Hey, folks! For our second/final round of conferences, I'd like to not only look over drafts of your short stories, but also answer any questions you have on your creative nonfiction pieces--or anything else, for that matter, since we're now about halfway through the summer term. Obviously, time is really flying by and we're trying to cover a lot of material so feel free to voice any questions or concerns that you may have!
As before, please sign up for at least one conference; I'm adding an extra conference day this time since I've had quite a few students express an interest in meeting with me more than once. Feel free to sign up for a second conference if you like (we can keep it tentative in case you want/need to change the time). I tend to meet with former students at Starbucks pretty often, too, in case you'd rather do that instead.
Oh, I like to preface the poetry section with a film and decided this time to offer a choice between "Dead Poets Society" and "Howl," since both will work quite nicely (although they're very different films). Just let me know your vote in conference.
Tuesday, July 3:
12:45-1:00 Sam Sulkoske
1:00-1:15 Sam Sulkoske
1:15-1:30
1:30-1:45
1:45-2:00
2:00-2:15
2:15-2:30
2:30-2:45
2:45-3:00
3:00-3:15 Kristin Johnson
3:15-3:30 Lacey Lord
Wednesday, July 4: University closed.
Thursday, July 5:
12:45-1:00
1:00-1:15Shan Guan
1:15-1:30
1:30-1:45 Robert Brooks
1:45-2:00
2:00-2:15 Alexis Schaefer
2:15-2:30
2:30-2:45
2:45-3:00
3:00-3:15
3:15-3:30
Friday, July 6:
12:45-1:00 Meg Spiker
1:00-1:15 Nicole Weldon
1:15-1:30 Chris Hamilton
1:30-1:45 Chris Hamilton
1:45-2:00 Adam Moats
2:00-2:15 Haeun Hong
2:15-2:30Matraca Parish
2:30-2:45 Mindy Bone
2:45-3:00 Drew Siner
3:00-3:15
3:15-3:30 Sean Eberly
3:30-3:45 andie pennington
Monday, July 9: Watch "Howl" or "Dead Poets Society." Discuss Poetic Terminology
and Schools of Poetry readings off the blog, as well as the assignment for Poem
#1 (you may choose from the different exercises at the beginning of the
packet). Watch some poetry videos in class, time permitting.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Friday, May 4, 2012
Syllabus
Introduction to Creative Writing
Professor Michael Meyerhofer
Summer 2012
I
think one of my early motivations for writing was that other people's
versions of experience didn't gel with my own. It was a gesture toward
sanity to try to get the world right for myself. I've since learned
that if you get it right for yourself, it often has resonance for
others.
-Stephen Dunn
Writing is thinking. To write well is to think clearly. That's why it's so hard.
-David McCullough
Course Description
This course offers an introduction to the art and craft of writing poetry and prose that’s worth reading. We’ll
also discuss what qualities distinguish a good piece of writing
(for instance, how good poetry has almost nothing in common with the
lyrics of insipid pop songs). As students
and writers, you will read and analyze high quality published work,
write and revise your own pieces, and read and discuss the work of
your classmates. Time permitting, I also hope to introduce you to the world of literary journals and publishing as well. This course does not require you to be an experienced and/or gifted creative writer; it does require you to be willing to read, analyze, and do your best on your own work.
Required Texts
This
course does not require you to purchase a textbook; instead, I’ve
put together a substantial collection of short stories, essays,
poems, and exercises that you will be required to read from beginning
to end. I’ll email this document to you; you will be required to print it off on your own time and bring it to class.
Student Learning Objectives
English
285 is designed to introduce you to contemporary poetry and fiction
so that you can become a better reader and writer. Course
objectives include: learning to do “close readings” or “analysis” of
contemporary poetry and fiction, learning to identify and discuss
the devices that poets and prose writers use in their work, learning
to use these literary devices to improve your own writing, learning
to read and respond to the work of your peers, and learning to
respond critically to and revise your own work.
Coursework
In
English 285, you will be called upon to read and analyze a great
deal of writing, as well as produce a substantial body of your own
work. Heavy emphasis will also be placed on
analyzing published works, helpfully critiquing the work of your
classmates, and recognizing that writing is an ongoing process by
working to revise and improve your own pieces. This includes:
· Journal responses to assigned readings (always at least two full pages, double spaced, as detailed as possible), due the day the reading is to be discussed. 20% of course grade.
· Participation:
Includes reading the required material, participating in class
discussions, attending conferences with your instructor, and being a
reader and responder for your classmates. 20% of course grade.
· Final
portfolio: Your final portfolio will contain all your major poetry
and prose assignments for the semester, as well as two substantial
revisions. Your grade for the portfolio will be based on the amount and quality of revision. 40% of course grade.
· Final Presentation: This can be either a substantial, solo presentation on a contemporary writer we haven’t discussed or a filmed, group adaptation of a short story (either one written by a published author or a group member). 20% of course grade.
Attendance Policy
Students are allowed TWO “unexcused” absences. Each additional unexcused absence will lower your final grade by 1/3 of a letter. Please note that even in the case of “unexcused” absences, homework assignments must be turned in on time. If
you know in advance that you’re going to be absent, let me know
ASAP so we can make arrangements for you to turn in assignments
ahead of time. Also, note that daily in-class journal assignments cannot be made up.
Excused absences can be given for religious reasons, University activities, and other special circumstances, but these must be arranged beforehand, and proof may (and probably will) be required. In the case of excused absences that fall on paper due-dates, arrangements will be made to turn in the papers early.
Note
that in accordance with university policy, a student missing 20% or
more of the course automatically receives a failing grade.
Participation
Class
Participation counts toward a large part of your grade. It is
important to understand that class participation is not related to
attendance. You can come to class every day without ever participating.
I will keep track of your participation over the course of the
semester, and you will be graded on how much you contribute to the
class discussion, not on whether or not you were physically present.
Class participation includes, but is not limited to: coming to class
prepared (with the appropriate materials, and having read and
responded to the assigned texts), completing assigned work, asking
questions for clarification or to further the class
discussion/workshop (this includes asking questions of both the
instructor and your peers), and responding to the work of other
students (this includes orally during workshop and in writing on the
students’ drafts).
Format
All
assignments should be typed (unless otherwise specified) with your
name, the class section, and the title of the assignment (“Poem #3”,
“Short Story”, “Journal Entry #2”, etc.) in an upper corner. Multiple pages should always be numbered. Note:
especially when we start workshopping poems, it will get difficult
to keep different assignments straight, so writing “Poem #3”, “Poem
#4”, etc., will help a lot.
Also, always save everything you write for this class!! You’ll need it for the final portfolio and revision exercises. Note: while the major workshopping assignments (the poems and stories) must be turned in printed, I will accept journals via email! Attach them as doc or docx and be sure to type something in the body of the email so it doesn’t go to spam folder instead.
Classroom Environment
English
285 is a combined discussion and workshop course. This means, in
part, that all students are responsible for contributing to both their
own learning experience and that of their peers. It
is important to understand that workshop involves criticism; the
point of having your writing workshopped is to listen to advice and/or
suggestions from others that can help you become a better writer.
It’s difficult to be critiqued, but it’s essential to the writing
process. Please note that classroom criticism should be useful (i.e., constructive). Unproductive or mean-spirited criticism will not
be tolerated. Also, because the contribution of ideas from each
student is critical to the learning process, any behavior that makes
other students feel uncomfortable in their learning environment will
not be tolerated either. This includes interrupting others while
they’re talking, carrying on conversations separate from the class
discussion, or making comments that could be perceived as racially,
sexually, ethnically, culturally or in any other way offensive. Please
make every effort to maintain an atmosphere where everyone feels
comfortable sharing and responding to ideas. Also, as a way of avoiding
disruptions, please make every effort to get to class on time and
turn off all cell phones prior to class.
Plagiarism
For
the purposes of this class, plagiarism essentially means taking
another author’s written work and attempting to pass it off as your
own. Doing so may result in a failing grade,
disciplinary reprimand, censure, probation, and even suspension or
dismissal from the University.
About Your Instructor
Adaptations
Note: I've amended/simplified the adaptation assignment; instead
of a big group project (which would take a bit too long with this many
students), I'd like you to individually write out a script for one
scene (bonus points if you do a whole story). It can be a scene adapted from one of the stories or nonfiction
pieces we have read, or something of your own. In preparation for this,
take
a look at “While the Auto Waits” by O. Henry and “The Death of the Hired
Man”
by Robert Frost (both adapted by Walter Wykes). Specifically, pay
attention to
how the stage adaptations draw from the original text. There's also a
free
program you might want to use at http://celtx.com.
Promptly at the beginning of twilight, came again to that quiet corner of that quiet, small park the girl in gray. She sat upon a bench and read a book, for there was yet to come a half hour in which print could be accomplished.
Stage Adaptations
Here
are a couple one act plays adapted from other works (a short story by
O. Henry and a poem by Robert Frost) to give you an idea of how the
formatting is done (especially in terms of stage actions), the obvious
importance of dialog to convey the story and keep the action moving,
etc. Specifically, compare the stage adaptations to the original text to get a feel for how it’s done.
| |
by O. Henry
adapted for the stage by Walter Wykes
|
CHARACTERS
GIRL
YOUNG MAN
WAITRESS
CHAUFFEUR
TIME
1920s
[Twilight.
The quiet corner of a city park. A GIRL in gray sits alone on a
bench, reading her book. A large-meshed veil hangs over her face, which
nevertheless shines through with a calm and unconscious beauty. When
she turns a page, the book slips from her hand, and a YOUNG MAN, who
has been hovering nearby, pounces upon it. He returns it to her with a
gallant and hopeful air.]
GIRL: Oh, thank you.
YOUNG MAN: Nice weather we’re having.
GIRL: Yes.
[Pause.]
YOUNG MAN: Well …
GIRL: You may sit down, if you like.
YOUNG MAN: [Eagerly.] Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt your reading.
GIRL: Really, sit. I would like very much to have you do so. The light is too bad for reading. I would prefer to talk.
YOUNG MAN: Well, if you insist. [He slides hopefully onto the seat next to her.] You know, you’ve got to be the stunningest girl I’ve ever seen. Honest. I had my eye on you since yesterday.
GIRL: Yesterday?
YOUNG MAN: Didn't know somebody was bowled over by those pretty lamps of yours, did you, honeysuckle?
GIRL:
Whoever you are, you must remember that I am a lady. I will excuse
the remark you have just made because the mistake was, doubtless, not
an unnatural one—in your circle. I asked you to sit down; if the
invitation must constitute me your honeysuckle, consider it withdrawn.
YOUNG
MAN: Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought …
well, I mean, there are girls in parks, you know—that is, of course,
you don't know, but—
GIRL: Abandon the subject, if you please. Of course I know.
YOUNG MAN: Right.
GIRL:
Now, tell me about these people passing and crowding, each way, along
these paths. Where are they going? Why do they hurry so? Are they
happy?
YOUNG
MAN: It is interesting to watch them—isn’t it? The wonderful drama of
life. Some are going to supper and some to—er—other places. One
can’t help but wonder what their histories are.
GIRL:
Yes! How fascinating they seem to me—rushing about with their petty
little dreams and their common worries! I come here to sit because
here, only, can I be near the great, common, throbbing heart of
humanity. My part in life is cast where its beating is never felt. Can
you surmise why I spoke to you, Mr.—?
YOUNG MAN: Parkenstacker. And your name…?
[He waits, eager and hopeful, but she only holds up a slender finger and smiles slightly.]
GIRL:
No, you would recognize it immediately. It is simply impossible to
keep one's name out of the papers. Or even one's portrait. This veil
and this hat—my maid’s, of course—are my only protection. They furnish
me with an incog. You should have seen the chauffeur staring when he
thought I did not see. Candidly, there are five or six names that
belong in the holy of holies, and mine, by the accident of birth, is one
of them. I spoke to you, Mr. Stackenpot—
YOUNG MAN: Parkenstacker.
GIRL:
—Mr. Parkenstacker, because I wanted to talk, for once, with a natural
man—a real man—one unspoiled by the despicable gloss of wealth and
supposed social superiority. Oh! You have no idea how weary I am of
it—money, money, money! And of the men who surround me, dancing like
little marionettes all cut from the same pattern. I am sick of
pleasure, of jewels, of travel, of society, of luxuries of all kinds!
YOUNG MAN: I always had the idea that money must be a pretty good thing.
GIRL: A competence is to be desired, certainly. But when you have so many millions that—! [She concludes the sentence with a gesture of despair.] It
is the monotony of it that palls. Drives, dinners, theatres, balls,
suppers, balls, dinners, more balls, followed of course by dinners and
suppers, with the gilding of superfluous wealth over it all. Sometimes
the very tinkle of the ice in my champagne glass nearly drives me mad.
YOUNG
MAN: You know … I’ve always liked to read up on the habits and customs
of the wealthy class. I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur on the
subject. But I like to have my information accurate. Now, I had
formed the opinion that champagne is cooled in the bottle and not by
placing ice in the glass.
[The GIRL gives a musical laugh of genuine amusement.]
GIRL:
You must understand that we of the non-useful class depend for our
amusement upon departure from precedent. Just now it is a fad to put
ice in champagne. The idea was originated by a visiting Prince of
Tartary while dining at the Waldorf. It will soon give way to some
other whim. Just as, at a dinner party this week on Madison Avenue, a
green kid glove was laid by the plate of each guest to be put on and
used while eating olives.
YOUNG MAN: [Humbly.] I see.
GIRL: These special diversions of the inner circle do not become familiar to the common public, of course.
YOUNG
MAN: Of course. It’s all quite fascinating. I’ve always wanted to
participate in, or at least witness first hand, the rituals of the
elite.
GIRL: We are drawn to that which we do not understand.
YOUNG MAN: I guess that’s true.
GIRL:
For my part, I have always thought that if I should ever love a man it
would be one of lowly station. One who is a worker and not a drone.
But, doubtless, the claims of caste and wealth will prove stronger than
my inclination. Just now I am besieged by two suitors. One is Grand
Duke of a German principality. I think he has, or has had, a wife,
somewhere, driven mad by his intemperance and cruelty. The other is an
English Marquis, so cold and mercenary that I prefer even the
diabolical nature of the Duke. What is it that impels me to tell you
these things, Mr. Packenwacker?
YOUNG MAN: Parkenstacker.
GIRL: Of course.
YOUNG
MAN: I don’t know why you should bare your soul to a common man like
me, but you can’t know how much I appreciate your confidences.
[The girl contemplates him with the calm, impersonal regard that befits the difference in their stations.]
GIRL: What is your line of business, if you don’t mind my asking?
YOUNG MAN: A very humble one. But I hope to rise in the world someday.
GIRL: You have aspirations?
YOUNG MAN: Oh, yes. There’s so much I want to do.
GIRL:
I admire your enthusiasm. I, myself, can find very little to be
enthused about, burdened, as I am, by the constant pleasures and
diversions of my class.
YOUNG MAN: Did you really mean it, before, when you said you could love a man of lowly station?
GIRL: Indeed I did. But I said “might.”
YOUNG MAN: Why only “might?”
GIRL: Well, there is the Grand Duke and the Marquis to think of, you know.
YOUNG MAN: But you’ve said yourself—they’re so cold.
GIRL:
I am sure you understand when I say there are certain expectations of a
young lady in my position. It would be such a disappointment to
certain members of my family if I were to marry a commoner as we like to
call them. You simply cannot imagine the scandal it would cause. All
the magazines would remark upon it. I might even be cut off from the
family fortune. And yet … no calling could be too humble were the man I
loved all that I wish him to be.
YOUNG MAN: I work in a restaurant.
[The girl shrinks slightly.]
GIRL: Not as a waiter? Labor is noble, but personal attendance, you know—valets and—
YOUNG MAN: Not a waiter. I’m a cashier in … in that restaurant over there.
GIRL: [With a strange, suspicious look.] That … that one there? [He nods.] That one?
YOUNG MAN: Yes.
GIRL: [Confused.] Are you sure?
YOUNG MAN: Quite sure.
GIRL: But—
[Suddenly the GIRL consults a tiny watch set in a bracelet of rich design upon her wrist. She rises with a start.]
GIRL: Oh!
YOUNG MAN: What is it? What’s wrong?
GIRL: I … I am late for an important engagement.
YOUNG MAN: An engagement?
GIRL: Yes!
YOUNG MAN: Some sort of ball or—
GIRL: Yes, yes!
YOUNG MAN: Will I see you again?
GIRL:
I do not know. Perhaps—but the whim may not seize me again. I must
go quickly now. There is a dinner, and a box at the play—and, oh! The
same old round! Perhaps you noticed an automobile at the upper corner
of the park as you came. One with a white body.
YOUNG MAN: [Knitting his brow strangely.] And red running gear?
GIRL:
Yes. I always come in that. Pierre waits for me there. He supposes
me to be shopping in the department store across the square. Conceive
of the bondage of the life wherein we must deceive even our
chauffeurs. Good-night.
YOUNG MAN: Wait! It’s getting dark, and the park is full of questionable characters. Can’t I walk you to your—
GIRL: [Quickly.] No!
I mean … no. If you have the slightest regard for my wishes, you
will remain on this bench for ten minutes after I have left. I do not
mean to question your intentions, but you are probably aware that autos
generally bear the monogram of their owner. Again, good-night.
[Suddenly a WAITRESS approaches, wearing a soiled, dirty uniform—evidently just coming off her shift.]
WAITRESS: Mary-Jane! Mary-Jane Parker! What on earth are you doing out here?! Don’t you know what time it is?!
GIRL: [A little flustered.] To whom are you speaking, Madame?
WAITRESS: To whom am I … to you! Who do you think, you ninny?!
GIRL: Then I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.
WAITRESS:
You’re shift started fifteen minutes ago! Mr. Witherspoon’s in a
rage! This is the third time this month you’ve been late! You’d
better get yourself over there and into uniform before he cuts you
loose for good!
GIRL: I—
WAITRESS: Go on, now! I know you can’t afford to miss a paycheck!
GIRL: [Attempting to maintain her dignity.] You must have me confused with—with someone else.
WAITRESS:
Confused with—why, Mary-Jane Parker, we’ve known each other for three
years! We swap shifts! Have you been drinking?! Why are you wearing
that ridiculous hat?!
GIRL: [To the YOUNG MAN.] I … I’m sorry, Mr. Porkenblogger—
YOUNG MAN: Parkenstacker.
GIRL: Parkenstacker.
WAITRESS: Parkenstacker?
YOUNG MAN: Yes, Parkenstacker.
WAITRESS: As in THE Parkenstackers?! From the society pages?!
GIRL: The society pages?
YOUNG MAN: If only I were so fortunate.
GIRL: You … you must excuse me. My chauffeur is waiting.
WAITRESS: Chauffeur?! What kind of crazy airs are you putting on?! You’ve never had a chauffeur in your life! You don’t even own an automobile!
GIRL: I do so!
WAITRESS: Since when?!
GIRL: Since … Oh, get away from me! I don’t know you!
WAITRESS: Don’t know me?! You have been drinking! I’m going to tell your mother!
[The GIRL rushes off, followed closely by the WAITRESS. The YOUNG MAN picks up her book where she has dropped it.]
YOUNG MAN: Wait! You forgot your—
[But they are gone. After a few moments, a CHAUFFEUR approaches cautiously.]
CHAUFFEUR: Begging your pardon, sir.
YOUNG MAN: Yes, Henri?
CHAUFFEUR: I don’t mean to intrude, but your dinner reservation—shall I cancel or—
YOUNG MAN: No … I’m coming.
CHAUFFEUR: Very good, sir. The auto is waiting.
[The CHAUFFEUR exits and leaves the YOUNG MAN standing alone for a moment as the lights fade.]
Now take a moment to compare the stage adaptation to the original short story:
While the Auto Waits
by O. Henry
Promptly at the beginning of twilight, came again to that quiet corner of that quiet, small park the girl in gray. She sat upon a bench and read a book, for there was yet to come a half hour in which print could be accomplished.
To repeat: Her dress was gray, and plain enough to
mask its impeccancy of style and fit. A large-meshed veil imprisoned
her turban hat and a face that shone through it with a calm and
unconscious beauty. She had come there at the same hour on the day
previous, and on the day before that; and there was one who knew it.
The
young man who knew it hovered near, relying upon burnt sacrifices to
the great joss, Luck. His piety was rewarded, for, in turning a page,
her book slipped from her fingers and bounded from the bench a full yard
away.
The young man pounced upon it with instant avidity,
returning it to its owner with that air that seems to flourish in parks
and public places--a compound of gallantry and hope, tempered with
respect for the policeman on the beat. In a pleasant voice, he risked an
inconsequent remark upon the weather--that introductory topic
responsible for so much of the world's unhappiness--and stood poised for
a moment, awaiting his fate.
The girl looked him over
leisurely; at his ordinary, neat dress and his features distinguished by
nothing particular in the way of expression.
"You may sit
down, if you like," she said, in a full, deliberate contralto. "Really, I
would like to have you do so. The light is too bad for reading. I
would prefer to talk."
The vassal of Luck slid upon the seat by her side with complaisance.
"Do
you know," he said, speaking the formula with which park chairmen open
their meetings, "that you are quite the stunningest girl I have seen
in a long time? I had my eye on you yesterday. Didn't know somebody was
bowled over by those pretty lamps of yours, did you, honeysuckle?"
"Whoever
you are," said the girl, in icy tones, "you must remember that I am a
lady. I will excuse the remark you have just made because the mistake
was, doubtless, not an unnatural one--in your circle. I asked you to sit
down; if the invitation must constitute me your honeysuckle, consider
it withdrawn."
"I earnestly beg your pardon," pleaded the young
ran. His expression of satisfaction had changed to one of penitence and
humility. "It was my fault, you know--I mean, there are girls in
parks, you know--that is, of course, you don't know, but--"
"Abandon
the subject, if you please. Of course I know. Now, tell me about these
people passing and crowding, each way, along these paths. Where are
they going? Why do they hurry so? Are they happy?"
The young man
had promptly abandoned his air of coquetry. His cue was now for a
waiting part; he could not guess the role he would be expected to play.
"It
IS interesting to watch them," he replied, postulating her mood. "It
is the wonderful drama of life. Some are going to supper and some
to--er--other places. One wonders what their histories are."
"I
do not," said the girl; "I am not so inquisitive. I come here to sit
because here, only, can I be near the great, common, throbbing heart of
humanity. My part in life is cast where its beats are never felt. Can
you surmise why I spoke to you, Mr.--?"
"Parkenstacker," supplied the young man. Then he looked eager and hopeful.
"No,"
said the girl, holding up a slender finger, and smiling slightly. "You
would recognize it immediately. It is impossible to keep one's name
out of print. Or even one's portrait. This veil and this hat of my maid
furnish me with an _incog_. You should have seen the chauffeur stare
at it when he thought I did not see. Candidly, there are five or six
names that belong in the holy of holies, and mine, by the accident of
birth, is one of them. I spoke to you, Mr. Stackenpot--"
"Parkenstacker," corrected the young man, modestly.
"--Mr.
Parkenstacker, because I wanted to talk, for once, with a natural
man--one unspoiled by the despicable gloss of wealth and supposed social
superiority. Oh! you do not know how weary I am of it--money, money,
money! And of the men who surround me, dancing like little marionettes
all cut by the same pattern. I am sick of pleasure, of jewels, of
travel, of society, of luxuries of all kinds."
"I always had an idea," ventured the young man, hesitatingly, "that money must be a pretty good thing."
"A
competence is to be desired. But when you have so many millions
that--!" She concluded the sentence with a gesture of despair. "It is
the monotony of it," she continued, "that palls. Drives, dinners,
theatres, balls, suppers, with the gilding of superfluous wealth over it
all. Sometimes the very tinkle of the ice in my champagne glass nearly
drives me mad."
Mr. Parkenstacker looked ingenuously interested.
"I
have always liked," he said, "to read and hear about the ways of
wealthy and fashionable folks. I suppose I am a bit of a snob. But I
like to have my information accurate. Now, I had formed the opinion that
champagne is cooled in the bottle and not by placing ice in the
glass."
The girl gave a musical laugh of genuine amusement.
"You
should know," she explained, in an indulgent tone, "that we of the
non-useful class depend for our amusement upon departure from precedent.
Just now it is a fad to put ice in champagne. The idea was originated
by a visiting Prince of Tartary while dining at the Waldorf. It will
soon give way to some other whim. Just as at a dinner party this week on
Madison Avenue a green kid glove was laid by the plate of each guest
to be put on and used while eating olives."
"I see," admitted the young man, humbly.
"These special diversions of the inner circle do not become familiar to the common public."
"Sometimes,"
continued the girl, acknowledging his confession of error by a slight
bow, "I have thought that if I ever should love a man it would be one
of lowly station. One who is a worker and not a drone. But, doubtless,
the claims of caste and wealth will prove stronger than my inclination.
Just now I am besieged by two. One is a Grand Duke of a German
principality. I think he has, or has had, a wife, somewhere, driven mad
by his intemperance and cruelty. The other is an English Marquis, so
cold and mercenary that I even prefer the diabolism of the Duke. What is
it that impels me to tell you these things, Mr. Packenstacker?
"Parkenstacker," breathed the young man. "Indeed, you cannot know how much I appreciate your confidences."
The girl contemplated him with the calm, impersonal regard that befitted the difference in their stations.
"What is your line of business, Mr. Parkenstacker?" she asked.
"A
very humble one. But I hope to rise in the world. Were you really in
earnest when you said that you could love a man of lowly position?"
"Indeed
I was. But I said 'might.' There is the Grand Duke and the Marquis,
you know. Yes; no calling could be too humble were the man what I would
wish him to be."
"I work," declared Mr. Parkenstacker, "in a restaurant."
The girl shrank slightly.
"Not as a waiter?" she said, a little imploringly. "Labor is noble, but personal attendance, you know--valets and--"
"I
am not a waiter. I am cashier in"--on the street they faced that
bounded the opposite side of the park was the brilliant electric sign
"RESTAURANT"--"I am cashier in that restaurant you see there."
The
girl consulted a tiny watch set in a bracelet of rich design upon her
left wrist, and rose, hurriedly. She thrust her book into a glittering
reticule suspended from her waist, for which, however, the book was too
large.
"Why are you not at work?" she asked.
"I am on the night turn," said the young man; "it is yet an hour before my period begins. May I not hope to see you again?"
"I
do not know. Perhaps--but the whim may not seize me again. I must go
quickly now. There is a dinner, and a box at the play--and, oh! the same
old round. Perhaps you noticed an automobile at the upper corner of
the park as you came. One with a white body."
"And red running gear?" asked the young man, knitting his brows reflectively.
"Yes.
I always come in that. Pierre waits for me there. He supposes me to be
shopping in the department store across the square. Conceive of the
bondage of the life wherein we must deceive even our chauffeurs.
Good-night."
"But it is dark now," said Mr. Parkenstacker, "and the park is full of rude men. May I not walk--"
"If
you have the slightest regard for my wishes," said the girl, firmly,
"you will remain at this bench for ten minutes after I have left. I do
not mean to accuse you, but you are probably aware that autos generally
bear the monogram of their owner. Again, good-night."
Swift and
stately she moved away through the dusk. The young man watched her
graceful form as she reached the pavement at the park's edge, and turned
up along it toward the corner where stood the automobile. Then he
treacherously and unhesitatingly began to dodge and skim among the park
trees and shrubbery in a course parallel to her route, keeping her well
in sight.
When she reached the corner she turned her head to
glance at the motor car, and then passed it, continuing on across the
street. Sheltered behind a convenient standing cab, the young man
followed her movements closely with his eyes. Passing down the sidewalk
of the street opposite the park, she entered the restaurant with the
blazing sign. The place was one of those frankly glaring establishments,
all white paint and glass, where one may dine cheaply and
conspicuously. The girl penetrated the restaurant to some retreat at its
rear, whence she quickly emerged without her hat and veil.
The
cashier's desk was well to the front. A red-haired girl an the stool
climbed down, glancing pointedly at the clock as she did so. The girl in
gray mounted in her place.
The young man thrust his hands into
his pockets and walked slowly back along the sidewalk. At the corner
his foot struck a small, paper-covered volume lying there, sending it
sliding to the edge of the turf. By its picturesque cover he recognized
it as the book the girl had been reading. He picked it up carelessly,
and saw that its title was "New Arabian Nights," the author being of the
name of Stevenson. He dropped it again upon the grass, and lounged,
irresolute, for a minute. Then he stepped into the automobile, reclined
upon the cushions, and said two words to the chauffeur:
"Club, Henri."
| |
by: Robert Frost
adapted for the stage by Walter Wykes
CHARACTERS
Mary
Warren
|
[Evening. A porch. MARY sits musing on the moon. When she hears steps, she rises quickly. Enter WARREN, carrying groceries.]
MARY: Warren!
WARREN: What is it? What’s wrong?
MARY: [Looking back towards the door.] Shhh!
WARREN: What’s going on?
MARY: He’s back.
WARREN: Who?
MARY: Silas.
WARREN: Silas?
MARY: Yes.
WARREN: He’s back?
MARY: Yes.
WARREN: Godammit.
MARY: Be kind.
WARREN: When was I ever anything but kind to him?
[She
takes the market things from Warren’s arms and sets them on the porch,
then draws him down to sit beside her on the wooden steps.]
MARY: I know. It’s just that—
WARREN: I won’t have him back. I told him so last haying, didn’t I?
MARY: You did.
WARREN: If he left then, I said, that ended it.
MARY: I know, but—
WARREN: I can’t keep … I mean, what good is he? At his age—
MARY: Who else will harbor him?
WARREN: That’s not our problem. What help he is there’s no depending on. And when I need him most, off he goes every time!
MARY: He thinks he ought to earn a little pay.
WARREN: Oh, does he?
MARY: Just a little. Enough at least to buy tobacco, so he won’t have to beg and be beholden. [Warren sighs and lowers his head. MARY puts a hand on his arm.] It doesn’t have to be much.
[Pause.]
WARREN: All right. But I can’t afford to pay any fixed wages.
MARY: I don’t think he expects that this time.
WARREN: I
wouldn’t mind his bettering himself if that’s what it was. But you can
bet when he starts off like that it’s just someone trying to coax him
off with a little pocket-change. Then every winter he comes back. I’m
done, I tell you. This is the last—
MARY: Shhh! Not so loud. He’ll hear you.
WARREN: Good. I want him to hear. He’ll have to sooner or later.
MARY: Not now. He’s worn out.
WARREN: Where is he?
MARY: Asleep by the stove.
WARREN: By the stove?
MARY: When
I came up from Rowe’s I found him here, huddled against the barn-door.
He was a miserable sight. It scared me. Don’t smile like that—I didn’t
recognize him. I wasn’t looking for him, and he’s changed. Wait till
you see.
WARREN: Where did you say he’d been?
MARY: He
didn’t say. I practically dragged him to the house, gave him tea and
tried to make him smoke. I tried to make him talk about his travels, but
nothing would do—he just kept nodding off.
WARREN: Probably drunk.
MARY: No.
WARREN: No?
MARY: I’ve seen him drunk. This was different.
WARREN: And he didn’t say anything?
MARY: Not much.
WARREN: Not much?
MARY: Hardly a word.
WARREN: There’s something you’re not telling me. What is it? [Pause.] Mary, confess. He said he’d come to ditch the meadow for me—didn’t he?
MARY: Warren!
WARREN: Did he or didn’t he? I just want to know.
MARY: Of course he did. [WARREN laughs.] What would you have him say? Surely you wouldn’t grudge the poor old man some humble way to save his self-respect.
WARREN: I just thought maybe he’d come up with something new this time.
MARY: He added, if you really care to know, he meant to clear the upper pasture.
WARREN: I’ve heard that one too.
MARY: Warren,
I wish you could have heard the way he jumbled everything. It shook me
up. I stopped to look two or three times to see if he was talking in
his sleep. He ran on and on about Harold Wilson—you remember Harold?
The boy you had haying about four years ago?
WARREN: Sure. I remember.
MARY: He’s finished school and now he’s teaching in some college somewhere.
WARREN: Good for him.
MARY: Silas says you’ll have to have him back.
WARREN: I guess Silas is running the place now.
MARY: He
says the two of them will make a fine team for work—says they’ll lay
this farm smooth! The way he mixed that in with other things … he seemed
so confused.
WARREN: A little rest will cure that.
MARY: He liked young Wilson, I guess.
WARREN: You
never would have known it the way they fought all through July in the
blazing sun, Silas up on the cart to build the load, and Harold
alongside to pitch it on. I took care to keep well out of earshot.
MARY: Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.
WARREN: Strange how some things linger.
MARY: Harold’s
young college-boy assurance, you know, it got under his skin. After so
many years, he still keeps finding good arguments he might have used.
WARREN: I sympathize. I know just how it feels to think of the right thing to say too late. Happens every time I argue with you.
MARY: It’s more than that.
WARREN: What do you mean?
MARY: He asked me what I thought of Harold’s saying he studied Latin like the violin because he liked it.
WARREN: Good a reason as any.
MARY: He
said he couldn’t make the boy believe he could find water with a hazel
prong—said that proved how much good school had ever done him. He
thinks if he could have one more chance to teach him how to build a
load of hay—
WARREN: I
know, that’s Silas’ one accomplishment. He bundles every forkful in
its place, then tags and numbers it for future reference, so he can
find and easily dislodge it in the unloading. Silas does that well. He
takes it out in bunches like big birds’ nests. And you never see him
standing on the hay when he’s trying to lift, straining to lift
himself.
MARY: He
thinks if he could teach him that, he’d be some good perhaps to
someone in the world—says he hates to see a boy the fool of books. He’s
so concerned for other folk, and nothing to look backward to with
pride.
WARREN: Nothing to look forward to with hope, either.
MARY: His whole life like that. Then, and now, and never any different. [Silence. MARY stares up at the moon.] Warren, I think … I think he’s come home to die. You needn’t be afraid he’ll leave you this time.
WARREN: [Gently mocking.] Home?
MARY: Yes. What else but home?
WARREN: It all depends on what you mean by home, I guess.
MARY: Of
course he’s nothing to us, any more than the old hound that came a
stranger to us out of the woods, all broken and worn out from the trail.
I think home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have
to take you in.
[WARREN
leans out and takes a step or two—picks up a little stick and brings
it back. He breaks it in his hand and tosses it aside.]
WARREN: Silas
has a better claim on us, you think, than on his brother? Just
thirteen miles up the road. You can bet he’s walked that far today. Why
didn’t he go there? His brother’s rich, director in the bank or
something.
MARY: He never told us that.
WARREN: We know it though.
MARY: His brother ought to help, of course. I’ll talk to him if we can’t keep things going.
WARREN: By right, he ought to take him in.
MARY: And
he might be willing to—he may be better than appearances. But have
some pity on Silas. Do you think if he had any pride in claiming kin or
anything he looked for from his brother, he’d keep so still about him
all this time?
WARREN: I wonder what’s between them.
MARY: I
can tell you. Silas is what he is—we wouldn’t mind him—but he’s just
the kind that kinsfolk can’t abide. He never did anything so very bad.
And he don’t know why he isn’t quite as good as anyone else. He can’t be
made ashamed to please his brother, worthless though he is. He’s got
that much pride.
WARREN: You’re right. That’s probably all there is to it. I can’t think Si ever hurt anyone.
MARY: No, but it hurt my heart tonight the way he lay and rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.
WARREN: He wouldn’t let you put him on the lounge?
MARY: No. Go and see what you can do—would you?
WARREN: All right.
MARY: I made the bed up for him there tonight. [WARREN rises.] You’ll be surprised—how much he’s broken. His working days are done, I think.
WARREN: Don’t be so quick to say that.
MARY: I haven’t been.
WARREN: He’s a tough old goat.
MARY: Go, look—see for yourself. But, Warren … [WARREN pauses.] Please remember how it is. He’s come to help you ditch the meadow. He has a plan. You mustn’t laugh at him.
WARREN: I won’t.
MARY: He may not speak of it, and then he may.
[WARREN nods, holding the door.]
WARREN: You coming in?
MARY: No. Not yet. I’ll sit here a while and see if that small sailing cloud will hit or miss the moon.
[Exit WARREN. Silence. He returns too soon—sits next to MARY, takes her hand and waits.]
MARY: Warren?
WARREN: Dead.
[Slow fade to black.]
Now compare the film adaptation to the original poem by Robert Frost:
Death of the Hired Man
by Robert Frost
Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table,
Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran on tiptoe down the darkened passage
To meet him in the doorway with the news
And put him on his guard. “Silas is back.”
She pushed him outward with her through the door
And shut it after her. “Be kind,” she said.
She took the market things from Warren's arms
And set them on the porch, then drew him down
To sit beside her on the wooden steps.
“When was I ever anything but kind to him?
But I'll not have the fellow back,” he said.
“I told him so last haying, didn't I?
If he left then, I said, that ended it.
What good is he? Who else will harbor him
At his age for the little he can do?
What help he is there's no depending on.
Off he goes always when I need him most.
He thinks he ought to earn a little pay,
Enough at least to buy tobacco with,
So he won't have to beg and be beholden.
’All right,’ I say, ‘I can't afford to pay
Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.’
‘Someone else can.’ ‘Then someone else will have to.’
I shouldn't mind his bettering himself
If that was what it was. You can be certain,
When he begins like that, there's someone at him
Trying to coax him off with pocket money---
In haying time, when any help is scarce.
In winter he comes back to us. I'm done.”
“Sh! not so loud: he'll hear you,” Mary said.
“I want him to: he'll have to soon or late.”
“He's worn out. He's asleep beside the stove.
When I came up from Rowe's I found him here,
Huddled against the barn door fast asleep,
A miserable sight, and frightening, too---
You needn't smile---I didn't recognize him---
I wasn't looking for him---and he's changed.
Wait till you see.”
“Where did you say he'd been?”
“He didn't say. I dragged him to the house,
And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.
I tried to make him talk about his travels.
Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.”
“What did he say? Did he say anything?”
“But little.”
“Anything? Mary, confess
He said he'd come to ditch the meadow for me.”
“Warren!”
“But did he? I just want to know.”
“Of course he did. What would you have him say?
Surely you wouldn't grudge the poor old man
Some humble way to save his self-respect.
He added, if you really care to know,
He meant to clear the upper pasture, too.
That sounds like something you have heard before?
Warren, I wish you could have heard the way
He jumbled everything. I stopped to look
Two or three times---he made me feel so queer---
To see if he was talking in his sleep.
He ran on Harold Wilson---you remember---
The boy you had in haying four years since.
He's finished school, and teaching in his college.
Silas declares you'll have to get him back.
He says they two will make a team for work:
Between them they will lay this farm as smooth!
The way he mixed that in with other things.
He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft
On education---you know how they fought
All through July under the blazing sun,
Silas up on the cart to build the load,
Harold along beside to pitch it on.”
“Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.”
“Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.
You wouldn't think they would. How some things linger!
Harold's young college-boy's assurance piqued him.
After so many years he still keeps finding
Good arguments he sees he might have used.
I sympathize. I know just how it feels
To think of the right thing to say too late.
Harold's associated in his mind with Latin.
He asked me what I thought of Harold's saying
He studied Latin like the violin,
Because he liked it---that an argument!
He said he couldn't make the boy believe
He could find water with a hazel prong---
Which showed how much good school had ever done him.
He wanted to go over that. But most of all
He thinks if he could have another chance
To teach him how to build a load of hay-----”
“I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment.
He bundles every forkful in its place,
And tags and numbers it for future reference,
So he can find and easily dislodge it
In the unloading. Silas does that well.
He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests.
You never see him standing on the hay
He's trying to lift, straining to lift himself.”
“He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be
Some good perhaps to someone in the world.
He hates to see a boy the fool of books.
Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk,
And nothing to look backward to with pride,
And nothing to look forward to with hope,
So now and never any different.”
Part of a moon was falling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw it
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the harplike morning-glory strings,
Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played unheard some tenderness
That wrought on him beside her in the night.
“Warren,” she said, “he has come home to die:
You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.”
“Home,” he mocked gently.
“Yes, what else but home?
It all depends on what you mean by home.
Of course he's nothing to us, any more
Than was the hound that came a stranger to us
Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.”
“Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.”
“I should have called it
Something you somehow haven't to deserve.”
Warren leaned out and took a step or two,
Picked up a little stick, and brought it back
And broke it in his hand and tossed it by.
“Silas has better claim on us you think
Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles
As the road winds would bring him to his door.
Silas has walked that far no doubt today.
Why doesn't he go there? His brother's rich,
A somebody---director in the bank.”
“He never told us that.”
“We know it, though.”
“I think his brother ought to help, of course.
I'll see to that if there is need. He ought of right
To take him in, and might be willing to---
He may be better than appearances.
But have some pity on Silas. Do you think
If he'd had any pride in claiming kin
Or anything he looked for from his brother,
He'd keep so still about him all this time?”
“I wonder what's between them.”
“I can tell you.
Silas is what he is---we wouldn't mind him---
But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide.
He never did a thing so very bad.
He don't know why he isn't quite as good
As anybody. Worthless though he is,
He won't be made ashamed to please his brother.”
“I can't think Si ever hurt anyone.”
“No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay
And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.
He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge.
You must go in and see what you can do.
I made the bed up for him there tonight.
You'll be surprised at him---how much he's broken.
His working days are done; I'm sure of it.”
“I'd not be in a hurry to say that.”
“I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself.
But, Warren, please remember how it is:
He' come to help you ditch the meadow.
He has a plan, You mustn't laugh at him.
He may not speak of it, and then he may.
I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloud
Will hit or miss the moon.”
It hit the moon.
Then there were three there, making a dim row,
The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.
Warren returned---too soon, it seemed to her---
Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.
“Warren?” she questioned.
“Dead,” was all he answered.
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