ATTIE
breaks a bottle over
G EORGE
’s head. He falls to his knees, but she leaps to
his throat and begins to strangle him. He collapses, and she pauses.)
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD : Jealousy feeds upon suspicion, and it turns into fury—or it ends as soon as it passes from suspicion to certainty.
( H ATTIE
straddles her fallen husband and ponders momentarily. Will her passion pass? Instead of recovering, though, she suddenly goes at him with renewed vehemence, violently pounding his head against the floor. Then, just as suddenly, she stops, seized with the realization of what she is doing.
G EORGE
lies ominously still. Fearfully, she puts her ear to his chest to listen for his heart.
)
H ATTIE : Oh my God!!
( L A R OCHEFOUCAULD
huddles with
P LATO
for safety.
)
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD : Our repentance is not so much regret for the ill we have done as fear for the ill that may happen to us in consequence.
H ATTIE : George!… ( G EORGE
briefly regains consciousness. After a tense pause, he speaks, slowly and with difficulty, in bursts.
)
G EORGE : Who … are … those … guys?…
(He dies.)
H ATTIE : I thought they were friends of yours!
(She collapses weeping on his body.)
P LATO
(to console her)
: The soul of man is immortal and imperishable.
(This nugget of nobility clinches the title as far as he’s concerned, and he simpers defiantly at
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD
over
H ATTIE
’s head.
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD
stares at his rival unimpressed.)
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD : We all have strength enough to endure the misfortunes of others.
( P LATO
decides to overlook this feeble cut.
)
P LATO : You are young, my son, and therefore, refrain a while from setting yourself up as a judge of the highest matters.
(This petty, mock-patient debate is broken up by
H ATTIE
’s sudden, feverish, even hypnotic recovery. She bolts upright with feral urgency. For a moment she turns away from
G EORGE
’s corpse to figure out some logistics.)
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD : Neither the sun nor death can be looked at constantly.
( H ATTIE
drags
G EORGE
’s body into the other room. As she disappears
, W ILLA C ATHER
pokes her head in through the open door. She wears a simple country dress and the tastefully worn expression of a classic pioneer novelist, but here she functions as a curious next-door neighbor, concerned about the commotion. She has flour-whitened hands, from the bread dough she has been kneading in her kitchen.
)
( H ATTIE
returns, possessed and wild-eyed.
W ILLA ,
who is an earnest drag, looks to
H ATTIE
for an explanation. Pause.
)
H ATTIE
(finally)
: I killed him!! But I didn’t mean to!!
(She falls to her knees in mad, brief, presuicidal prayer. She is beyond chatting with boarders and neighbors now.
W ILLA
recovers from her surprise, and regards
H ATTIE
with strong, patronizing grace, like an old-fashioned teacher.)
W ILLA : Sometimes, a neighbor we have disliked … lets fall a single commonplace remark that shows us another side … Another person, really … Uncertain, and puzzled, and in the dark like ourselves.
( H ATTIE
babbles incomprehensible prayers.
)
The Miracles of the Church seem to me to rest upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.
(She nods to her sage cohorts, a tad piously.)
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD
(tartly)
: Old people like to give good advice. It is solace for not being able to provide bad examples.
( W ILLA
is basically impervious to this remark, and anyway
, H ATTIE
stands up suddenly and stumbles to the window. She has ceased even noticing her guests. She climbs onto the ledge desperately, and is seized with another coughing fit, one last reminder of earthly travail.
)
H ATTIE : I’m sorry!!
(From the street below, we hear excited voices, a crowd assembling. Spectators call up to her anxiously.)
V OICE OF G OETHE : Miss, don’t! Calmly wait the morrow’s hidden season!
V OICE OF
breaks a bottle over
G EORGE
’s head. He falls to his knees, but she leaps to
his throat and begins to strangle him. He collapses, and she pauses.)
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD : Jealousy feeds upon suspicion, and it turns into fury—or it ends as soon as it passes from suspicion to certainty.
( H ATTIE
straddles her fallen husband and ponders momentarily. Will her passion pass? Instead of recovering, though, she suddenly goes at him with renewed vehemence, violently pounding his head against the floor. Then, just as suddenly, she stops, seized with the realization of what she is doing.
G EORGE
lies ominously still. Fearfully, she puts her ear to his chest to listen for his heart.
)
H ATTIE : Oh my God!!
( L A R OCHEFOUCAULD
huddles with
P LATO
for safety.
)
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD : Our repentance is not so much regret for the ill we have done as fear for the ill that may happen to us in consequence.
H ATTIE : George!… ( G EORGE
briefly regains consciousness. After a tense pause, he speaks, slowly and with difficulty, in bursts.
)
G EORGE : Who … are … those … guys?…
(He dies.)
H ATTIE : I thought they were friends of yours!
(She collapses weeping on his body.)
P LATO
(to console her)
: The soul of man is immortal and imperishable.
(This nugget of nobility clinches the title as far as he’s concerned, and he simpers defiantly at
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD
over
H ATTIE
’s head.
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD
stares at his rival unimpressed.)
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD : We all have strength enough to endure the misfortunes of others.
( P LATO
decides to overlook this feeble cut.
)
P LATO : You are young, my son, and therefore, refrain a while from setting yourself up as a judge of the highest matters.
(This petty, mock-patient debate is broken up by
H ATTIE
’s sudden, feverish, even hypnotic recovery. She bolts upright with feral urgency. For a moment she turns away from
G EORGE
’s corpse to figure out some logistics.)
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD : Neither the sun nor death can be looked at constantly.
( H ATTIE
drags
G EORGE
’s body into the other room. As she disappears
, W ILLA C ATHER
pokes her head in through the open door. She wears a simple country dress and the tastefully worn expression of a classic pioneer novelist, but here she functions as a curious next-door neighbor, concerned about the commotion. She has flour-whitened hands, from the bread dough she has been kneading in her kitchen.
)
( H ATTIE
returns, possessed and wild-eyed.
W ILLA ,
who is an earnest drag, looks to
H ATTIE
for an explanation. Pause.
)
H ATTIE
(finally)
: I killed him!! But I didn’t mean to!!
(She falls to her knees in mad, brief, presuicidal prayer. She is beyond chatting with boarders and neighbors now.
W ILLA
recovers from her surprise, and regards
H ATTIE
with strong, patronizing grace, like an old-fashioned teacher.)
W ILLA : Sometimes, a neighbor we have disliked … lets fall a single commonplace remark that shows us another side … Another person, really … Uncertain, and puzzled, and in the dark like ourselves.
( H ATTIE
babbles incomprehensible prayers.
)
The Miracles of the Church seem to me to rest upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.
(She nods to her sage cohorts, a tad piously.)
L A R OCHEFOUCAULD
(tartly)
: Old people like to give good advice. It is solace for not being able to provide bad examples.
( W ILLA
is basically impervious to this remark, and anyway
, H ATTIE
stands up suddenly and stumbles to the window. She has ceased even noticing her guests. She climbs onto the ledge desperately, and is seized with another coughing fit, one last reminder of earthly travail.
)
H ATTIE : I’m sorry!!
(From the street below, we hear excited voices, a crowd assembling. Spectators call up to her anxiously.)
V OICE OF G OETHE : Miss, don’t! Calmly wait the morrow’s hidden season!
V OICE OF
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