta. THE WOMAN: Willy, are you going to wake up? BIFF: (ignoring Willy) How’re ya, miss, sit down. What do you drink? MISS FORSYTHE: Letta might not be able to stay long. LETTA: I gotta get up very early tomorrow. I got jury duty. I’m so

excited! Were you fellows ever on a jury? BIFF: No, but I been in front of them! (The Girls laugh.) This is my father. LETTA: Isn’t he cute? Sit down with us, Pop. HAPPY: Sit him down, Biff! BIFF: (going to him) Come on, slugger, drink us under the table. To hell

with it! Come on, sit down, pal.

On Biff’s last insistence, Willy is about to sit.

THE WOMAN: (now urgently) Willy, are you going to answer the door!

The Woman’s call pulls Willy back. He starts right, befuddled.

BIFF: Hey, where are you going? WILLY: Open the door. BIFF: The door? WILLY: The washroom . . . the door . . . where’s the door? BIFF: (leading Willy to the left) Just go straight down.

Willy moves left.

THE WOMAN: Willy, Willy, are you going to get up, get up, get up, get up?

Willy exits left.

LETTA: I think it’s sweet you bring your daddy along. MISS FORSYTHE: Oh, he isn’t really your father! BIFF: (at left, turning to her resentfully) Miss Forsythe, you’ve just

seen a prince walk by. A �ne, troubled prince. A hard-working, unappreciated prince. A pal, you understand? A good companion. Always for his boys.

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LETTA: That’s so sweet. HAPPY: Well, girls, what’s the program? We’re wasting time. Come on,

Biff. Gather round. Where would you like to go? BIFF: Why don’t you do something for him? HAPPY: Me! BIFF: Don’t you give a damn for him, Hap? HAPPY: What’re you talking about? I’m the one who— BIFF: I sense it, you don’t give a good goddam about him. (He takes the

rolled-up hose from his pocket and puts it on the table in front of Happy.) Look what I found in the cellar, for Christ’s sake. How can you bear to let it go on?

HAPPY: Me? Who goes away? Who runs off and— BIFF: Yeah, but he doesn’t mean anything to you. You could help

him—I can’t! Don’t you understand what I’m talking about? He’s going to kill himself, don’t you know that?

HAPPY: Don’t I know it! Me! BIFF: Hap, help him! Jesus . . . help him . . . Help me, help me, I can’t

bear to look at his face! (Ready to weep, he hurries out, up right.) HAPPY: (starting after him) Where are you going? MISS FORSYTHE: What’s he so mad about? HAPPY: Come on, girls, we’ll catch up with him. MISS FORSYTHE: (as Happy pushes her out) Say, I don’t like that temper

of his! HAPPY: He’s just a little overstrung, he’ll be all right! WILLY: (off left, as The Woman laughs) Don’t answer! Don’t answer! LETTA: Don’t you want to tell your father— HAPPY: No, that’s not my father. He’s just a guy. Come on, we’ll catch

Biff, and, honey, we’re going to paint this town! Stanley, where’s the check! Hey, Stanley!

They exit. Stanley looks toward left.

STANLEY: (calling to Happy indignantly) Mr. Loman! Mr. Loman!

Stanley picks up a chair and follows them off. Knocking is heard off left. The Woman enters, laughing. Willy follows her. She is in a black slip; he is buttoning his shirt. Raw, sensuous music accompanies their speech.

WILLY: Will you stop laughing? Will you stop? THE WOMAN: Aren’t you going to answer the door? He’ll wake the

whole hotel. WILLY: I’m not expecting anybody. THE WOMAN: Whyn’t you have another drink, honey, and stop being

so damn self-centered?

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WILLY: I’m so lonely. THE WOMAN: You know you ruined me, Willy? From now on, when-

ever you come to the of�ce, I’ll see that you go right through to the buyers. No waiting at my desk any more, Willy. You ruined me.

WILLY: That’s nice of you to say that. THE WOMAN: Gee, you are self-centered! Why so sad? You are the sad-

dest self-centeredest soul I ever did see-saw. (She laughs. He kisses her.) Come on inside, drummer boy. It’s silly to be dressing in the middle of the night. (As knocking is heard.) Aren’t you going to answer the door?

WILLY: They’re knocking on the wrong door. THE WOMAN: But I felt the knocking. And he heard us talking in here.

Maybe the hotel’s on �re! WILLY: (his terror rising) It’s a mistake. THE WOMAN: Then tell him to go away! WILLY: There’s nobody there. THE WOMAN: It’s getting on my nerves, Willy. There’s somebody stand-

ing out there and it’s getting on my nerves! WILLY: (pushing her away from him) All right, stay in the bathroom here,

and don’t come out. I think there’s a law in Massachusetts about it, so don’t come out. It may be that new room clerk. He looked very mean. So don’t come out. It’s a mistake, there’s no �re.

The knocking is heard again. He takes a few steps away from her, and she van- ishes into the wing. The light follows him, and now he is facing Young Biff, who carries a suitcase. Biff steps toward him. The music is gone.

BIFF: Why didn’t you answer? WILLY: Biff! What are you doing in Boston? BIFF: Why didn’t you answer? I’ve been knocking for �ve minutes,

I called you on the phone— WILLY: I just heard you. I was in the bathroom and had the door shut.

Did anything happen home? BIFF: Dad—I let you down. WILLY: What do you mean? BIFF: Dad . . . WILLY: Biffo, what’s this about? (Putting his arm around Biff.) Come on,

let’s go downstairs and get you a malted. BIFF: Dad, I �unked math. WILLY: Not for the term? BIFF: The term. I haven’t got enough credits to graduate. WILLY: You mean to say Bernard wouldn’t give you the answers? BIFF: He did, he tried, but I only got a sixty-one.

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WILLY: And they wouldn’t give you four points? BIFF: Birnbaum refused absolutely. I begged him, Pop, but he won’t give

me those points. You gotta talk to him before they close the school. Because if he saw the kind of man you are, and you just talked to him in your way, I’m sure he’d come through for me. The class came right before practice, see, and I didn’t go enough. Would you talk to him? He’d like you, Pop. You know the way you could talk.

WILLY: You’re on. We’ll drive right back. BIFF: Oh, Dad, good work! I’m sure he’ll change it for you! WILLY: Go downstairs and tell the clerk I’m checkin’ out. Go right down. BIFF: Yes, Sir! See, the reason he hates me, Pop—one day he was late

for class so I got up at the blackboard and imitated him. I crossed my eyes and talked with a lithp.

WILLY: (laughing) You did? The kids like it? BIFF: They nearly died laughing! WILLY: Yeah? What’d you do? BIFF: The thquare root of thixthy twee is . . . (Willy bursts out laughing;

Biff joins him.) And in the middle of it he walked in!

Willy laughs and The Woman joins in offstage.

WILLY: (without hesitating) Hurry downstairs and— BIFF: Somebody in there? WILLY: No, that was next door.

The Woman laughs offstage.

BIFF: Somebody got in your bathroom! WILLY: No, it’s the next room, there’s a party— THE WOMAN: (enters, laughing. She lisps this) Can I come in? There’s

something in the bathtub, Willy, and it’s moving!

Willy looks at Biff, who is staring open-mouthed and horri�ed at The Woman.

WILLY: Ah—you better go back to your room. They must be �nished painting by now. They’re painting her room so I let her take a shower here. Go back, go back . . . (He pushes her.)

THE WOMAN: (resisting) But I’ve got to get dressed, Willy, I can’t— WILLY: Get out of here! Go back, go back . . . (Suddenly striving for the

ordinary.) This is Miss Francis, Biff, she’s a buyer. They’re painting her room. Go back, Miss Francis, go back . . .

THE WOMAN: But my clothes, I can’t go out naked in the hall! WILLY: (pushing her offstage) Get outa here! Go back, go back!

Biff slowly sits down on his suitcase as the argument continues offstage.

THE WOMAN: Where’s my stockings? You promised me stockings, Willy!

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WILLY: I have no stockings here! THE WOMAN: You had two boxes of size nine sheers for me, and I want

them! WILLY: Here, for God’s sake, will you get outa here! THE WOMAN: (enters holding a box of stockings) I just hope there’s nobody

in the hall. That’s all I hope. (To Biff.) Are you football or baseball? BIFF: Football. THE WOMAN: (angry, humiliated) That’s me too. G’night. (She snatches

her clothes from Willy, and walks out.) WILLY: (after a pause) Well, better get going. I want to get to the school

�rst thing in the morning. Get my suits out of the closet. I’ll get my valise. (Biff doesn’t move.) What’s the matter? (Biff remains motionless, tears falling.) She’s a buyer. Buys for J. H. Simmons. She lives down the hall—they’re painting. You don’t imagine— (He breaks off. After a pause.) Now listen, pal, she’s just a buyer. She sees merchandise in her room and they have to keep it looking just so . . . (Pause. Assum- ing command.) All right, get my suits. (Biff doesn’t move.) Now stop crying and do as I say. I gave you an order. Biff, I gave you an order! Is that what you do when I give you an order? How dare you cry! (Putting his arm around Biff.) Now look, Biff, when you grow up you’ll understand about these things. You mustn’t—you mustn’t overem- phasize a thing like this. I’ll see Birnbaum �rst thing in the morning.

BIFF: Never mind. WILLY: (getting down beside Biff) Never mind! He’s going to give you

those points. I’ll see to it. BIFF: He wouldn’t listen to you. WILLY: He certainly will listen to me. You need those points for the U.

of Virginia. BIFF: I’m not going there. WILLY: Heh? If I can’t get him to change that mark you’ll make it up in

summer school. You’ve got all summer to— BIFF: (his weeping breaking from him) Dad . . . WILLY: (infected by it) Oh, my boy . . . BIFF: Dad . . . WILLY: She’s nothing to me, Biff. I was lonely, I was terribly lonely. BIFF: You—you gave her Mama’s stockings! (His tears break through and

he rises to go.) WILLY: (grabbing for Biff) I gave you an order! BIFF: Don’t touch me, you—liar! WILLY: Apologize for that! BIFF: You fake! You phony little fake! You fake! (Overcome, he turns

quickly and weeping fully goes out with his suitcase. Willy is left on the �oor on his knees.)

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WILLY: I gave you an order! Biff, come back here or I’ll beat you! Come back here! I’ll whip you!

Stanley comes quickly in from the right and stands in front of Willy.

WILLY: (shouts at Stanley) I gave you an order . . . STANLEY: Hey, let’s pick it up, pick it up, Mr. Loman. (He helps Willy

to his feet.) Your boys left with the chippies. They said they’ll see you home.

A second waiter watches some distance away.

WILLY: But we were supposed to have dinner together.

Music is heard, Willy’s theme.

STANLEY: Can you make it? WILLY: I’ll—sure, I can make it. (Suddenly concerned about his clothes.)

Do I—I look all right? STANLEY: Sure, you look all right. (He �icks a speck off Willy’s lapel.) WILLY: Here—here’s a dollar. STANLEY: Oh, your son paid me. It’s all right. WILLY: (putting it in Stanley’s hand) No, take it. You’re a good boy. STANLEY: Oh, no, you don’t have to . . . WILLY: Here—here’s some more, I don’t need it any more. (After a slight

pause.) Tell me—is there a seed store in the neighborhood? STANLEY: Seeds? You mean like to plant?

As Willy turns, Stanley slips the money back into his jacket pocket.

WILLY: Yes. Carrots, peas . . . STANLEY: Well, there’s hardware stores on Sixth Avenue, but it may be

too late now. WILLY: (anxiously) Oh, I’d better hurry. I’ve got to get some seeds. (He

starts off to the right.) I’ve got to get some seeds, right away. Noth- ing’s planted. I don’t have a thing in the ground.

Willy hurries out as the light goes down. Stanley moves over to the right after him, watches him off. The other waiter has been staring at Willy.

STANLEY: (to the waiter) Well, whatta you looking at?

The waiter picks up the chairs and moves off right. Stanley takes the table and follows him. The light fades on this area. There is a long pause, the sound of the �ute coming over. The light gradually rises on the kitchen, which is empty. Happy appears at the door of the house, followed by Biff. Happy is carrying a large bunch of long-stemmed roses. He enters the kitchen, looks around for Linda. Not seeing her, he turns to Biff, who is just outside the house door, and makes a gesture with his hands, indicating “Not here, I guess.” He looks into

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the living room and freezes. Inside, Linda, unseen, is seated, Willy’s coat on her lap. She rises ominously and quietly and moves toward Happy, who backs up into the kitchen, afraid.

HAPPY: Hey, what’re you doing up? (Linda says nothing but moves toward him implacably.) Where’s Pop? (He keeps backing to the right, and now Linda is in full view in the doorway to the living room.) Is he sleeping?

LINDA: Where were you? HAPPY: (trying to laugh it off) We met two girls, Mom, very �ne types.

Here, we brought you some �owers. (Offering them to her.) Put them in your room, Ma.

She knocks them to the �oor at Biff’s feet. He has now come inside and closed the door behind him. She stares at Biff, silent.

HAPPY: Now what’d you do that for? Mom, I want you to have some �owers—

LINDA: (cutting Happy off, violently to Biff) Don’t you care whether he lives or dies?

HAPPY: (going to the stairs) Come upstairs, Biff. BIFF: (with a �are of disgust, to Happy) Go away from me! (To Linda.)

What do you mean, lives or dies? Nobody’s dying around here, pal. LINDA: Get out of my sight! Get out of here! BIFF: I wanna see the boss. LINDA: You’re not going near him! BIFF: Where is he? (He moves into the living room and Linda follows.) LINDA: (shouting after Biff) You invite him for dinner. He looks forward

to it all day—(Biff appears in his parents’ bedroom, looks around, and exits)—and then you desert him there. There’s no stranger you’d do that to!

HAPPY: Why? He had a swell time with us. Listen, when I—(Linda comes back into the kitchen)—desert him I hope I don’t outlive the day!

LINDA: Get out of here! HAPPY: Now look, Mom . . . LINDA: Did you have to go to women tonight? You and your lousy rot-

ten whores!

Biff re-enters the kitchen.

HAPPY: Mom, all we did was follow Biff around trying to cheer him up! (To Biff.) Boy, what a night you gave me!

LINDA: Get out of here, both of you, and don’t come back! I don’t want you tormenting him any more. Go on now, get your things together! (To Biff.) You can sleep in his apartment. (She starts to pick up the �owers and stops herself.) Pick up this stuff, I’m not your maid any more. Pick it up, you bum, you!

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Happy turns his back to her in refusal. Biff slowly moves over and gets down on his knees, picking up the �owers.

LINDA: You’re a pair of animals! Not one, not another living soul would have had the cruelty to walk out on that man in a restaurant!

BIFF: (not looking at her) Is that what he said? LINDA: He didn’t have to say anything. He was so humiliated he nearly

limped when he came in. HAPPY: But, Mom he had a great time with us— BIFF: (cutting him off violently) Shut up!

Without another word, Happy goes upstairs.

LINDA: You! You didn’t even go in to see if he was all right! BIFF: (still on the �oor in front of Linda, the �owers in his hand; with self-

loathing) No. Didn’t. Didn’t do a damned thing. How do you like that, heh? Left him babbling in a toilet.

LINDA: You louse. You . . . BIFF: Now you hit it on the nose! (He gets up, throws the �owers in the

wastebasket.) The scum of the earth, and you’re looking at him! LINDA: Get out of here! BIFF: I gotta talk to the boss, Mom. Where is he? LINDA: You’re not going near him. Get out of this house! BIFF: (with absolute assurance, determination) No. We’re gonna have an

abrupt conversation, him and me. LINDA: You’re not talking to him!

Hammering is heard from outside the house, off right. Biff turns toward the noise.

LINDA: (suddenly pleading) Will you please leave him alone? BIFF: What’s he doing out there? LINDA: He’s planting the garden! BIFF: (quietly) Now? Oh, my God!

Biff moves outside, Linda following. The light dies down on them and comes up on the center of the apron as Willy walks into it. He is carrying a �ashlight, a hoe and a handful of seed packets. He raps the top of the hoe sharply to �x it �rmly, and then moves to the left, measuring off the distance with his foot. He holds the �ashlight to look at the seed packets, reading off the instructions. He is in the blue of night.

WILLY: Carrots . . . quarter-inch apart. Rows . . . one-foot rows. (He measures it off.) One foot. (He puts down a package and measures off.) Beets. (He puts down another package and measures again.) Lettuce. (He reads the package, puts it down.) One foot—(He breaks off as Ben appears at the right and moves slowly down to him.) What a proposi- tion, ts, ts. Terri�c, terri�c. ’Cause she’s suffered, Ben, the woman

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has suffered. You understand me? A man can’t go out the way he came in, Ben, a man has got to add up to something. You can’t, you can’t—(Ben moves toward him as though to interrupt.) You gotta consider, now. Don’t answer so quick. Remember, it’s a guaranteed twenty-thousand-dollar proposition. Now look, Ben, I want you to go through the ins and outs of this thing with me. I’ve got nobody to talk to, Ben, and the woman has suffered, you hear me?

BEN: (standing still, considering) What’s the proposition? WILLY: It’s twenty thousand dollars on the barrelhead. Guaranteed,

gilt-edged, you understand? BEN: You don’t want to make a fool of yourself. They might not honor

the policy. WILLY: How can they dare refuse? Didn’t I work like a coolie to meet

every premium on the nose? And now they don’t pay off? Impos- sible!

BEN: It’s called a cowardly thing, William. WILLY: Why? Does it take more guts to stand here the rest of my life

ringing up a zero? BEN: (yielding) That’s a point, William. (He moves, thinking, turns.)

And twenty thousand—that is something one can feel with the hand, it is there.

WILLY: (now assured, with rising power) Oh, Ben, that’s the whole beauty of it! I see it like a diamond, shining in the dark, hard and rough, that I can pick up and touch in my hand. Not like—like an appointment! This would not be another damned-fool appoint- ment, Ben, and it changes all the aspects. Because he thinks I’m nothing, see, and so he spites me. But the funeral—(Straightening up.) Ben, that funeral will be massive! They’ll come from Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire! All the old-timers with the strange license plates—that boy will be thunder-struck, Ben, because he never realized—I am known! Rhode Island, New York, New Jersey—I am known, Ben, and he’ll see it with his eyes once and for all. He’ll see what I am, Ben! He’s in for a shock, that boy!

BEN: (coming down to the edge of the garden) He’ll call you a coward. WILLY: (suddenly fearful) No, that would be terrible. BEN: Yes. And a damned fool. WILLY: No, no, he mustn’t, I won’t have that! (He is broken and desperate.) BEN: He’ll hate you, William.

The gay music of the boys is heard.

WILLY: Oh, Ben, how do we get back to all the great times? Used to be so full of light, and comradeship, the sleigh-riding in winter, and the ruddiness on his cheeks. And always some kind of good news com- ing up, always something nice coming up ahead. And never even let

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me carry the valises in the house, and simonizing, simonizing that little red car! Why, why can’t I give him something and not have him hate me?

BEN: Let me think about it. (He glances at his watch.) I still have a little time. Remarkable proposition, but you’ve got to be sure you’re not making a fool of yourself.

Ben drifts off upstage and goes out of sight. Biff comes down from the left.

WILLY: (suddenly conscious of Biff, turns and looks up at him, then begins picking up the packages of seeds in confusion) Where the hell is that seed? (Indignantly.) You can’t see nothing out here! They boxed in the whole goddam neighborhood!

BIFF: There are people all around here. Don’t you realize that? WILLY: I’m busy. Don’t bother me. BIFF: (taking the hoe from Willy) I’m saying good-by to you, Pop. (Willy

looks at him, silent, unable to move.) I’m not coming back any more. WILLY: You’re not going to see Oliver tomorrow? BIFF: I’ve got no appointment, Dad. WILLY: He put his arm around you, and you’ve got no appointment? BIFF: Pop, get this now, will you? Everytime I’ve left it’s been a �ght

that sent me out of here. Today I realized something about myself and I tried to explain it to you and I—I think I’m just not smart enough to make any sense out of it for you. To hell with whose fault it is or anything like that. (He takes Willy’s arm.) Let’s just wrap it up, heh? Come on in, we’ll tell Mom. (He gently tries to pull Willy to the left.)

WILLY: (frozen, immobile, with guilt in his voice) No, I don’t want to see her. BIFF: Come on! (He pulls again, and Willy tries to pull away.) WILLY: (highly nervous) No, no, I don’t want to see her. BIFF: (tries to look into Willy’s face, as if to �nd the answer there) Why

don’t you want to see her? WILLY: (more harshly now) Don’t bother me, will you? BIFF: What do you mean, you don’t want to see her? You don’t want

them calling you yellow, do you? This isn’t your fault; it’s me, I’m a bum. Now come inside! (Willy strains to get away.) Did you hear what I said to you?

Willy pulls away and quickly goes by himself into the house. Biff follows.

LINDA: (to Willy) Did you plant, dear? BIFF: (at the door, to Linda) All right, we had it out. I’m going and I’m

not writing any more. LINDA: (going to Willy in the kitchen) I think that’s the best way, dear.

’Cause there’s no use drawing it out, you’ll just never get along.

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Willy doesn’t respond.

BIFF: People ask where I am and what I’m doing, you don’t know, and you don’t care. That way it’ll be off your mind and you can start brightening up again. All right? That clears it, doesn’t it? (Willy is silent, and Biff goes to him.) You gonna wish me luck, scout? (He extends his hand.) What do you say?

LINDA: Shake his hand, Willy. WILLY: (turning to her, seething with hurt) There’s no necessity to men-

tion the pen at all, y’know. BIFF: (gently) I’ve got no appointment, Dad. WILLY: (erupting �ercely) He put his arm around . . .? BIFF: Dad, you’re never going to see what I am, so what’s the use

of arguing? If I strike oil I’ll send you a check. Meantime forget I’m alive.

WILLY: (to Linda) Spite, see? BIFF: Shake hands, Dad. WILLY: Not my hand. BIFF: I was hoping not to go this way. WILLY: Well, this is the way you’re going. Good-by.

Biff looks at him a moment, then turns sharply and goes to the stairs.

WILLY: (stops him with) May you rot in hell if you leave this house! BIFF: (turning) Exactly what is it that you want from me? WILLY: I want you to know, on the train, in the mountains, in the val-

leys, wherever you go, that you cut down your life for spite! BIFF: No, no. WILLY: Spite, spite, is the word of your undoing! And when you’re

down and out, remember what did it. When you’re rotting some- where beside the railroad tracks, remember, and don’t you dare blame it on me!

BIFF: I’m not blaming it on you! WILLY: I won’t take the rap for this, you hear?

Happy comes down the stairs and stands on the bottom step, watching.

BIFF: That’s just what I’m telling you! WILLY: (sinking into a chair at the table, with full accusation) You’re trying

to put a knife in me—don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing! BIFF: All right, phony! Then let’s lay it on the line. (He whips the rubber

tube out of his pocket and puts it on the table.) HAPPY: You crazy— LINDA: Biff! (She moves to grab the hose, but Biff holds it down with his hand.) BIFF: Leave it there! Don’t move it!

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WILLY: (not looking at it) What is that? BIFF: You know goddam well what that is. WILLY: (caged, wanting to escape) I never saw that. BIFF: You saw it. The mice didn’t bring it into the cellar! What is this

supposed to do, make a hero out of you? This supposed to make me sorry for you?

WILLY: Never heard of it. BIFF: There’ll be no pity for you, you hear it? No pity! WILLY: (to Linda) You hear the spite! BIFF: No, you’re going to hear the truth—what you are and what I am! LINDA: Stop it! WILLY: Spite! HAPPY: (coming down toward Biff) You cut it now! BIFF: (to Happy) The man don’t know who we are! The man is gonna

know! (To Willy.) We never told the truth for ten minutes in this house!

HAPPY: We always told the truth! BIFF: (turning on him) You big blow, are you the assistant buyer? You’re

one of the two assistants to the assistant, aren’t you? HAPPY: Well, I’m practically— BIFF: You’re practically full of it! We all are! And I’m through with it.

(To Willy.) Now hear this, Willy, this is me. WILLY: I know you! BIFF: You know why I had no address for three months? I stole a suit in

Kansas City and I was in jail. (To Linda, who is sobbing.) Stop cry- ing. I’m through with it.

Linda turns away from them, her hands covering her face.

WILLY: I suppose that’s my fault! BIFF: I stole myself out of every good job since high school! WILLY: And whose fault is that? BIFF: And I never got anywhere because you blew me so full of hot air

I could never stand taking orders from anybody! That’s whose fault it is!

WILLY: I hear that! LINDA: Don’t, Biff! BIFF: It’s goddam time you heard that! I had to be boss big shot in two

weeks, and I’m through with it! WILLY: Then hang yourself! For spite, hang yourself! BIFF: No! Nobody’s hanging himself, Willy! I ran down eleven �ights

with a pen in my hand today. And suddenly I stopped, you hear me? And in the middle of that of�ce building, do you hear this? I stopped in the middle of that building and I saw—the sky. I saw the

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things that I love in this world. The work and the food and time to sit and smoke. And I looked at the pen and said to myself, what the hell am I grabbing this for? Why am I trying to become what I don’t want to be? What am I doing in an of�ce, making a contemptuous, begging fool of myself, when all I want is out there, waiting for me the minute I say I know who I am! Why can’t I say that, Willy? (He tries to make Willy face him, but Willy pulls away and moves to the left.)

WILLY: (with hatred, threateningly) The door of your life is wide open! BIFF: Pop! I’m a dime a dozen, and so are you! WILLY: (turning on him now in an uncontrolled outburst) I am not a dime a

dozen! I am Willy Loman, and you are Biff Loman!

Biff starts for Willy, but is blocked by Happy. In his fury, Biff seems on the verge of attacking his father.

BIFF: I am not a leader of men, Willy, and neither are you. You were never anything but a hard-working drummer who landed in the ash can like all the rest of them! I’m one dollar an hour, Willy! I tried seven states and couldn’t raise it. A buck an hour! Do you gather my meaning? I’m not bringing home any prizes any more, and you’re going to stop waiting for me to bring them home!

WILLY: (directly to Biff) You vengeful, spiteful mutt!

Biff breaks from Happy. Willy, in fright, starts up the stairs. Biff grabs him.

BIFF: (at the peak of his fury) Pop, I’m nothing! I’m nothing, Pop. Can’t you understand that? There’s no spite in it any more. I’m just what I am, that’s all.

Biff’s fury has spent itself, and he breaks down, sobbing, holding on to Willy, who dumbly fumbles for Biff’s face.

WILLY: (astonished) What’re you doing? What’re you doing? (To Linda.) Why is he crying?

BIFF: (crying, broken) Will you let me go, for Christ’s sake? Will you take that phony dream and burn it before something happens? (Struggling to contain himself, he pulls away and moves to the stairs.) I’ll go in the morning. Put him—put him to bed. (Exhausted, Biff moves up the stairs to his room.)

WILLY: (after a long pause, astonished, elevated) Isn’t that remarkable? Biff—he likes me!

LINDA: He loves you, Willy! HAPPY: (deeply moved) Always did, Pop. WILLY: Oh, Biff! (Staring wildly.) He cried! Cried to me! (He is choking

with his love, and now cries out his promise.) That boy—that boy is going to be magni�cent!

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Ben appears in the light just outside the kitchen.

BEN: Yes, outstanding, with twenty thousand behind him. LINDA: (sensing the racing of his mind, fearfully, carefully) Now come to

bed, Willy. It’s all settled now. WILLY: (�nding it dif�cult not to rush out of the house) Yes, we’ll sleep.

Come on. Go to sleep, Hap. BEN: And it does take a great kind of man to crack the jungle.

In accents of dread, Ben’s idyllic music starts up.

HAPPY: (his arm around Linda) I’m getting married, Pop, don’t forget it. I’m changing everything. I’m gonna run that department before the year is up. You’ll see, Mom. (He kisses her.)

BEN: The jungle is dark but full of diamonds, Willy.

Willy turns, moves, listening to Ben.

LINDA: Be good. You’re both good boys, just act that way, that’s all. HAPPY: ’Night, Pop. (He goes upstairs.) LINDA: (to Willy) Come, dear. BEN: (with greater force) One must go in to fetch a diamond out. WILLY: (to Linda, as he moves slowly along the edge of the kitchen, toward

the door) I just want to get settled down, Linda. Let me sit alone for a little.

LINDA: (almost uttering her fear) I want you upstairs. WILLY: (taking her in his arms) In a few minutes, Linda. I couldn’t sleep

right now. Go on, you look awful tired. (He kisses her.) BEN: Not like an appointment at all. A diamond is rough and hard to

the touch. WILLY: Go on now. I’ll be right up. LINDA: I think this is the only way, Willy. WILLY: Sure, it’s the best thing. BEN: Best thing! WILLY: The only way. Everything is gonna be—go on, kid, get to bed.

You look so tired. LINDA: Come right up. WILLY: Two minutes.

Linda goes into the living room, then reappears in her bedroom. Willy moves just outside the kitchen door.

WILLY: Loves me. (Wonderingly.) Always loved me. Isn’t that a remark- able thing? Ben, he’ll worship me for it!

BEN: (with promise) It’s dark there, but full of diamonds. WILLY: Can you imagine that magni�cence with twenty thousand

dollars in his pocket?

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LINDA: (calling from her room) Willy! Come up! WILLY: (calling from the kitchen) Yes! Yes! Coming! It’s very smart, you

realize that, don’t you, sweetheart? Even Ben sees it. I gotta go, baby. ’By! By! (Going over to Ben, almost dancing.) Imagine? When the mail comes he’ll be ahead of Bernard again!

BEN: A perfect proposition all around. WILLY: Did you see how he cried to me? Oh, if I could kiss him, Ben! BEN: Time, William, time! WILLY: Oh, Ben, I always knew one way or another we were gonna

make it, Biff and I! BEN: (looking at his watch) The boat. We’ll be late. (He moves slowly off

into the darkness.) WILLY: (elegiacally, turning to the house) Now when you kick off, boy,

I want a seventy-yard boot, and get right down the �eld under the ball, and when you hit, hit low and hit hard, because it’s important, boy. (He swings around and faces the audience.) There’s all kinds of important people in the stands, and the �rst thing you know . . . (Suddenly realizing he is alone.) Ben! Ben, where do I . . . ? (He makes a sudden movement of search.) Ben, how do I . . . ?

LINDA: (calling) Willy, you coming up? WILLY: (uttering a gasp of fear, whirling about as if to quiet her) Sh! (He

turns around as if to �nd his way; sounds, faces, voices, seem to be swarming in upon him and he �icks at them, crying.) Sh! Sh! (Sud- denly music, faint and high, stops him. It rises in intensity, almost to an unbearable scream. He goes up and down on his toes, and rushes off around the house.) Shhh!

LINDA: Willy?

There is no answer. Linda waits. Biff gets up off his bed. He is still in his clothes. Happy sits up. Biff stands listening.

LINDA: (with real fear) Willy, answer me! Willy!

There is the sound of a car starting and moving away at full speed.

LINDA: No! BIFF: (rushing down the stairs) Pop!

As the car speeds off, the music crashes down in a frenzy of sound, which becomes the soft pulsation of a single cello string. Biff slowly returns to his bedroom. He and Happy gravely don their jackets. Linda slowly walks out of her room. The music has developed into a dead march. The leaves of day are appearing over everything. Charley and Bernard, somberly dressed, appear and knock on the kitchen door. Biff and Happy slowly descend the stairs to the kitchen as Charley and Bernard enter. All stop a moment when Linda, in clothes of mourning, bearing a little bunch of roses, comes through the draped

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doorway into the kitchen. She goes to Charley and takes his arm. Now all move toward the audience, through the wall-line of the kitchen. At the limit of the apron, Linda lays down the �owers, kneels, and sits back on her heels. All stare down at the grave.

REQUIEM

CHARLEY: It’s getting dark, Linda.

Linda doesn’t react. She stares at the grave.

BIFF: How about it, Mom? Better get some rest, heh? They’ll be closing the gate soon.

Linda makes no move. Pause.

HAPPY: (deeply angered) He had no right to do that! There was no necessity for it. We would’ve helped him.

CHARLEY: (grunting) Hmmm. BIFF: Come along, Mom. LINDA: Why didn’t anybody come? CHARLEY: It was a very nice funeral. LINDA: But where are all the people he knew? Maybe they blame him. CHARLEY: Naa. It’s a rough world, Linda. They wouldn’t blame him. LINDA: I can’t understand it. At this time especially. First time in

thirty-�ve years we were just about free and clear. He only needed a little salary. He was even �nished with the dentist.

CHARLEY: No man only needs a little salary. LINDA: I can’t understand it. BIFF: There were a lot of nice days. When he’d come home from a trip;

or on Sundays, making the stoop; �nishing the cellar; putting on the new porch; when he built the extra bathroom; and put up the garage. You know something, Charley, there’s more of him in that front stoop than in all the sales he ever made.

CHARLEY: Yeah. He was a happy man with a batch of cement. LINDA: He was so wonderful with his hands. BIFF: He had the wrong dreams. All, all, wrong. HAPPY: (almost ready to �ght Biff) Don’t say that! BIFF: He never knew who he was. CHARLEY: (stopping Happy’s movement and reply. To Biff.) Nobody dast

blame this man. You don’t understand: Willy was a salesman. And for a salesman, there is no rock bottom to the life. He don’t put a bolt to a nut, he don’t tell you the law or give you medicine. He’s a man out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoe-shine. And when they start not smiling back—that’s an earthquake. And then you get yourself a couple of spots on your hat, and you’re �nished.

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Miller: Death of a Salesman Requiem 1041

Nobody dast blame this man. A salesman is got to dream, boy. It comes with the territory.

BIFF: Charley, the man didn’t know who he was. HAPPY: (infuriated) Don’t say that! BIFF: Why don’t you come with me, Happy? HAPPY: I’m not licked that easily. I’m staying right in this city, and I’m

gonna beat this racket! (He looks at Biff, his chin set.) The Loman Brothers!

BIFF: I know who I am, kid. HAPPY: All right, boy. I’m gonna show you and everybody else that

Willy Loman did not die in vain. He had a good dream. It’s the only dream you can have—to come out number-one man. He fought it out here, and this is where I’m gonna win it for him.

BIFF: (with a hopeless glance at Happy, bends toward his mother) Let’s go, Mom.

LINDA: I’ll be with you in a minute. Go on, Charley. (He hesitates.) I want to, just for a minute. I never had a chance to say good-by.

Charley moves away, followed by Happy. Biff remains a slight distance up and left of Linda. She sits there, summoning herself. The �ute begins, not far away, playing behind her speech.

LINDA: Forgive me, dear. I can’t cry. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t cry. I don’t understand it. Why did you ever do that? Help me, Willy, I can’t cry. It seems to me that you’re just on another trip. I keep expecting you. Willy, dear, I can’t cry. Why did you do it? I search and search and I search, and I can’t understand it, Willy. I made the last payment on the house today. Today, dear. And there’ll be nobody home. (A sob rises in her throat.) We’re free and clear. (Sobbing more fully, released.) We’re free. (Biff comes slowly toward her.) We’re free . . . We’re free . . .

Biff lifts her to her feet and moves out up right with her in his arms. Linda sobs quietly. Bernard and Charley come together and follow them, followed by Happy. Only the music of the �ute is left on the darkening stage as over the house the hard towers of the apartment buildings rise into sharp focus, and—

The Curtain Falls

* * *

Reading and Reacting 1. Is Willy a likeable character? What words and actions—both Willy’s and

those of other characters—help you to reach your conclusion? 2. How does the existence of The Woman affect your overall impression of

Willy? What does she reveal about his character?

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Shakespeare: Hamlet 1043

To �nd beauty in the sad, hope in the midst of loss, and dignity in failure is great poetic art.

According to Mamet’s criteria, does Death of a Salesman qualify as “good drama”? Do you think it is great drama?

Related Works: “Those Winter Sundays” (p. 705), “Do not go gentle into that good night” (p. 710), Oedipus the King (p. 1182), Oedipus the King (p. 1182), Oedipus the King Fences (p. 1270)

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564–1616) is recognized as the greatest of English writers, but many details about his life are based on conjecture or tradition. The earliest dependable information concerning Shakespeare is found in the parish registers of Stratford-upon-Avon’s Holy Trinity Church, where his baptism was recorded on April 26, 1564. Although his date of birth cannot be determined with certainty, tradition has as- signed it to April 23, 1564. Little is known about his early life, but reliable information about significant events is available in church documents. For example, he married Ann Hathaway

in 1582 and had three children—Susanna in 1583 and the twins Judith and Hamnet in 1585. Soon after the birth of his children, Shakespeare left Stratford for London. Upon his arrival

in the capital, he set out to establish himself in London’s literary world. His first step toward achieving this goal occurred in 1592, when he published his narrative poem Venus and Adonis; the following year, he published a second poem, The Rape of Lucrece.

By 1594, Shakespeare had become quite involved with the London stage. For approximately twenty years, he enjoyed a successful professional career in London—as actor, playwright, shareholder in the Lord Chamberlain’s Men (an acting company), part owner of the Globe The- atre (from 1599), and author of at least thirty-six plays. The income derived from these activities brought him significant wealth and enabled him, sometime between 1610 and 1613, to retire from the theater and to return to Stratford-upon-Avon, where he owned considerable property. On April 23, 1616, Shakespeare died at age fifty-two in Stratford and was buried two days later in Holy Trinity Church.

It is difficult to date many of Shakespeare’s plays exactly because they must be dated by records of their first performance (often hard to come by) and by topical references in the text. Shakespeare’s company probably first staged Hamlet at the Globe Theatre in 1600 or 1601, but Hamlet at the Globe Theatre in 1600 or 1601, but Hamlet some scholars believe the play was composed as early as 1598.

Hamlet has been called Shakespeare’s most complex and most confusing play, yet it is also Hamlet has been called Shakespeare’s most complex and most confusing play, yet it is also Hamlet the play most frequently performed, read, and written about. Shakespeare’s audience would have recognized Hamlet as a Hamlet as a Hamlet revenge tragedy—a play in which the hero discovers that a close relative has been murdered, experiences considerable trouble in identifying the mur- derer, and, after overcoming numerous obstacles, avenges the death by killing the murderer. Frequently, revenge tragedies featured murders, physical mutilations, and ghosts, all enacted with grand style and bold rhetoric. These plays were extremely popular productions that were the action movies of their day.

Hamlet, however, is different from the typical revenge tragedy. Because the ghost gives him Hamlet, however, is different from the typical revenge tragedy. Because the ghost gives him Hamlet the necessary information, Hamlet has no need to search for the cause of his father’s death or find the murderer. In fact, the only impediments to Hamlet’s revenge are those he himself

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creates. And, by the time the delay ends and Hamlet avenges his father’s death, the loss is immense: his mother, the woman he loves, her father and brother, and Hamlet himself are all dead. Although the argument that there would be no play if Hamlet had immediately avenged his father may be valid, it fails to satisfy those who ponder the tragic cost of Hamlet’s inaction.

Cultural Context The appearance of a ghost was a longstanding tradition in Renaissance drama. The ghost appeared in Elizabethan revenge tragedies as a plot device to help further the action and prompt a reaction from the hero. For a Renaissance audience, the dramatic representa- tion of a ghost from purgatory would evoke a rich context of legends and lore derived from paint- ings, illuminated manuscripts, prints, and narratives. Moreover, stories involving ghosts were a frequent element of medieval sermons. However, the ghost in Hamlet transcends the traditions Hamlet transcends the traditions Hamlet of the revenge tragedy. Here, Shakespeare’s use of the ghost not only as a plot device but also as a character who may or may not be telling the truth adds depth and complexity to the play.

Hamlet Prince of Denmark1 (c. 1600)

CHARACTERS Claudius, King of Denmark Reynaldo, servant to Polonius

Hamlet, son to the former and nephew Players to the present King Two Clowns, grave-diggers

An audience at the reconstructed Globe Theatre in London Source: © Andreas Hub/laif/Redux Pictures

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1Note that individual lines are numbered in the following play. When a line is shared by one or more char- acters, it is counted as one line.

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Polonius, Lord Chamberlain Fortinbras, Prince of Norway Horatio, friend to Hamlet A Captain Laertes, son to Polonius English Ambassadors

Voltimand Ghost of Hamlet’s Father Cornelius Gertrude, Queen of Denmark and mother

Courtiers Rosencrantz of Hamlet Guildenstern Ophelia, daughter to Polonius

Osric Lords, Ladies, Officers, A Gentleman Soldiers, Sailors,

A Priest Messengers, and other Francisco, a soldier Attendants

OfficersOfficers Marcellus Bernardo

{ {{

ACT 1 SCENE 1

Elsinore. A platform before the castle.

Francisco at his post. Enter to him Bernardo.

BERNARDO: Who’s there? FRANCISCO: Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself. BERNARDO: Long live the king! FRANCISCO: Bernardo? BERNARDO: He. FRANCISCO: You come most carefully upon your hour. BERNARDO: ’Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.

Richard Burton as Hamlet ©Bettmann/Corbis

Laurence Olivier as Hamlet ©Bettmann/Corbis

Mel Gibson as Hamlet Paramount/The Kobal Collection/Picture Desk

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FRANCISCO: For this relief much thanks: ’tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.

BERNARDO: Have you had quiet guard? FRANCISCO: Not a mouse stirring. BERNARDO: Well, good-night.

If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.

FRANCISCO: I think I hear them.—Stand, ho! Who is there?

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

HORATIO: Friends to this ground. MARCELLUS: And liegemen to the Dane. FRANCISCO: Give you good-night. MARCELLUS: O, farewell, honest soldier:

Who hath reliev’d you?

FRANCISCO: Bernardo has my place. Give you good-night.

Exit.

MARCELLUS: Holla! Bernardo! BERNARDO: Say.

What, is Horatio there? HORATIO: A piece of him. BERNARDO: Welcome, Horatio:—welcome, good Marcellus. MARCELLUS: What, has this thing appear’d again to-night? BERNARDO: I have seen nothing. MARCELLUS: Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy,

And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us: Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night; That, if again this apparition come He may approve our eyes and speak to it.

HORATIO: Tush, tush, ’twill not appear. BERNARDO: Sit down awhile,

And let us once again assail your ears, That are so forti�ed against our story, What we two nights have seen.

HORATIO: Well, sit we down, And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.

BERNARDO: Last night of all, When yon same star that’s westward from the pole Had made his course to illume that part of heaven

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Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one,—

MARCELLUS: Peace, break thee off; look where it comes again!

Enter Ghost, armed.

BERNARDO: In the same �gure, like the king that’s dead. MARCELLUS: Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio. BERNARDO: Looks it not like the king? mark it, Horatio. HORATIO: Most like:—it harrows me with fear and wonder. BERNARDO: It would be spoke to. MARCELLUS: Question it, Horatio. HORATIO: What art thou, that usurp’st this time of night,

Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee, speak!

MARCELLUS: It is offended. BERNARDO: See, it stalks away! HORATIO: Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak!

Exit Ghost.

MARCELLUS: ’Tis gone, and will not answer. BERNARDO: How now, Horatio! you tremble and look pale:

Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on’t?

HORATIO: Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.

MARCELLUS: Is it not like the king? HORATIO: As thou art to thyself:

Such was the very armor he had on When he the ambitious Norway combated; So frown’d he once when, in an angry parle,1

He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. ’Tis strange.

MARCELLUS: Thus twice before, and just at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

HORATIO: In what particular thought to work I know not; But, in the gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

MARCELLUS: Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land;

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1parle: Parley, or conference.parle: Parley, or conference.parle:

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And why such daily cast of brazen cannon, And foreign mart for implements of war; Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week; What might be toward, that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-laborer with the day: Who is’t that can inform me?

HORATIO: That can I; At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king, Whose image even but now appear’d to us, Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride, Dar’d to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet,— For so this side of our known world esteem’d him,— Did slay this Fortinbras; who, by a seal’d compact, Well rati�ed by law and heraldry, Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands. Which he stood seiz’d of,2 to the conqueror: Against the which, a moiety competent3

Was gagéd4 by our king; which had return’d To the inheritance of Fortinbras, Had he been vanquisher; as by the same cov’nant, And carriage of the article design’d, His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Of unimproved mettle hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there, Shark’d up a list of landless resolutes, For food and diet, to some enterprise That hath a stomach in’t: which is no other,— As it doth well appear unto our state,— But to recover of us by strong hand, And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost: and this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch, and the chief head Of this post-haste and romage5 in the land.

BERNARDO: I think it be no other, but e’en so: Well may it sort that this portentous �gure Comes armed through our watch; so like the king That was and is the question of these wars.

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2seiz’d of: Possessed.seiz’d of: Possessed.seiz’d of: 3moiety competent: A sufficient portion of his lands.moiety competent: A sufficient portion of his lands.moiety competent: 4gagéd: Engaged gagéd: Engaged gagéd: or pledged. 5post-haste and romage: General activity.post-haste and romage: General activity.post-haste and romage:

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Shakespeare: Hamlet Act 1 Scene 1 1049

HORATIO: A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets: As, stars with trains of �re and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star, Upon whose in�uence Neptune’s empire stands, Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse: And even the like precurse of �erce events,— As harbingers preceding still the fates, And prologue to the omen coming on,— Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climature and countrymen.— But, soft, behold! lo, where it comes again!

Re-enter Ghost.

I’ll cross it, though it blast me.—Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound or use of voice, Speak to me: If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease, and grace to me, Speak to me: If thou art privy to thy country’s fate, Which, happily,6 foreknowing may avoid, O, speak! Or if thou has uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death,

Cock crows.

Speak of it:—stay, and speak!—Stop it, Marcellus. MARCELLUS: Shall I strike at it with my partisan?7

HORATIO: Do, if it will not stand. BERNARDO: ’Tis here! HORATIO: ’Tis here! MARCELLUS: ’Tis gone!

Exit Ghost.

We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence;

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6happily: Haply, or perhaps.happily: Haply, or perhaps.happily: 7partisan: Pike.partisan: Pike.partisan:

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For it is, as the air, invulnerable, And our vain blows malicious mockery.

BERNARDO: It was about to speak when the cock crew. HORATIO: And then it started like a guilty thing

Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day; and at his warning, Whether in sea or �re, in earth or air, The extravagant and erring spirit hies To his con�ne: and of the truth herein This present object made probation.8

MARCELLUS: It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm; So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.

HORATIO: So have I heard, and do in part believe. But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill: Break we our watch up: and, by my advice, Let us impart what we have seen to-night Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life, This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him: Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, �tting our duty?

MARCELLUS: Let’s do’t, I pray; and I this morning know Where we shall �nd him most conveniently.

Exeunt.

SCENE 2

Elsinore. A room of state in the castle.

Enter the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltimand, Cornelius, Lords, and Attendants.

KING: Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death The memory be green; and that it us be�tted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom

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To be contracted in one brow of woe; Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him, Together with remembrance of ourselves. Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, The imperial jointress of this warlike state, Have we, as ’twere with defeated joy,— With one auspicious and one dropping eye, With mirth and funeral, and with dirge in marriage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole,— Taken to wife: nor have we herein barr’d Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this affair along:—for all, our thanks. Now follows that you know, young Fortinbras, Holding a weak supposal of our worth, Or thinking by our late dear brother’s death Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, Colleagued with the dream of his advantage, He hath not fail’d to pester us with message, Importing the surrender of those lands Lost by his father, with all bonds of law, To our most valiant brother. So much for him.— Now for ourself, and for this time of meeting: Thus much the business is:—we have here writ To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras,— Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears Of this his nephew’s purpose,—to suppress His further gait herein; in that the levies, The lists, and full proportions, are all made Out of his subject:—and we here despatch You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltimand, For bearers of this greeting to old Norway; Giving to you no further personal power To business with the king more than the scope Of these dilated articles allow. Farewell; and let your haste commend your duty.

CORNELIUS and VOLTIMAND: In that and all things will we show our duty. KING: We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell.

Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius.

And now, Laertes, what’s the news with you? You told us of some suit; what is’t, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane,

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And lose your voice: what wouldst thou beg, Laertes, That shall not be my offer, nor thy asking? The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

LAERTES: Dread my lord, Your leave and favor to return to France; From whence though willingly I came to Denmark, To show my duty in your coronation; Yet now, I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France. And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.

KING: Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius? POLONIUS: He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave

By laborsome petition; and at last Upon his will I seal’d my hard consent: I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

KING: Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will!— But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,—

HAMLET: [Aside] A little more than kin, and less than kind. KING: How is it that the clouds still hang on you? HAMLET: Not so, my lord; I am too much i’ the sun. QUEEN: Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off,

And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not for ever with thy vailed1 lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust: Thou know’st ’tis common,—all that live must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

HAMLET: Ay, madam, it is common. QUEEN: If it be,

Why seems it so particular with thee? HAMLET: Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems.

’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc’d breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected ’havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem;

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1vailed: Downcast.vailed: Downcast.vailed:

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For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

KING: ’Tis sweet and cómmendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father: But, you must know, your father lost a father; That father lost, lost his; and the survivor bound, In �lial obligation, for some term To do obsequious sorrow: but to persever In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness; ’tis unmanly grief: It shows a will most incorrect to heaven; A heart unforti�ed, a mind impatient; An understanding simple and unschool’d: For what we know must be, and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense,2

Why should we, in our peevish opposition, Take it to heart? Fie! ’tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd; whose common theme Is death of fathers, and who still3 hath cried, From the �rst corse till he that died to-day, This must be so. We pray you, throw to earth This unprevailing woe; and think of us As of a father: for let the world take note You are the most immediate to our throne; And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son Do I impart toward you. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our desire: And we beseech you bend you to remain Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.

QUEEN: Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet: I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.

HAMLET: I shall in all my best obey you, madam. KING: Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply:

Be as ourself in Denmark.—Madam, come; This gentle and unforc’d accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart: in grace whereof,

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2any . . . any . . . any sense: Anything that is very commonly seen or heard.sense: Anything that is very commonly seen or heard.sense: 3still: Ever, or always.still: Ever, or always.still:

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No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell; And the king’s rouse4 the heavens shall bruit5 again, Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.

Exeunt all but Hamlet.

HAMLET: O, that this too too solid �esh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not �x’d His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, �at, and unpro�table Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on’t! O �e! ’tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead!—nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion6 to a satyr: so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on: and yet, within a month,— Let me not think on’t,—Frailty, thy name is woman!— A little month; or ere those shoes were old With which she follow’d my poor father’s body Like Niobe, all tears;—why she, even she,— O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn’d longer,—married with mine uncle, My father’s brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules: within a month; Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the �ushing in her galled eyes, She married:—O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good; But break, my heart,—for I must hold my tongue!

Enter Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo.

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4rouse: Drink.rouse: Drink.rouse: 5bruit: Echo.bruit: Echo.bruit: 6Hyperion: The Greek sun-god, the brightest and most beautiful Hyperion: The Greek sun-god, the brightest and most beautiful Hyperion: of the gods.

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HORATIO: Hail to your lordship! HAMLET: I am glad to see you well:

Horatio,—or I do forget myself. HORATIO: The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever. HAMLET: Sir, my good friend; I’ll change that name with you:

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?—Marcellus? MARCELLUS: My good lord,— HAMLET: I am very glad to see you.—Good even, sir.—

But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg? HORATIO: A truant disposition, good my lord. HAMLET: I would not hear your enemy say so;

Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself: I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.

HORATIO: My lord, I came to see your father’s funeral. HAMLET: I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;

I think it was to see my mother’s wedding. HORATIO: Indeed, my lord, it follow’d hard upon. HAMLET: Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral-bak’d meats

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe7 in heaven Ere I had ever seen that day, Horatio!— My father,—methinks I see my father.

HORATIO: Where, my lord? HAMLET: In my mind’s eye, Horatio. HORATIO: I saw him once; he was a goodly8 king. HAMLET: He was a man, take him for all in all,

I shall not look upon his like again. HORATIO: My lord, I think I saw him yester-night. HAMLET: Saw who? HORATIO: My lord, the king your father. HAMLET: The king my father! HORATIO: Season your admiration9 for awhile

With an attent ear, till I may deliver, Upon the witness of these gentlemen, This marvel to you.

HAMLET: For God’s love, let me hear. HORATIO: Two nights together had these gentlemen,

Marcellus and Bernardo, in their watch,

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7Ddearest foe: Worst enemy.Ddearest foe: Worst enemy.Ddearest foe: 8goodly: Handsome.goodly: Handsome.goodly: 9admiration: Astonishment.admiration: Astonishment.admiration:

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In the dead vast and middle of the night, Been thus encounter’d. A �gure like your father, Arm’d at all points exactly, cap-a-pe,10

Appears before them, and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk’d By their oppress’d11 and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon’s length; whilst they, distill’d Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did; And I with them the third night kept the watch: Where, as they had deliver’d, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes: I knew your father; These hands are not more like.

HAMLET: But where was this? MARCELLUS: My lord, upon the platform where we watch’d. HAMLET: Did you not speak to it? HORATIO: My lord, I did;

But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up its head, and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak: But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish’d from our sight.

HAMLET: ’Tis very strange. HORATIO: As I do live, my honor’d lord, ’tis true;

And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it.

HAMLET: Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch to-night?

MARCELLUS and BERNARDO: We do, my lord. HAMLET: Arm’d, say you? MARCELLUS and BERNARDO: Arm’d, my lord. HAMLET: From top to toe? MARCELLUS and BERNARDO: My lord, from head to foot. HAMLET: Then saw you not his face? HORATIO: O yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up. HAMLET: What, look’d he frowningly? HORATIO: A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. HAMLET: Pale or red?

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HORATIO: Nay, very pale. HAMLET: And �x’d his eyes upon you? HORATIO: Most constantly. HAMLET: I would I had been there. HORATIO: It would have much amaz’d you. HAMLET: Very like, very like. Stay’d it long? HORATIO: While one with moderate haste might tell12 a hundred. MARCELLUS AND BERNARDO: Longer, longer. HORATIO: Not when I saw’t. HAMLET: His beard was grizzled,—no? HORATIO: It was, as I have seen it in his life,

A sable silver’d. HAMLET: I will watch to-night;

Perchance ’twill walk again. HORATIO: I warrant it will. HAMLET: If it assume my noble father’s person

I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it an understanding, but no tongue: I will requite your loves. So, fare ye well: Upon the platform, ’twixt eleven and twelve, I’ll visit you.

ALL: Our duty to your honor. HAMLET: Your loves, as mine to you: farewell.

Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo.

My father’s spirit in arms; all is not well; I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.

Exit.

SCENE 3

A room in Polonius’ house. Enter Laertes and Ophelia.

LAERTES: My necessaries are embark’d: farewell: And, sister, as the winds give bene�t,

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And convoy1 is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you.

OPHELIA: Do you doubt that? LAERTES: For Hamlet, and the tri�ing of his favor,

Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood: A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

OPHELIA: No more but so? LAERTES: Think it no more:

For nature, crescent,2 does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but as this temple3 waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now; And now no soil nor cautel4 doth besmirch The virtue of his will: but you must fear, His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own; For he himself is subject to his birth: He may not, as unvalu’d persons do, Carve for himself; for on his choice depends The safety and the health of the whole state; And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, It �ts your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed; which is no further Than the main5 voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honor may sustain If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmaster’d importunity. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister; And keep within the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon: Virtue itself scrapes not calumnious strokes: The canker galls the infants of the spring

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1convoy: Means of conveyance.convoy: Means of conveyance.convoy: 2crescent: Growing.crescent: Growing.crescent: 3temple: Body.temple: Body.temple: 4cautel: Deceit.cautel: Deceit.cautel: 5main: Strong, or mighty.main: Strong, or mighty.main:

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Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d; And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary, then; best safety lies in fear: Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

OPHELIA: I shall the effect of this good lesson keep As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst like a puff’d and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And recks not his own rede.6

LAERTES: O, fear me not. I stay too long:—but here my father comes.

Enter Polonius.

A double blessing is a double grace; Occasion smiles upon a second leave.

POLONIUS: Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame! The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stay’d for. There,—my blessing with you!

Laying his hand on Laertes’ head.

And these few precepts in thy memory See thou character.7 Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch’d, un�edg’d comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear’t that the opposéd may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man’s censure,8 but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France of the best rank and station Are most select and generous chief in that.

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6rede: Counsel.rede: Counsel.rede: 7in . . . character: Engrave in your mind.in . . . character: Engrave in your mind.in . . . character: 8censure: Opinion.censure: Opinion.censure:

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Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For a loan oft loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all,—to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!

LAERTES: Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. POLONIUS: The time invites you; go, your servants tend.9

LAERTES: Farewell, Ophelia; and remember well What I have said to you.

OPHELIA: ’Tis in my memory lock’d, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

LAERTES: Farewell. [Exit.] POLONIUS: What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you? OPHELIA: So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet. POLONIUS: Marry, well bethought:

’Tis told me he hath very oft of late Given private time to you; and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous: If it be so,—as so ’tis put on me, And that in way of caution,—I must tell you, You do not understand yourself so clearly As it behoves my daughter and your honor. What is between you? give me up the truth.

OPHELIA: He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of his affection to me.

POLONIUS: Affection! pooh! you speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his tenders,10 as you call them?

OPHELIA: I do not know, my lord, what I should think. POLONIUS: Marry, I’ll teach you: think yourself a baby;

That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay, Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly; Or,—not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, Wronging it thus,—you’ll tender me a fool.

OPHELIA: My lord, he hath impórtun’d me with love In honorable fashion.

POLONIUS: Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to. OPHELIA: And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,

With almost all the holy vows of heaven.

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POLONIUS: Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat,—extinct in both, Even in their promise, as it is a-making,— You must not take for �re. From this time Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence; Set your entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him, that he is young; And with a larger tether may he walk Than may be given you: in few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers,11— Not of that die which their investments show, But mere implorators of unholy suits, Breathing like sancti�ed and pious bawds, The better to beguile. This is for all,— I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth, Have you so slander any moment leisure As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. Look to’t, I charge you; come your ways.

OPHELIA: I shall obey, my lord.

Exeunt.

SCENE 4

The platform. Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.

HAMLET: The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold. HORATIO: It is a nipping and an eager air. HAMLET: What hour now? HORATIO: I think it lacks of twelve. MARCELLUS: No, it is struck. HORATIO: Indeed? I heard it not: then it draws near the season

Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

A �ourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within.

What does this mean, my lord? HAMLET: The king doth wake to-night, and takes his rouse,

Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring1 reels; And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,

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The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.2

HORATIO: Is it a custom? HAMLET: Ay, marry, is’t:

But to my mind,—though I am native here, And to the manner born,—it is a custom More honor’d in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations: They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase Soil our addition;3 and, indeed, it takes From our achievements, though perform’d at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute. So oft it chances in particular men That, for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth,—wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin,— By the o’ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason; Or by some habit, that too much o’erleavens The form of plausive4 manners;—that these men,— Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being nature’s livery or fortune’s star,— Their virtues else,—be they as pure as grace, As in�nite as man may undergo,— Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault: the dram of evil Doth all the noble substance of a doubt To his own scandal.

HORATIO: Look, my lord, it comes!

Enter Ghost.

HAMLET: Angels and ministers of grace defend us!— Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee: I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell Why thy canóniz’d bones, hearsèd in death,

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2triumph . . . pledge: The glory of his toasts.triumph . . . pledge: The glory of his toasts.triumph . . . pledge: 3addition: Reputation.addition: Reputation.addition: 4plausive: Pleasing.plausive: Pleasing.plausive:

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Have burst their cerements;5 why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urn’d, Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again! What may this mean, That thou, dead corpse, again in còmplete steel, Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous and we6 fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do?

Ghost beckons Hamlet.

HORATIO: It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire To you alone.

MARCELLUS: Look, with what courteous action It waves you to a more removed ground: But do not go with it.

HORATIO: No, by no means. HAMLET: It will not speak; then will I follow it. HORATIO: Do not, my lord. HAMLET: Why, what should be the fear?

I do not set my life at a pin’s fee; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself? It waves me forth again;—I’ll follow it.

HORATIO: What if it tempt you toward the �ood, my lord. Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles o’er his base into the sea, And there assume some other horrible form, Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, And draw you into madness? think of it: The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fathoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath.

HAMLET: It waves me still.— Go on; I’ll follow thee.

MARCELLUS: You shall not go, my lord. HAMLET: Hold off your hands. HORATIO: Be rul’d; you shall not go.

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HAMLET: My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Némean lion’s7 nerve.—

Ghost beckons.

Still am I call’d;—unhand me, gentlemen;—[Breaking from them] By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets8 me. I say, away!—Go on; I’ll follow thee.

Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet.

HORATIO: He waxes desperate with imagination. MARCELLUS: Let’s follow; ’tis not �t thus to obey him. HORATIO: Have after.—To what issue will this come? MARCELLUS: Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. HORATIO: Heaven will direct it. MARCELLUS: Nay, let’s follow him.

Exeunt.

SCENE 5

A more remote part of the platform.

Enter Ghost and Hamlet.

HAMLET: Where wilt thou lead me? speak, I’ll go no further. GHOST: Mark me. HAMLET: I will. GHOST: My hour is almost come,

When I to sulphurous and tormenting �ames Must render up myself.

HAMLET: Alas, poor ghost! GHOST: Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing

To what I shall unfold. HAMLET: Speak; I am bound to hear. GHOST: So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear. HAMLET: What? GHOST: I am thy father’s spirit;

Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, And, for the day, con�n’d to waste in �res Till the foul crimes1 done in my days of nature Are burnt and purg’d away. But that I am forbid

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7Némean lion’s: The fierce lion that Hercules was called upon to slay as one of his “twelve labors.”Némean lion’s: The fierce lion that Hercules was called upon to slay as one of his “twelve labors.”Némean lion’s: 8lets: Hinders.lets: Hinders.lets: 1foul crimes: Sins or faults.foul crimes: Sins or faults.foul crimes:

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To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood; Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres; Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porcupine: But this eternal blazon2 must not be To ears of �esh and blood.—List, list, O, list!— If thou didst ever thy dear father love,—

HAMLET: O God! GHOST: Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. HAMLET: Murder! GHOST: Murder—most foul, as in the best it is;

But this most foul, strange, and unnatural. HAMLET: Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift

As meditation or the thoughts of love, May sweep to my revenge.

GHOST: I �nd thee apt; And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That rots itself in ease on Lethe3 wharf, Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, ’Tis given out that, sleeping in mine orchard, A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark Is by a forged process of my death Rankly abus’d: but know, thou noble youth, The serpent that did sting thy father’s life Now wears his crown.

HAMLET: O my prophetic soul! mine uncle! GHOST: Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,

With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,— O wicked wit and gifts that have the power So to seduce!—won to his shameful lust The will of my most seeming virtuous queen: O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there! From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I made to her in marriage: and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine!

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2eternal blazon: Disclosure of information concerning the other world.eternal blazon: Disclosure of information concerning the other world.eternal blazon: 3Lethe: The river of forgetLethe: The river of forgetLethe: - fulness of the past, out of which the dead drink.

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But virtue, as it never will be mov’d, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven; So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d, Will sate itself in a celestial bed And prey on garbage. But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air; Brief let me be.—Sleeping within mine orchard, My custom always in the afternoon, Upon my sécure hour thy uncle stole, With juice of cursed hebenon4 in a vial, And in the porches of mine ears did pour The leperous distilment; whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body; And with a sudden vigor it doth posset5

And curd, like eager6 droppings into milk, The thin and wholesome blood: so did it mine; And a most instant tetter bark’d about, Most lazar-like,7 with vile and loathsome crust, All my smooth body. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand, Of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatch’d: Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhousel’d, unanointed, unanel’d; No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head: O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; Let not the royal bed of Denmark be A couch for luxury8 and damned incest. But, howsoever thou pursu’st this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught: leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once! The glowworm shows the matin to be near, And ’gins to pale his uneffectual �re: Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me. [Exit.]

HAMLET: O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else?

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4hebenon: Ebony.hebenon: Ebony.hebenon: 5posset: Coagulate.posset: Coagulate.posset: 6eager: Acid.eager: Acid.eager: 7lazar-like: Like a leper, whose skin lazar-like: Like a leper, whose skin lazar-like: is rough. 8luxury: Lechery.luxury: Lechery.luxury:

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And shall I couple hell?—O, �e!—Hold, my heart; And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stif�y up.—Remember thee! Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. Remember thee! Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond9 recórds, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix’d with baser matter: yes, by heaven.— O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables,—meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain; At least, I am sure, it may be so in Denmark:

Writing.

So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; It is, Adieu, adieu! remember me: I have sworn’t.

HORATIO: [Within] My lord, my lord,— MARCELLUS: [Within] Lord Hamlet,— HORATIO: [Within] Heaven secure him! MARCELLUS: [Within] So be it! HORATIO: [Within] Illo, ho, ho, my lord! HAMLET: Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come.10

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

MARCELLUS: How is’t, my noble lord? HORATIO: What news, my lord? HAMLET: O, wonderful! HORATIO: Good my lord, tell it. HAMLET: No; you’ll reveal it. HORATIO: Not I, my lord, by heaven. MARCELLUS: Nor I, my lord. HAMLET: How say you, then; would heart of man once think it?—

But you’ll be secret? HORATIO AND MARCELLUS: Ay, by heaven, my lord.

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9fond: Foolish.fond: Foolish.fond: 10Hillo . . . come: Hamlet uses the word “bird” because this is a falconer’s call.Hillo . . . come: Hamlet uses the word “bird” because this is a falconer’s call.Hillo . . . come:

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HAMLET: There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he’s an arrant knave.

HORATIO: There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this.

HAMLET: Why, right; you are i’ the right; And so, without more circumstance at all, I hold it �t that we shake hands and part: You, as your business and desire shall point you,— For every man has business and desire, Such as it is;—and for mine own poor part, Look you, I’ll go pray.

HORATIO: These are but wild and whirling words, my lord. HAMLET: I’m sorry they offend you, heartily;

Yes, faith, heartily. HORATIO: There’s no offence, my lord. HAMLET: Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,

And much offence too. Touching this vision here,— It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you: For you desire to know what is between us, O’ermaster’t as you may. And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, Give me one poor request.

HORATIO: What is’t, my lord? we will. HAMLET: Never make known what you have seen to-night. HORATIO AND MARCELLUS: My lord, we will not. HAMLET: Nay, but swear’t. HORATIO: In faith,

My lord, not I. MARCELLUS: Nor I, my lord, in faith. HAMLET: Upon my sword. MARCELLUS: We have sworn, my lord, already. HAMLET: Indeed, upon my sword, indeed. GHOST: [Beneath] Swear. HAMLET: Ha, ha, boy! say’st thou so? art thou there, truepenny?—

Come on,—you hear this fellow in the cellarage,— Consent to swear.

HORATIO: Propose the oath, my lord. HAMLET: Never to speak of this that you have seen,

Swear by my sword. GHOST: [Beneath] Swear. HAMLET: Hic et ubique?11 then we’ll shift our ground.—

Come hither, gentlemen,

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11Hic et ubique?: “Here and everywhere” (Latin).

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And lay your hands again upon my sword: Never to speak of this that you have heard, Swear by my sword.

GHOST: [Beneath] Swear. HAMLET: Well said! old mole! canst work i’ the earth so fast?

A worthy pioneer!12—Once more remove, good friends. HORATIO: O day and night, but this is wondrous strange! HAMLET: And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come;— Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, How strange or odd soe’er I bear myself,— As I, perchance, hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on,— That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With arms encumber’d13 thus, or this headshake, Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, As, Well, well, we know;—or, We could, an if we would;— Or, If we list to speak;—or, There be, an if they might;— Or such ambiguous giving out, to note That you know aught of me:—this not to do, So grace and mercy at your most need help you, Swear.

GHOST: [Beneath] Swear. HAMLET: Rest, rest, perturbed spirit!—So, gentlemen,

With all my love I do commend to you: And what so poor a man as Hamlet is May do, to express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together; And still your �ngers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint:—O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right!— Nay, come, let’s go together.

Exeunt.

ACT 2 SCENE 1

A room in Polonius’ house.

Enter Polonius and Reynaldo.

POLONIUS: Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.

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12pioneer: A soldier who digs trenches and undermines fortresses.pioneer: A soldier who digs trenches and undermines fortresses.pioneer: 13encumber’d: Folded.encumber’d: Folded.encumber’d:

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REYNALDO: I will, my lord. POLONIUS: You shall do marvelous wisely, good Reynaldo,

Before you visit him, to make inquiry On his behavior.

REYNALDO: My lord, I did intend it. POLONIUS: Marry, well said; very well said. Look you, sir,

Inquire me �rst what Danskers1 are in Paris; And how, and who, what means, and where they keep, What company, at what expense; and �nding, By this encompassment and drift of question, That they do know my son, come you more nearer Than your particular demands will touch it: Take you, as ’twere, some distant knowledge of him; As thus, I know his father and his friends, And in part him;—do you mark this, Reynaldo?

REYNALDO: Ay, very well, my lord. POLONIUS: And in part him;—but, you may say, not well:

But if’t be he I mean, he’s very wild; Addicted so and so; and there put on him What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank As may dishonor him; take heed of that; But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty.

REYNALDO: As gaming, my lord. POLONIUS: Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarreling,

Drabbing:2—you may go so far. REYNALDO: My lord, that would dishonor him. POLONIUS: Faith, no; as you may season it in the charge.

You must not put another scandal on him, That he is open to incontinency; That’s not my meaning: but breathe his faults so quaintly That they may seem the taints of liberty; The �ash and outbreak of a �ery mind; A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of general assault.

REYNALDO: But, my good lord,— POLONIUS: Wherefore should you do this? REYNALDO: Ay, my lord,

I would know that. POLONIUS: Marry, sir, here’s my drift;

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1Danskers: Danes.Danskers: Danes.Danskers: 2Drabbing: Going about with loose women.Drabbing: Going about with loose women.Drabbing:

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And I believe it is a fetch of warrant:3

You laying these slight sullies on my son. As ’twere a thing a little soil’d i’ the working, Mark you, Your party in converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur’d He closes with you in this consequence; Good sir, or so; or friend, or gentleman,— According to the phrase or the addition4

Of man and country. REYNALDO: Very good, my lord. POLONIUS: And then, sir, does he this,—he does,—

What was I about to say?—By the mass, I was About to say something:—where did I leave?

REYNALDO: At closes in the consequence, At friend or so, and gentleman.

POLONIUS: At—closes in the consequence,—ay, marry; He closes with you thus:—I know the gentleman; I saw him yesterday, or t’other day, Or then, or then; with such, or such; and, as you say, There was he gaming; there o’ertook in’s rouse; There falling out at tennis: or perchance, I saw him enter such a house of sale,— Videlicet,5 a brothel,—or so forth.— See you now; Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth: And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses, and with assays of bias, By indirections �nd directions out: So, by my former lecture and advice, Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?

REYNALDO: My lord, I have. POLONIUS: God b’ wi’ you; fare you well. REYNALDO: Good my lord! POLONIUS: Observe his inclination in yourself. REYNALDO: I shall, my lord. POLONIUS: And let him ply his music. REYNALDO: Well, my lord. POLONIUS: Farewell!

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3fetch of warrant: A good device.fetch of warrant: A good device.fetch of warrant: 4addition: Form of address.addition: Form of address.addition: 5Videlicet: That is; namely (Latin).Videlicet: That is; namely (Latin).Videlicet:

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Exit Reynaldo.

Enter Ophelia.

How now, Ophelia! what’s the matter? OPHELIA: Alas, my lord, I have been so affrighted. POLONIUS: With what, i’ the name of God? OPHELIA: My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber,

Lord Hamlet,—with his doublet all unbrac’d; No hat upon his head; his stockings foul’d, Ungarter’d, and down-gyved6 to his ankle; Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other; And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors,—he comes before me.

POLONIUS: Mad for thy love? OPHELIA: My lord, I do not know;

But truly I do fear it. POLONIUS: What said he? OPHELIA: He took me by the wrist, and held me hard;

Then goes he to the length of all his arm; And with his other hand thus o’er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so; At last,—a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving up and down,— He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound That it did seem to shatter all his bulk And end his being; that done, he lets me go: And, with his head over his shoulder turn’d, He seem’d to �nd his way without his eyes; For out o’ doors he went without their help, And to the last bended their light on me.

POLONIUS: Come, go with me: I will go seek the king. This is the very ecstasy7 of love; Whose violent property fordoes itself,8

And leads the will to desperate undertakings, As oft as any passion under heaven That does af�ict our nature. I am sorry,— What, have you given him any hard words of late?

OPHELIA: No, my good lord; but, as you did command, I did repel his letters, and denied His access to me.

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6down-gyved: Dangling like chains.down-gyved: Dangling like chains.down-gyved: 7ecstasy: Madness.ecstasy: Madness.ecstasy: 8fordoes itself: Destroys itself.fordoes itself: Destroys itself.fordoes itself:

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POLONIUS: That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and judgment I had not quoted him: I fear’d he did but tri�e, And meant to wreck thee; but, beshrew my jealousy! It seems it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. Come, go we to the king: This must be known; which, being kept close, might move More grief to hide than hate to utter love.

Exeunt.

SCENE 2

A room in the castle.

Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Attendants.

KING: Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern! Moreover that we much did long to see you, The need we have to use you did provoke Our hasty sending. Something have you heard Of Hamlet’s transformation; so I call it, Since nor the exterior nor the inward man Resembles that it was. What it should be, More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him So much from the understanding of himself, I cannot dream of: I entreat you both, That being of so young days brought up with him, And since so neighbor’d to his youth and humor, That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court Some little time: so by your companies To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather, So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught, to us unknown, af�icts him thus, That, open’d, lies within our remedy.

QUEEN: Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d of you; And sure I am two men there are not living To whom he more adheres. If it will please you To show us so much gentry and good-will As to expend your time with us awhile, For the supply and pro�t of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As �ts a king’s remembrance.

ROSENCRANTZ: Both your majesties Might, by the sovereign power you have of us,

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Put your dread pleasures more into command Than to entreaty.

GUILDENSTERN: We both obey, And here give up ourselves, in the full bent, To lay our service freely at your feet, To be commanded.

KING: Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern. QUEEN: Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz:

And I beseech you instantly to visit My too-much-changed son.—Go, some of you, And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.

GUILDENSTERN: Heavens make our presence and our practices Pleasant and helpful to him!

QUEEN: Ay, amen!

Exeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and some Attendants.

Enter Polonius.

POLONIUS: The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, Are joyfully return’d.

KING: Thou still has been the father of good news. POLONIUS: Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege,

I hold my duty, as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious king: And I do think,—or else this brain of mine Hunts not the trail of policy1 so sure As it hath us’d to do,—that I have found The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy.

KING: O, speak of that; that do I long to hear. POLONIUS: Give �rst admittance to the ambassadors;

My news shall be the fruit to that great feast. KING: Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in.

Exit Polonius.

He tells me, my sweet queen, that he hath found The head and source of all your son’s distemper.

QUEEN: I doubt it is no other but the main,— His father’s death and our o’erhasty marriage.

KING: Well, we shall sift him.

Re-enter Polonius, with Voltimand and Cornelius.

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1trail of policy: Statecraft.trail of policy: Statecraft.trail of policy:

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Welcome, my good friends! Say, Voltimand, what from our brother Norway?

VOLTIMAND: Most fair return of greetings and desires. Upon our �rst, he sent out to suppress His nephew’s levies; which to him appear’d To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack; But, better look’d into, he truly found It was against your highness: whereat griev’d,— That so his sickness, age, and impotence Was falsely borne in hand,—sends out arrests On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys; Receives rebuke from Norway; and, in �ne, Makes vows before his uncle never more To give the assay of arms against your majesty. Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee; And his commission to employ those soldiers, So levied as before, against the Polack: With an entreaty, herein further shown, [gives a paper] That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this enterprise, On such regards of safety and allowance As therein are set down.

KING: It likes us well; And at our more consider’d time we’ll read, Answer, and think upon this business. Meantime we thank you for your well-took labor: Go to your rest; at night we’ll feast together: Most welcome home!

Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius.

POLONIUS: This business is well ended.— My liege, and madam,—to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward �ourishes, I will be brief:—your noble son is mad: Mad call I it; for to de�ne true madness, What is’t but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go.

QUEEN: More matter with less art.

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POLONIUS: Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he is mad, ’tis true ’tis pity; And pity ’tis ’tis true: a foolish �gure; But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him, then: and now remains That we �nd out the cause of this effect; Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause: Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend. I have a daughter,—have whilst she is mine,— Who, in her duty and obedience, mark, Hath given me this: now gather, and surmise

[Reads]

To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beauti�ed Ophelia,—

That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase,—beauti�ed is a vile phrase: but you shall hear. Thus:

[Reads]

In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.

QUEEN: Came this from Hamlet to her? POLONIUS: Good madam, stay a while; I will be faithful.

[Reads]

Doubt thou the stars are �re; Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.

O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers, I have not art to reckon my groans: but

that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him,

Hamlet

This, in obedience, hath my daughter show’d me: And more above, hath his solicitings, As they fell out by time, by means, and place, All given to mine ear.

KING: But how hath she Receiv’d his love?

POLONIUS: What do you think of me?

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KING: As of a man faithful and honorable. POLONIUS: I would fain prove so. But what might you think,

When I had seen this hot love on the wing,— As I perceiv’d it, I must tell you that, Before my daughter told me,—what might you, Or my dear majesty your queen here, think, If I had play’d the desk or table-book;2

Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb; Or look’d upon this love with idle sight;— What might you think? No, I went round to work, And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: Lord Hamlet is a prince out of thy sphere; This must not be: and then I precepts gave her, That she should lock herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. Which done, she took the fruits of my advice; And he, repulsed,—a short tale to make,— Fell into a sadness; then into a fast; Thence to a watch; thence into a weakness; Thence to a lightness; and, by this declension, Into the madness wherein now he raves And all we wail for.

KING: Do you think ’tis this? QUEEN: It may be, very likely. POLONIUS: Hath there been such a time,—I’d fain know that,—

That I have positively said, ’Tis so, When it prov’d otherwise?

KING: Not that I know. POLONIUS: Take this from this, if this be otherwise: [Pointing to his head

and shoulder] If circumstances lead me, I will �nd Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the center.

KING: How may we try it further? POLONIUS: You know, sometimes he walks four hours together

Here in the lobby. QUEEN: So he does, indeed. POLONIUS: At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him:

Be you and I behind an arras3 then; Mark the encounter: if he love her not, And be not from his reason fall’n thereon,

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2table-book: Memorandum pad.table-book: Memorandum pad.table-book: 3arras: Tapestry, hung some distance away from a wall.arras: Tapestry, hung some distance away from a wall.arras:

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Let me be no assistant for a state, But keep a farm and carters.

KING: We will try it. QUEEN: But look, where sadly the poor wretch comes reading. POLONIUS: Away, I do beseech you, both away:

I’ll board4 him presently:—O, give me leave.

Exeunt King, Queen, and Attendants.

Enter Hamlet, reading.

How does my good Lord Hamlet? HAMLET: Well, God-a-mercy. POLONIUS: Do you know me, my lord? HAMLET: Excellent, excellent well; you’re a �shmonger. POLONIUS: Not I, my lord. HAMLET: Then I would you were so honest a man. POLONIUS: Honest, my lord! HAMLET: Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man

picked out of ten thousand. POLONIUS: That’s very true, my lord. HAMLET: For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god kissing

carrion,—Have you a daughter? POLONIUS: I have, my lord. HAMLET: Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is a blessing; but not as

your daughter may conceive:—friend, look to’t. POLONIUS: How say you by that?—[AsideHow say you by that?—[AsideHow say you by that?—[ ] Still harping on my daughter:—

yet he knew me not at �rst; he said I was a �shmonger: he is far gone, far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?

HAMLET: Words, words, words. POLONIUS: What is the matter, my lord? HAMLET: Between who? POLONIUS: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord. HAMLET: Slanders, sir: for the satirical slave says here that old men

have gray beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if, like a crab, you could go backward.

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POLONIUS: [Aside] Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.— ill you walk out of the air, my lord?

HAMLET: Into my grave? POLONIUS: Indeed, that is out o’ the air.—[Aside] How pregnant5 some-

times his replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter.—More honorable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.

HAMLET: You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more will- ingly part withal,—except my life, except my life, except my life.

POLONIUS: Fare you well, my lord. HAMLET: These tedious old fools!

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

POLONIUS: You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is. ROSENCRANTZ: [To Polonius] God save you, sir!

Exit Polonius.

GUILDENSTERN: Mine honored lord! ROSENCRANTZ: My most dear lord! HAMLET: My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah,

Rosencrantz? Good lads, how do ye both? ROSENCRANTZ: As the indifferent children of the earth. GUILDENSTERN: Happy in that we are not overhappy; on fortune’s cap

we are not the very button. HAMLET: Nor the soles of her shoe? ROSENCRANTZ: Neither, my lord. HAMLET: Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favors? GUILDENSTERN: Faith, her privates we. HAMLET: In the secret parts of fortune? O, most true; she is a strumpet.

What’s the news? ROSENCRANTZ: None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest. HAMLET: Then is doomsday near: but your news is not true. Let me

question more in particular: what have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of fortune, that she sends you to prison hither?

GUILDENSTERN: Prison, my lord! HAMLET: Denmark’s a prison. ROSENCRANTZ: Then is the world one. HAMLET: A goodly one; in which there are many con�nes, wards, and

dungeons, Denmark being one o’ the worst.

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ROSENCRANTZ: We think not so, my lord. HAMLET: Why, then, ’tis none to you; for there is nothing either good

or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison. ROSENCRANTZ: Why, then, your ambition makes it one; ’tis too narrow

for your mind. HAMLET: O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a

king of in�nite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. GUILDENSTERN: Which dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very sub-

stance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. HAMLET: A dream itself is but a shadow. ROSENCRANTZ: Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality

that it is but a shadow’s shadow. HAMLET: Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and out-

stretched heroes the beggars’ shadows. Shall we to the court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason.

ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN: We’ll wait upon you. HAMLET: No such matter: I will not sort you with the rest of my servants,

for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?

ROSENCRANTZ: To visit you, my lord; no other occasion. HAMLET: Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you:

and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, deal justly with me: come, come; nay, speak.

GUILDENSTERN: What should we say, my lord? HAMLET: Why, anything—but to the purpose. You were sent for; and

there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to color: I know the good king and queen have sent for you.

ROSENCRANTZ: To what end, my lord? HAMLET: That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights

of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no?

ROSENCRANTZ: What say you? [To Guildenstern] HAMLET: [Aside] Nay, then, I have an eye of you.—If you love me, hold

not off. GUILDENSTERN: My lord, we were sent for. HAMLET: I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your dis-

covery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and, indeed, it goes so heavily with

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my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging �rmament, this majestical roof fretted6 with golden �re,—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how in�nite in faculties! in form and mov- ing, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

ROSENCRANTZ: My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts. HAMLET: Why did you laugh, then, when I said, Man delights not me? ROSENCRANTZ: To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what

lenten entertainment7 the players shall receive from you: we coted8

them on the way; and hither are they coming, to offer you service. HAMLET: He that plays the king shall be welcome,—his majesty shall

have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous9 man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickled o’ the sere;10 and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt11 for’t.—What players are they?

ROSENCRANTZ: Even those you were wont to take delight in,—the tragedians of the city.

HAMLET: How chances it they travel? their residence, both in reputation and pro�t, was better both ways.

ROSENCRANTZ: I think their inhibition12 comes by the means of the late innovation.

HAMLET: Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed?

ROSENCRANTZ: No, indeed, they are not. HAMLET: How comes it? do they grow rusty? ROSENCRANTZ: Nay, their endeavor keeps in the wonted pace; but there

is, sir, an aery13 of children, little eyases,14 that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapped for’t: these are now the

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6roof fretted: A roof with fretwork.roof fretted: A roof with fretwork.roof fretted: 7lenten entertainment: Poor reception.lenten entertainment: Poor reception.lenten entertainment: 8coted: Passed.coted: Passed.coted: 9humorous: Eccentric.humorous: Eccentric.humorous: 10whose lungs . . . sere: Whose lungs, for laughter, are easily tickled.whose lungs . . . sere: Whose lungs, for laughter, are easily tickled.whose lungs . . . sere: 11halt: Limp.halt: Limp.halt: 12inhibition: Difficulty, preventing them from remaining in the capital.inhibition: Difficulty, preventing them from remaining in the capital.inhibition: 13aery: Brood of birds of prey.aery: Brood of birds of prey.aery: 14little eyases: Young hawks; a reference to the boys’ companies that little eyases: Young hawks; a reference to the boys’ companies that little eyases: became popular rivals of Shakespeare’s company of players.

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fashion; and so berattle the common stages,—so they call them,— that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills, and dare scarce come thither.

HAMLET: What, are they children? who maintains ’em? how are they escoted?15 Will they pursue the quality16 no longer than they can sing? will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players,—as it is most like, if their means are no better,— their writers do them wrong, to make them exclaim against their own succession?

ROSENCRANTZ: Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre17 them to controversy: there was for awhile no money bid for argument, unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question.

HAMLET: Is’t possible? GUILDENSTERN: O, there has been much throwing about of brains. HAMLET: Do the boys carry it away? ROSENCRANTZ: Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules and his load18 too. HAMLET: It is not strange; for mine uncle is king of Denmark, and those

that would make mouths at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, �fty, an hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little. ’Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could �nd it out.

Flourish of trumpets within.

GUILDENSTERN: There are the players. HAMLET: Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come:

the appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony: let me comply with you in this garb; lest my extent19 to the players, which, I tell you, must show fairly outward, should more appear like enter- tainment20 than yours. You are welcome: but my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.

GUILDENSTERN: In what, my dear lord? HAMLET: I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I

know a hawk from a handsaw.

Enter Polonius.

POLONIUS: Well be with you, gentlemen! HAMLET: Hark you, Guildenstern;—and you too;—at each ear a hearer:

that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swathing-clouts.

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15escoted: Financially supported.escoted: Financially supported.escoted: 16quality: Profession.quality: Profession.quality: 17to tarre: To egg them on.to tarre: To egg them on.to tarre: 18his load: The globe, or the world.his load: The globe, or the world.his load: 19extent: Show of friendliness.extent: Show of friendliness.extent: 20entertainment: Welcome.entertainment: Welcome.entertainment:

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ROSENCRANTZ: Happily he’s the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child.

HAMLET: I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players; mark it. You say right, sir: o’ Monday morning; ’twas so indeed.

POLONIUS: My lord, I have news to tell you. HAMLET: My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in

Rome,— POLONIUS: The actors are come hither, my lord. HAMLET: Buzz, buzz! POLONIUS: Upon mine honor,— HAMLET: Then came each actor on his ass,— POLONIUS: The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history,

pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable,21 or poem unlimited:22 Seneca cannot be too heavy nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty,23 these are the only men.

HAMLET: O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou! POLONIUS: What a treasure had he, my lord? HAMLET: Why—

One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well.

POLONIUS: [Aside] Still on my daughter. HAMLET: Am I not i’ the right, old Jephthah? POLONIUS: If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I

love passing well. HAMLET: Nay, that follows not. POLONIUS: What follows, then, my lord? HAMLET: Why—

As by lot, God wot, and then, you know, It came to pass, as most like it was,

the �rst row of the pious chanson will show you more; for look where my abridgement comes.

Enter four or �ve Players.

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21scene individable: A play that observes the unities of time and place.scene individable: A play that observes the unities of time and place.scene individable: 22poem unlimited: A typical poem unlimited: A typical poem unlimited: multiscene Elizabethan drama, not restricted by the unities; examples are Hamlet, Macbeth, King Lear, and nearly any other play by Shakespeare.Lear, and nearly any other play by Shakespeare.Lear 23For the law . . . liberty: For the laws of the unities For the law . . . liberty: For the laws of the unities For the law . . . liberty: and for playwriting that is not so restricted.

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You are welcome, masters; welcome, all:—I am glad to see thee well:—welcome, good friends.—O, my old friend! Thy face is valanced since I saw thee last; comest thou to beard me in Denmark?—What, my young lady and mistress! By’r lady, your ladyship is nearer heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine.24 Pray God, your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring.—Masters, you are all welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers, �y at anything we see: we’ll have a speech straight: come, give us a taste of your quality; come, a passionate speech.

1ST PLAYER: What speech, my lord? HAMLET: I heard thee speak me a speech once,—but it was never acted;

or, if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleased not the million; ’twas caviare to the general: but it was,—as I received it, and others whose judgments in such matters cried in the top of mine,—an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember, one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savory, nor no matter in the phrase that might indite the author of affectation; but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than �ne. One speech in it I chie�y loved: ’twas Aeneas’ tale to Dido; and thereabout of it especially where he speaks of Priam’s slaughter: if it live in your memory, begin at this line;—let me see, let me see:—

The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,25

—it is not so:—it begins with Pyrrhus:—

The rugged Pyrrhus,—he whose sable arms, Black as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in the ominous horse,— Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d With heraldry more dismal; head to foot Now is he total gules; horridly trick’d With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Bak’d and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and damned light To their vile murders: roasted in wrath and �re,

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24chopine: A wooden stilt more than a foot high used under a woman’s shoe; a Venetian fashion introchopine: A wooden stilt more than a foot high used under a woman’s shoe; a Venetian fashion introchopine: - duced into England. 25The rugged . . .The rugged . . .The rugged : This speech is an example of the declamatory style of drama, : This speech is an example of the declamatory style of drama, : which Shakespeare surely must have considered outmoded.

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And thus o’er-sized with coagulate gore, With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks.—

So proceed you. POLONIUS: ’Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good

discretion. 1ST PLAYER: Anon he �nds him

Striking too short at Greeks; his antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command: unequal match’d, Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide; But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword The unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium, Seeming to feel this blow, with �aming top Stoops to his base; and with a hideous crash Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear: for, lo! his sword, Which was declining on the milky head Of reverend Priam, seem’d i’ the air to stick: So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood; And, like a neutral to his will and matter, Did nothing. But as we often see, against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The blood winds speechless, and the orb below As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder Doth rend the region; so, after Pyrrhus’ pause, A roused vengeance sets him new a-work; And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall On Mars his armor, forg’d for proof eterne, With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword Now falls on Priam.— Out, out, thou strumpet, Fortune! All you gods, In general synod, take away her power; Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel, And bowl the round knave down the hill of heaven, As low as to the �ends!

POLONIUS: This is too long. HAMLET: It shall to the barber’s, with your beard.—Pr’ythee, say on.—He’s

for a jig, or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps:—say on; come to Hecuba. 1ST PLAYER: But who, O, who had seen the mobled queen,— HAMLET: The mobled queen? POLONIUS: That’s good; mobled queen is good. 1ST PLAYER: Run barefoot up and down, threatening the �ames

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With bissom rheum; a clout upon that head Where late the diadem stood; and, for a robe, About her lank and all o’er-teemed loins, A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up;— Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep’d, ’Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pronounc’d: But if the gods themselves did see her then, When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, The instant burst of clamor that she made,— Unless things mortal move them not at all,— Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven, And passion in the gods.

POLONIUS: Look, whether he has not turn’d his color, and has tears in’s eyes.—Pray you, no more.

HAMLET: ’Tis well; I’ll have thee speak out the rest soon.—Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time; after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

POLONIUS: My lord, I will use them according to their desert. HAMLET: God’s bodikin, man, better: use every man after his desert, and

who should scape whipping? Use them after your own honor and dignity: the less they deserve the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.

POLONIUS: Come, sirs. HAMLET: Follow him, friends: we’ll hear a play to-morrow.

Exit Polonius with all the Players but the First.

Dost thou hear me, old friend; can you play the Murder of Gonzago? 1ST PLAYER: Ay, my lord. HAMLET: We’ll ha’t to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a

speech of some dozen or sixteen lines which I would set down and insert in’t? could you not?

1ST PLAYER: Ay, my lord. HAMLET: Very well.—Follow that lord; and look you mock him not.

Exit First Player.

—My good friends, [to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern] I’ll leave you till night: you are welcome to Elsinore.

ROSENCRANTZ: Good my lord!

Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

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HAMLET: Ay, so God b’ wi’ ye!—Now I am alone. O, what a rogue26 and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a �ction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit27

That from her working all his visage wan’d; Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspéct, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing! For Hecuba? What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears, And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; Make mad the guilty, and appal the free; Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed, The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing; no, not for a king Upon whose property and most dear life A damn’d defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i’ the throat, As deep as to the lungs? who does me this, ha? ’Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall To make oppression bitter; or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave’s offal:—bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murder’d, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words, And fall a-cursing like a very drab,

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A scullion! Fie upon’t! foh!—About, my brain! I have heard That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim’d their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle: I’ll observe his looks; I’ll tent28 him to the quick: if he but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be the devil: and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy,— As he is very potent with such spirits,— Abuses me to damn me: I’ll have grounds More relative than this:—the play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king. [Exit.]

ACT 3 SCENE 1

A room in the castle.

Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.

KING: And can you, by no drift of circumstance, Get from him why he puts on this confusion, Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy?

ROSENCRANTZ: He does confess he feels himself distracted; But from what cause he will by no means speak.

GUILDENSTERN: Nor do we �nd him forward to be sounded; But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state.

QUEEN: Did he receive you well? ROSENCRANTZ: Most like a gentleman. GUILDENSTERN: But with much forcing of his disposition. ROSENCRANTZ: Niggard of question; but, of our demands,

Most free in his reply. QUEEN: Did you assay him

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To any pastime? ROSENCRANTZ: Madam, it so fell out that certain players

We o’er-raught on the way: of these we told him; And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it: they are about the court; And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him.

POLONIUS: ’Tis most true: And he beseech’d me to entreat your majesties To hear and see the matter.

KING: With all my heart; and it doth much content me To hear him so inclin’d. Good gentlemen, give him a further edge, And drive his purpose on to these delights.

ROSENCRANTZ: We shall, my lord.

Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

KING: Sweet Gertrude, leave us too; For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither That he, as ’twere by accident, may here Affront Ophelia: Her father and myself,—lawful espials,1— Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing, unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge; And gather by him, as he is behav’d, If’t be the af�iction of his love or no That thus he suffers for.

QUEEN: I shall obey you:— And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet’s wildness: so shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again, To both your honors.

OPHELIA: Madam, I wish it may.

Exit Queen.

POLONIUS: Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves.—[To Ophelia] Read on this book; That show of such an exercise may color Your loneliness.—We are oft to blame in this,—

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’Tis too much prov’d,—that with devotion’s visage And pious action we do sugar o’er The devil himself.

KING: [Aside] O, ’tis too true! How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word: O heavy burden!

POLONIUS: I hear him coming: let’s withdraw, my lord.

Exeunt King and Polonius.

Enter Hamlet.

HAMLET: To be, or not to be,—that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?—To die,—to sleep,— No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That �esh is heir to,—’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die,—to sleep;— To sleep! perchance to dream:—ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuf�ed off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes a calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of déspis’d love, the law’s delay, The insolence of of�ce, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin?2 who would fardels3 bear, To grunt4 and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death,— The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn5

No traveler returns,—puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than to �y to others that we know not of?

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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.—Soft you now! The fair Ophelia.—Nymph, in thy orisons6

Be all my sins remember’d. OPHELIA: Good my lord,

How does your honor for this many a day? HAMLET: I humbly thank you; well, well, well. OPHELIA: My lord, I have remembrances of yours,

That I have longed long to re-deliver; I pray you, now receive them.

HAMLET: No, not I; I never gave you aught.

OPHELIA: My honor’d lord, you know right well you did; And with them, words of so sweet breath compos’d As made the things more rich: their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord.

HAMLET: Ha, ha! are you honest? OPHELIA: My lord? HAMLET: Are you fair? OPHELIA: What means your lordship? HAMLET: That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no

discourse to your beauty. OPHELIA: Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with

honesty? HAMLET: Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform

honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.

OPHELIA: Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so. HAMLET: You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inocu-

late our old stock but we shall relish of it: I loved you not. OPHELIA: I was the more deceived. HAMLET: Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a breeder of sin-

ners? I am myself indifferent7 honest; but yet I could accuse me of

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such things that it were better my mother had not borne me: I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between heaven and earth? We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father?

OPHELIA: At home, my lord. HAMLET: Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool

nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell. OPHELIA: O, help him, you sweet heavens! HAMLET: If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry,—

be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell.

OPHELIA: O heavenly powers, restore him! HAMLET: I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God has

given you one face and you make yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages: those that are mar- ried already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go. [Exit.]

OPHELIA: O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s eye, tongue, sword: The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observ’d of all observers,—quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched That suck’d the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh; That unmatch’d form and feature of blown8 youth Blasted with ecstasy: O, woe is me, To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

Re-enter King and Polonius.

KING: Love! his affections do not that way tend; Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little, Was not like madness. There’s something in his soul

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O’er which his melancholy sits on brood; And I do doubt9 the hatch and the disclose Will be some danger: which for to prevent, I have in quick determination Thus set it down:—he shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected tribute: Haply, the seas and countries different, With variable objects, shall expel This something-settled matter in his heart; Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus From fashion of himself. What think you on’t?

POLONIUS: It shall do well: but yet do I believe The origin and commencement of his grief Sprung from neglected love.—How now, Ophelia! You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said; We heard it all.—My lord, do as you please; But if you hold it �t, after the play, Let his queen mother all alone entreat him To show his grief: let her be round with him; And I’ll be plac’d, so please you, in the ear Of all their conference. If she �nds him not,10

To England send him; or con�ne him where Your wisdom best shall think.

KING: It shall be so: Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go.

Exeunt.

SCENE 2

A hall in the castle.

Enter Hamlet and certain Players.

HAMLET: Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trip- pingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smooth- ness. O, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwigpated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing

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but inexplicable dumb shows and noise: I could have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant;1 it out-herods Herod:2 pray you, avoid it.

1ST PLAYER: I warrant your honor. HAMLET: Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your

tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature: for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the �rst and now, was and is, to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now, this overdone or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must, in your allowance, o’erweigh a whole theater of others. O, there be players that I have seen play,—and heard others praise, and that highly,—not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature’s journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

1ST PLAYER: I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us, sir. HAMLET: O, reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns

speak no more than is set down for them: for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too; though, in the meantime, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered: that’s villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make you ready.

Exeunt Players.

Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.

How now, my lord! will the king hear this piece of work? POLONIUS: And the queen, too, and that presently. HAMLET: Bid the players make haste.

Exit Polonius.

Will you two help to hasten them? ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN: We will, my lord. [Exeunt.] HAMLET: What, ho, Horatio!

Enter Horatio.

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1Termagant: A violent pagan deity, supposedly Mohammedan.Termagant: A violent pagan deity, supposedly Mohammedan.Termagant: 2out-herods Herod: Outrants the out-herods Herod: Outrants the out-herods Herod: ranting Herod, who figures in medieval drama.

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HORATIO: Here, sweet lord, at your service. HAMLET: Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man

As e’er my conversation cop’d withal. HORATIO: O, my dear lord,— HAMLET: Nay, do not think I �atter;

For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revénue hast, but thy good spirits, To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be �atter’d? No, let the candied tongue lick ábsurd pomp; And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal’d thee for herself: for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing; A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards Hast ta’en with equal thanks: and bless’d are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s �nger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee.—Something too much of this.— There is a play to-night before the king; One scene of it comes near the circumstance Which I have told thee of my father’s death: I pr’ythee, when thou see’st that act a-foot, Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe mine uncle: if this his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen; And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan’s stithy.3 Give him heedful note: For I mine eyes will rivet to his face; And, after, we will both our judgments join In censure of his seeming.

HORATIO: Well, my lord: If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing, And scape detecting, I will pay the theft.

HAMLET: They are coming to the play; I must be idle:4

Get you a place.

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3stithy: Smithy.stithy: Smithy.stithy: 4idle: Foolish.idle: Foolish.idle:

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Danish march. A �ourish. Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosen- crantz, Guildenstern, and others.

KING: How fares our cousin Hamlet? HAMLET: Excellent, i’faith; of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air,5

promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so. KING: I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine. HAMLET: No, nor mine now. [To Polonius] My lord, you played once i’

the university, you say? POLONIUS: That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor. HAMLET: And what did you enact? POLONIUS: I did enact Julius Caesar: I was killed i’ the Capitol; Brutus

killed me. HAMLET: It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there.—Be

the players ready. ROSENCRANTZ: Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience. QUEEN: Come hither, my good Hamlet, sit by me. HAMLET: No, good mother, here’s metal more attractive. POLONIUS: O, ho! do you mark that? [To the King]To the King]To the King HAMLET: Lady, shall I lie in your lap? [Lying down at Ophelia’s feet] OPHELIA: No, my lord. HAMLET: I mean, my head upon your lap? OPHELIA: Ay, my lord. HAMLET: Do you think I meant country matters? OPHELIA: I think nothing, my lord. HAMLET: That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs. OPHELIA: What is, my lord? HAMLET: Nothing. OPHELIA: You are merry, my lord. HAMLET: Who, I? OPHELIA: Ay, my lord. HAMLET: O, your only jig-maker. What should a man do but be merry?

for, look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within’s two hours.

OPHELIA: Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord. HAMLET: So long? Nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit

of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year: but, by’r lady, he must build churches, then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is, For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot.

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Trumpets sound. The dumb show enters.

Enter a King and a Queen, very lovingly; the Queen embracing him and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck: lays him down upon a bank of �owers: she, see- ing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, and pours poison in the King’s ears, and exit. The Queen returns; �nds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner, with some two or three Mutes, comes in again, seeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried away. The Poisoner woos the Queen with gifts: she seems loth and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts his love.

Exeunt.

OPHELIA: What means this, my lord? HAMLET: Marry, this is miching mallecho;6 it means mischief. OPHELIA: Belike this show imports the argument of the play.

Enter Prologue.

HAMLET: We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they’ll tell all.

OPHELIA: Will he tell us what this show meant? HAMLET: Ay, or any show that you’ll show him: be not you ashamed to

show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means. OPHELIA: You are naught, you are naught: I’ll mark the play. PROLOGUE:

For us, and for our tragedy, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing patiently.

HAMLET: Is this a prologue, or the posy7 of a ring? OPHELIA: ’Tis brief, my lord. HAMLET: As woman’s love.

Enter a King and a Queen.

PROLOGUE KING: Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart gone round Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground,8

And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen About the world have times twelve thirties been, Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands Unite commutual in most sacred bands.

PROLOGUE QUEEN: So many journeys may the sun and moon Make us again count o’er ere love be done!

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But, woe is me, you are so sick of late, So far from cheer and from your former state That I distrust you.9 Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must: For women’s fear and love holds quantity,10

In neither aught, or in extremity. Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know; And as my love is siz’d, my fear is so: Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.

PROLOGUE KING: Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too; My operant powers their functions leave11 to do: And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, Honor’d, belov’d; and haply one as kind For husband shalt thou,—

PROLOGUE QUEEN: O, confound the rest! Such love must needs be treason in my breast: In second husband let me be accurst! None wed the second but who kill’d the �rst.

HAMLET: [Aside] Wormwood, wormwood. PROLOGUE QUEEN: The instances that second marriage move

Are base respects of thrift, but none of love: A second time I kill my husband, dead, When second husband kisses me in bed.

PROLOGUE KING: I do believe you think what now you speak; But what we do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory; Of violent birth, but poor validity: Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree; But fall unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary ’tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt: What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy: Where joy most revels grief doth most lament; Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. This world is not for aye; nor ’tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change; For ’tis a question left us yet to prove

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Whether love lead fortune or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favorite �ies; The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies. And hitherto doth love on fortune tend: For who not needs shall never lack a friend; And who in want a hollow friend doth try, Directly seasons him his enemy. But, orderly to end where I begun,— Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own: So think thou wilt no second husband wed; But die thy thoughts when thy �rst lord is dead.

PROLOGUE QUEEN: Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light! Sport and repose lock from me day and night! To desperation turn my trust and hope! An anchor’s12 cheer in prison be my scope! Each opposite, that blanks the face of joy, Meet what I would have well, and it destroy! Both here and hence, pursue me lasting strife, If, once a widow, ever I be wife!

HAMLET: If she should break it now! [To Ophelia] PROLOGUE KING: ’Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile;

My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. [Sleeps]

PROLOGUE QUEEN: Sleep rock thy brain, And never come mischance between us twain! [Exit.]

HAMLET: Madam, how like you this play? QUEEN: The lady doth protest too much, methinks. HAMLET: O, but she’ll keep her word. KING: Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in’t? HAMLET: No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’ the world. KING: What do you call the play? HAMLET: The Mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically.13 This play is the

image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the duke’s name: his wife, Baptista: you shall see anon; ’tis a knavish piece of work: but what o’ that? your majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not: let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung.

Enter Lucianus.

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12anchor’s: Anchorite’s, or hermit’s.anchor’s: Anchorite’s, or hermit’s.anchor’s: 13Tropically: Figuratively, or metaphorically; by means of a “trope.”Tropically: Figuratively, or metaphorically; by means of a “trope.”Tropically:

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This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king. OPHELIA: You are a good chorus, my lord. HAMLET: I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the

puppets dallying. OPHELIA: You are keen, my lord, you are keen. HAMLET: It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge. OPHELIA: Still better, and worse. HAMLET: So you must take your husbands.—Begin, murderer; pox,

leave thy damnable faces and begin. Come:—The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.

LUCIANUS: Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs �t, and time agreeing; Confederate season, else no creature seeing; Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate’s ban14 thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property On wholesome life usurp immediately.

Pours the poison into the sleeper’s ears.

HAMLET: He poisons him i’ the garden for’s estate. His name’s Gonzago: the story is extant, and writ in choice Italian: you shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife.

OPHELIA: The king rises. HAMLET: What, frighted with false �re! QUEEN: How fares my lord? POLONIUS: Give o’er the play. KING: Give me some light:—away! ALL: Lights, lights, lights!

Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio.

HAMLET: Why, let the stricken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep: So runs the world away.—

Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me, with two Provencial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry15 of players, sir?

HORATIO: Half a share. HAMLET: A whole one, I.

For thou dost know, O Damon dear, This realm dismantled was

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14Hecate’s ban: The spell of the goddess of witchcraft.Hecate’s ban: The spell of the goddess of witchcraft.Hecate’s ban: 15cry: Company.cry: Company.cry:

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Of Jove himself; and now reigns here A very, very—pajock.16

HORATIO: You might have rhymed. HAMLET: O good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand

pound. Didst perceive? HORATIO: Very well, my lord. HAMLET: Upon the talk of the poisoning,— HORATIO: I did very well note him. HAMLET: Ah, ha!—Come, some music! come, the recorders!—

For if the king like not the comedy, Why, then, belike,—he likes it not, perdy.

Come, some music!

Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

GUILDENSTERN: Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. HAMLET: Sir, a whole history. GUILDENSTERN: The king, sir,— HAMLET: Ay, sir, what of him? GUILDENSTERN: Is, in his retirement, marvelous distempered. HAMLET: With drink, sir? GUILDENSTERN: No, my lord, rather with choler. HAMLET: Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to

his doctor; for, for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler.

GUILDENSTERN: Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair.

HAMLET: I am tame, sir:—pronounce. GUILDENSTERN: The queen, your mother, in most great af�iction of

spirit, hath sent me to you. HAMLET: You are welcome. GUILDENSTERN: Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right

breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do you mother’s commandment: if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business.

HAMLET: Sir, I cannot. GUILDENSTERN: What, my lord? HAMLET: Make you a wholesome answer; my wit’s diseas’d: but, sir, such

answer as I can make, you shall command; or, rather, as you say, my mother: therefore no more, but to the matter: my mother, you say,—

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ROSENCRANTZ: Then thus she says: your behavior hath struck her into amazement and admiration.

HAMLET: O wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother!—But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration?

ROSENCRANTZ: She desires to speak with you in her closet17 ere you go to bed.

HAMLET: We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?

ROSENCRANTZ: My lord, you once did love me. HAMLET: So I do still, by these pickers and stealers.18

ROSENCRANTZ: Good, my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do, surely, bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend.

HAMLET: Sir, I lack advancement. ROSENCRANTZ: How can that be, when you have the voice of the king

himself for your succession in Denmark? HAMLET: Ay, but While the grass grows,—the proverb is something musty.

Re-enter the Players, with recorders.

O, the recorders:—let me see one.—To withdraw with you:—why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?

GUILDENSTERN: O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.

HAMLET: I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe? GUILDENSTERN: My lord, I cannot. HAMLET: I pray you. GUILDENSTERN: Believe me, I cannot. HAMLET: I do beseech you. GUILDENSTERN: I know no touch of it, my lord. HAMLET: ’Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages19 with your �nger

and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.

GUILDENSTERN: But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I have not the skill.

HAMLET: Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood, do you think that I am easier to be played on than a pipe?

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17closet: Boudoir.closet: Boudoir.closet: 18pickers and stealers: Fingers.pickers and stealers: Fingers.pickers and stealers: 19ventages: Holes.ventages: Holes.ventages:

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Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me you can- not play upon me.

Enter Polonius.

God bless you, sir! POLONIUS: My lord, the queen would speak with you, and presently. HAMLET: Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? POLONIUS: By the mass, and ’tis like a camel indeed. HAMLET: Methinks it is like a weasel. POLONIUS: It is backed like a weasel. HAMLET: Or like a whale? POLONIUS: Very like a whale. HAMLET: Then will I come to my mother by and by.—They fool me to

the top of my bent.—I will come by and by. POLONIUS: I will say so. HAMLET: By and by is easily said.

Exit Polonius.

Leave me, friends.

Exeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Horatio, and Players.

’Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother.— O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero20 enter this �rm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural: I will speak daggers to her, but use none; My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites,— How in my words soever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent! [Exit.]

SCENE 3

A room in the castle.

Enter King, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.

KING: I like him not; nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you; I your commission with forthwith despatch,

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And he to England shall along with you: The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so dangerous as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies.

GUILDENSTERN: We will ourselves provide: Most holy and religious fear it is To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your majesty.

ROSENCRANTZ: The single and peculiar life is bound, With all the strength and armor of the mind, To keep itself from ’noyance; but much more That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest The lives of many. The cease of majesty Dies not alone; but like a gulf doth draw What’s near it with it: it is a massy wheel, Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which, when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.

KING: Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; For we will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed.

ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN: We will haste us.

Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Enter Polonius.

POLONIUS: My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet: Behind the arras I’ll convey myself To hear the process; I’ll warrant she’ll tax him home:1

And, as you said, and wisely was it said, ’Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege: I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know.

KING: Thanks, dear my lord.

Exit Polonius.

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1tax him home: Reprove him properly.tax him home: Reprove him properly.tax him home:

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O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,— A brother’s murder!—Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall �rst begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood,— Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And what’s in prayer but this twofold force,— To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder?— That cannot be; since I am still possess’d Of those effects for which I did the murder,— My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardon’d and retain the offence?2

In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice; And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law: but ’tis not so above; There is no shuf�ing,—there the action lies In his true nature; and we ourselves compell’d, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? what rests?3

Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it when one can not repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed4 soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engag’d! Help, angels! make assay: Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! All may be well. [Retires and kneels]

Enter Hamlet.

HAMLET: Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; And now I’ll do’t—and so he goes to heaven;

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2retain the offence: Retain the gains won by the offense.retain the offence: Retain the gains won by the offense.retain the offence: 3rests: Remains.rests: Remains.rests: 4limed: Snared.limed: Snared.limed:

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And so am I reveng’d:—that would be scann’d: A villain kills my father; and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. He took my father grossly, full of bread; With all his crimes broad blown, as �ush as May; And how his audit stands who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought ’Tis heavy with him: and am I, then, reveng’d, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is �t and season’d for his passage? No. Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent:5

When he is drunk, asleep, or in his rage; Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed; At gaming, swearing; or about some act That has no relish of salvation in’t;— Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven; And that his soul may be as damn’d and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays: This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. [Exit.]

The King rises and advances.

KING: My words �y up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go. [Exit.]

SCENE 4

Another room in the castle.

Enter Queen and Polonius.

POLONIUS: He will come straight. Look you lay home to him: Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with, And that your grace hath screen’d and stood between Much heat and him. I’ll silence me e’en here. Pray you, be round with him.

HAMLET: [Within] Mother, mother, mother! QUEEN: I’ll warrant you:

Fear me not:—withdraw, I hear him coming.

Polonius goes behind the arras.

Enter Hamlet.

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HAMLET: Now, mother, what’s the matter? QUEEN: Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. HAMLET: Mother, you have my father much offended. QUEEN: Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue. HAMLET: Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. QUEEN: Why, how now, Hamlet! HAMLET: What’s the matter now? QUEEN: Have you forgot me? HAMLET: No, by the rood, not so:

You are the queen, your husband’s brother’s wife; And,—would it were not so!—you are my mother.

QUEEN: Nay, then, I’ll set those to you that can speak. HAMLET: Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge;

You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you.

QUEEN: What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me?— Help, help, ho!

POLONIUS: [Behind] What, ho! help, help, help! HAMLET: How now! a rat?

[Draws.] Dead, for a ducat, dead! [Makes a pass through the arras]

POLONIUS: [Behind] O, I am slain! [Falls and dies.] QUEEN: O me, what hast thou done? HAMLET: Nay, I know not:

Is it the king? [Draws forth Polonius] QUEEN: O, what a rash and bloody deed is this! HAMLET: A bloody deed!—almost as bad, good mother,

As kill a king and marry with his brother. QUEEN: As kill a king! HAMLET: Ay, lady, ’twas my word.—

Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! [To Polonius] I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune; Thou �nd’st to be too busy is some danger.— Leave wringing of your hands: peace; sit you down, And let me wring your heart: for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff; If damned custom have not braz’d it so That it is proof and bulwark against sense.

QUEEN: What have I done, that thou dar’st wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me?

HAMLET: Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose

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From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there; makes marriage-vows As false as dicers’ oaths: O, such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words: heaven’s face doth glow; Yea, this solidity and compound mass, With tristful1 visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act.

QUEEN: Ah me, what act, That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?

HAMLET: Look here upon this picture and on this,— The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; A combination and a form, indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man: This was your husband.—Look you now, what follows: Here is your husband, like a mildew’d ear Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love; for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble, And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have, Else could you not have motion: but sure that sense Is apoplex’d: for madness would not err; Nor sense to ecstasy was ne’er so thrill’d But it reserv’d some quantity of choice To serve in such a difference. What devil was’t That thus hath cozen’d you at hoodman-blind?2

Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, Ears without hand or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope. O shame! where is thy blush! Rebellious hell,

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1tristful: Gloomy.tristful: Gloomy.tristful: 2cozen’d . . . hoodman-blind: Tricked you at blindman’s buff.cozen’d . . . hoodman-blind: Tricked you at blindman’s buff.cozen’d . . . hoodman-blind:

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If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones, To �aming youth let virtue be as wax, And melt in her own �re: proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardor gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn, And reason panders3 will.

QUEEN: O Hamlet, speak no more: Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul; And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct.4

HAMLET: Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty,—

QUEEN: O, speak to me no more; These words like daggers enter in mine ears; No more, sweet Hamlet.

HAMLET: A murderer and a villain; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;5

A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, And put it in his pocket!

QUEEN: No more. HAMLET: A king of shreds and patches,—

Enter Ghost.

Save me, and hover o’er me with your wings, You heavenly guards!—What would your gracious �gure?

QUEEN: Alas, he’s mad! HAMLET: Do you not come your tardy son to chide,

That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of your dread command? O, say!

GHOST: Do not forget: this visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But, look, amazement on thy mother sits: O, step between her and her �ghting soul,— Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works,— Speak to her, Hamlet.

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3panders: Becomes subservient to.panders: Becomes subservient to.panders: 4As will not . . . tinct: As will not yield up their color.As will not . . . tinct: As will not yield up their color.As will not . . . tinct: 5a vice of kings: A buffoon among kings; the character “Vice” in morality plays.a vice of kings: A buffoon among kings; the character “Vice” in morality plays.a vice of kings:

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HAMLET: How is it with you, lady? QUEEN: Alas, how is’t with you,

That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep; And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, Your bedded hair, like life in excrements,6

Starts up and stands on end. O gentle son, Upon the heat and �ame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?

HAMLET: On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares! His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones, Would make them capable.—Do not look upon me; Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects: then what I have to do Will want true color; tears perchance for blood.

QUEEN: To whom do you speak this? HAMLET: Do you see nothing there? QUEEN: Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. HAMLET: Nor did you nothing hear? QUEEN: No, nothing but ourselves. HAMLET: Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!

My father, in his habit as he liv’d! Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!

Exit Ghost.

QUEEN: This is the very coinage of your brain: This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in.

HAMLET: Ecstasy! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time. And makes as healthful music: it is not madness That I have utter’d: bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word; which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that �attering unction to your soul, That not your trespass, but my madness speaks: It will but skin and �lm the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to Heaven; Repent what’s past; avoid what is to come;

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6in excrements: In outgrowths or extremities.in excrements: In outgrowths or extremities.in excrements:

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And do not spread the compost on the weeds, To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness7 of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.

QUEEN: O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. HAMLET: O, throw away the worser part of it,

And live the purer with the other half. Good-night: but go not to mine uncle’s bed; Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits devil, is angel yet in this,— That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night; And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence: the next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either curb the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good-night: And when you are desirous to be bless’d, I’ll blessing beg of you.—For this same lord [pointing to PoloniusI’ll blessing beg of you.—For this same lord [pointing to PoloniusI’ll blessing beg of you.—For this same lord [ ] I do repent: but Heaven hath pleas’d it so, To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their8 scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So, again, good-night.— I must be cruel only to be kind: Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.— One word more, good lady.

QUEEN: What shall I do? HAMLET: Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:

Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed; Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse; And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d �ngers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, But mad in craft. ’Twere good you let him know; For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise,

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7fatness: Corruption.fatness: Corruption.fatness: 8their: Heaven’s, or the heavens’.their: Heaven’s, or the heavens’.their:

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Would from a paddock,9 from a bat, a gib,10

Such dear concernings hide? who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, Let the birds �y, and, like the famous ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep, And break your own neck down.

QUEEN: Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath And breath of life, I have not life to breathe What thou hast said to me.

HAMLET: I must to England; you know that? QUEEN: Alack,

I had forgot: ’tis so concluded on. HAMLET: There’s letters seal’d: and my two school-fellows,—

Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d, They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way, And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; For ’tis the sport to have the éngineer Hoist with his own petard: and’t shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines, And blow them at the moon: O, ’tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet.— This man shall set me packing: I’ll lug the guts into the neighbor room.— Mother, good-night.—Indeed, this counsellor Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, Who was in life a foolish prating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you:— Good-night, mother.

Exeunt severally; Hamlet dragging out Polonius.

ACT 4 SCENE 1

A room in the castle.

Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.

KING: There’s matter in these sighs, these prófound heaves: You must translate: ’tis �t we understand them. Where is your son?

QUEEN: Bestow this place on us a little while. [To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who go out]

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Ah, my good lord, what have I seen to-night! KING: What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet? QUEEN: Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend

Which is the mightier: in his lawless �t, Behind the arras hearing something stir, He whips his rapier out, and cries, A rat, a rat! And, in this brainish apprehension,1 kills The unseen good old man.

KING: O heavy deed! It had been so with us had we been there: His liberty is full of threats to all; To you yourself, to us, to every one. Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answer’d? It will be laid to us, whose providence Should have kept short, restrain’d, and out of haunt This mad young man: but so much was our love, We would not understand what was most �t; But, like the owner of a foul disease, To keep it from divulging, let it feed Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone?

QUEEN: To draw apart the body he hath kill’d: O’er whom his very madness, like some ore Among a mineral of metals base, Shows itself pure; he weeps for what is done.

KING: O Gertrude, come away! The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch But we will ship him hence: and this vile deed We must, with all our majesty and skill, Both countenance and excuse.—Ho, Guildenstern!

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Friends both, go join you with some further aid: Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, And from his mother’s closet hath he dragg’d him: Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body Into the chapel. I pray you, haste in this.

Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Come, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends; And let them know both what we mean to do And what’s untimely done: so haply slander,—

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1brainish apprehension: Mad notion.brainish apprehension: Mad notion.brainish apprehension:

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Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter, As level as the cannon to his blank, Transports his poison’d shot,—may amiss our name, And hit the woundless air.—O, come away! My soul is full of discord and dismay.

Exeunt.

SCENE 2

Another room in the castle.

Enter Hamlet.

HAMLET: Safely stowed. ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN: [Within] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet! HAMLET: What noise? who calls on Hamlet?

O, here they come.

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

ROSENCRANTZ: What have you done, my lord, with the dead body? HAMLET: Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin. ROSENCRANTZ: Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence,

And bear it to the chapel. HAMLET: Do not believe it. ROSENCRANTZ: Believe what? HAMLET: That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to

be demanded of a sponge!—what replication should be made by the son of a king?

ROSENCRANTZ: Take you me for a sponge, my lord? HAMLET: Ay, sir; that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards, his

authorities. But such of�cers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; �rst mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

ROSENCRANTZ: I understand you not, my lord. HAMLET: I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear. ROSENCRANTZ: My lord, you must tell us where the body is, and go with

us to the king. HAMLET: The body is with the king, but the king is not with the body.

The king is a thing,— GUILDENSTERN: A thing, my lord! HAMLET: Of nothing: bring me to him.

Hide fox, and all after.

Exeunt.

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Shakespeare: Hamlet Act 4 Scene 3 1115

SCENE 3

Another room in the castle.

Enter King, attended.

KING: I have sent to seek him, and to �nd the body. How dangerous is it that this man goes loose! Yet must not we put the strong law on him: He’s lov’d of the distracted multitude, Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes; And where ’tis so, the offender’s scourge is weigh’d, But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even, This sudden sending him away must seem Deliberate pause: diseases desperate grown By desperate appliance are reliev’d, Or not at all.

Enter Rosencrantz.

How now! what hath befallen! ROSENCRANTZ: Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord,

We cannot get from him. KING: But where is he? ROSENCRANTZ: Without, my lord; guarded, to know your pleasure. KING: Bring him before us. ROSENCRANTZ: Ho, Guildenstern! bring in my lord.

Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern.

KING: Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius? HAMLET: At supper. KING: At supper! where? HAMLET: Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: a certain convo-

cation of politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots: your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service,—two dishes, but to one table: that’s the end.

KING: Alas, alas! HAMLET: A man may �sh with the worm that hath eat of a king, and

eat of the �sh that hath fed of that worm. KING: What does thou mean by this? HAMLET: Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress

through the guts of a beggar. KING: Where is Polonius? HAMLET: In heaven; send thither to see: if your messenger �nd him not

there, seek him i’ the other place yourself. But, indeed, if you �nd

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him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby.

KING: Go seek him there. [To some Attendants] HAMLET: He will stay till ye come.

Exeunt Attendants.

KING: Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,— Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve For that which thou hast done,—must send thee hence With �ery quickness: therefore prepare thyself; The bark is ready, and the wind at help, The associates tend, and everything is bent For England.

HAMLET: For England! KING: Ay, Hamlet. HAMLET: Good. KING: So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes. HAMLET: I see a cherub that sees them.—But, come; for England!—

Farewell, dear mother. KING: Thy loving father, Hamlet. HAMLET: My mother: father and mother is man and wife; man and wife

is one �esh; and so, my mother.—Come, for England! [Exit.] KING: Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed aboard;

Delay it not; I’ll have him hence to-night: Away! for everything is seal’d and done That else leans on the affair, pray you, make haste.

Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

And, England, if my love thou hold’st at aught,— As my great power thereof may give the sense, Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red After the Danish sword, and thy free awe Pays homage to us,—thou mayst not coldly set Our sovereign process; which imports at full, By letters conjuring to that effect, The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England; For like the hectic in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me: till I know ’tis done, Howe’er my haps, my joys will ne’er begin. [Exit.]

SCENE 4

A plain in Denmark.

Enter Fortinbras, and Forces marching.

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FORTINBRAS: Go, from me greet the Danish king: Tell him that, by his license, Fortinbras Craves the conveyance of a promis’d march Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous, If that his majesty would aught with us, We shall express our duty in his eye, And let him know so.

CAPTAIN: I will do’t, my lord. FORTINBRAS: Go softly on.

Exeunt Fortinbras and Forces.

Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, &c.

HAMLET: Good sir, whose powers are these? CAPTAIN: They are of Norway, sir. HAMLET: How purpos’d, sir, I pray you? CAPTAIN: Against some part of Poland. HAMLET: Who commands them, sir? CAPTAIN: The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras. HAMLET: Goes it against the main of Poland, sir,

Or for some frontier? CAPTAIN: Truly to speak, and with no addition,

We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no pro�t but the name. To pay �ve ducats, �ve, I would not farm it; Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole A ranker1 rate should it be sold in fee.

HAMLET: Why, then the Polack never will defend it. CAPTAIN: Yes, it is already garrison’d. HAMLET: Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats

Will not debate the question of this straw: This is the imposthume2 of much wealth and peace, That inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies.—I humbly thank you, sir.

CAPTAIN: God b’ wi’ you, sir. [Exit.] ROSENCRANTZ: Will’t please you go, my lord? HAMLET: I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before.

Exeunt all but Hamlet.

How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge! What is a man,

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If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse,3

Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust4 in us unus’d. Now, whether it be Bestial oblivion or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on the event,— A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward,—I do not know Why yet I live to say, This thing’s to do; Sith5 I have cause, and will, and strength, and means To do’t. Examples, gross as earth, exhort me: Witness this army, of such mass and charge, Led by a delicate and tender prince; Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff’d, Makes mouths at the invisible event; Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to �nd quarrel in a straw When honor’s at the stake. How stand I, then, That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men, That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds; �ght for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent6

To hide the slain?—O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! [Exit.]

SCENE 5

Elsinore. A room in the castle.

Enter Queen and Horatio.

QUEEN: I will not speak with her. HORATIO: She is importunate; indeed, distract:

Her mood will needs be pitied.

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3discourse: Reasoning faculty.discourse: Reasoning faculty.discourse: 4fust: Grow musty.fust: Grow musty.fust: 5Sith: Since.Sith: Since.Sith: 6continent: Container.continent: Container.continent:

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QUEEN: What would she have? HORATIO: She speaks much of her father; says she hears

There’s tricks i’ the world; and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing, Yet the unshapéd use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up �t to their own thoughts; Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. ’Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

QUEEN: Let her come in.

Exit Horatio.

To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss: So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Re-enter Horatio and Ophelia.

OPHELIA: Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark? QUEEN: How now, Ophelia! OPHELIA: [Sings]

How should I your true love know From another one?

By his cockle hat and staff, And his sandal shoon.

QUEEN: Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song? OPHELIA: Say you? nay, pray you, mark.

[Sings]

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass green turf, At his heels a stone.

QUEEN: Nay, but, Ophelia,— OPHELIA: Pray you, mark.

[Sings]

White his shroud as the mountain snow,

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Enter King.

QUEEN: Alas, look here, my lord. OPHELIA: [Sings]

Larded with sweet �owers; Which bewept to the grave did go With true-love showers.

KING: How do you, pretty lady? OPHELIA: Well, God ’ild you!1 They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.

Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!

KING: Conceit upon her father. OPHELIA: Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you

what it means, say you this:

[Sings.]

To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day All in the morning betime,

And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.

Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes, And dupp’d the chamber-door;

Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more.

KING: Pretty Ophelia! OPHELIA: Indeed, la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t;

[Sings]

By Gis2 and by Saint Charity, Alack, and �e for shame!

Young men will do’t, if they come to’t; By cock, they are to blame.

Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promis’d me to wed.

So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed.

KING: How long hath she been thus? OPHELIA: I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot

choose but weep, to think they should lay him i’ the cold ground. My brother shall know of it: and so I thank you; for your good

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1ild you: Yield you—i.e., reward you.ild you: Yield you—i.e., reward you.ild you: 2Gis: A contraction for “by Jesus.”Gis: A contraction for “by Jesus.”Gis:

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counsel.—Come, my coach!—Good-night, ladies; good-night, sweet ladies; good-night, good-night. [Exit.]

KING: Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

Exit Horatio.

O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions! First, her father slain: Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove: the people muddied, Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger3 to inter him: poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgment, Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts: Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France; Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father’s death; Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering piece,4 in many places Gives me super�uous death.

A noise within.

QUEEN: Alack, what noise is this? KING: Where are my Switzers?5 let them guard the door.

Enter a Gentleman.

What is the matter?

GENTLEMAN: Save yourself, my lord: The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the �ats with more impetuous haste Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, O’erbears your of�cers. The rabble call him lord; And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known,

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3in hugger-mugger: In great secrecy and haste.in hugger-mugger: In great secrecy and haste.in hugger-mugger: 4murdering piece: A cannon.murdering piece: A cannon.murdering piece: 5Switzers: Bodyguard Switzers: Bodyguard Switzers: of Swiss mercenaries.

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The rati�ers and props of every word, They cry, Choose we, Laertes shall be king! Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!

QUEEN: How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs!

KING: The doors are broke.

Noise within.

Enter Laertes armed; Danes following.

LAERTES: Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without. DANES: No, let’s come in. LAERTES: I pray you, give me leave. DANES: We will, we will. [They retire without the door.] LAERTES: I thank you:—keep the door.—O thou vile king,

Give me my father! QUEEN: Calmly, good Laertes. LAERTES: That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard;

Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother.

KING: What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?— Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person: There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude:— Speak, man.

LAERTES: Where is my father? KING: Dead. QUEEN: But not by him. KING: Let him demand his �ll. LAERTES: How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with:

To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation:—to this point I stand,— That both the worlds I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d Most thoroughly for my father.

KING: Who shall stay you? LAERTES: My will, not all the world:

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And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, They shall go far with little.

KING: Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, Winner or loser?

LAERTES: None but his enemies. KING: Will you know them, then? LAERTES: To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms;

And, like the kind life-rendering pelican,6

Repast them with my blood. KING: Why, now you speak

Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father’s death, And am most sensible in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgment pierce As day does to your eye.

DANES: [Within] Let her come in. LAERTES: How now! what noise is that?

Re-enter Ophelia, fantastically dressed with straws and �owers.

O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eyes!— By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!— O heavens! is’t possible a young maid’s wits Should be as mortal as an old man’s life! Nature is �ne in love; and where ’tis �ne It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves.

OPHELIA: [Sings]

They bore him barefac’d on the bier; Hey no nonny, nonny, hey nonny;

And on his grave rain’d many a tear,— Fare you well, my dove!

LAERTES: Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus.

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6life-rendering pelican: The mother pelican was believed to draw blood from herself to feed her young.life-rendering pelican: The mother pelican was believed to draw blood from herself to feed her young.life-rendering pelican:

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OPHELIA: You must sing, Down-a-down, and you call him a-down-a. O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master’s daughter.

LAERTES: This nothing’s more than matter. OPHELIA: There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love,

remember: and there is pansies that’s for thoughts. LAERTES: A document in madness,—thoughts and remembrance �tted. OPHELIA: There’s fennel for you, and columbines:—there’s rue for you;

and here’s some for me:—we may call it herb-grace o’ Sundays:— O, you must wear your rue with a difference.—There’s a daisy:—I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died:—they say, he made a good end,—

[Sings]

For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy,—

LAERTES: Thoughts and af�iction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor and to prettiness.

OPHELIA: [Sings]

And will he not come again? And will he not come again?

No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death-bed,

He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow All �axen was his poll:

He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan:

God ha’ mercy on his soul!

And of all Christian souls, I pray God.—God b’ wi’ ye. [Exit.] LAERTES: Do you see this, O God? KING: Laertes, I must commune with your grief,

Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me: If by direct or by collateral hand They �nd us touch’d, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours, To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labor with your soul To give it due content.

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LAERTES: Let this be so; His means of death, his obscure burial,— No trophy, sword, nor hatchment7 o’er his bones No noble rite nor formal ostentation,— Cry to be heard, as ’twere from heaven to earth, That I must call’t in question.

KING: So you shall; And where the offence is, let the great axe fall. I pray you, go with me.

Exeunt.

SCENE 6

Another room in the castle.

Enter Horatio and a Servant.

HORATIO: What are they that would speak with me? SERVANT: Sailors, sir: they say they have letters for you. HORATIO: Let them come in.—

Exit Servant.

I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.

Enter Sailors.

1ST SAILOR: God bless you, sir. HORATIO: Let him bless thee too. 1ST SAILOR: He shall, sir, an’t please him. There’s a letter for you, sir;

it comes from the ambassador that was bound for England; if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is.

HORATIO: [Reads] Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked this, give these fellows some means to the king: they have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valor; and in the grapple I boarded them; on the instant they got clear of our ship; so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy: but they knew what they did; I am to do a good turn for them. Let the king have the letters I have sent; and repair thou to me with as much haste as thou wouldst �y death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and

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7hatchment: A tablet with coat of arms.hatchment: A tablet with coat of arms.hatchment:

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Guildenstern hold their course for England: of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell. He that thou knowest thine.

Hamlet Come, I will give you way for these your letters; And do’t the speedier, that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them.

Exeunt.

SCENE 7

Another room in the castle.

Enter King and Laertes.

KING: Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, That he which hath your noble father slain Pursu’d my life.

LAERTES: It well appears:—but tell me Why you proceeded not against these feats, So crimeful and so capital in nature. As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, You mainly were stirr’d up.

KING: O, for two special reasons; Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d, But yet to me they are strong. The queen his mother Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive, Why to a public count I might not go, Is the great love the general gender bear him; Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, Would, like the spring that turneth wood to stone, Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows, Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, And not where I had aim’d them.

LAERTES: And so have I a noble father lost; A sister driven into desperate terms,— Whose worth, if praises may go back again, Stood challenger on mount of all the age For her perfections:—but my revenge will come.

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KING: Break not your sleeps for that: you must not think That we are made of stuff so �at and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger, And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more: I lov’d your father, and we love ourself; And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine,—

Enter a Messenger.

How now! what news? MESSENGER: Letters, my lord, from Hamlet:

This to your majesty; this to the queen. KING: From Hamlet! Who brought them? MESSENGER: Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not:

They were given me by Claudio,—he receiv’d them Of him that brought them.

KING: Laertes, you shall hear them.—Leave us.

Exit Messenger.

[Reads] High and mighty,—You shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. To-morrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes: when I shall, �rst asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions of my sudden and more strange return.

Hamlet What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse,1 and no such thing?

LAERTES: Know you the hand? KING: ’Tis Hamlet’s character:2—Naked—Naked— ,—

And in a postscript here, he says, alone. Can you advise me?

LAERTES: I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come; It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live, and tell him to his teeth, Thus diddest thou.

KING: If it be so, Laertes,— As how should it be so? how otherwise?— Will you be rul’d by me?

LAERTES: Ay, my lord: So you will not o’errule me to a peace.

KING: To thine own peace. If he be now return’d,— As checking at his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it,—I will work him

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1abuse: Ruse.abuse: Ruse.abuse: 2character: Handwriting.character: Handwriting.character:

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To an exploit, now ripe in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall: And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe; But even his mother shall uncharge the practice And call it accident.

LAERTES: My lord, I will be rul’d; The rather if you could devise it so That I might be the organ.

KING: It falls right. You have been talk’d of since your travel much, And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality Wherein they say you shine: your sum of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one; and that, in my regard, Of the unworthiest siege.

LAERTES: What part is that, my lord? KING: A very riband in the cap of youth,

Yet needful too; for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Than settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and graveness.—Two months since, Here was a gentleman of Normandy,— I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French, And they can well on horseback: but this gallant Had witchcraft in’t; he grew unto his seat; And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, As he had been incorps’d and demi-natur’d3

With the brave beast: so far he topp’d my thought, That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks,4

Come short of what he did. LAERTES: A Norman was’t? KING: A Norman. LAERTES: Upon my life, Lamond. KING: The very same. LAERTES: I know him well: he is the brooch, indeed,

And gem of all the nation. KING: He made confession of you;

And gave you such a masterly report For art and exercise in your defence, And for your rapier most especially,

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3As . . . demi-natur’d: Made as one body and formed into half man, half horse—or centaur.As . . . demi-natur’d: Made as one body and formed into half man, half horse—or centaur.As . . . demi-natur’d: 4in forgery . . . tricks: In imagining tricks of horsemanship.in forgery . . . tricks: In imagining tricks of horsemanship.in forgery . . . tricks:

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That he cried out, ’twould be a sight indeed If one could match you: the scrimers5 of their nation, He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye, If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy, That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o’er, to play with him. Now, out of this,—

LAERTES: What out of this, my lord? KING: Laertes, was your father dear to you?

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart?

LAERTES: Why ask you this? KING: Not that I think you did not love your father;

But that I know love is begun by time; And that I see, in passages of proof,6

Time quali�es the spark and �re of it. There lives within the very �ame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still; For goodness, growing to a pleurisy,7

Dies in his own too much: that we would do We should do when we would; for this would changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, or hands, or accidents; And then this should is like a spendthrift sigh That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’ the ulcer: Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake To show yourself your father’s son in deed More than in words?

LAERTES: To cut his throat i’ the church. KING: No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize;

Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes, Will you do this, keep close within your chamber. Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home: We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence, And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you; bring you, in �ne, together, And wager on yours heads: he, being remiss,8

Most generous, and free from all contriving,

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5scrimers: Fencers.scrimers: Fencers.scrimers: 6passages of proof: The evidence of experience.passages of proof: The evidence of experience.passages of proof: 7pleurisy: Plethora, an pleurisy: Plethora, an pleurisy: excess of blood. 8remiss: Unguarded and free from suspicion.remiss: Unguarded and free from suspicion.remiss:

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Will not peruse the foils; so that, with ease, Or with a little shuf�ing, you may choose A sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice, Requite him for your father.

LAERTES: I will do’t it: And, for that purpose, I’ll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare,9

Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death That is but scratch’d withal: I’ll touch my point With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly, It may be death.

KING: Let’s further think of this; Weigh what convenience both of time and means May �t us to our shape: if this should fail, And that our drift look through our bad performance, ’Twere better not assay’d: therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold If this should blast in proof. Soft! let me see:— We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,— I ha’t: When in your motion you are hot and dry,— As make your bouts more violent to that end,— And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him A chalice for the nonce;10 whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck Our purpose may hold there.

Enter Queen.

How now, sweet queen! QUEEN: One woe doth tread upon another’s heel,

So fast they follow:—your sister’s drown’d, Laertes. LAERTES: Drown’d! O, where? QUEEN: There is a willow grows aslant a brook,

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow�owers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,

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9no cataplasm so rare: No poultice, however remarkably efficacious.no cataplasm so rare: No poultice, however remarkably efficacious.no cataplasm so rare: 10nonce: Purpose.nonce: Purpose.nonce:

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But our cold maids do dead men’s �ngers call them. There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious11 sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up: Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes; As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indu’d Unto that element: but long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.

LAERTES: Alas, then, she is drown’d? QUEEN: Drown’d, drown’d. LAERTES: Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,

And therefore I forbid my tears: but yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman will be out.12—Adieu, my lord: I have a speech of �re, that fain would blaze, But that this folly douts it.13 [Exit.]

KING: Let’s follow, Gertrude; How much I had to do to calm his rage! Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let’s follow.

Exeunt.

ACT 5 SCENE 1

A churchyard.

Enter two Clowns1 with spades, &c.

1ST CLOWN: Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?

2ND CLOWN: I tell thee she is; and therefore make her grave straight: the crowner2 hath sat on her, and �nds it Christian burial.

1ST CLOWN: How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?

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11envious: Malicious.envious: Malicious.envious: 12The woman . . . out: I.e., “I shall be ruthless.”The woman . . . out: I.e., “I shall be ruthless.”The woman . . . out: 13douts it: Drowns it.douts it: Drowns it.douts it: 1Clowns: Rustic fellows.Clowns: Rustic fellows.Clowns: 2crowner: Coroner.crowner: Coroner.crowner:

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2ND CLOWN: Why, ’tis found so. 1ST CLOWN: It must be se offendendo,3 it cannot be else. For here lies

the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches; it is to act, to do, and to perform: argal,4 she drowned herself wittingly.

2ND CLOWN: Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,— 1ST CLOWN: Give me leave. Here lies the water; good: here stands the

man; good: if the man go to this water and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he goes,—mark you that: but if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself: argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

2ND CLOWN: But is this law? 1ST CLOWN: Ay, marry, is’t; crowner’s quest law. 2ND CLOWN: Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentle-

woman she should have been buried out of Christian burial. 1ST CLOWN: Why, there thou say’st: and the more pity that great folks

should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christian.5—Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam’s profession.

2ND CLOWN: Was he a gentleman? 1ST CLOWN: He was the �rst that ever bore arms. 2ND CLOWN: Why, he had none. 1ST CLOWN: What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scrip-

ture? The Scripture says, Adam digged: could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee: if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself,6—

2ND CLOWN: Go to. 1ST CLOWN: What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the

shipwright, or the carpenter? 2ND CLOWN: The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand

tenants. 1ST CLOWN: I like thy wit well, in good faith: the gallows does well; but

how does it well? it does well to those that do ill: now thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church: argal, the gal- lows may do well to thee. To’t again, come.

2ND CLOWN: Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?

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3se offendendo: In self-offense; he means se defendendo, in self-defense. 4argal: He means ergo, therefore. 5even-Christian: Fellow Christian.even-Christian: Fellow Christian.even-Christian: 6confess thyself: “Confess thyself an ass,” confess thyself: “Confess thyself an ass,” confess thyself: perhaps.

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1ST CLOWN: Ay, tell me that, and unyoke. 2ND CLOWN: Marry, now I can tell. 1ST CLOWN: To’t. 2ND CLOWN: Mass, I cannot tell.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a distance.

1ST CLOWN: Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and when you are asked this ques- tion next, say a grave-maker; the houses that he makes last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan: fetch me a stoup of liquor.

Exit Second Clown.

Digs and sings.

In youth, when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet,

To contract, O, the time, for, ah, my behove,7

O, methought there was nothing meet.

HAMLET: Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?

HORATIO: Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness. HAMLET: ’Tis e’en so: the hand of little employment hath the daintier

sense. 1ST CLOWN: [Sings]

But age, with his stealing steps, Hath claw’d me in his clutch,

And hath shipp’d me intil the land, As if I had never been such.

Throws up a skull.

HAMLET: That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave joels8 it to the ground, as if it were Cain’s jawbone, that did the �rst murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o’erreaches; one that would circumvent God, might it not?

HORATIO: It might, my lord. HAMLET: Or of a courtier; which could say, Good-morrow, sweet lord!

How dost thou, good lord? This might be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord such-a-one’s horse, when he meant to beg it,— might it not?

HORATIO: Ay, my lord.

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7behove: Behoof, or advantage.behove: Behoof, or advantage.behove: 8joels:8joels:8 Throws.joels: Throws.joels:

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HAMLET: Why, e’en so: and now my Lady Worm’s; chapless,9 and knocked about the mazard10 with a sexton’s spade: here’s �ne revo- lution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggats11 with ’em? Mine ache to think on’t.

1ST CLOWN: [Sings]

A pick-axe and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding sheet:

O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.

Throws up another.

HAMLET: There’s another: why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits12 now, his quillets,13 his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in’s time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his �nes, his double vouchers, his recoveries: is this the �ne of his �nes, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his �ne pate full of �ne dirt? will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will hardly lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha?

HORATIO: Not a jot more, my lord. HAMLET: Is not parchment made of sheep-skins? HORATIO: Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too. HAMLET: They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I

will speak to this fellow.—Whose grave’s this, sir? 1ST CLOWN: Mine, sir.—[Sings]

O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.

HAMLET: I think it be thine indeed; for thou liest in’t. 1ST CLOWN: You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore it is not yours: for my

part, I do not lie in’t, and yet it is mine. HAMLET: Thou dost lie in’t, to be in’t, and say it is thine: ’tis for the

dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest. 1ST CLOWN: ’Tis a quick lie, sir: ’twill away again from me to you.

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9chapless: Without a lower jaw.chapless: Without a lower jaw.chapless: 10mazard: Head.mazard: Head.mazard: 11loggats: A game in which small pieces loggats: A game in which small pieces loggats: of wood are hurled at a stake. 12quiddits: Quiddities, “whatnesses”—that is, hair-splittings.quiddits: Quiddities, “whatnesses”—that is, hair-splittings.quiddits: 13quillets: Quibbling distinctions.quillets: Quibbling distinctions.quillets:

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HAMLET: What man dost thou dig it for? 1ST CLOWN: For no man, sir. HAMLET: What woman, then? 1ST CLOWN: For none, neither. HAMLET: Who is to be buried in’t? 1ST CLOWN: One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead. HAMLET: How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or

equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it; the age is grown so picked14 that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe.15—How long hast thou been a grave-maker?

1ST CLOWN: Of all the days i’ the year, I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet o’ercame Fortinbras.

HAMLET: How long is that since? 1ST CLOWN: Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: it was the

very day that young Hamlet was born,—he that is mad, and sent into England.

HAMLET: Ay, marry, why was he sent into England? 1ST CLOWN: Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there;

or, if he do not, it’s no great matter there. HAMLET: Why? 1ST CLOWN: ’Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad

as he. HAMLET: How came he mad? 1ST CLOWN: Very strangely, they say. HAMLET: How strangely? 1ST CLOWN: Faith, e’en with losing his wits. HAMLET: Upon what ground? 1ST CLOWN: Why, here in Denmark: I have been sexton here, man and

boy, thirty years. HAMLET: How long will a man lie i’ the earth ere he rot? 1ST CLOWN: Faith, if he be not rotten before he die,—as we have many

pocky corses now-a-days, that will scarce hold the laying in,—he will last you some eight year or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.

HAMLET: Why he more than another? 1ST CLOWN: Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade that he will

keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now; this skull has lain in the earth three-and-twenty years.

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14picked: Refined or educated.picked: Refined or educated.picked: 15galls his kibe: Rubs and irritates the chilblain sore on the galls his kibe: Rubs and irritates the chilblain sore on the galls his kibe: courtier’s heel.

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HAMLET: Whose was it? 1ST CLOWN: A whoreson mad fellow’s it was: whose do you think it was? HAMLET: Nay, I know not. 1ST CLOWN: A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! ’a poured a �agon of

Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the king’s jester.

HAMLET: This? 1ST CLOWN: E’en that. HAMLET: Let me see. [Takes the skull]—Alas, poor Yorick!—I knew him,

Horatio; a fellow of in�nite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your �ashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favor16 she must come; make her laugh at that.—Pr’ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

HORATIO: What’s that, my lord? HAMLET: Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ the earth? HORATIO: E’en so. HAMLET: And smelt so? pah! [Throws down the skull] HORATIO: E’en so, my lord. HAMLET: To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not

imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he �nd it stop- ping a bung-hole?

HORATIO: ’Twere to consider too curiously to consider so. HAMLET: No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty

enough, and likelihood to lead it: as thus; Alexander died, Alex- ander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam whereto he was con- verted might they not stop a beer-barrel?

Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:

O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall to expel the winter’s �aw!—

But soft! but soft! aside.—Here comes the king.

Enter Priests, &c., in procession; the corpse of Ophelia, Laertes and Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, &c.

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16favor: Face.favor: Face.favor:

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The queen, the courtiers: who is that they follow? And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken The corpse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo its own life: ’twas of some estate. Couch we awhile and mark. [Retiring with Horatio]

LAERTES: What ceremony else? HAMLET: That is Laertes,

A very noble youth: mark. LAERTES: What ceremony else? 1ST PRIEST: Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d

As we have warrantise: her death was doubtful, And, but that great command o’ersways the order, She should in ground unsancti�ed have lodg’d Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers, Shards, �ints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her, Yet here she is allowed her virgin rites, Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial.

LAERTES: Must there no more be done? 1ST PRIEST: No more be done:

We should profane the service of the dead To sing a requiem, and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.

LAERTES: Lay her i’ the earth;— And from her fair and unpolluted �esh May violets spring!—I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be When thou liest howling.

HAMLET: What, the fair Ophelia! QUEEN: Sweets to the sweet: farewell! [Scattering �owers]

I hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid, And not have strew’d thy grave.

LAERTES: O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Depriv’d thee of!—Hold off the earth awhile, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms:

Leaps into the grave.

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, Till of this �at a mountain you have made,

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To o’er-top old Pelion17 or the skyish head Of blue Olympus.

HAMLET: [Advancing] What is he whose griefAdvancing] What is he whose griefAdvancing Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? this is I, Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps into the grave]

LAERTES: The devil take thy soul! [Grappling with him] HAMLET: Thou pray’st not well.

I pr’ythee, take thy �ngers from my throat; For, though I am not splenitive and rash, Yet have I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wiseness fear: away thy hand.

KING: Pluck them asunder. QUEEN: Hamlet! Hamlet! ALL: Gentlemen,— HORATIO: Good my lord, be quiet.

The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.

HAMLET: Why, I will �ght with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

QUEEN: O my son, what theme? HAMLET: I lov’d Ophelia; forty thousand brothers

Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum.—What wilt thou do for her?

KING: O, he is mad, Laertes. QUEEN: For love of God, forbear him. HAMLET: ’Swounds, show me what thou’lt do:

Woul’t weep? woul’t �ght? woul’t fast? woul’t tear thyself? Woul’t drink up eisel?18 eat a crocodile? I’ll do’t.—Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick19 with her, and so will I: And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone,20

Make Ossa21 like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth, I’ll rant as well as thou.

QUEEN: This is mere madness: And thus awhile the �t will work on him;

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17Pelion: A mountain in Greece.Pelion: A mountain in Greece.Pelion: 18eisel: Vinegar.eisel: Vinegar.eisel: 19quick: Alive.quick: Alive.quick: 20burning zone: The fiery zone burning zone: The fiery zone burning zone: of the celestial sphere. 21Ossa: A high mountain in Greece.Ossa: A high mountain in Greece.Ossa:

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Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclos’d,22

His silence will sit drooping. HAMLET: Hear you, sir;

What is the reason that you use me thus? I lov’d you ever: but it is no matter; Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day. [Exit.]

KING: I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.—

Exit Horatio.

[To Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech; We’ll put the matter to the present push.— Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.— This grave shall have a living monument: An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till then, in patience our proceeding be.

Exeunt.

SCENE 2

A hall in the castle.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio.

HAMLET: So much for this, sir: now let me see the other; You do remember all the circumstance?

HORATIO: Remember it, my lord! HAMLET: Sir, in my heart there was a kind of �ghting

That would not let me sleep: methought I lay Worse than the mutines in the bilboes.1 Rashly, And prais’d be rashness for it,—let us know, Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, When our deep plots do fail: and that should teach us There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

HORATIO: This is most certain. HAMLET: Up from my cabin,

My sea-gown scarf’d about me, in the dark Grop’d I to �nd out them: had my desire; Finger’d their packet; and, in �ne, withdrew

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22When . . . are disclos’d: When the golden twins are hatched.When . . . are disclos’d: When the golden twins are hatched.When . . . are disclos’d: 1mutines . . . bilboes: Mutineers in mutines . . . bilboes: Mutineers in mutines . . . bilboes: the iron stocks on board ship.

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To mine own room again: making so bold, My fears forgetting manners, to unseal Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio, O royal knavery! an exact command,— Larded with many several sorts of reasons, Importing Denmark’s health and England’s too, With, ho! such bugs2 and goblins in my life,— That, on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, My head should be struck off.

HORATIO: Is’t possible? HAMLET: Here’s the commission: read it at more leisure.

But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed? HORATIO: I beseech you. HAMLET: Being thus benetted round with villainies,—

Ere I could make a prologue to my brains, They had begun the play,—I sat me down; Devis’d a new commission; wrote it fair: I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair, and labor’d much How to forget that learning; but, sir, now It did me yeoman’s service. Wilt thou know The effect of what I wrote?

HORATIO: Ay, good my lord. HAMLET: An earnest conjuration from the king,—

As England was his faithful tributary; As love between them like the palm might �ourish; As peace should still her wheaten garland wear And stand a comma3 ’tween their amities; And many such like as’s of great charge,— That, on the view and know of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving-time allow’d.

HORATIO: How was this seal’d? HAMLET: Why, even in that was heaven ordinant.

I had my father’s signet in my purse, Which was the model of that Danish seal: Folded the writ up in form of the other; Subscrib’d it; gav’t the impression; plac’d it safely, The changeling never known. Now, the next day

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2bugs: Bugbears.bugs: Bugbears.bugs: 3comma: Link.comma: Link.comma:

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Was our sea-�ght; and what to this was sequent Thou know’st already.

HORATIO: So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to’t. HAMLET: Why, man, they did make love to this employment;

They are not near my conscience; their defeat Does by their own insinuation4 grow: ’Tis dangerous when the baser nature5 comes Between the pass and fell6 incensed points Of mighty opposites.

HORATIO: Why, what a king is this! HAMLET: Does it not, think’st thee, stand me now upon,7

He that hath kill’d my king and whor’d my mother; Popp’d in between the election and my hopes; Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such cozenage,8—is’t not perfect conscience To quit him with this arm? and is’t not to be damn’d, To let this canker of our nature come In further evil?

HORATIO: It must be shortly known to him from England What is the issue of the business there.

HAMLET: It will be short: the interim is mine; And a man’s life’s no more than to say One. But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself; For by the image of my cause I see The portraiture of his: I’ll court his favors: But, sure, the bravery9 of his grief did put me Into a towering passion.

HORATIO: Peace; who comes here?

Enter Osric.

OSRIC: Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark. HAMLET: I humbly thank you, sir.—Dost know this water-�y? HORATIO: No, my good lord. HAMLET: Thy state is the more gracious; for ’tis a vice to know him. He

hath much land, and fertile: let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king’s mess: ’tis a chough;10 but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt.

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4insinuation: By their own “sticking their noses” into the business.insinuation: By their own “sticking their noses” into the business.insinuation: 5baser nature: Men of baser nature: Men of baser nature: lower rank. 6fell: Fierce.fell: Fierce.fell: 7Does . . . upon: I.e., “Don’t you think it is my duty?”Does . . . upon: I.e., “Don’t you think it is my duty?”Does . . . upon: 8cozenage: Deceit. 9bravery: Ostentation.bravery: Ostentation.bravery: 10his crib . . . chough: He shall have his trough at the king’s table: his crib . . . chough: He shall have his trough at the king’s table: his crib . . . chough: he is a chattering fool.

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OSRIC: Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his majesty.

HAMLET: I will receive it with all diligence of spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; ’tis for the head.

OSRIC: I thank your lordship, ’tis very hot. HAMLET: No, believe me, ’tis very cold; the wind is northerly. OSRIC: It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed. HAMLET: Methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion. OSRIC: Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry,—as’t were,—I cannot tell

how.—But, my lord, his majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter,—

HAMLET: I beseech you, remember,—

Hamlet moves him to put on his hat.

OSRIC: Nay, in good faith; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing: indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry, for you shall �nd in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see.

HAMLET: Sir, his de�nement suffers no perdition in you;—though, I know, to divide him inventorially would dizzy the arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article; and his infusion of such dearth11 and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror; and who else would trace him, his umbrage,12 nothing more.

OSRIC: Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. HAMLET: The concernancy, sir? why do we wrap the gentleman in our

more rawer breath? OSRIC: Sir? HORATIO: Is’t not possible to understand in another tongue? You will

do’t sir, really. HAMLET: What imports the nomination13 of this gentleman? OSRIC: Of Laertes? HORATIO: His purse is empty already; all’s golden words are spent. HAMLET: Of him, sir. OSRIC: I know, you are not ignorant,— HAMLET: I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did, it would not much

approve me.14—Well, sir.

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11dearth: Rareness, or excellence.dearth: Rareness, or excellence.dearth: 12umbrage: Shadow.umbrage: Shadow.umbrage: 13nomination: Naming.nomination: Naming.nomination: 14if you . . . approve me: If you, who are a fool, thought me not ignorant, that would not be particularly to my credit.approve me: If you, who are a fool, thought me not ignorant, that would not be particularly to my credit.approve me:

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OSRIC: You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is,— HAMLET: I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in

excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself. OSRIC: I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him by

them, in his meed he’s unfellowed.15

HAMLET: What’s his weapon? OSRIC: Rapier and dagger. HAMLET: That’s two of his weapons: but, well. OSRIC: The king, sir, hath wagered with him six Barbary horses: against

the which he has imponed,16 as I take it, six French rapiers and pon- iards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so: three of the car- riages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit.

HAMLET: What call you the carriages? HORATIO: I knew you must be edi�ed by the margent17 ere you had done. OSRIC: The carriages, sir, are the hangers. HAMLET: The phrase would be more german to the matter if we could

carry cannon by our sides: I would it might be hangers till then. But, on: six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal conceited carriages; that’s the French bet against the Danish: why is this imponed, as you call it?

OSRIC: The king, sir, hath laid, that in a dozen passes between you and him he shall not exceed you three hits: he hath laid on twelve for nine; and it would come to immediate trial if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.

HAMLET: How if I answer no? OSRIC: I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.18

HAMLET: Sir, I will walk here in the hall: if it please his majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me: let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold his purpose, I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits.

OSRIC: Shall I re-deliver you19 e’en so? HAMLET: To this effect, sir; after what �ourish your nature will. OSRIC: I commend my duty to your lordship. HAMLET: Yours, yours.

Exit Osric.

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15in . . . unfellowed: In his worth he has no equal.in . . . unfellowed: In his worth he has no equal.in . . . unfellowed: 16imponed: Staked.imponed: Staked.imponed: 17edified . . . margent: Informed by a note in the margin of your instructions. 18the opposition . . . trial: The presence of the opposition . . . trial: The presence of the opposition . . . trial: your person as Laertes’ opponent in the fencing contest. 19re-deliver you: Carry back your answer.re-deliver you: Carry back your answer.re-deliver you:

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He does well to commend it himself; there are no tongues else for’s turn.

HORATIO: This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.20

HAMLET: He did comply with his dug before he sucked it.21 Thus has he,—and many more of the same bevy, that I know the drossy age dotes on,—only got the tune of the time, and outward habit of encounter; a kind of yesty collection,22 which carries them through and through the most fanned and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out.

Enter a Lord.

LORD: My lord, his majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him that you attend him in the hall: he sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will take longer time.

HAMLET: I am constant to my purposes; they follow the king’s pleasure: if his �tness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided I be so able as now.

LORD: The king and queen and all are coming down. HAMLET: In happy time. LORD: The queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to

Laertes before you fall to play. HAMLET: She well instructs me.

Exit Lord.

HORATIO: You will lose this wager, my lord. HAMLET: I do not think so; since he went into France I have been in

continual practice: I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart: but it is no matter.

HORATIO: Nay, good my lord,— HAMLET: It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving23 as would

perhaps trouble a woman. HORATIO: If your mind dislike anything, obey it: I will forestall their

repair hither, and say you are not �t. HAMLET: Not a whit, we defy augury: there’s a special providence in the

fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness

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20This lapwing . . . This lapwing . . . This lapwing head: This precocious fellow is like a lapwing that starts running when it is head: This precocious fellow is like a lapwing that starts running when it is head: barely out of the shell. 21He . . . He . . . He sucked it: He paid compliments to his mother’s breast before sucked it: He paid compliments to his mother’s breast before sucked it: he sucked it. 22yesty collection: Yeasty or frothy affair.yesty collection: Yeasty or frothy affair.yesty collection: 23gain-giving: Misgiving.gain-giving: Misgiving.gain-giving:

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is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is’t to leave betimes?24

Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Lords, Osric, and Attendants with foils, &c.

KING: Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.

The King puts Laertes’ hand into Hamlet’s.

HAMLET: Give me your pardon, sir: I have done you wrong: But pardon’t, as you are a gentleman. This presence knows, and you must needs have heard, How I am punish’d with sore distraction. What I have done, That might your nature, honor, and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet: If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it, then? His madness: if’t be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong’d; His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy. Sir, in this audience, Let my disclaiming from a purpos’d evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts That I have shot mine arrow o’er the house And hurt my brother.

LAERTES: I am satis�ed in nature, Whose motive, in this case, should stir me most To my revenge: but in my terms of honor I stand aloof; and will no reconcilement Till by some elder masters of known honor I have a voice and precedent of peace To keep my name ungor’d. But till that time I do receive your offer’d love like love, And will not wrong it.

HAMLET: I embrace it freely; And will this brother’s wager frankly play.25— Give us the foils; come on.

LAERTES: Come, one for me.

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24what . . . betimes?: What does an early death matter?what . . . betimes?: What does an early death matter?what . . . betimes?: 25frankly play: Fence with a heart free from frankly play: Fence with a heart free from frankly play: resentment.

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HAMLET: I’ll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance Your skill shall, like a star in the darkest night, Stick �ery off indeed.

LAERTES: You mock me, sir. HAMLET: No, by this hand. KING: Give them the foils, young Osric.

Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager?

HAMLET: Very well, my lord; Your grace hath laid the odds o’ the weaker side.

KING: I do not fear it; I have seen you both; But since he’s better’d, we have therefore odds.

LAERTES: This is too heavy, let me see another. HAMLET: This likes me well. These foils have all a length?

They prepare to play.

OSRIC: Ay, my good lord. KING: Set me the stoups of wine upon that table,—

If Hamlet give the �rst or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance �re; The king shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath; And in the cup an union26 shall he throw, Richer than that which four successive kings In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the cups; And let the kettle27 to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth, Now the king drinks to Hamlet.—Come, begin;— And you, the judges, bear a wary eye.

HAMLET: Come on, sir. LAERTES: Come, my lord.

They play.

HAMLET: One. LAERTES: No. HAMLET: Judgment. OSRIC: A hit, a very palpable hit. LAERTES: Well;—again. KING: Stay, give me a drink.—Hamlet, this pearl is thine;

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26an union: A pearl.an union: A pearl.an union: 27kettle: Kettledrum.kettle: Kettledrum.kettle:

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Here’s to thy health.—

Trumpets sound, and cannon shot off within.

Give him the cup. HAMLET: I’ll play this bout �rst; set it by awhile.—

Come.—Another hit; what say you?

They play.

LAERTES: A touch, a touch, I do confess. KING: Our son shall win. QUEEN: He’s fat, and scant of breath.—

Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows: The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.

HAMLET: Good madam! KING: Gertrude, do not drink. QUEEN: I will, my lord; I pray you, pardon me. KING: [Aside] It is the poison’d cup; it is too late. HAMLET: I dare not drink yet, madam; by and by. QUEEN: Come, let me wipe thy face. LAERTES: My lord, I’ll hit him now. KING: I do not think’t. LAERTES: [Aside] And yet ’tis almost ’gainst my conscience. HAMLET: Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally;

I pray you, pass with your best violence: I am afeard you make a wanton of me.

LAERTES: Say you so? come on.

They play.

OSRIC: Nothing, neither way. LAERTES: Have at you now!

Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuf�ing, they change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes.

KING: Part them; they are incens’d. HAMLET: Nay, come, again.

The Queen falls.

OSRIC: Look to the queen there, ho! HORATIO: They bleed on both sides.—How is it, my lord? OSRIC: How is’t, Laertes? LAERTES: Why, as a woodcock to my own springe, Osric;

I am justly kill’d with mine own treachery. HAMLET: How does the queen?

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KING: She swoons to see them bleed. QUEEN: No, no, the drink, the drink,—O my dear Hamlet,—

The drink, the drink!—I am poison’d. [Dies.] HAMLET: O villainy!—Ho! let the door be lock’d:

Treachery! seek it out.

Laertes falls.

LAERTES: It is here, Hamlet: Hamlet, thou art slain; No medicine in the world can do thee good; In thee there is not half an hour of life; The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenom’d: the foul practice Hath turn’d itself on me; lo, here I lie, Never to rise again: thy mother’s poison’d: I can no more:—the king, the king’s to blame.

HAMLET: The point envenom’d too!— Then venom to thy work. [Stabs the King.]

OSRIC AND LORDS: Treason! treason! KING: O, yet defend me, friends; I am but hurt. HAMLET: Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane,

Drink off this potion.—Is thy union here? Follow my mother.

King dies.

LAERTES: He is justly serv’d; It is a poison temper’d by himself.— Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet: Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me! [Dies.]

HAMLET: Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee.— I am dead, Horatio.—Wretched queen, adieu!— You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That art but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time,—as this fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest,—O, I could tell you,— But let it be.—Horatio, I am dead; Thou liv’st; report me and my cause aright To the unsatis�ed.28

HORATIO: Never believe it: I am more an antique Roman than a Dane,— Here’s yet some liquor left.

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HAMLET: As thou’rt a man, Give me the cup; let go; by heaven, I’ll have’t.— O good Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story.—

March afar off, and shot within.

What warlike noise is this? OSRIC: Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland,

To the ambassadors of England gives This warlike volley.

HAMLET: O, I die, Horatio; The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit: I cannot live to hear the news from England; But I do prophesy the election lights On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice; So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less, Which have solicited.29—The rest is silence. [Dies.]

HORATIO: Now cracks a noble heart.—Good-night, sweet prince, And �ights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Why does the drum come hither?

March within. Enter Fortinbras, the English Ambassadors, and others.

FORTINBRAS: Where is this sight? HORATIO: What is it you would see?

If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search. FORTINBRAS: This quarry cries on havoc.30—O proud death,

What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck?

1ST AMBASSADOR: The sight is dismal; And our affairs from England come too late: The ears are senseless that should give us hearing, To tell him his commandment is ful�ll’d, That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead: Where should we have our thanks?

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HORATIO: Not from his mouth, Had it the ability of life to thank you: He never gave commandment for their death. But since, so jump31 upon this bloody question, You from the Polack wars, and you from England, Are here arriv’d, give order that these bodies High on a stage be placed to the view; And let me speak to the yet unknowing world How these things came about: so shall you hear Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts; Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters; Of deaths put on by cunning and forc’d cause; And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall’n on the inventors’ heads: all this can I Truly deliver.

FORTINBRAS: Let us haste to hear it, And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune: I have some rights of memory in this kingdom,32

Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me. HORATIO: Of that I shall have also cause to speak,

And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more: But let this same be presently perform’d, Even while men’s minds are wild: lest more mischance On plots and errors happen.

FORTINBRAS: Let four captains Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage; For he was likely, had he been put on,33

To have prov’d most royally: and, for his passage, The soldier’s music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him.— Take up the bodies.—Such a sight as this Becomes the �eld, but here shows much amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

A dead march.

Exeunt, bearing off the dead bodies: after which a peal of ordnance is shot off.

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31so jump: So opportunely.so jump: So opportunely.so jump: 32I have . . . kingdom: I have some unforgotten rights to this kingdom.I have . . . kingdom: I have some unforgotten rights to this kingdom.I have . . . kingdom: 33put on: Tested by succession to the throne.put on: Tested by succession to the throne.put on:

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CHAPTER 29

STAGING

Staging refers to the physical elements of a play’s production that determine how the play looks and sounds to an audience. It encompasses the stage settings, or sets—furnishings, scenery, props, and lighting—as well as the costumes, sound effects, and music that bring the play to life on the stage. In short, staging is everything that goes into making a written script a per- formance.

Contemporary staging in the West has traditionally concentrated on recreating the real world. This concept of staging, which has dominated Western theatrical productions for centuries, would seem alien in many non-Western theaters. Japanese Kabuki dramas and No plays, for example,

Michael Salomon Mike Salomon

Milcha Sanchez-Scott Milcha Sanchez-Scott

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depend on staging conventions that make no attempt to mirror reality. Scen- ery and costumes are largely symbolic, and often actors wear highly stylized makeup or masks. Although some European and American playwrights have been strongly in�uenced by non-Western staging, the majority of plays being produced in the West still try to create the illusion of reality.

Usually a playwright presents instructions for the staging of a play in stage directions–notes that comment on the scenery, the movements of the per- formers, the lighting, and the placement of props. (In the absence of detailed stage directions, dialogue can provide information about staging.) Some- times these stage directions are quite simple, leaving much to the discretion (and imagination) of the director. Consider how little speci�c information about the setting of the play is provided in these stage directions from act 1 of Samuel Beckett’s 1952 absurdist play Waiting for Godot:

A country road. A tree. Evening.

Often, however, playwrights furnish more detailed information about staging. Consider these stage directions from act 1 of Anton Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard:

A room, which has always been called the nursery. One of the doors leads into Anya’s room. Dawn, sun rises during the scene. May, the cherry trees in �ower, but it is cold in the garden with the frost of the early morning. Windows closed.

Enter Dunyasha with a candle and Lopahin with a book in his hand.

These comments indicate that the �rst act takes place in a room with more than one door and that several windows reveal cherry trees in bloom. They also specify that the lighting should simulate the sun rising at dawn and that characters should enter carrying certain props. Still, Chekhov leaves it up to those staging the play to decide on the costumes for the characters and on the furniture to be placed around the room.

Some stage directions are even more speci�c. Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw’s long, complex stage directions are legendary in the theater. Note the degree of detail he provides in these stage directions from his 1906 comedy The Doctor’s Dilemma:

The consulting-room has two windows looking on Queen Anne Street. Be- tween the two is a marble-topped console, with haunched gilt legs ending in sphinx claws. The huge pier-glass [a long narrow mirror that �ts between two windows] which surmounts it is mostly disabled from re�ection by elaborate painting on its surface of palms, ferns, lilies, tulips, and sun�owers. The adjoining wall contains the �replace, with two arm-chairs before it. As we happen to face the corner we see nothing of the other two walls. On the right of the �replace, or rather on the right of

Stage Directions

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any person facing the �replace, is the door. On the left is the writing-table at which Redpenny [a medical student] sits. It is an untidy table with a microscope, several test tubes, and a spirit lamp [an alcohol burner] standing up through its litter of pa- pers. There is a couch in the middle of the room, at right angles to the console, and parallel to the �replace. A chair stands between the couch and the window. Another in the corner. Another at the other end of the windowed wall. . . . The wallpaper and carpets are mostly green. . . . The house, in fact, was so well furnished in the middle of the XIXth century that it stands unaltered to this day and is still quite presentable.

Not only does Shaw indicate exactly what furniture is to be placed on stage, but he also includes a good deal of physical description—specifying, for example, “gilt legs ending in sphinx claws” and “test tubes and a spirit lamp” that clutter the writing table. In addition, he de�nes furniture placement and speci�es color.

Regardless of how detailed the stage directions are, they do not elimi- nate the need for creative interpretations on the part of the producer, direc- tor, set designers, and actors (see “Actors’ Interpretations,” p. 952). Many directors see stage directions as simply suggestions, not requirements, and some consider them more confusing than helpful. Therefore, some directors may choose to interpret a play’s stage directions quite loosely—or even to ignore them entirely. For example, in 2007, the Classical Theater of Harlem staged Samuel Beckett’s 1952 existentialist drama Waiting for Godot in New Orleans. The performances were held outdoors in areas of the city that had been seriously damaged by Hurricane Katrina, and the still-devastated set- ting gave new power to Beckett’s drama of characters’ search for meaning against a backdrop of emptiness and despair.

Various elements of staging provide important information about characters and their motivations as well as about the play’s theme.

Costumes

Costumes establish the historical period in which a play is set and provide insight into the characters who wear them. For example, when Hamlet �rst appears on stage, he is profoundly disillusioned and quite melancholy. This fact was immediately apparent to Shakespeare’s audience because Hamlet is dressed in sable, which to the Elizabethans signi�ed a melancholy nature. In Tennessee Williams’s The Glass Menagerie (1945), Laura’s dress of soft violet material and her hair ribbon re�ect her delicate, childlike innocence. In contrast, her mother’s “imitation velvety-looking cloth [coat] with imitation fur collar” and her “enormous black patent-leather pocketbook” reveal her somewhat

The Uses of Staging

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pathetic attempt to achieve respectability. Later in the play, awaiting the “gentleman caller,” Laura’s mother wears a dress that is both outdated and inappropriately youthful, suggesting both her need to relive her own past and her increasingly desperate desire to marry off her daughter.

Props and Furnishings

Props (short for properties) can also help audiences interpret a play’s char- acters and themes. For example, the handkerchief in Shakespeare’s Othello gains signi�cance as the play progresses: it begins as an innocent object and ends as the piece of evidence that convinces Othello his wife is com- mitting adultery. Sometimes props can have symbolic signi�cance. During the Renaissance, for example, �owers had symbolic meaning. In act 4 of Hamlet, Ophelia, who is mad, gives �owers to various characters. In a note to the play, the critic Thomas Parrott points out the symbolic signi�cance of her gifts: to Claudius, the murderer of Hamlet’s father, she gives fennel and columbines, which signify �attery and ingratitude; to the Queen, she gives rue and daisies, which symbolize sadness and unfaithfulness. Although modern audiences would not understand the signi�cance of these �owers, many people in Shakespeare’s Elizabethan audience would have been aware of their meaning.

The furnishings in a room can also reveal a lot about a play’s characters and themes. Willy Loman’s house in Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman (p. 960) is sparsely furnished, revealing the declining �nancial status of the family. The kitchen contains a table and three chairs and the bedroom only a brass bed and a straight chair. Over the bed on a shelf is Willy’s son’s silver athletic trophy, a constant reminder of his loss of status. Like Willie Loman’s house, the Helmer’s living room in A Doll House, suggests its inhab- itants’ social status. The furnishings are typical of “respectable” middle-class families in nineteenth-century Norway. According to the stage directions, the living room is, “A comfortable room, tastefully but not expensively fur- nished.” Everything in it—from the round table with an armchair, to the porcelain stove, to the carpeted �oor—is practical and ef�cient. These fur- nishings immediately convey to audiences the stability of the family as well as its core values.

Scenery and Lighting

Playwrights often use scenery and lighting to create imaginative stage set- tings. In Death of a Salesman, the house is surrounded by “towering angular shapes” of apartment houses that emphasize the “small, fragile-seeming home.” Arthur Miller calls for a set that is “wholly, or in some places, transparent.” Whenever the action is in the present, the actors observe the imaginary boundaries that separate rooms or mark the exterior walls of the house.

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When the characters reenact past events, however, they walk over the boundaries and come to the front of the stage. By lighting up and darken- ing different parts of the stage, Miller shifts from the present to the past and back again.

Contemporary playwrights often use sets that combine realistic and nonrealistic elements. In his Tony Award–winning play M. Butter�y, for example, David Henry Hwang uses a scrim, a curtain that when illuminated from the front appears solid but when illuminated from the back becomes transparent. He also employs a large red lacquered ramp that runs from the bottom to the top of the stage. The action takes place beneath, on, and above the ramp, creating an effect not unlike that created by Shakespeare’s multiple stages. At several points in the play, a character who acts as the nar- rator sits beneath the ramp, addressing the audience, while at the same time a character on top of the ramp acts out the narrator’s words.

Music and Sound Effects

Staging involves more than visual elements such as costumes and scenery; it also involves music and sound effects. The stage directions for Death of a Salesman, for example, begin, “A melody is heard, played upon a �ute.” Although not speci�cally identi�ed, the music is described as “small and �ne, telling of grass and trees and the horizon.” Signi�cantly, this music stands in stark contrast to the claustrophobic urban setting of the play. Music also plays a major role in The Glass Menagerie, where a single recurring tune, like circus music, weaves in and out of the play. This musical motif gives emotional impact to certain lines and suggests the fantasy world into which Laura has retreated.

Sound effects play an important part in Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll House (p. 881). At the very end of the play, after his wife has left him, Torvald Helmer sits alone on the stage. In the following stage directions, the �nal sound effect cuts short Helmer’s attempt at self-deluding optimism:

HELMER: (sinks down on a chair by the door, face buried in his hands) Nora! Nora! (Looking about and rising.) Empty. She’s gone. (A sudden hope leaps in him.) The greatest miracle—?

From below, the sound of a door slamming shut.

When you read a play, it may be dif�cult to appreciate the effect that staging can have on a performance. As you read, pay particular attention to the stage directions, and use your imagination to visualize the scenes the playwright describes. In addition, try to imagine the play’s sights and sounds, and consider the options for staging that are suggested as characters speak to one another. Although careful reading cannot substitute for seeing a play performed, it can help you imagine the play as it might appear on the stage.

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Because of a play’s limited performance time, and because of space and �nancial limitations, not every action or event can be represented on stage. Frequently, incidents that would involve many actors or require elaborate scenery are only suggested. For example, a violent riot may be suggested by a single scuf�e, a full-scale wedding by the kiss between bride and groom, a gala evening at the opera by a well-dressed group in box seats, and a trip to an exotic locale by a departure scene. Other events may be suggested by sounds offstage—for example, the roar of a crowd may suggest an athletic event.

A Final Note

CHECKLIST Writing about Staging

■ What information about staging is specified in the stage directions of the play?

■ What information about staging is suggested by the play’s dialogue?

■ What information about staging is left to the imagination?

■ How might different decisions about staging change the play?

■ Do the stage directions provide information about how characters are supposed to look or behave?

■ What costumes are specified? In what ways do costumes provide insight into the characters who wear them?

■ What props play an important part in the play? Do these props have symbolic meaning?

■ Is the scenery special or unusual in any way?

■ What kind of lighting is specified by the stage directions? In what way does this lighting affect your reaction to the play?

■ How are music and sound effects used in the play? Are musi- cal themes associated with any characters? Do music or sound effects heighten the emotional impact of certain lines?

■ What events occur offstage? Why? How are they suggested?

■ How does staging help to communicate the play’s themes?

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5. In what sense is Mel’s �nal comment “This is a miracle!” true? In what sense is it ironic?

6. Could this play be seen as an allegory? What is the value of seeing it in this way?

7. During much of the play, Margarita is swimming in full view of the audience. Suggest three ways in which a director could convey this effect on stage. Which way would you choose if you were directing the play? Why?

8. As the headnote to the play explains, the 1984 New York production of The Cuban Swimmer had an extremely realistic set. Could the play be staged unrealistically, with the characters on a raised platform in- stead of a boat? How do you think this kind of set would change the audience’s reaction?

9. JOURNAL ENTRY Are you able to empathize with Margarita’s strug- gle? What elements of the play make it easy (or dif�cult) for you to do so?

10. CRITICAL PERSPECTIVE In a 1998 article in the New York Times, theater critic Brooks Atkinson said, “Nothing is better for good actors than a stage with no scenery.”

How do you interpret Atkinson’s comment? Do you think this re- mark could be applied to the staging of The Cuban Swimmer?

Related Works: “Snow” (p. 82), “The Secret Lion” (p. 466), “Two Kinds” (p. 471), “Baca Grande” (p. 545), “Harlem” (p. 577), “Mexican Almuerzo in New England” (p. 666), “Isla” (p. 679)

SOPHOCLES (496–406 B.C.), along with Aeschylus and Euripides, is one of the three great ancient Greek tragic dramatists. He lived during the flowering and subsequent decline of fifth-century B.C. Athens—the high point of Greek civilization. Born as Greece struggled against the Persian Empire and moved to adopt democracy, he lived as an adult under Pericles during the golden age of Athens and died as it became clear that Athens would lose the Peloponnesian War. Sophocles was an active participant in the public life of Athens, serving as a collector of tribute

from Athenian subjects and later as a general. He wrote at least 120 plays, but only seven have survived, including three plays about Oedipus: Oedipus the King (c. 430 Oedipus the King (c. 430 Oedipus the King B.C.), Oedipus at Colonus (411? at Colonus (411? at Colonus B.C.), and Antigone (441 Antigone (441 Antigone B.C.).

Oedipus the King, or Oedipus Rex (sometimes called Oedipus Rex (sometimes called Oedipus Rex Oedipus the Tyrant), was perOedipus the Tyrant), was perOedipus the Tyrant - formed shortly after a great plague in Athens (probably in 429 or 425 B.C.) and as Athens was falling into decline. The play opens with an account of a plague in Thebes, Oedipus’s kingdom. Over the years, Oedipus the King has attracted impressive critical attention, from Oedipus the King has attracted impressive critical attention, from Oedipus the King

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Aristotle’s use of it as a model for his definition of tragedy to Freud’s use of it when he discusses the Oedipus complex.

Cultural Context During the period in which Oedipus was written, the Greeks were Oedipus was written, the Greeks were Oedipus especially interested in the relationship between greatness and hubris, the excessive pride and ambition that leads to the downfall of a hero in classical tragedy. They were fasci- nated by the idea that hubris can bring destruction: that the same traits that can elevate a person to greatness can also cause his or her ruin. This theme recurs throughout classical literature and was especially relevant between 431 and 404 B.C., when the second Pelo- ponnesian War (which Athens lost) was being fought between Athens and Sparta. After a Spartan army invaded Attica in 431 B.C., the Athenians retreated behind the walls of their city while the Athenian fleet began raids. Between 430 and 428 B.C., a plague (which the Athenians believed was inflicted upon them by the gods) wiped out at least a quarter of the Athenian population. It was during this tumultuous time that Sophocles wrote of Oedipus and his troubles.

Oedipus the King* (c. 430 B.C.) Translated by Thomas Gould

CHARACTERS

Oedipus,1 the King of Thebes Tiresias, a blind seer or prophet Priest of Zeus, leader of the suppliants Jocasta, the queen of Thebes

Creon, Oedipus’s brother-in-law Messenger, from Corinth, once a shepherd Chorus, a group of Theban elders Herdsman, once a servant of Laius

Choragos, spokesman of the Chorus Second Messenger, a servant of Oedipus

MUTES Suppliants, Thebans seeking Oedipus’s help

Attendants, for the Royal Family Servants, to lead Tiresias and Oedipus

Antigone, daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta Ismene, daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta

The action takes place during the day in front of the royal palace in Thebes. There are two altars (left and right) on the proscenium and several steps leading down to the orchestra. As the play opens, Thebans of various ages who have come to beg Oedipus for help are sitting on these steps and in part of the orchestra. These sup- pliants are holding branches of laurel or olive which have strips of wool2 wrapped around them. Oedipus enters from the palace (the central door of the skene).

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*Note that individual lines are numbered in the following play. When a line is shared by two or more char- acters, it is counted as one line. 1Oedipus: The name, meaning “swollen foot,” refers to the mutilation of Oedipus’s feet by his father, Laius, Oedipus: The name, meaning “swollen foot,” refers to the mutilation of Oedipus’s feet by his father, Laius, Oedipus: before the infant was sent to Mount Cithaeron to be put to death by exposure. 2wool: Branches wrapped with wool are traditional symbols of prayer or supplication.wool: Branches wrapped with wool are traditional symbols of prayer or supplication.wool:

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PROLOGUE3

OEDIPUS: My children, ancient Cadmus’4 newest care, why have you hurried to those seats, your boughs wound with the emblems of the suppliant? The city is weighed down with fragrant smoke, with hymns to the Healer5 and the cries of mourners. I thought it wrong, my sons, to hear your words through emissaries, and have come out myself, I, Oedipus, a name that all men know.

Oedipus addresses the Priest.

Old man—for it is �tting that you speak for all—what is your mood as you entreat me, fear or trust? You may be con�dent that I’ll do anything. How hard of heart if an appeal like this did not rouse my pity!

PRIEST: You, Oedipus, who hold the power here, you see our several ages, we who sit before your altars—some not strong enough

Laurence Olivier as Oedipus Merlyn Severn/Picture Post/Getty Images

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3Prologue: The portion of the play containing the exposition, or explanation, of what has gone before and Prologue: The portion of the play containing the exposition, or explanation, of what has gone before and Prologue: what is now happening. 4Cadmus: Oedipus’s great-great-grandfather (although Oedipus does not know this) and the founder of Thebes.Cadmus: Oedipus’s great-great-grandfather (although Oedipus does not know this) and the founder of Thebes.Cadmus: 5Healer: Apollo, god of prophecy, light, healing, justice, purification, and destruction.Healer: Apollo, god of prophecy, light, healing, justice, purification, and destruction.Healer:

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to take long �ight, some heavy in old age, the priests, as I of Zeus,6 and from our youths a chosen band. The rest sit with their windings in the markets, at the twin shrines of Pallas,7

and the prophetic embers of Ismēnos.8

Our city, as you see yourself, is tossed too much, and can no longer lift its head above the troughs of billows red with death. It dies in the fruitful �owers of the soil, it dies in its pastured herds, and in its women’s barren pangs. And the �re-bearing god9

has swooped upon the city, hateful plague, and he has left the house of Cadmus empty. Black Hades10 is made rich with moans and weeping. Not judging you an equal of the gods, do I and the children sit here at your hearth, but as the �rst of men, in troubled times and in encounters with divinities. You came to Cadmus’ city and unbound the tax we had to pay to the harsh singer,11

did it without a helpful word from us, with no instruction; with a god’s assistance you raised up our life, so we believe. Again now Oedipus, our greatest power, we plead with you, as suppliants, all of us, to �nd us strength, whether from a god’s response, or learned in some way from another man.

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6Zeus: Father and king of the gods.Zeus: Father and king of the gods.Zeus: 7Pallas: Athena, goddess of wisdom, arts, crafts, and war.Pallas: Athena, goddess of wisdom, arts, crafts, and war.Pallas: 8Ismēnos: A reference to the temple of Apollo near the river Ismēnos in Thebes. Prophecies were made Ismēnos: A reference to the temple of Apollo near the river Ismēnos in Thebes. Prophecies were made Ismēnos: here by “reading” the ashes of the altar fires. 9fire-bearing god: Contagious fever viewed as a god.fire-bearing god: Contagious fever viewed as a god.fire-bearing god: 10Black Hades: Refers both to the underworld where the spirits of the dead go and to the god of the unBlack Hades: Refers both to the underworld where the spirits of the dead go and to the god of the unBlack Hades: - derworld. 11harsh singer: The Sphinx, a monster with a woman’s head, a lion’s body, and wings. The “tax” from which harsh singer: The Sphinx, a monster with a woman’s head, a lion’s body, and wings. The “tax” from which harsh singer: Oedipus freed Thebes was the destruction of all the young men who failed to solve the Sphinx’s riddle and were subsequently devoured. The Sphinx always asked the same riddle: “What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening, and yet is weakest when supported by the largest number of feet?” Oedipus discovered the correct answer—man, who crawls in infancy, walks in his prime, and uses a stick in old age—and thus ended the Sphinx’s reign of terror. The Sphinx destroyed herself when Oedipus answered the riddle. Oedipus’s reward for freeing Thebes of the Sphinx was the throne and the hand of the recently widowed Jocasta.

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I know that the experienced among men give counsels that will prosper best of all. Noblest of men, lift up our land again! Think also of yourself; since now the land calls you its Savior for your zeal of old, oh let us never look back at your rule as men helped up only to fall again! Do not stumble! Put our land on �rm feet! The bird of omen was auspicious then, when you brought that luck; be that same man again! The power is yours; if you will rule our country, rule over men, not in an empty land. A towered city or a ship is nothing if desolate and no man lives within.

OEDIPUS: Pitiable children, oh I know, I know the yearnings that have brought you. Yes, I know that you are sick. And yet, though you are sick, there is not one of you so sick as I. For your af�iction comes to each alone, for him and no one else, but my soul mourns for me and for you, too, and for the city. You do not waken me as from a sleep, for I have wept, bitterly and long, tried many paths in the wanderings of thought, and the single cure I found by careful search I’ve acted on: I sent Menoeceus’ son, Creon, brother of my wife, to the Pythian halls of Phoebus,12 so that I might learn what I must do or say to save this city. Already, when I think what day this is, I wonder anxiously what he is doing. Too long, more than is right, he’s been away. But when he comes, then I shall be a traitor if I do not do all that the god reveals.

PRIEST: Welcome words! But look, those men have signaled that it is Creon who is now approaching!

OEDIPUS: Lord Apollo! May he bring Savior Luck, a Luck as brilliant as his eyes are now!

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12Pythian hallsPythian halls . . . Phoebus: The temple of Phoebus, Apollo’s oracle or prophet at Delphi.Phoebus: The temple of Phoebus, Apollo’s oracle or prophet at Delphi.Phoebus:

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PRIEST: His news is happy, it appears. He comes, forehead crowned with thickly berried laurel.13

OEDIPUS: We’ll know, for he is near enough to hear us.

Enter Creon along one of the parados.

Lord, brother in marriage, son of Menoeceus! What is the god’s pronouncement that you bring?

CREON: It’s good. For even troubles, if they chance to turn out well, I always count as lucky.

OEDIPUS: But what was the response? You seem to say I’m not to fear—but not to take heart either.

CREON: If you will hear me with these men present, I’m ready to report—or go inside.

Creon moves up the steps toward the palace.

OEDIPUS: Speak out to all! The grief that burdens me concerns these men more than it does my life.

CREON: Then I shall tell you what I heard from the god. The task Lord Phoebus sets for us is clear: drive out pollution sheltered in our land, and do not shelter what is incurable.

OEDIPUS: What is our trouble? How shall we cleanse ourselves? CREON: We must banish or murder to free ourselves

from a murder that blows storms through the city. OEDIPUS: What man’s bad luck does he accuse in this? CREON: My Lord, a king named Laius ruled our land

before you came to steer the city straight. OEDIPUS: I know. So I was told—I never saw him. CREON: Since he was murdered, you must raise your hand

against the men who killed him with their hands. OEDIPUS: Where are they now? And how can we ever �nd

the track of ancient guilt now hard to read? CREON: In our own land, he said. What we pursue,

that can be caught; but not what we neglect. OEDIPUS: Was Laius home, or in the countryside—

or was he murdered in some foreign land? CREON: He left to see a sacred rite, he said;

He left, but never came home from his journey.

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13laurel: Creon is wearing a garland of laurel leaves, sacred to Apollo.laurel: Creon is wearing a garland of laurel leaves, sacred to Apollo.laurel:

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OEDIPUS: Did none of his party see it and report— someone we might pro�tably question?

CREON: They were all killed but one, who �ed in fear, and he could tell us only one clear fact.

OEDIPUS: What fact? One thing could lead us on to more if we could get a small start on our hope.

CREON: He said that bandits chanced on them and killed him— with the force of many hands, not one alone.

OEDIPUS: How could a bandit dare so great an act— unless this was a plot paid off from here!

CREON: We thought of that, but when Laius was killed, we had no one to help us in our troubles.

OEDIPUS: It was your very kingship that was killed! What kind of trouble blocked you from a search?

CREON: The subtle-singing Sphinx asked us to turn from the obscure to what lay at our feet.

OEDIPUS: Then I shall begin again and make it plain. It was quite worthy of Phoebus, and worthy of you, to turn our thoughts back to the murdered man, and right that you should see me join the battle for justice to our land and to the god. Not on behalf of any distant kinships, it’s for myself I will dispel this stain. Whoever murdered him may also wish to punish me—and with the selfsame hand. In helping him I also serve myself. Now quickly, children: up from the altar steps, and raise the branches of the suppliant! Let someone go and summon Cadmus’ people: say I’ll do anything.

Exit an Attendant along one of the parados.

Our luck will prosper if the god is with us, or we have already fallen.

PRIEST: Rise, my children; that for which we came, he has himself proclaimed he will accomplish. May Phoebus, who announced this, also come as Savior and reliever from the plague.

Exit Oedipus and Creon into the palace. The Priest and the Suppliants exit left and right along the parados. After a brief pause, the Chorus (including the Choragos) enters the orchestra from the parados.

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PARADOS1

STROPHE 12

CHORUS: Voice from Zeus,3 sweetly spoken, what are you that have arrived from golden Pytho4 to our shining Thebes? I am on the rack, terror

shakes my soul. Delian Healer,5 summoned by “iē!” summoned by “iē!” summoned by “ie I await in holy dread what obligation, something new or something back once more with the revolving years,

you’ll bring about for me. Oh tell me, child of golden Hope,

deathless Response!

ANTISTROPHE 1 I appeal to you �rst, daughter of Zeus,

deathless Athena, and to your sister who protects this land,

Artemis,6 whose famous throne is the whole circle of the marketplace,

and Phoebus, who shoots from afar: ioand Phoebus, who shoots from afar: iōand Phoebus, who shoots from afar: io! Three-fold defenders against death, appear! If ever in the past, to stop blind ruin

sent against the city, you banished utterly the �res of suffering,

come now again!

STROPHE 2 Ah! Ah! Unnumbered are the miseries I bear. The plague claims all our comrades. Nor has thought found yet a spear by which a man shall be protected. What our glorious earth gives birth to does not grow. Without a birth from cries of labor

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1Parados: A song sung by the Chorus on first entering.Parados: A song sung by the Chorus on first entering.Parados: 2Strophe: Probably refers to the direction in which the Chorus danced while reciting specific stanzas. Strophe: Probably refers to the direction in which the Chorus danced while reciting specific stanzas. Strophe: Strophe may have indicated dance steps to stage left, Strophe may have indicated dance steps to stage left, Strophe antistrophe to stage right.antistrophe to stage right.antistrophe 3Voice from Zeus: A reference to Apollo’s prophecy. Zeus taught Apollo how to prophesy.Voice from Zeus: A reference to Apollo’s prophecy. Zeus taught Apollo how to prophesy.Voice from Zeus: 4Pytho: Delphi.Pytho: Delphi.Pytho: 5Delian Healer: Apollo.Delian Healer: Apollo.Delian Healer: 6Artemis: Goddess of virginity, childbirth, and hunting.Artemis: Goddess of virginity, childbirth, and hunting.Artemis:

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do the women rise. One person after another

you may see, like �ying birds, faster than indomitable �re, sped to the shore of the god that is the sunset.7

ANTISTROPHE 2 And with their deaths unnumbered dies the city. Her children lie unpitied on the ground, spreading death, unmourned. Meanwhile young wives, and gray-haired mothers with them, on the shores of the altars, from this side and that, suppliants from mournful trouble,

cry out their grief. A hymn to the Healer shines,

the �ute a mourner’s voice. Against which, golden goddess, daughter of Zeus,

send lovely Strength.

STROPHE 3 Causing raging Ares8—who,

armed now with no shield of bronze, burns me, coming on amid loud cries— to turn his back and run from my land, with a fair wind behind, to the great

hall of Amphitritē,hall of Amphitritē,hall of Amphitrite 9

or to the anchorage that welcomes no one, Thrace’s troubled sea! If night lets something get away at last,

it comes by day. Fire-bearing god . . .

you who dispense the might of lightning, Zeus! Father! Destroy him with your thunderbolt!

Enter Oedipus from the palace.

ANTISTROPHE 3 Lycēan Lord!Lycēan Lord!Lyce 10 From your looped

bowstring, twisted gold,

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7godgod . . . sunset: Hades, god of the underworld.sunset: Hades, god of the underworld.sunset: 8Ares: God of war and destruction.Ares: God of war and destruction.Ares: 9Amphitritē: The Atlantic Ocean.Amphitritē: The Atlantic Ocean.Amphitritē: 10LyceLycēLycean Lord: Apollo.an Lord: Apollo.an Lord:

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I wish indomitable missiles might be scattered and stand forward, our protectors; also �re-bearing radiance of Artemis, with which

she darts across the Lycian mountains. I call the god whose head is bound in gold, with whom this country shares its name, Bacchus,11 wine-�ushed, summoned by “euoi!,”

Maenads’ comrade, to approach ablaze

with gleaming . . . pine, opposed to that god-hated god.

EPISODE 11

OEDIPUS: I hear your prayer. Submit to what I say and to the labors that the plague demands and you’ll get help and a relief from evils. I’ll make the proclamation, though a stranger to the report and to the deed. Alone, had I no key, I would soon lose the track. Since it was only later that I joined you, to all the sons of Cadmus I say this: whoever has clear knowledge of the man who murdered Laius, son of Labdacus, I command him to reveal it all to me— nor fear if, to remove the charge, he must accuse himself: his fate will not be cruel— he will depart unstumbling into exile. But if you know another, or a stranger, to be the one whose hand is guilty, speak: I shall reward you and remember you. But if you keep your peace because of fear, and shield yourself or kin from my command, hear you what I shall do in that event: I charge all in this land where I have throne and power, shut out that man—no matter who— both from your shelter and all spoken words, nor in your prayers or sacri�ces make him partner, nor allot him lustral2 water. All men shall drive him from their homes: for he is the pollution that the god-sent Pythian

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11Bacchus: Dionysus, god of fertility and wine.Bacchus: Dionysus, god of fertility and wine.Bacchus: 1Episode: The portion of ancient Greek plays that appears between choric songs.Episode: The portion of ancient Greek plays that appears between choric songs.Episode: 2lustral: Purifying.lustral: Purifying.lustral:

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response has only now revealed to me. In this way I ally myself in war with the divinity and the deceased.3

And this curse, too, against the one who did it, whether alone in secrecy, or with others: may he wear out his life unblest and evil! I pray this, too: if he is at my hearth and in my home, and I have knowledge of him, may the curse pronounced on others come to me. All this I lay to you to execute, for my sake, for the god’s, and for this land now ruined, barren, abandoned by the gods. Even if no god had driven you to it, you ought not to have left this stain uncleansed, the murdered man a nobleman, a king! You should have looked! But now, since, as it happens, It’s I who have the power that he had once, and have his bed, and a wife who shares our seed, and common bond had we had common children (had not his hope of offspring had bad luck— but as it happened, luck lunged at his head); because of this, as if for my own father, I’ll �ght for him, I’ll leave no means untried, to catch the one who did it with his hand, for the son of Labdacus, of Polydōrus,for the son of Labdacus, of Polydōrus,for the son of Labdacus, of Polydo of Cadmus before him, and of Agēof Cadmus before him, and of Agēof Cadmus before him, and of Agenor.4

This prayer against all those who disobey: the gods send out no harvest from their soil, nor children from their wives. Oh, let them die victims of this plague, or of something worse. Yet for the rest of us, people of Cadmus, we the obedient, may Justice, our ally, and all the gods, be always on our side!

CHORAGOS:5 I speak because I feel the grip of your curse: the killer is not I. Nor can I point to him. The one who set us to this search, Phoebus, should also name the guilty man.

OEDIPUS: Quite right, but to compel unwilling gods— no man has ever had that kind of power.

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3the deceased: Laius.the deceased: Laius.the deceased: 4sonson . . . AgēAgēAgenor: Refers to Laius by citing his genealogy.nor: Refers to Laius by citing his genealogy.nor: 5Choragos: Leader of the Chorus and principal commentator on the play’s action.Choragos: Leader of the Chorus and principal commentator on the play’s action.Choragos:

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CHORAGOS: May I suggest to you a second way? OEDIPUS: A second or a third—pass over nothing! CHORAGOS: I know of no one who sees more of what

Lord Phoebus sees than Lord Tiresias. My Lord, one might learn brilliantly from him.

OEDIPUS: Nor is this something I have been slow to do. At Creon’s word I sent an escort—twice now! I am astonished that he has not come.

CHORAGOS: The old account is useless. It told us nothing. OEDIPUS: But tell it to me. I’ll scrutinize all stories. CHORAGOS: He is said to have been killed by travelers. OEDIPUS: I have heard, but the one who did it no one sees. CHORAGOS: If there is any fear in him at all,

he won’t stay here once he has heard that curse. OEDIPUS: He won’t fear words: he had no fear when he did it.

Enter Tiresias from the right, led by a Servant and two of Oedipus’s Attendants.

CHORAGOS: Look there! There is the man who will convict him! It’s the god’s prophet they are leading here, one gifted with the truth as no one else.

OEDIPUS: Tiresias, master of all omens— public and secret, in the sky and on the earth— your mind, if not your eyes, sees how the city lives with a plague, against which Thebes can �nd no Saviour or protector, Lord, but you. For Phoebus, as the attendants surely told you, returned this answer to us: liberation from the disease would never come unless we learned without a doubt who murdered Laius— put them to death, or sent them into exile. Do not begrudge us what you may learn from birds or any other prophet’s path you know! Care for yourself, the city, care for me, care for the whole pollution of the dead! We’re in your hands. To do all that he can to help another is man’s noblest labor.

TIRESIAS: How terrible to understand and get no pro�t from the knowledge! I knew this, but I forgot, or I had never come.

OEDIPUS: What’s this? You’ve come with very little zeal. TIRESIAS: Let me go home! If you will listen to me,

You will endure your troubles better—and I mine. OEDIPUS: A strange request, not very kind to the land

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that cared for you—to hold back this oracle! TIRESIAS: I see your understanding comes to you

inopportunely. So that won’t happen to me . . . OEDIPUS: Oh, by the gods, if you understand about this,

don’t turn away! We’re on our knees to you. TIRESIAS: None of you understands! I’ll never bring

my grief to light—I will not speak of yours. OEDIPUS: You know and won’t declare it! Is your purpose

to betray us and to destroy this land! TIRESIAS: I will grieve neither of us. Stop this futile

cross-examination. I’ll tell you nothing! OEDIPUS: Nothing? You vile traitor! You could provoke

a stone to anger! You still refuse to tell? Can nothing soften you, nothing convince you?

TIRESIAS: You blamed anger in me—you haven’t seen. The kind that lives with you, so you blame me.

OEDIPUS: Who wouldn’t �ll with anger, listening to words like yours which now disgrace this city?

TIRESIAS: It will come, even if my silence hides it. OEDIPUS: If it will come, then why won’t you declare it? TIRESIAS: I’d rather say no more. Now if you wish,

respond to that with all your �ercest anger! OEDIPUS: Now I am angry enough to come right out

with this conjecture: you, I think, helped plot the deed; you did it—even if your hand, cannot have struck the blow. If you could see, I should have said the deed was yours alone.

TIRESIAS: Is that right! Then I charge you to abide by the decree you have announced: from this day say no word to either these or me, for you are the vile polluter of this land!

OEDIPUS: Aren’t you appalled to let a charge like that come bounding forth? How will you get away?

TIRESIAS: You cannot catch me. I have the strength of truth. OEDIPUS: Who taught you this? Not your prophetic craft! TIRESIAS: You did. You made me say it. I didn’t want to. OEDIPUS: Say what? Repeat it so I’ll understand. TIRESIAS: I made no sense? Or are you trying me? OEDIPUS: No sense I understood. Say it again! TIRESIAS: I say you are the murderer you seek. OEDIPUS: Again that horror! You’ll wish you hadn’t said that. TIRESIAS: Shall I say more, and raise your anger higher? OEDIPUS: Anything you like! Your words are powerless.

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TIRESIAS: You live, unknowing, with those nearest to you in the greatest shame. You do not see the evil.

OEDIPUS: You won’t go on like that and never pay! TIRESIAS: I can if there is any strength in truth. OEDIPUS: In truth, but not in you! You have no strength,

blind in your ears, your reason, and your eyes. TIRESIAS: Unhappy man! Those jeers you hurl at me

before long all these men will hurl at you. OEDIPUS: You are the child of endless night; it’s not

for me or anyone who sees to hurt you. TIRESIAS: It’s not my fate to be struck down by you.

Apollo is enough. That’s his concern. OEDIPUS: Are these inventions Creon’s or your own? TIRESIAS: No, your af�iction is yourself, not Creon. OEDIPUS: Oh success!—in wealth, kingship, artistry,

in any life that wins much admiration— the envious ill will stored up for you! to get at my command, a gift I did not seek, which the city put into my hands, my loyal Creon, colleague from the start, longs to sneak up in secret and dethrone me. So he’s suborned this fortuneteller—schemer! deceitful beggar-priest!—who has good eyes for gains alone, though in his craft he’s blind. Where were your prophet’s powers ever proved? Why, when the dog who chanted verse6 was here, did you not speak and liberate this city? Her riddle wasn’t for a man chancing by to interpret; prophetic art was needed, but you had none, it seems—learned from birds or from a god. I came along, yes I, Oedipus the ignorant, and stopped her— by using thought, not augury from birds. And it is I whom you now wish to banish, so you’ll be close to the Creontian throne. You—and the plot’s concocter—will drive out pollution to your grief: you look quite old or you would be the victim of that plot!

CHORAGOS: It seems to us that this man’s words were said in anger, Oedipus, and yours as well. Insight, not angry words, is what we need,

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6dogdog . . . verse: The Sphinx.verse: The Sphinx.verse:

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the best solution to the god’s response. TIRESIAS: You are the king, and yet I am your equal

in my right to speak. In that I too am Lord. for I belong to Loxias,7 not you. I am not Creon’s man. He’s nothing to me. Hear this, since you have thrown my blindness at me: Your eyes can’t see the evil to which you’ve come, nor where you live, nor who is in your house. Do you know your parents? Not knowing, you are their enemy, in the underworld and here. A mother’s and a father’s double-lashing terrible-footed curse will soon drive you out. Now you can see, then you will stare into darkness. What place will not be harbor to your cry, or what Cithaeron8 not reverberate when you have heard the bride-song in your palace to which you sailed? Fair wind to evil harbor! Nor do you see how many other woes will level you to yourself and to your children. So, at my message, and at Creon, too, splatter muck! There will never be a man ground into wretchedness as you will be.

OEDIPUS: Am I to listen to such things from him! May you be damned! Get out of here at once! Go! Leave my palace! Turn around and go!

Tiresias begins to move away from Oedipus.

TIRESIAS: I wouldn’t have come had you not sent for me. OEDIPUS: I did not know you’d talk stupidity,

or I wouldn’t have rushed to bring you to my house. TIRESIAS: Stupid I seem to you, yet to your parents

who gave you natural birth I seemed quite shrewd. OEDIPUS: Who? Wait! Who is the one who gave me birth? TIRESIAS: This day will give you birth,9 and ruin too. OEDIPUS: What murky, riddling things you always say! TIRESIAS: Don’t you surpass us all at �nding out? OEDIPUS: You sneer at what you’ll �nd has brought me greatness. TIRESIAS: And that’s the very luck that ruined you. OEDIPUS: I wouldn’t care, just so I saved the city. TIRESIAS: In that case I shall go. Boy, lead the way!

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7Loxias: Apollo.Loxias: Apollo.Loxias: 8Cithaeron: The mountain on which Oedipus was to be exposed as an infant.Cithaeron: The mountain on which Oedipus was to be exposed as an infant.Cithaeron: 9This dayThis day . . . birth: On this day, you will learn who your parents are.birth: On this day, you will learn who your parents are.birth:

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OEDIPUS: Yes, let him lead you off. Here, underfoot, you irk me. Gone, you’ll cause no further pain.

TIRESIAS: I’ll go when I have said what I was sent for. Your face won’t scare me. You can’t ruin me. I say to you, the man whom you have looked for as you pronounced your curses, your decrees on the bloody death of Laius—he is here! A seeming stranger, he shall be shown to be a Theban born, though he’ll take no delight in that solution. Blind, who once could see, a beggar who was rich, through foreign lands he’ll go and point before him with a stick. To his beloved children, he’ll be shown a father who is also brother; to the one who bore him, son and husband; to his father, his seed-fellow and killer. Go in and think this out; and if you �nd I’ve lied, say then I have no prophet’s understanding!

Exit Tiresias, led by a Servant. Oedipus exits into the palace with his Attendants.

STASIMON 11

STROPHE 1

CHORUS: Who is the man of whom the inspired rock of Delphi2 said

he has committed the unspeakable with blood-stained hands?

Time for him to ply a foot mightier than those of the horses

of the storm in his escape; upon him mounts and plunges the weaponed son of Zeus,3 with �re and thunderbolts, and in his train the dreaded goddesses of Death, who never miss.

ANTISTROPHE 1 The message has just blazed,

gleaming from the snows of Mount Parnassus: we must track

everywhere the unseen man.

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1Stasimon: Greek choral ode between episodes.Stasimon: Greek choral ode between episodes.Stasimon: 2rock of Delphi: Apollo’s oracle at Delphi.rock of Delphi: Apollo’s oracle at Delphi.rock of Delphi: 3son of Zeus: Apollo.son of Zeus: Apollo.son of Zeus:

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He wanders, hidden by wild forests, up through caves

and rocks, like a bull, anxious, with an anxious foot, forlorn. He puts away from him the mantic4 words come from earth’s navel,5 at its center, yet these live forever and still hover round him.

STROPHE 2 Terribly he troubles me,

the skilled interpreter of birds!6

I can’t assent, nor speak against him. Both paths are closed to me.

I hover on the wings of doubt, not seeing what is here nor what’s to come.

What quarrel started in the house of Labdacus7

or in the house of Polybus,8

either ever in the past or now, I never

heard, so that . . . with this fact for my touchstone I could attack the public

fame of Oedipus, by the side of the Labdaceans an ally, against the dark assassination.

ANTISTROPHE 2 No, Zeus and Apollo

understand and know things mortal; but that another man

can do more as a prophet than I can— for that there is no certain test,

though, skill to skill, one man might overtake another. No, never, not until

I see the charges proved, when someone blames him shall I nod assent. For once, as we all saw, the winged maiden9 came

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4mantic: Prophetic.mantic: Prophetic.mantic: 5earth’s navel: Delphi.earth’s navel: Delphi.earth’s navel: 6interpreter of birds: Tiresias. The Chorus is troubled by his accusations.interpreter of birds: Tiresias. The Chorus is troubled by his accusations.interpreter of birds: 7house of Labdacus: The line of Laius.house of Labdacus: The line of Laius.house of Labdacus: 8Polybus: Oedipus’s foster father.Polybus: Oedipus’s foster father.Polybus: 9winged maiden: The Sphinx.winged maiden: The Sphinx.winged maiden:

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against him: he was seen then to be skilled, proved, by that touchstone, dear to the people. So,

never will my mind convict him of the evil.

EPISODE 2

Enter Creon from the right door of the skene and speaks to the Chorus.

CREON: Citizens, I hear that a fearful charge is made against me by King Oedipus! I had to come. If, in this crisis, he thinks that he has suffered injury from anything that I have said or done, I have no appetite for a long life— bearing a blame like that! It’s no slight blow the punishment I’d take from what he said: it’s the ultimate hurt to be called traitor by the city, by you, by my own people!

CHORAGOS: The thing that forced that accusation out could have been anger, not the power of thought.

CREON: But who persuaded him that thoughts of mine had led the prophet into telling lies?

CHORAGOS: I do not know the thought behind his words. CREON: But did he look straight at you? Was his mind right

when he said that I was guilty of this charge? CHORAGOS: I have no eyes to see what rulers do.

But here he comes himself out of the house.

Enter Oedipus from the palace.

OEDIPUS: What? You here? And can you really have the face and daring to approach my house when you’re exposed as its master’s murderer and caught, too, as the robber of my kingship? Did you see cowardice in me, by the gods, or foolishness, when you began this plot? Did you suppose that I would not detect your stealthy moves, or that I’d not �ght back? It’s your attempt that’s folly, isn’t it— tracking without followers or connections, kingship which is caught with wealth and numbers?

CREON: Now wait! Give me as long to answer back! Judge me for yourself when you have heard me!

OEDIPUS: You’re eloquent, but I’d be slow to learn from you, now that I’ve seen your malice toward me.

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CREON: That I deny. Hear what I have to say. OEDIPUS: Don’t you deny it! You are the traitor here! CREON: If you consider mindless willfulness

a prized possession, you are not thinking sense. OEDIPUS: If you think you can wrong a relative

and get off free, you are not thinking sense. CREON: Perfectly just, I won’t say no. And yet

what is this injury you say I did you? OEDIPUS: Did you persuade me, yes or no, to send

someone to bring that solemn prophet here? CREON: And I still hold to the advice I gave. OEDIPUS: How many years ago did your King Laius . . . CREON: Laius! Do what? Now I don’t understand. OEDIPUS: Vanish—victim of a murderous violence? CREON: That is a long count back into the past. OEDIPUS: Well, was this seer then practicing his art? CREON: Yes, skilled and honored just as he is today. OEDIPUS: Did he, back then, ever refer to me? CREON: He did not do so in my presence ever. OEDIPUS: You did inquire into the murder then. CREON: We had to, surely, though we discovered nothing. OEDIPUS: But the “skilled” one did not say this then? Why not? CREON: I never talk when I am ignorant. OEDIPUS: But you’re not ignorant of your own part. CREON: What do you mean? I’ll tell you if I know. OEDIPUS: Just this: if he had not conferred with you

he’d not have told about my murdering Laius. CREON: If he said that, you are the one who knows.

But now it’s fair that you should answer me. OEDIPUS: Ask on! You won’t convict me as the killer. CREON: Well then, answer. My sister is your wife? OEDIPUS: Now there’s a statement that I can’t deny. CREON: You two have equal power in this country? OEDIPUS: She gets from me whatever she desires. CREON: And I’m a third? The three of us are equals? OEDIPUS: That’s where you’re treacherous to your kinsman! CREON: But think about this rationally, as I do.

First look at this: do you think anyone prefers the anxieties of being king to untroubled sleep—if he has equal power? I’m not the kind of man who falls in love with kingship. I am content with a king’s power. And so would any man who’s wise and prudent.

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I get all things from you, with no distress; as king I would have onerous duties, too. How could the kingship bring me more delight than this untroubled power and in�uence? I’m not misguided yet to such a point that pro�table honors aren’t enough. As it is, all wish me well and all salute; those begging you for something have me summoned, for their success depends on that alone. Why should I lose all this to become king? A prudent mind is never traitorous. Treason’s a thought I’m not enamored of; nor could I join a man who acted so. In proof of this, �rst go yourself to Pytho and ask if I brought back the true response. Then, if you �nd I plotted with that portent reader,1 don’t have me put to death by your vote only—I’ll vote myself for my conviction. Don’t let an unsupported thought convict me! It’s not right mindlessly to take the bad for good or to suppose the good are traitors. Rejecting a relation who is loyal is like rejecting life, our greatest love. In time you’ll know securely without stumbling, for time alone can prove a just man just, though you can know a bad man in a day.

CHORAGOS: Well said, to one who’s anxious not to fall. Swift thinkers, Lord, are never safe from stumbling.

OEDIPUS: But when a swift and secret plotter moves against me, I must make swift counterplot. If I lie quiet and await his move, he’ll have achieved his aims and I’ll have missed.

CREON: You surely cannot mean you want me exiled! OEDIPUS: Not exiled, no. Your death is what I want! CREON: If you would �rst de�ne what envy is . . . OEDIPUS: Are you still stubborn? Still disobedient? CREON: I see you cannot think! OEDIPUS: For me I can. CREON: You should for me as well! OEDIPUS: But you’re a traitor!

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1portent reader: Apollo’s oracle or prophet.portent reader: Apollo’s oracle or prophet.portent reader:

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CREON: What if you’re wrong? OEDIPUS: Authority must be maintained. CREON: Not if the ruler’s evil. OEDIPUS: Hear that, Thebes! CREON: It is my city too, not yours alone! CHORAGOS: Please don’t, my Lords! Ah, just in time, I see

Jocasta there, coming from the palace. With her help you must settle your quarrel.

Enter Jocasta from the palace.

JOCASTA: Wretched men! What has provoked this ill- advised dispute? Have you no sense of shame, with Thebes so sick, to stir up private troubles? Now go inside! And Creon, you go home! Don’t make a general anguish out of nothing!

CREON: My sister, Oedipus your husband here sees �t to do one of two hideous things: to have me banished from the land—or killed!

OEDIPUS: That’s right: I caught him, Lady, plotting harm against my person—with a malignant science.

CREON: May my life fail, may I die cursed, if I did any of the things you said I did!

JOCASTA: Believe his words, for the god’s sake, Oedipus, in deference above all to his oath to the gods. Also for me, and for these men!

KOMMOS1

STROPHE 1

CHORUS: Consent, with will and mind, my king, I beg of you!

OEDIPUS: What do you wish me to surrender? CHORUS: Show deference to him who was not feeble in time past

and is now great in the power of his oath! OEDIPUS: Do you know what you’re asking? CHORUS: Yes. OEDIPUS: Tell me then. CHORUS: Never to cast into dishonored guilt, with an unproved

assumption, a kinsman who has bound himself by curse. OEDIPUS: Now you must understand, when you ask this,

you ask my death or banishment from the land.

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1Kommos: A dirge or lament sung by the Chorus and one or more of the chief characters.Kommos: A dirge or lament sung by the Chorus and one or more of the chief characters.Kommos:

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STROPHE 2

CHORUS: No, by the god who is the foremost of all gods, the Sun! No! Godless,

friendless, whatever death is worst of all, let that be my destruction, if this

thought ever moved me! But my ill-fated soul

this dying land wears out—the more if to these older troubles she adds new troubles from the two of you!

OEDIPUS: Then let him go, though it must mean my death, or else disgrace and exile from the land. My pity is moved by your words, not by his— he’ll only have my hate, wherever he goes.

CREON: You’re sullen as you yield; you’ll be depressed when you’ve passed through this anger. Natures like yours are hardest on themselves. That’s as it should be.

OEDIPUS: Then won’t you go and let me be? CREON: I’ll go.

Though you’re unreasonable, they know I’m righteous.

Exit Creon.

ANTISTROPHE 1

CHORUS: Why are you waiting, Lady? Conduct him back into the palace!

JOCASTA: I will, when I have heard what chanced. CHORUS: Conjectures—words alone, and nothing based on thought.

But even an injustice can devour a man. JOCASTA: Did the words come from both sides? CHORUS: Yes. JOCASTA: What was said? CHORUS: To me it seems enough! enough! the land already troubled,

that this should rest where it has stopped. OEDIPUS: See what you’ve come to in your honest thought,

in seeking to relax and blunt my heart?

ANTISTROPHE 2

CHORUS: I have not said this only once, my Lord. That I had lost my sanity,

without a path in thinking— be sure this would be clear

if I put you away

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who, when my cherished land wandered crazed

with suffering, brought her back on course. Now, too, be a lucky helmsman!

JOCASTA: Please, for the god’s sake, Lord, explain to me the reason why you have conceived this wrath?

OEDIPUS: I honor you, not them,2 and I’ll explain to you how Creon has conspired against me.

JOCASTA: All right, if that will explain how the quarrel started. OEDIPUS: He says I am the murderer of Laius! JOCASTA: Did he claim knowledge or that someone told him? OEDIPUS: Here’s what he did: he sent that vicious seer

so he could keep his own mouth innocent. JOCASTA: Ah then, absolve yourself of what he charges!

Listen to this and you’ll agree, no mortal is ever given skill in prophecy. I’ll prove this quickly with one incident. It was foretold to Laius—I shall not say by Phoebus himself, but by his ministers— that when his fate arrived he would be killed by a son who would be born to him and me. And yet, so it is told, foreign robbers murdered him, at a place where three roads meet. As for the child I bore him, not three days passed before he yoked the ball-joints of its feet,3

then cast it, by others’ hands, on a trackless mountain. That time Apollo did not make our child a patricide, or bring about what Laius feared, that he be killed by his own son. That’s how prophetic words determined things! Forget them. The things a god must track he will himself painlessly reveal.

OEDIPUS: Just now, as I was listening to you, Lady, what a profound distraction seized my mind!

JOCASTA: What made you turn around so anxiously? OEDIPUS: I thought you said that Laius was attacked

and butchered at a place where three roads meet. JOCASTA: That is the story, and it is told so still. OEDIPUS: Where is the place where this was done to him?

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2them: The Chorus.them: The Chorus.them: 3ball-joints of its feet: The ankles.ball-joints of its feet: The ankles.ball-joints of its feet:

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JOCASTA: The land’s called Phocis, where a two-forked road comes in from Delphi and from Daulia.

OEDIPUS: And how much time has passed since these events? JOCASTA: Just prior to your presentation here

as king this news was published to the city. OEDIPUS: Oh, Zeus, what have you willed to do to me? JOCASTA: Oedipus, what makes your heart so heavy? OEDIPUS: No, tell me �rst of Laius’ appearance,

what peak of youthful vigor he had reached. JOCASTA: A tall man, showing his �rst growth of white.

He had a �gure not unlike your own. OEDIPUS: Alas! It seems that in my ignorance

I laid those fearful curses on myself. JOCASTA: What is it, Lord? I �inch to see your face. OEDIPUS: I’m dreadfully afraid the prophet sees.

But I’ll know better with one more detail. JOCASTA: I’m frightened too. But ask: I’ll answer you. OEDIPUS: Was his retinue small, or did he travel

with a great troop, as would be�t a prince? JOCASTA: There were just �ve in all, one a herald.

There was a carriage, too, bearing Laius. OEDIPUS: Alas! Now I see it! But who was it,

Lady, who told you what you know about this? JOCASTA: A servant who alone was saved unharmed. OEDIPUS: By chance, could he be now in the palace? JOCASTA: No, he is not. When he returned and saw

you had the power of the murdered Laius, he touched my hand and begged me formally to send him to the �elds and to the pastures, so he’d be out of sight, far from the city. I did. Although a slave, he well deserved to win this favor, and indeed far more.

OEDIPUS: Let’s have him called back in immediately. JOCASTA: That can be done, but why do you desire it? OEDIPUS: I fear, Lady, I have already said

too much. That’s why I wish to see him now. JOCASTA: Then he shall come; but it is right somehow

that I, too, Lord, should know what troubles you. OEDIPUS: I’ve gone so deep into the things I feared

I’ll tell you everything. Who has a right greater than yours, while I cross through this chance? Polybus of Corinth was my father, my mother was the Dorian Meropē.my mother was the Dorian Meropē.my mother was the Dorian Merope

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I was �rst citizen, until this chance attacked me—striking enough, to be sure, but not worth all the gravity I gave it. This: at a feast a man who’d drunk too much denied, at the wine, I was my father’s son. I was depressed and all that day I barely held it in. Next day I put the question to my mother and father. They were enraged at the man who’d let this �ction �y at me. I was much cheered by them. And yet it kept grinding into me. His words kept coming back. Without my mother’s or my father’s knowledge I went to Pytho. But Phoebus sent me away dishonoring my demand. Instead, other wretched horrors he �ashed forth in speech. He said that I would be my mother’s lover, show offspring to mankind they could not look at, and be his murderer whose seed I am.4

When I heard this, and ever since, I gauged the way to Corinth by the stars alone, running to a place where I would never see the disgrace in the oracle’s words come true. But I soon came to the exact location where, as you tell of it, the king was killed. Lady, here is the truth. As I went on, when I was just approaching those three roads, a herald and a man like him you spoke of came on, riding a carriage drawn by colts. Both the man out front and the old man himself 5

tried violently to force me off the road. The driver, when he tried to push me off, I struck in anger. The old man saw this, watched me approach, then leaned out and lunged down with twin prongs6 at the middle of my head! He got more than he gave. Abruptly—struck once by the staff in this my hand—he tumbled out, head �rst, from the middle of the carriage. And then I killed them all. But if there is

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4be . . . am: I would murder my father.be . . . am: I would murder my father.be . . . am: 5old man himself: Laius.old man himself: Laius.old man himself: 6lunged . . . prongs: Laius strikes Oedipus with a two-pronged horse goad, or whip.lunged . . . prongs: Laius strikes Oedipus with a two-pronged horse goad, or whip.lunged . . . prongs:

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a kinship between Laius and this stranger, who is more wretched than the man you see? Who was there born more hated by the gods? For neither citizen nor foreigner may take me in his home or speak to me. No, they must drive me off. And it is I who have pronounced these curses on myself! I stain the dead man’s bed with these my hands, by which he died. Is not my nature vile? Unclean?—if I am banished and even in exile I may not see my own parents, or set foot in my homeland, or else be yoked in marriage to my mother, and kill my father, Polybus, who raised me and gave me birth? If someone judged a cruel divinity did this to me, would he not speak the truth? You pure and awful gods, may I not ever see that day, may I be swept away from men before I see so great and so calamitous a stain �xed on my person!

CHORAGOS: These things seem fearful to us, Lord, and yet, until you hear it from the witness, keep hope!

OEDIPUS: That is the single hope that’s left to me, to wait for him, that herdsman—until he comes.

JOCASTA: When he appears, what are you eager for? OEDIPUS: Just this: if his account agrees with yours

then I shall have escaped this misery. JOCASTA: But what was it that struck you in my story? OEDIPUS: You said he spoke of robbers as the ones

who killed him. Now: if he continues still to speak of many, then I could not have killed him. One man and many men just do not jibe. But if he says one belted man, the doubt is gone. The balance tips toward me. I did it.

JOCASTA: No! He told it as I told you. Be certain. He can’t reject that and reverse himself. The city heard these things, not I alone. But even if he swerves from what he said, he’ll never show that Laius’ murder, Lord, occurred just as predicted. For Loxias expressly said my son was doomed to kill him. The boy—poor boy—he never had a chance to cut him down, for he was cut down �rst.

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Never again, just for some oracle will I shoot frightened glances right and left.

OEDIPUS: That’s full of sense. Nonetheless, send a man to bring that farm hand here. Will you do it?

JOCASTA: I’ll send one right away. But let’s go in. Would I do anything against your wishes?

Exit Oedipus and Jocasta through the central door into the palace.

STASIMON 2

STROPHE 1

CHORUS: May there accompany me the fate to keep a reverential purity in what I say, in all I do, for which the laws have been set forth and walk on high, born to traverse the brightest, highest upper air; Olympus1 only is their father, nor was it mortal nature that fathered them, and never will oblivion lull them into sleep; the god in them is great and never ages.

ANTISTROPHE 1 The will to violate, seed of the tyrant, if it has drunk mindlessly of wealth and power, without a sense of time or true advantage, mounts to a peak, then plunges to an abrupt . . . destiny, where the useful foot is of no use. But the kind of struggling that is good for the city I ask the god never to abolish. The god is my protector: never will I give that up.

STROPHE 2 But if a man proceeds disdainfully

in deeds of hand or word and has no fear of Justice

or reverence for shrines of the divinities (may a bad fate catch him

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1Olympus: Mount Olympus, home of the gods, and treated as a god itself.Olympus: Mount Olympus, home of the gods, and treated as a god itself.Olympus:

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for his luckless wantonness!), if he’ll not gain what he gains with justice and deny himself what is unholy, or if he clings, in foolishness, to the untouchable (what man, �nally, in such an action, will have strength enough to fend off passion’s arrows from his soul?), if, I say, this kind of

deed is held in honor— why should I join the sacred dance?

ANTISTROPHE 2 No longer shall I visit and revere

Earth’s navel,2 the untouchable, nor visit Abae’s 3 temple,

or Olympia,4

if the prophecies are not matched by events for all the world to point to.

No, you who hold the power, if you are rightly called Zeus the king of all, let this matter not escape you and your ever-deathless rule, for the prophecies to Laius fade . . . and men already disregard them; nor is Apollo anywhere

glori�ed with honors. Religion slips away.

EPISODE 3

Enter Jocasta from the palace carrying a branch wound with wool and a jar of incense. She is attended by two women.

JOCASTA: Lords of the realm, the thought has come to me to visit shrines of the divinities with suppliant’s branch in hand and fragrant smoke. For Oedipus excites his soul too much with alarms of all kinds. He will not judge the present by the past, like a man of sense. He’s at the mercy of all terror-mongers.

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2Earth’s navel: Delphi.Earth’s navel: Delphi.Earth’s navel: 3Abae’s: Abae was a town in Phocis where there was another oracle of Apollo.Abae’s: Abae was a town in Phocis where there was another oracle of Apollo.Abae’s: 4Olympia: Site of the oracle of Zeus.Olympia: Site of the oracle of Zeus.Olympia:

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Jocasta approaches the altar on the right and kneels.

Since I can do no good by counseling, Apollo the LycēApollo the LycēApollo the Lycean!—you are the closest— I come a suppliant, with these my vows, for a cleansing that will not pollute him. For when we see him shaken we are all afraid, like people looking at their helmsman.

Enter a Messenger along one of the parados. He sees Jocasta at the altar and then addresses the Chorus.

MESSENGER: I would be pleased if you would help me, stranger. Where is the palace of King Oedipus? Or tell me where he is himself, if you know.

CHORUS: This is his house, stranger. He is within. This is his wife and mother of his children.

MESSENGER: May she and her family �nd prosperity, if, as you say, her marriage is ful�lled.

JOCASTA: You also, stranger, for you deserve as much for your gracious words. But tell me why you’ve come. What do you wish? Or what have you to tell us?

MESSENGER: Good news, my Lady, both for your house and husband. JOCASTA: What is your news? And who has sent you to us? MESSENGER: I come from Corinth. When you have heard my news

you will rejoice, I’m sure—and grieve perhaps. JOCASTA: What is it? How can it have this double power? MESSENGER: They will establish him their king, so say

the people of the land of Isthmia.1

JOCASTA: But is old Polybus not still in power? MESSENGER: He’s not, for death has clasped him in the tomb. JOCASTA: What’s this? Has Oedipus’ father died? MESSENGER: If I have lied then I deserve to die. JOCASTA: Attendant! Go quickly to your master,

and tell him this.

Exit an Attendant into the palace.

Oracles of the gods! Where are you now? The man whom Oedipus �ed long ago, for fear that he should kill him— he’s been destroyed by chance and not by him!

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1land of Isthmia: Corinth, Greek city-state situated on an isthmus.land of Isthmia: Corinth, Greek city-state situated on an isthmus.land of Isthmia:

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Enter Oedipus from the palace.

OEDIPUS: Darling Jocasta, my beloved wife, Why have you called me from the palace?

JOCASTA: First hear what this man has to say. Then see what the god’s grave oracle has come to now!

OEDIPUS: Where is he from? What is this news he brings me? JOCASTA: From Corinth. He brings news about your father:

that Polybus is no more! that he is dead! OEDIPUS: What’s this, old man? I want to hear you say it. MESSENGER: If this is what must �rst be clari�ed,

please be assured that he is dead and gone. OEDIPUS: By treachery or by the touch of sickness? MESSENGER: Light pressures tip agéd frames into their sleep. OEDIPUS: You mean the poor man died of some disease. MESSENGER: And of the length of years that he had tallied. OEDIPUS: Aha! Then why should we look to Pytho’s vapors,2

or to the birds that scream above our heads?3

If we could really take those things for guides, I would have killed my father. But he’s dead! He is beneath the earth, and here am I, who never touched a spear. Unless he died of longing for me and I “killed” him that way! No, in this case, Polybus, by dying, took the worthless oracle to Hades with him.

JOCASTA: And wasn’t I telling you that just now? OEDIPUS: You were indeed. I was misled by fear. JOCASTA: You should not care about this anymore. OEDIPUS: I must care. I must stay clear of my mother’s bed. JOCASTA: What’s there for man to fear? The realm of chance

prevails. True foresight isn’t possible. His life is best who lives without a plan. This marriage with your mother—don’t fear it. How many times have men in dreams, too, slept with their own mothers! Those who believe such things mean nothing endure their lives most easily.

OEDIPUS: A �ne, bold speech, and you are right, perhaps, except that my mother is still living, so I must fear her, however well you argue.

JOCASTA: And yet your father’s tomb is a great eye.

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2Pytho’s vapors: Prophecies of the oracle at Delphi.Pytho’s vapors: Prophecies of the oracle at Delphi.Pytho’s vapors: 3birds birds birds . . . heads: Prophecies derived from interpreting the flights of birds.heads: Prophecies derived from interpreting the flights of birds.heads:

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OEDIPUS: Illuminating, yes. But I still fear the living. MESSENGER: Who is the woman who inspires this fear? OEDIPUS: Meropē, Polybus’ wife, old man.Meropē, Polybus’ wife, old man.Merope MESSENGER: And what is there about her that alarms you? OEDIPUS: An oracle, god-sent and fearful, stranger. MESSENGER: Is it permitted that another know? OEDIPUS: It is. Loxias once said to me

I must have intercourse with my own mother and take my father’s blood with these my hands. So I have long lived far away from Corinth. This has indeed brought much good luck, and yet, to see one’s parents’ eyes is happiest.

MESSENGER: Was it for this that you have lived in exile? OEDIPUS: So I’d not be my father’s killer, sir. MESSENGER: Had I not better free you from this fear,

my Lord? That’s why I came—to do you service. OEDIPUS: Indeed, what a reward you’d get for that! MESSENGER: Indeed, this is the main point of my trip,

to be rewarded when you get back home. OEDIPUS: I’ll never rejoin the givers of my seed!4

MESSENGER: My son, clearly you don’t know what you’re doing. OEDIPUS: But how is that, old man? For the gods’ sake, tell me! MESSENGER: If it’s because of them you won’t go home. OEDIPUS: I fear that Phoebus will have told the truth. MESSENGER: Pollution from the ones who gave you seed? OEDIPUS: That is the thing, old man, I always fear. MESSENGER: Your fear is groundless. Understand that. OEDIPUS: Groundless? Not if I was born their son. MESSENGER: But Polybus is not related to you. OEDIPUS: Do you mean Polybus was not my father? MESSENGER: No more than I. We’re both the same to you. OEDIPUS: Same? One who begot me and one who didn’t? MESSENGER: He didn’t beget you any more than I did. OEDIPUS: But then, why did he say I was his son? MESSENGER: He got you as a gift from my own hands. OEDIPUS: He loved me so, though from another’s hands? MESSENGER: His former childlessness persuaded him. OEDIPUS: But had you bought me, or begotten me? MESSENGER: Found you. In the forest hallows of Cithaeron. OEDIPUS: What were you doing traveling in that region?

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4givers of my seed: i.e., “my parents.” Oedipus still thinks Meropegivers of my seed: i.e., “my parents.” Oedipus still thinks Meropegivers of my seed: ¯ i.e., “my parents.” Oedipus still thinks Meropē i.e., “my parents.” Oedipus still thinks Merope and Polybus are his parents.

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MESSENGER: I was in charge of �ocks which grazed those mountains. OEDIPUS: A wanderer who worked the �ocks for hire? MESSENGER: Ah, but that day I was your savior, son. OEDIPUS: From what? What was my trouble when you took me? MESSENGER: The ball-joints of your feet might testify. OEDIPUS: What’s that? What makes you name that ancient trouble? MESSENGER: Your feet were pierced and I am your rescuer. OEDIPUS: A fearful rebuke those tokens left for me! MESSENGER: That was the chance that names you who you are. OEDIPUS: By the gods, did my mother or my father do this? MESSENGER: That I don’t know. He might who gave you to me. OEDIPUS: From someone else? You didn’t chance on me? MESSENGER: Another shepherd handed you to me. OEDIPUS: Who was he? Do you know? Will you explain! MESSENGER: They called him one of the men of—was it Laius? OEDIPUS: The one who once was king here long ago? MESSENGER: That is the one! The man was shepherd to him. OEDIPUS: And is he still alive so I can see him? MESSENGER: But you who live here ought to know that best. OEDIPUS: Does any one of you now present know

about the shepherd whom this man has named? Have you seen him in town or in the �elds? Speak out! The time has come for the discovery!

CHORAGOS: The man he speaks of, I believe, is the same as the �eld hand you have already asked to see. But it’s Jocasta who would know this best.

OEDIPUS: Lady, do you remember the man we just now sent for—is that the man he speaks of?

JOCASTA: What? The man he spoke of? Pay no attention! His words are not worth thinking about. It’s nothing.

OEDIPUS: With clues like this within my grasp, give up? Fail to solve the mystery of my birth?

JOCASTA: For the love of the gods, and if you love your life, give up this search! My sickness is enough.

OEDIPUS: Come! Though my mothers for three generations were in slavery, you’d not be lowborn!

JOCASTA: No, listen to me! Please! Don’t do this thing! OEDIPUS: I will not listen; I will search out the truth. JOCASTA: My thinking is for you—it would be best. OEDIPUS: This “best” of yours is starting to annoy me. JOCASTA: Doomed man! Never �nd out who you are! OEDIPUS: Will someone go and bring that shepherd here?

Leave her to glory in her wealthy birth!

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JOCASTA: Man of misery! No other name shall I address you by, ever again.

Exit Jocasta into the palace after a long pause.

CHORAGOS: Why has your lady left, Oedipus, hurled by a savage grief? I am afraid disaster will come bursting from this silence.

OEDIPUS: Let it burst forth! However low this seed of mine may be, yet I desire to see it. She, perhaps—she has a woman’s pride— is morti�ed by my base origins. But I who count myself the child of Chance, the giver of good, shall never know dishonor. She is my mother,5 and the months my brothers who �rst marked out my lowness, then my greatness. I shall not prove untrue to such a nature by giving up the search for my own birth.

STASIMON 3 STROPHE

CHORUS: If I have mantic power 1

and excellence in thought, by Olympus,

you shall not, Cithaeron, at tomorrow’s full moon, fail to hear us celebrate you as the countryman of Oedipus, his nurse and mother, or fail to be the subject of our dance,

since you have given pleasure to our king. Phoebus, whom we summon by “iē!,”Phoebus, whom we summon by “iē!,”Phoebus, whom we summon by “ie may this be pleasing to you!

ANTISTROPHE Who was your mother, son? which of the long-lived nymphs after lying with Pan,2

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5SheShe . . . mother: Chance is my mother.mother: Chance is my mother.mother: 1IfIf . . . mantic power: If I am a prophet.mantic power: If I am a prophet.mantic power: 2Pan: God of shepherds and woodlands, half man and half goat.Pan: God of shepherds and woodlands, half man and half goat.Pan:

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the mountain roaming . . . Or was it a bride of Loxias?3

For dear to him are all the upland pastures. Or was it Mount CyllēneOr was it Mount CyllēneOr was it Mount Cylle ¯’s lord,¯nē’s lord,¯ne 4

or the Bacchic god,5

dweller of the mountain peaks, who received you as a joyous �nd from one of the nymphs of Helicon, the favorite sharers of his sport?

EPISODE 4

OEDIPUS: If someone like myself, who never met him, may calculate—elders, I think I see the very herdsman we’ve been waiting for. His many years would �t that man’s age, and those who bring him on, if I am right, are my own men. And yet, in real knowledge, you can outstrip me, surely: you’ve seen him.

Enter the old Herdsman escorted by two of Oedipus’s Attendants. At �rst, the Herdsman will not look at Oedipus.

CHORAGOS: I know him, yes, a man of the house of Laius, a trusty herdsman if he ever had one.

OEDIPUS: I ask you �rst, the stranger come from Corinth: is this the man you spoke of?

MESSENGER: That’s he you see. OEDIPUS: Then you, old man. First look at me! Now answer:

did you belong to Laius’ household once? HERDSMAN: I did. Not a purchased slave but raised in the palace. OEDIPUS: How have you spent your life? What is your work? HERDSMAN: Most of my life now I have tended sheep. OEDIPUS: Where is the usual place you stay with them? HERDSMAN: On Mount Cithaeron. Or in that district. OEDIPUS: Do you recall observing this man there? HERDSMAN: Doing what? Which is the man you mean? OEDIPUS: This man right here. Have you had dealings with him? HERDSMAN: I can’t say right away. I don’t remember. MESSENGER: No wonder, master. I’ll bring clear memory

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3Loxias: Apollo.Loxias: Apollo.Loxias: 4Mount CyllēMount CyllēMount Cyllenē’s lord: Hermes, messenger of the gods.’s lord: Hermes, messenger of the gods.’s lord: 5Bacchic god: Dionysus.Bacchic god: Dionysus.Bacchic god:

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to his ignorance. I’m absolutely sure he can recall it, the district was Cithaeron, he with a double �ock, and I, with one, lived close to him, for three entire seasons, six months along, from spring right to Arcturus.1

Then for the winter I’d drive mine to my fold, and he’d drive his to Laius’ pen again. Did any of the things I say take place?

HERDSMAN: You speak the truth, though it’s from long ago. MESSENGER: Do you remember giving me, back then,

a boy I was to care for as my own? HERDSMAN: What are you saying? Why do you ask me that? MESSENGER: There, sir, is the man who was that boy! HERDSMAN: Damn you! Shut your mouth! Keep your silence! OEDIPUS: Stop! Don’t you rebuke his words.

Your words ask for rebuke far more than his. HERDSMAN: But what have I done wrong, most royal master? OEDIPUS: Not telling of the boy of whom he asked. HERDSMAN: He’s ignorant and blundering toward ruin. OEDIPUS: Tell it willingly—or under torture. HERDSMAN: Oh god! Don’t—I am old—don’t torture me! OEDIPUS: Here! Someone put his hands behind his back! HERDSMAN: But why? What else would you �nd out, poor man? OEDIPUS: Did you give him the child he asks about? HERDSMAN: I did. I wish that I had died that day! OEDIPUS: You’ll come to that if you don’t speak the truth. HERDSMAN: It’s if I speak that I shall be destroyed. OEDIPUS: I think this fellow struggles for delay. HERDSMAN: No, no! I said already that I gave him. OEDIPUS: From your own home, or got from someone else? HERDSMAN: Not from my own. I got him from another. OEDIPUS: Which of these citizens? What sort of house? HERDSMAN: Don’t—by the gods!—don’t, master, ask me more! OEDIPUS: It means your death if I must ask again. HERDSMAN: One of the children of the house of Laius. OEDIPUS: A slave—or born into the family? HERDSMAN: I have come to the dreaded thing, and I shall say it. OEDIPUS: And I to hearing it, but hear I must. HERDSMAN: He was reported to have been—his son.

Your lady in the house could tell you best.

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1Arcturus: A star that is first seen in September in the sky over Greece.Arcturus: A star that is first seen in September in the sky over Greece.Arcturus:

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OEDIPUS: Because she gave him to you? HERDSMAN: Yes, my lord. OEDIPUS: What was her purpose? HERDSMAN: I was to kill the boy. OEDIPUS: The child she bore? HERDSMAN: She dreaded prophecies. OEDIPUS: What were they? HERDSMAN: The word was that he’d kill his parents. OEDIPUS: Then why did you give him up to this old man? HERDSMAN: In pity, master—so he would take him home,

to another land. But what he did was save him for this supreme disaster. If you are the one he speaks of—know your evil birth and fate!

OEDIPUS: Ah! All of it was destined to be true! Oh light, now may I look my last upon you, shown monstrous in my birth, in marriage monstrous, a murderer monstrous in those I killed.

Exit Oedipus, running into the palace.

STASIMON 4 STROPHE 1

CHORUS: Oh generations of mortal men, while you are living, I will

appraise your lives at zero! What man comes closer to seizing lasting blessedness than merely to seize its semblance, and after living in this semblance, to plunge? With your example before us, with your destiny, yours,

suffering Oedipus, no mortal can I judge fortunate.

ANTISTROPHE 1 For he,1 outranging everybody, shot his arrow2 and became the lord

of wide prosperity and blessedness, oh Zeus, after destroying the virgin with the crooked talons,3

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1he: Oedipus.he: Oedipus.he: 2shot his arrow: Took his chances; made a guess at the Sphinx’s riddle.shot his arrow: Took his chances; made a guess at the Sphinx’s riddle.shot his arrow: 3virginvirgin . . . talons: The Sphinx.talons: The Sphinx.talons:

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singer of oracles; and against death, in my land, he arose a tower of defense. From which time you were called my king and granted privileges supreme—in mighty Thebes the ruling lord.

STROPHE 2 But now—whose story is more sorrowful than yours? Who is more intimate with �erce calamities, with labors, now that your life is altered? Alas, my Oedipus, whom all men know: one great harbor4— one alone suf�ced for you, as son and father, when you tumbled,5 plowman6 of the woman’s chamber. How, how could your paternal

furrows, wretched man, endure you silently so long.

ANTISTROPHE 2 Time, all-seeing, surprised you living an unwilled life and sits from of old in judgment on the marriage, not a marriage, where the begetter is the begot as well. Ah, son of Laius . . . , would that—oh, would that I had never seen you! I wail, my scream climbing beyond itself from my whole power of voice. To say it straight:

from you I got new breath— but I also lulled my eye to sleep.7

EXODOS1

Enter the Second Messenger from the palace.

SECOND MESSENGER: You who are �rst among the citizens, what deeds you are about to hear and see!

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4one great harbor: Metaphorical allusion to Jocasta’s body.one great harbor: Metaphorical allusion to Jocasta’s body.one great harbor: 5tumbled: Were born and had sex.tumbled: Were born and had sex.tumbled: 6plowman: Plowing is used here as a sexual metaphor.plowman: Plowing is used here as a sexual metaphor.plowman: 7I I I . . . sleep: I failed to see the corruption you brought.sleep: I failed to see the corruption you brought.sleep: 1Exodos: The final scene, containing the play’s resolution.Exodos: The final scene, containing the play’s resolution.Exodos:

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What grief you’ll carry, if, true to your birth, you still respect the house of Labdacus! Neither the Ister nor the Phasis river could purify this house, such suffering does it conceal, or soon must bring to light— willed this time, not unwilled. Griefs hurt worst which we perceive to be self-chosen ones.

CHORAGOS: They were suf�cient, the things we knew before, to make us grieve. What can you add to those?

SECOND MESSENGER: The thing that’s quickest said and quickest heard: our own, our royal one, Jocasta’s dead.

CHORAGOS: Unhappy queen! What was responsible? SECOND MESSENGER: Herself. The bitterest of these events

is not for you, you were not there to see, but yet, exactly as I can recall it, you’ll hear what happened to that wretched lady. She came in anger through the outer hall, and then she ran straight to her marriage bed, tearing her hair with the �ngers of both hands. Then, slamming shut the doors when she was in, she called to Laius, dead so many years, remembering the ancient seed which caused his death, leaving the mother to the son to breed again an ill-born progeny. She mourned the bed where she, alas, bred double— husband by husband, children by her child. From this point on I don’t know how she died, for Oedipus then burst in with a cry, and did not let us watch her �nal evil. Our eyes were �xed on him. Wildly he ran to each of us, asking for his spear and for his wife—no wife: where he might �nd the double mother-�eld, his and his children’s. He raved, and some divinity then showed him— for none of us did so who stood close by. With a dreadful shout—as if some guide were leading— he lunged through the double doors; he bent the hollow bolts from the sockets, burst into the room, and there we saw her, hanging from above, entangled in some twisted hanging strands. He saw, was stricken, and with a wild roar ripped down the dangling noose. When she, poor woman, lay on the ground, there came a fearful sight:

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he snatched the pins of worked gold from her dress, with which her clothes were fastened: these he raised and struck into the ball-joints of his eyes.2

He shouted that they would no longer see the evils he had suffered or had done, see in the dark those he should not have seen, and know no more those he once sought to know. While chanting this, not once but many times he raised his hand and struck into his eyes. Blood from his wounded eyes poured down his chin, not freed in moistening drops, but all at once a stormy rain of black blood burst like hail. These evils, coupling them, making them one, have broken loose upon both man and wife. The old prosperity that they had once was true prosperity, and yet today, mourning, ruin, death, disgrace, and every evil you could name—not one is absent.

CHORAGOS: Has he allowed himself some peace from all this grief? SECOND MESSENGER: He shouts that someone slide the bolts and show

to all the Cadmeians the patricide, his mother’s—I can’t say it, it’s unholy— so he can cast himself out of the land, not stay and curse his house by his own curse. He lacks the strength, though, and he needs a guide, for his is a sickness that’s too great to bear. Now you yourself will see: the bolts of the doors are opening. You are about to see a vision even one who hates must pity.

Enter the blinded Oedipus from the palace, led in by a household Servant.

CHORAGOS: Terrifying suffering for men to see, more terrifying than any I’ve ever come upon. Oh man of pain what madness reached you? Which god from far off, surpassing in range his longest spring,

struck hard against your god-abandoned fate? Oh man of pain, I cannot look upon you—though there’s so much I would ask you, so much to hear,

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2ball-joints of his eyes: His eyeballs. Oedipus blinds himself in both eyes at the same time.ball-joints of his eyes: His eyeballs. Oedipus blinds himself in both eyes at the same time.ball-joints of his eyes:

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so much that holds my eyes— such is the shudder you produce in me.

OEDIPUS: Ah! Ah! I am a man of misery. Where am I carried? Pity me! Where is my voice scattered abroad on wings?

Divinity, where has your lunge transported me? CHORAGOS: To something horrible, not to be heard or seen.

KOMMOS STROPHE 1

OEDIPUS: Oh, my cloud of darkness, abominable, unspeakable as it attacks me, not to be turned away, brought by an evil wind! Alas! Again alas! Both enter me at once: the sting of the prongs,1 the memory of evils!

CHORUS: I do not marvel that in these af�ictions you carry double griefs and double evils.

ANTISTROPHE 1 OEDIPUS: Ah, friend,

so you at least are there, resolute servant! Still with a heart to care for me, the blind man. Oh! Oh! I know that you are there. I recognize even inside my darkness, that voice of yours.

CHORUS: Doer of horror, how did you bear to quench your vision? What divinity raised your hand?

STROPHE 2 OEDIPUS: It was Apollo there, Apollo, friends,

who brought my sorrows, vile sorrows to their perfection, these evils that were done to me.

But the one who struck them with his hand, that one was none but I, in wretchedness.

For why was I to see when nothing I could see would bring me joy?

CHORUS: Yes, that is how it was. OEDIPUS: What could I see, indeed,

or what enjoy—what greeting

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1prongs: Refers both to the whip that Laius used and to the two gold pins that Oedipus used to blind himself.prongs: Refers both to the whip that Laius used and to the two gold pins that Oedipus used to blind himself.prongs:

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is there I could hear with pleasure, friends? Conduct me out of the land

as quickly as you can! Conduct me out, my friends,

the man utterly ruined, supremely cursed,

the man who is by gods the most detested of all men!

CHORUS: Wretched in disaster and in knowledge: oh, I could wish you’d never come to know!

ANTISTROPHE 2

OEDIPUS: May he be destroyed, whoever freed the savage shackles from my feet when I’d been sent to the wild pasture,

whoever rescued me from murder and became my savior—

a bitter gift: if I had died then, I’d not have been such grief to self and kin.

CHORUS: I also would have had it so. OEDIPUS: I’d not have returned to be my father’s

murderer; I’d not be called by men my mother’s bridegroom. Now I’m without a god,

child of a polluted parent, fellow progenitor with him

who gave me birth in misery. If there’s an evil that

surpasses evils, that has fallen to the lot of Oedipus.

CHORAGOS: How can I say that you have counseled well? Better not to be than live a blind man.

OEDIPUS: That this was not the best thing I could do— don’t tell me that, or advise me any more! Should I descend to Hades and endure to see my father with these eyes? Or see my poor unhappy mother? For I have done, to both of these, things too great for hanging. Or is the sight of children to be yearned for, to see new shoots that sprouted as these did? Never, never with these eyes of mine! Nor city, nor tower, nor holy images of the divinities! For I, all-wretched,

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most nobly raised—as no one else in Thebes— deprived myself of these when I ordained that all expel the impious one—god-shown to be polluted, and the dead king’s son!2

Once I exposed this great stain upon me, could I have looked on these with steady eyes? No! No! And if there were a way to block the source of hearing in my ears, I’d gladly have locked up my pitiable body, so I’d be blind and deaf. Evils shut out— that way my mind could live in sweetness. Alas, Cithaeron, why did you receive me? Or when you had me, not killed me instantly? I’d not have had to show my birth to mankind. Polybus, Corinth, halls—ancestral, they told me—how beautiful was your ward, a scar that held back festering disease! Evil my nature, evil my origin. You, three roads, and you, secret ravine, you oak grove, narrow place of those three paths that drank my blood3 from these hands, from him who fathered me, do you remember still the things I did to you? When I’d come here, what I then did once more? Oh marriages! Marriages! You gave us life and when you’d planted us you sent the same seed up, and then revealed fathers, brothers, sons, and kinsman’s blood, and brides, and wives, and mothers, all the most atrocious things that happen to mankind! One should not name what never should have been. Somewhere out there, then, quickly, by the gods, cover me up, or murder me, or throw me to the ocean where you will never see me more!

Oedipus moves toward the Chorus and they back away from him.

Come! Don’t shrink to touch this wretched man! Believe me, do not be frightened! I alone of all mankind can carry these af�ictions.

Enter Creon from the palace with Attendants.

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2I I I . . . son: Oedipus refers to his own curse against the murderer as well as his sins of patricide and incest.son: Oedipus refers to his own curse against the murderer as well as his sins of patricide and incest.son: 3my blood: i.e., “the blood of my father, Laius.”my blood: i.e., “the blood of my father, Laius.”my blood:

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CHORAGOS: Tell Creon what you wish for. Just when we need him he’s here. He can act, he can advise you. He’s now the land’s sole guardian in your place.

OEDIPUS: Ah! Are there words that I can speak to him? What ground for trust can I present? It’s proved that I was false to him in everything.

CREON: I have not come to mock you, Oedipus, nor to reproach you for your former falseness. You men, if you have no respect for sons of mortals, let your awe for the all-feeding �ames of lordy Hēlius�ames of lordy Hēlius�ames of lordy He 4 prevent your showing unconcealed so great a stain, abhorred by earth and sacred rain and light. Escort him quickly back into the house! If blood kin only see and hear their own af�ictions, we’ll have no impious de�lement.

OEDIPUS: By the gods, you’ve freed me from one terrible fear, so nobly meeting my unworthiness: grant me something—not for me; for you!

CREON: What do you want that you should beg me so? OEDIPUS: To drive me from the land at once, to a place

where there will be no man to speak to me! CREON: I would have done just that—had I not wished

to ask �rst of the god what I should do. OEDIPUS: His answer was revealed in full—that I,

the patricide, unholy, be destroyed. CREON: He said that, but our need is so extreme,

it’s best to have sure knowledge what must be done. OEDIPUS: You’ll ask about a wretched man like me? CREON: Is it not time you put your trust in the god? OEDIPUS: But I bid you as well, and shall entreat you.

Give her who is within what burial you will—you’ll give your own her proper rites; but me—do not condemn my fathers’ land to have me dwelling here while I’m alive, but let me live on mountains—on Cithaeron famed as mine, for my mother and my father, while they yet lived, made it my destined tomb, and I’ll be killed by those who wished my ruin! And yet I know: no sickness will destroy me,

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4HeHēHelius: The sun.lius: The sun.lius:

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nothing will: I’d never have been saved when left to die unless for some dread evil. Then let my fate continue where it will! As for my children, Creon, take no pains for my sons—they’re men and they will never lack the means to live, wherever they may be— but my two wretched, pitiable girls, who never ate but at my table, never were without me—everything that I would touch, they’d always have a share of it— please care for them! Above all, let me touch them with my hands and weep aloud my woes! Please, my Lord! Please, noble heart! Touching with my hands, I’d think I held them as when I could see.

Enter Antigone and Ismene from the palace with Attendants.

What’s this? Oh gods! Do I hear, somewhere, my two dear ones sobbing? Has Creon really pitied me and sent to me my dearest ones, my children? Is that it?

CREON: Yes, I prepared this for you, for I knew you’d feel this joy, as you have always done.

OEDIPUS: Good fortune, then, and, for your care, be guarded far better by divinity than I was! Where are you, children? Come to me! Come here to these my hands, hands of your brother, hands of him who gave you seed, hands that made these once bright eyes to see now in this fashion.

Oedipus embraces his daughters.

He, children, seeing nothing, knowing nothing, he fathered you where his own seed was plowed. I weep for you as well, though I can’t see you, imagining your bitter life to come, the life you will be forced by men to live. What gatherings of townsmen will you join, what festivals, without returning home in tears instead of watching holy rites? And when you’ve reached the time for marrying, where, children, is the man who’ll run the risk of taking on himself the infamy

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that will wound you as it did my parents? What evil is not here? Your father killed his father, plowed the one who gave him birth, and from the place where he was sown, from there he got you, from the place he too was born. These are the wounds: then who will marry you? No man, my children. No, it’s clear that you must wither in dry barrenness, unmarried.

Oedipus addresses Creon.

Son of Menoeceus! You are the only father left to them—we two who gave them seed are both destroyed: watch that they don’t become poor, wanderers, unmarried—they are your kin. Let not my ruin be their ruin, too! No, pity them! You see how young they are, bereft of everyone, except for you. Consent, kind heart, and touch me with your hand!

Creon grasps Oedipus’s right hand.

You, children, if you had reached an age of sense, I would have counseled much. Now, pray you may live always where it’s allowed, �nding a life better than his was, who gave you seed.

CREON: Stop this now. Quiet your weeping. Move away, into the house. OEDIPUS: Bitter words, but I obey them. CREON: There’s an end to all things. OEDIPUS: I have �rst this request. CREON: Tell me. I shall judge when I will hear it. OEDIPUS: Banish me from my homeland. CREON: You must ask that of the god. OEDIPUS: But I am the gods’ most hated man! CREON: Then you will soon get what you want. OEDIPUS: Do you consent? CREON: I never promise when, as now, I’m ignorant. OEDIPUS: Then lead me in. CREON: Come. But let your hold fall from your children. OEDIPUS: Do not take them from me, ever! CREON: Do not wish to keep all of the power.

You had power, but that power did not follow you through life.

Oedipus’s daughters are taken from him and led into the palace by Attendants. Oedipus is led into the palace by a Servant. Creon and the other Attendants follow. Only the Chorus remains.

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CHORUS: People of Thebes, my country, see: here is that Oedipus— he who “knew” the famous riddle, and attained the highest power, whom all citizens admired, even envying his luck! See the billows of wild troubles which he has entered now! Here is the truth of each man’s life: we must wait, and see his end, scrutinize his dying day, and refuse to call him happy till he has crossed the border of his life without pain.

Exit the Chorus along each of the parados.

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Reading and Reacting 1. The ancient Greeks used no scenery in their theatrical productions. In

the absence of scenery, how is the setting established at the beginning of Oedipus the King?

2. In some recent productions of Oedipus the King, actors wear copies of ancient Greek masks. What are the advantages and disadvantages of using such masks in a contemporary production of the play?

3. In the ancient Greek theater, the strophe and antistrophe were sung or chanted by the chorus as it danced back and forth across the stage. If you were staging the play today, would you retain the chorus or do away with it entirely? What would be gained or lost with each alternative?

4. Why does Sophocles have Oedipus blind himself offstage? What would be the effect of having Oedipus perform this act in full view of the audience?

5. How does Sophocles observe the unities of time, place, and action? How does Sophocles manage to present information about what happened years before the action of the play while still maintaining the three unities?

6. The ancient Greek audience that viewed Oedipus the King was familiar Oedipus the King was familiar Oedipus the King with the plot of the play. Given this situation, how does Sophocles create suspense? What are the advantages and disadvantages of using a story that the audience already knows?

7. By the end of the play, what has Oedipus learned about himself? about the gods? about the quest for truth? Is he a tragic or a pathetic �gure?

8. Today, many directors employ color-blind casting—that is, they cast an color-blind casting—that is, they cast an color-blind casting actor in a role without regard to his or her race. Do you think this prac- tice could be used in casting Oedipus the King? How, for example, would you react to an African American Oedipus or to an Asian Creon?

9. JOURNAL ENTRY Do you think Oedipus deserves his fate? Why, or why NTRY Do you think Oedipus deserves his fate? Why, or why NTRY not?

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CHAPTER 30

THEME

August Wilson AP Images

Sophocles Bettmann/Corbis

Like a short story or a poem, a play is open to interpretation. Readers’ reac- tions are in�uenced by the language of the text, and audiences’ reactions are in�uenced by the performance on stage. As in all works of literature, every element of a play—its title, its con�icts, its dialogue, its characters, and its staging—can shed light on its themes.

The title of a play can provide insight into its themes. The ironic title of Susan Glaspell’s Tri�es (p. 867), for example, suggests that women’s con- cerns with “tri�es” may get to the truth more effectively than the preoccu- pations of self-important men do. Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun (1959), is another title that offers clues to the theme of a play. An allusion to Langston Hughes’s poem “Harlem” (p. 577)—which asks, “what hap- pens to a dream deferred? / Does it dry up / like a raisin in the sun?”—the title suggests what happens to an African American family whose dreams are repeatedly crushed. Likewise, the title Fences (p. 1270) offers clues to a

Titles

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major theme of August Wilson’s play, suggesting that the main character is kept from his goals by barriers that are constructed by himself as well as by society. Finally, the title of Anton Chekhov’s The Brute (p. 814) calls atten- tion to the play’s ideas about male–female relationships. The title may refer to Smirnov, who says that he has never liked women—whom he character- izes as “creatures of poetry and romance.” Or, it may refer to Mrs. Popov’s late husband, to whose memory she has dedicated her life despite the fact that he was unfaithful. Either alternative reinforces the play’s tongue-in- cheek characterization of men as “brutes.”

The unfolding plot of a play—especially the con�icts that develop—can reveal the play’s themes. In Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll House (p. 881), for exam- ple, at least three major con�icts are present: one between Nora and her husband Torvald, one between Nora and Krogstad (an old acquaintance), and one between Nora and society. Each of these con�icts sheds light on the themes of the play.

Through Nora’s con�ict with Torvald, Ibsen examines the constraints placed on women and men by marriage in the nineteenth century. Both Nora and Torvald are imprisoned within their respective roles: Nora must be passive and childlike, and Torvald must be honorable and always in control. Nora, therefore, expects her husband to be noble and generous and, in a crisis, to sacri�ce himself for her. When he fails to live up to her high expec- tations, she is profoundly disillusioned.

Nora’s con�ict with Krogstad underscores Ibsen’s criticisms of the class system in nineteenth-century Norway. At the beginning of the play, Nora �nds it “immensely amusing: that we—that Torvald has so much power over . . . people.” Krogstad, a bank clerk who is in the employ of Torvald, visits Nora in act 1 to enlist her aid in saving his job. It is clear that she sees him as her social inferior. For example, when Krogstad questions her about a woman with whom he has seen her, she replies, “What makes you think you can cross-examine me, Mr. Krogstad—you, one of my husband’s employees?” Nora does not realize that she and Krogstad are, ironically, very much alike: both occupy subordinate positions and therefore have no power to deter- mine their own destinies.

Finally, through Nora’s con�ict with society, Ibsen examines the destructive nature of the forces that subjugate women. Nineteenth-century society was male dominated. A married woman had the same legal status as one of her children. She could not borrow money without her husband’s signature, own real estate in her own name, or enter into contracts. In addi- tion, all her assets—including inheritances and trust funds—automatically became the property of her husband at the time of marriage. As a result of

Conflicts

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her sheltered life, Nora at the beginning of the play is completely unaware of the consequences of her actions. Most readers share Dr. Rank’s confu- sion when he asks Nora, “Why do you laugh at that? Do you have any idea of what society is?” It is Nora’s disillusionment at �nding out that Torvald and the rest of society are not what she has been led to believe they are that ultimately causes her to rebel. By walking out the door at the end of the play, Nora rejects not only her husband and her children (to whom she has no legal right once she leaves), but also society and its laws.

These three con�icts underscore many of the themes that dominate A Doll House. First, the con�icts show that marriage in the nineteenth century imprisons both men and women in narrow, constricting roles. They also show that middle-class Norwegian society is narrow, smug, and judgmental. (Krogstad is looked down upon for a crime years after he com- mitted it, and Nora is looked down upon because she borrows money to save her husband’s life.) Finally, the con�icts show that society does not offer individuals—especially women—the freedom to lead happy and ful- �lling lives. Only when the social and economic conditions that govern society change, Ibsen suggests, can both women and men live together in mutual esteem.

Dialogue can also give insight into a play’s themes. Sometimes a charac- ter suggests—or even explicitly states—a theme. In act 3 of A Doll House, for example, Nora’s friend, Mrs. Linde, comes as close as any character to expressing the central concern of the play when she says, “Helmer’s got to learn everything; this dreadful secret has to be aired; those two have to come to a full understanding; all these lies can’t go on.” As the play goes on to demonstrate, the lies that exist both in marriage and in society are obstacles to love and happiness.

One of the main themes of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman (p. 960)—the questionable validity of the American Dream, given the nation’s social, political, and economic realities—is suggested by the play’s dialogue. As his son Biff points out, Willy Loman’s stubborn belief in upward mobility and material success is based more on fantasy than on fact:

WILLY: (with hatred, threatening) The door of your life is wide open! BIFF: Pop! I am a dime a dozen, and so are you! WILLY: (turning on him now in an uncontrolled outburst) I am not a dime a

dozen! I am Willy Loman, and you are Biff Loman!

Biff starts for Willy, but is blocked by Happy. In his fury, Biff seems on the verge of attacking his father.

Dialogue

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Although it does not explicitly state the theme of the play, this exchange strongly suggests that Biff rejects the desperate optimism to which Willy clings.

Because a dramatic work focuses on a central character, or protagonist, the development of this character can shed light on a play’s themes. Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman is developed in great detail. At the beginning of the play, he feels trapped, exhausted, and estranged from his surroundings. As Willy gradually sinks from depression into despair, the action of the play shifts from the present to the past, showing the events that shaped his life. His attitudes, beliefs, dreams, and dashed hopes reveal him to be an embodiment of the major theme of the play—that an unquestioning belief in the American Dream of success is both unrealistic and destructive.

Nora in A Doll House changes a great deal during the course of the play. At the beginning, she is more her husband’s possession than an adult capable of shaping her own destiny. Nora’s status becomes apparent in the �rst act when Torvald gently scolds his “little spendthrift” and refers to her as his “little lark” and his “squirrel.” She is reduced to childish decep- tions, such as hiding her macaroons when her husband enters the room. After Krogstad accuses her of committing forgery and threatens to expose her, she expects her husband to rise to the occasion and take the blame for her. When Torvald instead accuses her of being a hypocrite, a liar, and a criminal, Nora’s neat little world comes crashing down. As a result of this experience, Nora changes; no longer is she the submissive and obedi- ent wife. Instead, she becomes assertive—even rebellious—ultimately tell- ing Torvald that their marriage is a sham and that she can no longer stay with him. This abrupt shift in Nora’s personality gives the audience a clear understanding of the major themes of the play.

Unlike Willy and Nora, Antigone in Sophocles’s Antigone (p. 1234) is a character who changes very little during the course of the play. Fiercely devoted to her brother, Antigone decides to bury her brother’s body in violation of Creon’s decree that his corpse must be left to rot. Antigone’s loyalty to her brother and to the gods makes it impossible for her to

Characters

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compromise. Her stubborn refusal to bend to the will of the king causes her downfall as well as her death. Antigone’s inability to change highlights the central con�ict of the play: Is a person’s main duty to the king, to the gods, or to him- or herself?

Various staging elements, such as props and furnishings, may also convey the themes of a play. In Death of a Salesman, Biff’s trophy, which is con- stantly in the audience’s view, is a prop that ironically underscores the futility of Willy’s efforts to achieve success. Similarly, the miniature ani- mals in The Glass Menagerie suggest the fragility of Laura’s character and the futility of her efforts to �t into the modern world. And, in Tri�es, the depressing farm house, the broken birdcage, and the dead canary hint at Mrs. Wright’s misery and the reason she murdered her husband.

Special lighting effects and music can also suggest a play’s themes. Throughout The Glass Menagerie, for example, words and pictures are pro- jected onto a section of the set between the front room and dining room walls. In scene 1, as Tom’s mother, Amanda, tells him about her expe- riences with her “gentlemen callers,” an image of her as a girl greeting callers appears on the screen. As Amanda continues, the words “Où sont Les Neiges”—“Where are the snows [of yesteryear]?”—appear on the screen. Later in the play, when Laura and her mother discuss a boy Laura knew, his picture is projected on the screen, showing him as a high school hero carrying a silver cup. In addition to the slides, Williams uses music—a recurring tune, dance music, and “Ave Maria”—to increase the emotional impact of certain scenes. He also uses shafts of light focused on selected areas or characters to create a dreamlike atmosphere for the play. Collec- tively, the slides, music, and lighting reinforce the theme that those who retreat into the past inevitably become estranged from the present.

As you read, your own values and beliefs in�uence your interpretation of a play’s themes. For instance, your interest in the changing status of women could lead you to focus on the submissive, almost passive, role of Willy’s wife, Linda, in Death of a Salesman. As a result, you could conclude that the play shows how, in the post–World War II United States, women like Linda often sacri�ced their own happiness for that of their husbands. Remember, however, that the play itself, not just your own feelings or assumptions about it, must support your interpretation.

Staging

A Final Note

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SOPHOCLES (496–406 B.C.) (picture and biography on p. 1182) was one of nine generals elected for a military campaign against Samos, a Greek island that was in revolt against Athens. Sophocles’ election was due at least in part to the popularity of his play Antigone. (Greek plays often centered on problems of the city-state, and the theater was in many ways the center of the state’s religious and political life.)

Even though it was written long before Oedipus the King, Antigone traces the events that Oedipus the King, Antigone traces the events that Oedipus the King, Antigone befall Oedipus’s younger daughter after his banishment from Thebes. Caught between the laws of the gods and the edict of her uncle the king, Antigone follows her conscience despite the fatal consequences to herself. In the 1960s, the story of Antigone was especially meaningful to those Americans who engaged in civil disobedience in struggles for civil rights and in protest against the war in Vietnam.

Cultural Context The central struggle in this play revolves around Antigone’s desire to bury her brother in an honorable way. The ancient Greeks believed that at the moment of death, the spirit of the dead person left the body as a little puff of wind. The body was then prepared for burial according to certain rituals, which were primarily performed by female relatives. The burial rituals consisted of three parts: the prothesis, or laying out of the body; the ekphora, or funeral procession; and the interment of the body or cremated remains of the deceased. Coins were placed over the eyelids of the deceased as payment for the ferryman who would usher the body across the River Styx and into the underworld. The ancient Greeks believed that if the correct methods of burial were not followed, the soul of the deceased would roam between worlds until the proscribed rites were completed.

CHECKLIST Writing about Theme

■ What is the central theme of the play?

■ What other themes can you identify?

■ Does the title of the play suggest a theme?

■ What conflicts exist in the play? How do they shed light on the themes of the play?

■ Do any characters’ statements express or imply a theme of the play?

■ Do any characters change during the play? How do these changes suggest the play’s themes?

■ Do certain characters resist change? How does their failure to change suggest a theme of the play?

■ Do scenery and props help to communicate the play’s themes?

■ Does music reinforce certain ideas in the play?

■ Does lighting underscore the themes of the play?

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Antigone* (441 b.c.) Translation by F. Storr, BA

Formerly Scholar of Trinity College, Cambridge

DRAMATIS PERSONAE ANTIGONE and ISMENE: Daughters of Oedipus and sisters of Polyneices and Eteocles

CREON: King of Thebes HAEMON: Son of Creon, betrothed to Antigone

EURYDICE: Wife of Creon TEIRESIAS: The prophet CHORUS: Theban elders

A WATCHMAN A MESSENGER

A SECOND MESSENGER

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*Note that individual lines are numbered in the following play. When a line is shared by two or more characters, it is counted as one line.

PROLOGUE

ANTIGONE and ISMENE before the Palace gates.

ANTIGONE: Ismene, sister of my blood and heart, See’st thou how Zeus would in our lives ful�ll

Scene from a 1999 production of Antigone at London’s Old Vic TheaterAntigone at London’s Old Vic TheaterAntigone Photo by John Haynes/Lebrecht Music & Arts

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The weird of Oedipus, a world of woes! For what of pain, af�iction, outrage, shame, Is lacking in our fortunes, thine and mine? And now this proclamation of today Made by our Captain-General to the State, What can its purport be? Didst hear and heed, Or art thou deaf when friends are banned as foes?

ISMENE: To me, Antigone, no word of friends Has come, or glad or grievous, since we twain Were reft of our two brethren in one day By double fratricide; and since i’ the night Our Argive leaguers �ed, no later news Has reached me, to inspirit or deject.

ANTIGONE: I know ‘twas so, and therefore summoned thee Beyond the gates to breathe it in thine ear.

ISMENE: What is it? Some dark secret stirs thy breast. ANTIGONE: What but the thought of our two brothers dead,

The one by Creon graced with funeral rites, The other disappointed? Eteocles He hath consigned to earth (as fame reports) With obsequies that use and wont ordain, So gracing him among the dead below. But Polyneices, a dishonored corse, (So by report the royal edict runs) No man may bury him or make lament— Must leave him tombless and unwept, a feast For kites to scent afar and swoop upon. Such is the edict (if report speak true) Of Creon, our most noble Creon, aimed At thee and me, aye me too; and anon He will be here to promulgate, for such As have not heard, his mandate; ’tis in sooth No passing humor, for the edict says Whoe’er transgresses shall be stoned to death. So stands it with us; now ’tis thine to show If thou art worthy of thy blood or base.

ISMENE: But how, my rash, fond sister, in such case Can I do anything to make or mar?

ANTIGONE: Say, wilt thou aid me and abet? Decide. ISMENE: In what bold venture? What is in thy thought? ANTIGONE: Lend me a hand to bear the corpse away. ISMENE: What, bury him despite the interdict?

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ANTIGONE: My brother, and, though thou deny him, thine No man shall say that I betrayed a brother.

ISMENE: Wilt thou persist, though Creon has forbid? ANTIGONE: What right has he to keep me from my own? ISMENE: Bethink thee, sister, of our father’s fate,

Abhorred, dishonored, self-convinced of sin, Blinded, himself his executioner. Think of his mother-wife (ill sorted names) Done by a noose herself had twined to death And last, our hapless brethren in one day, Both in a mutual destiny involved, Self-slaughtered, both the slayer and the slain. Bethink thee, sister, we are left alone; Shall we not perish wretchedest of all, If in de�ance of the law we cross A monarch’s will? —weak women, think of that, Not framed by nature to contend with men. Remember this too that the stronger rules; We must obey his orders, these or worse. Therefore I plead compulsion and entreat The dead to pardon. I perforce obey The powers that be. ’Tis foolishness, I ween, To overstep in aught the golden mean.

ANTIGONE: I urge no more; nay, wert thou willing still, I would not welcome such a fellowship. Go thine own way; myself will bury him. How sweet to die in such employ, to rest,— Sister and brother linked in love’s embrace— A sinless sinner, banned awhile on earth, But by the dead commended; and with them I shall abide for ever. As for thee, Scorn, if thou wilt, the eternal laws of Heaven.

ISMENE: I scorn them not, but to defy the State Or break her ordinance I have no skill.

ANTIGONE: A specious pretext. I will go alone To lap my dearest brother in the grave.

ISMENE: My poor, fond sister, how I fear for thee! ANTIGONE: O waste no fears on me; look to thyself. ISMENE: At least let no man know of thine intent,

But keep it close and secret, as will I. ANTIGONE: O tell it, sister; I shall hate thee more

If thou proclaim it not to all the town.

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ISMENE: Thou hast a �ery soul for numbing work. ANTIGONE: I pleasure those whom I would liefest please. ISMENE: If thou succeed; but thou art doomed to fail. ANTIGONE: When strength shall fail me, yes, but not before. ISMENE: But, if the venture’s hopeless, why essay? ANTIGONE: Sister, forbear, or I shall hate thee soon,

And the dead man will hate thee too, with cause. Say I am mad and give my madness rein To wreck itself; the worst that can befall Is but to die an honorable death.

ISMENE: Have thine own way then; ’tis a mad endeavor, Yet to thy lovers thou art dear as ever.

[Exeunt]

PÁRODOS1

STROPHE2 1

CHORUS: Sunbeam, of all that ever dawn upon Our seven-gated Thebes the brightest ray,

O eye of golden day, How fair thy light o’er Dirce’s fountain shone, Speeding upon their headlong homeward course, Far quicker than they came, the Argive force; Putting to �ight The argent shields, the host with scutcheons white. Against our land the proud invader came To vindicate fell Polyneices’ claim.

Like to an eagle swooping low, On pinions white as new fall’n snow.

With clanging scream, a horsetail plume his crest, The aspiring lord of Argos onward pressed.

ANTISTROPHE3 1

Hovering around our city walls he waits, His spearmen raven at our seven gates. But ere a torch our crown of towers could burn, Ere they had tasted of our blood, they turn Forced by the Dragon; in their rear The din of Ares panic-struck they hear. For Zeus who hates the braggart’s boast

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1Párados: The song that signifies the entrance of the chorus.Párados: The song that signifies the entrance of the chorus.Párados: 2Strophe: The first half of an ode, sung by the chorus. Strophe: The first half of an ode, sung by the chorus. Strophe: 3Antistrophe: The second half of an ode. Typically a response to the strophe, and also sung by the chorus. Antistrophe: The second half of an ode. Typically a response to the strophe, and also sung by the chorus. Antistrophe:

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Beheld that gold-bespangled host; As at the goal the paean they upraise, He struck them with his forked lightning blaze.

STROPHE 2

To earthy from earth rebounding, down he crashed; The �re-brand from his impious hand was dashed,

As like a Bacchic reveler on he came, Outbreathing hate and �ame, And tottered. Elsewhere in the �eld, Here, there, great Area like a war-horse wheeled;

Beneath his car down thrust Our foemen bit the dust.

Seven captains at our seven gates Thundered; for each a champion waits, Each left behind his armor bright, Trophy for Zeus who turns the �ght; Save two alone, that ill-starred pair One mother to one father bare, Who lance in rest, one ’gainst the other Drave, and both perished, brother slain by brother.

ANTISTROPHE 2

Now Victory to Thebes returns again And smiles upon her chariot-circled plain.

Now let feast and festal should Memories of war blot out. Let us to the temples throng, Dance and sing the live night long.

SCENE 1

God of Thebes, lead thou the round. Bacchus, shaker of the ground! Let us end our revels here; Lo! Creon our new lord draws near, Crowned by this strange chance, our king. What, I marvel, pondering? Why this summons? Wherefore call Us, his elders, one and all, Bidding us with him debate, On some grave concern of State?

[Enter CREON]

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CREON: Elders, the gods have righted one again Our storm-tossed ship of state, now safe in port. But you by special summons I convened As my most trusted councilors; �rst, because I knew you loyal to Laius1 of old; Again, when Oedipus restored our State, Both while he ruled and when his rule was o’er, Ye still were constant to the royal line. Now that his two sons perished in one day, Brother by brother murderously slain, By right of kinship to the Princes dead, I claim and hold the throne and sovereignty. Yet ’tis no easy matter to discern The temper of a man, his mind and will, Till he be proved by exercise of power; And in my case, if one who reigns supreme Swerve from the highest policy, tongue-tied By fear of consequence, that man I hold, And ever held, the basest of the base. And I contemn the man who sets his friend Before his country. For myself, I call To witness Zeus, whose eyes are everywhere, If I perceive some mischievous design To sap the State, I will not hold my tongue; Nor would I reckon as my private friend A public foe, well knowing that the State Is the good ship that holds our fortunes all: Farewell to friendship, if she suffers wreck. Such is the policy by which I seek To serve the Commons and conformably I have proclaimed an edict as concerns The sons of Oedipus; Eteocles Who in his country’s battle fought and fell, The foremost champion—duly bury him With all observances and ceremonies That are the guerdon of the heroic dead. But for the miscreant exile who returned Minded in �ames and ashes to blot out His father’s city and his father’s gods, And glut his vengeance with his kinsmen’s blood, Or drag them captive at his chariot wheels— For Polyneices ’tis ordained that none Shall give him burial or make mourn for him,

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1Laius: A previous King of Thebes, and Oepdius’ father. Laius: A previous King of Thebes, and Oepdius’ father. Laius:

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But leave his corpse unburied, to be meat For dogs and carrion crows, a ghastly sight. So am I purposed; never by my will Shall miscreants take precedence of true men, But all good patriots, alive or dead, Shall be by me preferred and honored.

CHORUS: Son of Menoeceus,2 thus thou will’st to deal With him who loathed and him who loved our State. Thy word is law; thou canst dispose of us The living, as thou will’st, as of the dead.

CREON: See then ye execute what I ordain. CHORUS: On younger shoulders lay this grievous charge. CREON: Fear not, I’ve posted guards to watch the corpse. CHORUS: What further duty would’st thou lay on us? CREON: Not to connive at disobedience. CHORUS: No man is mad enough to court his death. CREON: The penalty is death: yet hope of gain

Hath lured men to their ruin oftentimes.

[Enter GUARD]

GUARD: My lord, I will not make pretense to pant And puff as some light-footed messenger. In sooth my soul beneath its pack of thought Made many a halt and turned and turned again; For conscience plied her spur and curb by turns. "Why hurry headlong to thy fate, poor fool?” She whispered. Then again, “If Creon learn This from another, thou wilt rue it worse.” Thus leisurely I hastened on my road; Much thought extends a furlong to a league. But in the end the forward voice prevailed, To face thee. I will speak though I say nothing. For plucking courage from despair methought, “Let the worst hap, thou canst but meet thy fate.”

CREON: What is thy news? Why this despondency? GUARD: Let me premise a word about myself?

I neither did the deed nor saw it done, Nor were it just that I should come to harm.

CREON: Thou art good at parry, and canst fence about Some matter of grave import, as is plain.

GUARD: The bearer of dread tidings needs must quake. CREON: Then, sirrah, shoot thy bolt and get thee gone.

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2Menoeceus: Father of Creon and father-in-law of Oedipus. Menoeceus: Father of Creon and father-in-law of Oedipus. Menoeceus:

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GUARD: Well, it must out; the corpse is buried; someone E’en now besprinkled it with thirsty dust, Performed the proper ritual3—and was gone.

CREON: What say’st thou? Who hath dared to do this thing? GUARD: I cannot tell, for there was ne’er a trace

Of pick or mattock—hard unbroken ground, Without a scratch or rut of chariot wheels, No sign that human hands had been at work. When the �rst sentry of the morning watch Gave the alarm, we all were terror-stricken. The corpse had vanished, not interred in earth, But strewn with dust, as if by one who sought To avert the curse that haunts the unburied dead: Of hound or ravening jackal, not a sign. Thereat arose an angry war of words; Guard railed at guard and blows were like to end it, For none was there to part us, each in turn Suspected, but the guilt brought home to none, From lack of evidence. We challenged each The ordeal, or to handle red-hot iron, Or pass through �re, af�rming on our oath Our innocence—we neither did the deed Ourselves, nor know who did or compassed it. Our quest was at a standstill, when one spake And bowed us all to earth like quivering reeds, For there was no gainsaying him nor way To escape perdition: Ye are bound to tell The King ye cannot hide it; so he spake. And he convinced us all; so lots were cast, And I, unlucky scapegoat, drew the prize. So here I am unwilling and withal Unwelcome; no man cares to hear ill news.

CHORUS: I had misgivings from the �rst, my liege, Of something more than natural at work.

CREON: O cease, you vex me with your babblement; I am like to think you dote in your old age. Is it not arrant folly to pretend That gods would have a thought for this dead man? Did they forsooth award him special grace, And as some benefactor bury him, Who came to �re their hallowed sanctuaries,

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3proper ritual: Rituals and the way they are performed are important in Greek tragedies, especially proper ritual: Rituals and the way they are performed are important in Greek tragedies, especially proper ritual: rituals for death.

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To sack their shrines, to desolate their land, And scout their ordinances? Or perchance The gods bestow their favors on the bad. No! no! I have long noted malcontents Who wagged their heads, and kicked against the yoke, Misliking these my orders, and my rule. ’Tis they, I warrant, who suborned my guards By bribes. Of evils current upon earth The worst is money. Money ’tis that sacks Cities, and drives men forth from hearth and home; Warps and seduces native innocence, And breeds a habit of dishonesty. But they who sold themselves shall �nd their greed Out-shot the mark, and rue it soon or late. Yea, as I still revere the dread of Zeus, By Zeus I swear, except ye �nd and bring Before my presence here the very man Who carried out this lawless burial, Death for your punishment shall not suf�ce. Hanged on a cross, alive ye �rst shall make Confession of this outrage. This will teach you What practices are like to serve your turn. There are some villainies that bring no gain. For by dishonesty the few may thrive, The many come to ruin and disgrace.

GUARD: May I not speak, or must I turn and go Without a word?—

CREON Begone! canst thou not see That e’en this question irks me?

GUARD Where, my lord? Is it thy ears that suffer, or thy heart?

CREON: Why seek to probe and �nd the seat of pain? GUARD: I gall thine ears—this miscreant thy mind. CREON: What an inveterate babbler! Get thee gone! GUARD: Babbler perchance, but innocent of the crime. CREON: Twice guilty, having sold thy soul for gain. GUARD: Alas! How sad when reasoners reason wrong. CREON: Go, quibble with thy reason. If thou fail’st

To �nd these malefactors, thou shalt own The wages of ill-gotten gains is death.

[Exit CREON]

GUARD: I pray he may be found. But caught or not (And fortune must determine that) thou never

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Shalt see me here returning; that is sure. For past all hope or thought I have escaped, And for my safety owe the gods much thanks.

ODE1 1 STROPHE 1

CHORUS: Many wonders there be, but naught more wondrous than man; Over the surging sea, with a whitening south wind wan, Through the foam of the �rth, man makes his perilous way; And the eldest of deities Earth that knows not toil nor decay Ever he furrows and scores, as his team, year in year out, With breed of the yoked horse, the ploughshare turneth about.

ANTISTROPHE 1 The light-witted birds of the air, the beasts of the weald and the wood He traps with his woven snare, and the brood of the briny �ood. Master of cunning he: the savage bull, and the hart Who roams the mountain free, are tamed by his in�nite art; And the shaggy rough-maned steed is broken to bear the bit.

STROPHE 2 Speech and the wind-swift speed of counsel and civic wit, He hath learnt for himself all these; and the arrowy rain to �y And the nipping airs that freeze, ’neath the open winter sky. He hath provision for all: fell plague he hath learnt to endure; Safe whate’er may befall: yet for death he hath found no cure.

ANTISTROPHE 2 Passing the wildest �ight thought are the cunning and skill, That guide man now to the light, but now to counsels of ill. If he honors the laws of the land, and reveres the Gods of the State Proudly his city shall stand; but a cityless outcast I rate Whoso bold in his pride from the path of right doth depart; Ne’er may I sit by his side, or share the thoughts of his heart.

What strange vision meets my eyes, Fills me with a wild surprise? Sure I know her, sure ’tis she, The maid Antigone. Hapless child of hapless sire, Didst thou recklessly conspire,

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1Ode: A type of lyrical stanza that is comprised of three parts: the strophe, the antistrophe, and the epode. Ode: A type of lyrical stanza that is comprised of three parts: the strophe, the antistrophe, and the epode. Ode:

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Madly brave the King’s decree? Therefore are they haling thee?

SCENE II

[Enter GUARD bringing ANTIGONE]

GUARD: Here is the culprit taken in the act Of giving burial. But where’s the King?

CHORUS: There from the palace he returns in time.

[Enter CREON]

CREON: Why is my presence timely? What has chanced? GUARD: No man, my lord, should make a vow, for if

He ever swears he will not do a thing, His afterthoughts belie his �rst resolve. When from the hail-storm of thy threats I �ed I sware thou wouldst not see me here again; But the wild rapture of a glad surprise Intoxicates, and so I’m here forsworn. And here’s my prisoner, caught in the very act, Decking the grave. No lottery this time; This prize is mine by right of treasure-trove. So take her, judge her, rack her, if thou wilt. She’s thine, my liege; but I may rightly claim Hence to depart well quit of all these ills.

CREON: Say, how didst thou arrest the maid, and where? GUARD: Burying the man. There’s nothing more to tell. CREON: Hast thou thy wits? Or know’st thou what thou say’st? GUARD: I saw this woman burying the corpse

Against thy orders. Is that clear and plain? CREON: But how was she surprised and caught in the act? GUARD: It happened thus. No sooner had we come,

Driven from thy presence by those awful threats, Than straight we swept away all trace of dust, And bared the clammy body. Then we sat High on the ridge to windward of the stench, While each man kept he fellow alert and rated Roundly the sluggard if he chanced to nap. So all night long we watched, until the sun Stood high in heaven, and his blazing beams Smote us. A sudden whirlwind then upraised A cloud of dust that blotted out the sky, And swept the plain, and stripped the woodlands bare,

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And shook the �rmament. We closed our eyes And waited till the heaven-sent plague should pass. At last it ceased, and lo! There stood this maid. A piercing cry she uttered, sad and shrill, As when the mother bird beholds her nest Robbed of its nestlings; even so the maid Wailed as she saw the body stripped and bare, And cursed the ruf�ans who had done this deed. Anon she gathered handfuls of dry dust, Then, holding high a well-wrought brazen urn, Thrice on the dead she poured a lustral stream. We at the sight swooped down on her and seized Our quarry. Undismayed she stood, and when We taxed her with the former crime and this, She disowned nothing. I was glad—and grieved; For ’tis most sweet to ’scape oneself scot-free, And yet to bring disaster to a friend Is grievous. Take it all in all, I deem A man’s �rst duty is to serve himself.

CREON: Speak, girl, with head bent low and downcast eyes, Does thou plead guilty or deny the deed?

ANTIGONE: Guilty. I did it, I deny it not. CREON: (to GUARD) Sirrah, begone whither thou wilt, and thank

Thy luck that thou hast ’scaped a heavy charge.

(To ANTIGONE)

Now answer this plain question, yes or no, Wast thou acquainted with the interdict?

ANTIGONE: I knew, all knew; how should I fail to know? CREON: And yet wert bold enough to break the law? ANTIGONE: Yea, for these laws were not ordained of Zeus,

And she who sits enthroned with gods below, Justice, enacted not these human laws. Nor did I deem that thou, a mortal man, Could’st by a breath annul and override The immutable unwritten laws of Heaven. They were not born today nor yesterday; They die not; and none knoweth whence they sprang. I was not like, who feared no mortal’s frown, To disobey these laws and so provoke The wrath of Heaven. I knew that I must die, E’en hadst thou not proclaimed it; and if death Is thereby hastened, I shall count it gain.

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For death is gain to him whose life, like mine, Is full of misery. Thus my lot appears Not sad, but blissful; for had I endured To leave my mother’s son unburied there, I should have grieved with reason, but not now. And if in this thou judgest me a fool, Methinks the judge of folly’s not acquit.

CHORUS: A stubborn daughter of a stubborn sire, This ill-starred maiden kicks against the pricks.

CREON: Well, let her know the stubbornest of wills Are soonest bended, as the hardest iron, O’er-heated in the �re to brittleness, Flies soonest into fragments, shivered through. A snaf�e curbs the �eriest steed, and he Who in subjection lives must needs be meek. But this proud girl, in insolence well-schooled, First overstepped the established law, and then— A second and worse act of insolence— She boasts and glories in her wickedness. Now if she thus can �out authority Unpunished, I am woman, she the man. But though she be my sister’s child or nearer Of kin than all who worship at my hearth, Nor she nor yet her sister shall escape The utmost penalty, for both I hold, As arch-conspirators, of equal guilt. Bring forth the older; even now I saw her Within the palace, frenzied and distraught. The workings of the mind discover oft Dark deeds in darkness schemed, before the act. More hateful still the miscreant who seeks When caught, to make a virtue of a crime.

ANTIGONE: Would’st thou do more than slay thy prisoner? CREON: Not I, thy life is mine, and that’s enough. ANTIGONE: Why dally then? To me no word of thine

Is pleasant: God forbid it e’er should please; Nor am I more acceptable to thee. And yet how otherwise had I achieved A name so glorious as by burying A brother? so my townsmen all would say, Where they not gagged by terror, Manifold A king’s prerogatives, and not the least That all his acts and all his words are law.

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CREON: Of all these Thebans none so deems but thou. ANTIGONE: These think as I, but bate their breath to thee. CREON: Hast thou no shame to differ from all these? ANTIGONE: To reverence kith and kin1 can bring no shame. CREON: Was his dead foeman not thy kinsman too? ANTIGONE: One mother bare them and the self-same sire. CREON: Why cast a slur on one by honoring one? ANTIGONE: The dead man will not bear thee out in this. CREON: Surely, if good and evil fare alive. ANTIGONE: The slain man was no villain but a brother. CREON: The patriot perished by the outlaw’s brand. ANTIGONE: Nathless the realms below these rites require. CREON: Not that the base should fare as do the brave. ANTIGONE: Who knows if this world’s crimes are virtues there? CREON: Not even death can make a foe a friend. ANTIGONE: My nature is for mutual love, not hate. CREON: Die then, and love the dead if thou must;

No woman shall be the master while I live.

[Enter ISMENE]

CHORUS: Lo from out the palace gate, Weeping o’er her sister’s fate, Comes Ismene; see her brow, Once serene, beclouded now, See her beauteous face o’erspread With a �ush of angry red.

CREON: Woman, who like a viper unperceived Didst harbor in my house and drain my blood, Two plagues I nurtured blindly, so it proved, To sap my throne. Say, didst thou too abet This crime, or dost abjure all privity?

ISMENE: I did the deed, if she will have it so, And with my sister claim to share the guilt.

ANTIGONE: That were unjust. Thou would’st not act with me At �rst, and I refused thy partnership.

ISMENE: But now thy bark is stranded, I am bold To claim my share as partner in the loss.

ANTIGONE: Who did the deed the under-world knows well: A friend in word is never friend of mine.

ISMENE: O sister, scorn me not, let me but share Thy work of piety, and with thee die.

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1Kith and kin: friends and family Kith and kin: friends and family Kith and kin:

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ANTIGONE: Claim not a work in which thou hadst no hand; One death suf�ceth. Wherefore should’st thou die?

ISMENE: What would life pro�t me bereft of thee? ANTIGONE: Ask Creon, he’s thy kinsman and best friend. ISMENE: Why taunt me? Find’st thou pleasure in these gibes? ANTIGONE: ’Tis a sad mockery, if indeed I mock. ISMENE: O say if I can help thee even now. ANTIGONE: No, save thyself; I grudge not thy escape. ISMENE: Is e’en this boon denied, to share thy lot? ANTIGONE: Yea, for thou chosed’st life, and I to die. ISMENE: Thou canst not say that I did not protest. ANTIGONE: Well, some approved thy wisdom, others mine. ISMENE: But now we stand convicted, both alike. ANTIGONE: Fear not; thou livest, I died long ago

Then when I gave my life to save the dead. CREON: Both maids, methinks, are crazed. One suddenly

Has lost her wits, the other was born mad. ISMENE: Yea, so it falls, sire, when misfortune comes,

The wisest even lose their mother wit. CREON: I’ faith thy wit forsook thee when thou mad’st

Thy choice with evil-doers to do ill. ISMENE: What life for me without my sister here? CREON: Say not thy sister here: thy sister’s dead. ISMENE: What, wilt thou slay thy own son’s plighted bride? CREON: Aye, let him raise him seed from other �elds. ISMENE: No new espousal can be like the old. CREON: A plague on trulls who court and woo our sons. ANTIGONE: O Haemon, how thy sire dishonors thee! CREON: A plague on thee and thy accursed bride! CHORUS: What, wilt thou rob thine own son of his bride? CREON: ’Tis death that bars this marriage, not his sire. CHORUS: So her death-warrant, it would seem, is sealed. CREON: By you, as �rst by me; off with them, guards,

And keep them close. Henceforward let them learn To live as women use, not roam at large. For e’en the bravest spirits run away When they perceive death pressing on life’s heels.

ODE II STROPHE 1

CHORUS: Thrice blest are they who never tasted pain! If once the curse of Heaven attaint a race, The infection lingers on and speeds apace,

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Age after age, and each the cup must drain. So when Etesian blasts from Thrace downpour Sweep o’er the blackening main and whirl to land From Ocean’s cavernous depths his ooze and sand,

Billow on billow thunders on the shore.

ANTISTROPHE 1 On the Labdacidae I see descending

Woe upon woe; from days of old some god Laid on the race a malison, and his rod

Scourges each age with sorrows never ending.

The light that dawned upon its last born son Is vanished, and the bloody axe of Fate Has felled the goodly tree that blossomed late.

O Oedipus, by reckless pride undone!

STROPHE 2 Thy might, O Zeus, what mortal power can quell? Not sleep that lays all else beneath its spell, Nor moons that never tire: untouched by Time,

Throned in the dazzling light That crowns Olympus’ height,

Thou reignest King, omnipotent, sublime.

Past, present, and to be, All bow to thy decree, All that exceeds the mean by Fate Is punished, Love or Hate.

ANTISTROPHE 2 Hope �its about never-wearying wings; Pro�t to some, to some light loves she brings, But no man knoweth how her gifts may turn, Till ’neath his feet the treacherous ashes burn. Sure ’twas a sage inspired that spake this word;

If evil good appear To any, Fate is near;

And brief the respite from her �aming sword.

SCENE III Hither comes in angry mood Haemon, latest of thy brood; Is it for his bride he’s grieved,

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Or her marriage-bed deceived, Doth he make his mourn for thee, Maid forlorn, Antigone?

[Enter HAEMON]

CREON: Soon shall we know, better than seer can tell. Learning may �xed decree anent thy bride, Thou mean’st not, son, to rave against thy sire? Know’st not whate’er we do is done in love?

HAEMON: O father, I am thine, and I will take Thy wisdom as the helm to steer withal. Therefore no wedlock shall by me be held More precious than thy loving goverance.

CREON: Well spoken: so right-minded sons should feel, In all deferring to a father’s will. For ’tis the hope of parents they may rear A brood of sons submissive, keen to avenge Their father’s wrongs, and count his friends their own. But who begets unpro�table sons, He verily breeds trouble for himself, And for his foes much laughter. Son, be warned And let no woman fool away thy wits. Ill fares the husband mated with a shrew, And her embraces very soon wax cold. For what can wound so surely to the quick As a false friend? So spue and cast her off, Bid her go �nd a husband with the dead. For since I caught her openly rebelling, Of all my subjects the one malcontent, I will not prove a traitor to the State. She surely dies. Go, let her, if she will, Appeal to Zeus the God of Kindred, for If thus I nurse rebellion in my house, Shall not I foster mutiny without? For whoso rules his household worthily, Will prove in civic matters no less wise. But he who overbears the laws, or thinks To overrule his rulers, such as one I never will allow. Whome’er the State Appoints must be obeyed in everything, But small and great, just and unjust alike. I warrant such a one in either case

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Would shine, as King or subject; such a man Would in the storm of battle stand his ground, A comrade leal and true; but Anarchy— What evils are not wrought by Anarchy! She ruins States, and overthrows the home, She dissipates and routs the embattled host; While discipline preserves the ordered ranks. Therefore we must maintain authority And yield to title to a woman’s will. Better, if needs be, men should cast us out Than hear it said, a woman proved his match.

CHORUS: To me, unless old age have dulled wits, Thy words appear both reasonable and wise.

HAEMON: Father, the gods implant in mortal men Reason, the choicest gift bestowed by heaven. ’Tis not for me to say thou errest, nor Would I arraign thy wisdom, if I could; And yet wise thoughts may come to other men And, as thy son, it falls to me to mark The acts, the words, the comments of the crowd. The commons stand in terror of thy frown, And dare not utter aught that might offend, But I can overhear their muttered plaints, Know how the people mourn this maiden doomed For noblest deeds to die the worst of deaths. When her own brother slain in battle lay Unsepulchered, she suffered not his corse To lie for carrion birds and dogs to maul: Should not her name (they cry) be writ in gold? Such the low murmurings that reach my ear. O father, nothing is by me more prized Than thy well-being, for what higher good Can children covet than their sire’s fair fame, As fathers too take pride in glorious sons? Therefore, my father, cling not to one mood, And deemed not thou art right, all others wrong. For whoso thinks that wisdom dwells with him, That he alone can speak or think aright, Such oracles are empty breath when tried. The wisest man will let himself be swayed By others’ wisdom and relax in time. See how the trees beside a stream in �ood Save, if they yield to force, each spray unharmed,

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But by resisting perish root and branch. The mariner who keeps his mainsheet taut, And will not slacken in the gale, is like To sail with thwarts reversed, keel uppermost. Relent then and repent thee of thy wrath; For, if one young in years may claim some sense, I’ll say ’tis best of all to be endowed With absolute wisdom; but, if that’s denied, (And nature takes not readily that ply) Next wise is he who lists to sage advice.

CHORUS: If he says aught in season, heed him, King.

(To HAEMON)

Heed thou thy sire too; both have spoken well.

CREON: What, would you have us at our age be schooled, Lessoned in prudence by a beardless boy?

HAEMON: I plead for justice, father, nothing more. Weigh me upon my merit, not my years.

CREON: Strange merit this to sanction lawlessness! HAEMON: For evil-doers I would urge no plea. CREON: Is not this maid an arrant law-breaker? HAEMON: The Theban commons with one voice say, No. CREON: What, shall the mob dictate my policy? HAEMON: ’Tis thou, methinks, who speakest like a boy. CREON: Am I to rule for others, or myself? HAEMON: A State for one man is no State at all. CREON: The State is his who rules it, so ’tis held. HAEMON: As monarch of a desert thou wouldst shine. CREON: This boy, methinks, maintains the woman’s cause. HAEMON: If thou be’st woman, yes. My thought’s for thee. CREON: O reprobate, would’st wrangle with thy sire? HAEMON: Because I see thee wrongfully perverse. CREON: And am I wrong, if I maintain my rights? HAEMON: Talk not of rights; thou spurn’st the due of Heaven CREON: O heart corrupt, a woman’s minion thou! HAEMON: Slave to dishonor thou wilt never �nd me. CREON: Thy speech at least was all a plea for her. HAEMON: And thee and me, and for the gods below. CREON: Living the maid shall never be thy bride. HAEMON: So she shall die, but one will die with her. CREON: Hast come to such a pass as threaten me? HAEMON: What threat is this, vain counsels to reprove?

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CREON: Vain fool to instruct thy betters; thou shall rue it. HAEMON: Wert not my father, I had said thou err’st. CREON: Play not the spaniel, thou a woman’s slave. HAEMON: When thou dost speak, must no man make reply? CREON: This passes bounds. By heaven, thou shalt not rate

And jeer and �out me with impunity. Off with the hateful thing that she may die At once, beside her bridegroom, in his sight.

HAEMON: Think not that in my sight the maid shall die, Or by my side; never shalt thou again Behold my face hereafter. Go, consort With friends who like a madman for their mate.

[Exit HAEMON]

CHORUS: Thy son has gone, my liege, in angry haste. Fell is the wrath of youth beneath a smart.

CREON: Let him go vent his fury like a �end: These sisters twain he shall not save from death.

CHORUS: Surely, thou meanest not to slay them both? CREON: I stand corrected; only her who touched

The body. CHORUS: And what death is she to die? CREON: She shall be taken to some desert place

By man untrod, and in a rock-hewn cave, With food no more than to avoid the taint That homicide might bring on all the State, Buried alive. There let her call in aid The King of Death, the one god she reveres, Or learn too late a lesson learnt at last: ’Tis labor lost, to reverence the dead.

ODE III STROPHE

CHORUS: Love resistless in �ght, all yield at a glance of thine eye, Love who pillowed all night on a maiden’s cheek dost lie, Over the upland holds. Shall mortals not yield to thee?

ANTISTROPHE

Mad are thy subjects all, and even the wisest heart Straight to folly will fall, at a touch of thy poisoned dart. Thou didst kindle the strife, this feud of kinsman with kin, By the eyes of a winsome wife, and the yearning her heart to win.

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For as her consort still, enthroned with Justice above, Thou bendest man to thy will, O all invincible Love.

SCENE IV Lo I myself am borne aside, From Justice, as I view this bride. (O sight an eye in tears to drown) Antigone, so young, so fair,

Thus hurried down Death’s bower with the dead to share.

STROPHE 1 ANTIGONE: Friends, countrymen, my last farewell I make;

My journey’s done. One last fond, lingering, longing look I take At the bright sun. For Death who puts to sleep both young and old Hales my young life, And beckons me to Acheron’s dark fold,

An unwed wife. No youths have sung the marriage song for me,

My bridal bed No maids have strewn with �owers from the lea,

’Tis Death I wed.

CHORUS: But bethink thee, thou art sped, Great and glorious, to the dead.

Thou the sword’s edge hast not tasted, No disease thy frame hath wasted. Freely thou alone shalt go Living to the dead below.

ANTISTROPHE 1 ANTIGONE: Nay, but the piteous tale I’ve heard men tell

Of Tantalus’ doomed child, Chained upon Siphylus’ high rocky fell,

That clung like ivy wild, Drenched by the pelting rain and whirling snow,

Left there to pine, While on her frozen breast the tears aye �ow—

Her fate is mine.

CHORUS: She was sprung of gods, divine, Mortals we of mortal line.

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Like renown with gods to gain Recompenses all thy pain. Take this solace to thy tomb Hers in life and death thy doom.

STROPHE 2 ANTIGONE: Alack, alack! Ye mock me. Is it meet

Thus to insult me living, to my face? Cease, by our country’s altars I entreat, Ye lordly rulers of a lordly race. O fount of Dirce, wood-embowered plain Where Theban chariots to victory speed, Mark ye the cruel laws that now have wrought my bane,

The friends who show no pity in my need! Was ever fate like mine? O monstrous doom,

Within a rock-built prison sepulchered, To fade and wither in a living tomb,

And alien midst the living and the dead.

STROPHE 3 CHORUS: In thy boldness over-rash

Madly thou thy foot didst dash ‘Gainst high Justice’ altar stair. Thou a father’s guild dost bear.

ANTISTROPHE 2 ANTIGONE: At this thou touchest my most poignant pain,

My ill-starred father’s piteous disgrace, The taint of blood, the hereditary stain,

That clings to all of Labdacus’ famed race. Woe worth the monstrous marriage-bed where lay

A mother with the son her womb had borne, Therein I was conceived, woe worth the day,

Fruit of incestuous sheets, a maid forlorn, And now I pass, accursed and unwed,

To meet them as an alien there below; And thee, O brother, in marriage ill-bestead,

’Twas thy dead hand that dealt me this death-blow.

CHORUS: Religion has her chains, ’tis true, Let rite be paid when rites are due. Yet is it ill to disobey The powers who hold by might the sway.

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Thou hast withstood authority, A self-willed rebel, thou must die.

EPODE1

ANTIGONE: Unwept, unwed, unfriended, hence I go, No longer may I see the day’s bright eye;

Not one friend left to share my bitter woe, And o’er my ashes heave one passing sigh.

CREON: If wail and lamentation aught availed To stave off death, I trow they’d never end. Away with her, and having walled her up In a rock-vaulted tomb, as I ordained, Leave her alone at liberty to die, Or, if she choose, to live in solitude, The tomb her dwelling. We in either case Are guiltless as concerns this maiden’s blood, Only on earth no lodging shall she �nd.

ANTIGONE: O grave, O bridal bower, O prison house Hewn from the rock, my everlasting home, Whither I go to join the mighty host Of kinsfolk, Persephassa’s2 guests long dead, The last of all, of all more miserable, I pass, my destined span of years cut short. And yet good hope is mine that I shall �nd A welcome from my sire, a welcome too, From thee, my mother, and my brother dear; From with these hands, I laved and decked your limbs In death, and poured libations on your grave. And last, my Polyneices, unto thee I paid due rites, and this my recompense! Yet am I justi�ed in wisdom’s eyes. For even had it been some child of mine, Or husband mouldering in death’s decay, I had not wrought this deed despite the State. What is the law I call in aid? ’Tis thus I argue. Had it been a husband dead I might have wed another, and have borne Another child, to take the dead child’s place. But, now my sire and mother both are dead,

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1Epode: The third part of an ode. Epode: The third part of an ode. Epode: 2Persephassa: Daughter of Zeus, also know as Persephone. Persephassa: Daughter of Zeus, also know as Persephone. Persephassa:

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No second brother can be born for me. Thus by the law of conscience I was led To honor thee, dear brother, and was judged By Creon guilty of a heinous crime. And now he drags me like a criminal, A bride unwed, amerced of marriage-song And marriage-bed and joys of motherhood, By friends deserted to a living grave. What ordinance of heaven have I transgressed? Hereafter can I look to any god For succor, call on any man for help? Alas, my piety is impious deemed. Well, if such justice is approved of heaven, I shall be taught by suffering my sin; But if the sin is theirs, O may they suffer No worse ills than the wrongs they do to me.

CHORUS: The same ungovernable will Drives like a gale the maiden still.

CREON: Therefore, my guards who let her stay Shall smart full sore for their delay.

ANTIGONE: Ah, woe is me! This word I hear Brings death most near.

CHORUS: I have no comfort. What he saith, Portends no other thing than death.

ANTIGONE: My fatherland, city of Thebes divine, Ye gods of Thebes whence sprang my line, Look, puissant lords of Thebes, on me; The last of all your royal house ye see. Martyred by men of sin, undone. Such meed my piety hath won.

[Exit ANTIGONE]

ODE IV STROPHE 1

CHORUS: Like to thee that maiden bright, Danae, in her brass-bound tower,

Once exchanged the glad sunlight For a cell, her bridal bower. And yet she sprang of royal line,

My child, like thine, And nursed the seed By her conceived

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Of Zeus descending in a golden shower. Strange are the ways of Fate, her power Nor wealth, nor arms withstand, nor tower; Nor brass-prowed ships, that breast the sea

From Fate can �ee.

ANTISTROPHE 1 Thus Dryas’ child, the rash Edonian King, For words of high disdain Did Bacchus1 to a rocky dungeon bring, To cool the madness of a fevered brain.

His frenzy passed, He learnt at last

’Twas madness gibes against a god to �ing. For once he fain had quenched the Maenad’s �re; And of the tuneful Nine2 provoked the ire.

STROPHE 2 By the Iron Rocks that guard the double main,

On Bosporus’ lone strand, Where stretcheth Salmydessus’ plain

In the wild Thracian land, There on his borders Ares3 witnessed

The vengeance by a jealous step-dame ta’en The gore that trickled from a spindle red,

The sightless orbits of her step-sons twain.

ANTISTROPHE 2 Wasting away they mourned their piteous doom, The blasted issue of their mother’s womb. But she her lineage could trace

To great Erecththeus’ race; Daughter of Boreas in her sire’s vast caves

Reared, where the tempest raves, Swift as his horses o’er the hills she sped; A child of gods; yet she, my child, like thee,

By Destiny That knows not death nor age—she too was vanquished.

SCENE V

[Enter TEIRESIAS and BOY]

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1Bacchus: Another name for Dionysis, God of wine. Bacchus: Another name for Dionysis, God of wine. Bacchus: 2Nine: The nine muses, who represent knowledge and art. Nine: The nine muses, who represent knowledge and art. Nine: 3Ares: The Greek god of war. Ares: The Greek god of war. Ares:

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TEIRESIAS:1 Princes of Thebes, two wayfarers as one, Having betwixt us eyes for one, we are here. The blind man cannot move without a guide.

CREON: Why tidings, old Teiresias? TEIRESIAS: I will tell thee;

And when thou hearest thou must heed the seer. CREON: Thus far I ne’er have disobeyed thy rede. TEIRESIAS: So hast thou steered the ship of State aright. CREON: I know it, and I gladly own my debt. TEIRESIAS: Bethink thee that thou treadest once again

The razor edge of peril. CREON: What is this?

Thy words inspire a dread presentiment. TEIRESIAS: The divination of my arts shall tell.

Sitting upon my throne of augury, As is my wont, where every fowl of heaven Find harborage, upon mine ears was borne A jargon strange of twitterings, hoots, and screams; So knew I that each bird at the other tare With bloody talons, for the whirr of wings Could signify naught else. Perturbed in soul, I straight essayed the sacri�ce by �re On blazing altars, but the God of Fire Came not in �ame, and from the thigh bones dripped And sputtered in the ashes a foul ooze; Gall-bladders cracked and spurted up: the fat Melted and fell and left the thigh bones bare. Such are the signs, taught by this lad, I read— As I guide others, so the boy guides me— The frustrate signs of oracles grown dumb. O King, thy willful temper ails the State, For all our shrines and altars are profaned By what has �lled the maw of dogs and crows, The �esh of Oedipus’ unburied son. Therefore the angry gods abominate Our litanies and our burnt offerings; Therefore no birds trill out a happy note, Gorged with the carnival of human gore. O ponder this, my son. To err is common To all men, but the man who having erred Hugs not his errors, but repents and seeks

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1Teiresias: A blind seer whose visions of the future are often ignored or misinterpreted.Teiresias: A blind seer whose visions of the future are often ignored or misinterpreted.Teiresias:

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The cure, is not a wastrel nor unwise. No fool, the saw goes, like the obstinate fool. Let death disarm thy vengeance. O forbear To vex the dead. What glory wilt thou win By slaying twice the slain? I mean thee well; Counsel’s most welcome if I promise gain.

CREON: Old man, ye all let �y at me your shafts Like anchors at a target; yea, ye set Your soothsayer on me. Peddlers are ye all And I the merchandise ye buy and sell. Go to, and make your pro�t where ye will, Silver of Sardis change for gold of Ind; Ye will not purchase this man’s burial, Not though the winged ministers of Zeus Should bear him in their talons to his throne; Not e’en in awe of prodigy so dire Would I permit his burial, for I know No human soilure can assail the gods; This too I know, Teiresias, dire’s the fall Of craft and cunning when it tries to gloss Foul treachery with fair words for �lthy gain.

TEIRESIAS: Alas! doth any know and lay to heart— CREON: Is this the prelude to some hackneyed saw? TEIRESIAS: How far good counsel is the best of goods? CREON: True, as unwisdom is the worst of ills. TEIRESIAS: Thou art infected with that ill thyself. CREON: I will not bandy insults with thee, seer. TEIRESIAS: And yet thou say’st my prophesies are frauds. CREON: Prophets are all a money-getting tribe. TEIRESIAS: And kings are all a lucre-loving race. CREON: Dost know at whom thou glancest, me thy lord? TEIRESIAS: Lord of the State and savior, thanks to me. CREON: Skilled prophet art thou, but to wrong inclined. TEIRESIAS: Take heed, thou wilt provoke me to reveal

The mystery deep hidden in my breast. CREON: Say on, but see it be not said for gain. TEIRESIAS: Such thou, methinks, till now hast judged my words. CREON: Be sure thou wilt not traf�c on my wits. TEIRESIAS: Know then for sure, the coursers of the sun

Not many times shall run their race, before Thou shalt have given the fruit of thine own loins In quittance of thy murder, life for life; For that thou hast entombed a living soul,

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And sent below a denizen of earth, And wronged the nether gods by leaving here A corpse unlaved, unwept, unsepulchered. Herein thou hast no part, nor e’en the gods In heaven; and thou usurp’st a power not thine. For this the avenging spirits of Heaven and Hell Who dog the steps of sin are on thy trail: What these have suffered thou shalt suffer too. And now, consider whether bought by gold I prophesy. For, yet a little while, And sound of lamentation shall be heard, Of men and women through thy desolate halls; And all thy neighbor States are leagues to avenge Their mangled warriors who have found a grave I’ the maw of wolf or hound, or winged bird That �ying homewards taints their city’s air. These are the shafts, that like a bowman I Provoked to anger, loosen at thy breast, Unerring, and their smart thou shalt not shun. Boy, lead me home, that he may vent his spleen On younger men, and learn to curb his tongue With gentler manners than his present mood.

[Exit TEIRESIAS]

CHORUS: My liege, that man hath gone, foretelling woe. And, O believe me, since these grizzled locks Were like the raven, never have I known The prophet’s warning to the State to fail.

CREON: I know it too, and it perplexes me. To yield is grievous, but the obstinate soul That �ghts with Fate, is smitten grievously.

CHORUS: Son of Menoeceus, list to good advice. Chorus:What should I do. Advise me. I will heed.

CHORUS: Go, free the maiden from her rocky cell; And for the unburied outlaw build a tomb.

CREON: Is that your counsel? You would have me yield? CHORUS: Yea, king, this instant. Vengeance of the gods

Is swift to overtake the impenitent. CREON: Ah! what a wrench it is to sacri�ce

My heart’s resolve; but Fate is ill to �ght. CHORUS: Go, trust not others. Do it quick thyself. CREON: I go hot-foot. Bestir ye one and all,

My henchmen! Get ye axes! Speed away

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To yonder eminence! I too will go, For all my resolution this way sways. ’Twas I that bound, I too will set her free. Almost I am persuaded it is best To keep through life the law ordained of old.

[Exit CREON]

PAEAN STROPHE 1

CHORUS: Thou by many names adored, Child of Zeus the God of thunder, Of a Theban bride the wonder,

Fair Italia’s guardian lord;

In the deep-embosomed glades Of the Eleusinian Queen

Haunt of revelers, men and maids, Dionysus1, thou art seen.

Where Ismenus rolls his waters, Where the Dragon’s teeth were sown,

Where the Bacchanals thy daughters Round thee roam,

There thy home; Thebes, O Bacchus, is thine own.

ANTISTROPHE 1 Thee on the two-crested rock

Lurid-�aming torches see; Where Corisian maidens �ock,

Thee the springs of Castaly.

By Nysa’s bastion ivy-clad, By shores with clustered vineyards glad, There to thee the hymn rings out, And through our streets we Thebans shout,

All hall to thee Evoe, Evoe!2

STROPHE 2 Oh, as thou lov’st this city best of all, To thee, and to thy Mother levin-stricken,

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1Dionysus: God of wine. Dionysus: God of wine. Dionysus: 2Evoe, Evoe!: An exclamation indicating joy. Evoe, Evoe!: An exclamation indicating joy. Evoe, Evoe!:

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In our dire need we call; Thou see’st with what a plague our townsfolk sicken.

Thy ready help we crave, Whether adown Parnassian heights descending, Or o’er the roaring straits thy swift was wending,

Save us, O save!

ANTISTROPHE 2 Brightest of all the orbs that breathe forth light,

Authentic son of Zeus, immortal king, Leader of all the voices of the night,

Come, and thy train of Thyiads with thee bring, Thy maddened rout

Who dance before thee all night long, and shout, Thy handmaids we, Evoe, Evoe!

EXODOS1

[Enter MESSENGER]

MESSENGER: Attend all ye who dwell beside the halls Of Cadmus and Amphion. No man’s life As of one tenor would I praise or blame, For Fortune with a constant ebb and rise Casts down and raises high and low alike, And none can read a mortal’s horoscope. Take Creon; he, methought, if any man, Was enviable. He had saved this land Of Cadmus from our enemies and attained A monarch’s powers and ruled the state supreme, While a right noble issue crowned his bliss. Now all is gone and wasted, for a life Without life’s joys I count a living death. You’ll tell me he has ample store of wealth, The pomp and circumstance of kings; but if These give no pleasure, all the rest I count The shadow of a shade, nor would I weigh His wealth and power ’gainst a dram of joy.

CHORUS: What fresh woes bring’st thou to the royal house? MESSENGER: Both dead, and they who live deserve to die. CHORUS: Who is the slayer, who the victim? speak. MESSENGER: Haemon; his blood shed by no stranger hand.

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1Exodus: The closing of the play. Exodus: The closing of the play. Exodus:

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CHORUS: What mean ye? by his father’s or his own? MESSENGER: His own; in anger for his father’s crime. CHORUS: O prophet, what thou spakest comes to pass. MESSENGER: So stands the case; now ’tis for you to act. CHORUS: Lo! from the palace gates I see approaching

Creon’s unhappy wife, Eurydice. Comes she by chance or learning her son’s fate?

[Enter EURYDICE]

EURYDICE: Ye men of Thebes, I overheard your talk. As I passed out to offer up my prayer To Pallas2, and was drawing back the bar To open wide the door, upon my ears There broke a wail that told of household woe Stricken with terror in my handmaids’ arms I fell and fainted. But repeat your tale To one not unacquaint with misery.

MESSENGER: Dear mistress, I was there and will relate The perfect truth, omitting not one word. Why should we gloze and �atter, to be proved Liars hereafter? Truth is ever best. Well, in attendance on my liege, your lord, I crossed the plain to its utmost margin, where The corse of Polyneices, gnawn and mauled, Was lying yet. We offered �rst a prayer To Pluto3 and the goddess of cross-ways, With contrite hearts, to deprecate their ire. Then laved with lustral waves the mangled corse, Laid it on fresh-lopped branches, lit a pyre, And to his memory piled a mighty mound Of mother earth. Then to the caverned rock, The bridal chamber of the maid and Death, We sped, about to enter. But a guard Heard from that godless shrine a far shrill wail, And ran back to our lord to tell the news. But as he nearer drew a hollow sound Of lamentation to the King was borne. He groaned and uttered then this bitter plaint: “Am I a prophet? miserable me! Is this the saddest path I ever trod?

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2Pallas: The Greek goddess Athena.Pallas: The Greek goddess Athena.Pallas: 3Pluto: The Greek god of the underworld, more commonly known as Hades. Pluto: The Greek god of the underworld, more commonly known as Hades. Pluto:

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’Tis my son’s voice that calls me. On press on, My henchmen, haste with double speed to the tomb Where rocks down-torn have made a gap, look in And tell me if in truth I recognize The voice of Haemon or am heaven-deceived.” So at the bidding of our distraught lord We looked, and in the craven’s vaulted gloom I saw the maiden lying strangled there, A noose of linen twined about her neck; And hard beside her, clasping her cold form, Her lover lay bewailing his dead bride Death-wedded, and his father’s cruelty. When the King saw him, with a terrible groan He moved towards him, crying, “O my son What hast thou done? What ailed thee? What mischance Has reft thee of thy reason? O come forth, Come forth, my son; thy father supplicates.” But the son glared at him with tiger eyes, Spat in his face, and then, without a word, Drew his two-hilted sword and smote, but missed His father �ying backwards. Then the boy, Wroth with himself, poor wretch, incontinent Fell on his sword and drove it through his side Home, but yet breathing clasped in his lax arms The maid, her pallid cheek incarnadined With his expiring gasps. So there they lay Two corpses, one in death. His marriage rites Are consummated in the halls of Death: A witness that of ills whate’er befall Mortals’ unwisdom is the worst of all.

[Exit EURYDICE]

CHORUS: What makest thou of this? The Queen has gone Without a word importing good or ill.

MESSENGER: I marvel too, but entertain good hope. ’Tis that she shrinks in public to lament Her son’s sad ending, and in privacy Would with her maidens mourn a private loss. Trust me, she is discreet and will not err.

CHORUS: I know not, but strained silence, so I deem, Is no less ominous than excessive grief.

MESSENGER: Well, let us to the house and solve our doubts, Whether the tumult of her heart conceals

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Some fell design. It may be thou art right: Unnatural silence signi�es no good.

CHORUS: Lo! the King himself appears. Evidence he with him bears

’Gainst himself (ah me! I quake ’Gainst a king such charge to make) But all must own, The guilt is his and his alone.

CREON: Woe for sin of minds perverse, Deadly fraught with mortal curse. Behold us slain and slayers, all akin. Woe for my counsel dire, conceived in sin.

Alas, my son, Life scarce begun, Thou wast undone.

The fault was mine, mine only, O my son! CHORUS: Too late thou seemest to perceive the truth. CREON: By sorrow schooled. Heavy the hand of God,

Thorny and rough the paths my feet have trod, Humbled my pride, my pleasure turned to pain; Poor mortals, how we labor all in vain!

[Enter SECOND MESSENGER]

SECOND MESSENGER: Sorrows are thine, my lord, and more to come, One lying at thy feet, another yet More grievous waits thee, when thou comest home.

CREON: What woe is lacking to my tale of woes? SECOND MESSENGER: Thy wife, the mother of thy dead son here,

Lies stricken by a fresh in�icted blow. CREON: How bottomless the pit!

Does claim me too, O Death? What is this word he saith, This woeful messenger? Say, is it �t To slay anew a man already slain?

Is Death at work again, Stroke upon stroke, �rst son, then mother slain?

CHORUS: Look for thyself. She lies for all to view. CREON: Alas! another added woe I see.

What more remains to crown my agony? A minute past I clasped a lifeless son, And now another victim Death hath won. Unhappy mother, most unhappy son!

SECOND MESSENGER: Beside the altar on a keen-edged sword She fell and closed her eyes in night, but erst

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She mourned for Megareus who nobly died Long since, then for her son; with her last breath She cursed thee, the slayer of her child.

CREON: I shudder with affright O for a two-edged sword to slay outright

A wretch like me, Made one with misery.

SECOND MESSENGER: ’Tis true that thou wert charged by the dead Queen As author of both deaths, hers and her son's.

CREON: In what wise was her self-destruction wrought? SECOND MESSENGER: Hearing the loud lament above her son

With her own hand she stabbed herself to the heart. CREON: I am the guilty cause. I did the deed,

Thy murderer. Yea, I guilty plead. My henchmen, lead me hence, away, away, A cipher, less than nothing; no delay!

CHORUS: Well said, if in disaster aught is well His past endure demand the speediest cure.

CREON: Come, Fate, a friend at need, Come with all speed! Come, my best friend, And speed my end! Away, away!

Let me not look upon another day! CHORUS: This for the morrow; to us are present needs

That they whom it concerns must take in hand. CREON: I join your prayer that echoes my desire. CHORUS: O pray not, prayers are idle; from the doom

Of fate for mortals refuge is there none. CREON: Away with me, a worthless wretch who slew

Unwitting thee, my son, thy mother too. Whither to turn I know now; every way

Leads but astray, And on my head I feel the heavy weight

Of crushing Fate. CHORUS: Of happiness the chiefest part

Is a wise heart: And to defraud the gods in aught With peril’s fraught. Swelling words of high-�own might

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Sophocles: Antigone 1269

Mightily the gods do smite. Chastisement for errors past Wisdom brings to age at last.

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Reading and Reacting 1. What ideas does Antigone express about duty? about obedience? How do

these ideas conform (or fail to conform) to your own concepts of duty and obedience?

2. According to Aristotle, the main character in a tragedy possess a �aw that leads to his or her downfall. Write an essay in which you discuss Antigone’s tragic �aw. How does this �aw set up (or make inevitable) the series events that lead to the tragic resolution of the play?

3. Both Creon and Antigone defend rights that they believe are sacred. What rights are in con�ict? Is there any room for compromise? Do you sympathize with Antigone or with Creon?

4. Aristotle believed that to be effective, tragic heroes must have elements of both good and evil. Does Antigone conform to Aristotle’s require- ment? Explain.

5. What is Antigone’s fatal �aw? How does this �aw lead to the tragic reso- lution of the play?

6. As the play progresses, do Creon and Antigone change, or do they remain essentially un changed by events?

7. At the very end of Antigone, the Chorus says, “Chastisement for errors past / Wisdom brings to age at last.” Do you think Creon has gained wis- dom from his experiences? Why, or why not?

8. How does Antigone’s gender affect her actions? How does it determine how she is treated? Are the play’s attitudes toward women consistent with those of contemporary American society? Explain.

9. JOURNAL ENTRY If you were Antigone, would you have stuck to your prin- ciples, or would you have given in? Explain your reasoning.

10. CRITICAL PERSPECTIVE In Sophocles the Playwright, S. M. Adams argues that, to the ancient Greek audience, Antigone and Creon were both tragic heroes. Do you agree? If so, do you see the fact that the play has two tragic heroes as a problem?

Related Works: From Persepolis (p. 111), “A Worn Path” (p. 386), “Do not go gentle into that good night” (p. 710), “Medgar Evers” (p. 744), Hamlet (p. 1043), Oedipus the King (p. 1182)Oedipus the King (p. 1182)Oedipus the King

J O N E S , M E L V E R I N E 1 5 0 3 T S

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